the-hole-in-terzos-shoe - Tumblr blog

the-hole-in-terzos-shoe · 7 hours

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copia/f!oc, 4k. sophie's having a Bad Day. copia does something about it.

banner by the divine @enjoy-my-swearing, special thanks to @anamelessfool for the beta read

everything's orchestrated, follow the arrows - ao3

“Motherfucker.”

Copia freezes mid-step, poised over the one floorboard that cracks like a pistol underfoot when it’s this warm and humid. It would be even louder than the almost musical sound that just rang out through their cozy little apartment. Sophie’s rarely that vehement over something as simple as breaking a glass while washing dishes– though for a lady once bound in service to Christ, his wife has an admirable ability to curse like a dockworker. He doesn’t generally have to tread lightly around her, but perhaps it’s best not to startle her just now.

Truly, he hadn’t meant to sneak up on her. He’d been going cross-eyed over a spreadsheet for a while, and lurched from their little home office towards the kitchen for some water, maybe to make a sandwich for himself and another for his lady.

It’s the grinding sound, too much like the broken crockery before, like something caught in the garbage disposal, that catches somewhere in his chest. He hasn’t heard that sound often, but he’s heard it enough to know what he’s hearing. Even over the sound of the water running.

Ah, he thinks, sidling up to the kitchen doorway. It’s a terrible thing, being right.

His darling wife, his precious Sophie, is hanging her head over the kitchen sink, her shoulders bowed and shaking. The kitchen window catches the afternoon light, its frame of Devil's Ivy turning to milkglass, the air to gold, her sleek hair into some fabulous alloy. Even from here she’s beautiful, sloppy in her father’s flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled perfectly past her elbows. She raises one hand to swipe the inside of her wrist at her snotty nose– it’s an endearingly disgusting gesture– and the slice of red in this haze of green and gold is as loud as a scream. It nearly stabs the breath out of him, and it’s only the habit of a lifetime of communal living that keeps him from making a noise at the shock of seeing it on the pale underside of her forearm.

Copia leans against the doorway, and watches his wife cry.

This isn’t entirely unexpected.

Every morning she burrows herself into his skin like a tick, indulges so beautifully in the sin of sloth, just the way her husband has taught her. Even when the air conditioning broke last August, she’d wriggle herself a little closer into him. She would sigh like a cat when he slid his arm around her, when he pressed a kiss to the back of her neck just to taste the salt on her skin.

This morning, she’d taken a call, extracting herself from the warmth of her husband’s arms in the diffuse pre-dawn half-light, everything the same shadow of itself. The sudden lack of warm wife in his arms had done more to wake him up than anything else, listening to her tense Spanish down the hall. Today was supposed to be her day off, but she’d been gone before the streetlights, leaving him coffee, leaving him a bagel with cream cheese and cherry jam.

Leaving him to pace around the apartment like a caged tiger.

Sophie’s charmingly old-fashioned, in her way. She hasn’t quite figured out why some of her text messages are blue, and some are green. Or why some have Read: 6:23 AM at the bottom and some just have Delivered. She certainly hasn’t figured out Share My Location. It isn’t that she’s stupid, or even incurious– he could never love a woman like that– it’s just that these things are orthogonal to the way she thinks.

It’s a good thing he keeps an eye on her. Someone has to. And that’s just what he did, all day, watching her little blue dot on the C train all the way up to Washington Heights, and then the A train all the way back to Rockaway Beach. It made him wonder if she’d left her phone on the train, if something had happened to her– but then she’d stayed on the edge of the water for so long that his gut churned. She wouldn’t have left him, wouldn’t have just walked into Jamaica Bay without a word of explanation, without at least a note, a text message, something. Delivered, not Read. Suicide is a mortal sin, and besides, his Sophie would never abandon him.

He had an idea of what happened, if he’s honest. He’d kept her little village in Colombia in his weather app, even after all this time. Monsoon season, and the infrastructure she’d nearly dedicated her life to still incomplete. It wasn’t hard to make an inference. So there’s absolutely no reason his gut should be this tight, no reason why his hands should shake.

Sophie wouldn’t abandon him, so he’d let himself pace their apartment once, twice. And then he did what he’s always done, and worked, tried to bury himself in the ledger of this little non-profit, making the numbers dance from red to black. He’s a skilled accountant, but he’d had to triple-check himself, reread every row and column. He’d only let himself check the map every twenty minutes, only let himself text her after the sun hit the curtains.

Delivered, not Read, and he happened to be looking as it flipped to Read: 2:38 PM, as three little dots popped up, and then he could breathe again. It almost didn’t matter what she said in response. She’s alright, she’ll be home soon. Does he want anything?

He’d tilted his head back, looked up at the popcorn ceiling, and listened to his wooden chair crack in counterpoint to his spine. He’d felt his breath moving in his lungs.

Just you, baby.

