#and Issue Reporting | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cowboyemeritus · 6 days ago

Text

I Will Make You My Angel (Papa V Perpetua/Reader)

“So, you feel like causing problems tonight,” he asks, which, in the language of your play, translates roughly to, “Ready to suffer?”

You just roll your eyes again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bring it.”

tags: brat taming, slapping, spanking, use of a belt, aftercare, daddy kink for a split second... dw about it

Read on AO3

Notes: this started out as a stream of consciousness post i made like a week ago... how did we get here

First, you didn’t give him a good morning kiss. Strike One.

Then, you didn’t hold his hand in the van to the arena. Strike Two.

Now, you’re ignoring him. He’s just wobbled his ass off in front of thousands of people, and you’re fucking ignoring him.

Strike Three. You’re out.

It’s late by the time the after party wraps. It’s even later when you arrive back at the hotel. Perpetua’s nerves are shot, worn thin by the long day and all the challenges it has presented. Logistical issues, technical difficulties, misbehaving ghouls; the silent treatment is the very last thing he needs. He would have liked to have had you on his arm tonight, to show you off to the sleazy music execs that had come to kiss his ass, but you’d chosen to be selfish, setting yourself down in a corner and scrolling on your phone for hours, hardly paying him any mind.

Your Twitter feed better have been interesting.

He flops down on the bed, a groan wrenching itself out of him as the tension in his body is finally allowed an escape route. You don’t acknowledge him, checking your phone again before setting it down on the nightstand and shuffling over to the closet. With your back to him, you start undressing for bed, and his blood boils just a little hotter. If you won’t engage with him, he should at least be allowed to ogle you a bit.

He should also rest, prepare himself for the next ritual, but the itch has taken hold of him and won’t let go. His skin crawls, thinking about everything that’s gone wrong today and everything that will go wrong tomorrow. This new life of his, it’s more than he ever could have dreamed of, but it’s just so much, all the fucking time. And he doesn’t ask for a lot, just that you show up, be present, give him a little support when he needs it. You’re normally so, so good for him. He doesn’t understand why-

Every racing thought in his head comes screeching to a halt when you unzip your dress, a sexy leather thing that hugs your curves just right, and pull it down. Perpetua watches carefully, pulse quickening, as the action exposes the purple silk and black lace beneath. The set is new and, as he suspected, it fits perfectly, the bustier giving your tits the perfect amount of lift while the garters and stockings make you look like something out of a 50s centerfold. It’s old-fashioned refinement; the good shit. His cock throbs at the sight, and for a fleeting moment he’s able to take pride in his excellent taste. He knows what suits you, often better than you do. Then, that feeling is replaced by seething rage.

You have the gall, the audacity, to wear his colors after how you’ve acted today?

“What is that?” He asks, heartbeat thrumming in his ears. At long last, you notice him, turning your head in his direction.

“Um, my underwear?” There is disinterest, even a little judgement, in your gaze, like he’s some old pervert creeping on you at a bar. Anger pangs in his stomach, like hunger.

“Yeah,” Perpetua says, trying to sound casual. “Looks good on you.” No response. “I wonder where you could have come across such a thing.” At this, you give an exaggerated roll of your eyes.

“I found it,” you state, the words barbed with sarcasm. His jaw tightens.

“How?” You blink at him, confused.

“What do you mean, how? I just-”

“Found it,” he questions, “with your eyes glued to your fucking phone all day?” Now you turn your body towards him, revealing more of the getup. Perpetua wants nothing more than tear it off and have you now, but there’s something to be said about taking his time, about making you really earn the punishment he so desperately needs to dole out.

“What are you, my dad?” You scoff, turning your attention back to your dress, putting it on a hanger and racking it next to a neat row of his shirts. “I don’t know why you’re being such a dick. The show didn’t go that bad.”

Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s up, stomping over to where you’re standing. He grips you hard by the shoulder, spinning you face him.

“So, you feel like causing problems tonight,” he asks, which, in the language of your play, translates roughly to, “Ready to suffer?”

You just roll your eyes again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bring it.”

In an instant, his gloved palm is connecting with your cheek. It’s hard, but not enough to leave a mark. Still, your head jerks violently to the side as he completes the stroke, the clap echoing off the walls. A heavy silence falls over the room, and it’s only then that he considers what this might sound like to a concerned neighbor. He doesn’t have time to dwell on that, though. You hang your head for a beat, take a few, steadying breaths, and then look back up at him. Your pupils are blown wide, and the way you’re pressing your lips together tells him you’re fighting back a grin.

