Work Text:
They were in a separate room, warming up. So once it started they wouldn’t have to waste any time.
Pelleamanea’s sharp nails bit into his back, tearing the skin even through the black silk of his shirt. Priamhark retaliated by tightening his grip on her collar until it had to be painful. He ground his knee in between her legs and she leaned into it.
Dimly, through the stone bricks, a child’s wail sounded. It was soon followed by another, and then there was a cacophony of half-confused, tearful voices crying out. He couldn’t think about it. He couldn’t not. Pelleamena’s claws brought his attention back. Her dark eyes bored into his, demanding better. She started grinding against him in earnest, as the screams turned from fear to pain.
He took her shoulder into his other hand and pulled on her jaw to bare her neck. With force, he bit down. Iron sprang to meet his taste buds, thalergy spilt past his lips. His wife moaned, shuddering. When he drew back, her pupils were blown wide and there was blood on her mouth, too. She must have bitten her lip. He wiped it off with his thumb almost gently, then took it into his mouth while she watched ravenously.
The screams were wildly loud now, but there were less of them. The walls shuddered with the force of what had to be the older teens trying to break past the door. They would not succeed. Even if they broke past the iron lock, there were wards just outside of them that would prevent them from escaping.
Still, it would be better if they didn’t break the door. Better if they died in animal panic and confusion, hoping someone would save them, than to die knowing their House had betrayed them.
Fingers wrapped around his jaw, pulling his gaze forward away from the wall.
“Don’t look at them. Look at me.”
And then delicate fingers were wrapping around his throat and squeezing tight. Priamhark stared at his wife, enraptured by the power in her eyes as she choked him. The pressure on his trachea tightened like a noose. Like a firm hand guiding him toward salvation.
His vision blurred and so did the whole world. The distinct cries of “Help! Help! For god’s sake we need help!” hazed into ambiguity. He couldn’t breathe. He was in the room. It was the gas choking him. He was dying for his House. This was absolution.
The Reverend Mother released him.
Boldly, a slim hand clamped down on his crotch, feeling him up through his pants. His wife had learned long ago how to rile him effectively, and he hardened under her grip. He snaked an arm around her to grab her thighs and pull her closer to him, grasping desperately for something to drown out reality.
Pelleamena stilled suddenly.
Priamhark lifted his head.
The children were quiet.
He shoved Pelleamena off of him, knew it would make her mad, knew that she would be eager to pay him back in all the ways that excited her. He opened the door of the cell without looking back. It was a short walk to the nursery, their boots clanging hollowly in the abandoned hallway. All the penitents had already been told the whole section was under quarantine because of an influenza. Nevertheless, the Reverend Father had to fight the urge to duck between shadows like a fugitive on the run.
His wife either had no such conflict or, more likely, kept it under a firmer rein. She strode confidently and regally. He followed her example, allowing himself to take in the power she radiated. His cock hardened more with each clang of her black heeled boots, and he indulged himself in the fantasy of her standing over him, digging those heels into his neck.
They stopped at the door. She turned to him, one hand proffering a gas mask. Someone had painted the contraption to resemble the bottom half of a skull, to match his own facepaint. It covered him from the nose down, sitting tightly over his jaw. If he imagined it were a muzzle he could keep his erection.
“Be good,” Pelleamena said solemnly, at pulled her own mask on. Once she’d fixed it neatly, he unlocked the door and swung it open. Several children’s bodies limply rolled down in the opening, and the white mist that had killed them crept along, partially obscuring them.
Then the thanergy hit him. Like a flood, uncontrolled waves of electric death washed over him, enveloping him, overpowering him. Behind him, Pelleamena stiffened, then opened her posture to embrace it. As he stepped over the bodies he held out a hand to assist his wife in entering without tripping on a splayed limb. The raw power coursed through his veins like a drug and the Reverend Father realized something.
This was going to be easier than he thought.
Even the gruesome sight of all the bodies was not enough to bring him down from the thanergy high. He surveyed them calmly. The babies and smaller toddlers were still tucked neatly in their beds, having died quickly enough to not stir in their sleep. Younger children were in or near their beds, sheets kicked back to give them room to cough, some having attempted to get up before collapsing.
He felt warmth at his back and turned to gaze into the eyes of his wife. They were dark with the crescendo of thanergy, and tore into him without mercy. The power swelled between the two of them, and suddenly he grabbed her by the arms and pushed her viciously into the nearest wall. Like a beast, Priamhark pushed her skirts up and spread her legs open for him. Even with the rush of power, he would still not be strong enough to hold her up, so he dropped two bone shards from his robe and sprang them to life as two short pillars that wrapped around her thighs, supporting her weight and keeping her spread open for him. He couldn’t wait anymore. Priamhark pulled his cock out of his pants without ceremony and shoved himself into his wife.
