Ao3 ⛧ My Art ⛧ Edits
➹ main blog: @ibikus (i like & follow from there)
➹ ghost archive blog: @kisstheobscene
➹ asks: open for questions, HCs & short fic prompts ♡
This is an 18+ fandom & writing sideblog. I currently mainly write for Ghost but occasionally for ASOIAF, BG3, DA and others. Please mind the tags.
✦ The Band Ghost ✦ ASOIAF ✦ Others ✦ Short Fic Collection
➹ Our Own Light ♱ Primo x gn!reader 18+
➹ With Rough and Gentle Hands ✶ Maekar Targaryen 18+
➹ To Owe Each Kiss ✶ Baelor "Breakspear" 18+
Your Papa spends his evening reading about Roman cults – perhaps you can tempt him to offer you some of his attention instead.
pairing: Papa Emeritus IV x female!reader || rated: E
content: 3.6k words, (mostly soft) dom!copia, thigh riding, finger sucking, cockwarming, praise, p in v, riding, teasing, orgasm denial, unprotected, coming inside, suggestive use of a history book, 18+ only
Shoutout to @ghelullu for the historical expertise and to @foxybouquet for drawing reading glasses Copia for me that definitely helped inspire this fic!!
Masterlist – Ao3 link
The sheets feel soft against your skin as you stretch out on the bed like a lazy cat. You run your fingers over the fabric, a deep blue cotton that hugs your body as you roll from your belly onto your back. His side still carries his smell and the sigh that leaves you at this discovery is filled with a longing that has the sound vibrating in your throat.
Copia pays you no mind.
For an hour now he’s been sitting comfortably in an armchair, book in his lap and reading glasses perched on his strong nose. He is lost in the story, his eyes moving along the lines rapidly and with visible interest. The glass of red wine he’s been drinking tonight sits abandoned on a table by the side and the vinyl record hasn’t been flipped in quite some time; only the static noise of the record player fills the room.
You rise from the sheets and walk over to the music station on naked feet, slipping the record back into its sleeve to pick another. Copia has a vast collection and you take your time, glancing at him from the corner of your eye in hopes that your half-naked body, clad in just your sleeping shirt, will catch his attention. However, even as you place the needle on the record and soft 80s rock tunes fill the room his eyes stay on the pages of his book.
He looks handsome, you note. The glasses almost slip from his nose with how low he wears them, smudging the white paint where they sit tight by his nostrils. His hair is a bit messier now at the end of the day. A loose strand has fallen over his forehead and tickles his brow, the curve casting a small shadow on his skin under the light of his reading lamp. You fight the urge to brush it back and kiss the spot, lingering by the shelf to assess whether you can finally justify disturbing him.
Copia turns the page. You tiptoe over, hip pushing against the armrest by his side. He must notice you but he gives no indication of it as you trail your fingers over his shoulder, then down his arm. His black shirt stands open at the collar and you get a glimpse of his thick greying chest hair as well as the curve of his firm pectorals underneath the fabric. You want to kiss him there, too.
“Papa,” you try.
“Hm?”
He does not look up, even though the use of his title is enough information as to your intent. With your heart hammering you sink down and kneel beside him, resting your head on his thigh. The fabric of his pants feels rough against your soft cheek. Even so Copia continues to read, his eyes never straying from the page, ignoring your puppy-eyed face right next to the book. You can’t help but pout. Impatient fingers run down his calf, then up to his knee on the other side but your touch lures no reaction from him either.
You move to stand, let your fingers run down his forearm and grasp his wrist, lifting it out of the way so you can place yourself in his lap, once more the image of a needy cat vying for attention. Copia hardly reacts, only lifts the book out of the way while still fixated on the page. You shift until you’re sitting more comfortably, feeling his thighs flex underneath your weight until they press firmly against your ass. You feel his cock too, half-hard beneath the lacings of his pants.
“What are you reading?” you ask this time, nestling against him. Your head rests on his shoulder as you try to get a glimpse of his book.
“It is a book on the Mithraic Mysteries,” he explains, his voice steady and calm. “A very fascinating read. Not much of the Cult of Mithra survived, no written texts anyway.”
“Who is Mithra?” you inquire, only half-focussing on his words now that you finally feel him against you.
“An old Indo-European deity, worshipped by Roman soldiers. Some surviving depictions show him killing a bull, sacrificing the blood and seed to replenish the world and life itself.” His free hand moves to rest on your thigh, the black glove soft on your bare skin. “However, the cultists were persecuted by Christians and ultimately eliminated. Their places of worship, the mithraea, were destroyed.”
“That does sound interesting… and sad,” you conclude, taking in his scent with a deep inhale before you press a kiss to his neck. “Is it more interesting than me?”
“Oh, amore. Of course it is not.” His hand moves further up your leg until it rests on your ass, pushing your shirt up a little higher to squeeze the soft meat there. “Have I not given you enough attention, tonight, my baby?”
You shake your head, pressing your face against his neck as you hug him closer.
“Amore, if you want something you have to ask for it,” he says. “You know this.”
“I did not wish to disturb you. You were so engrossed in your read.”
“And yet here you are, no? Disturbing me.”
You break away to look at him, his face betraying nothing even though you swear you can see the hint of a teasing smile playing at his lips. Encouraged, you reach for his free hand and drag it into your lap, running your thumb over his wrist where his pulse starts to beat a little faster against your fingertip. You lift his hand to your lips, pressing kisses to the tender skin just where his glove ends.
Copia finally reacts, his fingers curling around your cheek and tilting your chin up. His eyebrows are pulled together, giving him a stern expression with the glasses still sitting so low on his nose. You giggle, the image of a teacher who glances at his students in irritation as they interrupt him popping into your head. Perhaps you will be rebuked now.
“Funny, hm?” he asks.
Before you can reply he pushes his index finger into your mouth, gently pressing down on your tongue until you obediently start to suck. The leather is smooth, making your mouth water, and you swirl your tongue around him languidly. Copia holds your gaze as he adds a second finger, his thumb resting on your chin where he wipes away the drool that dribbles from the corner of your mouth. After a moment of indulgence he withdraws them as well as his gaze and uses the wetted digits to turn the page without another word.
His attention is on the book again.
You release a sigh of discontent but he’s ignoring it just like he’s ignoring how you squirm in his lap. You can feel how wet you are between your thighs, your underwear soaked by now.
“Papa,” you whine. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“I need you.”
“You have me, demonietta, now that you wiggled your naughty little butt into my lap.” He glances at you from the corner of his eyes, no doubt taking in your desperate expression and unable to keep up his austerity for much longer. “Va bene. You have permission to use me as long as you do not disturb my reading. If you do, there will be consequences.”
“I won’t. I promise, Papa.”
He nods and his eyes land on the book again, his upper body angled in the direction of the lamp on his side table away from you. You reposition yourself until you can feel his thigh firm against your core, using his chest as leverage. Not a single one of his muscles moves to help you. Once you’re settled you have to readjust his free hand on your hip to make more room, smooth leather once more on your heated skin. As you slowly start to grind on his leg you feel his fingers tightening but he does not look, does not stir.
It feels incredible. The fabric of his jeans is rough against your inner thighs, the friction so needed that you can’t help but close your eyes and moan at the pressure against your clit. You repeat the same movement, slow drags of your hips to the rhythm of the music playing in the background. Hands planted firmly on his chest you feel his muscles against your palm and every time you push yourself back they flex underneath your fingertips.
You’re approaching your release fast after that – more confident movements, the perfect angle to ignite a fire deep inside your belly. The rolls of your hips become sloppy, your knee pushing forward into his crotch as you release a needy whimper, and then suddenly Copia’s fingers dig into your hips, effectively stopping you.
“Ah ah.” He tuts, his eyes snapping in your direction with a frown. “No, no, no, amore. Not like this. What did I fucking tell you, eh?”
A painful sob rips from your throat, your pussy throbbing desperately at the sudden lack of stimulation. “Papa?”
“Do you think I can read when you are dripping all over my leg? When you are moaning into my ear with the voice of a temptress?”
“I’m sorry, Papa. You just feel so good.”
His expression softens, his fingers unclenching. “Gentle now, hm? We are not in a hurry.”
You shake your head, your breathing still fast as you try to recover. “Will you help me, Papa?”
“Help? But you interrupted me,” he says with indignation. “What did I tell you happens when you interrupt me, amore?”
“There will be consequences.”
“Brava ragazza, listening so well to my words. If only you would heed them, hm?” He rubs his hand along your thigh, soothing, comforting. “Now unlace me, demonietta, so I can decide how to proceed with you.”
His cock strains against the fabric and you fiddle with the laces, your fingers still shaky from the almost-peak that he robbed you of. Once you finally loosen them, the pressure does the rest and you can free him easily even with your tremor. He’s achingly hard, dripping precome into your waiting hand. You want to lean down and taste him but you know he is in charge now and it thrills you to comply, to be good for him.
“Take off your underwear,” he orders. “Then you will keep me nice and warm for as long as it takes me to finish this chapter, hm? You want to please your Papa, do you not?”
“Always,” you say as you slip from his lap, driven by the anticipation of finally feeling him inside of you.
The fabric is drenched as you remove it from your core and throw it aside. Copia’s arms remain open, hips slotted forward to allow you some more room, and you hover above him for a moment. You take his cock into your hand and slide it back and forth between your folds, wetting his tip with your arousal. Copia moans lowly at the contact, the pages of the book fluttering as his body trembles underneath yours with suppressed desire.
“So wet and needy,” he chides. “You want your Papa so bad it makes you forget that he is a very busy man, amore. I only have so much time to do my reading.”
“Perhaps you should read to me in the future, Papa,” you suggest, slowly sinking down on him. The stretch knocks the air right out of your lungs, his girth a welcome intrusion after so much time you spent waiting. A groan slips from his throat once he is fully sheathed, betraying the way he is affected as well.
“Hm, no, dolcezza, if anything you should read to me,” he says through gritted teeth. “So your Papa can rest his weary eyes. I am not so young anymore.”
“You are in your best years, my Papa,” you correct and begin to rock your hips.
Copia’s hand shoots out to grab you, digging roughly into the softness with the strength it takes him to stop you. “Ah ah ah,” he chides with a shake of his head, the glasses now crooked on his nose. “You stay still while I finish this chapter or I will remove you, amore. You know the rules, eh?”
You whimper, clenching around him not just in frustration but in arousal at his tone. With one hand you adjust his reading glasses, the other one rests on the soft curve of his belly underneath his shirt, trying to keep still. Every breath is laborious, every second too long.
“Very good, amore,” Copia praises and then his eyes are back on his book.
His cock pulses inside of you or maybe you are pulsing around him, the need to move so overwhelming you can’t stop the occasional whimper from slipping out, nor can you control the way your hips buck ever so slightly on their own accord. You’re not sure how he can focus, if he focuses at all or tortures you for his own enjoyment. His eyes do move along the lines and you spend a good amount of time studying them, green and white, slightly enlarged by his glasses. No matter how well he plays his part as the stern Papa, the mischievous, loving glint in them never leaves.
You can’t fight the urge to fix his hair, finally combing the loose strand back and massaging his temple. Copia lets out an appreciative hum, pressing his head into your hand. You take the hint and move your fingers along his scalp, gentle pressure to remove the tension of a long day. His hair is soft as you trace the silver streaks that become more and more prominent the longer you two are together.
His hand leaves your hip then to flip the page. You can’t help but squirm, the movement sending a wave of pleasure through your body that makes you keen and clench around him. It’s too much, you are too aware of his cock buried so deep inside of you to keep still. All you want to do is lose yourself in him, to have his undivided attention.
Copia inhales sharply at your fidgeting, in irritation or arousal you cannot tell. His hand reaches for your jaw, tilting it so that your eyes meet his. Instead of anger you find compassion in his gaze, even though there is a hint of complacency as well. “My poor amore,” he says, his tone only partly mocking. “I am not quite done yet. But I think you will have to read the next page for me. My eyes are so tired.”
“But–”
“You are so good for me, dolcezza,” he interrupts, leaning in to nuzzle your nose. “If you do well now your Papa will reward you for your patience.”
Before you can close the gap for a kiss he leans back again and hands you the book, pointing to a line at the top of the page. You try to catch your bearings, especially when you feel his cock twitching inside of you as he shifts to remove his reading glasses. A whimper turns into a croak, your throat suddenly tight and dry.
“In the– the–” You struggle as he once again stirs underneath you, settling comfortably in the armchair with both hands on the armrests. He is enjoying your struggle, a barely concealed grin on his lips. You clear your throat, take a deep breath and relax your muscles. “In the ancient world, the term mysteries was used to refer to secret cults throughout the period from the seventh century BC to the fourth century AD.”
“Very good, amore,” Copia says, voice smooth and sensual. “The next line now, hm? You are doing so well.”
“A-all shared two basic features: the injunction to silence, intended to… intended to prohibit ritual details reaching the outside world, and the…” Suddenly his hips buck, both of his hands settling on your sides to keep you steady as he pushes up into you with one hard thrust. Your eyes flutter closed, the book slipping from your fingers as you hold onto his shoulders.
“Go on,” he orders. “Finish the line. I know you can do it, amore.”
You open your eyes, trying to find the page again and holding the book open with one hand. It takes you a moment to find the right line. You’re trembling and dizzy. “The-the injunction to silence, intended to prohibit ritual details reaching the outside world, and the promise of… the promise of salvation...”
“Mhm, salvation,” he agrees, another thrust that finally has the book falling shut between your bodies and sliding into the gap between his thighs and the armrest. “Everyone wants salvation, ragazza mia, everyone wants release. Do you?”
“Yes, please, Papa.”
Copia grabs the book and sets it aside, feet braced against the floor and hips canted in a way that allows you to fully straddle him. You rest your hands on his chest and stare down at where your bodies join, the sliver of skin and dark body hair between his shirt and waistband glistening wetly with your arousal. Impatient now, you rip at the buttons of his shirt to tear it open, trying to find purchase on his bare skin, anything to feel more of him. His warmth radiates into your palms and then his hands curl around your buttocks as he lifts you just enough to shallowly fuck up into you. You moan, falling forward from the impact until your fronts are squished together.
“Papa,” you whine.
“Hmmmm, sei perfetta, amore mio,” he whispers, lips parted in concentration as he keeps up his pace. “I am proud of you, eh? So patient, waiting all night for your busy old Papa.”
You lean in, stealing his breath as you desperately press your mouth to his. The armchair creaks just as your lips connect and the wet sounds of your hips meeting over and over fill the room, drowning out the soft music. You follow his rhythm instead, pushing down and taking him ever deeper, controlling the angle with which he burrows into you.
“Fuck, Papa,” you whine, the orgasm you lost now building back up fast and violently.
One of Copia’s hands slides up to the back of your head, keeping it down for more wet kisses that smear his face paint all over your chin. His tongue enters your mouth, licking against yours desperately as though he suddenly can’t get enough of your taste. You comply eagerly, carding your hands through his chest hair, leaving trails of red as your nails scrape over his skin. Copia groans at the sensation, a deep sound that vibrates within you and has you clenching around his cock.
“That’s it, amore, ahhh–” He picks up his pace, chasing his own pleasure now just as much as yours. “So fucking good.”
“I’m s-so close,” you whisper.
“Let go for me,” he encourages, bringing his hands between your bodies in search of your clit. “Show your Papa how f-fucking good he makes you feel.”
He finds your sensitive spot, grazing the swollen nub with his gloved finger, and you fall apart in an instant. Your muscles tense, voice high-pitched as you moan and whimper at your release. When your mouth slips from his Copia grabs your chin and forces it back up, urging you to hold his gaze as he continues to fuck up into your clenched cunt. You struggle to hold yourself upright, your whole body turning into jelly as pleasure makes way for exhaustion. With one hand on his throat you trace the line of his Adam’s apple, feel him swallowing hard as he finally follows you and comes inside of you with a groan. His eyes turn glassy, losing their focus, and you finally allow yourself to sink against him, feeling his slightly sweaty chest.
For a long moment neither of you speaks, trying to breathe the air back into your lungs.
“It was okay, amore?” Copia finally asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not too much teasing?”
“It was amazing,” you say, your body still numb and tingly from the exertions. “Maybe we can wait a few minutes, though, before we get cleaned up.”
Copia hums and wraps his arms around you, keeping you pressed closely together. He begins to caress your back, fingers then sliding up to your neck where he massages the tight muscles for a moment but stops when it gets too exhausting to maintain. You sigh into his neck, face hidden underneath the curve of his jaw where you snugly fit against him. After a moment of reprieve you lean back up and look at him – ruined face, his paint smeared into grey streaks that run down his neck and reveal his skin. You press a kiss to the small scar on his jaw, then to the dip where it transitions into his plump lips, the corner of his mouth next.
“I’m sorry I interrupted your reading,” you mumble, breathing more kisses to his exposed face to give him the gentleness he always craves after being intimate like that. It’s a ritual by now, comfort and affection that make up for all the teasing.
“Ah, I was just waiting for you to come over,” he admits, returning the favour by pressing his lips to your cheek. “The book is interesting… but not that interesting, eh?”
“I will worship you, my Papa,” you whisper with a smile. “I call it the Cult of Copia.”
He chuckles, tightening his arms around you again to pull you flush against him. “Watch out, amore, I think I could get used to that.”
Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed – kudos, comments, rbs etc are as always much appreciated ♡ The quotes I used in here are from this book, sorry for the blasphemous use of an actual academic book haha.
i got stuck with pygmalion secondo, but i've been actually starting to structure the big manondo fic and adding scenes for the beginning. and maybe i'll also work on poison primo here and there. freeing myself from the shackles of thinking that i have to write things that are post-able.
ppl will be like i don’t want to read ooc fics and not realise fans have so many personal interpretations of canon that ooc means a different thing to different ppl. like my favourite fics i’ve ever read all have slightly different characterisations and yet i devour them all with hunger. what makes a fic great, to me, maybe has more to do with consistency of voice than with a consensus on what ‘in character’ means, more to do with the quality of writing and the strength of the premise and whether my heart gets shattered and healed or not
i love most flavours of copia but i just need him to be a mean little pervert to me, i need him to be a confident taunting mean little pervert hater who can't shut up and makes me do unspeakable things!!!!!
Copia returns from tour—with a different name, a different job, a different life—only to find that your friendship is changing too. He takes this as well as can be expected.
content: 6.8k words, gn!reader, friends with benefits to lovers, angst, hurt/little comfort, miscommunication, grief, anger, mental health exploration, negative self-talk, love confessions, smut (spit as lube (kind of), unspecified penetration, a small dom!copia moment but it’s mostly emotional sex)
Masterlist – Ao3 link – RATED E – 18+
Prelude
It’s the night before he leaves.
