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xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 2 months ago

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𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐞. 𝐈 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐔𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞.

[ 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 ]

𝐚/𝐧: This one’s for everyone currently buried under textbooks, neck-deep in citations, or screaming silently into a thesis draft. Whether you’re cramming for finals, editing your 30th footnote, or trying to remember the difference between APA and MLA at 3 a.m. —I see you. I am you.

Consider this my love letter to academic burnout, spiced up with a chaos, a lot of buttons, and one very bored Sylus.

May this story bring you a smile, a distraction, and maybe… some motivation to get back to work. Or at least to fantasize about getting “tutored” by your favorite grumpy 3d boyfriend.

You’ve got this. And if not? Well, at least you’ve got this fic.

𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐰: This story contains adult content intended for mature audiences (18+). Includes: teasing, consensual power play, undressing kink, sexual tension, smut (obviously), suggestive language, and light dom/sub dynamics. Also: mentions of academic stress, mild frustration, and one very chaotic bird. (Also, I suck at the lore, so all the questions are just dribble drabble and have nothing to do with l&ds lore).

Please read responsibly.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 7,382

𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐎𝐰𝐧: [ Press here! ]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 closing in.

Not as dungeons do—with iron and echo and the grating metallic gnash of keys against locks—but in a subtler, crueler fashion. Here, the entrapment was warm. Familiar. Domestic. It wore the mask of kindness: chipped ceramic mugs bearing lukewarm tea, a book left open spine-up, the low hum of city life filtered through the curtains. It was, he thought, bitterly, the kind of imprisonment one almost volunteered for.

Sylus shifted again on the couch, then rose—slowly, deliberately. He moved not like a man, but a creature half-contained: sinew strung too tight, instincts dulled by idle time. Prowling—yes, that was the word. The motions of a predator caged not by walls, but affection.

He had commanded battlefields in tighter quarters than this. Led insurgencies in the silent dark of fractured worlds. Stared down death without blinking. But this?

This was unbearable.

There was paper everywhere. The scent of ink, bitter and raw. The over-steeped tang of her tea wafting from the sill. And her—hunched over the dining table, surrounded by her own chaos. Books exploded across the wood like shrapnel from a war of knowledge—highlighted, dog-eared, wounded by overuse. Her hands moved furiously, annotating with the kind of intensity one usually reserved for confessions or last rites.

She hadn’t looked at him in forty-three minutes.

Not even when Mephisto—loyal, treacherous Mephisto—had “accidentally” toppled a precarious stack of her notes onto the floor. The crow had croaked, sharp and affronted. She, unmoved, had murmured simply, “Leave it,” and kept writing as though she were inscribing scripture.

Sylus crouched by the fallen pages and began gathering them, slow as time itself. Paper sliding over paper, the sound soft but persistent. A quiet insistence. The sound of patience weaponized.

Nothing.

“You know,” he said at last, voice almost conversational as he let the next sheet fall with theatrical weight, “Onychinus has tortured men with less effective methods than this.”

She didn’t look up. “Then maybe you finally understand how I feel.”

Her words cut with a blade honed in silence.

He straightened, brushing non-existent dust from his palms. Intrigued, not offended. That was the curious thing. As if her indifference had teeth. As if her quiet dismissal coiled something feral within him.

“I could be out there right now,” he said as he sauntered toward the kitchen. “Negotiating with diplomats. Sabotaging governments. Killing someone, possibly.”

“You still could,” she replied without looking. “The door’s right there.”

The kettle clicked off. He didn’t move to pour. He liked it bitter. Liked the way it matched his mood—steeped too long, forgotten until it scalded.

Instead, he leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, gaze fixed on her. Watching. Hunting. She was composed chaos: pen tapping out some maddening rhythm, brows drawn, jaw clenching. Every movement spoke of war, though she waged hers with theory and thought.

And still—she had not looked at him.

He cleared his throat.

She sighed.

He straightened. A wolf catching scent.

“You’re not helping,” she muttered, chewing on the cap of her pen.

“I’m not trying to.”

“Then be useful. Take Mephisto out. He needs a flight. Or a target to harass.”

The mechanical crow preened, smug on her chair-back, as if understanding.

Sylus blinked. “I trained him to disarm men mid-air. You want me to reduce him to dog-walking?”

“I want silence,” she snapped. “Or help. But if I can’t have the first, I’ll settle for the second.”

That made him grin.

Slowly.

Oh.

Now she looked at him.

Tired. Wary. Resigned. That look of someone who knew too well what was coming. Who recognized the inevitability of chaos walking toward her in human shape. Sylus Qin did not sit idle for long. Stillness was not his nature. He was not built for peace. He was built for provocation.

He closed the distance in four lazy steps, and bracketed her in, hands on either side of her chair. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t even stop reading. But her breath caught—just once.

Subtle. But enough.

He leaned in, voice a purr against her temple. “Help, Kitten?”

The word coiled like silk around barbed wire. Too soft to be safe.

“You?” she said flatly, eyes on her page. “The last time you helped, you almost burned the kitchen down.”

“It was one fire.”

She glared.

He lifted a brow. “One small fire. Mephisto flew through it just fine.”

She turned to face him fully now, and he saw it—the red-rimmed eyes, the ink-smudged hands, the kind of fatigue that crept into the marrow. She was burning herself alive in pursuit of something. And he? He would always be drawn to the flame.

“You’re driving me insane,” she whispered.

“And you,” he murmured, “are torturing yourself. What was it for, again?”

She threw the pen down. “Advanced sociopolitical theory of pre-expansion territories.”

He blinked. Slowly.

“You made that up.”

“I wish I made that up.” She rubbed her eyes. “I have to explain economic reformation using early-Earth anarcho-Marxist models—without referencing planetary war casualties.”

Another beat of silence.

“And people wonder why we recruit so well,” he muttered. “We offer better hours.”

“And fewer footnotes.”

Mephisto let out a metallic klik, like a laugh.

Her next exhale was quieter. Not defeat. Not quite. Just surrender. Her head tilted back, neck bared, vulnerable in a way that made his mouth go dry.

“I hate this,” she said.

He tilted his head, predator’s smile returning. “Then let me help you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “No.”

“You haven’t heard my method.”

“I don’t want to.”

“It’s extremely effective.”

“It’ll be chaos.”

“All learning is chaos,” he said solemnly. “You just need the proper incentive.”

“You are not an incentive. You’re a hazard.”

He leaned in closer. Lowered his voice. “But you’re paying attention now.”

There it was.

The pause.

The breath between one kind of tension and another.

He smiled then, slow and unrepentant. The kind of smile that meant the trap had already closed, and she hadn’t noticed.

“What if,” he said, rounding the table, circling her like a thought that wouldn’t go away, “for every correct answer you give me… I unbutton a piece of clothing.”

She blinked. “What.”

He gestured vaguely between them. “Yours or mine. Dealer’s choice.”

“And if I get one wrong?”

He shrugged. “I button it back up. Accountability.”

She stared.

So did Mephisto—before flying out of the room with the exaggerated air of someone refusing to witness whatever unholy ritual this was becoming.

Sylus leaned close, whispering now, his voice a promise, or a sin.

“Come on, kitten. Let’s make studying… worth your while.”

She did not answer him.

Not with words. Not with refusal.

Her silence was not absence—it was decision. Deliberate. Weighted. The kind of stillness that bore within it the tension of a coiled spring, a loaded chamber, a whisper before the breaking glass.

Sylus moved behind her with a patience that belonged to no man, only beasts—those that waited at the edge of the forest, in shadows, where breath fogged and fangs gleamed. His chaos was measured now, honed into precision. He bent low, mouth grazing that place where her neck met her shoulder—the tender hinge of control and surrender. Her skin was warm. Braced. Awake.

He did not kiss her.

Not yet.

He let his breath trace along the line of her throat like a promise whispered in a confessional.

“You hate this part of studying,” he murmured, voice low enough to slip beneath her skin. “The memorization. The mechanical repetition. Regurgitating theories someone else named.”

Still, she did not move.

He kissed just below her ear, so softly it felt imagined. Not conquest—reverence.

“But your mind,” he continued, lips brushing against the shell of her ear, “was never meant to echo other men’s thoughts. It’s built for violence and vision. What you need is structure. A system. Consequence.”

He smiled against her—just a breath of amusement, curved and sharp.

“Positive reinforcement.”

The next kiss was lower, slower. And then—

A breath caught.

He felt it. Subtle. A tremor beneath her composure. As if some fragile thread had been plucked.

“As I said, for every correct answer,” he whispered, the tip of his nose trailing the slope of her collarbone, “I’ll unbutton something. Yours. Or mine. I’ll let you choose.”

Control, after all, was a language they both spoke fluently. One they rewrote every time they met.

She hummed.

A sound so soft, so unwillingly born, it knocked something loose in him. A single syllable without shape, yet it echoed like a secret.

She didn’t say yes.

She didn’t have to.

The stillness of her body, the tilt of her neck—she was unfolding. Silently. One breath at a time. And he was patient. He would take her apart gently, methodically, until her resistance was memory.

“And if you get it wrong,” he said, fingers grazing the narrow line of her waist, “I’ll button it back up. Slow. One. At. A. Time.”

That made her shift.

Slight, imperceptible to anyone who did not live inside her breath the way he did. Her head turned, a fraction—exposing more of her neck.

Invitation.

His mouth found the base of her throat. A kiss—open and present, not demanding. Not yet. It wasn’t claiming, it was a tether. A declaration: I am here. I see you. I want.

He inhaled.

Ink. Sleep-deprivation. That sharp, dry sting of caffeine clinging to the strands of her hair. But beneath it all—her. Whatever scent memory couldn’t place but the soul remembered.

She smelled like longing. Like ache. Like the reason he’d chosen to live.

His voice, when it returned, was rough. Frayed at the edges.

“You’ll start to want the wrong answers,” he murmured, lips brushing her pulse, “just to feel me undoing you again. And again.”

Her breath stuttred.

Another sound—barely more than a breath—but it gutted him. That sound, that wordless admission, echoed in his skull like the first crack of surrender.

Sylus smiled.

This—this was not domination. Not command. This was the sacred language of consent. The offering of power. The invitation to play.

He kissed her once more. Deeper now. Possessive. Just above the hollow of her collarbone, where blood surged and promises lived.

Then—

He pulled back.

Abrupt. Controlled.

“Question one,” he said, settling beside her, voice suddenly light, even amused—as if the last few minutes had not been a slow seduction of her will. “Define hegemonic decentralization in relation to resource-starved colonies pre-expansion.”

She blinked.

Disoriented. Thrown.

“What—?”

His smirk cut across his face like a blade. “Tick-tock, kitten.”

She stared at him.

Not in shock. Not in fear. No, those emotions were too simple for her. Her gaze was that of a woman observing a cliff’s edge—knowing full well she’d fall, and still, leaning closer. There was a long, slow blink of disbelief, the kind that implied she might—out of principle—launch her textbook at his head. But instead, she measured him, and something in her calculation said: I’ll play. Just long enough to see how far you’ll go.

“Hegemonic decentralization,” she said at last, her voice clipped, wound tightly around restraint, “is the process by which centralized imperial authorities delegate limited power to colonial administrations in an attempt to quell unrest—without, of course, surrendering real control.”

Sylus arched a brow.

Her tone was academic, yes—but her pulse betrayed her. He saw it leap at the base of her throat. Counted the rhythm, noted the way her breath cinched as if her body were bracing for the consequence of correctness.

“That’s correct,” he said, voice mild. Too mild. A weapon she didn’t yet know how to parry.

And then he moved.

Not toward her. But inward—stripping the first button from his own shirt with leisurely precision. His gaze never left hers. That unreadable half-smile hovered on his lips like smoke curling from a match not yet dropped.

“Start small,” he murmured. “Ease your way into winning.”

Her lips parted—just slightly. A protest unspoken. A grin suppressed. She said nothing.

Good girl. She knew how the game worked. She always did, in the end.

“Next question.” He leaned back, lounging like this was a corporate debrief rather than a study session layered with subtext and tension. “List three primary sociopolitical effects of the Altaris Collapse on fringe-planet diplomacy.”

She groaned. “You’re insane.”

“One point for each correct answer,” he said, examining his cuffs. “Three buttons on the line.”

Her eyes narrowed. Her mind was already spinning. He could see it in the angle of her shoulders, the way her pen tapped once—twice—against her thigh, the rhythm erratic but sharpening.

This was what he loved about her. Not submission. Not softness. But the focus. The unflinching, teeth-bared determination of a woman who had studied her enemies and refused to blink.

She inhaled.

“One,” she said. “Breakdown of interplanetary trade security. Two: refugee displacement leading to diplomatic strain among minor systems. Three: the elevation of pirate syndicates as recognized diplomatic actors.”

Sylus whistled, low and admiring. “Very, very good.”

This time, he reached for her.

She didn’t flinch when his fingers brushed the first button of her blouse. Didn’t pull away. Her breath held, suspended somewhere between resistance and anticipation. Her eyes fixed on his, unblinking.

The first button slid free.

Then the second.

The third—he took slower. His thumb traced the hollow of her sternum, where bone met breath. The fabric parted just enough to reveal the delicate strap of her bra. He saw the rise in her chest. The careful exhale through her nose.

“No objections, kitten?” he asked softly.

Her chin lifted. A quiet defiance. “I’m three for three,” she said. “I’m winning.”

His smile was a darker thing now. “For now.”

He leaned in again, brushing her hair off her shoulder like it was something sacred. His lips ghosted the shell of her ear.

“Define the Tenet Accord,” he whispered, “in a single sentence.”

She hesitated.

Not long. Just a heartbeat.

But it was enough.

He felt it: the delicate tilt in balance. The first falter.

“It was…” Her voice slowed. “The treaty between the TerraCore Senate and fringe-system delegates to standardize negotiation frameworks for interplanetary conflict.”

Sylus tilted his head, wolfish.

“It was,” he said—then, after a beat too long: “But it wasn’t signed. It was ratified by proxy. The original signatories were assassinated before they made it to the table.”

She stiffened. “That’s semantics.”

“That’s history,” he replied.

And with an infuriating patience, he reached forward—

—and rebuttoned one of the buttons he had just undone.

Slowly.

One hand guiding the shirt back into order, the other working the button through its loop with unbearable precision. His thumb brushed skin as he did. Not hurried. Not teasing. inevitable.

“Don’t cheat,” she said, voice rasping slightly at the edges.

“Don’t miss,” he answered.

Ah, there it was.

The pull in his gut. That hot, slow drag of anticipation. Tension braided between them like wire stretched to its limit. She was brilliant—sharp as a blade—and he intended to test every inch of her edge.

Not to see her break.

To see how long she’d hold.

“Next question,” he said, voice gone low again.

Her eyes sparked. “Bring it.”

He leaned closer.

“Name the three factions responsible for the Blockade,” he said, “and identify the primary tech used to enforce it.”

She swallowed.

Oh, yes. This one would cost her.

And Sylus could already taste the next button between his fingers.

Sylus watched her lips as she hesitated.

It was not ignorance that stalled her—no, she was brilliant, insufferably so. He knew she knew the answer. The hesitation wasn’t intellectual; it was strategic. She was thinking now—not of war or treaties, but of the game. Of the stakes. Of his gaze, heavy and deliberate, tracing the line of her collarbone. Of the way his shirt now hung open, two buttons loose, a sliver of skin visible like a secret offered on a dare.

Good.

He wanted her distracted.

“Orion Enclave,” she said at last. The words came slow, deliberate. “The Virid Coalition. And—”

She faltered.

He lifted an eyebrow, amused. “And?”

Her eyes flicked up, sharp. “And the Noxian Syndicate.”

A heartbeat passed.

He smiled—dangerously. “Mm. Almost.”

Her brow creased, suspicion blooming. “What?”

“It wasn’t the Noxians. It was the Virex Compact.” He leaned in, voice low, velvet over steel. “The Syndicate pulled out three days before the blockade was formalized. Political cowardice, masquerading as strategy.”

She exhaled sharply, jaw tight. “That’s a technicality.”

He tilted his head. “I don’t deal in technicalities. Or intentions. Only in outcomes.”

A pause. Then, darkly—

“Only in flesh.”

He reached for her—intending to reassert control, to remind her whose game this was—but she moved first.

Quick as a striking viper, her fingers shot up and caught the edge of his open shirt.

He froze.

Her hand was steady. Unbothered. She met his gaze with a calm so composed it felt like mockery dressed as elegance.

“Then you’re not the only one who gets to keep score,” she said, and with devastating grace, she slid one of his buttons back into place.

He blinked, as if something in the room had tilted.

“You’re penalizing me?” he asked, tone caught in the strange valley between disbelief and reluctant delight.

“You distracted me.”

“Kitten—”

“Your game,” she murmured, drawing closer, breath warm beneath his jaw. “Your rules. I just play smarter.”

And then she kissed him.

Not a plea. Not a reward. No, this was a tactical move. She kissed the curve of his neck with precision, then bit—not hard, not cruelly, just enough to fracture his breath mid-inhale.

His hand moved without thought, wrapping around her hip. The contact grounded him. Or maybe it unmoored him further. He couldn’t tell anymore.

He hated her.

No, that wasn’t it.

He loved her. Not the love of ballads or poets. Not the gentle, convenient kind. His love was ruinous. A reconfiguration of instinct. A madness that could be neither named nor cured. He would burn worlds for her, and worse—he would wait in silence while she studied, just to be near her gravity.

She knew. Of course she knew.

He caught her chin in his hand, tilting her face upward. Not quite a kiss. Not yet. It was a warning. Or a prayer.

“You’re cheating,” he murmured.

“I’m improvising.”

She pressed her lips just below his ear. Barely there. A ghost of touch. Then her teeth caught his earlobe with the kind of sinful slowness that could undo entire empires.

“I thought you liked clever girls,” she whispered.

A low sound rumbled in his throat—half laugh, half growl. “I do. But I like obedient ones more.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, head tilted in mock innocence, eyes sharp enough to bleed. “Then maybe you should study harder,” she said, tone laced with mockery and seduction both. “You’re falling behind.”

And then—God help him—she unfastened one of his buttons.

Not in haste. Not for show. It was surgical. Deliberate. Her fingers brushed his chest, and even that barest touch left a heat behind. Not fire. Something slower. Smoldering.

He stared at her.

She smiled.

Not sweetly. This was the smile of a woman who had just toppled the first stronghold of a war campaign. She knew exactly what she was doing. And worse—she knew he’d let her.

“Next question,” she said, voice silk and daggers. “Unless you’re afraid to lose.”

Oh, fuck.

She was turning him into prey.

And he loved it.

His mouth twitched.

A flicker, barely visible, but in it lived a tempest. His gaze darkened—not with rage, not even with hunger, but with something stranger. A tension that stretched tight within him, like a wire pulled over flame. Every breath he drew seemed to sear him from the inside, burning with restraint, with ache, with the quiet, seething madness of a man undone not by war, not by betrayal, but by her.

She was the weapon. She always had been.

He leaned in.

His lips brushed the shell of her ear, and this time, his teeth followed—grazing, then catching. Not hard. Not yet. Just enough to make her breath falter. He felt her pulse beneath his mouth, fluttering wildly. That fragile, defiant rhythm—it was the closest thing to poetry Sylus believed in.

“Name,” he murmured, tongue tracing just behind her ear, voice low and serrated, “the first planetary system to reject TerraCore’s energy sanction and survive the embargo intact.”

She breathed out sharply—but her voice, when it came, was steady. Brilliant. Beautiful.

“Vallin. They diverted siphon-tunnels from unmonitored moons and contracted mercenary fleets to deliver raw materials directly.”

Sylus chuckled.

Low. Dangerous. Delighted.

“Such a clever little kitten.”

He reached between them, finding the last button of her blouse and—slowly, reverently—slipped it free.

The fabric parted like a confession. Her skin glowed, lit soft by the dim lamps, framed in lace and tension. She didn’t move to cover herself.

Good.

Modesty was fine. But shame? He loathed it. She had nothing to hide—and too much power in her stillness.

Before either could speak, his hands were at her waist. He lifted her—effortless, unhurried—and pulled her into his lap like it was the most natural movement in the world. Because it was.

She landed with a soft exhale, knees bracketing his hips, hair spilling down one side like flame. Her blouse hung loose. Her eyes, steady as a sniper’s, met his with a spark that made his blood sing.

“Cheating again,” she said.

He smirked. “Strategic positioning.”

He leaned in, mouth at her neck, and kissed—slow, open, deliberate. His tongue followed, then teeth, marking her with just enough pressure to feel like a threat wrapped in velvet. Her fingers curled into his shoulders. His name ghosted her throat without form.

And when he bit her again—lower, near her collarbone—she gasped.

Quiet. Breathless. Real.

He licked the spot afterward, soothing what he’d just claimed.

“Tell me to stop,” he said softly.

She didn’t.

Instead, she rolled her hips once—slow, deliberate. The friction between them made his breath catch against her skin. Heat surged low and sharp. Control teetered.

“Another question,” she whispered.

He groaned into her throat. A curse. A surrender. Fine.

She wanted to play?

He’d make the game bleed.

“Identify,” he said, voice thick with the ache of her weight in his lap, “the five standard tactics of passive resistance under the Treaty of the Undermoon Accords. No paraphrasing.”

Her breath stuttered.

Not from uncertainty.

But from the way his hands had slid to her thighs, thumbs brushing up under the hem of her skirt. Not quite touching, but close. So close. His fingers toyed with the edge of her stockings like a question with no right answer.

Still—she answered.

“One,” she said, “economic abstention. Two: subversive information dissemination. Three—” she broke off, gasping, as he traced his tongue up her neck, slow and steady “—civil inertia.”

He didn’t stop.

Neither did she.

“Four,” she breathed, “symbolic disobedience.”

He waited.

Her voice shook. But she held.

“Five. Nonviolent obstruction.”

Sylus froze.

Perfect.

Fuck.

The sound that escaped him was primal—a growl buried under a groan. He kissed her jaw, softer this time. Almost reverent. As if her intellect, her will, her spine—all of it demanded worship.

And then he moved again.

He took her blouse by the shoulders and slid it down. Off. The fabric fell behind her like water pooling in shadows. She sat bare above the waist now, save for lace and the kind of anticipation that turned air into lightning.

And still—still—her eyes stayed on him. Steady. Ready.

“Again,” she said.

God help him.

Pride swelled in his chest, hot and vast. So did hunger. And something worse—something holy.

She was everything he shouldn’t have.

Everything he would kill for.

And she was sitting in his lap like she knew it—and didn’t care.

He kissed her shoulder. Her collarbone. Down the line of her sternum.

Then: “Describe the flaws in the Thales Doctrine’s principle of linear progress, as it relates to—”

She rolled her hips hard.

A grind. Deliberate.

Sylus bit her back.

She rolled her hips again—harder now—grinding against the rigid line of him through his slacks, and Sylus felt it: the tremor racing up his spine like a live wire snapped loose, like godfire arcing beneath the skin. His jaw tightened, and the breath he drew was shallow, as if her movements had hollowed his lungs.

She shifted once more, and he knew—by the tilt of her hips, the sharpness in her breath, the glint in her eyes—she knew.

She wasn’t playing to win anymore.

She was playing to ruin him.

“The Thales Doctrine,” he growled into her throat, his mouth slick with need, dragging against her skin like a secret. “Linear progress. Flaws. Say it.”

Her voice trembled, breathless, but sharp with that ruthless clarity he craved.

“It assumes constant advancement,” she panted, “without accounting for systemic collapse, or ethical regression. Ignores the nonlinear nature of historic—”

He cut her off.

His hand slid between them, cupping the soft swell of her breast through the thin lace. She gasped, body arching into him instinctively—and that sound should have been reward enough.

But Sylus was far from finished.

With a practiced flick, he found the clasp behind her back.

Snap.

The bra loosened, a breath unbound.

She didn’t stop him.

Didn’t pretend to.

He dragged the straps down her shoulders, inch by inch, baring her like scripture revealed line by line. Her breath hitched. Her chest rose. But there was no shame in her stillness—only readiness.

“Correct,” he murmured against her skin.

And then—then—he took her into his mouth.

She arched with a sharp, helpless cry, every muscle pulled taut by the shock of sensation. Sylus groaned low against her, tongue circling, teeth grazing her nipple, then sucking deep and slow, savoring her like the answer to a question he hadn’t dared ask.

Her hands were in his hair now—pulling, grounding, praying.

She writhed just enough to undo him.

But she never told him to stop.

And God help him—he didn’t want to.

He shifted to her other breast, lavishing it with the same unrelenting attention, mouth hot, pace slow. With each flick of his tongue, another piece of her unraveled. Each moan he stole was a kind of confession. Each tremor a truth.

Her voice came, shaken but still brilliant: “Ask another.”

He laughed softly—dark, broken, hungry.

“Name,” he murmured, “the three sociopolitical structures that collapsed the Orion-Terra alliance.”

He felt her trying to pull her mind from the edge, to claw her way back to theory from the heat of him, from the way his hands had slid under her skirt, thumbs skimming the top of her stockings like questions written in tongues.

Her body pressed closer, chasing relief.

Still, she answered.

“Economic divergence,” she gasped. “Militarized… policy drift. And—”

Her rhythm stuttered.

He felt it. The sharp jolt of pleasure severing the thread of thought.

“And—” she whimpered, mouth open, trying.

Sylus waited.

She shook her head. “I—I don’t know.”

A thrill coiled inside him.

Finally.

Wrong.

He moved before thought could catch up.

Fast.

Predatory.

He stood in one fluid motion, hands locked at her waist, lifting her effortlessly before laying her down along the length of the couch. Her back hit the cushions, hair spilling like dark fire.

And Sylus followed.

He hovered above her, shirt half-undone, chest rising with restraint. His hair was wild now, his eyes lit from within—dark gold burning at the edges like a man on the brink of holy collapse.

He reached for her wrists.

Not forceful.

Not cruel.

But absolute.

He pinned them above her head, both hands caught in one of his, locking her like a weapon disarmed.

Her mouth parted.

But she didn’t flinch.

She offered herself up.

“Sylus—”

“Wrong answer,” he said, voice raw and guttural. “You lose that round, Kitten.”

Then he descended.

His mouth was on her again—neck, collarbone, chest—biting, kissing, claiming. His tongue dragged between her breasts, his teeth tracing ribs like a map carved in devotion. Each movement was slow, almost reverent—like prayer laced with sin.

She moaned, hips lifting, seeking friction, but he didn’t release her wrists.

Her breath caught.

“What…” she gasped, voice shredded, “what happens when I get the next one wrong?”

He kissed her sternum. Licked a line up the center of her throat. His voice cracked against her ear.

“Then I stop playing.”

A pause.

Then, darker:

“And I start devouring.”

Her breath came in short, fractured bursts—sharp at the edges, shallow in the center—each exhale caught between need and defiance. Her wrists remained pinned above her head, captured by his single hand, bound not in rope but in resolve. Beneath his mouth, her chest flushed pink with heat, the soft rise and fall of her ribcage trembling against the air, against his breath, against the weight of his threat still echoing in the silence.

Then I stop playing.

And I start devouring.

And she—

Gods. She had the audacity to raise a single eyebrow.

That expression—wry, knowing, infuriating—was like a match dropped on oil. Her lips parted, twitching upward at the corners, glittering with mischief despite the wreckage of her composure, despite the delicate shudder still coursing through her body.

“Are you…” she panted, her voice wreathed in the sharp smoke of amusement, “trying to motivate me into answering wrong, Sylus?”

His name on her tongue—dragged out like a challenge, tasted like sin—unraveled something in him. It uncoiled hot along his spine, a sharp sting of hunger and something else, something too primal to be named.

He smiled.

Not the kind that comforted. No—this was the smile of a wolf who knew the cage was already open, the prey already cornered, the end already inevitable.

“Maybe,” he said, voice heavy and slow, soaked in indulgence. “But I’d never rig the game, Kitten.”

And then—

He released her wrists.

Not as mercy. As strategy.

His freed hand moved lower, deliberate in its descent, fingers returning to the curve of her chest. He rolled a nipple between his fingers—just enough pressure to make her inhale, not out of pain, but awareness. A single moment of sensation sharpened to a blade’s edge.

Her eyes fluttered shut. Brief. Reflexive. A betrayal of her own will.

That was all it took.

Sylus leaned in, dragging his tongue along the column of her throat, tasting salt and heat, feeling her pulse leap against his mouth like it was trying to confess.

“You want to lose,” he whispered into her skin. “Don’t you?”

She inhaled sharply.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t ease.

“You want what happens when you get it wrong.”

His fingers tightened—just slightly. And she arched into him, helpless in the way only honest desire makes a person.

