I like ghost. Here's some posts.

Ghost is rad. I follow as my main blog, @passthebottlearound.

[insectincest]

Can someone please rig this thing?

[lingenmustdie]

II & III

[hylagratiosa]

[MESSAGE FROM THE CLERGY]

We wish to inform you that candy is dandy but liquor is quicker. A kiss from Papa ii will definitely make you sicker.

[marmaladebird]

Mary Goore 🩸

[pomidaea]

dewther doodles be upon ye

[stainedlilac]

Look at this glorious screenshot of Perpetua oh my lord

[layspaprykowe]

How's your head?

[danrifics]

Blasphemy, heresy Save me from the monster that is eating me

[undeclaredmilk]

Jutty in the back, living his televangelist dreams

[bethbruttenholm]

Kinktober #19

I'm still here! I've alive!

I haven't written anything in four weeks and this feels like a major feat. This has been one of the hardest slumps I've had to push through. But. We made it!

Please enjoy a spank session with Secondo.

“Papa?” you knock on Secondo’s door - your voice closer to a whimpering whisper than the cool, confident tone you’d practiced with. The door is already ajar and so you peek inside. Secondo is at his desk, looking over a file in his hands. He has reader glasses low on his handsome nose and he’s wearing only slacks and a dress shirt; sleeves rolled, collar undone. You swallow, your nerves getting the better of you.

“Come in,” he calls and it’s decidedly calmer than you expected. It’s not his office hours, after all - you were trying to avoid an audience - and you were afraid he’d be annoyed at the intrusion. 

“Come in,” he says and you’re relieved to find his tone warm. It’s well outside his office hours and you were afraid he’d be gone. Or worse, annoyed. As soon as Secondo looks up from his work, he drops it immediately, “What is wrong?”

“I’m fine,” you limp into his office and shut the door, pressing your forehead against it, trying not to cry. 

Secondo is behind you in an instant, his hand around yours, turning you to him, “What has happened?” his brow is furrowed and his eyes are frantic, searching your own for an answer, “You tell me now.”

You shake your head and hold his hand with both of yours, “Okay, this is,” you groan and lean into Secondo, his arms around you and you sigh, enveloped in warmth, “This is so embarrassing,” your voice is muffled against his chest and you’re thankful for the thick, broad, hairy thing; it’s comforting and warm and muffles your quiet crying, “I thought I wanted to try some… spanking,” Secondo strokes your hair and says nothing, waiting patiently, “And so, I met a guy across town at one of those bars that has the freaky little rooms in the back, you know? An-and, he thought I was a little more advanced than I am… and maybe I let on that I was. He was kinda a jerk. And I was kind of a vanilla idiot diving into a neapolitan pool of BDSM.”

Secondo maneuvers you a bit, hooking a finger under your chin, lifting your shining eyes to his, “Things went too far?” you nod and his shoulders fall in disappointment and it brings on a fresh round of tears and sniffling, “You’re hurt?” he asks and you nod, again, “I will kill him,” he says, plainly. 

“He’s not in the church.”

“Then it will be easier.”

“Papa.”

“May I see?” he asks, already leading you towards the bedroom, “I can help.”

“Oh,” you huff out a nervous laugh, shaking your head, “Oh, no. No thank you.” Secondo turns, eyebrow cocked. You clear your throat, “You see, I have this personal policy of not being mortified more than once in a day and I’ve already confessed that I’m an idiot and my ass took a hell of a beating last night. I don’t need to actually show you my ass.”

Secondo sighs and closes the space between him and you, “Obviously, I cannot force you to show me. But I shouldn’t have to remind you that I have, at my disposal, an arsenal of knowledge when it comes to asses. Sore or otherwise. I can help. And I still plan on killing the man. I also have an arsenal for that.”

“I… well, you see,” you stare at him, embarrassment turning your cheeks and chest crimson, nervous tears burning your eyes, “Okay, so this is the other silly part.”

Secondo cups your jaw and swipes at your tears with his thumbs, “Tell me so that I may help you.”

You smirk through the tears, “We listen and we don’t judge?”

Secondo gives a sharp exhale, the corner of his mouth turning upwards. He nods, “We listen and we don’t judge.”

“I… I want you to teach me about spanking.” you confess and Secondo, again, waits for you to continue. You can’t tell if his silent patience is making you fall instantly in love with or making you want to barf. You clear your throat, “Obviously after I’ve healed up but, I’m sure I still like it. I know I do. And you’re my Papa but I also know you’re kind of a freak and Papa Terzo told me to talk to you and I just,” the reality of the situation comes back to you - the pain and the fact hat you just word-vomited your way into calling Papa Emeritus the Second a freak - and your lip trembles, “I’m really sore.”

“Permit me to help you heal and then, permit me to teach you,” Secondo kisses the back of both your hands, “It will be my greatest honor.”

A few minutes later you’re lying on your stomach on Secondo’s bed. Naked from the waist down, hugging a pillow and trying to focus on anything but the fact that Papa Emeritus the Second is staring at your busted up ass, “I’ll admit, since we’re just going full out embarrassing today, that this is not how I imagined you dealing with my ass in your bedroom.”

Secondo laughs quietly, “May I touch you?”

You blush again and nod, hiding your smile against the pillow, giving Secondo a happy albeit muffled, “Yes.”

Secondo’s fingers are warm. You tense for a moment but, Secondo’s touch is so gentle that you barely register the soft sting as he traces the outline of one of the worst purple and black welts, “You did not have a safe word?”

“Couldn’t hear it through the ball gag.”

Secondo exhales and it comes out as an irritated growl. You bury your face in the pillow and he puts a hand on your back, “I’ll just be a moment.’

You grunt an acknowledgement and the bed shifts, Secondo’s footsteps disappear and you’re alone. And then, that’s when the tears return. It’s just you and your ass. You’re sore, you’re embarrassed, you’re tired, you’re splayed out on Papa’s bed like a wounded starfish. Tears sting your eyes and slide down your face and when you hear Secondo return you sniffle and hide in the pillow once more, “Tears?” Secondo clucks his tongue, “In my bed? Not like this, I think,” he groans and kneels down in front of you, “look at me,” you lift your face, your chin on the pillow and Secondo shakes his head, drying your tears not for the first, or last time you fear, “If you trust me, I can fix this,” his gaze is soft and you don’t have to search far to know you can trust him, “You have faith in me?”

You nod, “I trust you.”

Secondo holds up a small, glass jar filled with - what you pray is something to take the edge off - and he immediately answers your prayers, “Primo made this for me a very long time ago, when I was also, how do you say? A vanilla idiot.”

Secondo stands and moves around the bed, out of your line of sight and you close your eyes; exhaustion mixing with your already overwhelming mood, “And what are you now?” you ask.

“Certainly not neapolitan, I fear I am far more experienced than neapolitan,” Secondo notes, “A well loved gelato perhaps? Italian, of course. Hard to replicate; you must get it straight from the source. Something rich and flavorful but also,” there’s a moment of silence and Secondo carefully starts to rub the cream into your flesh and you sigh in approval. You don’t know if it's Primo's remedy or Secondo’s hands or the fact that he’s grinning and trying to pin himself as a horny, dessert metaphor. But it all feels good. He goes on, smirking and conjuring up his perfect sexual flavor and you realize he’s far more like Terzo than he lets on. He even manages a giggle, “A flavor that everyone wants, hm?”

You grin, “Everyone?” There’s a beat and you look back at Secondo. He stares at you, still massaging, eyebrow arched, “Right,” you snort, letting your head fall back on the pillow, “I’m the busted one and still asking for it after. You’re right. It’s a good flavor.”

“Si,” Secondo says, “It’s a good flavor.”

It’s quiet, then. Secondo massaging your poor, purple ass. From the small of your back to the middle of your thighs, you’re covered in welts - some just bright red, others a nasty shade of violet and purple. Primo’s salve helps. The big, soft bed helps.

But it’s Secondo’s hands. Secondo’s hands on your ass and thighs, fingers slipping low to catch the bruises on the inside of your legs. You are very aware of how close he is to where you really want him. You consider canting your hips or spreading your legs but there's a hint of fear. You’re not here to get laid, you’re here to get help. He hits a sore spot and you’re also reminded you’re in no mood for any of that funny business. You swallow and try not to moan, Secondo’s fingertips slide dangerously close to your core and you exhale, your breath shaking. Secondo reads your mind, “I will tell you this is the single, greatest moment of self control I have had in my entire life but,” you groan and Secondo laughs, quietly, “You are not ready. Not today.”

You muster up your last bit of courage, though you can’t bring yourself to look at Secondo, “We don’t have to do that.”

Secondo leans down, his hand sliding up your thighs, over your ass, resting on the small of your back, “Let me take care of you this way,” he says, lips on the shell of your ear, “And when it is time, I will take care of you the other, as well.”

Days pass and you heal. 

Your bruises are gone, the last shadows of green and yellow long faded. You stand in the great hall, after dinner, sipping a glass of wine. Aether has his arm around your shoulders, Dewdrop and Swiss regale the two of you with stories from the road. Really, they’re arguing about dicksize but, really, what’s the difference? You sigh and wink at Aether - who you know is thinking the same thing - but your attention returns to Secondo. He stands across the room, chatting with Frater Imperator. 

And, like he’s been doing since you stepped into the great hall, he flicks his gaze to yours.

And it feels like your whole body is on fire. 

You set your glass down on the table you’re leaning on and kiss Aether’s cheek, “I gotta go.”

Aether, who knows everything, holds up his fist and you bump your knuckles against his, “Go get him, tiger.”

You make your way towards Secondo - trying not to draw attention; you’d been to his rooms nearly every afternoon for three weeks for his healing massages. And the heat you’d felt on the first rubdown hadn’t gone away. Oh, no. It had simply multiplied. Times about… a billion. Papa Primo gives you a knowing look and wink. He holds out his hand and you give it a squeeze as you pass; he returns it. Apparently, he knows as much as Aether. Which is everything. Secondo clocks the swift, silent interaction and his mouth turns up, smirking. Copia realizes his fellow Papa is not listening anymore and follows Secondo’s line of sight. He rolls his eyes, claps Secondo on the shoulder and leaves. Finally, you’re in front of Secondo and he inhales, shoulders straightening, chest puffing up a bit. In his robes and mitre, crozier in one hand, he seems far bigger than the masseuse you’ve come to have a serious crush on, “Sister.”

“Papa.” you grin, unable to keep up any part of the far-too-serious charade. Secondo had revealed himself to be funny and witty and kind. You knew the steely-eyed Papa was nothing more than a front for the gentle, warm man in front of you. 

He shakes his head and leans forward, whispering in your ear, “Tonight.”

You shiver, “Tonight?”

“Right now, if you’d like, if you are as impatient as you look. I cannot deny you any long-”

“Race you there,” you say, turning on your heel and speed walking for the doors. 

You look behind you and Secondo is hot on your heels. You giggle, your hand over your mouth, and you slip out into the dark, quiet, blessedly empty halls. You’re only a few steps away from the door when Secondo grabs your arm, spinning you around, pulling you up against him. Crozier gone, mitre falling off his head, you wrap your arms around his neck while his mouth crashes into yours. His hands wander, yanking at your clothes; he whines against your mouth and you’re sure you’ve been catapulted into some other horny dimension, “We have,” Secondo says against your mouth, “I have,” he forgets his words and starts kissing again, gloved hands finally pulling your skirt above your hips, kneading at your healed ass - that’s out for the world to see. He silently notes this and turns you into the dark, pushing you towards the wall. He growls in frustration, “I have plans for you that do not involve this.”

“Papa?” you stare up at him, desperate to catch your breath, “you said tonight?” you ask, cupping his jaw, wiping spit off his bottom lip, “You don’t want this?”

“I want it so bad it’s clouding my judgement and I am forgetting my promise.”

“Your promise?” you ask, pulling his mouth back to yours - his tongue dances against your own and it’s quickly becoming an addiction.

“You have forgotten already, too,” he laughs, against your lips, “Come,” he orders but neither of you move and you laugh, throwing your head back and cackling. Secondo’s mouth finds your neck, wasting no time and you pull him closer, pushing your hips up to his, “Take me upstairs, Papa. Before I fuck you in the hallway.” Secondo presses you harder against the wall, grinding against you, face buried in your neck. He’s far too tall for such a position and so, is hunched into an awkward sort of papal S shape. You put your hands on his chest and push him gently, “Papa. Papa?” you take the liberty, your ass is out after all, to call him by his government name, “Secondo.”

“What?” he huffs, returning to full height, “What’s wrong?”

“Take me to bed.”

It takes awhile to get to Secondo’s quarters but, by Satan, you make it there. It also allows Secondo some time to remember his grand plan. And by the time you’re actually in his room, waiting for him to return his silks to the form in his closet… you’re sort of (metaphorically) shitting your pants. You wring your hands and when Secondo steps out of the closet, rolling up his sleeves… you practically fling yourself at him. He catches you, arms out for just a moment, yours around his shoulders and then he holds you tight, “You trust me still?” You press your face into Secondo’s neck, inhaling his scent and hiding in his warmth. He sets you on your feet, gentle hands sliding up to cup your face, “You trust me?” you nod and he kisses the tip of your nose, “You still want it?” you start to speak, taking a shaking inhale and Secondo stops you before you can start, “I am happy to give you whatever you ask for. If you are not ready that,” he kisses you again, this time soft and sweet, “If you want nothing at all or to keep kissing or to fuck or love… if you want a burger and fries, my darling, your wish is my command.”

You laugh and Secondo takes advantage once more, peppering your neck with kisses up to your mouth, “I want it,” you say, breathless again, “I want it. Now. Tonight.”

Secondo nods, eyes flashing, “I will go to the couch. You will undress. My robe is in the bathroom, should you need it.”