Your legs slung around him, mouths pressed together with teeth-deep desperation.
It’s been hours of this. You move on top of him like it’s your last night on earth, ragged breaths, grinding down again and again and he clings to you like it’s his only anchor to the world. It might well be, the thought of leaving has him biting deep marks into your neck, purpling your skin so you won’t forget who fucks you better than anyone else.
“Fuck, C–” you moan and then you come, clenching so tightly around him that he spills inside of you, unprepared for how it knocks the wind out of him. He doesn’t withdraw, doesn’t let you get up—he’s not ready to. He’ll wait and have you again and again until you’re both sore and bruised and disgusting and not even a shower makes you feel clean.
Months. It’ll be months before he gets to have this again.
“You’re my best friend,” you whisper. “You know that, right?”
“Yes,” he says and his heart aches the way it always aches when you say it.
“What will I do when you’re gone?”
Copia’s eyes widen a fraction, he feels himself getting soft, feels how your mixed come sticks to his lap and cools into messy stains. Don’t sleep with someone else, he thinks but doesn’t say. Don’t forget about me. Don’t stop wanting me.
“I will call,” is what he does say. “We can chat. We can send each other funny pictures.”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
It’s ironic, how he can’t bridge over that word. Friends. What does it even mean? You’ve been friends for a long time, since before he became Papa, and yet he’s seen you naked more times than he can count. And he knows in a few hours he’ll hold you, not letting go all night because that’s what he does, that’s what you do, somehow, and have been doing for a while now. Fuck, hold each other, back to friends in the daylight.
It was easy to start sleeping with you, ever since you kissed him for the first time and insisted that it was not a weird thing between friends. He supposes that’s true, it’s not weird, but is it weird to make each other come all night only to get up and watch a movie like nothing happened?
“It’ll go by fast,” you say. “You’ll be back before we know it.”
He grimaces, can’t think about it, this tour ending and what they’ll do to him, who they’ll replace him with, whether he’ll return at all. His end is approaching, years of Papacy coming to a close, and he’s still not sure what will become of him. And you’re a safety net, the only thing that might be able to catch him when they let him fall.
“Sorry,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I know you don’t like to talk about it.”
“It’s okay, tesoro,” he says, hiding his face at your neck. “It will be fine as long as I have you.”
─── ⋆⁺‧₊ ✦ ⛧ ✦ ₊‧⁺⋆ ───
I
It doesn’t happen like that. He does call, you do chat, you send funny pictures, but then it slowly dies down. He’s getting exhausted, bone-tired. Tour gets you like that. He puts on his best show every night, absorbs the energies of the crowd and feels like he matters, feels like he belongs. Then he lies down and his body lets him know that he’s not young anymore, aches, groans, complains. The dread sets in, the premature grief about losing what he loves the most, and then he has to close his eyes to pretend that none of it is real.
He falls asleep and misses your calls. He starts a text but forgets to hit send until hours later and by then you’ve stopped replying, busy with your own work. He wants to tell you how scared he is but you’re thousands of kilometres away and he knows you’d just be fretting about him. You can’t help, not really. The calls you share he spends soaking up the familiar sound of your voice, hesitating to let his worries beat the smile from your lips when it’s the only thing that grounds him.
After a while, it feels like sleep-walking, like he’s a zombie, part of another dimension, struck numb by fear. He misses the signs, misses the way his mother has changed over the past few months, and he doesn’t realise how he forgot to live until she lies dead in front of him.
Now he’s some sort of imposter. Wearing her title, wearing a suit, a fancy brooch. New office, new staff, new responsibilities, and, worst of all, a new brother that he hasn’t even met. It’s been a whirlwind and he feels like Dorothy, whacked out of time, away from home, in a place he doesn’t recognise.
Only he can’t find the golden road that leads him on.
Where he once stood—in front of cameras, on stage, in his favourite outfits, face paint, intricate robes, flirting with the crowd—now stands a man he doesn’t know. A man who looks like him, vaguely, a man everyone seems to love, a man who stole everything Copia ever wanted.
Well, not quite everything.
But even safety nets can be torn apart.
You’ve reunited, somewhat, but it was nothing like he imagined months ago, when he was almost sure he’d finally confess to you his true feelings. No, instead Copia found you waiting for him when he got back and you hugged him so tight and there was such sympathy on your face. But that was it. Sympathy, hard to tell apart from pity, and he didn’t get a better glimpse at what might be waiting underneath. He thought his heart could leap out of his chest at the sight of you, the only good thing left in his life, but then he felt all the baggage he had arrived with and he couldn’t bring himself to demand more, only to crumble in your sight.
No kissing, not in front of others, not even an hour alone together, he barely remembers how your hand feels in his. He’d been dragged around, re-dressed, shown to his new office, and you’d silently removed yourself when you realised there was no space.
A month ago he watched his mother die.
A month, the official period of mourning.
Everyone is wearing black which is not too different from any usual day, only the spots of colour are missing. It’s bleak and he’s not sure what to do with himself. Grief is odd like that, life doesn’t feel much different until you find the blind spots, the ones that once felt alive.
He has no mother left to guide him, though Marika comes close, closer even than Sister, in many ways. But Copia never felt like he could rely on anyone, not when he was so easily discarded, when he had to claw his way up, was never made to feel like he was good enough to be wanted.
Not until he found you.
You sneak into his office, on occasion. But it’s rare that they let you enter between appointments. They started bothering him with his brother now. Social media marketing. Videos. New music. He blindly approves whatever they show him because he wants no part in any of it. And yet, when they step out of his office, the day his first music video airs, Copia turns on the computer screen, fighting the urge to throw up in anxiety when he sees the perfect embodiment of his role.
You step in after a while, interrupt his sulking, and he hits pause so fast he almost slides off the yellow couch they have him sitting on.
“Hi,” you say, hovering by the door, and then, a little bashfully, “Is this a bad time?”
“No, no,” he says, eager to see you. “Come in.”
You do, sitting on the couch beside him but a few feet apart. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve the distance, but perhaps it’s just that it’s been so long.
“Have you seen him yet?” you ask and to hear you talking about his brother makes him want to crawl out of his skin. “His new video?”
“No,” he lies.
“We could watch it together,” you suggest, creeping a little closer, at last.
He hates it. He hates that you don’t look at him like you did before.
“I guess,” he says and grumbles as he hits the play button, acting like he hasn’t seen it before.
The video plays. He watches, arms crossed, his whole face tensed into a frown. Beside him, you smile, your eyes widen, and he wants to jump up and smash the screen. Only he doesn’t. He’s used to this bubbling anger, he’s carried it his whole life, drumming his fists against the unfairness of it all. The pain underneath has widened into a black abyss. If he let go of his rage he'd fall into the never-ending pit of his own regrets.
So he clings to it. Then it breaks out of him.
“I worked hard,” he says. “I worked hard. For years. Decades, eh? And he just– he just got it handed. Just so. He didn’t even show up here before. What did he do, huh? He didn’t work for it like I did. And now I have to sit here in this shit office watching this fucker do my job.”
“C–”
“I know, it is a promotion, bla bla bla.”
“Well, it is a promotion.”
He scoffs, shakes his head and tsks at the monitor in front of him. “I didn’t ask for it. I was going to stay Papa, I did a fucking good job.”
“You did, no one is doubting that.”
“He is only successful because I made it all happen first.”
You stop arguing and it’s good because he would go on for another hour. At this point, you are the only one willing to enter his office without immediately running out again. Maybe you don’t recognise him like this, maybe that’s why you sit far away from him these days. At any rate, his frown doesn’t impress the video he’s been hate-looping for the past hour, watching his twin brother on stage while he’s stuck in this yellow hell of a room.
“I think I should go,” you say, then, and he looks at you with a sudden regret.
“Tesoro–”
“I think you need time,” is what you say. “You need time to process all of this. And I’m here to help, whenever you need me, but I can’t give you back what they took. And I’m so fucking sorry for that.”
He wants to touch you, desperately, reach out and pull you into his arms. But he can tell you’re insecure and not sure how to approach him. Why did he let it out on you? He doesn’t know what to say so he nods and when you leave his office he hides his tears behind angry fists.
─── ⋆⁺‧₊ ✦ ⛧ ✦ ₊‧⁺⋆ ───
II
The meeting drags on.
He blocked out that he’d have to work with you in his new position, and it doesn’t help that you’ve avoided his gaze for the past hour. It’s the first big staff meeting and your department has presented already, so he gets to endure the other reports while you sit opposite him, listening, apparently, to the detailed budgeting of the kitchens while he doesn’t give a shit.
He’s willing you to look at him but you squirm around on your chair, picking at the wood of the table. Copia knows he spooked you in his office, his outburst a sign of the ugly side of his feelings. It shocked him, too, to see you closing up against him. A wake up call, in a way, albeit too late.
Finally, you do glance over and he tries to smile, gives a small wave and you grimace, half-smile, half-insecurity. Your fingers lift as if to return the gesture but then you look away, embarrassed, and don’t turn back around for the rest of the morning.
Everyone trickles out of the room and you end up last, farthest away from the door. You try to squeeze past Copia who catches your elbow and you drop your pen, startled at the contact. He crouches, picking it up for you, and at the touch of your hands a shudder zings through him.
“Thank you, Frater,” you say, keeping your gaze lowered.
His heart shatters, his mouth contorting. “Don’t. Don’t call me that.”
Your eyes lift, his hand still holding yours over the pen, and then you glance around to make sure you’re alone. Some of the tension leaves you but it’s not the same as it was before, the ease gone, the familiarity.
Copia sighs, bracing himself for the speech he’d practiced in his head all night. “I’m sorry for how I talked to you in the office. It was not– not fair to you.”
A sigh falls from your lips, heavy, like you’ve been carrying it for days. “Copia, I’m sorry I just left. It’s– it’s difficult for me. Everything is different now.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he says.
“But it is. Suddenly, you’re my boss and superior and–”
“But I was before, as Papa.”
“That was different, I didn’t report to you. I didn’t sit through these meetings with you.”
He shakes his head. “It’s fine. We can… we can pretend, in front of the others, that we don’t– that we’re not–”
He stops his stammering. That you’re not what? He hasn’t touched you in months, hasn’t kissed you, hugged you, barely talked to you for more than ten minutes at a time. His lungs stutter with their next breath, the pain, the fear of losing you, the way you can hardly look at him anymore.
You take pity on him, then, or he thinks that must be why you suddenly wrap your arms around him. He deflates, swallowing against the rising panic, grabbing you tightly, tighter than he usually would. He’s afraid you’ll run through his fingers like sand and you wince but that’s it, no moving to extract yourself. It calms him until he can allow himself to loosen his hold.
“I do want to be there for you,” you whisper, your hand wiping over his back, that stupid thick fabric of his blazer hiding the sensation. “I just don’t know how. You were– you were so angry. It scared me.”
“But– but we’re still friends?” he asks, and it is pitiful, even to himself, how he’s basically begging you not to abandon him.
“Of course. Of course we are, C.”
It is okay, he thinks. That’s all he could have hoped for. Friends. Perhaps a step back, for now, until everything goes back to normal. That stupid hope he clings to, that this new life is going to stop feeling foreign to him, that he won’t feel like a stranger to himself anymore.
He knows himself when he’s in your arms. The man he used to be not quite so far away. And he can live with the rejection, he can live with it, as long as he has you. He’ll love you like he did all this time, nothing changed. Nothing changed. Only everything.
“I have to go,” you whisper, then. “I told a friend I’m having lunch with them.”
“Ah, yes.” He lets go, the knife lodged into his heart. “Yes, yes, go eat lunch, tesoro.”
You hesitate, a fraction of a second in which you hold his gaze the way you used to before you hooked up. That spark of longing, the tension before a kiss, anticipation. But it’s fleeting. You disappear through the door, hurrying away, and it feels like you’re fleeing.
Meeting a friend. A friend, like he is your friend? A friend you kiss and fuck and hold all night?
He feels ashamed of the accusation, buries it. He was gone for a while. You have needs. It’s well within your rights. He never had any claim over you, no. He’s a friend.
A friend. Yes, a friend. That’s all he is. Nothing more.
─── ⋆⁺‧₊ ✦ ⛧ ✦ ₊‧⁺⋆ ───
III
He finds you in a hallway that leads to the Sibling dorms. Finds you, as if he didn’t purposely stalk the areas he knows you frequent, pretending to go to the bathroom. It’s been days since he last saw you and it’s been eating at him, that awkward conversation, the implications of it, the image of you fucking someone else.
Everything is calming down now. As much as it can, at least, the mourning over, half-dead flower arrangements carried out to compost, standard operations back in order. It feels like an insult to him. The only things that are not back to normal are the things he wants the most.
You jump when you see him and of course you do, he’s never leaving his office these days.
“Hi,” he says to absorb the shock. “Hello.”
“Hello,” you say, removing the earbuds you’d rounded the corner with. “Uh, were you looking for me?”
He’s tapping his toes, bobbing back and forth. “Ah, yes, yes. I wanted to see you.”
Another Sibling takes the corner, startling at the sight. They move past towards the dorms, glancing back over their shoulder until they’re stumbling up the stairs. He forgot how many people exist. So many people. Was he ever aware of it before?
“So ah, who is– who is the friend?” he asks.
“What friend?”
“The friend you are hanging out with,” he says, trying not to sound bitter. Who did you replace me with? he truly wants to ask. Neither is a good entry question but he doesn’t care.
You furrow your brow and he almost reaches out to smooth it, an old habit. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t visit anymore,” he says, his voice breaking. And you haven’t. Not since he lashed out.
Understanding dawns on your face but he sees the hint of shame as well. He’s known you for too long to miss when you’re uncomfortable. “The’ve sent me away a few times now, telling me you’re not in a mood to receive people,” you explain. “You’re– you’re letting it out on them, you know?”
He does know. He knows. And if he’s being truthful it’s not just his brother that irks him, it’s everything. The hushed whispers about their sparkling new Papa, Psaltarian praising the guy in every meeting, the posts he approves that celebrate his successes.
All he can give as a reply is a short, “Oh.”
It hangs in the air for a moment. You sigh, not annoyed but unsure. Your body language hasn’t changed, at least.
“There’s no one else, no one outside of the usual people,” you say, then you tug at his sleeve, pulling him aside with a frown. “If you– Copia, if you think– I’m not sleeping with anyone else.”
“Ah.” He nods, biting his inner lip until it hurts. “Well, then.” Then I guess you just don’t want me anymore.
“You’re grieving, you’ve gone through so many changes,” you say, like that explains it. “I just didn’t want to add to all that by forcing my way in and demanding your time when you don’t feel like hanging out.”
He wants to scream. Demanding his time? Like you’ve ever demanded anything. Everything was freely given. He’d have given you more, if he hadn’t been such a coward. If you’d only asked.
“I– I miss you,” he says instead. “I need you. I can’t– I don’t know what to do.”
Your eyes are sad when he finally meets them. Your hand is still wrapped around his elbow, slides down to fumble with his glove. His heart skips.
“It just doesn’t feel like there’s space in your life,” you say.
“There is always space for you, you know this.”
“I don’t think there is, C. They just drag you around and I don’t even know when I’m allowed to see you anymore. And when I– when I do get to see you it’s like you’re stuck in your own world.”
He knows you’re right. He’s been wallowing in it, the self-loathing, the grief of it all. Why would you visit him, when all he does is mope and rage and shut you out? When you try to be there for him all he feels is anger and regret, fear that he’d lose you if he showed you the hideous truth of him. But he can’t admit that to himself. His office is like a trap that brings out all these ugly emotions, this job like poison. He’s never let you see him like this before—proud and angry and resentful. He’s a mess.
“I get it,” you whisper before he can reply. “Fuck, I get it, C. Grief is hard, you lost so fucking much. I know. But every time I try to talk about it you blame it on your brother and get so dismissive and angry, like you don’t want me there.”
“I know,” he says and the words tumble out. “I know I am angry– But not at you– Never at you.”
“It’s just– I don’t know that I recognise you anymore.”
The words sting. You might as well have slapped him, in that moment, and the worst is he knows he deserves it. He’s thought it before, after all, only he didn’t know that having it confirmed would hurt so bad. And why would you lie? He doesn’t even recognise himself. Not like this. Not without you.
“We can change that,” he says, desperate now. “You could come over? We could watch a movie. And talk.” And kiss, and fuck, and hold each other, and sleep in each other’s arms. “Like good old times, yes?”
“I would love to but I am on cleaning duty tonight. Every night, this week, actually,” you say, glancing at your watch. “There’s been so much to do now that everyone’s preparing for… for Papa.”
“I can clear your evening,” he offers, latching on to the only thing that doesn’t upset him. “One good thing about this new job, eh? I will assign the work to someone else.”
You hesitate for a moment, considering. He’s willing you to say yes, to nod, to smile, to hug him again, but you just shake your head. “I can’t accept that. I don’t want you to play favourites. It’s messy enough as is. People are already talking.”
“It’s not–” He stops because you’re right, that is what he’s doing, only he doesn’t see why that would be a bad thing. Why should he not use his position to help you? With a smile, he shrugs, tries to lighten the mood. “But you are my favourite, tesoro.”
“C–”
“I know, I know,” he says, glancing away to hide the tears that spring to his eyes.
Your fingers squeeze his arm but he almost doesn’t feel it. “Another time, okay? Next week?”
He nods, his heart sinking to his stomach where it beats shallowly against the pain. “Okie dokie.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, it’s fine. It’s all peachy.” He nods, lips pressed tight. “Some other time, then, yes?”
“C– Maybe we can–”
He can’t stand it any longer. Every rejection is another punch that threatens to finally knock him down. He leaves you standing there, feels the loss as your hand glides off his arm and falls away. He should be back in the office, anyway, sneak in before they come looking for him. If he’s lucky they leave him alone for the rest of the day and he can numb himself with old movies, leave this reality behind and pretend that none of it hurts anymore.
─── ⋆⁺‧₊ ✦ ⛧ ✦ ₊‧⁺⋆ ───
IV
The stone breaks the surface of the water with a splash. Orange ripples vibrate through the tension, a current forming underneath, waves of reflected colours slowly evening out until the water is quiet once more.
He throws another stone.
Copia watches the pond-lilies swaying under the impact, finally alone outside as everyone swarms back in for dinner. He doesn’t like going out these days, the pressure of being perceived. Demoted Papa, incapable leader, it’s written on everyone’s faces no matter how many times they claim it’s a promotion. He’s not truly in charge, the reigns are still in his mother ghostly hands, lead by all the people she implanted over the years, a structure decades in the making.