It had taken all of his considerable willpower not to pounce on her as soon as he heard her keys in the lock. He tried not to suffocate her, he did, he knew he’d devour her entirely if left to his own devices. So he’d made himself wait three whole minutes after she got in to stretch and pad down the hallway to see her, already curled up on the couch and frowning at her laptop. She hadn't paused longer than to take off her shoes, hadn’t said a word to him, didn’t even look up when he came into the living room.

But, on top of a napkin on the corner of the coffee table, she’d left a sweating can of his favorite milk tea, still cold from the bodega. It hurt his heart in the best way. His wife, his precious Sophie, almost never left the house without bringing him back something, whether a drink or a snack or even just a couple of flowers she picked. He prayed to his Lord Below that he never took it for granted.

He’d moved to her, run a hand over her babyfine hair and kissed her temple. She grunted, patted his wrist absently. She was Working. She’d probably been working even on the train, running logistics and writing emails and connecting Person A to Person B over the phone. He’d left her to it. It would have been supremely counterproductive to do anything else, at that point.

Now, he’s leaning against the doorway to their kitchen, watching his wife cry. Watching her bleed.

It’s something of a shock, honestly. She hates crying, hates it nearly as much as he does. He’s seen it before, but rarely. He can count the number of times on both hands, and have fingers left over. They’d both wept, the first time they went to bed. He’d caught her weeping the morning after, as she’d come to the conclusion that her vocation was over. That had been hard.

Harder still had been the thought running through his head, at the time. He hadn’t done anything irrecoverable, yet. He could leave her, just like that, faith broken and alone, and go back to his Ministry. It would be an impressive feather in his cap, truly corrupting a Bride of Christ. A Papa hadn’t pulled it off in a few hundred years. It would go a long way towards securing his legitimacy, still more than a few wagging tongues. Collect her rosary like a trophy and go trotting home a hero.

He couldn’t, of course, any more than he could have torn out his own heart. That might have been easier. What he’d done was get down on the cold tile with her and pull her into his arms, tell her that he was sorry, but that he couldn’t be sorry for loving her. She’d put her hand over the terrible brand over his heart, and closed off that line of thought for him forever.

This, though. His jaw aches, biting back the nearly physical need to go to her.

Briefly, Copia considers just ducking back into the hallway. Sophie’s a mess, and she hates being a mess. Watching her like this feels voyeuristic, feels like listening to her masturbate. It’s the kind of falling apart she’d only do if she thought she was unobserved. He’s never seen her so unguarded. The thought makes him suck in a breath, sharp, at a blinding flash of jealousy. He wants this, wants to see her this vulnerable, to see every tiny private thing. It's an almost physical lust, to see what it looks like when she's broken. He wants her to give it to him willingly, to break like this in his arms. Not alone.

She hears it, and her head whips around, hackles up, eyes wide and feral. Like a small predator, something less than apex, cornered. Something with sharp teeth. There's blood on her face.

“Sophia,” he says, aching.

Now he can see the color of her eyes, so bloodshot that they’ve gone a shade of seaglass. He reaches for her, keeps his hands where she can see them, moving slow and cautious. “Babylove. You’re bleeding.”

“What? Oh.” She looks at her hands as if they are attached to someone else. Or maybe not: she’d have more compassion for someone else. She turns back towards the sink. “I’ll take care of it.” Shrugging it off. Shrugging him off, and the instant of rage and despair at her rejection is nearly blinding.

He moves past it, already shucking off his gloves and stuffing them in a pocket. He lays a careful hand on the sweet curve of her waist, and looks over her shoulder. “That looks fairly deep,” he says, soft but not too soft. She’s tense, but she isn’t actively cringing away from him.

“S’fine. I’ll handle it.”

“There’s self-sufficiency and then there’s absurdity. Let me help you. You don’t have to do it alone.”

The red is still pulsing out of her skin into the running water, a splatter on the shards of glass in the sink. Damn, not the Depression glass. No wonder she’s upset. He knows that isn’t all of it, can’t be all of it. She’s been crying for some time now, he can see that.

“It’s not– Copia, it’s a scratch.” It really isn’t. She’s sliced deep; he sees the flap of skin. She’ll be lucky if she doesn’t need stitches.

“Let me feel useful, hm?” He touches her wrist, where she’s holding it under the stream, water running over his fingertips. “You taught me how to put a bandage on, have a little faith in me. Or at least your teaching abilities.” He’s trying to keep it light, but she hangs her head, silent. He presses his cheek into her hair. “Sophie,” he murmurs. “Not so much to be consoled as to console, yes? It would be a consolation to me, if you would just– let me help you.”

He wants more, of course. He wants all of it. She’d been preoccupied for days, not so much on edge as distant, absent. He’d rather she slap his face than hear sorry, honey, what was that? one more time, like she wasn’t there at all.

Her hand is so small, in his. Strong and callused and small. He waits. He has spent so much time, waiting for her.

Finally, she leans her head back against his cheek. “First aid kit’s on top of the fridge.”

He squeezes her waist, kisses the top of her head, and his shoulders go a little loose. It’s something. It’s a start, anyway.

