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da-rulah · 1 year ago

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Rituale Septem - Day 3: Gluttony

Pairing: (Terzo x f!reader)

Summary: Secondo's acting out of character, but you can't focus on that when Papa has invited you to a dinner at his private quarters, with a few surprises up his sleeve...

Rating: Mature, MDNI 18+

Word Count: 10.7k

Warnings: A whole lot of teasing, indulging, alcohol consumption, food porn, feeding kink, food play, temperature play, cunnilingus, spit kink, p in v sex, cream pie

If you suffer with any disorders relating to food, please be wary this is a chapter literally dedicated to eating and feeding. There is no mention of EDs or troubles with eating, but if you struggle in this area, please be cautious. Your mental health is more important than a chapter of a fic. If you want to skip but want plot developments, DM me privately. I’m happy to share 🖤

AO3 Link | Series Masterlist

A/N: I’m hoping to heal some of the trauma caused by the Olive Oil fic, with this one... 🤭 This is one of my favourite things I've ever written, and definitely the most erotic. Heavily inspired by @her-satanic-wiles's & @angellayercake's food fics. (Seriously, we need more of this kink. I had no idea I even had it until reading theirs...)

Prev: Day 2 - Sloth | Next: Day 4 - Wrath

October 27th

Something felt different.

There was a staleness in the air, the kind you feel after you’ve just been shouted at by your headmaster in front of a classroom of peers; that cold, shy embarrassment. For some reason, you couldn’t hold eye contact with Secondo today. When you’d arrived at the office that morning, Secondo was already there as usual. But upon your entry, he looked up from his desk over the top of his spectacles (ones you had teased him about needing due to his old age and spent the first month reminding him he should be wearing despite your jeers), and followed you to where you sat. Normally he wouldn’t even look up, grunting a greeting in your vague direction and allowing you to get on with your work. But his silent eyes tracked your every move until you were sat, somewhat settled for the day at your own desk.

You looked up at him, and his mouth twitched as if he wanted to smile at you, but thought better of it. Instead, he opted for small talk – which you knew he despised. He’d told you before that a conversation with no purpose was for drunks and the simple minded. And well, he was neither.

“Did you enjoy your day off, Sorella?” he asked, and you couldn’t quite tell if it was sarcasm or if he genuinely wanted to know. You didn’t realise he’d known it was anything other than a sick day, unsure of what Terzo meant when his note told you he would ‘handle’ Secondo.

“Um... y-yes, thank you Papa. I’m sorry it was such short notice...” you stuttered. He waved his hand in the air and shook his head to convey indifference.

“No matter, I hope you got the rest you needed.”

“I-I did,” you blushed, thinking back over what exactly had constituted as rest yesterday...

An uncomfortable silence settled over the two of you, a feeling of being watched creeping up on you every so often. When you looked, you would find Secondo’s eyes focussed on your face. It was as if he were waiting for something, his expression flickering between multiple emotions at the speed of a flipbook.

You saw what looked like a hint of anger, mixed with vague sadness and a delicate softness that was incredibly uncharacteristic for such a usually steely man. It made you feel as if you were intruding on his thoughts, like you were wrong for trying to figure out what was running through his mind today. And so, every time you found yourself attempting to figure it out and holding his gaze, you quickly averted your eyes back to what you were doing.

“______...” You looked up at him, brow furrowed in bewilderment – rarely did he use your name if it wasn’t first accompanied by ‘Sorella’. It felt strangely too familiar. “I would... I would hope you would be able to talk to me. If something was... on your mind, I mean.”

You sat quietly, processing. Was this a dream? Had Secondo been possessed by some kind of kind demon? You took entirely too long to respond, eyes squinting in suspicion.

He sighed then, removing his specs and dumping them on the desk, leaning back in his chair.

“I must be getting old,” he chuckled to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing at his painted eyes as old men often did. “I just meant... Don’t be scared to ask if you need a break. You work hard, don’t think I don’t notice it.”

“Don’t you like that everybody is scared of you?” you asked with an awkward laugh, trying desperately to lighten the mood because this felt too intimate, too much like an emotional connection that up until now you believed was entirely one-sided. You cared for Secondo, as your Papa, your boss – hell, even your friend. Six years of being at his beck and call, catering to his every whim to his exact specifications was always bound to create some kind of bond. But you never thought for a moment that he might reciprocate that.

Secondo chuckled darkly, “I do, yes,” he leaned forward on his arms then, giving you his full attention, “but not you.”

You fought the urge to ask him why he was saying this now, why all of a sudden, he had decided that you needed to know he cared. Instead, you continued to stare at him, eyes glazing over with a sheen of tears you were determined you’d never let slip. Not in front of him. He didn’t need to know what that alone meant to you – particularly in such a tumultuous time.

“I-I’m not... scared of you, I mean. You don’t scare me, Papa,” your voice quivered with unspoken emotion. Had he known you were wavering and doubting your position, maybe crying in front of him at his sudden sincerity would have made sense but he didn’t, and so you held back. He didn’t need to know that his kind outburst had affected you so.

“Perfetto... (Perfect...)” he nodded to himself, satisfied with your answer, and reaching for his spectacles again, placing them on the end of his nose and getting back to the notes on his desk.

You blinked away your tears, willing your body to not betray you and allow them to disappear on their own now that Secondo wasn’t looking at you. Thankfully, they did, and you could see clearly again.

“Sorella,” he was back to calling you by your title, business mode reactivated, “I’ll need your help later this evening. After dinner, to catch up on some missed work yesterday. If you don’t mind...”

Inwardly, you groaned. The thought of having to join him after spending the evening at dinner with Terzo... Well, it felt embarrassing. Terzo would need to go easy on you with whatever he had planned in order to avoid detection. You could really do without Secondo catching on that you were sleeping with his brother, much less why. But reluctantly, you agreed with an “anything you need, Papa.”

Secondo was under no illusions that he would be spending any time with you this evening at all – but that was the point.

He and Terzo had a plan, and you were falling into the trap.

Your heels tapped on the stone floors of the hallway where you knew Papa’s chambers resided. Your heartbeat quickened in your chest with each pace, coming ever closer to the large arched door at the end of the hall.

As you walked, you could hear music. Effortlessly, it flowed through the halls, riding atop an aromatic scent you couldn’t quite place – other than it being vaguely familiar, as if coming home to your mother’s cooking after a long time away.

