was thinking about the Papas and their need for eye contact when they’re deep inside you.
one of Primo’s big hands cradling your face, surprisingly strong, but it’s not his touch that keeps you from looking away—it’s the intensity in his eyes. uncanny and ageless, unblinking as he looks down at you. you’re pinned to the spot, even as he moves, hips rocking with shallow thrusts as he works himself deeper and deeper into you. you’re writhing beneath him, panting like an animal, clenching around him as you adjust to his size—and he just gazes at you like you’re all that exists. “let me in,” he says on an undertone, voice thick and husky, “and let go.” and when he finally bottoms out, you arch, throwing your head back and squeezing your eyes shut. with the hand he’s been holding your face with, he taps your cheek—three quick taps—and you quickly look back at him. he sighs and says, “just like that, anima mia. keep your eyes on me.” and you do.
a calm, “look at me,” from Secondo, spoken low and controlled and hot. and it’s hard—it’s so hard—when he hasn’t stopped moving, when his fingers are biting into the meat of your thighs as he pins you open for him. he always looks at you like you’re a puzzle he needs to figure out, like he’s trying to develop the ability to read your mind, and it paralyzes you. it’s like everything disappears—the walls around you, the floor beneath you. you’re just floating in an abyss and all you know is how full you are. but you force yourself to keep your eyes on his, even as you feel your climax building in you, hotter and tighter. he watches. and his mouth quirks up at the corners, pleased. “bene.” a single word. you might have imagined it, but it’s enough to push you over the edge. and a rough hand finds your chin so he can keep you from hiding as you come.
Terzo has his fingers twisted into your hair, but not harshly—merely deliberate. he combs his fingers through your hair, tilting your head back up so you can blink up at him. “there you are,” he says with a smirk, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I want you to watch while I take you apart.” his other hand splays flat against your abdomen, pressing down like he wants to feel how deep he is. the pressure makes you whimper, but his grasp tightens in your hair just slightly—so you catch yourself before your eyes try to squeeze shut. his lips curl up into a satisfied grin. “tell me what you’re feeling, amore. let me hear it.” but as you open your mouth, he angles his next thrust and brushes the spot inside of you that makes your veins flood with electricity. all you can do is cry out his name—which he answers with a rasped out laugh, though the way his breath hitches tells you he’s not unaffected.
holding your hands in his, fingers laced with yours, Copia leans in to nuzzle you, bumping your nose with his, uttering a rasped little plea of, “'look at me… please.” and when you do, dragging your eyes open so you can meet his gaze, you see it. like a switch flipping. and his hips start snapping against yours faster, a vein in his neck popping, his face and chest flushed a delicious shade of red. he’s thanking you, telling you how perfect you are, how good you feel around him. your eyes flutter closed at the next ripple of pleasure, and he says your name like it hurts. your eyes pop open again. focus on him again. and he says, “sì, sì—you’re mine. All mine. my perfect—” his words cut off, turning into a deep groan as his rhythm falters and he comes unexpectedly, with no warning. but the night is young….
he’s not squeezing, but Perpetua’s hands rest against either side of your neck, thumbs pressed up under your jaw to keep your face tilted toward his. he’s in no hurry—his hips rolling slow and deep, his eyes locked on your face. the noises you make are very undignified, and it’s too much. he’s too much. but every time your eyes close to escape the hunger in his gaze that makes you feel raw and exposed, his thumbs press harder under your jawbone. “now, now…. stay with me, cuore mio.” and then he pushes in and holds himself there, watching your face as you struggle to maintain eye contact. a soft plea leaves you—not that you know what you’re begging for—and he sighs and says, “oh, i know, i know. just a little more.” it’s a lie. it’s a lot more. but at least he relents and lets you look away after your second orgasm.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Author: ambrosius
Fandom: Merlin (TV)
Rating: T
Word Count: 3,124
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon
Characters: Merlin, Arthur Pendragon, Druids, Knights of the Round Table, Iseldir, Mordred
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Court Sorcerer Merlin, Established Relationship, Fluff
Summary: Merlin has returned and Arthur has never been happier. With the magic ban ready to be repealed and the Druids on their way to Camelot, Arthur can only hope that Albion’s future remains bright.
Written for @albionparty for week two’s general prompt: “the blessed”
the plan was to write each prompt with only one Papa in mind, but uh, i couldn't decide which one i liked more for this one, so behold! a mini-scene for each Papa!
