queerly-anxious - Tumblr blog

queerly-anxious · 21 hours ago

Text

CORINTHIANS 6:19 ; papa v perpetua/fem!reader (smut, 18+)

being perpetua's favourite pet - the playlist

Perpetua hates having the spotlight taken away from him. When Copia does exactly that for the umpteenth time, Perpetua decides to use you to gain back the congregation's undivided attention and stroke his ego while he's at it.

word count: 9,3k

warnings: fem!reader, dubcon, public (undernegotiated); vampire!perpetua/creature!perpetua; (satanic) altar sex; catholic and satanic themes, imagery and language; Black Mass; descriptions of blood and gore, horror themes (death and undead); Perpetua is a pervert change my mind, free use (kinda), spit kink, power play, oral (male receiving), blowjobs, pet names, name calling, face slapping, cumplay, bimbofication, degradation, hair pulling, praise kink, mentions of breeding kink and pregnancy, he wears the mask and make-up, god-complex, dry humping his louboutin boots, copious mentions of pubic hair due to bush reveal; expansive use of stilized capitals and italics, sibling-rivalry as a plot device, he's way more icky in this than he is during rituals lmao

soo, i attended the ritual in berlin and it was great and all BUT we also saw his bush and i just really really had to get this out of my mind; ty ann for letting me yap about perpetua day and night, you're a good one <33

"Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own." corinthians 6:19

"Show them what worship truly means, darling", Perpetua's voice is velvety and soft, as you look up at him, hands folded devoutly in your lap. The polished marbled at the altar bed digs into your knees harshly and you know, that blemishes will form on your soft skin where it is being crushed between your own bone and the cold church's floor. At his feet his purple cassock pools, your white coif discarded upon it, while your vision zeroes in on the ribbons on the fly of his dark pants; currently fighting for their life to keep the fabric tied together - the outline of his rock-hard dick stretching the black denim out.

Your mouth runs dry as his gaze meets yours - his unmatching eyes, one green one white, staring down at you - demanding your undivided attention, while fire and fury burn and churn away in his look.

Around you, a thousand candles are burning, illuminating the altar room and the mural of Satan - the Evil One sitting on a pile of non-believers, his hands pointing up and down in the familiar sign of Synchronicity - that adorns the huge walls of the church behind the upside-down crucifix. From the corner of your eye, you can see the congregation watching you intently, incredulously, and you force yourself to look away.

Earlier, you and your fellow Sisters and Friars of Sin had flocked to the ministry's church for tonight's black mass, the sun setting behind the neighbouring pine forest. The dark-blue sky was soon filled with a tantalizing red tint, like the sun was set ablaze and you knew that He was with you, your mind already feeling lighter and a little foggy when you crossed the threshold of the church. The Evil One's spirit had filled you completely once Frater Imperator stood on the pulpit - that still bore his red colours despite everything else now being tinged in deep purples around him, to honour the election of a new Papa - delivering an inspiring homily.

And the new Frater Imperator - Copia, promoted but demoted nonetheless - had been raving on and on about belief, the subsequent fulfilment from belief throughout his sermon; but most of all, he had put emphasis on worship. Worshipping the Unholy One. Sacrificing yourself to him. Body and soul.

Perpetua had been slumping on his throne at the side of the altar, looking more and more bored with each passing minute, watching the red-tinted light that fell through the colourful glass panes next to him, reflecting off the metal of his claws. As he looked back up, after what felt like an eternity of suffering through his brother's senseless and pointless ramblings - he had to discover that the congregation clung to the Frater's lips. Transfixed by his words every single pair of eyes followed every single flick of his hand; Perpetua could watch them collectively holding their breaths, and see their eyes light up when he concluded a hopeless anecdote with an unforeseeable twist that surely - if one were to listen - consisted of some deeper insight of belief, but Perpetua simply couldn't be bothered.

It made his blood boil to see the Ghouls, - his, his fucking Ghouls - clinging to each and every word of the former Cardinal and Emeritus said, their tails wagging, too enamoured by his dark preachings to even consider feasting on flesh and pleasure of the Siblings of Sin sitting on the other side of the chapel.

He had let his eyes wander over to them, more out of boredom than anything else and had huffed in annoyance when he too, saw them leaning forward, hands clasped in their laps, eyes wide with adoration and revelations.

And he hated it. It infuriated him. These people - the flock - were his now. His to teach. His to nurture. His to tend to. His his his.

He should be the one possessing their hearts and minds and spirits, to make them bend at a flick of his wrist. Copia had been demoted to desk duty. So, he might as well just fuck off for good.

Perpetua's gaze travelled through the rows and rows of members of the Clergy - Sisters, Friars, Ghouls, Monastics - and took a deep breath; inhaled their mingled scents, and that was when it hit him. The sweetest, most intoxicating scent at the abbey. His eyes flickering to its source, he spotted a familiar face.

There you sat, perched between two Sisters that you had met way back at the monastery. Cheeks rosy, flushed full of life - life that pulsed through your veins so excitedly that he could hear it's rush and taste it on his tongue.

He loved how you smelled. And he loved to have a taste of you, and your blood right after.

That's why he kept you around. Made you the one to clean up his personal chambers, watching you from the shadows and inhale lungsful of your delicious, tantalizing smell. Watching how your habit clings to your curves, how sweat shines on your skin on hot summer nights. Steal away some of your worn underwear when you were sleeping - watching how your blissfully asleep body inhaled air steadily, human human human - listen to the slow rush of your blood; fisting his cock into your panties in his boudoir later, your scent engulfing him in the wee hours of the morning before he crawls back to his crypt.

That's the sole reason still keeping him from ramming his teeth into your neck and drinking, tasting you until you were no more, all life drained from your pretty, little body that would snap like a twig in his hands: It would be incomparable to the way your sickly-sweet stench filled every room you were in. And he loved it. Loved how it made his mouth water and his dick harden.

Perpetua knew he could just have you. He was very well aware that this was his right. He could have just torn your habit apart and bent over the nearest surface, have his way with you. Pleasure always mattered the most at the abbey. And his pleasure now mattered more than anything else.

His tongue, lifelessly pale, had just darted out from his mouth as he dragged it across his lips hungrily when Copia had said, voice full and agitated, like Satan himself had filled his body out: "And thus, Brothers and Sisters, thus thou shalt worship!"

You should. You really should. He could feel his cold heart stuttering, coming back to something like life with a few heavy thuds as he looked down upon you. You should really worship him.

Perpetua had been on his feet quicker than he could have even thought about it - Mitra discarded on the throne-, the heels of his shoes clicking against the marble as he strutted to the front of the altar. Copia, on the pulpit with his hands in the air, froze, turned his head around slowly.

"Such - insightful words, no?", Perpetua had been all smiles but his voice sounded stern, lips crinkling up ghostly, and from where you sat you had been able to see his long canines gleaming in the dim candle light. A chill crawled up your spine, made you shiver in your habit. "Let's show the congregation how worship is done, hm?", his head tilted in your direction and you considered it to be just a coincidence, but then his gaze fell heavily upon your form, "Child, come to me."

This is how you have found yourself kneeling in front of the chapel's altar - the upside down cross above looming and lurking, as Perpetua runs his cold cold thumbs over your cheeks, iron talons nibbing and pricking at your skin as he drags his fingers through your hair and over your skull. They do not draw blood, yet, but the promise of pain blooms in his movements and it makes you squirm, gasp. You think of the crescent moons they might leave on your body, your thighs and your waist, your arms, and your neck - and heat floods your belly at the thought, like it did so so many times before when you laid awake in your bed late at night, one hand diving between your legs the other draped over your lips tightly, keeping your mouth shut.

You still remember the day you had met him for the first time vividly. It had been in the early hours of the night, when Cirrus had knocked on your door and informed you, that the newly elected Papa had chosen you as one of his chamber maids and now wished to see you. Your heart had been beating just as forcefully as it does now, the same buzz spreading through your limbs as you felt your skin tingle with anticipation.

Following the Ghoulette, she had led you to a wing within the abbey that you had never been to before, and which had been dimly lit by what must have been at least few hundred candles. But that hadn't been what made your breath hitch, the hairs on your body standing up.

What was, had been the man standing in the middle of the room. His room, judging by the neatly made and seemingly untouched bed, desk, chaise longue and a breathtaking collection of books and tomes and sheets of music scattered all over the floor and furniture.

The man's dark hair curled around his sharp, elegant face, framed it like a picture. Perfect statuesque features that could cut through stone, a posture as straight and powerful as a fighter's, with limbs as long and delicate as a dancer’s as he had swayed toward you. His hand had reached out, slender, and soft fingers ice cold, as you laid your trembling hand into his.

And the sight of him was mesmerizing; terrifying in its own, unknown, and foreign way.

The man was beautiful. Uncannily beautiful. So beautiful even, that terror had risen in your chest and your heart started hammering against your ribcage, the pressure of your blood accelerating and leaving your head a spinning mess. Shivers ran down your arms as your fight-or-flight kicked in, but you had been physically trapped by him, by his gaze as well as his larger-than-life presence, couldn't fight your eyes wandering over his spotless and smooth skin, the curly light chocolate-coloured hair, the defined lips. He had smirked, and your free hand had grabbed a fistful of your habit.

You wanted to run. You wanted to linger, take him in. You didn't know why, but the sight of him left you feeling lightheaded quickly, a quiet voice in the back of your head whispering that You do know why and that It's all there. The evidence to his beauty, the Why was so close to you like you could touch it; grab it from thin air, right on the tip of your tongue, you know it you know it you know it --

"Good evening, my dear", his voice sounded as sweet and deep as honey, with a slight rasp to it, his mismatch eyes deep and comforting like a stroll through the cool forest on a late summer's day, "Apologies, my love, I do not think we have been properly introduced yet. My name is Perpetua." He bowed a little, like a noble's son from long-gone times at a king's dance, and the gesture had sent your head into a spin. He was radiant.

