Latest Posts by whosregan - Page 7

oh, to be reunited with a lifelong childhood friend that faked his own death, blew up our grandmother who loved me more, traumatized me, and came back as a cop to steal me away from my four other boyfriends ♡♡

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ megumi had long since stopped listening to your whimpering pleas, the soft little no more and ’gumi, please, i can’t that barely even formed between your broken, gasping moans.

he didn’t care.

didn’t care how much you were shaking, didn’t care how your legs were trembling, how your weak hands pushed against his broad shoulders as if you had the strength to stop him.

no, megumi was far past caring.

his arms were locked around your thighs, forearms pressing down hard to keep you open, his grip possessive, unrelenting, hungry. his fingers dug into your soft skin, keeping you in place as his mouth worked you over, tongue flicking, lips sucking, his pace never once slowing, even after your last orgasm had left you gushing all over his chin.

you were a mess.

your slick had soaked the sheets beneath you, dripping down onto the bed from how many times he had pushed you over the edge, your thighs slick with the wet, obscene evidence of his obsession.

but megumi just groaned into your pussy, his voice thick, needy, completely fucking gone as his tongue circled your clit again, lips wrapping around it to suckle just right, just like he knew made your body jerk, made your hips try and run.

but you couldn’t run.

he wouldn’t let you.

"fuck, you taste so good," he murmured against you, his voice muffled between your folds, wet, filthy, breathless. "how could i stop when you keep cumming for me like this?"

you sobbed, the pleasure too much, your body twitching under his hold, overstimulated beyond belief. your fingers grasped at his shoulders, weak, trembling, but he didn’t budge.

he just licked deeper, tongue pushing inside you, curling, his nose bumping against your swollen clit, his arms flexing as he tightened his grip when you tried—tried—to squirm away.

"no," megumi muttered, his voice dangerous, raw, his tongue flicking out again to lap up the mess he had made of you, sending another sharp wave of painful pleasure through your body.

you screamed, thighs trying to clamp together, to stop the overwhelming sensation, but megumi just laughed, low and breathless, his mouth still sealed against your cunt, his fingers gripping your thighs tighter.

"you’re not going anywhere, baby." he moaned, sucking on your clit hard just to hear the wrecked, high-pitched sob it tore from your throat. "you’re gonna keep cumming for me. again and again—until you can’t even fucking think."

okay so the thought of mutual beef between Zayne and Caleb is very fun and I have my own takes on it BUT I want to offer another possibility: One-sided beef by Caleb's side.

Can you imagine how freaking funny it would be that Caleb is ripping his hair out over Zayne "seducing" you while the guy is just offering to share a box of chocolate he has with you, completely unaware of the evil eye he's receiving? Not to mention the petty comments between them when they were just teens like

Zayne: What time is it?

Caleb: Wouldn't you like to know weather boy

Zayne: .....? No, not the weather. The time, if you wouldn't mind.

Caleb: 🙂 *internal screaming*

I believe they're both aware of the other's feelings for you but there's a silent agreement to not do anything for very different reasons, while growing up at least. Caleb sees him as a threat because Zayne is not shackled by the responsibility of being your "gege"/family figure and part of him is almost envious of that. He's always restricting himself and playing the part he's been given for you, but he wants so much more.

Meanwhile, Zayne has to control his own heart for you otherwise the curse will eat away at him. He is not allowed to love you the way he wants unlike Caleb, who is so easily affectionate with you in a way he can only dream of.

it's so ughhhhhh I love their dynamic and if Infold won't give me content then I'll just have to make it myself

caleb x mc 🤗

Sylus is not a morning person, but by heavens above, waking up to the adorable giggles of his little daughter jumping up and down on the bed, jolting both you and him abruptly awake in the morning would definitely bring the widest of smiles on his face.

Her little giggles followed by your laughter as you squish your daughter's cheeks gently, the squeals that followed when Sylus began tickling his little daughter echoing in the morning hours.

You and your daughter exchange cheeky glances with a plotting counterattack by pressing kisses all over his face, earning a hearty laugh from the older man before he pulled both of you into his arms in a firm warm hug, listening to the steady heartbeats of his two most precious treasures in his life.

