#mmmohmygod | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

calliedion-dungeon · 1 year ago

Text

🖤🖤🖤

| Nocturnal Me |

Papa IV (Dracopia) x FemReader rating: E word count: 6k warnings: blood drinking, semi-public sex, dom/sub undertones, google translated italiano

The Haze is open from sunset until sunrise every day of the week. Some people, like you, order a margarita with a silly little cocktail umbrella shoved in it and a slice of lemon.

Others order the AB negative and should drink it quickly before it congeals.

can also be read on A03

🦇🍷🌹🦇🍷🌹

It’s nearly two in the morning and perhaps it would be wiser to just go straight home but after tonight’s shift, you need a drink. Besides, where you’re headed isn’t far from home and you know when you walk down the little non-descript alley and up the narrow stairs into the club that there won’t be many people there. After all, it is a Tuesday—or should you say Wednesday—which isn’t exactly peak hour. But the club is open. The Haze is open from sunset until sunrise every day of the week without fail.

When you give a tired nod to the security guard standing by the heavy door at the top of the stairs, he opens it for you without a word. It’s dark inside and you let your eyes adjust to the dim red lighting before you wind your way through the scattered arrangement of ornate chairs and lounges as the speakers pulse with some heavy synth beat. It’s a strange place full of strange people, it’s not somewhere you go to unless you know someone…or something. There is always some young idiot who somehow manages to find Haze and will proudly flash his ID and smugly tell the security guard the password to get in. They never last long—usually leaving less than an hour later—whether it be the front or the back door.

You reach the long bar and slump down at a plush velvet stool as you smile tiredly at the bartender. Their blue hair glitters amongst the low lights and they blow a kiss as you approach.

“Rough shift, kitten?” they say, long arms leaning across the bar and giving you a quick kiss on the cheek.

You nod. Quartus is always on bar duty—you swear they never sleep. And well, you guess they don’t really need to. They lean back with a grin and quickly throw some unknown cocktail together. When he passes it to you, you take a tentative sip. it’s tangy and fresh and so you gratefully take another mouthful.

“Thanks, Q,” you say between sips. “How’re tricks?”

They shrug, the jingle of many chains accompanying the movement. “Pretty quiet tonight—though Max was here earlier, she said to send you her regards.”

You chat with Q for a while, telling him all about the absolute douchebag of a new doctor you were stuck with assisting tonight. It’s always great being able to blow off steam here. The nature of the club means most of the patrons tend to avoid sunlight where possible and like to order the rarest steak you can get. While not everyone that walks through the doors at Haze is a vamp, most are. Not many humans tend to enjoy what the club has to offer but you love it here. Hell, maybe you should have taken Max’s offer to turn you but what were you going to do with eternal life? Watch re-runs of The Nanny with your cat forever? Not bloody likely.

You turn around in your seat and take in the room. Lined with velvet booths and filled with an assortment of brocade furniture, it does look like something from some typically cheesy vamp film but it suits the place. Past the bar you sit at is a short hallway that leads to a smaller antechamber with another bar and a dance floor. There is a set of velvet curtains loosely tied back further down past the second bar. It’s never spoken about but when you come to Haze you don’t go past the velvet curtains unless you’re after something not explicitly stated on the club’s menu.

When you worked here during those early university days, it had certainly been an eye-opening experience. You’d hear about vamps and the other nighttime creatures but it had all seemed so mythical. They kept to themselves—it was better that way. But here, they didn’t need to hide or keep playing at being human. You would have quit after the first week if it hadn’t been for Q and Max.

Tonight there are a few familiar faces that you recognise and as you look around the room you give them a smile when they meet your gaze. It’s when your eyes land on the last booth right before the hallway that you frown.

You turn into your seat to look at Q. “New guy?” They look up and glance in the direction you tilt your head in.

“Uh, yeah,” says Q. “Weird. Been sitting there all night. Ordered one drink—AB neg—and then just sat there the whole time. Swear he’s had one sip.” He frowns mockingly at you. “You get me bad shit, kitten?”

“What? No!” you whisper fiercely. You'd only helped Max get blood one time. And that had been enough—you'd been terrified of doing it again and getting caught. But it had given Max an in. “You got a problem, talk to Max.”

