#papa x reader

[ghostchems]

my inbox is open for very small requests similar to this one.

please consider the kinds of things i write before submitting 🙃

[goldieghoulie]

Words: 734 Rating: Teen Relationship: Any Papa x gn!Reader Summary: Goading your Papa is generally a bad idea, doesn't mean it doesn't thrill you though AO3 link: Run, volpe, run Divider: @gothdaddyissues

"I think we're lost," Papa admits, wry resignation coloring his tone. The light of the streetlight shimmers in his hair as his head swings back and forth between the two street signs marking the intersection.

You chew your lip, good sense fighting and loosing as you reply, "it's all your fault."

He stills. Fear or excitement—it's hard to separate those when it comes to this man—skitters down your spine as he so slowly turns his focus to you, eyes flashing in his painted face.

"My fault?" he purrs.

You swallow hard but nod.

"How exactly is it my fault?" he presses.

"You— you lured me into that alley," you say, doing your best to get the words out as a statement instead of a question.

He steps closer and into shadow. Without the assurance of his expression, you adrenaline ratchets higher.

His voice is surprisingly intimate when he asks, "did I, now?"

"Yes," you say, voice trembling. "I said we should get in the limo, you were the one who asked where my sense of adventure was."

Your blood rushes in your ears as you wait for his reply, and when a slow, soft laugh answers you you take a quick step back. His tsk echos off of the shuttered buildings.

"And where's that adventure now?" he taunts. "Running from your Papa?"

"No," you lie.

Another soft laugh.

"No," you try again, "why would I run from you?"

"Why indeed?" he murmurs, finally emerging from the darkness and into the wan light you're standing in. The expression on his face—a curl to his lips but the humor not quite reaching his eyes—doesn't settle your nerves. "I think it was you who pulled us off our path."

"What?" you gasp.

"Sì. With those glances and touches and whispered desires, how could I say no, la mia piccola volpe?"

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. It's true that you had been doing your best to drive him wild all night, but you had only thought it fair as he'd been doing the same to you—though you couldn't say whether intentionally or not. Still, it had been your fingers tugging teasingly at the waistband of his trousers that had finally caused him to snap and drag you off into the alley.

"You could have said 'yes' in the limo," you finally stutter out.

"Ah, ah," he chides, "as if you didn't like it against the wall. Your blood sang from the thrill of discovery and sweetened your cries."

"You—"

"Your blood is still singing now, are you not satisfied?" His head tilts and his white eye glows far brighter than a simple reflection from the streetlights should allow.

This.

This is what had attracted you to him in the first place, what keeps drawing you back. There's something off, different, more about him and you're never sure if it wants to ravish you or devour your. You're decently confident you'd enjoy either.

"I'm satisfied," you say, voice only just above a whisper. Your eyes slide off of his, as if that will make him believe your lies. "Let's just go home."

"Home?" He moves closer, and you retreat until your back is pressed against a wall and you're both swallowed in shadows. He's just an outline now and though he's not touched you, you know you're boxed in. "And ruin our fun?"

"We could have fun there."

"È possibile," he allows, then leans even closer. You feel his breath caress your neck as he exhales and then draws a deep breath. "But would your heart beat so we were back in your room? If you knew that you were safe? If I couldn't chase you when you ran?"

A choked noise clenches your throat. He's right, back at the Ministry people—or ghouls more likely—would stop him, rein him in, hold him back. But here on this mystery street in this maze of old cobblestones there's no one. If you ran, he would chase—and he wouldn't be gentle went he caught you. Desire coalesces in your stomach.

"Well?" he presses.

You take a deep breath, shove him away, and then run. Despite the harshness of your breaths and the growing distance between you, you still hear his laugh—and then his footsteps as he gives chase.