The music grew louder as you drew nearer, grandiose and full of rich strings and stunning woodwind instruments. You couldn’t discern what exactly it was, unfamiliar with the style personally but enjoying how it seemed to relax your mind and still your fluttering heart.

Knocking on the door, you made sure to be loud enough to be heard over the music, and took a step back, flattening out any wrinkles in your dress. The same dress, in fact, that you had worn to the clergy dinner only a week ago. Shoulders exposed, breasts pushed up and on display, glove-like sleeves that hooked around your middle finger in a point and wine red fabric hugging every beautiful ripple of your body. Except this time, you donned a black satin choker, tied at the back with a striking, yet small red gem dangling from the middle. Glass, of course; as if you could ever afford a genuine article.

The door opened, and the music poured out into the hallway as if wrapping itself around you to pull you inside. It sounded like... opera. The beautiful bass notes of the male vocalist called to you, singing with so much longing. Mixed with the aromas of unmistakeably Italian food cooking away in the background, your head swam with a heady sense of passion. In dim candlelight, Papa Terzo stood leaning against the door frame, freshly shaven and moisturised with pristine paints in place as if they’d been redone before your arrival.

He wore a long-sleeved dark green shirt, rolled up to the elbows and tucked into black slacks, showing off a broadness to his shoulders only those who had been intimate with him would notice. His dress shoes shined in the light of the hallway, significantly brighter than that behind him, and his hands were covered with his black leather gloves, a change from the white he wore day to day. But what you had noticed first – ridiculously so – was the white, frilly apron he had looped over his neck and tied around his waist, cinching him in deliciously, yet comically.

He smirked smugly at you as he leaned, watching as your eyes dragged over his form slowly and allowing his own to do the same across your body. He didn’t have to behave at this dinner – he could ogle as much as he pleased. When your eyes met his, you smiled brightly.

“I like your apron,” you started with, flicking at the frills over the skirt of it.

“Sì, grazie. It was my father’s,” he gleamed, amused at his own joke. You couldn’t possibly imagine Papa Nihil ever wearing something quite so hideous, let alone being the kind of man to understand how to light a stove. “I hope you like Italiano, Principessa,” he winked, the innuendo not lost on you.

“I find myself craving it more these days,” you flirted. He laughed at that – oh, how he loved when you humoured him. He could flirt back and forth like a ping pong match all day, every day.

“Please, accomodati! (Make yourself comfortable!)” He stepped aside, however, not enough to give you a clear path – your bare shoulder brushed against his chest, and you triumphed in the way he seemed to tense at the contact while you remained aloof.

His chambers were as regal as you had imagined, and you took a moment to soak it in.

Far larger than your own small abode, it was filled with opulent furniture donned in fabric of his papal colour – a royal purple. His couch and chairs in his living room looked like they’d been stripped out of renaissance paintings and reupholstered with purple velvet. In front of the couch, an opulent wooden coffee table with a fresh fruit bowl placed in the middle of various berries and apples, all greens, purples and reds. The couch sat opposite a large fireplace carved into white marble with veins of black and gold, open wood fire burning welcomingly. Either side of the fireplace were two arched doors, that you assumed led to a bathroom and bedroom. To the other side of the living space, you noted a small dining table with purple upholstered dining chairs, matching purple runner draped over the table.

He’d set candles up on brass candelabras in the centre, place settings made and ready with a bottle of wine chilling in an ice bucket. The kitchen lined the far wall, hidden by a half wall and overhanging cupboards but open enough that you could see the pots and pans bubbling and steaming away on the large stove.

As you became enamoured in the details of his apartment – the speaker playing the beautiful opera music you’d heard from outside, the fire crackling away on the far wall, the bookshelves filled with trinkets and books he’d collected over the years, the portraits that hung on the walls of his elder brothers – you were too distracted to realise he had shut the door, creeping up behind you.

It wasn’t until you felt his gloved hands on your bare shoulders that you knew he was so close, the smell of his cologne – something akin to the spice of whiskey and the woodsy scent of fresh pine – filling your space and overtaking the smell of the cooking food. You could feel his lips ghosting over your skin, following his fingertips as he breathed you in.

“I’ve seen this dress before, no?” he mumbled deeply against you, pressing his lips to where your neck began. You shivered a little at his touch, your eyes instinctively closing in content.

“You seemed to like it when I last wore it,” you teased, relaxing into his hold as his hands ran down the glove-like sleeves, lacing his fingers with yours. The leather felt soft in your palms, the warmth of his hands radiating through them.

“You noticed,” he mused, knowing full well he hadn’t been subtle in the slightest. You hummed in affirmation, letting him wrap his arms around your waist, and in turn, yours. He swayed to the opera playing in the background, your body naturally moving with his as his presence engulfed you.

The moment felt incredibly intimate, his body heat turning your cheeks a hue of pink he couldn’t see from behind you. His chest pressed against your back, and he leaned into you as his lips continued to press feather light kisses to your neck.

“I like this dress very much, cara mia,” his kisses became a little more sensual, his hips swaying like you’d seen him do on stage many times before, “sei così bella che potrei mangiarti (you look good enough to eat).”

“But it would be a shame to let whatever you’re cooking go to waste,” you smiled, turning your head to look at him. His beautifully mismatched eyes met yours, and he settled his chin on your shoulder, the swaying coming to a stop. “I didn’t realise you would be cooking.”

He stood up straighter then, feigning offense. “Do you think me incapable, principessa?” he pouted.

“Of course not, Papa. I’m sure you’re capable of many things,” you played along. He chuckled, lowering to whisper in your ear.

“You have no idea, principessa...”

To your disappointment, he let you go, taking a step back, his warmth and the smell of his cologne disappearing. He walked over to the dining table, pulling out a chair and gesturing for you to take a seat. You did as instructed, not missing the way his eyes focussed on your hips swaying with each step. You made sure to sway them a little more than usual, your steps slower than your regular pace.

Terzo felt his heartrate quicken ever so slightly, the beauty of how your body moved in that sinful dress of yours overwhelming. He let you sit, pushing your chair in like a gentleman before he turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

While he pottered around in there, blissfully mumbling to himself you focussed on the opera music flowing through the air. The mood he had set within these four walls was like something from a romance novel – seductive and enticing, a feeling of anticipation tingling within you. You weren’t sure what he was planning, but judging by the indulgent scents of the foods cooking, you had guessed he was going for a specific sin tonight.

