Primo: He no longer gets the erections from his youth (he'll sometimes say he used them all up in the 70s and 80s if he's in the mood to joke about it) and frankly the idea of expending energy on seduction or lovemaking, or much human contact at all, feels like a waste of what precious time he has left. Not to say he's immune to the touch of a soft, young thing who takes interest. Once you've gotten past his grouchy exterior, he's more than happy to dust off the knowledge of decades in the worship of sin and prove that he still has what it takes to rock your world. As far as receiving goes, he's less likely to allow that unless he's quite sure you will not have your feelings hurt when does little more than swell in your eager hand. He enjoys the affection just the same, as long as you do. He might be convinced to try some sort of enhancement if you really wanted him to, but he's pretty old-fashioned and ultimately knowing that you're satisfied is his only concern.
Secondo: In spite of his advanced age, he still gets aggressive hard-ons when he wants to (and occasionally when he doesn't, though that's rarer nowadays). But a lifetime of focusing on training himself to go all night long has left him often to have to take drastic measures to be able to cum himself, even after you're spent and practically begging for mercy. Combine that with the occasional effects of whiskey-dick, and he can be...a lot of work. So as much as he has a reputation for being dominant, even consensually sadistic, his basic desires are actually pretty tame and he won't let himself get too close to you until he's sure you'll believe him when he tells you he doesn't need to finish to be satisfied, that you won't take it personally. He's not an uncrackable safe, though and the right lover will figure out the surefire ways to make him lose control even if he'd rather die than admit them.
Terzo: Charismatic and confident, he's a seducer of cheering throngs and would-be bed-fellows alike. A below-average height gentleman with perfectly average equipment, and arguably above average skill. No one who's enjoyed his company in the carnal sense has ever been left unsatisfied, or without wanting more. But deep-down he's a hopeless romantic, though that's a part of himself he rarely let's anyone see. If you seek to woo this Papa you're going to have to prove to him that you don't just want him for his body, or his image, for the fulfillment of sexual desires he promises (and will absolutely deliver on), or the prestige and bragging rights that would bring...but to stimulate each other's minds as much as your bodies. Nothing excites him more intellectually or sexually than someone who can take charge and take him out of his own head. The moral is...it's easier for him to share his bed than share his true self, and you're more likely to see his boner than his heart.
Copia: If you were to ask him...his erections are consistent and satisfying. No trouble getting it up. No trouble keeping it up. But in reality he does have a weakness (or at least, what he would consider a weakness). He will cum almost as soon as he's inside you. He'll try closing his eyes and thinking about video games, biting the inside of his mouth, pinching himself until he bleeds. He's even prayed to the Dark Lord and dabbled in a bit of ritual sacrifice in an attempt to gain a sense of control. But it makes no difference...you just feel TOO DAMN GOOD. You make his mind go totally blank of anything but your wet heat hugging tight around him. Consequently, he'll spend as much time as possible on foreplay, teasing you, edging you, making you cum over and over so that by the time he gets to what could be considered the main event, you're barely functional. And what he lacks in stamina he'll more than make up for in adoration, showering you with affection and making you feel like the only person in his world, like he would literally die without you.
Perpetua: Whether you think he's a full-on creature of the night or just a weird little guy, he's...huge. Not dangerously so, but definitely enough for a new partner to be intimidated and more than a little nervous. He's eager to learn, desperate to please you, but inexperienced himself and pretty self-conscious about it (mostly because more than one partner in the past has gotten as far as seeing him in all his glory and excused themselves rather unceremoniously), so he needs you to be patient with him. Go slow and give him lots of gentle instruction and enthusiastic praise, and he will move heaven, hell, and earth to leave you satisfied. In spite of his shaky confidence, he's not shy about communication and will ask you lots of questions...what you like, how it feels. You will never experience someone more loyal and devoted once you coax him out of his shell, once he knows you really do want him. And if you can physically handle him...he. will. ruin. you.
Nihil: Nowadays he only has eyes for Sister Imperator. Plus he's dead, so I guess don't worry about it.
A long time ago, someone dropped a note in my inbox. In that note, they said they'd had a dream. A naughty dream. About Papa Secondo and his gloves. They then, dangerously, asked me to elaborate on that.
And, dearest friends and readers, elaborate I did.
And then it got completely out of hand and it turned into 10k words of Secondo and his gloves and haunted houses and Dracula and Nosferatu easter eggs all over creation and like, dirty, dirty things.
So like, do with this what you will. To my dearest Secondo's Leather Gloves, anon. If you're still out there. This is for you ❤️
You were just simply a congregant.
Well, not just or simply, Papa Terzo would probably say. You are fearfully and wonderfully made in the light of Satan! A great witch of your time!
Still, you are just that: a local witch that found a bit of peace, camaraderie and routine in the Satanic Church down the street. Emeritus Abbey, to the unknowing, was just another church on the drive through town. Guarded by a stone and iron fence, bordered by thick woods. Across the street is a coffee shop, a bookstore, a little organic market; all of it frequented by the inhabitants of the Emeritus Abbey and the neighborhood surrounding it. It was not unusual to see a Sibling picking up a cappuccino or a Papa - sometimes in his robes - pushing a shopping cart down the aisles of the grocery.
You live a few blocks down from the abbey, in a little apartment over an esoteric shop. Even here, It’s not unusual to see a Sibling or two, or even one of the ghouls, in the shop as you pass through, poking around the decks of tarot cards and bowls of crystals in the shop, purchasing oils or candles or herbs for their rituals. The local coven meets here, once or twice a month. There’s potlucks on Sabbats before the parties at the abbey. You work from home. You shop at the market across from the church, you get coffee and peruse books. You read at the little park kitty-corner from your apartment. Life is, perhaps, a bit uneventful; but for an almost-solitary witch you are immeasurably content. You go to mass on Saturday nights and sometimes, the Wednesday evening sermons. Sometimes you even go to the parties; years ago, Dewdrop called you fresh meat. And though his amber eyes were, on occasion, off putting, you had fun while he dragged you to this ritual or that party. Sometimes you dragged him home. Sometimes he brought friends; your social, private and bedroom life was certainly not lacking. Now he calls you marinated and tenderized. You practice your craft. You work. You read your books. As a congregant, you’re allowed to borrow from the abbey library. You take advantage of the invitation to practice your craft in the crypts or the woods, if you require. The abbey and its acreage are ripe with magic and welcome - safe - for all. You can even go to confession or speak to a Papa privately, though you’ve had no need.
The thought sends shivers down your spine.
You’ve always loved spooky things. And men. Large men. But the combination of those two things, in the Emeritus brothers, makes you uneasy. They are spooky. And they are big. They radiate power and magic and you enjoy their sermons, watching them work. You like their band. But, you enjoy it from a distance. Happily.
Tonight, at the midnight mass, is no different.
You wave at Dewdrop who wiggles his fingers at you from across the chapel; honey eyes gleaming. He makes his way over to you and gives you a too tight, too hot hug. “You look hot tonight.”
“I bet you tell all the girls at mass that.”
He shrugs and you slap his arm. It earns you a wink and a kiss on the cheek. “I’m going to Papa Primo’s bed tonight.” He whispers, heat pulsing off of him in excited waves. “Look at them.” He nods to Papa Primo and his wife, sitting in the front pew, talking quietly, smiling. “I am going to be the meat in that sandwich tonight. A spicy Dewstrami, if you will.”
You look at him, grinning. “What is it with you and meat?”
He leans in and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “I love meat.” He grabs a fistful of your ass and gives it a shake. You swat at him but, he’s already gone, giggling into the crowded pews. You sit in your usual spot: Papas - like Primo and his beloved - along with the highest clergy members fill in the front rows. They smile and nod, shake hands and hug - greeting their black-and-white clad flock of Siblings and plebeian congregants with equal enthusiasm. As the hour draws near, the Papas find their habitual seats. Siblings of the highest ranks sit behind them, hard work and dark dedication affording them the second-best seats in the house. Behind them, a few - but not many - rows of pews are filled with congregants like you. Witches, satanists, pagans - the disobedient, nonconforming few that aren’t Siblings. Behind you, the rest of the Siblings and ghouls fill in the dark, wooden pews and curved balcony above you.
The organ begins to play and everyone finds their places but you do not sit. The organ lets out a long, low tune to signal us to begin the introit. As the first words are raised, voices echoing off the high ceiling and stained glass windows, harmonizing with the organ, the Papa leading the sermon enters.
Praise Morningstar from Whom all blessings flow
Praise Him all creatures here below
Praise Him in Hell, you infernal host
Praise Papa, Son and Unholy Ghost
Papa Emeritus the Second glides down the aisle with an otherworldly grace. His mitre and crozier make him even taller than he already is. Imposing. His silks billow around him. His chasuble sways and the warm, familiar scent of incense finds you; his thurible swings in time with his slow, elegant pace. You settle into an ease that you feel only at the abbey. When Papa Secondo passes, your eyes meet and your heart jumps to my throat. Your body stiffens; your shoulders tighten. All at once you feel yourself pale and flush; a heat blooms across your chest and ice shivers down your spine. His eyes linger on you for far longer than is appropriate; piercing far more than your gaze. He holds that look until he passes and you exhale. He scales the dais and, in front of the altar, turns. You are only granted a few moments reprieve before his eyes fall on you for a breath longer. His glare, his attention, is altogether frightening and thrilling and sensual. His strong brow scowls over his mismatched eyes; he is unreadable. Still, you stare right back. Regal, roman nose over pursed lips; heat spreads through your center, you quiver at the thought of that mouth on you, that nose pressed hard against you. Finally, he closes his eyes - you heave a sigh in relief - and raises his hands, joining in with his congregation in the second, final part of the hymn.
Praise Lucifer for whom we disobey
Praise him for his light, on this day
Praise Him in, you infernal host
Praise Papa, Son and unholy ghost
“Please,” Papa lowers his hands and bows his head. “Join me in prayer.” He pauses a moment while you follow his motions; hands clasped, heads bowed in reverence. “Hail Satan.”
The chapel responds in unison. “Hail Satan.”
Papa continues. “Lord of Darkness. King of Hell. Ruler of Earth and God of this World.”
“Ave Satanas.” You respond, once more.
“We gather in your name this eve of unholy mass; your beloved and righteous creatures. Guide us to our true selves. Illuminate us, in your light, so that we may rise above doubt and insecurity. Teach us to walk beside you with pride and dignity. Show us that we are worthy of love and respect. Show us our greatness so that we may live our lives in your glory.” He is silent then, for a few more moments. His voice echoes in your mind, or the chapel, you cannot tell. See me. See me now. Your bowed head snaps up and you find him, once more, staring at you. You blink and a vision of you, beneath him, on the altar unfolds. The congregation, the Papas and ghouls around you disappear. He rams into you, your legs spread wide beneath him; like mortal and pestle, he grinds against you over and over; hard as rock, breaking you apart until you are undone completely.. You cry out and he matches your voice, roaring in unfathomable ecstasy. His mouth on yours. On your neck. Teeth. Over your heart. Lower, lower, he nuzzles into your belly. His mouth clamps down on your - the sound of Papa’s crozier on the stone floor snaps you back to reality. You blink, your hand over your heart, willing to it still while you attempt to control your short, staggered breaths. Your other hand, white knuckled, grips the pew in front of you. Secondo exhales and looks up at the congregation, his glare a bit softer though, present nonetheless.
“Rege Satanas.”
You sink into your seat, thighs trembling, as the rest of the congregation follows suit. You look around and see that no one else seems to be hot and bothered, no one is even remotely uncomfortable. You’re sweltering. And you’re freezing. Your heart pounds in your chest. You’d been to plenty of sermons that Papa Secondo had delivered. Danced in his great hall during sabbats and parties; he’d been present then, too. You’d even gone to a few of his rituals when you were younger and he was head of the Ghost project. You’d been on the barricade. You’d been a little drunk and maybe, or maybe not, had flashed Alpha and sent him tripping backwards. But, never had Papa Emeritus the Second even glanced in your direction. You’d never spoken a word, let alone looked at each other… and certainly not like that.