[goldieghoulie]

Cornflakes

Words: 449 Rating: T (suggestive) Relationship: Any Papa x GN!Reader Summary: Cornflakes are supposed to be the antithesis of horny, and if only they didn't crunch so loud you might have a chance of keeping your mind from wandering to what else Papa might be willing to bite… AO3 link: Cornflakes

@discountdemonwarehouse sent me this No Nut Kinkvember post and goaded me into the cornflakes prompt. You can thank/blame her for this nonsense 😂💛

Divider: @gothdaddyissues

"I am about ninety-five percent sure that Papa would bite you if you just asked."

"No, no, it's fine," you assured your friend, trying to focus on their voice instead of the crunching you could hear coming from the high table. "I can- it's just- I'll be fine."

"Mm-hm," you friend replied, their disbelief evident in their voice. You tried to rally a response when an especially loud crunch rang out. Tingling shivers skated down your spine and you let out a slow breath. It wasn't the crunching, exactly, that you found so distracting. It was the thought of Papa's jaw working, his strong, white teeth obliterating the offending cereal—and the thought of those teeth pressing into your own flesh.

"How you can be so hot and bothered as a man eats dry, plain cornflakes is beyond me," you friend drawled before taking a large spoonful of their yogurt. You gave a half-hearted chuckle.

"It would be so much easier if I wasn't," you replied.

"Aren't cornflakes supposed to be the anti-horny cereal?"

You shrugged and make yourself eat some of the eggs on your plate. You barely tasted them as you tried to command your body to behave and your mind not to conjure images of Papa smiling so mischievously before lowering his head and—

"I think he's done," your friend said, and your head whipped around to confirm it. Sure enough Papa was standing from the table and one of the Siblings assigned to kitchen duty was coming to collect his bowl. You felt your shoulders relax as you quickly turned back around to focus again on your food. You couldn't quite decide if you were relieved or disappointed that the sweet torture was over.

"He's coming this way, just ask him," your friend urged.

"No," you whispered back.

"Come on."

"I can't!"

"Why not? This ministry encourages sin—"

"I can't just ask Papa to bite me," you hissed. your voice louder than you meant it. Your friend smirked, and you felt your stomach drop. Knowing what you'd find, you slowly turned to see Papa had stopped at your table, a look you couldn't quite decipher on his face.

"A pity, Sibling," he purred, "I'm sure you'd bruise so beautifully too."

A strangled noise came out of your throat.

"If you change your mind, I am free after three this afternoon," he added, before giving a small nod to your friend and continuing his exit.

"How could you?" you hissed at your friend, then buried your face in your hands.

"Pff, as if you won't be in his office at three sharp," your friend scoffed, and you couldn't quite manage a rebuttal because you knew they're right.

[imperabug]

*:･ﾟ✧someone’s flesh is rotting tonight✧･ﾟ:*

a reader x papa v gothic romance

chapter seven: he gathers lambs in his arms

chapter excerpt:

"Did you think I'd forgotten about you, vita mia?" 

All you can bring yourself to say is, "I thought you'd abandoned me again." You can feel your heartbeat in your injured hand, pounding away as you expose the small, soft animal hidden behind your ribs. 

"Abandoned you?" Death looks almost offended, one gloved hand lifting to Its chest, clutching invisible pearls. "I would never," It says with heartbreaking sincerity, toying idly with one of Its gloves, as if It's nervous. "I have been beside you since the day you were born. I have no intention of going where I cannot see you."

continue reading on ao3

taglist: @geastherat, @jacebeleren, @ghoulonthemoon, @anamelessfool, @dem0nteef, and @saintbowie

[goldieghoulie]

yo! new chapter of Bartender of Big E's is out! Copia girlies (gender neutral) go read a vampire AU slow burn about Reader falling in love with him. ya know you wanna 🧛‍♂️

[goldieghoulie]

Under the Holly

Summary: It may not be mistletoe, but you still get your kiss anyways

Relationship: Terzo/GN!Reader

Rating: General Audiences (this was supposed to be spicy, instead it's just sweet)

Word count: 1k

Read on AO3 here

or in full below the cut

"That's not mistletoe," you sigh out, pinching the bridge of your nose between your thumb and forefinger as you will away the headache trying to form. This is a Satanic clergy, why in His name were you decorating for Christmas?

