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warnersister · 2 years

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Papa’s Wife

Papa Emeritus III x Reader

Papa Emeritus III x Reader Smut

Warnings: forced marriage, unwanted marriage, smut, praise kink, unprotected sex, consensual smut, etc.

It was forced. Not arranged. No. Don’t get that confused. It was a forced marriage. A forced marriage to join the two most powerful churches of the anti-Christ together. A forced marriage between you and Papa Emertius III.

The two of you first found out at a ‘family dinner’. Satan knows why they called it that, after all it was practically just a meeting with food you daren’t touch after learning what the ghouls feast on. Papa Nihil took a gulp of oxygen before turning to your father, “Quade,” Your father hummed. “I believe it is time.” “Si, Nihil. I agree.” He replied, and you looked between the two with questioning eyes, your mother just offered an almost animalistic grin, before the inevitable followed.

“Emeritus, (Y/n),” She began. “You are to be wed.” You dropped the cutlery in your clutch and it clattered harshly onto your empty plate. “Excuse me?” You coughed. “Do not interrupt me, child.” She seethed. “You are to join the two churches in a marital conjoining of law.” Her voice was cold, and harsh.

You had been planning on leaving the church for years. And now you were well and truly trapped. Never mind, you were fucked. “You can’t make us.” Emeritus spoke up, voice shaking slightly as Nihil gave him a side-glance. “We can and we will. On the night of October 31st you are to join in holy matrimony.” She concluded, a sickening look of contempt settled over her features.

“That’s a week today.” You stated, voice rising. “Do not raise your voice at me girl. You will do as I say.” Your mother hissed. “Mama-” “Enough!” She slammed her left fist against the table, causing Emeritus and yourself to jump anxiously. “This is to happen under the watchful eye for the anti-Christ and you are not to disobey me!”

You inhaled sharply before raising from your seated form, chair screeching on the floor as you sent it backwards. You hurried out of the room, not knowing where to go as this was the church of Nihil, not your own.

A cellar. That was where you found yourself. The tears on your cheeks were hot, your mind buzzing with a mixture of angered emotions. You heard the door creak from the corner you were bundled in, but you couldn’t care to look. Why should you? Your life was being sold to a breathing corpse and his family.

“Amor,” You hear the voice of the person you least wanted to see at that moment. “Fuck off Emeritus.” His tone soon changed. “I don’t want this shit as much as you don’t, but at least I have the decency to be civil.” He stated, voice icy. “Civil? I wanted out of my family. Not to be sold into yours.” You told him, looking up to meet his stare. “We are slaves to Lucifer. We have been sold. (Y/n) you cannot run from a fate that has already captured you. Grow up and understand that.” He spat. You just shook you head and dropped it to your knees.

Emeritus approached you and held out an envelope. You raised an eyebrow. “If I am to be married, my bride is to wear the best dress money can buy.” Suddenly he was unable to make his gaze meet your own. “I can buy my own dress.” Realising you would not take his money, he just dropped it by your feet. “Black is a good colour.” He began walking to the door. “There is no point running from it, believe me, I have tried.” The door shut behind him.

The next week passed disturbingly fast, and somehow you found yourself at the steps of Nihil’s Church, clutching a bouquet consisting of black petunias, roses, tulips, and dahlias. The black dress you were adorning trailed behind you, dragging against the cold stone floor. The lace of the bodes dug into your skin and your hair was pulled back uncomfortably tight. Nothing about this day was a fairytale, only the horrors of a nightmare.

To a foreign eye the way your father’s arm was gripping your own was wholesome and heartwarming. But he was merely holding you that tight as to not allow you to flee. He was more anxious than you, him eager to hand you over and seal the fate of the church of the Anti-Christ.

The doors opened and the audience stand, a very limited number of which you recognised. You only looked at your feet and you walked the dull-lit isle. “Stand up straight, girl.” You heard your mother whisper, harshly. You automatically corrected your posture, only looking at your supposed groom when you reached the altar.

Emeritus wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone at that moment but himself, but oh lord, you were gorgeous. The black lace. The long trailing vail. The black flowers. Everything about you was breathtaking. He felt like he had died and gone to hell.