Gluttony.

He was barely gone for two minutes before he sauntered back in, untying his apron and revealing that his shirt was unbuttoned one button more than usual – enough to allow a peak at the chest hair you became acquainted with just the other day, along with a glint of a gold chain, Grucifix pendant weighing it down. He draped it over the back of the chair opposite you and reached for the black napkin folded next to the ice bucket.

“For the lady?” he asked with a smirk, holding the wine up as if offering, “’Ponkler’ by Franz Haas. 2016; a very good year.” His accent sounded thicker, snobbier as if put on to tease. You decided you’d play into his game, test him a little and see if he would trip up.

“What is the bouquet like, may I ask?” you feigned a terrible classic British accent, tilting your nose up at the bottle. Terzo’s eyes glimmered with amusement.

“Small ripe red fruits, white chocolate, cloves and alpine flora – made with pinot noir grapes and from the South Tyrol region of Italy. It’s quite smooth,” he explained. Damnit, he did know what he was talking about. “Would the lady like to taste?”

“Please,” you smiled warmly. Terzo lifted the bottle by its neck, then used the napkin to hold the base as he uncorked it. He lifted your empty wine glass, pouring a small amount and swirling it around to oxygenate it. You expected him to hand you the glass, but instead, he gently placed the bottle back into the ice bucket and sat on the edge of the table to your side, looming over you.

With his now free hand, he curled his finger under your chin. “Open,” he commanded, and you didn’t argue, lips parting for him as you held his gaze. He lifted the glass, sitting the rim against your bottom lip, and agonisingly slowly poured the wine onto your tongue.

Your heart rate quickened, every nerve ending in your body suddenly aware of the proximity of him leering over you, touching you, commanding you. He was in control, more so than he had been when you’d first slept together. Everything was carefully thought out, planned, and so elegantly seductive.

He was right – you could taste the ripeness of the fruits, the smooth and sweet white chocolate elements... It didn’t have that sharpness to it, one of the things you didn’t mind about a red wine but would avoid if you were able. You basked in the taste for a moment before swallowing when Terzo set the glass back on the table.

“Well?” he asked, expectant, still sitting on the edge of the table with his thigh dangerously close to your own.

“Buonissimo (very good,)” you grinned, ignoring your heartrate and keeping your breathing as steady as possible. He laughed, impressed by your Italian pronunciation.

“Perfetto (perfect),” he stood, grabbing the wine bottle to pour you another glass to enjoy with a little more in this time, and one for himself. “I’ll get the appetiser, shall I?”

Before you had time to answer, he sauntered off into the kitchen once again, leaving you to calm yourself of the pounding heartbeat in your ear drums. After another moment or two alone, soaking in the atmosphere of the beautiful opera music and warm glow of candlelight, he came back with a plate balanced on the tips of his fingers, held up high with a fresh black napkin draped over his arm.

Ever the showman.

“To start, roasted pepper and goat cheese bruschetta...” he announced, placing the plate down as close to the centre of the table as he could with the candelabra in the way, and taking a seat opposite you. On the plate were six baguette slices, brushed with expensive olive oil and seasoned with salt and pepper then topped with fresh goat cheese and roasted peppers marinated in a honey vinaigrette – or so he had explained as he’d sat.

You couldn’t fault his presentation. It looked like a professional set up, the way the six slices were laid out almost like a flower, a small pot of extra vinaigrette in the centre. He leaned in on his elbows as you picked up your first slice, anxiously awaiting your review.

In the first bite, you all but melted into your seat. The mixes of sweet and tangy within the roasted peppers and the fresh creaminess of the cheese were so welcoming, almost homely in nature. You were immediately whisked off to a balcony in Italy, overlooking acres of farmland with a fresh summer breeze blowing through your hair.

You polished off the first slice, enjoying each bite more so than the last.

“Good?” he asked, and all you could do was moan in agreeance as you chewed. “Bene,” he grinned, “here, let me.”

He stood and moved his chair closer to you, and on instinct you swivelled your hips to face him. His legs parted, scooting forward until his thighs ran parallel with yours. Then, he removed the glove from his right hand, and lifted another slice of bruschetta to your lips.

Terzo feeding you felt like a level of intimacy you had never had with another before, like you were so willingly submitting to him and entrusting him with your most basic of human needs. He never, not once let his eyes slip from where your lips parted, gently taking a bite. He saw the way your tongue skimmed the surface for crumbs or remnants of dressing, and it made his chest tighten. All he could think of, was kissing those beautiful lips...

With your last bite, the slightest amount of vinaigrette dripped from the slice to the corner of your mouth and Terzo didn’t hesitate, swiping his bare thumb over the drop and bringing it to his own lips, sucking as he held eye contact with you.

It was the single most erotic thing you had seen him do so far that evening. And heat burned inside you.

As you finished your last bite, you realised he hadn’t had a slice of his own yet – a travesty. You must insist he try one, right now. And so just as he had, you lifted another slice, and leaned in further to him, raising it to meet his black painted lips.

“Open up, Papa,” you instructed coyly, smirking as a natural response to the smug smile on his own face. Wordlessly, he parted his lips for you, arousal heating up his own body more so with your boldness. He would never let someone do this, never willingly be fed but for you, he would make an exception.

“Grazie, principessa, (thank you, princess),” he thanked you as he chewed, leaning forward to press a kiss to your lips so feather light you couldn’t help but chase him a little. But he just chuckled at you, sitting back to finish his mouthful.

Before long, the plate was empty of bruschetta.

“If that appetiser was this good, I look forward to whatever tricks you have left up your sleeve, Papa,” you teased, dabbing a napkin on the corner of your mouth.

“Oh, there are many...” he smirked, “but first, a palette cleansing. More wine, Principessa?” He turned back to the table, lifting your glass again but instead of handing it to you, or even pressing the glass to your own lips like he had already, he took a mouthful himself.

You were about to swat his shoulder for stealing from your own glass but he didn’t give you the option, instead leaning forward, fingers curling into your hair at the back of your head, and pressing his lips to yours. Naturally, you melted against him, lips parting to kiss him as if he wasn’t holding a mouthful of wine but when he parted his own lips, you were soon reminded that he most certainly was.