You should have been the one that bowed before him - for he was the most striking creature you have ever laid your unworthy eyes upon. However, his truly uncanny beauty also had anxiety pooling in your stomach; a shiver running down your spine, the muscles in your legs tensing under his intense gaze - which he had kept locked to yours, as he placed a soft and cool kiss on the back of your hand. His lips tingled on your skin.

The man - Perpetua - looked like a prince. And somehow, he had felt oddly familiar to you, with his classical face looking like he just crawled out of one of the finest paintings of one of the world's most refined museums. But he felt foreign just the same, like he wasn't from these plains, something entirely otherworldly. Something dangerous.

He had said something then, but the sound of your own blood had been rushing and pumping through your veins at such an alarming speed, that it had drowned out all sound.

Your memory bleeds together with reality, as you can see his lips moving now, too - the prominent cupids bow bowing and bending, as he says: "Worship me."

Voice a husk as his gaze keeps itself chained to yours and you swallow.

His presence is looming and electrifying, and he looks rightfully ethereal from where you are kneeling, looking up at him. He still carries his head high and mighty on his shoulders, chin tilted upwards just a little even though he does not wear his Mitra any longer, looks down on you through the thick fans of his lashes.

And you want to. You really do. You have thought about this a hundred times cleaning his personal quarters in the dim candle light late at night, when he wasn't around - arranging his books, his clothes, the notes scattered around the floors and furniture with melodies and poems scribbled across them. More than once have you brought one of his silken shirts up to your nose - before folding it neatly and carefully putting it away - inhaling the thickly scent of incense and patchouli.

The same smell wafts around you now, too, and your hands are getting clammy with excitement. But there is one thing holding you back.

Approximately a month after he had arrived at the ministry, the rumours started to spread. Some Sisters and Friars reported that they never spotted him at the meals in the Great Hall. Other said they never saw him eat, at all. You paid that no mind - until one night, when the realization had hit you like a freight train: Of all the things you cleaned or carried in and out of his quarters, dishes had never once been one of them.

Soon after, others told stories of his eerily long and sharp canines - their voices hushed behind closed doors - and others said that they rarely ever saw him roaming the halls or the grounds during daytime. Some said, that they heard screams echoing through the ministry, late at night when everyone was usually fast asleep and the hallways laid quietly. That was, when the rumours started to spread through the ministry like a wildfire.

A creature. A vampire. Death Incarnate.

In a short while, you will come to his chambers to clean, late at night. The doors to his private chapel will be opened, and you will - because curiosity never truly did kill the cat, now did it? - take a peek inside.

And then you will see it.

See him.

Dressed only in dark slacks, blood will run down his torso like rainfall. For a second you will naively believe him to be seriously injured, gasping in shock and running towards him. He will smile at you - genuinely entertained by your unashamed display of care for your Papa and your human stupidity because You just cannot be that foolish - and you will see the clogs of blood and flesh sticking grotesquely between his teeth. The beautiful prince, long consumed by death.

This is when you will stumble upon your own feet, slipping on the wet red copper on the floor, knees and palms scraping on the chapel's marble floor; a true nerve-wrecking cry of terror ripping from your throat as you fall to the ground. The marble will be wet with blood and so will be the palms of your hands, and your knees will sting badly as your own skin rrrips.

He will just stand there, between the carnage - half-eaten body parts around him, like a wild animal tore them apart with a ravenous hunger - blood dripping from the ceiling and sprinkled across the stone walls like a hundred cans of tomato soup had exploded in the room; his naked chest wet and shining with coppery red, and so will his hair and his face. Red red red replacing the usual black and the white.

Then, he will dash forward. You will run run run, out into the cold night, cold snow creaking beneath your feet like thunderous leaves as you run and run until your lungs burn and you feel all sense of orientation slipping from your mind between the seemingly endlessly tall pines of the forest. Behind you, the snow will creak under his measured footsteps.

But for now you just look at him, at his pristine and beautiful frame. Toned muscles beneath the silk and denim of his clothes, his posture straight and elegant and cocky. You can already see a prominent trail of dark hair leading below the waistband of his tight tight pants, his dick bulging the fabric, thickening right above the dark fabric and you lick your lips.

"What are you waiting for?", and he sounds impatient now, anger lacing through his voice that rasps and rumbles and you nearly jolt.

For great is the Son and most worthy of praise; he is to be feared above all who wander this wretched Earth.

You are younger. A teenager. The study room at the monastery is chilly, despite the air outside being humid on a hot summer's day. Birds chirp and a bee has lost its way into the study; a ray of warm sunlight falls into the room through the stained-glass windows. They show Lilith, killing Adam. Your Mother Superior leans forward on her desk, her upside-down cross clattering loudly against the polished wood, and paints a vivid picture with her words: Satan's sons, descending onto Earth, born from a strong woman's womb in blood and pain and agony, three of them unsuccessful, one of them weak and one of them -

Eternal.

He will bring the end times. By his side a woman, from whose womb will crawl damnation, and rebirth.

Behold, he is coming with Fire, and every eye will see him, even those who renounced him, and all tribes of Earth will wail on account of him.

Who are you to refuse him?

Despite feeling the burning, heavy gazes of a few hundred people on your quivering body, your hands dart out - like you are on autopilot, like your body is not fully yours anymore; and your fingers - cold sweat and shakes - move up from your lap, unbuckling his belt that clinks loudly as it falls to the sides; before your hands fly to the leathery ribbon of his pants.

That is, when he smacks them away. Shakes his head and tuts at you. "Use your mouth", palms of his hands rubbing the sides of your skull gently.

You swallow, shame burning high and hotly on your cheeks as you lean in, teeth latching to the ribbon. The leather itself feels stiff but the surface is surprisingly smooth between your teeth; however, it takes you a short while until you figure out how to pull the ribbon loose and out of the eyelets one by one. The fabric tastes stale and of leather, and gets drenched in your saliva quickly. The act is humiliating and you notice, not without terror rising in your chest, a sharp electric pang in your belly, that tingles and blooms and shoots right between your thighs.

"There you go", Perpetua hums, his thumb gently stroking your temple, "Good girl, hm?"

Be good be good be good.

Your body sings with the praise crawling down your spine warmly, but you do not have much time to relish in it, as the sight of him knocks all air out of your lungs. The fabric falls apart easily, like it is exhausted from clinging together and relieved that you resolved it of its unfeasible task. You come face to face with a thick bush of trimmed pubic hair. No underwear.

The dark hair curls a little above and around the thick base of his hard cock, that does not immediately spring free. Instead, Perpetua reaches for it, grabs it and fully pulls it out.

Obscenely, it bounces against his adonis belt (where small beauty marks are scattered across the marble skin) rock-hard already and the tip flushed in an angry red. His dick is nearly as pale as the rest of him, with a prominent vein on its bottom that nearly shines through the snow-white skin. Your mouth waters at the sight.

His cock is long and girthy, cut - the head is thick and looks deliciously heavy. You have had your fair share of dick, as sex and especially female orgasms are considered one of the highest forms of pleasure, one of the highest forms of prayer to be offered to the Unholy One, but you have never ever seen a cock that has spit pooling on your tongue like his does. You need to feel him, but you also know that it is not your place to press ahead so brazenly and thus, for now, your hands rest uselessly on his thighs, fingers gliding rather impatiently over the fabric and the strong muscle beneath.

Perpetua looks down at you, eyes gleaming darkly, lips curling up in a smug smile. Takes his cock by its base, gives it one, two firm strokes that have you reeling, stretching your neck a little, eyes glued to the flushed head. That is when he guides it down and --

And ruuubs the tip of his dick over your lips. Your mouth falls apart a like you are possessed - tongue darting out, jaw going slack, ready to welcome him in. But he just tsks at you, pulls away and slaps his cock against your cheek instead. The cold, hard flesh connects playfully with your warm skin - tip a little wet with your saliva - and you gasp, eyes growing wide.

Your stomach flutters and tingles, while your heart misses a beat.

"So eager to take it, darling", he sounds genuinely amused and you whine, batting your lashes at him because - Yes, yes you are - but he just rubs his cock over your cheek, watches intently as a few drops of precum quell from it, run over your cheekbone.

A bench in the nave creaks. If you were to look over, you could see Dew leaning forward, smoke curling from his nose, claws digging into the wood until his knuckles turn white and the bench splinters; and Swiss, grabbing his wrist firmly, holding him back - while Mountain sits behind them, back unusually straight and stiff like an ancient tree, looming over the Ghouls that can very well smell your arousal, your cunt growing wet with the humiliation.

And Perpetua can smell it. Can smell your arousal as much as theirs, wafting around him like a thick cloud. It fills his nostrils up, stronger than the delicious scent of your blood.

It is taking all of his strength not to bite you, to ram his teeth into your carotid artery and make your neck spurt with blood, drink you up; it is an actual mental effort keeping himself focussed on that pretty, pretty mouth of yours. So instead of ending your pathetic little life right then and there - because, who do you think you matter to? This is the only good thing you will ever do, the only righteous act you will ever achieve to commit -, he shoves his cock back into your field of vision.

You do not hesitate one bit, tilting your head a little and tongue darting immediately, to glide along the vein on the bottom of his dick - traces it up to the tip - and you can hear him hiss, before you lick a fat stripe back down, over the unnaturally cold and hard skin.

His pubic hair tingles your cheek as you put wet kisses on the thick base of his dick, right above where his slender and elegant fingers grip himself, looking up at him. Perpetua's gaze meets yours, the pupils of his unmatching eyes blown and dark, eyes gleaming with lust.