You kneeled on the black velvet cushion beside Emeritus, inhaling slowly and slowly accepting the knowledge of what you were about to do. You hardly heard the voice of the vicar as the ceremony droned out, only to feel your heart drop out of your chest when silence followed the question of objection.

You reluctantly held out your hand as the small blade created a cut in your palm, and you couldn’t help but revel in the pain for a moment, enjoying the feeling of slipping away. Even if only temporary. A slice was made into your companion’s and they were forced together, and you had to stifle a hiss of pain at the sensation of your blood mixing.

The rings were exchanged and the vicar grinned. “You may now kiss your bride.” Neither of you moved, but when Papa Nihil intentionally cleared his throat, Emeritus gently gripped your chin and turned it towards his. “I am sorry.” He left a light and lingering kiss to your lips, but that was enough for the chapel room, as an eruption of applause followed.

That was it. It was done. You were wed and you were stuck. You were now the wife of Papa Emeritus III.

The reception was a complete oxymoron of your mood. It was joyous and even your mother cracked a smile, they were happy and had done their job. You were a pawn. Their pawn. You were miserable and the mascara patterning your skin showed that. You sat on the steps with your head in your hands, bouquet disregarded beside you.

You heard someone exit though the door behind you, and then they perched alongside you on the icy cobblestone. You looked towards your estranged associate. It was Emeritus. Your husband. He said nothing, only sipping on a glass of expensive champagne and allowing his bow tie to fall loose along with the top few buttons of his once-crisp white shirt.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.” He told you, eyes not moving from the moon hanging high above the pair of you. You just hummed, turning your head to look at him. “We were supposed to fall in love. You denied like Romeo and Juliet. We were supposed to be forbidden. We were not supposed to be forced, mi amor.” He admitted. You had already accepted it at this point, all optimism being left in the pool of blood sitting back in the Chapel. So all you could do was listen.

“I always loved you.” He said. “I used to comb my hair back when my father said your family was visiting. I even picked you some flowers but I never made it past the doorway. I was scared.” He finally looked you in the eye. “I am still a scared little boy, (Y/n).” He swallowed thickly. “But now I am a scared little boy with a wife.” He just shook his head with a cold chuckle. “You were supposed to love me, not hate me.” You watched a single tear fall from his eye.

You said nothing, not a word in response. But you put your arms around your husband and pulled him into an embrace, resting your forehead against his shoulder. He returned it tightly, inhaling the sweet scent from the mixture of shampoo and perfume. You pulled back and wiped the tear from under his eye and steadily kissed where it once was.

That night he became the Papa of the church. And yourself his wife. He opened the door to the two of yours room and not a word was spoken. You slept in the bed and he laid his head down on the large sofa. You both cried yourselves to sleep that night. Somehow your thoughts were silent, nothing was on your mind. And that confused you. But you knew one thing for certain, you were okay being his wife.

The next morning you walked around as if the other was not there. He made his breakfast and you made yours. He went about his day with his ghouls and you went about yours wandering the gardens. And it stayed that way for a while. Actually for approximately four months.

It was late February, almost March. That day you woke and did something almost outlandish. You made yourself breakfast, and then your husbands. You don’t know why you did it. It was not intentional. And you had not done this previously. But you just did it, automatically. You made him breakfast.

“Good morning.” He mumbled, walking into the kitchen and towards the cabinet for his cereal, not expecting a reply. “Good morning.” You responded softly, holding out his bowl to him. He looked between yourself and the contents of the bowl for a minute or two, before taking it from your grasp and putting his hand on the back of your head, pulling you forward to kiss your hair with gratitude. Thank you, Cara Mia.” He said and for once you gave him a genuine smile, before a silence took over the household once again. But for the first time is was a comforting silence, not a thick or harsh one.

You each got dressed simultaneously and you sat at the vanity, grumbling over the small clasp on your necklace that was refusing to cooperate. He held out his hand and you looked at him through the mirror. “May I?” You passed him the delicate jewellery and held your hair up in your hand as to not get it in his way, and he seemingly effortlessly joined the chain around your neck.

