☞ 1.1k words, gn!reader, non-descript, religious undertones, blasphemy, oral sex as communion, allusions to erectile dysfunction, power imbalance, 18+
It feels forbidden to approach him in the chapel, when he’s veiled in his white ceremonial robes and the mitre, his appearance grand and all-powerful. Primo shimmers like a preternatural being, surrounded by long beams that hold up high vaulted ceilings, halos of light reflected by stained glass, clouds of incense and the echoing chants of the congregation lingering long after everyone left.
He is one with the fog when he preaches, his voice subdued, yet roaring from the depths of Hell itself.
You watch him for a while, in the center of it all, the crackling, static atmosphere of mass still clinging to you. His sermon is burnt into your memory. It’s rare that he’s convinced to preach these days but when he does the impression lasts for weeks, like a feverish dream, the vision barely real but lingering in powerful fragments. Sometimes you hear people whisper about it, some confused, some in awe and some frightened to their very bones. For you, it’s all that you can think about.
“Will you help me with my robes, little lamb?”
His voice is softer now, mellowing when he’s addressing you. Your palm strokes across the warm wood of the pew one last time before you stand. His back is still turned to you, his attention focused on the altar. Your heart thumps in your chest but you have no reason to be nervous. The big bad wolf has become tamed in your presence, though his fangs never quite retract.
“You were mesmerising,” you compliment. He turns to look over his shoulder, his unbearably sharp eye still glowing white in the aftermath, and you almost flinch. Almost.
“You are flattering an old man,” he says, turning fully now, and the weight of the moment falls off of him. His shoulders release their tension, his features soften, though the corpse paint never loses much of its edge. When he removes his mitre some of the magic comes off with it.
You reach out to touch the smooth fabric of his robes, enamoured with the contrast of the man you saw during mass and the controlled yet tired old man in front of you. “I’m not exaggerating. The Sibling next to me stifled a cry when you started speaking.”
“Are you saying that I… still got it, hm?” he teases, holding out his arms. “Sadly, this time no one ran out screaming.”
You smile when you lift the robes over his head. He’s wearing a simple black cassock underneath that hides his scraggy frame. But when you wrap your arms around his neck you can feel him, hard-edged and ungiving. Primo is not a soft man, you wouldn’t call him very considerate, but he can be gentle when he wants to be. Right now, you feel the tenderness in his touch as his long, bony hands roam your back, up and up until one long finger reaches your neck and tilts your chin up to meet him.
His kiss is insistent, slow but thorough. He’s hungering for you after spending so much of himself on the congregation. You respond eagerly, inhaling bitter black paint and the intense remnants of burnt resin. Underneath it all, there is the forbidden feeling again, as though he is not a mere man but something else, something you’re not allowed to touch. He belongs to Lucifer, he belongs to the fog, but you have to remind yourself, that in these moments, he belongs to you as well.
“Have you taken your communion, little lamb?” he asks as he breaks away.
“No, Papa. I only take it from you.”
His eyes narrow. You’re familiar with this as well. Primo doesn’t have to order, you sink to your knees on your own, using the now folded robes as a cushion. From below, he looks dangerous. Tall and in all-black, jagged and death-pale, the shadows on his angular face deep, hollowing him out. His long fingers remain on your cheek for a moment, his face calm and expectant. You’re the lamb before the slaughter, wondering why the butcher hasn’t drawn his knife yet.
And perhaps he won’t if you only please him enough.
Primo doesn’t react when you reach to open the buttons on his frock. He’s made it clear that you have to work for what you want, that you’re here to serve, that this is not just for you but for Him as well, the one who carries the light. Primo’s guidance is a gift from Him, as is his attention, and your reverence is the answer to how he keeps you by his side.
When you look for the thicker button on his pants, Primo stops you. His thumb moves to your chin, gloveless now, and you can feel a sharp nail pressing into the softness of your bottom lip, quickly drawing blood. Obediently, you open your mouth, stretching out your tongue just enough to taste metal. He moves inside, pressing down on the centre until spit gathers and you can’t swallow.
His eyes remain fixed on yours. You note that he never blinks in these moments, that his focus is dangerously sharp.
“Are you ready to receive Him?” he asks.
You nod and keep your eyes on his. They’re all you see amidst the rustling of fabric, the slow sigh that falls from his lips. A moment later he replaces his finger with the tip of his cock, leaving you no time to give into the urge to swallow. It’s warm, heavy, familiar, almost choking you already. You close your lips around him and take him as deep as you can, breathing against the discomfort. He’s not fully hard, he never is, but the fullness of him is too much even so.
