however fair and pure

You’ve just come from Terzo’s office - where the door had been shut but not locked and certainly not sound proof. Also, he’d followed you. Like he always does. Ashamed to admit it but certainly not so ashamed that he’ll ever stop  - Dew had listened at the door as you’d fucked Terzo on his desk. And then he’d trailed after you, down to the kitchen where you had a Dr. Pepper on ice. You always had that after you fucked Terzo in the afternoon. Dew knows, cause he follows you. Whenever he gets a chance, he’s hot on your heels - hiding in the shadows, sneaking around, jerking off when it all gets to be too much, crying after that. You grin, sitting on the tall stool, flicking through an old magazine. That’s how he knows you’re there. Because he knows, from all his stalking and sulking and beating his meat in the shadows, after you fuck Terzo in his office and you have your Dr. Pepper with extra ice, you go to the chapel to thank Satan for your husband’s cock and that sweet, icy soda-pop and all the dark blessing bestowed upon you by your Father in Hell. And he can watch you and smell you and jerk his cock to the lovely sound of your soft prayers. He can fantasize and he can cry and in shame and he can keep right on fuckin’ doing it, day after day. 

Yep, that settles it. 

He’s a fuckin’ creep. 

But Dew has accepted the title of Supreme Stalker Simp and slips further back into the shadows of the chapel, watching. He knows this isn’t right. None of it. He’s not supposed to be feeling this way. Not supposed to be thinking about you this way. But here he is and oh, thank Satan, he sighs - there you are.

And there you have always been. 

Since the moment of his arrival, since the very beginning, since his ritualistic birth unto this terrestrial plane - you had been there. You were the first person he’d laid his earthly eyes on. Your smile was like a beacon amongst the disappointed sighs - he was supposed to have been a water ghoul. And when he’d landed in a steaming pile of primordial goo, everyone made it quite clear he was a massive letdown. But your soft, gentle hands were the first he felt. You’d helped him into the soft robes and his new, sterling, shining mask. You smiled and kept your voice low and your words slow. You had been so careful with him, so gentle and sweet and your touch had been so much softer than any other he’d ever known. He’d never been talked to that way, never felt a kindness like that. He watched you with wide, fearful eyes as you shushed the others when they suggested they send him back and try once more for the water ghoul they had ordered. And then Terzo had been there, too. Right next to you, beaming at Dewdrop like he was the greatest thing he’d ever laid his eyes on despite being a shivering, scrawny, scared mass of human, “Of course we don’t send him back,” the perfect Papa had beamed, “He is beautiful!” 

Together, you had washed the ectoplasm and sulphuric grime from his new, homosapien form - your hands all over him. Perfect, pristine Papa - the rumors of him instantly confirmed as true - just as kind and loving and as beautiful as his Prime Mover. And he had been so sensitive, so tender and they had been so very cautious, so very gentle. Each swipe of the soft, warm cloth, every reassuring whisper and supportive squeeze had only thrown him harder and further over the edge for the Mama and the Papa he  belonged to. 

You stand outside the chapel doors, watching Dewdrop find a hiding spot. You smile, though it’s sad, your hands sliding down your stomach - willing away the heat and the need and the incessant want that brews there. 

Dewdrop had been perfect. The moment you’d laid eyes on him, he had taken your breath away. And then, Terzo had gasped too. You’d whipped your head around to stare at your husband and locked eyes, “Do you feel that?” you whispered and Terzo nodded. You swallowed - nerves vibrating, the hair on the back of your neck prickling as the freshly minted hellspawn blinked up at you with scared, amber eyes.

This was no ordinary ghoul.

This was not just another summoning. Terzo had kissed your temple, his hand on the back of your neck, “Make no mention to the others,” he’d said, quickly and quietly, kissing your ear, “We will wait,” you looked up at him with confusion and fear and were met with assured confidence. Terzo nodded once more, “We wait on this, si?”

You search Terzo’s face for any hint of panic and find none. You turn back to Dewdrop and continue on, business as usual. But the feeling did not dissipate. The noise in your head, chanting over and over: this was no ordinary ghoul. This was yours. This male belonged to you and Terzo and it went against every rule in the book for a Papa and a Prime Mover and the thought made you sick and it made you horny and needy and… you take a deep breath. Terzo knows it. Terzo suffers just as much as you.

It doesn’t make it any easier.

Coming to earth was never fun or nice or peaceful. It wasn’t supposed to be. Thousands of years as a powerful hellbeast all crammed into a meaty, sweaty, weak human suit didn’t feel great. It hurt. A lot. And Dew could barely use it, barely understand all of the aches and pains, the needs and thrills and sounds and feelings. Father below, help him, there were so many feelings, all crammed tight into this frustratingly tiny chest.

Dewdrop knew immediately the attraction he felt was forbidden. The thoughts he had, the way his new body reacted to you or Papa. Satan forbid he got both of you in the same room. Every time he saw Papa, his mouth watered and his brain went haywire. Each time he took in your scent, it made his cock grow hot and hard; the silly thing leaked like a sieve when either of you were near. His balls ached and when you left him alone? It was all the worse. 

After a few excruciating and confusing weeks of not understanding boners or orgasms or basic, human needs, Aether had come. He’d knocked on his door in the middle of the night, to show Dew how to take care of himself, “You’re keeping me up with all that whining, love,” he’d smiled, sweetly. The big ghoul had been kind to him - almost protective - and if he knew about Dew’s conundrum, he made no mention of it. He’d stepped inside and shut the door, turned down the lights. He showed Dew how to be gentle and he showed him how to be rough; how to make it last on the edge and how to get it over with. Aether was a bit taken aback by Dew’s seemingly endless stream of sexual need. Dew didn’t say a word about it - even when Aether laughed and called him insatiable. When he’d realized exactly how much it took to wear Dewdrop out, Aether simply called in Swiss and the three of them taught Dew how to fuck. But Dewdrop knew why. He wasn’t feral. He wasn’t insatiable. He was just never, ever going to be remotely satisfied. Try as he did, with all his might, Aether and Swiss would never be Terzo and you. And that’s what, that’s who, he needed. He just needed you and Terzo. The pain came when he reminded himself it was forbidden to him. He was supposed to serve and protect and please and make music. He hadn’t been summoned to obsess and stalk and have a fuckfest, though rumors blew through the abbey like a fire storm; stories of the ghoul that would fuck anyone, who was wild and rough and would send you home with bruises and burns and a smile on your face. And there were more rumors about how he stared at Papa and how he worshiped the ground you walked on.

He’s eyeing you now, imagining all the ways he’d have you. He’d let Terzo bend him over the shitter and fuck him loose so, they’re not really rumors, not really lies.

Terzo stares at the scrolls on his desk. The ancient books and papers and notes. 

Not one Papa and Prime Mover had ever had a third, let alone a ghoul. He’d read it over and over again: once a Prime Mover had been wed, seed wasn’t to be mixed. Oh, that’s just silly business, Terzo had thought, really. As if in the entire history of his family’s dark legacy and this great and powerful church a Prime Mover hadn’t been fucked by a ghoul. But as he read on, he started to think maybe that was true. Stories of ghouls being put down or sent back to the pit made him sick. Siblings being excommunicated for simply making an advance on a Prime Mover - it was forbidden. And it was not simply an unspoken rule - it was there, over and over in the dark texts. 

The vessel shall not be tainted; the seed shall remain pure.

He pushed away the scrolls and glared at the wall, pouting. Surely he could just… make a new rule, couldn’t he? Perhaps he shall make no rule and delete all these laws and finally be free. He was Papa, after all. What he wanted, he got. He flicked his wrist up and checked the time, a smile instantly on his face. 

He was due in the chapel.

You’re walking down the aisle - a bundle of violet flowers in your hands, humming quietly, fingers lighting over the delicate petals. Dew’s skin prickles at the thought of your fingers on him like that; teasing and caressing and loving him. The chapel appears empty to you and you sing to yourself and the flowers and Satan. 

You set the bouquet at the altar below the Baphomet that looms above you. You pull off your veil - the white band is bordered with jewels that sparkle and shine, even in the low light of the chapel: amethyst, kunzite, dark, juicy garnets and rare, perfect sapphires. An array of purple gems and crystals; a sign of your status. A sign of your commitment to your faith and your husband and it makes Dew love you all the more. It’s heavy and it hurts your head - you’ve complained about it to him, in your office when he’s made up his third excuse for the day to visit and he’s found you sans veil, shoes kicked off and your feet on the desk. He’d nearly died, seeing you like that. He blinks away the image and peeks around the pillar only to see you barefoot once more. 

You toe off your heels, massaging your scalp while you kneel in front of the altar. Dew’s fingers, tight with still new, still stiff muscles and tendons in his hands, cramp and flex; how he’d love to be the one giving you that relief. He can see it - clear as day in his mind’s eye - you’d close your eyes and lean into his touch and bite your lip and stifle a moan as he tangled his fingers in your hair. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. He’d kiss you; devouring those sighs, devouring you. Dew swallows his own groan, his eyes burn - tears pricking and threatening to fall. It wasn’t fair. None of this is remotely fair. Hot, stinging tears of frustration and need blur his vision. None of this was easy or fair or felt even a shred of good. He just wants you. Both of you. That’s all. His entire existence has been incinerated and compressed down to this: you and Terzo. It was like he’d been plucked from the third ring and right into a home, with a family - with partners - that he never knew he needed. He presses his thumbs into his eyes, cursing the fiery tears that won’t fucking stop. But he knows what he needs now. All he needs is to be with you, to be near to both of you. 

Let him sleep at the foot of the bed like the loyal, heartsick hound he was but let him have that.

He knew what to call it - knew the word as it burned on the tip of his tongue. But he wouldn’t say it. He couldn’t bring himself to say it - to himself or otherwise. He knew what you were to him, knew what Terzo was, too. It wasn't unheard of but it was rare. A ghoul had one chance at this, for their whole, unending lives - what terrible deed had he done to have been given two? 

And two that he cannot even have.

Mates. 

Terzo had felt it. He knew you felt it, too. A throb in his chest and an ache at the base of his spine. It was a lovely, magnetic pull that, up until forty-eight seconds before the fire ghoul had been plopped into the pentagram in front of him, Terzo had only ever felt for you. Panic - ice cold and thick - had flooded his veins. You were his mate. You were the great love of his life, the one for whom his soul was made. He’d felt the same thing when he’d laid eyes on you. And he was feeling it, again. No, no, no. This wasn’t right. 

And then you turned to Terzo with the same panic, your hand on your chest over your heart, “Do you feel that?” you’d ask and Terzo nodded. Yes, he felt it. He didn’t even know it was possible but, his trembling hands and fluttering heart and stiffening cock all said one thing: it was very, very possible.

Of course he’d apologized profusely after but the first and only thing he could think of was to tell you to not tell anyone. If it got out, Papa and his Prime Mover would emerge from the drama unscathed - the innocent ghoul would not. No, this must stay between you and Terzo and hopefully Dewdrop didn’t feel it. Surely it was a fluke. It was the thrill of the summoning, a beautiful body, a room full of dark magic, a tender ghoul. It was nothing. 

Oh, how wrong he’d been.

From your knees, you light a cone of incense and then fold your hands in your lap, eyes closed. Your chest rises and falls in practiced, patterned, calming breaths - the same rhythmic breathing that you’d taught him when he’d been summoned. You do your best to keep your mind from wandering but it skips right over to the ghoul watching from the shadows. Your lips trembles.

You bring your hands together to pray, lacing your fingers and pressing them against your lips; your mouth moves though you remain silent. You beg Satan to release you from this… this torment? Is it that? Is it torture to be made for two perfect, blessed beings? How can destiny be kept at bay by silly, old laws and decrees? 

Come to me, you beg silently - praying to Dewdrop, come to me now. Touch me. Kiss me. Be with me. Don’t do anything at all - just be close. You remember how it had been, in the beginning, when you’d first met Terzo. When the bond had been recognized but not quite believed. His absence was nearly painful. His proximity a sweet, sacred relief. And now, you feel that for Dewdrop. And so does your husband. And it’s painful and frustrating and… you silence those thoughts. 

It is not appropriate. It’s not allowed. It won’t ever be. 

You flick your gaze over to Dewdrop and avert it just as quickly - Satan help you, he’s right there. You close your eyes and decide to pray harder. You pray for peace and quiet and to be just a little less fucking horny. 

Dew thinks, for a moment, he could join you. 

His tail flicks in excitement as the fantasy grows, snowballing as it plays out in his mind and his cock throbs in time with his heartbeat. He can pray, too. He can kneel and sit close and take in your scent, smell that sweet, summery fragrance muddled with Terzo’s musk on your skin. He can pretend to pray when he’s really just falling in love and begging for a soaking up each sliver of attention you throw his way. He can pretend to worship his most beloved Father in Hell but, it will be you: his Goddess, that he’d been praying to. He can be a good, devout little ghoul, can’t he? Yes, he can. For you? He could be anything. He’ll wash your feet, dry them with his hair. He’ll burn sacrifices in your name; he’ll burn the whole goddamn abbey to the ground. Somebody, bring this ghoul a goat because he needs blood for his rituals to you, he needs to sacri- the chapel doors swing open and slam shut. Papa Terzo walks by - robes billowing, lust and love wafting off of his silks like petrichor after a storm - turning everything bright and lovely in his wake, “My beautiful wife,” Terzo calls and it hits Dew right in the heart. My wife. His wife. There’s no room in his tone for another, no room in his outstretched arms for two. The fantasy ends and Dewdrop is back in the shadows, pressed up against the cold, stone pillar. Alone. 