There’s so much blood that he leaves fingerprints on the white metal box, and he swallows to keep his throat clear. It won’t help Sophie if he panics. He’s never been faint at the sight of blood– innoculated, you might say, at a young age. But he hasn’t had to deal with this much of his wife’s blood, before.

Copia sets the box down next to the sink, and feels the solid click of the latches in the balls of his thumbs. Sophie keeps it well-stocked, and he finds betadine and gauze and medical tape. She’s kept her hand under the spray, obedient. That’ll make it easier, that she isn’t kicking harder. It’s not quite a relief.

He bends over her hand, flashing back on Asheville, so long ago now. Even under the soap and the blood, the smell of her is still the same. Leather and amber, sunlight, clean and animal. It makes it hard to see, for a moment, but he blinks it back to look, to check for shards of glass. It looks clean, and it didn’t go so far as to cut a tendon, but her poor hand. He looks up at her face, and that’s worse. Watching her cry was one thing, delicious in its way, but seeing her face looking defeated, looking at him with love and longing and something like despair, is a blow to the heart. Seeing her like that feels like a violation.

“Honest assessment, now, Sophie. You’d know more than I would. Does it need stitches?” He smiles at her, and it feels a little grotesque. He’s trying. “Consider that I need you to have that hand. I couldn’t live without your handjobs now, it’d be a cruel thing to do, depriving me like that.”

She smiles, more in recognition of his effort than genuine amusement. “No. Little to the left, and probably. Lucky.” A bitter twist to that last word, and it feels like a knife to his gut. “I’ll follow up with Dr. Olin though, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“It would.”

He bends to his task, then, pushing the nausea to the back of his mind. She only hisses at the sting of the antiseptic, and he thinks he does alright, hiding the flinch. Watching the blood bloom on the gauze feels otherworldly, too vivid to be real, screaming red spreading through blinding white. He wraps the soft cotton over her delicate bones, counting every freckle, tracing a tiny scar between her knuckles. He knows where that came from, knows how she got every callus, and counts himself blessed. (By what, by who, doesn’t really matter.)

He can’t restrain himself from kissing the back of her hand after he’s taped her up, and doesn’t try. She looks a little steadier now, and he’s glad. He reaches to run a hand over her sleek hair, to lean in and kiss her forehead, and breathes deep of the smell of her. “Go sit down, babydoll,” he says, and for a wonder, she does, slipping away from him.

He turns to grip the sink, and lets himself react.

Copia gives himself a full thirty seconds to shake, and to see if he’s going to vomit into the sink, looking at her blood turning pink on the porcelain. The light’s too bright, his hands feel far away. There’s a faint smudge of her blood on the back of one of his hands, and for a moment he thinks he might lose the battle with his stomach. He jerks to rinse it away, and breathes in for a count of three, holds for a count of four, exhales for a count of five. He has to do it three times before he’s steady.

He fetches water for both of them, drinks half of his glass and refills it, grabs a packet of those almond cookies she likes. Then he steels himself to go to the living room.

She’s so pale, under the skylight, her skin in contrast to their burnt orange couch, the dark blue of her grandmother’s afghan thrown over the back. She looks washed out, ghostly under the pale light, hollowed out. He wonders when she ate last. What hurts him more is how grateful she looks when he settles in next to her, presses the water glass into her left hand. Every time, every little kindness, she’s faintly bewildered. Sophie reacts to kindness with the bafflement of a dog being shown a card trick. While he loves her for never taking it for granted, it scrapes him raw that she doesn’t seem to trust it.

Her phone buzzes, and he watches her take a breath, square her shoulders, and reach for the damned thing. He lets her get it all the way out before he takes it from her, gently but firmly.

“Copia, I have to–”

“No.” He isn’t harsh, but he is implacable. Somewhere he registers that his voice is pure Papa. “I know from experience that you type perfectly well with one hand, but no.” He sets it to the side, out of her reach, and reaches down to sweep her legs into his lap. Gratifyingly, she moves with him, tucks her head under his chin. She isn’t fighting him, and it almost makes him more worried. Maybe she’s just responding to his tone, but he’ll take it. He has to.

There’s a fine tremble to her, a faint vibration deep in her bones. She’s on the ragged edge of something, he knows what it looks like just before she works herself into dropping in the traces. He lets her chew mechanically on the cookie, even though there’ll be crumbs everywhere. It’s fine. This is more important than how badly he’ll squirm if any of that goes down the front of his shirt. “Tell me what’s wrong.” He isn’t asking.

Copia knows that he’s a hypocrite. Sophie will give him space to brood and sulk, will get the fuck out of his way for a few hours when he needs it. She isn’t a patient person, but she’s patient with him. It’s taken work; neither of them knew how to live with just one other person before they were together. She hadn’t even been gone half a day, and he wants to coil around her and squeeze, wants to swallow her whole. He couldn’t give a good goddamn. She’s hurting, and he needs to know why.

