Martyr's Silliest Prophet

--------------------------------------------------------------------------- You did not recognize yourself in the mirror anymore.

Countless hours were spent staring at yourself in Martyr’s bed, thinking of the events that led you here.

You watch yourself in the mirror above, thinking of your life as two halves. Before Martyr, and after Martyr. He cleansed the life you had before him until there was nothing left but what looked back at you in the mirror.

Reborn in his image. Catharsis through rebirth brought on only by him.

Your bare shoulders peek out from underneath the red silk duvet. Rarely did you sleep with clothes on these days, even if you wanted to. Martyr would coax the protective fabric off you, his fingers gently undoing every button, pulling down every elastic band, his lips warmly resting against every inch of bare, vulnerable skin.

Sermons kept him busy some days, like today. A small jaunt into the city, in which you showed a preference for staying home.

He glittered with amusement whenever you called this glass cage ‘home.’ But he understood The Flock’s reverence weighed heavily on your shoulders. He promised you’d get used to it. You weren’t so sure.

Distracted by luxury, power, devotion, the endless perverted piety in which he seduces and defiles your mind… Here, alone, you could take stock of the tiny fragments of yourself still intact.

Martyr’s presence was suffocatingly intoxicating. He kept your mind clouded with aching desire. Every need was met exquisitely before you voiced it. His hands endlessly caressed and teased every part of your body. Everything was meant to overload you with ecstasy. 

It was here, beneath the cold mirrors, in a mercifully empty room, that you found solace. The absence of euphoria became a coveted asylum.

The late afternoon light drifts through the window, comforting and real, a reprieve from the constant opiate-induced tonic that was Martyr. Was it all a rapturous dream? A feverish state of psychosis. At any moment you’d come to realize it was all in your silly, empty little head. 

Martyr enters the room with a quiet flourish, distracting you from your thoughts. He always appears when your mood sours into somberness. He murmurs at the sight of you, proud and loving. He’s already half-naked, having discarded his soap-box outfit (as you liked to refer to it) in some hamper outside.

A soft glow emanates through the room when the sun from the window hits his skin. Suddenly, your small reprieve is magnified, overtaken by his presence. The mirrors reflect his beautiful pale visage. The very room brightens with his complexion.

“Hello, my beloved,” he whispers, yet you hear him clearly. 

Martyr kneels beside the bed, resting his arms on the side, staring at you with a devout and dirty smirk.

“Did you miss me?”

He has a slight musk from the events of the day. It is overwhelmingly irresistible. Sensuous, carnal…a scent of incensed cathedrals, mahogany candlelit altars and hedonistic pleasures.

Your lungs expand, inhaling as much of the scent as you can. It’s an automatic response to being in his presence, uncontrollable and against your will. Your body stirs, and your thighs press against each other as you meet his gaze.

Martyr reaches for your cheek, his large, warm hand cupping the soft flesh. He sighs, and you catch a small hint of red wine, rich and lovely.

“...” It takes a moment of adjustment before you can form words.

Martyr’s smirk deepens, selfishly endeared by his effect on you.

Many would kill to be in your position, laying in The Savior’s bed, breathing in his scent, feeling his hand on your cheek, melting under the heat of his merlot gaze.

“So precious,” he coos, gleaming with love. At least, you wanted to believe it was love.

His thumb rubs your bottom lip, teasing a response from you.

“Yes. I missed you.” Your voice comes out clearer than expected.

“Hm, I missed you too,” Martyr sighs, sending a fresh wave of wine and musk your way. Arousal blooms between your legs. His eyes wander over your face, drinking in every detail of you. Your eyes, your cheeks…your lips that he still rubs his thumb absently upon. “You look absolutely perfect in our bed like this, my dove.”

So allured as you were in his presence, breathless from his beauty and affections. It makes you sick with heat and…appetite.

You roll over to place a kiss on his expectant, perfect lips. Obedience and sensuality made him happiest. And he did so, so much to make you happy.

Didn’t he?

