the thing that drives me mad about Secondo is that, at his core, he loves the shy ones.
the ones that are quiet. the ones that keep to themselves. the enigmas; the ones that are sweet yet confusingly isolated, or the ones that seem confident and self-assured — but are just slightly too practiced in the way they avoid talking about romance or sex.
the ones that are bashful when he knows, deep down, they don’t want to be. the ones that can’t help fearing their own desire. the ones that wall themselves up — unaware that he sees the fractures in the concrete, obsesses over them. daydreams about the softness and the aches that might peek through the cracks.
there’s just a scent to it. the kind that hits him the way blood does a great white. when he gets you alone, it’s purposeful; isolating you from excuses, preventing you from running off. using his voice, his hands, his eyes, his smell while he quietly locks the door. all to keep your brain buzzing and heart racing. to keep you vulnerable. to keep you honest.
so, what is it, then?
blood pounding in your ears, your eyes darting around the room. oh, he loves the way panic looks on you.
what is it you’re hiding? why do you pull away?
is it shame? no, don’t look away. tell him what’s so shameful about this. what’s so shameful about you having needs? pay no mind to the way his voice sinks lower, deep in his chest, or the way his pants are tightening. answer the question, my dove.
the way you avoid his eyes drives him fucking crazy. he’s close, isn’t he? close to cracking that shell? just look at him, guardami, let him see that pretty face, hm?
are you feeling exposed, tesoro? solo da un piccolo contatto visivo? he smirks; you can hardly stand it, looking at him like this, trying so hard to keep cool but nearly fidgeting in place. the attention, his attention, is just so overstimulating and he can’t help but want to fucking torture you with it. til you’re shaking and tearful, the only words coming through your slurred speech being “please” and “I want it.”
but this is just too enjoyable. why rush into stripping you down with his teeth when he can ask you why you’re blushing instead?
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.
⛧ banner art by me (please don't repost) / dividers by me (free to use, please credit) ⛧
The Papas Emeritus have been trying for years to find a prime mover —the one who will carry and birth the Antichrist, and they've now located their newest candidate.
⛧ Read on AO3
⛧ Part 1 / 2 / 3 / 4
Pairing: Papa Secondo / first-person POV
5k words
First person POV has a vulva & vagina / GN (no pronouns used but direct references are made to their anatomy.
Content/Warnings: Non/very dubcon, forced captivity, forced orgasm, PIV sex, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, forced bathing, inescapable Terzo feelings, surveillance, bimboification kinda, Secondo is so so tired.
Dead dove; do not eat.
Thanks to @thunderstorms-and-grape-sodas @haunted-ammonite for proofreading and notes 💚💜
⛧ Without further ado, I present my first (published) Secondo smut.
"Wheel...of...Fortune!"
I sat up and blearily looked around the room. The TV was on, and once my eyes adjusted and focused, I saw a shiny bald head peeking over the top of the sofa. He didn't seem to have noticed me, that I was awake, and I held myself as still as possible to observe. I swept my eyes around the room, looking for anything I could use as a weapon.
The probability of me ever leaving this place was low —probably zero, frankly, but maybe I could ensure one of them never got to leave, either.
I moved out of bed as stealthily as I could and crept across the carpet while keeping my eyes glued on him. The only thing I could silently take in my hands was one of the wooden chairs set at the little table, and I had just picked it up and started stalking toward my intended victim when he coughed and said,
"Bludgeoning me will not get you out of here," in a voice low and surprisingly melodic.
I hissed in annoyance and let the chair slide back to the floor. He glanced over his shoulder at me.
"Shower."
He looked back to his game show and I stomped to the bathroom, sliding the stupid door shut as forcefully as I could, wishing I could properly slam it, but no: even normal avenues of expressing frustration were kept from me here. I sat on the toilet and gripped my head, scratching furiously at my scalp, trying to dig up some skin, some blood, anything about my body that I could control, but when they'd brought me here all my fingernails had been carefully cut and filed down.
There wasn't even a mirror. A mirror could be broken, after all, and they couldn't allow any sharp objects near their precious incubator, could they? If human hands were of no use for sex they probably would have put mittens on me.
The bastard hadn't followed me, at least, and wasn't actively bothering me. When I heard the rustle of his newspaper turning a page, I dared to dream that maybe I could have one single thing. Maybe I could bathe without some fucking stranger present. Maybe Terzo had lied about it being a rule.
