my offering for monster June as hosted by @lycanthra (squeaked in at the last possible moment). Papa V Perpertua as the creature under your bed. Some similar vibes to this fic of mine.
Papa V Perpetua x gn!reader
3.7k words
monster!V, knotting, weird monster genitalia, belly bulge, brief description of animal death.
You think there might be something under your bed.
You’re not sure, but all the evidence seems to be pointing that way. You’d been so excited to move into the abandoned belfry at first; Sibling numbers were rising, space was at a premium, and anywhere was being used to fit more beds in. You were the guinea pig to see if the room would be suitable for a long-term housing solution.
The bell had long since been removed. When you moved your things up into it, it was just a hollow shell of a room with exposed brickwork and old timbers.
And you’d loved it.
Sure, it needed dusting, but after you were done with a deep clean you quickly made it yours. Ornaments were hung, incense was lit, a rug was thrown down, and soon you had a perfect space all to yourself. A tiny slice of perfection up in the tallest tower of the Ministry. You’d been quite content until the noises began.
The longer you’ve been here, the surer you’ve become that you aren’t imagining them. To begin with, they were circumstantial: a glint of heterochromatic eyes could be passed off as a sun glare, the squeaking of floorboards was plausibly just because the room was old. But then you were sure you heard noises, and not the sort that mice might make - though they undeniably are up here with you too, roommates that you do not want - but instead, those of something much bigger. Scuffling noises. Chitters. Bestial and large.
But what could it be? A ghoul? Possibly, but they tend to be louder with their hijinks, and this creature seems almost shy. A demon then, leftover from some summoning gone wrong? No, you’d expect that to be more obvious: fire, brimstone and the like. At least a bit of hell-smoke. What’s under your bed feels almost… familiar.
Tonight your hypothesis is confirmed.
It starts like any other evening. You pad around your room, stripping off your habit to allow the cool air of the belfry to soothe your warm skin after a gruelling day of gardening beneath the hot sun, setting up some music on your laptop as you get ready for bed. A Ministry-made dinner sits comfortably in your belly and sleep is tugging on you like a lover begging you to meet them beneath the covers. You apply your skincare products, fold up your habit for tomorrow’s use, go to put your headphones on charge–
Your sweaty fingers fumble the case and it hits the ground with a loud clatter, sending one of your earbuds skittering across the floor and under the bed. You groan. Without thinking, you get to your knees to fish it out.
Two bright, surprised eyes meet you beneath the darkness of your bedframe.
You scream in shock and launch yourself backwards, hitting the far wall with enough force to knock the breath out of you and leave you lightheaded. The eyes keep watching, but you can see them shift shape as the lids around them twitch with a dozen different expressions.
As it feels like all of the air is forced out of the room, like you’re going to suffocate with fear, like this is the end, especially as a claw extends from the shadows beneath your bed towards you…
There’s something clasped in it. Your earbud.
The creature leaves its great mit extended, your tiny little device a white comma in an ocean of black. You look from its talons, inches long and razor-sharp, up the darkness of its arm all the way to its eyes again.
Oh. You recognise them.
Horizontal-slit, rectangular pupils, like those of a goat, but set in two different irises. Ones you’ve seen around the Ministry. Ones you’ve seen in videos from onstage.
Ones you’ve seen at Black Mass.
“Papa?” you ask and, even obscured as it is, you’re sure you see it wince.
“Eh, yes. Hello.”
The voice is the same as the one you hear preach on Sundays, even if slightly raspier. Your brow furrows as you pluck your earphone from his hand and watch as the limb slowly retracts into darkness.
“Thanks.”
“No worries.”
The two of you stare at each other. He makes no move to come into the light.
“May I ask an… indelicate question?” you manage. The eyes blink, but the two of them are ever so slightly out of sync, as if it’s an effort for the creature to do it.
“Of course, shoot.”
“Why… are you under my bed?”
You hear him sigh. His pupils flit to the side, unable to hold your gaze.
“It is dark and quiet and I like the coolness of the belfry. It can be exhausting, you know, being Papa. Up here I can get away from it all. I hope I am not intruding.”
You let this sink in. Then you shrug.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” Papa parrots.
“I mean, okay, sure, you’re not intruding. If this place makes you happy, I won’t tell you to vamoose. I’m happy to share.”
From the way his eyes contort, you think he’s smiling under there.
