autistic with a hyperfixation on Secondo Emeritus — Yumedanshi
OCD
my name is Maximus you can call me Maxi. !
19 yrs old
I am a transsexual boy, strictly he/him pronouns ⚧︎
Bisexual ⋆˚꩜｡
> Mixed race — black and White! DNI if ur a racist, though that should go without saying..
goth, metalhead, prince, vampire obsessed 🕰️
goth, lolita, ouji, vkei, jirai jfashion enjoyer.
I knit!! I love knitting a lot and want to start posting my projects :) + maybe other carfty things
Theistic Luciferian + Satanist & a practicing Demonolatrist. I will reblog stuff about my practice and maybe share some more personal things I do, such as offerings, my alter, books, etc
GHOST FAN! most of my reblogs & posts will probably be content from that fandom, I may on rare occasions rb other fandom content
> Leftist, and very much left, right wingers and anything related DNI!!!!!!
> I will post or reblog nsft content, if you are underage, kindly DNI!!
the plan was to write each prompt with only one Papa in mind, but uh, i couldn't decide which one i liked more for this one, so behold! a mini-scene for each Papa!
MDNI, 18+, explicit-
"You're taking me so well."
Primo
“You’re taking me so well, coraggioso.”
It leaves him on a low, rich tone, his voice full of adoration, and it makes the base of your spine glow with a mix of pride and desire. Even if your arms tremble with the effort to hold yourself up, hands braced on the sides of the clawfoot tub. He looks up at you with eyes that give away his hunger, with his large hands on your hips, but not to force you down onto him—to encourage you instead. His thumbs rub tiny, soothing circles into your damp skin. Steam curls around you as you hover over him.
The first couple inches of his cock slipped in relatively easily, even with his girth and the way he stretches you out. He used a special blend of herbs to create an oil that he not only coated himself in, but massaged into your thighs, your hips, your abdomen—even your opening. Another blend went into the bath water, the earthy scent easing the tension from you and keeping you light and loose.
“To help you relax,” he’d explained as he pushed his fingers into you, spreading the oil inside you and working you open. “To help your body open to me.”
You’ve never been able to take him fully.
But as you sink onto him a little more, taking another devastating inch, it almost feels doable. The stretch burns, but it doesn’t hurt. And though your muscles initially resisted, you can feel the oil doing its thing. You bear down and your body lets him in.
But it’s taking too long. Your thighs quiver a little. Your fingernails dig into the porcelain of the tub. You fight the urge to slam down.
He squeezes your hips reassuringly. “You don’t have to rush. I’m in no hurry.”
You let out an impatient little huff and say, “I just want you inside me.”
His breath almost hitches—just barely, just enough. “Oh, anima mia…” he sighs out.
And maybe it’s the reverence in his voice. Or the restraint he’s showing—that immovable composure you can’t even pretend to understand. Or even the way your skin is tingling and warm where he massaged the oil in. But you’re inspired.
At the very least, you’re done waiting.
You shove yourself down.
He says your name, but you don’t stop. Grasping the edges of the tub desperately, you grit your teeth and push past the pain—hot and sharp and throbbing. It ebbs quickly, no doubt a side effect of the oil, and what you’re left with is the slow drag of his cock as it slides into you. You almost panic, thinking maybe you both have had it wrong this whole time. Maybe there’s no way something like that can even scientifically fit into your body.
But still, you don’t stop.
The water sloshes as you shift and push down, and a deep, rumbling groan stirs in his chest. His palms slide up your back, making you shiver. As you finally bottom out, eyes squeezed shut and panting wildly, he cradles the back of your head and pulls you close, tucking your face into his neck.
The stretch is both agony and ecstasy, a white-hot line between pain and pleasure. Already, you can feel the herb mixture soothing the discomfort to a dull ache—turning it into a ghost of itself. You don’t think you’re ready to start moving just yet, but this is good.
This is everything. This is completion.
Especially as he strokes your hair and breathes out, “Even now, you astound me.”
coraggioso - brave one
anima mia - my soul
Secondo
“You’re taking me so well.”
The words are quiet. Thoughtful. Controlled.
And all you can do is let out a strained little whimper.
You don’t have much of a choice but to take him, you think—he’s got you spread open for him. The padded cuffs around your upper thighs connect to the sturdy headboard with straps he masterfully tied, and they lift your legs into a deep V shape, with your knees bent and your hips elevated. There’s a dull burn in your lower back, and the muscles in your thighs are twitching.