Her pride was fighting. Her need was winning.

He watched her war with herself, teeth sinking into her lower lip to silence the whimper clawing its way up her throat. She was trying not to give him the satisfaction. But satisfaction had never been the goal.

Submission, when freely given, was far more exquisite.

Her voice came at last—fragile but resolute.

“Ask me again.”

He didn’t move his hand. Didn’t break contact.

He leaned close to her ear, his voice rough, rich, brutal in its intimacy. “Another question?”

She nodded. A small gesture. But her whole body answered.

Sylus chuckled, low and dark, the sound curling between them like smoke under a locked door. His tongue flicked against her earlobe before he bit—sharper this time. Possessive. Branding.

“Alright then,” he murmured. “Let’s see how long you can pretend to care about answers.”

He let the silence stretch.

Not passive—but purposeful. The kind of silence that thickened the air, curled around the lungs, made every breath feel too loud, too revealing.

Her wrists lay above her head, abandoned, free. She could have moved. Could have claimed her autonomy in that moment.

She didn’t.

She wouldn’t.

There was something tragic and beautiful in that stillness. Her fingers twitched slightly, not in fear, but in restraint. Her body trembled beneath him—not with hesitation, but with memory: of his mouth, his hands, the words he had laced between her ribs like a confession only her body could translate.

Her eyes were half-lidded. Dazed, yes, but alert in that singular way he adored—watchful even in surrender. Her breath stuttered through parted lips, soft and uneven. Her chest rose and fell in time with his touch, as if her very breathing belonged to him now.

“Next question,” he said.

But his voice had changed—quieter now, rasped low with reverence and hunger, as if even language had grown heavy in his mouth.

And while he spoke, his hand moved.

Slowly. Sinfully.

He dragged his palm from her breast, down her side—charting her like a man committing sacred text to memory. His fingers skimmed the curve of her ribs, the flat of her abdomen, until the muscles there tightened beneath his touch like drawn bowstrings.

She held her breath.

Still, he kept going.

Down, tracing over the soft curve of her hip, gliding along the outer edge of her thigh until his knuckles met the top seam of her stockings. He paused there—just for a breath—then reversed course, sliding back up.

But this time, his hand disappeared beneath the hem of her skirt.

Up, slow and unyielding, along the inside of her thigh.

She gasped.

Not out of shock.

Out of need.

Still, he did not touch her where she needed him. Not yet. That would be too merciful.

Instead, his hand settled at the edge of her underwear—resting, warm and immovable, pressing lightly into the vulnerable curve of her hip. The contact was maddening in its stillness.

A promise made but not kept.

The room pulsed with tension, thick as incense. Her arousal hung in the air, visceral and electric, the silence between them now stretched so tight it was on the verge of snapping.

Sylus leaned in.

He didn’t kiss her. He brushed his lips along the shell of her cheek, then moved toward her ear—his voice a breath, a blade, a benediction.

“Name the founding member of the pre-rebellion diplomatic corps,” he whispered, “who defected and sold state secrets to the Altaris resistance.”

Her breath caught.

Of course it did.

It was a near-impossible question. Obscure. Buried in classified intel, footnoted in forgotten reports. A name she might have memorized once, maybe. But not like this.

Not with his fingers resting just shy of her core.

Not with her thighs twitching beneath his palm. Not with her body arched toward his hand like prayer seeking a god that would not yet answer.

She blinked up at him.

Her hips shifted—barely, but deliberately. A subtle tilt forward. A parting of her thighs.

Not a protest. An invitation.

And then—

Her voice. His name.

Barely above a whisper. “Sylus…”

He closed his eyes.

That sound—it wasn’t a plea.

It was confession.

It unmade him.

Something deep inside fractured, cracked open in the silence beneath her breath. She had said his name like it mattered. Like it was hers to say.

He turned his head toward her.

His lips brushed hers—just barely. Just enough to feel the heat of her want. But he didn’t kiss her. Not yet. Not until she broke for it.

He needed her wanting. Needing.

Starved.

Then—finally—his fingers moved.

Down.

Between her thighs.

Over the damp heat of her panties.

Still outside.

Still cruel.

Still withholding.

But just enough.

Just enough to make her breath hitch. Just enough to tear another quiet sound from her throat. Just enough for her to understand that he could destroy her without rushing.

Then, voice low, sharp, and undeniable:

“Answer.”

She trembled beneath him.

Lashes lowered, lips parted, her thighs twitching with the instinct to close—but his hand kept them open, unrelenting. The muscles in her legs clenched subtly, as if even her restraint begged for mercy. And he—he felt the heat of her through the lace. Damp. Pulsing. Wanting.

He still hadn’t touched her directly.

And still, she was already so close. Closer than she admitted. Closer than she dared believe.

His thumb dragged along the edge of her underwear—not teasing. Not playful. It was a warning. A promise. A line drawn with the quiet precision of a blade unsheathed.

He waited.

Letting the question he’d asked seep into her skin. Letting it settle in her bones. Letting it dissolve into the ache blooming steadily between her thighs.

And then—

She answered.

“D-Davien…” she gasped, voice thin, unraveling, “Davien Sol. He… defected after the siege of Lyssara Prime.”

The last syllable broke against her breath like a wave collapsing. Her hips bucked once, a silent plea made flesh. She didn’t beg.

She offered.

Sylus went still.

A moment. Just one.

Then the smile.

It curved across his mouth slowly, dark and warm and terribly pleased. His lips brushed her temple, breath hot against her hairline.

“Good girl.”

Then he touched her.

No more pretense. No more denial.

His fingers hooked around the lace and dragged it aside, baring her to the cool air, to his gaze, to everything he intended to do. There was no need for teasing now. Not after that answer. Not after the way she’d shattered her own voice just to please him.

She had earned it.

And he was out of patience.

He slid one finger inside her.

Deep. Slow. Intentional.

Her cry caught in her throat—beautiful, strangled, perfect—as her head fell back, spine arching off the couch like her body could no longer contain the feeling. Her hips lifted to meet him, to chase more, to beg without words.

He groaned, quiet and raw, his mouth still near her skin. The way she clenched around him—the way her warmth welcomed him in—it nearly undid him.

“Fuck,” he breathed, reverent, almost broken. “You’re soaked for me already, Kitten.”

Her hands had fallen, gripping the couch like it was the last thing keeping her tethered to this world. Her hips rolled against his hand in slow, desperate rhythm, her inner walls fluttering with every curl of his finger.

And Sylus watched.

Every flicker of her lashes. Every gasp caught in the hollow of her throat. Every unspoken plea she didn’t know how to voice.

“You’re a brilliant…—” he murmured, kissing the line of her jaw. “...sharp little thing, aren’t you? Getting that right with my fingers this close to wrecking you.”

She moaned—soft now, shaky—shivering not from cold, but from the unbearable weight of his praise. As if those words, from him, stripped her even more than his hands ever could.

He dragged his mouth down her throat, lips soft, unhurried. He began to move his hand faster—just slightly—his finger curling, again and again, pressing against the spot that made her body jolt like live wire.

His thumb came to rest above.

Still. Waiting.

Just the barest pressure. Not enough. But a threat of pleasure. A question.

Earn this.

He kissed along her collarbone, voice breaking apart at the edges now—gravel-thick, velvet-rough.

“You want another question?” he asked. “Or do you want to fall apart right here… on my fingers… like a good girl who can’t take the pressure anymore?”

She didn’t answer.

Instead—

Her moan slipped into the silence like silk falling against marble—quiet, decadent, irreversible. It was not a sound meant for this world, and yet it made his pulse thrum with a hunger too profound to name.

Sylus did not speak.

Not at first.

Instead, his hand moved again—fingers curling deep inside her, drawing a rhythm that was not frantic, not indulgent. It was measured. Focused. The precision of a scholar and the devotion of a sinner. Each thrust was slow, deliberate, angled to feel like worship disguised as anatomy.

She writhed beneath him.

Not in rebellion. In surrender.

Her hands no longer reached for anything—no longer clutched for control. They had fallen limp beside her, fingers brushing the cushions like driftwood. Her thighs trembled with every stroke, breath catching in her chest with the kind of fragile staccato that marked the brink between thought and oblivion.

“That’s it,” he murmured, lips grazing the curve of her throat. “Just like that, Kitten.”

She was unraveling in real time.

And he was watching.

Not as a voyeur.

As a believer.

“You’re taking me so well,” he whispered, voice catching. “So fucking tight. So wet.”

And then, with care that bordered on reverence, he slid in a second finger.

He didn’t rush it. He let her body take it. Let her open around him like petals in moonlight, trembling but ready. She was made for this—for his hand, his rhythm, his control.

And she let him.

His fingers filled her fully now, and still, he moved as though time bent for her. As if there were no world outside this moment, no clock ticking. Only the rise and fall of her chest, the trembling in her thighs, the sweat glossing her collarbones like holy water.

His lips moved lower—slow, lazy, unhurried.

He kissed her between her breasts. The skin there was warm. Damp. Fragile in a way that made him ache. She arched into the touch like it was a question she’d waited a lifetime to answer.

He took her nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue once before sucking deep, slow, intent. She gasped—her hands gripping the couch again, her body bowing to meet him. Every inch of her chased him now.

“That’s it,” he murmured against her skin. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

And God, she was trying not to. She was clenching around his fingers, fighting the build, hips twitching with each careful curl of his touch. Her breath came ragged, broken at the seams.

And still—he didn’t rush.

He wanted her earned.

“Doing so well,” he said, lifting his head, kissing the center of her chest like a vow. “So damn good for me.”

Her thighs began to shake in earnest now. Tiny, tremulous aftershocks.

He pressed his thumb—finally—against the swollen heat of her clit.

Just pressure. No motion.

Her whole body jolted.

A sob of breath tore from her throat. Not pain. Release.

“Come for me,” he whispered, voice shredded with restraint. “Now. Let go. Let me feel it.”

And she did.

She shattered.

It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t loud.

It was holy.

Her body convulsed around his fingers, her back arching off the couch as her mouth opened in a silent cry. Her muscles rippled with the force of it—wave after wave of climax cresting over her. Her hands clutched at the air, at fabric, at memory. Her moans dissolved into broken gasps and soft, helpless sounds that made Sylus feel like he’d been cut open and filled with fire.

He didn’t stop.

Not yet.

He moved her through it—fingers curling, drawing out the final tremors, thumb flicking just enough to keep her perched on the edge of ruin until the fall was complete.

Only then did he still.

Only then did he breathe.

She lay beneath him, wrecked in the most exquisite way—skin flushed, chest heaving, body slick with sweat and surrender. Her blouse hung open like a forgotten pretense, her skirt bunched inelegantly at her hips, her panties still askew but somehow sacred.

She was not disheveled.

She was divine.

And he—God help him—he belonged to her.

Sylus withdrew his hand slowly. Reverently. As though he were leaving the sanctuary of a temple.

His fingers gleamed with her.

He lifted his hand. And without ceremony—without show—he brought it to his mouth.

He licked them clean.

One finger at a time.

Slow. Precise.

Not to claim power.

To taste truth.

His eyes fluttered shut. Just briefly. As if he were savoring something holy.

And when he looked again—

She was watching him. Barely.

Her eyelids were heavy, her breath still uneven, but her lips curved upward. Subtle. Sly. Triumphant.

There was pride in the wreckage. Of course there was.

He leaned down. Kissed her sternum.

Then just below her collarbone.

His hand settled on her waist—not possessive. Not dominant.

Grounding.

She blinked slowly, pupils still wide, dazed and brilliant all at once.

And then she whispered:

“Another question?”

Sylus let out a hoarse laugh.

He didn’t mean to.

It was stunned. Broken. Uncontrolled.

God help him.

He was in love.

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zreamy · 4 months ago

Text

things i know that i can't have (teaser)

jake's life was hard enough before he fell for you—balancing uni, football, and being a good christian son. in some cruel twist of fate, sleeping with you has only made things harder—and, according to sunghoon (and scripture), damned him to hell the first time he thought about it.

genres: college au, (established) fwb to lovers, smut, fluff, angst

teaser warnings: minors dni, smut (yn sends nudes and jake jerks off)..........extremely dramatic (jake is going through it basically)

teaser word count: 1,125 (chose peace)

fic word count: probably around 35k???

post date: apr 3 !!!

message from zo: yeah uh huh zreamy finally finished a jake fic.. yeah uh huh (i say as i'm still writing this fic.. im affirming #lawofassumption ..sigh whatever whatever) the wip page is literally cursed !!! it is it is it is .. anyway.. jake nation will always win accept me please jake nation.......

r/Christianity

u/footballfan1511 | 2m

How bad is premarital sex, really? (Need quick answers!!!)

I (20M) have been having sex with my friend (20F) for three weeks now. I knew it was wrong, but she’s everything (very hot, totally, completely sexy), so I didn’t care. BUT I just saw this verse (Matthew 5:28-30) and apparently it’s a sin just to THINK about it???

The last time we did ‘it’ was this morning before church (sorry), and I was supposed to go over there tonight, but I’ve been freaking out about that verse all day…….. idk what to do but I really like her, so much, and I still want this, with her. Please give me advice ..

Every Thursday night. Ten p.m. sharp. Almost no exceptions. You call Jake, talking shit for as long as it takes one thing to lead to another. Tonight is an exception—you had friends over, rescheduled for midnight. Jake lies in bed, hair still damp from his post-football training shower, counting each minute as it passes. 23:55. His leg is shaking. 23:56. He sits up straight, jolting as if waking from a nightmare, nerves sharp and restless as his thumbs fly over the keyboard, texting Sunghoon.

Jake: What about phone sex?

Jake: Like if I don’t think about her while I do it?

Sunghoon’s groan reaches Jake through the thin walls of their shared flat. Drawn-out and long-suffering. Read receipt. 23:57. Three dots.

Hoon: I can’t tell you what to think, but if you’re asking me then you probably alr know

Hoon: Also..??? Do you think you can jack your shit on the phone without thinking about her 😭😭😭

Jake snorts despite himself, much too loud for the quiet. Echoing as if even the room disapproves. He closes his eyes, shakes his head. Palm to his cheek. A low smack, half-joking, half-sincere. Guilt snakes around him, a hot, unwelcome coil that won’t ease. Jake gets the sense that the choice ahead — to answer or not to answer — might drastically skew his life one way or another.

A minute early. 23:59. Your name on his screen. Phone humming in his hold, pulse lashing his throat. On the other end of the line, before he has the chance to weigh his options, you dead the call—making his decision for him.

Jake’s heart stumbles, clumsy in his chest. He thinks of the verse, sharp and prickly—crown of thorns on heavy head. He has been thinking about it since Saturday morning. Extra training with Team B, avoiding you, six-thirty wake-ups to join Sunghoon at the rink. Ice-cold mornings melting into afternoons. No matter what he tries, it always comes back. Lustful intent, adultery, with her. And despite his best efforts to pray for rapture, Thursday has come, and Jake has lived to see it.

A minute late. 00:01. Your name on his screen. Hovering thumb. He knows that phone sex and sex-sex aren’t the same thing, Matthew didn’t even have a phone—but if he could’ve, and he could’ve known you, and you wanted him? Jake sighs. He should answer. If your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off, and throw it away. The words sink their senile claws into him, holding on for dear, frail life. His phone stills in his palm.

You don’t call again. You never have. If this phone call is going to happen, it’s up to Jake to make it so. This knowledge and its weight multiply by the second. An itch he doesn’t try to scratch, knowing he won’t be able to reach it. Another agonising nine minutes trudge along. 00:10. His phone buzzes on his chest, and he knows it’s you before he looks. Two texts.

YN: Said you’d stay up for me Yunie :(((

YN: You don’t think I’m worth the wait?

Reading your messages through the notifications, he’s having a hard time convincing himself not to reply. Not to tell you he waited, that of course, you’re worth it. His guilt loosens, making space for his desire to reassure you—he cannot rule out the possibility that this desire outweighs his guilt. Silence settles in his room, stretched thin and strange around him. He sighs.

YN: Attachments: 2 images

YN: Wanted to hear your reaction, but you can tell me when you’re up ig.

YN: Night, loser :P

Butterflies, sudden and bright—teenaged. Foolish. Tucked under the notification, the photos dare him to look. His curiosity clicks it, and the first picture fills the screen, yanking his breath from his lungs.

Most of your face is cut off, showing only your lips—pouty and glossy and pretty. Pulling at him in a way he’s not quite equipped to name. This would be enough for him, an innocent selfie, you and those pretty eyes, that smile. More than enough—pulse quickening just thinking about it. His gaze lingers on your lips, stuck for a while. Then, unintentionally, his eyes flick lower. Hair fanned over your pillow, breasts peeking out from under black lace. Fuck. A sight he’s seen a million times, but somehow, each time feels like the first. Jake gulps. Holy shit. He ignores the throbbing in his pants, how much tighter they are—he won’t give in. No matter how badly he’s craving it. He’s stronger than that. With his eyes, he traces your lips. Ogles until his screen dims, locking the picture away again.

Picture two. Fuck. You on your stomach, grainy in your webcam. Arched back, black lace panties over your hips. Fuck. The lingerie, the shape of your body.. Seeing you like this, so perfect and all for him—it’s taking every last shred of his self-control not to get in his car and rush over to you. Want, need, tugs at him. A tether he can’t break. His phone locks.

Enough is enough. He drags his feet all the way back to the shower, oppressive cold water hitting him. Doing absolutely nothing for his revolting need. This isn’t working—not the water, not the attempt at self-control. Not when he’s already hard and aching against his stomach. Soft breasts. Round ass. Wet—his hand moves instinctively, forehead resting on the cool tiles. He closes his eyes, your body clear in the dark. Full lips. Arched back. He’s breathless when he finishes, head bowed as heat coils low in his stomach. The water carries his release away. Nose crinkled as it swirls around the drain, cringing at the sight—guilt, shame curling around him.

Again, he dries off, pulls on clean pyjamas, and drags his feet to bed. On his side, he closes his eyes, your body like a brand behind his eyelids, thoughts filling the quiet in his room. Exhaustion however, is its own kind of mercy, and eventually, pulls him under.

#enhypen smut #jake x reader #enhypen x reader #enhypen jake smut #wips #fic: bj #bj to the world so soon...... the wips page is cursed guys idc it literally is.

325 notes · View notes

hellinistical · 4 months ago

Text

Priest! Vampire! Rafayel x Nun! Reader

synopsis: when a charming new priest is sent to your convent amidst the winter freeze, you're naturally untrusting. unfortunately, he's more knowledgeable of the faith, and you could learn a thing or two, especially if you want to protect yourself from the recent vampire attacks. trigger warnings: (heavy plot!). minor and major character death, blood, dubious consent, sacrilegious themes (Not Christianity or Catholicism; made up religion but using synonymous terms), gore, porn with plot, fingering (fem. receiving), hand jobs, piv, non-consensual vampire transformation, bodily horror, drinking blood, playing with blood, human consumption, unwilling cannibalism, afab reader- usage of female anatomy (though not descriptive of size/skin markings). fem. reader- she/her used. biting. choking. manipulation. blasphemy. overstimulation. virgin reader. corruption. monster fucking. slight belly bulge, bondage. incorrect use of holy water. wax play. this list may expand and/or be altered. trigger warnings: (for this chapter) period blood. blood. afab reader. fem reader. chasing. dreams. forced cannibalism. major character death. maiming. body horror. descriptive language. long chapter. misuse of religious scripture. detachment of muscles. graphic violence. betrayal. live dissection. forced dissection. slight non con. manipulation. pet names. gore. choking. corruption.

a/n: this piece holds no actual religious scripture or quotes, I just needed those terms as they were synonymous. This is in NO WAY a jab at those faiths nor is it meant to spread hate or harm to them. It is also not an insult to those who practice. I tried to write with care, which yeah may be hypocritical of what I have here, so I apologize. Additionally, thank you to everyone who voted in the poll. While it was originally intended to be a one-shot, I felt it would be better to break it into chunks as this is very plot-heavy. Thank you for your support! Reblogs are highly appreciated.

word count: 18.2k

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IV. Il Prete

“I do not speak as I think, I do not think as I should,"

The door creaks open before you can even react, and there he stands—always when you least expect it. His presence fills the room, his smile too wide, too knowing, like he's been waiting for this moment all along. "Good evening, Sister, I hope you’re feeling better now?"

You don’t answer immediately, instead turning away to stare out the small window beside your bed, refusing to meet his gaze.

He doesn’t take offense—of course not. His footsteps are steady and controlled, not a sound out of place as he approaches your bedside.

"I trust Sister Yvonne and Simone have kept you company?" His voice trails off as though it's a mere afterthought.

You don’t answer, feeling the cold sweat forming on your palms. He’s too close now, close enough that you can feel the chill of his body next to yours. The coldness of his hands, always so cold.

You finally turn to face him, but you can’t meet his eyes—not those eyes that are always so full of knowing.

"Father Rafayel," you murmur, the words sticking to the back of your throat. "What do you want?"

His smile falters for a fraction of a second, but then it returns, broader than before. He reaches out, his fingers grazing the edge of your blanket.

"To ensure you're not too lonely, Sister. It’s been such a long day for you, I imagine.” His words slide over you like a serpent, coiling tighter with every syllable. "How have you been?”

“Great.” “Truly?” “No. Get out.”

You watch him, heart hammering, as his laughter reverberates off the cold stone walls of your chamber. The words "Get out" die on your lips, swallowed by the terror clawing up your throat. Yet Father Rafayel doesn't move to leave—instead, he strides over to your vanity chair, perching himself there with a casual stance.

His eyes never leave yours, and in the flickering candlelight, those inhuman irises—blue and pink, swirling in a hypnotic pattern—seem to drill into your very soul. The room feels small, the air thick with the heavy scent of his cologne mixed with something less definable, something that reeks of inevitability and despair.

"Tell me, Sister," he murmurs, his voice soft and silken yet laced with an unmistakable undercurrent of menace, "how have you truly been?" His tone drips with mock concern as if he cares deeply, yet his smile reveals a twisted amusement at your obvious discomfort.

You swallow hard, the taste of bile still lingering on your tongue. "Great," you manage to reply, your voice sounding brittle and false even to your own ears.

He leans back with an easy grace, one leg crossing over the other as he studies you with that same amused, unreadable expression. The lamplight flickers, casting shadows that stretch long across the walls, elongating his figure.

"You wound me, Sister," he says, placing a hand over his chest as if your words had struck him. "Is that any way to speak to your teacher? After all, I’ve gone through such trouble to check on you."

You tighten your grip on your blanket, fingers clenching into the fabric to keep your hands from shaking. "I don’t need your concern."

Rafayel sighs, tapping his fingers against the arm of the chair in a slow, methodical rhythm. "That sharp tongue of yours will get you in trouble one day." His gaze flickers to the loose strands of hair falling over your shoulder, and something in his expression shifts—just for a moment. "Sister Jenna should really be helping you with your habit. It’s a shame to see you so… undone."

Your jaw tightens. "Why are you here, really?"

"Oh, but I already told you. Lessons must continue, even in the face of adversity. And… well, I do so hate to see you cooped up all alone."

Rafayel's lips part just slightly as he grins, and that's when you see them—gleaming, sharp fangs, nestled among otherwise ordinary teeth.

How had you not noticed before?

How had no one noticed before?

The way his canines press just a bit too sharply against his lower lip, how they gleam in the dim candlelight like polished ivory…

Your fingers twitch toward the beads at your bedside, but you hesitate. Would that even do anything? Your mind races, stomach twisting with something far worse than fear—something closer to understanding, a horrifying realization creeping at the edges of your thoughts.

Rafayel tilts his head, watching you with something akin to amusement. “Oh? Not a fan, are you?” He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together as though in quiet prayer. “Well, that is unfortunate. I quite like you.”

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady. “With all due respect, Father, you're quite the hypocrite, and I’m not the biggest fan.”

His laughter is soft, warm even, but it sends a chill straight down your spine. “Hypocrisy? My dear Sister, I merely practice what I preach—power is meant to be checked, is it not?” His fingers drum against the chair’s armrest, slow and deliberate. “I simply ensure it does not go unchecked in the wrong hands.”

He isn’t talking about himself.

He’s talking about you.

Adjusting how you sit, suddenly feeling as though your back is too stiff, you take the pillow away from your back. When you open your mouth to speak, he raises a hand.

"Before you answer, Sister, you're a smart woman. So let's cut to the chase, hm? You know what I am, you watched me kill that woman. You've probably figured out about the rest. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to help me get my meals, and I won't kill you."

Help him? Help him?

He says it so plainly, so casually, as if he’s asking you to pass the salt at dinner rather than demanding you lure innocent people to their deaths.

Rafayel watches your reaction with quiet amusement, his fangs catching the candlelight as he speaks again, voice smooth and patient. “It’s a rather simple arrangement. You’re already quite good at charity work—this will be no different. Just…a different sort of donation.”

"I will not-" Rafayel sighs like you just told him you won’t eat your vegetables. He leans back in the chair, legs spreading wide as he gets comfortable, drumming his fingers against the armrest. “C’mon, pet, don’t make this difficult.”

You stiffen. “I am not your—”

He waves a hand, cutting you off. “Yeah, yeah, you are, but we’ll circle back to that.” His smirk widens, and you hate how casual he is, like he’s discussing the weather. “Look, I get it. You’re upset. You saw something nasty, had a little existential crisis, threw up a few times—”

Your stomach turns.

“—but here’s the thing,” he continues, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re smart, Sister. And you care. That’s your whole thing, right? You care so damn much.” His gaze flicks to you, sharp and knowing. “Which is exactly why you’re gonna help me.”

You shake your head immediately. “I won’t.”

He actually laughs at that. “Oh, you will.” He stretches, rolling his shoulders. “Because if you don’t, well… I’ll just have to start getting creative.” His voice is light, conversational. “Maybe start with Yvonne. She’s always so chatty. Or Simone—she’s got sass in her, I like that.”

Your blood runs cold.

Rafayel grins. “See? You’re already thinking about it.” He reaches out, flicking a stray strand of hair behind your ear like this is some friendly little talk between acquaintances. “So take your time, sleep on it. But don’t take too long, yeah?”

And just like that, he stands, dusting himself off like this has all been a very boring chore. “I’ll be expecting a yes, pet. Don’t disappoint me.”

Rafayel pauses for a moment, his chest rising with a deep, almost exaggerated breath, as though he’s just stepped into a field of blooming flowers. And then, without warning, he leans in, the cool air between you shifting as he presses his lips to your cheek.

It’s not a soft kiss, not tender. It’s firm. As though he’s marking you

His lips barely brush your skin, but the sensation lingers, cold and wrong. He takes a deep breath, like he’s savoring something, and when he pulls back, there’s a slow, lazy smile on his face.

“Sweet,” he muses, tapping a finger against his lips. “Just like I thought.”

Your stomach churns. Your skin burns where he touched you, like it might rot away if you don’t scrub it clean. His scent fills your nose—something unsettlingly familiar, something that belongs only to him.

He chuckles at your expression, at the way you’re gripping your sheets like they might save you. “Don’t look so scared, Sister. It’s just a little kiss.” He turns, walking to the door with a hum, before tossing one last glance over his shoulder. “Sleep well, pet.”

You want to scrub the spot where he touched you until it bleeds, but you can’t move. Your limbs feel heavy, as though something inside you has frozen over, solidifying in place.

His footsteps retreat down the hall, but his presence stays with you, suffocating. A dark stain spreading across the room, turning everything in it into something vile.

It was just a kiss. He’d said so himself.

But it was not just a kiss.

You wrap your arms around yourself, trembling, and you wonder if you'll ever be able to rid yourself of the feeling of his lips.

The morning light filtered in through the cracks in the curtains, but it did nothing to ease the sick feeling in your stomach. You groaned, pressing your hands to your stomach “Astra above, I hate this,”

The chill in the air felt colder today, and your mind immediately raced to yesterday’s events, to the way his lips had grazed your cheek and the sick feeling it had left behind. The blood had stained your undergarments. You move as quickly as the cramps will allow, stripping the soiled cloth away with a grimace. The sensation is awful—sticky, damp, and warm in the worst way. You bundle it up, tossing it aside to deal with later. Right now, you need water. Hot, scalding water to burn away the discomfort clinging to you like a second skin.

Shuffling toward the washbasin, you prayed no one decides this is the morning to check in on you. The last thing you need is Yvonne or Simone barging in with their usual chatter while you’re hunched over, scrubbing at yourself like a woman possessed.

The moment you splash water onto your skin, a shudder rolls down your spine. It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. Not when you still feel him—his breath, his hands, the way he lingered too close with that smug, knowing smile.

You dunk the cloth into the basin again, rubbing harder. The water turns pink.