He was a liar, after all. I couldn't let myself forget that.
Of course, when I turned the faucet nothing happened. Even the simplest bit of independence-derived joy had to be a hassle. I tried the tub; nothing. The disobedient bits of metal and plastic didn't respond to my hateful glares, and after a minute of chewing the inside of my cheek in irritation, I heaved a sigh and turned to the door. It slid open the moment I reached for it, and the bald man was standing there, newspaper tucked under his arm, looking a little startled himself before his face settled blankly.
"The water-"
"I know." He waved me aside. "Let me." Water poured from the faucet without issue. I stared in disbelief, brow furrowed, trying to puzzle out exactly what the hell he'd done that I hadn't.
"You will not be able to turn the water on," he said, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the shower. He waved toward the stall and said, "Go on," then brushed past me. I stood where I was, watching the water and processing all this, then reached to slide the door closed.
It immediately jammed against something. He was carrying a chair in.
"What are you doing?"
He frowned in annoyance. "What does it look like?"
"I thought..." I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath. "Can I do this by myself, please?"
"No?" He just looked annoyed, as though I was saying something completely absurd. He set his chair down in full view of the shower and sat down. After looking me over, he added, "You know the rules." He flicked his newspaper open and waved toward the shower again.
"Get on with it."
After staring at him for a moment I walked out, immediately followed by the sound of a sigh, his newspaper rustling again, and then the shower turning off.
"Come back." He followed me out of the bathroom, his patience clearly already spent. "You are going to-"
"Fuck off," I snapped. I walked to the other side of my stately cell, but there was nowhere for me to go. I just started pacing across the thick Oriental rug, swerving around him and smacking his hands away.
He sighed again and smoothed his thin mustache. "This ends one way. You have not bathed in two days and I have to fuck you a few times today, so you are going to be cleaned. Whether you cooperate or not is of no consequence to me."
The plainness of his tone was a hard slap in the face, enough to slow to my furious pacing. He looked bored watching me, and tired. Like an older sibling forced to babysit when he'd rather be anywhere else. He wasn't moving, though; not reaching for me anymore, just staring me down with the same unsettling eyes Terzo had, albeit with heavy bags underneath them. Something in the sheer apathy radiating from him made me think —made me hope— he could be persuaded.
"I just want to not feel like I'm in prison, just for a moment," I slowly said, keeping a watchful eye on his expression, "I'm not going to do anything that- I'm not going to try to kill myself or anything, I just want to wash myself without an audience...okay?"
He looked at me in disbelief, like he couldn't understand what exactly I wasn't grasping about the situation. I could practically see the thoughts churning behind those dissimilar eyes and I held a hopeful breath. He nodded toward the bathroom.
"The door stays open."
His stare stayed leveled on me as I almost started crying with relief. He followed me to turn the shower back on, then carried his chair out. Tears actually did spring to my eyes as I got undressed; the privilege of simply being allowed to be naked alone was something I now realized shouldn't be taken for granted, even after only one day of their bizarre rules. I stepped under the water and let it pour over me, seized with unfathomable gratitude at the return of something so simple. Breathing deep, I allowed myself to relax so completely in this brief respite from the hell surrounding me, allowed myself to become so lost in my own head, that I nearly jumped out of my skin when the shower door opened.
"What-"
He immediately pushed me against the cool tile, the coarse hair of his chest and belly scratching against my back. His lips were against my ear, that tidy little mustache tickling in a way that made me shudder.
"You know the rules."
"Y-you said I could-"
"I said the door stays open. Calm."
I whimpered as my legs started shaking, but he kept me on my feet. He took my hands and pressed them firmly against the wall.
"Stay."
Swaying unsteadily but finding myself unable to disobey, I kept myself in place as he commanded, startling when he touched me again. He tugged my head back by my hair, ignoring how I reflexively mewled in fear, and then his fingers were moving across my scalp. Shampooing my hair.
He was a little indelicate, not exactly trying to be gentle with me as he rinsed and moved on to conditioner, but at least he wasn't intentionally hurting me like-
...Like who? There was a blurring around the edges of my vision, and I blinked hard to try and get rid of it. My eyes instinctively shut when the man tipped my head back, more gently this time, and rinsed my hair again. I'd just started to wonder again about what exactly had happened to my vision when his arm went around my waist.
