shinne55

[shinne55]

**Call an Exorcist! **

Aesop Carl Exorcit x neutral reader

Summary: Our embalmer is mistaken for an exorcist, much to his misfortune, and he never expected what was about to happen.

As Aesop crossed the building’s door, his mind was in a completely different, peaceful, and calm place, judging by his breathing. After the storm had stopped a few minutes earlier, he was dry from head to toe. With one hand holding his casket and the other holding the specific beats of his heart.

It wasn’t until late at night that they mistook him for an exorcist. They were confused by his connection to death due to his job as an embalmer, and their desperation for help, since no church was open during the week.

Considering the state of his appearance and attire—clothes he wouldn’t wear in his work uniform—he’d donned them because of the Halloween season and to seem more "confident" to clients. It seemed a complete lack of respect to him, so he didn’t wear it for that purpose, but he wouldn’t let the wasted fabric and effort go to waste.

A black and red leather suit with sharp spikes and studs. He repeated to himself that it was a token of gratitude for the gift, but even so, he didn’t find it comfortable to wear. By nighttime, after finishing a task that took longer than usual, he gathered his things and left for home. Apparently, with that appearance, he didn’t get annoying greetings or daily questions. Instead, he received a couple of stares and flirtatious glances from some young women.

Around the halfway point of his normal route, they caught him, told him their situation, and knelt, begging for help. The situation was difficult, so he tried to explain and leave, only to find himself in front of this exclusive apartment building, with a vague idea of what to do and search for.

Once inside, a sweet voice echoed down the hotel hall, known for being one of the most expensive in the city, as if the echo came from a place much larger than this new building.

What if they took it as a silly joke? He started to eye the door, planning to leave, until:

"Let me guess. First time with an undead?"

His heartbeats suddenly raced toward the ceiling, and his casket fell to the ground, stirring up a bunch of objects, including:

"Makeup? A Bible?" His slender figure caught his attention, especially because he wasn’t anywhere on the floor but rather in the darkest corner of the ceiling.

Quickly, the pale young man picked up the most important items: a crucifix and the old black Bible with brown pages.

"You look too young to be an exorcist..." He made an effort to provoke a reaction from him. "Don’t speak my language? Hi, hello, Buongiorno, hallo, Bonjour." Without any desire to talk, he just continued, unenthusiastically. "If you want, you can speak?"

As the creature—you—approached comfortably from afar, the young man raised a crucifix high, hidden in his pocket. Apparently, the small metal tool was what had originally given him peace of mind.

"I command you! Leave this place!"

"...Clear and loud. What a nice voice." In a blink, your silhouette, surrounded by darkness, stood face to face with the exorcist. "I’m surprised you're still standing. For someone who looks more dead than alive."

Aesop’s eyes widened in surprise. He didn’t fall backward, but his posture wavered forward, and then he regained his balance with one leg moving backward.

"But you’re no use. Your blood stinks. It’s a waste of food. Instead..." Your long, thin hands touched his temple. "That man you're after has the purest, most vibrant blood I’ve smelled in years."

"I... I command you, if you don’t leave soon, I’ll have no choice but to exorcize you, succubus!"

Three ellipses hung in the air.

"How persistent. Wait, did you just call me a succubus?"

At the new sight, the exorcist almost stifled a growl from your overwhelming gaze. And no wonder, you didn’t have horns or a demon’s tail. You weren’t naked or had an inhuman skin color. Instead, your skin was as pale as transparent, with long canine teeth and an androgynous appearance that captivated the eyes, like those clients he had just embalmed and made up.

"Ahhh, no one’s ever confused me for one before~ You find me that attractive?" And without letting him speak, you answered yourself. "No, no. Don’t answer. I already know the answer."

Neither man nor woman, he couldn’t tell what you were. He looked at you, then at the tool.

"...Why didn’t it work?"

"Ah, those things don’t work on me," you revealed.

"What are you!? You mistook the demon, didn’t you? Isn’t it obvious? I’m a vampire."

"Mr. Alonso showed signs of being manipulated in his dreams by a demon. Insomnia. Pallor and lack of strength. Everything pointed to a succubus-type demon."

