The Morning After the Jackpot (Papa Secondo x Reader)
Summary:
Waking up in a sun-drenched Vegas suite is one thing; waking up next to Secondo is another.
As the desert sun filters through the curtains, you can't help but smile at the man beside you—the one who traded his papal mitre for a night of sin, car rides, and the kind of laughter that only happens in the city of neon.
Ao3 version
Gift for @zenitheternal.
Enjoy!
The desert sun was relentless, aggressively poking through the gaps in the heavy velvet curtains and painting golden stripes across the rumpled white linens of the hotel bed.
You blinked against the brightness, a soft smile tugging at your lips as the fog of sleep cleared.
Beside you, Secondo lay in a state of peace.
Without his towering mitre or the sharp lines of his face paint, his features looked soft in the quiet rhythm of sleep.
He was a far cry from the stern figure who had commanded the stage only hours before.
It was then that you felt a small, warm weight shifting against your chest.
Looking down, you found yourself nose-to-nose with a tiny white toy poodle, her fur expertly fluffed and adorned with two perfectly tied pink bows.
The little dog let out a rhythmic, dainty snore, tucked securely in the crook of your arm.
As you stroked a soft ear, the absurdity of the sight acted like a key, unlocking a flood of memories from the neon-soaked blur of the previous night.
...
The final, haunting chords of "Monstrance Clock" still vibrated in the floorboards of the arena as Secondo stepped through the heavy stage curtains.
The smell of incense and sweat clung to his robes, and the roar of the crowd was a muffled thunder in the distance.
He looked every bit the imposing figure of the Ministry—until his eyes landed on you.
You were smiling, leaning against his dressing room vanity.
With a mischievous glint in your eye, you didn't say a word; you simply reached behind your back and produced a set of keys, dangled them by the keychain, and let them jingle.
The silver reflected the vanity lights, catching the familiar logo of the Lincoln.
Secondo's cold, stage-ready expression broke into a wide, devious grin.
He reached out, his gloved hand closing firmly around the lapel of his sharp, tailored suit jacket hanging on the rack.
With a sudden, violent tug, he whipped the jacket toward the camera's eye—and the backstage world vanished.
The motion of the fabric became the rushing wind of the Las Vegas Strip.
The heavy robes were gone, replaced instantly by the sleek fit of the suit as Secondo settled into the driver's seat of the 1966 Lincoln Continental.
The classic car roared through the night, roofless, the rushing wind a wild, tactile force against your skin—a sharp, electric contrast to the stagnant, incense-heavy air of the arena.
Secondo wasn't steering you toward a cathedral tonight; he was chasing the neon horizon, aimed straight for the glowing, towering silhouette of a midnight carnival.
The night became a blur of motion as the two of you conquered the carnival: the stomach-dropping plunge of the coaster, the dizzying spin of the Tilt-A-Whirl, and the frantic noise of the midway games.
Secondo was transformed; his suit gleamed under the carnival lights as his usual composure gave way to a wicked, boyish energy.
The chaos finally slowed at a concession stand.
Secondo bought you both two clouds of pink cotton candy that looked far too delicate for his hands.
But as he turned back to you, he froze.
There, tucked securely in your arms, was a tiny white toy poodle with two perfectly tied pink bows nestled in her fur.
"And who," Secondo asked, a playful brow arching as he gestured with a stick of spun sugar, "is this little initiate?"
You laughed, pointing toward a nearby stall where a sign proudly advertised: "Guess the Weight, Win a Friend!"
Secondo leaned in, leveling his gaze with the tiny creature.
He opened his mouth to make a suave remark about the odds of the game, but he didn't get the chance.
The puppy let out a sharp, high-pitched bark and lunged forward, her tiny pink tongue swiping right across the tip of his nose.
The second papa recoiled for a split second in pure shock before a genuine, booming laugh broke from his chest—a sound far warmer than any stage laugh.
You joined him, the sound of your shared joy echoing against the carnival music as he reached out a gloved hand to gently, affectionately scold her with a pat on her head.
... You were back in the '66 Lincoln, the poodle settled securely in your lap as the engine purred, Secondo steering the car toward the neon glow of the Strip.
The fun hit a sudden gear when you pulled up to a red light. A dark, much more intimidating car growled as it slowed to a stop in the lane beside you.
The driver—a man with a sneer that matched the aggressive rumble of his engine—leveled a grin at you both. It was a silent, arrogant challenge: he wanted to race.
You and Secondo didn't need to speak. You looked at each other, matching identical, challenging grins.
You saw Secondo's knuckles whiten slightly against the steering wheel, his eyes locking onto the light above.
The second the light flashed green, the Lincoln roared.
Before the other driver could even touch his gas pedal, Secondo had the Continental screaming down the asphalt, leaving the other man in a cloud of desert dust.
You glanced back just in time to see the driver's face turn sour with frustration as he realized he'd been beaten by a vintage car and a tiny poodle.
The cabin of the car filled with your shared laughter, the sound bright and triumphant over the rushing wind.
Even the poodle seemed to join in, her tail wagging frantically against your arm as you sped through the neon night, undisputed champions of the Vegas Strip.
... The adrenaline from the race was still humming in your veins as the Lincoln pulled up to the valet of a glittering casino.
With the puppy tucked under one arm and Secondo's hand on the small of your back, you swept inside.
The scene was a blur of green felt and clinking glass until you reached the high-stakes table.
Secondo played with a terrifying, calm confidence.
By the time he stood up, he was raking a mountain of chips toward himself—a true jackpot that had the table staring in awe.
He looked at you, then down at the tiny poodle.
'Since we have conquered the road and the House,' he murmured, 'I believe our new companion deserves a proper coronation.'
You used the winnings to find the most ridiculous, high-end pet boutique open at three in the morning.
While you and Secondo shared a celebratory drink, the puppy was treated to the royal treatment.
When staff brought her back to you, her fur was soft as a cloud and those iconic pink bows were tied perfectly into her hair.
She looked like a little Vegas queen, and Secondo couldn't stop smiling as he paid the bill with a stack of fresh winnings.
...
The memory of the neon-soaked night finally faded, leaving you in the quiet warmth of the hotel room.
Beside you, the sheets rustled as Secondo finally began to stir.
He looked remarkably soft in the morning light, the sharp edges of his stage persona replaced by the gentle, romantic glow of a man who had won everything he wanted.
"Sei la mia fortuna più grande, tesoro mio." The romantic weight of his words made you giggle, the sound bright in the airy room.
You shifted slightly, the poodle letting out a tiny, sleepy yawn between you.
"I'm feeling a bit hungry," you admitted, your voice still thick with sleep.
Secondo chuckled, his hand lingering affectionately on your cheek. "After the night we had, I am not surprised. Stay here with our piccolo cucciolo. I shall go downstairs and fetch us a filling breakfast."
"Okay," you whispered.
He leaned in, sealing the promise with a soft kiss.
As Secondo pulled away, you settled back into the pillows, the puppy snoring softly in your arms.
The One, Lacivious (Papa Emeritus II x Male!Reader)
Hey, lovelies! This is actually a part II of this fic I wrote like 2 years ago, so I recommend you check it out first if you haven't already!😈 I know I'm 2 years too late don't tell me shhhhh
Tags: Religious Trauma, Internalized Homophobia, Catholic Guilt, Self-Deprecation, Inexperience, Mutual Masterbation, Referenced Blowjobs, Sex Education, Soft-Som Secondo, Praise, First Person POV
It's been so long since I last talked with Secondo. Occasionally I would pass him in the halls, or exchange glances during mass, though I would quickly lower my gaze. I wish I could say he was the one avoiding me, and not the other way around, as ridiculous as that sounds; maybe I'd feel less guilty if it was out of my control. I came to him that night, vulnerable and insanely horny, hoping to feel less ashamed of my desires. Though, since then, I've just felt... awkward. Dirty. Like a part of me was still stuck in the Church I grew up in, praying for forgiveness for my sins of the flesh.
I still remember how he felt in my mouth. How he tasted. The thought creeps up in my mind more frequently than I'd like to admit, my reddened cheeks swiftly turning pale as all my blood rushes below the belt, starting to twitch and leak uncomfortably in my pants the longer the memory lingers. It should make me feel good. Instead I feel sick. I don't blame Secondo for the way I feel. He never pressured me, never demanded anything of me, never made me feel uncomfortable. In his presence, I felt safe, relaxed. Even while he was guiding me, I felt like I was in control the entire time. I was the one that came to him in the first place. I was the one who asked him for help. All he did was deliver.
If anything, his compassion may just be the reason I feel so guilty. It's stupid; Why should I feel bad because somebody else treated me kindly? But Secondo was stoic, strict, unforgiving. Most people consider him an asshole. Even previous sexual partners will admit that he's, quote, "a huge dick, with a huge dick." What I don't understand, is that if he was such a monster, why was he so gentle with me? Why did he caress my hair, whisper sweet-nothings under his breath, speak to me so softly, so tenderly? I had never once seen him smile, not even heard him laugh, not before that night. He's always looked so miserable, even when surrounded by beautiful, experienced women and men alike. Why did he even entertain the thought of helping me? And God, why does my heart ache?
