May I request, a Papa of your choice, being absolutely overjoyed by the reader squirting? Like completely soaking him through and he's just diving face first to taste some of that nectar and then it becoming his life mission to experience it everytime they're being naughty.
🫶🏼
I couldn't decide which Papa would be obsessed with making you squirt so please enjoy any Papa making your squirt (spoiler alert: they're ALL obsessed with it...)
18+ Explicit (1,507 words) Papa-Of-Choice x fem!afab!reader
[Oops All Smut, Established Relationship, Wine Drunk Smut, Fingering, Squirting, P in V Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Aftercare]
Read on AO3
CHASING WATERFALLS
It wasn't the first time you'd stumbled back to the your shared chambers a little tipsy after a Ministry event. Papa had always been reluctant to indulge in front of his flock before, but something about being with you made him more relaxed these days, suddenly so much more comfortable in his own skin in his later years. After so much time spent in stoic dedication to the Ministry and all it stood for, he'd been shamefully remiss in spending much time at all in the celebration of sin himself. You'd convinced him that he really should, that he needed to as a matter of principal, that he deserved the pleasure he'd encouraged in others, and you were all too eager to help him with that new lease on life.
And as far as the sudden willingness to share a glass of wine or two with you went, it had more to do with the effect had on you than anything. How giggly and flirty you got, how unabashedly handsy even when surrounded by judgmental eyes. It was flattering, to say the least. And once he got you alone you were insatiable, so pliant and free with your total surrender to anything and everything he could think of to do to your supple young body. In fact, more often than not, it was him that was begging for mercy by the end of the night.
And after one particularly bawdy and debauched evening ended with every inch of his fine robes and most of the bed soaked through, and the two of you staring at each other in stunned silence...
"SATANAS...Are you alright, amore?"
"I...I think so. That's never happened before."
"You are shaking like a leaf. What do you need? Shall I get you some water or-"
"No, please...Just hold me for a second."
...He vowed to make that happen any time you would let him.
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"How do you feel, amore?" His handsome face was glistening with your release where it rested against the curve of your hip, still lazily pumping his fingers into you as you came down.
"Not sure...Think I blacked out...," you mumbled weakly, arm draped over your eyes in an attempt to stop the spinning in your head and flinching each time he kissed your sensitive sex and lapped at your juices with an appreciative hum.
"I cannot tell you how erotic it is when you cum for me like that..." He finally pulled his fingers from your tight, quivering grip, thoroughly licking them clean. "So beautiful..."
"It's never felt like this before. I mean, you've always been good at hitting my g-spot, but lately...it's been something else." You were still panting, fighting for air as he kissed his way up your body and hovered over you, already slotting his himself between your splayed legs. "I felt like my whole body was possessed...Like you finger-fucked my soul out of my body and back in again."
"I will need to relay that verbiage to my Ghouls." He rocked his hips against you, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as he coated his length with your overflowing slick. "It may prove useful for lyrics at some point."
"Be sure to give me credit," you chuckled, but it turned to a gasp when he filled you all at once and you dug your nails into the pale flesh of his back.
"Too much?" He stilled inside you, though it took every bit of his self-control not to slam into your delicious heat as hard as he wanted to.
"It's ok...I'm ok," you breathed. "Just sensitive." He eased himself almost completely out of you before sliding back in, slow and smooth, lewdly squelching through your slippery walls until your hips met and you clenched around him with a needy whimper. "Please, love...Don't tease me."
"That is my girl...Always ready for more," he cooed, settling his weight into your comfortable embrace and pumping into you in a steady tempo that had you mewling in pleasure in seconds.
The circles and snaps of his hips had a little extra spice that night, loose and languid from the wine one moment and sharp and punishing from how hard you were gripping him the next. One particularly perfectly aimed stroke had you crying out and you grabbed a hold of his ass suddenly, holding him in deep, stopping his thrusts.
"Stay...Stay...," you whined. "Please, stay deep." Your whole body tensed and you dug your nails into his flesh. You made tiny, almost imperceptible shallow movements with your hips, grinding your fluttering entrance against him and he could feel tremors rippling through your pussy, your abdominal muscles spasming against his stomach. Your back bowed and the rhythm of your rutting against him stuttered, a low moan rumbling from deep inside your chest, a sound more demon than human. He could feel the flood of your release around his cock just as intensely as the spasming of your inner muscles. There was no easing you down from your climax and you went limp, loose-limbed into the tangled sheets.
He eased himself off you carefully, lying down beside you and pulling you into his chest, watching your face as you seemed to fight your way back from the abyss. Your arm felt heavy, draped across his chest, your fingers mindlessly stroking the back of his neck, your leg lazily entangled with his, chests rising and falling in synchronized breaths. But before long your fingers were tracing the spots on his pale skin, stroking the greying hair that coated his soft flesh, playfully teasing his nipples, and your hip was pressing against his now painful erection while the wet heat between your legs slid along his muscular thigh.
"Are you spent, tersoro? Would you like me to let you sleep now?," he asked, hoping the answer would be an enthusiastic 'no'.
You shook your head against his chest. "Mmm mmm."
"Do you think you could cum for me again?" He was cupping the meat of your behind, guiding you to ride his thick thigh. "Can you give Papa more of your sweet nectar?"
"Mmmm hmmm," you purred, sliding your leg up his side, opening yourself for him.
"Let us see if Papa can find that lovely spot again." He pushed into you again, wriggling against you and enjoying how sweet you felt, so soft and sleepy and eager to be used however he pleased.
