The Reason For Your Smiles

The Reason for your smiles

Happy Valentines Day Ghesties! Going to be more Valentines Day Fics coming throughout the week, but let's get Secondo out there.

MDNI Secondo x GN!Reader, Soft!Reader, Suggestive, Not technically Valentine's Day Themed but it's fluffy

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Papa Secondo knew his reputation. A stern, stoic man. One of few words, and those that were said were often accompanied with a verbal lashing. The only time you might see a hint of a smile, more of a smirk, would be at his parties, or during some sermons. 

Yet, here he was. Smiling. Not that anyone could see it, not even you could. He’s careful with his smiles, even if they come more when you’re around. His reputation is what keeps him in place. Keeps him focused on his job as Papa, to not distract himself while he did his best to commune with dark forces. 

And yet-

He gazes at you. Seated before him, eyes down at your book. You had asked for help studying, and he acted like it was chore, while he hid his eagerness. For now he gets a closer look at you. He’s drawn to the way your eyes flick over the words of the page. How your finger follows certain parts that you repeat, like you are trying to imprint them into your mind forever. Sometimes your lips even move, silently reading the words with a slightly furrowed brow. 

At first glance, no one would know how truly wonderful you were. But Secondo did. 

Since you had joined the clergy, you had never once shown the same fear or indifference many of the other siblings of sin carried. Or the lust, which was usually his preference. No, even now, he can remember that moment. 

Your eyes widening in surprise as he gave your the dark blessing, dipping the blood of the a demon onto your forehead while you knelt before him. And then you had smiled at him, eyes crinkling. You touched his arm without fear, but not with any intention but to steady yourself back to your feet. A soft thank you spilling from such soft looking lips. 

“Papa?” 

Your voice has his head snap back up, relaizing he had been staring at your book. He forcibly lowers the corners of his mouth, and your eyes crinkle. Warmth fills his face and he raises a fist to his mouth and coughs into it. “I apologize. Do you have a question?” 

You smile, soft and warm. It makes him want to melt into it. Your hands lift your textbook gingerly, to hand it to him instead of sliding it across the table. “Could you quiz me, Papa?” 

“A quiz?” He takes the book and he can’t help himself. His leather covered fingers brush over your own, and he can feel his face warm. The paints help hide his blush, while he takes the book before him. “There is no point to a quiz without a reward. If this were real, it would be your passing grade in…” He eyes the book, raising his brow before he turns his mismatched gaze onto you. “Necromancy? You’re taking a course on necromancy?” 

“There’s your expertise, isn’t it?” You ask, with a smile. This one looks more uncertain, it doesn’t quite touch your eyes. “That’s why I asked you for your help, Papa.” 

“Ah. Yes. Then I won’t need the book.” He closes it, and your lips part at the sight. Surprise, he thinks, but he still lets his fingers roam over it, just a little. But it does not catch your attention much, your gaze quickly moving to his face. Disappointment churns in his gut. 

He is reminded that this is the real reason he won’t make a move on you. Despite how you make butterflies dance in his stomach, he knows when someone is not interested. That is it better to simply enjoy your presence than to lose it forever. 

“Alright, let me think.” Papa Emeritus the second leans back in his chair a little, lifting the front two legs while he taps his fingers against the cover of the book. His foot taps in the same rhythm, probably of one of the songs he used to preform but he doesn’t think too far into it. “How many black candles are used in a soul search?” 

“Five.” You answer easily, and add-on without his prompting. “For the heart, brain, kidneys, liver and lungs. The organs-”

“-We need to survive.” Secondo lets his lips curl a little, a slight smirk. That wouldn’t be too out of line for his character would it? To smirk a little?  “What is Basil good for?” 

“Speaking to a spirit with a dead loved one. Reconcilliation.” You smile at him, your lips twitching with mirth. He almost misses what you say next, his eyes on your mouth, unable to stop. “Give me a harder one, Papa.” 

“A harder one?” Secondo lets the chair fall forward with a crack, thinking for a moment. Then an idea forms in his head. “Alright, tesoro, if you get this correct, I’ll give you a reward. But if not, then you must answer a question from me.”

“What is the reward?” You lean forward, fingers laced together underneath your chin. Your eyes have a sparkle to them that he finds distracting. But then again; you are always distracting. 