It took me a long time to accept my sexuality, and even then, you can hardly consider whatever I have going on 'acceptance'. Sex, especially sex with another man, is one thing; love is something entirely foreign. You can have a one-night thing with a man, feel your fair share of shame, repent, then move on. But to love? To devote your life to another, to feel their flesh and soul melt with yours? That takes dedication; Dedication I don't have, even if, for some incomprehensible reason, he somehow were to feel the same way. But Secondo doesn't do 'love.' He doesn't tolerate companionship of any sort. I hate myself even more, to think, even for a second, that he could. What put that foolish thought in my head anyways? Just because he was nice to me? God, that's pathetic. And was his simple kindness the only reason I think I felt something for him? That's even more pathetic.
Even now I shudder at the memory of him looming above me. The view from down here, it was unlike anything I'd ever experienced before. He towered over me, even while he himself was slouched in his recliner. His muscles instinctively flexed every time his tip hit the back of my throat. With every gag, his hands would clench, fingers squeezing at his armrests. His skin looked leathery, worn with age, scarred and calloused from a long life full of mistakes. He looked like sin itself. If you had told me he was the bastard son of Satanas himself, I would've believed you; he was hotter than Hell. Fantasizing about what could've been if I had just asked him to fuck me has been my worst habit as of late.
I can't sleep. I know he'll haunt my dreams again, like he's done every night since then. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to relax enough to drift off, not with this stiffy straining against my mattress. I'd grind against it occasionally, hoping it would soothe the ache, though every thrust would just make me crave more. There was a part of me that wanted to resist the temptation, like I've done many times before, with shame engulfing me as Christ looked down on me from the cross above my bed. Even now, as I hesitantly free my manhood from my briefs, I shudder at the thought of Him watching. Knowing. He'll just have to understand, I think to myself as my fingertips graze the shaft. Even if God doesn't, I know Lucifer will.
My heart races. My breath comes out in hot, soft gasps from my lips. My erection is held firmly in my hand. I don’t dare to stroke myself just yet, my thumb lightly caressing the tip with uncertainty. It's only just now dawned on me that I've never really done this before. Threats of eternal Hellfire and zero sex education had scared me away from self-pleasure most of my life. But it must be a simple thing to figure out, no? Instinctual? More instinctual than sucking cock, at least, and I seem to do just fine at that already. Desperate for more stimulation, my hips involuntarily thrusted up into my hand, whimpering out into the cold solitude of my room. See? Instinctual. My grip tightened, finally allowing myself to move my hand up and down. I inhale sharply. It felt foreign. Weird. Unfamiliar, but not uncomfortable. It felt… pretty fucking good. It would probably feel better if I wasn’t so damn tense, my body betraying me and still holding me back from experiencing the full potential of my pleasure. This is nice and all, but the feeling nowhere near compares to when Secondo…
BZZZ! BZZZ!! BZZZ!!!
I jolted as I was snapped out of focus by the sound of my phone buzzing on the nightstand. At first I was too paranoid to think, convinced this was somehow divine intervention, a sign to get my hand off my junk before God smites me. Upon answering, I start to think it's quite the opposite. “Brother _____.” Secondo breathes down the other line. My mouth went dry, my throat constricting to where I couldnt utter a single word, sitting there in silence with the phone up to my ear and my mouth agape like an idiot. His voice was gravely, tired, rumbling like thunder. His words slurred, almost sounding drunk, and one glance at the clock told me that he must already be two glasses of wine deep into the night. Just like he was that night. He clears his throat. “How… how have you been?”
I swallow harshly. I don't know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't for him to ask something like that. When has Secondo ever asked how someone else is doing? I've watched him put a cigarette out on Papa Terzo before for “walking too closely behind him,” and now all the sudden he cares about the wellbeing of another person? About my wellbeing? I don't know how to respond. All I know is that remaining silent is making this interaction far too awkward, so I have to spit something out. “I've been… okay.” I say. Great. Not only is it a dry response, but it's also a lie. “Are y-… Are you sure?” He stammered, something I've never heard him do, but I was too distracted by all the muffled rustling in the background.
“I only ask because after our last… interaction, you claimed you would visit again. It's been a… v-very long time since our last meeting, Brother _____.” Then I heard him shudder. A heavy, shaky exhale, clear as day, like poorly-concealed panting. Fuck, is he jerking off right now? I would think that to be a pretty ballsy move, if I wasn't doing the very same. I can’t conceal the groan that spills from my lips as my cock twitches eagerly at the sound of him. I don't think he heard it though, or if he did, he chose not to mention it. “I- I know, Papa, it's just… I've just been so busy, a-and-”
“Don’t lie to me, _____.” He scolded firmly, sounding more like his usual self than this gentle, warmer version he’s shown to me. “You can tell me you don't wish to continue, tell me that night was a mistake, but don't you dare lie to your Papa. Understood?” He huffed, breathing harder, faster. My dishonesty seemed to stir something within him, something domineering, possessive. I bucked up into my fist again with a sharp gasp. This time I’m sure he heard me, a low chuckle escaping his lips. A thin line of sweat started brimming on my forehead. “U-understood, Papa.” My voice quivers, picking up the pace of my soft, pitiful strokes. Secondo hums, pleased by my response.
“Do you want me?” He asked bluntly under his breath.
“Of course I do.” I replied. What kind of question is that? After the pleasure he made me feel, how could I not? Maybe I want him more than I should…
“Then come over.” He grunts, hissing softly. I gulp, silent for a moment.
“I'm not ready.” My voice is barely above a whisper, embarrassed to admit it. I figured he’d just get frustrated with me and hang up. I’d be disappointed, extremely so, but at least things would go back to normal, to the life I'm used to, if we just ended things right now. But despite all odds, he stayed.
“That's okay.” He muttered softly, almost reassuringly. “We could just- c-cazzo…” He tried and failed to stifle a moan. “Talk. If you'd like.” Beads of precum leak from my tip, only allowing my hand to glide more smoothly up and down my shaft. Rubbing it dry was starting to get uncomfortable, so the extra lubrication was appreciated.
“I would like to, b-but…” My head lulls back against the pillow, biting my lip to prevent any more helpless cries of pleasure from slipping out. “I f-feel like I w-wouldn't exactly make good conversation r-right now.” Secondo snickers. My cheeks redden.
“Non c’è problema. Let Papa do the talking.” Secondo rasps. Fuck. If he was any hotter, I wouldn't be able to help myself. I’d crawl all the way to his front door just for one fucking chance. My ministrations speed up as I grow more confident with my movements, learning for the first time what feels good, feels right for my body. “Does it feel good?” He coos. I babble incoherently in reply. He seems to know what I mean. “Have you been thinking of me?” He continues. My head is spinning. “Mhph, mhm…” Is all I could muster. He grunts, a deep and primal sound bellowing out of his chest, loud enough to make me shudder.
“Bravo ragazzo. I've been thinking of you, too.” He admits, the rustling sound on the other end growing louder as he, I can only assume, jerks himself with ferocity. “C-could you rub yourself faster for me, caro? Let me hear you.” My free hand grips the sheets tightly. I shake my head, as if he could see.
“C-can’t, Papa.”
“And why not?”
“I-If I go any faster, I… I’ll…”
“Cum?” He finishes my sentence perfectly. “Then let me hear you cum. You sound so pretty when you do. Canta per me, bello. Ne ho bisogno…”
His praise had my balls tighten instantly. A tiny sob escaped me, as I sped up like I was told to do. My thighs burned, endlessly thrusting into the tight grip of my own palm. If only it was his mouth on me. If only my mouth was on him. I know he’d fuck me dumb right now, if only I had given him the chance. I want to, more than anything, if it weren't for my nerves getting the best of me. I'll be ready one day. I just hope he hasn’t given up on me by then. I don't know if I'll want to swallow his seed like last time, or if I’ll want to be completely drenched in it. Or, even better; To have it inside of me. Good God. That thought broke me completely. One last cry of ecstasy is all it took, moaning surely loud enough for the neighbors to here, chasing that high I knew was coming, and fuck, did it feel delicious.
Secondo followed soon after, groaning expletives in a mix of Italian and English as he released. Going limp, I finally let my body relax, panting heavily as I cleaned up the mess I made with a disgusted grimace. My own cum is not nearly as arousing.
“Brother _____.” Secondo sputtered my name breathlessly, smacking his lips. “No matter how far we choose to go with this, I want this to remain enjoyable and comfortable for you. Don’t feel pressured to continue this… arrangement if you no longer wish to. This Ministry is filled with very, ehem, skilled individuals. I would not be offended if you chose to lose your virginity to somebody else.” He growled out that last sentence, almost as if it enraged him just having to say it. Another flicker into the kind of man he truly is; Angry. Bitter. Not to be trusted. At least that's what everybody else seems to believe. So why can't I seem to?