"Sure it is," the ghoul holding an armful of plant matter assures you.

"It's not," you counter.

"It is."

"It's—" you stop yourself and raise your head to pin them with a stare. "Why are you so sure it is?"

"It's got berries. Papa Primo said it'd have berries."

"And did Papa Primo tell you what color those berries would be?"

"White!"

"And what color are those berries?"

"Uh," the ghoul stutters, dropping their attention to the plants in their arms. "White?"

"They're red."

Their head whips up. Surprise, and you'll be damned if you don't think it's genuine, widens their eyes. "Red?"

"Yes," you confirm. "Very."

"Oh, I see." They deflate, and you feel the anger you were harboring for them slip from you in the process.

"Just put it on the table," you say, doing your best to soften your tone. "It's not mistletoe, but holly is still festive. I'll find something to do with it."

"Alright," the ghoul says, dejectedly doing as you command.

"Thank you for trying," you force out. "And perhaps you should consider getting your eyes checked."

They nod their head and turn to trudge out of the room. You bite your lip to stop you from calling out and trying to make things better. You aren't honestly sure you could manage that, given that you're stewing over having another task added to your already long decorating list. You would need to find mistletoe yourself, otherwise you would never hear the end of it—not in this clergy.

You clench your jaw, but then force yourself to release it. As much as you want to give up and return to your real tasks, the request to decorate for Christmas had come from the upper echelons. You had better keep on. You gather a couple of sprigs of the holly, careful of the prickly leaves, and then head towards the ladder still set up from where you had just been hanging lights. It will look festive, it will be fine, you assure yourself as you climb the ladder and set to work.

"Bellissima!" a voice calls, startling you. You drop the holly from one hand and grip the ladder as it shakes under you. Slowly, you turn your head to watch Papa Terzo walk into the room, face alight as he takes in your progress. "This, this is Christmas spirit, no?"

"Uh, yes," you agree, pieces clicking into place in your brain. You had been so ready to be angry at whoever ordered this, but you could never be angry at Papa Terzo. Now eager to be off the ladder, you turn to back to your work and listen as Terzo's footsteps grow closer.

"Ah, and all this mistletoe," you hear him purr from near your hip, "the siblings will have such fun with it."

"This isn't mistletoe," you point out, bracing yourself as you pause to look down at him.

"It's not?" he asks, eyes twinkling just as you'd expected, and your heart flutters in response. For as much as you tried to prepare yourself, you knew you're no match for those eyes.

"It's not," you say and force yourself to turn back to the sprig you had been working on. You finish securing it, then carefully start down the ladder. "It's holly."

"Holly jolly?"

"Mm," you agree, finding your footing on solid ground again. You turn to get the next sprig and continue your work, but Terzo's question freezes you in the spot.

"Does that mean I can't kiss you under it then?"

Your breath leaves you in a gust and you feel your brain scrambling for purchase. Sure, you'd thought about kissing the devilishly handsome Papa before…but did that mean he'd thought about kissing you too? Or was he just flirting; looking for some banter and a quick conquest?

Did you really care?

"It means you don't have to," you finally say carefully. You allow your eyes to shift back to his, and again fall under their spell. The playfulness is there, but there's also something else you can't quite name.

"You never have to kiss anyone," Terzo says, sincerity dripping from his tone. He take a step closer, and you grip the ladder tighter in response. "The mistletoe just gives us, eh, an excuse to act on our impulses."

You lick your suddenly dry lips, and Terzo's eyes dart down to watch the motion. "And you impulsively want to kiss me?"

"No."

"Oh," you say, straightening up and shaking your head. That hurt, but then you had been a fool to think that a Papa wanted you. "Right. Well, I'm going to get mistletoe later, but I'm sure you can still kiss—"

Terzo's hand wraps over yours where you're still gripping the ladder. The leather of his glove is soft against your skin, and warm from his own heat. "I meant only that it wasn't an impulsive desire. It's a desire I've had for quite some time."