You want all of him. All the sweet sounds that might escape his lips, all the tastes his cold body has to offer. Your hand sneaks up to meet his, and he lets go off his cock, fists your hair instead.

His dick is terrifyingly cold to the touch - but hard and heavy and it twitches a little, and thus, it has your mouth watering anyways. You can barely wrap your hand around it fully and your cunt throbs and clenches around nothing, as you think about how full you would feel with him inside of you. Arousal ping-pongs through your abdomen and you lean in again, tongue licking another fat wet stripe from the base of his dick up up up to his head, where it flicks around the head, runs through the cleft on top - before you put your mouth onto him, gently kissing and sucking on the side of his cock; letting your mouth wander freely over the thick shaft, taking your time. Obscene sounds of your lips smacking wetly against his dick fill the heavily scented air of the church, and you close your eyes, listening to the deep, rumbling hums that slip past his lips.

Technically, you are just trying to get him nice and wet, but he just tastes so so good - the soft velvety skin tastes of musk and salt - divine, and you simply cannot stop; your spit slicking his cock up as you kitten-lick all over it, placing open-mouthed kisses onto the cool, hard flesh.

Perpetua's hand gently cradles your neck, the metal talons solid against your skin. His breathing grows heavier as your lips make their way down his cock, tongue licking over the thick base and you cannot resist, a little cock-drunk already; tugging his tight pants down just a little more, his balls spring free and your mouth immediately clings to them. They are firm and swollen already, and taste just as musky as your tongue runs over them - blending with his pubic hair's tangy scent, that smells just the faintest bit of soap.

Gently placing kisses on his balls, your tongue darts out, wraps around the bottom of the right one and then you close your lips around it fully, sucking it into your mouth while your hand keeps pumping his cock. His heavy breathing - more a force of habit, a faint memory of how his body used to react - stops for a looong moment, before a low drawn-out hum escapes his throat.

You open your eyes at the sound, looking up at him, already a little dazed yourself. His lips are slightly parted, brows a little furrowed behind the mask. And you realize:

He's turned on. Papa Perpetua, his Unholy Eminence, is turned on.

And Satanas, does that spur you on. Running your tongue along his sack, you eventually let it slip out of your mouth and take the other between your lips, and that's when he groans. The sound shakes your body to the core, goosebumps spreading over your arms and your back, your loins practically fucking igniting with lust as you feel pussy growing even wetter. His dick twitches in your hand - a ripple that erupts at its base as you can see his cock swell a little, the shaft shivering under a heavy contortion - pulses and then throbs. Letting go off his balls with a wet pop, you lean back on the heels of your shoes to watch a small bead forming on the thick, flushed head.

Thick, shiny droplets of precum quell and drip from the tiny hole like holy water, and you just need need need to taste that, too. Your tongue immediately darts out - body nothing more than a tool to your most primal urges - licks them off. He tastes of revelation.

It is the way you look up at him while you do it, relentless in keeping eye contact with him that nearly makes him blow a load - all hooded eyes gleaming with arousal, cheeks flushed. A temptress. Seduction in the flesh. The Original Sin.

His personal sacrilege.

And fuck, you are good at being his demise.

"You're made for this, hm?", Perpetua's voice is deep with lust, laced with contempt and arrogance, hands and claws still cradling your head, "Made to serve your God."

"Uh-huh", you make, humming against the tip of his cock, tongue gliding around it. You would gladly serve him however he wishes. On your knees, on your back, on all fours, in his lap. You would serve him with thick streaks of a paddle welting up on your ass in an angry angry red, as much as you would serve him with his cum running out of your used cunt. Arousal rummages through your body like a wildfire, a dark pit in your chest that clenches and tugs and you moan against the tip of his dick.

Behind you, the candle light flickers over the mural in the altar room, its shadows creating a rather lively illusion of the Evil One. For a split second, it seems like the painted eyes of Satan follow your cojoined movements - like He is watching you.

The both of you are oblivious to it, too enamoured and lost in the way you go to town on his cock - peppering the thick head of his cock with soft kisses - but faint gasps, and a few uttered prayers from the nave reach your ears nonetheless, even though you cannot find rhyme nor reason in them. All that exists to you is Perpetua, the way his hands grab at your hair, thenar of his thumbs rubbing against your skull and how his eyes stare deep deep into your soul. His groan echoes in your head still, and you need more more more - closing your lips around the tip fully, sucking it into your mouth.

You nearly forget to breathe, that's how good he already feels in your mouth. You can feel your brain going mushy in real time, feel it turning all soupy with arousal and the headrush you are experiencing from barely breathing and the way your thundering heart pumps your blood through your body. Swirling your tongue around the head of his cock, you quickly grow desperate, eager, and let him slip further into your mouth.

Perpetua moans as your lips closes around his dick, "That's it, darling" and he is so so heavy and huge on your tongue that you are really having trouble taking all of him in. Thus, your hand tugs at the thick base of his cock - jerking it up and down to the slooow rhythm of your head bobbing on his dick that you pick up.

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the unholy Son of the dark Father, full of grace and truth.

A complacent smile tugs at his lips as one of his hands - the one at the back of your head, gently resting above the crook of your neck - caresses your skin gently while you let him sink deeper into your mouth. "Can't get enough of me, hm? Cheap whore", his voice raspy, sounding like he is trying to suppress another moan. Tugs at your hair lightly as he spits out the insult, your stomach growing hot and your loins clench.

Seeing the lust moving over your face - your eyelids fluttering, eyes rolling back a little - he grins, flashes his razor-sharp teeth at you, tuts. "You're properly rotten, aren't you?", he croons, all affectionate and bewitched, but his eyes gleam down at you mischievously.

The candles' flames quiver and flicker, painting ghostly shadows on the mural - their golden hue dancing over Perpetua's form. You can hear the night sky rumbling faintly with thunder, and then lightning cracks through the darkness, illuminates the world outside in a flash. Usually, you would flinch - just like the congregation does - but an otherworldly calm fills your body, down to your bones, that drowns out anyone and anything but the way your cunt presses wetly against your panties, his cock feels inside your mouth.

Humming around his dick you bat your lashes at him, wanting to show him just how much you strayed away from the lies of the Lord and embraced the Evil One's teaching. But most importantly: You wish to please your Papa. Give him what he is asking for. What he deserves.

And it makes you so so wet, the heavy weight of him on your tongue, how his dick throbs as you let it sink deeper into your mouth. You can feel fresh wetness pooling between your legs, rubbing your thighs together to get any sort of friction; your tongue pressing flatly against the bottom of his cock while hollowing your cheeks.

Your eyes prove to be bigger than your mouth, as his dick slips in further, your mouth connecting with your thumb, and you sputter around him. Your throat protests the sudden intrusion, as the tip of his dick knocks against your palate, and you choke, gargling against his cock.

"Sh, sh, sh", Perpetua pats your cheek patronizingly, regards you with a pitiful look, "Careful, doll. Take your time, hm?" He does not want you to. He needs it hard and fast, needs you to open up for him. He has waited long enough.

But he also cannot deny how good it feels, to let you take the lead just a little; how good it feels to watch you scrambling for ways to make him feel good.

It's rather addictive. He could do this all day - just take his cock out and watch you having your way with it, pleasuring yourself and trying to get him off, to be good for him.

And you are trying so hard right now. Taking him out of your mouth, sucking in a few deep breaths while he cradles your cheek; and then your mouth is back on him - with more vigour, more ambition - your hand giving his cock one, two forceful pumps, before your head sinks down on it, swallowing more than the half of him.

Your mouth is sacred.

Perpetua marvels in your beauty, the curve and stretch of your lips as you close your mouth around him fully - looking up at him through lust-hooded eyes, gleaming with arousal, a soft rose tint to your cheeks. He wants to keep you, for all eternity if he must. Strike a bargain with his Creator if he has to. Just because-

"You are made for this, doll", he groans, Made for me, as your tongue rubs along the bottom of his dick.

He feels so good in your mouth, the cold skin growing warmer by the second and you can feel his dick pulse and twitch, as you reach for his balls once more with your other hand, stroking and fondling his sack. A moan, deep and coarse - powerful and earth-shatteringly beautiful like a prayer - slips from his mouth, and his eyelids flutter, while his head tips down a little, brown hair cascading down the sides of his painted face. The silver of his mask catches the candle-light and you know that you bask in the sight of Satan's most unholy, most precious creation.

And Perpetua feels so alive.

He can feel (for the first time in a long time) how the heavily scented air of the church enters and fills his lungs - that inflate and deflate uselessly - feels lust creeping up and down his spine hotly. Fuck, he has missed this.

He hasn't felt this good, this lively, since he opened his eyes on the cool and steely autopsy table in the mortuary. Has not felt this free since he plucked the embalming tubes from his nose and arms and felt the chemical liquid rushing out if his eternal corpse. Has not felt this good since he realized how strong, how powerful, His Unholy Majesty made him as he dug his teeth so deeply into his first victims throat, that he broke the bones in its neck.

Satan in Hell, he feels like he is going to burst. He cannot believe that your mouth feels so heavenly, and he cannot help but wonder if your cunt is just as warm and wet.

The thought has him reeling on the edge, dick twitching on your tongue as you bob your head back and forth like you are fucking crazed for him.

You are perfect. A gift from the Lord, tainted by his Master. And Perpetua will reward you for it.

He is going to make you the God-bearer. Pump you full of his cum, until you feel like you are going to burst and then he is going to shove his dick back into you, so not a single drop of his goes to waste.

Perpetua cannot help himself - and later he will ponder whether he had a divine vision then and there - but to think of it. Really think of it.