He reached down to your ass, adjusting your hips, trying different angles until your eyes went wide from the sensation and you dug your fingers into his arms. "There...Right there...Don't stop, Papa." He held himself deep, just pulsing into you until you let out a broken sob and your pussy felt like it was trying to suck him in deeper. He started thrusting into you in hard, irregular strokes and his impending orgasm left his vision hazy and ears ringing.
"Pull out! Pull out! Pull out!," you squealed as he slammed into you, clawing at him in desperation.
He separated from you reluctantly, but he was too far gone to do anything but obey, fucking into his fist hard and fast with loud grunts until he shot thick ropes of cum onto your flushed skin. You worked your own fingers into your clit as he pulled out, your orgasm ripping through you and erupting from your core, hot and violent as your release mingled with his until you were both drenched.
When the last few pumps of his seed shot onto your stomach, you were still twitching and spurting erratically, so overstimulated it seemed like it would never stop.
"Fuck...Amore, your little body is truly a blessing from Satan himself." He looked a bit at a loss for a moment, overwhelmed by the daunting task of figuring out what to do about the complete mess you'd made of each other and most of the bed beneath you. "But I fear you are going to put me in an early grave if we continue like this."
"Too late for that, old man," you shot back with a giggle, propping yourself up on your elbows to flash him a wicked smirk.
"Watch your tone, young lady," he scolded, kissing you tenderly. "Or I will have to put that scandalous tongue of yours to better use."
You considered making another crack about the unlikelihood of him surviving another round without the help of actual ritual magic, but you let it slide, opting instead to admire the sight of his lily white behind disappearing into the bathroom. And as you heard the unmistakable sounds of bathwater running, the herbal-scented steam wafting in with the sound of your lover humming a familiar tune as he always did when he was feeling especially love-drunk and satisfied, you sighed contentedly. As much as you enjoyed teasing him, getting so deliciously pampered and tended to after how spectacularly he'd defiled you seemed like a much better way to spend the rest of the evening.
When the mid-spring frost returns with a vengeance, you and your favorite Papa find comfort and warmth in each other's bodies
With so many Ghesties still buried in snow right now, it seems like a good time for another Snowed-In-With-Papa fic.
18+ Explicit (1,055 words) Primo x fem!afab!reader
[Boss/Employee Relationship, Snowed In, Smut, Intercrural Sex/Thigh Fucking, P in V Sex, As Close to Aftercare As You're Gonna Get From Grandpa Fingerbang]
Read on AO3
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Spring had come early that year, unseasonably warm with record-breaking highs. So when the temperature plunged so late in the season, nature seemed to jolt in shock. Snow in April wasn't unheard of, but the violent fluctuations had put a strain on everyone tasked with maintaining the Ministry grounds. So many of Primo's carefully tended blossoms had already shriveled and died and his frustration was palpable to anyone who had the misfortune of encountering him those days.
You'd already spent a long morning with him in the gardens covering the more fragile plants for their protection and clearing away what wasn't salvageable. The project for the remainder of the fading daylight, the hours left before it would become far too cold to continue, was giving some much-needed attention to the seedlings in the greenhouse to see what could still be saved. Your hands were stiff and sluggish from so many hours of working without pause in the bitter chill, so you could only imagine how his poor ancient hands were fairing.
"You know you really should be wearing gloves, Papa," you scolded playfully.
"Assurdità," he scoffed with his usual stern expression. "It is delicate work and I need to be able to feel what I am doing." Stubborn old goat.
You could see puffs of your breath hovering in the air and you inched in closer to him facing the work table in the instinctive search for his body heat. He didn't interrupt what he was doing or even seem to notice your sudden nearness, instead only leaning in closer to you as he always did when icy drafts made his old bones and arthritic joints ache, and having his lean frame pressed against you was a pleasant and familiar feeling.
He should have been immune to the effects of your body so close to his by now, given his age. He shouldn't have had to worry about his body's visceral reaction like some sort of horny teenager. And yet you were suddenly aware of him shifting against the swell of your hip, unmistakably hard.
"Papa!" It was enough to make you gasp and stifle a giggle. It wasn't like the eldest Emeritus to be so feral on a Thursday afternoon.
"Shhh, fiora...," he cooed, already nudging the hem of your habit up around your waist and sliding your fleece leggings and underwear down your hips. "Give Papa your warmth."
He took advantage of the soft space between your thighs, inching himself through your plush flesh and rocking his hips against you until your juices flowed through your tender folds and coated his length within seconds. "That's it...That's it, bambina..." He cooed between languid thrusts. "Always so wet and hot...Always so good for Papa..."
His arousal mingled with your own, lewd, wet sounds of slippery skin on skin and the occasional blissful sigh filling the quiet of the greenhouse. The pull of his shaft through your sensitive lips and the way his swollen tip just barely grazed your clit was making your head feel fuzzy, the wintery air stinging your lungs as you took bigger and bigger gulps of air. You'd barely begun but need was already tingling in your core. "Papa...I'm ready..."
He pushed into you without breaking his rhythm, your tight muscles clenching around him in response. It wasn't the first time you'd...encountered him in this way, though never before with so little warning or preparation, and even then his size was...daunting. He felt your body tense with a tiny yelp and he halted his invasion into your slick walls, bringing a hand around to your mouth and sliding two bony digits past your lips. You hollowed out your mouth around them, caressing the withered pads of his fingers with your tongue with heavy-lidded eyes and a low moan. "Good girl...Get them nice and warm...," he praised. "It would be ungentlemanly of me to pleasure you with cold hands, eh?"
He reached around to settle his fingers between your legs, circling your clit gently until you were rocking your hips in time with his hand's skilled movements, bracing yourself against the work table with white knuckles peeking out past your mitts, pushing back against him and easing his cock deeper into your throbbing heat.