“Oh, thank you. I won’t be a bother.”
You pull on your pyjamas - keeping yourself decent in front of Papa though, realistically, if he’s been there for a while he’s probably already seen you nude - and crawl into bed, dragging your blanket up to your chest. You click off your bedside lamp and the room is plunged into near-darkness, held back only by what silvery moonlight falls into the room through your old curtains.
Papa is oddly quiet. You can only hear him in the ambience of your room if you strain your ears, his little snuffles and clicks.
“I might put on some ASMR, if that’s okay, Papa?”
“Please do. I like the noises they make. It gives me… what is it called? Tingles.”
It’s absurd to hear the monster under your bed say the word ‘tingles’, but you manage to suppress a laugh just in case he thinks you’re mocking him. You set up your phone to your favourite channel and lie back.
“Goodnight, Papa.”
“Goodnight.”
You fall asleep with surprising ease. The next morning, Papa is gone. You wonder if you’ve scared him off, but you’re relieved to find that he’s back under the bed by the time you turn in for the night.
So it goes on.
You make idle chit-chat every night, but he never comes into the light. He is quite content to hold a conversion from the shadows. Soon talking to him becomes something you look forward to: he’s a good listener, always keen to hear about your day and how things are for the laity, the bits and pieces he doesn’t necessarily get to see as Papa. In return he opens up a little about his responsibilities, though they mostly seem to boil down to ‘act as a perfect figurehead and do what the upper Ministry tells you to’. He seems a little stressed about it all and it hurts your heart.
Then he starts to do you favours.
Your crumpled laundry is neatly folded on your bed when you get back from work. Incense is burning away when you get home, meaning you’re immediately greeted by the soft scent of sandalwood. One evening you complain about the mice which plague you with their incessant skittering presence, and the next night you come home to a series of little grey furry corpses lined up on one of your windowsills, pink claws grasping towards the sky at nothing.
Maybe you could have done without that specific one. But you appreciated the gesture and the problem was stopped, so you couldn't be angry.
You pass Papa in the corridor a couple of times when he is being Papa. His pupils are round when he’s out and about, and there’s no evidence of the claws he was sporting when he handed back your earbud. Yet it must be the same man, because his mouth twitches into the barest hint of a smile for you, and only for you.
Your little secret with Papa.
Things change in the autumn.
It’s been one of Those Days. Primo worked you to the bone in the gardens, you were blamed for mistakes made by other Siblings, and by the time you’d finished sorting the mess out? Everything at the canteen was stone cold. The belfry has never been more inviting than it is right now as you crash through your door and kick it shut behind you, throwing yourself face-first onto the bed so you can scream your agonies into your pillow.
There is a pause when your throat is sore and you’ve finished letting out your roar of rage. Then, from under the bed, a tentative and quiet “are you alright?”
Oh right, Papa lives there, doesn’t he. In the misery that’s been your day you sort of forgot about that.
“Sorry, Papa. I’m quite fine. I’ve just had a hard day.”
“Can I help?”
Affection germinates in your heart like one of the flowers you’ve spent all day cultivating, and for the first time since you woke up, a smile tugs at your lips.
“I don’t know, Papa. I don’t think so.”
You hear Papa hmm in thought, then from the corner of your eye you see one of those long, shadowy arms extending out from under the bed. Rather than reach for anything on the floor, though, it reaches up. Five razor-sharp talons rest gently on your bedpost before one by one lifting and tapping back down. Clack clack clack clack clack.
“Some ASMR,” Papa offers, and you find yourself chuckling at how sweet it is.
“Oh, thank you.”
“Is it relaxing? Do you have, mm, tingles?”
It is, and you do. You let the sensation of sharp nails on old wood send little vibrations down into your soul. You could let it lull you to sleep… but something in you decides it wants to test the waters just a little. Just to see if they’re warmer if you go deeper.
“Papa?”
“Yes?”
“May I try something?”
“Of course.”
You reach out until your touch graces the tip of those claws. Papa freezes like a deer in the headlights - how ironic, considering he could easily rip one of those creatures apart - which allows you to carefully link your fingers between his. There is a bit of a stretch, they are large talons, but he melts into your embrace as your palms meet.
“Is this alright? This makes me feel relaxed,” you whisper.