If Papa Emeritus the Third was a betting man - and the numerous car washes, sermons and twenty-dollar bills he owed to his brothers said he was - he would bet that the current state of affairs would implode any day. Any moment, really. That was the way of things around here. Dewdrop, bless his ghoulie heart, was hardly concealing his obsession. He was quite terrible at lurking. His amber eyes lingered far too long and sparkled with blatant, bright yearning. They had heard him - on more than one occasion - reach orgasm outside Terzo’s office door. 

It did not help anyone’s already crumbling resolve. 

And Terzo was not much better. Neither were you, he smirks as he approaches. Your eyes dart to the shadows behind Terzo and Terzo nods with a wink. The attraction between the three of you is palpable - if Terzo’s poor cock had anything to say about it - it was actually palpable. Dewdrop wanted you. Dewdrop wanted Terzo. Terzo wanted you. Terzo wanted Dewdrop. You wanted them both. Anyway Terzo cut it, any angle he took, every one-way, two-way and three-way fantasy he had - Dewdrop was there, too. 

And the need was starting to far outweigh the want and the way of things.

Dew should go. He should. This isn’t right, not for a second. But he doesn’t leave. He never has, why would he start now? He remains - rooted to the spot - his own need is almost overwhelming and he can no longer fight it; his heart threatens to break right out of his ribcage, the blood coursing through his veins like magma makes it impossible to focus, deafening him. It burns in his chest and it’s just as hot, sitting in his cock - impatient and full and fuck, it hurts.

His Goddess turns, smiling and Dew has to lean against the wall to keep from falling, his knees buckle; his desperation becoming unbearable. If only Papa would call to him like that, if only you would look at him like that. You gaze up at Terzo with so much love in your eyes and Terzo gives it right back, “My love - so pious,” Terzo teases, lifting his robes as he kneels next to you, sinking down gracefully, pulling you close. He kisses you, enveloping you in his silks and scents, marking you, claiming you as his own until Dew can barely scent you at all. Dew’s tears finally spill over - they burn hot and steam away to nothing as they slide down his cheeks, “I am missing you so much it is hurting me.”

“Terzo,” you sigh, nuzzling against his neck, avoiding his pristine paints, “It’s been less than an hour.”

“Has it been that long?” He takes your hand in both of his, kissing your fingertips before pressing your palm to his chest, “It hurts here,” he whines and you raise a skeptical eyebrow, and in response he pushes your hand down his torso and up under his robes, over his cock that even Dew can see is tenting Terzo’s tight, too-tailored slacks, “And here, my love,” he whines, again, sticking out his bottom lip,  “It hurts so much.”

You lean in and kiss him. This time, your lips meet his and Terzo releases a happy moan of relief - paints be damned - even Dew knows the perfect lines of black and white are about to be smudged into a lusty, lovely gray. Your voice drops a bit, your eyes darken, “It’s only been an hour.”

“It feels like a lifetime,” Terzo whines, kissing you, pushing you backwards until you have to put your hands out behind you. You smirk, nipping at his lip and he jerks back, teasing you, “It is unbearable to be away from you. Even for a moment.”

Just days ago, the conversation had come up, again. The same whispers about the fire ghoul and the bond that was forming, the need that demanded to be met, no matter the cost, “It’s not done,” you say, propping yourself up on your elbow, “Mama’s and Papa’s don’t take lovers.”

Terzo rolls his eyes and sighs, groaning dramatically, “It is not done? Why you say this to me, hm? These are not nice words to say to me.”

“No, we can’t? That’s not nice?” you huff out a laugh, eyeing him.

He nods, batting his eyelashes, “Stick and stones may break my bones but telling me no will kill me,” you snort and he smiles, “Who say we can’t do it, amore? It is not done, so maybe we make it done,” he folds his arms and stares at the ceiling, “It is not done is stupid.”

You lean over and plant a firm kiss on his chest before flopping back onto your pillow, staring at the ceiling too, gnawing on your lip. It’s terrible, this feeling. That you and Terzo can fuck all night and all day and still there’s an itch that needs to be scratched and neither of you can reach it. Poor Dewdrop must be suffering. Terzo appears in your line of vision, sly smile spreading across his face, he waggles his eyebrows, “What are you plotting?” you ask.

He shrugs and flops back down and you follow him, returning to your original position - gazing down at him, “So what, hm? When have I ever been doing what everyone else has been doing? I want what I want.”

You arch your eyebrow, “And?”

“And I get what I want.”

You pick at the blankets, swallowing down your nerves, “And if I want it, too?”

“Then we fuck the rules and,” Terzo leans up, kissing you quickly - that smile returning bright and wide, lips brushing yours,  “We get our ghoul.”

“This isn’t Cardinal Terzo and his girlfriend anymore,” you say, searching his eyes for any reason to say no and you can’t find a single one, “You’re Papa and I’m Mama.  We can’t show up with an heir to the throne that’s half-ghoul and none of you,” Terzo leans back eyeing you warily, he’s sure you’re about to put the kabosh to the whole triad before even got hot and wet, “You aren’t… we aren’t supposed to take a third at all - once a Papa marries, that’s it. We’re supposed to be devoted to each other and equally devoted to makin’ babies.”

Terzo smirks, “Which we are, my love. My poor balls have been milked dry daily. If you think we are not devoted to baby making, you are highly confused as to what baby making actually is.”

You throw your pillow at Terzo and he laughs, “Terz, I’m being serious.”

“Si, si, you think I am not serious,” Terzo sighs, pulling you up against his chest, tucking your head under his chin, “So we will be careful. So it will be difficult.”

“Publicly and politically,” you mumble.

“Yes, thank you for reminding me I had not thought of any of those repercussions,” Terzo kisses your hair and you smile, “Still,” he sighs, “I am thinking we must follow our guts, hm?”

You kiss Terzo’s chest and settle back in for the night, his heart beating slow and steady under your ear, “I think you’re right.”

Dew watches Terzo’s hands wander, pulling your foot to his mouth - kissing the arch of it, never taking his eyes off of yours. Dew watches the most powerful man next to Satan sitting on his knees, kissing his wife’s feet. The Papas of a millennia past are rolling in their fires right about now, Dew’s sure of it. He watches as Terzo sits back and takes his gloves off. You smile at him; how patient you are as he plucks the leather from each finger in a tantalizing show. Terzo tosses the gloves aside, his mitre follows suit and then he’s pushing your dress up to your hips. Your lovely, pale thighs glow in the low light and Dew’s mouth waters. You lay back on your elbows, chewing on your lip, smirking. Even from afar, Dew can see your slick; you’re dripping with desire and soon enough the sweet scent of it finds him and he can barely breathe. Dew  palms himself through his pants and he whimpers; his other hand slips up under his mask to stifle the noises he makes.

It’s not like he hasn’t thought of this a thousand times since the moment he met you. Hasn’t dreamed and prayed and begged Satan and Lilith and all the generals and princes and dukes for one, blessed time with you and Terzo. One time, just once - that’s all -  he’d like to have you between him and Terzo;  filling you up, listening to you take them both. Feeling his heat in your core, the pressure of having Terzo’s cock against his - the thought alone nearly blinds him with pleasure. He wants to be dripping with your slick and Terzo’s spend, he wants to smell like you - of your lust and sex and satisfaction for days. He wants Terzo to come in your ass and pull out and shove his cock down Dew’s throat. He wants to taste you and Terzo and him all mixed together. He feels the dark, damp spot of his own pre growing on his pants. To be marked by you, claimed to his core - the thought nearly sends him over the edge - his cock throbs and his heart aches and he mewls beneath his palm.

Your voice - with Terzo’s name dripping off your tongue - is like the most perfect hymn and brings him back to the present. Dew falls to his knees. Terzo is splayed out flat on the floor, face buried between your thighs - humble, attentive. His feet are in the air and he’s kicking them slowly like he’s on the bed, chatting on the phone, flirting with his crush. How can he be so calm when you are so undone? Your head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth hanging open - lips swollen from Terzo’s kisses. Your tits press up out of the hemline of your dress and you paw at your chest to free one - fingers lighting over your pebbled nipple, breath catching as you tease yourself. Your breath is pitched and staggered; from all this time watching, days and days of listening to you come, he knows you’re close…

Terzo watches you, tastes you, takes in every moment of this. He will never, ever tire of it. The way you gasp, the way you sob, the way your chest rises and falls - sharp and erratic while you come on his tongue. You taste as lovely as you sound and for a few, blessed moments he is free of the ever-present aching need to the ghoul that watches from the shadows. 

The poor ghoul. At least Terzo has one of his mates. At least there is a relief there, a blessing and a joy to have you. He could go on without Dew. It would be uncomfortable but it could be done, he thinks. 

But the ghoul? The ghoul would never survive.

… Dew lets his mind wander to the fantasy of it, your sounds filling his ears. He was meant to be with you. He can feel it - there’s no blessed doubt in his mind. Terzo’s voice is muffled against your pussy, his moans and purrs coax an orgasm from you but he doesn’t stop and your cries only grow louder - until they stop completely, Terzo pushes you to the edge of overstimulation, granting just a few moments mercy before beginning, again. 

Dew’s close too and his mind is racing - running from one delusion to the next - Terzo with his mouth around his cock, Dew’s claws tangled in that dark hair, paints smudged and ruined; black and white and gray smeared into the light hair at the base of his cock, along the length of his dick. He’d wear it proudly, Terzo’s paints. And you? He can only fantasize - tasting you, fucking you with his mouth and his tongue and his hands and his cock - begging you for more, drinking up every last drop, feeling every last squeeze and tremble and quake of your perfect body. Terzo fucking him - his hips slamming into Dew’s ass - stretching him, teasing him, testing limits he only wants to find with Terzo. You beneath them, Dew’s knot stretching you tight - keeping everything in - not spilling a drop of Dew and Terzo’s cum. There’d be too much, he thinks, too much cum for him to keep in. There would be nowhere to separate them, no way to tell where one ended and the other began. Everything blurred and sloppy and beautiful. 

He could come, untouched - just listening and watching in silence - but the flat-handed rubbing, as pitiful and dry and miserable as it is, will get him there. If you are near, he will get there. 

And he does. As soon as your back arches and your breath turns pitched and needy once more, he comes; pants soaking up his cum, breath burning in his lungs. His cock refuses to go down, begging for something he can’t have. Unsatisfied and angry. And then when he opens his eyes, you’re crawling onto Terzo - your hands fumbling to lift his silks and undo his belt. Terzo falls back, groaning when you finally free his cock and Dew can no longer take it. His shame and his greed mix together in his stomach and bile rises in the back of his throat - acidic and terrible and Terzo lets out a long, low moan when you lick at him from ass to tip. 

And like he always does when it becomes far too much to handle, he runs and he hides and he weeps with guilt and longing and loneliness; cock still hard, heart still broken. And as ever, still alone.

The days turn into weeks and Dew hates himself and fucks anyone who will let him in a pathetic attempt to secure a few moments of satisfaction. At least, when he’s coming in someone, he can close his eyes and imagine it’s Terzo, or you. When it’s just him and his hand, it’s hard to do much but despise himself. It doesn’t work; it only earns him a reputation - a feral, nasty fire ghoul that’ll fuck anything that says yes. He’s not even all that good at it - he’s just there to be distracted, to get used up and emptied in a pathetic attempt to fuck you and Terzo from his mind. But he can’t get any relief and he isn’t shown any mercy. Not when you’re so close, day in and day out. His body is tired. It hurts like the day he was summoned. In the beginning, you had assured him that would fade, given him a balm to put on his aching joints. Now, he rubs it into his bruised knees. He’s ashamed of all the spots he wants you and Terzo, ashamed of the pain he inflicts on the flesh that begs for you: the bruises on his ass, the red rope burns on his wrists and ankles, the bites and burns on his thighs and the soft skin on the inside of his arms. The corners of his mouth ache, his throat throbs. His cock and his balls and his ass. All of it. He’s sore everywhere. And still, he’s no closer to satisfaction. 

It’s another morning - warm and bright and unbelievably, joyfully sunny. The Siblings claim that it’s a beautiful day, over and over Dew hears it; he can see nothing beautiful about any of it. He listens to their plans for the day; laughter and happiness echoes off the walls. But it looks terrible and it feels terrible and everything is terrible to Dew. The windows are open and the birds are singing. There’s ghouls and Siblings everywhere. Papa Primo has called off classes and chores and all that miserable stuff for the day. The foyer doors are thrown open and everyone seems to be congregating there - the flow of people in and out is bottlenecked as they find their friends, movement stopping for chats and giggles. Dew’s temperature only rises. Too many bodies, too much flesh, too much touching. Dew tries to act normal but all he can do is stand next to Omega and scowl; steam starts to rise off of his shoulders and Dew focuses on counting the hairs on massive ghoul’s arm. He wonders how Omega lucked out with such a giant vessel and Dew was gifted such… he looks down at himself and suppresses a whine - he looks like a string bean. 

And then Dew hears you laugh. 

All if forgotten and his heart is in his throat and he can’t help but search for you - and the person that’s making you laugh like that? What cretin on this godforsaken planet has earned even a fraction of your smile? Dew panics. You’re not looking at anyone but him. Gazing right at Dew, smiling. And then you’re making your way toward him, jeweled crown sparkling like a halo, smiling as bright and warm as the summer day outside. You have a basket in your hands, there’s a blanket and food and a book. Dew whines- after the sudden jealousy-induced rage, he turns into the world’ biggest hypocrite - silently begging you to look at someone else like that, smile at something else, torture someone else, slowly maim and kill literally anyone else. Stop walking towards him. He can already taste his name on your tongue. He swallows. He doesn’t deserve to be loved like this, “Good morning, Dew,” you say, “I’m going out to the garden. Why don’t you come walk with me? I could use the company,” Dew shakes his head and stares at the floor and you laugh a little, stepping closer - lilacs and sunsets and incense permeates his senses and he can feel himself getting hard and he starts to panic, “it’s a lovely day - c’mon,” you gives his arm a squeeze and it’s like you’ve got a death grip on his heart, “Walk with me. It’s been raining for so long, I haven’t seen the garden in ages. And,” you clear your throat, you slide your hand down to his, holding it tightly, “I wanna talk to you about something.”