Doberman Caleb endeavors continue 

LADS men being texted by their children

Please be kind it's my first post. For reference here's what each man has in this au: Caleb-son, Sylus-daughter, Zayne-daughter, Rafayel-boy/girl twins, Xavier-son

Disclaimer: this is technically generic mc but I am Latina so mc is Latina coded by default

lonely millionaire

synopsis: sylus likes when you spend his money.

tags: suggestive (mdni), sylus sits you on his lap while you drain his bank account, it's for a cute reason though, dry humping, size difference, teasing, sylus is a scoundrel, use of "kitten" and "sweetie" cause we stick to the canon over here pairing: sylus x reader, reader is mc word count: 640

a/n: i don't really have anything to sa—omg this is my first non-caleb post! but yeah i've been thinking of this for a while. this is the most explicitly sexual thing i've written with worse to come

“Why don’t you get that one, too?” Sylus rumbles into your neck, pointing to a luxurious dress on your screen.

You’re seated on his lap in the bed you share, his legs caging your smaller frame while he peeks over your shoulder at the laptop in front of you. For the last 40 minutes, you’d been browsing the website of the most exclusive boutique in Linkon. It’d been Sylus’s idea—To get you something nice for being such a good hunter, he’d said—but as he urges you to keep adding opulent pieces to your cart—dresses, skirts, shoes, you name it—you start to suspect an ulterior motive. 

Restless, you turn around to face him. But before you can speak, he steals your lips in a lewd, wet kiss, his thumb holding your chin in place while he swipes his tongue through your mouth. 

“Hmm?” he hums when he releases you, expectantly peering into your eyes. 

Dumbfounded, you stare up at him before his slow smirk jolts you back into your right state of mind. “Sylus! Stop distracting me. You’re enjoying this, aren't you?” you accuse with a glare. 

“I don’t particularly enjoy being your distraction, kitten. I’d rather have all your attention in the first place,” he replies, wearing an infuriating look of triumph. 

“You know what I mean,” you whine, thwacking his shoulder in exasperation. “You have me in your lap while I spend enough to buy a house on things I don’t need. I don’t get it—are you enjoying this?” 

Sylus blinks lazily. Slowly, he chuckles before rolling his hips into the plush of your backside. “You’re well aware of how much I'm enjoying it, sweetie.” 

Startled, you jerk your hands to his thighs, the laptop landing onto the bed with a soft thud. “Sylus,” you breathe, a whimper escaping you as he grinds upwards again. “I-Is this really okay? You’ve been so tired lately, you can’t hide it from me. What if I spend too much and you have to work harder?”

Sighing, Sylus snakes one thick arm around your waist, pulling you further back into his chest. As he splays his large hand across your belly, you feel his body warming yours, making your core clench with need.

“Kitten,” he drawls, nuzzling your shoulder. “When I’m out there making Onychinus deals, putting my life on the line just to come home coated in someone else’s blood—it gets…tedious, sometimes. Sometimes I wonder if I should give it all up so we can start fresh somewhere new,” he confesses, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your neck. “But having you here with me, knowing I'm putting my life on the line for you? So you can spend what I earn for you, so I can give you all the pretty little things you could possibly ask for? It makes it worth it, kitten. It brings me…peace. Satisfaction.” 

Throughout his musings, he’s been rubbing you harder and harder against his rigid length. Feeling it pulse beneath you, you moan softly and reach your arm back, threading your fingers in his hair. “As long as…as long as you like it,” you pant. “Want you to be happy.”  

His deep chuckle hits your neck, sending shockwaves down your spine. “Won’t you help me relax, then? After all, I've been so tired lately,” he mocks, nipping your ear. 

“Now,” he starts again. “How about you look at the accessories page next, hmm? Let’s see the handbags.”

It’s an hour later when Sylus is finally satisfied with the subtotal of your shopping cart. 

He holds his card out in front of you while you type in the information, and once the order goes through, he captures your lips in a kiss, tender but claiming. 

“What’s your schedule for tomorrow look like, sweetie?” he rumbles, pressing you close. “I think I’d like to look at some jewelry.”

Are the LADs boys lactose intolerant?

Xavier- no

Zayne- no

Rafayel- yes. poor baby can’t handle the tummy rumbles

Sylus- YES, he just pushes through it like it’s nothing his farts are deadly and you aren’t surviving his Dutch oven

Caleb- yes but he takes lactaid like a good boy

Post was inspired by this:

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ་༘ SQUIRTING FOR THE FIRST TIME ?!