It’s obscene, the way you’re exposed to him.
And he’s been taking advantage of it for what feels like hours.
He didn’t bind your hands. You’re not sure if it’s because he’s enjoying the way you grasp and pull and claw helplessly—at him, at the bedsheets, at your own hair—or if it’s because he didn’t want to overwhelm you. Because you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t felt a brief twinge of panic when he first slipped the slings onto your thighs. He’s tied you down before, but you’ve never felt so… on display.
He’s between your thighs, hands braced on the mattress on either side of you, and he rolls his hips slow and deep. Every now and then, his eyes flicker down to watch his cock as it drives into you—to watch the way you open for him on every stroke—but mostly, he watches your face.
The scrutiny always makes you blush. It’s hard to control your expression with him. He’s methodical. Deliberate. Intent on unraveling you with every measured thrust into you.
He pushes in and holds. Your breath catches. Your eyelids flutter. Throwing your head back against the pillow, you press your lips together to try and stifle the sob that claws up your throat. You can feel the way you clench around him. The white-hot pleasure pulls in you, deep in your core—tighter, tighter—
He sighs and eases back. “You play so shy, but your body knows what it wants… vero? You greedy little thing.”
You gasp and your body tries to buck, but the thigh slings keep you exactly where he wants you. His mouth twitches a little. He shifts so he can reach for your neck, his fingers curling against your throat. His thumb strokes up to notch under your chin, tilting your face to force you to look at him.
“You’re taking me so well,” he says again.
A beat.
“Aren’t you?”
His eyes burn into you. Another slow, calculated roll of his hips has you trembling. There’s no use fighting it. You nod quickly, giving him what he wants as you pant out, “Y-yes! I’m taking—I’m taking you so well.”
A low, satisfied chuckle leaves him.
“Yes,” he says. “You are.”
vero - right? / isn’t that so?
Terzo
“You’re taking me so well—just look, amore.”
He purrs it at you, somehow still so composed—despite the choked sound he made when he finally let you sink onto him, despite the way his fingers dig into your waist, despite the hunger darkening his mismatched eyes. He’s lounged back on the chaise, shirt hanging open and pants undone just enough so you can take him, and he’s beautiful. As always.
You’re straddling him, legs draped over his, but you’re not really doing much moving. You’ve already come twice—once at his hand, the other at his mouth—and the aftershocks from your last orgasm are still rippling up your spine. It’s all you can do to brace your hands on his abdomen and keep yourself upright. His hold on you is firm, and as he pulls on your hips and guides your rolling motions, he meets them by thrusting up into you.
And you’re so full.
The slick slide of his cock is almost too much, and you whimper at him pathetically in response. He chuckles and reaches for your face, cupping your jaw so, so gently. His thumb strokes over your bottom lip. The soft touch contrasts with the way he’s grasping your hip with his other hand, the way his fingernails bite into your skin, and your heart flips a little.
“I told you, didn’t I?” he says. “Look at how good you are for me. See how you move on me? Bene, bene, bene.”
And he tilts your head, urging you to look down at where your bodies are connected.
A weak moan shudders out of you.
And he sighs. “Oh. Now that—that is my most favorite sound, tesoro. You are so very spent, aren’t you?” he all but coos.
You nod a little. Whisper his name.
His eyes flash. The hand on your jaw moves. It skims down your neck and to your chest, where he tweaks one of your nipples. You jerk and cry out, your hips stuttering and moving like you’re trying to pull off of him. His other hand, still at your waist, grows heavier. Holds you in place as he fucks up into you faster.
“I think you can give me one more, no?” he rasps out.
You can’t answer at first.
All you can focus on is the push-pull of his thrusts. The way his fingers tease one nipple, then the other. The way he’s watching you intently—studying your every micro-expression.
But you finally find it in you to nod. “Y-yes. One more,” you gasp out.
His grin is wicked. “Ecco. I knew you could. Just one more, I promise.”
You know it’s not a promise he intends to keep.
amore - love
bene - good
tesoro - sweetheart / darling / treasure
ecco - there you go / there we go
Copia
“You’re taking me so well—ah, merda!”
He’s breathless, staring up at you with a mix of awe and disbelief in his eyes. His hands are splayed high on your ribs, holding onto you like you’re something precious, pulling on you just slightly as he rolls his hips upward to meet your motions. You rock against him at an easy rhythm, your thighs bracketing his.
And though the words left him like he hadn’t meant to say them aloud, you flash him a quick, playful smile. “That’s because you’re giving it to me so well.”