A soft sound left me as a soapy hand began to caress my body, not at all shy about going over my breasts more than necessary and closing his fingers around my nipples. When he spun me around he slipped a lathered hand between my legs, chuckling when I turned my head away and shut my eyes, and he pressed up against me, making sure I felt his cock stiffening against my leg. He'd been leaning in closer this whole time, but until he gripped my chin and made me face him, I hadn't noticed he was shorter than me. He kept my eyes locked on his even as he looked up at me.
"Wet," he breathed, "You like having hands on you, eh?" He laughed when I managed to tear my eyes from his, then slid his fingers over my clit and laughed again when my knees momentarily went soft. "No need to get excited. Just getting you clean for Papa." His fingers pushed inside me, hard and deep, and he began pawing at my breast again with his other hand.
Why does it feel good?
From a great distance away it came back to me: Terzo had done this too. Said something, something that made my brain fuzz out like a rural radio station, something that made me soft and pliant as cookie dough. Just as easily molded.
He said we would talk about it later, but I forgot almost as soon as he said it.
The man pulled me from the cloudy haze I'd been floating through with a sharp tug on my nipple, and I realized I'd been rocking my hips against his hand, mindlessly vocalizing as I practically hung off him.
"You going to come for me, hm? Come for Papa?" he rasped, breathlessly suckling at my neck, and then he bit down on my shoulder hard enough for me to cry out. A moment later he wrapped my hand around his cock and used me to stroke his length even as my legs wobbled. My head fell to his shoulder and I clung to him, crying out in time with his fingers as he dragged me over the edge, so quickly I barely registered its approach.
He murmured some words of praise as I came, the vocal equivalent of a participation trophy given begrudgingly, and I was barely cognizant of him turning me back around until I felt tile against my cheek again. Reality unceremoniously returned when he slid his cock inside me, almost immediately buried to the hilt.
"Making it easy for me," he breathed, "You don't even want it but your cunt still welcomes me in."
It was easy, the path so slick as to be effortless, even standing up, even with how short he was. He roughly groped at my breasts as his cock moved in and out of me, the thick head stroking my inner walls and making my eyes roll back in my head. He was panting against my neck, almost growling by the time his hand slipped back between my legs.
"That's it, there you go, you will be good, yes? You want to be good for Papa, want to be filled up over and over, yes?"
Filling the space around us, his voice echoed in the tiny cell, surrounding me as totally as the hot water pouring over our joined bodies.
What am I doing? I don't want it, I don't want this, but...
Terzo had said I didn't have to fight —"You can admit what your body is telling me..."— and every time one of them touched me, I gave in almost immediately. My own will wasn't just being ignored; it was being overridden. Plucked away from me and destroyed bit by bit. And I was enjoying it. Every time a hard cock was inside me I moaned for more, and whenever I was around Terzo his presence alone made my cunt clench and ache, longing to stretch around whatever he wanted to put inside me.
Is this what I am?
The man had started to grunt each time his hips pounded into me, and I pushed myself back against him to give him a better angle. To fuck me harder and hit the sweet spot in my cunt; the one that Terzo had been the first to find.
Or is this what they're making me?
His hand worked furiously on my clit until I came, and he fucked me through it as I whimpered, "Yes, Papa, thank you, Papa, fuck me, fuck me, Papa, yes-" loudly, pathetically, without even understanding why I was saying it.
He growled again as he filled me with life: hot, and in that moment...wanted.
What am I becoming?
When we were done he wordlessly handed over my robe and toweled himself off. Freshly folded clothes had been placed on the small shelf by the door, left by some unseen servant, and once he'd dressed he returned to the bedroom and finally left me alone. I lingered in the steamy room, pressing my forehead against the wallpaper and letting my eyes cross, letting my vision blur the colorful patterns. Tasteful, pretty pastel shapes rendered nonsensical by their location in —what, the bowels of a dungeon? Where the hell was I, exactly, in this Satanic prison? Sometimes I thought I heard birds; was there a window nearby? Was I just a few feet away from outside, from being able to see the sky?
He called out, "Breakfast," and I rubbed my hands over my face, breathing deeply into the hollow of my palms and trying to stay steady on my still-shaking legs. I jumped at a sudden tug on my sleeve. He just nodded toward the bedroom and disappeared again. So much for leaving me alone.