He steps away and you grab at him, his hand in both of yours, “Papa?”

He turns, smirking, “We are past Papa.”

“Secondo.”

“Anything at all, it is yours.”

You smile and kiss the back of his hand, “Thank you.”

Secondo pulls you close for one more kiss and this time it is searing with need; his gaze holds the same heat, “I told you, anything at all. I mean it.”

Secondo’s robe touches the floor and hangs off of you, sleeves comically long; the slick silk refuses to be rolled up. You peak out into the sitting area from his private chambers and see Secondo on the couch. He looks calm and collected, nursing a drink in a sparkling, crystal glass. He stares at the fireplace, jaw working, “Can I come out?” you ask and his eyes flick up to yours. He nods and you take one step out before stepping back a bit, against the door, “I’m nervous. In a good sort of way. Nervous, though.”

“Come here.” You obey - happily - Secondo never takes his hungry eyes off of you and it seems like it takes a lifetime to get to him. You chew your lip, stopping just before your knees hit the couch, standing between his feet. He takes you in for a moment and then, just as you’re starting to worry, he grins, “I like you in my color. In my things.” he leans forward, setting his glass aside, his fingers sliding up your legs to the bow of silk at your middle. He pauses, looking up at you, “You trust me?” you nod and he grins, “Tell me. Say it to me.” 

“I trust you,” you say, sounding meeker than you’d like. In a display of faith, you reach up and untie the knot yourself, Secondo’s fingers on top of yours. Finally, finally you are naked in front of him. He sits back, taking you in, palm sliding over the front of his trousers, “It’s a long time coming,” you say; you’re surprised at the ease you feel. Standing naked in front of a man, lights on no less, was not something that might usually excite you. But now? With Secondo. 

You’re on fire. 

“Well?” you interrupt his thoughts and he blinks a few times, coming back to you. 

“On your hands and knees, over my lap,” he sits up a bit, clearing his throat. Your obedience surprises even you, nearly tripping over yourself, giggling in delight, to fall into place. Secondo stops you, hand under your chin, lips against your ear, “This will hurt me more than it hurts you.” 

“Why?” you ask, leaning into him, he peppers your hair with kisses and groans, “Why, Secondo?”

“Because I want nothing more than to take you to my bed and fuck you until someone comes looking for us. I have had you, nearly naked, in my hands for weeks. You think I am not suffering? That I will not continue to suffer? Everytime I see you my cock hardens and my heart skips and I have been beside myself without you. Without being in you, cara mia. Per favore, assecondami,” he slips into Italian, hand sliding down your back while you press against him, arching into his touch, butting your head against his like a needy cat, “Lascia che ti dia tutto ciò che ho promesso.”

“Secondo?”

“Si? Sì, bellezza mia?” he moans into your temple. 

“I don’t speak a lick of Italian.”

“Let me give you what I have promised,” Secondo’s fingertips slide over your core, slipping over the wet lines of your flesh and you both groan, “Put your head here, rest here,” he says, patting the arm of the couch. You whine but do as you're told. It gives you a good look, a credit to your brain cells that you can even focus, at Secondo’s spacious office. His desk is large and made of dark, shining wood. Near black and as imposing as the man that sits behind it, the two chairs in front of it are plush, vertical, wingback chairs covered in onyx velvet that are just dying to be sat in. You know it. You’ve been reading there for weeks. Drinking coffee, chatting with Secondo while he works. Proofreading sermons (though they are already perfect). Gossiping. It had been lovely, sitting with him, amongst his books and trinkets and work. So near to him and his thoughts. And you realize, as you look around, your head on the couch, that there are traces of you everywhere. Your favorite coffee creamer is in the little fridge by the bar, your Kindle on little table between the chairs. There’s a cardigan of yours over there and  a pair of shoes over here. You sit back on your knees and Secondo stares at you - you wonder if another lover might receive less patience, less warmth - you cup his jaw and kiss him.

“Thank you.”

He grins, “Bend over.”

Situated now, wiggling your ass a bit, Secondo begins and it is not unlike the healing massages he has been blessing you with for the last month. Leaning against the couch, you’re sort of face-down-ass-up, stretched out, open to him. He runs his hands up and down the length of your back, all the way to the nape of your neck and down again, over your ass and down your thighs to your knees. Over and over again, kneading and caressing and rubbing and kissing where he can until you exhale and relax. 

That’s when the crack of his palm on your ass makes you gasp. A sting of momentary pain blooms over your flesh; Secondo rubs the spot immediately, fingertips sliding over your pussy as he does. He is silent, massaging as before, until you relax and he releases another. Over and over again, until your ass is red and your slick is running down your thighs. Each time his palm makes sharp contact with your flesh, the pain ripens deliciously. You cry out, now tender, and then are immediately soothed - Secondo’s warm hands massaging away the sting and turning your hitched breaths into soft, sweet moans. He rubs you and teases you and you’re enjoying it all far too much to beg. You are so close to coming. Miserably close. But you have a feeling it’ll come - you’ll come - and your rich, decadent, handmade italian gelato will get you there. 

“On your back, here,” Secondo growls, sitting you back and pulling you with him until you’re flush against his chest, cheek to cheek. He spreads your legs and you groan, lips against his cheek. His fingers glide back up your thighs, one hand holding you open, the other palming your pussy, grinding it into your swollen clit. You let out a slur of unintelligible words and groans, eyes rolling. You turn your face into Secondo’s cheek, nuzzling against him. Two fingers find your entrance and push inside; he gives you one, two, three pumps and you’re just there… just leaning over the edge. And that bald-headed, son of a bitch pulls out. And lands a solid slap right on your pussy. You scream and come, instantly, pussy clenching on nothing, thighs shaking, sobbing while Secondo spanks your poor pussy - the wet, vulgar sound of it echoes (you’re sure) through the whole abbey. You’re silent, writhing against Secondo, ass pressing against his cock - hot and hard and straining against his pants. Secondo alternates between sweet, soft strokes and sharp, hard slaps, working you down from one orgasm and into another. Over and over until you’re jerking your hips away from his hand, tears streaming down your cheeks, smile plastered on your face, “Enough?” he asks and you grunt a quiet affirmative. 

When you wake, it is in Secondo’s bed.

You roll over and snuggle into him. He groans and holds you close, “G’morning,” you mumble, planting a kiss on his chest.

“How are you fairing?” he asks, eyes never opening.

“I don’t know if I can walk but, I’m pretty okay with that,” you smile, trying to scoot a bit closer. It’s nearly impossible but you manage and Secondo plants a kiss on your head, “Thank you, again.”

“Ah,” he waves a limp wristed hand, “No need to thank me. It was my pleasure, truly,” he holds up a finger, “I intend to keep making it my pleasure, too.” You grin, hiding your smile in the fur across his broad chest, “We have a lot more to cover. And I’m sure you could use a few more massages. And,” he giggles, rubbing his face. He hooks a finger under your chin and greets you with a sleepy smile, “No one has ever called me a bald-headed, son of a bitch in the midst of an orgasm before. I like it.”

“I said that?!” you laugh, sitting up on your elbow, “Are you kidding? I thought I just… well, clearly it wasn’t an inside thought.” Secondo pulls you in for another kiss and you grin, humming with contentment, “What?” he asks.

You snort, “You are my favorite flavor of gelato,” you smile, “You bald-headed son of a bitch.”

[lyeofhell]

mdni .𖥔 ݁ ˖

secondo using a date-night Nosferatu showing as an excuse to discuss sexual shame with his partner, exploring any apprehension they might have towards their own desire, strengthening their intimacy through safe, vulnerable discussion. secondo also using it as an excuse to finger you in the back of a movie theater

[bethbruttenholm]

Primo getting down and dirty in *wait for it… a Catholic Church.

It wasn’t his idea to come.

It wasn’t yours either.

It been years since you’d stepped inside any sort of building that had a cross pointed towards the heavens. It’d been decades longer for Primo. But here you both were, standing side by side in the last pew of this ancient and musty Cathedral.

You both were supposed to be watching the couple at the altar. The bride was a distant cousin on your father’s side that you’d lost contact with decades ago. You’d thrown her invite in the trash when it ended up on your desk at the ministry but Primo had snatched the glittery ostentatious thing up and convinced you to go. Although truthfully it hadn’t taken much convincing from him to change your mind. All he had to do was slide up behind you, whisper a few words about how he’d bought you a new dress for the occasion and you’d agreed. You’d agree to almost anything if Primo was buying you clothes.

“Silk, mia vita. Silk made for you in my colors. No one will be able to keep their eyes off you. Not even their God.”

Primo had always had a special gift when it came to clothes. He was able to find things that made you feel incredibly confident and sexy. He’d never asked for your size and yet everything he’d ever chosen for you fit like a glove. The dress you had on today was no exception. It hugged your curves perfectly. Low cut, red silk, and beautifully stitched. You felt like a vixen. Sex on a stick. Primo had whispered in your ear that you looked more like Lilith. A queen amongst peasants. An angel cast out of heaven for being to perfect.

“Oh mia vita.” He had said, “Lucifer made you for this dress.” His hands wandered over the silk as he spoke, squeezing and pulling, without a care if any distant relative were to witness. “Do you think God will be upset?”

“W-what?” You whispered back tripping over your words as Primo’s large palm started to slide under your dress and up your thigh, the pads of his fingertips starting to caress the edges of your underwear as he leaned in and kissed your neck.

“Do you think God will be angry when I rip this dress off of you with my teeth and we fuck on that altar?”

“P-Primo,” his name was nothing but a whimper as he pushed fabric aside and teased your clit with a dexterous swipe of his thumb. “Y-you wouldn’t ruin this d-dress? Would you?”

“I would amore mio. There’s no better offering to Lucifer than desecrating his father’s house. And I intend to make a mess of you in here.”

Without another word Primo pushed his gloved finger past your entrance and kissed you swallowing the wanton moan that otherwise would have escaped you. He pumped his fingers in and out, curling them expertly as your tongues swirled together, before eventually pulling away and leaving you breathless.

In a stunned silence you watched as he wiped your glistening wetness from his gloves across the old wooden pew in front of him.

“That’s a good start my love. A beautiful mess.”

Hello, hi.

What a strange way to propose to me? But, yes. The answer is yes.

BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU SEND ME THIS KIND OF THING IN THE MIDDLE OF NOSFERATU.

HIS NOSE.

HIS BROW.

GET THAT MAN AN INHALER AND SOME LUBE BECAUSE I AM COMING IN HOT.

but also, this is amazing? thank you???

[bethbruttenholm]

Kinktober #17 - Fum Ractory

This prompt was simply "touchy, feely drunk Secondo" and, as my nature demands, it is angsty and burny and yearny, too.

Thank you for your help on this one - you have made it wonderful!

Without further ado... enjoy another round of soft Secondo.

“What on earth are you doing?”

You close your eyes against the light of the fridge and sigh. You’d been caught. You turn and, upon opening your eyes, you see Papa Emeritus the Second. As if you needed to see him to know - you knew his voice like it was your favorite album. Technically, it was. “I’m making a sandwich.”

“It's two o’clock in the morning and there’s a party.”

That much is clear, his state of disarray - a rare sight though it is - is a testament to the grandeur of the post-solstice party (which is really just the New Year’s celebrations that have bled, like they do every year, well into the days following). He’s barefoot and his shirt is untucked and undone to the middle of his chest. Sleeves rolled up a bit. There’s a bit of paint left on his head, smudges here and there; the rest, you suspect, has been fucked away. It’s all but confirmed when you see his belt hanging open, and his zipper undone - the button on his pants looking a bit like Spiderman hanging onto that train. There’s a shock of emerald silk and you smirk, your eyes turning back up to meet his. He leans on the doorframe, “You like what you are seeing?” he asks and then misses his mark completely and stumbles sideways. He giggles and straightens himself, hands on his hips, grinning. He looks an awful lot like Terzo right now and it makes your heart skip a beat or two. He closes the space between you, pulling you up against him, your cheeks heat and he’s the one smirking now, “Where have you been?” he runs the back of his finger down your cheek humming happily, grinning at you.

“In my room,” you say. Your eyes nearly pop out of your sockets when he takes your hands in his, pulling your fingertips to his mouth. He plants little, chaste kisses to fingers. And then to your palms. And then to your wrists. His mustache tickles and the shadowy scruff of a beard prickles on your skin. There’s a cacophony in the hall and you snap out of your horny paralysis. You clear your throat, pulling your hands away, rubbing them on your legs, “You smell like a rum factory.”

“I am a fum ractory.”

You wiggle away from Secondo and he whines, his fingertips sneaking under your hoodie, lazing along the skin above your waistband and you swallow, doing your best to ignore the fiery, lusty heat his touch leaves, even after you’ve separated from him, you can feel his warmth and you ache for it,  “I was minding my business and making a sandwich.”

“You’re not dressed for a party,” Secondo blinks, eyeing you, “You have too many clothes on,” he tugs at the strings of your hoodie and then runs his hands down your arms, lacing his fingers with yours, pulling them to his mouth, resuming his assault daiquiri flavored kisses. You nearly combust and, much to his quiet but vocal disappointment, you pull away again. 

“I wasn’t at the party,” you give him a sideways glance and then resume collecting ingredients for a pity-party sandwich, “I was avoiding the party.”

Secondo scoffs as if that’s the stupidest thing he’s heard, “Why?” he pushes past you, stumbling a bit to the wine fridge and pulls out a bottle of champagne. He turns back to you and waggles his eyebrows, “You want?”

You give him a once over but, say nothing, your arms loaded with condiments and meat and veggies, a jar of pickles balanced precariously on top. You unload on the counter and shut the fridge, “It’s not my thing. Not right now.”

“What you mean?” he asks, leaning against the counter while he pours the champagne into two coffee mugs, the only remaining drinkware in the kitchen, “You party with me all the time.”

