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gothdaddyissues · 1 day

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Okay so like hear me out….

Number 3 from the angry confessions list with Secondo…. 👀🤭

(I would let him angry fuck me until I forget my own name- I MEAN WHAAAAAAATT???? Who said that?)

-💖

For you, my darling Heart!

I hope you're happy and healthy and horny and well 💖

“You… What?”

“You… what?” you whisper, flexing your trembling hands and then flexing them into fists, as if that will send all of whatever-it-is you’re feeling out of your body. Otherwise, you might combust, “You wanna say that, again?”

You stare at Papa Emeritus the Second and he stares right back. Except, for probably the first time ever, his eyes are wide with fear and panic, a sheen of sweat shines through his paints and he swallows nervously, “I do not want to say it, again,” he murmurs, turning away, tugging at his collar.

You’re sure you didn’t hear him correctly. Sure that the man you’d been secretly in love with for Satan knows how long did not just profess his own love. For you. On the night before your departure. Surely not, you think, huffing out a nervous laugh. And then you meet his perfect, mismatched eyes and a new feeling bubbles up. Something dark and angry and fueled with years of burning and yearning. A shudder rushes up your spine and you clear your throat, “You wanna say that… again?” you repeat yourself - it’s hardly a question - and you see Secondo shrink up a bit and it scares you even more. Secondo doesn’t lie. Secondo doesn’t fib. That’s his whole thing - he says it like it is. So you take another step forward and put a finger under his chin, “Look at me,” you say and after a moment of hesitation, he obeys, eyes meeting yours, “Say it, again.”

“I am in love with you,” he mumbles.

“Oh, my god,” you exhaled, “You fucking asshole! You… you… absolute cock-socket!”

Secondo straightens, blinking a few times. He’s never been called a cock-socket before and he’s blue-screening in real time, his entire system buffering, “What do you call me?” he asks, brow furrowing, shaking his head in confusion.

“I called you a cock-socket,” you squeak, voice pitched with emotion, “Want me to repeat that? Cock-socket! Fucking… fuck!”

Secondo snorts and folds his arms over his chest, “Are you finished?”

“No, you goddamn cum-skull,” you snap and that one knocks Secondo a step back, tears burning your eyes, “You could have told me,” you hiss, “Fucking hell, Secondo,” you say his name and it rolls off of your tongue, practically on fire, blazing with spite, and his hand goes to his chest, “From the moment,” you pull of your veil and run your hands through your hair, “Oh, my god. You… me,” you turn back around, giving him a once over, jaw cocked, shaking your head, “Fuck you, Secondo. Oh my god, I have never met someone so arrogant so… so self-centered in my life!”

You’ve hit a nerve, speaking to him like that and his own anger flashes dark in his eyes, “I am Papa, you do not say those things to me. You also,” he struggles to find his words, frustration and confusion and shock clouding his senses, “You also do not come to me. You also are… oh, you are a stubborn thing,” he groans, pinching his nose and shaking his head while you fold your arms over your chest, cocking your hip.

“You’re not Papa right now, shit-stick. Just one more asshole guy, like all the others. Just Secondo. Playboy, asshole Secondo.”

He scoffs and closes the space between you, lowering his voice as if you’re not alone and he doesn’t want anyone to know his horrible secret, “Well, I’m sorry I fell in love with you, okay? But it happened and I can’t do shit about it.”

He’s a breath away and it’s - as it always has been - intoxicating. You close your eyes and take a deep, cleansing breath but it backfires as you inhale his scent - aftershave, incense, too strong espresso and that extra cigarette he wasn’t supposed to have. He smells like the person you’re supposed to spend the rest of your life with. He smells like a kind, caring man who feels everything far too deeply; hiding behind icy stares and walls too thick and high to traverse. He smells like Papa and Secondo and he’s right there and you want to touch him so badly it hurts. Your entire body trembles. You ache for him, his proximity only making it worse. When you open your eyes he’s staring down at you, his eyebrow arched, that Secondo glare on his face, and it irritates the wound, making that anger swell back up like a rogue wave, “You could have said something,” you say through gritted teeth, tears burning your eyes, “You could have said anything, Secondo. You could have never said anything and let me rot with this horrible, nightmare of unrequited love,” tears spill over and you shove Secondo’s shoulder, your voice rising, “You could have tried to not let me make plans to leave, you know?” you hiss, “Instead, you’ve tortured me beyond belief,” you sob, “You’ve let me sit here consumed. You’ve let me pack all my shit and transfer to another fucking country, Secondo! What the fuck!?” you swipe at your tears and shove him, again, “So, yeah. Fuck you. Fuck you, shit-stick Secondo.”

You move to shove him, again and he catches your wrist, “You think I have not suffered?”