This, of course, had been your plan all along: to get him riled up and then let him blow off the steam. You’re far too smart for your own good. You know him too well, can read his moods too easily, and like a little pixie, you use this talent to make mischief when he most desperately needs a distraction.

“That fucking hurt.”

He’d be lost without you.

“It did?” Still in a vice grip, he marches you across the room, throwing you down on the mattress. Delight curls in his gut at the sound you make, the breath knocked out of your lungs. “On your knees. I’ll show you hurt.” You remain motionless, glaring back at him. “Come on.” He grabs you by the hips, manhandling you into the desired position. His mouth waters as he takes in the sight of you, decked out in his colors, your ass in the air like it’s a prize and your face in the sheets to shut you up. “It’s late. You think I want to be doing this at two in the fucking morning?” You shake your head sheepishly. “Yeah, of course not. But if I don’t deal with you, who will?” He peels off his gloves and then reaches for his belt buckle, noting how your thighs press together. “Who will do a fucking thing if I’m not around?”

You smirk. “Heavy is the head that wears the mitre, huh?” As he’s pulling the band of leather through the loops, you let out a little laugh. “You know, you could always switch with Copia if you don’t think you can handle-”

The belt cracks against the back of your thigh. You jolt, crying out, and it’s as much an exclamation of pain as it is a moan. Perpetua looks between his hand, knuckles blanched around the leather, and where he’s just struck you. The skin is already welting up in a fat, pink streak, a few tiny, red dots blooming over broken capillaries. It’s such a captivating image that, for a split second, he forgets he’s supposed to be angry. Then you shift uncomfortably, giving him an expectant look, and he has to fight to come back to himself.

“Don’t-” He so badly wants to kiss that bruising flesh, to soothe the wound with his tongue. It takes a long, deep breath to steel him. “Dirty your mouth with his name again, and I’ll make you wash it out with soap.” He teases the folded end of the belt up your other thigh, brushing over your core, and you shiver. Princes of Hell, you’re already soaked through. “Got that, follettina?”

“Yes, Papa.” Perpetua scoffs.

“Now you feel like showing me some respect.” He shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose and encountering the warm metal of the mask. With his free hand, Perpetua reaches for the clasp at the top of his head, then, seeing you watching, decides against it. He glowers at you as his hand instead finds his scarf, pulling it loose, before undoing the top few buttons of his shirt. Beneath the layers of fabric, his skin is overly warm, bordering on sweaty.

“We go until I say we’re done,” he states, bringing the belt back to your buttocks. “You can still keep count if you’d like.” At this, you swallow hard, shuddering, and it fills him with a perverse sense of pleasure, heat flaring at the very base of him. He knows you’re just the tiniest bit afraid; in moments like this, it’s hard not to be, even when there’s desire in it. What he loves about you, though, is that you trust him, letting him guide you through the fear to the pleasure at its conclusion. That you’re willing to put your body and safety in his hands is an intoxicating feeling, and swept up in it, Perpetua finds that he’s done holding back.

He brings the belt down on your ass. You bury your face in the mattress to stifle a moan. He does it again, and this time it’s a scream. He strikes you one more time before the itch takes over and he no longer cares to keep track. Then, its blow after blow, the sound ricocheting off the walls like gunfire. His treatment is imprecise, uneven, striking wherever meets his fancy, until your ass and the backs of your thighs are red and criss-crossed with welts. You take each hit like a champion, hardly moving save for the arching of your back and an occasional buck of your hips.

He’s listening closely for it the whole time: miserere, the hard stop. You’ve never tapped out before, but maybe this is it. Maybe this time he’ll overdo it. The worry is always there, lingering in the back of his mind despite your assurances. But you’re resilient, far more so than he, and even when your yelps and moans turn to sobs, you don’t bend. You never do. You take it all, his rage, his pain, and you swallow it. You transform it into focus, productivity. Even now, his head already feels clearer.

You’re a martyr. Perpetua ought to have you canonized.

“That’s enough.” His chest is heaving, sweat beading under the mask. He’s so hard it hurts, every nerve alight with pleasure. It feels like he’s vibrating. It’s exhilarating.

You flop onto your side with a groan. You’re panting, sniffling, twitching a little, but there’s a blissed out look on your face, a grin spread wide across it. Tears stream down your cheeks, taking your makeup with them.