You’d say it right here to him, if you could. You look back to Terzo who is watching you, eyes ablaze. He only nods and you look back to Dewdrop - the ache of holding his hand and not having him is nearly overpowering. You’re nervous. And scared. Terzo had urged you to seek out the ghoul, to talk to him, “Confess, my darling,” Terzo had said, his chin on your shoulder, staring at you in the bathroom mirror.

“Confess?”

“We must tell him,” Terzo says, “Truly, this is too much to bear. And if he feels the same way and is suffering alone? It would be cruel to ignore it.”

“And if he doesn’t feel the same?” you ask, turning around to face Terzo, “What are we to do then?”

“Then we will suffer,” Terzo takes your face and kisses you sweetly, “Together.”

“Whycan’tyoujustfuckingleavemealone,” Dew lets it all out in one, long, terrible rush of a breath and the outburst snaps you back to the present. You pull away, dropping his hand, your own going to your heart; it’s already starting to ache. Tears burn your eyes. A horrible silence falls over the foyer. Terzo’s nostrils flare. Omega stares at Dew like Dew’s just shit his pants. Dew’s amber eyes bounce from Terzo to you to Terzo to you - Terzo scowls. 

He’s hurt you. 

Your eyes shine with it, it renders him immobile and speechless, “Alright, that’s okay,” you nod. You square your shoulders and turn your back to him, leaving him alone, amongst the glares and whispers of his comrades and the Siblings. You plaster on a smile and make your way through the crowd, greeting and chatting like nothing has happened. No one talks to you like that. Not a single soul on this plane or the next. You’re a Prime Mover. You’re the Prime Mover. You’re Terzo’s Prime Mover and his wife and his one true love and you don’t say fuck to you. Not like that anyway. And in the aftermath, the energy in the room is palpable - those that are in sight of their Prime Mover, smile and nod. Those that you pass, once out of your sight, glare at Dewdrop. You skirt by Terzo, handing him your basket and then exit - quickly - through the doors; disappearing in the sunlight. And when Terzo approaches Dewdrop, everyone drops their eyes and averts their attention. They don’t need to watch this, nobody needs to see a ghoul eviscerated in the entryway. 

Dew runs. Dewdrop runs before Terzo can get near him. 

He bolts right out the door - ignoring his Papa calling his name - following your sweet, sad scent on the breeze. He’s hurt you, he knows that much. Dewdrop glances behind him, his outburst - whether he is reprimanded by Terzo or another - did not go unnoticed and he will be punished for it. He deserves it. He wants it. Maybe some real pain and consequence will do him some good. He steps beneath the arches of ivy, across the threshold of the lawn and into the garden. He runs through the tall, emerald hedges - the maze grows darker and taller, keeping Dew from you until he emerges on the other side. 

He calls your name and he’s answered with Terzo calling to him. He runs faster. Where are you? He just needs to see you before he gets hauled off to some dark, dank torture chamber. He pauses for a moment, sniffing the air - the breeze hiding your trail - and when he catches it, he’s off again. Into the woods, along the cool dirt path until it deviates. Finally, through a grove of birches, he stumbles out into the meadow and you’re there. Lying in soft grass, amongst the little purple and blue and white flowers that dot and color the clearing. For a moment he watches you, crying quietly, staring at the sky. He clears his throat and you sit up. You stare at him and he stares at you and he doesn’t know what to do or why he said it. He doesn’t know anything at all other than he loves you. That’s the beginning and the end of it. You press the back of your hand to your cheeks, swiping away your tears. His breath catches in his throat and he steps forward, “I am so sorry.”

You shake your head, “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” Dew takes a step forward and pauses. Your lip trembles and Dew is at your side in an instant, “Forgive me. My goddess, please, please forgive me,” he begs, taking your hand in both of his, pressing a pleading kiss to it, holding it to his cheek, savoring each moment before there’s never another chance. His throat aches, his heart breaks, “Please don’t send me back,” he whispers. 

“What?” you shake your head, brow knit in confusion, “What are you talking about?”

“Please,” Dew weeps, hot tears falling onto your hand, “Please, please don’t send me away.”

“Dewdrop?” you cup his jaw, pulling his gaze up to yours, “Why would I do that?”

“Because I’m fucked up,” He sobs, “Because I feel this way. I’ll live in the woods. Let me live with the skunks and the toads - I’m no better than a stinky, warty creature anyway. I deserve no better than wet leaves and cold wind. I’ll live in the crypts,” he’s panicking now, begging, heat rolling off of him in churning, wild waves, “I’ll keep charge of the furnaces and the old hot baths and I’ll never see the light of day again. I’ll live a milenia underneath the abbey with the moss and the rats and the dark. But let me, at least, stay close to you. Near you, near Terzo. Banish me to the depths of the abbey, punish me with a lifetime of hard, dark labor. Let me sleep with the sewer pipes. But let me, at least, know that my Papa and Mama are near.”

You close your eyes and bow your head and cry. You thank Satan and Lilith and anybody else you can think of; gratitude swirls in your veins, pumping through your heart. Oh, dark Morningstar! To be blessed with Terzo was more than you ever deserved - a husband bursting with love and unending support. Beautiful, funny, smart Terzo. Your Papa and your lover and your very best friend. You should be struck down for feeling this way about Dewdrop. 

But you can’t control it, can you? You never had a choice, just like Terzo. Just like Dew. 

It was meant to be and it could never be wrong. 

Dew watches as you lift his hands to your lips. His mouth hangs open, his heart beats like a thousand drums in his ears. Tears slide down your cheeks. His patroness caresses the rise and fall of his knuckles with her lips; you smile against his skin and he can’t breath. Finally, you meet his eyes, “You have no idea what I would do to keep you near to me,” you whisper, “Near to us.”

Dew shakes his head, “There is no room for me.”

“You are stubborn,” you sob out a quiet laugh, shaking your head, “All this time.”

“I don’t belong here. And I don’t belong with you.”

You pull him to you, kissing him - for only a moment - before pulling back a breath, staring at Dew. He lets out a pathetic little moan, eyes fluttering open. You smile, aglow with love, “You belong here, with us,” you whisper and the earth stops spinning. The sun implodes. The moon and stars and planets all disintegrate. Dew lets go of your hand but it doesn’t silence the chaos in his mind; nebulas collide and galaxies are created in the cataclysm contained within the space of his chest. He stares at you but he can’t see or hear and he’s feeling far too much to feel anything real at all, “Dew?” you call to him but your voice is far off, muffled by the complete, internal breakdown he’s having. His eyes go blurry and it’s hard to breathe. He stills when you reach up, pulling off his mask and setting it aside, “Dew? Are you okay?”

He exhales, the cool air on his skin is a balm though now you can see his tears and he stares at his hands again, “You want me?” he asks and he sounds so small, so scared that he pities himself. He’s needy and pathetic and tears fall down his face in a near constant river of pain and, he thinks and he prays, rivulets of relief.

“Yes.”

“And Terzo? Papa? He wants me, too?” he asks, flicking his eyes up to yours. 

You nod. 

He’s on you, then. He can’t think of anything else to do. There’s nothing to talk about, nothing else to ruminate or discuss or consider. That’s the start and the finish of it, he thinks, pushing you down into the grass. You wrap your arms around his neck, keeping him close and he groans - the weight lifts from his shoulders, the pain in his spine instantly alleviated. He buries his face in your shoulder, nuzzling into your neck and he can’t decide if he wants your scent on him or his on you. With each moment of contact, the thoughts in his mind, the devious voices, the need and the want and all the godforsaken pain that came with it is gone. It’s you and him and the big, blue sky. Your legs are spread and he’s laying in between them now. Your hands wander and he follows your lead - he’s panicking though. It’s all happening so fast. Too fast. But it’s good and he’ll take it fast. But he’s scared, “Wait,” he pulls away from your mouth and goes right back. There’s no time to talk. If this is a trick, so be it. If it’s a test and he’s rocketing towards failure, so-fucking-be-it.

“It’s okay,” you cry, yanking at his shirt. Your breath is pitched and you’re gasping for air - eyes snapping from his chest to Dew’s eyes, frantic, “It’s okay, Dew. It’s okay. Please,” you’re the one begging now and Dew doesn’t know if he never wants to hear you plead ever, again or if it’s a full blown addiction. It’s beautiful, no matter which way you sing it, “I need you and I want you and, “you take your hands away from Dew and press them to your face, crying quietly, again.

“Hey,” Dew stares down at you and realizes you’ve been feeling the same way he has. Miserable and aching and right in front of the thing you are forbidden to have but need to survive. He leans down and pushes your hands away with his face, nuzzling and prodding like a cat. “It’s done now. We’re together.”

Terzo watches.

In another world, he would have been filled with rage. In another world his cock would have been soft and his heart broken. In another world, seeing his wife fucking a ghoul in the woods would have killed him.

Today? In this reality? 

It is a relief. It is joy and he cries quietly with the overwhelming, insurmountable, cataclysmic level of love he feels radiating from every pore of his body. His cock is hard and begging him to join them. He will. For now though, there is a peace that he revels in watching them together. You lay beneath Dew - dress ripped open, though you still wear it. Your body exposed to him, skin glowing in the afternoon sun.  Your hands are on Dew’s arms, you slide them up to his chest and down his belly, gripping his waist. You repeat the movement - your fingertips greedy, unable to stay in one spot long. Terzo, too, knows he wants to have every inch of the ghoul, learn every hill and valley, every line and curve and soft, sensitive, heated spot. 

The now naked ghoul throws his head back, eyes closed, mouth open as he ruts into you. He’s hardly fucking you - there is no indication that he pulls out at all; his hips grind against your pelvis like a mortar and pestle. Terzo’s mouth waters.

He smiles when you roll the ghoul onto his back. 

Dewdrop gazes up at you while you ride him - adopting the same lack of space or rhythm, opting to grind down onto him; refusing to separate. You put your hands on his belly and it pushes your tits together. He sits up and runs his searing tongue around one nipple and the next, giving one ample attention before kissing his way back to the other. Your jaw is slack and your eyes flutter shut. Your pussy flexes around his cock and he groans, another orgasm - slow and heavy - rolls through him. The release coaxes one from you; his cock kicking while you gasp, he empties into you and a moment later he can feel it drip down his balls, sliding over his ass. 

There’s a flash of purple and onyx and suddenly Terzo is there. Dewdrop grips your hips in a panic and Terzo only shakes his head, “My little fire ghoul, we are together now,” he says, kneeling behind you. You don’t look at him, you don’t stop, you don’t make any indication that your husband is there until his hands come up and around you, cupping your chest, toying with the pebbled flesh. You turn and pull his mouth to yours, back arching, forcing Dew’s cock deeper. You moan and Dew echoes it; his eyes roll and he lets his head fall back into the grass. For a time, you slow and then finally you still - sitting on Dew’s cock, kissing Terzo, letting their hands wander.

Dew’s fingers light over Terzo’s and it’s like a lightning bolt, an arc of electricity, carving him straight to his core. Terzo laces his fingers with Dew’s and Dew’s eyes burn with tears, again, “My mates,” he manages to say, voice thick with emotion. His lip trembles and you lean down, stilling him with a kiss. The corner of your mouth pulls upwards and it takes Dew’s breath away.

“Yes,” you let out a whimper, rolling your hips, “Mates.”

Terzo pulls Dew’s hands up to your chest and presses them hard against you. He leaves him there - the heat that rolls off of Dew is overwhelming. You moan, biting your lip, your head lolling on Terzo’s shoulder, “Where shall I go?” he hums in your ear - lips brushing against the shell of it, you smile when he does, “It seems silly now, that I have fantasized about this,” his fingers slide down to your clit and you and Dew gasp in unison when he rolls his fingers lazily over the aching nub, “I am so nervous,” he lets out a pitched giggle, “Where will I go? What will I do?”

“What do you want, Dew?” you ask, Terzo’s mouth sliding up your neck, eyes blazing into the ghoul’s beneath you, “Tell us. Whatever you want. We’ll do. Anything,” you gasp, “Anything at all. Anything for you.”

“I want to feel,” Dew’s hands fall away from you and he sits up on his elbows. You still, Terzo holds his breath, “I want to feel both of you. I want his cock in you,” Dew’s eyes flick to you and Terzo’s balls nearly burst with the desire that heats those amber irises, “I want to feel his cock in your ass when I knot your,” he trails off, cheeks turning crimson, his words are crass but there’s a timidity to him that makes you love him all the more, “I want to knot you. While you’re in her. That's all I can think about. I want it so bad.”