． paring: Caleb, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Rafayel x bratty fem!reader

．summary: how they react when you squirt for the first time!

．warnings: nsfw/smut, creampie, tit fucking, cum-play, rough s*x, cow girl, mirror s*x, spanking, hair pulling, Caleb is a switch (sub to dom), pussy slapping, fingering, nipple sucking and biting.

．note : not proof read also the art is by : rororo_mg on X. Also dunno if this is ooc for them! Also zayne’s part is very long. ^_^

＠ 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁 ；

Caleb always had that cocky little smirk when he looked at you, all charm and mischief, like he knew exactly what you were up to before you even opened your mouth. And right now, that smirk was stretched wide as he laid beneath you, his hands gripping your thighs while you rocked against his cock, taking him deeper with every bounce.

“God, babe,” he groaned, breath hot against your skin as he pushed himself up just enough to mouth at your tits, teasing one nipple between his lips. “You’re so fuckin’ tight.”

You rolled your hips a little harder just to hear him moan, just to feel the way his cock twitched inside you. “Yeah?” You panted, fingers threading through his sweat-damp hair, tugging just enough to make him look up at you. “I thought pilots were supposed to have more stamina than this.”

His eyes darkened at that, something shifting in the way he gripped you—less playful, more possessive. “Oh, you wanna play like that, pipsqueak?” His voice was rough, teasing, but there was an edge to it now, one that made your stomach clench with anticipation.

Before you could get another smart remark out, he bucked his hips up, thrusting into you hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. A gasp caught in your throat as your clit rubbed right up against his abs, the pressure sparking something electric inside you.

“Shit—” you whined, fingers digging into his shoulders.

Caleb smirked, hands sliding up your waist before one gripped your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Not so mouthy now, huh?”

You should’ve been annoyed—maybe even fought back a little—but the way he was fucking up into you, the way his cock stretched you just right, made it impossible to do anything but whimper. His abs were slick with sweat, flexing beneath you every time he moved, and that friction against your clit was too much.

“Baby—” your voice cracked, body tensing. “Fuck, I—”

Caleb groaned at the way your walls fluttered around him, at the way you trembled in his hold. “Gonna come for me?” He muttered, dragging his thumb over your clit, slow and deliberate. “Go on, pipsqueak, make a mess.”

The coil in your stomach snapped all at once, white-hot pleasure ripping through you as you came harder than you ever had before. Your entire body shook, legs squeezing tight around his waist as the pressure inside you exploded—soaking his cock, his abs, everything beneath you.

“Holy fuck.” His voice was thick with awe and something even deeper, fingers digging into your hips as he fucked you through it, prolonging every second of your high. “Did you just—”

You couldn’t even answer, gasping for air as aftershocks shuddered through you. Caleb swore under his breath, hands roaming up your back before he flipped you onto your back in one smooth motion. His cock was still buried deep inside you, still hard, still throbbing.

“Didn’t know you had that in you,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against yours as he rolled his hips, slow and teasing, making you whimper. “Guess I’ll have to make you do it again, huh?”

Caleb let out a breathless laugh, brushing his fingers over the slick mess coating his abs. His smirk was cocky as ever, but there was something else in his eyes—something darker, more ravenous.

“Damn, pipsqueak,” he murmured, voice husky as he rocked his hips forward again, making you gasp. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

Your whole body was still trembling, oversensitive, but the way his cock dragged against your walls, still so deep, had heat pooling in your stomach all over again.

“Shut up,” you muttered, trying to sound confident, but your voice was wrecked, breathy.

He just grinned, leaning in so close his lips brushed against your ear. “Oh? Thought you liked mouthing off.” His hips rolled forward, slow and deliberate, and you whined at the way your clit dragged against his abs again. “What happened, babe? Already fucked dumb?”

You clenched around him, hands gripping his biceps, trying to push him away just to get a second to breathe. But Caleb wasn’t having it.

“Nuh-uh,” he murmured, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head. His strength was effortless, like he wasn’t even trying. “I haven’t even started with you yet.”

Your stomach flipped at the way he said it, that teasing lilt still in his voice, but there was something serious underneath—something that made your pulse stutter.