MDNI, 18+, explicit-
"You're taking me so well."
Primo
“You’re taking me so well, coraggioso.”
It leaves him on a low, rich tone, his voice full of adoration, and it makes the base of your spine glow with a mix of pride and desire. Even if your arms tremble with the effort to hold yourself up, hands braced on the sides of the clawfoot tub. He looks up at you with eyes that give away his hunger, with his large hands on your hips, but not to force you down onto him—to encourage you instead. His thumbs rub tiny, soothing circles into your damp skin. Steam curls around you as you hover over him.
The first couple inches of his cock slipped in relatively easily, even with his girth and the way he stretches you out. He used a special blend of herbs to create an oil that he not only coated himself in, but massaged into your thighs, your hips, your abdomen—even your opening. Another blend went into the bath water, the earthy scent easing the tension from you and keeping you light and loose.
“To help you relax,” he’d explained as he pushed his fingers into you, spreading the oil inside you and working you open. “To help your body open to me.”
You’ve never been able to take him fully.
But as you sink onto him a little more, taking another devastating inch, it almost feels doable. The stretch burns, but it doesn’t hurt. And though your muscles initially resisted, you can feel the oil doing its thing. You bear down and your body lets him in.
But it’s taking too long. Your thighs quiver a little. Your fingernails dig into the porcelain of the tub. You fight the urge to slam down.
He squeezes your hips reassuringly. “You don’t have to rush. I’m in no hurry.”
You let out an impatient little huff and say, “I just want you inside me.”
His breath almost hitches—just barely, just enough. “Oh, anima mia…” he sighs out.
And maybe it’s the reverence in his voice. Or the restraint he’s showing—that immovable composure you can’t even pretend to understand. Or even the way your skin is tingling and warm where he massaged the oil in. But you’re inspired.
At the very least, you’re done waiting.
You shove yourself down.
He says your name, but you don’t stop. Grasping the edges of the tub desperately, you grit your teeth and push past the pain—hot and sharp and throbbing. It ebbs quickly, no doubt a side effect of the oil, and what you’re left with is the slow drag of his cock as it slides into you. You almost panic, thinking maybe you both have had it wrong this whole time. Maybe there’s no way something like that can even scientifically fit into your body.
But still, you don’t stop.
The water sloshes as you shift and push down, and a deep, rumbling groan stirs in his chest. His palms slide up your back, making you shiver. As you finally bottom out, eyes squeezed shut and panting wildly, he cradles the back of your head and pulls you close, tucking your face into his neck.
The stretch is both agony and ecstasy, a white-hot line between pain and pleasure. Already, you can feel the herb mixture soothing the discomfort to a dull ache—turning it into a ghost of itself. You don’t think you’re ready to start moving just yet, but this is good.
This is everything. This is completion.
Especially as he strokes your hair and breathes out, “Even now, you astound me.”
coraggioso - brave one
anima mia - my soul
Secondo
“You’re taking me so well.”
The words are quiet. Thoughtful. Controlled.
And all you can do is let out a strained little whimper.
You don’t have much of a choice but to take him, you think—he’s got you spread open for him. The padded cuffs around your upper thighs connect to the sturdy headboard with straps he masterfully tied, and they lift your legs into a deep V shape, with your knees bent and your hips elevated. There’s a dull burn in your lower back, and the muscles in your thighs are twitching.
It’s obscene, the way you’re exposed to him.
And he’s been taking advantage of it for what feels like hours.
He didn’t bind your hands. You’re not sure if it’s because he’s enjoying the way you grasp and pull and claw helplessly—at him, at the bedsheets, at your own hair—or if it’s because he didn’t want to overwhelm you. Because you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t felt a brief twinge of panic when he first slipped the slings onto your thighs. He’s tied you down before, but you’ve never felt so… on display.
He’s between your thighs, hands braced on the mattress on either side of you, and he rolls his hips slow and deep. Every now and then, his eyes flicker down to watch his cock as it drives into you—to watch the way you open for him on every stroke—but mostly, he watches your face.
The scrutiny always makes you blush. It’s hard to control your expression with him. He’s methodical. Deliberate. Intent on unraveling you with every measured thrust into you.