"What?" you whisper, thoughts slow to catch up. You can't quite pull you attention from where his hand envelops yours until his other hand comes to pinch your chin, the prick of the nail on his glove assuring you that you haven't fallen off the ladder and into a dream.

"I've wanted to kiss you for quite some time," he continues, eyes meeting your own so you can see the truth there. "It's why I asked for you to have this task. I hoped I might find you under the mistletoe and have my chance."

"You didn't need the mistletoe," you confess. "You could have kissed me whenever you wanted."

"Does that mean I can kiss you now?"

"Please," you breathe, and then his lips are there to steal your next breath.

[goldieghoulie]

The Bartender of Big E's

Summary: Communing with the dead always leaves you cold. Literally. And when the only place to get a cup of coffee this late is the kitschy dive bar at the edge of town, well, beggars can't be choosers. You realize quickly that something's off about this bar, but the bartender sure does have nice eyes, and the coffee isn't half bad. So, despite your misgivings, you find yourself relying more and more on the bartender of Big E's.

Relationship: Copia/Reader (atm Reader is gender neutral but with feminine Italian endearments e.g. bella)

Rating: Teen

Word count: ~14.5k

The Writers Ghuild prompt for this month go away from me...sorry not sorry?

Read The Bartender of Big E's on AO3 here

or a snippet below the cut

Communing with the dead always leaves you cold. Literally. Not a numbing, shivering cold, but the sort of cold that seeps deep into your bones. The sort of cold that you only manage to banish after a hot bath or a night under your thickest duvet. Both the bath and the duvet are more than an hour away, the road to them dark and twisting and hugged tight by the tall trees that blanket this landscape. As much as you want your bath, you know you aren't ready for the drive. You need something warm to curl your fingers around, and maybe a caffeine hit to help keep your eyes open, so you pull open the door and step into the bar.

You'd seen the sign for Big E's when you'd come into town. It had still been light then, and you'd rolled your eyes at the campy, blasphemous logo and and facade. Someone had tried to make the unassuming rectangle of the building into something more gothic; fake stone had been added, ivy tried to grow, something that was supposed to be stained glass, but was obviously just a painting, had occupied the wall facing the parking lot. In the daylight, it had been almost pathetically fake. You've seen better Halloween decorations. But at night, with the only light coming from the nearly full moon and the one functioning streetlight, you could almost let yourself believe.

The door opens easily at your pull, and you are hit with the smell of beer and peanuts. It's warm inside, the result of being surprisingly full despite the fact that it's Tuesday night—or, as your eyes flicker over a grandfather clock crammed in next to the jukebox—Wednesday now. Customers sit in small groups across the hodgepodge of seating options, even on the small stage shoved against the wall across from the bar. The bar itself occupies an entire wall and is intimidatingly solid. It's wooden, large, and has a carved, molded edge that makes it feel like it had been pulled from an old western saloon.

No one has noticed your arrival. The hum of conversation never pauses and what space silence may have occupied has been pushed out by the classic rock coming from the jukebox. You chose to see that as a good thing. You weren't here for any of the usual reasons someone might wander into the a bar—to get drunk or to make friends or find a bed partner—no, you only wanted a cup of coffee. As hot as they could make it.

Your shoes stick slightly to the floor as you weave through the tables to make your way to the bar. You stop in front of it, hesitating a moment before hoisting yourself up onto a stool in the approximate middle. Only two men sit at the bar with you. They are seated at the far end, as far from the door as possible, and you are surprised to see cards laid out before them as you glance down the bar. They both face resolutely forward, each focused on the cards in front of them. You watch them each flip cards, move some that were already turned up, and then flip some more. It isn't any game of solitaire you recognize, but then you are hardly an expert. You figure the game must have ended as they each tidy the cards and begin shuffling them. The man nearer you reaches into his jacket and something flashes on the bar. You lean forward and spy a large coin being pushed from one to another. Though you burn with questions, you pull your eyes away as they begin laying out the cards again. There are questions you'd rather not people ask you, you owe that much to these men too.