“Then you shall have it,” Terzo exhales, gently pushing you down onto Dew’s chest, “Oh, I would give you the world, little ghoul,” Terzo’s fingers find your ass and slip a bit lower, teasing your entrance, slicking his fingers before sliding them back up and pushing two, firm fingers into you. You gasp and Dew’s hip respond immediately, bucking up sharp and fast for a few pumps before he settles. Terzo turns his fingers over and presses down. You fall onto Dew holds you close, “I feel you, Dewdrop. You feel me?” Terzo asks and Dewdrop squeaks out an affirmative whimper. And then Dew’s eyes go wide and he doesn’t breathe for a moment; Terzo pumps his fingers in and out of your ass, stroking the heat of Dew’s cock as he does. You shake and moan, clinging to the ghoul, Terzo’s name on your lips and Papa Emeritus the Third is sure this is paradise. Terzo pulls his fingers away and returns momentarily with his cock in fist, spitting rather indelicately - he quietly apologizes for the lewdness - and pressing his aching tip against your ass. You let out a long, guttural groan as Terzo eases into you, stretching your hole, filling you up. Dew’s eyes go wide and his jaw goes slack; his hands tangle in your hair and he lifts your head, forcing you to gaze at him while you come; an orgasm tightening you from tip to toes. Terzo’s heart stammers in his chest and he’s coming, almost immediately after you. Dew follows suit and for a moment, it’s silent. Nobody breathes, nobody moves. 

You are, quite simply, together.

Terzo’s hands slide up your back while he pumps in and out of you, slow at first - his movement cautious, allowing you room to adjust to both of them inside of you. Dew’s cock kicks in your pussy, hot cum filling you up until you feel it start to pulse out of you. 

Dew is beautiful. Strong and lithe; supernaturally warm and far more tender, far more gentle than you expected. You’d heard the rumors. You’d been envious, green with jealousy, when you’d been told about his sexual proclivities. And even now, you see the fading evidence of it. You pull his wrists to your lips, kissing and licking at the rope marks. You lean down and press a kiss to his nipples; shadowed with bruises from clamps and crops. The corners of his mouth, his lovely, lovely mouth, is red and sore from a gag, “My sweet ghoul,” you breathe, nuzzling against his cheek. He pushes back, lips against your skin and you bury your face in his neck, “My perfect ghoul.”

Dew cries. 

He cries and cries. You kiss him; kiss away his tears and the anxiety and white-hot, anger that’s been brewing in his chest since the moment he laid eyes on you. Each pump of Terzo’s cock, each time your body tenses around his, each kiss and whimper and exhale and moan is a prayer answered. And with each passing moment, with each shaking breath, the shame and hurt is washed away. And it’s replaced with unadulterated joy. And Dew laughs. And you laugh. And then he starts to cry some more, “No, no,” you kiss him, again and his arms hold you tight to him, “It’s done now. We’re all together. It’s all right.”

He sobs out a laugh, “It’s perfect. It’s everything,” he stops, words catching in his throat, “It’s everything.”

You kiss at his tears and press one, last sweet kiss to his lips. Your eyes flick up to his and you  nip at his lip. It fans a fire in him - one that he’s kept low and cold for far too long. He holds tight to your hips and fucks up into you, matching Terzo’s pace. Terzo moans. You let your head fall into the curve of Dew’s shoulder. He feels his knot start to swell and you’re already letting out little gasps, each time it presses into and tugs back at your pussy. Even Terzo feels it, hissing as the pressure builds against his cock. Dew presses his cheek against yours, tears still sliding down his face, soaking the hair at his temples, “My mates,” he sobs, “My mates.”

You chalk it up to Terzo being gone. You haven’t been laid properly in days. Terzo is the only one that can work the ancient espresso machine; the only one who can whip up a decent latte. Four days without your husband and you’ve been subjected to having to drive yourself to the coffeeshop down the block. Which was closed. It’s boring without him. You’re horny. Shit-fuck, you’re horny. The work is piling up. The end of semester rituals approach. A full moon is well upon you. Did you mention you hadn’t been fucked well lately? Light of the Morningstar, guide you, it’s all you can think about. Terzo’s cock. Terzo’s body. Terzo’s mouth. Terzo’s cock, again. It’s incessant. Dick, wiener, sausage, penis. You need it. Your vibrator didn’t even stand a chance at scratching this level of itch. And, to top it all off, as Prime Mover, you pick up a lot of the slack during Terzo’s absence. Of course, Secondo and Primo help when they can but they’re quite insistent on their retirement and frankly, you can’t blame them. It’s been a constant stream of stupid all day long. Everyone is stupid, it’s hot, your clothes are touching you. Food takes gross. And your brothers-in-law, as helpful as they are, can’t help you in the getting fucked department which is all you can think - you get the drift. You need that papal pecker. And you need it now.

And in the office work department? Sure, they’re helpful. They’re amazing. Primo is so patient with all of the Siblings and Secondo knows every ritual and rite known to mankind. But you knew, without a shred of doubt, you weren’t going to send Sister Millie to Secondo when she asked, “Do you know how long it will take me to be an Imperatrix?”

“Six years, six months and six days,” you’d replied, flipping through her file and seeing, for absolute certainty, she’d never become Imperatrix. Under goals she’d written: marry Papa - no preference - substitute band ghoul. No preference. She’d even put a fancy, pink X in Terzo’s box as if the application wasn’t going straight to Terzo’s wife’s desk. Cute.

“Yeah but, how long will it take me,” she asked, batting her eyelashes and twirling her hair between two manicured fingers. You looked at her over the top of the reading glasses you’d nicked from Terzo, who’d nicked them from Secondo - and judging by the red and black pattern stolen from Primo - because nobody around here could admit they were aging. 

You stared up at Sister Millie wondering who the fuck the eyelashes and hair schtick worked on because it looked a little like she was having a stroke. You cleared your throat, “It takes everyone six years, six months and six days to become an Imperatrix.”

“Yeah,” she giggles, “But it’s like… me.”

“There’s not an accelerated course for one of the highest positions of our church, Sister Millie,” you’d set her file down and closed it, placing two hands on top of the folder, “It’s a sacred path and it takes that long because it -,” she’d cut you off with a huff, throwing her hands in the air.

“Imperator said the same thing! She told me to come to you if I had an issue with the ancient texts.”

You’d given her your best smile and reassured her that the sacred position and ancient texts were, in fact, correct and there were no loopholes because she was she. Sister Millie had left shortly after that and you made a note to assassinate Imperator during your next lunch meeting. 

Like clockwork, a little while later, you receive a bouquet of ivory peonies shortly with an apology note from Imperator.

The blooms are big and fluffy and beautiful and of course, you pardon Imperator immediately. You place the peonies on your desk and are hit, almost immediately, with the pungent, floral scent. Not terrible but far too strong - already oversensitive and cranky, the smell nearly knocks you off your feet, making your head throb even more, “Dear god,” you growl, setting them across the room on the little coffee table in the sitting area. You rub your lower back as you make your way back to your desk, the pain now settling low and hot, in between your hips. You sit back down and take a deep breath - glaring at the peonies, that lovely scent quickly turning into an overpowering stink. 

You stand back up, wincing, as Omega appears in the doorway, “Whoa, Mama,” he puts his hands up in surrender when you shoot daggers at him. He sniffs the air and tries to size you up, “What’s wrong? You reek of rage and pain.”

“Yes. And?” You pick up the peonies and set them on the windowsill. As you lean forward to crack it open, hoping to let out a little bit of the floral stench, a warm, happy ray of afternoon sunshine hits you in the cornea and you gasp and turn away from the window, covering your eyes. Your ears ring and you see stars; you let out a long, low groan, turning away from the window, grimacing. 

Omega approaches,“Hey, now. What’s wrong?” For a moment, you can only stand there - palms pressed to your eyes and wait for the rush of pain to pass. You hear Omega step forward, can feel him standing next to you, “Should I call someone?” he asks. 

You glare at him through your one, working eye, “I just… I think I’m sick? I don’t know. I have a headache that’s turning into a bodyache and,” you lean on your desk and rub your back, still nursing your eye; you’re sure it’s not a good idea to tell Omega what you really need is some extra-strength ibuprofen and an a decent dickin’. The heat pooling between your legs feels like magma, you’re sure you need a change of underwear. With each throb of your head, each ache and pain that ripples through your joints and muscles; your pussy begs for a pounding.  And frankly, anyone could bend you over the desk and rearrange your guts because sweet Satan, your clit feels like it’s the size of a watermelon, your nipples are hard as gemstones and your brain is screaming DICK! DICK! DICK! You clear your throat and square your sore shoulders, “I think I need to call it a day.”

“Can I help a little?” Omega asks, giving you a big smile and spirit fingers. You nod; even if it only takes the edge off - you won’t say no to a dose of quintessence.

He puts his hands on your back and you feel the near instant relief, a tingle of Omega’s magic seeping into your tight back, “Oh, god. That’s good,” Omega presses two thumbs into a knot and you nearly come undone, “Oh, oh yeah. Right there.”

“You’re gonna get me in trouble,” Omega grins, smug, rubbing out the sore spot. 

You slam your hands on the desk and let out a shaking breath, relief and a surprising dose of pleasure swirl through your blood, mixing with Omega’s quintessence. A long, low moan escapes your lips and your stomach tightens, “Oh, don’t stop. Please, Omega,” you beg him, completely at the mercy of the big ghoul and his healing hands behind you. A very familiar, very inappropriate moan escapes your lips. Your belly tightens and your pussy trembles. And then you hiss - panicking when you realize you’re coming and you can’t do anything to stop it.  Your knees buckle and you can feel your underwear getting - you gasp, “Oh, my god! Stop! Stop,” you nearly launch yourself over your desk, spinning around and staring at Omega, wide-eyed and out of breath, “What was that?” you pant, hand on your chest as if that will slow down what’s happening. You let your head fall back and your eyes close and release another moan as the you-know-exactly-what ramps up, again.

“Are… you,” Omega whispers and you snap your gaze to his, your mouth hanging open as you gasp and shudder, “Are you coming!? Are you coming!?”

“What the fuck is hap - oh, my god,” your entire body trembles, your toes turn inward and your knees give and you’re desperately trying to stay upright, white knuckling the desk, heels sliding on the floor.

“Oh, my god! You can’t be… when I’m… stop that! Stop that. Stop it right now,” Omega is panicking now. You’re still trying to catch your breath and not look like your pussy is still clenching on nothing, begging for cock, “You can’t just do that!”

“I’m not,” you snap even though you most definitely are. You take a deep breath as the orgasm finally settles and you swipe the drool from your lip with the back of your hand and return to full height, smoothing out your veil, dusting off invisible wrinkles from your skirt, “I can’t come on command and I certainly have never had an orgasm,” you lift your chin in defiance, “no matter what Terzo wishes - from a back rub,” you take another deep, cleansing breath and then return to the regularly scheduled glaring, “Why did you do that?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Omega shakes his hands like he has some kind of slime on them and you roll your eyes, the movement causing that fucking headache to rebound, tenfold, “I can’t make someone come with just my hands,” You arch your eyebrow and he scoffs, “OfcourseIcandothat!” he hisses, “I can’t do… I cannot do what I just did.”

“Then please explain why I just came from a back rub?” Before Omega can answer, your phone rings and it’s like an ice pick in your eardrum, “Jesus-goddamn-Christ,” you pick up your phone - Terzo’s beaming, bright, thousband-sun smile fills the screen while the phone sings in your palm, You violently and furiously swipe your thumb across said screen, “Hello?”

“It’s me. It’s Terzo.”

“I am… aware.”

“What are you doing?”

You huff out an uncomfortable laugh, “Funny you ask.”

“Are your bones breaking? Head splitting? Tits begging for my lips? And your clitoris?” you cringe and he continues to interrogate you - a whine in his voice that tells you that perhaps his tits are also aching. You swallow and nod and there’s a beat of silence, “My darling?”

“Oh, shit,” you groan, “You can’t see me nodding. Yes. All of that. Tits and clits and every thing else. My entire life is fucked up today. What is happening?”

“I’m coming home.”

“Terzo?” you plead, but the call drops and he’s gone. Omega is gone, too. A wise choice. You would also not want to be anywhere near you. A bird sings outside the window and you wince; there’s that ice pick, again. 

You decide to make yourself gone, too.

It takes sixty-two years and a bottle of wine to make it to bed. The windows are shut and locked, the curtains are drawn tight. No sweet floral scent, no obnoxious birds and certainly no fucking sunshine will be bothering you for the foreseeable future. Your clothes and shoes are scattered across the floor, in a line from the door to bed, the only indication you’re home. You’ve made the room pitch dark and cold and frankly, it’s wonderful. You sigh in the cool silk sheets, pulling the blankets up to your chin and the matching silk eye mask down your forehead and sigh, finally finding a bit of sensory relief…

… but there’s just a little niggle. A little tickle. If you could just…

Your hand sneaks below the covers and makes a beeline for your center. Your fingertips barely graze your clit and you’re over the edge before you can even see the edge. There’s no warning, no foreplay, certainly no build up. You’re shaking and soaking the bed, instantly. This is nuts. This is some sort of pussy poltergeist. And you don’t stop. No, friend. You don’t. It feels too good and it’s happening too fast to put on the brakes. Over and over, again. Your mind is blank and your body is not your own. Your legs are tangled in the sheets. One hand rubs furiously over your clit, the other pumps three fingers in and out of your pussy like a piston. There is no rhyme or reason to your rhythm. No pattern. Just pure, unrefined, unending orgasm.

You only stop when it starts to hurt. 

Even then you have a hard time pulling away. But your legs are cramping, your toes are going to be permanently curled up and your clit feels like it fell off. And then you start to get cold. Because the bed, you lift up your eye mask and gasp, the bed is soaked. It’s hard to believe you did all this in, you glance at the clock and scream, “THREE MINUTES?” 

You roll over and grab your phone, wincing while you find Terzo’s number and nearly break your screen attempting to call him. It rings. And rings. And rings. And you realize you’re humping the bed, grinding against the palm of your hand in time with the ringing. You let out an ack! At yourself and pull your hand away. But, as Terzo’s voicemail begins, “Hello, my darling!” his voice echoes over the recording, “You have missed me and I am so very, very sorry. I shall never recover from the guilt. Please leave a message and I shall return your call as soon as possible.”