“You’re not real,” you say, against his lips.

He inhales your sigh, drinking in the essence of you. He moans quietly at the sound of your whisper. The moan turns into a deep, erotic chuckle.

He keeps his lips on yours. “Oh Prophet, there are nicer ways to say I’m the man of your dreams.”

Your body screams in agony as you gently tear yourself away from his lips and roll onto your back. Stare at your reflection once more, unable to recognize yourself. 

Your eyes dilated with an otherworldly frenzy. Your body cries with a psalm of worship only Martyr can hear, only he can answer with divinity specific to him.

“I-I’d never dream of you,” you whisper, holding your gaze in the mirror, trying to feel anything other than sickening bliss. “Dreaming of you would require a deep rooted masochism I don’t have.” You swear you see your reflection’s eyes flick to Martyr. 

Martyr releases a deep chuckle. “Don’t you?” 

His body weight shifts the bed slightly as he crawls into bed. He teasingly pulls the silk blanket off of you, watching a cold shiver work its way down your body when your skin reacts to the cool air. 

He probably turned the heat down on purpose.

Your nipples perk against the chill. Martyr reveals the rest of your naked body with a loving smile. There is nothing holy about the way he looks at you. Only the seven deadly sins are present now, and he intends to indulge all of them.

The thought of such ecstasy makes your stomach roll, tumbling a mixture of desire and disgust together. 

His voice is quietly rapturous. “Shall I prove just how real I am, Prophet?”

Martyr slides on top of you, blocking your view from your heinously inebriated reflection. You close your eyes before he can captivate you with his own. It is the only pitiful example of willpower you have.

His lips melt against your neck, a soft moan gently throbs against the sensitive skin. He’s already hard, dripping precum onto your thigh. Arousal flourishes through your body. Martyr breathes in your scent, the heat building in your hips.

His hands wander over your body, sultry, gluttonous, devouring every part of you with every one of his senses. 

“Does this feel real, Prophet?” He bumps his tip against your entrance, eliciting an immediate and visceral reaction of pleasure from you.

Martyr chuckles. You can feel the eternal smirk against your skin. He kisses you again. 

A small sob of frustration departs you. 

“Shh, shh. I’m here, beloved. I’ll take care of you. I always do, don’t I?” A warm kiss placed on your collarbone. “I know you feel so pent up…” A soft moan, his lips placing a wet, heated kiss on one nipple while his fingers tease the other. “Show me how you feel, dearest.” Lips sliding down your belly, hands gripping your hips, his heated aroma wafting into your lungs. “Ruin me, if it keeps you close, and I’ll love you all the more for it.” Precum sliding down your inner thigh, adjusting himself to lick the droplet away.

“Mmph…” you whine, overwhelmed with nauseating euphoria.

He presses his salivating, desperate mouth where he knows you want it most, taking communion with only the sweetest wine your body produces, indulging in the deliciousness of  your taste.

Your legs spread, your back arches, you claw fistfuls of the bedding, anything to ground you to reality, possessed with pleasure only He can exorcise. 

Martyr chuckles into the sensitive heat between your thighs. His tongue slithers along every part of you down there and your body agonizes for more, more, more. 

“Look at me, Prophet.” Tongue teasing your entrance, preparing to feast on you. 

You turn your head to the side, eyes still closed. 

Firm, gripping hands on your hips, pulling you closer so He can have His fill of you. 

“M-Martyr…” you whine and clutch more fistfuls of sensual fabric.

He licks up and down your length, making sure every part of you is dripping with Him. “That’s it, Prophet. Tell me how it feels.” He sucks on your most sensitive part, overstimulating your senses with ecstasy. “Look at me, Prophet.”

You turn your head to the other side, chest heaving with bodily delight because of Him. Only He makes you feel this good. Only He can give you this feeling of glorious, decadent harmony.

And He knows it.

A wet pop as He sucks at you again, then licks along your wet entrance. The sensation edges you closer and closer to climax, but He knows how to keep you on that edge forever. 