You shake your head, “I just don’t feel like it, I guess.”

Secondo folds his arms and leans forward - too far for his current state - and ends up pressing you up against the counter, “You don’t feel like dancing with me?” he asks, grinning and rolling his hips. 

You absolutely do feel like dancing with Secondo. You have to fight off every neuron in your brain from firing nuclear warheads straight to your crotch. You want to do so much more than dancing with Secondo. You close your eyes and take a deep, cleansing breath in an attempt to stop from thinking about all the other things you’d like to be doing with Secondo. His half-hard cock rubbing against your thigh does nothing for your resolve. Which is, frankly, just another day in your life of a Secondo simp. Because no matter what you do or who you screw you’ll always want the very sweet, very sexy, a little bit scary Papa in front of you. And, even if he’s too drunk to realize who he’s talking to, the thought of blowing him right now is forefront in your mind. Instead, you cup his cheek and give him a soft smile, “I just don’t feel like a party, Papa. That’s all.”

Secondo pushes the mug of champagne into your hand and it sloshes over, onto your fingers. He rolls his eyes and takes your wrist, pulling your fingers into his mouth. His tongue roves over them, sucking and twisting. You nearly faint. You let out a squeak and he finally releases you, “You’re a terrible liar,” Secondo says, cupping your face, pulling your eyes to his, “I can bead you like a rook.”

You can barely manage the whisper you let out, “You’re very drunk, Papa.”

He takes a step closer, his fingers finding that spot between your shirt and your pants, again but this time he lets both hands press against your hips, palms warm against your skin. Your eyes flutter shut, reveling in his touch - little though it may be, “Tell me why?” he asks, again, his voice softer now. When you meet his eyes this time, they are worried, his brow knit, “You are not meant to be hiding. Not meant to be away from m-,” Secondo’s words are cut short when a gaggle of siblings squeals in delight, falling into the kitchen, all of them as drunk as him. They giggle and gasp and regale him with stories of his absence and all the hours - minutes really - they’ve been looking for him. Secondo leans in, pressing his hips to yours, his cock hot and hard against your hip. His breath tickles your neck, tongue on your ear, his mustache rough against your skin. If you turn, you’d kiss him. You wouldn’t even have to try. He groans, exhaling, the Siblings around you chattering and laughing but you can only hear Secondo, feel his breath, you cling to his arm, shaking; your knees go weak when he finally speaks, “I want you near to me.”

He’s whisked away, stumbling with the group until you’re left alone, wondering what on earth just happened.

And that’s exactly why you didn’t want to see Secondo in the first place.

You make your sandwich and clean up the kitchen, grabbing a bag of chips and a bottle of wine. You eye Secondo’s champagne, sweating on the counter and figure it’d be in poor taste to let it go to waste. You leave then, turning off the lights; your arms full and your heart a little sore as you make your way back to your room.

You snuggle into the bed with your sandwich and kindle and uncork your wine. You sigh, feeling a sense of relief and comfort now that the noise has died down and the distance between you and Secondo has returned to a bearable space. 

It had been like that since you’d met him.

Close and heated, drunk or dry, far and yearning - it didn’t matter. Orbiting each other, getting close, drifting apart. But you always drifted back. And each time you, or he, pulled away was just as painful as the last. And so, you’d started to distance yourself. It hurt terribly but, it hurt less than the inevitable and miserable withdrawal. He always looked at you like he wanted you, always seemed like he had something to say. But both you and he always found reasons to part.

You eat your sandwich and drink straight from the bottle, finding that you’re actually enjoying yourself. Sloth, gluttony and bit of lust thanks to the why-choose monster romance in your palm. Tentacles, Mothman, slimy demons with… more tentacles, a creature from the depths of god knows where. It wasn’t such a bad way to spend the evening. You eyed the drawer in your nightstand. You’d just bought fresh batteries. Things were looking up! 

And then your door swung open and you screamed as it banged against the wall, “Cara mia, I cannot take one more second of this,” Secondo waltzes in like he owns the place - technically he does - and you watch as he stumbles, arms outstretched, fingers grasping for a balance that he won’t find. He trips on the rug, stumbling forward, “merda, cazzo!” He wobbles, sinking to his knees and then onto all fours and then, with a sigh, flops onto your rug, “I have the spins.”

“Please don’t barf on my carpet.”

“I’m fine!” a very green Secondo looks up at you. His brow furrows and you panic, “I’m not fine.”

“Bathroom! Papa! Get in the bathroom!” you flop out of bed, tripping over Secondo while he crawls to the little bathroom and you flick on the lights, guiding the gagging anti-Pope to the toilet, “Christ on a cracker,” you grumble, “I can’t believe this is happening.” You run, awkwardly, to your bedroom door, slamming it shut and turning the lock in an attempt to save Secondo some dignity from the horn-dog committee that you can hear calling his name. You return to the bathroom and kneel down next to him while he heaves into the toilet, patting his back. 

This was not the physical or emotional distancing you were hoping for. 

This was the opposite. 

Lucifer Morningstar had just placed a very vulnerable Secondo in your care. And you weren’t feeling very grateful for it. Not at all. There’s a lipstick kiss on the back of his head and the sight of it has you green with jealousy, annoyance whittling a sour hole in your chest. Maybe that was the bottle of champagne. You watch Secondo for a moment, he sits back from the toilet with a groan, back against the wall, arms on bent knees, hands hanging limp. You push the handle down, flushing away an entire tropical island of frozen drinks, and put the lid down while he closes his eyes, breathing deep and slow, “Still spinning?” you ask.

He nods, swallowing, “I suspect I will be spinning until sunrise.”

“Do you want me to help you to your room?” you ask, trying not to stare at his chest; shirt undone, broad, strong thing covered in hair on display like some kind of sick, sexy charcuterie board. My god, you think, swallowing your drool, what kind of test is this?

Secondo hiccups and offers a wide smile, eyes half shut, “It is not the first time I’ve slept on a bathroom rug.”

“Oh.” So he’s staying. Perfect. 

Secondo lifts his fingers, fiddling with the sleeve of your shirt, finger sliding over your wrist. His eyes flick up to yours, “Cara mia, may I have a glass of water?” Secondo asks and you’re on your feet in a second, desperate for something to do other than stare at your would-be paramour and his perfect, hairy tits while he caresses you.

You return with a glass of water and a can of cold ginger ale along with the other half of your sandwich, “Might help,” you say, chewing on your lip. You sit back down next to him and he pats your thigh. You flush, the rather innocent touch has your nerves on fire, again. 

You’re going to need more batteries.

Secondo, still very drunk, devours your sandwich and guzzles the ginger ale. He lets out a hellacious burp and you smirk, leaning against the counter. He pats the space next to him, “Sit by me. You make me feel better.”

“I really should help you back to your room,” you say, fighting every urge not to obey.

“My dove,” Secondo burps, again and then groans in relief. He tugs on your sleeve, again. Yanking you towards him,  “If I could stand, I would have you in your bed with your ankles around my ears. I cannot go back to my room without ejecting that sandwich and breaking my heart. Now,” he pinches his nose, eyes squeezed shut presumably fighting off his spins, again, “Please, sit.”

You open your mouth to speak and then snap it shut, eyes wide and your skin on fire. You stare at Secondo, trying to process what he’s just said and then come to the most obvious conclusion, “You’re very drunk, Papa.”

“Si, but I am conscious,” he eyes the toilet, clutching his stomach, pushing the lid back up in preparation, “You make good sandwiches. Get down here, don’t make me ask, again,” he takes your sleeve one last time, gripping your arm and pulling you down onto his lap. He finds the glass of water, bringing it to your lips, “You are very drunk, my dear,” he says, serious as a heart attack, “You need to hydrate.”

“Wrong person,” you smirk, pushing the glass towards his mouth.

“Oh!” he giggles and it’s pitched and joyful, “You are so smart!” you help him take a drink and he sighs in relief, the cool water, you suspect, a balm.  He kisses your cheek. You snort, he holds you tight. You try to get comfortable, try to relax against him. Not that you were terribly upset about being in his lap. You stare at him and he’s grinning, eyes shining. Drunk though he is, he’s still sweet, “Thank you.”

“Now,” he puts his hand back on your thigh and you tense for a moment, a reassuring squeeze has you exhaling, “Tell me why you’re up here and not out there.”

“Seems like a lot of vomit out there,” you smirk and Secondo sighs, you copy him and for a moment, hold his - drunken - gaze, “because I’m tired of watching everyone fall in love.” you say, quietly. The truth hangs heavy and embarrassing in the air. You distract yourself by staring at his mouth. Bad idea. You focus on his collarbone. Also bad. You close your eyes and imagine things you can’t see right now on Secondo and you decide to stare at the edge of the tub,  “I just… everyone around here is always finding their one true love. Ghouls have mates. Papas have their fated Prime Movers, selected by,” you take on a dramatic tone, wiggling magical, probably sacrilegious fingers in the air, “Lucifer Morningstar himself. Everyone in between is in some sort of perfectly romantic couple or throuple or polycule or ghoul pile and I’m… I’m just here. Suffering. It’s just me and my vibrator in the middle of horny-town in some kind of Satanic Hallmark movie and I’m,” you take a shuddering breath, “I’m just here. Alone. Everyone is so goddamn happy,” it’s all coming out now. You let your fingers wander. One solitary finger finds his chest and you push it through the thick hair. Your shoulders let loose and you sigh in appreciation. It’s nice. You don’t stop talking though, “Everyone is falling in love. Getting married. Getting knotted! There’s so much burning and yearning and fucking and breeding and loving. Everybody is made for somebody. And then there’s me. I’m starting to think I became the wrong kind of nun. Everyone is happy and together and I’m so lonely,” you meet Secondo’s eyes, tears brimming in yours, “I’m lonely.” You let the words sit for a moment. He’s staring at you and you can’t read him at all. Blank faced and staring back. And then he blows out a raspberry of a laugh, doubling over into  your lap and wheezing. His cackle echoes off the bathroom walls and you stare at him, anger bubbling up over the hurt, “Are you… are you kidding? What the actual shit are you laughing about?”

Secondo comes back up, tears running down his face. He cups your cheeks, thumbs chasing away errant tears, “You know why you haven’t found your mate, don’t you?” he asks, still giggling. He has to drop his chin to his chest while he snickers, shoulders shaking.

“I don’t think it’s very funny, Papa,” you snap, tears burning, embarrassed and quickly tiring of the drunken man in your bathroom.

Secondo’s face snaps back up at the sharp tone you take, his title dripping off your tongue with annoyance. He is suddenly serious - though a smirk fights well to push through, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards - he shakes his head, “You have already found him.”

“I’ve gone on plenty of dates, Papa,” you stare up at him, your hands finding his wrists, his hands still along your jawline, “And I can assure you that none of those creeps were my mates. My last date? My last date took me to Wendy’s and asked me to shit on his chest. I don’t have a mate. There’s not a mate to be found.”

Secondo shakes his head, kissing your nose, “Your mate just barfed in your bathroom.”

It’s you then who is laughing, you crow and fold over, shaking your head, “Very funny,” you laugh, staring at Secondo. You pat his cheek, giggling. His hands fall away from your face, brushing against your chest and then find your thighs. The tables have turned and he is still and serious. You lean forward and kiss him, moaning in relief, giggling still, “Yeah, right.”

He presses his forehead against yours, eyes closed, reveling in the touch. If he was a tomcat, he’d be purring, you think. He groans and rolls his hips towards you, “You have no idea what you do to me, this close, so near. You are my mate. I am yours. We are meant to be - ,” he stops and you look up at him. Your smile is long gone, a cold sweat collects at your temples, goosebumps crop up in terrified waves on your arms. You swallow, waiting for more. And then his cheeks puff out and he abandons you, pushing you away, to hang over the toilet, barfing once more. What a waste of a sandwich. You blink at him, his head resting on the seat and you think that’s the closest he’s ever been to your ass, “I’m going to sleep now,” he says, eyes closed, slumped over the toilet like a sex god on a porcelain throne. How you can find this attractive is beyond you and a testament to your burning and yearning. 

“Well,” you panic a little, scooting closer, confused and upset and on the brink of an emotional breakdown, “What do you mean I’m your mate? You can’t drop that bombshell and then pass out,” you hiss, shaking Secondo’s shoulder. You’re met with a snore and a limp Papa, “Oh, come on,” you growl, annoyed again, “You can’t be serious,” another snore and you raise your eyebrows, “Great. My soulmate is a lumberjack.”

You glare at Secondo for another second and then he whines, your name falling off of his lips, needy and quiet and you soften a bit. Can’t stay mad at that. He’s decidedly less scary when he’s asleep. Cute, even. Relatively relaxed. You take some toilet paper and clean up the vomit dribble on the corner of his mouth. And then make quick work of the lipstick kisses on his perfect, bald head. He looks even better after that. You heave a sigh and stand, grabbing your favorite blanket from the bed and draping it over his shoulders. You refill his water and set it on the edge of the tub with two tylenol. 

You turn off the light and slink back to your bed. 

The next morning Secondo is gone. There’s no sign of him. The glass of water has been returned to the small cupboard, your blanket folded neatly on the edge of the bed. For a moment, you wonder if you’d dreamed it - it’s not above you to have love confession fantasies all night long about Secondo, last night didn’t seem all that off. You pull the blanket up, brushing the soft fabric against your mouth. You inhale and then exhale in relief. He was here. It was real. 

The door opens, decidedly gentler than last night, and you toss the blanket aside, praying that Secondo - carrying a tray of pastries and a carafe - didn’t see you sniffing it, “Good morning,” he greets you and you eye him. He doesn’t meet your stare and you swallow nervously, “How are you feeling?” he asks, shutting the door with his foot. He holds the tray in front of him, a bit awkward, jaw tense.