"Not far off, congratulations. But I’m a vampire, not a succubus."

"Still, I can’t let you go. That man’s family entrusted me with this task," the exorcist clarified. "He’s far away, under care, receiving the help he needs."

"He won’t get far without me. He’s just a man. Look, confusing me with that is another level. Hm? Now that I see you better, why haven’t you run? Aren’t you afraid of me?"

His fist turned white from the pressure of his own hand.

"I’m facing death. I’ve never been so scared."

"You’re not scared of me?"

"Of course, I feel my pulse turning into a torrent and my heartbeats becoming a ticking clock. But I have another way out. I can’t flee from here."

"You’re a different human. How troublesome."

Aesop swallowed, as if several needles were going down his throat. Your body revealed itself closer to him, and he could even feel that your presence emitted no scent, no heartbeat, no sweat. You were, to his surprise, like a living corpse.

"So, is this where my life ends?"

"I suppose so."

"Who will embalm my body?"

"...Do you really accept your own death?"

He frowned, an odd calm overtook him, and beneath the mask, his nervous tone seemed more... calm and sad.

"I never had certainty of how my end would come," he said, "that bothered me. If I had the option, it was clear I would prefer a quick death, one with little effort."

"Have you been waiting for this?"

"Always."

He seemed lost in his thoughts.

You reached his shoulder, caressing his chin and bringing your hand down to his neck.

"Your blood is very sour," you said. "I really don’t like having to do this."

"I’m sorry."

He was serious. The boy stood very stiffly, but with those words, his spine relaxed.

"Before I kill you, let me ask you something," you said, pulling your mouth away from his neck. "Why would a young man like you have waited for death? Doesn’t your father concern you?"

"My parents are dead."

You felt a little guilty. His words sounded laden with pain and suffering. Maybe it happened years ago, but the pain hadn’t disappeared.

"How sad. And your friends?" you asked. The exorcist denied everything. "The rest?"

"The living people... they... are annoying," he replied. "The dead aren’t, they can’t speak, they can’t hear, they can’t respond."

"True, still, it remains unpleasant."

"Death is comforting."

His lackluster and depressed attitude exhausted you. You were giving him too much empathy.

"What’s your problem?" you asked. "No one accepts their death and waits for it so eagerly."

You should’ve ended this from the beginning. You didn’t know why you prolonged the conversation. The man wasn’t particularly attractive, 80% of his face was covered by a mask, and his graying hair. His voice was pleasant, but it wasn’t enough to let him talk this much.

"My name is Aesop Carl, and I’m not an exorcist," he said, bowing his head. Hands together, eyes closed, he seemed to be praying. "I’m an embalmer. I don’t know what deep emotions are, because when I feel them intensely, I can’t feel anything else... But please, I want to ask you to make my body recognizable." In a whisper, the embalmer added in a tone so low that no human should be able to hear, and which was actually just for himself: "I would like to see."

An embalmer. In that outfit, he didn’t look like an exorcist; it seemed like a costume, not even an embalmer. And he was quite young. From what you assumed, those jobs required years of preparation and experience. It was... a situation that encompassed quite a few strange things.

"You don’t have to worry about that," you said, tapping your temples. "There’s a way you can serve me."

"How is that possible?"

As much as you were at ease, you pulled away from his neck and the refreshing scent beneath. You made a small incision across your chest. A small hole.

"By taking my blood, you’ll die," you said. "It will be a clean death, but it will take longer. You’ll have a new life."

"Take longer?" Aesop repeated.

"To be reborn," you said. "You’ll be able to attend your own embalming and funeral. Then I’ll find you, and I’ll free you."

"What do you want in exchange?"

You were expecting that question.

"Your full trust and will " you said. "You’ll sustain your life from my blood. If I die, you die. If my life continues, you’ll stay until the end of time, you’ll be my companion. Simple. So tell me, do you accept, embalmer, no, sorry, Aesop Carl?"

He seemed reluctant.

"Will I be completely alone?"

"As long as I’m here, you won’t feel me, but I will be here, and when you wish, you’ll have whatever you want."

He furrowed his brows.

"Don’t say it like that."

"Like what?" you asked. "I thought you didn’t have a dirty mind."