He’s a pawn, nothing more. Was he ever more?
He doesn’t hear the steps until he startles from a hand, gingerly placed on his shoulder. When he looks up, the sun catches in your eyes so beautifully that he forgets to take his next breath. “Tesoro?”
You sit beside him, staring at the last few ripples in the pond. “You ran off the other day.”
“You didn’t want me there.”
“That’s not true.”
He looks at you, only to find your eyes on him. It may be the first time he notes that you don’t look well and he wonders if it’s true. If they’re overworking everyone to prepare for the era of his brother. He never would have asked this of them.
A part of him softens. Perhaps you don’t look well because you miss him.
“I was looking for you in the office,” you go on, taking one of the stones he gathered and throwing it as well. The impact is softer, the throw not carrying the same anger.
“I’m not needed there,” he says and throws one himself. Then, quieter, “No one needs me.”
“I need you.”
All he can do is scoff. You frown but don’t fight him. For a moment everything is quiet and he can hear the soft breeze stroking through the trees. He thinks you might leave, that all is said between you now, but then you release a breath that rattles in your throat.
You’re nervous, he realises.
“I swapped my shift,” you say. “That’s why I’m here. I thought we could hang out tonight.”
Copia repeats the words over in his mind. “Hang out tonight?”
“Yeah, like–” You smile, mimicking him. “Like good old times.”
He sits, stone-stiff, his heart weighing down his chest, and instead of a reply he leans in to capture your lips. You startle and he tries to pull away but you won’t let him. Your teeth catch on his bottom lip and he groans, presses in firmly to swallow the hesitation. He hasn’t kissed you in months and suddenly every inch of him is trying to fill the hollow you have left. His tongue brushes past your lips, parting you, and at the loss of control you reach to grab for him, a finger hooking into his collar, dishevelling him as you scrabble for hold.
Copia feels your nails biting into his neck and his cock throbs in his pants. With your taste in his mouth all he wants is to let go, push you back and take you right here until the rest of the world blurs into nothingness. But then you push at him, the brooch jangling under your hand.
“Not here,” you whisper.
“But–”
“I still have to help out with cleanup after dinner but I can come over after that, bring some snacks,” you offer. “Then we can talk, okay?”
“Yes.”
“Copia–”
“Shh.” He trembles, rests his forehead against yours, swallows hard against the lump forming in his throat. “Let me hope, tesoro. Don’t take this from me as well.”
─── ⋆⁺‧₊ ✦ ⛧ ✦ ₊‧⁺⋆ ───
IV+I
He traverses barely lit hallways. It’s way past dinner, Siblings huddling in quiet corners, whispering when he passes, nervous, jittering, dropping his keys more than once. He misses his tricycle, how he used it to make people laugh, startle couples out of their kisses with a mischievous tinkle of its bell, racing others down the hall with his cassock catching in the wheels.
Now he can’t look at it without crying.
Copia’s not sure how long you’ll be busy. He tried to gauge, thought about waiting behind the kitchens, but he couldn’t stand being ogled by everyone who passed. He hid in his office, staring at the yellow wallpaper, thinking he was losing his mind like the woman in the book. Still better than sitting at home like a pathetic little puppy, waiting for you to come, waiting for the inevitable pain when you tell him that you only love him as a friend.
The lock clicks only once but his racing heart muffles the sound and he doesn’t notice. He can feel his pulse in his ears, drumming the beat of his fear, his fingers shaking in sync.
Your shoes are waiting by the door.
Copia’s breath hitches, suffocating him. Of course, you still have the key to his rooms.
He closes his eyes for a precious second, lets the wave of panic subside. He can do this. He can tell you what he feels, he can show you. And if not, he’ll accept his fate, he’ll be your friend. He’ll–
The noise from his bedroom startles him out of his stupor. The springs in his bed squeak as you sit down on it. A sound he’s heard so many times that it feels achingly familiar. Copia wills himself to go on but when he sees you he freezes, blood curdling, a hammer falling down.
From underneath the bed, his black Papal robes stick out halfway. The blue robes hang off the side of the mattress in a crumpled heap and in your hands, cradled like a child, you hold the black shirt with the frills you always so loved on him.
At his steps you look up, half-started, half-scared, shame marring your features.
“You hid them,” you whisper.
“You dragged them out.”
“I’m sor–”
His anger bubbles up, half-dormant, now breaking free. “Put it on,” he snaps.
“Copia–”
“You heard me.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you–“
“Put it on–” He presses his lips together. “Put it back or put it on. You can choose. We’ve played this game before, tesoro. We can pretend this never happened or–”
Your eyes, wide and unsure, move from him to the garment. He’s losing his fear, seeing you like this, the way you’re already shifting uncomfortably, aroused from the tone of his voice alone. He’s not spoken like that since he lost the Papacy.
“We can pretend it never happened,” he continues, “or you wear your shame until I’ve fucked it out of you.”
Your lips part but you stifle the sound that threatens to spill, he can see it stuck in your throat. When you move to stand he encroaches, a black, leather-clad hand reaching out to hold the shirt for you. For a moment you merely stare at him, his narrowed eyes, the hint of hope that’s hidden behind them. Don’t back out, he tells himself, and tells you, with a raise of his brow. I want you, I need you. Let me have you. Let me show you what this does to me. Let me show you that I’m still the man you want.
Your fingers lift to nervously fumble with the buttons of your shirt, and he holds back the sigh of relief that shudders through him. You undress, your whole upper body bared to him, a sight so blurry in his memories, now painted over in flesh and blood.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper and he knows you’re not talking about the clothes now. You wrap the black fabric around your shoulders but don’t close it and he stares down at the expanse of bare skin in between. “I was so scared to change what we had. But then it changed anyway and I didn't know what to do.”
A shock, regret and fear and pain and hope building like electric waves, thundering through him until he reaches for you. He wants you so much that it consumes everything else within seconds. He’s never wanted anything more.
“I was scared, too,” he admits, breaking the act, allowing his eyes to well up.
You reach out, a gentle hand cradling his cheek. He desperately pushes against it, as if he could hide in the soft touch you offer. It feels like rediscovering an old habit, an old comfort, but he can’t fall into it yet.
“The pants, too,” he says, more firmly. “I’ll have you in the shirt only.”
You obey, shuffling off the rest of your clothing. He’s seen you naked so many times and yet it never loses its novelty. He can’t tear his eyes away from you. All the months of longing lead to this one moment and somehow he doesn’t feel prepared. So much uncertainty lingers in your eyes, so many unspoken feelings, and he thinks he shouldn’t solve this in bed, should talk and listen and mend, but then his stomach caves and he pulls you close and presses his lips to yours.
His hands move down your body, denting your ass, as if he could feel it through the leather if he only pressed in hard enough. Your lips part for him, the taste of you clouding his self-control and in a fury of need he reaches for your thighs until he can drop you back onto the bed. It creaks, protests against your shared weight. He can’t help but crawl on top of you, fully clothed, the suit so unbearably stiff. The brooch dangles over your bare chest when he glances between your bodies. Goosebumps form where the cool metal touches your skin.
“I missed you,” you whisper against his lips.
He groans, his hips bucking into yours. Pinned as you are, he finally dares to ask the question. “Then why did you leave me? Why did you give up?”
You freeze before moving your hands from his back to his face. “I didn’t mean to.”
He can’t bear to hold your gaze, not when he’s feeling so vulnerable. Instead he sits up, tears the brooch off and wriggles until the blazer falls off. He fights the urge to throw the jewels, forces himself to set them aside gently. When his eyes find yours again he has to blink away immediately.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says.
“Like what?”
“With- with pity.”
“It’s not pity,” you say. ”C–“
He doesn’t listen. Instead he bears down on you again, folding you so your legs are on either side of him and he can drill his hips into yours. When you feel him, pressing in hard against you, your words catch in your throat.
“I don’t want your pity,” he says. “All I want– All I ever wanted–”
He can’t bring himself to say the words. Copia groans, grinds against you again and again, just to feel your body reacting, the only thing he can understand with plain certainty. Your eyes close against the sensation and he forces your attention back on him with a kiss that steals his own breath. You reciprocate eagerly, teeth and tongue, and he struggles to hold himself up. The shirt has fallen from your shoulders, revealing a sheen of sweat on your skin.
“Fuck–” you start, breaking away for air. “Fuck– Please–”
“Now you want me?” he mocks, lips bruised and aching.
“I always wanted you.”
“You didn’t,” he argues but you don’t fight back, the desperation in your eyes is real and he has to relent, suddenly afraid that he’s hurting you.
“Tesoro–”
“Fuck me, Copia, please,” you whine. “Don’t stop.”
He wants so much more. He wants to hear you say it, that you love him, that he’s not just your friend, that you forgive him for pushing you away, that he’s enough, even now, that he’ll feel whole again, that it won’t hurt like this forever. But he’s lost his momentum, his anger. Instead, he fiddles with his belt, with the button of his pants, pushes them off just enough.
He spits into his hand, probes with his fingers, then lines himself up.
“Not Copia,” he says. “It’s Papa.”
“Papa.”
He nods, pushes forward until his tip slides in. “Again.”
“Papa.”
It’s slow, torturous, the way he fills you one syllable at a time. “Again, tesoro.”
“Papa. Papa.”
Tears well up in his eyes as you repeat the title over and over. He fucks you to forget about them, driving his hips forward despite his pants being in the way. It doesn’t matter if he messes them up, nothing matters but the feeling of being inside of you, your hands clawing at his shirt, your thighs squeezing around him and the stuttering of his heart as his love for you beats a fast, steady rhythm.
But there is this nagging thought as well, the fear that he hasn’t been able to erase from his mind. He rolls his hips, watches your eyes close in pleasure, the title tumbling from your lips like so many nights before. Papa. Papa. Papa. Papa.
“You liked me better too,” he chokes, “when I was Papa.”
He glances away so you don’t see his eyes but a tear slides down his cheek and falls to your nose.
“Look at me,” you whisper. “Please.”
He tries, bites his lip to stop it from trembling. Your fingers are soft when they tilt his chin and he can’t help but allow it. His vulnerability is mirrored in your eyes, all the layers shed, and he can tell he’s been a fool. It has never been pity that he’s seen in your eyes. You do love him.
“Papa, Cardinal, Cardi, C, Frater– It doesn’t matter,” you whisper. “You’re my Copia. I don’t care which title you hold.”
More tears fall from his eyes and to distract you he begins to fuck you again, slow this time but deep, his muscles strung tight every time he meets you. He allows himself to cry, to feel the pain, the relief, and bends down to kiss you, salt on his lips, pouring all of himself into every touch. You moan, beg, cross your legs behind his back to pull him in even deeper. It’s different this time, he can tell.
He’s not your fucking friend.
“Copia,” you whisper against his lips and he knows he can’t last much longer, not when the name falls from your lips so tenderly.
He curses, pushes his hand between your bodies to work you there as well, but you push it aside, merely angling your hips a little differently, keeping him tightly pressed to your body. You whimper, a hand buried in his hair, tight grip, pulling in the way that makes him lose his mind.
“‘m c-close,” you breathe. “Are you going to come with me?”
Tears dry on his cheek, the skin pulling, burning. He finds the last of his strength to grind down, thighs shaking, muscles clenched so tight that they hurt, fighting with himself until you fall apart beneath him. He holds you as close as he can, breaking from the inside, his hips stuttering as he finally lets go. Fresh tears wet his face. They dribble down on you, carrying the sweet release from more than just pleasure. You tremble but your arms close over his shoulders, soft hands caressing the sweat-soaked fabric of his shirt, playing with his hair.
“I love you,” you whisper. “I’ve loved you for so long. I’m so sorry.”
“I know,” he says. “I love you, tesoro.”
He falls weakly on top of you, the tensions of months falling away. It’s okay, he thinks, everything is okay now. You smile and he does the same, trying not to break out in tears and laughter at the same time. He feels like he’s opened himself up, raw and exposed—to the world, to you—in a way that he hasn’t allowed himself before.
“You love me,” he says, watching as one of his tears slides from your nose to your lips. “How do you love me, tesoro? Tell me I’m not your friend.”
“You are my friend,” you say, “but you’re also so much more than that. I should have told you before you left. There is no one else for me.”
He huffs a manic laugh, nods, but the relief drives away any remaining anger, any insecurities. The fight has left him. Now, the aftermath that leads to healing. Copia moves you both into a comfortable position, your face a mere breath away from his.
“I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you as much as I should have been,” you mumble, wiping steadily at the tears coating his face. He almost wants to cry more, just to feel the soft comfort of your touch, to hear the soothing timbre of your voice.
“It’s okay, tesoro,” he says, an echo from a night so long ago that finally rings true. “It will be fine as long as I have you.”
thank you for reading <3 likes, kudos, comments and reblogs are appreciated but most of all i hope you had fun reading this story!
i do really think the only true violence secondo is capable of is against himself. not that he hasn't hurt other people in some capacity, he's not emotionally available, so of course he has. but a lot of his behavior is also just him randomly high-dosing on self-harm and thinking it's good, it's what he deserves and what he needs and what he preaches.
he despises himself as much as he's safe and confident in his own skin. it's a co-existence he's made peace with by now. he's calm and controlled, meticulous and educated, and on the other side he's mayhem, chaos, uninhibited hedonism. it's supposed to be a balance but is it, really?
i think it's claustrophobia, i think he's breaking out of this safe and solid life he's build but he's overdoing it every time. it's control vs. excess. it's routine vs. waking up hungover, it's a structured, responsible life vs. hollow drinking until you don't feel yourself anymore. it's reading your book at home vs fucking for the sake of it and feeling like a husk after. it's sophistication and expensive suits vs. the vomit stains on your shirt the morning after. leading the congregation vs. losing yourself in the strobe lights and loud music where no one else needs you.
and it works, for a time, until the self-loathing takes over and the only remedy to that is to repeat the cycle again and again. and how perfect that it pisses off the very people you hate anyway. life is full of regrets, what are a few more, at the end of the day, right?
In a desperate attempt to seek out the third Papa’s counsel on an intimate matter a Sister of Sin slips into the confessional one night – only to be met by the voice of Papa Emeritus II instead.
Or: Secondo teaches his favourite Sister how to pleasure the man she is infatuated with – unaware that he is exactly who she wants.
content: 19.6k words, pov third person, sexual inexperience, finger sucking, dry humping, gloves & hands, oral sex (both receiving), mild spit kink, choking/sensitive gag reflex, emotional hurt/comfort, praise, sex toys, power imbalance, dom/sub dynamic, soft dom!secondo, p in v, confessions
➽ This is by far the most self-indulgent story I have ever written, also the first one that I ever drew my own banner for. For easier reading I recommend using Ao3 where I split it into three parts of equal length! enjoy ♡
Masterlist – Ao3 link – RATED E – 18+ only
Prelude
He leafs through the list she left on his desk, wets his thumb as he makes his way over to where he hears her getting ready, a small office space he had arranged specifically for her in his basement area. A click as she closes her black leather briefcase and he leans against the doorframe, watching as she slings it over her shoulder, caving in under the heavy weight before she adjusts the painful strap.
“Are you carrying around stones, hm?” he asks.
She turns, mouth parting, her features tensing for a fraction of a second as they always do when he comes close. A static feeling, the room charged with unspoken tension. But then her eyes flicker to his bare forearms, to the open collar of his shirt, the evidence that it is not discomfort that has her body reacting like that. Amused, he focuses back on the list at hand.
“I checked out some books from the library earlier,” she says by way of explanation.
“Are you done for the day, then, sorella?”
“I’m done unless you need me, Papa. I have finished my work.”
“I always have need of you, cara, you are the only one I trust with this task.” He glances up again over the rim of his reading glasses, a mild smile tugging at his lips. “But you have earned your free evening.”
“Perhaps Sister can give me a few more hours down here,” she suggests and the thought alone seems to bring more colour to her face, her fingers shaking as they fiddle with her bag. “I would love to, anyway.”
“Would you, hm?” He cocks his head. “I admit that is not something I am used to hearing.”
No, many Siblings don’t get along with his temperament, the fact that he is rather particular about how he expects things to be done, giving up fast instead of rising to the challenge. Not her, though, no, determined as she is, eager to learn from him, eager to please. For months she’s been down here now, two days a week, cataloguing his vast collection of art, books, and relics, many long afternoons spent in idle conversation as they take notes, more at his probing than hers, though she has a habit of getting him to talk more freely than he is used to.
They are entirely too familiar with each other. He knows the names of her parents, where she grew up, how she takes her coffee and the brand of her perfume, what take out food she likes to order, the books she’s been reading. It would be easy enough to carry their conversations outside of this place, to deepen that bond over a nicely cooked meal. And yet something is holding her back, a flicker of hesitation he can see whenever he tries to go further, when his touches aren’t quite as accidental, when his flirting becomes a little more daring. Or perhaps it is fear, the heat of shame that she is attracted to him of all people. It fascinates him.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Papa,” she says, the heavy bag propped against her hip.
Before she can walk by his arm reaches to block her path, a teasing smile on his lips, one he can’t resist. “Sorella, you are forgetting.”
Heat springs to her face, he thinks he can feel it when she leans in to press her soft cheek to his, a practiced ritual. He gives a quick peck but it comes with that Italian intensity, a kiss that lingers long after, the scratching of his cheek, the wet mark of eager lips, and he hopes she can feel it as he does. Her gaze darkens and for a second he expects her to drop to her knees in front of him, confess every single dirty thought she ever had. He would indulge her, naturally. Give her even more ideas.
“Good night,” she whispers, voice nothing more than an exhale.
He nods, satisfied enough with her reaction, his arm falling back down to let her pass. It takes her a moment to notice, before she can break away from his gaze, and his amused chuckle follows her out of the basement. A puzzle he will solve – in due time, and sooner than he expects.
─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───
I – Confession Pt. 1
The only sound in the chapel is the slow rustle of his book as he turns the page.
A slow, solitary night. His official duties have been scarce since entering retirement – though, this is a word he would not use for himself. Retiring, the implication that he can now rest, that his life’s work is over and he gets to be idle. It is not something he wants and though he enjoys the added freedoms he hasn’t been making much use of them. Reduced to confession duty, taking over shifts for his busy younger brother, filling the vacant spots for weekday masses where only few Siblings attend, the view from the pulpit barely reminding him of who he once was. Papa, entertainer, showman, womaniser. Now, it suits him best when he is holed up in his basement all day, restoring flaky artworks, rebinding old tomes he’s been collecting over the years, old school heavy metal blasting from his speakers to drown out any thoughts that could slip into his head. Old school, yes, that is what he is as well now. Rocked down, used, waiting to be discarded.