“Oh… yes, it’s fine. If it makes you feel relaxed…” Papa replies, his voice just a little choked. You recognise that voice. You’ve had enough lovers to know what it really means. It means, oh, but I’d do anything you want if it makes you happy. Yes. Anything.
What an intriguing voice for Papa to have, the thing which is both the head of your church and the creature under your bed. What a gorgeous timbre on him.
You fall asleep with your knuckles nocked in the spaces between his.
The two of you hold hands when you drift off, now. After the first couple of days of you seeking his touch out, of him finding the reassurance you want this, he now offers his hand to you the moment that you get on the bed. He’s a little cat-like, you suppose, sparing with his affection until he is ready to go all in.
You wonder if he feels it, too. The ache in his lower belly when you touch. The way it roils like an ocean storm, begging to be calmed. You’re pretty sure there’s only one way it’s going to be calmed any more, and that’s by having the creature under your bed be claimed in it. You’re sure he must reciprocate your affection - why else would he stay, if he did not? Why else would he hold your hand like it was an anchor? - so now it’s just a matter of finding out if he wants you as badly as you want him.
It’s a lazy early evening when you float the idea. His hand is entwined in yours and you use the spare one to leaf through a magazine, reading out the articles he may find interesting. You do a lot of reading these days. Papa likes your voice, likes when you talk to him, and you are happy to fill the silence with whatever it is he wants to hear.
You finish the paragraph and close the glossy cover of the magazine, placing it on your bedside table. Without thinking you use your thumb to caress his own and you’re sure you feel him bristle with excitement.
“Papa?”
“Yes, my heart?”
Another indicator: the pet names. He rarely calls you by your given one. He much prefers a hundred little sweet alternatives. You don’t know if he’s even noticed it, but you certainly have.
“Can I see you?”
This time, when he bristles, it is with trepidation.
“... you wouldn’t want that.”
“I would, Papa, I promise.”
He tries to withdraw his hand from yours but you resist just a little, grip him a tiny bit tighter, a silent cry if please don’t go. He relents and stays still.
“I am not a nice thing to behold, dearest.”
“I don’t care.”
“You will, I’m monstrous when I’m not in my cassock. It might hurt you to look at me.”
“I’d rather find that out myself.”
You can tell he’s crumbling. You go for the kill.
“I want to know what it feels like to touch you properly, Papa.”
With a groan you hear him break.
Another hand joins the first, gripping the bed for purchase to pull himself out. And so Papa… unfolds.
He is hard to look at, but in a sort of non-euclidean way. His body bends and warps the space around it, a plane of both pitch darkness and pale skin. Long legs which twist in the wrong way yet move with the grace of a ballerina. Elbows too gangly, knees too knobbly, neck too stretched. Vertebrae which stick out from beneath the thin muscle of his back. Yet there is that mask which you know from your days around the Ministry, and those mismatched eyes which you’ve become oh so soft for.
He is perfect.
“I’m sorry,” he manages, once you’ve spent time taking him in. You blink away the start of an aura migraine which is determined to overtake you as you try to make sense of him and just let the way he is… sit for a moment. Eventually you adjust. He is not some monster, not to you.
“Oh, but you’re beautiful, Papa,” you whisper, and the noise which comes out the back of his throat is like the beating of a beetle’s wings. Somehow you know he is bowled over by the idea of you thinking that.
“Will you… will you call me ‘Pet’?” he manages. His mouth is full of sharp fangs when he speaks. You don’t know why they excite you so much.
“If I can touch you.”
“Yes.” It is a beg.
You reach out and rest your hand over the flat plane of his pectoral. His heart beats like a rabbit’s. Curious fingers begin to map out the shape of his skin, simply allowing him to be. His breath hitches every time you find somewhere new to explore and you wonder if anyone has ever done this for him, just sat there and felt.
So far, you have not looked between his legs. He appears to be nude, though, so when you see there is a… stirring there… you can only be thrilled.
“Satan below, I’m sorry,” he chokes, as if trying to will it back into its sheath. Instead of replying with words, you reach up to cup his jaw in your hand and trace your thumb over his lips, then use it as a marker to plant a kiss. His body goes still before he lunges forwards, wrapping himself around you the best he can, limbs all knots and bows as he centres you in the tresses of his embrace. A tongue darts out to taste your mouth, warm and soft, and you open up to receive him.
