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mistmessenger · 11 hours ago

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Dreams of Angel Blessings

Written for the 'Wingfic' prompt of my Keep Fandom Weird bingo card (which turned out to be the perfect excuse to go into detail about my creechur!Perpetua headcanons, and call him angel again.) Read on AO3! NSFW (MDNI), 2.4k words, Trans!Creechur Perpetua x GN!reader, monsterfucking, wingfic, wing kink, body worship, non-penetrative sex, dom/sub undertones, fluff and smut

The light of the full moon streams through cracked stained glass, casting its glow upon the altar and the familiar figure standing before it. The chapel still stands, but it’s crumbling and derelict. The vines and the creeping weeds of the graveyard seek to claim it as their own, climbing walls and windows to reach the roof and drag it down to the bodies buried beneath.

The inside doesn’t fare much better, but you don’t have an opportunity to focus on the details. As soon as you step through the doors, left ajar in anticipation of your presence, your attention is on him alone.

Neither of you speaks as you approach, soft footsteps on fractured stone. He knows you’re there; he heard you coming, smelled you, long before he saw you.

Broken glass lets the chill in, and you can see now how he shivers slightly. He’s always been sensitive to the cold and, clad in only a thin black robe and his mask, you long to wrap him in your arms to protect him from the breeze. But you’ve been given instructions, and you’re not going to go against them.

It’s Perpetua that hesitates, grasping your wrist carefully when you reach out towards his face. “Are you sure?” He whispers, soft like the wind that gently ruffles his wild curls, scared like light that cowers from the shadows. But you love him, all of him – even the parts he’s afraid to show.

So, you nod, offer him a smile. “I’m sure, angel.”

He presses a kiss to your palm, breaths shuddering, then lets it go. Lets you stretch up to unbuckle the straps of his mask until you’re holding silver in your hands, still pressed against his skin, waiting to give him one last chance to back away, if that’s what he wants.

He shakes, takes shallow breaths that make your own chest ache, but he doesn’t stop you. Your own hands tremble as you remove the mask entirely, taking several steps backwards to give him space.

There’s static in the air, like lightning’s about to strike you down. A darkness shrouds his form, so oppressive that even the moonlight cannot permeate it. You hear cracks and clicks, chitters and groans, and you want to close the space between you but the air around you is thick, like there’s an invisible barrier buzzing with energy, emanating from his shifting form.

And, then, whatever held you back breaks. A rush of charged air burst out from him. You hear glass shatter. The mask in your hand clatters loudly onto the floor as you’re knocked back, but you manage to brace yourself against the pew.

And when you look up again, your knees almost give way – but it’s not out of fear.

Your unholy angel stands bare before you, far taller than before. His limbs are longer, bent at awkward angles as if to make himself seem smaller. You don’t know where to look. He’s so different but it’s him, pure and beautiful. It’s hard to find the words as he looms over you, bathed in the moonlight, all sharp angles and glistening wings; pointed teeth, pointed ears, eyes that pierce through your chest and into your soul.

You approach slowly, reaching out for him. “You’re… magnificent.”

He lifts a hesitant hand and you take it between your own, rest it on your palm to take a closer look. His fingers are easily double the length of your own, each with an extra knuckle, perhaps a little longer with the reach of pointed talons factored in. The bones on his hand are pronounced, straining against the skin. Around his wrists, the skin darkens and desaturates to a blue-ish grey, getting darker and darker and ending in pitch black claws. You follow the path of one of his finger bones, running your fingertip from his wrist, all the way to the pointed tip, careful not to nick yourself. He flexes beneath your touch, a curious chitter sounding from his maw, but he doesn’t stop you. You lift his hand, pressing a gentle kiss there as he so often does to you, before letting go. It earns you a deep, rumbling sound, akin to a purr. You see him smiling at you, too many teeth, lips stretched abnormally wide, and you grin back at him.

“Is this okay?” You ask, hands skimming as far as you can reach up his long, long arms. “Is there anywhere you don’t want me to look, or touch?”