You sneak a glance at the man alone in the booth again. The lighting in Haze is pretty shit—deliberately. Most of the patrons can see well enough but your human eyes struggle in the dim light. He’s not wearing anything that would be considered out of place for Haze—in all honesty, the jeans and worn band shirt you'd thrown at while still at the hospital are the most out of place amongst the leather, chains and vinyl most of the patrons and staff are wearing. But this man is wearing what looks like a finely tailored suit, it looks black but it could be any colour in the darkness of the booth. You can only barely distinguish his right profile but the man had to be in his fifties at least, his dark sandy hair looking grey at the temples. It wasn’t common to have older vamps at Haze but most of the undead tended to look young. And the older ones usually preferred to go to the club up on the high street. It just wasn’t usual to see an older one here, especially one so quiet. They usually didn’t shut up.

It was possible he was human but he didn’t seem to radiate the usual nervousness that humans did.

He looked bored.

At least you thought he did, it was hard to tell. His face was painted—again, not that outrageous for Haze—but unlike Q with their smudged coal eyes and messily rouged lips—the man has his face painted like a skull. His face is a stark white while around his eyes, the hollows of his cheeks and his lips are painted black with meticulous care. You wondered if he used a ruler to do it. He looked so neat in a macabre sort of way with his hair combed back and the leather gloves on his hands, both of which are holding onto the stem of his glass. Q is right, you think, noticing the glass is practically full.

“How long has he been there?” you ask, dragging your eyes away.

“Since eleven.” Q shrugs. “He’s not disturbing anyone so it’s cool.”

You forget about the skull-painted man and continue chatting with Q until it’s nearly three o’clock. Knowing you had a full week ahead of night shifts, you quickly drink the rest of the cocktail before wishing Q goodnight.

---

Work is tiring and you don’t get back to Haze until Saturday. Unlike the previous night, it’s absolutely packed. You can always tell who the newbies are—well, the human ones. Their eyes dart around and they always look so panicked no matter how they try to hide it. They usually leave, but if they’re brave enough (or stupid enough) they stay. They might just hang around the main bar having drinks and talking amongst themselves. A regular might even take pity and talk to them—though you swear they do it mostly for the laugh.

Slinking through to the side of the bar, you wave at Q and duck through the small door there. It’s staff only but they don’t mind you using it. Quickly you head into the small staffroom to change into a sleeveless halterneck dress in an inky black. It’s nothing outrageous, but it’s a favourite that hugs your body and features a slit on the side that borders on indecent. You let your hair tumble freely and quickly apply some makeup to look less like a walking zombie before you leave your bag there and head back to the bar.

“You know I love that dress,” says Q when you return. They pass you a passionfruit concoction and you hop on the stool across from him. “The toilets aren’t working, by the way, so you have to use the ones at the other bar for patrons.” He scoffs. “Kit overindulged on some pretty thing last night and literally vomited his guts up in the staff toilet. It’s fucking clogged up.” He pointed an olive on a toothpick at you. “Do you know how hard it is to find a vamp plumber?”

You just shrug and occupy yourself by sipping on your drink before Q mutters to themselves and returns their attention to a group at the other end of the bar. The clink of glasses is lost to the beat of the music around you and lean back against the bar as your eyes wander around the room. It is the best place to sit, tucked away at the corner of the bar where you can see everyone else and close enough to the hallway so you can watch the people who head down past the other bar and through the curtains.

People are chatting and laughing, you can see others hitting the dance floor in the other room—the lights reflecting off undulating bodies that are pressed close as they move to the hypnotic beat. In here it’s a bit more relaxed, many are sprawled out on the french chaise lounges with limbs entangled as they talk amongst themselves but your attention is drawn to the booth across from you.

That man from the other night is sitting there again but this time he isn’t alone. There are several women with him—at least you assume they are. There are four of them—two sitting on either side of him—and they’re all dressed the same. All wear black dresses and their heads are donned with black veils accented with electric blue and shimmering gold. They look like nuns. Though not the sort of nuns you’d ever seen before. The booths in here are like pockets of darkness, for anyone sitting in them can see the rest of the room with relative ease but it makes it hard for anyone outside of them to see in if the occupants are leaning back. There is one nun on the edge closest to you and you can make out the slit in the side of her dress (definitely not typical nun attire) and the ornate inverted cross that dangles from her neck. It’s not that strange but the cross isn’t just the usual inverted cross - it looks like a styled G.