He pushes in and holds. Your breath catches. Your eyelids flutter. Throwing your head back against the pillow, you press your lips together to try and stifle the sob that claws up your throat. You can feel the way you clench around him. The white-hot pleasure pulls in you, deep in your core—tighter, tighter—
He sighs and eases back. “You play so shy, but your body knows what it wants… vero? You greedy little thing.”
You gasp and your body tries to buck, but the thigh slings keep you exactly where he wants you. His mouth twitches a little. He shifts so he can reach for your neck, his fingers curling against your throat. His thumb strokes up to notch under your chin, tilting your face to force you to look at him.
“You’re taking me so well,” he says again.
A beat.
“Aren’t you?”
His eyes burn into you. Another slow, calculated roll of his hips has you trembling. There’s no use fighting it. You nod quickly, giving him what he wants as you pant out, “Y-yes! I’m taking—I’m taking you so well.”
A low, satisfied chuckle leaves him.
“Yes,” he says. “You are.”
vero - right? / isn’t that so?
Terzo
“You’re taking me so well—just look, amore.”
He purrs it at you, somehow still so composed—despite the choked sound he made when he finally let you sink onto him, despite the way his fingers dig into your waist, despite the hunger darkening his mismatched eyes. He’s lounged back on the chaise, shirt hanging open and pants undone just enough so you can take him, and he’s beautiful. As always.
You’re straddling him, legs draped over his, but you’re not really doing much moving. You’ve already come twice—once at his hand, the other at his mouth—and the aftershocks from your last orgasm are still rippling up your spine. It’s all you can do to brace your hands on his abdomen and keep yourself upright. His hold on you is firm, and as he pulls on your hips and guides your rolling motions, he meets them by thrusting up into you.
And you’re so full.
The slick slide of his cock is almost too much, and you whimper at him pathetically in response. He chuckles and reaches for your face, cupping your jaw so, so gently. His thumb strokes over your bottom lip. The soft touch contrasts with the way he’s grasping your hip with his other hand, the way his fingernails bite into your skin, and your heart flips a little.
“I told you, didn’t I?” he says. “Look at how good you are for me. See how you move on me? Bene, bene, bene.”
And he tilts your head, urging you to look down at where your bodies are connected.
A weak moan shudders out of you.
And he sighs. “Oh. Now that—that is my most favorite sound, tesoro. You are so very spent, aren’t you?” he all but coos.
You nod a little. Whisper his name.
His eyes flash. The hand on your jaw moves. It skims down your neck and to your chest, where he tweaks one of your nipples. You jerk and cry out, your hips stuttering and moving like you’re trying to pull off of him. His other hand, still at your waist, grows heavier. Holds you in place as he fucks up into you faster.
“I think you can give me one more, no?” he rasps out.
You can’t answer at first.
All you can focus on is the push-pull of his thrusts. The way his fingers tease one nipple, then the other. The way he’s watching you intently—studying your every micro-expression.
But you finally find it in you to nod. “Y-yes. One more,” you gasp out.
His grin is wicked. “Ecco. I knew you could. Just one more, I promise.”
You know it’s not a promise he intends to keep.
amore - love
bene - good
tesoro - sweetheart / darling / treasure
ecco - there you go / there we go
Copia
“You’re taking me so well—ah, merda!”
He’s breathless, staring up at you with a mix of awe and disbelief in his eyes. His hands are splayed high on your ribs, holding onto you like you’re something precious, pulling on you just slightly as he rolls his hips upward to meet your motions. You rock against him at an easy rhythm, your thighs bracketing his.
And though the words left him like he hadn’t meant to say them aloud, you flash him a quick, playful smile. “That’s because you’re giving it to me so well.”
His lips part into a small, surprised O. And then he cracks a crooked grin. “Madonna—listen to you. Where did you learn to talk like that, eh?”
“From you.”
He laughs. It turns into a groan as you pick up the pace, riding him harder. You grab for his hands, sliding them up to your chest and holding them there against you. His thumbs stroke and tease your nipples, making you jolt and gasp, but you don’t lose your rhythm. Or maybe it’s him that keeps it going with the way he’s thrusting up into you now to keep up.
The way he moves practically forces you to bounce on his cock.
“Fuck,” he pants out. “You’re so perfect—my love—cuore mio—you’ve no idea…. Non hai idea.”
You think you intend to tease him some more, but he brushes up against that spot in you. Your whole body seizes and releases. Fire floods your veins. Your vision blanks and this time, your movements do falter.
