Ravenovs

Faint sounds of him getting ready reach your ears from the en-suite bathroom. A thud followed by a muttered curse makes you smile. He must be just as nervous as you, even though you've both agreed to this. You've talked about it so many times, fantasised about it, dipped your toes into it without fully committing.

But now... You're ready. Or at least, you want to be.

The bathroom door creaking open snaps you out of your thought, and you look up to find a very flustered Copia making his way to you.

He looks stunning, to say the least.

Divine.

He's wearing a silk robe as well, matching yours. His is in a deeper blue, though, and has golden embroideries all around its lapels and cuffs. It fits him.

A familiar warmth settles low in your belly at the sight of him, all your anxieties starting to melt, replaced by a much more intense eagerness.

You can spot a few lines of his tattoo, barely hidden by the robe tied loosely around his waist. His facepaint is pristine as always.

"Hey," you smile tentatively, searching his eyes. The white one almost seems to glow in the faint candle light of the room, and its magnetic pull only gets stronger as he steps closer. It's mesmerising.

"Amore," he whispers back as greeting, the mattress dipping when he sits down on the edge of the bed.

"Everything's ready." You gesture vaguely around you, a shiver of anticipation running down your spine as he looks around as well.

The crimson red sheets underneath you, the candles burning on every free surface of the room, the little bowl of red paint waiting on your nightstand.

He nods in approval, and you see that flicker of excitement in his gaze that always makes you swoon, until he jolts up, genuinely scaring the shit out of you.

"Copia, che cazzo!" you exclaim, only getting a dismissive "sorry" in return before he's padding off to the other side of the room, mumbling to himself.

"Shit, how could I forget? Eh... Just gotta... Where the hell did I put it?"

You raise an eyebrow in his direction, but don't comment further. Silly rat man.

How you love him.

A pleased little "ha!" follows, and before you know it, soft notes are filling the room, coming from his record player.

Oh... Right.

He's back at your side in an instant, and his grin tells you that he's waiting for a reaction from you. And that this is meaningful to him.

You listen carefully to what sounds like religious music at first, the sort of solemn hymns that you used to hear echoing in Catholic churches, a long, long time ago.

You're confused, until you begin to make out the words of this first song. They're definitely not Catholic.

It sounds like a Ghost song, but not quite... It's softer, more intimate in way, despite still having a grandiose feeling to it. A bit of an oxymoron, just like the man in front of you.

"Unreleased," he chimes in, filling the gaps in your thought process.

"Hm?"

"I... wrote this. Some time ago. Never released it." he explains, a vulnerable note to his voice that you don't fail to notice.

"Oh." You take another moment to listen in silence, feeling goosebumps raise on your skin as his rich voice reaches your ears from the recording. *Oh.*

"Copia... It's beautiful. Why didn't you release it?"

A shrug, dismissive. You nod, realising that it'll be a story for another time.

You both have a plan now, and you want to get through with it.

The music is just an unexpected, yet perfectly fitting addition.

“So…”

“So.” He gives you one of his lovely smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his cheeks, you assume, turning pink under his facepaint. You melt on the spot.

You've come up with it together, this… ritual you're about to do, if one might even call it that. It's a mix of you two, really. Your beliefs, your journeys, your shared faith. A manifestation of your devotion, for each other, and for your Lord, Satan.

You return his smile, and adjust your posture, sitting cross legged in front of him, a silent confirmation that you're ready, that you want this.

He mirrors you, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to fix it and then folding his hands in his lap. The gray strands at his temples stand out in this light, and you love it.

So… There you are. First step. Soul gazing.

You scoot a little closer, trying to get comfortable before your eyes meet his. You sigh. Focus.

This part is all about building connection, stating your intentions, tapping into the right mindset.

“Our Father who art in Hell…” You hear him whisper, his low voice taking on that edge he has when delivering a sermon during Mass, but more muted, just for the two of you. You glance down when his inverted cross catches the light, shimmering in the middle of his sternum, then your eyes return to his as soon as he starts speaking again. “Guide us through this journey. Let the worship of our bodies be a token of our devotion to You. Watch us sin, and rejoice.” A pause, a breath escaping his painted lips. “Nema."

“Nema.” you repeat, your voice small compared to his, but no less firm.