“I want to, Papa.” I admit finally, with reddened cheeks. “I want it to be you. Just not yet.” I swallow against the lump in my throat. “Is… is that okay?”
“Of course. I have other partners to help fend off my desires in the meantime, no?” He chuckled lightheartedly. That reminder almost knocked the wind out of me, trying to ignore the odd, irrational feeling of hurt that's dwelling in the pit of my stomach. “You must get some rest now, caro. But if you ever wanted to… just talk, as in actually just talk, I am here for you.”
“You…are?” I ask slowly, unsure if I heard him correctly.
“That's what a Papa is here for, si? To guide his flock into sin?” He explained, or rather, brushed off. “So there's no more need to avoid me altogether just because were not fucking.”
“Oh… you knew I was avoiding you on purpose?” I laugh nervously. I could practically hear him roll his eyes.
“Goodnight, Brother _____.” He snorts, hanging up without another word. I shut my eyes, though even with all the previous activities of the night behind me, I couldn’t fall asleep. An aching I couldn't quite soothe kept me up all night, thoughts of Secondo occupying my mind and only making it worse. It's never been this bad before, I think to myself, growing hard for a second, third, and eventually fourth time. It’s too late to turn back now.
A Sibling enters their side of the partition in the confession booth, asking for a blessing of their sin. Secondo, from his side, tells them to go ahead. Their nerves tickle them, worried this sounds like a complete stretch of the use of “pride”. It is. It has to be. And the noted rehearsed tone in Papa II’s voice does very little to dissuade these anxieties.
But they’ve already come this far; there’s no turning back now.
The gulp and say, “I was able to look at my … um…” Their face scorches. Who would’ve thought that even in this sanctuary of sin, some kernel of shame could still rattle around?
“…Yes?” Papa encourages, albeit mostly out of disdain over the idea of anything going unfinished. The sibling has no choice but to blurt it all out in one go:
“Ilookedatmyvaginainamirrorandfeltalittleokaywithit!” There. There it was: Out of their mouth and into the air, ready to be received for judgement on the improper use of —
“La scuse?” Shit. “Run that by me one more time.”
It wasn’t a request: It, like most things spoken by Papa II, was a demand. One the sibling couldn’t run away from. Well, not for long anyway. This was, after all, the most indulgent of the Papas they were seeking a blessing from: If his gluttony could not be satiated with food or drink or sex at a given moment, information of potential interest would make due.
The sibling gulps, repeating: “I was able to look at my…v…vagina…And I wasn’t…as, I guess…I mean, I felt okay with it.”
“Do you not want the vagina?” he inquires with a noted undercurrent of sensitivity to the possible answer.
The sibling wasn’t sure what they were expecting when they came in for confession. Maybe a different Papa who wouldn’t ask questions. Or, if it had to be him, maybe he’d be too hungover to want to ponder on it. But definitely not whatever the helling fuck this was.
“No,” they respond. “No, it’s not that. I don’t mind having it in theory.”
“Then why would it cause feelings of distress, as you so implied?”
Satan, was this punishment for stretching the use of “pride”? Should they have indulged in more sins in the past week?!
They fidget. “I. Well. I’m.”
“Little one,” he says almost warningly.
“I’m worried,” they spit out.
“…About…?”
“That it…Y’know…Looks…kinda…weird?” And there it well and fucking truly was. And given the silence that followed, it was a given that Papa was letting it soak into that bald head of his.
The sibling can’t hear anything besides the blood rushing in their face and their heart beating as though trying to dig its way out to find a hole to hide it.
It would’ve made the next words spoken seem all the more impactful, if not for what the words were:
“Would you like for me to be the judge of that?”
…
…
Par-fucking-don!!?
The sibling gawps. The boldness, the suggestion, the — the everything!!
As though he could sense it through the partition, Secondo followed up: “It is no secret that I am a very…experienced man… I’ve seen many sexes, different people. There has never been one — a clean one — that has repulsed me. Forgive me if I am overstepping but, if your fear lies in that it may not look presentable…If you so wish…I could pass down judgement.”
He said it as simply, as though he were offering to do a quick simple favor like running to grab their laundry instead of, well, offering to take a gander at their fucking pussy.
“No pressure, of course,” he threw in quickly. A saving throw for both him and the sibling themselves.
Common sense said to turn down such a blatantly ridiculous and arguably inappropriate offer, accept that a blessing just wasn’t in the cards, and make a brisk retreat to their dorm. Maybe contemplate summoning a ghoul that specialized in granted Barbie doll anatomy in the downstairs department.
Unfortunately…common sense had competition: Curiosity. Curiosity about what perhaps the most promiscuous Papa had to say. Almost like palm reading, but with labia right? And if that wasn’t convincing enough, a third entry was present: A quiet, shameful lust. And Lust and Curiosity were unfortunately the best of friends, however toxic and troubling that meant for anyone unfortunate enough to experience both at once.
Despite the embarrassment painting the Sibling’s insides, it was clear that common sense stood no chance.
The “Yes” they finally gave was quiet. It only sounded loud because it was whispered in the confines of the booth but truly, it was as though the word itself were composed of whatever material phantasms were made out of.
But, like a phantasm, it still floated. Right into Secondo’s ear on the other side.
A quiet, one-noted hum of understanding rang back.
Then the creaking of old wood shifting, being pressed down on, then released.
Then the sound of an old door on old hinges opening before closing.
And then … their own door opening.
The lighting of the sanctuary behind him, while dim, did wonders for carving Secondo’s silhouette into the frame of the confessional threshold.
Wait, the sibling’s mind races, he meant NOW?!
“Well,” he says. “Go on: Remove anything you must and then spread your legs. I intend to be very thorough to give you my honest opinion, Little One. And we both know that I am not a patient man.”
Satan, they decided in that moment, was definitely cackling somewhere.
"Amore, my sweet, my nightingale, what in the actual Hell is this?"
You looked up from your phone (you were, rather shamelessly, watching edits of your sugar daddy of a boyfriend) with a small hum before chuckling at what he was holding in his hand, visibly displeased (maybe even disgusted) at the object.
"That, Secondo, happens to be a plushie."
His gaze turned from slightly confused to straight up unamused. If you pushed enough of his buttons, maybe you'd even get one of his infamous glares. Although truthfully, he was a lot less scary when he wasn't wearing his paint.
"I am aware of that, my dear."
"Then why ask?"
"What is that plushie supposed to be, exactly?"
"It's you."
"It's hideous."
"Blame the model."
If you were anyone else, he'd probably scoff and throw in an insult. However, since it was you, he limited himself to just the scoff. And a few cursewords he mumbled in Italian, looking at the plushie version of himself. It was horrible, as ugly as the Copia ones. Or perhaps even uglier.
He ended up putting the plushie down on your bed, right where he found it... before swatting it away, letting it fall to the floor with a disgusted look.
"I do not want this thing in our bed, amore."
You snorted, shaking your head in amusement. You could already tell what you were about to witness for the next few days - a grown man having a one-sided conflict with a plushie replica of his.
fanon understanding that Terzo is very bad at speaking English.
Primo
It had been a nice surprise when the Papa Emeritus the First had invited you to his quarters for dinner, you hadn't assumed it would be... just you and him though. You both had been dancing around each other gently for a while now. He was older, and so where you, did that mean that romance was not something you could dream of? He opened the door to his private quarters, the smell of fresh basil and faintly nicotine rolled out passed him as he stood over you, a grin spreading over his face. "Ciao Bella...."
"Papa." You bowed you head, the air around you intoxicating. "I brought wine, Papa." You stepped into the rooms, this was when you realized it would be just you and him. You stepped further into the room, he closed the heavy doors behind you as you took in his personal space. You'd never been here before, you assumed few had. dried garlic and sun dried tomatoes hung from the windows, spices and dried herbs on the shelves, the surfaces all covered in flour from what ever he had been cooking. But it smelled amazing. "Papa...-"
"In here you may, call be Primo, it is my name." He walked passed you, jumping to turn the heat down on a boiling pot, he lifted the lid and the smelled of spiced tomatoes mixxed in the air. He reached into a drawer and without really looking at you handed you a bottle opener. you stared at it, almost confused, like the metal spiral was foreign technology. "For the wine, Bella."
"OH!" you accepted it from him and went to work uncorking the bottle, a little panicked you didn't know where the glasses were kept. You placed the popped cork on the counter top, the screw still buried inside. "Papa.... er... Primo... do you have glasses."
"Si.." He turned back to you, turning off all the stove burner. What ever he had made was done. He walked straight to you, he was close, so very close. His long fingers slowly wrapping around the neck of the bottle and and taking it from you. Instead he brought it to his lips and sipped straight from the bottle. "Very good. Red wine is best of all, is it not?"