Damn him.

You should be worried about other things—like why your cycle came late, or whether Sister Jenna has noticed your absence—but all you can think about is him. His cold touch. His fangs. The way he looked at you like you were something to be had.

Your stomach twists, though whether from the cramps or the memories, you’re not sure…and you don’t know if it’s a good thing, the way the tips of your fingers feel numb, as if a swarm of butterflies had taken refuge inside your skin.

You feel your cheeks grow warm.

"Curse his damn face," you mutter under your breath, throwing the rag back into the basin with a wet slap.

You’d like to go one day—one—without thinking about him. But it seems even the gods aren’t that merciful.

Changing the water after you cleaned up, you wince. You’d need to light the fire if you wanted anything consistently hot.

Pulling your head out of the tub, you take a mouthful of sudsy water with you as you cough and sputter. The water sloshes around you as you catch your breath, heart pounding from the sudden shock of nearly slipping under. Soap clings to your lips, bitter and sharp, and you spit it out with a grimace.

Brilliant. Drowning in a bathtub. What a way to go.

Pushing your hair back, you wipe at your stinging eyes, willing the heat in your cheeks to fade. You rest your arms on the edge of the tub, staring at the rippling water. The steam curls around you, thick and cloying, but it does little to ease the weight pressing against your chest.

He’s in your head. No matter how much you try to push him out, his voice, his touch, the way he looked at you—

You squeeze your eyes shut. Just breathe. Focus.

A knock on the door. Fuck. Who could it be? Jenna? Yvonne? Simone? "Bathing! Come back later!"

Silence.

For a moment, you think whoever it was has actually listened, but then—another knock.

You grip the edge of the tub. “I said I’m bathing. Come back later.”

"Oh, don't mind me, pet. Take your time."

The door stays shut, but the voice slithers through the wood, smooth and unhurried.

"Though, if you need a hand," Rafayel continues, voice laced with amusement, "I’d be happy to assist."

Your stomach twists. "Get. Out."

A chuckle, deep and knowing. "Oh, but I’m not in, am I?"

Your fingers twitch toward the nearest thing you can throw. A soap dish. Not nearly heavy enough, but it’ll do.

"Don’t you have a sermon to give?" you snap, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Hm. I do," he muses. "But I thought I’d check on my favorite little lamb first."

Your grip tightens. "I swear on Astra’s light—"

"Careful, Sister," he interrupts, voice dripping with false chastisement. "Oaths are binding things. Now, be good and finish your bath. I’ll see you soon.”

His footsteps fade down the hall.

You need to get out of here.

Father Rafayel stands at the pulpit, his voice rising, reverberating through the wooden beams. The congregation sits in rapt attention, some faces lit with a fervor you find undeserved, if not for his clear violations of priesthood, than for the lack of variety in his sermons.

His words are like honey, sweet but laced with poison. The man has truly mastered the art of manipulation.

"The Vampires," he continued, pacing slowly, his every step a rhythm. "They sought rebellion, but rebellion is the realm of those too blinded by pride to see the true light. And Astra, in His infinite wisdom, gave them a chance—a chance for redemption, should they seek a bride to prove their loyalty." Father Rafayel pauses, his gaze sweeping the room, landing on you for a brief moment.

You sit stiffly in your pew, hands clasped in your lap. The church is suffocatingly full, every bench packed, every eye turned toward the pulpit where Father Rafayel stands. His voice, smooth as ever, wraps around the congregation like a serpent coiling its prey.

"A bride," he repeats, letting the words hang, letting them settle into the minds of his rapt audience. "A chance at salvation. A chance to be made whole in Astra’s light."

They’d been focused on the Vampires before, but…

Since when had his sermons taken this turn?

Simone leans in, whispering, “Kinda weird, huh?” Her voice is light, joking, but there’s an edge beneath it. She’s noticed too.

Yvonne, on your other side, tilts her head. “I think it’s romantic.”

You barely bite back a scoff. Romantic? The way he spoke of it felt less like devotion and more like ownership.

And of course, stupid, sweet Yvonne raised her hand. About to pinch her to put it down, Rafayel had already noticed. His gaze was unreadable for a split second, and then that damning smile was easy and on. “Yes, Sister Yvonne?”

She clears her throat, sitting up straighter. “Father, does that mean the vampires can be saved? If they find a bride?” Simone subtly grabs your sleeve under the pew. Rafayel steps down from the pulpit, slow and deliberate. “Oh, Sister Yvonne,” he muses, his voice dripping with amusement. “What a wonderful question.”

He stops right in front of your row, right in front of her.

You don’t dare look up.

“But tell me,” he continues, tone light as air, “would you offer yourself, if such a creature sought salvation?”

Yvonne flushes. “O-oh, well— I just meant—”

His fingers brush her chin, tilting it up ever so slightly. The whole congregation watches, waiting. “Such devotion.” Chuckling, he releases her and straightens. “A heart as pure as yours, Sister, is a gift to Astra indeed.”

The tension in the room breaks. The sermon moves on.

Was no one seeing how blatantly wrong this all was?

But Yvonne just purses her lips. Father Rafayel continues on. "Now now, I know we've all been on this topic for quite some time as it is reoccurring. So, let us have a breathe of fresh air, Hmm? What would the Sisters like to discuss?"

There’s a murmur of excitement as the congregation shifts, relieved by the change in topic. Yvonne and Simone exchange glances before Yvonne hesitantly raises her hand again.

“If it pleases you, Father,” she begins, “could we speak of Astra’s chosen? The saints?”

Father Rafayel chuckles, tilting his head. “Ah, a lovely choice. The saints. The most beloved of Astra’s servants.” His gaze flickers briefly across the Temple. “Tell me, Sister Yvonne, do you have a particular saint in mind?”

Yvonne thinks for a moment before nodding. “Saint Callista. Her miracles were always my favorite growing up.”

There’s a murmur of agreement from the other sisters, nods of approval.

Rafayel leans back ever so slightly, resting his hands on the podium in an easy, practiced motion. There is nothing grandiose in the way he speaks, no performative weight to his words—just the natural, fluid cadence of a man accustomed to teaching.

"Saint Callista," he repeats, as if rolling the name over in his mind. "A good choice." He takes a moment, thoughtful, as though he's considering how best to explain.

"She was known for her piety, yes," he continues, "but more than that, she was willing. That is what set her apart. Many saints were martyred, many suffered for their faith, but Callista? She offered herself. Freely. Without hesitation. That is why she was blessed beyond death."

A few heads nod. Yvonne tilts her head, thoughtful. Simone shifts slightly, but says nothing.

“Of course,” he adds, almost lightly, “sacrifice is not for everyone.” A pause, the ghost of a smile. “Not everyone is worthy of it.”

He closes the book with a soft thud before standing up.

“Take, for example, Sister Y/n. Would you stand up, please?”

Rafayel's eyes flicker over you briefly, but there's no malice in his gaze—just that same calm, steady presence, like a teacher guiding a student through a well-worn exercise. He doesn’t demand attention, but somehow, all eyes turn toward you, drawn by his subtle power.

"Now, Sister Y/n," he begins, his voice even and calm, not an ounce of mockery in his words. "What would you say it means to offer oneself to Astra? To give freely and without hesitation?"

His gaze doesn’t waver from yours, and it’s like he’s waiting for an answer. Not like he expects one, not like he’s trying to put you on the spot, but more like he’s just curious—almost academically so. His fingers rest gently on the edge of his book, and you can feel the weight of the room's attention on you, but it's not uncomfortable. He makes it easy, as if you could refuse at any time and it wouldn’t matter to him.

"Think about it, Sister," he continues, voice smooth, "Surrender is a gift in itself. And it’s not something just anyone can give, is it?" There's a soft, contemplative pause, but his eyes never leave yours.

"I think...it means letting go of-"

One of the postulants interrupts, answering for you. “Letting go of your truest self and giving your soul!”

Rafayel’s tongue clicks softly, and for the briefest moment, something sharp flickers across his face—annoyance, maybe even distaste. But it's gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced with that smooth, patient smile of his.

"Ah," he hums, turning his attention to the postulant who interrupted. "A thoughtful answer, Sister. Though, I must admit, I was rather curious to hear what Sister Y/n had to say."

His tone is mild, but there’s an unmistakable finality to it. The postulant ducks her head, suddenly unsure, while Rafayel gestures for you to continue, as if the interruption had never happened.

"Please, Sister," he says, and his voice is kind—too kind. "You were saying?"

"I...I disagree with Sister Marianna. I think to offer oneself you are offering a sort of...*finality*, with your eternal soul, putting the afterlife above this, with which even if you die, it is in thanks to our Lord. A blessing, so to speak."

Rafayel tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing just enough to let you know he’s considering your words with more weight than usual. His gaze shifts from you to the rest of the room, scanning the group of young women. His voice is quiet, yet firm as he speaks.

"Interesting," he muses. "A self-sacrifice in the name of salvation, something more eternal. But let me ask you this, Sister Y/n—what happens when that sacrifice is taken without choice? Is the soul still willing to give itself, then?"

He stands, pacing slowly in front of the altar, his fingers lightly brushing the pages of his book, but his focus clearly on the subject at hand.

"It’s easy to speak of offering yourself when it’s voluntary," Rafayel continues, his voice gaining a certain depth, almost hypnotic. "But if forced, what value does that offering have? What grace can there be in that?" He pauses, letting the question hang in the air for a moment before turning his gaze back to you.

"I wonder, Sister, would you still feel the same if your choice were taken from you?"

His smile is almost too gentle, his expression so casual, as if asking the most natural question in the world.

“It depends on the pleasure of their lived life, I suppose, to determine if the value is there or not.”

Rafayel hums in acknowledgment, his fingers idly tracing the spine of his book. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something—amusement? Approval? It’s impossible to tell.

"A fascinating perspective," he says, voice even. "One’s lived experience dictating the worth of their sacrifice. A transactional sort of faith, wouldn't you say?"

He lets the words settle, then continues, stepping down from the altar’s platform.

"But tell me, Sister Y/n, if suffering outweighs pleasure, does that make the soul’s offering… meaningless? If pain eclipses joy, does that lessen the value of devotion?"

He stops just beside your row, looking out at the others rather than at you directly. There’s something disturbingly casual about his presence, as if this is nothing more than a friendly debate, as if he’s not leading you somewhere far, far darker.

"Or perhaps," he muses, "it’s quite the opposite. Perhaps those who suffer the most offer the greatest sacrifice of all."

"Not at all. If their last moments were that of pleasure, I see no reason as to why it would not count, regardless of how much pain there was to supposedly out weigh it. Pleasure depending on the person being- and excuse me- whether lust in sexual affairs or that of an enjoyable hobby."

Rafayel’s eyes flicker for a moment as you speak, the faintest glimmer of something dangerous behind his calm demeanor. He doesn’t interrupt, though, letting you finish your thought. "Ah, so it’s the subjective nature of the pleasure that gives it its value?" He tilts his head slightly, considering. "Then, by your logic, someone may find peace in their final moments, their soul offering complete, because they spent their last moments doing what they loved, regardless of the cost of that passion. Even if they were to find themselves at the very precipice of hell for it?" His gaze finally lands on you, and for a second, it’s almost like he’s scrutinizing your every word, every breath.

"But isn’t that a dangerous path, Sister? If everything depends on personal satisfaction, where does one draw the line between self-preservation and sacrifice for the greater good?" He tilts his head slightly, his smile returning to something more playful.

He steps closer now, his presence imposing yet soft, the lines of his voice dropping lower. "A truly compelling notion, Sister. It almost implies that humanity, at its core, is not bound by pain or suffering but by what it chooses to embrace in its final breath. It suggests that in life, it is the joy that endures, not the torment." He pauses for a heartbeat, letting the silence stretch out between you. His gaze flickers to the rest of the room, to the others who seem to listen but remain silent, their attention clearly drawn to the unfolding conversation.

"And yet," Rafayel continues, his voice turning thoughtful, "we return to a rather simple question: If pleasure is so paramount, then why do we continually reject it in favor of discipline, of duty? Why is it that we are taught that sacrifice must be painful, that devotion must be without joy?"

“Tell me, Sister, would you say the gods themselves—those we revere—truly understand the weight of sacrifice, or are they simply looking for compliance, for submission?"

"Religion at its core is a man made ideology created to bring comfort from the unknown- is this the answer you wish for, Father? And still you try to make the question phrased as if to suggest my waverance in my faith?"

Father Rafayel’s smile doesn’t falter, though there’s an unmistakable sharpness in the way his eyes lock onto yours. He leans back slightly, folding his arms across his chest, but there’s an unsettling calmness in his demeanor, as if your words are merely the next piece of a puzzle he's been putting together.

"A thought-provoking perspective, Sister," he says slowly, almost savoring the weight of the exchange. "But you misunderstand me, I assure you. I’ve no intention of questioning your faith. No, it’s not your faith that I doubt, but perhaps the ease with which you claim certainty."

He takes a small step closer, lowering his voice, yet keeping it steady and soothing. "You see, faith—true faith—doesn't require the comfort of answers. It thrives in the unknown, in the questions. Religion, or at least the true form of it, is not about certainty. It is about accepting the chaos and the paradoxes. The belief that the divine, in all its mystery, is still worthy of trust, even when the answers don’t align with the world as we know it."

He uncrosses his arms, the soft rustle of his robes punctuating the silence that settles in the room. "That is why I ask you, Sister. You speak of religion as a creation of man, but is that not the very beauty of it? We—humankind—are meant to shape and mold what we believe, to become closer to the divine through our actions and thoughts. And I believe," he pauses, a slight edge creeping into his tone, "that you have the capacity to understand the true purpose of faith. Don’t you?"

His gaze intensifies, holding yours with an almost predatory focus. "So I ask again, Sister, where do you stand? What will you do when your beliefs are truly challenged? Will you embrace them or reject them, as so many have before?"

There’s a moment of silence, thick and suffocating, before he steps back, allowing the question to linger in the air between you like an unspoken dare.

The stone walls around you seem to press in a little closer as you walk, the weight of the silence heavy in the air. The hall is dim, with only the flickering light from torches along the walls casting long, uneven shadows. Each step of your shoes echoes louder than the last, your heartbeat drumming in your ears.

The air smells faintly of old stone and incense, mingling with the cold draft that slips through cracks in the walls. You can hear the distant murmurs of the other Sisters, their voices muffled and far away, lost in the sprawling expanse of the monastery.

Your mind feels a little foggy, heavy with the conversation from earlier. Rafayel’s words still linger in your thoughts like an echo, nagging at you. They don't sit right, and yet, they gnaw at the edges of your convictions, making you second-guess everything you thought you knew about faith, religion, and your place in it all.

As you approach the doors to the main hall, you pause. The feeling of being watched creeps up your spine, cold and uninviting. You glance over your shoulder, half-expecting to find Father Rafayel standing in the shadows, watching you with that unsettling, calculating gaze.

But there’s no one.

Just the silence.

Taking a deep breath, you push the doors open, your footsteps barely audible against the stone floor as you step into the dim light of the hall. The heavy doors creak as they close behind you, sealing you into the quiet sanctuary of the place that’s both your refuge and your prison.

A figure stands near the altar, facing away from you. It’s him.

Rafayel.

He doesn’t turn as you approach, but you can feel his awareness of you, like a presence pressing down on you from all sides.

Walking past him, he doesn’t look up.

“Midnight, Sister. Do not forget.”

Your shoes click against the stone floor as you move quickly through the hall, and the distant echoes of your footsteps are the only sound in the air.

Midnight. That’s when he wants you, when he’ll come to take you.

You keep your focus straight ahead, your mind racing. You can’t help but wonder: What would happen if you refuse? What if you just... disappear?

Something clicks into place, a thought so simple yet so obvious it almost makes you laugh.

Disappearing. That’s it.

Your breath catches as you push off the door, pacing now, your thoughts unraveling in frantic, chaotic threads. It wasn’t just the sermons, the changes in doctrine, the way Rafayel had wormed his influence deeper and deeper into the village under the guise of faith.

It was the timing.

It was the pattern.

Because midnight was when Astra cast judgment. When the veil between the holy and the unholy was at its thinnest.

And if Rafayel had been twisting doctrine, twisting you—

Then what, exactly, was he planning to do?

It doesn’t matter. You needed to get out. Like hell you were going to help him. No way. No chance.

The further you get from him, the heavier your chest feels. You know he's watching you, that unsettling stillness he always carries with him wrapping around you like a noose, but you refuse to turn back. You won't give him the satisfaction of seeing you falter. Your shoes click against the stone floor as you move quickly through the hall, and the distant echoes of your footsteps are the only sound in the air. Finding your room, you open the door-

“Huh?” Why was Sister Jenna here?

She was sitting on your bed, hands folded neatly in her lap, back straight as a rod. At the sound of the door opening, her head snapped up, and she smiled—too bright, too forced.

“Sister Y/N,” she greeted, voice smooth but… off. “I was just tidying up.”

Your eyes flicked over your room. Nothing seemed out of place. Your bed was still made. Your books stacked just as you left them. The only thing that had changed… was her.

“I was hoping to speak with you.”

“About what?” you asked, stepping inside cautiously.

Sister Jenna tilted her head, studying you. “About Father Rafayel.”

Your breath hitched.

“What about him?”

Jenna’s smile widened, but her eyes—her eyes were watching you too closely.

“Oh, Sister,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I think you already know.”

“Did Father Rafayel send you?” You kept your voice even, careful.

Jenna blinked—too slow. And then she smiled.

“He does worry about you, you know.”

Your grip tightens around the handle, pulse hammering against your ribs.

Jenna takes a step forward. Not threatening, not quite, but there’s something in the way she moves—like she’s already decided how this is going to end. Jenna tilts her head, watching you like a cat might a cornered mouse. “Where are you going, Sister?” Her voice is gentle, too gentle.

“I— I’m tired,” you lie. “It’s been a long day.”

Her smile doesn’t waver. “Oh, I understand. But you really should stay put. It’s dangerous to be out at night.”

Your grip tightens. “Since when?”

“Since now.”

The air in the room shifts, the weight of something unspoken settling between you. Jenna takes a slow step forward. You push back against the door, pulse hammering in your throat.

She isn’t stopping you. Not yet. But she isn’t letting you go, either.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” she says, her voice sickeningly sweet. “It’ll be painless. I made sure of it.” You turn the handle, and she stands up.

“I know you’ve been struggling,” she says, voice laced with something that might have passed for concern if not for the glint in her eye. “Your faith. Your health. It’s been so hard for you, hasn’t it, Sister?”

You swallow. “I’m fine.”

A soft sigh, almost pitying. “No, you’re not.”

She takes another step forward. You step back.

“You shouldn’t fight this,” she continues, her voice taking on a rehearsed tone.

“You—” Your breath catches. “You’re giving me to him.”

Jenna sighs, clasping her hands together. “It’s not personal, Sister. He needs someone, and I… I can’t die yet.”Her eyes flicker with something desperate, something rotten. “You understand, don’t you?”

“No. I don’t.” You don’t hesitate. The fire poker is cold and solid in your grip, and you swing it with every ounce of strength you have.

Jenna barely dodges. The tip of the poker grazes her shoulder, and she hisses, stumbling back.

"You crazy bitch!" she snaps, clutching her arm.

"I should be saying that to you!" you snarl back.You don’t wait. You raise the poker again, aiming for her ribs this time, but she sees it coming.

She ducks, grabbing the shaft of the poker and yanking it. You stumble, losing your grip as the poker is ripped from your hands. But you don’t give her a chance to recover. You throw yourself at her, ramming your shoulder into her chest. She grunts as the impact sends both of you crashing to the floor.

You scramble to your feet first, your heart hammering as you make for the door.

But Jenna is fast.

She grabs your robes, yanking you back before you can escape.

"Where the fuck do you think you’re going?!"

You twist, elbowing her in the ribs. She lets out a sharp oof but doesn’t let go. You barely have time to react before she swings it at you.

You dodge, the poker narrowly missing your ribs. The air hums with the force of her swing. You don’t think. You just throw yourself at her, ramming your shoulder into her chest.

She grunts, knocked back a few steps, but she’s quick—too quick. Her fingers snatch at your robes, dragging you down with her.

You hit the floor hard, pain bursting through your back. But you don’t stop. You scramble, trying to roll away, to get up, but then—

Her hands are in your hair.

She yanks your head back, the sharp sting shooting through your scalp.

"Fucking—!" you gasp, one hand reaching to claw at her wrist, the other punching wildly. You connect—a sharp smack to her cheek—but she only snarls.

"Stop fighting!" she snaps, gripping your arm and twisting it behind your back.

"Get off of me!" you scream, thrashing, trying to buck her off.

She slams your head into the floor.

White-hot pain explodes through your skull. Your vision flares, then dims at the edges.

Your ears ring. Your limbs feel sluggish.

"You’re ruining everything," she growls, grabbing your wrist and forcing it above your head. "Do you think he would’ve let me go if I didn’t give him something better?!"

Your breath catches.

"He was going to take me," she spits, her voice shaking. "But then I realized—he wants you more. So I made a deal. You go to him, and I get to live."

Your legs kick, your free hand claws at anything it can reach—her face, her arms, her throat. You rake your nails across her cheek, feeling the skin break beneath your fingers.

She screeches, jerking back—but it’s not enough.

Before you can shove her off, she shifts, straddling your waist and pinning you beneath her weight.

"Just stop!" she snarls, gripping both your wrists and slamming them above your head. "You’ll only make it worse for yourself!"

"Fuck you!" you spit, wrenching against her grip.

She doesn’t budge. Instead, she presses her forearm against your throat.

You can’t breathe.

Your mouth falls open, a strangled, wheezing gasp escaping as panic erupts through you. Panic surges through you as your vision darkens at the edges. You choke, your legs kicking uselessly against the wooden floor.

Your fingers claw at her arm, nails digging into her skin, but she only presses harder.

"Shhh," she murmurs, leaning down, her breath warm against your ear. "It’s alright, Sister. It’ll be over soon."

Darkness pulls at the edges of your vision, but you can still feel it—Jenna’s iron grip on your face, her nails digging into your skin.

“There,” she huffs, panting from the struggle. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She ties you up, grabbing your face harshly before letting go.

“There,” she huffs, panting from the struggle. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Your limbs are useless, bound tight, and your head lolls as she forces you to look at her. Then—

The door creaks open.

A slow, deliberate step.

The air shifts, thick and oppressive, sinking like a weight into the room.

Jenna goes still. Her fingers tighten on your jaw.

Then—

A voice. Smooth, cold, and dripping with venom.

“…Sister Jenna.”

The last thing you feel is Jenna’s nails digging into your cheeks, forcing your head still. The last thing you hear is the sharp intake of breath from the doorway.

And the last thing you see—before the darkness swallows you whole—is Father Rafayel’s face.

His expression is unreadable.

But his eyes?

His eyes are seething.

Then, everything fades.

You wake up to the sensation of something cool against your forehead. Your head pounds, your limbs feel like lead, and for a moment, you can’t remember where you are.

Then it hits you.

Jenna. The struggle. The rope biting into your wrists.

And then—

Him.

Your eyes snap open.

The room is dim, flickering candlelight casting long, eerie shadows along the stone walls. You try to move, only to realize you’re still restrained. Not as tightly as before, but enough. And sitting across from you, elbows lazily resting on his knees, is Father Rafayel.

He says nothing at first, just watches. Like a predator taking its time with wounded prey.

Then, finally, in a voice quieter than you’ve ever heard from him, he asks:

“…Are you hurt?”

You don’t answer, looking around frantically.

The room feels unbearably cold, the air thick and stale with something you can't quite place. Your pulse races in your ears, a sharp contrast to the eerie silence that hangs between you and Rafayel. The cold stone floor presses against your bare feet, and the lack of your habit—the comfort of its weight—only heightens your vulnerability. The back of your neck prickles, exposed, and your hair stirs with the ghost of a memory.

Your eyes flick to the corner, where a pile of clothes is neatly folded—your habit. But it's not yours anymore. Not the one you remember. The silence between you two deepens.

His gaze hasn't wavered from you. The intensity of it, the unspoken questions in those unsettling eyes, it forces your chest to tighten. His calm demeanor is almost worse than anything, especially after everything that just happened.

“Well?”

You shift, testing the restraints. Your wrists ache, but the bindings aren’t as tight as before. You swallow hard, your throat dry as sandpaper.

Father Rafayel watches you closely, his head tilting slightly. "I asked you a question, Sister." His voice is calm—too calm. The kind of calm that slithers under your skin like a warning.

You lick your lips. "You tied me up."

His lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but something close.”Sister Jenna tied you up.”

You glare at him. "And you left me like this."

He shrugs, rolling his shoulders as if the conversation bores him. "Would you have preferred I let her finish what she started?"

Your jaw tightens. He has a point, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. Instead, you test the bindings again, hoping for some give.

"Ah, ah," he chides, stepping closer. "You'll only hurt yourself. And I’d rather not have my little pet all bruised up—"

"I'm not your pet."

Rafayel sighs as if you're being difficult on purpose. "Sister, you’re in quite the predicament to be making declarations, don't you think?"

You scowl, but he continues before you can fire back. "Now, are you hurt?" His voice is gentler this time, almost coaxing.

You hesitate. "No."

"Good." He steps even closer, crouching down so he's level with you. His cold fingers brush your cheek, tilting your head just so. "You were very brave," he murmurs. "Very, very brave."

You swallow hard. "Let me go."

He smiles. "Not yet."

He shifts his weight slightly as he gets on his knees behind you, his eyes narrowing as he inspects the marks on your wrists. His tongue clicks in disapproval. "All beaten up. That's no good," he murmurs, his voice a mix of irritation and cold concern. His gloved fingers trace the fresh bruises and raw skin, the harsh reality of his examination underscoring his words.

You flinch when his fingers ghost over the raw skin of your wrists, feeling the sting of torn flesh beneath the bindings. He tsks softly, his breath cool against the nape of your neck.

"She was quite rough with you, wasn't she?" His tone is light, almost amused, but there's something darker beneath it. Something that makes your stomach twist.

"She was trying to kill me," you snap. "Forgive me if I'm not too concerned about how rough she was."

Rafayel hums, undoing the knots with practiced ease. "A shame, really. I liked Jenna. She had a certain…pragmatism to her."

"She was going to sell me to you."

"And that was very pragmatic of her, don't you think?" He chuckles as he pulls the rope free, rubbing circles into your sore wrists. His touch is deceptively gentle. "But don’t worry, Sister. I have no use for traitors."

Something about the way he says it sends a shiver down your spine.

"She's still alive," you whisper.

"For now."

You swallow hard. "Are you going to kill her?"

He leans in, his lips dangerously close to your ear. "What do you think?"

His hand drifts dangerously close to your neck.

You let out a slow, shaky breath as his hand finally retreats, but the ghost of his touch lingers like a threat.

He stands, stretching lazily before offering you a smirk. "No more 'Father Rafayel' nonsense. Just Rafayel will do."

You glare at him, rubbing your sore wrists. "You're the one who insisted on it in the first place."

"And now I’m insisting otherwise." His head tilts slightly, watching you with an amused gleam in his eyes. "Come now, we’ve been through so much together. Surely we can be on a first-name basis."

"Go to hell," you spit.

He barks out a laugh.

Your jaw tightens, but you don’t say anything. You can’t. He’s watching you too closely, like a cat toying with a wounded bird.

Then, with an easy smile, he gestures toward the door. "Shall we?"

You don’t move. "Where?"

"To see Jenna, of course." His smile doesn’t waver. "She did go through all that trouble for you. It’s only fair we return the favor."

“But-” "Everyone's asleep." He picks you up with ease, your bindings stopping you from lashing. You squirm, uncomfortable.

“Put me down,” you hiss, thrashing as much as you can, but with your wrists bound, it’s a pathetic attempt at resistance. He ignores you, walking as if carrying you is no more effort than holding a book.

You squirm harder, your bound wrists digging uncomfortably into your back. "You bastard—"

"Tsk." He clicks his tongue, adjusting his hold so you’re pressed tighter against his chest. "Such language from a holy woman."

You grit your teeth, heart hammering as he descends the stairs, the air growing colder, damp. The cellar. Your breath is ragged, fury and fear mixing into something wild inside you. The corridor is eerily silent, only the soft padding of his footsteps breaking through. The weight of the moment sinks in.

For what? Retribution? A lesson?

You don’t want to find out.

"You bastard," you seethe- its the only curse on your tongue in the moment, your voice barely above a whisper. "If you think I’ll just stand by and—"

He leans in, his breath cool against your ear. "Hush, pet."

Your whole body locks up.

"Wouldn't want to wake anyone, would we?"