And you whimper out his name instead.
He moans desperately, as though he were starving for the sound of it.
Then he slides his hands around to your back so he can haul you down to him. He’s saying, “Come here—I need—” before his mouth captures yours. He kisses you hungrily—teeth and tongue and urgency—and you give it back to him in full. It always turns to this, no matter how slow you start.
It’s a lazy Monday morning, but he’s quickly spiraling into his usual fervent devotion.
And he pulls you right down with him.
Staying inside you, he rolls you so you’re both on your sides, still facing each other. And hitching your thigh up onto his hip, he moves against you frantically. Between his greedy, open-mouthed kisses, he’s talking. Praising. Begging.
“Sì, amore—take it—you’re so good to me—prendimi, prendimi….”
You nip at his bottom lip and say, breathless, “Yes—please, Copia.”
He lets out a strained moan and buries his face in your neck, clinging to you. “You ruin me. I am ruined.”
“You’re mine.”
His breath catches.
He breaks.
merda - shit / expletive
madonna - my lady / mother of christ / (used like ‘good heavens’ or ‘holy shit’)
cuore mio - my heart
non hai idea - no idea
sì, amore - yes, love
prendimi - take me
Perpetua
“You’re taking me so well, angelo mio.”
He rasps it into your ear, and you almost laugh—you don’t think you’re taking him all that well at all. You’re wailing and howling like some kind of creature as he moves against you, as his cock grinds against that spot that floods you with electricity and makes your toes curl. There’s a pillow shoved under your hips, tilting them just enough as you lie on your stomach, and he’s draped over you and crushing you into the mattress. His chest presses flush against your back and his mouth is at your ear, his breath hot and ragged.
And he’s so deep that it’s almost too much. His pubic bone grinds against your ass as he rocks against you—steady, relentless, brutal. Your hands twist into the rumpled bedsheets. Your heart hammers in your chest.
You can feel every inch of him.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” he asks, lips brushing against the shell of your ear.
All you can muster up in response is a whimper.
“Do you not feel how you hold me? Like you were made for this?” He noses at your temple, and you hear the grin in his voice as he adds, “For me?”
He presses in and pauses—holds himself there in a way that makes your vision blank. A sob tears out of you, and you squirm and struggle beneath him, overwhelmed.
It isn’t until you’re clawing at the sheets and keening that he relents, shifting back. With a low chuckle, he asks, “Too much?”
You hesitate. Take a moment to check in with yourself. If you said yes, he’d stop. He’d clean you up and stroke your hair, coax you to sleep with gentle touch. He likes when you’re beset by it, when you’re drowning in pleasure and your mind is static. He likes that he can do that to you—that no one else has ever made you feel like this.
But he never wants it to scare you. To hurt you. To make you feel like you’re in danger.
And you don’t feel like that at all.
Your blood thrums in your veins. Your stomach is hot and tight. You’re close.
You don’t want him to stop.
So you shake your head and desperately pant out, “No—no—not too much.”
A soft, satisfied hum stirs in his throat. “Mm. You see? My angel, you take me perfettamente.”
Love how we are thirsting for Secondo 🙂↕️✨ I just know his need to breed + Intox kink would go crazy
INSPIRED
so sorry this took me as long as it did, but how could i NOT write something for this? thank you so much for giving me this idea and i hope hope hope you like it!! 💖
in vino veritas
Rating: Explicit
Pairing: Secondo / Gender-Neutral but AFAB Reader-Insert (that is to say, no gendered pronouns or terms are used, but in terms of anatomy, Reader has a vagina)
Notes and Tags: Alcohol Intox, Drunk Sex, Breeding Kink, Creampie, Penis-in-Vagina Sex, Overstimulation, Smutty Smut Smut (with the barest hint of fluff because i need the romance always)
2600 words, MDNI, 18+
big ups to @infestissumaam for reading this over for me~
final note: the breeding kink for me is more about ownership and possession instead of making babies so i hope that's okay with y'all
READ ON AO3
Everything is soft and fuzzy and warm.
You’re perched on the edge of the mattress, sitting at the foot of the bed, and across the room, Secondo is unbuttoning his shirt. He’s faced away from you, and the shirt is tight enough that you get to watch the muscles in his back and shoulders flex as he moves. He shrugs out of it and is left in a ribbed undershirt.