His brain, long without vivid electric impulse, stutters back alive as it cooks up a delicious imagery. He can practically feel your warm flesh beneath his fingertips and against his body. And he cannot - for the love of Satan - stop thinking about it, the thought swallowing him whole.

How you would lay on his bed - his unused, cold bed - legs tightly wrapped around his waist. Moaning sweetly with the way his cock plunges into you deeply, pubic hair brushing over your folds and clit with every single thrust. It'd be the third time in a row he's fucking you, and your pussy still clutches around him greedily. His own cum and your squirt clinging to his curly bush and your mingled juices glisten on your wet folds that squelch with every thrust. You'd be so so full with his cum, that you mewl as he practically bends you in half, drills into you. Feeling like you are about to burst, you can feel his cum pooling around the thick base of his cock.

Perpetua is going to fuck the Antichrist into you. He will make you round and plump and he will do it over and over again. He will make you the Mother of the Devil Church, a Saint to behold, a guiding light for those lost to false promises. His cock hits your cervix over and over again, until you are babbling nonsense, his name on your tongue as you beg and plead and he leans in - eternal stamina, eternal lust - peppers your cheeks with kisses. "Take it all, darling, be good and take what I offer you", he croons, and when he lays his fingers onto your cunt you will milk his cock with an orgasm stronger than the ones that ripped through your body earlier, and he will spill and spill and spill thick, seemingly unending ropes and ropes of hot cum into your thight, fucked-out hole.

The thought nearly has Perpetua toppling over. Fuck, you are so damned hot, and he wants to ruin you. He has waited long enough; limited himself with a false ideal of decorum. You are his. The whole ministry is. He might as well start taking what rightfully belongs to him.

The candles scattered across the altar room flicker once more and then erupt in a flash of a flame, almost like a spontaneous combustion; outside, thunder rumbles once more while Perpetua tips his head back and groans - hands cradling your head, pushing his hips forward.

The thick tip of his dick hits the back of your throat, way back, and the congregation can see your throat bulging where the thick head slips past your palate; while you sputter and gag around it. Your nose is buried in his pubic hair, curling softly against your cheeks and bridge of your nose; inhaling hastily you catch lungsful of his scent - mouth salivating with both: his smell and the massive weight pushing into your throat. Eyes welting up with tears at the sudden intrusion and the nausea that bubbles in your stomach, you look up at him, hands clawing helplessly at his thighs, the thick material of his pants. Panic settles in your limbs at the sudden asphyxiation, feet kicking out a little.

Although he hears you gargling around his cock, watches your frame writhe, he does not budge; instead he holds your head close to his crotch, mismatched eyes rolling back at your sweet sweet, desperate sounds and the way your throat clenches around him.

Lightning cracks like a whip.

And then he moves. Sets a quick pace as he ruts into your throat, uses your mouth like a fucking fleshlight. His balls slap against your chin wetly, as your saliva runs down your lips, pooling at the thick base of his dick.

Your jaw hurts and so does your throat, growing sore with the he recklessly fucks into your mouth, bruising the back of your throat with the thick head of his cock that he drills down down down your mouth.

"That's it", he groans, mumbling to himself like a madman, "Take it, fucking take it, you slut -- There you go, fucking suck - my - cock". Each word one sharp thrust, that push tears from your eyes.

Your dirty fucking mouth feels so so good. He wishes he could relish it more; take his time, savour how your mouth and tongue feel - but you nearly feel too good, and he really really needs to cum. He could do this all day, have your lips wrapped around him all the damn time.

"You fuckin' bitch", he slurs, tips his head back, one of his hands coming lose from your head and runs it through his own instead, suddenly feeling as hot as if he'd be facing all Seven Hells at once.

The grip on your head is still lethal, strong like a vice, and you try your best to just relax your throat, to keep inhaling deeply through your nose; but, to no avail - your jaw already hurts from his assault on your mouth and your throat feels so so sore. Tomorrow, your voice will be a dry croak.

Desperate for any sort of leverage, any control your hands wander upwards, clinging to his silken shirt; one hand splayed out on his abdomen, the other reaching higher, nearly reaching his chest. You cling and tear at the fabric, groaning and gargling around his dick as he uses your throat, making you choke on his fat cock. Spit runs down your chin freely, your nose is still buried in his pubes, and you can feel his muscles ripple beneath your touch.

The lack of air and the way his dick repeatedly hits the back of your throat has even more tears welling up in your eyes that quicly topple over, running down your cheeks as you look up at him. Satan's Child using you for his pleasure, basking in the glow of a thousand flames burning oh so brightly, like twinkling stars as your tears contort and blur your vision. You can see and feel his muscles moving, as he fucks into your mouth.

You are truly blessed.

And Perpetua wants all of you, still. Wants so taste your blood, feel you clench around his dick, your hands running down his body.

But he will look for other ways to eat - devour - you, and will find himself between your spread legs, his tongue buried deep deep between your folds and inside your hole, his canines scraping dangerously over the soft, wet, and delicate skin.

His hips will rut into the bed as he humps his hard cock onto the mattress, hands wrapped around your thighs, keeping your spread open for him.

It will be hard for you to breathe, as he laps at your cunt like a starving starving man; and it will be hard for him to think, jaw hurting and chin drenched in your juices and his own saliva, grinding down onto the wet spot that is forming in his pants. He will come like this, after you do, shoot his load into his tight jeans, lapping at your squirting cunt.

Still, you want to offer it all to him. Throw your head back and give yourself to him, arteries prominent beneath your sweaty skin - all the while he is balls deep inside of your seeping-hot cunt that wets his pubic hairs, juices running down his sack and splattered across his abdomen; his face buried in your neck, lips latching onto your throat. And you would let him break your skin, let him drink from you. Give him everything you have. Let him have your life.

He must see it in your eyes - the promise, the submission, and the suggestion all the same - because his cock twitches in your throat and he moans freely, all mangled and raw and loud and his hips stutter, as he sacks forward a little. You know he is close. You just do. Like you have done this a hundred times before, like you know him better than he knows himself.

Fighting the gag reflex you push your tongue against his dick, rubbing it along the bottom of it and that is when he throbs in the most delicious way.

You close your eyes, ready to swallow each and every last drop of him, taste his cum on your tongue; moaning around his cock deep in your throat but--

But he pulls out, a sharp gasp slipping from his lips as he pumps his cock once, twice and then moans - a raw, coarse sound that echoes from the walls, and then hot streaks of cum hit your face. You can feel it hitting your cheeks, your forehead all warm and sticky, specks of it landing on your lips and in your opened mouth. Some of it gets in your eyes, but you just blink it away, gaze trained on his face that first contorts with pleasure beautifully, before his jaw goes a little slack, a blissful smile settling onto his lips, head tilted back a little. Your hands wander over his firm, toned abdomen, caressing the eternally frozen body beneath the soft fabric, while he shoots hot rope after rope of cum onto your face.

Eventually, he is spent, and he groans, rolls his shoulders, and looks down at you - like he is assessing his work - before his hands leave your head. Your scalp stings and your neck hurts, but he does not care much for your wincing, as he takes his cock back in his hand.

You watch his slender fingers, adorned with his metal claws that shimmer in the candle light, stuffing himself back into his pants; the dark fabric around the fly stained with your saliva, while you rub your thighs together.

You want him. You need him.

Arousal crushes over your body in hot, suffocating waves and you feel like you are running a two-hundred degrees fever. Whining and still feeling a little loopy and out of it from the lack of oxygen, you look up at him, hands pressing onto his thighs needily, grabbing at the fabric. Your cheeks are wet with tears and his cum.

He tilts his head at you, blinks - visibly irritated. "What?"

"Papa, p-please", you sob, voice small, his cum in thick streaks on your face, clumping your lashes, "I -- I, I need - just, f-fuck me please."

And he huffs at that, the coil in his stomach tightening again. Already. "You don't know what you're asking for, silly", voice coarse - because you certainly don't. He would ravish you, skin and bones, leave nothing but a puddle of blood and cum.

So instead, because his education reminds of that much - nothing but a faint voice in the back of his skull, reaching for him through the thick haze of arousal and post-orgasmic bliss - he shoves his foot between your thighs, presses the tip of it riiight onto where he suspects your clit.

"That's all you'll get", his hand strokes your hair, his touch surprisingly gentle, "Be good and I'll might give you more."

Sometime. When he has tamed the beast inside himself.

You gasp, hips stuttering forward as your body writhes at the sudden, harsh contact; and then you start to grind down onto his suede boot, shame burning high on your cheeks.

You can feel all of their eyes resting heavily upon you - defiled with your tears and his juices. It is an honour to serve a Papa in such a way, and you are very well aware of it. Some of your fellow Siblings will most likely not be able to suppress their jealousy, make you feel their envy with harsh words and harsher hands. A few others will most likely be joyous for you, steam your tunics more carefully now, tend to your hair and nails as his newly-found, favourite concubine shares her stories with them. The Ghouls will, from now on, most likely keep themselves away from you.

There, there - you are marked now. You are his. You should be joyful. It is a gift from the Hells: His Majesty has chosen you to pleasure the new Papa.

You.

Something churns away in your stomach, blends with the shame at being so publicly displayed in both, your lust and your servitude: pride.

It tingles in your stomach, blends with your arousal, shoots up up up to your brain and releases a firework of euphoria, sweet moans slipping from your lips. Your head sacks forward a little, his grip on your hair stinging, and you groan with both - pain and pleasure.

Fresh wetness pools between your folds, and you can feel your panties clinging wetly to your cunt, staining the leather of his shoes. And you are so fucking turned on. Lust runs rampage on your nerve-endings, sending your head into a spin and reduces all bodily desires to just wanting to come. Gasping, you speed up, your hands running up your body and grabbing your tits through your habit as lust rummages through your body, leaving your skin prickling and hot; suffocating like a heavy, feverish blanket.