“I will answer any question that you want. That is a fair trade, don’t you think?” He leans in as well, not one to drop from your bait. It’s hard though, to be this close. There’s something about your mischief that is purely adorable.

“Sounds fair, Papa. Give it to me.” 

Those words have his face warm. You look so soft, adorable and you probably have no idea how your words affect him. But he makes a memory of it, of you saying that for him to repeat later, when he’s alone with his cock in hand. 

It wouldn’t be the first or last time you’d enter his thoughts during that time. He’d churn with guilt after, because you did not his desires. How you could say something innocent, and he’d turn it into something for his fantasy. How your light touch would have him blushing, red beneath his paints. 

Now that he thinks about it, he has not gone paintless since you had joined. It would be too easy for you, or anyone else, to see his blush. 

“What are the words said during a re-summoning ritual?” 

You stare at him, blinking. Your face adorably blank, before morphing into a cute annoyed one. He can’t stop himself from grinning. “Papa, you and the other Papas and high clergy know those words. That’s cheating.” 

Secondo shrugs, grinning still. “You did not put any limit on what I could test you on.” 

You frown at him, and he nearly breaks, to let you win because you do look sad. But instead you sigh, slumping your shoulders and gazing at him. “What question do you wish to ask me, Papa?” 

He thinks for a moment, wondering how to word it. How to ask you such a question. In the end he slides his hand across the desk, taking your own in his hand. There’s a breath, just a quick intake before he says the words. “Tesoro, do you like me?” 

Your face softens, your hand tightening around his own. “Papa, I do like you. I’d think we’re even friends by this point.” 

Secondo could take that, could run with his tail between his legs and never manage to ask you his true question. But that is not his style, not befitting of his reputation, so instead he squeezes your hand. “No, Tesoro. Do you like me?” He puts emphasis on the word this time. 

Those pretty, soft eyes, widen so large that Secondo fears he might’ve asked too much now. When you don’t speak for a moment, that leads into a minute, his gut churns horribly. At your stretched silence, he was tempted to stand, storm off. He would not be rejected like this, he would not take this, he was a Papa-

Your other hand comes up to cup his cheek. Soft lips are curled, and he flicks his gaze from them to your eyes. “I do, Papa.” 

His entire face goes red. The hair on the back of his neck stands up, and all he can do is swallow the lump forming in his throat. He nods, finding himself unable to stop the motion and when he speaks his voice is tight. “That’s good.” 

You giggle and now he does let himself melt at the sound. Smiling at you, and you smile back so widely, he’s sure it’s going to consume him. His heart has definitely already been consumed. 

A thumb brushes over his cheek, smudging the paint a little he’s sure, but he barely even cares now. Not when he can lean his face into your touch. “I was wondering if you were smiling at me, Papa. Now I know for sure.” 

“Sei la ragione di ogni mio sorriso,” It’s an easy reply, flowing out of him while he raises a hand to cup your own. Holding it so he can turn his head, pressing a kiss to the palm of your hand. 

“Tell me what that means later?” You ask, because you’re leaning in. And Secondo laughs, before brushing his lips against your own, almost in a rush. The kiss quickly deepening, and he is reminded, besides your soft personality and cute appearance, you are still a sibling of sin. And your hands are already wandering enough to have him laugh against your skin. 

“Of course, amore.” He pulls back, but only to untuck his chair from his desk. Patting his lap, he fully intends to ensure all of those happy fantasies start becoming a reality now. “Now come here and let me give you a proper reward for studying so well.” 

When you slide into his lap, all giggles and kissing him so openly, Secondo realizes he will have to get used to smiling more; you get them out of him far too easily. 

-

Sei la ragione di ogni mio sorriso – “You’re the reason for all my smiles”

Mandatory Tagging of: @sherwood-forests, @writingjourney and@goldenghoulmidas

his belly, hiS BELLY

“So, ehh what are you wearing?”

and you did him justice !🤠

„What have you done?“

…I just wanted to draw Copia again 🫠❤️

YOU CAN'T RUN AWAY FROM KAZOO JESUS

[MESSAGE FROM THE CLERGY]

Writing sessions #2 (Papa Emeritus III angst)

Summary: There's someone in the mirror Terzo doesn't recognize.

Tags: angst, emotional hurt, depersonalization, imposter syndrome, self doubt, self hate, self esteem issues. Around 700 words.