His lips part into a small, surprised O. And then he cracks a crooked grin. “Madonna—listen to you. Where did you learn to talk like that, eh?”
“From you.”
He laughs. It turns into a groan as you pick up the pace, riding him harder. You grab for his hands, sliding them up to your chest and holding them there against you. His thumbs stroke and tease your nipples, making you jolt and gasp, but you don’t lose your rhythm. Or maybe it’s him that keeps it going with the way he’s thrusting up into you now to keep up.
The way he moves practically forces you to bounce on his cock.
“Fuck,” he pants out. “You’re so perfect—my love—cuore mio—you’ve no idea…. Non hai idea.”
You think you intend to tease him some more, but he brushes up against that spot in you. Your whole body seizes and releases. Fire floods your veins. Your vision blanks and this time, your movements do falter.
And you whimper out his name instead.
He moans desperately, as though he were starving for the sound of it.
Then he slides his hands around to your back so he can haul you down to him. He’s saying, “Come here—I need—” before his mouth captures yours. He kisses you hungrily—teeth and tongue and urgency—and you give it back to him in full. It always turns to this, no matter how slow you start.
It’s a lazy Monday morning, but he’s quickly spiraling into his usual fervent devotion.
And he pulls you right down with him.
Staying inside you, he rolls you so you’re both on your sides, still facing each other. And hitching your thigh up onto his hip, he moves against you frantically. Between his greedy, open-mouthed kisses, he’s talking. Praising. Begging.
“Sì, amore—take it—you’re so good to me—prendimi, prendimi….”
You nip at his bottom lip and say, breathless, “Yes—please, Copia.”
He lets out a strained moan and buries his face in your neck, clinging to you. “You ruin me. I am ruined.”
“You’re mine.”
His breath catches.
He breaks.
merda - shit / expletive
madonna - my lady / mother of christ / (used like ‘good heavens’ or ‘holy shit’)
cuore mio - my heart
non hai idea - no idea
sì, amore - yes, love
prendimi - take me
Perpetua
“You’re taking me so well, angelo mio.”
He rasps it into your ear, and you almost laugh—you don’t think you’re taking him all that well at all. You’re wailing and howling like some kind of creature as he moves against you, as his cock grinds against that spot that floods you with electricity and makes your toes curl. There’s a pillow shoved under your hips, tilting them just enough as you lie on your stomach, and he’s draped over you and crushing you into the mattress. His chest presses flush against your back and his mouth is at your ear, his breath hot and ragged.
And he’s so deep that it’s almost too much. His pubic bone grinds against your ass as he rocks against you—steady, relentless, brutal. Your hands twist into the rumpled bedsheets. Your heart hammers in your chest.
You can feel every inch of him.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” he asks, lips brushing against the shell of your ear.
All you can muster up in response is a whimper.
“Do you not feel how you hold me? Like you were made for this?” He noses at your temple, and you hear the grin in his voice as he adds, “For me?”
He presses in and pauses—holds himself there in a way that makes your vision blank. A sob tears out of you, and you squirm and struggle beneath him, overwhelmed.
It isn’t until you’re clawing at the sheets and keening that he relents, shifting back. With a low chuckle, he asks, “Too much?”
You hesitate. Take a moment to check in with yourself. If you said yes, he’d stop. He’d clean you up and stroke your hair, coax you to sleep with gentle touch. He likes when you’re beset by it, when you’re drowning in pleasure and your mind is static. He likes that he can do that to you—that no one else has ever made you feel like this.
But he never wants it to scare you. To hurt you. To make you feel like you’re in danger.
And you don’t feel like that at all.
Your blood thrums in your veins. Your stomach is hot and tight. You’re close.
You don’t want him to stop.
So you shake your head and desperately pant out, “No—no—not too much.”
A soft, satisfied hum stirs in his throat. “Mm. You see? My angel, you take me perfettamente.”
I believe when Secondo gets to know you, like month 1-2 of you guys being together, you realize he’s really fond of cuddling. Of course it’s super cute at first, seeing him express his affection for you in a more physical way (aside from fucking), it’s nice to see him come out of his shell in the relationship.