“Sister Doctor Jane,” she says, so small, and his stomach drops. “She’s been hurt.” Sophie’s brave captain, in Colombia, a woman of iron discipline and boundless compassion, hidden under a faintly acidic brand of acerbity. It was Sister Doctor Jane that had founded the mission, and Sister Doctor Jane that Sophie was the most bitter about disappointing, when she’d left the order for her heathen man.

The woman had actually flown up for the wedding. Copia shook her hand, even, and had felt about two inches tall under her assessing gaze. He remembers the exchange, her grip frim, how she’d leaned in and breathed, “Do not fuck this up.” Sophie told him later that she’d never heard the doctor swear before. “Most assuredly not, signora,” he’d promised. He hopes he isn’t fucking this up now.

His wife is speaking. “It– it ain’t been good, the last couple days, down there. The foundations for the last wing of the hospital weren’t– there was a design flaw. The rain’s been s’bad they got washed out. Been tryna coordinate evac with Sister Isabella. Izzy’s good, but y’know what the signal’s like, down there.” Too well. Especially when the weather isn’t cooperative. “Sister Doctor was getting the last of the patients out when the roof caved in.” She straightens, in his arms, rears back to look at him, and he recoils a little from the ferocity of her eyes. “So forgive me, Copia, if I ain’t taking too much time off for a cut on my hand.” The venom in her voice startles him, burns him, even if he knows most of it is directed at herself.

Sophie reaches for her phone again, and it takes him a moment before he can gather himself, before he grabs her around the shoulders. “No. No, Sophia– stop struggling, listen. Listen to me.” She does still, but it’s a coiled stillness, ready to strike. He tightens his grip for an instant. “You are going to let me help you.” He can feel her muscles slack in surprise, confusion, he’s not sure. “Woman, with the number of tours I’ve coordinated, do you think I don’t know about logistics? You think so little of your people that they’d turn down assistance from a man sworn to the Devil?” He’s murmuring into her ear soft and sweet, the kind of seductive that he’s used on her before. He knows it’s effective. He knows it’s unfair.

What he doesn’t expect is that he gets almost exactly what he wants. Nearly in slow motion, his beautiful wife, his precious Sophie, burrows into his shoulder and makes a strange wet wounded noise. It doesn’t register at first what’s happening, how she shakes like she’s coming apart at the seams.

He doesn’t know what to do but hold her, looking up at the light, how it’s filtering through the matching Devil’s Ivy around the skylight, threaded through the rough blonde wood bookshelves that Sophie put up with her own hands. His books and hers, some of them annotated in both of their hands, copies of Meister Eckhart and Anton LeVay that they’d sent back and forth from her mission, from his tour, commentary to each other in the margins. They’re better than any love letter, white passionflowers and Burano lace pressed between the pages.

“Sophie,” he’s saying. “Sophie, I want this. You’re not alone, you’re not ever alone. I’m with you, babylove. That’s what this is, that’s what this means, I wasn’t just sharing your bed and your name. I want to share your life. Let me, let me in, let me help, let me be with you. Don’t make me be alone.”

He has her life, he knows. Of course, it isn’t just her life he wants, it’s her soul. He wants to feel the warp and weft of it in his hands, even if it burns him. He knows he’ll never get her to deny Christ, likely can’t lead her further down the path of self-indulgence than he already has. Isn’t she in his arms, even now? He thinks, perhaps, she may have even made him truer to his own principles, refined him in his own selfishness. Isn’t he holding her, instead of living his life for his flock? So it’s a small concession, really, helping her people tonight. In her own way, she’s brought him closer to Satan, his brave wife. And she may never deny Christ, but he knows that she’d never deny her husband, either. He’s read First Corinthians, the same as she has. He knows what she hopes for, in her secret heart. Maybe she thinks this is a concession, but really it’s just that he can’t stand to see her in pain, not if there’s something he can do to ease it.

Copia strokes her hair, and waits for her to settle, rocks the sweet weight of her in his arms and croons little nonsense noises to her until she’s steady again. Brave and true and strong.

“Here is what will happen, Sophia,” he says, when he can feel her still and breathing clear. He doesn’t have to see her raised eyebrow to feel it, either. “I will make food– alright, I will order food. We will work on this, together. We’ll figure it out, yes? And when you and I can do no more for your people, I will take you to bed and comfort you the best way I know how. Hopefully, you will let me comfort you with my dick.” And that does get a laugh out of her, and even if it’s watery, it still feels like he’s won something.

In the end they don’t quite save the day, though they salvage much of it. More than she could have, alone. They’re up the rest of the night, with making phonecalls and checking weather reports and supply chains and directing resources from a thousand miles away. When he finally has her in his arms, in their bed, exhausted and sated, the streetlights are flickering out in the face of the dawn, and he thinks he’d follow his wife anywhere, anywhere. Even into the light.