He made a dismissive gesture to your overly confident implications... At the same time, the crimson began to stain your shirt. The hole in your chest leaked darker blood.

"You’re taking too long."

"Alright," he said. "I’ll do it."

You couldn’t resist widening your smile, and he crossed into a sort of embrace or attempt at union. You signaled that he should drink the blood.

"That sounds very unhygienic."

"For a careful embalmer, it is." you said. "For a creature that lives off it, it’s normal. It even depends on the subject, age, sex, or part of the body. It tastes different. Before you shared, you remember tastes of food and flavors. Some taste like cake, others spicy or sweet."

"This is what you must do if you want to die."

A cold shiver passed as you felt his tongue move along your skin, with a delicacy that wasn’t typical when they delayed... He was still inconsistent and broken in how he tried to seem relaxed.

"You know, it’s not necessary for it to be a particular part of my body." you said.

Aesop lifted his head, surprised, with his eyes wide open like a hungry puppy who didn’t understand what he was doing.

"You’re sick." he said, barely managing to maintain his composure.

"Thanksss♡." you said, your smile widening with satisfaction and irony.

Soon enough, after layer upon layer of hesitation, his heart stopped beating. His breathing ceased.

"You can stop if you want." you said softly, as if giving him an out.

He didn’t respond. Instead, his only answer was a deep bite into your flesh. He looked at his hands, stained with your blood, his clothes soaked, and his cheeks flushed with more color than he had ever shown. It was a mix of a real blush and the crimson of your blood. He no longer looked gloomy and pale. Now, for the first time, he looked alive.

"Don’t cover your mouth." you said, wiping the corner of his lips with your knuckles, removing the trace of blood left there.

He didn’t seem worried about stopping breathing; it wasn’t necessary. You didn’t need it either.

His eyes fixed on your smile, almost captivated. Then he looked at his own bare, trembling hands, covered in your blood. He watched the wounds on your skin healing quickly, as if nothing had happened.

His hands, once timid and trembling, became bitter, twisted over time. Yet, they slowly drowned in a sweetness unknown to him that he now felt coming from you. Maybe it was addiction, or perhaps simply resignation.

"I’m sorry." Aesop murmured, his voice full of regret.

"It’s fine." you replied. "You were just hungry."

You didn’t take long to pull away slightly, giving him space. You knew from reputation what it felt like to be displaced from your life. You had to be gentle with his death.

"We’ll meet on the other side," you said finally, letting the silence envelop the room.

As you moved away into the shadows, your figure now holding a corpse, you carefully placed it outside the building, in the darkness, as if you had never been there, and you disappeared.

You had a task to finish.

[shinne55]

**Silent Confession**

Victor Grantz x Reader

Summary: Victor receives an anonymous letter on Valentine's Day.

Words in a conversation come and go: lies that hurt and secrets between paragraphs. Speaking in person is too complex. That’s why Victor took this job—nothing can escape in a letter. There are no hidden meanings; everything can be said from the depth of the heart. So, as a postman, he has the faithful task of delivering each letter to its destination.

It’s an honest and satisfying job. Happy, sad, bitter, or innocent faces hide behind every writer and their recipient. For the young man who didn’t speak, a letter is the purest and most sincere thing, more than an entire face-to-face conversation.

During the holidays, when the letters fill the mailbox, the busier he gets and the less time he has. Christmas, New Year, and birthdays follow, but above all, Valentine’s Day. A complicated date for a small postman, but highly appreciated by those who wish to find love. Knowing that within each envelope there is a destiny in motion made his young heart flutter.

Even though Victor had worked in his community for several months, he didn’t know the people by their names but by their letters.

The mother who writes with beautiful handwriting, pressing the pencil firmly as she writes to her husband and children away from the city.

The little ones who presumably write to Santa with scribbles and drawings.

And the lovers with their colored papers and perfumes.

On Valentine’s Day, the latter group increases noticeably.

During one of those nights, when he arrived home with his companion, Wick, a small dog that follows him everywhere, changed out of his uniform, and got ready to sleep, right after hanging his jacket and emptying his bag, a letter fell to the floor. Immediately, his eyes widened, and he looked inside his bag. It was the only letter that had slipped in the entire day, stuck with a cheap seal on the wall. A small square letter in a vermilion envelope with no name or address.