You leave Terzo a rather explicit voicemail of another one minute and forty-five seconds of screaming and shaking and squirting and then hang up while you catch your breath.

You growl as you swing your noodle-legs out of bed. You sit there for a moment wondering what the fuck you’ve gotten youtself into. You can’t recall Primo having sex-pollen peonies. You already had an aphrodisiac truce with Terzo. Secondo has absolutely nothing to do with this. And Copia is on tour. Bless your heart you’re just horny as shit.

You make your way to the bathroom - noting that every step you take makes your thighs rub together and when they rub together, they press against your clit a little and it sends little shockwaves of pleasure sparking up your spine. It does nothing for the ever-present, near-blinding headache that haunts your skull.

You fill the bathtub and add a bit of lavender - as if that’ll calm you down. You drink wine straight from the bottle and are tempted to go to the greenhouse for a bit of Primo’s kush but you don’t know if you can make it out there without humping a tree. The water is deliciously hot and swirling with oils. You sink down and sigh - there’s a bit of relief as you slide down until your chin touches the water. Sleep comes, or at least rest, the need between your legs still an aching throb, your pussy begging to be filled. You smirk because there’s a voice in your head, a whisper of a woman that’s absolutely pleading, completely burning and painfully yearning to be bred. Absolutely filled up with cum. Blasted with baby batter. Jammed with jizz. Loaded with love liquor. Fucked silly and creamed deep. 

You get it.

And while you’re thinking about all the cum you could take, you catch your hands wandering again. A little whine escapes your lips when you find your clit hard and sensitive. 

Something-something hardest battles, strongest soldiers. And then you realize that you’re missing a really important opportunity. You sit up slowly, hands shaking as you pull yourself upright. You tremble as you reach for the dial that controls the jets in the tub. Satan and his Generals, help you. Lilith bless you.

The motor whirrs to life.

The water swirls.

Gentleman, start your engines.

When Terzo stumbles into the bathroom, panting and trousers absolutely soaked with cum, cock sticking out, bouncing back and forth like a pussy radar - he can’t believe his eyes. 

The bathroom is steamed up and condensation drips down the mirror. Water is sloshing out of the tub, landing in hot puddles on the tile, soaking the rug and your bathrobe. And there you are, in your glory, hair matted and wild, humping the ever-loving hell out of the side of the tub. But god do those jets feel good. Somewhere in the haze between one orgasm and another, you realize Terzo is there, stumbling towards you, splashing into the tub.

He’s wearing a button up shirt and socks, no pants and one shoe. His cock is hot and hard and supremely, deliciously dark. You look him up and down and back up again. You’ve gone feral and all you can see is a hard dick and a man that needs as much relief as you do. He sits, chest rising and falling in a slow, desperate attempt to control him. He blinks at you, unable to speak and he doesn’t need to, “Who am I to deny you?”  you growl, pushing off the side of the tub and throwing yourself at Terzo. He catches you and it’s a mad, slippery, scramble to get him inside of you. 

And it’s very, very loud when it happens.

So loud, in fact, that Omega comes running in with a fire extinguisher only to turn on his toes and run right the fuck back out. You’re still sobbing and Terzo is crying as you fuck him. Is this fucking? Kind of. His dick is in you but you’re both so needy, so out of sync, you’re not sure if you can call this anything but sexual poking with a bit of flopping and wiggling, “I need to come in you,” Terzo growls, his hands are on your shoulders while you wobble and squirm on top of him. 

“Yeah, sure,” you nod, eyes closed in concentration. Frankly, at this moment, he could beat you with a crunchwrap supreme and you’d thank him for it, “Whatever you want.”

Terzo comes immediately. He’s jacking up into you at mach 5, nails biting into your shoulders as he holds you down. And then you feel it. And you sigh. You’re beaming. You’re absolutely sparkling with joy…

… because with every pump of Terzo’s cum in your pussy, you find relief. Sweet, sweet relief. The ache, the need, the panic - all of it is buried beneath squirt after squirt of hot cum. And, by the moans that fall out of his mouth, by the slack in his jaw and fluttering eyes and the forming grin, you suspect that Terzo is feeling the same, “What,” you breathe, staring at Terzo - bracing youself on the sides of the tub, “And I do mean the fuck is happening?”

Terzo swallows and shakes his head, letting it fall back with a clunk, “Cannot talk. Only cum.”

He cock kicks in you and you gasp, “You’re still going?”

“Still going.”

A few minutes later, Terzo’s eyes open, “Are you… dead?” you ask.

“I am… blessedly empty,” he whispers, voice hoarse. You stare at him and smile softly. Satan, you love him. You love him so much. You’re sparkling with love and joy and sweet, sweet happiness. You kiss his chin and the corners of his mouth and his nose. You kiss his cheeks and pepper the rest of the space in between. Terzo catches your chin and pulls your mouth to his; the movement is harsh but his kiss is tender. You moan against his lips and he smiles, “I am starting to wrinkle, darling.”

“You think you’re pruny?” you giggle, “I’ve been in here for hours.”

Terzo helps you out of the tub and into a towel that wasn’t soaked with your masturbation tsunami. You’re exhausted. Your legs wobble and Terzo is right behind you, just as unsteady. You turn and stare at him, blinking slowly, barely able to get your eyelids back up. You watch Terzo struggle to peel off his wet clothes, cock already hard again. Your eyes wander up his now bare body; he sits on the edge of the tub, hands on his knees, staring at the floor, “I need to fuck, again,” he says and it’s borderline sad, “I am so tired.”

“What’s happening, Terzo?” you ask, too exhausted to go to him, let alone offer any comfort. Already, your head hurts and your pussy throbs and fuck, your tits are begging for Terzo’s mouth, again. You need to fuck too and you shudder at the thought. An entire fuckfest plays out in your mind and Terzo snaps at you to bring you back to the present - you swallow your drool and blink at him, “Please explain before I come, again.”

Terzo rubs his face but he smiles, “We are in heat, my darling. That we come into heat at the same time? That you have come into heat at all? It is very auspicious, you understand? We are mates, cara mia. Fiamma gemelle,” he gazes up at you, eyes sparkling, “Twin flames. We shall be written about in the history books. They will sing ballads of our love!”

You stare at Terzo, rubbing your thighs together - deliciously slick, your clit screams in thanks because anything, at this point, is better than nothing, “That’s really great. I mean, as you can tell,” you nod, your hands are shaking, again. Everything is shaking. If it isn’t shaking, it’s cramping. If it’s not cramping, it’s throbbing, “As you can tell, I am over the moon and what I’d like to do to celebrate is fuck -,” Terzo’s mouth is on you, hot and hard, lips crushing yours, tongue wild. His hands smoosh your face against his, his hips grind against yours, “This, yes,” you manage to say against his mouth.

Terzo paws at you, pulling the towel away from your body and over his shoulder. You lift yourself up onto the counter, spreading yourself wide and waiting as patiently as you can. You daren’t touch yourself, Satan help you - you shake and quake and try not to cry in frustration when Terzo kneels down until he’s face to face with your pussy, “I need dick,” you say through gritted teeth. Terzo ignores you. Well, for the most part. You get a you’ll-get-your-dick look that lasts for half a second and then his eyes are at your core once more. You prepare yourself for his tongue - mind wandering, things aching; that’s all par for the course at this point in your day. You prepare for orgasm-after-orgasm to obliterate your senses and force you and Terzo back into the tub. What you don’t expect (but provides the same sort of body crushing, cataclysmic orgasm) is Terzo taking you by the hips, inhaling a loud, deep breath and slamming his face into your pussy like an Olympic champion watermelon eater. 

God help you. 

That’s right, friend, we’re praying to God now. 

Terzo rubs his face up and down and around your pussy. His face is absolutely covered, shining with your slick and his cum that’s (still) leaking out of you. He presses your thighs apart and pushes harder, little, muffled moans escaping his lips. You lean back, balancing yourself on one hand. The other sits on Terzo’s head - not really guiding him, cause he doesn’t need guidance. Whatever the fuck he’s doing is working just fine; his nose, his chin, forehead and prickly stubble all work seamlessly to provide you with a slow, rolling, ever-present orgasm. 

When Terzo finally pulls away, he’s beaming - eyes shining with love and joy and lust (obvi), he slides those mismatched eyes up to meet yours, “She needs something to… grip.”

“Ew,” you snort, “She doesn’t want to grip,” you start and Terzo’s raises a skeptical eyebrow, “Okay, yes. You’re not wrong. She mostly just wants cum. I think. Fuck,” you moan, your hand sliding down to your pussy, “Your cum feels so good in me. Makes all the,” you swallow and wave your hand in the air, “makes all the hurt go away.”

Terzo stands, knees cracking and he groans, “Now who is talking ew, hm? Give me your cum, I need your cum,” he grins and for a moment he stands there, staring at you, that silly smirk on his face. His fingers light over your knees and his hands slide up your thighs, eyes never leaving yours. He pulls you towards him, “You want more of that?” he asks and you hum an affirmative, nodding eagerly, “You me to make you feel better?” he moans, sliding the head of his cock up and down the length of you, teasing your ass and your pussy and your clit and you can only bite your lip and stare up at him; he’s just as sore and tired and impatient as you. And the poor man is leaking cum near constant now, you’re getting what you want, one way or another.

Terzo finally sinks into you and both of you let our heads fall back, groaning in unison; yours thunks against the mirror behind you. You manage to mumble out a warbled, “Thank you,” before you succumb once more. Just as you’re about to slip under, Terzo pulls out and you can only let out what you’d describe as some sort of raging, animalistic how, “Stick it back in, jackwagon!” you screech and Terzo cackles in response, kissing you quickly, muffling your cries of disdain. He hoists you up and you wrap your arms around his neck, your legs around his hips, “Put it back in. Please, please, please put it back in there.”

You’re deposited, rather abruptly and unceremoniously, onto the bed. You’re once more blinking up at Terzo, waiting, and all of the sudden your patience wanes - the heat is coursing through your body at full strength once more and with relief so close, it cranks up to a maddening level, “Terzo if you don’t stop staring and start fucking I am going to die. I mean it. I swear to Satan, I’m gonna fucking die - oh, goddammit!” Terzo runs the back of his fingers over your clit and you’re squirting, coating his tummy. Your eyes are wide and your mouth hangs open, scarcely  able to comprehend that your husband is barely touching you and you’re gushing.

Finally he pulls away and you flop down with an exhale, “That is impressive, my darling.”

“This is how we die.”

Terzo fucks into you hard and fast.

You squawk, unprepared and delightfully undone; you grip the sheets, propped up on your elbows, toes curled and hanging on for dear-fucking-life. Terzo says nothing, breath hissing through gritted teeth while he jackhammers into you; balls slapping against your ass, sweat running down his temples. Your chin is pressed against your chest, your own jaw clenched. It’s silent save for the sound of your bodies coming together. It’s wet and hot and frankly, pornographic. There’s nothing romantic about this. Terzo has both of your feet in his hands, spreading your legs apart, his eyes are closed and there’s no crooning Italian praises. It’s pure and simple, not from concentrate sex.

And it just feels so fucking good.

The next morning you’re sitting at the brunch table. Terzo pours you a bit more coffee and kisses your cheek, you give him a contented hum, “You look like a goddess,” he nuzzles against your temple, pressing a kiss to your hairline. 

You’ve had more cum than you can ever handle; in your ass and your mouth and your pussy. You’ve had a few hours of rest and finally, you sigh, that headache is starting to go away. You and Terzo wear your robes, you sit, staring out at the garden with a mimosa in your hand, “Good morning, freaks,” Omega appears with a box of donuts.

You smile up at him but Terzo harrumphs, folding his arms and refusing to look at Omega. Omega stares at Terzo and then slides his narrowed eyes over to yours, “What’s his problem?”

“He’s mad at you, Omega,” you hand the big ghoul his own mimosa and take the donuts, opening the box and finding a vanilla-blueberry beauty.

Omega puts his hand on his chest and scoffs in surprise, “What did I do?”

Terzo rolls his eyes and you snort, “He’s pouting,” you say, taking a bite of the donut, “He’s so angry, Omega,” you tease.

“Why?” Omega whines, “I didn’t do anything!”

Terzo finally breaks, “You make her come! You give her back rub and you make her come,” Terzo wails. Omega panics and you smirk. Terzon continues, “You never make me come with a back rub. Why? Why you no do this for me? Is not fair.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Omega growls and you giggle, “She just… she need some quintessence. And I was there!”

“I am old,” Terzo argues, “My back hurts all the time! You never make me come.”

You stand up, that now familiar ache returning. You turn and head back inside, untying your robe and letting it fall to the floor. The ghoul and the Papa are silenced, you’re not wearing anything underneath, “Listen. We can fight over back rub orgasms or we can all go to the bedroom and have a back rub orgasm. Your choice.”

There is a mad shuffling and Terzo and Omega get wedged in the doorway. You and your donut make your way to the bed, flopping onto the fresh sheets with a happy sigh. Terzo comes sailing in with a giggle, landing beside you. Omega is next, on top of Terzo, already tearing at his robe. You smile and fall backwards, staring at the ceiling. 

"I know, I know," you set the basket down on your own workbench and try to ignore the sound of Mountain's footsteps, that too long stride approaching. You continue to ignore him as he kisses Primo's cheek and pulls the first Papa in for a tight hug. You do your best to not listen to that soft, deep, velvety voice talking to your Papa, regaling him with adventures from the road. The road he left you for. The glory and fame he left you for.

Silence falls and it's louder than the angry, little heart pounding in your chest, your blood - filled with white-hot rage - nearly deafens you as it surges through your veins, "I'm going to find some sangria," Primo laughs, shaking his head. He pats your shoulders, leaning in close, "Try not to kill him, dear. It will make a terrible mess."