“Y’know,” he mused, dragging his lips down the column of your throat, pressing just hard enough to make you squirm, “I think I like you better like this. All messy and fucked out.”

You glared at him, trying to get some control back. “I can still—”

He didn’t let you finish. One sharp thrust sent you keening, your back arching as his cock hit that spot deep inside you, sending sparks dancing up your spine.

“What was that, babe?” Caleb’s voice was thick with amusement, but his breathing was rough now, too, his control starting to slip. “Didn’t catch that.”

You couldn’t even answer, too lost in the way he was moving—deep and precise, grinding against your clit just enough to keep you on edge.

“Yeah,” he muttered, nipping at your jaw, “that’s what I thought.”

And then he really started fucking you.

The slow, teasing pace was gone. He set a ruthless rhythm, hips snapping against yours, the sound of skin meeting skin mixing with your ragged moans. His grip on your wrists tightened, keeping you pinned beneath him as he chased his own pleasure, his abs flexing against your clit with every thrust.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groaned, pressing his forehead against yours. “Can’t believe you were holding out on me, pipsqueak.”

Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in deeper, and Caleb cursed, his cock twitching inside you.

“Shit—‘m close,” he gritted out, voice strained. “Gonna let me fill you up, baby? Hm?”

The way he said it sent you spiraling, your orgasm slamming into you so hard your vision blurred. Your whole body clenched around him, nails digging into his shoulders as you cried out, barely aware of anything but the white-hot pleasure consuming you.

Caleb swore, hips stuttering, before he buried himself deep with a rough groan, spilling inside you, heat flooding your core. His grip on your wrists loosened, and he slumped forward, breathless, his forehead pressing against yours.

For a second, neither of you moved, just panting, your bodies still tangled together. Then, Caleb let out a breathless chuckle.

“Well, damn,” he muttered, pressing a lazy kiss to your lips. “First time for everything, huh?”

＠ 𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄 ；

The soft hum of the med bay was comforting, a backdrop to the electrifying tension building between you and Zayne. He leaned against the counter, a playful grin spreading across his face as he watched you with those piercing eyes, the warmth of his gaze making your heart race.

“You know, I’m technically on duty,” he said, amusement lacing his voice as he crossed his arms.

You smirked, leaning back against the examination table. “Aren’t you supposed to be taking care of your patients, Doctor?”

Zayne stepped closer, the playful edge in his demeanor sharpening. “Oh, trust me, I have my hands full with you.”

With a swift movement, he caught your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto the table. The contact sent a thrill of excitement coursing through you. “Now, what seems to be the problem?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

“Just a little ache,” you replied, biting your lip as you glanced down at his firm body. “Right here.” You pressed your thighs together, the heat pooling in your core making it hard to concentrate.

“Let me see if I can help with that.” Zayne's hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing over your tits before he leaned in, pressing a heated kiss to your lips. The way his mouth moved against yours ignited something deep within you, and you responded eagerly, your hands tangling in his hair.

Zayne pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression a mix of mischief and desire. “You’re gonna need to be more specific.”

With a determined glint in your eye, you gripped his shirt, pulling him closer. “I want you to make me feel good, Doctor.”

He chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. “Well, I do love a challenge.”

In an instant, he had you pinned against the table, his hands exploring your body with expert precision. His mouth found its way to your tits, hot and wet as he sucked and teased, his hands trailing down your sides. Every flick of his tongue sent shivers down your spine, making your breath hitch.

“Zayne,” you gasped, arching into him as pleasure coursed through you.

He pulled back, eyes dark with lust. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

Zayne knelt before you, hands gripping your thighs as he spread your legs apart, his breath hot against your core. “Let’s see just how responsive you are.”

His fingers slid between your folds, teasing your clit with gentle strokes that sent waves of pleasure crashing over you. You gasped, arching your back as he worked you closer to the edge.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “So responsive, so eager.”

You whimpered, fingers tightening in his hair as he curled his fingers inside you, hitting that perfect spot with every thrust. “Zayne, please,” you begged, unable to control the desperate need building inside you.

“Please what?” He smirked, clearly enjoying the power he had over you. “Tell me exactly what you want.”

“More,” you gasped, your hips rolling against his hand. “I want to come—please!”