His eyebrows furrowed, and, determined to violate the author’s privacy, he opened the letter.

**To the postman

Thank you for your hard work**

No sender, no signature. An anonymous letter.

Was that it? A letter for him?

A thank you that would seem crude and silly to anyone else, but to the young mailman, a true feeling of recognition struck his chest, and immediately his cheeks turned peachy with happiness.

That night, he lay on his bed, thinking about the author. Whether it was a joke or not, he didn’t care. It moved him enough to appreciate the message. He slept with the letter open on his nightstand, and in the following days, when he returned home tired from work, he would look at that letter on his desk, under the bedside light. And his chest swelled with confidence.

The next of many letters came two weeks later. Same paper, same handwriting, and no sender.

**Dear postman

I don’t know if my letter really reached you. But I truly hope it did. Thank you for your service, without you, the community would have no real connection.**

The boy could feel the interaction as a small comfort or recognition, making him feel that his effort and dedication didn’t go unnoticed. If only he had their name, he would write them a thank-you letter. Sadly, many of these letters were taken from the mailbox. And very few were delivered directly to him.

Victor is, among many of the postman in his town, just another worker, and he didn’t have much speaking ability. He relied on listening and reading lost letters and pleasant conversations. Even so, he didn’t go unnoticed by some. Over time, he earned the trust of the older writers and neighbors who had the habit of writing almost daily and waiting for his response. So, thanks to that first letter, perhaps, Victor gained more confidence.

A couple of months later, with a one-sided connection on his part, and after several failed attempts to identify the address of the sender, he gave up and settled on reading them when he left work. A routine of preparing a cold glass of milk on the small table next to his bed, taking a couple of sips while reading these letters, which over time became longer. With little everyday things like the weather, funny town events, and annual celebrations. Until, weeks before Christmas, the last letter arrived.

**To the Dear Postman Victor**

He smiled. After several months, they had finally used his name in the letter, and that one-sided connection became more intimate. Sometimes it started with, *"My favorite postman,"* or a formal, *"Dear Victor."* All very polite until the author began recounting their day-to-day life. He knew much more about her life than his own. Everything except her name.

Calmly, with his dog snoring at the foot of the bed, he continued reading:

**"I’m sorry for sending these strange letters for so long. The truth is, I just wanted someone to talk to."**

Victor stopped reading and straightened his back against the headboard of the bed:

**"My mother passed away months ago, and my father three years ago. I’ve felt so alone, but the idea that someone would read one of these letters, and that it would be you, brings me comfort. But it’s also likely that I scared you or someone else. I’m truly sorry. It won’t happen again."**

No more letters arrived.

Was something happening to her during these months when she didn’t write? Was she feeling lonely and planning to do something drastic?

For many days, he was afraid. He knew loneliness and what it did to people firsthand. But it felt far worse knowing he couldn’t do anything to help her change her mind.

He waited a day, then a week, but that vermilion-colored paper, with those homemade seals, didn’t appear in any mailbox in the city. Victor was the only one responsible for collecting letters in that area, so it didn’t make sense for them not to show up.

“Are you looking for someone who lost her mother this year?” an old woman from the bakery he regularly visited asked. “Hmm, there’s a girl, yes. She hasn’t been seen lately. She usually comes to shop during the week. On Tuesdays, I think.”

*During the week—that’s when my shift begins, and I pick up the letters,* Victor thought.

Despite being reserved, the concern on his face and his written manner prompted the woman to share more details.

**[Who is she?]**

It was good he had his notebook on hand to communicate. Even though his hand trembled, and his writing was messy, the woman understood what he wanted to ask.

**[YN]**

**[Where does she live?]** he wrote quickly. Wrapped in his winter uniform and a scarf, he hid his nervousness with the cold.

“On Central Avenue, four blocks down.”

He grabbed his pencil again and wrote:

**[Do you know if she has any relatives or friends in the city?]**

The question puzzled the woman, and she hesitated to answer.