Slowly, he shared some with you, careful not to spill any. It had warmed in his mouth, but you didn’t mind – the eroticism of the act itself was enough to heat your cheeks and earn a soft whimper from you. Once again, you could taste the berries, the grapes, the white chocolate... and something inherently him.

He sat back, swallowing the small amount he still had and letting you follow suit. Your mind swam with lust, desperate for more kisses, more wine, more flavour – anything he was willing to give you. Your thighs squeezed together as your core was set alight with arousal; and yes, he did notice. But ever the gentleman, he said nothing.

“I think our entrée is almost ready, cara mia,” he winked, standing from the table again and grabbing the apron from the back of his chair. Quickly, he tied it around his waist, forgoing throwing the bib over his neck and wondered back off into the kitchen.

You stood, taking the time to pour both yourself and Terzo another glass of wine, coming slowly to the end of the bottle. You took your glass in hand, and wandered over to the stereo that Terzo had on top of a bookshelf. You needed to focus on something, anything other than the arousal he’d stirred up in you already, so you ventured over to see what he was playing.

However, upon inspection the ancient boombox was playing a cassette tape, with a white sticker on the front, handwritten title in Terzo’s signature cursive.

‘Principessa.’

The opera songs you were listening to weren’t from one singular performance but were in fact a mixtape of chosen songs from multiple operas. And he’d made it for your dinner – for you.

Before you could think too much on the matter, you felt his strong arms wrapping their way around your waist again, his chin resting on your shoulder. Only now did you notice; he had removed his other glove.

“I wasn’t sure you would like opera, Principessa,” he began, “but I think it adds a little... romanticismo to the evening, sì?” You stayed quiet, instead opting to sip from your glass while you thought of a reply.

“I suppose I never gave it much of a chance, maybe because I can’t understand them,” you thought aloud. That much was certainly true – in the years you’d spent with men who spoke Italian, you had only picked up choice phrases – nothing so complex as this.

“I see, well... This is a song from ‘La Traviata’, which loosely translates as ‘The Fallen Woman’,” he explained, his warm breath tickling your ear, smelling vaguely of the wine you shared... “This song is called ‘Un dì felice, eterea’ or ‘One day, Happy, Ethereal’. Alfredo falls in love with a courtesan, Violetta. In this song, he’s confessing his love to her.

“In essence, he is saying ‘on one very happy day, you fell into my life and ever since, I’ve lived with unknown love. That love is the pulse of the universe, torture and delight, torture and delight...”

His arms around you feel hot, burning into you as he surrounds you. It’s beautiful, the male vocals are stunning and grand. You can hear Alfredo’s longing, his confession heartfelt and passionate. It’s almost present in the way Terzo’s arms tighten around you as Alfredo sings, except you tell yourself you’re being ridiculous. It’s merely the atmosphere, the scene he’s created. It’s nothing but a fabrication, a ruse to fulfil tonight’s sin.

And then, Violetta begins to sing.

It’s a contrast, a surprising staccato soprano after the tenor. Her voice doesn’t sound like it longs for Alfredo; it sounds like she is... shooing him away?

“Is she... rejecting him?” you ask, turning your head to look at Papa. His smile widens.

“A good ear... Sì, she is telling him to forget about her, friendship is all she can offer him,” his eyes search your face for a moment, before they settle back on your own with a different demeanour, one you can’t discern. “She is saying ‘honestly, you must find someone else. Someone who knows how to love you.’”

A breath of silence passes between you as you listen to Violetta’s staccato vocals. Eventually, the pair begin to repeat a line from Alfredo’s verse together.

“This is where she admits feelings for Alfredo,” he whispers, eyes fixed on yours. There’s a tension there, a battle behind his eyes that looks to be saying ‘kiss her... just kiss her...’

But he doesn’t. Instead, he retreats.

“Come, Principessa. Your entrée is getting cold,” he gently taps your behind as he wanders back to the table, moving his chair further from you and you can’t help but feel disappointed. He removed his apron once again, resting it on the back of his chair. You sit together, and realise he had already plated your entrées and placed them at your seat. “Lamb and rosemary ravioli. Made fresh, of course,” he smiles tenderly at the food on his plate, as if it reminded him of a fond memory.

Your first bite, and you can’t believe the flavour he’s packed into such a tiny little parcel of pasta. It explodes, tender lamb mixed with the earthy notes of rosemary, hints of the onion and olive oil it was cooked within. You couldn’t help the moan you let slip, warmed from the inside out and transported back to that balcony in the Italian countryside.

“Papa, where did you learn to cook like this?” you asked, very much aware of the effort that fresh pasta and homemade ravioli would take to create. He had made it all from scratch, and you couldn’t understand where he’d found the time, let alone learned the craft.

He smiled down at his plate once more, memories dancing through his mind to the music in the background.

“Mia nonna,” he said, before flickering his eyes up to show a vulnerability you hadn’t seen before. His answer threw you for a loop. You thought for sure he had perhaps attended a class during his time in Italy, or it was just a hobby of his before he became Papa. But now it made sense; the familial tie to cooking explained the heart that he so clearly put into every flavour.

“We were close. She and I spent a lot of time together after mia madre (my mother) passed,” a sadness flashed across his face, quickly replaced with a mask of happiness, “I was far younger than i miei fratelli (my brothers), and she would look after me when they were busy with Ministry things. She always told me I needed to learn to cook, to ‘impressionare una bella signorina’ (‘impress a beautiful girl’) she would say,” he chuckled to himself.

He didn’t know why he was telling you this; you didn’t need to know anything about his childhood, and yet, perhaps the setting he had created for himself was all too realistic. Maybe he was fooling himself into thinking this was more than what it really was – a scene in an opera of his own writing. Still, he felt comfortable enough to share this. He knew you would think no less of him for telling you something of his childhood.

“She taught you well, Papa,” you smiled, allowing him a moment of tenderness. You figured he may need that, his life so full of duty and obligation.

You both finished your entrées in silence, the music creating a comfortable backdrop. You shared the odd smile, little moans of satisfaction with every few mouthfuls, until eventually you had cleared the plate.