Perpetua shakes his head. When he speaks, it’s low and rumbling, reverberating as if there are several voices of varying pitch talking at once. “All of me is yours, cuore mio.”

The words embed themselves in your ears, in your consciousness, in the depths of your heart. You press your palm to his chest, feel the thundering of his pulse beneath, beating for you. Your affection feels like it's overflowing, and your eyes are suddenly teary. “I love you. Thank you for trusting me, my angel.”

“I love you too. Forever. So much.” You hear the words, feel the vibrations under your hand that seep beneath skin and muscle, into bone and marrow, enveloping you.

He leans down, back bowing, neck craning further than you would’ve thought possible. A skeletal hand cups your face, talons weaving into your hair. You see his eyes glowing in the low light, the twitching of the tips of his elongated, pointed ears. You don’t think twice before you press forward to kiss him. It’s all teeth, hot breaths, drool that coats your lips and drips down your chin. You need him to know you still think he’s beautiful, desirable, everything you want and could ever need. You gasp at the press of his tongue, letting it snake inside your mouth to slide against your own, and then you’re moaning, finally giving some acknowledgement to the heat that has been stirring low in your belly long before your lips met. He echoes the sound and you feel it rippling through you.

It takes all your willpower to pull back, a string of spit dangling between your panting mouths. You chuckle. “I’m not done looking.”

He lets out a whine, and you have to fight every fibre of your being that wants to soothe him, wants to stay entirely wrapped up together. “I know, just be patient for me, okay?”

Perpetua’s answering sigh makes you laugh again. He sounds like a symphony of disgruntled voices consigning themselves to obey your whims. You blow him a kiss, and then let your hand join the other on his chest, nails raking lightly down over his nipples, over the old, faded scars beneath his pecs. He shudders and you hear the fluttering of his wings – you can’t put off your need to see them up close. Your hands don’t stray lower than his ribs, though they want to find the familiar trail of hair on his stomach that leads to a patch of dark, unruly curls.

Not yet.

He huffs at you but stays still, arms dangling at his sides, when you pull away. You feel his eyes on you, watching you drink him all in. He turns his head as you circle him until you stand between him and the altar. His neck doesn’t turn all the way, but it’s able to rotate further than you’re used to, enough that he can still see you when you stand directly behind him.

You don’t know where to start, the breath that leaves your lips stuttering as you take him all in. “Oh, wow. You’re so amazing, you know that? Most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

He preens at that, chittering and spreading his wings to their full span with a woosh and a flutter, bony tail swishing from side to side. The skin of his wings is black and leathery, reminiscent of a bat’s; almost translucent in the parts where it’s stretched thin as he puts himself on display for you. His spine protrudes, much like the bones of his hand, except you can really see bone, shining white in the moonlight. Bones also line the structure of his wings, standing out against the dark grey-black skin.

He’d permitted you to touch him, but you still do so tentatively, grazing the backs of your fingers over his exposed spine. And it can’t be bone, you don’t think, because it makes him shiver, makes his body bend and press into your touch with a low hiss. You bite your lip, turn your hand to hover your palm over him. Your touch is feather-light, grazing over the base of a wing where it connects to his spine. Oh, and he likes that; it makes his wings ripple, liquid like you’ve skimmed your fingers over inky water. He moans, deep, thundering. You repeat the motion, lower down this time, with a little more pressure; Perpetua shakes under your touch, an instrument you’ve already mastered but never in this tuning.

Your fingers follow the paths of the bones as far as you can reach without moving. He still shudders under the touch, but the lower and more central areas garner the biggest reactions. There’s a gap of a few inches between where his wings stop and the base of his tail protrudes, appearing to be skeletal, like his spine. You trace each vertebrae, barely making contact, you hear his laboured breaths.

You press your index and middle fingers down against the base of his tail, and it makes him buck; makes him cry out, whine, and press into your touch. You bite your tongue and just about refrain from pressing into him to give yourself some relief, but you haven’t offered him any yet, so you suppose you should wait too.