Blood pounds in your ears like thunder and your heart cracks like lightning, threatening to break right through your sternum the way it beats: hard and fast and wildly out of control. Secondo doesn’t afford you another glimpse but you feel him still. Feel him inside of you; shadows of him probing the edges of your mind. You let him in. It’s all at once erotic - heat coiling in your belly - and terrifyingly invasive. Still, unnameable, uncomfortable thought it is - you welcome it. You fold your hands in your lap and bow your head, closing your eyes. You try to focus on something peaceful: the sermon, the message, Satan. You look down at the shining, black and white, checkered tile floor. You run your fingers over the soft, worn edges of the hymnals tucked into the pew back in front of you. You think of Papa Secondo; tentacles of his power probe and prod. Look at me. Your eyes flick up to his and you can’t hear him preach over the sound of his voice in your mind. See only me. You look away - overwhelmed, averting your eyes and thoughts to anything else. The stained glass windows. Mother Lilith. Papa’s gaze on you. Her demon children. His hands on you. His fingers in you. Gardens. Strong arms. Long legs. Flowers. Chest to chest; his body hair raking against your nipples, sharp against your clit. Bees. Butterflies. Your legs around his waist. Pollination. Pistols. Stamens. Nectar. Pollen. Secondo. Secondo. Baseball! Bats. Balls. Oh, god. Secondo.
Your head snaps up when the organ plays, once more. You blanche: you’d missed the entire sermon and, on top of that, forgotten it was a communion night. You’re too close to the front to get out of it; everyone will see you leave if you bolt now, including the man you’re trying to run from. You huff at yourself, standing and stepping out into the aisle. Legs trembling; the sudden movement makes you very aware of your soaked underwear; the slippery wet between the apex of your thighs. This is ridiculous. Since when are you scared of a little eye contact? And since when did eye contact turn you into a quivering, dripping mess? Your cheeks flush with embarrassment. Since when does Papa talk to you in your brain!? Caress your frontal cortex? You smooth out your dress and toss your hair over your shoulder, noting the sweat that dampens the nape of your neck. Perhaps it’s all in your head. Perhaps you need a good meal, a good fuck and a good sleep. You have been off lately. A little depressed, fighting fatigue and sleeplessness. Feeling lonely. You lift your eyes and are relieved to see that Papa focuses on the person at his feet, kneeling, gazing up at him.
The procession moves all at once too slow and too fast as Secondo hands out the desecrated wafers and sweet, dark wine. Everything in you tells you to just slip out of line and run out the door. Still, your body moves forward on it’s own. One by one. Wafer. Wine. Wafer. Wine. And then it’s your turn; the big ghoul in front of you departs and you find yourself on your knees in front of Secondo, while he works to refill the goblet, his back to you. His thurible hangs off to the side, still smoke; the scent of beeswax candles and incense is overwhelming. The lights, though dimly lit and hardly bright, feel like it’s midday in June; blazing and hot. Secondo’s shoulders work beneath his silks. You lace your fingers together to keep your hands from shaking. When he turns, his gaze flashes with something you can’t name but you know you want more of. Power. Hunger. Perhaps lust but, you might just be projecting at this point. He stands, unnervingly tall, above you. His chasuble hem snakes against your knees. You lift your eyes and avoid him by looking up through your lashes. You open your mouth and push your tongue out. It’s miserably erotic. Visions of him naked, his fist pumping his cock above your face, flash in your mind. His head is thrown back and his balls in your mouth; a wholly different kind of communion hot and thick, running down your face, swallowed with a grateful heart. You gasp when he places the wafer on your tongue instead of spurting ropes of cum down your throat. Secondo bends, putting the chalice to your lips. You can’t break your eyes from his; that mismatched gaze sends electricity, arcing through your body, coiling tight in your stomach. You slip your hands over his and, for a split, hair of a second - his eyes widen. You shiver and sweat and take a long sip of the wine. Maybe Secondo’s looking at you like that because you’re looking a little pale, a little flushed and a whole lot of crazy. And then…
… and then…
He runs his thumb over your bottom lip, wiping away the drop of wine that lingers there.The tang of sweet, spiced wine mixes with the taste of his leather glove. You swallow and he smirks; a smile, a grin, should relieve you. On Secondo? It’s unnerving. He holds out his hand and helps you to your feet. “Benedizioni, piccola strega.” Your hand sits in Secondo’s for what seems like a lifetime; his gloved hand encompasses yours. You look up to him and he glares back down at you. You feel your worlds colliding; you pull away but, for a moment, his grip tightens. He lets you go, hesitating, he loses your hand from his. You turn, fast as you can, making your way back to your seat. All the way back to your pew you can feel Secondo’s eyes, boring into you. It’s just as unsettling as his smile; not being able to see him, knowing he’s there. That feeling, though you keep your head bowed, eyes lowered, stays with you through the rest of mass. You run your fingers over your mouth, sure you can still feel lambskin on your lip. Finally, the congregation stands for the final prayer, while everyone else now bows their head, you raise your eyes, slowly. Secondo is there, still. Staring.
Everyone, with their eyes closed and necks bent, prays, dutifully. Secondo only looks at you.
Believe in one God, do weSatan almightyThe uncreator of heaven and soilAnd the invisible and the visibleAnd in his son, begotten of fatherBy whom all things will be unmade
You cannot move. You cannot breathe. You shake in your boots and all the while, Secondo stares. You feel like a prey animal. Caught in an open field, nowhere to run for you will be caught. Nowhere to hide because he’s already seen you. No matter where you go, he’ll find you. You try to pray but no sound falls from your lips. You want to cry. You want to take your clothes off. You want to run. You want to sit on Secondo’s face until he suffocates. You want him. You want him more than you’ve wanted anything in your life: more than peace or solitude or magic or companionship. Most of all, you want to run. This feeling, this heat, this attention. It’s too much. The prayer rises up around you, you can barely hear it over the beat of your heart.
Who for man and his damnationIncarnated, rise up from hellFrom sitteth on the left hand of his fatherFrom thence he shall come to judgeOut of one substance with SatanWhose kingdom shall haveth no end
Secondo glides past you, his eyes still burning into you and you have to grip the pew in front of you to stay upright. As soon as the bells ring and the congregation is dismissed you bolt. You fly past Secondo, avoiding even a moment’s breath, not allowing even a wink of eye contact. Still, you can feel him. All the way home, you look over your shoulder expecting to see him. You take the stairs up to your apartment, two at a time, your fingers shaking while you fumble your keys. You stumble inside and slam the door shut; locking it and giving it a good yank to make sure it’ll hold. You press your forehead to the door, closing your eyes and attempting to catch your breath. You huff out a half-laugh, half-sob.
Because of course the door will hold. And of course Secondo isn’t coming to eat you.
Or fuck you.
You’re ashamed that you’re disappointed in that. The fucking part. Well, maybe the eating part too but, semantics. You have a glass of wine; it’s bitter compared to the dark, sweet stuff in the communion goblet. Worse yet, compared to Secondo’s thumb on your lip. You take a hot shower and, after thinking about Secondo, finish with a very, very cold shower. Because, eat or fuck, the question remains… Why was he looking at you that way? And why is it worming its way into your head? Why is he burrowing down deep in your belly, coiling and heating and making you miserable in more ways than one?
You towel off and slide into bed. Still feeling the heat of his icy glare, you give in and decide you might as well take advantage of the situation. Your fingers sink beneath the blankets, caressing your belly, pushing lower; you imagine it’s Secondo’s hand and your breath catches in your throat. Your fingers light over your clit and for a moment, you let yourself succumb to the idea that this is why he was staring. This is what he wants. Your body. Your lust. He does want to eat you. Drink you. Serve you up as his own, dark communion.
Devour you.
And then you hear it. You freeze; fingers shaking over your sex.
The antique, original wooden floors of your apartment had been a selling point for you. Dark, worn wood. Elegant. Historic. Loud. And now? Horrifying. Footsteps. You hear footsteps. You sit up slowly, the blankets falling away from your bare chest. The air is freezing; far colder than usual. Your breath comes out in panicked, white puffs. Footsteps. Someone is in your home. Someone is between you and the only way out. The floorboards creek as the intruder moves forward. Footsteps and… a familiar pattern.
Step. Step. Thunk.
Step. Step. Thunk.
Tears fall, running down your face, fear pulses ice cold - as biting as the air around you - in your veins.
Step. Step. Thunk.
Italian leather shoe. Italian leather shoe. Crozier.
Harmonizing with it, the whisper of silk. You stare at your bedroom doorway. The dark - pitch black, far darker than it should be - hallway beyond it. You’re sure you see shadows move. See the figure making all that noise. See him creeping down the hallway. But there is nothing. Nothing at all but the sound of your horrified, whimpering breaths.
You reach out, never taking your eyes away from the hallway, fumbling for the light on your nightstand. Your hand shakes so hard you knock over your glass of wine, the romance book next to it soaking up the red puddle. When you finally do get the light on, you gingerly slip out of bed, wrapping a sheet around yourself. You step into the hallway. “Hello?” You call to the dark corners, peeking around the door into the bathroom. As if a poltergeist or murder would greet you back. You flip on that light, too, and see nothing. You thank Satan that you left the shower curtain pushed back, hanging open. Nothing is amiss. You walk down the hallway, slowly, carefully, pressed up against the wall. So much so that the floorboards make no noise at all. When you turn on the lights in the little living room and kitchen, your eyes fall on the door: still locked, still chained. Your lip trembles in frustration, tears well in your eyes.
The floor creaks behind you.
Step. Step. Thunk.
You whirl around, crying out and see… nothing at all.
The next few days and nights go on like that. A few hours of sleep, always interrupted by whatever - imagined or real - papal specter has taken up haunting your home. Footsteps.The sound of a billowing silk chasuble and alb. The crozier. The thick aroma of Emeritus incense. Deep, rasping whispers. He calls your name. Every so often, they echo down the hall as if he is simply peeking in, having a check on you. You want it to be endearing. Romantic, like the silly books you read. Like “The Ghost and Mrs. Muir”. “The Ghost Papa and the Horny, Terrified Woman”. Perhaps a part of it is romantic. In the books you read, having a ghost haunt you would be erotic. Electrifying. In reality, it is terrifying. The cold fear it invokes. The distress of having an uninvited, otherworldly creature in your home. A powerful one. The confusion of unease, the constant fight or flight and the lusty, needy ache that settles like magma in your belly. Your body - so full of adrenaline - it is not your own. Exhaustion creeps in. You hear him at home. At the coffeeshop. Shadows slip in and out of your peripheral. At least it’s just in your head, you think. You can get a prescription for this. At least, touch grass. But even in the park, sitting in the sun, trying to read - trying to rest - you hear him.
Perhaps you’re tired, you think, laying back, letting the warm, spring sun kiss your face. You close your eyes against the bright light and sigh, sleep falling heavy over you - the lack of it makes the drowsiness impossible to fight it off. You let yourself succumb - for a moment, you think you are safe from it. From his attention. Out in the light, out in the open. People around. Normal, sane people who are not hearing or seeing anything paranormal. The breeze carries his voice, a purring murmur. He’s smug, you think. To find you here. The sunbeams turn into his touch. Soft leather, ever so light on your cheek. Across your lips. “Dormi, mia dea. ” His touch glides down your neck, “Sleep.” Over your chest. “Sogno. Dream.” You suck in a breath, his gloved fingers toy with your already hard nipple. “Sognami. Sognami.” You arch up into his embrace, his fingers tracing the waistband of your long, linen skirt. “Sì, sì. Sentimi. Senti il mio tocco. Non puoi scappare da me. You cannot run from me. You are mine. Mio. Mio. Mio.” You gasp, crying out and sitting up straight. You wheel yourself around the picnic blanket, your things scattering around you. In the air, the scent of incense and leather and magic hangs heavy. Panicked, you look around you, turning, sending your things into further disarray.