“I wasn’t the one worshipping the toilet last night,” you say, fiddling with the sheets. You’re suddenly aware that you’re still wearing an old, oversized hoodie over a flannel pajama top and ratty sweats. Your hair is tangled and you’re probably, actually looking a little rough - you’d tossed and turned all night, reeling from Secondo’s revelation and worried about him being sick in the bathroom (your rug had survived, thank Satan). You clear your throat, “Are you okay?”

Secondo eyes you and you narrow your own, “I am fine perfectly fine,” he announces, sounding rather not perfectly fine.

For a moment, it’s silent. No one is saying anything. You’re afraid he doesn’t remember. Or worse, he’d made it all up in a drunken, giggling, stupor. You chew on your lip and watch as he walks towards you, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He sets the tray across your lap and it’s an uncomfortable blockage between you and he that you fear does not bode well. You watch as he carefully pours coffee and you try desperately not to be a freak about it. You fail. Strong hands pour coffee and stir in cream and sugar; he knows how you like your coffee and the thought burns hot and needy between your thighs. He’s showered and shaved and it’s a slight pity that the scruff is gone. He smells of aftershave and fresh laundry; perhaps a cigarette. There’s still a whisper of rum and it makes you smirk, “You were out of it last night,” you say, quietly, taking the cup of coffee from him, avoiding eye contact. 

“I cannot drink like I used to,” is all he says, slicing a croissant and spreading yellow butter across the flaky inside, your watch it melt, finding it near impossible to look up at him, “But I assure you, ciccina,” he finally says, handing you the croissant, and you meet his eyes. His gaze holds you tight, his eyes flash, white iris blazes, “I was not out of it.”

You swallow, heart hammering in your ribcage, “You were drunker than you know.”

Secondo shakes his head slowly, “No. I remember and I meant everything I said. It is the truth.”

You laugh nervously, setting the croissant down and pushing the tray towards Secondo, surprised that all you want, in this moment that you’ve only dreamed of, is space, “I need a second,” you wheeze, heading straight for the bathroom. You slam the door and Secondo curses quietly on the other side of it. You grip the side of the sink unsure if you’re excited or terrified or going to be sick. You decide, instead, that you might actually pass out. You lean against the door and then slide down to your ass, “I just need a second,” you say, again. 

There’s a bit of shuffling and then Secondo’s voice is on the other side of the door, next to your ear. He’s sitting up against it, too, “Talk to me.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say anything.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” the question pulls a lump of emotion into your throat and your eyes sting with tears, “I’ve been… I’ve felt so alone and you knew this whole time?”

“I am,” Secondo’s voice breaks and it’s silent for a moment, “I am so sorry,” you don't have anything else to say. You accept his apology immediately. It’s quiet and it’s heavy and you sit with the idea that you’re actually supposed to be with Secondo and that he’s yours and he’s always been yours and he’s always gonna be yours. You stand and open the door, swallowing your nerves. Secondo jumps to his feet and stares at you - his handsome face twisted in worry. He clears his throat, “I didn’t… I wanted you to come to it on your own. You were taking… a very long time. And then I became worried that you didn’t want me. And so I… I thought you didn’t want me.”

You kiss him. Cupping his face and pulling him close. You pull away immediately, chest heaving, “I know now,” you whisper, “I know and I understand,” you pull off your sweatshirt and start on the buttons of your pajama shirt. Secondo shakes his head and pushes your hands down. He unbuttons you slowly. Eyes on yours the whole time. You’re sure you’ve died and descended to the ranks for Lucifer’s most ardent followers because this cannot be real life. When Secondo gets to the last button you latch onto his wrists, thumbs rubbing the back of his hands. He cocks his head and waits, “This whole time?” you ask, begging for another moment of sweet reassurance.

“Since the very moment I met you.” You let go of his hands and he undoes the last button, your shirt falling open, his fingers slipping around your waist, “Permit me to touch you.”

“I’ll die if you don’t.”

Shaking fingers slide up your belly and cup your chest. He leans down, hunching over, and presses his mouth to your sternum, pushing your chest up against his face, inhaling. You stand there, unable to move, worried you’re having an out of body experience. Secondo comes back up, fingertips sliding along your collarbone to your shoulders, pushing your shirt off, it falls to the floor. His hands slide to yours, lacing your fingers in his - tracing the hills and valleys of your knuckles, revisiting the places he’d kissed last night. You stand there, staring up at him, like a deer in headlights. He smirks and you’re reminded of his giggling last night, “May I proceed?” he asks. You nod, unable to speak. Secondo kneels and you inhale sharply; a smidgen of your brain wishes he’d pull out a ring and you remind yourself you’re barely fifteen minutes into this relationship. He hooks his fingers into your sweatpants and pulls them off slowly, ignoring your underwear. You curse yourself for not wearing something sexier. Secondo’s lips brush against your knee, then your thigh and he plants a kiss against your hip; pressing his mouth just above your clit, your underwear an infuriating barrier. He bites at it, pulling it back and letting it snap against your skin. He groans, “I may have made a mistake in waiting.”

“You think?” you choke out, finally bringing your hand up to the back of his head, tracing the shell of his ear. He slips his fingers up to your underwear and looks up at you one last time, asking for permission. You nod and grip the doorframe. You wondered if Secondo’s previous spins were contagious. Your entire world spins. EVerything you wanted. Everything you begged for, Secondo or not, is happening right here between your legs. You close your eyes and take a few, careful breaths.

“Are you alright?” he asks and you nod, “look at me.”

You shake your head, “If it’s a dream, I don’t want it to end.”

“Look at me now,” Secondo says, again, “I am here now. I am real.”

You open your eyes, holding your breath. He’s there. And he stays there. He doesn’t slip into nothing like your dreams. He’s here, hands on your ass, smiling up at you, eyes full of love. Secondo helps you step out of your underwear. His hands return to your shaking knees and your entire body flushes in response, “I need you,” is all he says, his voice low and warbled a bit. 

“I’m yours. You have me.”

Secondo’s hands slide up to your thighs, pressing them apart. He leans forward, breath hot on your center. He looks up at you again, not quite sure if he’s believing this, either. You nod and all hesitation is gone. His mouth latches onto you, tongue wild against your slit, rolling your clit, splitting you, pressing into you. You gasp and your head falls back, your knees give out. Secondo, rather impressively, grips your hips and falls back, pulling you to the floor, on your knees. You grip the edge of your bed, Secondo fucking you with his tongue, his nose pressed firm against your clit. You’re hunched over, riding his face, barely conscious - stars dance in your vision, relief and adrenaline swirl in your veins. It’s happening. It’s over. All of that miserable loneliness going up in smoke. It’s forgotten quickly. Secondo’s tongue, his hands sliding up to your tits, the moans and whines coming from between your legs are pleasant and a true distraction. His tongue slides through the lines of your pussy, slick and hot, he laps at you, drinking you up before returning your clit. He kisses it. Licks at it carefully, teases it before pulling you back to him, sucking hard and long. 

An orgasm builds, faster than you can prepare for it,  your back arching, your hands falling back against his thighs, You roll your hips and Secondo stares up at you, “Come for me. Let me taste what I have dreamt of.”

His tongue slides back down to your entrance, jutting his chin upward, whining when you clench tight around his tongue, trembling. He lets his hand fall, thumb circling wildly around your clit. You obey him, then, thighs shaking, gasping his name. And when it peaks, when you snap forward and cry out with oversensitivity - he gives you no relief. He’s coated in your slick. It glistens on his mouth, down his face and neck. His hands wrap around your thighs, forcing your pussy hard against his mouth. His eyes roll and he whimpers against you.  You feel a few splatters - hot and thick -  across your backside. He’s coming. You look back and see his cock freed from his pants, coating his shirt and your ass.

It only sends you reeling. Again. 

By lunchtime, you’re still on the floor, naked and feeding Secondo a, now stale, croissant. His pants are around his ankles. His shirt hangs open, buttons scattered around the room. His eyes are closed while he chews. He swallows. You lean over and kiss him. You grin, “You taste like sex and butter.”

He tangles his fingers in your hair, keeping your lips against his, “I taste like you.” HIs tongue comes up, tangling with yours and you toss the croissant over your shoulder, “I want to taste you forever. Want you to ride me forever. Make those sounds forever. Never stop touching me. Never leave me. Marry me. Oh, Satan,” he whines, “Marry me.” You try to pull back but he keeps up against him, “Marry me. Right now. Isn’t that what Frater says? Be right here, right now?”

You snort, “Yeah, I don’t know if he was talking about marriage.”

“Marriage doesn’t matter, you know,” Secondo says, bumping your nose against his, eyes half-lidded, “We are already together. Forever, no matter what. You have my heart and I have yours and I will give you everything. Whatever you want, it is yours. Me. Money. Cars. Babies. Fame. Power. Whatever you want.”

You narrow your eyes at him, running your hands through the hair on his chest, “Can you read minds?” you ask.

Secondo smiles wide, eyes sparkling, “You’re thinking about marrying me?”

You swallow and grin, “You sure you’re not still drunk?”

Secondo kisses you, again, “My darling, I have never been more hungover in my life. My head feels like it’s going to explode, I’m on the verge of another vomit, the room has been spinning for the last twenty-minutes. My knees - I am so old my knees have a hangover.”

You frown and sit up, this time he lets you go, his hands trailing down your chest, toying with your nipples, “Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, his eyes flicking from your chest to your eyes, thumb and forefinger teasing your nipple until it hardens beneath your touch, He grins triumphantly. You arch an eyebrow, “You should be resting.”

Secondo pushes himself up on his elbows so he can kiss you again, “My darling,” he coos, “My love,” he presses his lips to the corner of your mouth, tucking your hair behind your ears, “This is, by far and long, the greatest hangover of my life.”

[inkstainedrat]

Beth goddamn it

I awoke after only a few hours of sleep and instead of going right back you know damn well I had to read this

And consequently make this meme because I hate love him so fucking much

[bethbruttenholm]

Kinktober #15 - I Missed You

Secondo’s heart stops in his chest.

His lungs cease to expand. 

His stomach drops.

His cock, though, kicks to blessed life. He fluffs out his silks ands pats his cheeks in an attempt to keep everything tucked and covered and oh, well fuck…

… there you are. There you are. As if you haven’t been gone for years. As if you hadn’t turned it whole life upside down, stolen his heart and then kissed him goodbye. You look different and just the same and, Morningstar’s mercy, Secondo rubs his chest and wonders if he’s having a heart attack. He lets out a whisper of a sob, breath catching in his throat. His hand goes to his chest; checking to make sure his heart is still actually beating because, for a moment he thought it was going to hammer out of his ribcage and now he’s sure it’s stopped beating altogether. He feels like he might need an ambulance, but of course it still beats. It has spent years beating for you. Only for you. Why would it stop as soon as you appeared once more?

Terzo turns, following his elder brother’s gaze, “Who is this?” he asks, eyeing the Sister and then turning back to Secondo, “I do not recognize her. An Imperatrix? She wears your colors.”

You do. Your veil is lined in emerald, crowned in a thin, narrow line of the same. A declaration, loud and clear. Secondo exhales, swallowing nervously, “She used to be mine.”

Terzo eyes his brother and a slow, knowing, happy smile spreads across Terzo’s face, “Why don’t I remember her? Is she not yours now, still? She is wearing your color. What you mean used to?”

“You had your Cardinal painted face buried between every pair of ass cheeks you could get your hands on, Terzo,” Secondo growls, suddenly feeling protective of you and the time you shared with him, “And it was never any of your business. It continues to be so.”

“Still,” Terzo folds his arms, delighted in taking in his lovesick brother, “I would dare to say she is still yours by the looks of your googoo eyes. Should I go get her?”

Secondo’s grip on Terzo’s arm is tight and Terzo whines a bit. Secondo shakes his head, coming to some semblance of his senses - if he can call it that. He feels sick and scared and horny. He clears his throat, shaking his head, “No, no. It has been a long time. Far too long. She does not even remember me, I am sure.”

Terzo rolls his eyes, “You wouldn’t know love if it was fucking you in the ass, Secondo.” 

Secondo blushes and Terzo gasps - he will bet his papacy on the fact that Secondo has in fact been fucked in the ass - a thought he previously deemed wholly impossible as that giant stick up his rectum would create problems. But, alas, while Secondo blushes and pines, staring at the Sister in the foyer - Terzo is sure that this woman has had a chokehold on (and a strap on in) Papa Emeritus the Second. And he would bet his marriage that he’ll have it in him, once again, before morning. 

“Say anything and I will murder you in your sleep,” Secondo hisses, turning on his heel and leaves, silks billowing, muttering something about Terzo being an asshole.

It’s been a long time since you've been home. 

The abbey is as beautiful as ever. Doors flung open, windows glowing and warm. The moon hangs low behind her in the velvety blue, winter sky, setting the perfect backdrop for your homecoming. The oaks and maples stand tall, though they’re bare; silent sentinels shadowing the snow-covered lawn. You can see Primo’s greenhouse, past the drifts and the hedges, all lit up, too. 

It’s a party tonight.

It’s sort of an alumni weekend. And because it’s snowy and cold and Papa’s home from tour, rituals and feasts and orgies and black magic abound. Rumor had it, Papa Copia was looking for a Prime Mover and he was calling all the Prime Imperatrix’s to headquarters, hoping to catch the eye of one of his most powerful priestesses. And while you weren’t interested in becoming the next Prime Mover, not for Copia at least, you were thrilled to come home. You can sense the excitement as you make your way up the long sidewalk. Everyone vying for Papa’s attention. Old friends and new, the abbey filled up with family. The dark magic ebbs and flows from inside, calling you closer. You smile. 

