the kindly crypt

“I think it is time we forget everything for a while, baby, hm?” he whispers. “You will let your Papa take care of you tonight, yes?”

“Yes.”

His thumb slips from your mouth as you speak the word. You lean against him, then, the cheek he so lovingly carressed now pressed against rough black fabric. A weary sound leaves your throat and he begins to massage the tension from your jaw with gentle fingers, weaving along the side of your face and into your hair. The massage is slow, unhectic, and he continues until he sees your breathing slow slow slow. How the world tests you, he thinks, and he knows the feeling all too well. But he won’t allow it to continue, not for the next hour, not for the rest of the night.

Copia hasn’t bothered undressing or washing off his make up yet. He feels that painful extension of time as well, how every hour passes so slowly that it feels hard to bear one’s own existence, and yet there is never time enough. Not for what truly matters.

“Come here, amore,” he orders, his voice stern but soft.

He helps you to your feet as he stands himself, embracing you even before you can fully sink against him. You hide your face at his neck, reddened eyes, the simple act of being cared for too much. He’s no stranger to self-loathing and guilt. But it won’t deter him, it never has, catharsis takes many forms and he’s seen most of them by now, one way or another. These shared moments have become easier, after knowing each other so intimately. Carrying each other’s weight for a while has slipped into your routines as naturally as breathing, and he never minds when it’s you.

“No pain, only pleasure tonight, yes?” he murmurs against your head, taking in the sweet scent of you. You nod against him with a low sniffle and he hugs you tighter.

After a while he toys with the hem of your shirt, coaxing it up until you willingly part with it. No rush tonight. Every piece of clothing leaves when you’re ready, his palms caressing every sliver of exposed skin, every curve of your body, every ridge, every plane, soft, well-oiled leather with the heavy insistence of his hands.

Eventually he helps you recline against the pillows in bed, your body warmed from his touch, sinking into the comforting softness, pliant and weightless. He takes you in for a moment, the hot flush on your face and neck, this body he knows so well, loves so dearly. He recognizes every tense muscle, can tell whether the goosebumps on your skin are from pleasure or cold, every mole, every stretch mark, every single hair that adorns your skin has been memorised.

When he sinks down beside you, his lips find your cheek, then your neck, then your shoulder. He remains half on top of you, a comforting weight, still clothed, still in control of every fragment of you. You don’t have to make a single decision, no move to take any influence, not on him or anything at all.

“You are doing so good,” he whispers. “I am so proud of you, amore. Always so proud. Now breathe with me, baby.”

He shows you how, that deep inhalte, the pause in between, and the long exhale. For a while you simply mirror him, face to face now, eyes locked, as his free hand wanders down your body, pressing gently into any knot he can find. He will unravel you in any way possible. And you’re doing so well, so well, breathing in and pausing and breathing out and breathing– –

His fingers brush your soft core and your next breath is short and audible. He smiles, kissing a stray tear from your eyes. He’s been leaving black marks on you but this one is especially beautiful, the shape of his lips on the apple of your cheek. He moves lower now, his fingers parting you carefully, spreading you until he can comfortable tease your entrance, moving back up to your clit and as much as he enjoys you losing yourself in it, he still needs your attention.

“Eyes on me,” he whispers. “Let me see you, my baby. You’re so beautiful like this, eh? Do you know how much I love you?”

You blink your eyes to meet his but they remain heavy. He lets you cling to his shoulder, brings one leg between yours to keep them open for him. Then he gently enters you, one finger, then two, slow and steady, no rush, no matter how much his body tells him he wants you. The gloves almost slip from his fingers with how tightly you’re gripping him and he brings his lips to yours for a sweet moment.

More kisses as he keeps his pace steady, the heel of his palm tightly pressed against you. He can feel the way you’re focused on him now, the way your body has let itself fall into his gentle care with no compromise. He’s rarely felt this needed, this useful, and he lets the sensation carry him until he can feel your soft pulses, until you meet the gentle waves of his hand, and gasp into his mouth, immediately falling back into the long, deep breaths he’s been showing you. He keeps still just like this, watching you as the shadows pass from your eyes, as the warmth in your body brings back your light, even if just for a moment.