She flinched like the wind had been knocked out of her, but with the mask on he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t care. Their warm-up meant that she was plenty wet for him. Even if she wasn’t, he knew what needed to be done. Priamhark gave her no time to adjust. He fucked into her again. Pulled out halfway, thrust back in with force.
God it felt good. Everything felt so good. This was the best he’d felt in years, every sense heightened, every dripping wall of her clinging sweetly to his length. Priamhark knew she liked it rough and he didn’t hold back. He fucked her hard and fast, grunting animalistically from within the isolated cell of his own gas mask.
Their section of wall was wedged between two cots with frail bodies mere feet away and he didn’t give a damn because it felt so fucking good. Pelleamena’s fingers scrabbled into his back as he heaved into her, finally losing his rhythm and pumping erratically as he came deep inside her. It was probably the best orgasm he’d ever had.
He rode out the aftershocks, feeling pleasure and relief with every last spurt of seed he fucked into his wife. When his dick began to soften, he finally pulled out with a lavisciously wet noise. A moment longer he stood there, admiring the sight of Pelleamena still up on the constructs. Her hair was disheveled and her paint was mussed. The gas mask fitted around the lower half of her face was firmly in place, the skullshead making her look like some sort of demon. Her thighs were spread open and with the length of her skirts hiked up around her hips, her entrance was on full display, glistening with her desire and his.
He felt himself start to harden up again at the glorious sight. Good. They were far from done. They needed to make sure it was enough.
With a snap of his fingers the constructs puffed into nothing so much as dust. He caught Pelleamena as she was released, helped her get her weight under herself properly. Eyes scanning the room, Priamhark spotted an empty bed, sheets all kicked off of it, its occupant probably in the pile of tangled limbs by the door. He grabbed her by the hand and led Pelleamena to it.
His cock was still hanging out of his pants, and so Priam stripped off the rest of his clothes, before turning and helping his wife out of hers. Once naked—except for the masks, which they daren’t take off even now—they both laid down.
Pleasure. Lubrication. Those would help this process. Time to warm her back up, convince her body to welcome the foreign intrusions. Priamhark shifted himself down so he was about chest level with her hips and gave himself a moment to drink in the sight of her womanhood. There were no words to describe the beauty, the downright holiness of the crease in her thighs, the curve of her pelvis, those short dark curls. His dick hardened a little further, pressing now against her calf.
She was the Reverend Mother in all her sanctity, and he was the devoted penitent chosen to worship her.
Priam’s right hand crept into her curls, taking a moment to enjoy the sensation. Pelleamena arched her back at the touch and pressed into his palm. Good. The thanergy was still swelling powerfully all around them, dancing in his vision like starlight, emboldening his calloused fingers with grace as they dipped into her folds. She was heavenly soft and wet, and opened up for him with no trouble at all.
Priamhark slid two fingers inside of her and began grinding the meat of his palm teasingly around her clit. His index finger brushed one of her walls as deep as he could fit, relishing in the soft give. His tendons strained, but he was rewarded with a spasm and then one hand gripping his shoulder with incredible force. Priamhark smiled as best he could under the gas mask.
He adjusted the angle of his wrist and began fucking her in earnest, letting his index finger push and stretch her out while his middle finger curled forward and circled a rhythm on the sensitive alcove just past her entrance that drove Pelleamena wild. It did not fail him, and between the fingers inside of her and his pressure on her clit, his wife came in under a minute.
There was nothing holier than Pelleamena coming undone, and between the view and the necromantic power filling him he was now painfully erect again.
Priamhark got up to his knees, and as he reared over her, his vision slipped past and settled on a child—Anastasis. Her face was blue and bloated, terror frozen on her face. Heat fled from him, blood rushing away to make him flaccid.
Pelleamena’s eyes widened a fraction with panic and she pulled him desperately toward her, away from the sight. He felt sick, but the steady black nova of her eyes slowly calmed him again. Priamhark shoved down all the emotions he couldn’t feel right now, and aggressively flipped Pelleamena around so she was on her stomach. The Reverend Father tucked her knees so they were under her torso, leaving her exposed and vulnerable in front of him in imitation of prayer.
He knew what she liked.
Priamhark brought one hand down heavily and slapped his wife’s ass with it, the meaty whack filling the quiet room. She made some sort of noise from under her mask and arched herself toward him. He spanked her with his other hand, experience making him talented at finding the balance between pain and pleasure.
