Death-sama123 - Death-sama123

Mak Tumang

Angela

Day 18

Something bad happens and Copia’s plans are ruined. He’s so pissed off he can barely control himself. You offer he can take the anger out on you. Hate-fucking ensues

Delightful prompt, nonny. 🔥 

*hate sex; angry sex; rough sex; spitting; penetration*

Even if you hadn’t heard the stage whispers around the Abbey today, Copia banging around his office would be warning enough that he’s in A Mood.

You eke open the door to find papers strewn about his desk, books sprawled out like drunks on the floor, and his chair upturned. 

The man himself is hunched over himself the sofa, his back heaving in rage.

“Papa?” you ask softly.

Copia freezes, then turns to you, smoothing down his ruffled hair before clearing his throat.

“Ah, amore. Perhaps not now, yes?”

You pick your way carefully through the detritus, as his eyes track your form the entire way. Even when you take his hand to kiss his knuckles, Copia’s body is still a taut wire, ready to snap.

“I am no good being around at the moment, amore.”

But you are not a fair-weather partner. You know some of Copia’s past lovers were in it for the favors or the infamy…but you’re here for all his moods.

“You’re angry about the—”

“Ai! Do not even speak it,” he hisses through cleaned teeth as his white eye flashes.

You touch his face to smooth away the anger, but—while he doesn’t flinch away—the sour look remains.

“Let me help, Papa.” You kiss his nose. “My Papa.”

He grumbles, but allows it.

“Oh? And how would you be doing that?”

You’re already tugging off your habit.

“You can use me to fuck it out.” 

Copia goes as still as a predator observing his prey, even as his eyes take in the snatches of revealed flesh. 

“Your personal stress reliever.”

You toss the habit to the side, now clad only in your underwear.

When you meet his eyes, he rolls his hand at you.

“Continuare.”

You reach for your bottoms, but Copia growls low in his throat and stalks over to you. He fists the fabric and jerks you into the line of his body.

“I have your permission to use you as I see fit?”

You press yourself into him and nip lightly at his throat.

“Yes, Papa. Use me hard.”

“Bene,” he rumbles.

And then he’s rending the cotton in two.

You gasp, but he’s already biting into your neck and raking his blunt nails hard down your skin. His one hand travels up to grip into the roots of your hair before he’s yanking your head back with a harsh jerk.

“Fuck you,” he snarls, and then he spits in your face.

He’s pushing your head back painfully as he smears it into your skin before shoving his fingers harshly into your throat.

“Your dare,” he hisses as you try not to gag. “I will show you who is in charge here. Who is Papa.”

His nails scrape your scalp as he digs his fingers into the hair at the top of your skull.

“On your knees,” he growls. It’s a command, but he’s pushing you down before you have a chance to comply.

Free from his fingers, you cough and wipe the tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. When you look up, Copia’s face is twisted in hate as fumbles to undo his pants. You barely have time to admire the flush and fill of his hard cock before he’s ramming it down your throat, a hand at the back of your head to keep you in place.

“You will take it whether you like it or not.”

(You like it.)

He shoves it down as far as you can take it—and then some—and you choke and wheeze as you try to breathe through your nose. He grunts as his hips twitch into your mouth, his curls rubbing against your nose.

Your eyes are streaming, and you don’t think you can last much longer, so you tap at his thighs. He yanks you off his cock in a mess of spit and mucus, and you double over as you suck in air.

“You can dish it out but not take it, eh?”

When you lift your face to his, his expression is smooth—but his nose and lips twitch with restrained anger. One pointed boot comes up to push your flat with a press to your forehead. It smears down your face to press at the hollow of your throat.

“Are you chosen by the Olde One?”

You shake your head as much as you’re able.

“Are you anointed by our Dark Lord?”

Another shake, and he leans down, resting his arm on his thigh.

“Do you think I have this eye for shits and giggles, eh?”

He points at his blazing eye, and all you can do is stare at the fire in it.

“If you don’t know it, I will make you know it,” he hisses through clenched teeth at you.

Your body responds with a heated desire, and you wonder if he registers the flush of your skin.

Copia makes a growl low in his throat, and suddenly you’re being manhandled up and onto his lap.

“You will feel it when I fuck the sense into you.”

The first crack of his palm on your ass has you letting out a startled gasp. It’s followed quickly with another smack. And another.

And another.