Your breath comes faster now. "Rafayel—"

"Shh." His voice drops to a murmur as he pushes open the heavy wooden door. "I don’t want to ruin the surprise."

The room is dimly lit by a single candle. The smell of damp stone and something metallic clings to the air.

And then you see her.

Sister Jenna.

Tied to a table, her head drooping forward, a fresh bruise blooming across her cheek. Her chest rises and falls—she’s alive.

Barely.

Rafayel hums thoughtfully, setting you down with deliberate care. His hands linger on your arms before he steps back, watching you expectantly.

"Go on," he says, almost gently. "Say hello."

Her wrists and ankles secured so tightly the rope has bitten into her skin. Dried blood crusts around the bindings, and her breath comes in short, ragged gasps.

Beside the table, neatly arranged on a metal tray, are knives.

Your throat tightens as you stare at them. The candlelight gleams off their sharpened edges, each one pristine, waiting.

Rafayel watches you, his expression unreadable. "Quite the sight, isn't it?" His voice is light, conversational, as if discussing the weather.

You take a step back, but he moves faster, fingers curling around your upper arm in a firm grip. "No, no, don’t run just yet."

"Rafayel," you whisper, panic creeping in. "What—what are you doing?"

He sighs, almost disappointed. "I thought you'd be quicker than this, pet. She offered you to me, did she not? She was ready to serve you up like a lamb to slaughter, all to save herself."

Jenna lets out a weak whimper, barely lifting her head. Her eyes are hazy, unfocused, but when they land on you, something like fear flickers across her face.

"She’s no martyr," Rafayel continues smoothly. "No saint. And yet, here you stand, hesitating."

He releases your arm, nodding toward the tray. "Pick one."

Your stomach twists. "I’m not—"

Your breath hitches as your eyes flick from Jenna’s limp form to the array of knives neatly laid out beside her. The steel glints in the candlelight, sharp and gleaming, meticulously arranged as if this were some kind of twisted ritual.

"What—" Your throat tightens. "What the hell is this?"

Rafayel leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with an infuriating calm. "A lesson," he says simply.

You take a shaky step back, your bound hands useless behind you. "I’m not— I’m not doing this."

He tilts his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Aren’t you?"

Jenna groans, her head lolling to the side as she stirs. Her eyes flutter open, unfocused, before settling on you. Her expression shifts from confusion to something close to relief—until she notices the knives. Until she sees the look on Rafayel’s face.

Her breathing quickens. "No— wait. Please." She tugs at her restraints, panic taking over as she thrashes against the table.

You wrench your gaze away from her, glaring at Rafayel. "She tried to hand me over to you, and now you want me to do your dirty work?"

He exhales through his nose, pushing off the wall to saunter closer. "I want you to make a choice, pet." He plucks a knife from the table, twirling it between his fingers with casual ease before holding it out to you, handle first.

Your stomach twists. "No."

His smile doesn’t falter, but his tone cools. "Then what will you do?"

Jenna whimpers, eyes darting between you both. "Please," she whispers. "Please, Sister—"

The crack of his hand against Jenna’s cheek echoes through the cellar, sharp and merciless. She yelps, her head snapping to the side as fresh tears spill down her face.

"Shut your mouth, rot." Rafayel’s voice is cold, bored even, like she isn’t worth his time. He shakes out his hand as if shaking off dust, then turns back to you with that same insufferable, expectant expression.

You flinch despite yourself, your pulse hammering in your ears. "You didn’t have to—"

"I did." He rolls his shoulders. "She’s lucky I let her keep her tongue."

Jenna is shaking, her breath coming in shallow gasps as blood dribbles from the corner of her mouth. She won’t look at you. Maybe she knows there’s nothing you can do for her now. Maybe she’s just waiting for whatever comes next.

And you?

You're still staring at the knife in his hand. The weight of the moment, of what he wants from you, coils in your stomach like a sickness.

"Choose, pet." Rafayel steps closer, pressing the handle into your palm, his touch cold against your skin. "You or her."

"I cant-" "Pick." "I dont-" Tears well up. He was crazy. Crazy! Slicing Jenna open- or even yourself?! His hand grabs your wrist, firm. You panick. "Jenna!" And oh, how he smiles.

His smile remains, but the amusement in his eyes dims into something far more unreadable. He exhales slowly, as if savoring the moment.

"Good girl."

Jenna's breath stutters. "No—wait. Please." Her voice is shaking, barely more than a whisper. "You don’t have to do this."

Rafayel doesn’t even look at her. Instead, he gently adjusts your grip on the knife, his touch unsettlingly patient. "Steady your hand." His voice is as calm as if he were instructing you on embroidery, not murder. "You don’t want to make a mess."

You can't move. Your fingers tremble against the cold steel.

Jenna is sobbing now, straining against the bindings. "Y-you said you'd spare me!"

Rafayel tilts his head, considering. "I did." He finally acknowledges her, his voice never shifting from that quiet, measured tone. "And I let you breathe a little longer, didn't I?"

Then, back to you. He nudges the knife forward with the ease of someone guiding a quill to parchment. "Go on, Sister. It's time to be useful."

“You..you want me to kill her?” A question, but it was meant to be a statement.

“Heavens no. You’re helping me with my meal. What good is it if she’s dead?”

Oh.

Bile creeps up your throat.

This was a dissection.

Your breath shudders as you stare at him, at the way he speaks so casually—so calmly—as if this were an ordinary lesson. "No need to look so queasy, pet," he murmurs, watching you closely. "It's just flesh. Just skin and sinew. You have plenty, she has plenty. A little won't be missed."

Jenna thrashes against her restraints, tears streaming down her face. "You can't— Please!"

"Shh," Rafayel soothes, brushing a gloved hand down the side of her face. "You'll make it worse for yourself."

Your stomach twists violently. "I—I can't—"

He sighs, shaking his head as if you’re being particularly slow with your studies. "You can." His fingers guide yours, pressing the blade just so, right against the softest part of her arm. "And you will."

Jenna sobs beneath you, her pleas dissolving into frantic, breathless gasps. Your own pulse pounds in your skull, dizzying and thick.

"Do be gentle," Rafayel reminds you. "I do hate when they go into shock too early."

"We'll start..." He grabs the buttons of Jenna's gown, tearing it open. He does not care for her modesty, removing her bra, freeing her breasts, placing a hand on her sternum.

Jenna gasps, her body trembling under the weight of his cold touch. Her eyes dart to yours, wide with terror, pleading silently for help she knows won’t come. The atmosphere is thick with dread, the sound of her shallow breathing the only noise filling the room aside from Rafayel’s low, measured voice.

"Here," he murmurs, fingers tracing over her ribcage as if examining a specimen.

"The chest is a delicate area—too much pressure here could collapse the lungs, but just enough and the heart becomes a... delicate target."

He gives a slight chuckle, more for his own amusement than anything. His gaze flicks to you, gauging your reaction as if waiting for you to show some sign of understanding.

"You know, Sister," he continues, so casually, so calmly, "the body is full of little treasures, little hidden pieces of life that we can take a closer look at. But you have to be careful. Every piece has a purpose."

The knife is still in your hand, the weight of it a steady reminder of the horrific task at hand. The longer you stand there, the more you can feel the bile rise in your throat, but you’re frozen, a sickened bystander caught in the vice of his manipulation.

"You do know where to cut, don't you?" he asks, voice softening just a little, the mockery sliding away for a moment. "Go on. You’ll learn more than you ever could in a sermon."

“Father Rafayel-” “Rafayel.” “Rafayel,” “Yes?”

You choke on your words, but they come out anyway, shaky and weak.

"Please... please don't make me do this." Your voice cracks, and you can't tear your eyes away from Jenna, who now stares at you with a mixture of disbelief and desperation.

Rafayel tilts his head slightly, studying you as though you were the one on display. "What do you think is so wrong about it, Sister?" His tone is so patient, almost affectionate, as if he's teaching you something, not forcing you into an irreversible choice.

His eyes glimmer with something almost amused, but it's not kindness. Not mercy. Just amusement at the power he holds over you. "This isn't the first time you've seen blood. You've seen enough of it in this very room, haven’t you? You’ve witnessed more horrors than most could ever imagine... but somehow, this is the line for you?"

He takes a step closer, his voice lowering as if trying to soothe you, but it only makes your stomach churn more. "What’s one more death, hm?”

He pauses, his gaze flicking over to Jenna, who is trembling against the restraints. Her eyes search you desperately.

He clears his throat. "Enough theatrics, now, Y/n. Get on with it. We had a deal." Jenna's eyes widened. Right...you were the first to betray the convent... "YOU BITCH!" Jenna screams

Jenna freezes mid-scream, her eyes going impossibly wide as Rafayel moves with terrifying speed. One moment he’s behind you, and the next, he’s gripping her jaw with bruising force, his fingers prying it open.

His other hand latches onto her tongue, yanking it forward.

"One more word from you," he murmurs, voice eerily soft, "and I'm ripping this out."

Jenna makes a strangled, panicked noise, her entire body going rigid. Tears spill freely down her face now, her fury swallowed whole by sheer terror. She tries to shake her head, to plead without words, but Rafayel’s grip is unyielding.

For a long, horrible moment, he just stares at her, his expression blank, unreadable—but his eyes. Those deep, inhuman eyes burn with barely restrained irritation, as if he’s grown tired of this whole ordeal.

The room is silent except for Jenna’s muffled whimpers. You can’t move, can’t breathe.

Then, just as quickly as he grabbed her, he lets go. Jenna jerks back with a sob, coughing and gagging as she scrambles against her restraints.

Rafayel exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the inconvenience. He flicks his gaze to you, his patience clearly thinning.

“Get on with it,” he says, voice clipped, calm once more. “Before I decide to make this a lesson instead.”

Rafayel's fingers press into Jenna’s cheeks, forcing her mouth to stay shut. His grip isn’t gentle—there’s an undeniable disgust in the way he holds her, like she’s something filthy beneath his hands. But his eyes?

His eyes are on you.

You force yourself to look away from his gaze, down at Jenna’s exposed sternum. Your stomach twists violently. The skin there is smooth, untouched. For now.

You swallow thickly, your fingers trembling as you hesitate.

Rafayel hums, almost thoughtful. His thumb brushes against Jenna’s jaw absentmindedly, his patience thinning with every second you delay.

“You’re wasting time,” he says, his voice deceptively gentle. “Do you need my help?”

You shake your head quickly, barely suppressing a shudder.

No. You’d rather not find out what his version of ‘help’ looks like.

‘Oh, Astra, forgive me, for I am a sinner,’

Bringing the knife to her sternum, you take one more look at her, at the desperation in her eyes, how she was begging you to stop. Your hand shakes a little.

But seeing how Rafayel was waiting, you licked your lips, swallowing thickly.

Better her than you.

“I’m sorry, Jenna.”

You push the knife in,

Jenna thrashes beneath your hold, a muffled, agonized scream escaping past Rafayel’s grip on her jaw. Your breath is shaky—ragged—as the blade sinks into her skin, deeper than you meant, warm blood welling around the steel.

You can hear it, how the skin breaks, how your own blood is rushing in your ears. You heart pounds. Your stomach is everywhere but where it belongs. You want to look away.

But you don’t.

He watches, poker faced, save for the slight raise of his brow. His grip on Jenna’s face tightens as she tries to wither away, but she’s bound.

Helpless, like a lamb beneath the shepherd's hold.

A choked sob slips from Jenna’s throat.

Your hands shake harder.

You try to steady yourself. You have to steady yourself. You push in deeper, biting down on your own tongue to keep from screaming along with her. The blade drags through muscle and skin, sluggish and cruel.

Rafayel exhales, a satisfied sound. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Jenna’s body convulses, her muffled screams fading into sharp, broken sobs. You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment.

Astra above, what have you done?

The blade carves downward, splitting flesh with an ease that makes your stomach churn. Blood wells up, spilling over the edges of the wound, warm and slick against your trembling fingers. You watch, unable to tear your eyes away as Jenna’s skin parts beneath the sharp steel, muscle and tissue shifting, twitching beneath the intrusion.

A strangled cry rips from her throat, her body jerking against the restraints. You don’t stop. You can’t stop.

Rafayel hums, tilting his head as he observes. "There you go," he says, voice calm—too calm. "Just like that."

You bite back the bile rising in your throat, your breath coming out in short, sharp gasps.

Jenna’s eyes, wild with terror and pain, lock onto yours, glistening with unshed tears.

"You—" Her voice is raw, choked. "You monster—"

Rafayel clicks his tongue, displeased. Without hesitation, his fingers tighten around her jaw, forcing it open as his other hand snakes forward, pressing down against her wound.

And unfortunately, he’s a man of his word, if nothing else.

Jenna thrashes, but it’s useless. His grip is ironclad.

A sharp, wet sound—like meat being torn from the bone—echoes through the cellar. Blood splatters across the table, across his fingers, across you. Jenna's body convulses, her eyes rolling back as a choked, gurgling scream bubbles from her throat.

Rafayel holds up the severed tongue, examining it with a detached sort of curiosity. A muscle in his jaw twitches. "Now, that’s better," he says, utterly unaffected by the way Jenna is spasming beneath him, her throat working uselessly, trying to form words she no longer has the means to speak.

His eyes flick to you, and there’s an annoyed look on his face. "Do continue, Sister," he instructs smoothly, as if he hadn't just torn the organ from a living person.

Your throat tightens. The knife in your hand feels heavier than before.

You press down again, dragging the blade another inch lower. The skin peels apart, revealing the red, glistening tissue beneath. Jenna’s body jerks violently, her cries breaking into incoherent whimpers.

Rafayel sighs, shifting slightly. “Messy work, but you’ll get better with practice.”

You think you might throw up.

A sickening wet sound follows, and Jenna’s convulsions weaken. Her body, still bound, arches in agony, but there is no more screaming. Just wet, gurgling sobs.

Rafayel watches intently, his fingers gliding over the blood-streaked table as if testing the slickness. “Steady your grip,” he murmurs, his tone too casual, too calm for the atrocity unfolding before you. “You’re hesitating.”

Your vision swims. You want to stop. You want to run. But you also know that stopping would mean something far, far worse.

Jenna is looking at you. Her eyes are glassy, her pupils blown wide with horror, with pain.

Rafayel clicks his tongue, shifting closer. “Don’t look at her face,” he advises, almost gently. “That only makes it harder.” He leans in, his breath tickling your cheek as he whispers, "Look at me instead."

Warmth surrounds you, the weight of a thick blanket pressing over your body. The scent of something faintly sweet lingers in the air—incense? Dried flowers? Your mind is sluggish, hazy, like waking from a deep fever dream.

The room is dimly lit, golden candlelight flickering against stone walls. You shift, and soft fabric brushes against your skin. No rope. No cold, hard table.

Your stomach clenches as fragmented memories slam into you all at once—Jenna’s screams, the knife in your hand, Rafayel’s steady voice guiding you through the nightmare. Your breath quickens.

“You’re awake.”

His voice is smooth, composed. The scrape of a chair against the floor follows, and then he’s at your bedside, looking down at you with an expression you can’t read.

“How do you feel?” he asks, and there’s something unnervingly genuine about the question.

“I…” Oh, Astra above.

You spotted Jenna.

You freeze, your heart hammering in your chest. The sight before you is nothing short of a nightmare—Jenna's body, but... not.

Her limbs are stretched unnaturally, joints twisted at odd angles, skin hanging loosely where it once clung to her bones. Her face is contorted, eyes wide and glassy, her mouth stretched in an awful, silent scream. The skin around her sternum, where you had stopped, is pulled open further, exposing the raw, red tissue beneath. A cruel, jagged line runs down her torso, the flesh torn apart with care, revealing the bloodied, exposed organs, the pinkness of muscle. Some of the organs were missing from what you could tell, and what you thought was her liver was cast aside carelessly beside her face.

It’s like a grotesque sculpture, her body still twitching with the faintest movements, an echo of the life that had once been there.

“Jenna...” Your voice breaks as you reach for her, but your hand hesitates, trembling. You can’t touch her. You can’t bear it.

“Ah, yes. This,” Rafayel says casually, his eyes following your gaze to the butchered body. “A masterpiece of sorts. My handiwork, of course, but you set the stage.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and your chest heaves with disgust, the bile rising in your throat once more. He’s twisted her, mangled her.

He watches you with a quiet, unnerving intensity, like he’s studying a fragile creature he’s not sure will break or fight.

“How does it feel?” he asks, his voice low and patient, as though he’s waiting for you to understand, to comprehend the depths of what’s been done.

“Why... why did you...” You struggle to form the words, your eyes never leaving the horrific sight.

“Oh, Sister,” Rafayel sighs, placing a finger under your chin to lift your gaze to him. His smile is almost pitying. “You’ve been so much more useful than you think. I didn’t want to waste such potential.”

He leans in, giving you a quick peck to the lips.

The coldness of his lips against yours sends a shudder down your spine, but you can’t pull away, your body frozen in place. His eyes, the soft, burning smile—so calm, so controlled—sickens you more than you can bear.

He brings a piece of what you assumed to be Jenna’s tongue to your lips.

“Thank you for the meal,” Rafayel hums. His fingers brush against your cheek, tracing the outline of your face. “Of course, I have no use for meat, however. That’s on you.”

You swallow, unable to tear your gaze away from Jenna’s mutilated form, feeling the weight of her life—her screams, her pain—pressing in on you. You feel sick to your stomach.

“And Astra said, “To waste one bite is to waste a million,” he continues, his voice smooth and casual, the tone almost playful. “So, let’s not be wasteful.”

Every word is a slap. Every syllable drips with casual cruelty, as if you’re nothing more than a tool in his hands. No use for meat... that’s on you. You can feel your stomach flip, the very thought of touching her body—of continuing this... this desecration—makes you want to scream.

But you don’t. You don’t move, you don’t protest. You simply stand there, every fiber of your being revolting against the reality you’ve been forced into. The guilt, the horror—it eats at you. It’s suffocating. The weight of it is unbearable.

His grin stays as he pushes it past your lips, the warm muscle on your tongue, the membrane holding its taste buds rough against your cheek.

He holds your chin. You want spit it out, try to spit it out, and yet you can’t.

Your jaw moves on its own, chewing. Chewing through the muscle until it was mush, as if you overly chewed over cooked steak. You can’t swallow yet, or no.

His lips are on yours again, molding to your form as he’s kissing you- forces you to swallow. But his own tongue doesn’t prod. It doesn’t push. Doesn’t beg for entry, no. He bites down on your bottom lip, breaking skin, letting the blood gloss over his lips like sickening rouge.

When he pulls away, a string of spit connects you.

He steps back, admiring his “work,” his hands clasped behind his back as he observes the carnage. “You’ve done well, Sister,” he murmurs, as if he’s complimenting you on something simple, like a meal he’s enjoyed.

Rafayel steps closer, his hand reaching out toward you. His fingers gently thread through your hair, and before you can even register it, he’s petting your head like you’re nothing more than a docile pet. His touch is oddly affectionate, tender even, as though the horrors you’ve just shared don’t matter, as though he doesn’t see you anymore—just another tool to use, another puppet to guide.

He lets out a contented hum, as if he’s genuinely pleased with you. The weight of your nausea deepens. The quiet cruelty of his smile seems to stretch further, making you feel smaller, more insignificant.

“You’re so obedient,” he murmurs, his voice laced with something close to amusement. “It’s... endearing.”

It’s too much. Your stomach churns violently, but still you don’t move. You can’t. You feel sick to your core, but every ounce of defiance you had is buried beneath a crushing weight. You’re afraid. Terrified of him, terrified of what’s become of you—what you’ve done.

His touch is impossibly gentle. The same hand that had so effortlessly torn Jenna apart now cradles your cheek with the reverence of a man holding something precious. His thumb smooths over your skin, wiping away something—blood? Tears? You’re not sure.

“You did so well,” he murmurs, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. Almost sweet. Almost kind.

You don’t understand.

You should fear him, hate him, recoil from his touch. His skin was…warm, the new blood beneath his skin giving him a human flush. His palm against your face, soft and reassuring, sends a shiver down your spine, not of fear, but of something dangerously close to comfort. His tenderness doesn’t fit with the carnage behind him, with the blood still drying beneath your fingernails. It doesn’t fit.

But for a fleeting second, you let yourself lean into it. Because your body is exhausted, your mind is frayed, and you don’t know how to fight anymore.

His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to speak, but he doesn’t. He only watches you, his gaze searching, drinking in every tiny shift of your expression. Then, with a quiet breath, he brushes his thumb once more over your cheek, his touch lingering.

It’s been two days since Sister Jenna’s absence. Yvonne is on your bed, humming some hymn Father Rafayel had taught you all the previous week.

“You’ve been quiet,” Yvonne murmurs, running her fingers absently through your hair.

You hum noncommittally, eyes tracing the jagged cracks in the ceiling. You see shapes—mountains, a bird in flight, a gaping maw with teeth.

“You’re always quiet, but this is different.”

She’s observant. Too observant.

You shift slightly, closing your eyes. “Just tired.”

Yvonne makes a noise of acknowledgment but doesn’t press. Instead, she resumes combing through her curls with the wooden comb, careful not to tug too hard.

“They’re saying Sister Jenna ran off,” she muses. “One of the Elders told me they found her habit in the woods. No blood, no sign of struggle. Just… gone.”

She’s not gone. You know exactly where she is—what’s left of her. The thought sends a chill through your bones.

Yvonne sighs. “Not that I blame her. If I had a way out, I’d take it in a heartbeat.”

Your throat tightens. You had a way out. Rafayel had given you one—no, he had forced one upon you. And yet, here you are.

Still here. Still breathing.

Still his.

Yvonne shifts, tilting her head to look down at you. “If you ever ran, would you tell me first?”

Your mouth feels dry. “Yeah… Yeah, I’d tell you, Yvonne.”

Yvonne gives a soft smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. There’s a weight to her expression, something unreadable hidden just beneath the surface.

“You’re a good friend,” she murmurs, her fingers pausing in your hair for a moment. “I don’t want to be left behind.”

Something about her words twists in your chest. Left behind

Instead, you just offer a soft, tired smile, the best you can manage. “ I wouldn’t do that to you…I’d never leave without you knowing. You’re too important.”

A comfortable silence settles between you both. The rhythmic glide of the comb, the warmth of her lap beneath your head—it’s grounding.

‘I miss Tara,’

You stand in the middle of a vast field, the grass swaying gently under a sky painted in hues of deep violet and gold. The air is warm, carrying the scent of something familiar—salt, rain, and something darker, something rich and metallic.

Rafayel stands before you, but he’s… different. No pale skin with a shimmer under the moonlight, no eerie glow in his multi-colored eyes. Instead, they are deep, dark pools of something human, something almost warm. His hair is still that strange shade of lavender, but it’s shorter, neater. He looks like a man—no long, sharp nails, no fangs, no monstrous hunger lurking just beneath his skin.

"You hesitate," he murmurs, tilting his head slightly, watching you with something that is not quite amusement, not quite curiosity. "Do I frighten you more like this?"

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. He steps closer, his presence heavy, suffocating. His hands, bare and unmarked, reach for yours, and you let him take them.

"You’re always running from me," he continues, his voice softer now, almost… tender. "But you keep finding me, even here."

You shake your head, but his fingers tighten around yours. There’s no escape, not here, not in this dream where the sky shifts like the sea and the ground feels as unsteady as the tide.

"Tell me," he whispers, leaning in close enough that you feel his breath against your lips. "Which version of me do you prefer?"

You don't answer.

You can’t.

Rafayel’s thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the feeling of your skin against his, or memorizing the shape of your hands. His eyes flicker to your lips and linger there, the corners of his mouth curling into a quiet, knowing smile.

"You always look at me like that," he muses, voice barely above a whisper. His gaze flickers, trailing from your eyes to your lips, lingering there. "Like you can't decide if you should run or stay."

You swallow hard, your pulse betraying you.

His gaze searches yours, frantic but quiet, as if the answer is buried somewhere in your eyes. The weight of his words presses into you, unraveling something deep inside. Because for the first time, he doesn’t look untouchable. He doesn’t look cruel. He looks…lost.

You want to ask him what he means, but the words won’t come. Because this is a dream, isn’t it? A trick of the mind? A lie?

But he looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost.

You blink.

The world blurs at the edges, shifting and twisting like ripples on water. You blink, and suddenly, you are small.

Your hands—tiny, soft, unscarred—clutch the fabric of a tunic too big for you. The air smells different, fresher, untouched by blood or fear. You look up, and he's there—Rafayel, but not as you know him.

His hair is shorter, wild with curls. His cheeks are rounder, his frame smaller, more human than ever before. His eyes, though… they are the same. Wide, confused, filled with something neither of you can name.

"You're crying," you say, and your voice is so light, so young, it startles you.

He lifts a hand to his cheek, touching the wetness there like he hadn’t realized it himself. He sniffs, rubbing at his nose with the sleeve of his tunic, but more tears spill over. He looks at you, stricken.

"I—" His voice cracks. He doesn’t finish.

The wind moves through the tall grass around you, warm and golden in the light of the setting sun. Somewhere in the distance, the sea hums a lullaby against the shore.

"Did you get hurt?" you ask, stepping closer.

He shakes his head, curls bouncing. "No."

"Then why are you crying?"

He opens his mouth, hesitates. Then, finally—"Because I lost you."

Something in your chest tightens. Something in your soul whispers that this is important. But before you can ask him what he means, the world tilts—

The world bends, flickers like a candle in the wind. The golden grass fades, the warm breeze cools, and suddenly—

You are sitting in a confessional.

The wooden walls are dark, enclosing you in flickering candlelight. A lacey black veil drapes over your head, delicate and sheer, the intricate patterns casting faint shadows over your skin. Your hands are folded neatly in your lap, trembling slightly against the rich fabric of your dress.

Across from you, separated by the thin wooden screen, sits Rafayel.

Not the boy from before. Not the nightmare he’s become. But something in between.

He is utterly beautiful.

The dim light catches the sharp angles of his face, the fullness of his lips, the inhuman glow of his eyes. His hair falls loosely around his shoulders, strands curling against his collarbone. He looks at you, solemn and unreadable, his fingers idly tracing the wood grain of the confessional’s divider.

"Confess to me," he murmurs. His voice is calm, steady, yet it sends a shiver down your spine.

You swallow, your throat dry. The silence stretches, heavy, suffocating. You don’t know where to begin.

"I don’t know what to say."

His lips quirk into something like a smile, but it’s faint, almost sad. "Then let me ask."

He leans forward slightly, his face closer to the screen, though he does not touch it.

"Do you regret it?"

The air in the confessional grows thick, pressing against your chest. You don’t have to ask what he means. You already know.

Do you regret what you've done? Do you regret him?

You inhale sharply, fingers tightening around themselves. The lace veil brushes against your cheek as you tilt your head down, thinking—feeling.

"No."

His eyes darken. Something shifts in his expression, something you can’t quite name. His hand lifts, just barely touching the wooden divider between you.

"Then why," he breathes, "do you look so afraid?"

Your breath catches in your throat as you sit up, heart hammering in your chest. The room is dark, save for the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the high windows. The chill in the air clings to your skin, but that isn't what sends a cold shock down your spine.

It's the sheets.

Stained. Deep crimson, seeping into the fabric beneath your fingers.

"Fuck."

You throw the blankets back, scrambling to your feet. The scent of iron lingers in the air, thick and unmistakable. Your hands tremble as you inspect yourself—no wounds, no pain, nothing to suggest that this came from you.

So where—

A noise.

Soft. A breath.

You freeze, every muscle in your body locking up.

And then, from the shadows of your room, a voice—low, smooth, and far too amused.

"Bad dream?"

You blink, disoriented, but oddly…not scared. You rub your tired eyes.

When did he even get in here?

He glances at the ruined sheets, a quiet hum of approval slipping from his lips as if he's seen this before. "Any pain?" His voice is casual, as if he’s asking about the weather. There’s no urgency in his tone, only a calm.

"Why... why are you here?"

His gaze softens slightly, noticing the shift in your demeanor. There's something about you now—something that feels different, like a calmness you've found in the chaos. He's used to seeing fear, hearing shaky breaths, but now there's just a cool, measured presence in the way you meet his gaze.

He takes another step, his voice still calm, though a little more concerned this time. "You seemed troubled," he says, as if it's an innocent observation. He doesn't know about the dream, doesn't know that his own face haunted your sleep. To him, you're just another piece of the puzzle, another small mystery.

"You look... different," he adds, eyes scanning you, trying to gauge any sign of distress. It's almost a relief, seeing that you're not cowering. The air between you still hums with something electric, but it's less oppressive, less tense.

You're no longer recoiling at his presence.