And Perpetua tips your head back by tugging at your hair, making you moan. You meet his gaze, that wanders over your sweaty, flushed face, and then his thumb runs through the sticky streaks of cum on your cheek - gathers it on the pad of the metal claw before brushing over your lips.

And you part them, still plush and wet from sucking his cock, carefully taking the talon in your mouth. It rests heavily on your tongue, cold and hard, and then the salty, musky taste of his cum hits your palate. You moan around his finger, tongue carefully lapping his juices off the metal.

The taste and the humiliation gets you going, all thought of all these Clergy members watching washed from your mind as your eyelids flutter. Perpetua pulls his thumb from your mouth gently, only to run it through his cum once more, feeding you more of his spend.

You hum around his thumb, as it enters your mouth once more, tasting his cum, licking and sucking it off the cool metal eagerly, swallowing it has your eyes rolling back.

He tastes like Heaven and Hell. You wish you could do more than just taste him.

You wish he would touch you. Really touch you - take his time, too. Run his hands down your body, fingers digging into your curves, lips latching onto you where your pulse thunders beneath the thin and soft skin. You wonder, what his hands would feel like - his touch firm and cold - and you squeeze your tit, eyelids fluttering as your mind conjures up the delicious image of you; sitting on his lap in the confined space of a confessional, knees digging into the hard wooden bench. Him rrripping your habit apart, groping your tits hungrily, thumb flicking over your nipples.

Just as yours do now and they are hard like glass beneath the soft, dark cotton of your tunic.

"Look at you", he muses, hand caressing your cheek, his thumb still in your mouth, feeling you suckle around it, "Aren't you just such a good little slut?"

Putting pressure on your tongue he pushes your mouth open, a dirty grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Such a dirty, little thing - y'just really love to have something to swallow, don't you?", he whispers, watches you whine and nod. Then, he swirls his tongue through his mouth, along his teeth and razor-sharp canines - gathers some spit and then leans down - lets his saliva trickle from his own mouth into yours slooowly, a thick rope dropping down onto your tongue. His spit is cold and tastes coppery, and your stomach does a flip at the gesture, while the taste sends your brain into a tail-spin.

The thought of him hunting people through the ministry's ground, just moments before the black mass, haunts your mind. The way they seek a way through the darkening pine forest, the icy air piercing their faces and lungs as they run and run and run from him - maybe they are unsuspecting tourists thinking they rented an Airbnb in the nearby monastic granges or maybe the ministry just plainly kidnaps people now - as he struts after them. Measured steps, as he is not in a hurry - they won't be able to outrun him forever, and he is quicker, stronger, deadlier anyways - a tall looming figure always behind them, rising high between the dark tree trunks.

But you only know the half of it, unable to imagine what follows. For then the creature screeches, hurls itself forward, because it is just growing tired of the hunt and their desperate, futile attempts at escaping their certain demise - inhumane, supernatural speed as it starts to run, brown hair fluttering and it giggles; elegant frame connecting forcefully with a victim's as it tackles the human into the cold snow and buries its canines, its whole denture in the livestock’s face. Bones crush, blood spurts like a fountain and the creature slurps as it feasts.

You wonder how Perpetua's lips would taste, feel on yours. If he were a lover you would just lean in freely, let him feel just how much he makes your stomach flutter and heart ache - but he is not from this world, something more, utterly divine and you just aren't worthy.

Instead, you swallow obediently, keeping your gaze chained to his. And that is when he tilts the tip of his boot juuust right, moves it against your desperate humping --

A sweet sweet moan, high-pitched and a tad strangled, slips from your throat as you cunt clenches around nothing and then squirts; your juices drenching your panties and soaking the suede of his shoes as you finally, finally come. Your head flies back as your body tenses up, shakes rattling you and the dark sky outside the colourful windows singes in a deep, deep red, just as thunder rumbles, makes the ground shake - like the Earth has been plunged into the Seven Hells, fire erupting around the globe. Perpetua watches you, the red light engulfing him, a smile tugging at his lips.

The red subsides as quickly as it exploded across the night sky, and he knows that Father is pleased. Leaning down to your gasping, quivering form, he cradles your face in his hands, claws wrapping around your skull. "You did well, darling", he whispers, faint groans and heavy breathing coming from the nave but he doesn't care much - it is their time now, he will continue to indulge in yours. He doesn't know, doesn't check where his brother is - if he regards him with open disdain or if a Sibling of Sin is on his cock already - and for the first time in a long time he realizes that he just does not care.

Placing a soft kiss on your sweaty forehead, he inhales your scent, listens to your laborious breathing and your thundering heartbeat; in the nave, a ghoul hurls itself over the bench and at a Friar.

"You're mine now", he whispers, and your eyes flicker open at that, pupils still dark and blown with lust, your body writhing from your orgasm. Oh, he is so so far from being done with you.

And he knows that you know it, too.

145 notes · View notes

queerly-anxious · 22 hours ago

Text

Until the very end of me | Vampire Perpetua x reader

In the honeymoon phase of their new relationship, Perpetua and reader struggle with discussing their open secrets with one another. Things change, when Perpetua realises his affliction might just be a blessing in disguise.

Notes: blood drinking, reader is gender neutral, reader struggles with chronic pain

AO3 Link

This came to me in a very stupid dream but I’m actually really pleased with how it turned out.

Something that had drawn you to Perpetua in the beginning was that feeling of being understood. With just a look in his eyes he could convey that he got you, emphasised with you without so much as having to utter a word. It felt safe with him around, almost being free to be yourself without having to put up a brave front.

But, still being in the early days of your relationship, you wore a mask of your own, afraid of talking about your ailments, of being too high maintenance. He was a busy man, and selfishly, you didn’t want to scare him off, having grown fond of his company.

So when he asked how you were, you would feign a brightness in your smile, no matter how exhausted you were, no matter how much your body ached. He was under enough pressure of his own, why would you want to worry him and lower his mood by complaining?

He wasn’t stupid, you knew that much. You saw how his eyes would narrow when he caught you wincing in pain, only to hand wave his concerns away. You’d noticed how, on days you had overestimated just how much energy you had, or were rendered useless by yet another migraine - when it came to your dates something would conveniently “come up”, preventing him from taking you on whichever outing you had both planned.

Some inane paperwork, he would say, scoffing as he blamed his brother for blindsiding him with it, requesting that you would at least keep him company in his room as he did his work.

Funnily enough, on those evenings he did very little paperwork, making no mention of it as he ordered in food for the two of you, listening to music or watching films, eventually ending up curled up together in his bed.

He didn’t show any exasperation at your off days, nor your unwillingness to talk about the elephant in the room. After all, how could he begrudge you that when he had one of his own?

Perpetua’s affliction was a poorly kept, but still hushed up secret within the ministry.

He didn’t let his vampirism interfere with his duties, but he was tight lipped with the entire clergy about anything to do with it.

After hearing the whispers, it was hard not to notice the signs, especially since beginning a relationship with him, seeing him up close. The days he would be more irritable, the way his nostrils would flare, pupils dilating, until he disappeared for a while to satiate himself. The way his teeth would accidentally graze your lips and tongue when he kissed you. The way his kisses would gravitate towards your neck, a tremble in his breath as he reminded himself to exercise constraint. The vice like grip that would leave bruises in the throes of passion. The shame in his eyes when he looked upon them, even when you laughed it off.

You had your curiosities of course, but total openness wasn’t a stage the two of you had reached just yet. You remained content that such things would be revealed over time, and that you yourself would be brave enough to discuss your own problems with him.

It was another night of takeout noodles, sloppy attempts at feeding one another with chopsticks. Some cheesy movie played on his small television, not that either of you were paying attention.

In spite of taking painkillers before you’d arrived, your backache continued to flare up for the third day in a row, and you were finding it near impossible to get into a comfortable position beside him, sitting awkwardly at the headboard.

Perpetua hummed to himself, distracting your attention away from the pain.

“You might want to run, but you should stay and fight.”

You frowned. “I’m sorry?”

He waved the small slip of paper, grinning.

“The fortune cookie. What’d you get, hm?”

“Oh.” You shook your head, finding the slip you had shoved in your pocket without even reading it first.

“Don’t hesitate to tackle a difficult problem.”

He laughed, the light from the lamp reflecting in his metal mask as his head tilted back. “Interesting. Very interesting indeed.”

“You believe in them, huh?” You raised an eyebrow, surprised at how much he seemed to be contemplating them.

“Nah.” He grinned, turning his attention back to the screen. “Probably bullshit.”

You shifted again, wincing, that lingering ache in your back once again dissatisfied with your sitting position.

He didn’t look away from the screen, his voice a whisper, the humour that had just been in his tone now replaced with soft concern.

“Where does it hurt, amore?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” You shook your head, a nervous giggle in your words.

You felt yourself holding your breath when he tapped the pause button, crossing his arms as he turned to you.

“Where?” Firmer this time, an eyebrow raised.

Leaning forward, you put your hand on the side of your lower back, hoping he might just ignore it.

“Just here…”

Gently he reached for the hem of your shirt, pulling it up to expose the area, the fingertips of his other hand lightly tracing the skin. His skin was cold, something that never really bothered you, and in this moment, felt like a relief as he touched you.

“Here?” His eyes flickered to yours, full of concern as you nodded. “And what happened?”

You shrugged. This was exactly what you’d wanted to avoid. You didn’t have an answer, things just hurt, sometimes more than others, sometimes triggered by nothing at all. You’d had enough of physicians not taking you seriously, what if he did the same? What if he wrote you off as being overdramatic?