He reached over your head, his body pressing against yours as he brought down two wine classes from a cupboard you hadn't noticed before. He put them on the counter behind you, the glasses clinking lightly on the tiles, he still held the bottle, bringing it to his lips again for another sip. Both of you were flush against the other, staring into the other eyes. The smell of wine on his breath made you brave. You tilted your head, getting closer, there was no way he didn't know what you wanted. "Primo... let me taste it then..."
He leaned his head down and his lips met yours. He tasted of the wine, but of dinner. He had been sampling as he cooked. Your stomach growled. But you both stayed still, you still stealing little kisses from him, he let you doat on him a little. "We should eat, Bella. Then, plenty of wine and plenty of this. All the time in the world."
Secondo
Dinner had been fun, you enjoyed your time as a senior member of the church. You had worked hard, been dedicated, given up everything... you had happily done so in the name of the One Below, but there were parts of you that were... sad. That felt like you had missed out of parts of what life was meant to offer. Odd, considering you were a sister of sin and there was no vice in life you were not almost duty bound to sample. It wasn't until now, now that you sat at the same table to those who always seemed so far from you, so superior, and now you were equal. You sat back, swirling the rest of your wine, your third glass, as the espresso was brought out. You sat at the table with the head clergy, with Papa and his inner circle, with his family. And his family was loud, and very Italian. You felt eyes on you, eyes that had been on your all night.
Sat besides his older brother Papa Secondo smirked at you he sipped his coffee. There was an added bonus to your newly found power and position. The attention of Papa Emeritus the Second, he grinned wide at you, his gaze sliding away from you as his rowdy younger brother stood, telling a tale with wild hand movements, the quiet cardinal sat besides him was splattered with wine from the glass Terzo had apparently forgotten he was holding. Secondo barked a laugh, his eyes sliding back to your seat, only to find you gone. He quickly sat up in his seat, trying to find you in the mostly empty canteen. His family always sat at the dinner table for hours, it was the way things were done. Usually not headed to bed until Papa Nihil had fallen asleep in his chair.
He saw you slip into the kitchens. Secondo got up to follow, not bothering to excuse himself or offer explanation to his family as they called after him. You were searching through wine fridges that lined the underside of the kitchen counters. There always had to be enough wine on hand. "Cucciola... you could not be searching for more wine..." He teased as he strolled straight for you.
"Papa..." you murmured. "Jus' making up for lost time." You grinned. He was very aware of your sudden head first dive into hedonism, and he longed to be the one to lead you to your deepest desires.
"Cucciola... perhaps it is late in the night to open a new bottle of wine." He got close to you, his hand reaching up and running a thumb over your lip, it was stained dark red already. "Are you not sated?"
"Never, Papa." You smiled, drunkenly, reaching for him, grabbing him by the front of his button up shirt. "Papa... I'm still hungry... still thirsty..." You inched close. If you had been sober you would never have been so brave. But a lot could be said for the magic found wine and fresh bread.
Secondo grinned like a predator, his sharp canine teeth gleaming passed his lips. He leaned down the rest of the way and pressed a kiss to your lips, quickly pushing you up against one of the cold stainless steel fridges, what ever was inside rattled. You didn't care as you gripped onto his shoulders and let his devour you.
"Papa... Papa..."
"Quiet Cucciola, be good for Papa... I will show teach you to live deliciously."
Terzo
You were nervous. It had gotten into your head to invite Papa Terzo over for dinner. You'd been getting to know one another, had gone out, slept together a few times; it hadn't gotten much deeper than that, and you couldn't really tell if he was interested in more than your company in his bed.
You looked at the meal you had prepared proud for only a moment. you were the best cook, you often got carried away with ingredients and ended up going rogue when it came to following recipes. When you had picked out what you wanted to cook your first instinct had been to go for Italian food. Terzo was Italian, so you hoped at least he would like what you pulled together. Then you remembered... he was Italian, and had probably grown up eating the best authentic Italian food on the planet. With home made spaghetti and everything! Suddenly you wanted to throw it all in the garbage... he was going to be so disappointed.
He knocked on your door, a little late but that had only given you time to clean up the kitchen and get the table set how you liked it. You hadn't really noticed his tardiness, only that he yelled it in your face when you opened the door.
"Cioccolatino! I am late! I am much sorry's!" He pranced into your dormitory apartment, flowers in his hand and two bottles of wine. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into a kiss before he made a show of breathing deep. "Smells so good in here!"
He walked into your home like he belonged there, instantly pulling down a vase from a top cabinet and popping the flowers into some water before putting them on the dinner table. you dug through the kitchen utensils looking for a bottle opener (you didn't want him to know most of your wine came from a box). "they are beautiful, Papa..."
"Terzo, you knows this. I been telling you, when it me and you, it can just be Terzo." He leaned in and kissed you again. "I like how it sounds when you say it, your accent so cute."
You raised a brow, smiling at the thought that to him you were the one with the funny accent. God knows how it sounded to him when you had tried to say thing in his native language. "Then sit down, Terzo, or you'll have a cold dinner."
He pulled out your chair before opening the wine and pouring you a very full glass. "I am very hunger, I am excited to be invited for dinner." He chirped, dropping himself in his chair and you both served yourselves, though you watched closely. staring at him as he put the first bite in his mouth.
"Do you like... it?" You worried your lip watching his face as he chewed. "I know its probably not what your used to but i tried..."
"It is very good! Molto saporito! were is from? We shall order again some time!" He nodded excitedly. Your mouth dropped a little. Not really sure how to correct him, or if he was joking.
"Oh... well i made it myself." You muttered. A little shy about it for some reason. Terzo looked down at his plate and at the food still on the serving pans.
"You make for me?" Terzo reached out and grabbed his hand. "I am much sorry i not understand this earlier! What is called this dish? No one make as good as you, surely." Terzo started to shovel his dinner into his mouth, so interested in his food he hadn't even touched his wine.
"Oh... its not really anything... just kinda, a bunch of italian flavors put together. I think i was trying to make cacciatore but got a little carried away with sides and... yeah..." You smiled and sipped your wine. He obviously was very impressed and it stroked your ego to see him do so. "Just like back home, hu?"
it had meant to be a joke, nothing more but he looked a little sad and a little confused at the idea. "Back home food is not always so good, i have never had this before. Abbey kitchen cooks are not always so talented... Primo not a good cook like a mama when we are young" he put another very full fork full into his mouth, trying to laugh at the same time. "If i have this every day i'd be a round Papa."
You reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it, he leaned down and kissed your knuckles (neither caring he got sauce from his lips on your hand). He smiled at you gently, pausing his gluttony to stare at your face. he looked like he wanted to say something more, some thought danced around on his tongue but didn't make it passed his lips. he signed and seemed content to just enjoy looking at you. before he realized what he was doing.
"Sorrys i... um... lost my thinking." He let go of your hand. "i thanks you, cara. This is most best meal i shall eat."
Copia
You sat at the small kitchenette in Papa Emeritus the Fourths private quarters. You'd been officially dating for a little over a month at this point, and he had been so very sweet. Sweeter than any man you'd ever been with up to this point, being with him was kind of like being in... puppy love. He was a little awkward, a little nervous, and very unsure. He apologized a lot and stumbled over his words, when he held your hand it was always clammy and his grip a little too tight. You had guessed his awkwardness had been because of social anxiety, which he was in no short supply of. It had been your idea to have dinner in, to cook together and enjoy a meal.
Copia had had other plans, he always wanted to treat you like a princess, was determined to do so to a fault. Sometimes you didnt mind being treated like a whore. He would figure that out eventually. You hoped. You'd kissed and cuddled and there had been some more heated movements between the two of you but he had failed to make an assertive move on you. The plan was to get enough wine in him tonight to help him shed any anxiety he had.
You watched as he cursed and shook his hand, he had burned it on the hot saucepan some how. It had been like this for a while. You sat at the made table, the candles not yet lit, a once very full glass of wine now... not so full sitting by you hand. There was bread that had been taken from the kitchens (you had insisted he not try cooking and baking in the same day) with very room temp butter waiting. He had apparently had to restart everything when the pasta he had boiled had boiled for too long without his attention and had turned into a glutenous blob. Now he was trying gnocchi. You'd eat dino nuggets at this point you were so hungry.
but you waited.
and waited.
"Copia... my love. My sun and moon, stars in my sky." You stood from your spot, you ass sticking to the chair in places, you'd been in one place for so long. He was sweating, dark brown hair sticking to the back of his neck, sleaves rolled up to his elbows, flour he had no real reason to even have out was covering him in small splotches, there was a burn on the inside of his wrist you noted was getting red and angry. "Let me help you..."