Your mouth goes dry. Even now, he’s strong and solid, his arms and the top of his chest covered in dark hair. He turns a little, giving you his profile as he folds and drapes his shirt over the back of the armchair in the corner. The undershirt hugs his stomach—the little pouch of softness that says he’s a man who likes to eat, drink, and be merry.
It’s one of the hottest things about him, you think. Always hidden.
Something no one else gets to really see.
Your gaze drifts up—slow and appreciative—but you jolt a little when you find him watching you. His mismatched eyes are electric, pinning you in place, and a wild heat crawls up your neck. Color floods your face.
His mouth twitches.
“You are not drunk enough,” is all he says—low and teasing.
And it’s true. How can you still be so nervous and shy around him? It’s not like this is the first time you’ve come back to his quarters with him. It’s not even the second, third, or fourth time.
He grabs the open bottle of red wine that he’d set on the dresser and stalks across the room toward you. Your spine vibrates. The edges of your vision tunnel as he draws nearer, like he’s all that matters—all you need to see. He holds the bottle out to you, and you don’t even hesitate in reaching for it. You expect him to let go, but he doesn’t.
His fingers remain loosely curled around the body of the bottle as you grab it by the neck to bring to your mouth. He doesn’t fight you or try to keep you from taking it. He just holds on like he wants to be a part of this—like he likes the image of control. And though you’re still blushing a little, you hold his gaze as you take a drink.
It’s a fancy wine. Something that starts with an A, but you can’t remember the name. It’s raisiny and bittersweet and feels heavy in your mouth—almost like syrup. And it’s strong. You swear you get drunker the moment it touches your tongue.
Using his hold on the bottle, he tilts it up higher, forcing more into you. It comes on a little too quick, flooding your mouth, and you cough a little as you pull your head back. You manage to swallow most of it, but an errant trickle dribbles from the corner of your mouth.
Before you get a chance, he brings his other hand up to your face and uses his thumb to swipe it away. Those intense eyes still locked on yours, he then sticks his thumb into his mouth and sucks it clean.
Okay.
That didn’t make you throb between your legs so hard it almost hurt or anything.
He raises the bottle to his lips next and takes a big swig, and you watch the movement of his throat as he swallows. Your vision softens at the edges, like a dream, and you blink a few times to try and clear it.
But then the bottle’s against your mouth again and you’re taking another drink. There’s no spillage this time, at least.
“There you go, cucciolo. I know you like to be nice and pliant for me.”
You laugh. It’s a small hiccup, almost a giggle, and you cover your mouth with your hand like you can take it back.
A smile breaks free on his face—somehow sharp and fond all at once—but he goes to the dresser to set the bottle down again. As he returns to you, you lift your hands and reach for him. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, like someone else is puppeting you, and he doesn’t call it out. He merely steps between your knees and looms over you.
But as your hands settle on his hips, his settle on your hands. Warm and heavy.
You look up at him, and heat flashes in his eyes.
“Still with me?” he asks.
You nod.
“Too much?”
You shake your head.
And like you feel the need to prove to him that you want to be here, you lean in and press your forehead to his stomach. You breathe him in—his cologne, cigar smoke, a hint of sweat from the evening. The scent eases any remaining tension out of you, grounding you in this moment. You could stay here forever, you think.
Nuzzled into him, you let one of your hands slide from his waist down to the front of his slacks. You cup him through the fabric—his cock is soft but heavy against one of his thighs, and you feel it twitch to life. Both of his hands slide into your hair. The soft touch turns rough as he twists his fingers into it and pulls you back, making you look at him again.
You blink up at him, dreamy and languid and certifiably drunk now.
And he descends, crushing his mouth to yours. He tastes like the wine and he kisses you like he wants it to bruise. His tongue is hot and demanding, stroking into your mouth in a way that makes your head swim. You’re drowning in it. He’s still holding you by your hair, and your hands come up to rest on his wrists. Need pulses in you and your hips squirm like you’re trying to find some sort of relief or friction.
It’s like he’s fucking his tongue into your mouth and you’re weak with how desperate it makes you. When he pulls back enough to look into your eyes, you’re panting and dazed. He studies you, his eyes dark with a want that consumes you—that makes you feel like you’re melting.
“Are you ready for me, dolcezza?” he asks on a low tone.
You nod.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Another kiss. Teeth catching your bottom lip and making you whimper.
“You want to be filled, dolcezza?”
You almost whimper again. “Please.”