With each synchronized roll of your hips, your body grew more pliant, inch after punishing inch of his length disappearing into your tight hole and he growled low in appreciation at the sight in spite of the slight resistance. "Relax, mi amore...Let me in..."
He finally felt your muscles release, your spongy flesh blooming around his cock like a flower. He placed his free hand on the small of your back, pressing his palm into the curve of your spine to coax you forward, arching your back. The new angle made you inhale deeply, the head of his cock seated so perfectly against your g-spot every time he pumped into you slow and deep while his fingers worked your clit faster and faster with the steady, deliberate thrusts.
You tried to be quiet. You knew Papa disliked it when you caused a scene. So your pleasured cry came out as a only trembly whine, but the way your walls fluttered around him, sucking him deeper into your pussy, betrayed the intensity of your orgasm.
He left you empty abruptly, fucking into his wrinkled fist and spilling his seed onto the frozen ground between your feet with a satisfied grunt. "Now, fiora...We will certainly have a bountiful spring,."
You'd collapsed onto the work table when he pulled out of your tight grip, deflated with wobbling knees. "Y-Yes, Papa," you stuttered weakly.
He chuckled warmly at your disheveled, fucked-out state, carefully redressing you and helping you to get upright. "Come, mia piccola ghiacciola, let us get you a hot cup of tea and some time in front of the fire, eh? We have done a good day's work and you must be frozen solid."
"Thank you, Papa. That would be nice." Point of fact you were actually still quite overheated from your encounter, but there was no way you were going to turn down the loving gesture, nor the comfort of his strong arm wrapped around you, guiding your tired head to rest on his angular shoulder as he led you to his quarters.
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fiore di neve = snow flower
assurdità = nonsense
fiora = flowerb
ambina = baby
mi amore = my love
mia piccola ghiacciola = my little icicle
Okay, because it's my birthday, I gotta know how the Papas choose to celebrate their tesoro's birthdays (also apologies if this has already been asked!)
I can't resist a good All-Papa ask, nor can I let down a Ghestie on their birthday! So in spite of the current ask I'm working on being from New Years(!!!), I'm going to pause and give this one some love first. ENJOY!
Thoughts: Happy Birthday!...Love, Papa
Primo's memory is not what it used to be, and his time and energy are far too valuable to expend what's left of them memorizing arbitrary dates. But for you, he makes an exception. He has a greenhouse full of fragrant blossoms blooming year-round, always ready to be made into a lavish bouquet for you. Wine and treats are readily available in the Ministry kitchens if one knows where to look. He keeps a secret stash of notecards on hand for any foreseeable occasion. Birthdays, anniversaries, Valentine's Day, or even when your spirits seem especially low. You know he does it all a bit begrudgingly, but you appreciate the effort just the same. And the real gift is his undivided attention for an entire day, something he's never bestowed on anyone before you, dropping all his duties to make you feel special, cherished. And he makes love to you with such tender reverence, going against all his instincts and sharing his bed with you afterwards. In spite of his stern exterior, and despite his grumbling, he makes certain there is one thing you know without a doubt...He is yours, now and forever.
Secondo clearly started planning your birthday trip months ago, if not as soon as your day passed last year. The private plane ride to Vegas, the honeymoon suite at the Bellagio, tickets to see Cirque du Soleil, top shelf liquor and an extravagant meal on the top of the Stratosphere. He looks immaculate as always, in a sleek bespoke suit and designer shades, and he parades you through every club on the strip in a shockingly tight vintage Dior dress and dangerously high Louboutin heels, so clearly beaming to have such delightful eye candy on his arm, praising you in lusty mutters against your ear all the way. How stunning you look, how much he enjoys how every eye is drawn to you, mentally undressing you, desperate to fuck you. But also how young you make him feel, how he's never enjoyed the city as much as when he's with you. You take full advantage of your opulent hotel room. You riding him for hours in the oversized hot tub in the center of the room, him slamming you into the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the neon and stardust, loud wet sounds of your sweaty back against the glass and his cock sliding through your walls filling the room. When you're both too exhausted to keep going, too spent to do anything but tumble into the king-sized bed together, it's finally quiet aside from the ringing in your ears from the unrelenting din of the casino, too much liquor coursing through you, and the lingering affects of the countless orgasms he's pulled from you. He mutters sweet nothings in broken Italian as you fall asleep across his sturdy chest, playing mindlessly with the soft grey hair on his chest. You couldn't understand the words, but you knew his meaning.
The party Terzo has planned for you is as much a gift for himself as you. Ever the performer, he's the consummate micro-managing party planner, overseeing every detail from the decorations to the menu. He's spent weeks mixing, testing, and reworking signature cocktails for the open bar. The soundtrack for the evening is meticulously curated to encourage enthusiastic dancing, and of course includes several intimate performances by the host himself. The guest list is of special concern, though he's aired on the side of 'the more the merrier', which is fine by you. He does love a raucous affair, you both do, especially with how debauched Ministry events tend to end up, but you knew even if he didn't admit it that the real reason was that the bigger the crowd is, the sooner the revelry will reach a fever pitch. And the sooner that happens, the sooner he can pull you into a dark corner and leave wine-stained kisses down your neck and across your bosom. Purring words of praise and affection, his accent thicker than usual in the most delightful way. Hooking an arm under your knee and nudging your panties aside so he can push into you slow and deep, pressed against the cold marble wall of the ballroom, thrusting into you unhurried, heedless to the fact that anyone could catch you at any moment. And even after the last of the guests have staggered back to their quarters, you're left together, shoes kicked off, sipping leftover beers and nibbling on room-temperature hors d'oeuvres, recounting the highlights of the evening. When your drinks are empty and eyelids are heavy you make your way home too, shuffling through corridors bathed in the pink dawn light, holding hands like lovestruck teenagers and already discussing plans for next year.