Sipping coffee in the same chair he'd tried to supervise me from, legs crossed and back to reading his damn newspaper, he didn't even spare me a glance when I sank into my seat. I picked at my food as I studied him, taking in a face aged with the kind of lines etched by decades of stress. A neat, well-groomed mustache and a prominent nose sat over full, shapely lips; the only feature he had in common with his brother. That and the unsettling eyes. And being on a mission to come inside me as much as possible, of course. I squirmed in my chair, still wet, still feeling what he'd left in my cunt.
Nausea crashed over me like a wave. He had no right —none of them did, yet I couldn't bring myself to fight back every second they were touching me. Just being near one of them should have had me in an unstoppable rage, but no.
I just sat and quietly ate with one of the men trying to forcibly impregnate me.
When I finished my food he cleared his throat and asked, "Is there anything you would like to do today?" He sounded bored again, and still wasn't looking at me, but he sounded like he was attempting to be pleasant.
"I would like to leave," I said, numbly. It felt like I'd said it fifty times now, but a useless question warranted an equally useless answer.
"Anything that can actually happen?" He folded up his paper and lazily tossed it onto the table. "I am supposed to, eh, keep you entertained." I clenched my jaw and curled my fingers tightly around my spoon.
"Nothing comes to mind." They wouldn't even give me forks. Kindergartners were trusted with more than me.
"My brother told me you are very easy to keep busy," he said, taking another sip of coffee, a faint smirk visible on his face when I couldn't keep my expression neutral.
Was that all Terzo was doing, really? Trying to pacify me? I thought of the fervent happiness that simmered in his eyes when he looked at me and felt a lump rise in my throat. Was he really just pretending?
A part of me knew for certain that he was, but something else immediately rebelled against that thought. Could anyone pretend so well?
"Of course, he is willing to spend the entire day being sweet, and that sort of patience, well..." He downed the rest of his coffee. "We can't all be romantics these days, you know?"
He stood and walked to the bathroom again, absentmindedly telling me to get on the bed. I complied, slowly, turning the words over in my mind as I laid down on the newly-made bed, breathing in the peculiar herbal smell that all the fresh laundry seemed to have in this place.
A romantic?
I had wondered just how many times Terzo comforted some other captive in this very room. Maybe he acted like that with all of them. Maybe he really was just...like that.
The man came back holding the same bottle of oil Terzo had used on me and said, "Robe."
Looking into his blank, tired eyes, I couldn't find the will to push back. It was almost like a vision of the future, the way I so clearly saw how my resistance would only exasperate him. He lacked Terzo's patience with me, and something in how neutral he obviously felt regarding me just...made it easier to go along with it.
His hands were brisk and businesslike, my skin left warm and tingling in their wake. It was insulting in its own way, how he worked —like I was a piece of livestock he was simply tending to in the course of his daily chores. Lingering on my breasts for a few seconds was the only indication that his feelings weren't strictly professional. He moved on quickly, though, and after the confusing maelstrom that was Terzo's questionable motivations and obvious interest, it was a relief to simply relax. It was nice to not think, however briefly.
The bald man wasn't gentle, but he was handling me with some mindfulness beyond the bare minimum of care. Like I was an antique, but a sturdy one. Something requiring a careful touch, but more from a sense of bland respect than fragility.
Something still not seen as a full human, but maybe something adjacent.
When he moved me onto my belly it really seeped in: actual soothing restfulness, decompression, and tranquility. Terzo had almost put me to sleep like this, and I felt myself sinking into that kind of peace again, not even stirring when he smoothed his hands up my thighs and over my cheeks. I dimly heard the bottle being set back on the nightstand, heard his palms rubbing together, and then he slid his hand between my legs. The warm feeling came almost immediately, and I startled.
"Wait, that's-" I tried to twist away but his hand was on my back, insistently keeping me in place. "There- there's ginger in that, and-"
"So?"
"So it's going to burn," I snapped, still trying to squirm away from him, my passivity vanishing in an instant, "Stop it."
"You will be fine." His fingers slid easily through my folds, spreading me and the oil both as I kept trying to free myself. "Sit still," he hissed in annoyance, "You think we would burn the most important part of you?"
"Fuck you," I spat, trying to kick him, kick myself away, and he pressed his weight down onto me to keep me in place.