You mumbled, looking away.

“Don’t remember doing anything to set it off. It just… does that, sometimes. It’s really not that bad.”

Letting the hem of your shirt fall he was quick to reach for your face, tilting your head back to him again.

“You overcommit yourself. I can’t sit back and watch you do this over and over.”

There was a lump in your throat as you met his eyes, your lips parted, trying to think of anything to say to gloss over the topic.

“I…” Your voice trembled, feeling a sting in your eyes, “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“To who?” Perpetua smiled, his thumbs wiping away the tears that had beaded at the corner of your eyes.

“…you. I… don’t want you to feel like I’m… too much effort.”

Sharply he tilted your head upwards, pressing his lips against yours.

“Never, amore.” He murmured, smiling as he leant his forehead against yours. “I know what it feels like… as if your own body is working against you.”

You were silent, unsure of what words you could even say to thank him for his patience with you. Instead, you clumsily threw your arms around his waist, unable to stop more tears from falling as you clung to him.

“Hey…” He chuckled, holding you tight against his chest, rocking you slightly as he hushed you. “Come on, now. You really think this would be enough to scare me off?”

“Maybe.” You shrugged, voice muffled against his shirt.

“No.” Perpetua was stern again, his arms tightening around you. “I’m not going anywhere. I don’t want you to feel like you have to overexert yourself for me.”

He broke the embrace, his eyes serious as he gripped your shoulders.

“I know this is… hypocritical, of me. But… You can tell me, any time you’re hurting, any time you want to complain, anything. I mean it. Promise me.”

Swallowing, you nodded, “Promise.”

He grinned again, giving you a quick kiss.

“Do you trust me, amore?”

You did, in a strange way. There was still so much you didn’t know about him. Even after months of dating you were yet to see his full face properly - with him only taking the mask off around you if the room was dim. But still you knew in the depths of your soul that you trusted him.

“…yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Good.” He gave you another peck on the lips, before working his way down the buttons of your shirt, exposing you to him.

He moved you, lying you on your stomach.

Burying your face into the pillow, you grinned at the idea of him giving you a massage. He could be so romantic sometimes.

You let out a sigh of relief feeling his hands trailing over your skin, gently kneading on the area causing you the most trouble.

When he stopped, you wanted to ask why. But in the spirit of trusting him, you kept your eyes shut, listening to the sound of him moving, feeling the mattress shift as he repositioned himself.

The switch from the burning steady pain to a sharp piercing one was enough to make you scream, writhing as you tried to see what he was doing.

“V?!”

His hand splayed across your shoulder blades, keeping you down, in spite of your pained crying.

He would later tell you it had taken under a thirty seconds for you to stop wailing, but in the moment it felt like a lifetime.

As he kept his fangs in your skin, you noticed the strange numbness creeping in to your muscles, beginning to radiate outwards, slowly at first, getting more rapid as you managed to steady your breathing.

You could hardly sense it, if not for another shift in the mattress as he moved closer to your head, leaning down to press a kiss against your temple, stroking your hair.

“I’m sorry, love… I never intended to frighten you…” he whispered, a wobble in his voice, and a frown that suggested he was internally kicking himself for not having approached the idea with more tact.

But feeling a blessed freedom from the ache that had been tormenting you for the last few days, your fear was forgotten, replaced with adoration and appreciation. You knew it couldn’t have been easy for him, having been so careful to ensure no one in the clergy witnessed him engaging in his true nature.

“How did you…? Why did the pain stop?” You rolled onto your side, stretching to see if it was just a fluke. That perhaps, one wrong move would have you right back where you had been in an instant.

He grinned, lying down beside you and pulling you close, shoulders slumping with a sigh of relief when he could sense you didn’t have any resentment for his actions.

“I’ll have you know I have very… interesting saliva.”

There was a look in his eyes. Surprise, that he was talking about his vampirism, apprehension at the idea of being open about it, fear that it might change how you look at him.

But no.

You laughed, eyes glinting as you rolled them at him with a giggle.

“‘Course you do. Always gotta be the quirky one, don’t you?”

He sighed, shaking his head.

“Hush. It has… anaesthetic properties. In the local area of the bi-“ He hesitated again, reality hitting him again. He had bit you.

Sensing his unease, you poked him, giving him an encouraging nod. “Local area of the bite, and?”

“Right, um, and somewhat of an… opiate effect.”

“To… placate… the prey, I assume?” You knew you shouldn’t pry too hard, but curiosity got the better of you, especially when said opiate effect was making you a little woozy, interfering with your ability to filter your thoughts. His lips pressed together, nodding.

“Yes, that’s correct.”

You reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, whispering. “Thank you. For doing this… and for talking about it. I won’t ask anything else, not if it makes you uncomfortable.”

He nodded, a sense of relief flooding him for the moment, knowing you weren’t about to push him for more information. He’d had enough of people and their ‘curiousity’, hounding him with questions in spite of his discomfort with it.

“There’s something else I want to try, if you’d let me…”

“Course.” You murmured through a yawn, all too aware of how clouded your mind was becoming thanks to his venom. It didn’t frighten you, as perhaps it should, instead leaving you with a feeling of tranquility you hadn’t felt in quite some time.

He leaned down again. You were faintly aware of his fangs breaking your skin again, like a quick sharp pinch, not excruciating this time. You felt the warmth of his venom as more seeped into your capillaries, but there was something different now. The suction you could sense on your numb skin. Perpetua let out a low groan.

If only you knew how much he had longed to taste your essence from the moment he met you.

He prayed to the ones below that his idea might work, both for the sake of your pain, but also selfishly, so he could taste you again and again, whenever you needed relief.

He was lucky, in that he had fed so recently that he could exercise restraint. As delightful as your blood tasted to him, he was able to drink slowly, more focused on stimulating your blood flow as opposed to draining you like prey.

As he unlatched his teeth, his cold hands moving to massage your back, you let out a contented hum. It was neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but rather unusual, the sensation of something on your skin against the numbness.

Unbeknownst to you, his eyes flared, biting his lip as he kneaded the offending muscles. He needed no fancy massage oils, the small trickle of your blood from the wounds he had made providing enough slickness for him to guide his hands where they needed to be.

This was his own bliss. The nights of passion, hearing your blood rush through every vein and artery, your heart pounding in the midst of making love was one thing. But this. The intimacy of you both being honest with each other. Your tactfulness and sensitivity in regard to the issue of his vampirism, your trust in him to do this to you.

It was early days, of course. The strongest spoken commitment to one another being a few awkward ‘I love you’s.

But as he stared at the streaks of blood painting your lower back, he knew in that moment. He would go to the ends of the earth to keep you with him.

“You doing ok?” He murmured, pressing a kiss to the bite marks, waiting for your say so for him to continue.

He held back a snort of laughter upon hearing your intoxicated drawl in response.

“Mmhmmm, yup! S’all good doc.”

Something in it made his chest tighten, ache even, his eyes creasing as he saw the serenity in your face - a rare sight. It was more than love. It was adoration, devotion. Strong enough that he considered ripping his cursed heart from his chest just to dislodge the weight of it.

His teeth latched to your skin again, almost gently. Usually his feeding was frantic, desperately draining his prey just to have it over and done with. But this way, he barely had to commit to any suction - merely enough to keep a vacuum - allowing himself to savour you, the slow seep of blood that pulsed against his tongue with each heartbeat.

He repeated the actions, languidly drinking from you for a few minutes, massaging the tissue, cycling through the motions for what must have been a solid hour.

Content with his work, and feeling slightly intoxicated himself, he lay down beside you, tucking your hair behind your ear.

You weren’t quite asleep, but peaceful.

“Hey…” he whispered, grinning as your eyelids twitched as he blew against you. “Feeling ok?”

“Yeah.” You giggled, shifting closer against him, slinging your arm around his waist. “Thank you… I haven’t felt like this in a long time.”

“Good, good.” He kissed you, the metallic taste on his lips hardly phasing you. “I’m hoping it will work like I intended. Stimulate the blood flow a little, hopefully ease the pain.”

“Listen to you, eh.” You giggled again, giddiness accompanying your lightheadedness. “Papa Perpetua, medicine man.”

He rolled his eyes, his arms surrounding you to squeeze you tighter.

“Anything for you, amore.” It was a whisper. Not enough to convey the severity of how much he meant it. He wanted to tell you the lengths he was willing to go. That whenever you were ready, when the days of malaise and discomfort all became too much, he would take it all away. Only when you have had enough, when you have suffered mortality long enough and were ready to commit your soul to him. He would turn you, keep you by his side eternally if you would have him.

The silence was broken by him upon noticing the tremble of your shoulders, small whimpers escaping you against his chest. In a panic he pulled back, convinced you were crying, only to see you grinning as you tried to stifle your laughter.

Your smile was infectious, as he narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“It’s like leech therapy, isn’t it?” You chuckled, the effects of his venom, even at a low dose having put you in an almost drunken state.

“I mean, that was my thought process. But…” he trailed off, feigning offence, eyes narrowed as he rested the cool metal of his mask against your forehead. “You dare call your Papa a leech?”

You crumbled under the false glare, doubling over into a fit of laughter, eventually rolling onto your back to clutch your stomach.

Perhaps his idea would not work as intended to ease your pain for a longer period of time, but this was the most relaxed he had ever seen you. No trace of the exhaustion that often lay beneath the surface of your gaze, of the pain that seemed to haunt your eyes.

Finally you controlled your laughter enough to defend yourself.

“Well come on. Magical spit, sucking blood? Slimy, in the right context…”

He snorted at that. If he was capable of blushing he might have.

“Slimy? You make an awfully ungrateful patient.”