You already feel the hypnotic nature of this exercise, your breathing slowing down the longer you look into his eyes, trying to sync to his. The mismatched green and white of his irises draws you in, and you can see every emotion playing out on his face, just as he can do with yours, you think.

His soul… Can you really see a person's soul, through their eyes? What does it even mean, soul? As a child, you were taught that your soul would be damned and cast to Hell if you sinned, but you don't believe in any of that anymore. It's not you, and it's definitely not him.

What you can see in his eyes is an energy, burning bright. It's the same energy you see when he's singing to his fans, when he's eating his favorite dish, when he’s petting his rats, when he's making love to you. Now that energy is focused, though, and it's all on you.

It makes your breath hitch, but you immediately school it back into the slow rhythm you two have built. In… Out… Again. Again.

His pupils are dilated, be it from the darkness or from arousal, you cannot tell. Most likely both.

You're not sure how many minutes pass like this, but it doesn't matter. Not when his hands reach forward, nimble fingers gently tugging your robe open. You do the same to him.

Step two.

You break eye contact to take in his revealed torso, the brown and gray dusting of hair on his chest that turns into a darker trail from his belly button down. So beautiful. Yours.

His gaze almost burns your skin in its intensity, and you imagine him already painting symbols on your body, his fingertips tinged red, making you shiver and sigh with every brush. Not yet.

“Still good?” You hear him ask, his voice barely above a whisper, an hopeful light in his eyes.

“Yes, yes, of course.” You smile.

The music has already faded in the background of your mind by now, but you're still grateful for its presence, for the way it fills your silences between one breath and the next. With measured movements, you each bring your right hand to the other's chest, over the heart, and then cover that hand with your own left one. A deep breath, and then you’re gazing into each other's eyes again.

There's a part of you that wonders at the single minded focus he shows in this moment. He's usually easily distracted, his thoughts scattered between his endless tasks and nerdy interests, fluttering from here to there like a moth at a lights fest. But not now.

The more you breathe, the clearer you can hear his heart thrumming under your fingertips, your pinky finger barely grazing his nipple. If he feels it, he doesn't let you see his reaction. When he's thoroughly fucked you, and lets you rest with your head on his chest, that's when you feel his heartbeat the strongest. That, or when he gets really anxious, and comes to you for reassurance. When he looks at you with eyes wide, a little lost, and you place your hands on his chest, guiding him to breathe until the darkness dissipates enough to keep going.

Now it feels just as strong, a steady, reassuring rhythm that proves to you that he's actually there, in front of you. The man of your dreams. Not a figment of your imagination, but real, solid, human.

You wish you could read his thoughts right now. Is he thinking about you the way you’re thinking about him? You almost want to ask him, whisper a “penny for your thoughts” just to see one of those smiles that light up the whole room, but no… No, this is about something else. This is about laying yourselves bare for the other to see, and to love. Words are not needed for that.

You breathe in his love for you, and breathe out your love for him. An exchange. Again and again. Time passes, but again… It doesn't matter.

For the next step, you need to be bare. Literally.

You're not sure who reaches out first, who switches position first, but your next breath is taken on your knees, his hands on your shoulders, sliding the robe off of you. You let it fall somewhere behind you, and watch him kneel as well, his own robe open, splayed out from his back down to his feet like a wedding veil.

He almost looks too good to take it off, but you know it's part of the process. Both of you naked. Vulnerable.

“Sei bellissimo,” you find yourself whispering as your hands find his sides, sliding up his torso and towards his arms to start guiding the robe off. The blush you earn in response is enough to make your heart stutter, the red so vivid that it's visible even under the layers of white paint.

Copia averts his gaze, but you know he's silently preening at your words. Always a sucker for praise.

He shimmies out of the embroidered sleeves, and then the robe falls behind him just like yours did, discarded. It almost feels like unwrapping a gift.

“I can feel Him,” he mumbles, making you look at his face again.

“Who?”

“Satan. Watching us…”

“Oh.” You blink, finding that notion a bit foreign, but not unpleasant. You can't deny the buzz in the air around you, the almost palpable promise of what's coming. Your Papa knows what he's talking about, that much you're sure of.

“Is He pleased?”