It’s good to be home. And it’s good to know you’re staying. 

Your life as an Imperatrix has been one of luxury; basking in the glow of the Morningstar, supported by the clergy, you’d travelled far and wide spreading the good, dark word. You’d been to abbeys and parishes, churches and dioceses. You’d lived in witch’s caves and queen’s castles. You’d taught Siblings and guided clergymen. Summoned ghouls. You’d spent a year practicing with the crones in the ancient town of Emeritus in Italy. Another jaunt in Rome, feeding a succubus and converting the catholics. You had seen so much. Done so much. And so, with some careful, quiet planning with Omega and Imperator, it was time to come home. For good. 

Back to Secondo.

“Oh, my sweet-fucking-Satan,” Omega laughs and scoops you into a bone-crushing hug that pulls you from you your thoughts, “I can’t believe you made it,” he holds you at arm’s length and smiles, sighing, “I missed you,” before you can respond he pulls you back into another lunge-collapsing, spine-disintegreating hug. You pat his back and after a few more moments of near suffocation he lets you go, big hands sliding down your arms to hold yours, “You hungry?” he asks and you nod, “Good. C’mon. I saved you a seat.”

It’s just like old times. 

You sit squeezed between Alpha and Omega, completely protected on all sides by Secondo’s guard dogs. You eat and eat and drink and drink, the big ghouls flanking you - and the Siblings on all sides - insist on making sure you’re fed and, by the looks Papa’s fire ghoul is giving you, fucked, too. You tell them stories of your life on the road as a missionary and an Imperatrix. The Sisters look on in awe, the Brothers too. Omega and Alpha look on proudly, “I remember when you showed up here, riddled with anxiety. Shy as a churchmouse. Just as innocent, too. You could barely look at me, let alone conjure up a silly little demon. Now look at you,” Omega kisses your cheek, “I’m proud.”

Alpha and Omega take over, regaling the table with grand - perhaps embellished - stories of your time with them at the abbey. But it wasn’t just Alpha and Omega you were close with. You gaze up at the head table and your shoulder’s sink. There is a chair that sits empty. Secondo isn’t here. Omega gently elbows you and you force a faux smile; the big ghoul, as usual, reads you like a book, “He’s here,” he says, refilling your goblet with the dark, sweet wine. It’s supposed to be low-alcohol but it’s going to your head. You’re fuzzy and warm and full of hope, even with Secondo’s big, fancy chair sitting empty. Omega puts your wine glass into your palm and winks, “Bet he’s hiding in his office.”

“Bet he’s working,” Alpha snorts, taking a few more chicken wings, “Office, for sure. He’s helping with communion tonight. So naturally, he’s avoiding all social contact until then.”

You perk up, immediately, “He is?” you ask.

“The shining and the light?” Omega grins.

“Ha,” you roll your eyes and stand, suddenly far too excited to sit and ponder your past relationship with Secondo, “I’m helping with communion tonight, too. I thought Papa Copia was giving it?” 

Omega shrugs, “I think he’s too busy playing ‘The Bachelor’ to give communion.”

“Fair enough,” you give his shoulder a squeeze, “Thanks for dinner, big guy. I, uh,” you clear your throat, staring at your wine before flicking your gaze up to Omega’s, “I should go find him.”

It had been a long time since you’d been home, and, after excusing yourself from dinner, you still know all the hallways and dark, shadowy corners. The parapets under the full moon - even in the cold of winter - call your name. You cannot count the times you’d run up there with Secondo to fuck - no, no, you smirk, - that was making love under the stars. You ache for the library; the uneven stacks of ancient books and brittle parchment. Hours and hours, days and nights, you’d spent there, cooped up, hunkered down and studying; trying desperately to ignore Secondo vying for your attention. The crypts below the church, a labyrinth of bioluminescent pools and stone walled rooms boiling over with black magic, were begging you to slip away and strip down and call to Satan like God - er, well, you know - like the dark powers that be intended. Your old apartment, way up in one of the towers is now home to a new batch of Sisters, heading on their way to be Imperatrices. You sip your wine and happy tears sting your eyes. 

It’s just so good to be home.

Still, as much as you want to slither into your old haunts and conjure up an incubus or two, there’s someone you need to find. 

He’d heard your heels on the stone floor and nearly shit himself. 

Secondo had flung himself into his bedroom and slammed the doors, turning the lock and darkening the rooms; leaving him in shadow and shame. You step into his office and it’s dark save for the warm, low desk light he’d left on. For a moment, you lean against the door, taking it all in. Admittedly, he is a creature of habit in the worst sort ways and he knows exactly what you’re thinking: this motherfucker hasn’t changed a thing. 

And he hasn’t. Why should he? He has kept it exactly like it was when you were here. The crystals and tchotchkes remain on his bookshelves, your own books mingle with his. Even your old notebooks, years of studies and perhaps a few love letters, have been fondly well kept and are shelved in line with his own grimoires.

Your eyes fall on him and, for a moment, he forgets that the windows on the french doors are not only curtained but mirrored - no one can see in. He clutches his chest, his heart pounds wildly beneath his fingers, and then you move towards his desk. And he exhales, shaking. He watches you, standing in his silks and mitre, in the dark, wondering at what point in time he became a snivelling, sobbing, whimpering, hiding, borderline pants-shitting idiot. And yet, here he is - all of the above checked off that pathetic list. The moment you walked in the door he ran up to his rooms and vomited and cried and jerked off and for the first time in his life thought maybe Terzo was right about a little therapy. 

He missed you so much. 

He may have been your first… well, everything. But you, perhaps unknowingly, had been a first for him, too. And a last, he admits. His chest aches, embarrassingly so, at the thought of it. He’d been a generous middle aged man when you’d met; he was ashamed to admit that you had been his first love. First love. His first, true love. And he has not stopped loving you, not from the moment you’d stepped out that door nearly ten years ago. And now, a decade later, you’d stepped back in and it sent him into some sort of tailspin. Instant nausea. Instant erection. Instant and overwhelming emotion.

It was not how he had thought your reunion would go.

You walk across the room to his desk, fingertips grazing along the edge. You carry a wine glass in the other hand; you hold it outward, balancing yourself while you toe off your heels, shrinking considerably. He smirks. Your toes are still painted emerald. You saunter around his desk and he realizes you’re a bit drunk. You flop into his chair and put your feet up on the desk. He used to kiss those feet. He’d fucked them. Or rather, they’d fucked him. Every inch of you he knows, intimately. From your lovely hair to the tip of your toes, he had explored you with wild abandon, he had been so desperate for you (still was) and loved you with a ferocity that scared even him. Apparently, hiding in the dark, it still did. To know that he was the first to have you was a blessing he thanked Satan for often. To know that he sent you into the world with confidence and lust and the knowledge to wield both? And that you still wore his colors while doing it? He could die happy knowing you were his. You had always been and whether you wanted him or not, it mattered little. You were his - here or there. 

He was hard, again, palming himself through his pants; impatient to have you, frustrated that he remained hidden. Still, he would enjoy these last few moments of separation, his yearning at a peak while he stared at you through the gauzy curtains.

You’d fucked in this chair. 

On the desk. Over on the couch. The tall, wingback chairs. Up against that bookshelf. The floor. That poor, poor rug. Although the ancient, black and grey oriental had gotten her revenge - you’d had carpet burn in the most unfortunate of places, more than once. And while he’d had you on every surface from here to the kitchen you can recall quieter days and calmer nights. Reading on his sofa. Late night dinner in front of the television. Sleeping late next to him in his bed. Sitting on his lap, annoying the ever loving shit out of him while he was on the phone. Pushing back the rug and the chairs and the couch and doing all manner of magic and rituals. You’d summoned your first ghoul, right there, in front of the fireplace. You smirk. Nothing has changed. It’s exactly the same as when you left and, frankly, you expected nothing less. Andit’s a solace to see it; to come home and truly feel at home. You’d tried to replicate it all over the world; the safety and love and peace you’d felt with Secondo. It was bar none. 

You sip your wine and let your eyes wander. On his desk, amongst the rather impersonal, neatly organized stacks of work and paper, are three picture frames. One of a very young Primo, long blond hair falls over his shoulders. He wears a ruby red cassock and a beretta, the paints of a Cardinal. The second, a more recent picture of Terzo and Secondo, at Terzo’s ascension ritual. Terzo is beaming, pristine paints smudged, hair wild. Even Secondo has managed to crack a happy smile. The third picture is of you. You don’t remember him taking it. You don’t remember the day at all. You’re on the front lawn and it’s late in the afternoon, the sky and the sunlight warm and bright; everything glows orange. You have a flower crown atop your head and you’re wearing an old toga-style ritual robe. It could have been any number of rituals. It could have been just another Tuesday.

The church bells ring, shaking the walls and rattling the window panes, and you curse, leaving your wine on Secondo’s desk and your shoes on the floor, booking it for the chapel. You can’t believe, two hours into it, you’d forgotten half your duties. You’re going to miss the first half of mass but, better late with an offering than early and empty handed. The bells continue to call everyone to mass while you hurry to one of the conservatories, “Sister!” Papa Copia calls and you skid to a halt, Papa Copia catches your arms and you smile, “Running late? You’re doing communion, si?”

You nod, “I am. And I lost track of time.”

“You are absolved, my pet,” he winks, giving your hands a squeeze.

“You’ll have to double absolve me, Papa,” you laugh, heading towards the conservatory, “I’ll be a little late!”

He waives you off with a gentle laugh. The conservatory is dark and quiet save for the sound of the fountain in the sitting area, tucked away amongst palms and ferns and orchids. You gather a bouquet - white roses and sprigs of thick, richly scented lavender. Primo’s talents, protected from the outdoors in the greenhouse and conservatories, bloom all year long and in a few minutes you have a lovely bouquet for your Dark Lord.

Papa Copia is finishing up his sermon when you sneak into the last pew and exhale quietly. He catches you and smiles and you know you’re second absolution has been issued. The place smells of incense and coffee and is far too warm; the fireplaces in the great hall and too many bodies - some of them literal fire demons - crank the temperature up to sweltering. “And now,” Papa Copia smiles, “We will sing a hymn while communion is prepared.” You swallow, suddenly nervous. You lift the bouquet, taking in a bit of the lavender scent, trying not to panic. Papa Copia steps aside, lowering his head to Secondo, who returns the gesture on his way to the altar. The organ starts and everyone stands. You struggle to your - you realize now, bare feet - and watch Secondo work. It’s your turn to come down the aisle to him but you just can’t seem to make yourself step out of the pew, let alone… walk. He’s right there. Down the aisle and up three steps, he is there. He’s just as tall and broad. Head bowed while he works, not a wafer crumbled nor a drop of wine spilled. He lights the tall tapers on each point of the pentagram. He lifts his hands in prayer. Your heart pounds. Your mouth waters. It takes a few moments to gather your strength - you’d been excited, of course, but you hadn’t expected to feel scared. What if he’s moved on? You certainly haven’t. What if he’s not only moved on but - nausea rolls over you in a wave - what if he’s found someone else? Surely Omega would have said something? Alpha would have warned you. They certainly wouldn’t have let you go to his office alone and they absolutely wouldn’t have let you saunter up to him now with a heart full of love and… other things. Also begging to be loved. Papa Copia peeks down the aisle and waves, bringing you back to the present. You offer him the best fake smile you can manage and take the first step, in what you hope is the last few in a long journey, back to Secondo.

When Secondo turns around it is like you have never left. He’s been saying it since you walked in the door, it’s like she never left! And still, each time he sees you the years you’ve been gone feel like hours now. You’re back. Everything is fine. You simply stepped out to run a decades worth of errands and now you are home. Life may resume, as usual. 

He takes a deep, cleansing breath.

It is not lost on Secondo that you’re walking down the aisle, to him, bouquet in hand.

There’s an audible murmur that rolls through the chapel when he smiles. You smile back and he holds out his hand, helping you up the three steps to the altar. He had, in his many nights alone, imagined a cataclysmic event when he finally held you, again. There is nothing. Of course, there is everything - love and excitement, his chest swells with happiness and his shoulders let loose with relief. You wink as you pass, “This is not what it looks like, Papa,” you whisper. 

He hums, leading you around the altar towards the great, onyx Baphomet, “A disappointment then. I was hoping it was exactly what it looked like.”

Your cheeks turn pink and Secondo wonders if one can be too relieved. Can someone be too content? Can everything be coming together and working out and right? Can it? Tonight, right now, it certainly feels like it can. He tamps down the anxiety that bubbles up behind the happiness - it’s not real, she doesn’t feel the same, it’s been too long. He dashes all of those thoughts. You’re here. You’re smiling. Primo is beaming. Terzo is whispering to a delighted Copia. You’re looking at him like you’ve always looked at him. Lucifer love him, you're walking down the aisle with a bouquet in your hands!

Everything is going to be alright.

You kneel and place the bouquet of flowers at the feet of Baphomet, folding your hands in your lap, “Sorry for the last minute flowers. I haven’t been very reverent today,” you can feel Secondo’s eyes on you and you smile, “Thank you. Thank you for him. Thank you for blessing him with a bit of patience,” you whisper, lighting a beeswax candle, tossing the spent match into the little tray with its other, martyred comrades, “Ave Satanas,” you kiss the foot of Baphomet and then stand, turning to Secondo.

“You are ready?” he asks and you nod. You join him, the altar separating you and the singing congregation. The organ booms and the voices of Siblings and Ghouls - and a couple of Papas - fill the space with reverent joy. You take Secondo’s hand in both of yours, holding it tight, sure that you’ll never let it go. Not again. Not ever. He gives it a squeeze and you know he feels the same. 