Your eyes scan over the bottles and equipment behind the bar looking for a coffee machine, any coffee machine, but your survey is cut short as the service door behind the bar swings open and a man steps out. He stops when he sees you, eyebrows raising slightly in surprise, before he smooths his face into a practiced, amicable, service expression.

"What can I get you?" he asks, an accent you can't quite place coloring his words. You watch him stride the small distance to you, power and ease obvious in every step, until he comes to stop on his side of the bar. His hands rest on the bar, and he leans forward slightly to study you, enough that the light catches on his left eye and you pull in a breath. It is white, no iris as far as you can tell, only a black pupil that is surprisingly small for the low light of the bar.

Unease creeps down your spine. There are things that could leach the color from a eye—amongst other body parts—but few of them are good. Few of them are things people live to tell about. You would know.

"You look cold," the bartender says after a long moment. You swallow down the fear and urge to run. This man, if he is only that, has done nothing to you. This is a public space. You need that coffee.

"I am," you force out. "I'd like some coffee."

His mouth twitches, but then he nods and pushes off the bar. "Not a common drink request. I'll have to make a fresh pot."

"That's fine," you assure him, simply happy they have coffee at all. He nods again, and moves down the bar to where you now see a small, domestic coffee machine sitting. With his focus on making coffee, you take the opportunity to study him, looking for any clue as to what took the color from his eye—and what it might have left in return. Your eyes trace over the sandy hair, the strong nose that is all the more proud and straight in profile, the sideburns that sharply cut his face and emphasize his cheekbones. He's dressed in all black; black pants held up with suspenders and a black button down that he's rolled up the sleeves on. He's handsome, you realize, as you look beyond his shocking eye. You aren't sure that's a welcome realization.

He presses the on button on the machine and you fumble for a nearby menu. You pick up the laminated piece of paper, but get no further than trying to understand what is in a "Mummy Thrust"—surely it can't be all absinthe—before he's in front of you again.

[goldieghoulie]

Fountain Fallout

Summary: As if being extorted by Primo wasn't bad enough, you end up in the fountain after discovering Terzo heard all of your drunken revenge plotting. Thankfully, Terzo doesn't laugh. In fact, he's ever so willing to help get you clean and relaxed

Relationship: Terzo/F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word count: ~8k

A part of the Valedictorian Reader series (those of you who liked Top of the Class last month, come get some more of the same Reader)

Read Fountain Fallout on AO3 here

or a teaser snippet below the cut

"It's just—" you stumbled slightly, the fairy lights coupled with the few lights from the windows doing little to illuminate the dark garden path. You caught yourself quickly, and stood stock straight, as much to prove to yourself as Elias behind you that you were fine. Just fine. Then resumed your walking. "It's just not fair. I was my idea!"

You stomped in angry silence around the final curve into the large fountain on this side of the hedge maze. Though, maze was perhaps more a flattering name than a reflection of the difficulty of the paths. Still, it always proved to be an ideal place for siblings to find some privacy—either to engage in moderately discrete displays of affection, or because they didn't want what they were saying to be overheard. You were in the latter camp at the moment.

You stalked towards the fountain, the crunch of steps behind you assuring you that Elias was following. You made it to the fountain edge took a moment to hate the peaceful splash and play of the water. Even though they turned off the central spray at night, smaller bubblers still moved the water in the large pool at the bottom, causing the reflections from the fairy lights to dance across the surface. You scowled as you drained the rest of your drink from the plastic cup you held. What has started as a well justified indulgence after the day you'd had, had turned into several more, and you were feeling the looseness—both physical and mental—that accompanied that.

"The snail races were my idea! I was the one who put up the posters and make the track and recruited the contestants. Don't!" you said, holding up your hand to forestall Elias' usual retort about how difficult "recruiting" a bunch of snails was. When you heard nothing from behind you, you continued. "It may not be that hard but still, I was the one that did it. Not Primo."