Confession duty makes him feel useful, at least. It is an irregular night, Terzo nursing an ailment of his vocal chords, urged not to speak unless absolutely necessary. Secondo does not mind taking over. His nights have been quieter, the company he used to keep reduced to the fulfilment of basic needs, the odd overnight stay, a dinner in town here and there. Being stripped of the Papal title came with the added sting of losing the appeal to many. No more grandiose performances.
Purpose, company. It is what he is missing.
He tries not to be offended by how many Siblings show up expecting Terzo and being not quite as enthusiastic once they realise he’s not there. Secondo has his own regulars during the nights he’s on duty, it is the way of things. Discussing such private matters, it requires trust. As the night progresses, however, his breaks stretch out longer. He gets his reading done, a worn copy of The Divine Comedy, read many times over.
When he hears footsteps he pauses, listens whether they carry over or if someone came for a late night prayer. Secondo softly closes his book, pockets it in his black cassock. They approach, sit down behind the lattice on that slippery, worn-down wooden plank, and he readies himself for the well-practiced speech of encouragement he is so used to delivering at any such occasion that a Sibling seeks him out. It is late, his duties almost over, and it is not a rare thing for someone to purposely arrive at this hour, usually when the matter they seek to discuss is of an especially delicate nature. Before he can speak, however, the Sister on the other of the lattice already falls into her confession.
“Forgive me Papa, I know the hour is late and you have lent your ear to many Siblings already but I must–” A deep breath and he sits up straighter as he realises who is talking on the other side. “I must confess that your kind words a few days ago have encouraged me to ask for your counsel in a matter that has been giving me many sleepless nights as of late.”
With no small amount of confusion he realises that she too must mean his brother. He is unaware of such an incident as the one she is describing and last he saw her – this very evening when she left her office with that heavy bag slung over her shoulder – she did not give a hint at being weighed down by something else.
Before he can make himself known, she is already continuing, the words flowing out of her so fast that he can sense the nervousness in her speech. “Perhaps I should start by telling you that I know, as you said, that there is no shame in inexperience and I am aware I am far from the only one who might be insecure about these things. However, the fact of the matter is… there is someone rather experienced who I have become infatuated with. A man, to be precise.” Another deep breath. “He doesn’t know about any of this and he might not even feel the same way about me but still I fear that he might be sorely disappointed if he… if he ever did decide to be intimate with me and found out how very… lacking I am. And I am not talking about sex, per se, the issue is rather… The issue is rather that I have never performed a specific act during my past encounters and I know that I will struggle with it.”
“And what act would that be?” he asks, without thinking.
She audibly startles, though she is trying to hide her gasp. For a second she says nothing, then she stammers out, “Oh, this is– Papa– I don’t–”
“Mi dispiace, sorella, you may have expected my brother to be here tonight. I can assure you, however, that you can confide in me just the same.”
Hurried breathing, he fights off an amused smile at her reaction. “But– because we work together–”
“I assure you of my discretion,” he replies. “I have done this for many decades, sorella. None of what we speak about in here will leave the confines of the confessional.”
She takes a moment to consider, perhaps feeling trapped now which is not his intent. He gives her time, the quiet settling once again. After spending so much time together he can’t shake the hint of disappointment that she’d go to his brother of all people, that she still seems too wary to confide in him.
“It’s just–” She takes a deep breath and he fights the urge to take a look at her through the lattice. “Will you be disappointed in me that I feel ashamed of my own inexperience?”
Ah. Is that what kept her from confiding in him? The fear that his good opinion of her might change? “I will never be disappointed by something like this, sorella,” he assures her. “I am only disappointed that you still distrust me so.”
“I trust you,” she stresses. “I do trust you. I think you’re the person who knows me best in this ministry but I do not want things to change between us. You’re… you’re the closest I have to a real friend.”
He cocks his head, surprised by this admission. “I promise you this will not change. I am here, cara. Take your time.”
For a second, she does not speak, shifts around on the bench. He hears her take a few shaky breaths and while this is not out of the ordinary it is unusual for her. Secondo did not take her reluctance for insecurity before tonight, confident as she is in her work, in dealing so well with him of all people. It is endearing to him, makes his heart ache inside his hollow chest in a way he doesn’t quite understand.
“I have been with people,” she says, then, “but it wasn’t… it wasn’t ever anything special. Some… some fumbling, kisses that escalated and ultimately just a sort of disappointingly quick conclusion. I’ve not been very adventurous, it is hard for me to trust people so intimately with my body.”
“And there is nothing wrong with that,” he assures her, glued to her every word.
“Thank you for saying that.” Another pause. “It is just, now that… there is this man, I realised that I am lacking the skills that… that he might be used to. He is experienced and he knows what he wants which is something I find very attractive. And yes, this should not change his feelings for me, if he has any feelings for me, but if he does not want to take things beyond a physical nature then this might put a quick end to whatever is between us. Before I have a chance to convince him.”
“I see.” Secondo tries not to be vexed by this, the idea of helping her to please another man. “Sorella, dolce ragazza, will you tell me what it is that you are so intimidated by? Is it an usual thing this man wants from you?”
“No, that’s the thing, Papa. It is not unusual at all, it is… Satan, this is pitiful.” She groans into her hands, a pained, muffled sound. “It’s the fact that I have never pleased a man with… with my mouth.”
“Ah.”
“I know this is… it is such a basic thing,” she rambles on. “I am embarrassed, I should not be so worried about it but it’s that I… I am sort of sensitive if you understand what I mean and I’m afraid if I tried… it’d just end in a pathetic performance and he’d decide that he can do better.”
He can feel the blood draining from his face, pooling lower into his body. Only briefly is he irritated by this, being aroused by the mere fraction of the idea of feeling her gagging on his cock. But he can’t indulge this now, not when she is this upset about it. “Sorella, I do not have to tell you that he is not worth your time if this is his reaction.”
“I know and he might not– this might not happen. But with this fear, I’m sure my nerves will make it even worse. I just don’t want to get hurt.”
Secondo takes a deep breath and shifts to sit more upright, leaning towards the lattice now. “As I see it, there are two ways to soothe your worries, sorella. You must confess to him when the time arrives and you wish to please him – and you must tell him truthfully. If he is a man deserving of you he will neither laugh nor judge but guide you with patience. But you must want it, sorella. Remember that every act of sin in Lucifer’s name is one of great enthusiasm, not one of pressure or a sense of duty. If you never wish to perform this act for discomfort or any other reason then he must be understanding of this as well and respect your wishes.”
“But what if he isn’t, Papa? What if he doesn’t want to be with me when he finds out?”
“Then he is not a man that should ever be allowed to touch another person, let alone you. If this should happen, sorella, or if he forces you to do things you do not want, then you will come to me, yes? Promise me.”
She seems taken aback by his vehemence, quiet for a while, but then he sees the shadow of her nodding her head. “I promise.” He hears a sniffle, one that tears right through him. He hasn’t noticed her crying. “But… but what is the other way, Papa?”
Closing his eyes, he fights off the urge to step out of this booth and comfort her. He has ulterior motives, of course, biting at him like tiny parasites, not necessarily a bad conscience, he does mean to help her, but the urges underneath are anything but good.
“If you truly wish to learn, then they key is practice – with your hands, with a safe tool or perhaps… an experienced guide.”
He waits for her reaction now, hoping he did not overstep, that he has been reading her right and despite her feelings for another man she still harbours this attraction to him that he’s sensed when they work. He should not be toying with her in such a vulnerable moment, no, but if it would help guide her into the arms of someone he knows will keep her safe?
“A guide?” she asks.
He fights off a satisfied smile, curious as ever. “Someone you trust, sorella. Someone with experience and patience to show you how it is done.”
“I could not ask anyone of such a thing, Papa. They’d think I’ve lost my mind.”
“Would they?” he replies, then, unable to hold it back, “Who would you ask, sorella? My brother?”
“No!” Her voice rises. “It’s not like that, Papa. I did not– I just wanted reassurance from him, not to– I don’t think about him like that. And I don’t imagine anyone would voluntarily offer to be subjected to shitty blowjobs for a few weeks, least of all Papa.”
“Sorella, you trust me?”
This time, she does not hesitate. “I do, Papa.”
“Then will you come over?”
“Come ov– right now?”
“Yes.”
He hears the wood creaking when she gets up, the soft opening and closing of the door to her booth. In front of his door she hesitates and he almost thinks this is the moment she’ll run away but then, with a visibly shaking hand, she opens. Moonlight streams in, illuminating her face that is still streaked with silent tears. He holds out a hand, and although it is a tight space she fits perfectly into his lap when he drags her there. If she notices that he’s already half-hard she does not comment, secured with a hand around his shoulder.
“Sorella,” he whispers, wiping at her cheeks. “It pains me to see you like this. You should have come to me a long time ago.”
“I know, Papa.”
“Will you let me help you now?”
She glances away, tensing. “I– Would you truly want to?”
“Yes.”
“And not out of pity?”
“No pity, cara.”
She eases in his grasp, allows him to cradle her face in his warm leather gloves. He knows they feel good on the skin, smell of the woodsy oil he uses to keep them soft. It tugs at him, that she is so distressed because of a man who is most likely not even worthy of her. No one is, though, that he knows. And he’d keep her alone if he could, their days spent down in the basement, sorting through his collection between bouts of frantic sex and good food. He’d show her everything, patiently, make her feel so good she’d never think about another man’s cock ever again.
“I’m scared to disappoint,” she admits, then, unusually small.
“I know,” he says. “You want to be good at everything you do, hm? I have noticed this with your work. But we cannot be good at everything right away. I was not, I assure you.”
“You’ve done it before?”
He nods, thumbs stroking over her soft cheeks. “I have done many things, some of which I was good at some of which were just not as good as in my head, hm? It does not matter if you are the best at it, ragazza mia, it matters that you enjoy it just as much as the man who receives it. Or at the very least that you do not mind doing it for someone you like.”
She smiles and he can see her finding back to herself, her gaze stronger, her hands on him firmer, assuring him that she does want to be here, do this with him. Shifting his weight a little he leans back so that she can rest more comfortably in his lap, leaning against the wooden side of the booth. His fingers stroke along her jaw now, one hand moving to her hip while the other traces the curve below her ear, then forward to her chin, over to the other side. He does it until she’s relaxed, used to his touch.
Then he toys with her mouth. She tenses only shortly, allows him to part her lips, completely enraptured by his ministrations. It’s how he’s seen her look at him during mass, one of the few Siblings who never misses any of those he leads. A smile spreads on his lips, pride that she does indeed trust him, perhaps even longs for him, the intimacy he offers, his company. Slow movements, a finger tracing her bottom lip, feeling her teeth against the tip of it.
More daring, he pushes his thumb inside, makes her spread her mouth open wider. She shivers but allows it, her eyes never leaving his. The muscles in her jaw are tense. After a moment he removes his hand, tugs at his glove until it comes off. Perhaps tasting skin will make it more familiar and he has to admit that the thought of feeling her warm mouth on his finger makes his own heart speed up, that heat in his lower belly now simmering on a steady flame.
“Is this good?” he asks.
She nods.
“Words, my dove, I need to hear it.”
“It’s okay, Papa.”
“Brava.”
He begins by tracing her lips again. This time, he inserts his index finger, longer, pushing further inside. When he sees that she tolerates it he adds his middle finger, a little deeper once again. He does not let it deter him when she gags right away, just retreats a little before going back to where she was comfortable. His fingers are big, he is aware of it, and she has never taken anyone into her mouth, something that thrills him more than he wants to admit to her face. If it takes him a long time to get her to take all of him then it only means that whatever man she was talking about will slip further and further from her mind.
“Not everyone is comfortable taking things in their mouth,” he explains. “It is only natural for the body to fight off the intrusion when unused to it, hm? It is for survival, sorella, it wants to protect you and you cannot blame it for that. But if you wish it so then we can practice and it will be easier with time. Do you want that?”
She nods, mumbling an affirmative around his digits. He smiles, lifts his other hand to pet her jaw encouragingly. Once again he presses down a little harder, goes a little deeper, and this time she is prepared.
“Breathe through your nose,” he instructs. “Relax your muscles, it makes it easier.”
She tries, he sees it, feels her breath against his knuckles. But it only lasts for a short time before she gags again, sensitive just like she’d said, perhaps even more so than he’s expected. But it is good, he thinks, this is perfect. He can show her, the ideal excuse to be close to her like this.
“Shhh,” he coos when she struggles to breathe, removing his fingers to the tips of her lips. “We will get you there, my dove. Do not worry any longer, your Papa will help you. You only have to trust me and you do, do you not?”
Another nod. At his raised brow she speaks, “I trust you, Papa. More than anyone.”
“Good. We will not go any further now. I want you to think about it, sorella, make sure this is what you want, yes? The next time I see you we will try again and perhaps we will try more if you are ready. We can go as slow as you need, but now you need some rest. I do not want to hear about sleepless nights again, at least not if I am not the cause of it.”
She nods, smiles at his jest and shifts in his lap, the arousal sitting uncomfortable between her legs. He knows he mirrors this discomfort, unable to keep his hips completely still. It is not for tonight, however, too much for her to work through already. But she looks grateful, he thinks, her eyes stay dry and the relief is palpable as her body finally relaxes.
This time, she does not forget. “Goodnight, Papa,” she whispers and leans in, pressing her face to his to exchange those wet cheek kisses. He holds still, waits for her to kiss his first, loudly, before he reciprocates. When she breaks away a hint of mischief is laced into her smile. “And thank you.”
His hands tighten on her hips for a second, keeping her there in his lap and holding her gaze with all that he wants to promise. Satisfied that she returns it without as much as a flinch he releases her and she slides off his lap, leaving the booth without another sound.
“Goodnight, indeed,” he whispers, adjusting the bulge in his pants underneath his cassock. When he picks up his book the words swim on the page. He still has another hour.
─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───
II – Lesson Plans
It won’t let go of him.
When he tries to sleep, when he prepares his breakfast, when he sits through a three hour clergy meeting, when he writes Friday’s sermon. His fingers in her mouth, his cock already hard at the mere feeling of her tongue on his skin, that shaky admission of fear and the trust that followed, a festering shame in her eyes that he desperately wants to free her from. Perhaps it is presumptuous, that he thinks it should be him who helps her.
Not that he lacks conviction.
Secondo knows he can show her how to embrace the exploration of her needs better than anyone, the novelty of giving pleasure, a new world he can open up for her. Yes, he can do right by her, encouragement and patience and his guiding hand, protect her from the pain of a lesser man. That she would have him baptise her, it is a gift, or he considers it as such. A thing of beauty, that Lucifer brought her into his care.
His thoughts have been straying to her before that night, that nagging curiosity of why she’s holding back from him, the tingle of lust that has become rarer with age but that she stokes so easily with her presence. Secondo is not in the habit of overthinking, no. Instead he’s pushing uncomfortable thoughts as far away as possible, stuffed into that dark ugly corner in his mind that he has decided to black out, lest they get a chance to hurt him. This is an entirely different matter, an added layer he did not consider before, one that is harder to push away.
There is someone she likes. Someone whose cock she’s been thinking about having in her mouth.
That someone might or might not be him.
Ink drops splatter out of his fountain pen as he realises he subconsciously increased the pressure. He’s beyond cursing, sits back in his office chair instead, identifying his jealousy for what it is. It does not bode well for him, a risk he’d avert if it were anyone else, entanglement, serious feelings. Would she have gone to Terzo of all people to talk about her attraction to him? Terzo would not have known, of course, unless she’d told him, but he is too perceptive for his own good, probably knows she’s been spending hours down here. He can see his brother laughing, telling her to stay as far away from his stronzo brother as possible, semi-serious, perhaps, but Terzo has a way of caring too deeply about his flock and he knows Secondo is not in the habit of reciprocating crushes, rare as they are these days.
Almost a week passes before he sees her again. He makes a note in his calendar to ask Sister to send her here more often, already dreading that conversation. It’s quickly forgotten when he hears her coming down the stairs. She greets him the same way they say goodbye, a kiss to the cheek, a routine he established in one of his slow attempts to take things further. He notes that she is inching a little closer to his mouth, the imprint of her lips lingering in the lines of his jaw.
At first, he does not say anything. They get to work, she catalogues, he wastes some time sorting through a few boxes of books he had recently delivered from Florence where he was a resident Cardinal a few years before his Papacy. Even so, he can’t help but observe her, the diligence, the care with which she treats his belongings, no matter how sturdy or delicate. More importantly, she does not once look at her phone all day. Whoever this other man is can’t be that important.
You’re the closest I have to a real friend, she said in the confessional and he wonders if it is what drives her down here and, in the same breath, whether it is what he feels underneath as well, why he keeps her here, that need for company. Perhaps age has softened him, so much so that he suddenly thinks about a permanent companion for the decade or two that the world has left for him. He doesn’t want to be her friend, no. But is it not how many people start out? Trust, company, friendship, then more. If he can eliminate whoever else is in the equation–
“Papa, I–” She stops when he jumps, cutting his thumb on the cardboard box. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, no, please go on, sorella.”
Her face is tense, as if he’d startled her instead. She stops wringing her hands, steels her gaze, and he ignores that throbbing in his finger. “I was wondering when we would start our… training.”
It’s late into the afternoon, not that the artificial light in the basement would give any indication. He was waiting for her to be done, call her into his office, see how she’d feel about getting on her knees for him today, but he is too pleased with this progression, her seeking him out. “I take it you have thought about my offer and decided to accept?”
“I have,” she says, not quite so insecure anymore. “And I want to. I am eager to learn and I trust you to teach me.”
“Good,” he says, the books in the boxes long forgotten. At times, she is an enigma to him. It is hard to console the crying sister in the confessional with the woman stood before him, the woman who tolerates his moods, his outward aloofness, tugs at those strings deep inside of him that he doesn’t let anyone else touch. He feels like she is playing him as much as he’s trying to play her and it’s that thrill that makes him reckless with his feelings.
In the end, he leads her to that battered old leather sofa he’s more or less discarded in the back corner, once stood in his own quarters, now exchanged for a firmer model to help with his back pains. It does the job, envelops him when he sits down, comfortable, as relaxed as he’ll ever be at the prospect of a beautiful Sister using her mouth on him. He doesn’t bother with the paint outside of mass anymore and he’s omitted the cassock as well, like most days down here. Just in his slacks and a black button-down he knows he makes quite a compelling sight, even at his age, and she does eye him a little longer than appropriate.
“Right here?” she asks, though it does not really matter. Hardly anyone strays down here, into his domain, and he’s never been one to hide away. She knows this, and when he nods she doesn’t fight him.
“Come here,” he orders, much to her confusion. “Into my lap,” he clarifies.