You have a hard time paying attention, listening to Secondo’s blessing. You’re too busy staring up at him. Gazing. You’d forgotten how big he was. Forgotten the protective, possessive aura that ebbed and flowed around you. Forgotten how much he could project his voice. Forgotten how softly he could whisper. Everyone knew he was wild and commanding and dominant. But they didn’t know how gentle and sweet and perfect he was. You keep his hand in yours until the very last moment, and even then he has to give your fingers a reassuring squeeze, “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers. When you’re able to let go, he motions for the last row to move forward. You take the chalice of wine and Secondo takes the plate of wafers and you move around to the front of the altar, descending to the floor. A new hymn starts as everyone files forward, row after row, lining up and - one by one - kneeling in front of you and Secondo; you stand shoulder to shoulder, unable to stay apart. Secondo places a wafer on the waiting tongue, “Body of Christ, broken for you, in vain. Morningstar bless you.”

It’s a relatively short blessing compared to norm but the chapel is full and both of you are having a hard time concentrating on anything but each other. After they’ve taken the wafer, you lift the chalice to their lips, “Blood of Christ,” you say, “Spilled for you, in vain,” the Sibling, or ghoul, takes a short sip and then, after they have completely taken the host, do you and Secondo say in unison, “Ave Satanas, ave domini inferi.”

You wipe the rim with a black, linen cloth and begin again.

It takes a few tries to catch a rhythm and then the two of you, like you have always been, are a well oiled machine. The line moves slowly and you take in every moment. Old friends and new come forward. There are quick hellos, hugs, and good to see you’s before they move on. Primo stands after your blessing and takes you in for a quick, tight hug, “He has missed you terribly,” he whispers, kissing your cheek, “We all have. Welcome home, sweet girl.” You only nod, a throb of emotion takes your words and you use Secondo’s blessing on the next Sibling to recover but it’s your turn, again. You watch Secondo, watch his hands - he always takes his gloves off for this; his bare hands and your bare feet make quite the match. The dark hair on the back of his hands, long, strong fingers delicately placing the sanctified wafers onto waiting, reverent, sinful tongues has you rubbing your thighs together. This feeling is no surprise. You’d imagined Secondo in the place of most lovers (and vibrators) you’d had since parting from him. This need is not only not a surprise but has been a constant craving and companion for years. 

But it's over before you know it. The last Sibling and ghoul stand, filing back to their seats. You turn to Secondo and he takes the chalice from you while you return to the altar. 

It is not for the first time tonight Secondo Emeritus nearly passes out. 

When he turns back to you, fresh wine in hand and a single wafer in the other, he finds you already on your knees. You’re grinning - you know exactly what you do to him - and he has to take a deep breath, steadying himself internally before stepping forward. The congregants behind you still stand though they’ve returned to their pews. They sing, their voices drown out his own as he steps forward, “It took you an awfully long time to come home.”

“That isn’t the blessing,” you say, fingers laced together, pressed against your chest. You appear reverent though lascivious, smiling wide, eyes sparkling. Driving him absolutely mad. Walking down the aisle and now on your knees. He’ll need a defibrillator by the end of the night.

You have him at a loss, his words gone. For a moment he just stares, thanking the Morningstar that you are home. And then he steps forward, “Body of Christ, broken for you, in vain,” you open your mouth and he places the wafer on your tongue, “May the Morningstar continue to bless you,” he cups your jaw while you chew, swallowing quickly; his thumb caressing your cheek. The touch radiates warmth and your clit throbs in response, begging for more. He offers you the chalice with his other hand, “Blood of Christ, spilled for you, in vain,” you take a sip, never taking your eyes from him, trusting him to guide the cup to your mouth, to pull it away when you’ve had enough, “Ave Satanas, ave domini inferi.”

He helps you to your feet and guides you to the altar. You prepare his own communion, the hymn drawing to an end, the organ crescendos. You offer Secondo the wafer and the blessing. He takes it. You offer him the wine, he takes that, too. It all goes down and he doesn’t hear a thing. He is wholeheartedly overwhelmed; overstimulated in a terrible way. It’s loud and hot and his cock is throbbing and his stomach is turning. He wants to get married, right now. He wants to fuck and eat and kiss and sleep and work with you by his side. He wants his domestic life to start now. Right now. Right here. And it’s just so damn loud!

… and then it is quiet. 

You’re standing next to him, your hands wrapped tight around one of his. He blinks a few times, coming back to the moment. Copia is giving the benediction. And then that’s over, too.  Everyone is smiling and talking and heading to the great hall for another feast. Copia turns and gives Secondo, and then you, a once over before smirking and ushering the Siblings down the aisle. Terzo and Primo do the same, waiting for a moment, taking in their shell-shocked, overwhelmed brother before helping Copia clear out the chapel. He should be doing the same; go on, then, legs, he encourages his body to move away from yours to no avail. He won’t be leaving you anytime soon. You have ruined him and he will spend his days thanking you for it.

Terzo is the last one out and Secondo adds annoyance to the list of things currently plaguing him, “Sister,” Terzo calls, “My wife and I - Sister Kay - will have breakfast waiting in the morning,” he wags a finger, his gold claw bouncing back and forth from you to Secondo, “I expect you’ll bring the tea.”

Primo and his own wife - Sister Bee - join Terzo, all of them smiling, “Sister Kay will be very disappointed to know that she’s missed… whatever the heaven just happened in here,” Sister Bee says, taking Primo’s hand, “You’ll come, Sister?” she asks, “it’s about time we added a third.”

Secondo looks down, trying not to panic and finds you beaming, your light nearly blinding him and he sucks in a shaking breath, “I’ll be there,” you nod, giving Secondo’s hand a squeeze.

“And the tea?” Terzo asks, hands on the doors; the little shit waiting for a promise of gossip.

“I’ll bring it, too. Piping hot,” you laugh. 

“She always had the best tea,” Primo kisses his wife and then puts his arm around her waist, guiding her out of the chapel, “And it will be so much better - hotter - if we let them have their space.”

“Better tea than me, my love?” Sister Bee’s voice echoes, dripping with faux offense.

“Oh, no one has better tea than you.”

Terzo laughs, “No one, and I mean no one, has more tea than you two.” Terzo follows Primo and Bee, letting out a maniacal giggle and steps out of the chapel, slamming the doors shut. Secondo stares at the now empty pews, suddenly too nervous to do anything but stand there and try not to throw up. 

“Papa?” you ask, staring up at him, “Are you okay? You look… a little ill.” Secondo blinks quickly, coming back to you and you smile, cupping his jaw, “I missed you.” He stares down at you, searching your face, brow knit, “Are you okay?”

He exhales, grinning though still looking a bit perplexed and on the verge of a vomit, “You didn’t tell me you were coming home,” he exhales, “And why are you calling me Papa?”

You shrug, “Imperator said I was needed here. And I wanted to surprise you,” you trace the bow of his lip, mustache scratching on your thumb, before leaning up to kiss him, “I like to call you Papa.”

“Consider me surprised,” he whispers. You pull back, bumping your nose against his and he pulls you up against him. Heat flares to life, electricity cracks and sparks from your head to your toes, your back arches, your hips pressing up into Secondo’s. He kisses you. It’s searing and needy and he’s backing you up to the altar. He whines and grunts, hands wandering; his fingers tremble, jumping and nervous, unsure of where to touch you only know that he needs to, “Papa wants you to call him Secondo.”

“Secondo,” you breathe, cupping his face, grinning up at him. It only earns a few more whines and he peppers your face with kisses, “Papa. Secondo. Somebody!” you laugh.

“It’s been years,” he huffs against your skin, refusing to halt is assault of lover, “Do not deny me now!”

“I’m denying you for five seconds, look at me,” you laugh, and he pauses, breathless. Secondo whines but obeys, “I’m home now. I want you. I never stopped. Not for one second,” you pause, butterflies and nerves blurring everything, you force a smile; unsure as to why you think the man that has his hands all over you, fingers desperate to find a way up your blouse, who cannot stop whining about your lips being four inches from his might deny you but, the fear is there nonetheless.

“I don’t know why you’re worried,” he reads you like a book, “I have waited, rather impatiently, but I have waited. Plain and simple. I’m just,” he sighs and kisses your palm, narrowing his mismatched eyes, “I’m a bit perturbed that you didn’t tell me.”

You blanch, “You’re mad?”

“Si,” he nods, brow furrowed, “Now we have to take all of your things from your room to mine. It’s going to be a lot more work. You could have just come home and moved in.”

You don’t give Secondo a chance to laugh.

You throw your arms around his neck and he stumbles back against the altar. The last whispers of anxiety and fear fall from his shoulders, and yours too he suspects. Your tongue twists and dances with his, his hands tug at your veil and tangle in your hair, freeing it from the it’s pins and ties. Your hands slide down to his chest, squeezing his pecs and you smile against his lips, “I don’t ever want to stop kissing you. Ever.”

“Please, don’t,” he huffs, pressing your hands to his heart, “Don’t stop kissing me. Don’t stop touching me. Do whatever you want to me for a hundred years.”

Secondo leans back, Hands splay out on the altar, he watches you sink to your knees, “Just a hundred years? That’s all I get you ask,” your hands on his thighs now, squeezing. 

“If immortality is what you ask for, I will give it to you. Your wish,” he smirks, running his hand down his face, shaking his head, “Whatever you want, my treasure, it is yours. My heart, my body, all of my years.”

His silks are in a pile on the floor, mitre too; you’ve lost count of all the religious infractions you’ve racked up today. Surely, kneeling in front of your Papa, preparing to worship him, is a one way street to redemption. He cups your chin, attempting to distract you while you work at his belt. Though you meet his gaze, you continue to loosen the buckle and yank at the leather, and then his button and zipper. You need not have eyes to find what you’re looking for; he’s hot and hard, you can feel his cock pulsing beneath the fabric of his slacks. No underwear. You smirk, never taking your eyes off of his. He yanks at his shirt, popping the buttons and pulling it away from his middle. You admire, for a moment, that he’s gotten softer and hairier and it makes your mouth water. The jet lag that nags at you cannot wait to sleep on his chest, leg thrown over his. That’s for later, though. You bite your lip and for a moment, admire the cock in front of you, “I really did miss you,” you giggle, batting your lashes up at Secondo. Once more, you don’t give him a chance to respond. You press his cock up against his belly with the flat of your hand and suck his balls into your mouth. He gasps, his hand coming to his chest and he whimpers, eyes rolling and head falling back. You moan in approval, feeling his flesh tighten and twitch on your tongue. 

You intend to elicit those sounds from him until Terzo’s brunch.

You scoot a bit closer, Secondo spreads his legs to accommodate your knees and you lick him from balls to tip before rolling your tongue around his head, kissing at the velvety soft, sensitive spot beneath it. He’s already leaking and it’s you who mewls then - tongue out and drool dripping down your chin -  the instant you taste him you know that this is communion and this shall not be spilled in vain. 

Secondo has lost his Lucifer-loving mind. 

It is simply gone. 

He clutches his metaphorical pearls and grips the altar and can do nothing but watch you suck his cock. Your head bobs and you coat him with spit. You make salacious, delicious sounds; gagging and whimpering, choking and moaning. He knows he won’t last long. How could he? How could a man be expected to hold back when his deepest, truest desire is happening in real time? How could anyone look down and see the love of his life, feel the love of his life, sucking their cock and be okay? He is certainly not okay. It’s when your finger slips up to his ass, pausing to press slow circles on his taint, that he feels the lusty oil tighten far too quickly, his back arches and he loses his breath. His control snaps and he comes before you can even penetrate him. The very thought of you inside of him, knowing just where to go and what to do nearly kills him. He’s starting to feel serious about that defibrillator. You swallow most, the rest drips down your chin. But you don’t stop. Secondo cups your jaw and tries not to fall over, knees buckling while you suck him hard and fast. Another orgasm plows through him like a tidal wave, thighs burning, toes curling and this time he snaps his hips and you grab onto his ass, holding tight, taking him deep. He whines and cries, emptying down your throat for a second time. 

You pull away, grinning; a string of cum and spit connects your bottom lip to the tip of his cock. Secondo swipes his thumb across your mouth and brings it to his lips, sucking it clean, “Come down here,” you whisper, your voice hoarse.

He obeys, sinking to the floor. You crawl onto his lap and give him no time to prepare, one, two, three swipes along your pussy before sinking down and taking him to the hilt, your ass against his thighs. His eyes roll and he lets out a long, low whine, “I… am… over,” he huffs, “Be gentle, my darling.”

“It’s been almost a decade, Secondo,” you roll your hips and his breath catches in his throat. He slides his hands up your thighs and exhales, head rolling back and forth on the altar behind him, “You want me to be gentle? I am, after all these years,” you groan, your forehead thunking against his, “incapable of doing anything but getting what I want. You were just whining about me asking you to wait for thirty seconds and now you’re telling me it’s too much?” you cluck your tongue, shaking your head, “You’ve gone soft, my Papa,” he arches and eyebrow and you giggle, “Not talking about your cock,” you find your pace, rolling your hips, arching your back, riding him hard and slow, “You’ll let me have it though, won’t you?” you purr, nodding until he’s nodding, too, “You’ll let me fuck you until I tire?”

Secondo smirks, eyes meeting yours, “I taught you well.”

You lean forward and kiss him, smiling against his lips, “You taught me everything.”

You brace yourself, gripping the altar on either side of his head and grind hard onto Secondo; the head of his cock pressed tight against your core, silky and hot and wet against him. He closes his eyes, again, chewing on his lip, trying desperately to come at a relatively decent moment this time around. It’s been a long time since he’s come too soon. It’s been even longer since he hasn’t been able to control himself. It was like this before, too, your touch, your scent, your body around his, it was always too much. You had been a virgin and he had been rather embarrassed to be a one-pump Papa on your first night together. He was made for you, to worship you, to fill you, to be undone completely by you. 

It was like that then and it was like that now.