With a wicked grin, he obliged, quickening the pace of his fingers, his thumb rubbing firm circles on your clit. The pressure built rapidly, the heat spreading through you until it consumed every thought.

“Come for me,” he commanded, voice low and sultry. “I want to see you fall apart.”

That was all it took. Your orgasm hit you like a freight train, waves of pleasure crashing over you as you squirted all over him, soaking his fingers and the floor beneath you. You cried out, your body trembling as Zayne worked you through it, his gaze filled with a mix of awe and hunger.

“Damn,” he breathed, wiping his fingers on his shirt, clearly enjoying the mess you’d made. “You really know how to make a doctor’s day.”

You shot him a playful glare, breathless but eager for more. “Don’t think you’re done with me yet.”

Zayne chuckled, leaning in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

In one swift motion, he pulled you upright, his hands gripping your hair as he pressed you back against the table, his gaze intense and commanding. “Now, let’s see just how far we can push your limits.”

Zayne's grip on your hair tightened as he leaned closer, his breath hot against your skin. “You made quite the mess, babe. I hope you’re ready for round two.”

You felt a rush of excitement at his words, your body still buzzing from the intense release. “I can take it,” you replied, trying to sound confident even as your heart raced in anticipation.

“Good,” he said, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Because I’m just getting started.”

Zayne positioned himself between your legs, his hands roaming down your thighs as he leaned in to plant teasing kisses along your stomach. You squirmed beneath him, your skin alive with sensitivity, every touch sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

“Let’s make sure those lovely tits get the attention they deserve,” he murmured, his mouth finally closing around one of your nipples, sucking and teasing it with his tongue.

You gasped, arching your back as waves of pleasure radiated from your chest. “Zayne, that feels so good,” you breathed, fingers digging into the table as you pushed against him, craving more.

He glanced up at you, eyes dark with desire. “I love hearing you say that,” he said, switching to your other nipple, giving it the same attention while his fingers trailed down your stomach to your slick folds.

With deft fingers, he teased your clit again, circling and pressing just right as he continued to suckle your breast. The combination of sensations had your head spinning, your body responding eagerly to his every touch.

“Z—Zayne, pleaseeee,” you whimpered, feeling the familiar tension building once more.

“Please what?” he taunted, his breath hot against your skin. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Just… don’t stop,” you managed to gasp, urgency creeping into your voice.

“Good answer,” he said, a satisfied smirk on his face as he increased the pressure, fingers moving faster as he thrust two of them deep inside you. The sudden stretch made you moan loudly, your hips grinding against his hand instinctively.

“Look at you, baby,” he teased, his voice low and sultry. “So fucking desperate for my cock.”

“Zayne, I need you,” you breathed, the ache between your legs becoming unbearable. “Please.”

“Alright, but first…” He pulled back slightly, positioning himself between your thighs again. “I want you to try something new.”

Before you could process what he meant, he guided your hands to your breasts, encouraging you to squeeze and play with them while he pumped his cock in front of you. The sight of him, so hard and ready, made your mouth water.

“Tit fuck me,” he commanded, his voice low and demanding. “Show me how much you want it.”

You nodded eagerly, wrapping your hands around your tits and pressing them together, creating a perfect valley for his cock. The warmth of your body against him made Zayne groan, and you felt a thrill at the power you held over him, even as he watched you with a hungry gaze.

“Just like that, babe. Perfect,” he encouraged, guiding his cock between your tits, the sensation driving you wild.

You could hardly believe how good it felt, his cock sliding between your flesh as you pushed your chest together tighter, looking up at him through your lashes. “You like this, huh?”

“Fuck yes,” he grunted, his hands gripping your wrists as he pushed himself deeper between your tits. “You’re so good at this, baby.”

The heat in your core grew as you continued, each thrust of his cock making you wetter, slickness pooling between your legs. Zayne was losing himself in the pleasure, eyes rolling back as he thrust deeper, each movement sending waves of satisfaction through both of you.

“Damn, I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice strained, as he watched you with pure lust.

“Do it,” you urged, the thrill of it all pushing you closer to your own edge. “I want to feel you.”

With a deep groan, Zayne thrust forward one last time, his cock hitting the perfect spot as he spilled himself between your breasts, warm ropes of cum painting your skin.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, watching the sight of him losing control over you, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.

