Alien's ghost den

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.