“Papa…” It’s all you can manage before breaking out into a fit of laughter. Oh, he’s gotten you good. You reach blindly for him, and in spite of the scene his heart skips a beat.

“I’m right here,” he coos, taking your hand and planting a gentle kiss on your knuckles. It flops back down when he lets go. Shakily, you bring the appendage closer to your face, cracking an eye open to examine it. There’s a smear of his black lipstick on your skin, and with a pleased little hum, you press your lips to the mark.

If he had a soul, surely it would leave his body.

“Oh, my love, look at you.” You’re utterly ruined. Unable to resist, he palms at himself through his pants. This does not go unnoticed, and you let out a needy whine. Perpetua snickers. “Yeah? You’re not done yet? You need me to fuck you, too?” A hungry look in your eyes, you nod. At this, he clicks his tongue, though he’s already reaching to undo the laces restraining him. “After all you’ve done today, you think you deserve that?” Your eyes go wide, then well up with fresh tears, and he feels his cock kick as he works to free it.

“Please,” you whimper, suddenly coherent again. “I’ll be so good tomorrow.”

Perpetua imagines you’ll spend most of the day recouping on the bus. There’s not much trouble you can really get into there, unless you rope the ghouls into your schemes. Lucifer save him if you do.

He lets out an embellished sigh. “How is it that you can be such a little shit, and yet I still let you walk all over me?” At last his cock springs free, flushed an angry red and pulsing with the beating of his heart. “You’re spoiled.” He gives himself a few slow, teasing strokes, making a show of pulling back the skin to reveal the head, already slick with precum. “Absolutely rotten.”

The despair on your face quickly transforms into a smug, satisfied grin. You giggle, batting your eyes coquettishly. “I know.” Perpetua just grunts, planting his free hand on your hip and shoving you onto your stomach. He makes quick work of unclipping the garters, then hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties and tugs them down. You shimmy a little, assisting him in the endeavor. Letting go of his cock, he drapes himself over your prone form, planting his knees on either side of your body, and you hiss a little as the coarse fabric of his pants rubs against your skin. One hand threads into your hair, pulling your head up off the mattress, while he holds the other to your lips.

“Spit,” he commands. “It’s all you’re getting.” With perfect obedience, you probe around in your cheek with your tongue, gathering as much saliva as possible, before letting it dribble out into his palm. Perpetua takes his shaft in hand again, slicking himself up with a few lazy strokes, then adjusts his position so that he can drag the tip through your folds.

“Baby,” you whine. You try to spread your legs enticingly, but you’re trapped under the weight of him, pinned to the bed like a butterfly. “Plea-” Perpetua cuts you off, burying himself to the hilt with a single, punishing drive of his hips. The sound that comes out of you cannot possibly be human, halfway between a moan and the yowl of a cat in heat. Still, he gives you no quarter, no time to adjust, before he begins jackhammering into you, chasing his pleasure with reckless abandon.

“I’ll fuck you, alright.” He tugs on your hair and groans, feeling your cunt ripple. Somehow, even after all this time, he’s still never quite prepared for the way you two fit so perfectly, like puzzle pieces clicking together. “But don’t think for a second that I’m letting you finish like this.” You let out a delicious sob, your entire body convulsing beneath him. Even through his clothes, he can feel the heat radiating from your mortified flesh, and the mental image of what your backside will look like in the morning is like a punch in the stomach. Pace faltering, he comes to the jarring realization that he’s not going to last very long. You must be able to sense it as well, because you press your ass into him with each thrust, trying to meet him halfway.

“God, you fucking-” He groans, gut twisting as you clench around him. “You little fucking whore, always causing problems.” The day’s events rearing their ugly head again, Perpetua feels his temper flare. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, he takes a deep breath, the sweet scent of your hair grounding him. “I missed you tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” you pant. “I’m so-” A particularly brutal thrust has the head of his cock punching into your cervix. You gasp beneath him, fists balling in the sheets.

“You should always be by my side. Always.” There’s never a moment when he doesn’t want you near. It’s maddening at times, how badly he craves you. “You looked so fucking good tonight. I wanted to take you right there, in front of all those fucking imbeciles, but you kept yourself from me.” He’s rambling, as he tends to do when his end is closing in. “How dare you. How fucking dare-” Suddenly, he’s tumbling over the edge. Hips jerking, his vision goes white, the ecstasy searing down his spine as he spills into you. It’s like every negative feeling he’s had over the last twenty-four hours is purged at once, leaving blissful nothingness in its wake.