“Oh I’m plenty grateful.” You scoffed, grinning as you sat up, straddling his thighs and leaning down to kiss him. Your movements more fluid than he had ever seen them. “Let me show you how grateful I am.”

Perpetua cleared his throat. As much as the offer was tempting, you weren’t in the right frame of mind. And, he wasn’t about to undo all his work and cause you another potential pain.

“Such a tease…” he muttered, “As your Papa, I must insist you stay on bedrest.”

You pouted, letting out a disgruntled huff as he lifted you off him to rest you on your side, your back against his chest.

“Now, now…” he purred into your ear, “We’ll see how you’re feeling in the morning… see just how slimy I can get, hm?”

“Alright...” Relenting, pout still on your lips, you snuggled against him, gripping his arms as the wrapped around your waist.

A comfortable silence fell upon the room, only broken by the soft sounds of Perpetua pressing gentle kisses against your neck, hearing your breath softening as you gave into sleep. He could entertain himself for a few hours now that he had you to keep him company on the long nights. Some nights he would count your breaths, your heartbeat, other nights contented with just watching you.

He whispered, unsure if you would even notice.

“Goodnight, amore.”

“Night… thanks for leeching me…” you mumbled back, barely lucid. “Love you…”

He grinned, so enamoured at your groggy tone, at the idea you could love a thing like him.

“I love you too, always.”

28 notes · View notes

queerly-anxious · 22 hours ago

Text

Papa V can treat me as a vampire should

227 notes · View notes

queerly-anxious · 1 day ago

Text

In The Glow Of The Moon

summary: You share a late night snack with Papa Perpetua as the two of you find yourselves unable to sleep pairing(s): papa perpetua x reader, could be read as platonic or romantic warnings: n/a word count: 1,294 a/n: As always the characters mentioned are inspired by the fictional characters as created by Ghost and in no way depict the real people behind the masks. Find this and my other works on AO3

Something about the Ministry at night was ethereal. The moonlight illuminated the stone archways of the empty courtyard, casting shadows that seemed to follow you as you strolled leisurely into the night. The halls were anything but quiet this time of night as the sounds of distant revelries and mischief rang in your ear. You smiled fondly at the sounds of your fellow clergy members and siblings as you carried on your path to the kitchen. It felt like more often than not sleep evaded you these days, for one reason or another. Some nights you laid in bed doom scrolling until you finally fell asleep, some you found yourself joining your fellow Siblings of Sin in their late night activities, but your new favorite sleepless routine was on the agenda tonight. It brought you solace, helped clear your head, and kindled an unexpected friendship. So, once again, you found yourself sneaking into the sprawling Ministry kitchens for a late night snack and the hope of a chance encounter with Papa Perpetua.

To your delight you spotted him as you entered the kitchen. Illuminated by the open fridge, his back was to you as he rummaged inside. He didn’t acknowledge your presence behind him but you caught the way his head cocked every so slightly as you approached. “Good evening, Papa,” you greeted as you came to stand to the side of him.

The silver of his mask was reflecting off the fridge light. Despite the mask and Papal paints adorning his face, Perpetua was dressed casually in a black turtleneck sweater, dark sweatpants, and a pair of house shoes. The first time you had found him in the kitchens late at night, dressed out of his Papal robes, had been unexpected. You had entered the kitchen several weeks ago believing you were alone only to turn around and catch the silhouette of a man standing behind you as you closed the fridge. The shock had caused you to scream so loud you were later surprised the entire Ministry hadn’t heard you. Panicking, you turned on your phone flashlight and were greeted by the face of Papa Perpetua himself. You swore his eyes reflected the light like a feline; he stared at you, seemingly unphased by the bright lights directly in his face. Clutching your heart you lowered your phone out of his face and apologized profusely. Perpetua had ignored your apology in favor of reaching over you to open the pantry above your head.

Back in the present, Perpetua let out a little “aha” as he found whatever he was looking for in the fridge. Grabbing it, he stood up and turned to face you finally. “Good evening, fratello,” he nodded politely and gestured to the table behind you. This had become the routine between the two of you whenever your paths crossed like this: he would select a snack, you would grab a plate, and the two of you would sit in comfortable silence as you shared a quiet slice of the night together. You set the plate down in the middle of the table and took the seat opposite your Papa. His eyes bore into you as you settled yourself in the chair.

Perpetua’s presence could be unsettling at times, to say the least. Often staring too long without blinking, a grin that showed more teeth than a human should, the unnatural stillness he was prone to when sitting in a meeting or listening to a clergy member. His peculiar nature made the man the subject of many rumors around the Ministry. Siblings speculated he may be part ghoul or perhaps even an undead being cursed to roam the land of the living. The mysterious timing of his arrival at the Ministry paired with the death of Sister Imperator further fueled rumors to spread like wildfire. For some, these speculations made them fearful of their new Papa. Others found the air of mystery intriguing and flocked to him. Even now, as you regarded him across the table half concealed in the moonlight, you weren’t sure what to make of him.

His unnaturally long fingers worked to open the bag of shredded cheese he seemed to have selected to snack on for the evening. Cautiously you reached out to assist him, a chill running through you as your hand brushed against his cold, uncovered one. He relinquished the bag to you and continued to watch with unblinking eyes as you opened it and dumped a generous portion of the cheese out onto the plate. You resealed the bag and set it aside and waited for Perpetua to make the next move. His head tilted to the side and a small smirk worked its way onto his face as he regarded you. “Go on, I will not bite. Not unless you ask nicely,” he spoke.

A nervous chuckle left your throat. “Right, um, sorry- I,” you shook your head and grabbed a pinch of cheese. Perpetua was usually a man of few words, the times you heard him speak the most was when delivering a sermon or commanding crowds of fans on stage. During these interactions he hardly spoke outside of your initial greetings. The more time you had spent one on one with Perpetua, the more he seemed to warm to your company and made comments or asked you questions. Something about the simplest of attention from your Papa seemed to fluster you. Copia had never had this sort of effect on you. Then again, you thought, I never shared a midnight snack and intimate conversation with Copia.

As if sensing where your train of thought had gone, Perpetua leaned in closer and made eye contact again. “Tell me about yourself, tesoro,” he practically purred.

If he noticed the way your cheeks heated, he didn’t give an indication. It seemed he was feeling chatty this evening and it caught you off guard. “What do you want to know about me, Papa?” you asked, straightening yourself and attempting to match his body language.

He pondered the question for a moment, took a bite of your shared snack, before answering. “What brought you here? To the Ministry. I am learning the path is different for each member of the congregation.”

The question was unexpected from him, but not unwelcome. It was more personal than either of you had gone in any previous evening. You tapped your finger on the table idly as you thought about how to best answer his question. Perpetua listened intently as you shared your story with him, not speaking (...or moving … or blinking) until you had finished. A comfortable silence fell over the two of you again as you continued to share in your snack. Soon, it was time for you to part ways. You put the plate in the sink and returned the bag of cheese to its proper place in the fridge while he pushed in your chairs.

Perpetua held the door open for you, allowing you to pass out of the kitchen before following. You turned around and smiled at him, but before you could bid him goodnight he grabbed your hand and brought it up to his lips for a brief kiss. “Goodnight, fratello. Thank you for humoring your Papa this evening. I hope sleep finds you well.” With a nod, he let go of your hand and turned down the hall without so much as a glance behind him.

In his wake you were left with your hand still outstretched, tingling where his lips had touched. Mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Your brain seemed to have short circuited from the uncharacteristic behavior from Perpetua. You know wherever the late hour took you, sleep was the last thing on your mind.

13 notes · View notes

queerly-anxious · 1 day ago

Text

75K notes · View notes

queerly-anxious · 2 days ago

Text

Discontent | Papa V Perpetua x Reader

Perpetua has always had a habit of letting his emotions bottle up. Unfortunately tonight, that bottle had reached it's capacity. Navigating arguments is a challenge at the best of times, never mind when both parties are living in the confines of a tour bus.

MDNI!!!

CW: Angst and smut, insecure perpetua, reader gets shouted at

Notes:

Afab reader. This started mostly in readers perspective but I got a bit carried away and switched to a bit of a character study of V. I hc him as being a quiet but sassy little shit (affectionate) most of the time, but he has some deep rooted insecurities that sometimes get the better of him. Also no one can tell me he's not Italian, starts talking with his hands when he gets frustrated, waving them claws about like he's an aircraft marshaller. (My) Secret Service by the Hoosiers fits the vibe of V in this one

AO3 link

You weren’t even sure what had caused it.

Tensions had been high, a few hiccups with the wardrobe changes, the kabuki not falling quite right, some props misbehaving. Nothing catastrophic, but it left the stage team, and Papa scrambling to stick to the set time.

He was pissed off.

He was silent enough at the best of times, keeping to himself between witty remarks that you knew, deep down were laced in his fears and insecurities.

But this silence was simmering, his energy making the small bus feel like a pressure cooker. You had been busy with your own duties with the rest of the press team and didn’t witness most of the nights hiccups.

By the time you had returned to his bus, Papa had already had time to shower, sitting in the kitchenette. His usual cup of hot water and honey sat untouched on the counter.

No trace of his paints, but his mask was back on. It was a strange sight, but one you had gotten used to, the softness of his bathing robe clashing with the harsh metallic face covering.

He sat exhausted, head in his hands without even glancing up as you entered the lounge area. Kneeling on the seat beside him, you rubbed his shoulders.

“Hey…”

No reply. Not unusual, for him.

“It all worked out in the end…” you murmured, trying to massage some of the tension in his neck. Evidently making things worse, feeling him tense in response to your words.

“What took you so long to come back here?”

That, was unusual, the way he snapped, pulling away from your touch.