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the-hole-in-terzos-shoe · 11 hours

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Soft terzo x oc sketch commission

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the-hole-in-terzos-shoe · 2 days

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Art trade with @lil-hater 🖤🖤 (thank you so much for your drawing too :'')) Ig post: X

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the-hole-in-terzos-shoe · 2 days

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I'm gonna say what my dog groomer said about my weenie dog the other day: he has little man syndrome 😂

I get you Terzo, I truly do

I'd do that too

#terzo #my beloved #the band ghost #papa emeritus iii #ghost band #ghost bc #omega ghoul #cutie w a bootie #nameless ghouls

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the-hole-in-terzos-shoe · 3 days

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Here is the full sketch I made for @seatsbythepit of a “relaxed, pensive Terzo”—well, he may be lost in his thoughts, but they are always filthy thoughts, 😂😂😂

$15-20 SKETCH COMMISSIONS ARE STILL OPEN! Message me if interested🤍

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the-hole-in-terzos-shoe · 3 days

Note

papa primo being the most “well behaved” emeritus

(i.e. consistently polite if not genuinely kind, conducts himself appropriately in all settings, is rarely if ever openly judgmental, keeps his temper even when pushed - primo losing his composure with subordinates is almost unheard of and those that have tested him were really asking for it - and those that faced his ire consistently feel like they’ve barely lived to tell the tale)

but has just as much of a dirty/goofy mind as any of his brothers, he just keeps it more to himself, under the impression it’s just “better” to be composed and orderly in all public things

SO when he realizes you, his sibling of sin/upper clergymember that he’s taken a real shine to, laughs so genuinely at the errant, very mild dirty joke he makes about humorously formed plant parts or “pollinating” you later - well. you’ve opened a floodgate for every stupid pun, every dirty joke he’s saved up for however many long years he’s roamed the earth to be whispered furtively into your ear whenever they come to him

I love this so much!

But, as usual, I got carried away and it went from sweet and silly to sweet and silly and spicy.

Not safe for work or minors or those who don't believe in innuendos.

Editing this part to add - I totally used that one scene from Bake Off for this. Bless.

Enjoy ❤️

It’s hardly appropriate.

But it’s relentless. There’s a sheen of sweat on your forehead and your sides ache. You elbow Primo, who has his lips sucked into his mouth, eyes watering - trying desperately not to howl, “You are going to get us kicked out,” you hiss. He simply grabs your hand and holds it tight. If he speaks he’ll cackle. And then there will be no donuts for anyone. He focuses on you while you focus on not also snorting and giggling. Your head bowed, eyes closed, desperately trying to keep it together while his shoulders shudder.

You’d caught him on his way out the door, a happy, sunny morning on his day off. He was heading to pick up a dozen, fresh baked donuts and then spend the day driving around town to every greenhouse and nursery and plant shop he could think of - his dozen bear claws and cream pies and danishes in the front seat next to him. But you’d had a question about planting this over here or that over there and he had a hard time concentrating when you’re around. Some kind of lusty, lovely haze fell over him every time you smiled so sweetly; you look him right in the eye, talking about all sorts of lovely things, treating him more like an equal than a Papa. It only serves to make his fondness for you grow, “Primo?” you’d called him from his thoughts, “Papa? Are you all right?”

He’d smiled then, no he’d beamed, and then asked you if you’d like to come along. You’d been surprised at first and stuttered through a few reasons to not go before coming to your senses and happily, wholeheartedly agreeing. He’d waited at the foot of the stairs while you changed into a dress - no veils or habits or silks or mitre today. Just you and Papa.

Now, by some horrifying chain of events, the elderly woman that owned the bakery was showing you and Primo how she’d been making donuts for the last millenia. She continues on and it draws out another, panicked squeak and you lace your fingers with Primo’s. He pinches his nose with his free hand, his entire body shakes in an attempt to elicit some kind of control. She’s holding a perfectly round donut in one hand - plump and shining with glaze - and a thick, long tube of cream in the other she stares at you and Primo over the top of her glasses, “It is better to have both holes open and ready,” she says, plunging the tip of the cream into the donut, “It is best for squirting, both holes,” she’s as serious as a heart attack and Primo lets out a long, low groan. She pumps the tube of cream, albeit gently but firmly, in and out of both holes of the poor, plumping donut, “You must squeeze the bag - feel it out! Coax the cream out with one hand while massaging the donut with the other and then,” she gives it one more push and the cream spills out of both holes, “She is full to bursting and you can,” the baker, in all her glory, licks off the excess cream and nibbles around the freshly fucked hole.

“Oh, good god,” you whine and bury your face in Primo’s shoulder.

“I cannot,” Primo finally releases a wheezing laugh and the floodgates open - both of you have to turn away, shoulders shaking, tears streaming over.

You order a dozen, pay as quickly as you can, and get the hell out of there. Primo takes the top off the car, watching it tuck itself away, and eyes you when you snort. Again.

“I did not know you were such a… dirty mind,” he smirks, holding the door open for you, the box of porn donuts in his other hand, waiting for you to buckle up and get settled before he sets them on your lap.