But as time goes on you realize he really likes to cuddle. Of course you’ve been with people who like cuddling but its usually a “lets hold each for an hour and then roll over and go to sleep” kind of deal, Secondos the type to pull you so close it feels like his ultimate objective is to absorb your body into his & keep that position until late morning the next day. Its usually endearing & you love that you can fall asleep to his heartbeat and the smell of frankincense on his neck, but it becomes a problem when its the middle of July, 70° in your bedroom, and he still needs to touch you. You wake up groggy, drenched in sweat, with your hair in disarray but all he can talk about is how “especially beautiful his little amore looks in the morning” and you just glare at him. There was one time where the heat got to you and you ended up snapping at him… Funny enough, that turned out to be the worst sleep you had gotten in many months. You felt guilty and lonely by the 7th instance of you waking up in the middle of the night so you decided the least you can do is take his hand and intertwine your fingers with his. You tell yourself its to “restore the normalcy” and make him feel better but deep down you know its because you can’t sleep in peace without his touch.
was thinking about the Papas and their need for eye contact when they’re deep inside you.
one of Primo’s big hands cradling your face, surprisingly strong, but it’s not his touch that keeps you from looking away—it’s the intensity in his eyes. uncanny and ageless, unblinking as he looks down at you. you’re pinned to the spot, even as he moves, hips rocking with shallow thrusts as he works himself deeper and deeper into you. you’re writhing beneath him, panting like an animal, clenching around him as you adjust to his size—and he just gazes at you like you’re all that exists. “let me in,” he says on an undertone, voice thick and husky, “and let go.” and when he finally bottoms out, you arch, throwing your head back and squeezing your eyes shut. with the hand he’s been holding your face with, he taps your cheek—three quick taps—and you quickly look back at him. he sighs and says, “just like that, anima mia. keep your eyes on me.” and you do.
a calm, “look at me,” from Secondo, spoken low and controlled and hot. and it’s hard—it’s so hard—when he hasn’t stopped moving, when his fingers are biting into the meat of your thighs as he pins you open for him. he always looks at you like you’re a puzzle he needs to figure out, like he’s trying to develop the ability to read your mind, and it paralyzes you. it’s like everything disappears—the walls around you, the floor beneath you. you’re just floating in an abyss and all you know is how full you are. but you force yourself to keep your eyes on his, even as you feel your climax building in you, hotter and tighter. he watches. and his mouth quirks up at the corners, pleased. “bene.” a single word. you might have imagined it, but it’s enough to push you over the edge. and a rough hand finds your chin so he can keep you from hiding as you come.
Terzo has his fingers twisted into your hair, but not harshly—merely deliberate. he combs his fingers through your hair, tilting your head back up so you can blink up at him. “there you are,” he says with a smirk, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I want you to watch while I take you apart.” his other hand splays flat against your abdomen, pressing down like he wants to feel how deep he is. the pressure makes you whimper, but his grasp tightens in your hair just slightly—so you catch yourself before your eyes try to squeeze shut. his lips curl up into a satisfied grin. “tell me what you’re feeling, amore. let me hear it.” but as you open your mouth, he angles his next thrust and brushes the spot inside of you that makes your veins flood with electricity. all you can do is cry out his name—which he answers with a rasped out laugh, though the way his breath hitches tells you he’s not unaffected.
holding your hands in his, fingers laced with yours, Copia leans in to nuzzle you, bumping your nose with his, uttering a rasped little plea of, “'look at me… please.” and when you do, dragging your eyes open so you can meet his gaze, you see it. like a switch flipping. and his hips start snapping against yours faster, a vein in his neck popping, his face and chest flushed a delicious shade of red. he’s thanking you, telling you how perfect you are, how good you feel around him. your eyes flutter closed at the next ripple of pleasure, and he says your name like it hurts. your eyes pop open again. focus on him again. and he says, “sì, sì—you’re mine. All mine. my perfect—” his words cut off, turning into a deep groan as his rhythm falters and he comes unexpectedly, with no warning. but the night is young….
he’s not squeezing, but Perpetua’s hands rest against either side of your neck, thumbs pressed up under your jaw to keep your face tilted toward his. he’s in no hurry—his hips rolling slow and deep, his eyes locked on your face. the noises you make are very undignified, and it’s too much. he’s too much. but every time your eyes close to escape the hunger in his gaze that makes you feel raw and exposed, his thumbs press harder under your jawbone. “now, now…. stay with me, cuore mio.” and then he pushes in and holds himself there, watching your face as you struggle to maintain eye contact. a soft plea leaves you—not that you know what you’re begging for—and he sighs and says, “oh, i know, i know. just a little more.” it’s a lie. it’s a lot more. but at least he relents and lets you look away after your second orgasm.