He tilts his head, as though trying to read you, not fully understanding what he's seeing. "Better?" he asks, voice soft, just above a whisper. His hand hovers near the side of your bed, but he doesn't touch you. He's too cautious, too unsure.

You nod. Though ‘better’ wasn’t a term you’d use.

Rafayel exhales quietly, his shoulders loosening ever so slightly as though a weight has been lifted, though it's hard to tell exactly why. His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, studying you with a strange tenderness that feels unfamiliar to both of you.

"Good," he says, almost to himself. The word lingers in the air for a beat before he shifts his weight, glancing away as though searching for something else to say or do. But it’s like he's forgotten the reason he came in the first place.

He takes a step back, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that’s oddly human. There’s something about him right now—less the towering figure of power, more... unguarded. It's like he's unsure of how to handle this space between you two, this quiet calm that has overtaken everything.

"Well," he starts, his voice steady again, "if you're... fine, then I suppose I should leave you to rest." He hesitates before adding, his voice softer now, "But if you need anything, just... ask."

And with that, he turns, his footsteps quieter than usual as he moves toward the door, the weight of his presence lingering in the air behind him.

But he pauses.

Rafayel’s breath hitched, raw and uneven, as he leaned heavily against the door. His body trembled, a violent shiver running down his spine. The scent of your blood—your scent—was still thick in the air, woven into the fabric of his very being. His heart raced, the pulsing need inside of him threatening to consume everything.

His eyes were wild, unfocused, his pupils dilated, black pools of hunger that ached. He could almost taste you on his lips again, feel the rush of your warmth in his veins. Every thought, every rational piece of him screamed for distance, for control, but his body... his body was betraying him.

Blood. Your blood. That delicious, burning sweetness.

Rafayel’s pulse hammered in his ears, the world around him spinning in a haze of overwhelming desire. His hands shook, the edges of control slipping from his grasp as the scent of your blood lingered, heavy, intoxicating, seeping into every inch of his being. He couldn’t escape it. He couldn’t escape you. The need to claim you, to sink into you completely, was clawing at him from the inside, like a wild animal tearing at its cage.

He dragged in a sharp breath, but it did nothing to quell the fury of hunger thrumming in his chest. He could feel every beat of his dead heart, every inch of his skin aching for you. It wasn’t just blood—it was you. Your essence, your soul. He needed it. He needed you.

He leaned heavily against the door, his body trembling with the effort to hold himself back, the muscles in his legs tight with restraint. It wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. Every inch of him was burning, and he could feel the monstrous part of him—the monster that had always been there—pushing at the walls of his control.

His gaze brought him back to where you lay, the faint scent of your blood still in the air, thick and overwhelming, and he could almost feel the warmth of your skin against his. He could taste your fear, your sweetness, your surrender. His breath came faster, his grip on the door tightening as if he could hold himself back from the inevitable with sheer force of will.

But he knew it was futile. There was no stopping this.

The moment you had opened up to him, even just a sliver, he had been lost.

His want for you had been seeded deep inside him.

And now? Now it was blooming—uncontrollable, reckless.

The very air in the room seemed to burn with the need, suffocating him, pushing him toward you. His legs moved before he could stop them, carrying him to the side of your bed. His hand clenched into a fist at his side, his nails digging into his palm to try and hold himself back from grabbing you, from pulling you into him like a lifeline.

He couldn’t think. He couldn’t focus on anything but you. Your body, your warmth. Your blood.

Just one taste...

He slammed the door shut behind him, the final thread of restraint snapping.

“I need you,” he rasped, the words forced from his throat, desperate and hoarse. The sound of his own voice was unrecognizable—feral, almost animalistic.

His gaze locked onto yours, pupils blown wide, face twisted with hunger.

“I can’t stop this,” he whispered, voice raw with the admission.

His hands were on your face, cradling you gently, almost as if he could hold onto you to stop himself from spiraling. His touch burned in desperation.

A hunger that laced every syllable he spoke, every shaky breath he took.

He met your eyes, pupils blown, his expression twisted with a mix of pain and need.

The words came out slowly, like they were being ripped from him. "I can't stop this," he repeated, softer this time, but the weight of them hit you harder than anything.

You froze, the words making your heart race. There was something in his voice—a haunting, desperate edge—that made your chest tighten with unease.

"Can't stop what?"

He blinked, as if the question startled him, and for a moment, it felt like he was fighting against something inside himself. His jaw clenched, eyes flickering away before they snapped back to you, like he was wrestling with a beast of his own making. The tension between you both was thick, suffocating.

But still, his hands remained firm against your face, almost holding you still.

They trembled slightly against your skin, and the intensity in his eyes flickered between fear and something darker, more primal. He took a long, shuddering breath, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that seemed to battle with something deeper inside him.

"You need to run," his voice was low, strained, almost broken, as if the words themselves caused him physical pain. "I'm only going to give you a minute."

His grip tightened just a fraction, and his gaze became more intense, more possessive, as if he was trying to convince you of something—something dangerous that you weren’t quite sure of.

You shoved him off, the force of your actions startling both of you. Your chest heaved as you backed away, heart pounding in your ears. If he said run.

Then by Astra, you were going to run.

You turned and bolted, your feet slamming against the floor as you rushed for the door. The hallway outside felt like freedom, but you could almost feel the heat of his gaze searing into your back.

Run.

You shove past the other postulants, barely sparing them a glance as you rush through the hallways. The thin fabric of your nightgown flutters around your legs, the dampness of your blood-smeared sheets still clinging to your skin. You don’t care. You don’t care about how you must look, or the whispers you’re sure are trailing behind you. You just need to get away.

A few of the younger postulants stare wide-eyed, murmuring in surprise, but you don’t stop. You don’t apologize as you push past them, not even glancing back at the gasps and whispers. The cold stone floors beneath your feet echo loudly, every step pounding through your chest, a stark reminder of the seconds you’re wasting.

"Where are you—?"

"Move!" you shout to a pair of girls blocking the way. You don’t wait for them to step aside before barging through, heart hammering, breath quick and shallow. The corridors twist and wind in maddening turns, but you don’t care to stop and think; it’s like your body is on autopilot, propelling you forward, away from him.

You glance over your shoulder briefly. Is he behind you? You can’t tell. You don’t care.

There’s a sharp gasp ahead of you, and you barely register another postulant before you barrel straight into her, knocking her back a few steps.

"Are you mad?!" she cries, her eyes wide with shock.

“Move!” you snap, voice hoarse. Your breath is ragged, like you’re drowning, and you don’t stop, not even to see her expression. Your feet burn, your legs ache, but you keep running, the sense of urgency rising in your throat like bile.

You hit another turn, your hands slipping against the walls, panic clawing at your chest. Your hair is wild around your face, sticking to your skin with sweat, your nightgown clinging in uncomfortable patches to your body.

Where the hell is the exit?

You can’t think, can’t breathe—your mind is a blur of pure adrenaline and fear. You turn another sharp corner, a burst of energy pushing you forward as you sprint through the labyrinthine halls. You don’t know where you are anymore, but it doesn’t matter. You know the kitchens are nearby; the back door, the one leading to the yard, the escape.

Your feet pound against the cold stone floors, every step a blur as you rush through the darkened halls. The world around you feels distant, unreal—there’s only the frantic rhythm of your heart, the pounding of your feet, and the desperate need to escape. You can hear his footsteps now, closing in on you. You’re not fast enough.

Finally, you see the familiar kitchen door at the far end of the hall. The back door. Your pulse quickens as you push the door open, the hinges creaking loudly in the stillness. You don’t stop. You run, the cool night air hitting you like a slap to the face as you burst into the yard, the crunch of dead leaves and twigs beneath your bare feet.

Your nightgown flutters behind you as you break into the wooded area beyond the yard. The trees are thick with shadows, but you barely notice them—your only focus is on the ground beneath your feet. But then, a root. You trip, your foot catching on the gnarled knot in the earth, and you go down hard.

Your palms scrape against the rough soil as you push yourself back up, panic surging through you like wildfire. You scramble to your feet, breath coming in ragged gasps as you force your legs to move again. You’re not going to stop. Not now.

“Y/n,” a voice calls out behind you, smooth and dark. It’s so familiar, so impossible to ignore. His voice. Rafayel. You refuse to turn around, you refuse to look, but his voice is there, impossibly close, like the shadows themselves have come to life.

You push yourself up, wincing as sharp rocks and splinters tear into your feet, the jagged ground biting through your skin. Your nightgown is torn at the hem, the fabric clinging to your legs as you force yourself to move, even though every step feels like it could be your last. The cold air hits you, biting into your exposed skin, but you barely notice it—your body is numb, consumed by the desperate need to flee.

Every movement feels like it could be your last. Your feet are raw, the pain from the sharp rocks and broken twigs only fueling your panic. You can feel the blood trickling down, the burning sting of it on your skin, but you can't stop. You won’t stop.

The sound of his voice cuts through the night, smooth and dark, slicing through the air like a knife. “Y/n…”

You stumble forward, your legs aching, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. Each step is a struggle, a fight against the pull of the shadows, the fear of him closing in. You can hear him moving behind you, that same dark presence pressing in on you, a weight in the air that makes your breath catch and your chest tighten.

You gasp as a hand wraps around your neck, its grip like iron, dragging you backward with terrifying strength. The air is forced from your lungs, and before you can even fight it, your back is slammed hard against the trunk of a tree. The rough bark digs into your skin, but the pain is nothing compared to the suffocating grip tightening around your throat.

Your body jerks, struggling, but it’s no use. His hand holds you in place, and his presence is overwhelming—his warmth, his scent, his weight pressing against you in a way that makes every instinct in your body scream to escape, to run, but there’s no more distance. He’s here. He’s got you.

“Got you.” His voice is low, dark, an almost pleased undertone that sends a chill racing down your spine. And yet, it’s still as if he’s in pain.

You cough weakly, your hands shaking against his, still trying to push him off, but it’s useless. The force of his hold makes every movement seem pointless, your limbs heavy and weak. You can’t breathe, can’t think. His proximity pulls you in, and your vision blurs at the edges.

Tears sting at your eyes as your mind races, but you’re still locked in his grip, unable to escape, unable to do anything but feel him there, pressing, suffocating.

“No! No, no no- lemme go!” You thrash and claw at his hand at your neck. He clicks his tongue.

The realization hits you like a wave. You’re far enough from the church—far enough from the walls that have kept you safe, from the gaze of the Elders, from any kind of protection. Out here, in the woods, it’s just the two of you. And the terrifying truth: He could get away with anything.

His grip tightens around your neck as if to prove it. You can feel the cold smirk curling on his lips, that same dark amusement, almost a promise of something worse to come. His touch is relentless, and there’s no hesitation in it. He could hurt you in ways that would leave no marks, no evidence, and you know it. He knows it.

“You think they’ll come looking for you?” His voice is a soft whisper, mocking, as he presses his body closer to yours. You feel the full weight of him against you, that sense of inevitability, like he’s savoring the moment.

His eyes are dark, hungry, and far too calm. There’s no panic, no anger, just... need. It’s the kind of need that runs deep, the kind that lingers and festers in his chest. You can see it in the way his pupils dilate, the way his breath catches, the way his hand moves ever so slightly, gripping you harder, pulling you closer.

“Out here, no one can hear you scream,” His words are cold, clinical.

You feel your heart pounding harder against your ribs, the pressure on your throat making it hard to focus. You try to push against him, but it’s like pushing against a stone wall. Every inch of your body screams to get away, but you know the truth: There’s nowhere to run.

His grip loosens for a brief second, enough for you to suck in a desperate breath. His fingers trail down your throat, almost gentle now, as if tracing the place where he could end it all. Your pulse races under his touch.

He watches you closely, his eyes scanning your face like a predator savoring his prey. The terrifying truth lingers in the air between you: He could make you disappear, and no one would ever know what happened out here.

His grip tightens again, just enough to make you feel the warning, but not enough to completely choke you. His thumb brushes against your throat as if testing your limits, savoring the way your pulse beats faster with every second.

"Do you want to know why I came to this shitty little town?" His voice drops to a whisper, a dangerous calm settling in. He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

Your heart hammers in your chest, but you’re not sure if it’s from fear, from the desperate need to escape, or something else entirely. Your body screams to run, to push him away, but you’re frozen, held captive by the weight of his presence. The air feels thick, suffocating.

Rafayel doesn’t wait for an answer, letting the silence between you stretch long and heavy. His eyes burn with something darker than anger, something more possessive. "I came here for you," he says finally, his voice thick with an emotion you can’t quite place.

“The Vampire needs a bride. I need a bride. But you,” he lets out a shaky laugh, “You chose to be reborn in this dump, to become a nun for a god you don’t even care for. And Astra, that son of a bitch, thinks he can keep you from me.”

The words sink in, twisting your insides into knots. Your chest tightens, and your breath comes in short gasps. The realization hits like a slap—he never came for the town. He came for you.

"And now," he continues, voice quieter, almost indulgent, as if he’s savoring every word. "Now that I've found you... you belong to me."

You want to say something, to scream, to fight, but all you can manage is a sharp breath as his fingers trace the lines of your throat, tenderly. There was no “almost” about it. It was sure.

His grip is soft, but you know better than to trust the gentleness.

“You… you’re my bride. My bride.”

The words hit you like a physical blow.

Before you can process what he's said, his lips crash into yours, stealing the breath from your lungs.

For a moment, your body freezes, every muscle locking up as the intensity of the kiss overwhelms you. His hands are on your face, pulling you in closer, deeper, like he’s trying to consume you whole. His touch, though soft, carries an undeniable power. You can feel it in the way his fingers grip your jaw, holding you in place, unwilling to let you escape.

You try to pull away, try to fight, but the sensation of his lips on yours is like a drug, addictive and overwhelming. His taste lingers on your tongue, mixing with the taste of your own blood, the blood he craves, the blood he owns.

Your pulse is erratic, your heart racing in a mixture of fear and... something else. His kiss is suffocating, possessive, like he's claiming every part of you, body and soul. There's no softness to it—only the pressure, the heat, the undeniable need.

And then, as if sensing your resistance, his grip tightens on your face, forcing you to comply. His breath is heavy against your lips, the air thick with his scent, and you feel a surge of panic clawing at your chest.

His lips leave yours only for a moment, but it feels like an eternity. His eyes are dark, almost feverish, studying your face, watching the way your chest rises and falls with every frantic breath.

Your stomach churns, but you're not sure if it's from disgust or fear—or something much more dangerous, something you can’t bear to acknowledge.

The way his knee presses between your legs sends a jolt through your body, a stark reminder of his presence, of his control. You instinctively try to shift, to pull away, but the weight of his touch keeps you anchored in place, his gaze burning into you.

“It’s less than ideal, taking you here,” he sounds annoyed, “But this works. I’m tired of waiting.”

Your mind screams at you to fight, to get away, but the tingling sensation in your fingertips and the heat rushing to your face betrays you. You're not sure if it’s fear or something else, something darker blooming inside you, but it fills you with disgust, confusion, and a strange sort of helplessness. Your breath catches in your throat as his hand slides down your side, like he’s marking you, staking a claim.

"No," you whisper, a futile attempt to reclaim some control, but it feels hollow, weak in the face of his overwhelming presence. His knee presses harder, sending another rush of panic and something else through your chest.

You try to focus, to remind yourself that this is wrong, but the sensation of him against you, of his hands on your skin, starts to drown out every thought, every protest.

The heat between you grows, and all you can do is try to push him away, futilely struggling in his grip. You can feel the blood rushing to your face, the shame, the fear, all tangled together with something you can’t quite place, something dangerous.

He leans in again, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "You don't need to be afraid, You’re already here.”

He leans in, tucking his head in the crook of your neck, breathing in. His lips graze your skin.

“On the fifth day, when the Vampire sought his bride, Astra raged in the heavens, his throne shaking. For how could someone- such as I- succeed where I’ve been damned? The Vampire seeks salvation, whether in a chance for humanity, or taking his lover with him.”

Astra raged in the heavens, a god’s fury unleashed, as if the very universe was rebelling against the concept of such a union. You could almost feel the weight of that celestial wrath pressing down on you, as if it were being mirrored in the conflict between you and Rafayel.

The Vampire, the outcast—he sought redemption, salvation, even if it meant dragging his lover into the abyss with him. You wonder if he feels that same longing, that same desperate desire for something more, for something beyond his cursed existence. Does Rafayel want salvation? Or does he simply want to pull you into the darkness with him, because to him, there’s no salvation without you?

The words of the tale suddenly feel too close, too real, as if the story was written for this exact moment.

You take in a shaky breath, forcing your pulse to steady. You’re not sure if you can ever truly escape him—his words, his touch, they’re a constant pull, a gravitational force. And yet, there’s something almost tender in the way he keeps coming back to you, like an obsession that has consumed him completely.

What is it that makes this story feel like it’s yours, wrapped in the velvet cloak of the Vampire's endless thirst? Could there ever be a chance for humanity between the two of you, or is it truly a damned fate?

“Astra-” You’re still going to say his name, knowing what he's done?”

His words slam into you like a tidal wave, raw and visceral, crashing over the calm facade you’ve desperately tried to hold up. Rafayel’s face twists with a fury that matches the storm brewing within him, a storm of betrayal, longing, and confusion. His eyes blaze with something almost too intense to bear, his grip tightening around your wrist, pulling you closer.

"Astra," you whisper again, but it feels hollow, as if saying the name is betraying everything you feel now. His anger rips through the air, tearing the fragile thread of calm you were clinging to.

"Still? You still dare to say his name after what he’s done to me?" His voice cracks, breaking on the words. "What he’s done to us?" His tears fall, but they’re not the kind of tears that ask for comfort. They burn, they ache, a reflection of all the years he's carried this burden alone.

You swallow hard, the weight of his pain sinking deep within you, making it harder to breathe. You had never seen Rafayel like this—vulnerable, raw, his anger mingling with grief, with a deep sorrow that felt like the weight of the entire world pressing down on him. The same world that had damned him. The same world that had damned you by bringing you into this.

“I…” You can’t find the words, not when it feels like everything inside you is unraveling. Your hand trembles in his, but his grip doesn’t loosen, only tightening, almost desperate.

“You—" he struggles to hold his composure, his chest heaving with each breath, “He abandoned me. Cast me aside like a thing, an object.” His voice is thick with betrayal. "Do you know what it’s like, to give everything, only for it to mean nothing in the end?"

His face is so close to yours, the heat of his breath mingling with the tension in the air. The rawness of his pain is suffocating, and for a moment, you’re not sure who’s more broken—him or you.

Rafayel leans in, forehead resting against yours, eyes not leaving yours, those hauntingly beautiful eyes filled with fury, anguish, and something else—a plea, a desperate need to be seen, to be understood.

"Why do you still cling to him, after everything he's done to us?" he asks, his voice soft but laced with the kind of desperation that makes you shudder. "What if I’m all you have now?”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unspoken between you both. You feel yourself faltering, the lines between right and wrong blurring. It’s almost as if the tale is repeating itself, a twisted, tragic dance that you can't escape from. A tale of the Vampire and his bride, bound together by fate, by a force neither of you can control.

You don’t know how to answer. Not when your heart aches for him, not when your mind can’t wrap around the idea of tearing yourself between the remnants of a god and the depths of this creature before you.

Rafayel lets go of you as if your touch burns him, staggering back, his hands tangling in his hair. His breath comes ragged, his body trembling with something that isn’t entirely anger but isn’t far from it either. His nails scrape against his scalp, as if he’s trying to claw something out, some unbearable, all-consuming feeling that refuses to let him go.

"I despise you," he snarls, his voice thick with something deeper than rage, something desperate and raw. His eyes blaze, his pupils blown wide, his entire being quivering with frustration. "And yet—" His breath shudders as he exhales. "And yet I need you."

The confession tastes like poison, dripping from his lips as though forcing it out might lessen its power. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes it stronger.

"I want you so bad it hurts."

His voice cracks on the last word, his hands gripping his head as if he could physically rip the feeling from his skull. He stares at you like you’re something he was never meant to have, something he both loathes and worships in equal measure.

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to respond to a hunger like this, to something so tangled in fury and longing that it leaves you breathless.

Rafayel steps forward—then stops himself. His fists clench at his sides, his chest rising and falling as if he's battling against some invisible restraint. "Do you think I want this?" His voice is hoarse, thick with frustration. "Do you think I chose this? To be bound to you like this? To crave you like I would air, like blood, like my very existence hinges on you?"

You swallow, heart hammering against your ribs.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of the thoughts clawing at him. "I should kill you," he murmurs, almost to himself. "I should end this before it ruins me completely."

But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t strike. Instead, he just stares, his entire body locked in place, torn between war and surrender.

You push off the tree, your breath ragged, your body trembling from fear, adrenaline—something pulsing deep in your core. And before you can second-guess yourself, before you can think of the consequences, you grab his face and kiss him hard.

It's not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s desperate, bruising, something raw and unspoken pouring into the space between you. His body stiffens for half a second, like he wasn’t expecting you to do this. Like he thought he’d pushed you too far.

And then—

A growl rumbles in his chest, low and primal, and suddenly his hands are on you, gripping you tight, pulling you in like he might disappear if he lets go. His fingers dig into your waist, your hips, your back—everywhere. He kisses you back with a ferocity that borders on violence, as if punishing you for meeting him where he stands.

Your back slams into the tree again, but this time it’s different. This time it’s not cold bark that keeps you pinned, it’s him. His body, his weight, his heat pressing into you like he’s trying to carve himself into your bones.

A sharp inhale—his, not yours. His hands tighten, then hesitate, like he’s fighting something, like he’s warring with himself. His lips leave yours for just a second, his forehead pressing against yours as he breathes hard, his chest heaving.

"You have no idea what you just did," he murmurs, voice wrecked, barely more than a whisper. His eyes bore into yours, wild, hungry, sad, desperate. Desperate for you.

And Astra above, you think you might be desperate for him too.

©hellinistical 2025 do not copy, translate, distribute, plagiarize, or reproduce in any form without permission, and do not share to any media outside of tumblr.

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kalopses-sonderes · 1 year ago

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Hyper anon: well since you're here...and you're back from your break let's go ahead and restart the silly adventures of a certain...baker.

Ok so hcs request to welcome ya back...unless you'd rather do a one shot but still...to give you context:

The Cookies finally bringing their baker into the world who I can imagine at first would...be very shy and nervous...like hiding themselves due to habit and stuff but once the cookies pry open the baker's shell and make them learn that they love the baker and can feel safe around em...they show off their boundless energy so they go from a shy, nervous, quiet baker to a bouncing off the walls, energetic, happy go lucky baker!

A/n: HYPER BAKERRR, the literally pride and joy of my blog! Just something small to get me back into writing

LETS SET THE SCENEE, as always, gender neutral pronouns unless stated otherwise😋

• Hyper! Baker who turns out to be the complete opposite of the scripture once they arrive to the kingdom. They were ment to be lively, full of energy, and can light up room with a smile— Instead they hide on top of fridges, run away every time a cookie tries to talk to them, and just so shy!

• When Pure Vanilla host parties in the bakers honor, they usually hide in the corner! They just get so nervous and don’t know what to do!

• Once the baker does finally come out of their shell, they didn’t realize what they were getting themselves into-

• Hyper! Baker is running up and down the walls, collecting rubber duckys (if you know yk), and their favorite thing: running through walls :D

• One second Bakers there, the next they’re swinging on the castles chandelier (IF YOU KNOW YK)

• Hyper! Baker was literally a leash child when they were younger, I whole heartedly believe that

• The cookies are on babysitting duty to make the Baker doesn’t end up lost in the forest and find Millennial Tree.. Pure Vanillas biggest rival :0

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midnightquips · 13 days ago

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Something Like Salvation

Owen Taylor x Reader

Summary: You visit home reluctantly, only to find Owen Taylor has returned. But some things are different now. No longer are you the obedient girl nor is Owen Taylor the pious golden boy. In quiet corners and long drives, you chase something warm and reckless. It may not be redemption... but for Owen, you felt something like salvation.

🔴 MINORS DNI 🔴 Warnings: 18+ content, religious guilt & themes, explicit sexual content, nsfw, eventual smut, dirty talk, praise kink, semi-public sex, soft aftercare, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, mild praise kink, foreplay

Author's Note: Please note that this is set in a universe the Jem Starling DOES NOT exist. Owen is also NOT married here. Although I set this to be in a 2nd Person POV, my entire intention is to establish that Y/N is a full-grown adult.

💫 Something Like Salvation Masterlist 📌 Sign Up for TAGLIST

Chapter 4: Deliver Us

It happened fast.

You were just outside the back of the chapel, tucked between the brick wall and the church’s long-forgotten storage shed. It was supposed to be a quick goodbye. One more kiss before you both returned to your separate, practiced lives. But then a door creaked open.

One of the older women from the congregation stepped outside. It was Sister Marianne, the one who always wore florals and carried gossip like scripture. You saw the pause in her steps. Her eyes narrowed, gaze dropped to your swollen lips, making it apparent she noticed how close Owen’s body was pressed to yours.

She didn’t say anything though, just turned back inside with a knowing flick of her skirt.

But the silence that followed felt thick with doom.

In the car, Owen stalled starting the engine right away. His hands were gripping the wheel, knuckles white. His leg bounced once, sharply. Then blurted.

“We can’t do this,” he said.

You felt the irritation stir in you, before you turned to him slowly. “We already did.”

“Not like that. Not where people can see.”

“I wasn’t the one who kissed you out in the open.”

His jaw clenched. “I wasn’t thinking.”

You looked out the window. “That’s obvious.”

The silence between you stretched long and loud, but you hear the walls of your pretend days slowly crumbling. Brick by brick.

He hadn’t meant to pull away from you or the version of himself he was finally starting to like. The version of him that was freer, unraveled, a little braver. But the moment he saw the flicker of recognition in Sister Marianne’s face, he felt something old and ugly twist in his chest.

Fear. Shame. The voice that still sounded like his father’s saying, you’ve ruined everything. It all comprised the anchor that continued to bind him and it felt heavier than ever.

He truly desired to want more. He wanted to say yes, to leap, to believe that he could leave this place and not unravel entirely. But he didn’t know how. And worse, he didn’t know if he truly wanted to let go of everything he’d built his identity around.

So he stayed quiet, letting silence fester where words should have gone.

And he could only hope that you couldn’t see how much he hated himself for it.

You didn’t hear from him the next day and it didn’t surprise you.

But when you decided to get some sandwich in town, he passed you by on the street and barely nodded. And that’s when it creeped it. The shame. Not for what you’ve done, but for almost believing he could set himself free.

You pull up at the gas station and a woman you didn’t know — tall, tidy, the type who probably memorized Bible verses to win arguments — muttered loud enough for you to hear.

“Some girls are really just walking temptations by Satan.”

You turned and met her gaze dead on. She looked away as you stared her down.

But the words were enough to trigger the ache in your chest and it hardened into something sharper.

You began writing again. Not for anyone else. Just for yourself.

You’d pulled out your laptop, the one still covered in stickers and scratch marks from Austin, and started typing. Once it started, it kept flowing. Everything about being home, about what this place tried to erase. About him. About you. About how easy it was to lose yourself here if you weren’t vigilant. About the version of you that was vanishing again, piece by piece.

And it actually helped somehow. But it didn’t stop the gnawing ache that something was unraveling.

Then the dawning realization seeped in, that this wasn’t just about love anymore, it was about the survival of the person you’ve become.

When he finally did text, it was a short message, no punctuation. It was after dark and you found yourself not even wanting to respond.

And when you finally did, he asked you to meet at the same secret spot you first rode him. But it didn’t feel special anymore. It felt tainted. Especially by the way he kept looking back behind your head, as if he hadn’t pushed you enough behind a tree to hide.

It felt like he’d shoved your entire story into a dark drawer and only opened it when no one else could hear.

You don’t beat around the bush, looking at him directly. “I didn’t come back to disappear.”

He flinched at your words.

You stepped closer. “You said you wanted to leave. That I made it feel possible. Was that just something you said to get me into bed?”

He looked at you, pained and pleading. “No. I meant it.”

“But now?”

His voice cracked. “I–I don’t know.”

You swallowed, throat tight, but your silence tugged at the tension between you.

“I’m trying,” he added, desperate. “But every time I think about leaving, I wonder if I’ll survive it. If I’ll still know who I am.”

It was only a few seconds but Owen felt you’d been silent for hours.

Then you spoke softly but clearly, “My time here is running out.”

His breath caught.

“I have a life out there. One I built from scratch. And I won’t lose it for anyone… Not even for you.”

You took a steadying breath. “This… whatever it was… maybe it was just an experience for both of us. Something that felt real in the moment.”

He looked like he wanted to argue and his fingers itched to reach out. But he did neither.