You let your head fall back, eyes closed, mouth hanging open; half dressed and panting, listening to the sounds of Secondo coming. He wheezes and gasps, his cock empties once more, kicking inside of you and you don’t stop. Not for a second. You keep him deep inside of you, aching at his length, your entrance tight around his girth; a delicious mix of pain and pleasure. You’re sure that soon you’ll have your fill - sacrilegious though it sounds - but, not yet. Your clothes, what’s left of them against your body are drenched in sweat, cum and spit soak into the neckline of your blouse, sticking to your skin. Secondo paws at your shirt, pulling it away from your chest, yanking on your bra until he can latch onto your chest, mustache tickling, tongue fiery hot around your nipple. He sucks hard and sends you into a tailspin, you rhythm off kilter, you snap forward, throwing your arms around his neck. You press you lips to his head, holding him close. You come. Hard. Your pussy tightening and fluttering around his cock, milking him, again. He whines, sobbing against your skin, “One more,” you gasp, no longer able to keep his come inside of you, it leaks down your thighs and you slip against his skin, “One more for me.”

“You are draining me dry,” he laughs against your chest, “Satan in hell, woman, I am dehydrated.”

He looks up at you, brow knit, jaw slack. The sound of your ass slapping against his thighs reverberates through the chapel; wet and loud and lewd. You smile and he catches it, kissing you rather gently compared to the way you’re pounding on his cock. You press your forehead to his, your eyes locked, “I missed you,” you whisper, feeling a sudden burst of emotion. 

Secondo runs his hands through your tangled hair, cupping your face, looking up at you with so much love in his eyes it brings tears to yours. He kisses them away, a hand on the back of your head, the other on your hip, guiding your pace - slowing you when you want to go hard and fast and fuck the decade without him away into oblivion, “Go slow, my love,” he grunts, “vai piano perché abbiamo una vita ormai.”

“Fuck me, Secondo,” you choke out, “One more. I need one more. I need it.”

He said he would give you everything and anything. 

And if it is one more orgasm you ask for, then he will conjure it up from the depths of his poor, empty balls. The sting of overstimulation is mouthwatering; his cock aches, the root of it throbbing each time it hits your pelvis. He gulps for air, leaning down to run his tongue up your neck, along your jaw, lapping at you until he finds your mouth, consuming your cries. Pain and pleasure mix together with the ecstasy of you; it swirls together and while his body feels everything, his brain has gone dumb. He can only stare up at you, watch you chase another crest and know with a certain, thick air of confidence that he is the only one that can make you feel that way. It all comes together again too quickly - his belly tightens, his back arches and that great surge of power tightens his balls and gathers at the base of his cock, “Cara mia, I am close.”

“Wait for me.”

For a moment, he sees stars. You’re coming, he can feel it but he has been catapulted headfirst into a rapturous abyss. Your body tightens around him and you stop bouncing and start grinding, refusing to separate an inch, taking everything from him. His head clunks against the altar and he takes great, gasping gulps of air. 

He finds himself all at once relieved and disappointed when you slow and then stop. You fall forward, your head on his shoulder, “Now that was the cataclysmic event I’d been hoping for,” you mumble and he can hear your smile.

“You’ve nearly killed me,” he groans when you sit up, the little friction it makes on his aching, softening cock sends a shiver through him, “Your cataclysmic event was borderline an assassination attempt.”

You fall to the side with a dramatic groan, your legs over his. For a few minutes it is quiet, save for the muted raucous of the feast taking place just down the hall. There will be dinner and then dancing and then, as the night wears on and as things usually go around the abbey, it will devolve into far lewder acts than appetizers and the Electric Slide.

Secondo cups your heel and lifts your foot to his mouth, “You have had lots of lovers in your travels?” he asks, attempting a tone of nonchalance. His eyes sparkle and you know he’s ramping up, again. The initial shock and awe wearing off, he needs to have you now, for quite some time; far too possessive to just go through one round, overstimulating though it was.

You smirk, “No one like you, my Papa.”

“Liar,” he kisses the arch of your foot, his tongue slipping up to your toes, kissing the pads of them, admiring the emerald lacquer. 

You hoist yourself up onto your elbows, “I mean it. There was… there hasn’t been… no one can compare to you,” Secondo gives you an exasperated look, lips still on your foot, “You were my first, Con. First… everything. No one, no thing - man, woman, ghoul or otherwise will compare to you.”

“So you have had a lot of lovers, then,” he giggles and you thwack his chest playfully with your foot, sitting up and then crawling up to him.

“Listen, old man,” you start and he sucks in a breath, eyes flashing, “You taught me a lot, you taught me everything I know and it has served me well.”

“You’re very welcome, dove,” he smirks, tucking your hair behind your ears. 

“But I have learned some things out there in the big, blue world,” you bump your nose against his, “And I’ve come back to absolutely knock your socks off.”

You stand and hold your hand out to Secondo who is grinning up at you. You try to help him to his feet and you manage to get him - with a few dramatic groans and grunts - semi-upright, on one knee. He smiles up at you and takes your hand,  “Cara mia,” he sighs, “I would be honored if you would knock my socks off for the rest of my life.”

“That sounds awfully a lot like a proposal, Papa,” you smirk, cupping his chin, revelling in the prickle of a beard that’s coming in.

“It is.”

You blanch, swallowing, “Secondo.”

“My love.”

“You’re serious?” you ask.

“As a heart attack,” his eyes sparkle with mirth, “Primo will marry us in the morning. I’ve already spoken with him.”

“Secondo,” you laugh, your hand over your mouth. You take a deep, shaking breath and then shrug, “I suppose it’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of, really. Cataclysmic for sure.”

“Then that’s yes? You will knock my socks off in unholy matrimony?”

You nod and he stands, pulling you close. You wrap your arms around his neck, “Oh, yes. Forever and ever.”

[bethbruttenholm]

hugging with a height difference - my first braincell says a Papa (you know which one) but I think I want to requests a big hairy ghoul today for my first ask ever to you

-👹

Aether is large.

You forget, sometimes, when you've been away from him, how big he actually is. And, after his retirement, you're away from him more often than not.

Copia managed to get everyone home early. Too early. It's three o'clock in the morning and the abbey is sound asleep. There's no fanfare or reception. All is quiet. A rarity when a tour bus pulls up. Copia kisses your cheek and tells you to get some rest. You should go straight to your room and crash. You're exhausted. You smell like tour bus and fire ghoul. Still, your feet and your heart have other plans and you head straight for Aether's room.

He's at the end of the long hallway, a giant window of stained glass is illuminated by the moon, Aether's door a kaleidoscope of color like a lunar welcome home sign. You pause and sigh, already feeling the ease of being close to the quintessence ghoul.

You take one step into the hallway and Aether's door swings open, your big ghoul stumbles out, yanking on his sweatpants but before you catch a mouthwatering glimpse of... you smirk... everything.

You start walking towards him, grinning and giggling and he picks up the pace, running to you - those grey sweatpants hanging onto his hips for dear life. He scoops you into his arms, "Oh, Aeth," you exhale, wrapping your arms around his neck. He spins your around, groaning, and it's awfully romantic. For a moment, he holds you, your feet dangling off the ground. Your shoe slides off and no one cares. The rest of your clothes are about to go any moment, too. Aether buries his face in the curve of your neck and inhales, it's deep and dramatic, his back expands under your arms until his exhales, kissing you, his scruff prickles and tickles while he makes his way up to your mouth.

Finally, he parts - though not too far - his nose bumping against yours, amethyst eyes sparkling, "You smell like Dew."

"Everyone smells like Dew."

Aether returns you to your feet but he doesn't let go. His face goes to your neck, again. He has to hunch over you, your hips canted up to his, back arched, melting into him. You press your face into his chest, reveling in the feel of his heart thudding slow and steady beneath your lips. The coarse, thick hair that coats him from collarbone to his toes smells of incense and smoky fires; he's been outside all day, you can smell the cold of winter lingering. But, best of all, you can smell the honey-sweet scent of his quintessence. Warmth and light and joy mixed into something that could never be bottled or replicated. Sweet and tender and gentle. Like thick, dark honey and warm, cozy vanilla and sweet, bright lilies dripping with nectar, "Don't let me go, Aeth."

Aether hums into your neck, lifting you up once more, carrying you back to his room, "I don't intend to do anything but get that fire stench off of you and my stink on."

"I hope you take forever," you kiss his cheek, feet dangling like a puppet while he walks you into his room, kicking the door shut.

Aether smiles, arms tightening around you, "I intend to."

[bethbruttenholm]

Oh to lovingly run my fingers through Primos long luscious hair. Running fingers across his scalp. Just to twirl his beautiful locks around my fingers 🥰

-💖

Okay, I swear I was gonna do just a cutesy, little Professor Primo hair thing but, you know. IT'S PRIMO. And I'm me. And I do talk about his hair a little bit.

Short and Spicy. Love you!

“Professor?” you coo, eyes closed as you run your fingers through Primo’s hair. He’s dozing, absolutely exhausted, his head on your chest. His long, near-white hair has long been freed from the thick braid he wears during the day. The neat waves are starting to curl and turn wild; the heat and humidity to the evening getting the better of his usually neat, precise coif. 

“It has been a long time since you’ve called me Professor,” he says, his voice deep and gravelly with sleep, his chest rumbles and you grin. The late afternoon sun has turned the room golden - dust sparkles in the air, the curling smoke of the incense on the sprawling altar glows; birds are singing outside the window, a Sibling laughs and a ghoul chitters. You can smell the hyacinths and tulips, a rainbow of color painted across the lawn below. The sky is clear and the day is still warm. Life is good. 

“I miss it, you know,” you kiss the top of his head and Primo’s arms snake around you, holding you tight, nuzzling into your sternum; his shadow prickles against your soft flesh and he leaves more smudged, paint marks, “Finding all kinds of reasons to visit you during open office hours.”

“I remember one very specific reason you used to visit during office hours,” he says against your skin. 

“Oh?” you feign surprise, “Surely, I was only the most astute, dedicated Sibling, Papa. My left-hand path, my dark education were always and continue to be at the forefront of my heart and mind.”

“Yes, something like that. For someone who mastered Latin and Ghoulish, you sure needed a lot of help with the Latin and Ghoulish.”

“The tongue,” you scrape your nails against his scalp and he groans, “The tongue is so hard to master and you are so very good at using your tongue.”

“Of course, my tongue, right - how silly of me,” Primo says, his hand wandering down your thigh and back up. You let out a little gasp as he lights his fingers over your core; still hot and wet - dripping with him. You’re full of Primo - to the core, hours of it, over and over again until you were both far too sensitive to go on - and he pushes one, then two fingers into you and your back arches up and those lovely, familiar, prismatic stars dance in your vision once, again. 

“Also your hands,” you huff out one last smart remark, “You italians and your hands,” you breathe, your fingers tangle in Primo’s hair and his mouth finds your nipple while he fucks you with his fingers, slow and deep, curling them to hit the spot that has his name dancing on your tongue, “Papa. Primo,” you huff out, impressed - but not surprised - by how fast he has you toppling over the edge - your slick and his cum dripping out of you; he pushes it right back in, massaging it into your pussy - the heel of his palm grinds against your clit and you come, again, “Professor,” you manage a wheezing giggle as your entire body trembles.

“Call me what you like, my blossom,” he purrs, gazing up at you, “As long as you call me yours.”

[bethbruttenholm]

Prompt 5 - spooning and back hugs w/ Secondo

Secondo’s love language is gently wrapping his arms around his partner and holding them to his chest so they know he’s there and comforting them when he isn’t sure what to say.

Secondo has a very rough day and his partner tries to comfort him the same way by giving him a back hug, but they are considerably shorter and he just starts giggling and technically it worked just not in the way that was expected.

(Little guy is asleep asleep now, this is operation papa fluff 1/4 😎)

-🌵

Gossip travels fast in the abbey - that’s a fact. 

Gossip travels like wildfire in a dry forest doused in gasoline when Secondo and Imperator get into a screaming match in the chapel. As soon as the news arrived at your desk you were up and out the door, headed for your Papa. You know the whispers are always worse than the actual truth but these whispers were particularly bad.

He’s not in the kitchens or the wine cellar. It’s too cold for him to walk out to the gardens. You head for his quarters and slip into his office. You find signs of him there, following the trail of silks and a suit jacket, his vest. You find him then, there, on the balcony with a glass of whiskey. He’s down to his shirt and slacks - sleeves rolled up and collar undone. He stares out at the sunset, brooding. You can feel the anger rolling off of him as he does his best to calm down. His hand flexes, balling into a fist before he pours himself another bit of whiskey.

You shut the door and lock it - turning down the lights as you go before stepping out onto the balcony. You slip your arms around his waist and he hitches a bit, lifting his arm and exhaling through his nose when he sees that it’s you. As if anyone else in the abbey would have the balls to come in here and give Papa Emeritus the Second a hug, “You heard?”

“I heard,” He tries to turn but you don’t let him, “No, no. I’m hugging you.”

“What?”

“Just look woefully off into the distance while I take you from behind.”

“I have never been taken from behind.”

It’s silent for a moment, the lie Secondo just told hangs heavy in the air. You’re desperately trying not to argue. Or laugh, for that matter. Because of course he’s been taken from behind. You’ve seen it. Because it was you whomst was doing the taking. Of the behind. His behind. Your shoulders are shaking while you try to contain the giggle. And a moment later, you feel Secondo start to tremble and then, that familiar, lovely wheeze of him trying not to laugh, either. 

He sets down his drink and puts both hands on the balcony, hanging his shaking head and laughing quietly, “Thank you, my treasure. My love,” he finally turns, lifting his arms around you until you are pressed against his chest. He kisses your hair, stroking your head on you stare up at him, “It was a silly argument with a silly woman. I am fine.”