He is both The One who pushes you over the edge and The One who catches you when you descend over it. He is everywhere. Isn’t that what the good book says?

“All you need to do is look at me, Prophet.” Another teasing lick along you. Fingers work their way to your wet, throbbing sanctuary, His one true temple: your delicious body. “Look at me, and you’ll cum. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Release?”

You squirm, your hips buck into His mouth to shut Him up. His voice is so perfect, so lovingly condescending. The sensual confidence that oozes from Him like incense. His ethereal beauty, so opposite from the sharp intelligence you know lies inside.

Addicts remain addicts for their entire lives. You know there is no escaping Martyr, even if you were a world away from Him. How could you go back to living without His worship of you? 

“I can give you release, little dove. All you have to do is look at me. I know release is what you’re after, and I can give it to you. I always give you what you ask for, don’t I?” His fingers oscillate delicately inside you, keeping you on that edge, His tongue licking at other parts of you, devouring every taste within reach, saliva dripping down to your entrance, slick and burning with need.

“N-not the release I want,” you manage to moan between breaths. “Not the real one.”

His dark chuckle slithers into your ears, echoes around your head. “It’s reality you want, hm?” A moment of reprieve as He adjusts Himself. 

His warm tip presses against you, sliding into your slick hole easily yet snugly. 

You both whimper in euphoric, rapturous pleasure as He pushes inside. His hands massage and roam your body once He’s fully seated inside you. You squirm with impatient gluttony and reach to touch yourself--

“Ah, ah,” Martyr pins your hands above your head, leaning to kiss your forehead. “That’s cheating, my beloved.” He murmurs a soft laugh as you whine and quiver underneath him. “Not until you look at me.” He presses His hips deeper, sinking to the hilt.

“I’m not a--a doll,” you ground out, bucking your hips into Him. “Y-you can’t keep me like this forever.”

Martyr chuckles again, unphased. “Can’t I?” He leans close to your ear. “Besides, I can think of a few uses for a doll…”

“Fuck you,” you moan in ecstasy.

Martyr laughs and quickly thrusts His hips into you a few times, causing you to gasp divinely in His ear. Your arms and legs wrap Him in a tight, covetous vise. 

“You’re putting up such a good fight, my little dove.” His breath, hot and teasing against your ear. “So pure yet limiting are your convictions, you can’t see what’s real.” He presses His body against yours fully, His cock pulsing deep inside you. “Doesn’t this feel real, Prophet?” Lips against your neck, tongue along your collarbone. “Isn’t this the most real thing there is?” Deep, lustful moan against your ear, divinely intoxicating in its timbre. “Look at me, Prophet.”

A slow, deep thrust. “Look. At. Me.”

You open your eyes, faced with the achingly beautiful gospel that you are His.

Martyr smiles, and you fall into His blood rouge eyes, drowning in their cardinal depths. 

 “There you go, my beloved. You’re so good for me.”

Your body detonates into orgasm after orgasm. You cry out, digging your nails into His back. 

Martyr hisses with pleasure, feeling you tear His skin. He fucks you faster, gloriously lost in the nirvana of your body, your eyes, your soul. You cry out as you cum, each wave of pleasure unbearable, tearing apart your mind with euphoria. Martyr talks you through it, murmuring praise that’s as true as it is condescending.

“Mm, gorgeous,” He purrs. 

He guides your chin to the side, forcing you to look at the mirror that shows Him deep inside you. Your legs and arms clawing at Him while He fucks you through endless frenzied orgasms. Your eyes are dark and muddled with heavenly hunger only He can feed.

You don’t recognize yourself in the mirror anymore.

Martyr’s hand rests on your neck, holding you in place while He thrusts needily into you, His own pleasure rising with yours. He breathes deeper in an attempt to control Himself, but you can tell He wants so badly to fill you, claim you, hear the wet requiem of your bodies melting together.

“Doesn’t that look real to you, pet?” Martyr moans against your skin. “Doesn’t it feel real when I touch you?” 

You don’t answer.