He lets out a quiet huff of laughter, his shoulders raising a bit. Cute. “Think so. But… He, eh… He's waiting for the next bit.”

That makes you chuckle, and you find it reassuring that now, now that should be the most ritualistic phase, you’re acting more casual, connecting in the way that you're used to, that's familiar to you.

“Right, yeah.” As if on cue, you turn around to grab the little bowl you had left on your nightstand, bringing it between you two and placing it on the covers. Strategically red, yes, but alluring too. Red paint on red sheets. That will look good.

You discussed which symbols to draw and on whom. You remember his words distinctly. The way his rich voice explained to you the meanings and differences between each one, the fervour of his belief as he spoke to you of his life’s work. That had ended in a very intense, unforgettable night of sex. But tonight will be different, in a way.

“Should I, uh… Should I start?” you ask tentatively, seeking his approval.

He nods, laying his hands back against the mattress, leaving his whole front open to your view and to your touch. You know he'd trust you with his life.

Trying to rein in your trembling, you dip your fingers into the bowl, shivering at the feeling of the cold, burgundy liquid. Not blood, of course, but it does look like it. You take in a shaky breath, and let it out, and then your clean hand is cradling his jaw, tilting his head up as you lean closer.

As precisely as possible, you draw a small, inverted pentagram on his forehead. The first symbol of your faith. The stark contrast between the red and his black and white face paint is striking. Gorgeous.

Next, you draw an inverted cross on his left arm. The design matches that of your own makeup, a gothic feel to it that reminds you of the tapestries and stained glass artworks you always admire around the Ministry. He simply kneels there, watching you, embracing the solemnity of this moment.

One last symbol for him. The Sigil of Lucifer.

You take your time drawing it, your index finger sliding along the curves of his stomach. His abs tense as you pass over them, and you have to bite your lip at the noise he makes when you draw the little swirls at the bottom, framing his happy trail. Framing his cock.

You've tried not to focus on it, but it's near impossible now, knowing that you’ll be touching him soon. He's been hard since the moment you started all this, but now… Oh, by now he's leaking, his head flushed a deep red, the vein on the underside evident as his cock twitches against his belly, almost smearing the paint you've just placed there. You barely stifle a giggle.

“Don't be so smug about it,” he grumbles, his brow furrowing as he glances down at himself. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a few moments, his lipstick fading in that spot, but as soon as you're done painting he lifts his head again, an air of confidence about him that makes your cunt throb. “Your turn.” he declares, reaching down to grab the bowl and slide it closer to himself.

You brace yourself, but nothing could have prepared you for the feeling of his fingers dipped in red tracing lines around your nipple, drawing a pentagram of his own. You clench your thighs together, and you know he notices, but he doesn't say anything. Only smirks.

“Turn around, tesoro,” he instructs in that seductive voice of his, a voice that could bring a nation to its knees if he only ever asked. He doesn't need to, though. He has you on your knees for him, almost every night.

You do as told, and present your back to him. Your ass, actually, as you shift to place your hands on the mattress, on all fours. He actually groans at the sight, the little bastard.

You huff in reply, your head hanging low between your shoulders to hide your blush. “Don't get distracted…”

“Never, piccola.” You can practically hear his shit-eating grin in his voice, but you press your lips together, silencing yourself from further remarks. Not the time for banter, as much as you love it.

Without another word, his fingers meet your skin again. He starts at your hip bone and makes his way along your ass, drawing another pentagram. This time, though, he adds more strokes, tracing lines with practiced ease to form the Sigil of Baphomet.

He hums once done, sounding pleased with himself. You turn around again, careful not to sit on your heels any longer, not wanting to mess up the paint before it has dried. A small penance for the ineffable amount of pleasure that you're going to experience soon.

“Last one.” He reminds you with a smile, his expression softer now, more caring. You wonder what came over him. “You're being so good, baby.”

That really makes you blush, hard. You're not sure who likes praise more in your relationship.

“Ah… Grazie.” you mutter, your gaze falling to the bowl in front of you, unable to sustain his stare.

He laughs fondly and shakes his head before dipping his fingers in the paint one last time. You did his belly, so it's only fair that he should do yours too. Satan's Cross. Right in the middle of your stomach. All goes well until he draws the infinite under your belly button, his finger scorching like fire on your already over sensitised skin. You moan, unable to stop it. He winces, his hand trembling as he pulls away.

