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Okay-okay-okay. Just listen to me...
Papa Secondo continues to fuck you, even after his next orgasm. He himself has already lost count, of how many times he has finished, he has even stopped counting your orgasms. He's already in pain, he's already empty, but he keeps hammering into you, like a frenzy. He may have a heart attack from such overstimulation, but he does not stop. He can almost not even see you under him, there are only sharp, white sensations in front of his eyes, but he remembers, how beautiful you are. The blood is throbbing loudly into ears, but your sweet moans, dear cry, are also audible, albeit muffled. Secondo has nothing to cum with, but he continues to push into you. It hurts, but it's so good.
Everyone should know, that you are his. That the child in your womb is his. And if it doesn't work out today, you have a lot of time ahead.
You can't do this to me at 4AM. This is illegal.
Papa Secondo is getting absolutely target locked onto you after popping a pill. He thought to himself, 'Surely this thing Primo made isn't that big a deal?' and now he's got your hips in a vice and in a full nelson as he gives sloppy and uneven thrusts with his hips.
Fuck. Yeah. I can work this.
Secondo x Reader, Papa Emeritus II x Reader, Creampie, Marathon Sex.
It's another negative. The both of you had eagerly waited in the bathroom for the results, and the third time is the charm, but it still comes out negative. You were frustrated. You told him that you were starting to feel like a failure, as both his wife and his Prime Mover, but he quickly dashed away those insecurities with a hug and sweet kiss.
"Just mean we need to keep trying, mia tesoro."
He goes to Primo because, of course, he does. His father figure brother was his go-to when asking for a damned miracle.
Primo had hummed and smiled at him before fishing through his apocathary cabinet and pulling out a small bottle of hand pressed pills.
"Take one of these before. If this doesn't knock her up, I don't know what will."
And he waits for the mood. A full moon and lavish dinner, and he has you back into your shared room, leading butterfly kisses down your neck. He had subtly taken the pill during dinner, a sour thing that left fur on his tongue, and now... now he was starting to feel hot. There was a bubbly fizz in his loins, and his dick very quickly stood erect, he could feel his heart beating through his cock as the rush of blood had it painfully pressing against the seam of his jeans, yet with every shift it brought sparks of pleasure.
You didn't know about the medicine. Too lost in his soft touches as he guides you out of your clothes.
Then he gets on his knees, pulls at your labia with his thumbs, and gets to work. The man pops his jaw with how wide he opens his mouth to encompass your quim. Kissing your pussy until you were a wet and begging mess. Then he shoves in his tongue. He flexes it. Corkscrews it. Closes his mouth around your entrance and sucks, causes sounds so utterly obscene. His thumbs pry your lips apart so he can all the more devour you.
He wrangles your thighs around his head. Lips work sloppily over your pussy as he lashes his tongue relentlessly. He sets a speed record for how quickly he gets you to come. Then he licks it all up. Every. Last. Drop. Eating you out like tonguing the cream out of a snack cake. You squirmed, holding onto his ears as you moaned loud enough to reach across and wake the whole damn Abbey, shuddering like you had caught a cold and stood in Arctic winds.
Then he fucks you like your unbreakable. An obnoxiously hard and fast dicking, turns into a wrecked and painful hyperfixation that wraps his brain, switches off common sense and turns him into a baser animal with only the need to breed.
Several long strokes that reach deep inside of you as he makes you shake and shake, body wracking with sobs as you're overwhelmed and filled.
He groans, pressing his lips to the back of your neck and inhaling the finest scent of your soap and shampoo, your sweat, just simply you. Your back and his chest stick together in sweat, and your legs hoisted in the air under his arms as he wraps his fingers together just on the back of your head. It takes him everything not to dig his nails in. There's accidental nick here and there, and shallow scratches that'll take a week to heal.
Your trapped with no way to move other than to bow your head forward and accept his brutal assault on your pussy.
He's losing control of himself. Mindless of everything that isn't driving his cock as deep into your pussy as possible and as often as possible. His heels dug into the mattress as he slices his hips up and his balls clench. Fuck, he can pratically feel his blood in his dick, fat and swollen. It's nearly painful and only the rapid cuts of his dick pounding into your cunt is enough to satisfy it.
You're so obscenely wet that the room echoes with the sounds of squelching and smells of musk, sweat, and sloppy sex.
Secondo licks his mouth and needs to wipe the trail of drool going down his chin because he can't stop salivating. He's thirsty for more than just water. You next orgasm, your cunt strangling him, the prospect of seeing you pregnant. No matter how many times it takes. He'll do it. He can't wait to see you round and swollen with his kid, that was there is no room for arguement. You're his. If that ring around your finger wasn't proof enough. Those bitemarks on your neck. No one will be able to look at you without seeing his shadow looming over you. You're his. HIS.