“You deserve this, Prophet,” Martyr drags His silky moist tongue against your cheek. “After all your suffering, all your loneliness… Don’t you think you deserve my worship?”

Words escape you with each deep thrust He seats inside you. Thoughts are a kaleidoscope of ecstasy and mindless fervor. 

A sob of disastrous euphoria leaves you, and Martyr swallows the sound with His lips, thrusting with longer, harder strokes. The bed is wet from your cum spilling onto the sheets, causing a dark stain on the crimson sheets. 

“Is it so terrible to be loved by me?” Martyr turns His head and watches you cling to Him, admiring you from every angle.

Your eyes meet His in the mirror. Underneath his mask of seduction seems to be a genuine yearning. A desire to hear that His love was worth something, anything to you.

But Martyr would behave in any manner that brought you closer to Him. Even His most genuine moments were only a mirror meant to reflect what you wanted to see.

Never reality.

Another frustrated sob escapes you and you bury your head in His neck and cling to Him as another orgasm seizes your body. 

“I love you, Prophet,” Martyr whispers against your hair, holding you close. “You are mine forever.”

And you know it’s true. There is no escape from Him, this life or the next. He has touched you in a way that has tainted your soul for eternity.

The build up of emotion is too much, and you bite His neck, needing to ground yourself. It awakens something primordial and tameless within you. He tastes of rusted, fragrant sweetness, a coin warmed under the wetness of your tongue.

His sharp inhale fades into a horny moan, and His hips sink deeply into You as he cums inside you.

“That’s it, Prophet. Take your anger out on me. That’s what I’m here for. I’m always here for you.” His pace increases with His excitement, and you dig your nails harshly into Him, needing to mar the glittering perfection of His sweaty skin.

Blood from your bite blooms around your lips, and you bite harder. If His “love” is what you deserve, then your hate is what He deserves. Let Him take it so you don’t have to feel it anymore, don’t have to think about it anymore. 

“Ah, so pent up today, hm?” His movements slow, letting your body come down from its ecstasy. You feel His cum deep inside you, full and warm. 

Martyr sits up, still hard and doesn’t leave the embrace of your body, keeping Himself seated to the hilt inside you. He grinds His hips into you teasingly, admiring the view of you obedient and vulnerable beneath him. 

“What a lovely symphony our bodies make together.” Martyr touches the bloody hickie on His neck and smirks at the sight of so much blood. He runs His bloodied hand down your torso, leaving a cursed trail. He uses His own blood to draw a cross just above your pubic bone, and chuckles to Himself. 

You have just enough of yourself left to think, Bastard.

His beauty enthralls you. When He’s inside you, the feelings of disgust and hopelessness fade away. It’s only you and Him. Forever.

“Something so pure must be holy, wouldn’t you agree?” Martyr licks the rest of the blood off His fingers and looks at you with His vermilion eyes. 

Martyr catches your chin gently and makes you look at Him. “Wouldn’t you agree, beloved?” 

Now that the intensity has slowed, it’s easier to form words, though your body still buzzes with pleasure.

“Temptation isn’t always holiness,” you rasp, unable to stop your hips bucking against him. Your legs lock around him and jerk him closer.

Martyr smiles, cupping your cheek. “Oh my love, you are not simply tempted by me. You are fulfilled.” He kisses you passionately, his soft hair sweeping over your forehead. “This is not the sin you think it is. Holiness does not mean being untouched, it means you are chosen. You are mine, Prophet,” he murmurs against your lips.

His insidious love feels like addictive comfort, the absence of all worry replaced by unimaginable pleasure and indulgence. He wants you to feel like you deserve it. He wants you to hang yourself with his rosary, wants you to think it’s your idea.

Even if you escape, your life will always be haunted by his unholy divinity.

Finally, mercifully, Martyr leaves your body, your defiled temple of angry transcendence that He owns completely. He pulls you tightly against his chest, whole body pressed against him. 

“Made for me. For each other. You belong here, Prophet. With me.” He kisses the top of your head.