“But–”
“Sorella, you are beautiful and I am eager to see you on your knees but not even I am ready on command.”
He didn’t mean it as a joke but she laughs, genuinely, and he is way too pleased with himself. Still, her body is rigid when she places her thighs on either side of him, hesitant to fully rest her weight. Secondo is not. His hands settle on her hips and he drags her over his crotch, bunching her habit up enough to feel bare skin and her panties barely hiding the outline of her cunt.
No, this was not part of the deal, not really. He doesn’t care.
“Sorella, tell me again that this is what you want.”
“I do– I,” her voice gives way to a moan, his cock twitching unasked against her core. “Papa–”
“It is not just your mouth that is sensitive, hm?”
His teasing brings heat to her cheeks, suddenly bashful again, and he feels it when he runs his thumb over her skin, making sure to lift her jaw, have her look at him when she feels his size for the first time. She’s pretty like that, aching, overwhelmed by the barest of touches.
“Tell me,” he repeats.
“I want this,” she says.
It’s good enough for him and he has her grinding a few more times, just for his own enjoyment, to see her fight against the need to have him inside of her. Which is not why they are here, no, but he wouldn’t mind getting her to think about it, to yearn for it every time they see each other.
“Now get on your knees for me,” he whispers, eyes still on her, and there is not a hint of defiance in those pupils. She does exactly as he says, slides off his lap and gets between his now spread thighs. He hands her a pillow and she pushes it under her knees, hands carefully grasping at his pants, hesitant but not uncomfortable. The sight overwhelms him. If he hadn’t been hard from her grinding alone he surely would be now.
“I don’t know–” she starts but trails off when he guides her hands to his belt. The front of his pants is already damp but not from him, no. She looks ashamed when she notices and, displeased, he presses her hand to the wet patch.
“I do not want to see this expression, sorella,” he says. “In here, there is no shame, do you understand?” She nods and he reaches for her jaw, lifting her gaze. “Words, my dove.”
“No shame,” she echos. “I understand.”
“Brava ragazza. Now open.”
Her fingers shake but she’s deft enough to be done within seconds, flinching when her hands meet the velvety skin of his dick. With a slight wriggle of his hips he’s slid his pants down far enough for more comfort and she looks up at him, wide-eyed.
He has to fight the urge to laugh. “You will not be taking it all,” he says. “Only as much as you can.”
His words do not seem to calm her, though her eyes linger and he wonders how long it’s been since those disappointing encounters she’s been speaking of. He’s prepared to form more words of reassurance, however many it takes, but then she gets over her fear and cradles him in her hand, curling her fingers around him with some fascination. For some reason, it is not what he expected, that softness, the affection in her touch. His arousal pearls from his slit and she thumbs at him, still gentle, and he tries not to bite his fist. It’s not enough, though.
“Use your spit,” he says, mesmerised by the sight of her.
She looks up, a line of worry deep in her forehead. Secondo takes her hand and, meeting her eyes, lifts it up to his mouth. His tongue works against his cheek until he’s ready to spit into her palm, just enough to help her out. A whimper and her hips shift uncomfortably, another thing he saves for later. But he can’t think about how wet she must be by now if he wants to last for more than a minute.
When her hand next wraps around his length it perfectly slides over his skin. She is not bad at this, he notes, a good soft pressure that firms when she twists towards his tip. Her eyes shift between his cock and his face, taking in every little change in his expression, attentive, already working her mind to learn and improve, not from books or his words this time, and he feels oddly exposed, the mirror suddenly held back at him.
“You are doing well,” he says. “Can you take the tip, cara? Keep your hands on the rest.”
She does, closing both of her hands around him. Then her lips wrap around his tip for the first time and he thinks perhaps he’s the one who will embarrass himself today. His hips buck and he tries to hide it by reaching for her head, fiddling with her hair to keep it out of her face. She looks up at him, mildly confused, but she keeps going without question, rotating her hands and licking at his slit, pillowy lips covering her teeth which tells him she knows the basics. It is a kiss, nothing more, and yet the pleasure in his core is undeniable.
“Very good,” he praises, revelling in the way every little compliment has her eyes sparkling, her confidence growing. “It is good, my dove, you are doing well. A little more, hm?”
She takes him so deep that he can feel his cock resting in the centre of her tongue, right where it flexes on the underside of him, his tip at the hollow of her hard palate. It will be enough for today, he thinks, for him and for her. Her gaze alone could be enough, those insecure, hopeful eyes, wide as they gaze up at him. He pets her head, strokes through the silk of her hair, allowing her to go as slow as she wants. It occurs to him, then, that he does not want this to end, that he’s perfectly content just taking her in for a while.
“Your mouth is perfect,” he whispers. “Have you been thinking about this, hm? Having a cock on your tongue?”
She nods, moving her mouth over his tip, deliciously slow, and when she pulls his foreskin back a little he’s starting to see stars.
“My cock?” he can’t help but ask and once again she nods. He fights back a growl, feels that tightness in his abdomen, all the way down to his balls. He can’t be close already, not from this, and yet– “Come up here.”
She jumps, lets go with a pop. He doesn’t care, pulls her back up into his lap and forward, her panties soaked, dripping onto his cock when he places her just so. With a startled whimper she holds onto his shoulders but he’s already dragging her across his lap, back and forth, until finally she begins grinding on her own again, only that flimsy damp layer between them. Within moments he empties himself into the mess between them and at first she doesn’t notice, not until she’s clenching and shaking and he carefully stops her, begins to ache from the friction.
They breathe for a while, that ebb and flow of pleasure slowly fading, electric pulses between their bodies. Secondo lifts her head from his shoulder to see her and she’s practically glowing, a sight that calms him, satisfied that he managed to pull her there with him.
“When will we do this again?” she asks, breathless, frowning when he laughs at her eagerness.
“Tomorrow,” he says, “and every night when we are here, if you want it.”
She nods, that excited clench of her jaw. He reaches out, wipes a sheen of sweat from her brow. This is the sight, he thinks, the sight he could get used to for years to come. But he is getting ahead of himself, not thinking with the right organ.
“Your homework is to practice by yourself whenever we do not see each other,” he says. “Can you do that?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Good.”
He bends them both forward, working his pants closed with a full view of her ruined panties. She leans in, damp cheek to damp cheek, pressing a kiss to his skin that is so soft he has to stop himself from keeping her down here until she can’t walk anymore. He can hardly reciprocate, trying to reign himself in, waits until she’s slipped from his lap before he allows himself to move again. He doesn’t remember the last time his body has betrayed him like that. Nor does he understand why he is not mad about it.
─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───
III – Dried Tears
He adjusts his schedule. Over the next week Secondo’s days revolve around finding ways to see her. Twice a week is insufficient, though he still only lets her touch him in the basement, makes sure not to go much further than that first time. Security, a safe routine. He won’t let her make him come with her mouth, not quite yet. Everything else is for him, observing her during mass, finding her in the gardens where she helps out two days a week, not exactly following her around but letting his curiosity get the better of him.
There is no other man.
He is sure of it now, or as sure as he can be. She never visits anyone else, sees a handful of friends, all of which decidedly aren’t men, not to his knowledge, and that’s the word she used. There is someone rather experienced who I have become infatuated with. A man, to be precise. If there is a man like that who is not Secondo then he is not here in the abbey.
After two weeks of this sluggish routine he’s had enough. He’s toyed with the idea, surprising her in her quarters on a night she’s not with him, to see what she would do, but it takes him a week to finally follow through. He knows where they are, naturally, though he never usually steps foot inside the dorms. It is an exception, he tells himself, freshly showered, neatly shaved, an extra spritz of cologne, he even used that damned moisturiser Terzo keeps pushing into his hands, made sure his cheeks aren’t dry when she kisses them.
She opens and he thinks she’ll slam the door back into his face. He’s assertive, doesn’t let her surprise affect him, though for a moment he wonders if he did overstep, the other man suddenly not so fake anymore, that short flash of fear that he’s with her right now. But no, she recovers and lets him in, and he surveys her small bedroom with a quick glance when he leans in to press that much desired kiss to her cheek. Empty, no signs of a male presence, and she still smells like shower gel and shampoo, wearing sweats under a plain white shirt, no bra.
“I didn’t expect you, Papa,” she says, picking up items from the countertops of her kitchenette, “or I would have prepared something. A drink or–”
“No need,” he interrupts, noting that she is nervous for nothing. Her small accommodation is tidy enough, that same order she so easily brings into his collection, a logic that somehow works for them both, and he thinks it suits her, a comfortable bed with a plethora of differently textured pillows, a bookshelf that despite some overflow is neatly sorted. “It is best if we are sober. For now, at least. I am not intruding?”
“No, not at all. I was about to settle in for the evening, nothing special.” She eyes him and he knows he must look out of place in his usual black slacks and button-down, the black leather gloves, an overdressed man in her safe, comfortable space like an alien presence. “Would you like anything else? A glass of water?”
He nods, though all he wants is to stall, take a better look at her environments. A small television with a handful of old DVDs, a table she seems to use both as a desk and to eat at. The closed door to her small bathroom, a wardrobe. Then, a stack of library books on her nightstand. He remembers her shouldering that heavy briefcase a few weeks ago. The secrets to pleasure. Sexual practices and their history. The art of oral. Yes, she is eager to learn, no half-hearted efforts.
“Have you been practicing, my dove?” he asks with a smug grin, tracing the image of a man and woman nakedly intertwined on the cover of one of the books.
When she joins him she’s back to her bashful self, as though she hasn’t had his cock in her mouth multiple times by now. “I have tried.”
“That is all I ask,” he reassures. “How have you been doing it? With your fingers?”
She hands him the glass and he takes a performative sip, then sets it down, thinks that she might need it later. Her crouching down in front of her nightstand is more interesting, the drawer she opens revealing a handful of toys. Nothing he hasn’t seen before – two different size dildos, a suction vibrator, a bottle of lube, a disinfectant – but he is pleased to see that she is taking her pleasure seriously.
When she takes out a simple black silicone dildo, ergonomically shaped, he notes that it is not quite as big as his cock. “I used this.”
“Show me.”
Her eyes widen. “Papa–”
Secondo ignores it, sits down on her bed, perhaps a little impolitely leaning back, making himself comfortable amongst her pillows, shoes still on the floor. She stands there, stares at him, and her expression alone is enough to have him raise his brows, begging her to disobey. She won’t, he knows she won’t, she is so eager to please. And she doesn’t, kneels down, placing the dildo upright on the mattress, both hands around the silicone. He has to fight off an amused smile, the way she sits there, like a little girl praying to her Lord before bedtime.
When her lips finally wrap around the toy she averts her gaze, as if to get it over with. But his goal is not to humiliate her, though she might feel differently about it. He wants to reassure her once again that she does not need to be ashamed in front of him, that her trust is not misplaced.
“Look at me, cara,” he orders. “I want to see your eyes.”
She blinks, slowly bobbing her head, leaving a glistening trail on the black silicone. He doesn’t bother to observe her technique, it’s not about that. When their eyes meet he reaches for her hair, angles her head to make sure she sees him palming at his cock through his pants. He pretends not to see her hard swallow at the visible bulge already there, the way her hips move in aroused discomfort.
“You are doing well,“ he says. “I am very pleased with you. But you can take more, hm?”
She always soaks up his praise, his soft reassurances, like a flower raising her head towards the sun, unfolding in its light. It is rare, for someone to react this strongly to so little, almost innocently, though he knows she is not truly a clueless little lamb, that she is aware of their game and participates with purpose. It is enjoyable, for once doesn’t feel like he is taking on a role, no, she willingly submits to him the moment their interaction becomes sexually charged, as though it’s the nature of things. Otherwise, their relationship hasn’t changed, not when they work, not when he sees her around the abbey. He is glad of it, that she treats him like she did before.
She takes the dildo deeper into her mouth, then, cautiously, and he opens his belt, the button of his slacks, unzips them. Her eyes never leave his hand where it’s fisting his cock, getting himself ready for her, that phantom feeling of her lips around him ever present.
“Eyes on me,” he says and she blinks up at his face. “Have you been thinking about my cock when you took this into your mouth, hm? Did you want it to be me?”
She nods, a moan low in her throat. There is no room for anyone else in the way she looks at him, the way she reacts. He’s not sure why, even now, he still feels that simmering jealousy, that urge to erase anyone else from her mind, even when that someone might not even exist.
“I think it is my turn now,” he decides, aching to feel her mouth.
It is amusing how fast she discards the dildo, crawls over between his legs, resting her cheek against his thigh. He’d feel flattered but he’s too distracted by the way her breasts move underneath her flimsy shirt, the outline of her hard nipples pressing against the fabric. It is getting harder and harder to stick to their routine, to limit their lessons to this one simple thing. But he’s not sure if he can allow himself to go further yet, not when he just crossed another bridge of her safety, encroaching on her space. Her comfort sits above all else, especially above his own whims.
“Will you take off my shoes before we start?” he asks, stroking over her cheek with a gloved finger. She is all bare-faced, her hair still a little damp, beautiful and so trusting, letting him see her like this. He can allow himself to feel tender for her but only when he pretends that he is the man she spoke of in the confessional. How else would he be here, with her eyes staring at him all adoringly? Him, of all people?
And she does move down to his feet, no question. When her fingers fiddle with the laces he notices how shaky she is. So far, he blamed it on the novelty of their setting, the way she seems to crave reassurance even more than usual, but now he is not certain anymore.
Even so she is gentle when she removes his black leather shoes, sets them neatly aside. Her hands come to rest on his ankles, stroking up his socks until she meets bare skin, looking up to await further instruction. He can’t hide the shiver that runs through him at her touch, subconscious as it might be, goosebumps creeping up his whole body, and for a moment they just stare at each other while he tries to find his bearings.
“Papa?”
“You can start, cara,” he says, swallowing over a lump in his throat.
Her hands travel up his legs, over his slacks this time, and when they reach his crotch she pulls them down a little more, making space. She begins by massaging around his base, fingers running through the dark hair there, kissing him wherever she can reach before she makes her way up his length and to his tip. Perhaps she has learned that in one of her books, he thinks with some humour.
This time, she keeps anxiously glancing up at him, mouthing at him with a tight jaw. He reaches out to help her relax, stroking along that soft skin underneath her chin. Her hands still tremble, even as she uses them to stroke him, lubed with her own spit tonight.
“You feel good, my dove,” he praises. “You take me so well, no need to be nervous.”
An agitated breath. She unwraps one of her hands, takes him deeper, tongue flat against his underside, wet and hot and firm. Pulling back his hood she licks along his slit, gently sucking at the tip. He moans, unable to hide the sound, and she sucks harder in response, sinking down further. It’s good, he is about to tell her as much, but then it goes too deep and she gags, pulls back, breathing through her nose just like he showed her.
“Slow,” he says. “We are in no hurry, my dove. You were doing so well. Molto, molto bene.”
She nods, takes him back in, not quite as far this time. Her second hand returns, slow stimulation, not that he minds. She is gentle with him and it has a whole different appeal, not like the messy throaty blowjobs he is used to, no, and he does not want it to be over fast, doesn’t need it to be perfect. Not when she touches him like this, like she wants to, like he’s worthy of such softness.
“Good, brava ragazza,” he whispers. “Keep going, just like that. You can take a bit more.”
She tries again, swallows him deeper until he can feel the soft roof of her mouth, but she has to gag again, her eyes watering, sucking in air through her nose. Secondo gathers her hair, tips her head up, looking at her as he mimics how he wants her to breathe. Doing her best to follow the rhythm, she steadily calms down.
When she seems alright, he allows her to continue but she is too ambitious tonight. Her teeth grace his skin when she swallows him too fast and he winces, more in surprise than in pain. When she looks up at him with some shock she gags again, harder this time, fully pulls away to breathe, sitting back on her heels. He watches, ready to move her in case she does have to throw up, but instead she begins to tremble, thick tears rolling down her nose. A sob and she curls in on herself, crying harder.
“Come here,” he says, which she ignores, at first.
He grabs her arms, pulls her up and she doesn’t fight it. When he tucks her against his chest she wraps herself around him and then she’s buried her face against him as if to hide away.
“I told you, I’m useless,” she whispers.
“Shhh, I will hear no such thing.”
She’s quiet then, still shaking, still crying, but silently now. He has an idea of what’s going through her head, only now she won’t share it, not after he cut her off like that. With some regret, he begins to caress her, soothing, trying to convey that he is not angry with her.
“Talk to me,” he says.
She hiccups. “I won’t be able to do it.”
“You were doing it, my dove,” he assures her. “You are impatient.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He coos, presses soft kisses to her hair. She tried to prove herself to him, he realises, still worried that she’s not good enough, impatient, wanting to be perfect for him already. And he knows she is a fast learner, usually, used to improving quickly, to showing her worth, but she hasn’t understood yet that this is not about perfection, not about skill but trust, intimacy, affection and care.
He doesn’t mind, no, he will show her, teach her what he truly wants. It registers to him in that moment, how rewarding it feels to hold her, to comfort her, and not just to prove to her that he can, no, though it is important that she understands. Secondo has always been a man who enjoys providing care for others, often to the neglect of his own well-being, though not always all that selflessly. For his brothers, spiritual guidance in the ranks of the church, then to care for his lovers, emotional release through physical outlets in the way he was shown as a young man. The truth is he enjoys being needed, being admired, just like she does, and perhaps it is the one thing he misses about the Papacy, as hollow as these connections were. It is not often that someone like her seeks him out, someone who offers such tenderness in return, who seems to care for him in equal amounts, who wants him to want her, no transaction.
Someone who might choose to stay.
That is what he truly wants.
“We will stop for today,” he decides. “No more until you have recovered.”
“No,” she says, sitting up to look at him with wide eyes. “No, I can keep going.”
He wipes at her tear-streaked cheeks, cradles her head. “No more tonight. We have time.”
More tears gather at her waterline and she averts her gaze, stares at her shaking hands. “Please… I promise I can do better. Just… don’t give up on me.”
“Shhh,” he whispers, a flash of pain at her broken voice, draws her back against his chest, tightly wrapped up in his arms. He’s not sure why exactly she is so tense tonight but he can tell when the head is not in it. He should have realised it sooner but it has been a while since he had to steer against uncertain winds. “You are not in the right state of mind for this tonight, cara. I should not have overwhelmed you. It is my fault and I promise will do better.”
“It’s not your fault,” she disagrees.
He sits up a little straighter. “Ragazza mia, listen to your Papa. In this room, when we meet like this, it is my task to make sure that you are comfortable, that you feel safe and taken care of and if you are scared or unhappy, then I have failed you. So let me take this blame, hm? It will not happen again.”