You are alone.
You feel yourself slipping - waxing and waning between deep, unwakeable sleep to insomnia and fatigue. You can’t distinguish between your need to avoid the haunting altogether and the carnal throb it invokes; the heated need for it to continue.
When you’re awake, you hear him. You’re sure your things are moving around; disappearing here to only reappear, a few hours or days later, there. Your book is always on a different page than you left off on. You wonder if he’s reading the silly, smutty story or just toying with you. Your mug of coffee is just out of reach; far further than you would have set it down. On more than one occasion you’d poured wine all over the counter because your glass had vanished from beneath the spout of the bottle. When you step out of the shower, your towel is gone. Your robe, too. Forcing you to walk - dripping and naked - to your bed; the silent, icy air of his presence lapping at your ankles. At night, when you can’t sleep - out of fear or frustration or desire, you can’t tell anymore - you sit in your living room, the lights turned low, listening to the footsteps. You watch the door. You watch the windows. Over and over, again you can see that you are - physically - alone. But out of the corner of your eyes - shadows move in onyx and emerald. Whispers caress your ear. Fingers, strong hands gloved in leather, slide over your own, lacing with yours. He holds you.
He reminds you that he is here.
And when you do sleep? When you’re too exhausted, too spent from the now, near constant jolts of terror? When soft whispers and erotic touches finally, after too many nights of sleeplessness, lull you into a deep, dark slumber?
Then, you shudder, he comes to you.
He walks down the hallway, in your dreams it’s longer than you remember and it takes him an eternity to cross the threshold; robes billowing, dark and swirling like mist. Shadows follow in his wake, leaving nothing but cold, black darkness behind. You cannot move. Pinned to your bed, he approaches, white eye glowing. You’re aware that you’re naked only because the bedding seems to touch you everywhere and nowhere; making you painfully cognizant of how absolutely needy you are. Your core aches, the apex of your thighs smeared with slick that betrays the ice cold fear that sits heavy in your chest. Your heart pounds, erratic; making it hard to breathe. Tears slide down your temples, soaking your hair; you can’t pinpoint why you’re crying - the fear of him, the need for him - you feel everything on a grand, overwhelming scale.
After what seems like hours, he stops at the doorway to your bedroom.
You whimper. “I’m dreaming.”
He nods.
The covers, your blankets - the last thing that keeps all of you from all of him - slide off the bed, pulled by invisible hands. He remains perfectly still, save for his eyes, following the sheets lower and lower as they slip away from your body; his gaze ravenous though he does not move. The shadows that swirl around Secondo invade your room, snaking along the floorboards, sliding up the walls. Secondo steps across the threshold and the temperature - already falling from his impending arrival - plummets. He stands at the foot of your bed, so tall he almost reaches the ceiling. Perhaps it’s a trick of the light, or lack of it. Perhaps it is because he is not real. He doesn’t look quite like the Papa you remember at that last mass; he leers down at you, all pretense of care or warmth gone. You squeeze your eyes shut. He is not real. He is not here. You lay naked, ready, terrified but willing, in front of him. He is not real.
“Mi guarderai.” He rasps. “You will look at me.”
You open your eyes and he is still there. Not real. Still there. You swallow; your throat aches and your eyes burn with tears. The confusion you feel is overwhelming: lust and fear. Secondo clucks his tongue and shakes his head, glowering. “This will not do.” He moves to stand next to you and then slowly, so frustratingly slowly, he sits on the edge of the bed.
“Please.” You whisper and you don’t know if you’re begging him to fuck you or get the hell out of your house. Either way, it doesn’t matter. He ignores you, leaning his crozier against the wall. He takes his mitre off and sets it on the nightstand. It seems like he should shrink, without staff or crown but, he remains uncomfortably large. He brushes out invisible wrinkles and plucks nonexistent fuzz from his robes. He clears his throat, ever nonchalant, straightening his sleeves, tightening his leather gloves. All the while you are immobile, falling deeper into whatever madness surrounds you, invades you, settling deep inside you. Every inch of you prickles with need. Every nerve ending, every hair, sparks electricity; arcing between you and Secondo. Still, you shake in excitement, cry in terror. Your body is not your own, this dream, this haunting - however lusty - still feels nightmarish. You realize, as he picks and primps at himself, not offering a single glance, or noise that he is teasing you. Frustration of a new sort bubbles up inside of you, heat flushes across your chest. He is a cat and you are a mouse and you have been thoroughly caught. He’s playing now. Torturing.
He rakes his eyes lazily up your body, his gaze meeting yours. “Why?” you whisper.
“Why not?” Secondo puts an arm over you, his palm on the bed, caging you in. He leans down close, goosebumps prickle down your neck, across your chest. Secondo chases them, inhaling your scent while he presses his nose against you, sliding shoulder to shoulder. His paints smear grey on your skin. His tongue follows, leaving a searing line of heat behind it. When he comes back up, below the heavy line of his brow, his glower is somehow darker, colder. “You fear me?”
You nod.
The corner of his mouth twitches upward but his glare remains the same. His tone softens though he is, absolutely, still toying with you. “You shouldn’t.” He lowers his head, turning his face towards your feet. His hand is on your ankle, sliding up towards your knee. His eyes come back to you. He holds your gaze, eyeing you, watching you react without being able to move. “You should crave me.” His hand stops at the juncture of your thigh and hip; his thumb dangerously close to where you do crave him. Secondo leans down, again, and this time his nose brushes your cheek. “I can smell your fear. Taste it.” He whispers. “Your need, too. You are,” he inhales and groans; his tongue traces the shell of your ear. “Non sei poi così spaventata, piccola strega.” You close your eyes, again, whimpering. His hand is still there, still unmoving and the pounding, aching throb between your legs is growing worse, wetter, by the breath. “You are not so scared.”
Secondo takes great, gulping breaths - drawing in your scent. He licks at you - moaning against your skin and the tears start coming out of an aching vexation now. Your arousal is incomprehensible. Your fear, indomitable. You have never felt such carnal need in your life. “It hurts.” You sob. “Please. It hurts.”
You feel Secondo smile against your skin. He whispers. Smug. “Not so afraid.” He sucks your nipple into his mouth, tugging at it with his teeth. When you cry out he pulls away; brush his lips over the pebbled bud. “I crave you, too, you know this?” You shriek, embarrassingly loud, when Secondo palms your pussy; the heel of his palm grinding against your clit.
And then, you wake.
Drenched in sweat, you bolt upright, your breath coming out in wheezing, crying sobs. Sun streams in through the windows. You’ve overslept. Your alarm didn’t go off and, you look over, that’s because your alarm clock is gone. But much to your relief, there is no sound at all. No alarm clock, no whispers, no footsteps. You lean over and open the drawer, pushing around the years worth of stuff to find your vibrator. Only to find that, that too, is gone. Tears sting your eyes and you huff out a wet laugh.
There is a breath on your ear and you freeze, your back straightening.
“Crave me. Only me. Solo io.”
And you do. Hunger turns into obsession; fear into longing. Still, you are unsettled, the haunting induces a certain terror: footsteps continue, shadows move. The scent of leather and incense lingers. Icy air comes and goes. Whispers. Caresses. Hands on your throat, on your chest, on your thighs - everything, everywhere all at once. And then gone, lending a certain air of psychosis to it all. Every night he haunts you until you succumb to sleep and then, in your dreams, he teases you. Tongue and hands and fingers and teeth; touching you everywhere but where you need him. Testing you to the point of pain and pushing you further. The thought crosses your mind: perhaps you should go to the abbey. Seek help. Confront Secondo. But what if he has nothing to do with it? What if it’s all in your head? You’d rather have a Secondo-esque monster tormenting you than suffer the embarrassment of accusing him of lustfully haunting you and your apartment. Worse yet, stealing your vibrator.
So, you turn to your faith. Which is equally confusing: your sexuality is your own, your body, your mind. All of it your own. You are made of magic and blessed by Satan. And you are in control of it all. You’ve had demons in your home, in your bed. Booty calls. Ghouls who you - willingly - brought back from the abbey. You’d fucked and laughed and shared cold, drunk McDonald’s meals in your bed. Why was this so scary? Siblings, too. None of this should be as alarming as it is. So why is it? Why are you so fearful, so full of anxiety?
Why are you so confused?
You sit in front of your altar; the evening sun turns your living room a warm shade of orange, the suncatchers in the window throw rainbows across the room. Sage burns. A feeble attempt to exorcise whatever - whoever - haunts you. Candles flicker amongst artfully arranged crystals. A fresh pomegranate, expensive wine, a bouquet of vibrant flowers are all laid out as offerings; you, on your knees, sit before it.
Step. Step. Thunk.
You close your eyes and try not to cry. You can feel him kneeling next to you. His hand on your shoulder. “You think burning leaves will keep me from you?” His hand slips down, over your collarbone; his arm wraps around you and pulls you back against his chest. His mouth clamps down on the curve of your neck, tongue lathing, teething biting; threatening to break skin. Your tea falls from your hands, burning your thighs; the mug tumbles across the floor. Secondo’s spit runs over your shoulder, down your chest, dripping off your nipple. It’s searing. He keeps you pressed against him, his mouth roving over your flesh, face nuzzling into your hair, he inhales and he exhales a needy groan. His other hand opens your legs, pushing them wide and you mewl. He teases the swollen, wet lines of your flesh; his leather clad fingers are warm and the lambskin leather slides like silk against your pussy. Your clit aches and he does well to avoid it; he’s good at that. You hate him for it. And like he demands, you crave him. You are breathless, clinging to Secondo’s arm, wrinkling his silks, pressing your mouth to his wrist to muffle your cries. “You think I am but a simple ghost?” His nose presses against your cheek; nuzzling sweetly. His hand never stops moving, never stays in one spot for long. You lean back, your head on his shoulder. “I can smell you on the wind, amante. I can taste your need from miles away - you belong to me.” His gloved thumb circles your clit and you moan, jaw hanging slack. “Io sono tuo, strega. E tu sei mia.” His teeth rake along your shoulder. “You are mine.”
In that instant, he is gone. The room is dark, the sun long set. You fall forward, gasping for air.
Each night, just like that, over and over, he comes. As soon as your eyes close he is there. The hallway elongates by miles. Secondo growing to a monstrous, unnatural size. He comes to you, his shadows restrain you, silence you, while he brings you to the very, aching edge of it. Tormenting you. And then he leaves.
“Crave me.”
Your alarm clock was eventually returned, on the kitchen table next to a coffee mug that had also gone missing; Sunrise incense hanging in the air, curls of smoke wafting though you’d lit no stick. You decide to go out. Perhaps fresh air will do you good. Though you know that, after weeks of it, it will not. The highs of adrenaline and then, the lack of it, had left you exhausted. The aching need between your legs, no matter how hard you tried, couldn’t be quelled. You pull on your coat, freezing, despite the warm, spring air. He’s watching now. As you open the door, you catch a flash of green and black, slipping down the hallway, towards your bedroom. You have half a mind to stay, to undress, to crawl into bed and fall asleep and let him have you. Though he never brings you to your end - never, ever lets you come - just the thought of his touch is enough to make your mouth water.