Copia has such high hopes for the evening, he really does. He's been planning it for weeks, your first time having date night truly alone, an intimate candlelit dinner in his chambers for your special day. He's always thought of himself as a decent cook, but now that he's trying to put that into practical application he's realizing that he's in woefully over his head. You arrive at the time he's chosen, a few minutes late just in case. You know he gets anxious when he feels rushed, and you have a suspicion that he's putting extra pressure on himself tonight. You knock on his door but get no answer, only a muffled 'CAZZO!' in the distance. The door's unlocked, so you let yourself in, following the sounds of clanging pans and frustrated expletives to what you can only assume is the kitchen. It looks like a war zone. Smoke is billowing from the oven and pots are overflowing with boiling sauce on the burners. His appearance is pitiful. His grey hair is tousled and he's red-faced and dripping in sweat from the combination of heat from the stove and visible panic. He's obviously donned his elegant white suit especially for you, but it's now all but destroyed by every ingredient in the meal being splattered across his chest and tummy. You can't help but giggle and when he turns to see you he deflates. "I tried so hard to make tonight special for you, amore." Your heart melts. You make your way over, turning knobs to cut the heat, moving messy pots to safer spots, wiping the tears he's been fighting from his soulful eyes. You start unbuttoning his jacket, wordlessly peeling away stained layers and leaving them piled unceremoniously on the tile at his feet. When he's bare before you, you press your cheek to his broad, heaving chest, wrapping your arms lovingly around his soft waist until you feel him take a deep, shuddering breath and relax into your embrace. "Tell you what," you finally say. "Let's just order a pizza instead." He nods and sighs in relief and you take his hand to lead him towards the bedroom. Dinner can wait.
When Perpetua tells you he wants to take you 'somewhere special', you picture a fancy restaurant or even a show. You certainly don't picture him pulling you out of bed in the middle of the night and telling you to put on 'something comfortable'. And you're understandably confused when you find yourself shivering, ankle-deep in frost-covered, overgrown grass at the foot of the long-abandoned bell tower on the outskirts of the Ministry grounds. You open your mouth to ask what in hell you're doing there, but he's already flashing you a sharp-toothed grin, grabbing your hand tight with his long slender fingers to lead you into the dilapidated structure. The staircase is endless and practically crumbling beneath you, and you understand now why he'd made sure you were wearing sensible shoes. By the time you reach the top, you're fuming internally. This is not how you pictured yourself spending your birthday and why on earth would he think taking you for a hike at this hour would be even remotely your style? But you take his lead, sitting down next to him on the ragged window edge on the barren space, legs dangling in spite of the nauseated twist in your stomach from the height. "Pet, what are we doing here-"
"Shhh...Just watch." You comply with an impatient sigh and you're not disappointed. The sun is just peeking above the horizon, a lovely mix of rose and copper. And you can see every building and monument from that height, the usual ominous appearance now bathed in the glowing dawn light. Nature is coming to life over the pond in the middle of the grounds, birds chirping, animals chattering, fish splashing. In the distance you hear the echoing chime of the hallowed bell in the Chapel tower calling the Congregation to unholy prayer. It's beautiful, so beautiful tears start to prick at your tired eyes.
"When I first came here, I was so lonely...So unsure of myself...Afraid...Until I met you, my angel."
Tears fall freely now down your cheeks, and you let yourself tumble into his arms and wet his chest with them. He holds you close, muscles trembling with emotion. "You make this feel like home."
Let's be real...Nihil absolutely forgot your birthday. You're getting a candle jammed in a bran muffin again this year, babe. Fiber is important at his age, after all.
Oh geez, please don't make me think about each of the Papas pleasuring me orally....
Please, no, stop....
THOUGHTS: PUSSY EATIN' PAPAS
Nowadays Primo prefers the use of his hands (they don't call him Grandpa Fingerbang for nothing), simply because he finds it more efficient and his time is extremely valuable. It's so easy to find the spots that make you squeal, the amount of pressure and speed that gets you teetering on the edge in record time. His old back is far too stiff these days to spend any length of time crouched between your legs, but his hands are still surprisingly strong and agile. And should they start to cramp, or his arthritic hips start to ache, he can almost always be coaxed into switching you to the other side of his lap for another round. He's quite ambidextrous, after all.
Secondo also prefers fingering more often than not, but for an entirely different reason. He enjoys the power of it over the intimacy of oral sex. Looking you straight in the eye, daring you to look away from his mismatched glare, daring you not to fall apart on his skilled digits, turning you quite literally into a whimpering, pleading puppet for his own amusement. And when he does choose to add his tongue into the mix it's only so he can snicker wickedly at the teary mess you become from the relentless overstimulation.
Terzo, on the other hand is a pussy worshipper, the female orgasm's most vocal advocate and muff muncher extraordinaire. Not that he's above using his fingers, cock, toys, or whatever is at his disposal to get you off, but he's uniquely proud of how skilled his is with his mouth. Pursing his lips around your clit with just the amount of suction, tongue flicking against it at just the right speed. Snaking it into your walls deep enough to find your most sensitive spots effortlessly. Always easing up just when he feels you start to tremble, keeping you dancing on the knife's edge, teasing you until you beg for release. Expertly guiding you down from the precipice as you tumble through the waves of ecstasy. He'll gladly spend all day and night worshipping at the altar between your thighs if you'll let him, and you'd be tempted to if you thought you'd survive.