His eyes flash and his nostrils flare.
And then he’s helping you undress. You’re clumsy from the wine, but he does most of the work and has you naked in what feels like the blink of an eye. He maneuvers you where he wants you, dragging you to the middle of the bed before he straightens to take care of his own clothes.
The mattress feels impossibly huge, stretching out on either side of you like you’re floating in an endless sea.
You watch as he tugs his shirt over his head, then as he shoves his pants and boxer-briefs down. He takes his time, and you have ample opportunity to admire his solid form and anticipate the weight of him bearing down on you—anticipate the stretch of him when he pushes into you. His cock is hard and getting harder, bobbing between his hairy thighs, and you throb again.
Absently, one of your hands lazily finds your pussy—not to squeeze or stroke, but simply to hold. Like you can soothe away the ache.
He tuts as he climbs into the bed with you. “Needy thing, are you?”
“Maybe.”
A huff leaves him—an almost-laugh. “You think you can play coy like this? You should see yourself, all cock-hungry and eager.”
Throb.
Totally innocently and not with a wanton little flutter of your lashes at all, you say, “I do need you.”
His jaw clenches. The tiniest sign of the effect you have on him.
And then he’s touching you—his strong hand pushing against you, fingers dragging through your folds as his thumb presses against your clit. It’s so much at once that you cry out and jolt, almost as if you’ve been electrocuted, and then you laugh a little, though you’re not sure why. Embarrassment? Relief? Sheer excitement?
His touch is firm and claiming, and you writhe at the pressure as he works you; fingers sliding, thumb stroking. The delightful buzz in your spine coils in your stomach, and you open your legs wider for him—inviting, welcoming, begging.
“Creatura peccaminosa,” he mutters. “It’s driving you mad, isn’t it? How empty you are? Don’t you worry—I’m going to fill you up until you can’t take anymore.”
His fingertips play at your entrance, sliding and parting your folds. Your breath stutters out of you and you lift your hips, seeking more.
“You were made to take me, weren’t you?” he asks. You nod quickly, and he rewards you by sinking his middle and ring fingers into you. Slow, but deep. “Made to be bred by me?”
A low moan escapes you, your pussy clenching around him at his words.
His voice is thicker as he says, “That’s it—squeeze my fingers. Practice for my cock.”
“Secondo—” you gasp out, grinding without meaning to.
But he doesn’t stop you. He moves with you, thrusting his fingers into you in time with the rolling of your hips. “Once I’m inside, I’m not stopping until you’re dripping with me. Until my seed is buried so deep that you carry me for days.”
You can’t respond. Can barely even think. Your mind is static, and all you know is the push-pull of his fingers. He’s already made it clear by now that this is about ownership. Ruining you for other men. Making sure you never forget what he feels like—and how perfectly you fit around him.
Consider youself well and truly ruined.
He abruptly swoops in so he can taste you, his tongue dragging against your clit. You buck off of the mattress, inhaling so sharply that you almost choke, and your hands twist into the bedsheets. He’s done taking his time. As he pumps his fingers into you, he tongues brutally at your clit—flicking and swirling. You have no control over your body. You writhe beneath him, moaning and gasping and whining out his name.
It’s coming on fast.
Fire spreads low in your belly and your skin tingles, hot and cold.
“Please, please, please.” It’s all you can get out—the only warning you can muster up to tell him that you’re close and that he needs to just fuck you already.
But he has other plans.
He takes your clit into his mouth and sucks. At the same time, he crooks his fingers and strokes them against that spot on your front wall.
You’re thrust into a bright, blinding white, your whole body seizing with the pleasure that crashes over you. You can’t even get in enough air to cry out—your breath rattles out of you as you convulse under him. Your eyes are squeezed shut, and you almost don’t even register that he’s moving.
Not until you feel him notching himself at your entrance.
Wait—
He shoves into you while you’re still fluttering and clenching. The stretch is hot and sudden and sharp.
You howl.
He grunts as he buries himself to the hilt, his hands going to your hips to keep you from moving. Not that you could get away if you tried—you still can’t get your body to work right. All you can do is lie there, clawing at his arms and weakly thrashing beneath him, overstimulated and so, so full.
“There we go,” he rasps out, and you hear it in his voice: the way you’re pulsing around him is too good. It’s why he did it. So he could feel your orgasm—could feel what he does to you. “By the time I’m finished with you, il mio scrigno, there will be no question who this cunt belongs to.”