“You look like a good boy. You remind me of my grandson. No, she lives alone as far as I know. You know, he wasn't a... very good man. The poor girl has been accompanying her mother in mourning ever since. ”

Victor was already running, fast, faster than when he tried to deliver late packages or when chasing Wick for stealing his parcels.

He abandoned his usual calm demeanor and ran toward the address the woman had mentioned, clinging to hope. And there it was—a small house with a well-kept garden separating Victor from her. It was winter now, and a layer of snow covered everything in pristine white—the streets, rivers, and even her garden.

*Should I do this?* He didn’t know her in person, but after ten months of letters, he felt like he had known her his whole life.

Even so, he knocked gently, not brave enough to ring the doorbell further ahead.

Although she might not feel the same. Although she might think she was bothering him, Victor waited for her letter every day. He wanted to know about her life, every little detail. He wanted to hear her laugh, cry, and see her in person.

And even if they had never met before—

“Hello?”

He wanted to be by her side.

What words could he offer? What could he say when he had never spoken to her before?

“Victor?”

As he stood there, sweating, lungs and brain on the verge of collapsing, he stopped and saw her—you—for the first time. Just as he had imagined and more. His words couldn’t describe the wave of emotions he felt seeing you there, safe.

You were surprised it was him. He didn’t know your name or your address. That’s why you never included it. You had overthought it, assuming it would be awkward—and it was.

When Victor extended his arms with several letters in hand and a determined expression, your face shifted to concern and embarrassment.

“So, you read them all. I’m sorry.”

Quickly, he held the letters tightly to his chest, and his expression seemed to tell you not to apologize. Victor leaned down, his gaze full of tenderness, more so than Wick’s by his side. Somehow, the way his eyes reminded you of summer leaves and his hair of sunlight made you feel undeserving of something so good.

“You don’t know anything about me, you only know me through those silly letters.”

He shook his head, his eyebrows raising in protest. *Silly? Not at all.* When you saw him take out his notebook and scribble something with a pencil, you were puzzled to read it.

**[I know the girl who loves iced coffee at night, who loves animals as much as I love Wick.]**

“Please, go. You’re not doing any good staying here.”

You were about to turn and shut the door when Wick bit at the fabric of your pants. You tried shaking him off, only for Victor to grab your wrist.

His mouth trembled, his lips pressing together before forming anything more than a murmur. It felt cruel to turn your back on someone who, despite his disability, was trying to help you.

“I… like you.”

No one had ever heard him speak. People assumed he couldn’t. He spoke clumsily when it came to you, but he spoke. His voice, breathless yet soft, like cream in coffee, melted your heart to hear it.

“No! It’s impossible. No one could love me. You’re lying.”

Why wouldn’t anyone love you? Who had made you believe that? If someone thought they could never be loved that way, Victor assumed it would have been him—not someone like you.

He searched his pockets, his gaze panicking until Wick barked and placed an envelope on the ground. Victor patted his head and handed it to you.

Vermilion—the color of your letters. However, this one had a sender.

**To YN, from Victor.**

**[You opened your heart to me, YN, in a way no one else ever has. And now, I have to give you mine.]**

“Victor…” You clutched the letter.

He gave you a broken smile, encouraging you to read it fully.

**[You will live a long life, YN, watching the sunset every evening. You won’t ever be alone again. I just need one thing.]**

The letter ended there.

“But what is it that you want?”

He pointed to himself. He placed his hands, loosely balled into fists, over his heart, as if hugging something precious. Then, he took your hands and intertwined them over your chest.

“I don’t understand… Why? Aren’t you tired of hearing from me and reading about me?”

He wrote something else in his notebook:

**[I could listen to you my entire life.]**

You didn’t fully understand, but with him, words weren’t necessary.

**[I’ve met many people in my life, but none like you. I found you, YN. I won’t let you go. I love you.]**

You felt foolish. Every emotion you’d suppressed spilled out like crystalline pearls. You couldn’t say anything, but you hugged him like you’d always been searching for him, while he had been waiting for you.

In that moment, Victor knew he had found love in your silence.

[shinne55]

Probablemente el el chibi más lindo que me haya salido

[shinne55]

Un intento vago de dibujar a Mike