“Of course you are,” you wink.

“Although,” he clears his throat, “Perhaps we should try your remedy. Tonight.”

“Oh?” you arch your eyebrow.

You play coy and Secondo rolls his eyes, “Yes, as you say. You always feel better after, no?”

[bethbruttenholm]

Beth, today is the seventh day in a row that I'm working. The light is leaving my eyes. If you have the time and the inspiration, could you spare a little blurb of fluffy smut with maybe Aether and Primo, or maybe Secondo? Just them, making a lucky gal pass out, perhaps. Tbh, any combo you see fit. And only if you feel like it. Thank you, wishing you the best day <3

Okay so, I'm working on this right now.

I was going to do something real quick while I finish up two other fics. And, in true Beth fashion, it has snowballed into a - as Aether will say it - tentacle speedrun. So, like. I'm sorry if you were looking for vanilla today. It ain't that 🐙

Love you 🫣

[bethbruttenholm]

"I have to be up in six hours," you groan, rolling over onto your stomach, growling into your pillow, "Why can't I sleep?" Aether sets down his Kindle (he's reading Copia fics) and turns onto his side, big, warm hand sliding up under your sleep shirt. Quintessence pulses out of him in thick, sultry waves. You relax an iota, "I've been working for days, I'm exhausted, why can't I sleep?" you whine and roll back over, Aether's hand never leaves you, it rests on your belly now. His fingertips slip down towards the waistband of your pajama pants, "Darling," you coo.

"Yes, dear?"

"I said I was tired, not horny."

"Alright then," he sighs, pulling his Kindle back up and falling back to his pillow, "Suit yourself. I was just getting to the part where Copia discovers my tentacles."

You flop onto Aether's belly, "You don't have tentacles."

"That you know of," he says, nonchalantly, swiping his thumb across the screen, turning the page.

"Um, hello?" you push his reader down with a fingertip, "You have tentacles?" He shrugs and goes back to his fanfic, "Aether Richard Johnson Morningstar."

"You're far too tired to deal with tentacles tonight, love."

"Yeah, sure. Consider me wet and ready, big boy," you straddle him, crawling up until you're face to face with him. He’s sans mask and, in this light, if he wasn't a demon summoned straight from Hell, you'd dare to say he looked angelic. He sets his Kindle aside and puts his hands behind his head. It only makes his already big arms and chest even bigger. You lean down and plant a kiss on his sternum, nuzzling into the thick, blonde hair that coats his chest and tummy, before lifting your gaze back his. You bat your eyelashes and smile sweetly, "Aether, my love?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Have you been holding out on me in the weird penis department?"

"No, I have a beautiful penis, thank you very much. And I also have... tentacles. The answer is sort of yes. They aren’t a penis but they’re wonderful for fucking.”

"Oh, my god! I can't believe you," you sit up, straddling him and folding your arms, "you know I'm into freako monsters, what the hell, Aether?"

He shrugs and his pecs flex. Your mouth waters, "Wanted to surprise you. Besides, you seemed... content with the current package."

You grab Aether's spare banana from his nightstand and hold it to your ear like a phone, "Hi, customer service? Yeah. I'd like to talk about the upgrades with my current ghoul package," you palm his half-hard cock in his boxers. He inhales, chest rising, but says nothing, "Yeah, turns out the big, sweet ghoul with the big, fat sausage package comes with exclusive accessories I wasn't aware of. I’d like to activate those now. Tonight.”

"You will literally pass out, love," Aether says, his hands on your thighs. A few more pulses of quintessence does nothing for your resolve.

"Oh, no," you groan, throwing the banana over your shoulder and leaning down, kissing him quickly, "My boyfriend fucks me until I lose consciousness. Heavens to Mergatroid! How will I ever - oh, thank you Satan."

Aether has you on your back in a second and you’re giggling, he peppers your neck and face with kisses, thick stubble tickling, “You need to sleep.”

You arch up, canting your hips towards Aether’s bulging boxers, “I need something else first.”

“You’re not horny, remember?” he nips at your bottom lip, his hand slides into your pajama pants, cupping your core, “Darling, you’re positively sopping. You lied - you’re not tired at all! You are horny.”

“Oh, no,” you drawl, Oh, heavens… how shall we cope? Oh, I know… show me your weird weiner.”

Aether leans down and kisses you, gently at first and it heats while he teases your clit, fingers sliding through the slick lines of your pussy, teasing your entrance. The very thought of your ghoul having sexy tentacles makes you wet and needy. You whine against his lips and he smiles, “You’re sure? You want it?” he asks and your whine turns into a growl. He laughs and kisses your nose, “As you wish,” he sits up on his knees and exhales, “You really do need your sleep, though.”

“I’ll be fine,” you run your fingers down Aether’s chest and tummy, hooking your fingers in the waistband of his boxers, snapping the elastic against his belly. He arches an eyebrow and you roll your eyes, “Fine. Yes. Tentacle speedrun, then. I’ll get the lube,” you roll towards your nightstand and Aether catches your hand, pulling it to his lips, smirking, “What?”

“Don’t need lube. Make my own.”

“Uh, okay? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you’re an absolute unit of a freak and a lube factory, my god, Aether what’s next?” he stares at you and you giggle, a blush creeps along your chest and cheeks, “Oh, my god,” you giggle, have nervous, “What’s next?”

“We don’t have time for that tonight,” Aether says, stepping off the bed with a groan, “Tonight is tentacle speedrun. Take your pants off. I’ll be back.”

You do as you're told, hopping out of bed, dancing and wiggling and giggling around the room, tossing your pajamas off like confetti in a parade. You light a little lavender candle and put some chamomile in the diffuser. You prep your weighted eye mask and pull your favorite blanket off the bed - you don’t want it soaked by the time you’re ready to snuggle. You flop back on the bed when Aether returns with some towels, also naked, “Oh, I do love the sight of that,” you smirk. Aether lays out the towels next to you and then walks to the end of the bed. You watch him, unsure of his next move, “How many do you have?” you ask, genuinely curious though you’re trembling with excitement and dripping wet. 

“As many as I want,” he shrugs, taking his cup of tea from the bedside table. He takes a sip and winks, “As many as you want.” 

“Are we talking like Primo's tentacles? Secondo’s?” you ask, chewing on your thumbnail, eyeing your ghoul. Your stomach flutters and tightens, your body begging for it already. Primo has shadowy vines that ooze slick, sweet nectar. Secondo has thick, dark veiny appendages he can summon at will - he need not be near for you to get absolutely wrecked. Romantic, really. Copia and Terzo are a bit more private. Rumor has it Terzo has, in his demonic form, a plethora of tentacles that he can barely control. Copia, so you’ve heard, has one really big one and you’re not sure if it’s a metaphor for his cock in those white pants or if he actually has a gargantuan, fuckable, third leg tucked away.

“Roll over and find out.”

“Ass up?” you ask, swallowing. Your mouth waters. Aether nods. You roll onto the towels and pull a pillow closer, hugging it, resting your head and arching your back.

“Spread your knees.”

“Oh, god,” you whisper, edging your legs apart. Your thighs are already shaking, your heart pounding. Chapters and chapters and books and Tumblr fics have prepared you for this moment. You swallow, “Are you coming?”

“Oh,” Aether chuckles, “My love, my darling. I don’t need to get on the bed for this. Close your eyes.”

“I want to see them.”

“I’ll blindfold you.”

“Fine.”

You close your eyes and for a moment there is nothing and you think Aether is pranking you. And then, there’s a pulse of quintessence, a rumble of energy and you know Aether is in his purest, most hellish form behind you. One you can’t necessarily see but you can most certainly feel. You know, when he’s like this, you’re going to sleep like a goddamn baby. You grin and nuzzle into the pillow, waiting. 

And then there’s a soft, warm touch along the arch of your foot. It’s definitely wet - slimy, even. And you suck in a breath of surprise,  “You good?” Aether’s voice echoes off the walls and you hum a confirmation. You make yourself relax, reminding your jumpy nerves that it’s still your Aether even if the touch, that is most certainly not Aether’s hands. It swirls around your heel and up your ankle. There’s a whisper of a touch at your elbow and you try not to pull away. It’s wet. Lube factory. Right. At least it’s warm? It’s fine. 

Everything is fine.

The tentacle on your ankle slithers upward and, on your calf, you can feel the gentle suctioning on and popping off of - you try not to squeal - suckers! The tentacle on your arm slides up to your shoulder and, bless it’s slimy heart, wraps around your neck, “Oh, Aeth,” you groan into the pillow. He’s not even anywhere near the sweet spot and you’re already tensing up like you’re going to squirt all over and die.

He says nothing. He really doesn’t have to. 

Another tentacle finds your other leg. A second joins the other at your calf. They twist together and slip around your thighs. That’s four? Another one on your leg. Five. Your other arm. Six? Your thigh, again. You’ve lost count by the time they slide up the curve of your ass, “Quintessence ghouls, by nature, don’t usually have this sort of tentacle. However,” Aether sighs “Somewhere along the line, I’ve got a great-uncle that’s a water ghoul. You smell divine,” the tentacle around your neck tightens and you grin, “No need to speak.”

The warm, wet appendages slide up and down your thighs, over your ass and caress your back. Suckers tasting and popping on and off your skin. They avoid everywhere you want them to be and it only makes you needy and sweaty and achy. Your pussy clenches on nothing and you feel like you’re coming. You aren’t and that’s the painful part of it, “Aether,” you whisper, panting quietly. 

“Soon,” he says and you can hear the smile in his voice, “I get to taste you differently like this. Just,” he groans and it’s so delicious that you echo it, “Let me taste you. A moment, love.”

The tip of the tentacle around your neck traces the shell of your ear and you sigh, smiling, “Take all the moments you need. Speedrun be damned.”

It goes on like that for a while and you’re not mad about it. Aether takes his time, reveling in the newfound taste of you. You know morning creeps closer and every minute you’re awake is another minute of exhaustion tomorrow. Another row of suckers pop off your spine and you forget about the complaint altogether. The tentacle that lays along the length of your back, from ass to the nape of your neck starts to slide downward. The first sucker that comes into contact with your asshole sends you flying. The tentacles around your neck, arms and legs keep you from slamming into the headboard and you’re immediately brought back to the ass up, pussy out position. The tentacle presses further downward, over your blessed taint that Copia is always going on about. When two suckers attach themselves and then try to pop off, there’s a few moments of erotic resistance, your flesh stretching a moment before they release and you realize he absolutely was talking about Aether’s tentacles sucking on his taint. Your slick and Aether’s lube runs down your thighs and you’re absolutely about to come when the tentacles still, “Aether, you better be fucking kidding me right now,” you hiss - you can feel the tentacle hovering over your core and your pussy clenches on nothing, “Aether, I swear to -,” the tentacle around your neck tightens while the thick one between your legs prods at your pussy, another at your ass. You push your ass up, rolling your hips and willing it to enter. Aether pulls back with a giggle; his grip on you tightens and you can’t get anywhere near him without him allowing it. 

He’s not going to allow it. 

A smaller tentacle twirls around your clit; exploring it, teasing it - Aether groans and you realize he can taste you, again. He hasn’t touched anywhere near there since he started and now he’s getting a mouthful of it - ass, pussy and everything in between, his extra limbs converge on your ass, completely covering your pussy and you’re squirming and coming, soaking you, Aether and the towels below. And then a sucker takes a few, light pecks - testing your reaction and when he finds you jumpy and needy and begging for it, it attaches itself to your clit and you go straight to your summit. It’s then, when you can’t breathe or think or say a thing, Aether sinks a tentacle into your ass and then one into your pussy and another prods at your mouth. You open for him, shaking and squirting and tightening around him while he pistons his tentacles in and out of you until you’re not even holding yourself up anymore.

Aether’s tentacles hold you tight sucking and popping off of your flesh; your nipples, your clit, inside of you, even. The tentacles seated in your ass and pussy are deeper than he’s ever been, far more brutish than he has ever been; they bully your holes and create a duo of deep, achy pulses as they fill you up and spread you tight. The tentacles writhe and pulse, rolling and turning until a sucker finds your g-spot and you're finished with a capital “F”. You come on Aether and he responds with, what you’re sure is, thickening the already hard, muscles appendages seated deep in you. Your body wants to clamp down, to tremble and shake on his girth but he’s too big. Tears slide down your cheeks, your mouth hangs open and you gasp for air, unable to do anything but come and live to see another day.

And come you do. 

Your thighs slam together and Aether yelps - your body even tighter around his in this position, “Fucking christ, love, I’m gong to come,” he growls. It’s the last thing you hear. Your eyes roll and then you lose your vision entirely; stars dance for a moment before you black out completely. 

When you wake, it’s to the sound of your alarm clock. You sigh and smile and stretch, rolling over to snuggle into your big, beefy, hairy, sleepy quintessence ghoul, “G’morning,” you grin, turning off your alarm and planting a loud, happy smooch on his chest, “I had the most wonderful dream about tentacles.”

“Oh?” Aether giggles, eyes still closed.

You slide out of bed and head for the bathroom, regaling Aether with allvkinds of sordid details about your sexy, slimy dream. Your thighs are slick just thinking about it, you smirk. You pad into the dark bathroom and turn on the shower before you turn on the lights. You gasp when you turn to the mirror - you’re covered in hickies. Long, double lines of them criss-cross along your torso and ring around your neck and thighs and arms, “Aether Richard Johnson Morningstar,” you cackle maniacally, delighted to realize it wasn’t a dream at all, “Get in here right now!”

Aether rolls over with a grumble, pulling the blankets over his head and snuggling into your pillow; he inhales your scent and sighs, happy. He’s exhausted. What a mess he’d had to clean up, all by his lonesome, “I told you, you’d pass out.”