When Terzo brought out dessert, your mouth watered... He carried a tray, filled with little bowls and a plate in the centre, towered with biscuits. In the bowls were different flavours of what you assumed were gelatos, scooped into almost perfect spheres. He set the tray down in front of you, and brought his chair back to directly beside you, slotting you between his thighs like he had earlier that evening.

“For dessert, an assortment of gelato – unfortunately not homemade. I make terrible, tasteless gelato...” he laughed, “but paired with homemade ricciarelli biscuits. Those, I made.”

Casting your eyes over the assortment, there were at least six different flavours to taste. Your sweet tooth was tingling, and the butterflies in your stomach were fluttering away with Papa’s thighs encasing your own again.

“The biscuits are almond biscuits, I find they’re much more delectable than eating gelato with a spoon,” he began, already scooping a generous amount of a yellow coloured gelato up with one of the biscuits. “Mango first, my favourite.”

He began as if to feed it to you like he had the bruschetta, except he moved it away, sticking the end between his teeth and leaning back. His eyebrow quirked up in expectation, and he beckoned you to him with two fingers. Ah, so the fun was beginning again...

With a cheeky smile on your face, you leaned forwards, spreading your palms over the meat of his thighs. Slowly, you parted your lips, engulfing the gelato covered end of the biscuit and biting into it with a hum. The chill of the gelato soothed the heat in your cheeks, burst of flavour melting into the biscuit as you chewed. They complimented each other beautifully – fresh fruity flavour with light and airy biscuit.

Terzo watched intently, half of the biscuit still stuck between his teeth, leaning into the back of his chair. He marvelled the way your lips parted, revelled in the hum you made at the taste hitting your tongue. Satisfied with the show you’d put on, he ate the rest of the biscuit.

He repeated this with several different flavours, allowing you to take each from him while he watched over, and over. He adored your lips, could watch them move all day. But he wanted to touch them, to taste them, to feel them on his. With every bite you took from his own mouth, he wished he’d forget the food and kiss you right there and then.

But this was about the gluttony of it all. It was about the greed, the excess. He would keep feeding you until he was satisfied. But still, just a taste...

When you expected him to pick up another biscuit, he didn’t. Instead, he picked up his wine glass, draining the rest of the glass quickly, as if he needed the extra confidence. Then, he scooped two fingers into the bowl of strawberry gelato, leaned forward and pressed them to your lips. Shocked by the sudden chill you didn’t move for a second, but that was fine – he didn’t want you to. Instead, he ran his fingers along your lips as if he were applying lipstick and coated them in gelato.

Terzo sucked the remaining gelato from his fingertips and moved towards you, pressing his own painted lips to yours. There was nothing sweet about it, save for the gelato. It was messy, indulgent, slow. His tongue laved at your lips, removing any trace of strawberry he could find. And you – you got too caught up in the kiss itself, gripping onto the open collar of his shirt and whimpering into his touch.

Your body lit up, like your veins pumped gasoline in place of blood and Terzo had lit a match. Every tiny little touch, every look, every seductive little show he put on that evening had led up to an inhumane level of arousal that you didn’t realise would snap as quickly as it had. You thought you had this under control. You thought you had him where you wanted him.

You did not.

But it would be a lie if Terzo tried to say he also had control. That was not something he knew well around you. In every aspect of his life, he had control. Too much of it, even. Sometimes he despised it and yet when he was with you, he could lose it. He didn’t need to have control – he could let himself go and succumb to you. And so, he did, messily kissing you and groaning against your lips when your hands settled back on his thighs and gripped so tightly.

He pushed on your waist to sit you back in your chair, standing up and towering above you. That look on his face was back; easily mistaken for rage but it was determination, need. It made your core clench, thighs pressing into each other.

“I enjoy my food, cara mia. I like to indulge,” he began, darkly hovering barely an inch from your face, “I like to play with my food too, in the right setting, with the right person. And here you are; ready and willing, eh?”

You nodded, breathless. You were so willing.

He shoved two fingers into a chocolate gelato, depositing a large amount onto his tongue before he dived in again for another deep kiss. The ice-cold texture mixed with the warmth of his tongue against yours was maddening. He didn’t break away again until it had melted completely, and you both were able to swallow whatever you could take from each other.

The act was lewd; filthy, even. But oh, how it turned you on...

With the gelato disappearing between you, he decided your lips were not enough for him anymore and began to trail open mouthed kisses down your neck and collarbone, covering the expanse of your neck and adding new, fresh patches of purple to accompany the now yellowing ones he’d left just two days ago. He liked marking you, making sure you remembered it was him who had left them. You let your head fall back, enjoying how his lips still felt cold on your skin that burned under the heat of your passion rising and rising...

In your bliss you lost yourself, only coming to when you felt the sting of ice-cold strawberry gelato being dragged across your collarbone, quickly warmed by Terzo’s tongue chasing the trail. The sensations heightened your arousal to new levels, awakening something in you that you’d never once explored before. But at the taste of strawberry on his tongue as he lapped it off your chest, Terzo groaned and fell to his knees between your feet as if it were him receiving this array of pleasure.

With the hand that didn’t have fingers covered in gelato, Terzo reached around to your back where you arched off the chair and dragged the zipper of your dress down, pulling the material to expose your bare breasts to him. He reached behind him, this time dipping into a pistachio flavoured gelato and trailing a line with it between your breasts, where he immediately dove in, lapping at the skin as if he was a man starved.

He was losing composure at an alarming pace, already filling out his briefs, blood rushing to his length. An indulgent swine at the best of times, this was where he lost himself; in the finest things he could possibly indulge in. Good food, good wine, and you.

In his reverie he reached behind him, grabbing a handful of gelato and using that very same hand to cup one of your bare breasts, smearing chocolate gelato over you. Your nipple peaked at the temperature, freezing cold as you gasped, watching him with wild and blown out eyes as he mouthed at the area, sucking on your nipple and the surrounding breast until the smear disappeared, his hand still coated in dripping gelato of multiple flavours.

Watching him like this was charging every possible nerve in your body, your core wet and ready for him whenever he might finally get there. For now, the pleasure he was able to give you through stimulation of your nipple alone was enough to have you gasping.

“Mangia, amore mio... indugia, per favore... (Eat, my love... indulge, please...)” he begged from his knees, reaching up to paint your lips with the mess from his fingers before slipping two past them to rest on your tongue. You sucked the sweet mixture from them, wanting nothing more than a burst of flavour and pleasure together as he worked on your breasts below.