He's fucking you hard enough to make your guts gurgle. Long since have you started to cry, loud sobs and tears track down your ruddy red cheeks. You can't shift, you can't move, any kind of fight would have him slipping out of you and you can't... You're so close. Bordering on a fourth and rapidly approaching the next little death.
He had shuddered as his second orgasm gums the inside of your cunt, splashing your walls and womb with his watery white seed.
His lashes fluttered from that first hit if relief. But the endorphins flared, turning his blood to the boiling point, and he didn't... He could keep going. He needed to keep going.
He can't help the growl, almost demonic, as your nails dig into his hot skin, and he works your thoughts on the lashes of another orgasm.
He's running a fever, has to be with how cold and clammy he suddenly feels, and the roller coaster sensation of his legs falling from underneath him. But he can't stop. Won't stop. He needs to make sure it takes even if it kills him. Needs you swollen with his children. Needs to coax another moan from you. Need to make you tremble again. He needs to pull one more orgasm.
He's gulping air like it's water in a desert. His sticky skin clings to yours as he rolls his hips hastily, pounding into you with delirium. Chasing after the high as though it's his last orgasm as a free man.
His dick twitches inside of you. He can't see it all sticky and swollen with the amount of orasgms he's given you. And the froth, the white bubbly cum he's stirred into you that filled over and coats your lips and the shaft of his cock like a white wedding band. In a half-minded haze he considers in investing in a mirror to see your wrecked and cock dumb visage.
Heat roars into an inferno in his stomach doused with kerosene. A hard knot behind his navel that corkscrews his intestines into a revolting kind of pleasure. It's horrid. A melting gooey warmth in his already hot and feverish insides that's hardly even felt.
He pounds into you with hiccuped shambles. What started strong has deteriorated into half thrusts but nevertheless desperate and manic. His dirty talk has dilapidated into hoarse groans and growls like a monster. His promises of fucking a baby into you has him now whispering for a mercy he denies himself. He doesn't have to keep going. He has to keep going. His balls long since draining dry and with every follow-up dry contraction of his dick nearly painful as he twists a knife into his loins, and still he keeps going.
"Nng. Hha-haa." He groans as though someone had just murdered him. Your walls tighten around him again, miniscule, the smallest flutter of your muscles that tells him he's managed to get you to come a fourth time.
Finally, finally he's given all he has. His cock sore and nerves frayed that with that with his last dry oragsm there is no point. He's spent all he has into you and has no more left to give you. He groans, stilling, and catching his breath.
He doesn't whimper when he pulls himself out, unplugging the dense load of creamy hot cum. He feels far away. His skin is oversensative, and as he finally releases you from his grip, his finger pops at how hard he had been holding you in place. He slides the pad of his fingers over your flesh, stunned and amazed and just how soft your skin feels.
He sets you aside and turns over to give you a scan and watch his copious and nearly ridiculous amount of seed as it oozes down your lips. Dribbling down your inner thigh. A gob of it fallen and stains the already wet sheets underneath you.
Secondo watches with heavy eyes. His breathing hard enough to split metal. His whole body hurts but his cock thankfully going soft.
He curls his arms around you in a hug and holds on as he tries to catch his breath and pants into the crown on your head. He traces his thumbs against your cheeks, catching your tears and sighing contently.
One of you should clean up and drink some water, but he can't move. He can barely ask you in your okay before falling asleep, and a loud snore vibrates from his throat.
You're not far behind him.
You can clean up and complain tomorrow, on top of taking another test.
no beta we die like men, SFW :) I chose a new theme for my Fall Festival with the Papas collection and just thought this was too nice to rot in my WIP folder
A trail of crimson trickled from a razor edged canine perched atop an even row of teeth, fixed together in a menacing snarl. One piercingly white eye stared back at you in the dull light with a gaze that intended to bore its way into your own soul, at least until the beast rolled its eyes in irritation that is.
“Is this really necessary?”
“The silence is not scary anymore! You need to practice!” An exasperated sigh heaves its way from your chest. Weeks had already been spent begging Secondo to consider playing a more active role in the haunted house; to trade in his traditional silent scare tactics in favor of a more active approach. There was no time for him to chicken out now.
“Need I remind you, most of the Siblings already find me quite terrifying. I could stand stock still, staring, and they would turn tail and run. Which is what I do best.” His objections were quickly dismissed with a wave of your hand followed by a gentle push on his shoulders to lead him back to sitting in front of the mirrored vanity so you could adjust his make up once more.