Your hand clenched, the plastic crinkling slightly. You forced your hand to loosen and the cup gave a satisfying pop as it rebounded to it's original shape. You repeated the clench and pop several more times as half formed thoughts tumbled about in your head.

"We should do something," you finally blurted, and began walking the perimeter of the round fountain before Elias could naysay you, though the sound of his footsteps told you he was still following. "I doesn't have to be a big something, just something to prove to Primo that we're not siblings to be trampled on. Ideas?"

Silence greeted you. Typical.

"Fine," you sighed. "I'll come up with the plan all on my own. Like the snails!"

You heard a stifled laugh behind you and your shoulders straightened. He thought this was funny? This was twenty five percent of your profits you were talking about. And he wasn't the one who had to scrub Primo's floors tomorrow.

You groaned at that realization. You raised your cup to your mouth for another drink and pouted at it when you found it was empty. You deserved another drink for your efforts tomorrow. Payment in advance, your mind insisted. But, instead of going back to the still going post-race celebrations, you continued your circuit of the fountain and pulled yourself back to your current problem.

"Maybe we can use the snails," you said slowly, not entirely confident in the idea. "I could figure out which plant is his favorite and cover it in snails."

Elias hummed behind you.

"You're right, it's not fair to the snails," you sighed. "I can't put them in danger like that. And Primo is a danger, I'm sure of it. I was all ready for him to hate snails, and I swear—on Satan's left nipple—that they didn't bother him at all. He went all ominous, like he does…have you ever talked to him?"

Elias hummed again.

"Yeah, I hadn't either until today. He was so, so, so…MEAN."

Another muffled laugh.

"Ha ha, laugh it up," you scoffed, kicking a large pebble and enjoying the noise as it skittered over the gravel path. "You weren't the one who had to talk with him. I'm never going to one of his services again."

Another hum, though this one sounded a great deal like a suppressed laugh.

"I'm not! I'll only go to Papa Terzo's services from now on. He's the best, most dreamy, most sinful Papa after all!" you declared with a nod. Elias coughed behind you. You rolled your eyes. "Fine, okay, I know that's not reasonable. Papa Secondo's lecture series is very good, and I did enjoy Papa Copia's sermon about pride the other day. Which!"

You stopped in your tracks, the foot steps skidded behind you and you braced to be bumped into, but somehow Elias caught himself.

"Why is my pride being punished!? Or my greed? Is is so wrong to be a strong, independent, snail race magnate?"

A hum.

"Exactly!" you cheered. You chewed your lip and resumed your route, moving on to your…you weren't sure how many laps you had now done of the fountain. More than three? That felt right. "So, if I can't sacrifice snails to Primo's dark ways, what can I do to get back at him? Do I?…no, no that's bad. I want to cause him inconvenience not pain."

An encouraging hum.

"Right, so, no laxatives in his coffee. Besides, at his age, they might be appreciated."

A bark of laughter behind you. You smiled at your own joke.

"Do you supposed he's like Papa Terzo and drinks the fancy, imported beans?"

A beat of silence.

"Don't judge! I know you know the type of food Papa Copia gets for his rats," you chastised, smug at the continuing silence behind you. "So, assuming Primo's, you know, Italian, maybe I just substitute whatever he usually drinks with the cheapest stuff the Ministry buys."

A muffled laugh.

"And it works either way!" you continued, encouraged. "If he notices, then at least he's suffered and drunk the coffee. And if he doesn't, I can reveal it later and his Italian sensibilities will be hurt—and I'll have saved the ministry money in the process!"

You spun on the spot, beaming in pride at your obviously genius plan.

"Ah!" you screamed, and jumped in shock as you realized who now stood behind you. In your panic, you half threw the empty cup still in your hand and, acting on instinct, then tried to catch it. It bobbled off one hand, you batted it with the other, you tried to catch it with your foot, and then the world tipped and spun. Your arms wheeled and grabbed at air. You caught a glimpse of Terzo's surprised face before you screwed your eyes shut and braced for impact.