Your mind felt hazy, a buzz from the few glasses of wine you’d shared now having an effect and mixing with the lust that clouded your mind of any rational thinking.

“Papa...” you whined around his fingers, cleaning them off one by one. You didn’t know what you were whining for, other than more. More of everything. More gelato, more wine, more of him.

"A moment, cara...” he said, pushing his fingers to your lips in a ‘silence’ gesture, and raising back to his feet. He left you alone in the chair, half exposed and half mad with want as he disappeared back into the kitchen for one final time, re-emerging with a new, freshly uncorked bottle of red Ponkler wine. He knelt before you again, drinking straight from the bottle by the neck before handing it to you to do the same. You did so gladly, enjoying the buzz it gave you and the taste of it on your tongue.

With his hands now free and wiped clean, he ran his fingertips up your bare calves, under the hem of your dress and past your knees until he was able to push the dress up, revealing your thighs to him. He dove his head down, pressing sloppy, open mouthed kisses to the skin as he rose further and further up, parting your legs to slot between them. You slumped against the chair, taking another gulp of wine and watching with hooded eyes and a knowing smirk as Terzo finally realised...

You weren’t wearing any panties...

“Shit...” he breathed, unaware he’d reacted aloud.

“Can’t wear panties with a dress this tight,” you smiled, biting your lip. His gaze on yours changed, as if clouding over with a dark smoke. He looked positively ravenous, and his actions proved your theory. He gripped onto the top of your dress this time, pulling it down and over your hips to fling it from your legs before parting them again and slotting himself right in between.

He reached behind him for one of the small bowls of gelato – a salted caramel flavour – holding it in one hand while he used his other to scoop another generous amount onto his fingers and draw lines of sweetness along the inside of your thighs. The cold made you shiver, but once again, his tongue warmed you, cleaning up his own mess and drawing ever nearer to your centre where you were desperately dripping for him.

When his cold, caramel coated fingertips finally grazed over your clit, you keened under his touch. Your back arched at the shock and pleasure, until you were met with a warm tongue to replace the cold, and Terzo was lapping up the melted gelato.

His tongue felt heavenly on you, finally a reprieve from the torture of waiting, of being teased on and off all damn night until finally you had both just snapped. His fingers were long forgotten, smearing the rest of the caramel gelato over your thigh as he pushed them open. Neither of you cared about the mess you were making, simply too far gone. Instead, he focussed on the sweetness pooling between your legs, and how you were the most divine thing he had tasted all night.

His tongue laved over your clit over and over again, drawing circles, flattening against you, writing what you assumed to be Italian curse words letter by letter... Every so often, he would pour some melted caramel gelato from the little bowl still in his hand directly onto your clit, lapping it up like a parched animal by a riverside.

“P-Papa...” you mewled, your hand fisting into his beautiful raven hair as you clutched the wine bottle in the other. The dance between hot and cold, the feeling of sweetness oozing over your core had you experiencing this like no other time you had – and Papa’s skill was certainly unmatched.

You would take swigs from the wine bottle every so often, still desperate to taste something for yourself, to continue to spoil yourself in the name of gluttony.

“Principessa, you taste sweeter than the finest gelato italiano,” he growled into your mound, “this is the nectar I would make my wine with... I’d be drunk on you every fucking day...”

The moan that slipped from your lips at his words was pornographic, and he had put an idea in your head that you couldn’t push away the more he lapped at your centre. Slowly, you raised the bottle of wine over your chest, catching his attention as he continued to work you, and you began to pour it over yourself.

The red liquid trickled over your collarbone, over and between your breasts, and began to run slowly down to where Terzo’s mouth was engulfing you. When the liquid mixed with your own juices on his tongue, his mind broke. He slurped and drank from you, the mess unavoidably dripping to the floor when he couldn’t catch it all. It stained his shirt, dripped onto his pants and between his knees and he loved every second of it. Watching as you doused yourself in not just his expensive, decadent wine but the very symbol of the Dark One’s own blood...

It was intoxicating in every sense of the word.

As Terzo dove his tongue through your folds, drinking every drop he could from you like the sweetest of fruits, two of his fingers slipped easily inside of you, curling the way he knew you liked having already committed your sensitivities to memory during your first encounter. When he hit your g-spot you jolted, forgetting about the wine and sitting up suddenly, half a bottle still sloshing inside the bottle. His free hand kept you planted by your hip, pushing you into the hard wood and upholstery beneath you. You didn’t have time to think about the red wine staining the fabric right now – the thought never even crossed your mind.

As if he’d eaten nothing all evening, Terzo was starving for more of you. He was relentless, and the pressure was building inside you more and more, winding so tight you found yourself holding your breath. With his fingers inside you and his mouth engulfing you, you were seconds away from slipping from the precipice.

“P-Papa... I’m gonna...” you panted, breath stuck in your lungs as if he’d wound his hand around your throat again and squeezed.

“Do it,” he instructed, his voice dark and gravelly against your clit. And you snapped.

You writhed in place, held down still by a strong hand on your hip. He didn’t let up, continuing with the same speed, pressure, and calculated curl of his lips, tongue and fingers. Your whole body set alight, arms dropping numb at your sides and barely grasping onto the neck of the wine bottle, which clanged against the legs of your chair. You cried out a slew of profanities and whimpered ‘Papas’ as you rose and fell.

If Terzo hadn’t already been driven quite insane by your little trick with the wine, he might just have taken the leap when you came... Your body gave him flavour in excess, covering his chin with more of your sweet juices. He drained you completely, and slowly allowed you a soft comedown from your unimaginable high.

He sat back on his heals, wiping his mouth and chin on a napkin from the table. His paints had long since melted away, a grey hue now wiped onto the black napkin as he caught his breath. He looked up at you sat slumped back in your chair and realised looking at you at all had been a mistake. His poor weeping cock, aching in his briefs, couldn’t take the sight of you, and he found himself on the brink of begging you to let him have you right there in the mess you’d made of the floor.

“We’re not done, Principessa,” he growled, standing up and dragging you by the hand to your feet with him. Stood before him now, naked save for your heels and the glove-like sleeves of your dress, you felt like a feather, still floating from your climax. Terzo’s hands settled on your waist to steady you, letting you wrap your arms around his neck, grasping the wine bottle tightly. You could feel how much he needed you, pressed against your lower stomach...