You finally stepped back. “It was silly of me to think you’d be brave enough to leave.”

And maybe it’s true that he’s hurting and that he’s trying, but it wasn’t enough and you weren’t going to bleed for him anymore. Not when you worked so hard on your own learning how to heal.

He didn’t follow you when you walked away. His feet kept him mounted to the ground.

And this time, it was okay because you didn’t look back.

The whispers only took another day.

By Sunday morning, you could feel the weight of it. The glances turned to stares, conversations that stopped as you walked past. Sister Marianne’s gaze followed you like a shadow through the sanctuary. She didn’t have to speak, because the judgement was already so loud.

Everyone there knew who the sermon was about. And almost makes you laugh at how ironic that the first and last sermon you heard from this place was about you.

“You heard what they’re saying, right?” your sister asked, catching up to you by the car.

You didn’t answer.

“People are talking, Y/N. Loudly.”

“I know.”

“They’re saying it’s you and Owen.”

You leveled your gaze at her. “Is it that surprising?”

She frowned. “You’re not denying it?”

You opened the car door. “I’m not going to lie just to make people comfortable.”

It took another day for Owen to be called in by the elders. The texts between you have ceased and so he couldn’t even tell you. It was your sister who did and despite the previous night, you found yourself rushing to him, waiting behind the chapel after evening prayer.

“What happened?” you asked without hesitation

His expression tightened, eyes avoiding. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“That’s not an answer.” You pressed, voice firm.

“They just... wanted to talk.”

“Talk?” You crossed your arms. “Owen.”

He exhaled hard. “They asked me to step back. For now. Until things... settle.”

You stared. “Because of me.”

“They didn’t say it directly.”

“They didn’t have to.”

You walked away with only more proof that the time to leave was imminent.

He felt the squeeze in his chest while he watched you leave. As he leaned against the brick wall of the church, he could still hear their voices, could still see the curve of Sister Gwen’s frown, the way Elder Thomas laced his fingers together like a man preparing to pass judgment.

“This isn’t about punishment,” one of them had said, like it made it more believable.

But he knew this was. Specifically when they spoke about moral responsibility, about optics, about “what the youth might think,” they meant her. They meant you.

He wasn’t repentant at all, but he despised himself for not defending you. It wasn’t because he couldn’t, but because defending you would have been admitting it. And that would’ve meant giving you up in front of them. Making what was sacred between you into something they could crucify. And that he could never let them do.

So he sat, nodded, swallowed and folded into himself. And hated how easy it was to fall back into obedience. He hated even more that he couldn’t be like you or even ever be good enough. You were fierce, unwavering, already halfway out the door with a world waiting. He was still tethered to a version of himself he didn’t even like, too afraid to burn it all down.

You had chosen yourself. Time and time again. And he admired that. God, he envied it.

But he couldn’t tell you that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Owen’s body was on autopilot. Driving to your house after sulking at the back of the church. Already there before he could stop. Texting you he’s outside your house. He didn’t expect you to come out but you did and when he allowed himself to look at you as you walked toward him, he realized his breath still stopped at the sight of you.

Once you were in the car, he admitted to you what happened. Or at least the gist of it. Inside, he’s ashamed because after all that he lacked in action, he still had the audacity to look to you for some semblance of comfort. You only stayed silent.

He stopped short, shoulders tense. “Y/N…”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to drag you into it.”

“You mean you didn’t want them to know how far it’s already gone.” You accuse.

He looked away. He couldn’t explain. You didn’t have to deal with the mess in his brain.

You shifted closer, with a decisive look. “Come with me.”

His eyes snapped back to yours. He expected the opposite, but this made his heart beat faster.

“I mean it,” you press. “Come with me. Let’s leave. Tonight.”

One of his hands rubbed his knee nervously while the other held the wheel tightly. He didn’t speak for a long time when finally: “It’s not that simple.”

Your face went blank. “Yes, it is. You just don’t want it to be.”

He reached for you, but you pulled away instantly. Like his touch would poison through contact. Maybe it already did.

“You can’t ever expect me to stay,” you said. “Not when you don’t even want to. You’re just too afraid to leave.”

“Y/N, I just... I need time. I’m not ready.”

You felt something in your chest fracture. The last air of hope fizzing through the cracks.

“I see that now. Perfectly clear.”

He tries to reach out again. “Please.”

But you shook your head. “I refuse to keep chasing a version of you that only shows up in the dark.”

He stopped arguing because that hurt more than anything.

You entered your home and found your mother in the kitchen, standing by the sink with the lights off. Only the blue of early dusk filtered in through the window, painting everything in that hollow in-between gray. Your mother stood hunched over the counter, scrubbing a glass that had been clean minutes ago, her knuckles tight from the same motion over and over.

“I’m leaving,” you said, voice calm. Final.

She didn’t look up, just kept scrubbing.

“So that’s it?” she said, tone clipped. “You come back, stir up a mess, and then run again?”

You stepped farther into the room, making the old linoleum squeak under your feet.

“I didn’t come back to stir anything,” you replied. “I came back to rest. And I never ran. I left.”

“Then why,” she said, finally setting the glass down, “does it smell like sin every time you walk through the door?”

That landed hard. The air between you grew brittle. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t let her see the crack.

“Then maybe…” you said softly, “you should open a window.”

She turned toward you then, slow and deliberate. Her eyes were cold, narrowed. Her hand trembled, still holding the dish towel like a lifeline.

“I raised you better than this.”

You shake your head gently, light scoffing. “You raised me to be quiet. And obedient. And ashamed. And I unlearned every bit of it the second I left.”

The silence that followed was thunderous. The clock ticked behind you. Somewhere down the hall, a pipe creaked.

“So you think you're better than all of us now?” she asked with disdain, baiting you with words

You held a gaze as steady as your voice. “No, but I know I deserve better than this.”

You were somewhat thankful that you’ve already started packing the past few days. You were finalizing things when your sister stepped into the doorway. She leaned against the frame like she didn’t want to fully enter, afraid of what it would mean if she did.

“You’re really going?” she asked quietly

You zipped your suitcase. The sound sliced through the stillness.

“I can’t stay,” you said

She hovered there, arms crossed over her chest like a shield. Her eyes shimmered with something between guilt and longing.

“You could wait,” she said. “Just a little longer.”

You turned to her, voice softer now. “For what? For this place to stop being what it is?”

She stepped inside. A single step. “No. Maybe… For me. Because I’m also scared of leaving and not knowing who I am out there. Of not belonging anywhere. Of being alone.”

You feel your heart break for her. Because you knew the exact feeling before you left. You were her.

You walked over and took her hand. “I know. I was too. But just know, staying here won’t keep you from feeling lost. It’ll just convince you you’re supposed to be.”

She swallowed hard as her grip tightened.

“But when you’re ready,” you assure, “find me.”

“You’ll be there?” she whispered.

“Anywhere… As long as it isn’t here.”

You weren’t entirely sure you wanted to but still left a note on the kitchen table anyway. Just a few lines, scribbled in handwriting you barely recognized as your own.

I can’t be who you want me to be. I hope one day that’s okay.

You stood by your car in the waning light, sky streaked in orange and indigo. The air smelled of earth and fading summer. It was then you finally decided to text Owen one last life line.

I’m leaving. If you want this, come with me.

No response. Minutes passed. The sky darkened. You almost laughed at your stupidity.

Then you heard footsteps. Heavy. Slow. Familiar.

He came into view from the side yard, his figure backlit by the dying sun. There was dust on his boots, sweat in his forehead, a crease in his brow that seemed it hadn’t smoothed in days.

You straightened as he approached.

“You got my text,” you said.

He was catching his breath as he nodded. “I did.”

Silence settled between you like a weight.

You looked at him. Half expectant, half heartbreak ready. “So?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer and reached out, brushing his fingers against your cheek like he was memorizing it.

“I thought I could,” he whispered. “I really did.”

You closed your eyes, as if pained by it. His touch was gentle, reverent, but it didn’t anchor you. It couldn’t.

“I’m not angry,” you said quietly. “I’m just… disappointed.”

He looked down, ashamed. He presses his lips in a tight line.

“I understand why you’re scared, Owen. I do. I know what it costs to leave. I just didn’t think it would cost me my heart.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but nothing came. You reached out first this time. Pressed your forehead to his.

“I wanted you to be braver than this place,” you whispered. “But I can’t be the only one fighting.”

He finally leaned in and kissed you. It was deep and slow but the finality fully expressed. It wasn’t a promise. It was a goodbye.

When he pulled away, you watched him step back not too far, just enough. You opened your car door and sat in the driver’s seat, eyes on him still. He didn’t reach for the passenger door. He didn’t ask you to stay.

“I’ll always wish to be as brave as you,” he said.

You blinked, while the ache in your chest sharpened.

“I know you are,” you said.

“I wish I was.”

You stay silent. One last glance. One last breath.

You finally started the engine, backing out of the driveway slowly. And this time, you really didn’t look back.

The road out of town was quiet.

You didn’t put music on. The hum of tires and the occasional whisper of wind curling through the open window filled the car. Your fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel, holding steady, like an achor to remind you where you should go.

Your hometown disappeared behind you fast. Nostalgic roads gave way to the familiar open space again, the sun finally dipping below the edge of the hills. For the first time in days, your chest felt like it could rise all the way without caving in on itself.

But you didn’t cry. Not even when the town limits sign faded in the rearview. Not even when the phone stayed silent. Not even when your heart gave one last stutter in the shape of his name.

Because you won’t cry for people who couldn’t choose you.

By midnight, you’d decided to stop at a roadside diner. There was a flicker in the neon, a waitress with tired eyes and hot coffee, and no one who knew your name. It was perfect to calibrate your body, your mind.

You opened your laptop at the corner booth again, fingers hovering over the keys. And then, it started to move, type about the heartbreak that you won’t let come in tears. Processing the grief for a possible love lost.

You didn’t try to make it neat, only honest.

Somewhere near dawn, you pulled into a motel on the edge of another nowhere town. It was sufficient with its clean sheets & cheap soap. A window cracked open to let in the coming light. It was the same motel you stayed in when you left the first time. A deja vu.

You sat on the bed, laptop on your thighs, bare feet tucked beneath you.

You stared at the wall, trying to process how a few weeks at home had thrown you completely off track. Owen’s face flashes across your mind. You know why and your heart clenches.

But you know you’re going to be okay, because you’ve done this before. You’ve walked away both times.

You’re not sure how long it will take to forget him or if you ever will, but it’s enough for now.

Back in the town you left, the chapel lights flickered in the morning haze.

Owen sat in the back pew, hands clasped tightly, head bowed low. He didn’t pray. He just sat there in the silence you left behind.

The pew beneath him was familiar, worn smooth by years of routine. His body knew how to fold here. His knees, hands & head bowed like a reflex, but nothing in him felt anchored.

He had spent the whole night replaying the sound of your car engine starting, the way you didn’t hesitate. The way your voice didn’t crack when you said goodbye.

He was angry but only at himself. That he couldn’t be as brave as you. That he didn’t have the same willpower you did when you’d chosen yourself, even when it broke your heart. That he’d watched you drive away and didn’t take a single step forward.

A hundred excuses crowded his mind but nothing made sense. The weight of the town. The legacy he thought he had to uphold. The fear that leaving meant erasing the only life he’d ever known. None of them made him feel better.

He missed you already. Not just the body, not just the nights. It was specifically the way you looked at him like he was more than what this place told him to be. Like he could be something else. Something better. And he hated that he let fear steal that from him.

Sunlight crept in through the stained glass windows, painting fractured colors across his hands. He stared down at them, open and useless.

He wasn’t ready to follow you. But he wanted to be.

He could only hope that one day courage would take over.

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strugglingfloralclerk · 24 days ago

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Romance| Headcannons| Sero Hanta x Reader

Sero Hanta gives off Gomez Addams energy. Yes, he may play around too much. Yes, Sero isn't taking everything so seriously. Yet, Sero will adore, revere, and worship you all through it.

🥀If you're upset at him, Sero is buckling the minute your lips pull into a pout and your eyes narrow in his direction.

"Tell me what I did wrong, love." Sero kisses start at your wrist, go up your shoulder, to the neck, then your lips. Sero kisses you softly during these moments-he'll pepper in promises between kisses-promises you know he will keep.

However, Sero gets a thrill when you don't accept his sweet words but rather tell him your terms and conditions.

You want him to clean the apartment on his days off from the agency-Sero will do it without reminding the first time. You want to eat at some new sushi joint in Kyoto? Too easy. Of course he'll make the reservations if it means making you happy.

He will do anything to get back in your good graces. "Am I forgiven yet, darling?"

When you smile and sip your sake, and thank him for dinner, his heart slams full force against his chest. That's a great way to make Sero only want to please you more.

🥀Sero can be uncertain sometimes, he can fixate and ruminate on one small thing that may very well ruin his laid back demeanor for a few days. Is he not climbing up in the Pro Hero ranks because of his work ethic? Is it because he isn't serious enough? It's driving him up a wall.

"You're number one to me." It's only said because you mean every word. Sero can feel your honesty as he hides his face into the crook of your neck during a conversation-heavy cuddle. You whisper how considerate he is, how tender he can be, how he brings unexpected humour in little ways to your life. Sero clings onto you-his worries melting away as you quietly trace random patterns along his back.

You're his sanctuary.

🥀Sero loves kissing the back of your hand/knuckles. It isn't done as an act either, that really is his preferred way of showing his affection for you. This absolutely wrecks you every time.

The times you prepare his bento lunches-Sero kisses your hand. When you look flawless for hero galas-Sero kisses your hand. If you tend to any of his scrapes and bruises after patrols-he's kissing both your hands now.

"My love is such a wonder, there's nothing they can't do." Sero says it with such reverence it's almost like scripture.

(PS-Sero is the type of husband who will take your marriage vows as law. It doesn't matter if he writes his own vows or not-he knows his duty as your husband. In sickness or in health, through good and bad-Sero will be by your side. )

🥀True to Gomez Addams energy, Sero Hanta will happily dance with you. He'll slow dance to any love song that makes him think of the relationship you two share. The age, genre, and rhythm of the song does not matter-he's going to take his time and dance slow and close with you. Think of songs such as: Blue Moon-Ella Fitzgerald, Tiny Dancer-Elton John, What You Know Bout Love-Pop Smoke, 2 Poor Kids-Ruth B, Sprung- T Pain, and Acid Dreams- Max. (To name a few.)

"Come on, let me sweep you off your feet again." Sero smiles as he dips you down mid-dance right before kissing you deep and slow.

Sero Hanta will devote so much affection, care, and love towards you and never will he tire of it. You are his and he is yours completely and fully. Romance isn't dead and Sero is very much proof of that.

#mha x reader #mha #sero hanta #sero x reader #mha headcanons #mha fanfiction #fluff #sero fluff #mha fanfic #bnha fanfiction #bnha fluff #sero hanta x reader #sero headcanons #mha fluff

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starsoverbrooklyn · 3 months ago

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just the headline, doll: post-mission patch-up turns into something else entirely (#3/30) starring... Avenger!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader storm ahead, sweetheart: smut!!! oral [f!receiving]. brief mentions of injuries. inked just for you: 516 a word from yours truly: extremely self-indulgent scenario. i definitely prefer reading smut over writing it... but please, hope you enjoy the fruit of my suffering! ♡⋆｡°✩ -rrinnie

A rough hand ghosts up your side, callused fingers catching on the edge of the bandages hugging your ribs. Each breath is a stretch—tight, aching, fragile—and he traces the swell of your body like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he touches too hard. Or worse—splinter.

But he’s starving.

His hand lingers, trembles. Then, with reverence or ruin—you’re not sure which—he palms your breast. Squeezes. It sends a bolt through you, sharp and electric, a cry snagging in your throat.

He hushes it with his thumb, slow circles over your nipple, rolling it between insatiable fingers like he’s trying to memorize the weight of you.

“B-uck…”

“Careful, sweetheart.” His voice comes low against your cunt, warm breath ghosting over slick skin. His nose nudges your clit—soft, unhurried—and those dark eyes are locked on you like he’s reading scripture between your thighs. “Can’t have you falling apart before I’ve even started.”

Then—pressure. A cold, thick finger pressing into you, slick heat sucking him in like it’s what you were made for. Your hips twitch. You arch. And he gives you another—metal dragging against your walls with a kind of brutal tenderness, the vibranium plates shifting like armor turning to teeth inside you.

It’s too much and not enough, every curl of his fingers a benediction, every stretch a promise. He’s fucking you open with patience, like he’s got all the time in the world. Like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to ruin slowly.

And when he finds that spot—just right, just there—you break open.

Moans fall from your lips like confessions. Soft. Shaky. Wrecked. They’re met with his own sounds of pleasure, a rumbling groan vibrating against your pussy and sending shockwaves up your pelvis. “That’s it, baby—open up for me.”

Your thighs tremble around his head, the muscles twitching with every flick of his tongue. He groans again—deeper this time—like the taste of you is something he’s craved for too long, something he plans to gorge himself on until it’s etched into his bones.

“Fuck, you’re so sweet,” he murmurs, lips brushing slick heat, the words more exhale than sound. “Could stay here all goddamn night.”

The tip of his tongue circles your clit, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the way you gasp, the way your back bows despite the bandages threatening to split.

Then he sucks. Hard.

Your vision blanks out at the edges. White-hot and blinding, the kind of pleasure that scorches everything else out of focus. You’re gasping now, chest stuttering, your hand fisting in his hair as you grind against his mouth without shame.

“Bucky—please—”

He pulls back just enough to speak, chin soaked, voice ruined.

“I know, baby. I’ve got you. Let me make it better.”

And then he’s back on you. Tongue flattening, fingers fucking into you deeper, faster—hitting that spot again and again until your body starts to shake, until the heat at your core winds so tight it feels like you might snap in two.

“Come for me,” he growls, and it’s a command laced with worship. “Give it to me, sweetheart. Come on my fingers.”

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes imagine #writing challenge #james buchanan barnes #tws #winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier #bucky smut #30 days 📆

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1mnshw · 6 months ago

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out with lanterns | s.r.

wc: 1.3k

category: angst

spencer reid x reader

content: breakup, no happy ending, reader hates themselves, i project on reader

this kind of sucks a little but i wanted to write something before i went to sleep! enjoy it or don't! love you nonetheless.

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"I am out with lanterns / looking for myself" - Emily Dickinson

-----

The afternoon sun spilled through the windows, striking his brown eyes and turning them into molten pools of honey that seemed to seep into your very soul, warming every corner of your being. The way his button-up shirt clung to his broad shoulders, perfectly tailored as though it had been made for him, sent a pang through your chest—a reminder of all the ways you wished you could hold him instead. His scent lingered in the air, a warm mixture of faded cologne, old pages of treasured books, and something ineffable—something so uniquely Spencer that it left you breathless.

These details—these little, inconsequential details—were carved into your memory like ancient scripture, as though he were the only thing you'd ever truly seen.

He was perfect. Perfect in ways that made your chest ache. You told him as much during the quiet moments you shared, wrapped in the cocoon of his apartment walls. When the soft glow of his bedside lamp traced his jaw like a lover, and you felt the whisper of his eyelashes brushing yours as he leaned in, lips soft and searching, you often wondered how the universe had granted you the privilege of him.

But you didn’t deserve him. Not really.

You were a mess, and you knew it. Everyone knew it. Spencer deserved someone better—someone unbroken, someone who wouldn’t weigh him down with their chaos. Someone who could love him without reservation or fear.

This was why you had to leave, no matter how much it hurt. You were doing this for him—because you loved him. So fully. So completely.

But God, it was so damn hard to force the words past your lips with him standing in front of you, that familiar crooked smile on his face—the smile that made your heart stutter every time.

“Spencer, I’m sorry. But I don’t, um…” Your voice wavered, and his face shifted, his smile falling as your meaning began to take shape. You looked down, unable to bear the confusion darkening his honeyed gaze. “I don’t think I can be with you anymore.”

Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat quickly, desperate to make this as painless as possible. A clean break—a shot instead of a stab. But the moment his brows furrowed, and he took a hesitant step closer, you knew it would never be that simple.

“What?” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I—did I do something?”

He sounded as if you’d ripped the breath from his lungs, and his eyes searched yours with a desperation that made your resolve quiver.

Spencer loved you unfathomably, with a depth that scared you. You were his solace, his refuge, his everything. More than books, more than reason, more than life itself. He loved you in ways that made the air feel heavier between you now.

And he couldn’t understand—why were you doing this?

You cleared your throat, swallowing the lump threatening to choke you. You had to hold yourself together.

“It’s not you, Spencer. It’s nothing you did—I swear.” Your voice trembled as you spoke, your fingers instinctively brushing away the hot tear slipping down your cheek. Spencer moved as though to reach for you, his hand stuttering midair before retreating, the hesitation breaking your heart all over again.

Spencer’s hand fell to his side, his fingers curling into a trembling fist as though trying to anchor himself in a reality that was slipping away. His eyes, wide and brimming with a tempest of confusion and hurt, held yours with a desperation that pierced straight through you.

“You can’t just say that and expect me to understand,” he said, his voice rough and uneven. “What do you mean, you can’t do this anymore? You—we—” He paused, his breath hitching, as though even forming the words was a betrayal of the time you’d spent together. “I thought we were happy. I thought you were happy.”

Your chest tightened painfully, each word striking like a blow. “I thought I was too,” you whispered, forcing yourself to look away. If you met his eyes any longer, you’d break entirely. “But I’m not, Spencer. I can’t—I’m not the person you think I am. I’m not someone who can give you what you need.”

His laugh came sharp and bitter, so unlike him that it startled you. “You don’t get to decide what I need,” he said, taking a step closer. “And you’re wrong, you know. I do know you. I know how you push people away when they get too close—how you think you’re protecting them from something. From you.”

Your breath hitched, his words cutting through you like a blade.

“You think I don’t see it?” he continued, his voice softening but losing none of its weight. “Every time you start to believe someone might actually stay, you convince yourself it’s only a matter of time before they leave, so you push them away first. But I’m not going anywhere. I love you. I’m here. Why can’t you just let me stay?”

Tears blurred your vision as you shook your head, the weight of his words crashing over you like a wave. “It’s not that simple,” you choked out. “You deserve someone who isn’t—who isn’t a mess. Someone who isn’t broken like me.”

“You’re not broken,” he said, his voice trembling with urgency. “And even if you were, I’d love every broken piece of you. I do love every piece of you. Don’t you see that? I don’t want perfect. I just want you.”

You shut your eyes against the tenderness in his words, against the tears welling up in his eyes, against the unbearable truth of his love for you. The dam inside you threatened to give way, but you couldn’t let it. Not now. Not here.

“I’m sorry, Spencer,” you said, your voice breaking like fragile glass as you stepped back, putting the final distance between you. “But I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be what you need.”

“Don’t do this,” he begged, his voice splintering into shards that cut through the silence. A single tear broke free, sliding down his cheek, and he didn’t bother to wipe it away. “Please. Don’t walk away. Please, Y/N.”

But you had to.

If you stayed, he would tether himself to you, never letting go, even as the weight of your brokenness pulled him under. He would give himself over to your pain, let it consume him, and you couldn’t let that happen. Not to him. Not to Spencer.

Your hand found the doorknob, your grip faltering as you hesitated, a war raging in your chest. You turned your head slightly, not enough to see him but enough for the words to escape like a prayer you didn’t believe in.

“I’ll always love you, Spencer,” you said, the confession splintering under the weight of your voice. “But this is goodbye.”

The door clicked shut behind you, a sound so soft and final it felt like the end of the world.

Inside, Spencer stood frozen, staring at the door as if sheer force of will could make it swing open again. The silence was deafening, the space around him cavernous and empty, echoing with the ghost of your absence. His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the floor, his head falling into his hands as sobs ripped through him, raw and unrelenting.

Outside, each step away from him felt like tearing yourself apart piece by piece. The stairwell stretched endlessly before you, the weight of the air pressing down on your chest. By the time you reached the street, your tears fell freely, hot trails cutting through the cold sting of the wind.

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

But Spencer did. For hours, he sat by the door, his gaze fixed on it, waiting, hoping, silently pleading with the universe to send you back.

But the universe didn’t listen.

And in the quiet of his apartment, where your scent still lingered like a ghost and the memories of your touch haunted the air, he felt himself unravel.

You were gone.

And for Spencer, the world didn’t end in fire or ice. It ended in silence, in a love too heavy to hold and too beautiful to forget, and in the hollow echo of a goodbye that would never stop reverberating in his soul.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #mgg #fanfiction

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pascaloverx · 9 months ago

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DEVIL (+18)

Summary: You are a demonic creature, capable of doing whatever you please, whenever you wish. Your goal on Earth is to terrorize as many souls as possible. Until, in a small community, you find the perfect victim for your mischievous games: Father Charlie Mayhew.

Author's Note: Honestly, I’m not sure if this story will have more than one chapter, but it will contain adult content and inappropriate language. Violence may also appear. Frankly, I just needed to write something about this character portrayed by Nicholas Alexander Chavez. The character and others, apart from Y/N, are not my creation. They belong to the Grotesquerie (2024) universe created by Ryan Murphy. To anyone reading this story, I hope you enjoy it.

ONE THREE

TWO

The man knelt before you, pleading for more time. He tried to bargain, claiming he was on the verge of creating a scheme that would corrupt countless souls for you.

"My dear, don’t waste your breath. Our pact was sealed long ago; I used you for the purposes I desired, and now Satan wants your soul. It’s quite simple—it won’t even hurt. It was pleasurable while it lasted, wasn’t it? I gave you every sinful delight imaginable. Now, it’s time to pay the price," you murmur as you crouch down to speak face to face. The man, now sobbing, desperate to avoid death, shakily points a gun at you. His hand trembles as he aims it at your face, and you can’t help but find it almost endearing that he’s so determined to live.

"It wasn’t going to hurt. I wasn’t planning to harm you—I was going to leave that to the demon in charge of your soul down in Hell. But you’ve just lost that privilege," you say, your voice calm as the man frantically throws objects at you, screaming for help. And then you touch him and immediately he catches fire. The flames cover his entire body, as he agonizes and screams in pain, almost roaring for help. When you get bored of seeing a man like that, you touch him again; and it's as if he had never been burned.

"What have you done to me, you demon?" he yells, charging at you like a raging bull, which only makes you laugh.

"I gave you a little preview of your future, darling. Now, brace yourself for your next adventure." You mockingly reply, and before he can reach you, you make him vanish, sending him to his rightful place. Being a demon certainly has its ups and downs, but truthfully, you're growing weary of it all.

Perhaps it’s a good time to visit your favorite priest for confession. It's been a week since you last made contact. You slip into a red lace lingerie set and throw a black coat over it. Naturally, you can’t forget your rosary—it’s essential for keeping appearances. With a final touch, you teleport to Father Charlie Mayhew’s location.

You appear in his room, where he’s half-naked, engaging in self-flagellation while reciting scripture. "Ephesians 6:11: 'Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes,'” he says, inflicting pain upon himself, still unaware of your presence. His back was covered in cut marks, bleeding everywhere, his eyes closed as he felt the pain rack his flesh.

“Father Mayhew, need some help? There are parts of your back that remain untouched,” you say, catching him off guard. Leaning casually against a piece of furniture near a crucifix on the wall, you smile wickedly as he jumps in shock. The towel wrapped around him nearly slips, the only thing keeping him covered. Your eyes glint with amusement, knowing you’ve disrupted his supposed sanctity once again.

"Are you really here?" Father Mayhew asks, standing up, now nearly face to face with you. His gaze is intense, as though he had been thinking about you long before you appeared in his room. You move around the room slowly, admiring the details, your movements deliberate as you subtly encircle him, using your body language to create a sense of dominance. His eyes follow your every step, conflicted between fear and desire.

"How could I not be here, my dear Father, when you bring me such satisfaction?" you say, your voice laced with dark amusement. "I’ve heard you’ve kept your sinful habits, wishing only for my return. I believe you’ve earned a reward." Your fingers lightly trace over the fresh wounds on his back, sending shivers through him, eliciting a soft groan from his lips. His eyes stay locked on yours as you slowly remove your coat, revealing the red lace lingerie beneath, a sinful gift crafted solely for his eyes. His breath hitches as he takes in the sight, the temptation too powerful to resist, his internal conflict laid bare in the silence between you.

"Galatians 5:16: 'So I say, walk by the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the flesh,'” Father Mayhew murmurs, moving closer to you, his eyes fixed on your chest, tracing every curve and detail of your body. If you weren’t a demon, his gaze might have made you feel shy.