“You think it’s been fun?” you snap, your voice shrill and shaking - Secondo’s touch, his hand around your arm is distracting enough, lust swirls with your anger, need throbbing between your legs while rage burns in your belly, “You think I’ve just been kicking my feet, laying in bed while I draw in my journal with gel pens? Mr. and Mrs. Papa Secondo?” he smirks - in his way - the corner of his mouth turning up, eyes sparkling for a second before returning to their hardened, unreadable gaze, “Don’t fucking laugh at me,” you try to jerk your hand away from him but he pulls you closer, “if you kiss me, I’ll kill you.”

“If you leave, I’ll die anyway.”

You kiss him, then, because you might die too if you don’t, “Don’t let me go,” you whisper against his lips, first contact obliterating any thought or feeling or need. It was just Secondo, kissing you. His eyes were closed and his other hand slid around your middle, his arm wrapping around you, pulling you up against him, “Don’t let me go,” you whisper against his lips and he groans, “Don’t let me leave. Don’t let me go.”

“I thought you wanted to go,” Secondo teases, smirking again, his hands cupping your jaws. He bumps his nose against yours, “You have a flight to catch, I thought?”

He’s poking at you and it’s working and you try to shove away from him, again, “Fuck off,” you say, unable to differentiate from hurt and anger and excitement and the overpowering need to just keep on kissing him. All the evenings you watched him take a Sibling or two or three to bed. Ghouls and Sisters paraded in front of you for years and you glare up at him, kiss him and then pull your face away, craning your neck, “Why?”

“You showed no interest.”

“Then you’re blind and an asshole,” you growl, “Let go of me.”

He doesn’t let go, “You just asked me not to.”

“Secondo,” you surrender - by only a hair - leaning into him, your body begging for more.You curve up into him, against him and it does not go unnoticed - by either of you - how well you fit together. How lovely it feels. Your mind is telling you to rip him in a new one, your heart demanding that the rest of you give in, too. Your plane leaves in five hours. You should already be in the car, headed to the airport. But you have time. You have time for this. It’s probably the worst decision you’ll ever make - go this far, this fast with such little chance of it going any further than this. You’ll get nothing more than a walk of shame and a silent ride to the airport; your heart would still be broken, you’d still be lonely. But at least you’d get a taste. And so you give in to everything you’ve ever wanted and it consumes you. Secondo follows your lead. He pushes you towards his desk, turning you and guiding you until you’re up against it - his mouth never leaving yours. He moves to turn you around and you fight him, “Not like that,” you say, pulling yourself up, sitting on the desk, “You’ll look at me,” you demand, testing his patience and his authority but he swallows, nodding. And then it’s a flurry of hands. You help him lift his robes up over his head and the land in a pile of sacrilege on the floor. You tear open his shirt, buttons clattering across the floor and the desk, and it earns you a growl and a glare but, nothing more. Your mouth finds his chest, burying your face in the dark hair - thickest over his sternum - and he groans, hands tangling in your hair as you trace circles around his nipple with your tongue; sucking and biting. You can feel his heart - pounding, racing - beneath your mouth and it makes your pussy throb, your clit ache and your heart break all the more, “I need you,” you admit, finally surrendering completely, finally giving into this, your lips only parting from Secondo’s flesh to beg him for more. You look up at him as he takes off his gloves, his hands cups your jaw, thumbs catching errant tears, “I need you, Secondo.”

“I am here,” he says, his voice low and soft. You imagine there’s a bit of giving in, too. A tender, soft touch replaces the grip he had on your wrist a few minutes ago. His gaze softer, his chest rises in slow, even breaths. He leans down and kisses you - it’s hesitant and slow but it's full of heat. Your hands slide down to his belt and soon his pants are caught around his thighs and his cock bounces free, he lets out a satisfying groan, his head falling back as you stroke him, peppering his chest with kisses; reveling in the coarse, dark hair.

“You may have been here,” you mumble against his pec, “But you have taunted and tortured me.”

“I have only done what was needed to meet my needs,” he growls, his hands in your hair tightening, pulling your face up to meet his eyes, “I, too, have suffered.”

“Poor thing,” you coo and it’s far too contemptuous to be comforting. His nostrils flare and his lip twitches - it is neither grin or smirk but it fans a flame in your belly you’re not soon to put out.

“You think I have not seen you?” he snarls, one hand leaving your hair and the other, in its absence, tightens its grip at the base of your skull. He pushes your dress up your thighs and groans and it’s so close to a whine, you smile wickedly, “You think I have not had to sit by at rituals? And watch what is mine get fucked? Fucked on my altar? On my throne?”