“Amore… If you keep making sounds like that, this will be over much sooner than we want.”

You sigh, giving him an apologetic smile. You're both more worked up than you've probably ever been, and you can't help but wonder how exactly you're going to last as long as you're meant to, edging each other to ecstasy. Satan will guide you in that, you hope silently.

You take a moment to appreciate how perfect he looks with all those symbols painted on his skin. A fallen angel, worthy to stand beside Lucifer himself.

You wipe your fingers on the sheets below you, and watch him do the same. The paint is sex friendly, sure, but you don't want to stain his whole body with it. Neither does he.

“I want you, Copia… I want you so bad.” You search his eyes, finding that same desire reflected in them.

“I'm all yours.”

That's all it takes for you to move forward, still on your knees, and cup his face in both hands. Is this what they mean when they talk about holding the world in your hands? The thought makes you grin.

“What?”

“Uh? Nothing.”

“What?”

You can't deny him when he's looking at you like that.

“I love you,” you whisper simply, hoping it can somehow convey the depth of your feelings. You're not sure, but if his smile is any indicator, at least part of that sentiment reached him.

You brush your thumbs over his temples and at the corners of his eyes as he whispers an “I love you” in return. You must have heard those words coming from his lips thousands of times, but they still make your heart flutter like the very first.

“May I kiss you?” As if you even need to ask. He hums, pretending to think about it, that mischievous twinkle crossing his gaze as he leans closer, your lips now mere inches apart.

Copia looks up at you through his lashes, in a way that looks almost coquettish, and you're unsure whether to slap him or kiss him stupid.

“Ti prego…” he murmurs, his breath fanning your lips.

Fuck, this man.

Before you can stop yourself, you've closed the distance between you, capturing his lips in a searing kiss. You don't know if it was the synced breathing, the symbols, or just staring into each other's eyes for so long, but this kiss feels so powerful, so meaningful that it makes you swoon, and you have to grab his face tighter, ground yourself. He moans in response, feeling that same intensity.

Heat pools in your core as you feel his tongue swiping along your lower lip, asking for entrance. His arms snake around your waist to pull you closer, and could almost swear you heard a muffled “please” against your lips. You’re powerless.

The kiss turns messy the moment you part your lips and let him in, your tongues pressing against each other, lips fusing together as if you can't get close enough fast enough. You swallow each other's moans, licking and nipping until you're both panting.

You pull back just enough to breathe, your gaze falling to his kiss-swollen lips. Fuck.

“Amore…” he starts, but goes silent again when you wipe the spit off his bottom lip with your thumb, your fingers grasping his chin.

It shouldn't be like this. You should go slow, keep that energy going. But dammit, it's hard.

“Sorry, sorry… I know.” Your hands leave his face, and you breathe harshly. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like before. Kinda.

“I can't get enough of you.” you admit, your fingers trailing down his chest, following the contours of his tattoo. Focus. Focus.

You always knew there was something about you, a craving that you never seemed to satisfy. You deemed it wrong for so long that it almost felt like second nature to chastise yourself. He's taught you to indulge, though. He has embraced that part of you, and that flame has grown, threatening to consume you both. What a way to die, that would be.

Still, he looks hopeful now, and his eyes are burning, yes, but so soft. So soft that it makes you think you would do anything to make him proud. Suddenly you feel calmer, and reverence replaces hunger. After all, works of art should be admired quietly, carefully, taking your time. And he's the ultimate masterpiece.

“That's it, sì…” He nods down at your hands on his torso, and soon reaches out to touch you as well. Slow. Gentle. Light as if touching the most delicate porcelain. It's almost funny, when you know that he can fuck you hard enough to make you cry. And that you can do the same to him.

Your hands wander, fingertips still stained red, even though the paint has dried by now. You do nothing to suppress the sighs and gasps that his touch elicits, knowing it emboldens him, lets him know it's okay to make noise. Knees parted, you both lean closer, breathing each other in as fingers graze the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He mirrors you, you mirror him. Like a dance. A slow… Slow dance.

You let your nails scrape lightly at the juncture of his pelvis, and he groans, a deep, needy sound. You love it.