She’s not tied up this time. Don’t let her feel too loose, he thought. Priam scooted forward on his knees and placed his legs on either side of her own, boxing her in. His cock rubbed against her open pussy, both slick and needy. Pelleamena jerked her hips backward, shamelessly grinding against his length. That wouldn’t do. He grabbed her with one hand, roughly holding her still, and brought the other down on her supple ass again. And again. And again.
He spanked her until her cheeks were red and smattered with broken blood vessels. Finally, the tension drained out of her and she slumped down, exhausted. Now, with her full submission—which was just how she liked it—Priam lined himself up with her entrance and pushed the head of his cock inside. Under him, his wife shook, tried to adjust the angle to give him more space. He didn’t let her spread her legs, kept them firmly closed between his own. Instead he pulled her hips up so they were flush with his own. She looked so fucking good, ass up and face in the sheets, back curved so acutely he could see her spinal cord beneath her skin, pulling so prettily between her scapulae.
Priam jerked his hips forward and pushed his manhod further in. Her walls were tight against him thanks to the angle, but slippery and smooth enough that he knew it wasn’t abrasive. Priamhark thrust inside her and reached his left hand around to rub her clit between two fingers while fucking into her with his cock. It was hard to focus on both, so the second every muscle in her body tightened and she came again, he let go of her and devoted his energy to the task at hand.
His hips made a debauched sound as they slammed into the back of her thighs again and again, a hollow slapping that rang in time with the creaking of the small cot, which was not meant for their combined adult weight or this vigorous activity. The bed held together, the noises reached a crescendo, and then Priamhark came again, spilling inside of her. He thrust his dick as deep as he could and held it there, not wanting a single drop to be wasted.
Slowly, as he panted roughly and watched his breath come out like steam between the perforations of the mask, the strength left him and he slumped forward over his wife’s bent back. She shook him off and he slid to the side to lay on his back, his cock popping free of her to hang limply between his legs.
They weren’t done yet.
He knew what came next. The previous position was Pelleamena’s favorite, and now it was his turn. It was a double relief because he was so tired he wasn’t sure he could keep upright any longer. Now he could just lay back and watch as his wife rose above him. She leant down to their discarded garments and pulled something from hers before settling on top of his, straddling his thighs.
She was wielding a chain whip, and his tired cock twitched at the familiar sight. Normally they filled this routine with violent words that worked both of them up, but having to keep their masks on, Pelleamena settled for an intense stare. It was fine. They knew each other so well he could hear every vicious thought that glare communicated, and a shiver of anticipation rippled through him. Pellea let the whip trail up his lean torso, circling the threadbare musculature of his chest.
Then she suddenly snapped her wrist, and the whip cracked against his skin. It was his turn to arch his back as pain exploded across his being. She whipped him again, and he grunted in mixed ecstasy and suffering. Pelleamena lashed him, lower this time, leaving a heavy red mark across his abdomen leading to the top of his thigh. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he was rock hard again.
She didn’t stop there. Pelleamena whipped him thoroughly and viciously, until he was screaming in muffled agony. She brought her hand back and cracked it one last time, this time letting it snap and curl against his dick. His vision went white with pain beyond comprehension, and Priamhark passed out.
When he woke up, probably no more than a minute later, his wife was riding his dick. Even the blessed wetness of her insides were not enough to stifle the throbbing pain that wrapped around his cock. However, waking up to find himself being used and violated by his lover overrode the pain, and Priamhark exploded again, letting her thrusts milk him through his orgasm. She didn’t stop even when he was done, just kept soothingly rocking herself on his softening dick. It wasn’t going to work, and he attempted to push her off of him. Pelleamena slapped his feeble attempt aside with one hand and placed the other firmly on his chest. She stared at him wildly, austerely, daring him to try that again.
She was going to fuck herself on him until she was satisfied, and not a moment less. It succeeded in getting him hard enough that he wasn’t going to physically slip out of her, but it was a half-erection at best.
Apparently it was fine for her needs. Pelleamena settled herself firmly onto his supine lap, legs wide open so he had a gorgeous view of her taking his cock to the hilt. He watched as she stilled her movements, satisfied to simply stretch herself passively on his somewhat firm length, and dance her fingers over her clitoris. She ministrated to herself and put on a show for him, pulling on her own nipples, running her hands down the lovely plane of her own stomach. She, essentially, masturbated while using his dick as a fucktoy. It was hot enough to get him to stiffen a little more, and as she quickened her own pace she began bouncing up and down. Priamhark found himself hardening the whole way suddenly, just in time to feel the wondrous clenching muscles of Pelleamena orgasming around the length of him, and then they were both coming together.
He finished first and then she came down from it, leaning forward with her chest heaving. They were both exhausted, and overstimulated, and the thanergy bloom was the only thing keeping them going. They needed to do this. They needed to secure an heir, and that meant getting as much of his seed down as lubricated a path as they could get. Their House was held in the balance. They could not fail.