What Copia lacks in focus or experience he more than makes up for in enthusiasm. Devotion, even. Any chance he gets, he's dropping to his knees and pulling you in with a bruising grip to your ass. Or splayed out on your bed, hooking his arms tight around your thighs, burying his face in your core until he's whining with need and rutting into the mattress. Bending you over his desk and thrusting his tongue into your wet heat from behind until your knees buckle. When he's got you hovering over his face, knees pressed against his ears, he only pulls you down harder the more you protest, surely cutting off his own air supply completely and moaning low and lewd as he forces you to grind down against his mouth. And when you do cum, he's euphoric. He can't believe he could be the one to make you feel like that, can't believe you'd allow him to be. He'll praise you for cumming so beautifully, for being so trusting and vulnerable for him. And as soon as you've remotely caught your breath, he'll be asking you to let him do it all over again.
Perpetua is a bit more feral than the rest, and he likes it gross. He loves you salty with sweat when you're coming from the gym, or smelling of fresh earth when you've been working in the garden. He lives for getting to eat you out during the heaviest flow of your period, smearing his pale face and chest with your blood and practically howling in animalistic satisfaction. And if he can make you squirt he'll lap it up like he's dying of dehydration, as if your essence is the very sustenance he needs for survival. Even when he's fucked you senseless and buried his seed deep within your clinging walls, he'll insist on cleaning you thoroughly, telling you anything that comes from inside you is divine and all his.
BONUS
Nihil is still quite adept at pussy eating in theory, but only if you sit on his face because if he's on top his false teeth will fall out.
January 3rd: Wolf Moon (5,632 words) IN PROGRESS *Werewolf!Perpetua x fem!afab!reader TW Kidnapping, Dub Con, Monsterfucking
The new Papa requires special care for his unusual condition, and as his assistant it's your job to keep him safe...and keep the entire Ministry safe from him
February 1st: Snow Moon (1,975 words) *Secondo x fem!afab!reader
When an unexpected snow storm leaves you stranded and alone in an otherwise deserted hotel bar, you find solace in the arms of a mysterious stranger
March 3rd: Worm Moon (1,540 words) *Primo x fem!afab!reader TW Blood, Dub Con
Your past comes back to haunt you when the moon is full, but you find redemption on the sacred altar of the Dark Lord and in the sheltering arms of Papa Emeritus
April 1st: Pink Moon (2,642 words) *Dewdrop Ghoul x fem!afab!reader TW Tentacle Sex
Casual hook-ups with your favorite Ghoul develop into something more after an especially passionate encounter under the full moon in the Ministry pond
May 1st: Flower Moon (3,917 words) *Deacon!Terzo x fem!afab!reader
A late night encounter with a handsome young Deacon leads to mutual attraction and unexpected romance
May 31st: Blue Moon (3,727 words) *Cardinal!Copia x fem!afab!reader
You aren't expecting to find love at a Ministry orgy...But life is like that sometimes
Your past comes back to haunt you when the moon is full, but you find redemption on the sacred altar of the Dark Lord and in the sheltering arms of Papa Emeritus
So a while back I stumbled onto a calendar of all the full moons in 2026, which seems like an ideal outline for a series. I'm doing it a bit out of order since I'd already missed the first two, but this will become the third chapter of my first long work. (Still completely episodic, but baby steps...)
Plus, the Worm Moon and the lunar eclipse Blood Moon just happen to line up with THE SWEDE'S BIRTHDAY this year, so he deserves something especially dark...
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Can you tell I'm really excited about this????
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18+ Explicit (1,540 words) Primo x fem!afab!reader TW Blood, Dub Con
[Religious Symbolism and Imagery, Blood, Underweight/Drug Use, Past Trauma/Angst, Dub Con, Ritual Sex, Clit Play/Fingering, Forced Orgasm, Ritual Sacrifice of Sorts* (I don't want to give to much away)]
Read on AO3
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It symbolizes the cyclical nature of life, the thawing of the land, the coming of spring. But every new beginning must come with a deadly end, and this year's Worm Moon coinciding with a lunar eclipse, a Blood Moon...was not a good sign. Not for you anyway. You'd received the note only hours ago, simply stating that you had been chosen for the evening's blood sacrifice and that you were to be ready by nightfall. The calligraphy was elegant, but it was hardly an invitation to a spring formal. And you'd spent far too much of your life in fight-or-flight mode to walk willingly into the lion's den. There were only a few hours of daylight left, only a few hours left to run, and you weren't going to waste them.
They found you easily, of course, though who exactly it was that found you and brought you to the Chapel you didn't know. You only started to come-to once the icy marble of the altar started to bite at your bruised skin. The worst of the scrapes and cuts from your dash in the woods had been tended to and bandaged, but you were otherwise bare. And yet you weren't cold, if anything you were uncomfortably warm, the whole room bathed in a copper glow and saturated with heavy steam as if the entire building had somehow become closer to hell than usual.
You were surrounded by a circle of Ghouls. Not the ones you were used to seeing around the Abbey and onstage. The ones who were close to human when it suited them. These were tall and black-cloaked and deadly silent. The ones who had been topside for so long now that no one seemed to know how long they'd been there and yet the smell of blood and sulfur still emitted from them as strongly as the day they'd been summoned.
You jumped slightly when Primo appeared at your side. You hadn't heard or seen him as he seemed to float in on a cloud of white silken robes, pressing a steaming chalice into your trembling hand. "Drink, child."