“Listen, you started it,” you eye him as he walks around the car, “I was composed until you started the giggling.”

“I don’t giggle,” Primo says, starting the car and donning his sunglasses, “I have never giggled a day in my life,” He pauses for a moment, “I was fine until she started massaging that tube of cream, my Satan. Do you think she knew?”

“I… I don’t think so. It was practically porn. I’ve seen less at a sex ritual.”

Primo grins, shaking his head as he pulls out of the parking lot. You can’t help but gaze at him. He’s relaxed, happy, smiling and laughing. You feed him a raspberry bismarck while he navigates the city streets, using your thumb to catch a ruby red drip of jelly on his chin. He watches you suck it off and his jaw clenches as he stares forward. He’s handsome. Sexy. Especially when he’s this happy, when he’s this relaxed. He’s usually working in his office, brow furrowed in concentration and - probably - frustration. Piles of work and bureaucracy keeping him from the sun and the soil and his plants. Or he’s in the garden - doing manual labor while an ever constant flow of Siblings hound him for advice and guidance when all he really wants to do is dig a hole and stick something in it, watch it grow.

He sits back in his seat - one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the shifter. You wish it was on your thigh. And, if you were lucky, a few other places. He stares ahead, every so often glancing at you, a smug grin plastered across his face. He takes you to a few farm stands and greenhouses - little, out of the way, businesses that house a plethora of the usual tropicals and pansies and topiaries. And then, you’re on your way to the big one, he assures you that it’s the best greenhouse in the city and you will not be disappointed. You’re sure that wherever Primo takes you, disappointment would not be on the menu, “You’re staring,” he says, sliding his eyes over at you for a moment, raking them over your body so blatantly you blush.

“Am I?” you square your shoulders, delighted that he noticed.

He says nothing, returning his concentration to the road. The nursery is on the opposite side of the city as the abbey, out in the country and the fresh air, warm sun, belly full of donuts and Papa Emeritus the First are doing it for you. Primo hooks your arm around his and you settle up against him as you walk, “This is quite nice,” he says, his voice low. You hum an affirmation - too many butterflies to speak.

You step into the greenhouse and gasp, the humidity and sheer volume of plants and vines and leaves and roots - all begging to be taken home with you - takes your breath away. A voice echoes from within, “Oh, my god! It’s sopping! I’m slipping all over - slipping right in!”

“Oh,” you squeak, slapping your hand over your mouth, eyes wide as you look up at Primo, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Primo’s laughing already as you make your way through the rows and rows of plants - unable to fight the urge - you let go of his arm to inspect this or show him that. He’s happy to follow, hands in his pockets, watching you shop and gawk and play, “No offense, big Papa,” you say, holding up a particularly phallic looking cactus and waggling your eyebrows, “But this place puts home to shame.”

“No offense taken,” Primo leans against a shelf of ferns and gazes at you, “Pick out what you’d like. They'll be delivered before we get back home.”

An employee stops next to him, “Anything we can help you find?”

You don’t catch Primo gazing at you, too busy admiring the little, green buds on an ocean of spider plants, “I think I’ve found it, thank you.”

“How do you get such perfect little baby orchids?” you ask, holding up a tiny orchid seedling.

“It’s the method,” the man smiles, making his way over to you, “You really have to do a lot of prep before you get into it,” he explains and your eyes dart to Primo who is, once more, trying to suppress a laugh. The man leads you over to a workbench surrounded by barrels of earthy mediums, “You really have to massage the soil, it starts out so dry and really needs to be worked over. A bit of water and time and you’ll know when it’s ready - slip right through your fingers,” you choke on your laugh, coughing and nodding, excusing yourself as he continues, “And then,” he nods towards an apparently well-foreplayed barrel of dirt and you try to compose yourself enough to walk over and inspect it with him. Primo joins you and you know if you look at him, you’ll lose it, “Once you get it right to the edge of too wet you have to add the wood.”

“Oh, yes,” you add, enthusiastically, “The wood. Very important.”

Primo pinches your ass and you squirm, gnawing on your cheek - trying to stay sane, “Yes,” the man continues, completely oblivious - just like the donut lady - he goes on, “Once the wood is in, you just,” he scoops a bit of his now mid-fuck dirt into a little pot, “You just add a finger - or two - and loosen it up, you see?”

“Oh, god, yes,” you say, your voice tight, “I can see it.”

“I can practically feel it,” Primo adds and you give him a long, suffering look.

“And once you have a hole, oops!” he laughs as a bit of dirt spills over, “Sometimes it get sloppy! Ignore that, once you have a good, open hole around the wood you just,” he sprinkles in some imaginary seeds, “You drop in your seed, add a few pumps of liquid fertilizer - which if I may be frank?” he asks and you and Primo nod furiously, “the liquid fertilizer works best when it’s warm. Hot even. And you if you really massage it in there, deep and almost hard. Well,” he points to the long table of seedlings, “a few weeks later, babies!”