“Thank you.” His eyes met your own in the reflection as you expressed your appreciation, and he reciprocated earlier’s smile. “You are welcome.” He grabbed his song sheets after a moment of looking at each other, and headed for the door. Although, suddenly stopping abruptly. “Would you like to join us? The ghouls would not object to your presence in practise.” He asked, thoughtfully and you turned to him - not even second guessing your answer for a moment. “Yes, I would love to.”

Now, it wasn’t the first time that he had offered you a seat in their rehearsal room, but it was the first time you had accepted. You slipped on your shoes, and followed him out of the door, slipping your arm into his when her held it out for you.

You knew most of their songs off by heart. Not by ear, but by reading. You had taken the time to learn all of the scripted lyrics of your husband’s band, whether you meant it in a loving way or not. You kept to yourself in the corner, picking at the petals of a forget-me-not flower that you had plucked on the way here.

“Is she just going to sit there making a mess?” One ghoul growled, motioning vaguely to the pail petals now haphazardly decorating the floor. You think he was called Dewdrop, at least that’s what Emeritus had informed you. “Are you just going to stand there playing out of tune notes?” You retaliated, sarcastically cocking your head sideward. “Oh you think you could play better than me?” He snarled. “Oh you think you can play?” You reacted and he took a few steps towards you. “Watch your mouth, after all it seems like you’d make a decent meal.” He warned, but before you could strike back, a deafening shout was hollered from across the room.

“HEY!” Emertius’ voice was loud and laced with a horrid venom. He took large and fast strides towards the ghoul, backing him up against a wall. “Watch how you talk with my wife. The scared ghoul could only cower and nod furiously, trail tucked with a cowardice between his legs. “Yes papa.” His once cruel and demanding tone now weak and shaking.

Then your husband turned to you, taking your face into his hands with a light and delicate grasp. “Are you okay, Mia Caro?” He asked, a small and regretful pout at his lips, you only wrapped your hands around his hand nodded. “I am fine.” “What do you say to her?” He asked, head turning back to Dew. “I am sorry.” “And?” “And I will never talk with you in that way again.” He couldn’t meet your eyes, not even with a mask to hide behind. “I forgive you.” And the practise went on, a newly found feeling dwelling in the darkest pits of your stomach after the events of that situation. A feeling that was unrecognisable and foreign, but understandable and welcome.

That night Emeritus walked over to tell you goodnight, but you patted against the spot beside you in the intentionally shared bed. He looked at you with a questioning gaze. “Can you sleep here tonight?” You asked, suddenly nervous for his response. “Please?” He smiled gently, climbing in next to you and turning off the light. It was silent and still for a long while, before his hand brushed against yours. You both pulled back but then you did something even you didn’t expect from yourself, you turned onto your side and placed your head against his shoulder.

Instead of pulling away, he immediately wrapped both arms around you and hugged you close, lips against your forehead and lingering there for a long while. “Emeritus?” You began, voice small and quiet. “Yes, my love?” That was the first one he had addressed you in those terms in English. “I am also a scared little girl.” You referee back fo his confession on your wedding day and you heard him inhale sharply through the darkness. “But I think I am also grown up enough to admit that I have always loved you too. And I am happy to be your wife. Even under these circumstances.” He took your face in his hand and kissed your lips gently, smiling with bliss covering his features.

The next day was the beginning of his first tour as the new frontman of Ghost. His first rituals under the public eye. The brothers and sisters of the clergy gathered around the bus as they were waved off, but The Papa ignored his desperate disciples and focussed all of his attention on you. Your face was cradled in his hands, his bags disregarded by his feet. “I love you.” He told you, caressing your cheekbones with his thumb. “I love you too.” You kissed him forcefully on the lips, knowing that would be the first and last time you had to do that in months. “Be safe.” You instructed in a protective and warning tone and he just laughed wholeheartedly. “I will, mia dolcezza.” And he was gone. Gone to preach to the world the word of the Anti-Christ. Gone from your grasp for another night.

The following day you decided to write to him, a wholesome, innocent little letter describing your feelings and the love you had recently discovered was lying dormant in your heart for him. He returned it with as much love and adoration, and they only accumulated from there.

But the virtue and decency was lost a while after your writings began, and were replaced by that of sin, and many that should remain closed behind the confinements of a lover’s bedroom door.