You sniffed the hot liquid without taking your eyes off of his ominous presence. You grimaced slightly, though the scent wasn't unpleasant. Raspberry, spearmint, ginger, and something earthy that you didn't recognize. "Is it...Is it poisoned?"
He laughed freely and a wave of restrained chuckles rippled through the encircling Ghouls. "As if the sacrifice could be over so quickly and easily..." He grasped the cup from your hands, taking a generous pull before guiding it back to your lips, answering your unspoken question as if he could read your mind. "The ingredient you are smelling is dong quai. It will ease your...discomfort."
The flavor was pleasant enough and strangely familiar, and you continued to sip tentatively as you watched him putter around the room, carefully placing candles and thumbing through the pages of an antique tome.
He returned to your side like clockwork, as soon as the last drop of tea was drained, to take the vessel from your hand and set it aside. He lifted one of your arms in his bony hand, observing the ropey, hollowed muscles that made up your malnourished frame, tracing your protruding collarbone with a sharp, disapproving nail. "You have not taken care of yourself," he scolded with a stern scowl. "This human life you have been gifted is nothing to be wasted, child."
It was an observation one didn't need to be an omnipotent Anti-Pope to make. Your life before staggering through the looming iron gates of the Satanic Church hadn't been an easy one. You'd learned long ago that you could only rely on yourself and that survival meant trusting no one. Drugs had been your main source of sustenance and your body little more than a bargaining tool to get what you needed to last another day. And yet the Ministry had welcomed you in with open arms, free of judgement, offering a fresh start. For the first time in your life you felt protected, accepted. But in the present moment you could only internally chide yourself with an 'I fucking told you so', realizing what their intentions had surely been all along.
"Lie back, child." His voice was soft for once, but it only filled you with dread, like an animal being lovingly led into the slaughterhouse. You braced yourself for the worst but to your surprise he lifted one of your feet and rested it against the lean expanse of his chest, digging skilled fingers into the spot between your heel and your ankle bone. "Hmph...Swollen...," he muttered to himself with a slight smile.
You supposed he was right. You'd taken a few tumbles in the forest while you were being chased. Adrenaline had helped you ignore it at the time, but now you had to admit that his expert touch on the most tender spots was a welcome feeling. When he was satisfied that he'd gotten all the knots out and felt you relax in his firm grasp, he pressed a thin-lipped kiss to your ankle before placing it carefully back onto the altar and taking up the other. "You have powerful pressure points in your ankles, you know...," he muttered. "Very powerful...."
Whether it was the numbing effect of the tea or the soothing lilt of his voice, you were losing the fight with your own exhaustion. The sun was barely setting through the stained glass windows, and yet your eyelids felt suddenly heavier than you could manage. He finished massaging your other ankle and replaced it back onto the cold stone, returning to the nearby weathered book to proceed with caution and a serious, thoughtful expression.
You felt weightless and yet heavy as lead where you lay limp against the altar, so when he rested his withered hands on your knees and parted them you offered no resistance. "Try to relax, my child," he whispered. "Papa is here to take care of you."
When his fingers rested between your thighs you gasped and your body tensed, a visceral reaction to a touch more affectionate than anything you'd felt in as long as you could remember. "Easy, sweet girl...," he soothed, stroking your trembling thigh with his free hand. "It will all be over soon enough."
He ran a gloved fingertip along your slit slowly, feeling the dry, neglected flesh growing plump and wet with each stroke. When he circled your clit you let out a whimpering groan, but it only made his movements firmer, more deliberate. "I know, child. Your poor body has been starved for too long. So sensitive and yet so ignored..."
The climax hit your weak body like a jolt of electricity and instincts took over in spite of the pleasure, compelling you to scamper across the polished stone away from the intensity of his touch. "Ghouls," he hissed sharply, and before you could make it far, strong gloved hands were on you, your arms, your shoulders, your neck, your hair. Holding you still as Primo hovered over you. "We are not done yet. The Ritual is not yet complete."
Bitter tears were streaming down your cheeks now, arms too spent to fight against the tight hold the Ghouls had on you. Primo stroked your cheek in reassurance, though it did little to stop your shaking. "You must give your pleasure to the Dark Lord willingly, child. Only then will you know peace."
Something about his calm words won out over all logic and you felt yourself submit, too tired to fight any longer, too lost to know what you were fighting for anymore. When he slid two long fingers past your tight entrance your back bowed, but you embraced the sensation with a relieved sigh. Even the pressure when he placed his other hand onto your abdomen and curled his digits inside your snug walls felt like a wave of warmth over you. Something like forgiveness. Something like love.
"P-Please...Papa..." Your whimpered pleas were barely audible over the loud, wet sounds of him pulling sweet nectar from your core with every roll of your hips. He tutted at you wordlessly, muttering words of praise. How brave you had been. How you didn't have to fight anymore. How you deserved every pleasure this life could give and more.
You squealed loud when you felt it rip through you, but your body only melted into the gentle grip of the Ghouls that held you, pressing harder against Papa's nurturing touch as he rocked you through the waves and sparks of ecstasy. When the peak of your orgasm began to dull you felt a rumbling in your lower abdomen, a deep shift internally, something you hadn't felt in years of depletion.
"There we are...," he cooed, a rare smile painting his ancient face. You whined and squirmed weakly from the overstimulation of him continuing to pump leathery fingers through your quivering walls, and when he finally pulled the digits from your snug grasp it left a trail of scarlet splashed and streaked across stark alabaster and the white satin of his robes.
"Now, my child...The Ritual can commence...," he purred. "And your rebirth can truly begin..."
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Real talk...Was I too vague about this all being centered around getting her cycle started again after being so sick? I can't tell if I was being obtuse or heavy-handed this time...
