#i wrote this for the parm palace and no further ghost fics are coming

[chickenparm]

Governed by the Flesh (Copia/Reader)

the things i do out of love for my friends.....

anyway merry christmas here's some Ghost(the band, not the hot military man) sacrilege that i drive-by dropped in the parm palace ghost channel like a week ago to feed the simps @ink-and-dagger had to help me tag this cause i just call him "red guy"

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Copia/gn!Reader 1,147 Words - NSFW Blasphemy, blowjobs, deep-throating, finger-sucking, oral fixation

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Stained-glass shimmers above. The moon, full and heavy, casts just enough light to send beams to the congregation of two down below. Panes of red, white, grey, all leave geometric shapes across the floor that would draw your eyes on any given evening if not for the man that waits patiently for your approach. 

One, two, three steps leaves you within arm’s reach, a respectable distance from amused eyes and glimmering regalia. To the left and right, framing him with all his divinity on display, standing sconces flicker across gemstones and gold threaded through heavy crimson fabric. The chalice in his hands seems lacklustre compared to the radiance of your Cardinal.

Pink darts out, wetting his lips in preparation for the simple exchange. 

“The Body of Christ.”

“Amen.” You murmur in response, a reflex manifest from a thousand, thousand repetitions of this very ritual. Parting your lips, your tongue slides from behind teeth that had been grit moments before in an effort to control your physical reactions to the heaviness of incense and intent in the air. 

Refusing to look away from mismatched eyes lest his expectations be dashed into disappointment at your failure, you miss that the fingers that come to rest on your tongue are dreadfully empty of the Eucharist that should have accompanied his arrival. Instead, the flavor is of worn leather, laced with the crumbs of what might have been. 

The weight is enough to push the soft underside of your tongue into your bottom teeth, harsh to the point of tasting iron. There’s no instinct to pull away from him; it’d been ground out of you like sandpaper to the softest of wood. The ultimate trust he demands from you is the only real request he makes - everything else is an afterthought, a byproduct of interwoven ideals.

When your eyelids flutter, your jaw dropping to its widest at his behest, that is when his fingers move further. The smooth drag of leather is sweet, even as your taste buds grow used to the exquisiteness of his insistence. Only when his folded third and fourth fingers bump your chin do you allow your mouth to close around the digits he’s offered you. 

Long fingers press dangerously close to the back of your throat, curved against the rear of your tongue, as if he were reaching inside for whatever he pleased to extract from you. Your heart, your bones, your very soul if he demanded it be reaped from you. 

“‘The generous will themselves be blessed, for they share their food with the poor.’” His fingers retract just enough to allow your tongue freedom of movement, an expectation for you to dutifully answer that which you’ve been asked. “Is my Body to your liking, cara?”

Your response, muffled as it is, is loud and clear. “Yes, your eminence.”

The wet slide of his fingers fills the room, echoing off arching columns and shining windows. At their exit, he drags them down your chin, leaving two parallel trails of your saliva across your skin as if he were marking you for sacrifice. The loss of his hand is felt for only a moment before his palm curls at your shoulder, pressing firmly to direct you to your knees. 

“The Body is received. But what of the Blood, hm?”

Direct, with expectation laced through it, even as your mind feels thick and muddled. With shaking hands, you reach to the folds of his garments in search of what he withholds from you. Those very hands are snatched at the wrists, the chalice of Eucharist tumbling to the floor and scattering its contents across the floor. 

The sound of little wafers tumbling down the stairs at your back nearly drowns out the hiss between your teeth as he grips at you. The manacles of his fingers are stronger than any steel, holding you in place while he admonishes your greed. “The Body and Blood are given, not taken.”

“I’m sorry, Car-”

“Hush now, cara.” Your wrists are released to swing down to your sides, shoulders back and head tilted to implore him for mercy that he hoards in abundance with a greed of his own. Frugal as he is with his forgiveness, he nonetheless curls his thumb and forefinger about your chin and pulls your mouth open once more. 

A tilt of his head, appraising your supplication, he releases you from your guilt. “Your impatience isn’t counted among your vices. It is… a compliment that you are constrained by your eagerness to please. Follow the rules, and your worship will have room to grow, yes?”

A little nod, a quirk of his lips, his free hand moving to where you’d been attempting to intrude. The means to your end is upon you, passing over your extended tongue just as his fingers had done. Whatever he had taken during his exploration, it is returned tenfold as your lips wrap around his cock. 

The throb on your tongue is his appreciation for your efforts, though you’ve learned your lesson and wait for him to gift you with his Body, his Blood, his Soul, his Divinity.

Fingers still wet with your saliva wind into your hair, gripping tightly and holding you steady for the intrusion. Inch by inch until it grows harder to breathe around him, he only stops when your lips press against the base of his cock, throat spasming in objection to him, even as every other piece of your being begs him to find a way further.

The air tastes heady as he pulls back, allowing you to heave it into your lungs before he snatches your freedom away once again. The pace is slow, allowing you to grow used to the shape and feel of the Cardinal from the tip of your tongue to the back of your throat. When you catch his pace, it changes as swiftly - faster, shallower, grinding until your nose is pressed against his pubic bone harshly. 

“‘The mind governed by the flesh is death, but the mind governed by the Spirit is life and peace.’” His voice quakes, a mixture of exertion and pleasure lacing each consonant and vowel lovingly. A statement is made that you’re unable to answer, barely coherent enough to comprehend, as the unholiness of the universe is concentrated in this very instance of space and time. “I will govern you, cara. But it’s neither life nor peace that I bring to you. It is chaos and death, sublime rapture of absolute hedonism.”

And it takes everything in your very being to answer him, fingers scrabbling at the frayed edges of your sanity to craft a single muffled, “Amen” around the length of his cock in your throat, on your tongue, stretching your lips. 

The tense of his hand in your hair is all the warning you receive as he finds his rapture in you.