“Well, imagine that,” you say - breath hitching as Primo’s hand slides from your shoulder and down to the small of your back where it rests, hot and heavy like a brand - burning a perfect scar into your flesh that you’ll wear proudly for the rest of your life. Here is where Primo touched me when I was so uncomfortably horny I might combust right then and there in the greenhouse.

The man leaves you, spent from all of his hot and heavy customer service. You turn around and stare up at Primo, “Well, then.”

“Yes,” you nod and turn back around, “Let’s, uh - oh look! Petunias.”

You take a step forward and Primo catches your arm, pulling you right back to him, his mouth on yours, his hand tangling in your hair, keeping you close. Your body arches back a bit, pressed completely against Primo - you can feel him, hot and hard, pushing against your hips. You snake your hands up his arms and wrap your arms around his neck, “Did you want look at petunias?” Primo asks, voice rumbling against your lips.

“Nope.”

“Good.”

Primo pushes you up against the long, wooden workbench and his hand slips between you, up your dress and you gasp, “Here?”

“The soil,” he growls, eyes blazing - white-eye brighter than the sun that filters through the glass panes above, “It needs to be worked, remember? Massaged? It needs to be wet.”

“Uh-huh, yes,” you exhale, lips against his, mouth hanging open as you wheeze. Your eyes roll back as he strokes you, teasing your entrance, fingertips dancing around your clit. Your hand slams back against the table as your knees give out, Primo’s mouth on your ear, your other arm around his shoulders, “The dirt is ready - jesus-fucking-christ,” you hiss as Primo sinks two fingers into you and you come, instantly - trembling around his fingers as he fucks you, slow and steady. He turns you around - silent as he works at his best and pants, “The wood,” you whine, “I need the wood, please, please.”

Primo sighs head falling back as he pushes up into you, giving you no time to adjust before he’s fucking you, hard and fast and deep. There really isn’t much time - there are seeds to be planted and fertilized and anyone could walk by, at any second and see Primo filled your donuts. Plowing your fields, “A finger, si? With the wood?” he pauses and you feel a tight, hot pressure as Primo pushes a finger against his cock, into your pussy.

“Two fingers,” you sob, legs giving up - Primo’s cock and spare hand gripping your hip, the only thing keeping you from falling into a pile of human goop in a sundress on the floor. You lean down on the workbench, forehead on your arm while you take big, deep, cleansing breaths, “He said two fingers in the hole. With the wood,” you’re coming then. Hard. Primo’s second finger presses his cock right on that spot and you’re soaking the dirt and the wood and then Primo’s fucking you through your orgasm as he chases his. For a moment, you black out - it’s just bostom cream pies and hot fertilizer and warm, wet… it’s Primo’s cock and your pussy and then Primo pulls you up to him, your back against his chest and you twist as best you can, hands coming up to pull his mouth down to yours.

His hands wander up your dress, cupping your chest - calloused fingers toying with your nipples. Your eyes roll and he smiles against your temple, “Are you ready?” Primo asks, lips dragging against your cheek, “Tell me you are ready.”

“For what?” you tease and you feel Primo smile.

“The cream,” he huffs out a giggle and it grows into a full blown belly laugh and you join him, cackling as he fucks you, “The dirt… the seed,” he groans, thighs shaking against yours - an unintelligible string of curses and praises follow and then, it’s quiet save for the sound of the register, beeping on the far side of the building.

“Well,” you exhale, Primo’s hands still wandering, warm and slow and gentle under your dress.

A man clears his voice and you and Primo both gasp as you turn your heads to see the gardener return - his eyes wide and his cheeks red - to find Primo’s pants around his ankles and your dress up to your tits; right in front of his orchids. He clears his throat, again, “While I, uh, appreciate your, uh, feeling… inspired. Ahem. Yes, inspired, I believe. I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Please. Thank you.”

You return to the abbey that night, arms laden with a lovely new pothos and a flat of black and red petunias. The donuts are long gone though you’re feeling so much like that double stuffed cream puff back at the bakery; dripping with glaze and ready to be boxed up and tucked in for the night. Primo has a dazed look in his eye, his wood having been mixed well and fertilized for most of the afternoon. Primo’s belt is missing. Your hair is a mess and you can’t remember if you were wearing underwear this morning or not. Who cares, really?

You’re met in the hallway by Papa Secondo and Papa Terzo - they eye you both and Primo pats Terzo on the shoulder, “Good day then, big brother?” Terzo smirks.

Primo nods, “Very good. Lots of cream. Lots of fertilizer.”

You snort, the giggles bubbling back up and Primo puts his arm around your shoulder, “Does he mean cum?” Terzo asks Secondo as the pair of you walk away, “Is that a cum pun?”

Secondo rolls his eyes and shakes his head, “A cum pun, Terzo?”

Primo laughs and you slip your arm around his waist, “Thanks for a lovely day, Papa,” you smile up at him, “Cum puns and all.”