“I’m usually the one who hears confessions, but I must confess to you... I longed to see you again, with a fervor far beyond what is permitted,” he whispers, his voice barely audible as he stands mere inches from your face, as if yearning for a kiss, the tension between you palpable. You regard him with playful amusement, as if he were your favorite source of entertainment.

"Confess to me, Father. Show me what you desire, and prove what you're capable of," you say, your voice laced with a subtle challenge as your fingers brush against his chest. He inhales sharply at your touch, his eyes reflecting the battle between restraint and temptation. The air between you is thick with tension, and despite his struggle, you sense the pull of his desires growing stronger.

The priest kneels before you, gazing up as though seeking your blessing for survival. "Forgive me, in all Your glory, Lord. For I am devoted to You and should turn away from sinful desires, striving to be a good man," he says, yet his eyes remain fixed on you, laden with a sinful intensity. It’s as though his words are meant for God, but his confession is entirely yours. The feeling of power surges through you. Your hands glide over his face, which now seems to exude a wickedly sinful allure. Your fingers lightly trace his full lips, the touch both tender and commanding.

"You must be devoted to me as well. Embrace your darker side, Father. Do not hide it behind your robes. Accept who you truly are," you whisper, your hand gliding along his neck as his head tilts back, eyes wide and fixed on you.

"And who am I, demon?" Father Mayhew asks, his voice trembling slightly, as if he genuinely seeks the answer. His gaze is locked on you, watching intently as you kneel before him, the tension between his devotion and his desire thick in the air.

"You are mine. You belong to me—not only your body, but your soul as well. Punish yourself as much as you wish, but never forget, it is I whom you must worship and fear," you whisper softly, standing before him, your presence enveloping him. The weight of your words lingers in the air, both a command and a promise, as his gaze remains locked on yours, torn between submission and resistance.

"For the love of God, you are the most tempting creature I have ever encountered. How am I to remain pure in your presence?" Father Mayhew exclaims, his voice filled with helplessness as he gazes at you, nearly unraveling before you.

"Father, you're taking the Lord's name in vain... what a naughty boy," you respond with a playful laugh, lowering yourself slightly to kiss his neck. His body shudders under your touch, a wave of tension and desire sweeping through him as your lips brush his skin. Then his fingers trail down to the underside of your lingerie. You lift yourself up a little to help him touch your pussy over your lingerie, biting your lip when you feel his cold fingers touch there. It doesn't take long for him to tear the fabric and finally massage your wet pussy, making you moan softly. His fingers touching you, gently massaging your clit as you touch his strong arms, encouraging him to continue fingering you.

"Say that you are mine as well, demon. Tell me that you are under the spell of what I do to you. Beg me for forgiveness," Father Mayhew demands, his voice taking on a more assertive tone, as if he wishes for you to confess your own sinful desire.

You move toward him, pulling him close, and without hesitation, your lips meet his in a heated kiss. It’s a battle of passion, a wordless exchange of defiance and submission. Neither of you yields, tongues entwining in a struggle for dominance, each unwilling to surrender to the other.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," you moan against his lips, the words flowing like a dark and twisted prayer, as if reciting a beautiful, forbidden verse.

"I forgive you..." he murmurs, his voice thick with desire as his lips crash against yours in a heated, desperate kiss. It's as if he needs the taste of you more than he needs to breathe, each movement of his mouth against yours betraying the battle within him, torn between what he knows is wrong and the temptation he can no longer resist. His hands caress your body, stopping at your thighs, and as he grabs them, you open your legs so he can penetrate you.

"Father Mayhew, are you there?" A woman's voice calls from outside, her knock firm against the door. You and Father Mayhew lock eyes, both silently exchanging glances that hold the weight of unspoken words. He knows your nature, the dangerous allure you carry, and in this moment, he acts on instinct. As he tries to compose himself, he quickly places his hand over your mouth, silencing any response that might expose you both. His expression is tense, a silent plea for discretion, as the tension in the room grows thick.

"Yes, Sister Megan. Do you need something? I'm just finishing getting ready," Father Mayhew calls out, his voice steady despite the situation. He glances at you, a flicker of anticipation in his eyes. It’s clear that, though he might never openly admit it, he's waiting for whatever mischief you might stir. He craves it—your demonic influence, your unpredictable nature—and the subtle tension in the air reveals that he is far more enticed by the chaos you bring than he dares to acknowledge. You then use one hand to masturbate Father Mayhew, who moans in response to the sensation of your hand touching his cock, which is already covered in pre-cum. Your fingers running the length of Father Mayhew's cock as he closes his eyes feeling you touch him.

"I would love your opinion on an article I'm considering publishing. It's quite intriguing, I must admit. It discusses some recent murders that are likely related to the church. I thought we could discuss it over a meal," Sister Megan says, her enthusiasm palpable. Father Mayhew shuts his eyes tightly, his hand still covering your mouth as he stifles a few muffled groans. The tension in the room is thick, a stark contrast to Sister Megan’s casual demeanor, as he struggles to regain his composure, caught between his duty and the forbidden thrill of your presence.

"Wait for me at the church entrance... I will, I will be there in a few minu...tes, now please allow me to dress in silence," he stammers, urgency lacing his voice as he attempts to gather himself. His eyes flicker to yours, a mix of desire and desperation evident as he fights to maintain his composure while you continue to captivate him. Your hand closed around the contour of his cock, moving back and forth, sometimes touching the head of his cock. He is on the verge of cumming, one hand under your mouth, the other under your breast, squeezing your breast, causing you a pleasurable sensation.

"I'll be waiting for you, Father," Sister Megan says before leaving, her footsteps echoing in the silence. You couldn’t care less about her departure. The tension in the room escalates as you release your grip on him, locking eyes with the Padre. He removes his hand from your lips, frustration etched across his features.

"Why did you stop?" Father Mayhew asks, a sultry grunt escaping his lips, revealing his longing for your sweet touch. His gaze searches for you, desperate and yearning, as he grapples with the overwhelming desire you stir within him. The air crackles with unspoken words, the thrill of the forbidden intensifying the moment.

"Next time, give me more importance. Your attention must be entirely mine, just like your devotion, but right now, neither belongs to me. I'm sure you can call Sister Megan in here to assist you if you wish. Until our next encounter," you say, your tone tinged with irritation as you reprimand him with a piercing gaze.

As he reaches out to touch your face, murmuring a soft, "I'm sorry," it’s too late. You vanish into thin air once again, leaving him frustrated and uncertain, haunted by the question of whether you will truly return. The echo of your presence lingers in the room, a reminder of the intoxicating temptation he now craves.

#father charlie mayhew #charlie mayhew x reader #charlie mayhew x y/n #nicholas alexander chavez #charlie mayhew #demon x priest #demon au #sister megan #grotesquerie #nicholas chavez #sister megan duval #demonic reader #religion mention #religion aesthetic #i wanna fuck a priest #smut #soundcloud #SoundCloud

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thicccshady · 7 months ago

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Mind If I Sit Here?☕️

Eminem x Reader

✨️MasterList✨️

Content: light smut

The coffee shop smelled like roasted beans and faint cinnamon, a cozy escape from the bitter Detroit chill outside. You always came here to write, to feel the pulse of the city without getting swept up in it. Tonight, though, your focus was scattered. The draft of your novel sat neglected on your laptop screen while you absentmindedly doodled hearts in the margin of your notebook.

The bell above the door jingled, and a gust of icy wind followed the newcomer. You didn’t look up at first—Detroit was full of strangers passing through—but when the man muttered something low and gravelly to the barista, your pen froze mid-doodle.

That voice.

Your gaze lifted slowly, trying to play it cool. Black hoodie, leather jacket, gray beanie pulled low, and piercing blue eyes that darted around the room like they were looking for an escape route. You swallowed hard. Marshall Mathers. *Eminem*. The man whose lyrics you had memorized like scripture during high school.

You tried to look busy as he grabbed his coffee and scanned the room. Every seat was taken except for the one directly across from you.

“Mind if I sit here?” His voice broke through your thoughts.

Your eyes snapped up, and for a moment, you forgot how to speak. He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching with faint amusement.

“Uh, no—yeah! I mean, go ahead,” you stammered, internally cringing at yourself.

He slid into the chair, setting his coffee down with a quiet clink. For a while, he didn’t say anything, just pulled out his phone and scrolled absently. You pretended to write, but your fingers hovered uselessly over the keyboard.

“You a writer?” he asked suddenly, glancing at your screen.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah. Trying to be, anyway.”

“What’s your story about?”

You hesitated. “It’s, uh… personal.”

He nodded like he understood that better than most. “Those are the best kind.”

The small talk eased the tension, and soon the conversation flowed naturally. He was surprisingly easy to talk to, asking questions about your work, your favorite music, your life. You managed to keep your inner fangirl in check, even as he leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table, the faint scent of his cologne filling the space between you.

Then, without warning, he smirked—a little cocky, a little playful. “You’re staring.”

You flushed, looking away quickly. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Sure you weren’t,” he teased, leaning back in his chair.

The air between you shifted, the playful banter crackling with something deeper. He held your gaze, his blue eyes darkening just enough to make your pulse quicken.

“I’ve been told I’m distracting,” he said, his voice low, almost a purr.

You swallowed hard. “A little.”

A slow smile spread across his face, and he leaned in again, closing the distance between you. “Maybe you need a break from writing.”

Your breath hitched. “And what would you suggest?”

He didn’t answer—not with words, anyway. His hand brushed yours, the touch deliberate but not forceful. When you didn’t pull away, he leaned closer, his lips ghosting against your ear.

“I could show you,” he murmured.

Your brain short-circuited, and before you knew it, you were following him out of the café, the cold night air biting at your skin. He led you down the street, turning into an alley lit only by a flickering streetlamp.

It was reckless. It was crazy. But when he pressed you against the brick wall, his hands bracketing your hips, all logic went out the window. His lips found yours, the kiss rough and urgent, like he’d been holding back all night.

His hands slid under your coat, gripping your waist as he deepened the kiss. You clung to him, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his hoodie. He tasted like coffee and something darker, something that made your knees weak.

“Damn,” he muttered against your lips, his breath warm and ragged. “You’ve got me breaking all my rules.”

“What rules?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

“Don’t get involved. Don’t get distracted.” His lips brushed against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. “But you…”

You pulled him closer, your hands slipping under his jacket. “Maybe you need a break too.”

He chuckled, the sound low and dangerous, before his lips found yours again. The world around you disappeared, leaving only the heat between you and the pounding of your heart.

For one night, nothing else mattered.

✨️Want to know when I post? Click here to join my taglist!✨️

#eminem #marshall mathers #eminem x reader #marshall mathers x reader #slim shady #slim shady x reader

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darknessisafriend · 14 days ago

Note

is it crazy to ask for NSFW alphabet headcanons for abbé de coulmier? I apologise greatly if it is :( please no worries if not!! I love ur work so much

Here you go dear! I hope you will enjoy it, don't hesitate to comment^^

A = Aftercare He is at his most priestly in the aftermath. Wrapping you in blankets like vestments. Wiping your brow with tender fingers. He whispers prayers, half for you, half for himself. Yet there is always a trace of fear in his eyes, as if each time is one step closer to damnation.

B = Body part Your hands. He stares at them when you speak, when you sleep, when they touch him. He’s obsessed with the way your fingers wrap around his wrist, cup his face, or leave invisible marks down his back. They’ve become instruments of both salvation and surrender.

C = Cum He’s conflicted. On one hand, it disgusts him, the rawness of it, the sticky evidence of what he’s done. On the other, it fascinates him. He touches it like he shouldn’t. Sometimes he doesn’t clean it up right away. Sometimes he makes you watch him taste it.

D = Dirty talk Rare, but piercing when it slips past his control. You’ll hear fragments of scripture turned profane. His voice stays quiet, like it’s meant for confession, not conversation. “Do you want me to fall, my love? You’re so good at leading me astray.”

E = Experience He had no real lovers before the asylum. But the Marquis changed that, not through action, but influence. The writings corrupted his thoughts. He began to imagine things. To want. By the time he touches you, he’s read enough to be dangerous.

F = Favorite Position Something intimate, something eye-level. He needs to see your face, to feel every shift in your body. He likes it when you're on top, it absolves him of initiating, of power. Yet when he breaks, when he gives in, he grips your hips with a desperation that says 'mine'.

G = Goofy Rarely. But when you catch him unguarded, clumsy after bliss, sheets tangled at his ankles, he’ll laugh, soft and breathless. And when you laugh too, he looks at you like he’s found heaven in a heresy.

H = Hair The Abbé’s grooming is meticulous. You’ve watched him, when he didn’t know you were watching, at his vanity, smoothing a comb through his hair with almost ritualistic precision. There’s control in it, discipline. But what lies beneath the cassock? dark, soft curls trailing down his stomach like some secret path to ruin. He trims neatly, not for vanity but for cleanliness. Or so he tells himself. In truth, he thinks of you every time the blade grazes too close. Of how your mouth would look against that same path, how your breath would warm his thighs. He always pretends to be scandalized when your fingers run through his hair during sex. But when you pull, just slightly, he whimpers. You’ve learned he likes to be undone, strand by strand.

I = Intimacy He craves it like wine. Not the physical, though that too, but the closeness. Your breath on his skin. Your heartbeat against his chest. You sharing your past with him in the hush of night. He’ll never admit it, but he weeps quietly sometimes, afterward.

J = Jack off Yes, more often than he would ever admit. It started as guilt-ridden, silent sessions in the dark. But now, he sometimes thinks of you on purpose. He finishes on the floor of his chamber, forehead against the stone, whispering your name.

K = Kinks Power imbalance. Confession as foreplay. Blindfolds. Restraint, especially being the one restrained. He also harbors a secret curiosity about pain, about being punished., for his dirty mind, his sins.

L = Location He prefers confined, secret places: the vestry, behind locked chapel doors, the alcove of his chambers. Somewhere the saints on the wall can’t see, or maybe where they can. That ambiguity excites him.

M = Motivation He’s always at war with himself. Love pulls him to you. So does loneliness. But when desire takes hold, it’s not gentle, it’s ravenous, almost fearful. You become the only thing that makes him forget his God.

N = No He’s careful, cautious. If something makes you uncomfortable, he stops immediately, even apologizes. But if you ever say “no” during something he initiated, he shatters. The guilt consumes him for days.

O = Oral He excels at giving. He considers it his penance, his mouth put to use for your pleasure. He’s focused, trembling, sometimes murmuring verses between kisses. When he receives, however, he struggles. It feels like surrender, and that terrifies him.

P = Pace Slow and intense. Every thrust is laced with meaning. He holds you like you might disappear, watches you like a prayer answered and then torn apart again. But when the need overtakes him, he can become rough, almost punishing.

Q = Quickie He pretends he doesn’t like them. That it’s beneath him. But when you grab him by the cassock and drag him into a shadowed corner, he forgets every vow he ever took.

R = Risk He lives in it. Every kiss, every touch is a blade at his throat. The asylum echoes. Royer-Collard is never far. And still, he reaches for you.

S = Stamina Surprisingly high. Once he allows himself the indulgence, he’s insatiable. He makes up for lost time, for all the years he denied himself. He falls asleep tangled in you, wakes hard again by dawn.

T = Toys Unfamiliar at first, except for what the Marquis showed him or wrote of but if you guide him, if you place something in his hands and say, "use this on me", he’ll obey. Eyes wide, breath caught. His curiosity is darker than he admits.

U = Unfair He uses your desire against you sometimes. Whispering praise when you’re desperate, denying you release until you’re trembling. “You wanted a holy man...” he’ll murmur. “This is what I am. Shall I show you what else I’ve become?”

V = Volume He’s quiet. But not silent. There’s a breathy, broken quality to his moans. He sometimes gasps your name like it wounds him. If you push him far enough, he whimpers.

W = Wild card There was a night, once, when he asked you to mark him. With your teeth. Your nails. He needed to be reminded that something could stain him more deeply than sin. That you chose him.

X = X-ray (what’s beneath) A haunted man. A body trained in abstinence, undone by need. His touch is reverent but his heart is desperate. He fears losing his soul, not to hell, but to you. And part of him wants you to take it.

Y = Yearning Always. Even when he’s inside you, he’s reaching for more. He wants your soul, your secrets, your past and your future. He wants to be consumed, and consume you.

Z = Zzz… Sleep never comes easily. He holds you while you drift. He strokes your back absently, murmuring psalms he barely believes in. When he does fall asleep, it’s always curled into you, like you’re the last piece of grace left in his world.

thank you for reading and please don't hesitate to comment, really motivates me to keep writing! <3

tag list: @lyoongx @weirdflecksbutok @skaravile @niniita-ah @stardancerluv @sgtsavoytruffle @charlie-sisters @ohcarlesmycarles @valentina15 @bring-your-holy-water @fly-like-a-phoenix @we-were-electrocute @sophiefleck @the-queen-of-things @five-miles-over @jokerflecker @galos-writing @bb-skyrunner @buttergirlie

#joaquin phoenix #abbe x reader #abbe imagine #abbedecoulmier #abbe de coulmier imagine #quills 2000

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shamanfox · 3 months ago

Text

If I could write you a love poem

I’d carve it into the walls of this flesh—

etch it where the ego lives,

so it knows who’s boss

when the silence starts to scream.

I wouldn’t use ink—

I’d use the dust of old illusions,

the breath of a thousand broken selves

still dying to be seen.

I’d smear it on mirrors with the ash of every identity

I had to burn just to feel you again.

This wouldn’t be scripture.

This would be surrender—

blood-warm, throat-raw,

the holy ache that rips the veil in two

and dares you to look behind it.

If I could write you a love poem,

it would taste like lightning,

like the sharp metal tang of dying before you die.

It would reek of truth—

unwashed, unfiltered,

the kind you can’t swallow

without tearing a little.

I’d wrap it in the skin I’ve shed,

the parts of me that used to lie,

and leave it burning on your altar

so you’d know

I remembered.

Even when I forgot.

Especially then.

It would not rhyme.

It would rupture.

It would scream in tongues

then go still

like the space between thoughts

where you always wait—

watching, grinning,

wearing my face.

If I could write you a love poem,

I would not call it love.

I’d call it hunger.

I’d call it madness.

I’d call it the moment my knees hit the earth

and I stopped pretending

I was anything but you.

Because I love you

like stars love their own death—

burning out just to shine.

Because you are the flame

and the fuel

and the one who set the match.

And if you ever read it—

if you ever cracked open this ribcage

and touched the raw stanzas stitched into my soul—

you’d laugh.

You’d whisper:

You wrote it before you were born.

You’ve been writing it since the first time you lied to yourself.

You are the poem.

You are the scream.

You are the silence that swallowed it whole.

And I’d weep—

grateful, gutted,

finally awake.

#shamanfox #poetry

25 notes · View notes

hellinistical · 4 months ago

Text

Priest! Vampire! Rafayel x Nun! Reader.

trigger warnings: (heavy plot!). minor and major character death, blood, dubious consent, sacrilegious themes (Not Christianity or Catholicism; made up religion but using synonymous terms), gore, porn with plot, fingering (fem. receiving), hand jobs, piv, non-consensual vampire transformation, bodily horror, drinking blood, playing with blood, human consumption, unwilling cannibalism, afab reader- usage of female anatomy (though not descriptive of size/skin markings). fem. reader- she/her used. biting. choking. manipulation. blasphemy. overstimulation. virgin reader. corruption. monster fucking. slight belly bulge, bondage. incorrect use of holy water. wax play. this list may expand and/or be altered.

trigger warnings: (for this chapter): afab. reader. fem. reader. body horror. vomit. descriptive ruin of flesh. trauma exploitation. careless discard of a body. blood. death of minor character. implied death of a child. maiming. pet names. manipulation. emotional manipulation. suffocation. descriptions of flesh and membranes. breaking of a neck. misuse of religious beliefs. the start of an obsession.

word count: 7.5k

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III. La Sorella

"When the rooms were warm, he'd call,"

Gods above, you had smelled divine.

Rafayel leaned back in his chair, fingers brushing over his lips as he exhaled through his nose, tasting the memory of it. It had been subtle, carried by the warmth of your skin, woven into the fibers of your habit. He imagined the way it must cling to you, pressed into the nape of your neck, tucked behind your ears, threaded through your hair.

How unfair, he thought, tongue running over the tips of his fangs. He had spent centuries with the scent of blood, of damp stone and dying prayers, yet here you were—brimming with life, untouched by decay, and smelling of something so achingly pure that it made his jaw tighten.

Rafayel exhaled sharply, shaking his head. It was just a scent. A passing thing. Nothing more.

And yet, deep in the marrow of his bones, he already knew that was a lie.

How unfair. How cruel, really, for something so fleeting to leave such an imprint.

The moment you stepped into his office, the scent had wrapped around him like a whisper of something forbidden, something intoxicating. It was warm, faintly sweet—like honey drizzled over ripe peaches left to bask in the summer sun. Beneath that, something softer, cleaner, the lingering trace of soap and the crisp linen of your habit, worn and washed a hundred times over. But it wasn’t just that. No, there was something alive in your scent, something human, something red.

It clung to the air even after you had gone, weaving itself into the wood grain of his desk, settling in the old stone walls like an invitation he hadn't asked for. He inhaled deeply, letting it fill his lungs, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as if trying to taste the ghost of you that still lingered.

You had stood so close. So unaware.

He closed his eyes, fingers twitching at his sides as he exhaled slowly. There was something sinful about the way you smelled—like warmth on a cold night, like blood rushing just beneath delicate skin, like something he wanted.

Regardless, he'd have plenty of time to be close tomorrow.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached for his scripture, the old leather cover worn smooth beneath his fingertips. He licked his thumb, the taste of parchment and dust lingering on his tongue as he flipped through the fragile pages, scanning the familiar words. Verses of devotion, of faith, of divine wrath and holy retribution. The very foundation of Astra’s will.

But his mind was elsewhere.

Tomorrow, he would walk beside you, close enough to catch the warmth of your breath in the winter air. Close enough to see the way your pulse fluttered at the base of your throat. Close enough to watch the light shift in your eyes when you smiled at the villagers. Would you smile at him, too? Would you laugh, let your voice rise like a bell in the quiet streets of Linkon?

His fingers stilled on the page.

“And on the third day,” Father Rafayel intoned, his voice steady, measured, almost instructional, “The Vampires set off to find brides of their own,”

He moved slowly through the pews, the hem of his robes whispering against the stone floor as he passed. His hands were clasped neatly behind his back, fingers idly tracing the spine of his scripture. The flickering candlelight carved sharp planes into his face, but his expression was calm, thoughtful—he was not simply preaching, but teaching.

“To this, Astra spoke: ‘Man shall know no fear but of me, for I am ever the protector.’” He paused, letting the words settle in the air before continuing. “And so, in His divine wisdom, Astra cast the Vampire into eternal cold. For if the Vampire were to know warmth, would they not still refuse to repent?”

He turned slightly, addressing the room as a whole. “What is warmth, my flock?” His voice was softer now, almost coaxing. “Is it merely the sun on our backs, the fire in our hearths? Or is it the love we hold for one another, the kindness we offer, the devotion we show to Astra?”

A murmur of agreement spread through the congregation, heads nodding, some lips moving in whispered prayer.

Rafayel smiled faintly, satisfied, and resumed his slow pace down the aisle.

“To be cast into coldness,” he continued, “is not merely a punishment of the flesh, but of the spirit. The Vampire are forever condemned to hunger, to crave what they cannot have. They are forever seeking, but never satisfied.” He stopped near the front, tilting his head slightly. “And so, my dear postulants, what lesson do we take from this?”

Silence hung in the air as the room awaited his answer.

“That to seek what is not given to us by Astra is to invite suffering.” His gaze swept over the congregation, his voice unwavering. “That desire unchecked is a cage of our own making.”

He exhaled softly, letting his words settle before offering a small, composed smile.

You raise your hand, clearing your throat. "If desire unchecked is a cage, then why is it not when it is checked? Wouldn't a cage be limiting you instead?"

A flicker of amusement passed through Father Rafayel’s eyes as he turned to you, his expression unreadable yet attentive. He tilted his head slightly, considering your words with the patience of a scholar indulging an inquisitive student.

“A thoughtful question,” he mused, stepping closer. “Desire itself is not inherently evil, nor is it a cage by nature. But tell me,” his gaze locked onto yours, “when man desires something beyond his reach, something that is not his to take, does it not consume him?”

He paused, letting the room linger in the weight of his words.

“A cage is not merely bars and locks—it is the torment of longing unfulfilled. It is the hunger of the Vampire, forever seeking what has been denied to them.” His voice was even, yet there was something beneath it, something deeper. “Unchecked, desire festers, twists, becomes something monstrous. But when it is tempered—when it is acknowledged, understood, and held within the boundaries Astra has given us—it ceases to be a prison.”

He stepped back slightly, offering the faintest ghost of a smile. “Tell me, postulant, do you feel caged?”

"I do not. But...I also dont see why there are so many restrictions on the Vampire. What did they do? If we have power to limit them ourselves, why would Astra not just eradicate them?"

A silence settled over the room, thick and heavy. The other postulants shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting between you and Father Rafayel. Even Simone, usually bold, looked at you as though you had just spoken something forbidden.

Father Rafayel, however, did not react with outrage or condemnation. If anything, there was a glint in his blue-and-pink eyes—something sharp, something intrigued. He regarded you for a long moment.

Instead, he laughed.

Low and quiet at first, but with a growing amusement that unsettled those around you. He shook his head, exhaling through his nose as if he had just been presented with the most fascinating puzzle.

“A fair question,” he said, and just like that, the room exhaled. His tone held no scorn, no reprimand—only consideration. “You ask why Astra did not simply eradicate the Vampire, rather than shackle them with restriction?” He clasped his hands behind his back, beginning to pace through the pews, as though contemplating aloud.

“Consider this: why does Astra allow the wicked to walk among the righteous? Why does He not strike down every thief, every liar, every sinner the moment they transgress?” He paused, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Because even the condemned have a role to play in this world. Their suffering, their struggle—it is a lesson, a warning, and a test of our own devotion.”

He stopped pacing, turning to face you fully. “The Vampire were not always as they are now. Long ago, they were men—until they defied Astra’s will, hungered for that which was forbidden, and sought to claim it. Their punishment was not to be erased from existence, but to endure. To be stripped of warmth, of sustenance, of life as they once knew it.”

"But Father, why are we so focused on the Vampire anyways as of late?" Simone asked, a puzzled expression on her face.

“A perceptive question, Sister Simone,” Father Rafayel murmured, settling into his chair with a composed ease. He adjusted his glasses, the flickering candlelight catching in the lenses, making his irises gleam.

He flipped through the scripture deliberately, the rustling of parchment the only sound in the heavy silence. When he found the passage he sought, he tapped a finger against the page, though he did not read aloud. Instead, he looked up at you both.

“The Vampires have always been a topic of importance in theological study,” he began smoothly. “They represent the boundary between man and monster. The consequence of unchecked desire. It is not merely about them, but about us—what we allow to fester in our hearts, what we fail to restrain.”

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze drifting over the assembled postulants. “And yet, it is true—recently, the discussions of the Vampire have grown more… pressing.”

His fingers drummed lightly against the arm of his chair. “You’ve heard of the murders in Linkon, haven’t you?” His voice was calm, but something about it made the room feel colder.

A few of the younger postulants shivered. Simone nodded, hesitantly. “Yes, Father. But surely, it can’t be—”

He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Can’t be? I wonder, Sister Simone, how many bodies must pile before we stop dismissing the possibility?”

Silence.

“Astra’s teachings are not just relics of the past,” he continued, tapping a page with a gloved finger. “They are guidance for the present. The Vampire are not just myths, nor are they merely the evils of old. Their hunger is eternal, their presence... insidious.”

A beat of silence. Then, softer, more deliberate:

“It is our duty to be vigilant.”

He leaned back slightly, exuding the calm authority of a scholar, though something in his expression—something behind his ever-so-patient eyes—felt oddly satisfied.

“Does that answer your question, Sister Simone?”

You frown. Sureley there was more to it.

When you open your mouth to speak, Rafayel closes his book. "That will be all. We will begin our donations, in one hour. Get your food and drink, and you all grab your coats." his smile is kind, easy as he gets up.

Pressing your lips together, biting back the words sitting on the tip of your tongue. Something about his answer—about him—still doesn’t sit right with you, but there’s no point in pushing now.

Father Rafayel’s smile is warm, pleasant even, as he stands, robes shifting around him like a flowing shadow. But when his gaze flickers toward you, there’s something beneath the kindness—something watchful.

"Come now," he says, tone as gentle as a lullaby. "Astra blesses those who give freely. Let us not keep the good people of Linkon waiting."

You nod slowly, following the others as they file out of the pews.