You feel like you’ve gone mad. Running from him. Dying for him. You walk, hands in your pockets, head down. Your feet carrying you, the heels of your boots setting a dull, hypnotic pace. The breeze blows through the fresh, green buds on the trees. Birds sing. Daffodils and hyacinth bloom along the sidewalk; their scent is sweet but all you can smell is leather. Incense. Musky sex. All you can feel is cold breath. Slick, wet lambskin. You plod on, your steps lulling you into a trance as you walk to the coffee shop down the street.
Across from the abbey.
You don’t remember ordering or paying or picking up your coffee. You don’t remember the hours after that, all slipped away. You gasp, inhaling the night air; the scent of rain hangs heavy on the wind. You stand in front of the abbey gates, a cold to-go cup of coffee in your hand; so frightened, you crush it - the papery cup gone soft after so many hours. The cold coffee spills, splattering on the ground, soaking into your coatsleeve.
How long? How long have you been here?
You hear nothing but the cars passing by. The ding of the coffeeshop door across the street. Rain clouds hang heavy in the sky, the stars and moon hiding behind them. It is so dark. And you feel so very alone. Your head pounds from exhaustion and lack of caffeine. Your thighs are slick with the embarrassing evidence of your need. Your body feels too heavy, too tired to walk back home. If you could even do that. You stare at the abbey, lit warmly; windows bright, laughter and music echo across the lawn. And the realization hits you. Your body shakes, trembling at the thought of him.
He is there. He is in there where it is warm and happy and bright and you are here completely undone for and because of him.
“Crave me.”
When you wake, you think only of Secondo.
Reality seeps in and you realize you don’t remember returning home. Your hair is washed, you wear a nightgown and, as far as you can tell, you have slept well. Peacefully, even. You recall no dreams. No voices. Rain taps on the window and the wind blows; lightning and thunder flash and pulse and rumble, shaking the windows. You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for him. After a while, you start to wonder if he’s not coming. You exhale - half in relief, half disappointment. You relax. You sink into your pillows and listen to the storm. You let your vision go hazy. Your body goes limp. And just as you let your guard down is when you feel him, when you’re just on the edge of sleep, his hand sliding up your chest. Gloved fingers wrap around your throat; cold air, his searing kiss presses to your ear. “Come to me.” He rasps. His grip on your throat tightens, your breath wheezes in and out of you. Your eyes roll back. “Come to me now. It is time. I can wait no longer.”
His presence is there one moment and gone the next and you feel a supernatural - although, what is or isn’t supernatural is beyond you at this point - pull to stand, to leave, to go to him. Him. You slip on your bathrobe which, against the storm that blows outside, seems ridiculous. The whole thing is, really. But the voice of reason inside your head is muffled, subdued, stroked tenderly into submission by Secondo’s voice. All of your needs will be met when you get to him. You know this; you will want for nothing, crave nothing.
You’re rain soaked and aching before you get to the end of your block.
You see the iron topped brick wall that protects the property that surrounds the abbey. Down a ways, is a gate. Beyond it, the old cemetery that once belonged to the faithful christians that kept the church before the Emeritus family; now, to walk through the headstones - barefoot, nightgown soaked and revealing everything, wind whipping the satin around your legs - it seems deliciously blasphemous. Despite the nerves, despite the fear, to have a Papa’s voice in your head, to know that part of you is no longer your own, that your body responds to his call on a base, animalistic level; it thrills you. Your fingers pass over the weather-worn, moss covered headstones. Your hair whips in your face. You shiver - your thighs are slick, your core fiery hot - you know it isn’t from the rain.
Through the woods you walk and you hear ghouls calling, chittering over the storm - they raise a raucous, their infernal noise masked by the storm. You feel warmth, a friendly, familiar warmth at your ankles and a dark shadow slides up your legs, across your belly. A growl and snap of sharp, ghoulish teeth makes you smile. Not tonight, you think and Dewdrop heats your skin once more, lapping at your neck, nipping at your ear before leaving you.
You make your way through the woods that separates the abbey from the rest of the world. The earth is soft and cold and wet but, you pay it no mind. Secondo’s voice, probing every part of your mind forces one foot in front of the other. You put your arms out, reveling in the storm. Mud coats your feet and legs. Soft grass wipes it away, smearing it over the sopping satin of your nightgown. Flashes of lightning reveal the dancing shadows of the ghouls; they run and fight and fuck all around you and it makes you smile. You spin and cackle, the impending relief has you almost hysteric, throwing your head back against the spring downpour.
Through the trees, you can see the abbey. It’s late enough that the only lights you see are warm, glowing windows in the dormitory wings and towers; Siblings up late. You emerge from the woods and make your way through the winding labyrinth that is the garden and the statuary. You come here, sometimes. To pray. To have a safe, quiet spot to practice during a full moon. To enjoy the bonfires on Beltane. And the party on Samhain.
You run your fingers over the thick, waxy leaves of the rosebushes. Over the silken alabaster of a statue’s robes; the wearer you have no gumption to look up and see. Your mind is singular and the closer you get to the abbey, the harder it is to focus on anything else. Your heart pounds in your chest, echoing his name: Secondo. Secondo. Secondo.
Over the soft, manicured lawn you walk. Twirling, dancing, amongst the oaks and maples that stand sentinel; the sounds of the ghouls fade away, the constant, hard rain drowning them out. The storm hands directly overhead - a sane person would not be out in the middle of it - lightning cracks and, immediately, thunder follows; shaking your ribcage. But you are not sane. Not in the slightest. Not tonight, anyway. A few weeks ago, at a Satanic mass, you might’ve been somewhat normal. But, Secondo - ghostly or not - is a man you know you’ll never recover from. You will never want another.
You scale the stone steps to the massive, dark, oaken doors. You push them open and step inside, the warmth of the foyer greets you like the lover you seek. For a moment, you stand there, breathing hard; taking in the dark room. Usually, it is lit and full of Siblings when you enter for mass. The fire across the room - surrounded by a few overstuffed chairs and coffee tables, burns low but hot. Above the mantle, a portrait of the current reigning Papa looks down at you. Perpetua, in all his glory, does not look impressed that you’re dripping and muddy and on the verge of a carnal, lusty breakdown right in front of him, right on his pristine floors. You look down one long hallway; you see no shadows and hear no whispers. You’re acutely aware that the only sound you hear is that of the storm behind you, the abbey doors still open wide.
You look to the left and he is on you; gloved hand around your throat, the other between your thighs; the leather and wet fabric of your nightgown clashing, keeping him from you. His mouth crashes hard onto you, harder still you hit the wall; Secondo’s body dwarfs yours, engulfs you. For a moment, he is in your mind and outside, up against, of your body; spectral, ethereal and - at the same time - so very real, palpable, heated. His teeth bite at your lips, his tongue forcing entry and you sigh, arching forward, pressing into him. Your mouth hangs open, your legs spread for him, your arms come around him - to touch him, just to feel him soothes your mind; mends the edges that have gone ragged after weeks of his bedevilment. Secondo pulls at your nightgown, the straps pop and disappear as he yanks the top down, exposing your chest. His mouth, hot and eager, finds your nipple and you cry out. His hand tightens around your throat and the lack of air sends jolts of pleasure from your scalp to your curling toes; you see emerald stars dancing amongst onyx cosmos. You shiver beneath his mouth, your hands on the back of Secondo’s head, on his neck, keeping him tight against you while he bites and suckles. He groans against your flesh; he grips your hips, grinding them up against him. His height forces him to hunch over you, his mouth kissing its way up to your neck, biting and sucking dark, perfect marks over your pulse point. You will wear the shape of his mouth for weeks.
Secondo’s hands slip back and he, so tightly it hurts, grabs your ass; he lifts you up, your legs finding purchase around his waist. You think he is going to take you to his bed but he simply sinks to his knees. The cold marble floor shocks a moment of sense into you and you let out a sob of need, of frustration, of weeks of fear. You scoot backwards until you meet the steps and struggle, wet and flustered and shaking, to scale them. Secondo crawls towards you, eyes on fire, brow heavy as he glares. His hand finds your ankle and you think he’s going to pull you back to him but, he just lifts your muddy, wet skin to his lips. He inhales and leans forward, planting a kiss on the back of your knee. You shudder. “Papa.” he freezes and his unreadable eyes flick up to yours.
In an instant, his hand is back on your throat, his breath a growl against your jaw. He drags his mouth up to your ear. He presses into you, grinding hard; the stairs bite against your back. You cling to Secondo, arms around his shoulders. “You.” He growls. “You have vexed me. You have put a spell on me, strega?”
“N-no, Papa.”
Your answer earns you another growl. His teeth clamp down on your neck like a feral dog; you fist his silks, crying out. If you thought the ache for him was terrible before, when he was just a specter, this is incomprehensible. Your mouth hangs open and you take great, gaping gasps of air; Secondo’s hand works furiously, struggling between your wet nightgown and his chasuble. You shake, your entire body convulses, legs spread, dying for him. “Please.” You whimper.
He doesn’t stop and he doesn’t go faster. He makes no move to penetrate you. No, he’s enjoying this, watching you. “Do you know the four stages of demonic possession, “la mia bellezza? Hm, my beauty?” You shake your head, releasing a fresh round of tears. His thumb presses against your lips and you open your mouth - the taste of leather and sex blooms over your tongue. “I will tell you.” Still his hand moves, the leather slides against your skin, your puffy flesh slides between his fingers. Still, he makes no move other than the gentle, tender back and forth. Up and down. The heel of his hand slips over your clit, the tip of his fingers tease your entrance, and then, down to your ass. Almost there. Not nearly enough. “The first stage,” Secondo growls, his middle finger sliding up to your clit - his other fingers delicately, elegantly splayed so that nothing else touches you. “Infestation.”
“Papa. Papa!” You sob. His fingertip rings around your clit send sharp - near painful - jolts of pleasure through your legs. It echoes - aching - deep in your thighs. Makes it hard to breathe. Like everything else has been, it is as exhilarating as it is excruciating.
He shushes you, muffling your sobs with his mouth, moving his finger just a breath away - alleviating the severity without stopping. “Infestation is like,” he pauses, gazing off into nothing. Contemplating as if he doesn’t know the answer. When his eyes come back, there is a sparkle in them. “It is like a haunted house.” He smirks down at you. You gasp for air, the brief moment of relief he gives you leaves room for that frustration to slither back in.
“I thought I was going crazy.” You hiss and Secondo answers you by pressing his palm hard against your clit. You shake and moan and the rest of your anger dissipates, again.
“You hear noises. Footsteps. Whispers.” He goes on as if he’s teaching one of his classes. Nonchalant to the point of annoyance. “You see shadows, yes? You know it isn’t real and yet, it seems so. Doesn’t it? Did I seem real, my darling?” He asks, leaning down. His tongue traces the open circle of your mouth. “I can tell you I was there… I was,” he moans, matching the sound you make. You can’t tell if he’s mocking you or praising you or joining in. “Yes, yes - I am sorry to put you through it. But I was there. I was.” The tips of his middle and ring finger circle at your entrance and your hips buck, a weak attempt at getting him inside you. He pulls away, not moving at all. You still and he waits a moment before resuming. Your pussy clenches on nothing as he presses just at the entrance; just enough to tease the tender flesh, to pull and stretch it for just a moment. “The second level is oppression - oh, it is one of my favorites. To see you at night, sleeping so peacefully? To slip into your dreams?” He groans and leans down, biting at your nipple. “And now, to be able to finally touch you? Do you know how miserable it was for me?” Your eyes flutter open and your brow knits in confusion. “Ah, you do not know? I forget you are not one of my ghulehs, not one my flock.” He sighs and for a moment, slips just the tips of his fingers inside of you. He grins. Your reaction - your legs slamming together, your voice pitched as you cry out - deemed worthy. “I cannot feel you, my love.” He teases you now, pumping the tips of his fingers in and out of you. “I could touch you, tease you, drive you mad but I could not feel a thing. Not like that. Now? Now, though,” he sinks his fingers into you and he smiles, watching you with great pride. “Now, I can touch you. Now,” Your pussy flutters around his fingers and he sighs, leaning down to lap at the fiery spot where your body wraps tights around his, drinking you up like a fine wine. “Now I can feel you.” He looks up, nuzzling against your belly. “Finally. Finally,” Secondo’s voice breaks - a crack in his otherwise cold, calculating, powerful facade. And it costs him. The sound your body makes while his fingers pump in and out of you is wildly lewd; wet, loud - almost as loud as you - you wonder if anyone in the abbey is awake, wondering if anyone is thinking that someone in the foyer is getting murdered. Or perhaps, a pipe has burst; either way, you don’t care. “The third level of demonic possession,” Secondo says, letting go of your neck, pulling his hand from your pussy. He sits up straight and brings his fingers to his mouth. You watch him, your own hands replace his, wandering over your body. You watch him suck your slick, milky and shining, from his fingers; eyes closed, throat bobbing.