Papa I has spent a lifetime indulging in the pleasures of the flesh and resisting emotional connections, but his treasured gardening assistant may be the one who can break down the walls around his heart
I've been sitting on this WIP for months and I love this story with all my icy heart, so please be kind.
AND GRANDPA FINGERBANG STRIKES AGAIN...
18+ Explicit (2,151 words) Primo x fem!afab!oc
[Boss/Employee Relationship, Age Difference, Power Imbalance, Friends to Lovers, Smut, Fingering, Light Angst, P in V Sex, Romantic Fluff]
Read on AO3
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PROLOGUE
One could say that the Papas had changed over the years. Once the shining example of stern dominance and pure evil, the anti-popes had gradually become more charming, more glamorous...silly, even. If you asked Papa I, he would say that the rockstar lifestyle had made the generations that followed him soft and unfocused. He'd swear that he was still every bit the depraved warlock he'd always been. He was no doddering grandpa, of course, but his once razor-sharp edges had noticeably dulled over time. In spite of his continued Satan-given, almost supernatural strength and mental acuity, what remained of his villainy manifested itself now in ill-temper and nit-pickiness. He could not abide any form of stupidity or subordination and his retributions were swift and often bordering on sadistic. He was a cranky handful that not many people could manage or even wanted to try to.
Mira was one of the few people who had yet to fall into his bad graces. As his constant right hand in the Ministry gardens she seemed to have as much attention to detail as he did. And the way she hung on to his every word, whether sincerely or not, made him feel like Merlin with an eager apprentice.
She felt the same, in all honesty, and particularly flattered that he seemed to have even deemed her worthy of his rare attention. It wasn't just his knowledge of horticulture and entomology, or in most things about the earthly world and beyond for that matter...there was something more. Something unspoken but felt by both of them. A connection of kindred spirits. Maybe even an inexplicable attraction?
Whatever it was drew them to each other in the balmy twilight, hunched over the weathered old work table in the greenhouse, under the guise of repotting seedlings. His thin lips brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck and feeling her heartbeat flutter against his touch. Her hips rocking back against him with growing pressure until his notorious length hardened and neither of them could pretend what was happening was anything innocent. By the time she'd reached back to pull him in for a demanding kiss, his long, elegant digits were already sliding past the waistband of her threadbare work pants and stroking through her slick folds, coaxing a deep moan from her mouth into his.
It could have escalated beyond that, but it didn't. He broke away first, excusing himself unceremoniously and leaving her limp and shaken against the warped wooden counter. They never spoke of it again, but neither of them ever forgot. How could they? But they were both far more careful after that.
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The first trouble in paradise was, unfortunately, not something small, nor was his reaction. Perhaps their relationship would have benefitted from more tiny spats along the way, but that isn't what happened. Was it the weight of what was unspoken between them? Or maybe simply an innocent error in judgement? Either way, the hammer was about to fall...
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"Che cazzo?!"
Mira heard him in the distance and braced herself for his approach. The new additions she'd planted without his approval were just beginning to sprout and there was no doubt he'd recognize them long before anything had started to flower. It had been a calculated gamble and she would be the only one to blame.
"What the fuck were you thinking?!" He slammed the greenhouse door open, sending the whole structure rattling. He muttered Italian curses she couldn't understand under his breath, rapid fire as he paced dramatically in the limited space.
"I just...I just thought it might be nice to have something that bloomed during the day as well...," she stuttered. "In complimentary tones, of course."
"It is a MOONLIGHT garden, idiota! Why in Satan's name-"
"But it still exists in the daytime, Papa. It seemed to me some cala lilies and black roses were the exact thing to combine with the moonflowers. It's all perfectly morbid, so I don't see what the problem is."
"I am not even going to dignify that with a response." He was seething and fell silent, slamming down into the ancient arm chair in the corner while he tried to collect his rage into something coherent. His lone green eye seemed to lose all color, his fists tight and resolute. He knew what had to be done. "On your hands and knees, erbaccia stupida," he hissed.
She froze. She'd seen his wrath before, but not directed at her. Never at her. And she'd tried to separate the man from the menace in her head, but reality was crashing down upon her all at once like ice water.
"Have you gone deaf as well as stupid, sciocca bambina? I said on your hands and knees..." He was removing his belt now, gripping the worn leather strap with white knuckles. "NOW."
Her face went slack, blank and unreadable. "No, Papa." She chose her words carefully, trying to hide the tremor in her voice.
"What?!" He stood abruptly, more quickly than she'd seen him right himself before, but clearly no one had ever spoken to him like that before. And even with his aging physique he was so much larger than she was, towering over her ominously as if he might unhinge his jaw like a snake and swallow her whole.
She pressed her shoulder blades down, steeling her posture in defiance. "I've seen your punishments before and...and I do not consent."
"How DARE you?!" The glimpses of bare skin that peeked through his smeared makeup burned a bright red now. "After everything I have done for you, all these years-"
"Exactly," she matched his energy, his rage, her brown eyes turning black with a new confidence. "If all my years of service can be forgotten...If one mistake erases all of that...-"
"Mistake? You did that on purpose. I should cast you out now, you ungrateful wretch!" They were stumbling over each other's heated words now, losing control completely.
"If my blind compliance is all you care about...Then I assure you, I don't wish to stay." And just like that she turned on her heels, ripping off her mud-caked work apron, balling it up and tossing it carelessly at his feet as she charged towards to door.
She paused for a last moment before slamming the door behind her. "You know one of these days you're going to look around you and realize you've pushed away the few people who cared about you. You'll have your precious authority, your divine power...but you'll be alone." He picked up the discarded apron, brushing off the loose dirt and pretending not to hear her.