"Im sorry." He muttered. He looked defeated. "Im just no good at this kind of thing. Cooking... looked easy in the movies." He grunted. He had been trying to slice up zucchini for some other dish. Looking over the pantry of ingredients he had dragged out onto the counter top you tried to make head or tails of what he had been trying to accomplish but it was a mess. You knew there was chicken in the oven, you were sure he had poured as much seasonings onto it as possible without knowing what they even were. There were raw potatoes on the counter, for some reason a bag of frozen fish he seemed to have forgotten about. all kinds of vegetables half chopped and ignored, the only thing actually cooking were the gnocchi and some very chunky pasta sauce he had made by putting a dozen tomatoes in a blender with half a bottle of wine and some garlic.
"I want to help. I get to be close to you." You kissed his cheek, he leaned into your touch. You started to clear the counter tops to try and declutter what you really needed and help his stress. "I don't need anything fancy my love. A pizza and your company is enough-"
Copia frowned and looked a little angry. He stayed silent to a while then rather aggressively threw open the oven to check the chicken. It actually looked pretty good and smelled nice. He slammed shut the oven door and crossed his arms over his chest. "I want to do this nice thing for you, vita mia. I want to be a good boyfriend and be able to make risotto. Not burn pasta."
You looked around, trying to spot any trace of risotto. He gestured to the trash can. You smiled and walked over to him. Leaning up to kiss him, gabbing is belt to pull him close to you. "You are the best boyfriend with or with out risotto."
He nodded still upset but obviously defeated.
The gnocchi caught fire,
After the fire alarms had been turned off and the destruction cleared you couldn't help but giggle. You lead him to the living room, after having moved the setting from the kitchen table to the coffee table. And with two large glasses of wine you both sat and watched a horror movie picking at a whole chicken, still in the baking pan, with your fingers.
Ungrumpify Your Papa: Papa Emeritus II x afab!reader
Summary: It's your first holiday season with Secondo and you're determined to make him less of a grump.
Words: 6.9k (nice)
Warnings: NSFW, MDNI!!, reader is AFAB but there are no gendered words/pronouns, smut, fluff, lingerie, light dom!Secondo, teasing, brief mentions of overstimulation, holiday feelings, discussions of religion
AO3
A/N: Happy day 2 of the XXXMas at the Ministry series! Check out day 1 with Primo by @copias-sewer-rat in the links below, and stay tuned for day 3 with Terzo by @ghulehunknown and day 4 with Copia by @bupia (who also put together these incredible graphics)!!
Day 1 (Dec 20th): Naughty Presents (AO3)
Day 2 (Dec 21st): Ungrumpify Your Papa (you are here!)
Day 3 (Dec 22nd): Mistletoe'd (AO3)
Day 4 (Dec 23rd): Treasure Hunt (AO3)
Secondo is very particular about how he curates his living quarters. His taste is distinct and refined, but not to the point of tackiness. It’s obvious that he’d spent a non-trivial amount of time picking out his furniture after he became Papa, and even more time reorganizing his space to ensure you felt welcome after he’d asked you to move in with him. Every book, every pillow, every little trinket or decoration or memory has a dedicated place somewhere, and each piece is treasured and respected like it has belonged there for all of eternity.
So, you weren’t surprised when Secondo grumbled when you pulled out a red and gold plaid throw blanket for the holidays, but he’s gracious enough to allow it to live on the couch (so long as it is neatly folded after every use, of course). And you had to stifle your laugh when he’d come home to find a little mistletoe hanging from the threshold of his bedroom and had jumped nearly ten feet in the air thinking it was a spider.
He came to terms with the mistletoe, though, after realizing that every time he jumped when seeing it from his periphery, you’d come over and kiss him and remind him it was only temporary. He didn’t tell you that he’d let you keep the mistletoe up all year round if it gave him an excuse to kiss you more.
The tree you want, though… that’s another battle.
“Please?” You ask sweetly, snuggling with him under the aforementioned red and gold blanket.
“No, amore,” Secondo says.
You’re tracing gentle patterns into his bare chest and can feel his heartbeat under your fingertips. You watch as the soft, dark hair dusting his skin catches on your finger. “Explain to me your reasoning.”
Secondo chuckles—a low, deep sound that you can feel more than hear. “Must I explain myself past the fact that I simply do not want a tree?”
“But why?” You ask him. You lift yourself up onto an elbow and look down at him. The two of you had built a little nest of sorts in front of the fireplace in his sitting room. It’s the first night that the two of you, as well as the entire Abbey, are absolved from duties in a week-long observance of the solstice and Yule, and you had decided to spend it together, alone, and very naked.
Secondo sighs but there’s still a little smile on his face. He can’t help but adore you and your insistence. It seems to him that you’re determined to uproot his entire life. He would gladly shed his roots and the soil of comfort and routine they grow in if it meant seeing you happy, but where is the fun in that? He enjoys making you ask for what you want. He enjoys seeing you work for it. And, in some (most) instances, he enjoys pushing you until you resort to begging.
“Because,” Secondo begins, drawing you back down to lay your head on his warm chest, “there is no room for one. And we have nothing to put on it.”
You laugh. “This room alone is bigger than my old Sibling quarters. There’s plenty of space.”
“It could catch on fire.”
“Secondo, you don’t put a tree directly in front of the fireplace.”
“Well. Suppose there is an ember—“
“And,” you playfully cut him off. “We can find things to decorate it with. Warm lights, those red, wooden beads for a garland, little glass ornaments… It can be classy. We can make it match your taste.”
Your lover is silent for a moment, considering. “There would be pine needles everywhere.”
You laugh again. His tone of voice tells you that you’re close to cracking him. Oh, you’re well aware of the games he plays with you and take full part in them. The push and pull, the give and take of him letting you believe you’re in control and then showing you that this was his plan all along… even with something as mundane as a holiday tree, your heart speeds up and your face heats just slightly.
You’re still tired from the evening’s activities, after all.
“We can get a fake one,” you offer. “Small, too. Nothing unmanageable. And I’ll string the lights on it because it’s a pain in the ass.”
Secondo traces lines back and forth over your shoulder, tickling your skin. “You speak like the decision is already made, amore.”
“You haven’t given me a good enough reason to back down yet.”
He chuckles again. “Sto solo scherzando. Will it make you happy?”
You prop yourself up again and press a kiss to his lips. “It will,” you say softly. “But I don’t need a tree to make me happy. If you really don’t want one, we won’t have one.”
“You said it yourself,” Secondo says against your mouth, “that it is temporary. I will survive.”
You feel his mouth curl into a small smile against your own when you kiss him again. You’re sure yours must feel the same.
~~~
You and Secondo stroll leisurely through the rows of trees. The display is pretty, and nostalgic—it’s been staged to look like a small grove of real trees, with the stands cleverly hidden by piles of snow at the bases. Some of the trees are fully decorated, and some have only lights, but most are completely bare to emulate a tree farm. Somehow the staff had managed to make the display smell like pine and a hint of cinnamon, and if you close your eyes and listen to the winter breeze and the jingling of bells on the storefront door, it feels like a real tree farm.
“You know,” you say to Secondo as you stop in front of a tree with fake snow on it, “you never told me why you didn’t want a tree.”
Secondo regards the tree for a moment and, seeing how easily the fake snow flakes off of the limbs with just a slight breeze, gently tugs you towards the next one. “It is not necessarily the tree that I am opposed to,” he says. “But the commercialization of what is supposed to be a holiday.”
You’re silent for a moment as you think about his words. He does have a point. There are a fair few seasonal decorations that you find to be unbearably tacky, but the ones you do enjoy carry a warm nostalgia. “I see,” you muse. “For a while after I converted, it was hard to rationalize the holiday because it’s so ingrained in our culture to be a Jesus thing.”
“Esattamente,” Secondo nods. “Even though most of it is taken straight from Pagan traditions.”
You stop in front of a plain tree, not any taller than Secondo, with simple, warm white lights. “That helped me rationalize it,” you tell him. “To know that modern Christmas is an amalgam of different things, and that there’s no right way to celebrate it. It doesn’t make us bad Satanists because we have a tree, or bake cookies, or wrap gifts. There doesn’t have to be any religious undertone.”
“You are right,” Secondo says after a brief silence. “What is that term… when people use a word incorrectly enough times that the meaning changes.”
“Colloquialism?” you offer.
“SÌ. Christmas has become a colloquialism. Yule, Solstice, Saturnalia, Christmas, whatever you wish to call it.”
“Is that why you never celebrated?”
Secondo looks at you, and he nearly loses his breath. The sun is going down so the sky is a deep blue, leaving your face to be illuminated only by the warm white lights of the tree in front of you. You look so cozy in your hat and scarf and coat. And you’re trying to understand him, understand why he is not a ‘holiday’ person. How he adores you.
“To a degree,” he says, looking away because he’s dangerously close to swooping you into his arms and kissing you silly. “The holiday has lost all its meaning beyond materialism. That is the way it seems. Why should I need a holiday to tell me when to gift things to the people who matter?”