“What? I was talking to a few of the sisters…” You felt yourself becoming defensive, frowning at him. “We’re still ahead of schedule for leaving?”

“You still weren’t back here at the time we had agreed. That is the problem. People not being prepared, not being at the right place when they are supposed to. That behaviour is how we end up having nights like tonight!”

His voice raised. Not shouting, but authoritative nonetheless. And the glare in his eyes. It all felt like an overreaction, like he needed some excuse to channel out his frustrations at the numerous little mishaps of the night. Not letting him push you away, you placed a hand back on his shoulder.

“Come on V, it’s over now, you can relax for a while. I know all this is hard, bu-“ you spoke softly, worrying about how panicked he had been getting since the start of the tour.

“Oh you know, do you? You think you have any fucking idea?”

“Perpet-“

You winced as he quickly stood, pacing what little space there was in the bus kitchenette.

“Don’t. You tell me you know how hard it is to be thrust into a role you didn’t ask for, surrounded by people you don’t know, yet have all these expectations of you? Expecting you to live up to a brother you’ve never met who already detests you?”

Your head lowered as he became louder and louder, hands gesturing as he began to shout. Of course you didn’t know, but for him to raise his voice at you like this… He’d never been like that.

Still, his eyes were marred with irritation, seemingly blinding him to how you were shrinking back.

“My so called mother had people killed when their time in these shoes were done. My family, that I never had the chance to meet. And now the man in her place hates me. So no, I don’t think you understand why I am so concerned about making this go smoothly, making sure I am in this damned role for as long as possible!”

With a wave of his hand, not even glancing at you as he turned, he stormed up the stairs. The tug of his bunk curtain was not as loud as a door slamming, but in the moment it had the same effect, causing you to flinch again.

You sat shocked for a few minutes, expecting him to return to you soon after, once he had cooled down.

The ceasing of any sound of movement from the the upper level as you waited told you that wasn’t going to happen.

The bus engine had chugged to life, usually your sign to turn in for the night, ready to do it all again tomorrow. In spite of how small the bunks were, Perpetua and you had managed to make sleeping together bearable. But tonight you were hesitant to join him, not wanting to further irritate him. After a quick shower you didn’t feel much better. As tired as you were, your nerves were heightened after his outburst, your stomach churning too much to sleep. Besides, he didn’t like sleeping apart; going to your own bunk would probably be a bigger problem.

You flicked on the tv, keeping the volume low, intending to spend an hour or so there before joining him.

Something stirred you from your sleep, tickling you as fingers swept over your neck. You groaned, attempting to sit upright. Already you could feel the crick in your neck from your awkward position on the recliner.

“Your hair is wet.”

Perpetua kneeled on the floor, tugging softly on the end of a strand of your damp hair.

He groaned as he stood up, as if he had been in that position for a while now. Still in his towel robe and mask, the blanket lines pressed into his skin suggested he had nodded off before he intended to as well.

“V?”

He frowned, crossing his arms as he sat down beside you.

“You didn’t have to sleep out here.” His voice was a rough, almost childish grumble, his throat no doubt sore from the combination of singing every night and his earlier shouting.

“I was just giving you some space… didn’t mean to fall asleep.” Yawning, you rubbed your eyes. He was pouting, but clearly looking calmer.

“I don’t want space.”

“I-“

“No.” You weren’t sure how he did it, managing to assert authority over you while dressed in his current attire. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I’m sorry.”

Reaching for his hand you shook your head.

“I mean you were right. I don’t really get what you’re going through. But… I just want to be here for you V.”

As guarded as you were feeling after his outburst, it was hard not to let it slip from your mind as he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against it.

“I know, my darling.”

Pulling you into his arms he kissed the top of your head, deeply breathing in the scent of you. Before long his grip on you tightened, the hands on your waist no longer ones of understanding and apologies, but rather one fuelling the bulge you could feel growing against you, separated by only the fabric of his robe and your pyjama shorts.

He whispered, voice guttural as he lowered his lips to your ear.

“Come to bed.”

You raised a brow, still reeling a little from how he spoke to you earlier. “Is this you trying to make it up to me?”

“No… not tonight darling. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for that.”

He pulled you to your feet in a swift motion, ignoring your sluggishness from your scant and awkwardly positioned sleep as he pushed you towards his bunk.

“This is me getting it all out of my system, so I don’t ever let myself speak to you again in a way that you never deserved.”

“V-“ you gasped, the wind knocked out of you as he pushed you into the bunk, clambering on top of you.

Even in choosing the largest bunk, it wasn’t exactly spacious. His breath was hot on your skin before he kissed you, the metal of his mask cold against your skin. You wanted to rip it off, to see his full face, as he sometimes let you. But you knew it was a crutch for him. And with the mood he had been in today, you weren’t about to tear that comfort away from him.

His kisses were more harsh than usual, demanding and needy as he grasped at your waist.

“Tell me-“ he huffed, moving to nip your earlobe, “tell me you need me.”

You were sure your brain had short circuited. Taking a second too long to respond, long enough for him to clamp his teeth a little harder, making you gasp in response.

“Always. Always, my love.”

It was clear in his wide eyes, he was searching yours for any sign of insincerity, as if to prove his own self doubt. Physically, he may have been in control of the moment, keeping you pinned in place, but emotionally it was you holding the cards.

You were sure you heard a whimper as his lips pressed heavy against your own again, his robe falling open as he ground against you with rough thrusts.

Reaching for the storage pouches at the side of his bunk, he fumbled to pull out the small bottle of lube he kept hidden for moments just like these.

You tried to raise your hips, to allow him to slide down your shorts, but you needn’t have bothered. Leaning on his elbow, he raised himself enough to reach between you, tugging your shorts and underwear aside enough to pump some of the lube against you. It was cold, much like his hands as he tossed the bottle aside, glaring you down as he palmed at your cunt, earning a squeak from you.

He wasn’t in the mood for foreplay, you knew, but he at least had the decency to press two now slick fingers into you, kissing you again, swallowing your gasps.

“I’ll- fuck.” He muttered, leaning his forehead against yours, the cool metal of his mask a relief in the stuffy bunk. “I’ll do it properly later. Just- just- tell me again.”

You whined as he slid his fingers from you, gripping his cock as he lined himself at your entrance.

“…please V.”

Trying in vain to shuffle your hips to meet him, he kept you pinned with his weight. Another kiss, punctuated with desperate whines from you both, him breaking off to nip at your neck, his breath already ragged.

“Again.”

“V I need you.” It was maddening, feeling how hard he was against you, now desperate for him to fill you in spite of the cramped position.

He obliged, to your relief. He tried, as he normally would, to savour it, slowly pushing into you, watching the way your eyes rolled back ever so slightly as he stretched you out. But he was in no mood for slow tonight.

His mind raced, still buzzing from the adrenaline of everything that had went wrong throughout the day, still angry at how he had let himself take it out on you. And yet you still needed him, still wanted him after that.

How foolish was he, he wondered to himself . What if one day you changed your mind, and his temper and silences and insecurities drove you away? Drove you into someone else’s arms ?

That thought was enough to snap him back into the moment, burying himself to the hilt in one swift movement, earning a surprised cry from you.

There was no time to savour it, quickly he was rutting into you desperately. He knew you probably wouldn’t climax like this. He could make it up to you later, right now was all about getting his head to stop racing, to show you much he needs you, grasping at your hips like you could vanish into thin air at any second.

It all served to put things back into perspective for him - your moans, your soft palms sliding beneath his robes to pull him closer, nails scraping his back.

You had been right. To the outside eye the show had went off without a hitch, and yet he had let every little thing build up and bother him so. A costume snagging during what was supposed to be a quick change, the ghouls taking a little too long to switch guitars between songs. None of it mattered.

This mattered. The way your legs wrapped around him mattered, the way your cunt took every inch of him, the way your breath hitched at each thrust. That mattered.

So deep in thoughts he hadn’t noticed the simple plea that fell from his lips, over and over, the statement left unfinished each time.

“Please…”

He knew now, what he truly wanted to say.

Please. Never leave.

But as you threaded a hand through his curls, pulling his head from the crook of your neck to kiss him again, it was too late for any more words. He had hoped, despite his inattentiveness to your needs, you might have climaxed before him. But no such luck.

With a few clumsily paced thrusts he shuddered, spilling within you. Near collapsing onto you, he buried his face against your neck again. The adrenaline of his heightened emotions wearing off had tears welling in his eyes. He didn’t want you to see. You would understand - you always did. But you had coddled enough of his emotions tonight.

He couldn’t bring himself to speak, a lump in his throat stopping him from whispering the plea he was so desperate to finish.

Never leave.

Feeling your lips press against his head, your hand idly combing through his hair, he let out a breath he didn’t notice himself holding.

He didn’t have to say it. You already knew what he’d wanted to say.

For the first time that day his body felt lighter, the tension he’d been carrying all day becoming a distant memory.

You worried about him, silently, as you tended to do. But he was exhausted. It would do no good keeping him up late tonight to talk about how he was feeling now that he’d gotten some of the energy out of his system.

Besides, talking about it would probably only lead to him trying to make good on his promise to make it up to you. Your own selfish needs were the last thing on your mind, now only concerned with how to make him feel more at peace, even if only for a little while.

Catching your breath, you murmured as you toyed with one of the straps of his mask.

“You aren’t going to fall asleep with this on again are you?”

You listened intently, but received no response other than the rhythmic soft snores from his parted lips.

Stifling a giggle, you worked deftly to undo the clasps, gently sliding the mask off his face.

Finally, he looked peaceful. He looked himself, the scowl he had worn all day replaced with serenity.

Maybe you could stop worrying about him, just for tonight. You could talk about it in the morning.

After all, you weren’t going anywhere.

64 notes · View notes