“Now, that’s a mess,” he chuckled, looking down at the sticky fluid covering your chest. “You’re lucky I like it messy.”

You smiled, feeling a rush of confidence at the way he watched you. “I think I might have to return the favor, Doctor.”

Zayne raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Oh really? And how do you plan on doing that?”

With a mischievous grin, you slid off the table, dropping to your knees in front of him, looking up at him with a playful glint in your eye. “Let me show you.”

He let out a low laugh, clearly impressed by your boldness. “I’m all yours, baby.”

Zayne leaned down, his fingers sliding into your hair, yanking your head back just enough to make you gasp. His smirk was wicked, voice dripping with satisfaction. “You’re still feeling bold, huh? Let’s see how long that lasts.”

Before you could fire back, he flipped you over, pressing your chest flat against the examination table. His large hands gripped your ass, spreading you open as he dragged the tip of his cock through your slick folds, teasing your clit until you squirmed beneath him.

“Look at you, so fucking wet,” he murmured, his free hand coming down hard on your ass. The sharp sting made you jolt, a needy whimper escaping you. “You act like a brat, but your body tells me exactly what you want.”

“Shut up and fuck me,” you bit out, pushing back against him.

Zayne chuckled darkly. “Still mouthing off?” He didn’t wait for an answer—he thrust into you in one smooth motion, stretching you open as his cock filled you completely.

Your fingers clawed at the table as a strangled moan left your lips. “Fuck—Zayne!”

“That’s right, baby. Let me hear you,” he groaned, setting a brutal pace. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the med bay, mixed with the filthy wet sounds of him fucking you deep.

His grip tightened on your hips, pulling you back onto his cock harder. The angle had him slamming against your g-spot with every thrust, sending pleasure surging through your body.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he growled, one hand slipping between your legs, fingers finding your clit. He rubbed firm, tight circles, making your legs shake. “I can feel you squeezing me—getting close, aren’t you?”

You were falling apart too fast, the heat coiling in your stomach, the relentless pace of his cock driving you straight to the edge. “Z-Zayne, I—”

“I know, baby,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something dark and commanding. “Come for me. I want to feel you gush all over my cock.”

His fingers pressed harder against your clit, and just like that, the pleasure hit you like a tidal wave. Your body locked up, back arching as you came hard, a sharp cry ripping from your throat as you squirted all over him.

“Fuck yes,” Zayne groaned, watching you soak him. “That’s my good girl.”

Your body trembled, but he didn’t stop. He pulled out just long enough to spread your slickness all over his cock, smearing your wetness against your folds before thrusting back into you with a deep, guttural moan.

The overstimulation had you whimpering, but the pleasure was addicting, your walls fluttering around him as he chased his own release.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he rasped, his thrusts turning erratic. “Gonna fill you up—”

With one last deep thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, groaning as he spilled inside you, hot cum flooding your pussy. He rocked his hips a few more times, letting you feel every drop before slowly pulling out.

A filthy wet sound followed, his cum oozing from your used hole. Zayne hummed in approval, dragging his fingers through the mess before pushing some of it back inside you, his smirk downright sinful.

“Can’t let it go to waste,” he murmured, watching as you twitched beneath him, body still sensitive. “You look so damn pretty like this, baby.”

You shuddered, still trying to catch your breath, but managed to shoot him a glare. “You’re a menace.”

Zayne only chuckled, sliding his arms around your waist to pull you into his lap, pressing a slow, teasing kiss to your lips. “And yet, you keep coming back.”

You sighed, leaning into him, exhaustion and satisfaction settling over you. “…Shut up.”

His grin widened. “Whatever you say, babe.”

＠ 𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑 ；

Xavier had you sprawled out beneath him, his toned body hovering over yours as his fingers ghosted over your skin, teasing, taunting, driving you insane. His sharp blue eyes gleamed with amusement as he trailed his hand between your thighs, brushing over your already swollen clit.

“Mm, look at you,” he mused, voice smooth, dripping with arrogance. “So desperate for me, and yet you were acting like a little brat just a few minutes ago.”

You huffed, shifting beneath him, trying to grind against his hand. “Maybe if you weren’t so slow, I wouldn’t have to be.”