“Oh, Secondo,” you say, but your words - the silly little comeback knocked out of you as his fingers slide across your pussy. You’re already dripping and Secondo smiles, too - triumphant, “I was just,” you inhale and then exhale, attempting to retain some semblance of control, echoing his own silly excuse, “I was just meeting my needs.”

“What needs?” Secondo matches your tone - a condescending croon as he strokes you, teasing your clit and testing your entrance, “What needs do you have? Hm? Such needs that I have to hear about Omega’s fat cock in your ass? Or that feral little fire ghoul of Terzo’s knotting you? Inside that which is mine. Marking that which belongs to me.”

The slap lands hard and fast across Secondo’s face and he is stunned into silence, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, “I do not belong to you.”

You pull your head away, jerking out of Secondo’s grasp and you lean back on his desk, spreading your legs wide, “You are mine,” he growls and you shake your head, pushing your fingers through your pussy, spreading yourself open for him, “You have been so since you stepped over that threshold,” Secondo thrusts a pointed finger at his door and then at you, “You. Are. Mine.”

“No,” you say, slipping two fingers into your pussy. It feels good but, you know he feels better. Secondo swats your hand away, lacing your fingers with his as draws them to his mouth, tongue licking off the slick that shines on your fingers. He moans, the taste he has only dreamt about like honey on his lips, “You, Papa Emeritus,” you smirk, “You belong to me.”

He’s angry, then.

But so are you.

He gives you no time to prepare, no time to adjust, as he pushes his cock into you. Your head rolls back and your eyes flutter shut. How delicious, how perfect he fits. How good he feels. The thick of his cock, his heat matching yours, the throb of taking him fully; you can feel him at the very center of you and you never, ever want him to leave. You gasp as he pulls out, the lack of him frustrating and you realize how addicted you are. And then he slams back into you and you are lost.

Secondo fucks you hard and fast. The desk underneath you and its contents around you are jolted - papers crumpled beneath you, ink spilling, long cold coffee toppling over. It’s too much and it’s not enough. Someone is sobbing and crying and someone else is wheezing and growling and after a few moments, you realize it’s you and Secondo. You arch off the desk and cling to him while he rails into you; arms around him, face pressed back against his chest. His arms come around and keep you there. You want to tell him you belong to him, want to say his name, let it drip off your tongue with so much love and need he’ll never have another but, you can’t say anything. Not when he’s holding you like this. Certainly not when he’s fucking you like this. You can’t talk or breathe or think.

Your core tightens and Secondo’s pace starts to lose its rhythm, “Come with me,” he growls and his voice jolts you back to reality and you feel everything all at once. And, as is your way, you rattle him with your disobedience - coming undone before he can join you. Your orgasm breaks you to your core, you’re coming on him then - whining and crying against his chest. It doesn’t take long, not when your body tightens and trembles around his cock like that. Thunder rolls in his chest - a deep, rumbling growl as he comes - filling you up, taking your breath away, again. He forces you to look up at him and he kisses you - so sweetly and so carefully - it threatens to pull another orgasm out of you and his own breath hitches in response.

You don’t let him move. You close your eyes and hug him around his middle and wrap your legs around his. The tears come then and you cry. You cry and Secondo kisses your hair and he rubs your back. But he says nothing and you thank Satan for small miracles. You sniffle and try to scoot closer to Secondo but, frankly, you can’t get any closer, “I have to go,” you whisper, clinging to him; not going at all.

“I canceled your flight.”

“You what?” you snap your face up to stare at Secondo, who is looking smug as a bug.

“You weren’t going to leave,” he says, running a thumb over your lip, tracing the curve of it, “Not really.”

“I stand by my statement,” you nip at his thumb and he inhales sharply, “shit-stick.”

“I am your arrogant shit-stick, though, si?” he laughs and it’s the most perfect sound in the world, “Your, uh, how you say? Cum-brains?.”

“Cum-skull,” you correct him, pulling him back down for another kiss, “You’re my cum-skull.”

“And you are staying?” he asks, eyes worried, tone full of hope, “You are staying here at the abbey? With me?” You nod and he groans, “And?” he asks, waiting patiently. You don’t give it to him and he shakes his head, “You are stubborn.”

“Yes. And you are arrogant.”

“My stubborn, beautiful girl,” he says, running his fingertip down the length of your nose, pressing it against your lips, “But mine.”

You give up the last of it - the last white flag flies high, the last bit of resistance and turmoil, the last of the aching and the hurt and all the pent up need. It’s all gone. He’s here and you’re here and you kiss him one more time. And then another. His mouth wanders, pressing to your cheek and along your jaw. He nuzzles into your neck and you wrap your arms around his, “I’m yours,” you throw in the whole damn towel, “I am yours. Completely.”

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