"We need your cunt healthy. There is no point to you if you can't take our seed. Is it burning you right now? Hm? Or is it just making you more hot and wet than usual?"
"F-Fuck you," I said, flushing scarlet as I realized he was right. He worked his hand between us, sliding his fingers through the wetness already gathering there.
"You are going to sit still until I say we are done. You need to learn that we will spend as much time in you as we want."
My back arched at his words, my mutinous body making me push my ass up against him with a whimper, making my cunt throb when I felt how hard he was again. He snickered.
"I think you are a quick learner, eh?"
"Fuck you," I whispered.
"My brother said you are promising," he mused, easing his body off me just enough to more easily sink his fingers into my cunt, aching with need once again. "No one else has ever gotten so wet so easily, or been so turned on taking all of us." I shuddered, trying to keep a sudden wash of tears trapped behind my eyes where they couldn't embarrass me.
They were hateful, every single one of these men. They were all liars who would say anything to convince me that-
"You are right where you belong."
His hand was still working, less for the sake of pleasuring me than to spread the oil everywhere he could, generously coating every shameful, throbbing bit —the most important part of me— and leaving me hot and tingling. Only occasionally grazing my clit, his fingers only plunging into me when he felt like it; that was enough to make my hips chase his touch as I desperately whined into the mattress.
"Want Papa to fill you up again? Hmm? You want to be a good little thing and take some more?"
"Nng-" I bit back the words —disgusting things like yes and yes please and please, Papa— even as I continued to rut against his hand. He smacked the back of my thigh and laughed at the wanton sound that tore out of me. Tears burned hot, catching in my eyelashes and blurring everything but the feel of his hand hitting me again. It was incomprehensible to me, why it felt good. I'd always been...well, a bit wimpy when it came to anything like this, never enjoying even a light spank during sex, and now not only did I like it, I wanted it harder.
The mattress shifted under him as he moved fully on top of me, and when I felt him undoing his pants I bucked my hips back against him without even realizing it. He slid inside me with a groan, worming an arm under me to grab at my tits again before swinging his hips forward.
Things were being said, degrading words thrown my way, but thankfully he didn't want or even expect an answer, not really. It was so easy to ignore him and simply let his cock drown him out, each deep stroke inside me accompanied by the sinful sound of his skin slapping against mine.
It felt good, the things he was doing to me, but in a strange, distant way. Even stronger than the pleasure, though, was the apathy. Bringing myself to care that he was using me like this was deemed both unimportant and simply too much effort.
I came easily, accepting his seed like the warm, willing soil he obviously saw me as.
It just didn't matter.
He wasn't much of a conversationalist, this one. After the near-ceaseless chatter of his treacherous, lecherous brother it should have been a relief, but when he sat me down next to him on the couch I was instead locked in a dull, peculiar anxiety as we just sat and watched TV.
For such a small man he was somehow all legs, just like Terzo, and he stretched them out to rest his feet on the coffee table. He was just as neatly-tailored as Terzo as well, with the hands folded in his lap swathed so tightly in black leather. At one point I'd opened my mouth to ask about that, why they all wore gloves, but the question died on my tongue.
I managed to ask him one thing: what they were drugging me with, and that earned only a shrug in response. I never received a satisfactory answer in this place. Sitting placidly next to him and watching daytime TV was just...easier.
Sometimes when I had a few minutes alone I could think straight —well, straighter— and wonder what exactly the point of all this was. Terzo obviously spent the day with me because he wanted me to like him, but this one was merely present, barely even sparing me a glance. At every possible moment, Terzo had his hands on me, but his brother was completely aloof and hadn't touched me since leaving the bed.
Another thing I wanted to ask was why he was bothering to keep me company in the most boring and bare-minimum way possible, and it was another thing I couldn't be bothered to ask. On the rare occasion he made eye contact, the indifference radiating from him kept me quiet.
I didn't understand it, why I felt so passive in his presence. Why, when he wearily said, "Alright, back onto the bed," a few hours later, I simply obeyed.
"I am going to make you come a few times," he said, shucking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. "Would you prefer my hands or mouth?"
The words, "I'd prefer you leave me alone," came out of me —where that minor resistance emanated from was a mystery to me— and he sighed.
"Mouth, then." He undid a few buttons of his shirt before settling between my legs, pushing them apart and smirking when I looked away. "You can just close your eyes and pretend I am...someone else." Those tired eyes of his were plenty amused as he said it, lingering on the implication of who else I might think of.