Not a symbol you recognise. And after spending so much time here you certainly have seen many different symbols in your time.

You can’t hear anything the nuns are saying with the loud music but they’re all giggling and talking animatedly while he just sits there and listens.

You turn to Q. “I see that mister AB neg has made some friends.”

Q shakes their head. “Yeah, he’s been here every night. Same drink but barely touches it.” They shrug. “Some of them rocked up just when you left the other night. All dressed like they’re from some weird church. One of them I swear was a priest.” He shakes his head again. “For a moment I thought they were part of that protest group—human rights and all that bullshit.”

“A priest?” you let out a small laugh. “It’s just the look, right? Like everyone else here.”

“I dunno, kitten,” Q says with a lazy smile. “Looked legit. Expensive looking fabric. Wasn’t shopping at Costumes ‘R’ Us.” The smile fades. “They ended up going down back though—they’ve got the last room rented for the entire week under ‘The Clergy’—never heard of them before.”

That piques your interest and you turn to look at the group again. Your breath catches though as you find a pair of eyes staring right at you. You hadn’t been able to see the painted man’s face that clearly before as he had mostly been in profile but his eyes are on you now. The right eye is perfectly normal amidst the black paint but his left eye is an eerie but brilliant white. It’s unsettling but entirely captivating—it was like being faced down by some sleek predator.

You quickly break eye contact, trying to ignore the feel of those eyes on the back of your neck as you turn around.

“Shouldn’t stare I guess,” you mumble into your drink, draining the last of it quickly.

Q laughs and takes the empty glass to make another. “Better watch out since your his type.”

“You said he barely touched it.” You scowl at Q as they shake the cocktail and pour it with a flourish before sticking a jaunty little pink umbrella in it.

“Yeah,” Q agrees. “Maybe he likes it fresh.”

You fling the umbrella at their head but they just catch it with lightning speed and stick it behind their ear. With an exasperated sigh, you jump off the stool. You do your best to ignore the booth filled with the man and his strange entourage and head to the restrooms in the next room. When you come out of the stall to wash your hands, two of the nuns waltz in. Their arms are linked as they giggle until one pulls away to head to a stall. The other comes next to you at the basin and stares at her reflection before she tries to fix the veil on her head.

“You don’t have a spare bobby pin, do you?” she asks you with a smile.

You shake your head. “Uh, no, sorry.”

“No worries,” she says and continues to try and fix the veil on her own.

You try to ignore her but your curiosity it too great. It’s now or never if you want to know who they are. You sure as hell aren’t going up to them out there. Stealing your nerves, you take a deep breath as you dry your hands with one of the small towels provided.

“So, are you in a church?” you say, trying to keep your voice casual. You gesture with the towel at the cross around her neck before you throw it in the hamper. “I don’t recognise the symbol.”

The woman pauses with trying to straighten her veil and her gaze finds yours in the reflection of the mirror.

“Yeah, church.” She’s smiling again but it’s an unsettling sort of smile. It makes your stomach flip. “But not the usual kind.”

“I didn’t think so,” you say. You try to joke. “Who is the guy? Your next convert?”

The woman lets out a laugh. “Oh, no! That’s Papa. He is here on business visiting our congregation.” The other woman comes out of the stall and washes her hands as the other continues to speak. “It’s an honour to be with him.”

A group of women come bursting into the bathroom interrupting the conversation. The two nuns leave and you follow a few steps behind as you head back to the bar. Q gives you a questioning look when they see you following behind them before they both slip back into the darkness of the booth. You see one woman lean in towards him and whisper something in his ear which returns his attention back to you but you hurriedly avert your gaze and take your seat back at the bar.

“They are nuns,” you say to Q. “And he is… I am not sure. Somebody important? They said he was called Papa.”

“You know," says Q, “I always think it best that I know nothing about patrons. Makes it easier.”