“Take me to bed, Papa...” you slurred, pulling him towards you for a slow, deep kiss that knocked the air out of the room around you both. His hands slid from your waist, cascading to your hips until eventually he hooked his hands behind your thighs and lifted you, crossing your legs around his waist and holding you tightly. He was far stronger than you had anticipated, his biceps tightening in the dark green of his shirt.

“As you wish, amore mio,” he grinned, carrying you through the living room and past the coffee table, where you reached down and picked up the fruit bowl you’d seen earlier. In the spirit of gluttony, you would put it to good use, already picking off singular grapes to pop between his teeth before you leaned in to kiss him, sharing the grape juice as he bit into each one.

Soon enough he was throwing you down onto a beautiful purple bedspread, satin upon satin with layers of black to compliment. Terzo took the fruit bowl and wine from your grasp, placing them on his nightstand before turning his gaze back to you.

Wordlessly, he leaned in to kiss you again, chasing you when you crawled back to lie against his pillows without breaking away from your lips. He crawled over you, strategically placing himself between your legs and pressing his clothed thigh to your centre again. You hummed in vague pleasure, grateful for any and all friction as arousal began to build once again.

His Grucifix pendant dangled over you as he leered, a peak under his shirt visible where the shirt billowed from his chest. You wanted him out of it already, you wanted to see him just as bare to you as you were to him.

You rolled the sleeve-like gloves you were still wearing down your arms one by one, kicking your heels off to the floor at the foot of the bed, and reached for the buttons of his shirt. He let you, taking his time to pepper kisses to your shoulder, your collarbone, your breasts – all still vaguely tasting like wine. Before long, he was shrugged out of an open shirt, and letting you graze your palms over the definition beneath, tickled by the dark chest hair of a born-Italian man.

He let you explore, undoing his belt with one hand as he propped himself up on the other, pulling it from his belt loops. You wanted to help then, reaching down to palm his length for a moment and enjoying the groan at some kind of relief that he let slide. But waiting wasn’t on the cards tonight – not anymore. And so, you unbuttoned his slacks, undoing his zipper, and pushed the hem of his trousers down along with the waistband of his briefs, until you could no longer reach, and he kicked them off for you.

Lips attacked yours again and hands roamed the expanse of your body as yours did his. You lost yourself in each other, finding it all too easy to submit to him. His kisses lingered on your lips as he trailed back to your neck, kissing along the satin of the choker you were still wearing.

“A woman like you deserves real jewels, Principessa,” he moaned against your skin, “whatever you desire should be yours.” Your entire body purred under him, your organs fluttering in delight. You were never one for a gifts or expensive things but surrounded by the finery that was Terzo’s apartment you found yourself absorbed in his world, excited at the empty promise of such luxury.

He reached for the bottle of wine beside the bed, taking a quick gulp and holding it in his mouth. His fingers came and tapped on your lips, and on cue you opened wide for him where you lay beneath him. He smirked and spat the wine directly onto your waiting tongue, allowing you time to swallow before kissing you, tongues colliding messily and falling into another deeply passionate moment.

But frankly, you were done waiting. You were done with being the centre of attention. Just because this was your ritual didn’t mean that whoever you chose to perform it with had to come second to you. Terzo was putting in all of the work, worshipping you and as much as you adored it, craved it even when he wasn’t there... you wanted to worship him back. After all, he was your Papa... Your leader, head of the Satanic Chruch. He had cooked for you, opened his home to you, had you climaxing harder and faster than any partner. Time to give him a break.

Terzo’s length was pressing against you and being so close, yet so damn far was frustrating you to no end. Grinding against him was earning you harsher kisses, deeper moans but you needed him; now.

When you pushed him off you and put the wine bottle down, he looked at you with confusion, worry flashing through his face. Had he gone too far? Were you having second thoughts about this? Did you even want to continue this ritual?

Before he could panic, you pushed his shoulders, rolling him over to his back and swinging your leg over him to straddle his thighs. He didn’t fight you, in fact he looked ridiculously smug below you when he realised what you had done – his mind slower to catch up with the alcohol flowing through his veins taking effect.

“I haven’t thanked you for dinner yet, Papa...” you smirked, sitting up straight as he watched in awe. “Besides... I can’t wait any longer. I need you,” you whined.

“Take what you need, Principessa,” he curled his finger under your chin, guiding your lips back to his. Oh, how easy it was to be sucked back in, to forget just for a moment about the ache between your legs, how desperate you were to sink down on him when his lips felt like this.

But when his cock jumped against your stomach, you were reminded instantly.

Without parting your lips you shuffled forwards, hovering above him and grinding your hips along his length. Your arousal coated him, the warmth and the slide too good to not moan into your mouth, his bare hands gripping at the flesh of your ass to guide you. You reached between you and took his length in your hand, guiding him to your centre before slowly, with foreheads and noses pressed against each other, you finally sank down on him.

With your hips sat flush against him, chest to chest, you had never felt so close to him. Your arms wrapped instinctively around his shoulders, both of you wrapped in each other’s arms as you adjusted. It didn’t take long after the way his fingers had stretched you earlier, and so you began to rock your hips where you sat.

You swear, the feeling of Terzo filling you was unmatched. Able to control how you rode him, where you felt him was beautiful. And to top it all off, Terzo was so far gone himself, all he could do was grip onto your hips and desperately mouth at your neck, over the litany of purple and yellow bruises he had left.

It was all a little much for him, his mind swirling with thoughts of you and how intimate everything felt to be wrapped up in you like this. He’d had countless partners, of course, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt so close to any of them. It scared him, terrified that he was allowing himself to get too close, that you were tearing through the walls he had put up years ago to block his emotions from the outside world. To your dismay, he leaned back, slapping his back against the pillows below him and covering his half-painted face with his hands as he groaned into them. But no, you weren’t going to settle for that, and so you slowed your pace and demanded his attention back on you when you reached for a deep red apple in the fruit bowl by the bed.

He peeked out from behind his fingertips to see you still sat upright as you ground your hips into his and staring down at him, taking a large bite from the crisp apple as you rolled your hips. The innocence of simply eating fruit whilst performing such a lewd act twisted into the ultimate sin. Had he not known any better, he could have sworn you were in fact Eve and he Adam, plucked from the Garden of Eden and being tempted into sin.