“Oh,” Primo waggles his eyebrows, “The day is not over.”

“It isn’t?” you ask, heat going straight to your pussy - Primo and his wood your newest addiction.

“Oh, no,” Primo shakes his head, “absolutely not. You remember the most important part of all those cream filled donuts, don’t you?” you blink up at Primo, swallowing, thighs trembling already. He kisses the tip of your nose and winks. You nearly die. He leans down and whispers in your ear, “I get to eat it all out of there.”

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the-hole-in-terzos-shoe · 4 days

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TERZO!!

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the-hole-in-terzos-shoe · 5 days

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Sister of Sin

it’s giving KISS but that’s ok

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the-hole-in-terzos-shoe · 5 days

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So some spicy papa thots 👀

So let’s say your the prime mover of Copia, and after a looooonnngg ass day of sorting and signing paperwork for the higher clergy he goes back to his room where he is faced with his Prime mover in this stunning silk robe that is floor length. I’m talkin like those robes that give off the vibes of “oh I definitely didn’t kill my sugar daddy”. His prime mover is just sipping wine in this giant robe waiting by the fire, and my guy is just frozen. Cause. Holy shit. Brain is malfunctioning. Then finally his prime mover is like “I thought you maybe needed some stress relief today~” and Copia FINALLY goes into action 🤭🤭

I hope my thoughts made sense 😀

-💖

You made perfect sense! I hope I got it right... love ya!

Mostly SFW - cut for space. Enjoy!

He thought it would be parties and jewels and food and wine and tours and parties and money and… did he mention parties? Soirees and balls and parties. Champagne and caviar, sort of thing. Limoncello and cannoli. You and him. A life of leisure. He was, after all, Papa. He had a throne and a crown and all the power. He had crowds screaming and crying for him. He had ghouls and Siblings and a whole damn clergy at his command. He is Lucifer blessed and Lilith protected. So why, on Satan’s black brimstone, was he stuck in his office well past business hours sorting files and papers and signing and sorting like some kind of… like some kind of Cardinale?

He tosses down his pen and leans back in his office chair - it creaks and groans and threatens to give way. He’s had it since he was a deacon. He really should upgrade. Everything else was replaced when he was made Papa but he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of the uncomfortable, ugly, wooden office chair. It needed a fresh coat of stain and some oil on the ancient wheels. It made his ass ache and his shoulders tight. But he couldn’t stand the thought of letting the last thing he had before Papa go. He was, after all, a sentimental man. He stood and patted the smooth wood before turning down the lights and heading for home…

… Home being across the room, past the sitting area and through the french doors that were hidden behind two thick, luxurious velvet curtains. He pushes them aside and finds the doors closed - not necessarily unusual, not necessarily the norm for you, either.

You. His Prime Mover. The one being who had been around longer than that chair. He smiles at the thought as he steps inside the private chambers he shares with you and sighs, “Honey, I am home,” he calls but receives no answer. He shrugs and heads for the closet, undoing his cuffs and collar as he goes, running his hands through his hair; smudging the perfect lines of paint around his hairline. He halfway undresses when he finally hears your voice and he’s smiling once more, finding relief in just your proximity.

“Long day?” you call and he answers with an long, fairly dramatic, affirmative groan, “I have something for you.”

Copia, shirtless and with his belt undone pokes his head out of the closet, “I hope it is double-cheese burger with bacon and - oh, ave Satanas - my poor cock,” he steps out, mouth hanging open, arms limp at his sides as he takes you in. The sapphire and onyx robe is sheer but there's enough fabric to obscure your body beneath it. The fabric shifts color in the low light - the candles and shadows making it glow and dance like an aurora. It’s tied tight around your waist and his mind is racing a thousand different directions imagining all the ways he could take it off. You’re smirking and he wants to kiss it right off your face. He blinks a few times, resuming his ogling, wiping the drool from the corner of his mouth. Your smile widens, watching him try to remain composed despite his tenting undergarments and smudging paints. Your sleeves hang big and dramatic - soft feathers line the hems and gathers and seams from top to bottom but, it’s the delicate curve of your neck, your soft belly, the tender flesh between your thighs beneath it that draws Copia’s eyes. It gathers around your feet and he’s tempted to worship you there - on his knees - like a servant should. His eyes flick back up to yours, “I thought maybe you needed some stress relief today,” you grin, turning in a circle. The fabric gathers tight around your legs and Copia swallows, “Do you like it?” you ask.

Copia steps forward, pants still undone, hanging low on his hips; his cock - hot and hard - is the only thing holding them up, “Yes, I love it. I love it so much,” he pauses, just a breath away, taking you in once more, “it is very nice,” he says, his eyes flashing as he runs his finger along the low neckline, sucking in a breath as he brushes against the curve of your chest, the back of his finger lighting over your nipple - hard and pebbled and begging for attention beneath the silky soft fabric, “It is so nice and lovely,” his eyes snap back up to yours, “Now, take it off immediately.”

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