It’s a precious moment to feel him so deeply, to glance up at him in the hazy light of the chapel when he’s in full control, to have him to yourself just after he gave his presence to so many others. He’s your light, he’s your path to the end of all things that you walk down willingly. And you know that he'll always be there amidst the chaos.
You pleasure him for a while, slowly and to no specific end. He doesn’t always come but you don’t mind either way. He lets you go on for a while, just watching, moving with you at times, staying completely still at others, encouraging you with his admiration. His hand holds your head and it feels safe, it feels painfully intimate.
The only sounds in the chapel are your shared breathing and the echo of wet flesh.
Even so, you can feel a change when he approaches the height of his pleasure, ragged breaths breaking through his still demeanour, his fingers tightening, the sharp little sting of pain, the pulsing in his cock and the occasional taste of salt when he does find his end. It doesn’t matter how he gives you this blessing. Here on your knees, you receive whatever he is willing to give.
It‘s a difficult choice but I’d love to hear more about “In His halls” with Primo!! 👀
Yes! Thank you ibi my beloved <33
So this one started out as a little comfort fic that I wrote a few months ago for myself, which was just Primo comforting the reader in his gardens right outside the church, but naturally as I worked on it on different days it took a turn and now it's porn with a very emotionally invested plot haha.
It went from the reader being a sibling in an establish relationship with Primo, to reader being a stranger of the church who one day came in mistaking it for a regular church, looking for somewhere very anonymous to confess. They wasted no time going into the confession booth, despite feeling uneasy in the church without looking around too much, and was surprised by the very different advice and encouragement from the man in the next booth. They only realised what kind of church they'd stumbled into when they saw the statues and images in the stained glass.
After grappling with very conflicting feelings, they go back again lured in by an acceptance they'd never had before, and slowly Primo gets to know them, and they get to know more about the church and by extension, him a little bit as well, as much as he tries to keep guarded. I'm still figuring out how things progress exactly but Primo cannot repress forever, and many things end up happening in those confession booths :)
A snippet for you <3 (the original scene but a little edited, still a bit of a wip!)
He knew where to find you once again, his heart pulled towards the figure of you knelt in his garden before his God’s home, painted in the near darkness by the soft red rays that shone through the stained glass above. At this time of year it always pleased him to see the white blossom sun kissed, shimmering in the colours of his God as the sun disappeared over the horizon. He never thought Lucifer could grace him with something more beautiful than that sight, yet his eyes were drawn to the person that sat amongst it all.
It gave him a twisted feeling of pride, to see you seeking refuge in your lowest moments in something he had spent years cultivating, and most of all how he’d lured you into finding a sense of safety in who he worshipped. But he had a feeling that you were not there to seek out the Devil. He had only known you for so little time, yet with your back turned to him he knew you were sat there with your eyes shut, closing yourself off from any evidence of your own reality. The thought of a tear streaming down your face urged him closer, and intentional loud steps of his boots made his presence known to you.
You were unmoving still by the time he got to you, except for those trembles that he managed to catch every time without fail. He only shifted to sit beside you however, internally marking your little anxious movement as a sign that you knew he was there.
The battle inside you continued, he could read it on your face perfectly. Perhaps that was the true reason why you were in the gardens, after all it was clear you weren’t here to appreciate its beauty. He hated how his heart thudded looking at the state of you, but never had he seen someone look so small in front of his God.
Time passed in silence. Primo was never really a man of words, he used them when necessary, but he was also aware of his heavy presence. As much as it is for many, it was also a shield for some of his flock, though in this case selfishly in his heart he hoped he could engulf you in his omnipresence, until you couldn’t remember the emptiness you felt before without him.
-
With feeble attempts, you reigned in the heavy breathing that threatened to leave your lungs as his looming shadow shrouded you in a comforting darkness. You knew he could see right through you, stare at your uncertainties without either of you having to utter a word. It worked for you however, to just know he was there. It didn’t melt everything away, but it allowed you to walk through it all hand in hand with a man you trusted more than the God you’d been forced to love.
Finally, you faced him properly, and somehow the sight of him so close still knocked the wind out of you. He always had that affect on you somehow, eyes peeled away or not. It felt impossible to unknot the words stuck in your throat as his eyes bore into yours. He was here for you now, and you knew it was going to be alright.
Thank you beloved @writingjourney for tagging me <33
Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous.
Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it!
And then tag as many people as you have WIPs.
My WIPs
-Same old songs into the night (primo chap 4)
-He is divinity (secondo)
-In His halls (primo)
-V being his best freak self
-Life is left behind (copia)
-Godlike ascension (terzo)
-A snippet in their lives (secondo)
Most of these are a year or two old but I want to finish them all at some point
Whoever sees this, I'm no pressure tagging you if you have any WIPs :)