Xavier chuckled, but the amusement in his eyes darkened, something more dangerous lurking beneath. “Oh? Is that right?”

Before you could process it, his palm cracked against your thigh, then your ass, the sharp sting sending a jolt of pleasure through you.

“Ah—Xavier!” you yelped, the sound melting into a moan as he smoothed his hand over the heated skin.

“Now, that’s better,” he murmured, fingers dipping back between your folds, slipping through the wetness there. “God, you’re soaked, babe. You really do like being put in your place, don’t you?”

You bit your lip, refusing to answer, but a sharp slap to your ass had you gasping.

“I asked you a question,” he said, his voice all silk and steel.

“…Maybe,” you muttered, face burning.

He tsked, but you could hear the smirk in his voice. “You’re such a pain in the ass.” Another sharp slap made you whimper. “But you’re my pain in the ass.”

You shivered at that, but before you could say anything else, Xavier finally gave in, pushing two fingers into your pussy, stretching you open. The pleasure was immediate, your back arching as he curled them just right, finding that spot that made you tremble.

“Xavier—”

“I know, baby,” he purred, working his fingers faster, pressing his thumb to your clit. “You’re taking me so well.”

Your breath hitched as the pleasure built fast, the coil in your stomach tightening with every stroke. “I-I need more—”

He smirked. “More?” He withdrew his fingers, ignoring your whine of protest as he leaned back, positioning himself between your legs. “Guess I’ll just have to fuck you properly then.”

You barely had a second to react before he was pushing inside, stretching you open with his cock. The stretch was intense, your walls fluttering around him as he bottomed out, a low groan slipping from his lips.

“Fuck, you feel perfect,” he murmured, rolling his hips, making you whimper. “So damn tight, baby.”

His hands gripped your hips, setting a ruthless pace, each thrust hitting deep, rubbing against that spot that had you seeing stars. The pleasure was dizzying, your tits bouncing with every movement, heat building in your stomach at an alarming pace.

Xavier watched you, a smug smirk curling his lips. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

You could barely think, barely breathe, the pressure in your core reaching its peak. “X-Xavier, I—”

“I want to see you lose control,” he rasped, his thumb rubbing messy circles against your clit, pushing you over the edge. “Come for me, babe.”

And just like that, the tension snapped, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your whole body shuddered as you came, the force of it so intense that you felt yourself squirt all over his abs.

A strangled moan left your lips, your mind hazy as you collapsed beneath him, body twitching from the aftershocks.

Xavier stilled for a moment, glancing down at the mess you’d made, before a slow, wicked grin spread across his face. “Oh, baby,” he murmured, running a hand over his slick-covered abs before bringing it to his lips, licking it off with a satisfied hum. “That was fucking hot.”

Your face burned, embarrassment creeping in, but before you could protest, he thrust into you again, making you gasp.

“Oh no,” he chuckled darkly. “We’re not done yet. I need to see you do that again.”

And with the way he was looking at you—hungry, insatiable—you knew you were in for a long night.

＠ 𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒 ；

Sylus sat with his back against the headboard, his toned arms resting lazily on the pillows, watching you with those piercing red eyes. His expression was unreadable—calm, controlled—but the way his fingers kneaded into your thighs told you everything. He was holding back. Letting you set the pace. But for how long?

You were straddling his lap, his cock buried deep inside you, stretching you open in a way that had your whole body trembling. Your hands were planted on his chest, nails pressing into his skin as you struggled to move, overwhelmed by the sheer fullness of him.

“Look at you,” Sylus murmured, voice smooth, laced with amusement. “Acting all shy now.” His fingers tightened on your hips. “Didn’t seem so shy when you were teasing me earlier, baby.”

Your face burned, but you still mustered up a glare. “I wasn’t teasing,” you muttered, shifting slightly, gasping when the movement made his cock press even deeper.

His lips quirked, but his patience was wearing thin. “No? Then what do you call sitting in my lap, grinding against me, acting like you weren’t desperate to be fucked?”

Your breath hitched, and you looked away, refusing to answer.

Sylus hummed, his hands sliding up to your waist, his grip steady but firm. “That’s what I thought.” He guided you up, just enough for the tip of his cock to nearly slip out before dragging you back down onto him. A sharp gasp tore from your lips, your nails raking over his chest as pleasure shot up your spine.