You calm, a little. Though the painful need is still pounding between your legs, you can catch your breath. Secondo’s paints are a mess, his robes wrinkled and sopping wet; from the rain or from you, you can’t tell. You feel good about it, either way. Again, your mind is singular and you don’t care much. The stairs are wildly uncomfortable but they weren’t meant for sprawling or fucking; you chalk up most of your pain to your position: laid out, legs splayed open, bare to the world. You push yourself up on your elbows. “You aren’t a demon.” Your voice is hoarse and you glare at Papa. All of these dramatics, all of this pain and suffering and want and aching; all of it in the name of… demonic possession? “You aren’t a demon.”
“And yet,” he growls. One second he is sucking his gloves dry, nursing every drop of you off of him. Then next, his hand is on the back of your neck, mashing your face against his. He kisses you, fiercely, while he speaks. “And yet, I wish to possess you all the same.” His growls turn into moans, turn into whines. “The third stage is obsession. Obsession. You think only of me. You want only me. You crave,” His eyes are squeezed shut, hands still on your neck, only our face, keeping it against his. “Only me.” Your hands find their purchase on the hem of his silks and you yank them up and out of the way. You find his belt and button and zipper and wonder what kind of male - human or infernal - wears so many damn layers. He pushes your chin up, forcing you to work blindly. You meet his mismatched gaze and find all traces of that cold glower gone. Now, his eyes search yours - the white and green are full of need, full of soft, loving warmth. “I wish to possess you.”
You work at his belt. And his button. And zipper.
You push his pants and underwear over his ass, freeing his cock. It’s hot and hard and pounds with his pulse beneath your fingers. “I want to possess you and I want you to crave me. Me, only.”
You shift your hips beneath him. You shiver. You rub the head of Secondo’s cock along the length of your pussy; both of your mouths fall open. “What is the fourth?” Secondo presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed.
“Fourth what?” Secondo’s voice rides on an exhale, low and breathy.
“The,” Your mouth pressed open to the corner of his. “The fourth level… fourth stage. Demons.”
Secondo smirks and then dips his head, kissing your neck, licking along your collarbone. “The fourth stage is,” He rolls his hips and you release your grip, letting him sink into you. You both let out loud, borderline obnoxious, sounds of relief. Groaning and crying, clinging to each other.
“Possession.”
Your jaw hangs slack and Secondo’s mouth finds purchase there, his tongue dancing with yours. You whine and sigh. His touch wildly relieving. You sob. “Finally.” Secondo fucks you, slowly. He hardly pulls out; simply grinding into you and you spread your legs, welcoming him in. The stairs bite at your back, at your ass; tomorrow you’ll have splendid bruises to show for it. Everytime Secondo rolls his hips, pushing into you, a delicious ache blooms deep. Still, he will never be deep enough; he has planted in you a craving that he will never satiate. “You made me wait so long.” You whimper. “So, so long. And it hurt, it hurts, Papa.”
He coos, purring against your cheek. “I am here now, I am here. I am yours.”
…
You lay on the floor, having slid off the stairs, and by some Satanic miracle, rolled and fucked and writhed your way in front of the open foyer doors. You lay on top of Secondo, your nightgown torn and still wet, hiked up over your waist, tangled; all of you exposed. Still muddy. His pants are still around his ankles, his silks bunched up, thrown and twisted over his head; a blasphemous pillow. You rest your head on his chest, your heart over his ear. You both stare out at the storm, watching the trees sway and bend in the wind, the lightning and thunder dance overhead. “You and I,” You start and then pause, frowning, struggling to find the words. Secondo’s fingers tuck under your chin, pulling your gaze to his. “We’d seen each other a hundred times before - at mass, all the sabbats. Why was that mass different? What’s different now?”
He shakes his head, brow furrowed. He pulls you up to his mouth, kissing you softly. “I… do not know. I tried, for a short time,” He smirks, “To understand such a sudden and severe pull to you. Only that, one minute I knew you in passing. A witch in my congregation. The next moment, the Dark Lord saw that - like Primo, perhaps,” he taps a finger on top of his head, “Struck by it.” He hesitates and you kiss him.
“Tell me.”
“Love. It is my time," His voice breaks and he clears his throat. His cheeks turn pink beneath his sex-mussed paints; he’s blushing. He swallows and you realize after all of this, he’s nervous. And that he is, very much, a man. “I, too, can love.”
You bite your lip and grin. “But first you thought I put a spell on you?”
Secondo’s frown turns into a soft, sheepish smile. He wears it well, humility. Embarrassment. “I was,” he kisses you, whining quietly against your mouth. “Scared, at first. How much I wanted you.” You snort, smiling, bumping your nose, against his. Again, he reminds you - has if you’ve forgotten. “I, too, can love.” You kiss his chest, nuzzling into it, pressing your lips over his heart. You take Secondo’s hand - pulling it from your cheek and, finger by finger, you take off his glove. You glance up at him; he watches you, silent once more. You eye him.
“You’re really here?” You ask, nuzzling into his palm. You kiss it. “This is you?”
He smirks. “I am truly here. I am yours.”
You press his hand to your lips and your eyes flutter shut: warm. He is so warm. You kiss his fingertips and, turning his hand over, you nuzzle into the back of it, reveling in the dark hair there, your fingers trace it up his arm. You sit up and take his other hand, bringing the leather to your mouth; you grin and bite it - carefully - pulling it off. You bring that hand to your mouth, giving it the same, slow attention as the other. You press them to your chest and lower them over your breasts. Your eyes meet and you smile. Secondo gives your chest a squeeze. You smile. “You know,” you laugh, quietly. “All that work? You could have just asked me out to dinner.”
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I know— “say it louder. i want everyone to know you’re mine.”
with Papa V.
I'm sorry that it's taking me so long to get to these! ♡
18+ MDNI
You hadn't even had the chance to ask Perpetua how tonight's show had gone before he was all over you; the adrenaline high of performing thundering through his veins as he buried his face into the crook of your neck to kiss and nip at the delicate skin, telling you over and over again how pretty you were before backing you into and before long up against the ashen wall of his dressing room.
"V," you moan, melting under the torrid heat of his body as he pins you to the wall by the underside of your thighs, ravening on your helpless lips as you fight to keep up with his pace; the lace crotch of his pants tickling your stomach each time his growing bulge grinds into your mound.
"What is it, angel?" he breathes, his sable curls glistening as they fall onto your face, leaving rivers of salted sweat running down to your chin. "Are you scared they'll hear us?"
You turn your head towards the closed door, noting the bustle of sound coming from the hall outside as the crew rush to pack up the stage decorations; the ambient murmuring and taps of busy footsteps drowning out your hushed whimpers and moans.
"You're such an exhibitionist," you whisper, giggling as Perpetua reaches up to hold your face, his thumb caressing your soft skin as he turns it to face his.
"What would ever make you think that, sweetheart?" he teases, hovering his face above yours for a moment before his lips come crashing down onto yours once again, freeing one of your thighs as he fumbles with the silver batwing clasp of his belt.
You watch closely as his thick cock springs free, his velvety, pale skin flushed and palpating as his pulse thunders in the veins vining around his shaft. You gasp, reaching down to feel him on your skin, your fingers barely able to meet your thumb as you curl your hand around his girth.
"For once, I'm thankful for your cold hands." he murmurs, leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses along the angle of your jaw while you work him with leisurely strokes, beads of crystalline precum forming on his tip as he groans into your skin.
"You're so warm, baby," you whisper, turning to gaze into his mismatched eyes as they grow hazy with lust. "I can't wait to feel you."
Perpetua bites back a moan, viciously tearing the gusset of your soaked panties to the side to expose you before he pushes inside you with one desperate, bestial thrust of his hips.
You whimper before remembering all of the people on the other side of the door, lifting a trembling hand up to your mouth to muffle the uncontrollable moans and gasps tumbling from your lips as he fucks you mercilessly into the wall.
"No no," Perpetua tuts. "Let me hear you, angel. Let everyone hear that you're mine."
You frantically shake your head at him in as he draws his hips back before slowly and deliberately sinking you back down onto his length, your whole body struck with a blinding wave of warmth that sends the room around you spinning as it washes over you.
"Papa!" you cry out as your whole body shudders, his cock throbbing against the growing sweet spot inside you as he fights to hold perfectly still.
"I think you can do better than that, hm?" he growls, his breathing ragged as your walls clench around him, threatening to send him over the edge as he twitches in your tightened grip.
He pulls out again only to slam into you with all of his adrenaline-fueled strength this time, reaching up and tenderly holding the back of your head to protect it as he cradles you to his feverish body, pounding you into sweet oblivion.
"Papa!" you scream, your hands reaching up to grab a handful of his damp curls as his paint-smeared lips twist into a devilish smirk.
You both turn to where the commotion outside has come to an abrupt silence, a dark chuckle escaping Perpetua's lips as your face grows crimson in your embarrassment.
This can be about any Papa you like! I didn't mention names anywhere... but you know which one I'd be imagining 🤭 enjoy!
GN Reader!
NSFW/suggestive content under the cut!
You're just friends...
You tell people as you steal glances that are longer than normal for polite company. Looking at his lips, his hands, his body. Lingering touches on your arm, your face, the small of your back; thinking of the heat from his hands long after he's gone.
You're just friends...
Embraces make you feel like you're coming home when you're in his arms. Listening to his heart race as you lay your head against his chest. Feeling how reluctant he is to let you go, lest you fall into the arms of somebody else.
You're just friends...
Always asking him if he's seeing anyone; slightly relieved when he says no. When he asks you, you also say no, because who could compare? Every time noticing how he sounds almost... glad.
You're just friends...
Wondering how those fingers would feel inside you, caressing the most sensitive part of you until you unfurl for him, crying out his name in ecstasy. How he'd hold you through each shockwave, telling you how good you feel.
You're just friends...
Imagining how his bare skin would feel under your fingers, warm and pliant. How his voice would rise, crack and call out your name as you build him up and take him apart over and over again. The way he would move over you, holding you close to him as you feel him enter you.
You're just friends...
Thinking of how his mouth moves when he talks, watching the movement of every word. Wondering how it would feel worshipping you. You ache to feel the hot, wet wash of his lips and tongue against you as he takes his time to taste, to savour. Teasing you with licks, bites and sucks, before giving you what you've waited for for so long.
There is NEARLY NOT ENOUGH angst of my precious little creature. Or fluff… Its always smut 🥀 My ace ass needs that good ol angst and fluff without the freaky. Dear writers, PLEASE hear me out😭
(i want more nihil fics too lowkey, gimme that delicious old raisin)
Papa (any) x gn!reader. Explicit 18+ MDNI ~3.6k words.
Tags/Warnings: Mystery substance intox, Somnophilia, mild dubcon (mainly due to other tags), overstimulation, a tiny dash of Daddy kink.