"It's high time you accepted the fact that you're not Papa anymore, just a man...and a mean old son-of-a-bitch, at that."
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Mira applied for a transfer first thing the next morning. With her particular set of skills and extensive experience she was a natural choice to attend to Frater Imperator's private garden. He'd started it just as his oldest brother had before him, as a post-retirement creative outlet and source of stress relief. But quite frankly...he was terrible at it, and it only served as another constant reminder that nothing he did ever lived up to Clergy standards. The whole damned thing made him feel like a failure. In every overgrown weed and every withered bud he saw his late father's face grinning and calling him a disappointment.
Suddenly having a pretty young thing to follow behind him and silently fix his mistakes was a welcome change. He was finally finding the serenity he'd been hoping for.
And the work was easy for her. No more deadly nightshade or carnivorous blooms. No more plants actively trying to fight each other into extinction. Copia's tastes were more traditional, pretty and colorful and easy to care for without much fuss. It filled her with warmth, how impressed he was every time he asked her what type of plant something was and she always knew the answer. She never lost patience with him, even when he'd surely forget and ask again next time he saw it.
And when a new blossom would open for the first time he always exclaimed, "Sorella! Did you do this? How talented you are." She tried to explain to him that she'd merely planted the seeds and done some rudimentary maintenance, but to him it seemed like some sort of sorcery that he could never master or even understand. It was charming.
But from time to time her mind would drift back to the unrelenting pressures of her previous position, and to the fruitful rewards when her hard work had paid off. The work had indeed been hard, and her employer a highly temperamental perfectionist. An asshole, really. She sometimes wondered how her replacement was getting on, if he'd at least learned to be a bit kinder to them than he had with her.
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But there was no new assistant. Primo had sworn on the night she left him to never let anyone into his sanctuary again.
It was easier for him to concentrate in the new quiet, the progress far more efficient working alone. He no longer indulged in the luxury of coffee breaks and conversation, no longer continued in the gardens until it was too dark to see, instead finishing his day while it was still light out with a solitary cup of tea.
The greenroom was quiet. Too quiet with no other sound than the monotonous ticking of the cobweb-coated clock above the door and the faint drizzle of rain against the window panes. The grizzled old armchair he sat in hadn't changed at all, but it suddenly felt cold and unyielding against his tired old bones. And he'd done nothing differently to prepare the mug of herbal tea that scorched his gnarled hands, but somehow it wasn't the same without the gentle care she always used.
"Silly girl," he mused to himself. "My garden was so orderly before she came...Perfetto...and then she brought all this...CHAOS."
He caught a glimpse of his own elderly reflection in the surface of the tepid drink. "And YOU...You used to be PAPA. You used to be a pillar of strength and malevolence...And now, look at you. A foolish old stronzo. You should never have let her get so close." Non avresti mai dovuto lasciarla andare.
He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't hear the creaky old door open and close. "Oh...My apologies, Your Unholiness. I-I didn't think you'd be in here so early in the afternoon. I just came to retrieve some tools I left behind-"
"No need to explain, Sorella." He shook his head with a furrowed brow, avoiding her gaze. "I was just finishing my tea and I will be on my way."
She looked at his barely steeped brew, dregs of shriveled leaves sitting at the bottom, without even cream or lemon to make it palatable. "Oh Papa, you're not really going to drink that, are you?," she scolded affectionately, taking it from his withered hands. "And it's ice cold! Please, let me make you a fresh cup-"
He stood suddenly, placing his hands over hers and stopping her in her tracks. "No, Sorella...Mira. Let me make some for us both. I will do better this time...if you can show me how."
His faded eyes were soft, hopeful and her heart melted immediately. "I'd like that...Primo. We'll both do better...together."
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EPILOGUE
But the tea was forgotten all too quickly, and grass-stained, dirt-smudged clothes stripped away only to be carelessly tossed aside amongst the plants that had shriveled, neglected and forgotten in her absence. Only his soft, silken inner robes remained, draped lovingly around her shoulders to protect her from the rainy day chill as she writhed in his lap. Every roll of their bodies made the old chair creak under them and forced a quiet whimper through her bruised lips each time his thick ridges brushed against the sensitive spot inside her walls.
Her fingers snaked though his wispy, flaxen hair, cupping the back of his head into her breasts as she arched in ecstasy. The quivering of her inner muscles around him, the steady stream of her hot, viscous syrup that dripped down his shaft, and the way she clung to him like having him inside her, surrounding her, possessing her, was her entire world, was enough to send him careening over the precipice for the first time in decades.
Nothing about this made sense, they both knew that. An unlikely pairing to say the least. And yet, as they both caught their breaths and settled into a more comfortable position, nestled and contented, petting and nuzzling each other affectionately, it felt...perfect.
"Mia fiora...Mia ipomea..." His words were breathy and fading into exhaustion. "Ti amerò per sempre."
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Erbaccia stupida = Stupid weed
Sciocca bambina = Silly little child
Non avresti mai dovuto lasciarla andare. = You should never have let her go.
Mia fiora...Mia ipomea... = My flower...My morning glory...
Ti amerò per sempre. = I will love you forever.
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If I'm being totally honest, this story is heavily inspired by the relationship between Eliza & Prof. Higgins in My Fair Lady, specifically the final scene was what inspired this entire fic.It's a weird dynamic that should be problematic by current standards and yet remains timelessly romantic.
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Also, my working title for this was: PRIMO IS A DOM ASSHOLE AND YOU ARE NOT HAVING IT