“You don’t, I suppose,” you shrug. “But it’s not completely about that. It’s the thought, the warmth, the togetherness. This time of year is when people want to feel cozy and comfortable and happy. To surround themselves with the people and things they love. It’s cold, and dark, and the holiday allows us to indulge in the things we might feel guilty about at any other time of year.”
Secondo listens to your voice, and he understands. “I feel a bit like Scrooge,” he says softly. And he does—a bitter old man, learning the true meaning of Christmas… or something.
“Which ghost am I?” You ask, laughing.
“You are Tiny Tim,” he replies without having to think. “Not a ghost, but I think the wisest character in the whole story.”
“Satan bless us,” you say in your best impression of a small child. “Every one.”
In the end, Secondo chooses the tree you’d been standing in front of. He tells you that it was because he likes that it’s small and simple (which is true), but he’d seen how your eyes reflected the small bulbs and decided he couldn’t let that evening be the last time he sees that.
You also purchase simple glass bulbs, a modest tree skirt, and a silver garland to match Secondo’s green and silver color scheme in his chambers. When you arrive back at the Abbey excited to decorate, however, you remember that you’d forgotten to choose a topper. While he has his back turned to pour the two of you some hot chocolate, you sneak to the closet which houses his papal robes, and when he turns around, he finds his mitre situated crookedly atop the tree and your smug face pretending you don’t know how it got there.
“It is lopsided,” Secondo hums, handing you your mug.
“It has character,” you counter. You hide your smile behind the steaming hot chocolate.
Secondo smiles, too.
~~~
After the tree debacle, you wonder how far into the holiday spirit you can drag Secondo. You aren’t determined to make him the embodiment of Santa Claus, but you hope to ease his grumpiness. And honestly, it isn’t just the holiday that you want him to enjoy, it’s the whole season. Winter is cold and dark and oftentimes miserable, yes, but it doesn’t have to be. Not when you have someone to come home to after years of spending it alone.
So you suggest cookies. Because I love sugar cookies, you explain when Secondo asks. And Copia has a sweet tooth. And we need something to bring to dinner with your family.
Not at all because watching Secondo in the kitchen gets you going like nothing else.
You sit at the small table in his kitchen, watching him move. He’d shooed you out of the way after scolding you for suggesting you use a premade mixture of Betty Crocker sugar cookies, insisting that if you must make cookies, you will at least do it right. But how can you stay away from him when he looks like that?
He’s wearing his apron (which is, in and of itself, an incredible turn-on). The sleeves of his button-up shirt are rolled up to his elbows, showcasing his muscular forearms. And his hands, oh, his hands, are bare and flexing, kneading the dough as he mixes flour in pinch by pinch. The veins in his arms are highlighted in the overhead kitchen lights. His shoulders stretch and move, pulling the fabric of his shirt tight against his back again and again.
Sweet Satan, give me strength, you think. And Satan, ever the purveyor of sin and temptation, strips all the strength from your mind and whispers in your ear to go to him.
So you do. You quietly slip out of your chair and approach Secondo, taking in his perfect form. His broad shoulders, the slight pooch to his sides, his ass which is hugged so perfectly in his trousers, his hands kneading the dough ball like they knead the flesh of your thighs, your chest, your belly, your rear. Your hands slip around his middle and you press yourself against his back. You feel him pause.
“Amore,” Secondo says softly and you’re not exactly convinced that he’s chiding you. “You are a terrible distraction. Come faccio a cuocere questi biscotti con te che mi tenta?”
You trace your hands up his stomach to his chest, relishing in his warmth. There’s probably flour on your hands and forearms and all over his apron, but you don’t care. “Can you blame me? You know very well what watching you in the kitchen does.”
“SÌ, I do, my dove,” Secondo hums. His hands are still now. He closes his eyes and focuses on the feeling of your palms brushing up and down his body. Yes, he knows quite well what he’s doing to you. He’d be a liar if he said his insistence to bake the cookies from scratch was entirely innocent. But he supposes you know that. “Tell me, amore. If I were to turn around and lift you up onto this counter and spread your legs, what would I find, hm?”
Instead of answering him, you trail your hands back down from his chest, over his tummy, and down to the crux between his legs and pelvis, resting your palms there and squeezing lightly. You can already feel the stretching fabric of his trousers and know that if he turned around to make good on his promise, you would find him hard and aching. He heaves a trembling breath at your movements. It’s likely that he will punish you for this later, but is it really a punishment if it’s what you desire most?
It’s not often that Secondo allows you to take control like this. Even if it’s just a small movement, a little caress of his arousal, he’s quick to pull your hands away and make sure you find your pleasure first. But slowly, his hands begin to work into the dough once more, and he makes no further comment. Your own hands find the button of his trousers and tug it open.
“Amore,” Secondo hums in warning when your fingers brush along the length of him over the fabric of his pants.
In a stroke of confidence (and maybe a touch of curiosity as to what might happen if you poke the sleeping bear), you reach down his front to grasp him over his briefs. It’s only for a moment before you’re withdrawing your hand and fumbling his button closed again. You press a kiss between his shoulder blades and step away. “Sorry, love. Cookies take precedence.”
Then, you’re pressed against the kitchen table, your wrists pinned beside your head as Secondo looms over you and presses his hips to your own. His breath is hot and his voice is low in your ear as he speaks. “You know very well that I would ravish you right now,” he growls, rutting his hips forward to spread your thighs even further. You can feel just how honest he’s being and you sigh with the contact. “If it were not for this dinner… this cena maledetta…”
There’s flour all over your clothes from his apron pressing against your front. The tip of his nose traces a path up from the sensitive skin below your ear, across your cheekbone, to rest against yours. His lips brush your own as he speaks. “Do not think I do not know what you are doing.”
“I know you know,” you say, your voice sultry. You arch your back up off the tabletop and press your chest into his. “That’s why I do it.”
“Sei una tentazione,” Secondo whispers. “Perché devi essere così allettante quando non posso averti?”
Your jaw slacks open when he presses his hips even harder against yours. He takes the opportunity to lean in and nip at your lower lip, tracing his tongue along it and tugging. “One day,” you gasp when he pulls away, “I will understand when you say such filthy things to me in Italian.”
“You tell me that not knowing is a thrill.”
“Oh, it is. But sometimes I wish I could understand what depraved things you’ll do.”
“Let me put it plainly, then,” Secondo says. He takes the shell of your ear between his teeth and squeezes your wrists just a bit tighter. Your thighs lift as he presses himself against you completely. “We are going to make these cookies. We are going to Terzo’s dinner party. And we are going to stay for however long is acceptable before I take you back here and punish you for teasing me.”
“Yes, Papa.”
~~~
Oh, you hate him.
Not for last night when he’d punished you, no. You very much do not hate him for that. You’d gone to bed with trembling legs after he had to help you to the shower. He compared you to a newborn deer but held you steady as you wobbled, and then gave you one last orgasm in the warm water before the two of you retired to bed.
Rather, you hate him because he’d been waiting for a reason to punish you last night. He’d been searching for an excuse to make you fall off the edge of the world, more than a few times over, because he’d planned to take you and your wobbly legs surprise ice skating the next morning and thought it would be funny to watch you scramble.
“I hate you,” you grumble as you cling to his hand with a vice-like grip. “I hate you and your stupid memory.”
Secondo laughs quietly and supports your weight. You almost lose balance when he leans down to speak lowly in your ear, but he keeps you upright. “I did not hear you saying that last night when I remembered where to touch to make you–”
“Alright, alright,” you interrupt, your face heating. “But last night I didn’t think I had to tell you to take it easy so I could stand upright today.”
“That is the fun of it, amore. Seeing you wobble, knowing I did this.” He presses a kiss to your temple. “How is your ass? Sore?”
“From you spanking it or from falling on it four times?” You ask.
“Either way,” Secondo stands up straight again, “I suppose the answer is the same.”
You huff. “I used to be able to do spins as a kid,” you tell him. “And now I can barely stand on skates because of you and your fingers and your tongue and your little Secondino.”
“He is not very little though, is he?” Secondo asks, and you could smack him if he wasn’t completely right. You’re wobbly because he’s not little in the slightest.
You’re grateful, though. You’d mentioned how you used to go ice skating as a child, and how you haven’t in a very long time. In previous relationships, that was that. You would mention something you miss, or an activity you used to love, and that would be the end of it. But with Secondo, dear, attentive, lovely, grumpy Secondo, it’s different. You feel heard for the first time in your life. And that might be terribly cheesy, but it’s true. He does more for you than the absolute bare minimum you’d grown to expect from partners and you feel positively spoiled. If you can give him even half of the happiness he gives you, you’re happy. You would give him the world and the sun and the moon if you could.
Secondo notices your silence and squeezes your hand, warm and cozy in the gloves Terzo had gifted you at his dinner last night. “Where did you go, dove?”