Summary/Sneak Peek:
"When he had suggested something to enhance tonight's activities, Papa had only a vague idea how the pills he had mixed into your drinks would work. It hadn't taken long at all before you were undressing each other - definitely not long enough for them to take effect. But when both of you were still as hungry and desperate and ready for more hours later, it was clear they hadn't been just any normal performance enhancers."
Read in full below or on AO3
A huge thank you to @cenotaphghuleh for proof-reading, amazing feedback and edits, and even helping with tags and titling. This fic would not have been posted without them. Go check out their writing - they are as lovely as they are talented <3 Also to everyone who has chatted ideas/writing with me this week, ily all <3
The sheets are damp against your skin as you luxuriate in them. You drag your limbs over their softness, eyes closed and smile wide. The ache in your muscles makes them pulsate and it feels like you're moving underwater but, somehow, simultaneously, like you're floating on a cloud. There's a light stinging sensation between your legs but you're barely aware of it. Or, you are, but the pain feels almost comforting. Is it even pain? You're light-headed. Giddy. Exhausted. Euphoric.
You feel a pull on your arms and water is being poured into your mouth. Your jaw is aching and your lips feel swollen. You struggle to swallow most of it before collapsing back into the bed, the cold trickling down your hoarse throat and neck. The sudden change in position made you aware of the shake of your body. Everything throbs.
Papa watches you, a puddle of bliss in his bed, still panting and ignoring the screaming in his own muscles. He laughs as you try to pull him back on top of you, gingerly obliging, placing soft kisses between the blooming red splotches on your chest. You hiss and jolt as his weight settles on top of you, and the tip of his cock nestles gently between your legs. You're too sensitive, too raw, but you clumsily try to entice him back inside you. His head hangs low and he groans.
"No more. Time to rest," he says softly, despite the fact he is still painfully hard.
You protest with a petulant whine, grabbing at him with the little strength you have left but your hands just slide off him. You hear your own voice but you don't know what you manage to say, only that it makes Papa kiss you softly. Your lips move against him and you try to deepen the kiss but you move in slow motion, becoming frustrated as your own body sabotages you getting what you want. The feeling of his laboured breath tickling your collar bone as he holds you only drives you crazier but it's nothing compared to his amused chuckles every time you plead.
"You're so mean," you mumble, attempting and failing to smack his shoulder.
"It is for your own good," Papa says sternly. You don't see him trying to suppress a grin.
-----------------------------
When he had suggested something to enhance tonight's activities, Papa had only a vague idea how the pills he had mixed into your drinks would work. It hadn't taken long at all before you were undressing each other - definitely not long enough for them to take effect. But when both of you were still as hungry and desperate and ready for more hours later, it was clear they hadn't been just any normal performance enhancers.
It started slowly, a sort of static building between you. The air became heavy, like just before a storm rolls in, and electricity seemed to jump from him to you with every glancing touch. Papa could always play you like his favourite instrument, and so the ease in which he guided you through a slow crescendo to your first peak was not out of the ordinary. Nor was it surprising when you quickly reached a second, or a third aided expertly by his experienced tongue. Each dizzying high started to roll into the next and it wasn't until you were cumming for a fourth time did you realise this was still only foreplay. If that had been the rumbling thunder, the next was being struck by lightning, cracking you open and unleashing an inhuman thirst.
There was no basking in the afterglow - even the occasional need to take a deep breath before resuming became an annoyance. There was no time to appreciate or savour, only the desire to chase more burning in your gut. Even the most feather-light touch had your body convulsing and you're pretty sure at some point Papa had made you cum just from kissing you. Hell, it might have just been a look. However, somewhere along the way, something changed.
Being well aware of his own stamina and physical limitations, Papa was no stranger to marathon sessions, taking pride in using his mouth, fingers, cock and now a quite wide range of toys to keep you satisfied in his bed as long he wanted. But tonight, his usual time for recovery seemed to completely disappear. He normally wanted to pleasure you for hours - tonight he felt like he could keep you here for days. He needed to. It was incredible to feel physically able, but another thing entirely to truly feel like he never wanted to do anything else ever again. The way you touched each other was obsessive, a primal need. Every sense was heightened, but all of it was tinged of it with an unsettling dread. He felt like he might die if he ever stopped.
Whatever effect it had had on him, however, was nothing compared to how it seemed to affect you. Your body demanded his. It felt like you needed him to breathe. Even a second without feeling him on you felt torturous and without him inside you, you felt deeply hollow. Every beautiful high after orgasm would shatter brutally with a genuine distress only kept at bay by his touch. Pure, unadulterated, never-ending, mind-altering, all-consuming lust.
Your experience swung wildly between completely out-of-body and being aware of every atom of your being. And his. Sometimes it felt like a tentative stroke would break you, other times they barely registered. Unpredictable waves of pleasure hit you out of nowhere, again and again. It was divine. Addictive. Sick. You disintegrate. It's not enough.
When prolonged ecstasy had become the baseline, you had needed it harder and rougher, recklessly searching for a limit you were sure you no longer had. On any other occasion you would've sent Papa to rummage through his toy closet and begged to be tied down and used in any way he saw fit, but that would've meant prying yourselves apart. Luckily for you, Papa was more than capable with his bare hands, especially tonight. He clawed and bit and scraped and smacked until you were thoroughly, beautifully bruised. Gut-wrenching sobs deafened you, but you only recognised them as yours when you looked to Papa, eyes black and mouth curled into a vicious grin. It was utterly rapturous.
You became a blur of entwined limbs, a sinful, obscene mass in a cloud of pheromones. Satan himself could've appeared and neither of you would've noticed. Like animals in heat, you rutted desperately together. Never staying in one position long, you felt Papa bury his cock in you over and over again, the same cry of relief each time you enveloped every inch. You took him easily, even though he somehow felt even bigger each time you stretched around him. It hurt but only for a few seconds at a time. The pain of overuse barely peeked through before another wave of warmth spread through you, keeping the delicate balance between pleasure and pain exactly where you needed it.
Until the balance shifts again.
A forceful thrust steals your vision and you explode. Barely conscious, you hold on to Papa for dear life. Before you remember where you are, your hips buck, magnetised to his. The comforting numbness that had kicked in every time you needed it was now slowly draining out of you. The whole evening had felt somewhat unreal, but now you were very much aware of just how much punishment your body had endured.
Your skin prickles. You feel something simmering beneath the surface before an unnatural flame swallows you whole. Papa's hands, firmly keeping your legs in place, are scalding. It's as if a layer of your skin has been scrubbed away and, when his fingertips dance across the surface, it feels excruciating. You don't know if your nerves are singing or screaming. It's the most intense, indescribable feeling you've ever experienced. Good or bad, you have no idea. You don't have the capacity to even think about if you want it to stop. You swear his entire length swells inside you, enough to tear you open when it bursts. Something in you wants it to.
By the time you feel the pressure in your core again, another orgasm getting ready to wrestle its way out of you, you are truly on fire. You feel radioactive and for the first time that night something in you fights back. You're suddenly aware of just how fragile you are. Your heartbeat hammers in your chest in time with Papa's whimpering above you. For the first time this evening, something in you begs for mercy before your body gives out. But you're still terrified at what happens if he stops.
Papa continues to pound into you furiously, all while anguished cries rip through his lungs. You moan in unison, spurring each other on at a punishing pace. He curls his fingers into your hair and jerks you backwards. Tears stream down your cheeks, the room starts to spin, and you almost pass out. In fact, you welcome the sensation of reality melting around you. But, just as everything starts to go dark, you clench around Papa's cock so hard you hear him hiss and, somehow, both of you violently shudder and convulse, climaxing together one last time. Your vision goes white and you feel a blinding clarity as, finally, mercifully, you have relief.
-----------------------------
He was incredulous that, after all of that, you still wanted more.
The effects seemed to be wearing off of Papa a bit faster - his mind was clearing now, even allowing some logical thought. Your attempts to convince him through stifled yawns that you wanted more only served to amuse him. Despite his cock not getting the message quite yet, he knew it was time to stop, and the world would not end if he did. While he watched you beg, he took the time to recall the whole evening in his head. The night had become infinite; he'd lost track of every filthy thing you had said, pleaded for, done to him, and allowed him to do to you. There was no thought, and definitely no room for hesitation or embarrassment, just the need to do, and say, everything you'd ever wanted. Plus a few things you had never even imagined you wanted. You had been magnificent. And so had he.
As he continued to soothe you, scattering kisses across your face and chest, Papa noticed the pronounced reaction to his touches, especially over the more bruised and punished areas of your form. Between the twinges of pain, your expressions were beginning to soften and your breathing started to calm. While you still occasionally attempt to speak, with short pleas of "more, please," you're losing the fight against exhaustion beneath him. Papa watches as you try to keep your eyes open, but now with a knowing look of defeat. The only thing you can see clearly is his one white eye, piercing through the blur. You try to focus on it but your eyelids quickly become too heavy. However, even as you fight sleep, your mind is still only on one thing.
"I can take it, come on…" you slur. He only laughs, again. You feel the mattress shift, and his weight settles to your side and his breath now coolly tickles against your ear. He cuddles close to you, stroking your hair and nuzzling into your neck. He rolls you on to your side and your back sticks to his chest. You feel confused relief as the desire to fight him wanes. It doesn't disappear completely though, feeling his erection that is now digging into your back.
"I know you think you can…" you interrupt him with an indignant whine. "Shhhh, relax."
His voice feels like velvet and it makes you want to melt. "But, Papa," you try to argue, "can feel… you want…"
He sighs, head lightly pushing against your shoulder. His fingers begin to wander, tentatively exploring your blisteringly sensitive entrance. You do flinch but instinctively grind into them. Papa, knowing you're not giving up, shuffles himself into a better position. You let him manoeuvre you, feeling him wrap your arm around his neck and lift up your hips. Finally, he pushes inside, easily, and you let out a satisfied hum. He gasps as he settles in place, engulfed in a scorching heat. He swears he can feel his tip sizzle. You must be sore, as he is, but you don't show it. He tilts your face to check, and he's amazed at the peaceful smile he sees.
For a moment, he thinks this might be enough to satisfy your demands, but it's not long before you're squirming again. And the more you move, the harder it becomes to resist and the thought of falling asleep starts to drift away from him. You're trying to talk again, so close to getting what you want, but it's not making much sense. Papa can only make out one thing.
"…fuck me to sleep."
"What?"
You don't repeat yourself but instead attempt to grab at his hips behind you. Papa takes a moment to process your request, his capacity for thought now a little impaired again now he's inside you. He could quite easily fall asleep with you warming him and he still thinks that would be for the best, but just a couple of rolls of your hips has his body following suit seemingly of its own accord.
He cocoons your body with his own and begins a gentle rhythm. You relax, content to let him take over now he's given in. He is careful to keep a slow, smooth pace, encouraged by your soft, breathy moans and sighs. His hips fit comfortably flush against you, and he keeps his thrusts shallow but it's more than enough in your overly sensitive state. Any time you make a noise anything above a heavy sigh, his movements slow but eventually you both settle into a hypnotic cadence.
"Good, baby," he drawls. "Relax, deep breaths with me."
Your appreciative whines grow quieter each time he fully fills you. Your expressions become less intense as you drift between waking and sleep, the feeling of being stretched again becoming a vague but pleasant sensation. Papa continues to coo in your ear, his voice warm and slowly sounding more and more distant.
"That's it, let Daddy rock you to sleep."
That perks you up briefly and you stretch your entire body against him as you feel a distinct tingle wash over you. But the rocking continues and it lulls you ever closer to sleep, helped by his soothing voice, as sweet as honey and barely above a whisper. Papa's body slots so perfectly against yours but you're becoming less and less aware of how it feels. If you do move, you don't realise it. If your mouth opens to speak, you don't hear it. He could be talking to you, or you could be hearing him inside your own head.