A few moments later Max comes bursting through the door. Her red hair and elaborate getup—seems she had opted for Barbie Goes to a Rodeo look—glaringly bright in the dimness of the club. You get suckered into a conversation with her until she taps you on the nose with a stupidly long nail and saunters off toward the dance floor in the next room

“What a woman,” laughs Q.

You join in with him, barely noticing someone has taken Max’s seat until you hear a voice next to you.

“The AB negative, per favore.”

You twist on the stool to see that the man from the booth is now seated next to you, he isn’t large but he seems to take up all the available space. His leg is so close to your thigh that you can almost feel it. From the few words he’s spoken you gather he must be Italian. The voice is pleasant, though not expected—what you did expect you aren’t really sure. But soft-spoken Italian hadn’t been it.

Q just nods and opens the small fridge under the bar, the coldness blasting from it as they pull a frosted wine glass and then a bag with AB negative scrawled over it in Max’s loopy handwriting. They pour it and then carefully slide it across the bar towards the man.

“Grazie.” He doesn’t even take a sip. He just holds the base of the glass in those gloved fingers of his. The bartender is hailed by someone else and with a glance at you, they move down the other end of the bar.

You half expect the man to say something. Maybe some cheesy “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this” or a “Cum here often? Would you like to?”—always a degenerate fave. But he doesn’t say a thing. This… Papa just sits there for what feels like forever before one of the nuns saunters over.

“Papa, won’t you come with us?” she says with a tap on his arm. “We have a present for you.”

It’s the same woman you spoke to in the bathroom. She’s all smiles and directs her attention to the rest of the group. There is now a fifth nun with them. However, while this one is smiling she looks nervous—like she half wants to run away. She wears a white veil and lacks the strange inverted cross the others wear.

He smiles at the girl, which changes his face dramatically. You aren’t even sure if you could really call it a smile—it looks more like a knowing smirk. That expression and those weird eyes make him look almost demonic and you don’t blame this other white veiled nun for the way she twists her hands together. You just sit there, feeling like an interloper in something you should not be involved with. Maybe you should have looked away but they had boxed you in and made you their unwilling audience.

Papa finally stands and you feel his hand graze against your thigh as he passes. You tell yourself it was unintentional but it burns through the fabric of your dress and you take a deep breath, catching the heady scent of him as he passes by. When they finally leave, you let out a shaky breath. It was the strangest non-interaction you’ve ever had.

“He didn’t even drink it, fucking hell!” comes the voice of Q.

The bartender throws a packet of nuts on the table and glares at the full glass sitting on the bar.

“Oh, they took him away for a ‘present’,” you explain. You shrug. “Probably forgot.”

“It’s just going to congeal and be gross.” They pull a face as they grab a bowl and empty the nuts into it. “AB neg is hard to get—” He pauses and looks at you hopefully. “Ya feel like donating, kitten?”

You grab a serviette off the bartop and crumple it up before throwing it at his head.

“How about I take it, okay?” you hear yourself say as he flicks a nut at you. “Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

What a stupid thing to say. This was stupid. A stupid idea. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It was one fucking glass anyway.

Heading down the back, the drink clutched between two fingers so you don’t warm the glass, you try to keep calm. Yes, you tend to avoid coming down here. While you are certain most regulars know you are off limits, some others may not. And coming past the curtains unaccompanied was an idiot move and sent a certain message.

You pass through the curtains and onto the lush rug that stretches down the hallway. It’s even darker in here. The only light comes from candles in high sconces so that the light flickers against the heavy scarlet curtains that hang in front of the small alcoves. You ignore the sounds coming from the drawn curtains and head towards the end room as Q said.

The velvet drapes are only partially closed when you reach them. This is the largest room available though it is still pretty small. The little alcoves that are tucked away down here usually have a small table and a few plush seats and a few tall pillar candles. When you peek in through the drapes you regret it immediately. You pull back with a gasp and turn to leave but the curtain is sharply pulled all the way back by one of the nuns.