“Sorry,” you shake yourself from your reverie and blink away the sudden tears of gratitude and affection. “I just love you. Thank you for taking me skating.”
“You’re welcome. Anch’io ti amo.”
Eventually you find your sea legs and show him the (very basic) spins you know how to do. You manage not to fall on your ass a fifth time. And then you begin to seethe because, of course, Secondo is perfectly balanced and graceful and can skate like he was born on the ice. Your poised Papa is always so composed and you feel like, as he’d said, a newborn deer perpetually falling.
You hate him, but that doesn’t stop the heat from building in your lower belly. Again.
~~~
The next day is the Ministry’s observed holiday. Most of the Abbey’s residents choose to spend it honoring the Olde One in sin with loved ones—eating, drinking, laughing, fucking. You and Secondo are no different, having celebrated the holiday with family and friends at Terzo’s dinner two days prior.
That was the intention of hosting a dinner two days before the holiday. So that one might be able to honor Satan and the unholy observance without having to worry about family coming.
You are absolutely not complaining. You spend the morning sleeping in, held in Secondo’s strong, warm embrace. When you wake, there’s no rush to get out of bed. He apologizes for your sore (and slightly fall-bruised) ass by rubbing and kneading it with gentle hands, pressing kisses down your spine with no sense of urgency or implication of more. You want there to be more, but you have something planned for later.
You aren’t sure how long you’ll be able to wait for later to arrive.
In the weeks leading up to the holiday, he’d told you not to worry about finding a gift for him. He said that you are enough, that spending time with you and just seeing you is enough of a gift. That you’d somehow managed to soothe the harshness in his soul. In his Secondo way of saying those things, which is less sappy. But you know that the sap was there, so you found a gift for him anyway.
The gift, of course, is something practical and utilitarian. Fit for Secondo’s taste but not something he already has. Something you know for a fact he’ll enjoy.
That’s the list of things you’d written in your head when debating whether or not to buy the expensive, green satin lingerie with silver buckles. And of course, you needed a robe to hide it with so he can unwrap his gift.
Although neither of you want to get up from the cozy cocoon of bedsheets you’re tangled in, your stomach begins to growl for breakfast.
“Hungry?” Secondo asks from where his face is nestled against your neck.
“Very,” you say, and make no move to get up. Neither does he.
Your stomach growls again.
“Hush,” Secondo says softly. “I am comfortable.”
After the third growl, you laugh, and Secondo pushes himself off of you to sit upright. “Coffee?”
“Please,” you nod.
When Secondo stands to walk into the kitchen, shirtless and practically glowing in the morning sun coming through the windows, you decide that later can come whenever you like. He can spend all day and night unwrapping his gift over and over and over if he wishes to. You can’t bear to wait.
You slip away with the box containing your robe and underthings and lock yourself in the bathroom. It takes you a few tries to align the straps correctly so you can slip your head and arms through where they’re supposed to go, but the lower portion is more straightforward. The set is simple once it’s situated correctly. There’s a strip of fabric leading up the middle of your chest and around your neck, clasped at the front with a silver buckle, not entirely unlike a collar. The thin straps accentuate your chest and shoulders while still leaving most of your skin exposed for Secondo to leave marks on. The bottoms are strappy as well, with an attached garter belt secured with two silver buckles matching the one on your neck. Observing yourself in the mirror, you feel powerful. You know exactly what this will do to Secondo, and do for him. You feel powerful in the knowledge that you are about to allow him to overpower you.
You only hope the lingerie doesn’t get ripped in the process.
You slip the robe over your shoulders and close it, offering only a peek of the fabric around your neck, and fix your bedhead before exiting the bathroom. You stride into the kitchen like absolutely nothing has changed and find Secondo, gathering ingredients for breakfast and still shirtless. If you hadn’t changed into the set you’re wearing already then you would turn tail and do it now.
But, you steel yourself and enter the kitchen, making a beeline for your favorite mug which he’d filled with coffee. “Thank you, love,” you say softly. You lean against the counter and take a sip. It’s delicious but you couldn’t care less about the coffee right now.
“Amore,” Secondo says lowly once he catches a glimpse of your new robe and the fabric peeking out underneath. “What is this?”
He raises his finger to trace along the strip of fabric running down your chest until it disappears under the robe. “You said not to get anything for you,” you tell him, trying to act like the simple touch isn’t burning your skin. “But, did you really expect me not to?”
“Sathanas, you are sent to me by the Devil himself,” Secondo groans. He takes your mug of coffee from you and places it on the counter. “How must I wait until we have eaten when you…”
You gently take his other hand and intertwine your fingers. It’s not often that Secondo has no words. Your heart pounds in your chest and you’re sure he can feel it beneath his fingertips. “Don’t wait, then,” you say.
Slowly, Secondo traces his hand down your chest, over your sternum and towards your navel where your robe is tied closed. He pulls on the end and the robe falls open, revealing the set of lingerie adorning your skin. You feel his hot, shaky breath fan across your face as he takes in the sight of you. As if in reverence, he gently pushes the robe off your shoulders. It falls at your heels and you’re left bare in front of him, skin hot yet somehow covered in goosebumps. “Sathanas,” he curses again, thanking his maker for you.
Secondo places his hands on your waist and draws you towards him. Your own hands rise to his chest and you find that his heart is beating just as quickly as yours. Your lips meet somewhere in the middle, warm and desperate and passionate. He kisses you like it’s the last time, but also like you’re made of glass. Like he wants to ravage you and worship you at the same time but can’t decide. His tongue licks into your mouth, tracing your bottom lip. He tastes like coffee and Secondo.
You nearly stumble when he begins to push you but you quickly understand his mission. His hands guide you out of the kitchen and towards the bedroom, walking you backwards while his lips never leave your own. “Sathanas,” he groans a third time. He can’t think of anything but you, the feel of you, the taste of you, the sight of you. The only word from his mouth is a prayer at your altar.
Secondo guides you until the backs of your legs hit the mattress, and then he lifts you onto the bed, crawling over you like a predator taunting his prey. Your thighs part on instinct to welcome his body between them. The cool air of the room reaches your aching arousal and you realize that you’re already embarrassingly wet.
His hands slide up and down your sides, to your hips, the tops of your thighs. He traces his fingers over the fabric of the garter belt, snapping the strap against your skin and smirking at the sound. “You are sin,” he growls as he leans down to latch his lips to your neck. “I need you.”
“Take me,” you moan, and your voice comes out more desperate than you intend for it to, but you’re past the point of caring. You want him to know that you need him, too. “Please, Papa. I’m yours.”
Secondo’s mouth trails down your chest, leaving wet kisses and little marks as you’d predicted (and hoped). He finds the hard peak of your nipple through the thin satin and lathes his tongue over it, eliciting another moan from your lips. “Say it again for me, amore. Tell me who you belong to.”
“You, Papa,” you breathe as his teeth gently bite down on your covered nipple. “I belong to you. Only you.”
“Guisto. You are mine and mine alone.”
His mouth moves to your other nipple and, as if to accentuate his statement, he gives it a harder nip. You gasp at the sensation and arch your back into his mouth. “Papa…”
“Hm?” Secondo hums, and the vibrations make you moan once more. “What is it, tesoro?”
You know very well that he knows what you want, but you also know that he wants to hear you say it. “Please, your mouth,” you gasp. Your hands clutch at his shoulders and give an almost imperceptible push downwards. “I want your mouth, Papa, please.”
Secondo licks a path down your midsection. “Già così disperato per me,” he mumbles against the skin just above the garter belt. His lips blaze a path along the strip of fabric, and for the first time you wish it was gone. You’ve had your fill, he’s seen it all, and seen you in it. It can go away now. But, he takes mercy on you, and kisses his way to your pubic mound, also covered by the cursed fabric.
“Oh, amore, you are already dripping for me. I wonder if I can make you cum without taking these off, sì? They are already ruined, what is a little more?”
Secondo places a light kiss over your wetness through the fabric and your hips twitch upwards. Immediately his hands wrap around your thighs and grasp your hips, stilling you. “None of that,” he chides you, and repeats the kiss. You bite your lip to stifle your noises. That earns you a light slap on the outside of your thigh, and you gasp. “None of that either. I want to hear you.”
He licks a broad stripe up the entire length of your slit, humming as he does. Your hips twitch again but they can’t move in his firm grip. Your hands grip the bedsheets as you gasp. “Papa!”
You’re already so worked up that you feel your orgasm beginning to build in your lower belly. His tongue traces slow circles around your clit, sometimes dipping to press at your entrance but never straying for long. The fabric is practically plastered to the form of your core, but it’s not quite enough. It’s thin but it dampens the sensations of his mouth against your flesh just enough for your orgasm to elude you.
“P-Papa, please,” you pant. Your hand finds the back of his head to press him harder to you, but it’s still not enough. “Please, I need more. I’m so close, please…”
“Look at me, dove,” Secondo commands, and you obey. His cheeks are flushed and you can just barely see the shine of your wetness on the tip of his nose. “Look at me as I help you cum.”