“You are not terrifying, amore mío. But you do stare. A lot.” You reminded him with a playful squeeze of the apple of his cheek which only earned a groan underneath his breath. Your lips pursed together as you stared down at him in search of what aspect was still amiss from his costume make up. Already you had been pretty proud of what you had applied to his face. Larger faux canines affixed to his own, dribbling over his chin with fake blood, along with a stitching affect crossing over his face, opening over the top left side of his skull to expose spiraling sections of brain matter you had painted on painstakingly over the course of two hours.
“You are simply easy to stare at.” The purred flirtation combined with Secondo’s arms creeping around to encircle your torso was nearly enough to distract you from the task at hand. Credit where credit is due, the man was relentless and had almost gotten his way. Almost.
There are many terrible things in this world. The shrill blare of an alarm clock ripping you from your dreams among the worst offenders. Waking to find that the bed has already gone empty and cold, another. The entire room felt quiet and solemn as if it too was mourning the absence of your beloved. The thick blankets quickly grew too cold to be comfortable any longer and remnants of sleep still clung to your senses as you slowly sat up with a renewed dedication to seek out a new source of warmth.
The scent of spiced soap and a lingering mist from the shower wafted through the partially open bathroom door, a testament to Secondo’s stubborn refusal to sleep in on nearly any day. It was a gentle reminder of the countless mornings when you had woken up together, the sound of falling water mingling with laughter and shared tenderness.
After attempting to gather your thoughts, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and made your way towards the bathroom, the rhythmic sound of falling water growing louder with each step. The antique wooden wardrobe looked untouched as you passed by it. You paused to pull out Secondo’s Papal robes and the cassock he often preferred to wear underneath before folding them neatly on the bed and continuing on. Upon pushing the door open, you were met with the sight of steam billowing around the room, cloaking the space in a misty haze.
“I may be aging but I’m not deaf yet. I can still hear your attempts to sneak up on me, amore mio.” Even with his back turned towards you, you could hear the smirk in his voice despite his stern tone. Water droplets still dribbled over his skin as he moved while the steam swirled around him, seemingly dancing in tune with a silent melody.
“I would’ve thought all those concerts would’ve done you in.”
Secondo paid no mind to your witty comment, instead continuing on as if he hadn’t been interrupted at all.
“Were you sleeping well? You didn’t budge when I got up.”
“I was. That is until I was left alone in the arctic cold of silk sheets.” Your retort came with maybe a little more sass than necessary as you lifted yourself to sit on the counter.
Secondo hummed softly, the deep rumble building in his chest as he leaned over to thread his fingers through your messy bed head.
“Hmmm. I suspect you’ll survive, you appear plenty lively to me.” His words were muffled against your hair as he pressed a kiss on the top of your head. For once you decided to remain quiet when you felt him smile against you.
After a few silent minutes, Secondo pulled away to return to his routine and you quickly grew bored. You twisted around, leaning in closer to the water covered mirror and reached a hand out to draw a shape against its reflective surface. Only after you had placed your initials next to a small heart were you interrupted.
“Those stay there, you know. Smudges, after the fog is gone.” He grumbled softly before swiping a razor against his cheek once more. His eyes only flickered to you before refocusing on the task of shaving. The dedication to precision and attention to detail were always present, even in the simplest of moments. A roll of your eyes was the only reaction you gave in to. Secondo had always been much more of a perfectionist, although it was admittedly respectable.
Pulling back from the mirror, you gracefully slipped off your perch on the counter and moved closer to him, pressing a kiss against each freshly shaven cheek. The morning routine had become a dance between the two of you, a choreography of sweet gestures and affectionate exchanges.
“Are you absolutely sure you need to go to work? And so early?” It was the same familiar question you asked him at least once a week, and that tiny sliver of hope in your voice that the ever so serious older man would take off work remained every time.
“Si, I am entirely sure. Has my answer ever changed?” Secondo’s unfaltering response only prompts you to lean back against his shoulder and clasp your hands to your chest, feigning being fatally wounded. There is a sigh at your dramatics, a kiss pressed against your temple before being waved off once more.
“You have your own work to attend to, piantagrane. Go.” You finally accepted being shooed off after a few more lingering kisses, good byes murmured softly in each other's ears before leaving the former Papa be to finish getting ready for the day yourself.
By the time you had returned to the bathroom with the intention of using up all the remaining hot water for yourself, Secondo was gone from the room. As to be expected, but still disappointing. While setting your own towels down atop the granite counter, you couldn’t help but to glance back at the small smears you had earlier left along the surface of the mirror. Papa was right, the fog had dissipated and left behind streaks of smudging. Except now it was impossible to ignore the small, cursive initials ‘S.E’ that had appeared opposite of your own.