Her sniffles tug at his heart and he makes sure to look at her, to convey how very serious he is. Her slow nod is as much of a concession as he’ll ever get from her stubborn little head but it is good enough for him for now. For a long time after he just holds her like that, ignoring his discomfort, how hard he still is, the buckle of his belt digging into his thigh under her weight.
“I really wanted to make you come today,” she whispers, fiddling with the button below his collar. “I’ve never managed before, I thought– if I showed you–”
He draws a deep breath both in arousal and at the realisation that this is the source of her insecurities, of her impatience. “Do you not realise that this was by design?” He lifts her chin, makes sure to meet her eyes. “I did not allow you to.”
”But– why?”
Secondo sighs, unsure what to tell her. That he did not want to give away what her mouth does to him, no matter how clumsy? That he is so fatally drawn to her that he does not want this arrangement to end? That he wants to stay in control of it, can’t hand himself over just like that? The painful vulnerability he feels when she touches him with her soft hands, soft lips, soft tongue?
“It was not about that,” he says instead. “This is not for me, my dove, it is for you. I do not have to as long as you have learned a thing or two, no? It is not always the result that matters. Tell me, why do you want to learn this? Who is he to you that you care more about his enjoyment than yourself?”
“I don’t,” she says, some defensiveness in her tone. “I just– is that not what you want?”
“What I want?”
“To come.”
He chuckles. “Yes, but it is not all of it. I could do that to myself, no? With another person, it is about trust and care, my dove. Why are you intimate with someone?”
She sighs, pondering his words, sinks back down and presses herself to his chest. His hands roam her body, making use of the unexpected closeness, and he realises how he has been aching for her. He continues on when she doesn’t show any signs of discomfort and he can’t help but toy with the hem of her shirt, goes so far as to take off his gloves just to feel her skin against his fingertips. A pleased shiver runs through her body, a tiny whimper from her lips. He goes on, traces her spine up and down.
Perhaps teaching is not so much about instruction, he thinks, perhaps he has to make her understand.
When she doesn’t protest he presses his hand flat to her ribs, following the soft curve down to her waist, to her hip, back up until he can feel the swell of her breast against his finger. She gasps when he presses against it, the softest brush of his thumb over her flesh.
“Papa,” she whispers, drawing a deep breath and shivering all over. “Please–”
“Please what?”
“Touch me.”
He smiles, palms at her breast, generously, kneading, stroking, flicking his thumb over her nipple. She is a mess within seconds, writhing, whimpering, pressing herself against him. He throbs painfully against her leg that is slung over him, fighting the urge to just fuck her into the mattress until they’re both spent for the night. Secondo is a patient man, yes, but he can feel himself reaching his limit.
“Do you want more?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“You mean yes, Papa.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Good.” He grabs her hips, adjusts her backwards until she is fully on the mattress and he can tower over her. Her face is flushed, hair a mess, her nipples straining against her shirt with every ragged breath. “You trust me, my dove?”
“I trust you, Papa.”
“Then will you let me return the favour?”
She furrows her brow. “But I didn’t even–”
“No arguing,” he decides. “Yes or no?”
“Yes, Papa.”
A smug grin. “Brava ragazza. Hold up your shirt, I want to see you.”
As he climbs off the bed she obeys, gathering the hem and bunching it up until her belly and chest are exposed to him. Pleased, he takes in the state of her, her cheeks still stained with tears but glowing all the same. He adjusts his erection, removes his belt but closes the button again, feeling her eyes on him in what he assumes is anticipation, no more fear, no pressure. He puts his gloves back on, slowly, making her watch. Then, with one swift motion, he grabs the waistband of her sweats and underwear and drags them both down, ignores her mild protest. Not that he’s surprised that she’s pressing her legs together while he folds her clothes, but he makes it a point to draw out the moment nonetheless.
“Let me see you,” he says, placing the bundle of soft fabric on a nearby chair. He can’t help but pick the still damp panties up, bring them to his face, inhale deeply through his nose. The scent of her arousal is so strong that he finds himself unable to set them back down, bunches them up and stuffs them into his pocket instead.
When he turns back around, she doesn’t say anything. Her knees are drawn up, still hiding, even though her whole chest is exposed. Secondo approaches, a pointed look. She is not much of a brat, none of this is to rile him up, but that doesn’t mean he’ll let it slide in the future. Tonight, though, it is reassurance that she needs and he wants to build up her confidence again, a confidence he knows she has, if not for this particular thing.
He changes strategy, gently sitting down on the edge of the bed with a hand on her knee. “You do not have to be shy, cara. Not now.”
“What if you don’t like it?”
A laugh he can’t hold back. “I can assure you I will.”
She allows it, his hand pushing between her thighs, spreading her open for him. For now he keeps his eyes on her face, looking for any signs of discomfort, for even the tiniest indication that she is faking her consent to please him. But he finds none, intrigue and a hint of arousal already, and when he lets his gloved fingers glide down her inner thigh he can watch the goosebumps spreading all over her body.
“You are beautiful, my dove,” he says, taking her in from head to toe.
Under his gaze she fidgets but he can see her confidence growing. He makes a show to lick his lips, to stroke her skin appreciatively, sighing with pleasure at even the subtlest of touches, show her how wanted and desired she is. For months he has been waiting to see all of her but no picture of his imagination would ever live up to her now. Soft. Pliant. Perfect. His.
“Won’t you undress?” she asks after a moment.
“No.”
She furrows her brow. He won’t explain. It is a power play, of course, and she will understand on her own once she feels it. Her discomfort is fleeting, those first encounters, getting to know what he is all about, how he enjoys playing, providing what he does so well, his method, the ins and outs of where they can go. It is about trust, it is about forgetting inhibitions or restrictions or the shame that weighs her down.
“Do you enjoy this?” he asks. “When I take charge?”
He speaks those words as he moves to lean over her, settling between her legs, his face right above hers. She holds his gaze like the perfect girl she is, as though she has already understood what it is he values, what matters to him.
“I do,” she says, allowing him to bend down, mouth at her neck to which she gasps. “It is… it is a bit new to me.”
“I know, my dove, but I can tell that you are leaning into it, that you like it,” he says. “And I am proud of you for how well you are doing. That you are allowing me to show you what I can do for you, that you trust me with your mind and body.”
He kisses her cheek, then down to her jaw, tongue out to lick a stripe up below her chin. She whimpers, her hands at his shoulders now, holding on for dear life. She is sensitive and it thrills him, so much so that he can’t stop kissing her neck and jaw, nibbling, licking, for once careful not to leave any marks on her yet. At some point one of her hands comes to cradle his head and he closes his eyes, leans into the gentle massage she presses into his scalp. When he looks at her, she leans up as if to try and kiss him, but she doesn’t dare to go high enough.
For a long moment he is tempted, feels that draw, the need to devour her so fully that his lips leave a lasting imprint on hers. But he can’t, not if he wants to keep going slow, not when he doesn’t know what his heart would do if he truly felt the tender emotions that stare up at him in her wide eyes.
He makes do with another kiss to her cheek, lingering, wet, hummed into her skin, then he finally makes his way down to her breasts. At first he only blows on them, watches her nipples contract even more, gooseflesh spread over her areola, tempting him to circle one with his thumb. Her breasts feel soft agains this lips when he finally takes one into his mouth, leisurely flicking his tongue over her nipple, sucking ever so gently. Again, her body reacts strongly to his touch, her hips bucking wildly against his belly, her hand pushing his head harder against her. But it is her sounds that affect him the most, those whimpers, breathy and higher than usual, her chest moving underneath him with urgency.
“Do you want it?” he asks. “My mouth on you?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Have you been thinking about this too?”
He looks up at her flustered face and she is so embarrassed that he has to laugh. “Yes, Papa.”
“My mouth?”
“Yes, Papa. Yours, your–” Another whimper. “Your mouth, your hands, the gloves.”
“The gloves? Do you want me to keep them on?”
“Yes, please. Please–”
Her hips buck again and he shows mercy, moving over the curve of her stomach with a few peppered kisses and then down to her mound. He blows on her pubic hair, admires how she is glistening for him, so wet so fast, as though her whole body is just waiting for a morsel of his attention.
Secondo uses his hands to spread her open further, making sure she sees the imprints of his gloved fingers in her flesh, the leather too soft to creak but moving elegantly nonetheless. He is eager to taste her, has been for weeks, perhaps even months, but now that she is laid bare before him he does not want to hurry through it. If he wants to teach her patience and care then he must demonstrate it himself.
Which is unusually hard, especially when he sees her cunt twitching for him.
“Papa–” she whines, throbbing, hands shaking as they reach for the sheets. “Please, I need it.”
“I know,” he says. “I know, my dove, but you will let me admire you.”
She bites her lips and he would not mind having her beg for him but he does not want to tease her too much tonight, those are all games for another time. Instead he kisses along her inner thigh, making his way down to her core. He blows on it again, making sure she can feel her own wetness, lose her embarrassment for her very natural reactions. A look up at her face tells him she is doing better, that she is waiting with bated breath for his tongue.
He gives in, licking a flat stripe along the wetness and parting her folds to make room for him in the process. Her taste floods his senses like the first piece of a sweet summer fruit, so uniquely her that he has to close his eyes, savour it, hum out his appreciation. Once he starts he can’t get enough, it is not something he ever bothered to hide before, but for her he tries to be slow, to ease her into every new sensation, licking and sucking and moving from side to side, sounds and vibrations.
As he goes he keeps his eyes on her, drinking in every reaction, every gasp and mewl, the way her jaw falls open, stomach caving in as her muscles contract upwards into his face. He allows her a few moments in which to close her eyes, though he would usually correct her. But it is her first time, so many impressions that she needs to process, and he thinks she would not handle criticism well tonight, even if playful. No, he wants her to feel good, wants her to get addicted to the feeling of his tongue inside of her, drunk on the pleasure he provides. The rest can come later.
She moans, her fingers cramping in the sheets, and he can tell she is getting close already. He hums once more, sucks at her clit as hard as he can. A high sob breaks from her throat and her hand shoots to her mouth, covering up any further sounds.
Now that he won’t allow.
He stops, bites into her thigh to which she gasps, and when she meets his eyes he grabs her elbow and withdraws her arm from her face, linking their hands together and pressing down on her abdomen.
“But–”
“Let them hear,” he says, thinking let everyone hear, let them know you’re mine.
She follows, the other hand still buried in the sheets. He did not plan to edge her like that but he will not deprive himself of the memory of her sounds, the way they go straight to his cock and will sustain him for a few days at least. No, he wants to see her unfiltered reaction, that raw deep and awkward honesty that will help her ease up when it is her turn again.
“Papa,” she whispers when he starts again, slowly building her back up, too slowly if the urgency in her voice is any indication.
Secondo wants to draw out these moments, every quiver of her legs, every desperate grasp and throb and jitter and whimper and gasp. He feeds on it like a starving man and if she can understand this, if she can see it in his eyes how every movement of his tongue, every press of his lips, is a way to learn about her, care for her, be close to her, then he may not have failed her after all.
When she inches close again, her fingers tightening between his, he shamelessly moans against her, moving from side to side with her clit between his lips, eating, devouring her to the very best of his abilities, and she unfurls so beautifully, her voice thinning out into a scream while her legs shake on either side of his face, her hips helplessly bucking up into his mouth. He can taste her, too, her essence on his chin, his lips, his tongue, and he greedily licks it all up, keeping his face buried deep in her cunt.
He does not plan on stopping just yet. He hasn’t even been inside of her.
When he continues she makes a confused sound that he ignores. A hand on his head, pushing without any real effort. ”Papa– I can’t–“
“You can,” he mumbles into her wetness.
She doesn’t fight him, not when she knows he’s right. This time, he pushes his tongue inside of her and the way she clenches immediately tells him that she enjoys it. In a similar fashion, he tests out different movements, different intensities, sucking, licking, fucking her as best he can with his mouth. He makes her come like that thrice more, though her sounds have become hoarse and her body is a mess of jitters and quakes. It is a sight he enjoys, when the muscles turn into jelly, when the brain forgets how to work. Once he decides that he is done with her every word out of her mouth is but a babbled mess and even though he had planned to use his hands on her as well he decides to be content for tonight. No use for the gloves when she is beyond noticing.
Even as he crawls back up to her it hardly registers, her eyes already closed and her body limp, tingling, flinching at every overstimulation. He cleans off his mouth with his tongue, watches her wrecked form relax properly for the first time since he’s known her.
“Have you eaten dinner, my dove?” he asks, a kiss to her damp forehead.
She shakes her head, turns sideways to where he came to rest by her side. He leaves her there, dozing, recovering, pulls a blanket over her exposed body and uses her bathroom to clean up. He debates, making himself come just to ease the pressure, but it doesn’t feel right. Instead he takes a whiff of her perfume, her shower gel, inspects her toiletries.
When he is all done, more in tune with himself again, he lets his gaze roam over her room once more. It is not much, small like most single apartments here. It would be easy to pack it all up, though he might need another bookshelf to house her collection. His bed is devoid of any more pillows than necessary but he can see that changing as he adjusts to her. Then the image of her body amongst his soft sheets with the high-thread count, not as rough as hers, much nicer on her sensitive skin, and his dove dozing in the warm light of his black candles as he gives thanks to his Lord.
The inhumane size of the kitchenette would frustrate him if it weren’t for her nice selection of products. Good tomatoes, a high quality olive oil, a decent pan. Though her fridge is half-empty he finds a slice of supermarket parmesan, not quite living up to what he’d choose but he can work with it. If she likes Italian food he is confident that he can feed her well. It goes hand in hand for him, sex and good food, nourishing the mind and the body, and tonight she needs both.
He cuts up half of an onion she still has in her fridge, adds a clove of garlic, roasting both in a pan with a generous amount of olive oil, then cuts the tomatoes, throws them in as well and lets it all simmer. After some rummaging he finds frozen herbs in the tiny ice compartment that seem edible enough, though it pains him to add them to the sauce. Pasta boils in a pot behind the pan, barely all fitting onto that tiny stove.
While he waits he watches her sleep, pleased with himself to have worn her out so thoroughly with just his mouth. Perhaps he can repeat this evening, an extra night a week to see her, or two, if she lets him, use the privacy to take his time with her as well, slowly stretch out their arrangement until she forgets the specifics.
She stirs right when the pasta is al dente. Secondo is happy with the tomato sugo and he adds the pasta, then some pasta water, some more salt and pepper, stirs until it is creamy, the juice of the tomatoes giving the dish a subtle red colour. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her getting dressed again, making no mention of the missing panties.
“I didn’t think you’d make dinner,” she says.
“I enjoy it,” he replies. “You like Italian food?”
“I love it, yes.”
He smiles, lets her pick the plates and then shoos her off so he can serve. The table stays abandoned and it is not how he’d prefer it, not as sensual, not as perfect, but he joins her in her bed, watches her eat more so than indulging himself. Would he let her eat in his bed? Perhaps, on occasion, if he was as pleased with her as he is now. Something about her disheveled state, cross-legged, the pleasure still visible on her face. A sliver of domesticity, the vague dream of a future.
“It’s so good,” she says, mouth wrapping around another forkful.
Yes, he thinks. He would let her. He would let her do anything.
─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───
He did not plan on staying as long as he does.
They finish their meal, he has her emptying the glass of water from earlier and then he has to fight her off when she tries to wash the dishes, insists that he do it, a little selfishly prolonging their time. She starts an old black and white movie that he hasn’t heard of before and he wonders if this is her way of inviting him to stay longer. He plans on leaving either way, to give her space, but when he sits down on the bed for her goodbye kiss she slips into his lap and then he doesn’t have the heart to push her away.
They settle in her bed, though he’s sure she’s not actually watching the movie, and it’s not like he is overly comfortable in his tight clothes. But he holds her regardless, chuckling when she inhales the smell of his cologne at his neck, when her hand toys at the hem of his shirt until she’s succeeded in removing it from his pants, two fingers stroking along the newly-revealed sliver of skin. He knows she wants him, she’d let him fuck her right now if he asked, have him stay the night, and he would if she were anyone else, file this night away alongside all the other short-lived encounters he’s had in the past.
But it feels wrong to fuck her now, not just because it is decidedly not a short-lived encounter but because he enjoys her too much and if he moved ahead now it would change, would feel different, and he does not want it to end like all the other times he’s done this. She doesn’t push for anything, successfully bribed him into staying because she wanted him to, not for sex but for his company, and when has that ever happened? Secondo has touched gold, fingertips coated in her richness, and it would be foolish to stick his greedy hand in too fast and burn himself.
No, he will have her but it will be in his own bed, on his own terms, when this charade is over and he knows she’s there to stay.
“Can I ask you a question?” she says after a while.
He’s surprised to hear her voice, so quiet she’s been for the past hour. “What is it, my dove?”
“What should I do if– What should I do if I can never use my mouth like that?”
A displeased hum. “Are you still thinking about this? Did I not distract you enough?”
“I just– I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to go all the way.”
“Then you won’t.”
She sits up, looking down at his face. “What do you mean?”
“There are things you can do without taking him into your throat.”
“But what if he only enjoys the real thing?”
“There is no real thing,” he says. “This is not porn, hm? It is all real.”
She rolls her eyes and he grabs her chin, eyes narrowing. Her mouth opens but she doesn’t protest.
“Some men like when you speak to them,” he explains, not letting go of her. “Tell them what you want to do, that you are enjoying it, that you want to feel them come in your mouth. You can use whatever you can reach, massage his skin, his thighs, his balls, lick them, kiss them, bite even, if he is not a coward. You stimulate him with your hand during that time, just like you do with me. You can try touching more of him as well, his back, his taint, use your nails on his ass, anywhere he reacts and when you do it right you won’t need to swallow more than his tip, hm? Everyone enjoys different things, there is not a law you have to follow.”
She stares at him during his speech, his mouth, her hand moving to cup his jaw and stroking so tenderly that he almost feels the urge to pull away. “So, what do you enjoy?”
His brain short-circuits at her emphasis and she is faster than he recovers, crawling down his body and fiddling with his pants.
“I want to try again,” she decides and he didn’t realise how hard he is. “Will you tell me what you like, Papa?”
“You don’t have to, my dove, I told you I am perfectly content.”
“But I want to. I feel better.”
She unzips him, pulling his pants down further for better access and he is still stuck on her words, what do you enjoy? But then she palms him and he snaps back into himself, grabs her wrist, holding her in place.
“No.” She looks up, taken aback. He swallows. “Before you try we will need a signal. When it is too much you will pinch my leg three times, yes?”
“Okay.” She shows him the gesture, looks at him, still a little startled, and he tries to relax, tries to allow himself to feel what he feels. It is too much at once, this evening, and yet he is unwilling to stop.