“Oh, oh,” he manages between kisses, cradling you like you are the most breakable thing in the world as you trail affection all over his face. You are made of stronger stuff, though. You run your hand southwards along his chest, towards that place between his legs…
He bucks as you touch him, and your eyes widen in wondrous delight. You glance down to inspect him properly.
“Papa - Pet - why are there three of them?”
Were his skin not shadow-swallowed, you’re sure you’d see a blush creeping up his chest. The appendages pulsate and twitch in excitement under your gaze.
“Only one of them is meant to go inside. The other two… aren’t.”
He seems so shy about it, but another flurry of kisses eases his nerves.
“What are they for, then? Please tell me, Pet.”
“They’re for… clasping.”
“Clasping what?”
You know you’re teasing now as his embarrassment blooms like a lily. You kiss him properly again, locking lips and touching tongues, before carefully pushing him backwards so he can lay on your bed. He stares up at you in rapture as you peel off your habit. You feel like a work of art as he traces his claws so gently up your sides. Your underwear follows and soon you’re as bare as he is, your chests heaving in tandem and the air thick with want.
“Show me. Show me all of it, Pet.”
Eat me, drink me, let me see the light.
He carefully guides your hips down a little, to where his appendages squirm and reach out to your warmness the way that flowers face the sun. The two smaller ones seem to have some kind of suction cups on them: tiny teeth with leech-like mouths. You gasp as they attach to the inside of your thighs, literally anchoring you to your monster-lover, holding you firm and spread. His main one - his cock, you suppose - wriggles and seeks out your hole as if it has a consciousness of its own, more tentacle-like than phallic. It leaks wetness. Lubrication to make the stretch more easy.
“Are you sure?” Pet whispers, and you nod with certainty.
“I told you I want to feel you, Pet. All of you.”
To settle this as fact you reach down to help guide him inside. He’s warm and slick to the touch, throbbing and eager. It wraps itself around your fingers for a second before it finds your hole. The tip circles you then it seats itself inside you, pushing and thrumming, his claspers dragging you down as his cock goes up. Within moments you are stretched beautifully, seated on Papa’s lap, mounting him like he is a throne you’ve conquered.
You hold your hands out so he can lock his fingers between yours. He chitters in delight, so happy you’ve accepted him in every way he can be accepted, his claws warm and sure when they meet you.
It is so easy to ride him. His claspers keep you suctioned down on his cock so all you need to do is make long, languid rolls of your hips to feel him bump around where you need it most. You groan and throw your head back in delight, your pleasure only eking out more noises of excitement from him.
“I’m so full, Pet. You’re making me feel so good,” you coo. He gnashes his teeth together in excitement.
“I am?”
“Yes,” you gasp at one particularly deep thrust. It feels like he’s buried in your guts. You don’t mind, not at all. You want him to take over every inch of you, you want to take over every inch of him, you want nothing at all to be left between the two of you but sex and slick and moans. You fuck him for an age, the pressure of your orgasm building as pre dribbles down his shaft and floods between where your hips meet. Honeyed words drip off of your tongue and you mean every one. He is gorgeous. He is perfect.
And when he whispers, “I love you,” you know that’s true, too.
“I love you, Pet.”
Something throbs at your entrance. Sweat-soaked and exhausted, you cock your head down at him.
“Oh–! Can I knot… can I knot…?”
“Can you not what, Pet?”
“No, I want to knot you.”
You almost come right there and then. You nod so hard you might give yourself whiplash and the swelling at the base of his cock is shoved into you, filling you so full you think you might be torn into pieces by his love and then brought back together by it, too.
He comes with a roar. It floods you. The knot means none of it drips out, so all you can do is watch yourself get fuller with his seed, a visible bulge as you become the receptacle for his monstrous release. Your orgasm is so blinding you think you might faint for a second.
And then it is all cuddles. He is bringing you into that wrap of limbs again and there are kisses, oh! there are so many kisses. Whispered words of love and affection chirruped from both of your throats as his knot deflates and you coat the bed in your coupling.
“Don’t go back under the bed,” you beg, voice hoarse, and he presses his lips to yours.
“No, not ever. Never again, my love.”
If people think it is strange that Papa has taken a paramour from nowhere, they never speak of it aloud. If they think it strange that nowadays his pupils are goat-slit and his fingers seem clawed as he attends to his Papal duties, well, they never comment on that, either.
But they all agree he seems much happier now. And so do you.
THIS WAS EVERYTHING. thank you for sharing it Avo.