He’s raining down open-palmed smacks on your bare flesh, and you’re letting out little hitched breaths while squirming in his lap at the stinging sensation blooming across your ass. Despite the sting, you’re leaking, and while your reflex is to jerk away from him, all you want is more.

“Oh, Papa!” you cry.

He mistakes your cry for one of mercy, and he rumbles as his hands grab at your burning flesh.

“Had enough, eh?”

Your response is to moan and press into his lap. His hand winds into your hair to yank your head back again.

“I’ll show you enough,” he breathes into your ear.

Copia slips out from under you, and you rub into his couch, leaving the evidence of your arousal over the soft leather.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” you groan because it seems like the correct thing to say.

(You're not sorry. Not at all. Copia can come get it.)

“Oh, I’ll show you ‘sorry’,” he snarls, and then he’s grasping you here and there to bend you over the back of the couch. When he kicks your knees apart with his own, you go easily, practically wiggling your ass at him.

You know he’ll like what he sees—even if you weren’t getting it from Copia on the reg, you love to play with your toys (and you love to play with Copia and your toys), so you’re open and ready for him.

Lube might still be seeping out of you from some earlier play.

When his blunt teeth sink into your raw ass, you do yelp, and that only encourages him to continue his bitey journey across each cheek. His hand comes up to fondle you as you jerk and gasp. The pain from his bites is only enhanced by the pleasure his hand elicits, and you pound your fist into the couch.

“Papa, please…”

His tongue slips across your throbbing skin—no doubt tracing the outline of his teeth—before the heat of him recedes. You don’t even have time to look over your shoulder before you feel the rasp of his pants and the bite of his zipper against your ass. Your back arches toward him, but his warm hand at the small of your back presses you forward.

“Now, for some correction.”

His fingers trail down your skin to your hole; there’s a slight pressure, and then a wet splatter when Copia spits. Moaning at the sensation of his fingers in you, you ooze forward more…and when he hits your sweet spot, you drool onto the leather.

Copia’s nails scrape across your heated flesh, and you gasp out an Oh.

“Mm…sí. You will feel every,” he rumbles low in his Mummy Dust register, “thrust.”

And then his lips are back to tickle your ear.

“And I want to think about what you did with every,” he presses into your sweet spot and you gasp. 

“Single.” Press.

“One…”

Press.

“PAPA!”

He replaces the pressure of his fingers with the press of his cockhead, and then he’s pushing into you roughly.

“Papa what?” he growls as his hips snap into you and as his hand yanks your head once again back by the hair.

“I’m sorry, Papa! I’m sorry!”

You feel him acutely every time his hips slap into your stinging ass and the material of his pants rub against your sore spots; you throb between your legs with his every hard thrust into you.

Spreading your knees even further to accommodate the drill of his cock only has him snarling with more feral energy. The hand in your hair slips down to clasp at your throat, and his body drapes across your back as he fucks harder, faster, into your supple, willing body.

“I don’t fucking care,” he rasps, and then he’s pounding into you like he’s a fuck machine set to high, his hand shifting up to your face so he can shove his fingers back in your mouth. You moan and gasp around his fingers—the only other thing you can do besides just taking him. 

At some point, he pulls out so he can rearrange you face down, legs together on the couch, but you submit languidly. He boxes you in with his arms and the pressure of his chest on your back as his cock treats you like his very own fleshlight.

“Take it…fucking take it, you stronza,” he wheezes into your ear as he presses your face down hard into the cushions.

You throb again, clenching around him, and he snarls, sitting up.

“This is not for you.”

When he pulls out, you whine at the loss, but then his hand is pushing at the nape of your neck, making sure you’re muffled by the couch.

You can hear the sound of skin on skin, and you groan right before the splatter of Copia’s cum hits across your back and ass; you jolt in surprise when he shoves his cockhead into you again. And then out.

And then in.

“Fuck you. Fuck you…fuck you…” he chants.

By the time he tumbles down on you panting at his release, you’re panting at your unsatisfied arousal. You let him catch his breath for a few beats before you speak.

“Papa?”

His hand comes up to clumsily pet at you.

“So good. So good for me, amore. Grazie.”

You wiggle around so that your front is pressing into his, and you apply little kisses to his collarbone as you grind into his leg.

“Papa…” you plead.

His hand strokes your hair. “Sí. Sí, amore.”

And then your eyes roll back as he goes about thanking you.

“You’re so quiet, what’s wrong?” I’m creating my own fantasy world to escape from reality so shut up.