Reluctantly you return your gaze back inside to see that Papa, who’d moments before had his mouth latched onto the neck of the white veiled woman, was gently wiping the corner of his mouth with an ivory handkerchief. The splotches of deep red are clearly visible on the white linen and he carefully folds it before throwing it onto the low coffee table in front of him. The woman he’d only seconds ago been feasting on is curled in his lap like an overgrown cat, her hands gripping the lapels of his suit jacket as she blearily turns her heavy-lidded eyes towards you.

You swallow through the nerves that threaten to shake your voice and hold up the glass in your hands as an explanation. “You left this. Quartus—the bartender—thought you might not want to waste it.”

“This is very kind of you,” says Papa. The words are spoken so softly but they roll off his tongue and wrap around you. He taps the girl in his arms and the other nuns quickly move toward him and remove her from his lap. You can hear soft moans of protest as she tries to cling to him.

“Papa, please, no,” you hear her say. “I need you, please, you said fore—”

But her words are cut short as she is half carried, half dragged out of the alcove and back down the hall leaving you alone. You shift on your feet in the silence.

“You will sit with me?” he asks, as if nothing had happened.

The nerves are starting to get the better of you, making any response you may have had become stuck in your throat. This is not where you should be but your stomach flips with those eyes on you. There is something there, an unmistakable pull to this strange creature. While he is attractive, you don’t know him—don’t trust that you can be alone with him. But your feet aren’t listening to your head and you step fully into the alcove and take a seat on a squishy armchair across from the french chaise he lounges in.

You place the drink on the table and try to look anywhere but at him, though it’s pointless.

“I do not need it,” he says. “But grazie…?” You tell him your name but he cocks his head to the side with a small smile. “Ah. But the bartender is calling you…kitten. Si?”

That sends a delicious thrill down your spine and instinctively you sit up straighter. When Q says it, it’s simply a fun little joke. Just his usual flirty nature. But this man says it and it makes you need to squeeze your thighs together. When vamps had first broken free from the coffin and ventured into the public eye, a lot of theories had flown around. Scientists had tried to determine fact from fiction. It turned out most of the myths had been wrong and were merely nothing more than stories. There was no turning into bats or fog. No mind control or excessive charm. They were just people that happened to never die and had the unquenchable need to drink blood.

Sitting here though felt like maybe that wasn’t quite true and that the scientists had been wrong.

You try to laugh it off. “It’s just a joke.”

“Ah.” He nods. “Then I shall not be calling you it then, cara mia” He gestures with one gloved hand to his chest as he leans back into the plushness of the seat. “I am Papa.”

He’s merely a few feet away and the urge to slink over there and let him call you whatever in hell he wants hits you in the gut. You’d never been so tempted to break your own rules of not participating in the nocturnal activities of the club. Maybe he was something else—a demon? You’d only ever met one before and that had been terrifying enough. Mingling with the patrons at the club was tricky, especially if you valued your life. However, you’d never felt more tempted before than sitting in front of this man.

When he gives you a devilish smile, that white eye glinting unnaturally in the dark, you suddenly feel like you’re sitting with the devil. A ridiculous notion but the delicately embroidered symbols you can now make out on the lapels of his jacket are ones that you do recognise—symbols of Lucifer. And there is such a quiet menace that envelops him, a restrained power that simmers under the surface of that perfectly tailored suit. Combined with the way the paint around his mouth has smeared and that he hasn’t quite wiped all the blood from his lips, it’s absolutely monstrous.

Running back to the safety of Q and the front bar definitely seems like a damn great idea but your head still won’t listen to reason. Instead, you're trying to surreptitiously squeeze your thighs together, the ache between your legs insistent now. You can’t ignore how he is affecting you, the arousal and downright morbid curiosity of what he will say or do next holding you in place.

When he leans forward, you swear that his nostrils flare—as if he can scent you from across the room. That mad white eye looks ferocious now, and the way he holds himself looks like he is just barely restraining himself from launching at you like an animal.

Fucking madness.

You shift in the chair and try to concentrate, maybe you can get away with a few minutes of idle chat before you think of an excuse to leave or those nuns return.

No.

Not with that look on his face. You also have a feeling that those nuns of his are not coming back anytime soon—if at all. That thought seems to get you to move and you stand quickly before all reason is lost.