There was no gentle lead-up, no teasing introduction, just gloved hands spreading me open and then his mouth on me. I'd assumed he'd want to just get it over with, but no, he was drawing it out in his own way. Tongue darting out like a snake's, tiny little lashes that made my hips twitch closer to him, stuffing his fingers inside me for only a few moments before retreating and sliding through my folds, slick fingers following the curve of my body before sliding inside me again, avoiding my clit for an agonizing length of time. The sound of desperate relief I made when his tongue finally stroked my clit directly made him pull away and laugh.
"Still want me to leave you alone?" He slipped another finger inside me before I could answer, laughing again as he returned to the task at hand.
Where Terzo's tongue had felt like love, something gladly and freely given, this one's felt almost contemptuous. Not unpleasant, but something happening only on his terms; for his own sake rather than mine. Something ostensibly done for my pleasure, but done to me, not for me.
I still enjoyed it.
Being reduced to a mere extension of his ego didn't bother me in the moment; all I wanted was for his tongue to stay on me. It was the only thing breaking through the haze of cool detachment that had settled so thickly over me in his presence. I was still detached, though; enough that when I did think of someone else, it wasn't immediately repulsive to me.
No, the thought of full lips curving into a sweet, knowing smile as they skimmed across my body, that wasn't rejected. Nor the memory of a touch satin-soft and smooth, even without gloves, or a face buried in the crook of my neck, the scent of sandalwood caught in the raven hair against my cheek. A hoard of so many sense-memories collected in barely a day, all revisited as tears spilled, as his brother worked to his own end between my legs.
I couldn't purposely push the thought of him away; it only left when I unthinkingly moved my hands down, stretching my fingers out in search of inky, silken hair and finding only bare skin. I recoiled and he slowed, perhaps needing a moment for that ego to reassert itself, and then he truly did set out to punish me. There was plausible deniability, of course —not that anyone who mattered would accuse him of wrongdoing— but how aggressively he tongued my clit would have communicated his temperament even if I hadn't caught his eye and found them locked on mine in a silent, angry challenge.
He didn't care when I wanted him to stop, when I tried to kick away from the overstimulation, when I begged for mercy and for it to just end. His fingers dug in so roughly that I would have bled if his hands were bare, and I was still so weak that I couldn't fight him off. He didn't stop until I was crying, and the only rest I got was the amount of time it took him to loosen his belt and push his cock into me. All the apathy and listlessness of the previous hours was finally banished, and what came rushing back now was far too much.
Everything about it felt wrong. It was wrong, obviously, nothing about my circumstances was as it should be, but even as my personal paradigm had so wholly shifted, some things had realigned properly in my short time here. In this moment, though, nothing was right.
A smooth scalp where there was supposed to be thick black hair, a low, rough voice speaking no sweet words and panting in the wrong time, what I'd always thought of as "generic masculine scent" where there should have been something complex and exotic, hands rough and impatient at my breast, in my mouth, between my legs.
Terzo had treated my tears like a part of me, kissing them as tenderly as he did my lips, not seeing them as something to deal with, not banishing them outright, but helping them leave. His brother didn't even see them, because he didn't see me.
When he finished with me, he made me look into his eyes as he stayed on top of me. I had stopped crying, foolishly assuming myself to be too hollowed out to care anymore, but tears came rushing back when he spoke, a triumphant smile on his face as he breathlessly asked,
"Why would we ever leave you alone?"
𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 💜
If this felt a little light on Secondo characterization, rest assured that was an intentional choice. He'll be getting more thoroughly examined in future chapters :]
Hope you enjoyed my first (published) Seco smut 💚💜
If you enjoyed Mr. Secondo being so so tired and also have a spare dollarydoo or two, I have a ko-fi 👍
Get tagged, beloveds (And as usual, please do tell me if you don't want to be tagged on an ongoing noncon series): @angellayercake @haunted-with-ink @a-ghoulish-sister-of-sin @ghuleshbabe @a-perpetual-rise @copiaspet622
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.
I had several different thoughts while reading this fic by @bethbruttenholm and as per typical me it became necessary to enlist the help of some visual aides.
If you’re a smutty Secondo fan I encourage you to give it a read because, yowza
"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.