And then he’s moving; quick, sharp thrusts that would push you up toward the headboard if he wasn’t holding onto you. The friction against your oversensitive walls has you sobbing in a panicked sort of pleasure, your fingernails digging into his forearms. You’re stretched tight around him, your muscles pulling on him like you’re trying to take him even deeper—like you aren’t already full to bursting.
“That’s it,” he says. “Take it. You’re not going to be able to walk tomorrow.”
You moan.
“I’ll just keep you here. Pump you full again, no?”
“F-fuck,” you whimper.
“You want it?”
“Yes.”
“Dimmi.”
“Give it to me—please,” you pant out, desperate and broken. Tears leak from your eyes, sliding back toward your ears, and your voice breaks as you add, “Come inside me—fill me up—need you, I need you.”
He groans. His rhythm stutters and he loses some of his control—his hips snap harder as he pounds you into the mattress. It quickly shifts from being almost too much to being entirely too much. The pleasure scrapes you raw, your nerve endings lit up and flashing, and you don’t even recognize the sounds you’re making. And when one of his hands slips between your bodies, fingers roughly finding your clit, your mind blanks.
He’s not bringing you to an orgasm so much as he’s forcing one on you.
Your spine quivers and you struggle, trying to curl away from him, but he merely follows. He leans into the next thrust, using his hips to fold you up—pushing your legs up, forcing them to spread as he crowds you. He sinks deeper into you, his movements turning into a weighty grind, and you’d wail if you could.
But you’re already so close again.
“You’re mine,” he growls.
Combined with the heavy slide of his cock and the brutal precision of his fingers on your clit, everything goes white all over again.
You start to shout out, but your voice is raw and hoarse, and the sound cuts off. You thrash beneath him, clamping around his cock and pulling him right over the edge with you. He buries himself a final time, pushing in as far as he can, and a guttural groan tears out of him as he spills inside you.
You feel the heat of his release—his internal brand on you—and it drags out your orgasm, prolonging the waves of electricity flooding your senses. You cling to him like your life depends on it, muscles cramping, and you’re frantic; babbling, panting out jagged breaths, whimpering pathetically.
“Every last drop,” he says, grinding against you like he’s forcing his come as deep into you as it’ll go.
When your climax finally releases you, you collapse beneath him in a heap, limp and trembling. His grasp on you loosens, and as he moves to pull out, you twitch. It makes him chuckle. But as his cock slips out of you, his hand is suddenly there—cupping your pussy and sealing you shut with his hand.
You gasp in surprise. Wriggle like you want to pull away.
“Don’t want to waste it, do we?”
You throb against his hand, uttering a weak sound. You’re not sure if it’s because you feel the wet heat of his spend trapped inside you, or if it’s just how filthy this all feels.
When you can find the controls in your brain again, you bring one of your shaking hands up to his face, cupping his jaw. He stares at you, mismatched eyes intense and unblinking, and he holds your gaze, even as he turns just so to kiss your palm.
You sigh.
His eyes gleam with amusement and something else—something softer. “You like being plugged up like this, hm?” he teases.
You nod sleepily, tears drying on your face. But you say, “I like that wine. That wine is good.”
He laughs—a deep, fond rumble from his chest.
And he leans down to kiss you. Not quite as hard as earlier, but no less claiming.
cucciolo - puppy / pup / cub
dolcezza - sweetness
creatura peccaminosa - sinful creature
il mio scrigno - my treasure chest
dimmi - tell me
if i were an artist of any kind, i would have drawn or painted something really cool to celebrate. but i'm no artist. i'm just a filthy freak with a keyboard.
so whatever you do, don’t think about Papa finally filling you up after a long night of bringing you to your peak over and over.
don’t think about the way Primo’s weight bears down on you, crushing you to the mattress as he buries himself to the hilt and stills, a deep sigh easing out of him as you clench around him—as he floods you with thick, seemingly endless ropes of heat, and one of his big hands presses flat against your abdomen like he’s trying to feel just how overflowing with him you are.
don’t think about how Secondo’s control shatters and he pounds into you harder, a hand twisting into your hair and wrenching your head back so he can watch your face as he comes, a deep, rumbling groan tearing out of him, cock pulsing as he empties into you, marking your insides as thoroughly as he’s marked your outsides with bruises shaped like his fingers.