“Can you bend over the altar for me, angel?”

He whines again, his chitters sounding more strained, but you move out of his way so he can do as you asked. It looks a little awkward, gangly arms dangling off, legs sticking out, the talons on his feet scraping against the floor.

You step between his legs, your view obscured by his trembling tail. Your hand slides under it, slotting its girth between your thumb and index finger and giving a gentle squeeze. He arches into the touch, crying out, wings fluttering and flaring.

“Amore, please,” he asks you so sweetly, cheek pressed against stone, head turned so he can meet your gaze. He’s flushed and flustered already, eyes watery and glazed over. His hips wriggle and he lifts his bony tail, presenting himself to you.

The rush of arousal washes over you, and you throb, choking back a moan. The mess of curls between his legs is matted with his own slick, his inner thighs glistening with it. “Oh,” you breathe, “I didn’t mean to tease you so much, angel.”

You hadn’t, and yet you’re not exactly sorry about it. Not when he’s all swollen and dripping for you, his cock hard and jutting out from between his folds. Not when he knows he can’t hide from you now. He’s bared everything for you.

“One second,” you whisper, quickly grabbing a prayer stool you spotted, placing it at the foot of the altar and sinking down to your knees. It’s not the perfect angle, you have to stretch up and strain slightly, but you don’t really care, not when you can smell the familiar musk of his arousal.

Your hands settle on his thighs, delighting in how they twitch and flex. He moans your name when you lean in to taste him, and it echoes around the chapel, ringing in your ears. He tastes the same, smells the same, and it still drives you crazy. You lick from his hole to his cock, taking it in your mouth and sucking, just how you know he needs you to. Wet warmth coats your nose, your cheeks, your mouth and chin. You try your best not to falter, to not keep him waiting, but the odd angle means you have to pull back slightly to take desperate breaths. Every exhale turns into a moan around his bottom growth as you feel him throb in your mouth. His grunts and whimpers almost drown out the wet sounds as you work him with your lips and tongue. This is the god you worship, kneeling at his altar and showing your devotion with words and touch.

You’re aching, dampening your underwear, bringing a hand down to slip beneath your clothes and stroke yourself slowly, determined not to be distracted from what you really want.

He’s close, you can feel him start to tremble, hear talons scraping against the altar and the floor as he fights not to buck into you. You let out a moan, encouraging him, and that’s what does it. He chokes out your name, scrambling, writhing, and your lungs protest but you keep going as he pulses and coats your face.

Only when you feel the spasms die down, do you pull back and take heaving, desperate breaths, working the hand between your legs harder, faster–

“No.”

–Is all you hear, a rumbling growl. And then there are hands lifting you with ease, flipping you over, laying you out on the altar with a care that might’ve seemed unbefitting for a hellish creature, but it doesn’t surprise you because it’s him. He’s there, all over you, blocking out the moonlight – you don’t need it, you have him, you can feel him. He’s your moon, always orbiting you, shifting form, but he’s still the same; you just see him from different angles.

He growls as he licks his slick from your face, your mouth, drinking in every moan and gasp you give him. Perpetua slots between your splayed legs, cock rutting against your sex through your clothes and you can only reach for his shoulders and take it. He’s panting, chanting his prayers: “mine, mine, mine.”

Sharp teeth scrape your neck, a long tongue licks the beads of blood. He sucks, bites and marks you as his, as if you could ever be anything else.

“Yours,” you manage to gasp, as your hips buck, and you’re so close now, so overwhelmed with pleasure and sweet pain that you can barely keep your eyes open. You tangle a hand in his curls as he takes harsh breaths against your shoulder and thrusts faster, harder, against you.

“Only mine,” he growls, and then bites down. You arch into each other, chests heaving and bodies trembling as you come together and desecrate the altar with the evidence of your devotion to one another.

#beautiful wonderful creechur V #an angel indeed! 😍

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