“Più bella di Eva... (More beautiful than Eve...)” he whispered to himself, but you caught it – and your heart leapt. Your reaction was visceral, out of your control. All you could do was roll your hips faster, whining at the taste of the sweet apple. With your free hand you prop yourself up on his chest, leaning forward to press the apple to his lips and let him taste. He obliged willingly, no tempting necessary. He gave in to sin so readily.

As he chewed, his eyes dropped to where his cock was disappearing in and out of you with each roll of your hips. He’d never seen anything so beautiful, never been more hypnotised in all his life.

“Cazzo...” he moaned, “You feel so good, Principessa... Made for your Papa, eh?” His hands roamed over your body, caressing every inch of you.

“Eat, Papa... Enjoy it,” you groaned, pushing the apple to his lips again for another bite. He did so without further encouragement, this time running his tongue over the thumb that held the apple, licking the juice where it gathered. He groaned at the taste, swallowing the bite and taking another from you. He’d let you feed him all day, every fucking day. He’d let you take care of him any time.

“Will you cum for me, Papa?” you whined, desperately barrelling towards an end yourself.

“Why, Principessa? Do you need it?” he teased breathlessly, knowing that was exactly what you needed.

“Please. Please, cum for me Papa...” you begged, thighs burning with exhaustion.

“Together, hm? We dive off the edge in each other’s arms, amore mio,” he promised, reaching a hand between the two of you and circling his fingers on your clit. Immediately you clenched around him, hips stuttering but you were so grateful for the added stimulation.

The apple fell from your grasp, hitting the floor somewhere. You planted both hands on his chest, using every bit of energy you had left in you to roll your hips as he held you by your waist, slamming up to meet your grinding in rhythm. The sound of skin slapping together filled the room, the opera music a distant atmospheric hum in the background now.

“Oh, dolce lucifero all'inferno... (sweet Lucifer in Hell...)” he growled, gripping your wrist on his chest and holding on for dear life, fingers circling your clit over and over and over like a man possessed. If you came, he could let go. He couldn’t let go until he felt you come apart around him.

Like a crashing tsunami, your orgasm washed over you. How desperate you were to keep up a rhythm, but Terzo had to take over for you, slamming up into you with vigour to keep you stimulated as you came around him. Your walls clenched on his length, body stiffening and muscles tensing as you cried out for him. Your nails dug into his pecs, tugged at his chest hair. You made the prettiest noises for him...

Terzo couldn’t hold back anymore, finally being squeezed so tightly that he’d have cum whether he wanted to or not.

“Fucking SHIT,” he shouted, grip on your wrist becoming almost painful as he bucked up into you, doubling you over until you collapsed onto his chest breathless. He allowed himself a final few thrusts, slower and each less powerful than the last, until he let his length slip from you, feeling the mess he’d made seeping onto his pubic bone.

You lay on his chest, fluttering and clenching around nothing. You weren’t sure how he did it, but every orgasm with Terzo knocked the wind out of you. All of your limbs felt numb, tingling with pins and needles while you regulated your breathing.

Terzo wrapped his arms around you, holding you close and pressing kisses to your forehead mixed with muttered praises and hushes when you’d whimper involuntarily. He kept reminding you he was there, comforting you, letting you float back to earth. ‘But who was there for him?’ you thought to yourself.

Without giving the idea too much thought, you raised a hand to his still painted cheek – albeit, incredibly smudged – and marvelled at the man before you. From the nose down, his paint had vanished, succumbing to the napkin. But his eyes, still painted were dishevelled just as his hair, wild and messy and falling over his forehead, sticking to it with sweat. His eyes watched yours, curious as to what it was you were seeing that had you so transfixed. He could only assume you were so exhausted and still drunk enough that your brain wasn’t registering what you were looking at.

But no, you saw him. And how beautiful he was...

You reached for him, pressing your lips to his gently in a silent thank you. A thank you for being there for you, for helping you with this ritual. For making you feel like you weren’t crazy, or a spoiled brat for never hearing His voice. For making such an effort to ensure the completion of such an important ritual. For taking care of you, every step of the way so far.

Neither of you said a word for the rest of the evening, opting to lay in each other’s arms for a while, just comfortable... Until you realised just how sticky you felt, remnants of wine, gelato, sweat and bodily fluids now drying and making you feel frankly disgusting.

But Papa wouldn’t let you get up, seeing how exhausted you had become when your eyes could hardly stay open. Instead, he brought a washcloth and bowl of warm soapy water to you, wiping you down where you lay and drying you with a fresh, soft towel. He tucked you into his sheets with a kiss to your forehead, and disposed of the bowl and washcloth.

He’d been gone for ten minutes, cleaning himself up a little before blowing out candles and switching off the music, when he came back to find you completely sparked out. He chuckled quietly – he knew you couldn’t last, not after filling up on wine and decadent food, then climaxing twice like this. But a pang of guilt shot through him. He should have been here, with you. He didn’t want you to fall asleep alone tonight.

He took one final mouthful of wine and climbed into bed next to you. To Hell with the inward battle of ‘should he? shouldn’t he?’. He wanted to be curled up next to you, and he had the strangest feeling you would too.

He slung an arm over your waist, shuffling until his chest pressed against your back. When he felt your arm cover his and heard a soft sigh from your lips, he could finally relax for the evening, stripped bare of his paints, clothes, and the wall he had built around himself.

He was beginning to let you in...

Secondo tapped his foot on the stone floor, watching the clock tick on above his door. Hours, he had sat here. Paperwork littered his desk, his spectacles forgone and sitting atop the papers.

He had no right to be irritated – he knew this would happen. He planned for this to happen. But a small part of him had thought maybe you would show, that you would surprise him. He thought maybe you were just that loyal to him.

When the clock read 11:24pm, he finally gave up. You hadn’t showed up to help with the work you had promised you would. Anger simmered in his gut, too easily wound up. This was a set up, and yet... he still found himself slamming his office door shut, and stomping back to his chambers in a foul mood.

And you should never go to bed angry...

Prev: Day 2 - Sloth | Next: Day 4 - Wrath A huge thank you to @her-satanic-wiles for beta reading, and @adinferix for fine tuning the Italian translations! 🖤

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