“Go slow in the beginning,” he says. “I like to take my time. You can explore and I will let you know what is good. You do not have to speak, I prefer different sounds.”
She does as he said, stroking him wherever she can reach, his hips, his abdomen, carding through his dark hair with gentle fingertips, then grabbing harder at his sides, scratching at the curve of his ass where it meets her mattress. Her mouth follows her trail with kisses, soft, a little too soft after a while.
“More,” he says. “Suck and bite, scratch.”
Her lips press firmer, nibbling on the curve of his lower belly, biting with some hesitation until he encourages her with a hand on the back of her head and she actually bites. It is good, this is what he knows, and he finds back to his outward self, his mind less clouded by emotion. Her lips reach the base of his cock and she looks up at him when her hand closes around his balls, cradling them, slow and careful movements, licking at his length as she does. He has to hold back a moan. This is what he was talking about, the way she is not even aware of what each little touch does to him.
“Good,” he says. “Brava ragazza, just like that. Do you see? It is not about deep and intense, hm?”
Her nod makes him smile, the way she closes her eyes when she properly tastes him, mouthing at his shaft, licking and sucking from the side, one hand fisting his tip, spreading his precome all over him. Yes, he could come like that, if she kept it up. It is her growing confidence that really gets him, her moans, the way she seems to finally allow herself to enjoy the process. Despite her overwhelm she did pay attention to what he did to her earlier, using it to her advantage now.
“You learn fast, cara. Very good.” Secondo pets her head to which she opens her eyes. “Your mouth is divine, my dove. Just like that, yes.”
The flustered tensing of her jaw and she is moving her hips, subconsciously searching for him, some relief for her own needs. He lets his hand roam her back, almost wishing she’d be closer so he could feel how wet she is. But this position is more comfortable for her so he lets her continue, increasing the pressure more and more, one hand dipping lower to his taint, massaging, pressing down exactly where he enjoys, and he clenches hard, not holding back any reactions now. She notices, looks at him with some awe which seems to encourage her to finally take his tip between her lips.
“Brava ragazza, you like how my cock tastes, hm?” he asks, watching her nod, comfortably taking him deeper now that her whole jaw and mouth are more relaxed. She doesn’t gag this time, breathes well through her nose, one hand wrapped around him and the other one still fondling with further down. “You can take more but you do not have to, my dove. You look beautiful like this, an unholy sight. Just keep going like this.”
She does take more, just a little, testing her own limits. He is proud, cannot help it, the way she responds to his guidance, learns, explores, understands. Her mouth is hot, her tongue active around him, sucking, licking, bobbing her head lightly, just enough to give the impression of friction, and her hands work on him with precision.
He feels it, then, that building pleasure, the tension in his lower body, heat and want and– no, higher up in his chest, his affection for her, burning through his shirt, into the mattress, up to his face. Everything feels hot, his hands sweating, and she looks up at him so fondly that he loses all control over himself.
“My dove,” he breathes, a desperate moan breaking from his lips when she sucks on his exposed tip, her tongue pressed to his frenulum. “I’m close. If you do not– do not want me to come in your mouth you need to– to let go.”
She beams, there is no other word, and he doesn’t bother to compose himself. Her face lights up, her confidence more pronounced than ever, ambition behind those pretty eyes. But she does not let go, keeps working him up, hand twisting around his base, covered in spit and his own arousal, slick and deft. His hand, still in her hair, grabs it tighter now, holding on for dear life, trying not to shove himself in deeper. She moans so beautifully around him while she sucks him off that he can’t hold back any longer. When he comes it is with a strangled, helpless groan, his balls tightening in her gentle grasp until he empties himself in her mouth. She obediently looks up at him throughout, taking him a little deeper as if to feel him quivering inside of her. After everything he held back tonight it is more intense than expected and he fills her until his come is dripping from the corners of her mouth.
She swallows. A proud smile on her swollen lips, still stained with his come.
He lets his head fall back, spent, staring at the ceiling for a moment while stars dance in front of his eyes and the pleasure slowly fades. He’s barely noticing how she licks him clean, tucks him back into his pants, closes the button, wiping at her mouth.
“I did it,” she says and he laughs, a full body laugh, a little incredulous that he just let this all happen. “Papa?”
“Yes,” he says. “Yes, it was good, my dove. You were perfect, my perfect girl.”
She straddles him with a smile and he indulges her when her hands slip underneath his shirt, press into his soft belly. Gathering his wits he sits up until they are face to face. He’d kiss her, he wants to kiss her, but if he did he would not leave this room tonight.
“Bella, bella ragazza,” he whispers. “Do you see? It is not about taking it as deep as it goes.”
“So you liked it?”
He wipes at her lips, smoothes down her hair and huffs a laugh. “I think I did, hm? Look at you, all wrecked for me. What a sight.”
Even now she flusters and he can’t shake the smile that seems to stick to his lips. He moves his other hand to her head as well, cradling her jaw, and begins to massage her tense muscles. She moans in relief, leaning into his touch with closed eyes. Thumbs pressing below her jaw, his other fingers sweep over her cheeks and jawbone, then down her neck.
“You are not used to it yet,” he observes. “It will get better.”
“It’s okay,” she says.
“Hm, you say this now but wait until you are sore tomorrow.”
“Then you just have to come back and do this again.”
He scoffs, thinking that he would, that he will, if she asks him. She seems happy now, relieved, back to her usual self, and he enjoys it. This is how he wants her, not crying at his feet.
“Will you stay over?” she asks and he winces, lets his hands rest on her shoulders.
“No, my dove,” he says. “But I can stay until you are asleep.”
She doesn’t seem as disappointed as he’d feared and the smile she gifts him seems genuine. Once he is satisfied with the state of her jaw muscles he lets her recline, sink back into the pillows. The film has ended and he turns off the television, rests on his side with her for a while. She is tired, worn out, and though he feels a similar exhaustion his departure doesn’t feel very urgent, not even when her eyes close and she drifts off.
He waits a little longer, watching her so calm and relaxed. His belt is somewhere on the floor, as are his shoes, and he slowly gets dressed, gathers himself back together and stands on heavy legs.
“Wait,” she grumbles, not quite asleep after all, and crawls up to him on her knees. “Papa, you’re forgetting.”
He gives a rumbled laugh and sits back down, leans towards her. Her lips press to his face, not on his cheek where he expects them, no, but hitting the corner of his mouth with purpose. She lingers, kissing him slowly, his face in her hand, and when she retreats he is filled with regret that he did not turn his face after all.
─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───
IV – Stay
Over the next few weeks they make a lot of progress. A lot of progress – and a lot of exceptions.
Secondo is blurring the lines between guiding and indulging and something more, allowing the tenderness between them to bloom. He is aware that he’s lying to himself, not that he really cares. Telling himself that it is all part of his promise to help her is easier, that she needs it and he is merely providing it for her. Assessing risks is something he is good at, knowing where the fun of the gamble ends, but now he is pokering with his heart – and he’s gone all in.
But she is improving, getting more and more comfortable with her mouth, taking him deeper, working more confidently through her gag reflex with focused breathing and short breaks, enjoying their time together, initiating it all on her own. This is the agreement, yes, but he has been selfish, getting his mouth on her almost every time, using his fingers, seeing her response to whatever new idea he has to make her come without actually taking her. Perhaps worst, he has been staying over longer and longer, aching when he has to let her go, when she bemoans the loss of him, when he watches her fall asleep alone as he closes the door to her rooms.
Then he is gone for almost a week.
It is a trip he planned months ago to retrieve two Renaissance paintings from Urbino, a private collector who offered him first access should he want them. Secondo traverses the arcaded courtyard of the Palazzo Ducale, marvelling at the architecture, his business concluded, the paintings ready to be shipped, his last day spent taking in the city’s sights before he leaves. She will enjoy them, if her taste regarding his existing collection is any indication, and he is looking forward to showing her his newest acquisitions once they arrive. In his absence he allowed her to proceed without him, finally cataloguing the latest arrival of books, and all week he kept imagining her alone in the basement.
Secondo does not miss. He has missed people in the past, of course, he misses his late mother, his nonna, he even misses his brothers when they’re away, but the last time he missed a woman it did not end well for him. His youth was spent in such daydreams, with the experiments of love, travelling around for the clergy, emotional as well as physical distances his relationships never survived, a broken heart he stitched together so many times that the scars have left it numb.
The late evening sun shines down on him as he walks back to his hotel over cobbled streets, ready to take a light dinner and pack his belongings. His heart, not so numb anymore, cries out for one person in particular and suddenly he does miss again. He’s been thinking of calling her but discarded the idea just as often as it arrived. Secondo knows he is not an innocent man, that he made mistakes, alienated people who might have loved him had he lowered his walls. A loneliness decades in the making, now fractured by this woman who is too lovely for him, who cried at his feet, who asked him not to give up on her.
He knows he is being stubborn, doesn’t care about that either. He can get what he wants, he has done all he was willing to do, but now he doesn’t want to sway anymore, doesn’t want to impose, doesn't want to beg. She has to say it, ask him, tell him, or he will not go any further. He has shown his intentions but he won’t expose his heart. If there ever was another man he’s certain that he’s forgotten by now but she has not corrected him about that night, hasn’t told him, hasn’t made any implications, and he will not be the fool to ask for more than anyone thinks he’s worth. Not again.
Yes, he wants her in his bed, wants her in his life, but not for the arrangement.
The arrangement be damned.
After seeing her kitchen it is easy to think of a gift, a bottle of expensive olive oil, a generous wedge of real parmigiano reggiano, and he can’t help it, old romantic sap that he is, and stops for a bouquet of red roses before he arrives at home. The thought of visiting her is quickly forgotten when he enters his own apartments, feels the raging emptiness. He wants her here, for the rest of his life.
She’s knocking an hour later, one short message sent to her door, conjuring her at his will. He tries not to let it go to his head, unsuccessfully, tells himself that she must have been waiting for him. And maybe she did because then he sees her, a little dressed up, lipstick, her hair done nicely, and she hugs him like she always hugs him, only somehow tighter, a full body effort, pressing herself to him until she can go no further, her face buried in his neck and her nose inhaling his scent. Secondo cannot deny that he loves these moments. He holds her equally tight, breathing into her hair that smells like flowers. Today, she greets him with multiple kisses to his cheek, covering every inch of it, then she stills, sighs, clings to him with clenched fingers.
“I missed you,” she whispers, like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to say it.
“I have missed you as well, my dove,” he admits, his heart jumping. “And I brought you a gift.”
“A gift?”
He leads her over to his open kitchen, the flowers throning over the other items and her expression is everything he had hoped for, everything he ever hoped for. Smiles, a happy laugh, her nose in the roses. More kisses to his cheek, more of her, thanking him, touching him, reassuring him. Then he shows her his apartment, watching with rapt attention how she likes it, letting her explore on her own to prepare a light meal in his kitchen. As always he brought more food from Italy than he had planned to, but at least now he has someone to share.
“I own a lot of books but there is always room,” he says when he sees her eyes on his shelves.
“Room?” She scans the titles, a big chunk of his collection, as yet uncatalogued. Many volumes she has never seen before, some particularly impressive ones, and he enjoys watching her browsing with such interest.
“Room for more,” he explains. “Not necessarily mine.”
Her eyes move to him, curious but not averse. “I never thought there was much room in your life. You seem… comfortable, on your own.”
Secondo scoffs, cutting up some fresh bread. Is this how he comes across? Well, he should not be surprised, and yet it stings to hear it from her. Did he not allow her closer than anyone else?
“There is room,” he just says, if you want it.
She joins him, popping an olive into her mouth, a hand snaking around his waist. “Did your work all go to plan?”
“It did, I acquired two rare paintings for a reasonable price. You will see them as soon as they arrive.”
”Secondo–“
It is the first time she uses this name for him and he stops cutting up his tomatoes, looks at her. “Yes?”
“I really did miss you. I feel like– perhaps I should–” She stops, looking away. “I suppose I just want you to know.”
“Did something happen?” he asks, alarmed by the change in her voice. “Did that man hurt you?”
“No! No, nothing like that.”
A pause and he wills her to say it, to admit that he doesn’t exist or that he exists but does not matter anymore. The thought passes and the longer he looks at her the less he cares about anything else. She is beautiful tonight, every night, but something about her wanting to impress this upon him makes it harder to resist.
He stops his preparations, mentally postponing the meal, and pulls her out of the kitchen. His record player is over by the bookshelf she just inspected and he picks a slow tune, some soft rock compilation from the 70s. At first he simply reaches for her hands, pulls them to his chest, swaying with her. She smiles, leans into him. The music is slow enough for them to continue like this, though he needs her closer soon, reaches for her hips, and she obediently wraps her arms around his neck.
This could be their life, he thinks as he looks down at her mellow expression. This could be their future.
“I really like your apartment,” she says after a moment. “It’s not huge but– you use the space well.”
“You would not mind spending more time here?”
“I would not mind at all.”
A kiss to her forehead. “Good.”
She rests her head against his shoulder and they stop moving, listening to the rest of the song. A lot goes through his head then, how he’d take her to Italy with him the next time he goes, how her books would fit into his shelves, her pillows onto the sofa, how he’d like to hear her slow footsteps every morning before she joins him in the kitchen, how he’ll ruin the life of anyone who dares to lay a hand on her.
“You have lipstick on your cheek,” she says, reaching up to wipe at his skin.
She never finishes. He cradles her face in both hands, angling her so that he can look right into her confused eyes. Her arm limply falls away, dangling at her side. Secondo leans down, pressing his lips to her cheek, to the corner of her mouth, to her nose, to her chin, then repeats it on the other side.
“It’s not time for our goodbye kiss yet,” she whispers.
“This is not a goodbye kiss.”
When he captures her lips she falls against him, her hands grasping at his shirt. Even though he plans to go slow her eagerness is catching and he presses in firmer, his thumbs at her jaw, controlling how she moves, swallowing every little whimper. She gives up control within seconds, allowing him to kiss her as he pleases, slow, deep, opening her up for him until he can get his first taste.
A part of him gets lost, a heaviness that dissipates, an invisible hand around his neck that loosens its grasp until he can breathe again, sees his own reflection in the mirror of his mind. It is not the same bitter old man staring back at him, no hard lines, no scowl, no narrowed eyes, but a young man with hopes and dreams and a smile. Who finally has what he’s been longing for.
Secondo breaks way, not far, just enough to clear his head.
“I missed you,” she says against his lips. “I missed eating with you, I missed you in my bed. I missed your company in the basement and I missed you during mass. I missed touching you, feeling you, tasting you. I missed having you in my mouth. I missed it so much.”
He swallows, his throat suddenly tight, and he decides to steer them back into familiar territory. “Do you wish to remedy that, my dove?”
“Please.”
He leads her into his bedroom, not to the bed, not yet, no, but he lowers himself into the brown leather armchair in the corner. It feels grotesque, almost, to have her here, a place that is filled with memories of so many carnal nights that she might cry, could she see them, knowing her fear of inferiority. But looking up at her now, he realises that her confidence isn’t wavering, and perhaps this is the sign he needed that their lessons are over.
“Papa?” She motions to his shirt. “I would like to undress you, this time.”
“You may open the buttons,” he says. “Take off my shoes and slacks. Nothing else.”
She doesn’t fight him, starts with his slacks, then unbuttons the shirt, and he realises what her plan is, the journey given as much attention as the destination itself. Secondo smiles when her hands don’t seem to leave his chest, carding through thick hair like an insistent brush, back and forth, scratching just enough to leave a few red marks. She goes as slow as she has learned he enjoys, a similar path but never the same, a few surprises, like her tongue pressed to his balls or her teeth on the inside of his thigh. He relaxes, the leather soft on his skin, the world returning to normal.
“I thought you missed my cock,” he says after a while, teasing, and she laughs with her lips on his balls until his cock jumps in her hand.
“I did,” she whispers. “But I missed the rest of you, too, Papa.”
He smiles, pleased with her, gently petting her hair. “I do not have to tell you anymore, hm? You know just what I like to hear.”
He feels another laugh, at the base of his cock this time, and she sinks down on him with a long sigh, licking as if to greet his taste, taking him as deep as he knows she can comfortably do now. It is enough to make him feel how wet and tight her mouth is and there is nothing he would miss, no matter how she took him. And yet this time she swallows him deeper, ever deeper, and he wonders if she has been practicing without him.
“My dove,” he says, breathless, his whole body attuned to the heat of her.
“Hm?”
“Cazzo,” he exhales and then his hips buck and he hits the back of her throat, the sensation more than he expected, the word followed by a deep moan and the sound of her gagging. She’s not pulling away, breathing perfectly, waiting it out. His body must have missed her, betraying him once more with the intensity of each little shock that goes through him.
She has to let to go to breathe, then, tears rolling down her face from the sudden movement and mixing in with the drool around her mouth and chin. Secondo pats her cheek for a moment but once he sees she has recovered he pushes her head down again, forcing his cock back into her mouth. She immediately gags as he hits her throat once more but he won’t let her get off completely again.
“You look so pretty when you choke on your Papa’s cock,” he says. “Breathe, my dove. Very good.”
She inhales deeply through her nose, following along with his rhythm and soon she swivels her tongue around him again, doing so well tonight. His fingers are still on her head and he lets them glide over her cheek as tenderly as he can muster, aroused as he is, wiping some of the drool away. She looks up at him, batting her eyelashes, and slowly drags her mouth over him, using the few precious seconds he spends taking her in to recuperate.
“Hmm, mia brava ragazza, taking me so well, molto bene,” he mumbles and she beams at the praise, speeding up slightly as if to prove to him just how good she is. “I do not think you have anything more to learn. Una ragazza perfetta con una bocca perfetta.”
She whimpers at those words, sucking him deep until she can swallow around him, every little gag in her throat gripping him tight. Secondo doesn’t have much left, he knows it, not tonight, not with how she’s moving. And she is a mess, spit and his arousal coating her mouth, running down her hand where it works at his base.
“Stop,” he says, feeling his lower body tighten. “Stop, my dove. Come here.”
A displeased look washes over her face that he doesn’t let her finish but she obeys, as she always does, letting go of him and crawling into his lap. She is breathing heavily, wiping at her mouth, and he pulls off his gloves.
“Come here, let your Papa help you.”
He uses his thumb to clean the mess on her chin only to push it into her mouth. She obediently licks off the fluids, sucking a little longer than necessary. Secondo hums in appreciation, watching with an affectionate, blissful expression he can’t be bothered to hide. His cock is throbbing, waiting to be inside of her, but he can’t just yet.
“We are done,” he says. “I will not teach you how to use your mouth anymore.”