He really, really needed this.

When the world comes back into view, Perpetua heaves a sigh. The fatigue in his bones is making its presence known again, a heaviness washing over him as the last traces of his climax ebb away. Feeling wobbly, he disengages carefully, rolling onto his back so that he doesn’t collapse on top of you. He lays like that for a moment, eyes shut, hands folded over his stomach. Fuck, what a night. What a day. What a week. What a life. He knows he needs to get up, drag himself to the bathroom and get the ointment for your ass. He needs to wash off his paints and the sweat that’s accumulated under the mask before he breaks out, but he’s so fucking exhausted, and sleep is already wrapping it’s velvety tendrils around his consciousness, pulling him down, down, down…

Your lips ghost against his hairline, and then the tip of his nose. Perpetua cracks his green eye open and finds you hovering over him, smiling gently as you brush a few locks of his hair away. He’s just beaten your backside black and blue, but there’s nothing in your gaze but adoration. Your eyes are still puffy from crying, your makeup smudged and running down your face, and he swears you’ve never looked more beautiful.

“Feel better?”

What you’re still doing with a nasty, selfish old thing like him, he’ll never know. In the beat silence that hangs between you, he thanks the Old One, any power that feels like listening, that you’re here.

“I do,” he says, propping himself up on one elbow to press his lips to yours. It’s the first time he’s properly kissed you all day and it hits him like a drug, a newfound energy coursing through his veins. “Thank you.” You chuckle softly, leaning in for another kiss. Your hands find the clasps at his temples, and under your experienced fingers they click open easily. When you pull the mask away, placing it gently to the side, it’s like a weight has been lifted off Perpetua’s shoulders. With you, he doesn’t have to perform, to be Papa. Himself is enough.

“Of course.” Another quick peck on his cheek. “Now, let’s get you to bed.” You start to get up but he quickly stops you, one hand finding the back of your head and pulling you in again. He nips at your bottom lip once, twice, before he’s licking into your mouth with a pleased little hum. You groan, squirming next to him on the bed, and when he ultimately pulls away, there’s a thread of saliva connecting you.

“Not just yet,” he purrs. You swallow, eyes darting over to the clock on the nightstand, then back to him.

“It’s late, babe. You don’t have to-”

“What kind of man would I be if I left you needing like this?” He barks out a laugh. “If the Clergy found out, I’d be excommunicated.” Perpetua sits up, putting a hand on your shoulder and guiding you to lay on your back. Then he slinks down to the ground, kneeling on the carpet as he grabs your hips and pulls you a little closer. “Relax. Let me take care of you.”

You nod. “Okay.”

Satan below, your cunt is a sight to behold, all slick and pink and throbbing just for him. His arousal echoes distantly at the sight, and for a moment, he laments the limitations that come with his age. A rivulet of his spend is already leaking out you, and the animal part of his brain screams that this is unacceptable. If he were a younger man, he could easily fuck another load into you, but those days are long gone. Time has given him experience, though, and he has other ways of keeping you full.

With his hands on your knees, he parts your legs a bit wider. Finally, he touches the tip of his tongue to your clit, giving it an experimental, little kitten lick. Your entire body tenses, like you’ve been shocked, and it sends a thrill through him.

“Oh! That’s…” He doesn’t give you time to finish the thought, sealing his lips around the bundle of nerves and sucking. Your hands fly to his head, fingers twisting in his hair as your hips buck up into his mouth. “Fuck, that’s good. Fuck, baby.” He doesn’t need the encouragement; the taste of you — both of you — has him hooked already. Perpetua draws a few circles around your clit before he descends, prodding at your opening to coax out more of his seed. With his tongue he scoops up the mess, and when his eyes flick up, he finds you fixated on him, your lower lip caught between your teeth. Grinning, he opens his mouth, letting you see the evidence of his climax, and you shudder. Then, he works the appendage inside you, fucking his cum back where it belongs. The tip of his nose bumps against your clit while he does this, and the noise you make will surely result in a complaint, but he couldn’t care less. Anyone who takes issue with this can eat shit and die.