“I should go.”

Papa stands with you and suddenly he’s before you. In one smooth motion, he’s pulled the heavy curtains behind you completely closed and has taken your hand, his lips hovering above your skin.

“You could stay.”

Such a quiet request but he has your full attention, all thoughts of escape have disappeared with his touch. His mouth makes contact with your skin, it’s somehow both hot and cold, burning against you and making the ache in your cunt throb. It's such a brief moment of contact, but when his lips leave your skin he still holds your hand.

It’s impossible to move and even more so to think. He’s far too close. With a gentle tug he brings you even closer, your free hand instinctively reaching out to balance on his shoulder. There is a breathless silence before his mouth is on yours. A sharp nip at your lips has you gasping in surprise but he doesn’t stop. His tongue has found yours and it’s utterly intoxicating. You can taste the blood, which should repulse you but the metallic twang is strangely addictive.

You're not sure how long you stood there while he devoured you, he had freed your hand and so now were both gripping tightly at the lapels of his suit jacket. One of his arms has managed to snake around your waist, pulling you even closer as the other burrowed into your hair.

The sound of moans reaches your ears and you realise that these noises are coming from you. His mouth leaves yours to kiss a path across your jaw and down your neck. A slight threat of sharp pressure grazes against your neck, the teasing tip of sharp canines sending a sweet tingle of both fear and arousal through you. Your stomach tenses—it’s slightly frightening how easily you are ready to succumb to this creature—but he simply continues down until he reaches the juncture between shoulder and neck.

“Hai un odore divino,” you hear him growl against your skin. It’s not a sound any human could make, it sounds feral.

You barely register that he has managed to steer you back towards the french chaise lounge until the back of your thighs meet the gilded edge. He pushes you back until your sprawled along it, one leg dangling off onto the ground. When he joins you, his body hovering over yours as he situates himself between your legs, he immediately pulls your shoes off and there is a flash of movement and a loud rip as the dress you are wearing splits down the middle. It’s not the kind of dress you can get away with wearing a bra so it leaves you in nothing but your knickers.

The shock of air hitting your bare skin pales in comparison to the sight of his hands though. The leather of the gloves has split at the end of each finger and you can see what appear to be sharp claws protruding out. They seem to glitter in the flickering light, the tips of them looking excruciatingly sharp. Your chest heaves with each breath and you watch as those claws retract back, the only evidence they had been there are the destroyed gloves and the remnant of your poor dress.

He’s on you in a heartbeat, the feel of leather gliding up your thighs until you feel him sliding your knickers down your legs and throwing them somewhere into the darkness. There is no time to be embarrassed or to try and hide from him, he just grabs your thighs and spreads them apart before his head is between them.

A sharp nip at the inside of your thigh has you reeling as his hands grip tightly. His mouth is kissing and sucking the sensitive skin—so close to where you want him to go. It’s agonising.

“Please,” you hear yourself say. You’re certain you can feel the curve of that demonic grin against your skin.

“You have to give me something first, cara mia.” Those sharp teeth scrape against your inner thigh. He’s barely touched you but you know that you must be dripping wet by now. You’ll give him anything, he just has to touch you.

“Anything.” It’s more a breathless plea than anything else.

“Anything?” He repeats, his hot breath ghosting over your flesh. His mouth is back on the inside of your inner thigh and you feel the scrape of one sharp fang. One of his hands has finally inched closer to your aching cunt and you nearly scream when a gloved finger slides through your folds, the touch far too light and making your back arch into his touch. “You are sure, cara mia?”

“Yes.” You are barely able to speak. His finger is still teasing, the feel of the leather sliding through your arousal creating delicious friction. “Please!”

“Brava ragazza.”

There is no pause, no gentle easing, just the hot prick of pain as his fangs pierce the skin and sink into your thigh. It burns like nothing else you’ve felt before but the burn is addictive, it spirals up your spine and into your head and then burns through your veins and makes you cry out in unparalleled pleasure. The sensations double when he finally slips that teasing finger inside you and then another, the pleasure building as your eyes screw shut.

