I have been obsessed with collecting Pokemon cards lately, and I want all things Lillie. My soul is yearning. I just opened six packs of Journey Together and did not get any of my chasers. But we continue on!
It's been over half a year now since I finished I Knew Nothing But Shadows, my 220k word Copia long fic that I started in 2022 (and that took me three years to complete 💀). It's about a young woman who's tasked to paint Copia's official portrait, finding belonging and love while figuring out the mysteries of a painful past.
I haven't been talking a lot about it since then because I just feel akward and insecure in many ways, but I wanted to shout it out again because it's not just the longest thing I've ever written with so much of myself poured into every word, it's also the story that means the most to me because it allowed me to connect with so many lovely people over the years and it helped me take my writing more seriously.
I've been reminiscing a lot and it's true that by writing this fic (and other fics) I've found some of the best friends I've ever had and even more friends, mutuals and followers on here that I think of so fondly and love seeing to this day.
I'm proud that I actually managed to finish such a complex project. If you haven't heard of it yet, here are the links:
☞ I Knew Nothing But Shadows
And here is some of the amazing fanart I've received for it :)
i do really think the only true violence secondo is capable of is against himself. not that he hasn't hurt other people in some capacity, he's not emotionally available, so of course he has. but a lot of his behavior is also just him randomly high-dosing on self-harm and thinking it's good, it's what he deserves and what he needs and what he preaches.
he despises himself as much as he's safe and confident in his own skin. it's a co-existence he's made peace with by now. he's calm and controlled, meticulous and educated, and on the other side he's mayhem, chaos, uninhibited hedonism. it's supposed to be a balance but is it, really?
i think it's claustrophobia, i think he's breaking out of this safe and solid life he's build but he's overdoing it every time. it's control vs. excess. it's routine vs. waking up hungover, it's a structured, responsible life vs. hollow drinking until you don't feel yourself anymore. it's reading your book at home vs fucking for the sake of it and feeling like a husk after. it's sophistication and expensive suits vs. the vomit stains on your shirt the morning after. leading the congregation vs. losing yourself in the strobe lights and loud music where no one else needs you.
and it works, for a time, until the self-loathing takes over and the only remedy to that is to repeat the cycle again and again. and how perfect that it pisses off the very people you hate anyway. life is full of regrets, what are a few more, at the end of the day, right?
☞ 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.
Emmrich found her in a little corner of the archives long after the lamps had dimmed to their lowest amber glow. Not working, precisely. Her papers were not spread before her in the usual perilous little mountain. Her ink was capped. Her pen lay abandoned beside her elbow. Ollie had fallen asleep over an open book, one cheek pressed to the page, her pale curls spilling forward in a soft, unruly halo.
For several moments, he simply stood there.
The Necropolis was rarely silent. It breathed. Shifted. Whispered through stone and bone and old names remembered too faithfully to die. Yet here, in this pocket of warmth between towering shelves, there was only the small, steady sound of Olivia Ingellvar sleeping.
Emmrich's face softened completely. "Oh, Liebchen," he murmured. She did not stir.
He crossed to her with the care of a man approaching something sacred. First, he looked at the book beneath her face and winced faintly on its behalf, and then he looked at her, and all scholarly concern vanished.
There was a tiny crease on her cheek from the paper. Her mouth was parted slightly. One hand was tucked beneath her chin, the other rest palm up on the table as though she had been waiting to hold something. Emmrich slipped his fingers into that hand. At once, some hidden part of her knew him, and her fingers curled around his.
His heart, traitorous thing, gave its familiar painful twist.
"Come now," he whispered, bending to kiss her knuckles. "No more vanishing into footnotes tonight."
Ollie made a small, discontented sound. "M'not working."
"No, my darling. You are merely intimidating a monograph with your cheek."
Her eyes opened a fraction. Blue, sleepy, and unfocused. Then they found him, and her whole face changed, drowsy as she was. She smiled as if he brought the morning with him.
"Hi," she whispered.
Emmrich has survived wars. Committees, students, and Watchers with appalling penmanship. And yet her sleepy hello is enough to undo him.
"Hello, mein Herz."
Ollie blinked slowly. "Did you come looking for me?"
"I did."
"Because you missed me?"
"Because I missed you," he admitted, without hesitation. Then, more gently," And because it is late, and you promised me you would not make yourself small and invisible among the shelves when you were tired."
Her smile faltered, not from unhappiness, but from being known too well. "I didn't mean to."
"I know." His thumb stroked the back of her hand once, twice. Not a reprimand or lecture, only touch.
Ollie looked down at their hands, lashes heavy. "You always find me."
"Yes." There was no flourish in it. No performance. Only the truth.
She swallowed. "That makes me feel safe."
Emmrich closed his eyes for a breath, and when he opened them, his expression had gone terribly tender. "Then I shall continue doing so," he said.
Ollie's lower lip trembled, just a little, and she tried to hide it behind another smile, but he saw. Emmrich saw everything. The tiredness under her brightness, and the ache behind her bravery. The way she made herself useful so quickly as though love had to be earned in careful installments. He stepped closer, drawing her gently up from the chair. She came without protest, and when he gathered her into his arms, she folded against him at once.
Small. Warm. His.
His hand cupped the back of her head, fingers sinking carefully into her curls. The other settled at her waist. Protective. Devotional.
"You do not need to disappear to be unobtrusive," he murmured into her hair. "You are allowed to take up space in my life, Olivia. In my rooms. In my thoughts. In my arms. Especially there."
She tucked her face against his waistcoat. "That's a lot of places."
"An inexhaustive list."
That earned him a soft, breath laugh. He smiled. Then Ollie tipped her head back. "Can we go home?"
Home. Such a small word, but a devastating one.
Emmrich brushed the crease on her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "Yes, Liebchen. We can go home."
"Will you read to me?" She leaned into his touch, eyes closing.
"Something improving?"
She scrunches her nose. "No."
"Hm. Something romantic?"
Her smile turned shy. "Maybe."
"Ah," his eyes warmed with amusement. "A scandalous request from my archivist."
"Your archivist is sleepy and wants kissing in the story."
"Then kissing she will have."
Ollie opened one eye. "In the book?"
Emmrich bent and touched his mouth to her forehead, lingering there. "Among other places."
A pink flush bloomed across her cheeks, and he looked almost unbearably pleased with himself. Emmrich gathered her shawl, tucking it around her shoulders, and collected her capped ink and abandoned pen. He also made sure to mark her place in the book with a slip of ribbon from his own pocket. Then he offered his arm with courtly gravity, as if he were escorting her to some grand opera than to the lift to the Upper Mortuary.
Ollie took it, and as they left the alcove, she learned into his side, trusting his steps when she was too tired to watch her own. Emmrich shortened his stride without thinking, and covered her hand with his own where it rested on his sleeve.
Halfway down the corridor, she murmured, "Emmrich?"
"Yes, my love?"
"I'm glad you missed me."
He looked down at her, expression quiet and luminous. "I miss you," he said. "Even when you are in the next room."
amandla
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