"Shhhh, so good for me, my angel," he continues, eyes closed and lost in your heat. He speaks without thinking, praise and pet names tumbling out of his mouth. At some point he stops thinking about thrusting into you and his hips seem to naturally fall into a fluid rocking motion. It's almost mechanical, just both of your bodies moving together they were they are always meant to. It's peaceful. Serene. Perfect.
"My insatiable little succubus," he gasps as he feels you spasm, pulling him in even unconsciously as your walls cling to his throbbing, overused cock. Your face is still, lips slightly parted, but even like this he can feel you needing him. He suddenly feels a weight in his chest and a welling of tears under his lashes. "We could stay like this forever."
It's the last thing you hear before you succumb fully to the dark.
-----------------------------
As you begin to stir, not all of your senses wake at once. Your eyes feel too heavy to open just yet and it takes a moment to feel the soft sheets underneath you. There's a faint creaking sound you can't quite place but your confusion takes a back seat quickly to the heaviness in your chest. Everything aches. You feel like you've been hit by a truck, but somehow not in an unpleasant way. Your muscles pulse where Papa had so thoroughly fucked you, and it is deliciously sore yet still partially numb. Somehow it feels like he's still filling you.
Your eyelids flutter but don't fully open and you're vaguely aware that you're not lying entirely still. You're also not completely flat on your back. Your legs are resting on… something that's not the bed? It's comfortable enough and you're content to wallow in this half-awake state for a while longer. The rocking of the bed jostles you a little, encouraging you to fully let go of your fading slumber which is only helped by the growing awareness of a pleasant pressure inside you.
You smile and sigh at the sensation, uninterested in questioning it any further. Not when it feels so good. Soft, breathy moans escape you as your arms stretch above your head but, as the warm soft motions start to give way to a stinging burn, your voice strains and your face scrunches. Pleasure and pain fight for dominance as you become aware of another voice, a strangled cry and a moan fighting through a bitten lip.
Your eyes snap open and you see Papa towering over you. His eyes are shut tight, relishing the way you tighten around him. Now fully awake and aware, your sensitive hole is painfully overstimulated and you feel every ridge, every vein, of his cock as he fucks you, clearly struggling to stay gentle. You whimper and shake but your body responds to each thrust in kind. Papa lets go of your legs to caress his own chest as his head lolls back and it's such a beautiful sight, it's almost enough to completely distract you from the confusing friction.
But then you're moaning loudly, arching slightly off the bed and Papa snaps out of his delirious state. His tip hitting just a bit deeper in the right place lets you lose yourself once again. You reach out for him and he obliges, sinking down over you. You taste blood on his lips as they move harshly over your own, swollen and chapped. He pants into you between hungry kisses until a harsh thrust makes your head snap backwards. A hand gently strokes your jaw.
"Hurt?" he questions, but you don't miss a beat, pulling at his waist to keep him moving.
"So— good," you whimper pathetically. Only when you feel a drip from your chin do you realise you're crying.
Papa watches you intensely, enraptured by your pained, contorting expressions. Your fingernails dig into his shoulder and he squirms, flinching as you reopen a scratch from last night. His mouth hangs open as his own moans intensify and he knows he can't hold on much longer.
"Fuck, baby," he whines. "Close. So fucking close."
You're overwhelmed by the need to cum with him but you're not sure you can. You let out a frustrated cry and you writhe, desperately trying to find the right angle to drag yourself over the edge.
"I can't… FUCK, I don't know if I—ahh!"
Papa snaps his hips and you feel a familiar flood of endorphins and warmth. He sets his jaw, chin jutting out as he grits his teeth and fucks into you with a renewed determination. Your muscles start to contract and you're gripping him with everything you have. Your bodies slam together, moans sliding into a higher pitch as you both hurtle towards the peak.
"That's it, one more time for Papa."
Your entire body seizes and you come undone, shuddering as your climax covers Papa. His body jerks with each spurt inside you and you sigh contentedly as his seed fills you, leaking out around him by the time he's done. Everything below your waists seems to be a sticky coated mess and neither of you are sure how much of it is from the night before or this morning. Papa breathes hard against your chest as you try to remember how. You float down from the high, stroking the crown of Papa's head as you quiver around his softening cock.
You wince when he finally pulls out and rolls to your side. You both stare at the ceiling for a while, completely lost for words. When you try to roll towards him, muscles you didn't even know you had twinge in protest. All you can do is laugh, which catches Papa by surprise. But as he starts to process what an insane evening you shared, it's all he can do, too. Eventually, after a time, you find yourselves tangled together again in a soft embrace. Tender kisses and even gentler touches are exchanged, carefully placed between cuts and bruises. Later, you know you and Papa will take a well-needed, cathartic soak in the tub but it will be long while before either of you're able to carry yourselves to the bathroom. For now, the bed, in each other's arms, is where you stay.
The comfortable silence almost allows you to fall asleep once again but something bothers you in the back of your mind.
"Papa?" He cocks his head as you seemingly bring him out of a daydream. "You did… sleep at some point, right?"
His laugh shakes you both. "Hmmmm… mayyybe," he says with a teasing lilt, before bringing his mouth close to your ear. "Or maybe I fucked you all night long."
You hum, immediately aroused again at the thought.
"I think," he presses an open mouthed kiss under your jaw. "I will leave that to your imagination."
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Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! Please let me know what you think (and which Papa you were thinking of). As always, it's much appreciated - as are reblogs! <3 This is genuinely the most ambitious self-indulgent fic I've attempted and I am so excited to finally share it with you all.
Today felt off. You feel a little tense. You had since you agreed to aide in the summoning. Copia had known he was asking a lot, having you be the lead ghoul, but he explained that it felt right to at least ask. You were seen as a motherly figure to most ghouls in the abbey. A soft presence with a guiding hand and gentle voice. Most ghouls are confused and disoriented immediately after being summoned.
It's a painful experience. Being ripped through the veil. So he thought having you there to help reorient the ghoul and if push comes to shove, help subdue them with your quintessince. He neglected to say it would also be a comfort to him, along with all his ghouls being present. Including Aether.
The chatter was constant. Everyone you passed in the halls was talking about tonight's ritual. Copia had reassigned your normal chores to someone else for the next couple days, much to your disliking. He left a note insisting you resting was going to be important. Its not your first time aiding in a summoning, you had been present for several. Even after having the experience you were anxious about the looming evening and the events to follow.
Something just felt strange. Strange in a way that has your intuition screaming at you. It would be a long night or possibly a long couple of days. It would depend on how the summoned ghoul adjusted. With the way you were feeling you were assuming it would not go the way everyone was hoping. Only time would tell.
Continuing down the hall you head back to your room. You had slept in his room again last night. This morning being the first time you had awoken in his bed though. When you had come to the realization of where you were, you felt a small swarm of butterflies in your stomach. At some point, he must have moved you from the couch. He was long gone by the time you had come to, having slept till late morning. He had left the previously mentioned note to explain his absence.
Your relationship with your current Papa has been evolving at a rapid pace. Less than two weeks ago you hadn't know a lot about him outside of his role or what you had learned when he was Cardinal. He knew even less about you. Whatever was taking place between you was happening at a neck-breaking speed. It was hard to think about. If you thought about it too hard you'd spiral and that wouldn't benefit anyone.
Entering your room you rummaging around for a fresh pair of clothes, still being in your clothing from the day prior. You planned on taking a long, hot, everything shower in hopes of melting some of the tension and worry away. Going to the connected bathroom you start the shower. Taking your clothes off you step into the spray of water. Looking up you close your eyes and just let the water cascade down your body. The warmth slowly beginning to strip away your thoughts as you focus on the feeling. Taking this opportunity to wash away the grime and dirt you begin your routine.
After spending a good chunk of time pampering yourself, you exit your shower. Though you now felt more relaxed you could not shake that stubborn nagging voice in the back of your head. You still couldn't identify if it was completely bad. Wrapping a soft towel around your body you start brushing your teeth. While brushing you look in the mirror. Having had so much going on the past week you hadn't had much time to really study yourself. You looked brighter. Not quite as tired. Noticing this brought other realizations to the surface. You feel better. Not quite so weighted. You had slept better these last four days then you had in what felt like ages. Was it sleeping with another person present? Or was it not have to carry the weight of feeling alone and building a connection? Or maybe both. You weren't sure but whatever it was, you definitely felt better.
Copia is healing a little part of you that much is clear. You swiftly finish up your daily morning hygiene and move to dress yourself. Forgoing the uniform you normally wear you opt for a simple black sleeveless high-neck catsuit. Comfortable yet functional.
Leaving the bathroom you seat yourself at your desk and look over some of the pages lying on it. A chore schedule, an empty sketch page, a copy of the announcements for the week. Grabbing the sketch paper and sliding the pencil holder closer, you grab one from its confines. Starting in the corner the pencil glides across the paper, leaving a trail of graphite behind.
With each stroke, an image begins to unravel. Drawing from memory you did your best to depict your subject. Slowly but surely, Primo's face becomes clearer. A warm look on his features. Primo had always had this air of calm control. After a while of line work and shading you sit back and admire the small sketch of your dear friend. Deciding you're not done, you shift your area of focus on the paper. Dragging the first line you begin again. This time it's Sodo's face that starts to take shape. Unmasked and wild. After you move on again. Copia's strong face making its appearance. Him in the morning after falling asleep on the couch, his simple paints smeared out of place.
You take extra care on the last one though. Detailing every feature to be as close to an exact match as you possibly can. In the leftover space, you draw your kit. The memories of him in his infancy flood your mind. The paper portrayed a small kit in a bassinet sleeping. Tail curled up over the abdomen and hair unruly.
You continue to draw with as much precision as you can muster when a knock sounds after your door. "It's open." You call out into the room. You knew who it was before they even opened the door. Glancing over as Sodo makes his way through the door you quietly go back to working on your sketch. Sodo peeks over your shoulder at your little art project. "What are you working on?" Still shading away you give a simple reply. "Just drawing. Relaxes me."
He studies the page that you were so carefully scribbling away at. The first thing he noticed was himself. Your perception of him gave him a slight flutter of joy. He takes in the two Papa's before honing in on your current illustration. "You're good." He turns and takes a seat on your bed. "Thank you. I've had time to practice." You chuckle. Taking a pause you set your pencil down, maneuvering your body to face him. "What are you up to. You normally don't come find me until after or during lunch."
Throwing his helmet on the bed beside him he flops back on the bed. He pulls his blond hair free from its bun. "I got bored. Papa gave us the day off because of tonight. He's working on preparations for everything. Speaking of which he mentioned you being there." Leaning into the chair you sigh. "Yeah, he asked me to lead in trying to settle the new ghoul." He nods. "I'll stick by you." "What don't think I can handle myself? I know I'm old but if I remember correctly I was present for a certain ghouls summoning. I'd say I handled myself just fine." "I know you were, but that's not what I meant and you know it Ma." You giggle. "I know but I've got to tease you a little bit. I'd appreciate the help if the time comes." Seemingly having built up the courage to ask Sodo sits up onto his elbows. "Who are you drawing?" Looking back at your paper you glance over it.
"Oh. This? Just little things from my memories." You half deflect then remind yourself that you've got to try. "I've got Primo, my best friend. You and Copia. This little devil here. This is my kit in infancy." You look at the drawing with such fondness. "You have a kit?" Sodo sits up completely now. "I sure do. Been quite some time since I've seen my boy though. He was left behind when I was summoned." Quietly as if not sure to say he mutters a "I'm sorry". You hand him the page so he can look closer. "He's younger than you. Probably closer in age to Rain, but still a bit younger. He was wild and full of energy. I think about him almost every day."