You were both excitingly anxious and nervously reluctant to send that letter. For it described what you desired your husband to do to you, the things that were disregarded and abandoned from the consumption of your wedding night. And with it, a few small Polaroids of which the contents shall not be spoken through words.

The crude images and sheer lace sent Papa Emeritus III wild. He wasn’t necessarily expecting that message but he was more than great full for it and to return it, a sudden flood of want and need rushing through his cold blood and thumbing through the confinement’s of his underwear. He needed his wife. And he needed you now. And so in return, you got what you gave, a set of small photographs that now sat buried beneath your underwear in a drawer, the sight of his dick now enough to send you into a crazed and dazed frenzy, also - some nights spent by yourself, pleasuring yourself through unspeakable things.

So when the time came for them to return, you stood anxiously along with the brothers and sisters of the church, awaiting your beloveds return. Only snapping out of your distant and wild thoughts when the cheers and eruption of clapping filled your ears, the bus was here.

Papa was first of the bus, and his eyes scoured the crowd, before they focused on you. You both smiled wildly and he shoved through the hoard of followers and straight into your arms. He picked you up and span your around, kissing you with as much force of what should have been at the altar. “I have missed you so much, my love.” You told him. “I have missed you more, magnifico.” He put you down and leaned close to your ear. “You are a naughty girl, sending those Polaroids.” A jolt of electricity powered through your legs and straight to your core. “Did you not enjoy them, darling?” You asked, peering up at him with innocence shining through your doe-eyes.

“You do not want to know what I did with those images.” He growled. “Oh I think the results are sat in my drawer upstairs.” You responded, a small smirk playing on your lips. “You have no idea what I want to do to you right now, mi amor.” He hissed, discreetly grinding his quickly growing erection into your front. “Do it to me, papa. I want you to make love to me.” You stood on the tips of your toes to whisper into his ear. “I need you to ruin me.”

That’s how you found yourself beneath your husband. He had carried you bridal-style back to your shared abode, and carefully dropped you onto your bed, lips hungrily travelling over all the skin he could get to. “Are you sure, amor?” “Please, yes.” You whimpered our, finding yours and his clothes thrown across the room into multiple careless piles.

He appreciated every inch of your body, licking and sucking and marking his territory like a wild animal, only stopping at your underwear to regain consent. “Papa please do something.” You pleased. “What do you want me to do, Mia Caro?” He teased. “Your mouth.” You groaned. “What do you want me to do with my mouth, come on sweetness, use your words.” You cried out. “I want your mouth between my legs.” “There we go, I can do that.” And before long he was kissing a trail down your thighs and quickly then licking and sucking on your sensitive clit, tongue diving into your hole every so often. “Perhaps my mouth was not necessary,” He dragged two fingers against your slit in a teasing manor as you moaned loudly. “You are already dripping, after all.” He hummed against you, sending vibrations pulsing through your body.

He plunged two fingers into you and you cried loudly, an overwhelming sensation filling you as your stomach tightened. “Papa I’m going to, I-” He smiled and nodded. “Yes my love, let go.” And the cord snapped, allowing you to come undone all over his fingers. “Good girl.”

He lined himself up with your entrance and your eyes widened, concerned that he would be unable to fit. “Are you ready, mi amor?” You nodded; letting your head fall backwards into the comfort of the fluffed-up pillows. He slipped inside until he bottomed out, the only noise for a prolonged-moment was the sound of the two of yours mixed heavy breathing, as he allowed you time to adjust.

Emeritus threaded your fingers through his own and raised them both above your head to support his weight. “Move, please.” You requested, and he began rocking back and forth. Once neat hair, now gradually becoming dishevelled and falling around to frame his face. He growled anomalistically, but did not quicken his space. Instead, dragging it out to bask in the long-awaited pleasure and allowing you to feel every inch of him filling you up.

That pleasurable feeling returned once more, and he kissed your lips to help you through it. You moaned into his mouth as you came, forcing him to cum also, straight after you. He remained buried inside of you for a moment, head in your neck, before he pulled out and rested beside you, pulling your body into his and the covers over the two of you.

“I love you, my gorgeous wife.”

“I love you too, my husband.”

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