A/N: I wrote this short ficlet based on @turbodrawn amazing Terzo fanart. (I hope you don't mind!). Terzo never wanting to be Papa, being terribly insecure and over-performing in an attempt to hide it is my favorite type of Terzo.

There’s someone in the mirror Terzo doesn’t recognize.

He should. That person is him, people say, while their fingers wrap around his arms and hands push on his back. The same ones who control him like a puppet, those who make him sing and dance round and round, they are the ones that clap and cheer for him while he's performing.

He's loved, they say. People love him so much. He shines bright like a star, like the whole night sky.

And yet, Terzo can't believe the person that smiles in the mirror is him.

Behind a dense coat of paint and silky, fancy fabric, there is a face of his own and a soul that belongs to him. Or so, it should. He’s free, as free as he could desire. He’s a son, to an eternal unholy father. A leader, to the masses. An icon, to so many inside the Ministry.

It doesn't matter. To himself, he’s a fool. A slave, tied down, chained to a microphone and a stage, devoted to everybody but himself.

When did he choose this life? When did he accept this?

Did he, ever?

“Stay still, your Eminence.”

Terzo’s head moves to the side, making the paint brush stain part of the white on his cheeks. The hand gripping his jaw presses tighter, long nails digging in his skin. It hurts, but he can’t complain. They won’t listen. They never do.

“Papa Emeritus III needs to be on the stage in 30 minutes.”

The voice is faint, merely an echo in his ears. Terzo’s face twitches again, and this time a hand falls on the top of his head, fingers wrapping around a few black strands of hair. Blood rushes in his veins and arteries, fighting to follow the distraught rhythm of his heart.

He’s panicking, experiencing everything and nothing at once, but the person in the mirror only smiles. Terzo's mouth widens too, raspy, painful chuckles escaping from it. Oh, fuck. He’s thirsty, so thirsty, but his throat is closed.

Terzo wants to scream, to punch the mirror and shake away from the hands that touch him and restrain him in place. He regrets this, hates this title and this greasy paint, hates the way it makes him look like Him.

Fucking Nihil.

He loathes it. It makes him sick.

“Well, Papa Emeritus III is not here,” he affirms, instead. There is nothing behind his eyes, at least nothing he recognizes. It feels like staring into the void, and discovering the void is staring right back at him.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” someone says. The nails poke deeper, leaving behind red marks as he is forced closer to the mirror. “He’s right there.”

The whisper of his voice, full of air, is fearful. It sounds like a secret, a confession no one should ever hear. “I don’t see him,” he murmurs, lowering his gaze. It’s practically impossible when the fingers on his hair pull him even closer. “Please, don’t make me. I can’t.”

Shrinking on the chair, he's frozen. Terzo is not ready to go out and face thousands of people. He can't sing and dance in front of them. What if he makes a mistake? What if they hate him? All these people want to see a charismatic leader, someone with raw sexual energy and power, not poor old him, a teary-eyed, trembling mess covered in paint and silk.

“Papa Emeritus will be on the stage in 20 minutes.”

“I can’t be him right now, please.”

The air fills his lungs fast, but it’s not enough. It lacks oxygen, consistency. Terzo desires to hide, to run away, remove all the makeup and take off this stupid suit, but there are so many hands touching him, so many ghouls incarcerating him… He can't move, can’t breath, can’t hide from them or himself.

No, Terzo can merely stare in the mirror, at a person that looks like him but it’s not him. He has become a monster of his own creation, a hungry creature that devours him to the very core. Papa Emeritus III tilts his head to the side, sultry gaze setting upon him, and Terzo wishes he could look elsewhere.

It disgusts him.

“Who else are you, if not Papa?”

A wide smile appears on the mirror. Face obscured by the shadows, Papa Emeritus grins at him. Terzo’s mouth is agape, air frozen in his ribcage. The pupils are tiny inside his irises, trembling with fear and realization.

Who is he? Who was he, before everything?

No one.

No one.

The last stroke of the brush draws a thin black line on his upper lip. His head nods once, silently, and the fingers finally release him. A tall mitre is placed on him, golden embroidery shining so beautifully. Under the dazzling lights of the vanity table, Papa Emeritus III laughs a hollow laugh.

Ps: I wish I could explore this idea a bit more, but this is all I managed to write. What can I say, this is totally self indulging 'cause I love sad old men.