You drag the folder with the older drawing out and hand him that one too. He looks up at you again. "How many people know?" "Primo was the only one I ever told, well and now you." He focuses on you, then the pictures, then on you again. "You've been up here for over a century, and you've carried that essentially alone." Sighing you adjust your chair to better face him and relax back. It felt nice to talk about him. "It took a long time for me to be okay. When I was summoned, I was very feral. A mother ripped from her kit, then cornered. A marvelous combination if you're seeking out bloodshed. They were not experienced and did not know how to handle ghouls at the time." You paused. "I was locked away for a couple of years to ensure others' safety. Eventually, I became stable enough to gain some freedom. It takes a lot of pain to become this gentle. I've been here a long time but time doesn't heal all pains unfortunately. You learn to live with them and yourself. Or you let them drive you mad." "You hiding anything else?" You shoot him a mischievous grin. "Most definitely, but maybe you can learn more later. I'm getting hungry." He chuckles and hands the papers back to you. You place them in the folder and stand. You both secure your masks in place and leave the room behind.
---
You both decided to track down the rest of the Imperia ghouls to eat together. After tracking everyone down you all sat down and enjoyed a meal together. After today they were going to have a significant change and invite a new face to their circle. Your only hope is that it goes over well and they are all able to get along.
After all the jovial conversation and eating everyone agreed to meet up right before the summoning. You decide to see if you could sniff out Copia. Much to your luck he was in the first place you looked, his office, but you couldn't be granted to much luck because he wasn't alone. You decide to chance a knock anyway. The worst thing is he says it's not a good time. The talking in the room quiets for a moment and then the door opens. Copia in full paints meets you, keeping the door half shut. "Ah! Il mio fiore. Come posso aiutarla?" You try not to look past him out of respect. "Hi Papa! Is now a bad time?" You try to be as polite as possible knowing who's on the other side of the door. You didn't want to cause trouble for him or yourself. "Purtroppo è proprio adesso. Mi dispiace, fiore mio. Mi dispiace anche per stamattina." You note his use of only Italian. He wanted to keep the words mostly private. In a lower voice, you reply. "It's quite alright. I'm sorry to have bothered you while busy, Papa. Would it be okay for me to stop by later?"
Before he could answer a female voice interjects. "If you are so sorry why are you still talking. He is busy. Why must you bother him on such a day knowing well enough?" Sister Imperator moves behind Copia to get a look at who interrupted.
A look of disgust crosses her face when she recognizes you. "It's disrespectful and you should feel ashamed. You of all people should know this." She scoffs. "But then again you've always been a nuisance and stuff your nose in places it doesn't belong." Your ears flatten back and tail flicks subtly with irritation. "I apologi-" "No, don't apologize." He turns his body towards his mother. "That was very unnecessary and disrespectful. We were having a convention. I would appreciate it if you do not speak to her in such a manner again!" She glared over his shoulder. "Why are you defending her. I can think of so many better to converse with than her." She was not fond of you.
You and her had a history of disagreeing with each other, to put it nicely. "That is enough." His voice was stern and commanding. He pivots his body towards you and ushers you away from the door.
Expecting him to close the door he surprises you by coming into the hall with you, securing the door shut behind him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to add trouble to your already full plate." He smiles softly and brings his gloved hands to rest on your cheek. "I am the one who needs to apologize. I should not have allowed that to happen. I am sorry." He rubs his thumb over your cheekbone. "What did you need, il mio fiore?" You smile back at him. "It's alright. It is not the first time, and it surely won't be the last time she shares her distaste for me. I just wanted to come make sure you had eaten or if there was anything I could do to lighten your load." "I haven't eaten. I will, no doubt. Thank you for caring. As of right now I don't have anything I myself can delegate." He seems to decompress somewhat. "I'm sorry about leaving you this morning. I was hoping to spend a bit of time with you before the chaos took over, but as it normally goes, I cannot escape it. There is a chance we will not be able to see each other for a while outside of taking care of the new ghoul. Not until the ritual is complete and the ghoul is either settled or subdued. I will seek you out whenever I can."
Warmth spread through your chest. You give him your best reassuring look. "I completely understand, Copia. I know things are going to be hectic. It'll be ok." His free hand lands on your other cheek. Now cradling your face he leans in to place a firm kiss on your forehead. Butterflies erupted in your stomach. "Thank you, il mio fiore. I appreciate you. When we do have time, I want to show you something." Letting his hands fall away to his side. He stepped back and nodded. "I must cut our time short, il mio fiore." You wave him on. "Get going, busy man." With that, he walks into his office. You backpedal until your back hits the wall behind you, never taking your eyes off the door he disappeared through. You blow out a deep sigh. He gave you the warm fuzzies and butterflies. Shit.
---
You were trying to keep your mind off Copia and what transpired earlier. You were failing. It was taking over every other thought. You didn't understand what was wrong with you. You were a grown ass demonic being from hell. You had killed and fought, and yet you felt like you were ready to giggle and kick your feet like a youngling with a crush.
Keeping a steady pace to the agreed meeting spot, you try the clear your head. You didn't need to be distracted. Especially when the summoning started. There was little room for errors or lives could be lost. Turning a corner the group of ghouls you were looking for came into sight. No one was masked. Not even you. "Hey guys. Do we have anyone?" Everyone looked around. "Everyone is accounted for." Mountain comments. You nod. "Good let's get this show on the road." The group begins to make its way the the basement staircase. The abbey has a bi-level basement. You would be on the lower level. As you make your way down the stairs and the drywall turns to stone, the feeling from the morning returns to you. This time it was so intense it slammed into you like a ton of bricks, making you stop in your tracks. That nagging voice in the back of your head and weighted stone in the pit of your stomach. Something was coming. Something big. You let out a slow breath and restart your descent.
Sodo's hand lands on your shoulder. Looking over at him he asks "Are you okay?". You smile and nod. "I'm fine. Just got a weird feeling." He studies your face. "Should we be worried?" You shake your head. "I don't think so, but I don't think it's a bad idea to keep our guard up a little high." Everyone around you nods.
Making it to the bottom you come face to face with 2 large doors to either side and a set of double doors straight ahead. The ceiling here was quite tall, reaching 14 ft tall. Heading forward you all approach to ornate double doors. The closer you get the louder the voice sings. Your anxiety grows. What's going on? You've been a part of several summoning rituals. Never have you felt this way. Mountain and Rain make it to the doors first and begin pushing on them. Your ears flatten back and tail thrashing in small, violent, movements. The voice is screaming. Something's coming! You want to scream back at it. What? What is coming? Sodo sudden grip on your hand startles you. You look at him. His eyes hold concern. Able to sense a little bit of your inner turmoil. You look ahead as the door fully open and you see into the ritual room. The voice goes silent, leaving you with a worse feeling. You can't place it. Should you be scared? You don't know, but it definitely left you feeling unsettled.
Everyone ventures into the large room. The stone architecture in the room was always a breathtaking sight. Siblings rush around doing the finishing touches on everything. Lighting the candles that litter the room and picking up supplies. Most of the preparations were done from what you could tell. There was a large sigil painted in the center of the room. Each one of you takes a spot around the circle standing about 4 feet back to allow room. Aether to your left and Sodo to your right. We would stay and wait for the rest of the involved clergy to arrive. Standing in your spot you find you can't relax. Your body wound tight. That feeling that at any moment something will go wrong. Your eyes bounce from corner to corner. Person to person. You fidget with your hands to try and release some of the anxious energy.
You wouldn't have to wait too long. Roughly six minutes later the doors open again to permit Copia, Sister Imperator, and high Clergymen entry. Any siblings who needed to took leave, others stayed and lined the walls away from the circle. Copia was the first to join the circle from the coming group. He chose to stand directly across from you. He was in a lighter version of his blue papal robes, granting more mobility should he need it, and a full face of his paints. The rest of the participants trickle into the circle. Sister takes her spot off to the side as a spectator.
Copia's eyes linger on you before looks around at everyone and nodding. "Everyone is aware of your roles?" All present nod in agreement. "Good. Then let us being." He is then handed an open book. Old. Ancient. A book of the damned and broken. Finding the correct text he begins the ritual. His voice bouncing off the walls with a slight echo. The Clergymen begin a chant of there one meant to amplify Copia's. Nothing happens for what feels like an eternity. The only sounds filling the room were the men's voices. Suddenly the flames of the candles intensify and begin the dance wildly. The room begins to feel heavier and the temperature begins to rise. Keeping your eyes glued to the center you watch the already there cracks in the stone. They begin to cave and widen, a red orange light seeping through.
Abruptly a screeching hiss ripes through the warm air. A sound a wild animal makes when its wounded and fighting for its life. Copia's chants hold steady. The ghoul begins to crawl out of the opening in the ground. Its pained cries peirce through you. Preparing your self for whats to come, a mop of wavy hair is the first thing you notice. Once out of the opening the ghoul erratically looks around the room a low threatening growl escapes their chest.
Copia finishes the chant effectively sealing the hole that was there mere seconds ago. The ghoul locks onto Copia. Ears and body language promising violence. Before he can finish his first step you yell out a "Hey!" and do a quick pull at the ghouls essence, successfully grabbing his attention. He whirls around to face you.
The moment you lock eyes you freeze. You know. You know what your intuition was screaming. You understand. You had been thinking about it all wrong. Had been convinced it was something bad. These thoughts take over your mind as he lunges. Copia yells your name out in a panic throwing an arm out as if he could reach you with his thoughts alone. The Clergymen flee the circle. You hear everything but it all feels like it's going in slow motion. You can't move. You know those angry, feral, eyes. You know them. Tears begin streaming down your face. Before the ghoul can reach you Sodo body checks the ghoul, sending him tumbling to the ground. "Don't you fucking touch her!" Sodo's voice was full of rage. Your knees give way and gravity pulls you down as you let out a grief-stricken wail that racks your whole body. The ghoul attempts to get back up but Sodo prevents it with a hard shove and a savage hiss. They begin struggling to overtake each other.
Copia rushes around towards you and Aether kneels to try and help. Mountain, Swiss, and Rain make a move to try and help Sodo keep the ghoul at bay. All the while the girls stand back to protect the others in the room. You shrugged Aether off and attempted to crawl forward, sobbing. Sodo raises his arm the strike the ghoul again as the ghoul attempts to bring his legs up to kick Sodo off. "SODO! No! It's him! It's my phantom! It's him!" You plead. Everything in the room stops, except for your cries. No one moves another inch. Sodo makes eye contact with you immediately. Pure shock on clear display. The same shock can be seen on the ghoul's face. Phantom's face.
You drag yourself towards them. Sodo steps back, the entire room still silent. Everyone holds their breath, as if any movement or sound would cause this to go south. You bring yourself right in front of him, settling on your knees. Hiccuping, you bring your shaking hands up but don't touch him. Studying his face you see recogniznition creep into his features. His lip is cut but otherwise he's fine. He looked older then when you'd last seen him. Only slightly. You can't believe it. He's sitting right in front of you.
Suddenly he launches himself into your arm. Everyone in the room flinches, those closest to you ready to reach out and rip him off of you. Your sobs ramp back up as you embrace him as tight as you can. Your tear stained face lodged in his shoulder. His body begins to shake against you.
Sister Imperator stomps towards the circle before demanding "What is the meaning of this!?" She gestures to you and the ghoul. Nobody knows what to say. Nobody know what's going on. Nobody... expect Sodo. "That's her son." He says, watching the two of you. Now its his turn to be looked at in shock.
----
Come posso aiutarla? - how can I help you?
mi dispiace, fiore mio - Im sorry my flower
purtroppo è proprio adesso - unfortunately it is right now
Mi dispiace anche per stamattina - I'm sorry about this morning too.