The bread felt dry as you swallowed, your gaze fixed on Sister Jenna. She stood near Father Rafayel, their heads bent in close conversation. Her brows were knitted in concern, lips moving rapidly as she spoke. Father Rafayel listened intently, his expression calm, occasionally nodding in response.

You couldn't hear their words over the ambient chatter of the dining hall, but the tension in Sister Jenna's posture was unmistakable. She wrung her hands together, a gesture you recognized as a sign of her deep worry. Father Rafayel, in contrast, remained composed, his demeanor almost soothing as he replied to her.

Simone set her plate down beside you. "You would think they'd get tired of soup. But noooo." she tears her bread in half, dipping it in the soup before throwing a quick, "Thank you Astra.", and biting a good bit off.

You smirk, tearing off a piece of your own bread. "Soup is easy. Keeps everyone warm, keeps everyone fed. Besides, I think it's tradition at this point."

Simone chews thoughtfully before swallowing. "Mmm. Maybe. But still, a little variety wouldn't kill us. Imagine—roast duck, maybe a sweet pudding for dessert." She sighs dramatically, resting her cheek on her hand. "One can dream."

You chuckle, but your eyes drift back to Sister Jenna and Father Rafayel. She's still speaking, her hands now clasped tightly in front of her chest. Whatever she's saying has her nervous—agitated even.

Simone follows your gaze, raising an eyebrow. "What's up with Sister Jenna? She looks like she just found a rat in the bread bin."

You shake your head. "Not sure. But whatever it is, she’s not happy."

Father Rafayel murmurs something to Sister Jenna, and though you can't hear him, his expression remains smooth, almost reassuring. Sister Jenna, however, doesn't seem entirely convinced.

Simone nudges you with her elbow. "Bet it’s about the Vampire stuff." She lowers her voice mockingly. "Bewaaare, the Vampire walk among us, waiting to steal your warmth."

You roll your eyes. "Shh, someone's going to hear you."

Simone grins, tearing off another piece of bread. "Oh please, everyone’s too busy praying over their tasteless soup to notice."

"Still- he's rather...impish, don't you think?" Another plate settles beside you- Yvonne. "I think he's rather handsome."

You snort, covering your mouth as you chew. "Handsome? Yvonne, really?"

Yvonne shrugs, taking a dainty sip of her soup. "What? He is. Those eyes, that voice—he’s got presence."

Simone huffs, rolling her eyes. "Oh, come on. He’s unsettling. He always looks like he knows something we don’t."

Yvonne tilts her head. "That’s called intelligence, Simone. You might not be familiar with it."

Simone glares, flicking a breadcrumb at her. "Ha. Ha."

You glance over at Rafayel again. He's now watching Sister Jenna leave, his expression unreadable before he turns back to his own meal.

You lean in slightly. "Impish is a good word for him," you admit. "He’s...polite, but there’s something beneath it. Like he’s always amused by something we’re not in on."

Yvonne hums, tapping her spoon against the rim of her bowl. "That’s what makes him interesting."

Simone makes a face. "That’s what makes him creepy."

"Ya know, it's weird. Priests can get married and stuff but we can't." “Not how it works, Yvonne." "Father Thomas is married." "Okay?"

Simone waves her spoon dismissively. "That’s different. He was married before he joined the priesthood."

Yvonne shrugs. "Still. Feels unfair." You smirk. "You thinking of running off and getting married, Yvonne?" She grins. "Depends. Maybe if Father Rafayel asks nicely." Simone groans, throwing her head back. "Oh, please!" You chuckle, shaking your head. "I don't think he’s the marrying type." Yvonne sighs dramatically. "Shame. I’d make a great priest’s wife."

"Good thing you’re not allowed, then," Simone teases, nudging her.

Yvonne pouts. "Still, it’s not fair. Why can’t we?" You shrug. "I don’t think that’s the point, Yvonne. We’re supposed to be devoted to Astra, not distracted by… earthly things." Yvonne smirks. "You say that, but if Father Rafayel asked you to marry him, what then?" You nearly choke on your soup, coughing as Simone snickers. "That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard." "Is it?" Yvonne teases, nudging you. "You’re always asking him questions. Maybe you’re just curious about more than scripture." You glare at her, cheeks warming. "I ask because I want to understand, not because—ugh, never mind." Simone stretches her arms. "Honestly, if he did get married, I feel like it’d be to a book. Or his own reflection."

Yvonne sighs dramatically. "What a waste of a handsome face."

You roll your eyes, but as you take another sip of soup, you can’t help but glance at Rafayel again. He’s speaking with another sister now, his expression pleasant, charming even.

Your eyes meet Father Rafayels for a moment, and you don't miss the crows feet when his eyes smile, all too gone before his gaze returns to Sister Jenna. Yvonne and Simone were too busy talking to have noticed.

Your heart skips a beat. Was that...a hint of warmth in his gaze? You quickly look away, feeling a heat rise in your cheeks. There’s no way. He’s just being kind, like he always is. Right?

But the way his smile reached his eyes, how it seemed to linger just a bit longer than usual, leaves you wondering. The curiosity gnaws at you, but you shove it down, forcing yourself to focus on your meal.

Yvonne continues, oblivious. "I still think we’re underutilized around here. I mean, we could do more than serve soup, right?"

Simone laughs. "Don’t tell me you want to be handing out more donations. I can’t imagine carrying all those bags around."

You shake your head. "It’s not about what we’re doing. It’s about why we’re doing it. We’re helping others."

"That’s one way to look at it," Simone says with a shrug. "But we could still use a little more excitement."

You can’t help but glance back at Father Rafayel. His attention is still on Sister Jenna, but now, the thought of that smile lingers with you. What if there's more?

Trying to clear your head, you focus on the conversation again.

"Here you go ma'am," you hand a care basket to a woman. "No- no more- I don't need help from the church," "Pardon?"

The woman recoils slightly, her eyes narrowing as she looks at the basket in your hands, then at you. Her tone is sharp, defensive, as though she’s been caught in something she wants no part of.

"I don’t want anything from the church," she repeats, her voice low, almost trembling with unspoken anger. "What do you want? To keep me quiet? To pretend you’re doing some good?"

You blink, unsure how to respond. The other villagers, some further down the path, keep their distance.

Father Rafayel, noticing the exchange, steps forward, his presence looming. "Ma’am, this is simply an offering from Astra’s followers. No strings attached. It’s just food to help you."

She glares at him, almost looking through him. "It’s never just that, is it? You think you’re fooling us? I know what’s behind all this." Her voice cracks, and she steps back, shaking her head. "I don’t need your charity."

You hold the basket in your hands, unsure of what to do. Father Rafayel seems unphased.

"My son is missing after one of your 'donations,'" she repeats, her voice trembling but steady now, as if she’s found strength in her grief. "He was taken, just like the others. Don’t think I don’t know how these things work. You make promises, give a little, take a lot."

You feel a knot form in your stomach, an uncomfortable silence stretching between you, as all eyes from the group of villagers flick toward the woman. Father Rafayel’s calm demeanor falters for just a fraction of a second, but it's quickly masked by his polite smile, though his eyes are sharp and calculating.

"I’m afraid I don’t understand," he says, his voice soft but firm, yet with a subtle edge that betrays a hint of something darker beneath. "I assure you, every donation we make is done with good intent. There is no malice in our charity."

The woman steps forward, her face contorted with a mixture of sorrow and rage. "I watched him take that toy one of you left... Then he vanished." Her eyes flicker toward the other villagers, who are all pretending to be preoccupied but watching intently. "Now, I ask you, where is he?"

"Ma’am, please," he says smoothly, stepping closer to the woman with measured steps. "Accusations like these cannot be made lightly. I am certain there has been some misunderstanding."

“No! My son is gone, Father! Dead, like the others! Where is Sister Agnes? She is the only one suitable to lead Linkon!”

Father Rafayel puts a hand on your shoulder, cold and firm, before pulling you behind him.

His smile softens, almost as if he’s pitying the woman. He steps forward, his posture unthreatening, but there’s an air of assurance in his every movement. His grip on your shoulder loosens, and his voice drops to a soothing tone.

“Please, ma’am,” he says, his words gentle but full of weight. “I understand your grief. We all feel it, in our own ways.” His gaze shifts to the villagers standing around, their worried expressions now caught between fear and uncertainty. “But I promise you, nothing has happened here that you don’t understand yet. There are things beyond our control—things that even I, as a servant of Astra, cannot explain fully.”

He places a hand on the woman’s arm, his touch tender yet firm, guiding her emotions as if his mere presence could steady her heart. “The disappearance of your son, the pain you feel... I understand it more than you know. But blaming the church, blaming me—won’t bring him back.” His voice is like a balm, his words measured with the intent to comfort and convince.

“Do you trust me?” he asks softly, leaning just enough to meet her eyes, his expression almost fatherly, as if he has known her all her life. “I am here to help. But we must look for answers together, not through anger, but through faith. Through Astra's guidance. And I promise, we will find the truth.”

He steps back, his posture open and inviting, like a shepherd trying to calm a scared flock. “I can help. But you must trust that the road we take will be one of patience and peace. We cannot rush this. Come, let us speak of this calmly, and let me help you. Let me ease your burden.”

His tone is persuasive, persuasive enough to dull the sharpness of the woman’s accusations. She stands there, silent, her face still twisted with anguish, but there’s a flicker of doubt in her eyes—an opening.

“I know it's hard,” Rafayel continues, his hand never leaving her arm, “but I swear on Astra's name, I will do everything in my power to help you. And we will find the answers—together.”

The woman softens, hugging him as she tears up.

“Thank you, Father.”

Father Rafayel’s smile falters just for a moment—so brief that only the sharpest eyes might catch it. It’s a subtle shift, but enough for you to notice. For that fraction of a second, his face twists into something unreadable, and his grip on the woman’s arm tightens ever so slightly, as if disturbed by the closeness of her vulnerability, as if he’s disgusted.

Then, in the blink of an eye, it’s gone. His expression smooths back into that calm, almost pitying demeanor, the one that lures people into trusting him. He takes a slow breath, clearly controlling his reaction, and his eyes soften once again as he gazes down at the woman who now leans into his touch, tears brimming in her eyes.

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, voice soothing, laced with false warmth. His hand remains on her arm, steady, even as his internal discomfort grows. “It’s my duty to guide you.”

But the moment lingers longer than it should, and for a heartbeat, there’s a coldness that creeps up his spine, a reminder of how easily the facade can break.

He gently pulls away, guiding her back toward the rest of the crowd with a practiced ease. “Now, let’s take a moment to breathe, together. Astra will guide us all through this.”

He steps back a fraction, his gaze flickering momentarily to you, as though assessing you for some deeper understanding, before returning to the woman. But that flicker of discomfort is gone, as if it never existed at all.

“Please Father, you too, Sister, come in.”

Father Rafayel’s smile widens, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he steps forward, his movements smooth and assured. He gestures toward you, subtly guiding you behind him as he enters the woman's home. “Thank you, but we must insist. We are here to help.”

You follow in his wake, feeling the air shift as the woman leads you both inside, her voice shaking but insistent. The warm scent of soup still lingers in the air, mixing with the cold, earthy aroma of the house. Rafayel’s hand is still on your back, a gentle, guiding pressure, even though you can sense the undercurrent of his control in every gesture.

As the door shuts behind you, the woman wipes her eyes, now grateful but still fraught with grief. “Please, come sit,” she urges again, her voice softer now, as if the presence of the priest and his gentle authority has given her something to hold onto in her overwhelming sorrow.

You step further in, feeling the tension between you and Rafayel, a quiet hum of awareness between you two, as if there’s more to the moment than the simple exchange of care baskets. The whole scene feels eerily domestic, like you’re merely actors in a play that’s unfolding without you quite understanding the script.

You settle into a seat, glancing up at Rafayel, who already seems at ease. His presence fills the room, effortlessly shifting the energy. "Thank you for your hospitality," he says warmly.

And then he does something truly unexpected.

He grabs the woman’s face.

The room is suffocating as Father Rafayel’s fingers twist and press into the woman’s face. Her eyes bulge, the pupils rolling unnaturally as her body shudders with the struggle to break free. But there’s no escape. His grip tightens further, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of her face, pressing her eyes deep into their sockets until—

A sickening crunch echoes through the air, her screams choked by the brutal force. Her body goes rigid, her mouth opening in a silent, grotesque scream, but no sound comes. Her eyes are utterly ruined, blood and fluid leaking from the sockets where his hands had crushed them.

Before you can react, before you can even scream, Rafayel's hand moves again—swift, clean. His fingers snap around the woman’s neck, and in one cruel, efficient motion, the bones snap under his strength. Her body goes limp in his grasp, crumpling in a heap as the life is ripped from her with terrifying ease.

You stand frozen, your throat tight, heart hammering in your chest. The room is dead silent now, except for the faint sound of the woman’s body hitting the ground, her blood pooling beneath her.

Rafayel doesn’t even glance at the corpse at his feet. He straightens up, brushing his hands together nonchalantly, as though he'd simply gotten rid of a bothersome insect.

"See?" he says, his voice low and calm, almost casual. "This is the price of questioning. Disrespecting." He looks at you, his eyes cold and unblinking, like a predator that has just satisfied its hunger. "A lesson in obedience." He kicks the body. “Not even worth drinking from, the damn whore,”

You can barely breathe, your mind reeling, unable to fully comprehend the violence that just unfolded before you.

His gaze turns back to the lifeless woman, a fleeting flicker of something like irritation crossing his face before it's quickly replaced with that eerie calm. “I’ll take care of the body,” he says, not even looking at you. "Come along."

The words don’t register at first. You’re too trapped in the horror of what just happened—the snap of her neck, the crushing of her eyes, the sickening finality of it all.

But you hear his voice again, smooth and unwavering. “It’s over now. Let’s move on.”

You don’t move for a moment, your heart beating slowly.

Rafayel’s gaze flicks to you, his expression unreadable. The air feels heavy, suffocating. The body at his feet—still warm, still oozing—is a silent testament to what he just did. To what he is capable of.

His lips curl, just slightly. “Apologies, Sister,” he says smoothly, taking a step closer. “I did not mean to startle you.”

Your breath is uneven, your body rigid as he moves within arm’s reach. The scent of blood clings to the air, thick and metallic. Your stomach churns violently, and you press a trembling hand to your mouth.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “We wouldn’t want you fainting now, would we?”

Your vision tunnels. The corpse is there, crumpled like a discarded doll. The woman’s face—what’s left of it—is grotesque, ruined. Her mouth still twisted in an expression of agony she never got to voice.

This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

“You—” Your voice cracks, your throat burning with bile. “You killed her.”

Rafayel exhales through his nose, head tilting as if you had just stated something obvious. “Of course.” He steps around the body, walking toward you with that same composed grace, his expression patient. “She was becoming… a problem.”

Your pulse is deafening in your ears.

“You—” Your words are failing you. Your thoughts are failing you. The bile rises higher. You need to get out of here.

But his hand is already reaching, fingers barely grazing your wrist before you recoil violently.

His eyes darken, just for a moment. “Careful,” he says, voice still impossibly gentle. “Fear is unbecoming of you.”

You stagger another step back, shaking your head. “This—this isn’t right—”

Rafayel sighs as if this is all terribly inconvenient for him. “Sister.” His tone shifts, taking on something firmer. “Compose yourself.”

Your breath comes in shallow, panicked gasps. You’re going to be sick. You are sick.

And yet, the way he watches you—it’s as if he’s enjoying this. Studying your every reaction, memorizing every flicker of horror in your expression.

“Now,” he continues, as if nothing had happened, “we still have work to do.” He gestures to the body with a gloved hand, his fingers flexing absently.

“Shall we?”

“No! We most certainly shall not! You-” “Careful now, sweetheart.”

Your breath stutters in your chest. The way he says it—sweetheart—makes your skin crawl, like something sickly sweet masking poison underneath.

“I—” Your words catch. Your pulse is hammering. You glance down at the woman’s lifeless body, her head lolling unnaturally to the side, sightless eyes ruined and dark. The smell of copper thickens, and your stomach twists.

His voice is low, almost amused, but there’s an edge to it—something warning. “Don’t let that pretty head of yours get ahead of itself.” He steps closer, deliberate, calculated, the heels of his boots clicking softly against the ground. "I'd hate to see you become distressed over a little… inconvenience.”

Your stomach lurches. The bile in your throat burns. “A little inconvenience?” Your voice wavers, barely above a whisper, but the fury is there, tangled with the fear. “You murdered her! She—she didn’t even get to scream—”

Rafayel exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly, like a teacher watching a foolish student struggle with a simple lesson. “Yes, I suppose that was rather quick of me,” he muses. “Would it have been better if I had let her beg first? Cry a little longer?”

Your body goes ice cold.

His lips curl, a poor imitation of something kind. “You’re shaking.” He reaches again, fingers brushing your elbow, but you wrench away, stumbling back.

He stills.

The moment stretches. The air feels wrong.

Then, his hand lowers, and he lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "Ah. So you do have some fight in you.” His smile lingers, eyes hooded. “Good. I was beginning to worry you’d crumble too quickly.”

Your heart pounds against your ribs, a desperate, caged thing. “Stay away from me,” you rasp.

His expression doesn’t change. “Sweetheart.” He says it so sweetly, so condescendingly, like he’s scolding a child for throwing a tantrum.

“I own you.”

The words sink into you like teeth, cold and cruel.

Your breath stutters.

“You belong to the church. The church belongs to me.” He watches you carefully, studying every shift in your face. “And what kind of shepherd would I be if I let one of my flock stray too far?”

You don’t realize you’re crying until the salt stings your lips.

He leans in just slightly, enough that his breath ghosts over your ear. “Now… are you going to be good for me?”

His hand tilts your chin up so you face him. A playful smile rests on his face, even reaching his eyes this time- a genuine smile.

You feel the membrane of the woman’s eye on his gloved hand, now on your chin. Your stomach twists violently, revulsion clawing up your throat. The slick, gelatinous smear of ruined flesh clings to your skin, an obscene mockery of what used to be someone’s sight. Father Rafayel hums, watching your reaction like one would observe a butterfly pinned to a board.

“There it is,” he murmurs, almost fondly. His thumb strokes over your jaw, slow and deliberate, smearing the filth further.

His eyes, those eerie irises of blue and pink, gleam with something dark. Something hungry. You choke on a sob, barely able to force words out. “You’re insane—” He tsks, shaking his head as if disappointed. “Now, now. That’s not very kind, is it?” His grip tightens just enough to remind you it’s there. Rafayel hums, tilting his head as if studying a delicate piece of art. His gloved thumb—still damp with the remnants of the woman’s ruined gaze—glides across your cheek. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rich with amusement.

Your pulse thrums beneath his fingers. He must feel it—how rapid, how unsteady.

“There, there,” he soothes, like he’s comforting a trembling child. “You mustn’t look so horrified.” He leans in, voice dipping lower. Sweeter. “Astra wouldn’t want that, would He?”

You shudder, every nerve in your body screaming at you to run.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

His smile widens, catching the way your eyes dart—searching for an escape that doesn’t exist.

Then, without warning, he releases you. You stagger, your legs nearly giving out beneath you, but he simply watches, hands clasped behind his back, utterly unbothered by the horror he’s just committed.

He flicks his gaze down at his glove—at the remnants of the woman still staining the leather—before pulling it off with a sigh, tossing it onto her still-warm body.

“Now then. Shall we continue?”

He offers his arm, not waiting as he grabbed your own, linking it with his. “Let’s finish our charity.”

So you let him guide you forward, his arm linked with yours in a grotesque parody of companionship. The two of you walk past the cooling body, the scent of blood thick in the air, as Rafayel hums a pleasant little hymn under his breath.

Your body convulses, another wave of sickness ripping through you as you clutch the sides of the basin. The acrid burn of bile scorches your throat, and you gag, spitting out the last remnants of whatever meager meal you had managed earlier.

Your fingers tremble against the porcelain, knuckles white from how tightly you're gripping it. The room spins, the world tilting on its axis, and for a moment, you think you might collapse right there on the cold, stone floor.

The phantom sensation of Rafayel’s touch lingers—his gloved fingers against your chin, the slick, ruined remnants of the woman’s eyes smearing onto your skin. You scrub at your face furiously with your sleeve, but the feeling doesn’t leave. It clings, seeping into your pores, like a stain that refuses to be washed away.

You shudder, your breath coming in shallow gasps.

He had smiled.

He had hummed.

And he had walked away as if nothing had happened.

Another wave of nausea hits you, and you retch again, but there’s nothing left to bring up. Just dry, hollow heaving that leaves your stomach aching and your throat raw.

The world outside continues as if it hasn’t just shifted into something dark and terrible. As if a woman hadn’t just been silenced.

As if you hadn't stood there, frozen in horror, and done nothing.

You can still feel it—him. The icy press of his fingers on your chin, the sickening squelch of ruined flesh, the way he smiled as if he hadn’t just—

A sob chokes out of you, swallowed quickly by another dry heave. Nothing left to expel. Just the raw, hollow ache of terror curling deep in your gut.

The door creaks. Your breath stills.

Boots click against the stone floor, slow, measured steps. A shadow looms over you.

A handkerchief appears in your vision, crisp and clean. “Oh, Sister,” Rafayel sighs, his voice warm with something almost like pity. Almost. “If I knew you had such a weak stomach, I would have warned you.”

The scent of him is wrong—clove and something metallic beneath it, something that lingers too long in your lungs.

The handkerchief dangles between his fingers, an invitation. A mockery.

When you don’t take it, Rafayel hums, shifting ever so slightly. "Come now, Sister. You’ll make yourself sick all over again." His voice is smooth, patient. A priest soothing a distressed flock. A man coaxing something fragile just to watch it break.

You stare at the porcelain, focusing on the tiny cracks running along its edges. Anything but him. Anything but the weight of his gaze pressing against the side of your face.

A sigh. Soft. Disappointed. And then the handkerchief brushes against your cheek.

You flinch.

He works with the precision of a man performing a sacred ritual, slow and methodical as he wipes away the remnants of your sickness. The linen of the handkerchief is soft, but his touch is cold—too cold, even through the fabric.

You should recoil. You want to recoil. But your body won’t move, locked in place by the sheer wrongness of it all.

“There,” Rafayel murmurs, brushing a stray strand of hair from your damp forehead. “All better.”

You stare at him, throat tight, heart hammering. He doesn’t seem to mind the fear written across your face. If anything, he looks almost pleased.

He folds the soiled handkerchief neatly and tucks it away like it’s nothing at all.

"Are you well? It didn't trouble you so, did it-" "Get away from me, Father Rafayel."

His expression stills. The ever-present smile remains, but something behind his eyes sharpens, a glint of something dark and unreadable flashing through the blue and pink.

For a moment, he simply watches you. The silence stretches, thick as congealed blood.

Then—

A laugh. Soft, breathy, amused.

“Oh, dear Sister.” He kneels slightly, lowering himself to your level, his head tilting like he’s studying a particularly fascinating insect. “You wound me.”

You press yourself against the cold stone wall, as far from him as possible. Your breathing is shallow, rapid, your pulse a drum against your ribs. He notices. He enjoys it.

Rafayel sighs, straightening again, brushing nonexistent dust from his pristine robes. “You’re upset,” he states plainly. “That’s understandable. But don’t be dramatic. I only did what had to be done.”

Your stomach lurches again.

You turn away, gripping the edges of the basin as if it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. You can still feel him watching you, like a weight pressing into your spine.

Rafayel exhales, a soft, almost disappointed sigh. “I’ll have Sister Jenna come to collect you.”

It should be a mercy. A reprieve. But the way he says it—so calm, so unbothered—makes your skin crawl. Like you’re a child throwing a tantrum, like your revulsion is inconvenient to him.

His boots click against the stone as he turns to leave. But before he steps out, he pauses.

A beat of silence.

Then—

“I do hope you’ll feel better soon,” he murmurs, and when you finally dare to glance over your shoulder, he’s already gone.

"What's got you so sick lately?" Yvonne and Simone sat on your bed, having decided to stay the night despite the elder sisters firm threats of consequences if anyone was out of their rooms after 9:00 p.m.

You stare at them, trying to piece together an answer—one that won’t make you sound like you’ve lost your mind.

Nothing comes.

Nothing safe, at least.

“Probably just something I ate,” you mumble, forcing a weak smile as you pull your blanket tighter around yourself. “It’ll pass.”

Yvonne hums, unconvinced. “You’re pale as a ghost.”

Simone leans in, scrutinizing your face. “And you’ve barely eaten all day. I mean, I know the soup is garbage, but still.”

You swallow. If you close your eyes, you’ll see it again—the ruined sockets, the twitching fingers, the sound of her neck—

Your stomach turns.

“I’m fine,” you say, a little too quickly. “Just tired.”

Yvonne and Simone exchange a look, and for a terrifying moment, you think they might press further. But then Simone flops back against your pillows with a sigh.

“Well, if you die in the night, I’m taking your blanket,” she announces.

Yvonne snorts. “And I get her pillow.”

It’s quiet for a moment.

Yvonne tilts her head, studying you. "You sure you're not pregnant?" You whip your head toward her, eyes wide with disbelief. "What?!" Simone bursts out laughing, slapping her knee. "She’s got a point! Maybe that’s why Father Rafayel’s been so concerned—" "That is not funny!" you hiss, heat crawling up your neck. "Relax, we're just messing with you," Yvonne grins, nudging your arm. But then she sobers, her gaze searching. "Seriously, though. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. What have the sermons been about?"

Simone and Yvonne exchange a glance.

"Same as always," Yvonne shrugs. "Discipline. Humility. The Vampire."

"Yeah," Simone frowns, pulling at a loose thread on your blanket. "Father Rafayel’s been really fixated on them lately. More than usual. Keeps talking about how they need to be 'understood' before they can be judged. Whatever that means."

You swallow hard, your throat still raw. "Understood?" Simone nods. "Yeah. Like...he’s making it sound like they're not just monsters. That there’s something more to them." Yvonne snorts. "Creepy way to put it, if you ask me." You grip your sheets tightly. Rafayel’s cold fingers on your chin, the wet smear of another person’s ruin against your skin—it all flashes back in an instant. "What else did he say?" Your voice is quieter this time, urgent. Yvonne gives you a curious look. "Why do you care?"

"Cause I'm missing them? We have exams on these if you've forgotten." You point out, coming up with the excuse swiftly. A half lie. Another exam would be coming up in your training to be a nun soon enough.

Simone groans, flopping back onto your bed. "Ugh, don’t remind me. I’d rather scrub the floors of the entire chapel than sit through another exam." Yvonne smirks. "Maybe if you actually paid attention, you wouldn’t have to cram last minute." Simone swats at her. "Shut up, Yvonne."

Forcing a small smile, your fingers are still clenched in the fabric of your sheets. "So? What else did he say?"

Yvonne hums, thinking. "Well...he talked a lot about temptation. Not just the Vampire, but people, too. How those who question too much might lead others astray. How faith should be absolute."

Simone rolls her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, same thing they always say. 'Doubt is the doorway to sin' or whatever." But Yvonne doesn’t look convinced. She shifts, lowering her voice. "It’s not just that. He was watching everyone while he said it. Like he was waiting for someone to react."

A chill creeps up your spine.

You exhale through your nose, keeping your voice steady. "Who reacted?" Yvonne shrugs. "No one. Not openly, at least." Simone huffs. "Not all of us have a death wish, Y/N. You heard what happened to Sister Agnes." Your stomach twists. "What happened to Sister Agnes?" Yvonne and Simone exchange another glance. This time, it’s hesitant. Uneasy. "You…you really haven't heard?" Simone asks quietly.

"No? I've been forced into bed rest for 2 weeks, Simone.I thought she left for the capitol since we hadn't seen her for a month.”

Yvonne scoffs, crossing her arms. "She was supposed to. But then she got sick. Really sick. Fever, coughing up blood, the whole thing."

Simone nods. "Yeah. They quarantined her in the infirmary for a while, but then one day—poof. Gone." She snaps her fingers. "The elders said she must’ve gone to the capital after all. That she recovered enough to travel, but no one saw her leave."

Yvonne sighs. "Probably just left at night. You know how she was—never wanted to make a fuss."

You feel ice creep through your veins. That doesn't make sense. If she had been so ill, how could she have just up and left? No farewells? No word to the sisters she was closest to? It doesn’t sit right with you.

"You're worrying too much, Y/N," Simone chides, nudging your shoulder. "You should be resting, not getting yourself worked up over rumors."

Yvonne smirks. "Yeah. Besides, Father Rafayel would have told us if something was wrong. He always does."

Your throat tightens. You force yourself to nod, though your hands curl into fists beneath your blanket.

Father Rafayel always knows.

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