There is nothing but the sinful sound of him feeding between your panting breaths. You feel lightheaded. The pleasure he is pulling from you is building, his thumb flicking tight circles over your clit until his thrusting fingers twist and touch that delicious spot inside you before your orgasm comes crashing over you.

When you blink open your eyes, your limbs feeling heavy, Papa is above you looking hellish. The man grins at you, his lips glistening crimson with your blood before he stands. You watch, your mind a pleasant fog, as he removes his suit jacket and carefully folds it before placing it on an armchair. The gloves are tugged off next and he watches you the entire time as if he wants you to try and run.

You won’t. If you tried, you are sure you could stand and make it down back to the bar, but it would be an effort. The blood loss has made you feel weak and that orgasm is still washing over you. But more importantly, you don’t want to run. You want more.

You want him.

His dress shirt is tugged from his trousers before they are also removed. It’s captivating seeing him completely bare, there is strength in those muscles as you watch them shift as he stalks back toward you. But all you are looking at is his cock, the way it juts out making you realise how empty you feel and how desperately you need it to fill you.

The way he moves with predatory slowness until in a blur he’s above you would have caused you to cry out in surprise but he doesn’t give you time for it. Papa has gripped both your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head on the lounge.

That wicked mouth is at your neck now, his teeth nipping and kissing until he meets your lips. As you taste the blood on his tongue, you feel his cock settle between your legs and you instinctively try and press your hips forward.

“Please,” you pant between his languorous kisses. “I need it.”

You think you should be embarrassed with how needy you sound but you don’t care. You feel desperate—feverish.

“Please what, dolcezza?”

“Please, Papa.”

A growl leaves his throat as he releases your wrists and leans back above you before he buries his cock in you in one smooth motion. His hands grip your thighs and the angle makes him sink even further, the pleasure of him stretching you making you breathe out nonsensical prayers.

The sight of him above you is captivating as he thrusts into you, those wild eyes boring into you. It feels like looking into the burning fires of hell— the white eye looks eerily red but you dismiss it as a trick of the candlelight. And the entire thought is pushed from your mind when you feel his thumb has reached between you and is now pressing against your swollen clit. The shock of pleasure is electric and you crave more, your hips moving erratically as you try to chase the sweet edge of oblivion.

You want to burn. And he seems to know it because you hear a low chuckle as he leans over you, his chest pressing against yours.

“Would you let me touch you forever, cara mia?” That voice in against your ear is wicked. “You want to burn with me eternally?”

Your pussy tightens around him and he gives one long drawn-out thrust, making you cry out. But then he is still, your legs are shaking and you feel as if you are right on the edge.

“Yes.” The word is out before reason can stop it. Anything to keep this feeling forever. “Forever.”

Finally, he moves again, his pace picking up as your hands reach out to claw desperately at his back—trying to keep him as close as possible. He angles his mouth over yours and you dimly register that he must have bitten his own lip as thick blood gushes onto your tongue as he kisses you.

You swallow it, it’s strangely cold and sits like ice in your stomach. But then it spreads, hot and desperate, your body tensing and pulsating as he continues to fuck you.

“Cum for me,” Papa growls. “Cum for your Papa, little ghuleh.”

The blood in your veins is singing and when Papa’s movements start to become more erratic you feel the beginning of your orgasm hit. Your pussy tightens around him and you feel his cock kick inside you which sends you reeling off the edge. He’s hissing unintelligible Italian against the rapid pulse at your neck as he empties himself inside you, his fangs then sinking down into the flesh.

The pleasure was intense. The pain was blinding.

“Una benedizione empia. Loda Satana. Nema.” You hear Papa say against your skin, the feel of your own blood dripping down your neck.

Your eyes are closed and you cannot make yourself open them. You feel so tired and dimly register him slowly removing himself from you before he sits up and pulls you easily into his arms.

“Sleep little ghuleh,” he whispers against your ear as he holds you close. “Papa will keep you safe.” You feel more than hear the rumble of his low laugh. “Forever.” ---- The character Q/Quartus belongs to ryuzatodraws :)

Hai un odore divino - You taste divine Una benedizione empia. Loda Satana - An unholy blessing. Praise Satan

#one of my favorites #most of this playlist I know #mmmohmygod

326 notes · View notes