You harrumph but neither confirm nor deny your plans for Mountain. You'd like to suck his soul out of his cock. You'd also like to kill him. Such is life though, the ups and downs. Primo leaves, shuffling through his emerald kingdom before slipping out the door, the little bells on the old, iron handle singing their goodbyes to their old, handsome Papa.

You continue to ignore the ghoul behind you. You can feel his eyes boring into your back, the tension rising with each breath you take; you do your best to keep your temper under control. Your hands shake and your lip twitches. You're sure you're sporting a Secondo-esque vein popping out on your forehead.

Mountain exhales and it's tinged with a groan of annoyance. You don’t even let him start, "You know what?" you turn, pointing your trowel at him, "I was doing fine. Really, and then. You waltz back in like you didn’t break my heart."

"I didn't mean," Mountain starts and you hold up your hand, silencing him. He blessedly obeys, folding his arms and shutting his mouth.

"You," you're voice warbles with emotion and it doesn't help anything at all, your spillways are threatening to break any second and then you’ll both be in trouble, "you're the one who said no attachments."

"I didn't think I'd get attached. I didn't think you would get attached," Mountain says, dropping his gaze, rolling the toe of his shoe on the floor, “I didn’t realize how I attached I was. I’ve never-,” he tries to explain but you cut him off again.

"No attachments?" you laugh, "You call all of that no attachments? That was just... just casual?"

"Baby, I -," Mountain starts and you silence him once more, poking him in the chest, glaring up at him. Damn him for being so tall and damn him for being so hot. Damn him for making you fall in love with him and damn him for leaving. And dammit all, damn him for coming back!

"Don't even think about calling me baby, you ass," you snarl, "All of those months, a whole year, tell me please," you hiss, "Tell me one more time how casual it was. Because it didn't feel casual when you fucked me in front of everyone on the altar. It didn't feel casual with you on your knees in front of me, mouth on me like," you lose your breath for a second, your cheeks turning red at the thought. Memories flood back, whether you like them to or not, and it's more than your eyes getting wet now, "It wasn't casual when my things were in your room. And it wasn't casual when I said I loved you. You said you loved me," you sniffle, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand, "Mountain, fuck you. Fuck you for putting me on your arm and parading me around and making me think," your breath catches in your throat and you turn back to your herbs, throwing the trowel against the wall. You put your hands flat on the table and hang your head, crying quietly, "You know what? I don’t care. Just leave me alone."

It's quiet for a long time. You stand there crying, watching your tears make big splotches on the old, wooden table you're hunched over. Mountain standing behind you, still staring. He’s still for a long time and when he finally does move, you're awash with relief to know he's finally going. And then you feel him, right up against you, "If that was casual then I want to be casual with you for the rest of my life."

You shake your head, "No, I'm not falling for that."

"Turn around and look at me," Mountain says.

"You left," You obey, facing him, working up a glare that has even this old ghoul recoiling a bit, "You broke my heart."

"And it was and will continue to be the greatest mistake of my life and I am so, so sorry."

You blink up at Mountain, brow knit in confusion while your brain buffers. This is not how this conversation was going to go. You were going to tell him to fuck off at best. At worst he was leaving this greenhouse with a trowel in his temple. But no - you had not imagined it going this way. You had not even allowed yourself to fantasize the idea of Mountain coming back to you after all this time away. Your anger comes back in full force, "Not a fat chance in heaven," you shake your head, "You don't get to dump me like that, skip off on tour, fuck every Sibling that looks cross-eyed at you for months on end and then just come home and expect me to lay down and put out for you. No way. Not a chance."

Mountain stares at you, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards, "You're so goddamn stubborn."

"And you're an asshole. We're even," you narrow your eyes at him, "Stop smiling like that. It makes me wanna deck you."

"I didn't fuck anybody."

You're buffering, again. Ghouls don't lie. They're not incapable of it, they just don't have the fear and self-preservation and general shitty, human emotions twisted up in their hearts like we do. But this is a whole blue screen moment, "I don't believe you."

Mountain shrugs, "Still the truth."

You're standing there, slow blinking up at Mountain with your mouth hanging open. You shake your head, "Why?"

Mountain shrugs, again, "I didn't want anybody else."

"You didn't even call."

"You blocked my number,” he says, matter-of-factly. Cause it is a fact. He continues, “And then you blocked Dew's. And then you blocked everyone else's, too," he smirks. You look away and Mountain catches your chin with those long fingers you missed so much, pulling your gaze back to his, "I'm sorry," he takes your hand and presses it to his heart and your breath catches in your throat, "I'm sorry," he says again and you bring your eyes up to meet his and you see that those lovely, emerald and bronze eyes are shining with tears. This time, "I'm sorry,” his voice is the one shaking now, “And I will do anything to earn your forgiveness. Anything. Please, please forgive me.”

This time you believe him and you stare up at your ghoul, every inch of you wants him. You squeeze your thighs together, begging your body to calm down for just a few more minutes, “you left me, Mountain,” you whisper.

“Never again,” he says, cupping your cheeks, “Never.”

"You promise?" you look up at him, your hands on his wrists, tears spilling over, again.

Mountain nods, "I promise."

You throw you arms around Mountain's neck and he lifts you off the ground, feet dangling as he kisses you, "This goes against all of my morals, standards and general plan to never speak to you, again. Just so you know. I’ve thrown my scruples to the wind.”

Mountain kneels and brings you with him, laying you flat on the warm, hard floor, "that’s okay. You don't have to speak at all for this," he pulls off his mask and tosses it to the side, metal clanging on the cement. Your heart pounds in your chest and though the last few pangs of hurt and anger pulse through your veins, they are wholly overpowered by the ever present and frustratingly powerful need to be with Mountain. He pushes himself up onto his knees and you take his remark as an order and obey; keeping quiet, gazing at your ghoul. He pushes your dress up - big, hot hands sliding up your thighs, spreading them wide. His eyes flick up to yours to find you're not wearing underwear and you grin, a blush creeping along your chest. Still, you bite your lip and keep quiet.

Mountain has to hunch, curling over, as he wraps his arms around your waist and brings your center to his mouth. Your hands tangle in the mess of long, dark curls. He moans, mouth locking onto you, tongue rolling through the lines of your flesh, circling the tender entrance and teasing your throbbing clit, "M-Mount -," you start to whine, hips bucking, entire body aching for that first release after months of being absent his touch. His hand snakes up your chest, pauses to paw at you for a moment before cupping your jaw, his thumb against your lip, tracing the bow and curve until you open, sucking his finger into your mouth. He groans and the vibration sends waves of white-hot pleasure radiating through your body. You arch, Mountain pulling you up a bit, until you're looking behind you, stretched out, gasping for breath, orgasm after orgasm rolling through you. It's hard to see, let alone think and it takes a moment to realize you're staring at the perfect, onyx and ruby hem of Papa Emeritus the First's chasuble.

You flatten yourself out a bit, eyes sliding up to meet Primo's. He's standing there, hands on his hips, long-suffering look plastered on his painted face, unimpressed eyebrow arched high, "You didn't even invite me," he huffs. Mountain coughs, choking on spit and slick and surprise.

"Papa - what the fu-," he starts and, still coughing, grins up at Primo - surprise fading to devious smile, "There's always room for you."

"I am too old for floor fucking," Primo steps over you, "I just came to finish up with my flowers," he disappears down the long line of overgrown tropicals and vines, "Don't mind me," he calls, "Carry on, little lovers."

You smile at Mountain, his hands find your hips and he grinds your hot, wet center against his hard, tented pants, "Hardly casual," he groans, breath catching as you slick his trousers and slide against the outline of his cock.

"Oh, well if it is just casual," you lean up to kiss him and then take the ghoul by the horns, pushing him back down, "Baby, get me off, again," you exhale. Mountain smirks at you but doesn't argue, raising an eyebrow as he licks you from bottom to top, eyes flashing with lust.

There had been warnings; readings and portents, dreams and prophecies and then a crimson clad Cardinal to deliver the news. And Secondo had been content with his fate, a cyclical death that brought forth a new era of prosperity for his church, for his flock. Glory be to Satan, the martyrdom for that glory a glowing, worthy cause. It was  sacrifice he was willing to make. Life’s greatest adventure laid out before him on the blade. 

Until he had met you. Satan help him, his entire existence had been turned over and shaken like when you’d walked into life. Oh, damn you, you’d smiled and it had scared him how willing he’d been to give it all up. But this miserable ending was unavoidable. The heartbreak and the blood and pain and misery… this culling was destiny. He had no choice in the matter. And neither did you. And he saw you, over and over, smiling away the fear, laughing off his warnings. And perhaps that was for the best. Perhaps he should have ignored the impending death, perhaps he should have smiled more and worked less and…

All of that was too late now.

While Secondo had done his best to assure you that he and his brothers would return, you were beginning to doubt it. As sure he was of his death, he was just as sure of his resurrection; attempting to convince you over and over that he would be back but, let’s be real here - nobody comes back from the dead. Nobody comes back from that. The image of him will forever haunt you - whether he comes back or not, there will be no forgetting that. It had been brutal; wuick though it was it was not clean. There had been so much blood. The floor is still stained, beneath the bright, new rug in his office. His blood had seeped out around him like a crimson halo, soaking into the floors, making the already dark wood even darker. It was a constant shadow of his death, there in the doorway - rug or not, you knew it was there.

“Aren’t you afraid?” you had asked, rolling over to whisper in the middle of a sleepless night.

Secondo had smiled at you, “No, my darling.”

“Not at all?”

“My entire life has been a storm,” Secondo had whispered, his heart aching when your brow had furrowed, “Why should I fear the hurricane?” he had cupped your cheek, your hand come up to keep it there, kissing his palm, “you have been my only solace, my only shelter.”

And you’d cleaned his body before the burial. Done your best to mend his throat, thread and needle tugging at his cold, gray flesh. No. No, there was no resurrecting this empty, shell of a body. He was not coming back, “I will be with you,” he had said, smiling, eyes shining, “I will be with you in your dreams and in the shadows. You need not have to look for me, il mio tesoro. La mia grande gioia.”

Secondo had watched you. Oh, cruel Morningstar - he’d watched you. He could almost feel the peirce of the needle and the tug of the thread through the gash across his throat. He had died, there in the doorway, his life blood pumping out of him until his heart finally gave in. He died gasping for air with blood gurgling in his throat; drowning as he stared up at the ceiling with naught an ounce of energy to move. 

Your tears fall onto the open wound, soaking into the stiffening tendons and muscles. Oh, his sweet love. He wishes you would not fuss over him - not like this. There was a time, not long ago, that you had kissed that spot - your smile whispering against his skin. He had been alive and whole and you had been in his arms, “I am yours,” you had whispered against his pulsepoint, “And you are mine,” your lovely eyes had met his and he knew it to be his gospel. And he knew then, staring down at you - memorizing each sweet, soft line of you - that no death could keep him from you, no grave could hold his body down. He will dig and claw and fight his way back to you. 

Now, he watched you. Your head on his chest, your hand wrapped around his - even in death yours fit so perfectly with his. You finally stilled and he wasn’t sure if it was hours or years. Finally, Omega had come to collect you; Secondo’s body no longer held the warmth you already so badly craved and he had started to stiffen, “I don’t want to leave him,” you had whispered, your cheek still pressed against his silent heart.

“He won’t be alone,” Omega had reassured you, helping you to your feet, “I’ll come back. I’ll stay with him.”

“Let me say goodbye,” your breath had hitched and you pressed the back of your hand to your mouth, a fresh round of tears stinging your raw cheeks, “Let me say goodnight.” Omega nodded but didn’t move away as you turned back to Secondo. You pressed a kiss to his forehead and then one more, one final time, to his lips, “I love you,” you sob, “I am in love with you. And I am so angry,” you cried, “Oh, I hate you,” you sobbed against his lips, your hands on his shoulders. Your voice is a whisper now, pitched and uncontrollable, “Please come back.”

Neither you or his beloved ghoul had heard him screaming. No one heard him screaming and cursing and sobbing as you said goodbye to him and left him there, in the dark crypts. Alone.

No amount of preparation could have helped you to manage the life-altering shock of losing Secondo. It was a sick sort of feeling to know your entire world was dependent on the existence of one man. 

You had scoffed and bragged and rolled your eyes - you weren’t a woman that relied so heavily on a male that you’d crumble and fall like Rome without her Caesar. You had assured yourself you could be strong. That you would be fine. That had been a lie and the empire had crumbled almost immediately. Though Omega had kept you far from Secondo’s death, shielded you from the savagery of it; though you had not seen it, the shock of it was no less. The blood, his body. No amount of praying or meditation or screaming into the abyss, no amount of clawing at the earth, the dirt of his grave blacking your fingernails could prepare you for the hollow ache that had embedded itself in your chest. No ritual brought him back - no ghoulish hands thrust from graves, no ghosts or visions or visits. You could curse Copia and Imperator. You could hate the Morningstar and blaspheme as much as your body would allow. It made no difference. Secondo was dead.

It was just you and your grief. 

It had been a late, cold, moonless night when you and your grief had gone walking; too much wine and not enough sleep muddled your mind and hazed your thoughts. The dew was icy on your feet, catching the hem of your gown and your robe, weighing down the silk. You had paused and looked up at the velvety sky and… you had laughed. Confusion mixed with anger and sadness and that great, hollow darkness that had taken root in your heart. Tears streamed down your face while you cackled at the heavens, “I am the ghost. I am the specter. I’m your stupid, fucking zombie queen,” you were surprised to find white hot rage swirling in your veins, sitting on top of the aching grief, like hot oil spinning on water, “Fuck you, Secondo. Fuck you for leaving me here,” the sky was silent, stars twinkling while nightbirds called. Primo’s moon gardens throwing scent from the pearlescent petals around you. You received no response but peace. And then, for the first time since his death, the tears refused to fall - the fury in your belly burning them up before they could even brew. You sobbed, dry and hard, falling to your knees, begging him to come home, gasping for breath. 