He spreads his legs some more, encouraging you, and you take in on his offer. Of course you do. You reach his taint, your touch so light that it's almost ticklish, and you can hear the thought forming in his head even before looking at his face. He's grinning like an idiot.

“You're impossible.” You shake your head, unable to suppress a smirk of your own, and then press harder on the spot, your thumb massaging his skin until-

“Oh! Fuck…” His eyes widen, the noise coming out of his mouth sounding positively sinful.

You won't be going into a full prostate massage, but you know what it does to him. Indulge, no? That's the whole point.

You keep rubbing there until he goes a little cross-eyed, and you have to stop then, worried that he'll come right then and there. You can't have that.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to regain his bearings. “Cazzo, amore… You can't just do… That.” He pouts, and it's the most adorable look he's given you all night, with his lips still puffy from your kiss and his lipstick smeared into a dark gray around the edges.

You giggle, but retreat your hand, resorting to stroking the top of his thigh in soothing motions. Copia huffs, running a hand through his hair to brush some unruly strands out of his forehead.

“Better?” you ask with a small, self-satisfied smile which earns you a glare from him.

His hands find your waist again, and he pulls you closer, one of your knees going between his. He leans back with one hand on the bed, exposing himself to your gaze in an almost challenging manner, his eyes roving over your body, almost as if trying to commit it all to memory. Then, his hand reaches between your legs for the first time tonight, and you're done for. You're drenched. So drenched that it actually draws a gasp from him as he dips his fingers between your folds. Satan below, how are you meant to last?

His thumb finds your clit as his eyes meet yours again, your lips parting in anticipation. “What a sight you make, piccolina…”

“Copia…” You close your eyes, trying to maintain at least a semblance of control even as he starts rubbing tiny circles around your clit, his moves practiced and precise.

He's grown confident with it. Not that he wasn't great to begin with, but oh, now he knows just how to play your body, how to make you gasp, and moan, and whimper, and scream until your throat feels raw.

You try to focus on your breath, as you're meant to, and let your hand slither back towards his crotch. It needs to be mutual.

You cradle his balls in your palm, feeling them hot and heavy in your hold, ready to burst. His lips part in a silent moan, so close to you that he could kiss you if only he leaned forward a little bit. He doesn't. So instead, you slide your fingers up and wrap them around his cock.

“Ahh-” His eyes widen, and he does brush his lips against yours then, his tongue barely peeking out. He slides a finger inside you, another step in your dance.

A stroke, all the way up to his tip, and his finger pushes further in. Your thumb swipes over his slit, slicking him up with his own precum, and his finger curls inside you, the pad of it pressing against your front wall just right. You're staring at each other through half-lidded eyes, and it doesn't feel like you're fighting anymore. You’re both breaking in front of each other, bit by bit, unashamed.

“Copia…”

“Mmmm…” He leans in properly, and your mouth finds his. It's wet, and just as messy as before, with him licking past your lips, and you sucking on his tongue. That makes him growl. The sort of noise that you sometimes beg him to make. Deep, and feral, and so fucking hot.

You clench around his finger, desperate for more, and he seems to sense your need, sliding a second one inside you with almost no effort at all. Your left arm rests on his shoulder, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pull back to look into his eyes again. They're almost pitch black now. Two pools of pure Lust, surrounded by thin crowns of green and white.

You stroke him faster, the slide made easier by his own arousal. “Cazzo, ahh…”

“I'm… I need you. Fuck, I need you. Please…”

Your words snap him out of his pleasure fueled haze, and he blinks at you before glancing down between your bodies. So connected and yet so distant. It's not enough. His fingers pull out of you with a sloppy sound, making you whine at the sudden emptiness.

“Shhh… I know.” He reaches down to grasp your hand, stilling it with your palm against his tip. Your fingers intertwine with his, and for a few precious moments, you move together, your thumb rubbing along his frenulum as he guides your palm back and forth, your slick on his fingers mingling with his own. He whimpers, actually whimpers, resting his forehead against yours. And then he's pulling your hands away, to your disappointment.

“Amore, please…” You watch him pull away, and rearrange himself so that he's sitting with his legs in front of himself instead of kneeling.

“Come here, piccola.”