”But–“ Her face falls, her lips quivering. “Papa– I’m sure there’s more–”
“You know what do now,” he continues. “You do not have to worry any longer.”
“But Papa– Secondo–” Her eyes begin to water, not from overstimulation this time. “I don’t want to stop.”
“Then tell me,” he says, trying not to sound as desperate as he feels. “Tell me you do not want anyone else. Tell me you only want me.”
“I don’t want anyone else. I only want you.”
“Swear it, my dove. Swear it, right now, before Lucifer.”
“I swear it. I swear it.”
It is enough. It has to be enough. He inhales a shaky breath, his own eyes stinging as he looks up at her wet cheeks. Without hesitation his hands reach for her, holding her face between his palms, and she doesn’t once glance away. “Stay.”
“What?”
“Stay, tonight. Every night.”
Her eyes widen but she nods a moment later, leans in, and he kisses her with a bruising force that neither of them see coming. Her gasps go straight to his cock and he can feel how wet she is when she grinds down on him, her thighs shaking and tensing. With a tight grasp he holds her hips still, his tongue pushing into her mouth, feeling her, tasting himself on her. It is enough, he thinks again. This is enough.
Even though his knees are weak he manages to grab her hips and get up, dragging her over to the bed and dropping her onto the mattress. It is everything and nothing like he imagined, the image of a divine creature spread out amidst his soft sheets. He hates that he is impatient now, after months and months of waiting, praying, hoping for this, and yet his hunger is that of a starving vulture, waiting to devour.
He undresses her just enough to feel some of her skin, to be able to touch her breasts, her legs.
“Say it,” he whispers. “Say it again.”
“I want you,” she chokes out. “I only want you, Papa.”
It draws a moan from him, the absolute conviction in her voice, her gaze never straying from his, her hands on him, roaming his body, desperate, his fingers fully sheathed inside of her, his tongue on her throat, his teeth in her skin. She’s whimpering, clawing, waiting, and he’s had enough.
“I will fuck you now,” he says, a hoarse whisper against her ear. “But there is one condition.”
“Wh-what condition?”
He lines himself up, his tip pressed to her heat but going no further. She cries out in despair like he’s physically hurt her, more cries and sobs. When he looks at her she’s clenching every muscle, her face streaked with tears and ruined make-up.
“You have something to confess to me, ragazza mia,” he says, taking some pity. “Tomorrow night, you will be in the chapel and I expect you to be honest.”
She nods, feverishly grasping at him, a whimpered yes falling from her lips as he finally sinks into her. Deep, slow, perfect. Another tear rolls down her cheek and he kisses it away, holding her face in his hand.
“Promise me,” he breathes, his voice soft now, barely audible.
“I promise,” she whispers and he slowly begins to fuck her. “I promise, Papa. I would do anything.”
He nods, groans, and then the world blurs around him.
V – Confession, Pt. 2
The calming rustle of paper. Secondo turns the page of his book, a paperback copy of –– which he only recently started on her recommendation. The chapel is quiet, the last Sibling left half an hour prior and he has been waiting ever since. He can’t say that he’s nervous, not after last night, and yet a heaviness sits in his stomach like a stone sunk deep into the ocean, the weight of this commitment, equal parts a comfort and intimidating.
When he notices the steps he can tell right away that it’s her, familiar as he has become with her rhythm. The door to the booth opens to a shaky breath and she sits, as she sat all these months ago, shifting around on the worn-down wooden plank that is separated from him by nothing more than a thin latticed wall.
“Sorella,” he says in greeting.
“Good evening, Papa. There is… there is something I wish to confess to you.” The wood creaks, her face closer to the lattice when she continues. “It has been weighing on me ever since I came to you for the first time but I have been a coward. I wasn’t truthful with you and I want to remedy that tonight.”
“I see.” He closes his book, sets it aside. “And have you been repenting for your transgression?”
”To be honest, I thought perhaps you might assist me with that.”
He smiles at the hint of teasing in her voice. “Join me over here, sorella.”
He listens as she steps out of her booth, opening the door to his without hesitation this time. Secondo can’t help the pride he feels at the way she carries herself now, confident in her submission to him, not hesitating to demand what she wants and needs. He’ll take her home with him after this, worship the very essence of her.
“Come here,” he says, patting his cassocked knee.
She sits down, already losing her concentration, her eyes on his mouth, her hands fiddling with his collar. It is just as well, he wasn’t planning on having a fair conversation anyway. His hands work themselves up her legs, dragging the hem of her habit with them, the gloves she so loves toying at her stockings. As expected she whimpers at the slightest of touches, her cunt clenching.
“I know what you want to confess to me,” he says. “You are not a good liar, sorella.”
She smiles at that, biting her lower lip to hide it. “I never said I was, Papa.”
Secondo drags his hands up her body now, groping at her flesh, sighing when he feels her breasts underneath the fabric. She leans into his touch, grinding not quite so subtle on his thigh. His eyes move up to her face and he lets one of his hands follow, tracing the line of her jaw before he grabs it between two fingers, forces their gazes to meet.
“When you came to me, sorella, you told me there was someone,” he elaborates. “A man, to be precise. Now tell me, and do not lie again, did you think of me when you went to confess to my brother? Was it my cock you imagined in your mouth, when you wished to learn how to please a man? Were you shocked when you heard my voice instead? The very man you were speaking of?”
“Yes. Yes. It’s all true.”
His grasp tightens, his eyes narrowed. “Why did you not tell me that night?”
“I was so embarrassed, Papa, I– I didn’t know how.”
“And later, why did you never admit it?”
“I wanted to keep seeing you,” she says, her voice shaking a little, as though she’s not sure if he’s truly upset with her. “I was worried you’d stop if you knew– if you knew how I felt about you. I didn’t think you’d feel the same.”
He lets go of her chin, cradles her cheek instead with his thumb toying at her lips. She relaxes and he strokes her for a moment, unclenching his features, softening his gaze. “That night you called me your friend, sorella. Am I a friend to you still?”
“No,” she says, visible swallowing. “You are still a friend, in– in some ways. But also more. A lot more. I can’t imagine a life without you, Papa.”
He pushes his thumb into her mouth, then, and she greedily sucks it in deeper, her cheek safe in the curve of his palm. “There is no life without me, my dove. You swore it before Lucifer. There is no one else.”
She nods, closing her eyes when he begins to stroke her hair with his other hand, moving down her jaw, her neck, holding her there, though not squeezing, his thumb against her windpipe to feel every swallow at his fingertip.
“You are mine,” he says. “And I am yours.”
At that she lets go, bringing one hand from his neck to his face, mirroring the way he’s holding her. Her gaze is serious, her eyes staring down at him with an intensity that chills him.
“Will you swear it?” she asks. “Before Lucifer?”
“I swear it.”
She smiles, big, bright and honest, and he breaks the game, returns it, pulling her face down to his until he can feel her breath on his skin.
“This is not a goodbye kiss,” she mimics from the night before.
He scoffs, stopping just before their lips touch. “There will be no more goodbye kisses, my dove. This is forever.”
thank you for reading <3 i know this was long, if you made it hear then kudos to you! as always, likes, kudos, comments and reblogs are appreciated but most of all i hope you had fun reading this story!
Primo finds that retirement comes with pleasantly few distractions – though he does not mind spending the heat wave with one writhing in his lap.
content: 1.8k words, the word cunt is used, otherwise non-descript reader, italian pet names, smut, soft dick play, frotting, v fingering, sweat, old man loving, primo's pov, second person pov, it gets a bit romantic at the end
Masterlist – Ao3 link – RATED E – 18+
It’s dark inside the old stone cottage, only errant rays of light stream in through cracks in the splintered wood of the shutters that keep the rooms cool and secluded. Even so, a fan is blowing, distantly, circulating the air for some semblance of control over this hot and humid summer. The heat has left him too lethargic to do much of anything. But what would he be doing anyway? Retired, finally left alone, the days that remain to him are surprisingly peaceful.
“Papa!” you whine, a sweaty forehead falling against his cheek.
Ah, yes. That.
Primo smiles, wicked, as he crooks his fingers inside of you. He resumes to fuck you despite the stiffness in them, eliciting a plethora of mewls and whimpers that tell him he’s not quite out of practice yet. You came to seek refuge from the heat, that’s what you’d said, and yet here you are – naked, writhing and sweating in his arms as he makes sure you feel every knuckle. It’s not the first time, though, no, and he’s sure you had exactly this in mind when you came knocking with a hesitant hand and flaming cheeks.
What a poor little lamb.
“Please,” you whisper, running out of air to speak, and then you come around his fingers.
He can’t see much of your face but your body is shaking on top of his, the armchair creaking as your hips buck and you clench around him. He strokes you through the sensation and picks back up, his pace never slowing. It’s his favourite game, to see just how delirious he can get you, and he passes hours like this, the only distraction from retirement he allows.
You reach for him, then, and by now you’re not surprised anymore when you pull him from his pants. He’s soft in your hand but you don’t seem to mind when this happens, no. You are just as eager, touching him with reverence, aware that it does not speak of a lack of arousal or attraction.
It tugs at his heart, or what remains of it, how gentle you are with him. Your fingers are cautious at first, cradling, feeling what little blood has gathered. With the help of some spit you stroke him, thumb gently pressed to his frenulum, just to see if you can coax it a little more. Primo closes his eyes, enjoying your soft hand on him. He remains limp but it is no matter, your touch is pleasurable all the same.
Your lips press to his neck, then, and he startles, a kiss followed by a moan and he twitches just the tiniest bit in your hand. You do it again and then your lips travel, along his jaw and to the corner of his mouth. This is new, entirely, but he does not stop you when you finally kiss him. At first, it is a tentative thing, soft, plump lips ghosting over his thin, old ones, and then you find your courage and press in with a desperation he didn’t know you carried. Primo indulges you, how could he not, and he makes sure to push his fingers deeper inside just to feel your gasps. As your mouth opens he regains control, using his free hand to angle your head however he likes. It has been a while since he’s revelled in the taste of another, let alone someone so sweet.
“What does an angel like you want from an old devil like me?” he hears himself asking, once you come apart.
You look at him, though he can’t see more than a reflection of light in your eyes. “Would you rather I stopped visiting you, Papa?”
“No,” he says, holding your cheek in his weathered palm. “But that is not an answer.”
He has stopped moving his fingers and you squirm, deflating until he can feel your warm breath against his neck where you’re hiding. “I just– I want more of you.”
Primo smiles, satisfied with your answer, though he is not insecure. He knows you could get taken care of in someone else’s arms, knows that a younger man could please you in ways that are lost to him. But you would not be the first with a preference that defies reason. If you want his stiff, worn hands, his flaccid cock and brittle lips, then who is he to deny you? He’s seen you fall apart in his lap enough times to know that you are not left wanting in his presence.
And he does appreciate the company.
“More, hm?” he whispers. “Perhaps we can try something else today, fiore mio.”
”What– Ah.”
He retrieves his hand and you wince at the absence. You’ve been dripping into his palm for the better part of an hour and he spreads your arousal on his cock, grasping your smaller hand to help him along. You seem to understand his meaning, swinging your leg over his hips until you’re straddling his narrow hips.
“Get comfortable” he says when he notices you hovering.
“Are you sure I’m not too heavy?”
In reply, he seizes your waist and pulls you forward. Your cunt meets his overly sensitive cock and he loses himself in the moment. Deep moans in perfect synchrony, your soft flesh, the warmth and wetness of you pressing down on him. Your fingers grasp at his shoulders, scrambling for purchase before your upper body crashes into his.
“I am old but not fragile,” he retorts after too much time but you huff a laugh anyway, leaning further into him, and you’re just so soft.
He feels your hand on his cheek, then, softly alerting him of the kiss that follows. With your other hand you reach down, aligning his cock to fit between your folds. It feels different today, everything. A growing affection he can’t deny, the way you are so open about your desire for him, and now these sweet, sweet kisses. He’d blame the heat for playing with his mind, or his sentimental age for making him soft, but deep down he knows that he’s grown fond of you.
“Is this okay?” you ask against his lips.
“Sì, tesoro, move however you please.”
His hands roam, he can’t help himself, up your back, back down to your hips, sharp nails trailing over smooth skin, leaving a few marks, no doubt. He’d leave more, he plans to, but then you slowly begin to roll your hips, trapping his cock in your heat. Primo growls, the sensations so much more saturated compared to your hands or even your mouth.
You whimper in reply, hesitation making way for a senseless need for more. It drives you into a faster rhythm, grasping at his shirt until the buttons rip open. A hand buries into his white chest hair, scratching lightly as your mouth keeps teasing his. It is thrilling, to witness you taking what you need from him, so utterly shameless.
“Very good,” he whispers proudly, using his hands to urge you along, leaving dents in your soft flesh that will bruise come morning.
With the next roll of your hips the hooded tip of his cock catches at your entrance, sending a bolt through him, and you both keen, overly sensitive. It compels you to grind down harder, feeling him dip in and out, just so, just barely, and it’s enough to drive him mad. When he feels your heat clamping down on him he can taste a prayer at the tip of his tongue. What a divine creature you are, heaven bows to the light you’ve brought into his life.
“Ah, Papa–”
“I know, angelo mio.”
“I’m gonna come.”
“Baciami, tesoro,” he says, a long finger at your chin, angling it up.
He’s not sure you understand his words but you lean in anyway, kissing him urgently as your peak tears through you. Your thighs shake on either side of him, your cunt fluttering where he’s pressing against you, pulsing with each tremor. And to his own surprise he feels it, the way his muscles constrict, how his lower body tightens, the final tug that drags him along with you, so intensely that his lungs hollow out. His moan is swallowed by your bruising kiss and with a hand on your head he traps you there, pushing his tongue into you with a violent force. He only manages to break away when his head start to spin, wondering when he last felt a pleasure this acute.
“Papa,” you whisper between choked inhales, no doubt feeling the sticky mess between your bodies where sweat and come mingle.
“Breathe,” he says. “You made your Papa feel very good, tesoro.”
You hum, quite content, leaning on him in an embrace that he is far too eager to return. “Is this okay for you? Are you in any pain?”
“No pain,” he whispers. “And I am not done with you.”
It’s a half-truth, the strain on his back is persistent and his joints are aching more so than usual. But he’d be damned if he didn’t draw a few more orgasms out of you, until you are so exhausted that your feet won’t carry you back to the abbey and he can coax you into staying.
“But Papa,” you whisper, “I can’t move.”
A deep rumble falls from his chest. “You can still talk, fiore mio.”
You wince at the implication, just the tiniest bit, but the evening is still long and he sees no need to hurry. Vaguely, he notices the fan still whirring, wondering if he should offer you a shower and take you to bed, more for his comfort than yours. The cottage is cool enough, but the sun won’t set for another few hours.
“Fiore,” he whispers to avoid startling you, though his voice comes out raspy.
A nose lazily nuzzles against the loose skin of his neck. “Hm?”
“Would you like to stay, tonight?”
You sit up abruptly, meeting his gaze in the half-dark. “Are you sure?”
“I would not offer, otherwise.”
He can see the vague shape of your mouth curling upwards and you struggle to suppress the giggle that comes with it. “Do I get to rub your ointment into your back?”
“If you wish it so, tesoro.”
“I love how it smells.”
Primo smiles a rare, genuine smile when your sweaty face nestles back to his neck, his old, withering heart quite taken. For a while he lets you rest, ignoring the complains in his lower back at the added weight on the strained muscles. It’s true, he he has grown soft with age to allow for such domesticity, but he lives a secluded life, the only witnesses you and the birds chirping outside his window, and the thought is so very fleeting.
You want more, you said, and perhaps, at last, Primo wouldn’t mind more either.
thank you for reading <3 likes, kudos, comments and reblogs are appreciated but most of all i hope you had fun reading this story!
something that I feel like is missing from fandom nowadays is the idea that you dont have to have a unified, chronologically/tonally consistent interpretation of your favorite work. your fics dont have to fit within the same version of canon, even if theyre all canon-compliant on their own. your headcanons can contradict each other. be a multishipper. write metas that take two totally different interpretations of the same plot point. write a character as a villain and then write them as the hero next time. write a character as a lesbian and then write them as straight next time! engage in hypotheticals and drop them when you get bored! make up the rules as you go!! have fun with it!!!
☞ 500 words, gn!reader, nightmares, softness, hurt/comfort, smut-ish and not super explicit but still 18+
In the pitch black of the room his laboured breaths are invisible. When he reaches out, his fingers meet cold, bare sheets, and the dread lodged in his throat breaks free in a groan.
He chokes on his words, presses them through gritted teeth. "Where are you, darling?"
V's hands are warm as they reach for you, the rare sensation of bare fingertips, searching limbs, eager in their desperation. Finally, a palm presses to your belly and when you grasp his wrist you can feel the tight gooseflesh on his skin like tiny knives.
"Pet?" Your voice, sleep-drunk, startles the silence. "Are you alright?"
He hums, drags you across the bed until your back meets his bare chest. His heat engulfs you, the static prickling that follows every touch you share. Wet lips find your neck as he molds himself around you, fitting like a glove. You shiver as he trails them over your shoulder, leaving a lingering kiss on the highest point. Cool air blows over the wet spot and makes you feel oddly exposed, oddly tender.
"Nightmare?" you ask but his reply is a low scoff. Not at you, no, it's the situation that's been gnawing on him, his inability to rest as his past catches up with him during the late hours, when the moon is high and his guard is down. He's only shown you glimpses of it, those heavy memories he carries like chains around his neck, dragging him down when he's helpless, succumbed to the wicked parts of his mind.
"You weren't there," he whispers. "You weren't in my arms, sweetheart."
"Must have moved," you mumble but your focus is not on his words, it's on the way his hand glides up your thigh, your hip, settling at your waist, but only for a moment, restless as he is.
"Is it bad that I need you?" he asks as it slides down your middle, teeth bared against your skin. His soft curls tickle your ear as he grazes them along a tendon at your neck, the mere shadow of sharpness but it's enough to weaken your mind.
You shake your head into the darkness and he must feel it for his hand finally moves between your legs and you push yourself further into him. A sigh escapes you both and just so you are both moving in your own rhythm. It's a practiced dance, a familiar comfort, his long, pale hands with their sharp knuckles, the slow roll of his hips, teeth and tongue and your writhing bodies that search only for each other.
You gasp into his mouth, his nightmare now mere salt on his lips, and you kiss it away, again and again until he's limp in your arms. His head comes to rest gently on your chest, shallow breaths now, whispered against your clavicle, mingling with some words you can't quite understand. You comb through dark curls, spread over damp shoulders, and when sleep finally takes you he's grasped you so tightly that there is no doubt about staying where you are.