In the silence, when you had finally quieted, not for the first or last time that night, still staring up at the night sky, even the stars seemed to have faded to near nothing, “Come back to me, my love,” you shivered, the cold catching up to you, the morning starting to turn the dark sky gray,  exhaustion making your bones heavy and your head aching, “Come home. I am so… alone. There is no one here anymore…” you turned back to face the abbey, still dark, Siblings and Ghouls still tucked safely away, not a care in the world. They had all moved on so quickly. And when you walked the halls - when they were full and bright and warm and happy to everyone else -  it felt just the same as the cold, empty, lawn did now.

The Siblings and ghouls stared and whispered and gave you a wide berth - stepping around you as if you were a snake in the grass: be careful, don’t get too close - you might get your throat slit, too. Omega could not look at you. Alpha had gone to the crypts weeks ago and had not been seen since. No one would meet your eyes, no one dared speak your name. You were no longer a Prime Mover, no longer his wife. But you weren’t a Sibling. You weren’t even sure if you were there, anymore. You were unknown to them now - a ghost without a purpose or a title, no body or form, no tether to this place. The only person who had known you, known your heart and soul and thoughts; memorized every inch of you. The only one understood you. He is gone now. Every new dawn, every new day is another reminder: He is gone. And he is not coming back.

You pass through the halls of the church like a ghost; your chest just as dark and cold and empty as you’d imagine the Secondo’s to be. Your grief goes unnoticed, your pain goes unchecked and you are forgotten. Even Papa does not visit. 

You are alone and you are unknown.

If only you could feel him. If only you knew how he had kept his promises. How he trails behind you - achingly invisible - his presence so painfully unknown it is a torture he had not expected. He worships every step you wander, curses every tear that stains your skin. He thought it would be different - that the pain would be far less, that the grief would be quelled at the knowledge of his return. He had not expected his rest to be so… restless.  And he had not expected you to be so broken. And he hated himself for that. That he thought you could cope, alone, after all of that. 

There had been so much blood. 

Time was nothing in his state - but your days, your nights and mornings, they are eternities to him. It is a misery unlike any he has ever known and he had not prepared for it. He had brief moments of peace - where he became too weak to chase you. Moments when he heard his brother’s voices in the distance, reassuring him as he had tried - again and unsuccessfully - to reach you, that nothing ever lasts forever. Each time you cried, each sob that wracked your body - it was a torturous eternity to him. And yet, if he was asked to go back, to do it all again, even if he knew this torment that waited for him… he would say yes.

The days drag on - Secondo would not be impressed with your melancholy and he be even less impressed with your lack of spirit. Every morning you wake in pain, your grief turning physical with an ache in your chest and stiff joints and nausea rolling through you in debilitating waves. The excessive alcohol consumption and diet of mediocre cheese and crackers doesn’t help, either. Once the storm calms - though it never passes - you dress and make your way out to the gardens. They’re empty now, too. As silent as the halls. Mountain is there and a few quiet ghouls - tending to the fauna and flora that Primo left behind. Sometimes, when it rains, they remind you to come inside - guiding you through the doors with a smile and soft words dripping with pity. Sometimes Mountain will bring tea or a lovely, fresh picked blossom. Otherwise, they do well to give you your space as you wander. If you can stand the noise, you’ll go to the chapel. Rarely is it empty - hardly ever is it quiet enough to find solace. There is no peace for you here - the entire abbey is filled with memories, no matter where you go. But you won’t leave. He’s here, still. Down in the crypts, hidden in the dark and musk and misery. It’s no place for any of them. 

But the chapel… by some small miracle, the chapel is quiet today. 

There you light three candles and sit in the first pew on the left. And you beg. And you beg and beg and beg. Let him come home. Please, please, please.

Secondo is there, kneeling in front of you, his head on your lap, curved over your knees, “I am here,” he whimpers, “I am home. I am right here,” why can’t you see him? What karma is this? Why can’t you feel or hear or smell him? Anyting at all? Just know that he is here!

You stay there until the sun has set and everyone else is in the great hall; dinner is served and you muster up enough strength to track down another bottle of wine, something to numb the hunger pains and go back to your room. To bed. Alone. 

Satan, if he could take your pain away. Each time the sun rises, panic burns in his chest - you will wake soon. During the night, he is granted some small mercies - you look most like you when you sleep. Your frown is less, your face soft like he remembers. It seems like a lifetime ago, him marveling at you while you slept next to him. Wondering how someone so sweet - too sweet - had taken his heart like you had. Wondering how you slept so well when there was someone so in love with you, yearning for you, just inches away. But, the morning will come. Morning will come and you will wake and for a moment you are almost you again and there is a moment of cool relief that coats his chest. You will open your eyes, blinking slow. You’ll stare at the ceiling and then you will gasp - hands shaking, pressed against your chest. And then the tears will come, great, wheezing sobs as you sit up; trembling, struggling to catch your breath as the great, unbearable weight of your reality sets in. He is there, on his knees in front of you once more, begging you to feel him. Always begging. You don’t ever react. You can’t. You’ll move through him, passing through his spectral body, as you run for the bathroom - the wine from last night is the only thing that comes forth as you crumple in front of the toilet. 

A greater man wouldn’t beg. But how he begs. How he grovels and pleas and cries to whoever will listen, he doesn’t care anymore - how Secondo begs to let him come back. To save you from this. How, after all that he has given, is this peace? How is it fair? To watch you suffer? To watch you struggle and not even be able to touch you? How can he ease your pain when you do not even know he is there? Let his church crumble. He does not want the fame or the money. Take back the glory. Let his Siblings go on without him. Let him be just Secondo and no other. But let him be yours and let you be healed.

Tonight, you think, will be no different than all the rest. You groan as you slide into the cold bed; the dry, dark wine still bitter on your tongue as you sigh, settling into the pillow. The bottle, a few medicinal sips left, waits patiently on the nightstand. You turn, rolling over to face the empty side of the bed. It seems vast now. There is no one to pull you close. No one to nuzzle into your cheek. There are no stories. No sharing of joys or hardships. There is no ease of burden. Their is no laughing. No sex and no love. Nothing but the great, wide open of his absence. His pillow is there. Empty and cold. You rest your hand where his heart would have been, where you slept - warm and safe - for years. You often turned away from him during the night - you slept well and he tossed and turned but he would always, without fail, pull you back to him. 

In a pathetic display of hope, you turn away. Rolling onto your side and begging him to wrap his arms around you. Begging him to pull your body against his. You’d taken for granted his sleeplessness, when he’d put his chin on your shoulder and ask if you were awake - effectively waking you up. You’d roll over and smile, eyes heavy with sleep, “For you, I am always here. I’ll always be here.” 

Your hand would have been on his chest, over his heart, if he was there. He would have let you roll away, taking in the curves of your body, watching the rise and fall of your slow, even breaths as you slept. Your nightgown would twist tight around you and he would be hard and shaking and so miserable without he’d have to wake you up. Secondo gazes at you now, sitting on the bed next to you, arms on either side of your body, taking in every shred of you - you seem so small now, so broken and he hates himself even more. If he would have never laid eyes on you, if he would have never fallen in love - instantly - you would not be here. He leans down to kiss you and you turn over, your lips passing over his without so much as a whisper of a feeling, “Dream of me,” he whispers, “Come to me there. I’m here,” his voice breaks and his shoulders shake, “I am here,” he weeps over you, tears disappearing before they land. 

Over and over he pleads, begging you to come to him in your dreams. He knows that if he could only speak with you, if you could hear just a whisper of him, you would heal. You are not yourself and the inhabitants of the abbey recognize it and it frightens them. And if he could just get to you, for a moment, it would fix things. You are alone, in your grief. Alone in your pain. You are unrecognizable. You are unknown to them and almost to him now. And it is a fiery shame that they needed him to see you. And it is a selfish relief that another has not tried to take his place.

When you wake, you’re sitting on the throne, in the chapel. The pews are empty, the room dark. The great, gold, gilt chair you sit in is massive, the two on either side of it just as ornate. There was never a fourth throne built. 

Secondo sat here once. So did his brothers. Copia, too, takes his rightful place but it is seldom; you aren’t the only one who suffers - grief and guilt does not discriminate. Moonlight streams through the tall windows behind you, illuminating the empty room; the colors of the stained glass muted and dull. The stone floor and walls offer little warmth. Without the Siblings and the ghouls and the congregants, it is cold and lonely. But what isn’t these days?

You don’t remember falling asleep here, don’t remember visiting the chapel after going ot bed. But, you sigh, you did have a bit more wine than usual. Stumbling drunk about the abbey, cursing Secondo’s name, in the early hours of the morning is not above you these days. You try to stand and groan - you’re drunker than you thought and you make a mental note to lay off the sauce for a few days. You can barely move, barely get yourself out of the ridiculous chair. You try to hoist yourself up once more.

And then you panic. 

Because you can’t move. Your arms lay on the gold rests, your hands grip the dragon heads that have been carved into the dark wood. Your bottom remains seated firmly on the cushy, velvet seat. You conk your head on the gold backrest, yelping a bit but you can’t even offer yourself the relief of rubbing the sore spot. 

You are stuck.

“This is a dream,” you mumble, frustrated. Invisible bindings keep you rooted and still. You close your eyes and try not to panic, “Wake up, wake up, wake up,” you chant through gritted teeth, “Please, wake up.”

“Sei finalmente qui,” his voice is jarring and despite every nerve in your body turned to fire, you still cannot move. The scream of panic in your throat is stifled by sheer shock, “sei finalmente qui,” he says, again and you let out a sob. You cry, trying to fight whatever invisible force keeps you pinned to the bed. Bile rises in your throat. Fear and panic and pain bubble up until you’re panting and squirming and trying to free yourself from whatever ties that bind you to the Emeritus throne. You don’t know why you’re scared. Don’t know why you’re panicking. You haven’t heard Secondo’s voice in months and now? You can’t even control the hysteria you feel in your core. Cold sweat chills on your spine and you can’t catch your breath. You fight against whatever holds you, to no avail. 

And then you freeze, tears streaming down your face; you turn to stone. A warm hand on your arm stills you. He kneels in front of you - his movements are slow and careful. Secondo is there. He is right there. You stare at him blinking furiously, “This is a dream?” you ask and though you already know the answer, he nods, “You have not come back?” you ask and he shakes his head. This is not real. And yet, here he is. Appearing very much not dead. Smiling up at you. Well, smiling as best as Secondo knows how. Tears slide down your face, dripping off your chin, splatting on the silk of your nightgown. Grief and annoyance and anger and pain bubble up hot in your chest and sit tight in your throat. You sob,  “Where have you been!?”

“I have missed you.”

Secondo sits down at your feet, gazing up at you. You shake your head in confusion, “Where have you been?”

“I have been here,” he says, as calmly as if he’s just been at the coffeeshop down the street, “I have been here, with you.”

You start and then silence yourself, weeping quietly while you stare at him. He doesn’t look any different, there is no wound on his neck - not even a scar. He reaches up and dries your tears, catching them as they fall, with the backs of his fingers. You find it unbearably unfair that he gets to touch you and you can barely lean into him, “Where have you been?” you ask again and the corner of his mouth tugs up, “You said you would come home. Where have you been?”

He nods, “I did. And I am sorry it has taken so long.”

“You’re very late.”

“I am.”

Secondo dries your tears and waits for you to calm yourself. His own eyes shine and his cheeks are wet, his lip trembles. You sniffle, “You are never late.”

Secondo sobs out a laugh and you smile, too, “No, I have never been late a day in my life.”

“It’s the afterlife though. You’re dead,” you gaze at him, vision blurring until the tears spill over again, there’s no controlling anything now, “So, I suppose you’ve been granted - or punished - with eternal tardiness.”

Secondo gazes up at you and, much like the day  he met you and the day he wed you and many, many days in between and after and until the moment of his death, he can do nothing but smile. Perhaps it is the rules of this plane, this dream world, but there is no more pain in your eyes. Your smile shines despite the tears. He is awash with relief - finally; even if you can’t touch him. He can see you, again. You are almost you again. You are gaunt and pale but, you are his once more. He can’t believe he ever thought any different. 

And he tells himself once more, a self inflicted punishment: if he would have never loved you, you would not be in this pain. If he would not have been so greedy for you, so selfish, you would not know this heartache. Ah, but by Satan… if he would have worshipped you sooner? So much more time he could have had with you! That is the true curse. Not that he took was he could but that he could not take more. 

“Secondo?” you call him back to you, “Secondo?” you repeat and he blinks quickly, returning to reality - if you can call it that, “What are you wearing?” you ask, arching an eyebrow at the black swaths of linen, draped over and across and around him like a greek god. The fabric comes up around one shoulder, leaving his broad, strong chest exposed. You curse Jesus, Satan and all the gods for putting him in that outfit, that big, strong, broad chest with all that hair hanging out and then taking away your ability to touch it, “is it… Secondo, are you wearing a toga?”

“It is what I was given.”

“Well,” you clear your throat, “If you don’t kiss me. In your toga. I think I’ll probably die, too” Secondo gives you a long, suffering look and you smirk, “Too soon?”

“For kissing? Never.”