Pelleamena winced as she pulled herself off of him and flopped to her side on the bed.
He went to touch her again, but she could not hide the flinch as his fingers brushed her folds. Priamhark pulled back and surveyed the situation. He had wanted to warm her up to buy himself more time to get hard again, but obviously that wasn’t going to happen.
Pelleamena reached forward and wrapped her fingers around his flaccid cock, starting to pull it upward to take him in her mouth. She stopped halfway, clearly remembering the gas mask. She shook her head and shifted her weight on the bed uncertainly. Her fingers pumped up and down a few times, and now it was his turn to wince against her cracked and dry hands.
Ever the sacrificial lamb, she opened her legs and went to let him penetrate her anyway, despite the pain. It wasn’t going to work. He wouldn’t be able to get inside. Priam pushed her off. She looked at him, confusion and no small amount of desperation in her coal black eyes, and he met that gaze with steadiness.
The Reverend Father sat up and laid his wife on her back. He pulled her close to him, so her hips were resting on his thighs with her spine resting along the sheets. Her thighs straddled his own hip and his cock pressed limply against her. At this point he probably needed to rely on the enticement of the forbidden to get him hard again. The subject matter would be less important than the level of depravement. His eyes lit on a child’s corpse a few meters away and he settled on a fantasy to think about while giving himself slow, even strokes.
Priamhark caught Pelleamena’s gaze and he held one finger over his lips—hoped she would recognize the gesture through the mask, hoped she would understand what he was asking. Ingrained with years of partnership, she comprehended his intent. She leant back and stared upward, limbs unmoving. Corpselike.
Priamhark felt the death all around him and thought about the fact that Pelleamena might die far before him. He thought about being driven mad with grief, unable to stand the loneliness, and creeping to her crypt to satisfy his cravings for her beyond the grave—inside the grave. Imagined that her lying in front of him now, still and perfect, was this scenario.
It succeeded in getting him aroused enough for penetration, and god did it ache to penetrate something. His hands were no less dry and cracked than his wife, and every stroked was painful even with the precum bubbling out to help lubricate.
Priamhark continued stringing the fantasy along in his mind. As the head of his cock pressed gently at this entrance, he felt Pelleamena tense for a moment, then slowly and deliberately relax again. Good. Priamhark eased himself through her opening.
Her hips bucked and her legs kicked a little even with his slow pace, and he paused once inside to give her time to adjust. Priamhark leaned forward over his wife, letting the motion push him further in, and took in the gorgeousness of her pale skin. Her body was bare and exposed in a way no one else got to see in life or death. Now, in death, she was doubly only his, preserved perfectly just for his pleasure.
He thrust his hips, eyes closing with the carnality of sensations. It felt different, but still good, and the knowledge of the perverseness of the act sent a thrill through him. She was his, and he would use her however he wanted.
It was the only way to feel close to her, separated by death and life as they were.
Priamhark began moving in earnest, relishing in the way her hips shifted passively against the canting of his thighs. There was no resistance, nothing to stop him from fucking her and drinking in the sight of her, no one to witness this desecration. Priamhark quickened his pace, leaned down even further to twist one dusky nipple between his fingers. Again, no resistance, no reaction. Thrill washed over him and he continued to thrust into his wife.
Priamhark let the sensation build up and winced with every hot, overstimulated thrust. But he was meat, and meat was always victim to its desires. With stinging vigor, he finally came. Pelleamena broke her stillness—her body seized in pain and she clung to his shoulders as he shook inside of her. His overused member protested, the orgasm equal parts release and raw, overwhelmed nerves.
That had to be the last. They were both at their limit. Priamhark ached all over, and he trembled from the sensitivity of just pulling out of her. She lay there, shaking for a minute, before pulling herself up to a sitting position. Now came the real work for Pelleamena. She’d probably been focusing inward the whole time, drawing up the thanergy and storing it, opening her womb up and preparing it to be rewritten.
He stood, and held out a hand to help her up. They dressed and began picking their way through the bodies to the door in silence. A small noise poked at the edges of the Reverend Father’s awareness. He turned curiously and then froze in abject horror. Pelleamena bumped into him.
She glanced at him in confusion and followed his gaze, then stopped dead as well, slackening in shock.
A baby. Rousing gently in its crib. The foundling, that they had only taken in for the advantage of one more source of thanergy to exploit on this day. Alive, drooling happy spit bubbles as it woke up from its nap. What was its name again? The answer came to him like cloister bells clanging that Domicicus had fallen out of orbit.
Gideon.
Inside of his gas mask, he threw up.