You scramble towards him, eager, and straddle his firm, perfect thighs. “Like this?” you ask. He shakes his head.

Last step.

He reaches for your hips, squeezing affectionately, and guides you up. “Oh…” You know what he wants. What you both want. Yes. Oh, yes.

You reach down, grasping his cock and lining it up with your entrance. The way he twitches against you is almost enough to make you come.

“Breathe, yeah?” he reminds you, even though he's pretty far gone himself.

“Yeah, yeah.”

He waits for eye contact, for your nod of consent, and then slowly, slowly pulls you down, breaching you.

“Ah- Fuck… Fuck…” It's agonising, almost, how good it feels.

You have no idea how much time has passed since you started, but it feels like hours. Hours in a constant state of arousal, each sense heightened, bringing you higher, until every touch feels like pure bliss. Pure, damned bliss.

“A-amore… Mmmm.” He holds your hips in a death grip, and you can almost feel the bruises forming, knowing you’ll smile at your reflection tomorrow when they'll remind you of the night you had, of the pleasure you shared.

He bottoms out, your ass meeting his thighs, and you've never felt so full. Physically, yes. But not only that. You're in tune with him, your chests rising and falling in sync, even as your breaths grow laboured. You can't look away from his eyes, not for an instant. You're one.

No more words are needed then. There's just him, and you, an “us” that feels more genuine than it ever has.

You breathe, and breathe, feeling the pleasure building despite you both staying still. A thought strikes you then, that Satan actually is watching, and that he's letting that energy build more and more. How could it feel so good otherwise?

You shift forward, angling your hips so that his tip can press against that perfect spot inside you, your arms circling his neck. His hands unclench from your hips, and he hugs you. Properly hugs you. His arms around your back, his chin resting on your shoulder. You close your eyes, sighing. You can practically feel his heartbeat inside you.

It's intimate, more than you think you can bear. But it's with him. Him, whom you've loved for years. Him, whom you've admired for even longer, silently, from afar. Him, who’s yours. Your Papa. Your Copia.

It's intimate, and raw, and a little scary. And perfect.

You stay like that for as long as your bodies allow, your walls clenching around him in a vain attempt to get some friction. You hug, and breathe, your nose buried in the crook of his neck. And then, you start moving. A slow roll of your hips, a timid rock up of his. You gasp in unison, stars sparkling under your closed eyelids.

It wouldn't be so bad, dying like this, so wrapped up in each other. And if you did things right, you will die soon. A wonderful little death, or a few, maybe.

The rocking of his hips soon grows more purposeful, and you feel him pressing deeper, where he belongs. You moan against his neck, your lips parting to mouth at his earlobe.

“Ohh… Oh, please…” He squeezes you tighter against himself, snapping his hips up until you feel like you're going to pass out from the pleasure.

“S-shit. Slow down. Oh, Satan… Slow down.” you pant into his ear, not wanting this to end yet.

Not yet. You're greedy like that.

He groans in frustration, but eventually stops moving, just in time. You pull your head back to look into his eyes, finding him with his brows furrowed in concentration, his lips pursed. It reminds you of when he's trying to poke the straw into one of his juice boxes. You giggle.

“I love you… So damn much, you know?” you whisper, your voice rough from all the moaning, and shaking with the effort of still holding back.

“And I love you. Ti amo.” he whispers back, just as wrecked at you.

“Ti amo.”

And with that you're moving again.

It builds much faster this time. It's exhilarating, and it goes straight to your head. You're both overstimulated, your bodies quivering. And yet… More. More, more. Satan, please, more.

You don't want to stop. And that fire spreading in your core tells you that you can't stop. Not now.

“Amore- I can't… So close…” He seems to voice your own thoughts, and you nod desperately, struggling to keep looking at him with your eyes rolling back at his every thrust.

You brace your hands on his shoulders, and ride him as you've done countless times before, but with more purpose now, more focus, and with hours, fuck, hours of buildup. You start out slow, lifting yourself up almost all the way, and sinking back down, your thighs burning.

He's holding on for dear life, and you can see it clearly. His chest is heaving, his eyes unfocused, his lips parted, a flush spreading from his ears and cheeks all the way down to his chest. Debauched. And yours. You're sure you're not doing much better.