He snakes one hand back towards your entrance and lightly presses there, then slowly works his middle finger under the fabric to dip into you. It’s frustratingly shallow, just to the first knuckle, but he knows you’re most sensitive there. His tongue flicks faster on your clit, still covered by the satin yet completely drenched, and you cum. “Papa!”
Your entrance clenches rhythmically around the tip of his finger. He growls and shoves the crotch of your panties to the side, latching his lips around your clit and sucking just as he pushes his finger deep into you. He finds the spot only he knows exists and you see stars as your first orgasm gives way to another, more powerful climax. You tumble down the side of a mountain of pleasure on his tongue and scream.
Secondo works you through the intense pleasure until the aftershocks roll pleasantly up and down your limbs, and your hips twitch up from oversensitivity. He pulls away and licks his lips. “Perfezione,” he says softly, crawling back up your body until he can kiss you properly. “Così perfetto per me. Così forte quando mi vieni sulla lingua.”
You can taste yourself on his tongue. His hands softly stroke up and down your thighs, easing the trembling there. You sling your arms around his shoulders and pull him down so that his chest rests against yours. “Do you like your gift?” you ask when you’ve finally caught your breath again.
“Sempre,” Secondo hums. “Every time I touch you is a gift, amore.”
You lean up to kiss him again, because you don’t want to sully the heat and passion between you by crying at his sudden tenderness. “Let me make you feel good, too,” you whisper against his mouth.
When your hands begin to wander downwards, Secondo rises onto his knees and grasps your wrists firmly. The position mirrors the one you’d found yourself in two days prior, after the cookie incident, and your core clenches around nothing. “All I want is to be inside you,” Secondo growls. The tenderness is replaced by a fiery passion behind his eyes, and his grip on your wrists leaves no room for debate on who is in charge now. You’ve ensnared him with your gift, now he gets to unwrap it.
“Please,” you whimper. “Please, Papa.”
Secondo hastily pulls his sleep pants off and his cock bounces up against his lower stomach. You wish so desperately that you could touch him, trace the trail of dark hair from his chest all the way down to the base of him, but he still has your hands beside your head. “Stay just like this for me, sì?” he asks, but you know it’s not a question and you nod. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your ruined underwear and tugs. “Up.”
You lift your hips and he slides the soaked fabric down your legs and tosses it aside. Your hands, now unrestrained, itch to touch him. “Can I touch you?” you ask, your voice breathy and desperate. You’re hoping he allows it, because if he really didn’t want you to move, there are cuffs in his bedside table that he could have easily used to hold your arms above your head.
“Not yet, amore. You are doing so well for me.”
You whine, but stay still. Secondo parts your thighs again and slots himself between them. The tip of his cock brushes against your swollen clit and you gasp, rutting your hips upward to seek more. But he doesn’t enter you, not yet. You know what he’s waiting for.
“Please, Papa,” you say, canting your hips upward once more to accentuate your words. “I want to feel you, please.”
“Bene,” Secondo hums. “Così buono per me.”
Secondo positions the head of his cock at your entrance, and pushes in slowly. Your back bows off the mattress and you sigh. “Oh, thank you, thank you…”
Inch by thick, delicious inch, Secondo enters you until your hips press together and you can feel the tip of him nudging at your cervix. When he’s fully inside you, he pauses, giving you time to breathe and adjust to his size. You hold his gaze as he strokes your thighs, soothing you, urging you to relax around him. “You may touch me,” he says.
You bring your hands to the skin below his navel to trace along the strip of hair. Usually you like to kiss your way down, leaving little love bites along his happy trail, but both of you had been so desperate for this closeness that you couldn’t prolong the process. His muscles jump and twitch under your light touches. Slowly, you slide your palms up to rest on the sides of his neck and draw him down to kiss you. The shift in angle makes his cock move inside you and he brushes against the spot his middle finger had found just minutes ago, making you clench around him. He groans into your mouth at the sensation.
“Are we going ice skating again tomorrow?” You ask.
Secondo huffs a laugh. “No, amore. I plan to make your legs wobble without having to worry about a sore ass.”
You laugh with him and kiss him once more, then roll your hips against his. “Good.”
He grips you by the hips and begins to thrust shallowly in and out of you. The drag of his cock is divine inside you, and yes, your legs will very much be wobbling tomorrow because you intend to spend all day like this and it is barely breakfast. Your head falls down against the mattress and exposes your neck, yet devoid of marks, to Secondo. And who is he to pass up an opportunity like that?
His lips descend on your pulse point just as he increases his pace. This angle again makes his cock brush against the tender spot on your inner walls and it rips a moan from your throat.
“Sì, amore, let me hear you. Let me hear how I make you feel.”
“Ah, it’s so—so good, Papa, you feel so good inside me—”
Secondo increases his speed again. His teeth gently dig into the skin of your neck and you clench around him, making him growl into your ear. “My little devil,” he rasps. “Who do you belong to? Tell me again.”
“You, Papa! I’m yours!”
“Yes—ah, yes, you are mine. Only mine. Only I can take you like this, capisci? O-only I can make you feel this pleasure.”
Somewhere in the back of your mind you register that Secondo is being particularly vocal this time. His eyes never stray from yours, but his hands are everywhere—your hips, your thighs, your stomach, your chest. His fingers briefly dip into your mouth and you willingly accept them, lathing your tongue over them and tasting the remnants of your juices on his skin. His hips snap against your own, over and over and over, increasing in pace until you bounce back and forth on his cock in time with his thrusts.
With the fingers now covered in your saliva, Secondo brings his fingers directly to your oversensitive clit. Your hands clench onto any part of him you can reach, your fingernails scratching his skin and leaving red trails raised in their wake. You aren’t sure if you’re screaming or completely silent with the overwhelming pleasure. But your eyes feel magnetized to his own, like if you were to look away, the spell would break and the pleasure that’s building between you would dissipate entirely.
“P-Papa,” You gasp, breathless. “I–I’m—”
“Sì, amore mio. Cum around my cock. Cum for me.”
His desperate, almost animalistic command, paired with his fingers abusing your clit and his cock splitting you open so perfectly, send you hurtling over the edge of your climax and your vision goes white. Your entire being, your entire consciousness is centered between your legs and wherever he touches. The rest of you falls away into bliss as Secondo thrusts into you through your orgasm.
You’re still riding the tidal waves of pleasure when Secondo finds his own release, spilling inside you and slowing his thrusts until eventually he stills against you. As your awareness fades back in and your orgasm ebbs away, you realize that your legs are trembling, but so are his. Your chests heave together as you catch your breath. You relish in the warm weight of him on top of you and inside of you, tracing your fingertips up and down his spine.
When he manages to steady himself enough to hold his weight on his arms, Secondo pushes himself up just enough so he can plant soft, tender kisses against your lips. “Amore mio,” he mumbles reverently, “Sei la luce della mia vita.”
“I love you,” you respond just as softly. Though you don’t (yet) understand what he said, you can feel the weight of his words in your heart. He isn’t the type to deliver flowery speeches or long-winded declarations of love, but you know he feels it for you, as you do for him. The two of you don’t need words. It shines through the string lights on the tree in the living room. It wafts through the air on the scent of freshly baked sugar cookies. It follows you in the sound of skates sliding in tandem atop the frozen lake, and in the pleasured cries echoing in the walls of the bedroom.
Your stomach growls, and you feel the rumble of Secondo’s laugh deep in your chest.
Come faccio a cuocere questi biscotti con te che mi tenta? - How am I supposed to bake these cookies with you tempting me?
cena maledetta - cursed dinner
Sei una tentazione...Perché devi essere così allettante quando non posso averti? - You are a temptation...why must you be so tempting when I cannot have you?
Anch’io ti amo - I love you too
Giusto - Right
Tesoro - treasure, sweetheart
Già così disperato per me - Always so desperate for me
Perfezione - Perfection
Così perfetto per me. Così forte quando mi vieni sulla lingua - So perfect for me. So loud when you cum on my tongue
Sempre - always
Così buono per me - So good for me
Capisci - Understood
Sei la luce della mia vita - You are the light of my life
I’ve been obsessed lately with the idea of a papa (any of the 5 bc I can’t choose one), scary, metal, and gothic, as the band’s usual theme. He’s intimidating, singing in deep voices about sinning and satan, about hell and Lucifer.
And yet he finds himself falling in love with a soft indie/folk singer. An Adrianne Lenker or Alex G type if you will. A calm and relaxed voice, singing about nature and love, about adventuring in the woods, or settling down with a loved one. Soft mornings with a cup of tea and a good book, strumming away on an acoustic guitar.
And despite their differences, he finds himself more entranced with this person, slowly falling in love with both them and the softness of their music, of their style. And it turns out that opposites really do attract.