don’t think about Terzo’s fingers digging into your hips as he bucks beneath you, thrusting up into you even as he hauls you down onto his cock, moaning and laughing at the same time as he praises you—you’ve gone so tight around him, you’re squeezing around him like you want ‘your Terzo’ even closer, and, satanas, what a greedy little thing you are, amore.
don’t think about the way Copia whimpers, his face and neck flushed deliciously, his gray-streaked hair plastered to his forehead and neck with sweat, and he grinds his hips against yours desperately, not thrusting but stirring into you with his cock like he’s trying to push his seed deeper, and broken little sounds and gasps leave him as he tells you that he loves you—as he begs you to say it back.
don’t think about Perpetua’s teeth in your neck, muffling his grunting as he fucks you through it, driving his cock into you even as he comes, each slick drag working his spend out of you so that it drips down your thighs and puddles beneath you—he pumps into you until he’s overstimulated and twitching and rasping curses and praises in equal part into your ear.
I presented 'pulling Perpetua around the ascot like it's a leash' now I present 'getting Copia to ride the strap' because both papas deserve to get pegged. it's good for them. :)
ayyyy the twins DO deserve to get pegged—just a little as a treat. thank you!
MDNI, explicit, 18+ (obvs)
You’re letting him go at his own pace. It’s not like you’re not enjoying the view.
On your back, hands folded under your head despite the itch to touch him. Your heartbeat is steady in your ears and your spine tingles from the pressure building against your mound. His movements are short and shallow—sinks an inch or two, rises, sinks an inch or two. You watch the way he stretches around the silicone, the way his hairy thighs twitch, the way his ruddy, swollen cock weeps.
A vein in his neck pops. He’s flushed from his chest up to his forehead. His eyes are squeezed shut—he’s concentrating sohard.
“You can take a little more, can’t you?” you ask sweetly.
The noise that leaves him is high and tight. He doesn’t open his eyes. “More?”
“Just a little.”
A sigh. “For you, amore? Of course,” he says. And then under his breath, with the most sheepish of laughs. “I will certainly try, at least.”
It’s a low blow, but you can’t help yourself. As he starts to lower himself further, as his breath catches and he takes the dildo deeper, you say, “There’s my good boy.”
He sucks in a sharp breath. Spits out a quick, “Madonna—”
And like it’s a compulsion, like they were the magic words to give him the strength to do it, he drops down. He impales himself fully on the dildo—sheathing every inch inside of him—and a low groan tears out of him.
He cracks his eyes open and shoots you a look that’s almost accusatory. “Non dire così.”
“What?”
“You—you know what,” he says, flustered.
His hips move a little, the slightest grind, and the pressure it creates against you—the way the base of the dildo drags against your clit—makes your hands fly to his thighs. He jolts, like your touch electrocutes him, but one of his hand covers one of yours.
“Calling you a good boy?” you ask innocently.
You pull on his thighs a little, urging him to move. He starts to rock his hips, grinding in earnest. His breath shudders out of him, and you swallow against your dry throat. Your blood heats at the way the dildo rubs against you. Or maybe it’s the tightness in his jaw, the sweat dripping from his hairline, the way he doesn’t seem to have any control over his body.
“Not—not just that,” he says.
And you flash a grin up at him. “Calling you my good boy?”
He huffs out a groan and shudders.
His cock bounces as he starts to grind faster. He braces his hands on either side of you, fingers twisting into the bedsheets, and he rides the strap-on clumsily. His breath comes short and ragged, and every time the silicone drags against his prostate—making him grunt and moan and whimper your name.
You won’t even have to touch his cock.
Squeezing his thighs again, you say, “But you are my good boy, Copia. You take me so well.”
He whines.
“Oh, I know. You’re so full, aren’t you?”
“For you, amore.”
“Of me,” you correct playfully.
His rhythm falters. He pauses so he can laugh again, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
And it’s another low blow.
You take his hips and thrust up into him—short and quick.
He throws his head back and cries out.
But he’s moving again, rolling his hips and grinding, chasing the friction against his prostate.
And as he comes—spilling hot ropes of it across your stomach and chest—you’re saying things like, “my Copia” and “my sweet boy.”
And as he convulses and trembles, he’s panting out, “Yours…. Yours…. Only yours.”
amore - love
madonna - my lady / exclamation
non dire così - don’t say that