Eventually, he replaces his tongue with a finger. Your body accepts it greedily, pulling him in like you’re trying to become one mass, and so he gives you another. He crooks the digits just right, delighting in the way you sing for him, heady and full of want. You’re fluttering already, the cocktail of pain and pleasure helping you along nicely. A lock of his hair falls into his face, and before he has the chance, you brush it away for him. Perpetua’s heart swells. It’s a simple gesture, but the gentleness of your touch stands in such stark contrast to the earlier violence, it makes his head spin.

“You perfect thing, taking it so well. You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?” You hum an affirmative that quickly turns into a moan. He plants a sloppy kiss on the inside of your leg, leaving a smear of cum, spit, and paint behind. “My darling girl. Sei la cocca di papà, vero? Say that you are.” For all the needless bullshit the Clergy has put him through, he will be forever grateful to them for making him learn Italian. It’s become his secret weapon, a surefire way to have your toes curling in a matter of syllables. As expected, your back arches off the bed, thighs squeezing around him.

“I’m yours,” you gasp. “I’m your girl.” He rewards you by attaching his mouth to your clit once again, suckling and teasing it with his tongue while he attacks your sweet spot with his fingers. Your manicured nails dig into his scalp a little harder, battered legs quivering. “Oh, fuck. Fuck me, fuck-” With a breathy cry you come undone, thrashing wildly against Perpetua’s face. He works you through it, unrelenting until you tug on his hair, whining. One last kiss on the softest part of your thigh and he pulls away, his knees protesting as he gets up off the floor. Your chest is heaving, beads of sweat sparkling on your flushed skin, and Perpetua suddenly wants to take back his earlier declaration. The sight of you like this, a beautiful, fucked-out mess, should be for his eyes alone. Not even the Devil, he thinks, is worthy of such a privilege.

Your tired eyes flutter open once your breathing finally evens out. Catching his gaze, you smile, eclipsing the sun in your radiance. You start to sit up, but Perpetua is quick to push you back down.

“Stay here,” he requests. “I’ll be right back.” You nod, flipping onto your stomach while he tucks himself back into his pants. Then, he shuffles to the bathroom and gathers the necessary equipment: a wet washcloth, a glass of water, your makeup wipes, and the healing ointment. When he returns you’re naked and half asleep already, the rest of your undergarments strewn about on the bed. The bruising on your backside is beginning to set in, decorating your flesh with splotches of deep blue and purple. He stares at it for a few moments, face pulled into a grimace. Maybe he did take it too far.

“‘M just fine,” you mumble, reading his mind. “Really.” Snapping out of it, he makes tending to you the focus of his remaining energy, lest he spiral further. He hands you the glass and you accept eagerly, draining it in one long, slow sip. Then you take the wipes, attacking what remains of your makeup while he gets to work on your lower half. With the washcloth he cleans the mess of his release, paints, and your slick from the inside of your thighs. He’s overly careful, as if you’re made of glass, reluctant to inflict any more pain now that the scene is over. When that’s done he takes the tube of ointment and squeezes a generous amount onto the tip of his index finger, the herbal scent of it filling the air. You start a little with the first touch, but quickly relax as we works the balm into your skin, sighing with relief as it takes effect.

By the time Perpetua is finished, you’re asleep. He’s about ready to collapse next to you but forces himself up, dragging his feet back to the bathroom. He does a half-assed job of removing his paints, his eyes still rimmed with black as he strips off the rest of his clothes. Both of you (him especially) reek of sweat and sex, but a shower can wait until the morning. You have to hit the road early, but he’ll be a diva and make the whole crew wait if he has to. He has his priorities.

You grumble a little when he moves you to the head of the bed and tucks you under the covers, but otherwise don’t stir. After hanging up his shirt and jacket he flicks off the light, stumbling in the dark to join you. He’s finally able to indulge in the closeness he’s wanted all day, pulling you into his arms. The weight of you on his chest is a comfort after the long day you’ve both had, and soon, he’s slipping into the realm of sleep as well.

Without a doubt, tomorrow will have its own set of challenges, new problems for him to deal with. For now, though, he’s content, knowing that whatever comes his way, you’ll have his back. You always do.

#my writing #the band ghost x reader #the band ghost fanfiction #papa v perpetua x reader #does he have an accent? i've seen conflicting reports #until i see him in august i'm going to proceed as if he doesn't #i feel like the ending of this is kinda weak sauce but i think it's just further proof that i can't write long smut fics anymore...#also i've been having this weird issue where i read my writing and can't hear any other voice but my own and it's just.... rrrrrg #does anyone else have that problem? what do???

108 notes · View notes