He grabs your hips again, and makes you speed up, the litany of moans escaping his lips telling you that he's past reason. Like a destructive tsunami, it can't be stopped.

You cling to each other, and it builds, and builds, and builds. And oh, the edging worked, because the more you move, the surer you are that you’re going to touch Heaven, only to fall down past the crust of the earth after, down right into the pits of Hell. You'd be welcome there.

His moans and yours mingle in a symphony of your own, and an outsider could almost think that they're in time with the music still playing in the background. That you're part of that music now.

You climb higher and higher, and wonder for an instant if that is how the people of Babel felt, as they got closer and closer to God. But you're not looking for God. You have your own piece of divinity right in front of your eyes. The love of your life.

“Ahh- Ah!” your love cries out, and you feel him tense beneath you, rocking his hips as far up as they'll go, burying himself fully inside you as his eyes roll back into his head, and his orgasm hits him. You feel his cock kicking inside you, his familiar warmth flooding your core, and you hold him tighter, hoping to prolong his high.

You're right on the edge yourself, and he's still twitching in you when he reaches his hand between you two to rub your clit. Just a few strokes, and you're joining him.

You press your mouth against his still open one, muffling your scream, and clamp down around him, your walls, your whole body really, pulsating with ecstasy. It's all consuming.

He gasps sharply when your climax seems to trigger another one from him. Unlikely, but even if it is just one, it lasts an ungodly amount of time. Thank Satan.

You keep grinding down on him until every last ounce of pleasure has been pulled from your body, and you're left drained, completely. You don't really know how many orgasms those were. Maybe one, maybe five. Who cares, when you're practically about to pass out on top of him.

Copia pants against your shoulder, sounding pretty close to hyperventilating. But then it dies down, the euphoria, leaving just buzzing static in your minds, your ears ringing, your hearts still racing.

“That was-”

“I think-”

Your voices clash, and you end up laughing, his cute little chuckle in your ear making your heart do a somersault.

“You first, amore,” you prompt, pulling back a bit to meet his gaze. He's a whole damn mess, but you know you look the same.

“Eh, just… That was… One of the most intense experiences I've ever had.” he mutters, sounding back to his usual self, not the agent of Satan on earth, just Copia.

“Yeah. It was… A lot.”

“Mmm.”

You smile at him, but then that smile splits into a full on-grin when you watch him making a face and shifting his legs under you. You know what that means, yet you ask anyway. “What?”

“‘M sticky…”

It's true, you can feel his seed dripping down your inner thighs as he goes soft inside you, but it doesn't bother you, it never does.

You roll your eyes, but still gently lift yourself off of him, wincing when he slips fully out. You miss him already. He flops down on his back over the mattress, and you join him, draping yourself against his side, your arm around his waist and your head resting on his shoulder.

Sometimes he likes it too, staying inside you, letting the feeling linger. Sometimes that turns him on again, and he fucks his seed deeper into you, until you’re both completely exhausted. Other times, he just wants this, and you love it just as much.

“Shower?” you offer.

“Hmm, in a bit.”

“Alright.” You tilt your head up to place a kiss on the underside of his jaw. It always makes him shiver. “I think He liked it.”

“Huh?”

“Satan, He liked it. I could feel it, I think, near the end…”

That makes him peek down at you, a hint of a sleepy smile tugging at his lips. “He likes you.” he tells you in that rumbly, sultry voice that never fails to make you weak.

“Well…” You avert your gaze, blushing, and fix it onto the inverted cross resting over his chest, your fingers coming up to toy with it. A reminder of the power that this man holds. Your man.

He hums, clearly not pleased that you looked away from him, and you feel his hand cupping your cheek, covering half of your face, really.

“Your Papa still demands your attention, topina.” He pulls you up to him, guiding your face towards his so that he can kiss you, nice and slow, almost languid, the way he kisses you when his mind is still floating in post-orgasmic bliss.

“Want me to wash your back, Papa?” you whisper against his lips, and he smirks, making your stomach flutter. Maybe the night is not quite over yet.

“If you'll indulge me…”

“I always do.”

The moment after, he’s dragging you to the bathroom, his eyes sparkling with teenage-like excitement. As if you didn't just go through a whole damn sex ritual.

But you do indulge him. You always do.