Secondo sits up on his knees and presses his lips to yours - hesitant and soft. You whine, willing your body, trying to muster the strength to fight against the ties that bind you, “I want to touch you. Why can’t I touch you?”

“You drink too much wine,” Secondo says, “You do not eat well. You do not take care of yourself,” you furrow your brow, certainly not enjoying getting called out on any plane of existence, “You are barely living there, how do you expect to be alive here?”

“Your point? You get a toga and get to touch and I get… lifestyle suggestions? Where’s my toga?” you ask, Secondo’s lips on your neck, nuzzling up under your chin.

“You’re not dead.”

You whine, “Why can’t I touch you?”

Secondo sits back on his knees and know it’s a dream because he’s not complaining about the aches in his joints from kneeling on the stone floors. His eyes flash and a now unfamiliar heat blooms in your belly, he leans forward so slowly you don’t know if he’s moving at all, “You cannot move,” Secondo’s lips brush against yours. His eyes meet yours and you suck in a breath, “But I can.”

Secondo stands and you whine - gazing up at him. He reaches up to his shoulder and tugs on the cloth that covers him - it falls to the floor and in an instant, he is covered, again. He looks down at his chest and back to you. He tugs at the fabric, again and you do your best to suppress a laugh; instead you only snort and it’s followed by a cackle. Over and over, again he rips at the linen and as fast as it falls, it reappears. You’re laughing and it’s a sound that’s foreign to you now. Rare and raw and a delight. You giggle, tears of grief turning to tears of laughter as Secondo’s toga reappears once more, “Secondo,” you giggle.

“You think this is funny?” he asks, mouth twitching upwards, “You laugh at this?” 

“A little, my love. It seems that I can’t touch you and you can’t get your cock out. I feel a little less cheated,” you smile as he tugs it off once more - only offering you a mouthwatering moment of his body before he is covered once more. He tries once more and you snort, “Eternal tardiness and everlasting celibacy. This is a new road for my Papa. I don’t know if I can say you’re being rewarded in the afterlife.”

Secondo gives up, returning to his knees, leaning forward until he is a breath away, eyes blazing into yours, “It is good to see you smile.”

“It’s good to see you,” you whisper, still unable to do anything but grin at him. 

“You have not been yourself.”

“No, I haven’t,” you sigh, staring at his lips, his mouth; your own waters and you swallow, eyes flicking back up his, “I missed you,” you whisper.

“I will come home. Soon.”

You search his face for a shred of a lie and you find none, “When?”

“I do not know,” his lips brushing against yours, following an old, favorite path of his - along your jawline and down to your pulsepoint. You sigh, leaning back in the chair, Secondo follows. You do not suppress the moan that escapes your lips; though you cannot move, you can feel his touch lighting fires in every nerve and cord of flesh, “Soon. I can feel it. My brothers can feel it.”

“I miss you.”

Secondo lifts his head and you gaze down at him, the lust that sparkles in his eyes grows dark with sadness, “You know now, that I am near. That I have always been near. As soon as I crossed - I flew to you. Like moth to a flame. Straight to you.”

You swallow, your heart barreling through your chest and Secondo leans in to kiss you, again - sweet and slow and tender and your heart sings, “God, I wish I could touch you,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to his.

“Ah, sweet darling,” he smirks, “You have forgotten already. I can touch you and I do not need to be naked to do so.”

Secondo sinks down, sitting at your feet and you narrow your eyes, “I don’t need that.”

He cocks his eyebrow, reading you like a book, “Liar,” he smirks and you don’t argue. He takes your foot in his hands and lifts it to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to the arch of it. He kisses your ankle and up your calf. He pushes your nightdress up your thighs and you suck in a breath.

“Secondo,” you whisper, tears starting to burn once more, watching him pressing soft, tender kisses to your thigh, “Secondo, stop,” He pauses, eyes flicking up to yours, though his lips remain on your flesh. He waits for you to speak, “Is this you coming back? Is this it?” he shakes his head and resumes his kissing, “Secondo?” you whisper and he looks back up, this time there’s a bit of glare and you smile, “Kiss me once more, will you?”

“Darling,” he growls,”I am trying.”

“Not there, you old pervert, nothing has changed,” you sniffle and laugh, “Kiss me. Please.”

Secondo obliges you but this time his kiss is searing, mouth pressing hard against your; tongues twisting, teeth nipping. He leans into you, a hand tangles in your hair at the nape of your neck; he gives it a gentle tug, exposing the lovely line of your neck that he traces with his tongue. You’re gasping already, breath staccato and sharp, even before his fingers light over your core. Your mouth hangs open against his cheek as he strokes you - teasing every line, avoding all the spots you really want him, drawing out all the slick he can. You whine when he passes by your clit, nearly avoiding it completely. A laugh rumbles in his chest, “I thought you wanted to kiss,” he bumps his nose against yours, kissing your answer away. Two flingers pause for a moment at your entrance and an unintelligible slur of curses falls from your lips when you can’t buck against Secondo’s palm as he slides to fingers into your pussy. The frustration instantly melts away when the pad of his hand meets your clit, working in tandem with the fingers inside of you, “Just like old days, hm?” Secondo says, voice filled with gravelly control, “You restrained and me,” you silence him then, tongue dancing with his. He keeps you there, while he fucks you with his hand, another finger stretches you and you’re shaking, sure you’re dripping down his arm now. His grip on your hair tightens and his face is pressed hard against yours. Your name falls from his lips and it’s the sweetest sound in the world, “Come for me,” he begs, “Please, I need to hear it. Let me feel it, please. Come for me now.”

You smell and taste and feel just the same. The sounds you make are a symphony to his ears and such sweet, sweet trelief washes over him. Your slick runs down his arm, your tears wet his face. Oh, his sweet love is his again - even if it is momentary - it is true. Tears of gratitude and joy and love pour from his eyes, his chest tight. 

Soon, he thinks. Soon this will be real once more. 

Your presence is a distraction to the logistics of his resurrection and he returns all of his thoughts to you. He’s panting, face buried in your neck; taking great gulps of air. His heart pounds in his chest; the rhythm erratic and, frankly, concerning if he weren’t already dead. He’s a bit embarrassed that his base desires are as such but, he just needs you to come. After all this time, he needs to hear it, needs to feel it on his fingers and his tongue and his cock. He needs to taste you and love you and see you come undone and know that he is the one to do it and he’s panting now and it’s hardly over and he’s begging you now, “Please,” he cries, lips trembling, lungs burning, “Please, come for me. Please.”

It doesn’t take much coaxing, he doesn’t even need to beg. Satan you want to hold him; he’s shaking and sobbing and completely undone. You can’t tell where one orgasm ends or the other begins. Your body contracts and releases, toes curling, pussy shaking, clit throbbing while Secondo presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed, taking in every second of it. His head drops to your shoulder and he kisses a line of marks into the curve of your neck, up along your pulse - biting and sucking his claim onto you once more. Finally you squirm, whining with oversensitive and he pulls back with a needy breath, eyes meeting yours. He pulls his fingers to his mouth and your let your head fall back against the chair with an unceremonious thunk, watching him suck and lick his hand clean, “When?” you huff, still catching your breath.

“You are impatient.”

“I’ve waited long enough,” you swallow, taking a deep breath, “When?”

“I do not have a say in when. I must remain here until I am allowed to return.”

“Where is here?” you ask, “Is it nice? Are you happy?”

“Not without you, I will not be happy in any afterlife, in any paradise without you,” he looks back up, smiling softly, “I will slither from Eden to sit at your door, my love.”

“Then slither back to me.”

Before Secondo can answer, there are three, booming knocks on the door. They shake the floor and reverberate in your sternum, “What is that?”

Secondo’s eyes meet yours and they are full of grief, he is quiet as he leans forward and kisses you once more, lips brushing against yours, “The morning comes now.”

“No,” you begin to cry immediately, shaking your head. First light makes the room glow and you are released from your bonds, your hands fly to Secondo’s face, cupping his jaw. Your thumb traces the curve of his lip, the line of his jaw, afraid you might not ever get to do it, again. His ears and his head, down his neck and over his shoulders. You sob, so afraid you might forget, “No, no, not yet. No-no-no,” you cry, “Not yet.”

“Soon enough,” he says though his voice shakes, betraying his confidence. He meets your eyes and your not sure he believes it, either, “I promise. Soon.”

You throw your arms around him, clinging to him, your body as close to his as you can possible get it, “Secondo, please don’t go. Don’t go, again,” the morning calls again, shaking the doors, “no, no, no, no,” you cry and Secondo sobs, shoulders shaking, hands in your hair, arms tight around you, “Please. Please.”

“Look at me,” Secondo growls. 

You shake your head, panic making it hard to hear, hard to listen, “Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me, again.”

Secondo pulls you away from him, hands on your face, glaring into your eyes with such intensity you gasp, tears streaming down his face, “I said I will return. You will trust me.”

“Secondo, please.”

“Trust me,” he stares and you let out a cry, nodding - words choked down by the knot of emotion in your throat, “Soon.”

“Please don’t leave -,” you wake, sitting up straight in bed with a screech that would (in only blessed theory) wake the dead. You’re soaked in sweat and disoriented, “You son of a bitch,” you hiss at the empty room. Your head pounds and your core throbs with want. Just a dream, you weep. It was all just a dream.

You slide out of bed and find your robe on the floor, pulling it on while you shuffle to the bathroom. You flick on the lights and blink at yourself in the mirror. You gasp and stumble backwards for a moment, staring at yourself in the mirror. You step forward, after gathering yourself - catching your breath and pinching your arm to make sure you were indeed awake, and pull your hair away from your neck. There is a beautiful collar of purple marks in your flesh. You run you finger along the line and you can almost feel Secondo’s lips, his breath. You smile, your breath coming in short, sweet gasps as you try to stay calm. You can hear his voice, a whisper in your ear, in your mind: soon. 

In the bedroom, a shadow moves. Onyx and emerald silk disappears through the doors to Secondo’s office. You blink for a moment, staring at the spot you’re sure you saw it. Instantly, you’re running, stumbling into the next room that is just as empty as the last, “Secondo?” you call and are met with another shadow, another glimpse, slipping out the door and into the hallway. You hiss in frustration, thighs still slick from your dreams, head pounding, mind hazy as you stomp after the ghost that you’re sure you can catch. Down the hall you chase him, his robes billowing like storm clouds, just out of reach. And you’re starting to doubt the strength of your sanity.

The sun is not quite risen. 

The Siblings do not yet roam the halls, Copia, Imperator, they all sleep soundly in their beds. The overcast skies are dark and threaten a storm before the day breaks, the halls are dark and quiet save for the whisper of your Papa’s silks as he walks ahead of you. His crozier, tapping on the floor as he walks, echoes off the stone and stained glass, “Secondo, please,” you call, “wait for me.”

He doesn’t listen but, he never really did to begin with. Down the hall you follow him. Through the maze of the abbey until you see him slip into the great hall. When you reach the heavy, oak doors they are shut tight and you are sure that you’ve finally gone off the deep end, finally succumbed to the grief and the wine and the loneliness. This can’t be real. None of this is real. 

No one can come back from that, you remind yourself. You saw the blood and the gore. You sewed him back up and watched them close his body up in the crypts. No one can come back from that.

But there are whispers. On the other side of the door, you hear them. Gentle, soft, familiar voices and your breath catches in your throat. You step forward, tears already falling, sliding down your face and neck. You wipe at them with the back of your hand and run your fingers through your tangled hair - sure you’re looking as worn as you feel. Your hand hovers over the old, iron handle, fingers shaking when the voices disappear - it’s a dream, it is, that settles it.

Your hand falls away and the door opens. 

Terzo is there, smiling - eyes shining with joy, “Are you going to be coming in?” he asks, “Quickly, quickly! Before anyone sees us.”

He yanks you into the great hall, slamming the door behind you, “What’s happening?”

“We told you we were coming back,” Terzo says, matter-of-factly, “You think we would not be making it dramatic?”

You throw your arms around Terzo’s neck and he stiffens for a moment before wrapping his arms around you, “I missed you,” you whisper, weeping. You wonder if you’ll ever stop crying - crying when they’re dead, crying when they come to you in your dreams, crying when they’re home. 

“He is going to kill me if you don’t go to him,” Terzo whipsers, kissing your cheek before holding you at arm’s length, “You look like shit.”

You sob out a laugh, “Thank you.”

Terzo takes your hand and turns you around. You lose your breath when you see him - paints and silks, mitre and crozier, “A toga could never, hm?” Terzo whispers in your ear before letting go of your hand, giving it a gentle push towards Secondo. Primo stands behind Secondo, hands folded in front of him, smiling sweetly. 

“This is real?” you ask Secondo and he nods, “You are real?”

“I am very real.”

The hall is silent for a moment, reality crashing around you in a tidal wave of emotion. You let you a sob, gasping for air, “If you don’t get over here and kiss me like real people, I swear to Satan -,” Secondo obeys, immediately - passing his crozier to Primo, never taking his eyes off of you. You’re enveloped in his silks, in his blessed warmth. His heart pounds against yours. He has to stoop to kiss you and you laughing against his mouth, “I forgot how big you were,” you smile up at him, “My god, take me to bed, Secondo. Come home to me.”

For a moment he just stares at you, arms around you, yours around his shoulders. Tears fall, streaking his paints and landing dark on your chest. He kisses you, again and you’re sure you can hear Terzo sniffling, Primo clears his throat. Secondo keeps his eyes closed as he pulls away, nuzzling into your cheek, leaning down to kiss your neck, inhaling your scent, “It was worth it.”

“What was?” you ask, cupping his cheeks, paints be damned - they’re going to get ruined anyway; right here in front of his brothers if he doesn’t hurry up.