The stretch was too much, the sensation unbearable in the best way. You wanted to move, to fuck yourself on his cock properly, but your body was weak, trembling from how deep he reached inside you.

A whimper escaped your lips, and Sylus groaned at the sound, his composure slipping. “Fuck, baby,” he murmured, his fingers digging into your soft flesh. “You feel so fucking good.”

Your thighs burned, struggling to keep up with the pace you wanted, and he noticed. The second you faltered, Sylus’s control snapped.

“Can’t do it yourself, huh?” he mused, though his voice was rougher now, his patience long gone. “That’s fine. I’ve got you.”

Before you could react, he gripped your ass, holding you still as he rolled his hips up into you, slow but deep, dragging a broken moan from your lips. Then he did it again. And again.

The pace was brutal, his cock hitting spots that had you gripping onto him for dear life, pleasure mounting too fast to control. Your clit throbbed, the friction driving you higher, pushing you toward a peak that felt different—more intense, more overwhelming than anything you’d ever felt.

“S-Sylus—”

“I know, baby,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your throat. “You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you?”

You could only nod, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

“Then let go,” he rasped, one hand sliding between you to rub your clit, his thrusts never slowing. “Come for me.”

The coil in your stomach snapped, pleasure crashing over you with a force that left you gasping, your whole body shuddering as the orgasm ripped through you. A sharp cry tore from your lips as you felt it—felt yourself squirt, the rush of liquid soaking Sylus’s cock, dripping down onto his thighs.

A deep groan rumbled from his chest, his red eyes dark with something primal as he watched you tremble in his lap, completely wrecked.

“Fuck, baby,” he muttered, voice thick with hunger. “Didn’t know you could do that.”

You barely had the energy to respond, your body still pulsing from the aftershocks, but Sylus wasn’t finished. His hands flexed on your waist before he thrust up into you again, burying himself deep as his own release hit, warmth flooding your insides as he came.

Your body slumped against his, breathless, skin slick with sweat. Sylus ran a hand through your hair, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple, his other hand lazily trailing over your thigh, brushing against the mess between your legs.

“Looks like I fucked you stupid,” he murmured, smug.

Your weak glare didn’t faze Sylus in the slightest. If anything, it made him smirk, that lazy, knowing expression that only made your stomach tighten all over again. His fingers traced over your thigh, slipping dangerously close to the mess between your legs, deliberately teasing.

“You made a mess, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement. “Didn’t expect you to squirt like that.” His thumb brushed your swollen clit, making your body jolt against him.

Your breath hitched, still sensitive from your orgasm, but Sylus didn’t care. He spread his fingers, rubbing your pink and creamy slick over your inner thighs, then over his cock, still buried inside you, his release mixing with the wetness between your legs.

“Feel that?” His voice dropped lower, more deliberate. “You’re still drippin’ all over me.”

A whimper escaped your lips as he pressed down on your clit, rubbing slow, tight circles. Your body twitched from the overstimulation, your thighs trembling on either side of him.

“S-Sylus—”

“Hmm?” His free hand slid up your body, fingers curling around your tits, kneading the soft flesh. “Something wrong?”

You shuddered, hips jerking involuntarily against his touch. “Too much—”

He only chuckled, rolling a nipple between his fingers while keeping steady pressure on your clit. “Too much, huh?” He tilted his head, eyes burning into yours. “That’s funny, baby, ’cause your pussy is still clenching around me like you want more.”

Your breath came in short, uneven gasps, torn between sensitivity and the sharp need still buzzing under your skin. He was pushing you past your limit, and he knew it.

Sylus shifted, pressing you down against his chest, trapping you against his heat. His lips brushed over your jaw, his breath warm against your skin. “Be good for me,” he murmured, a sharp contrast to the way his fingers slid between your folds, spreading your slick. “Let me have one more.”

You whimpered, body tensing, but when he thrust up into you—slow, deep, filling you all over again—the last of your resistance crumbled.

＠ 𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋 ；

Rafayel’s eyes locked onto yours, that intense pink and blue gaze igniting a fire inside you. He stepped closer, his smirk teasing as he caught the challenge in your expression. “Feeling mean today, huh?”

“Maybe I am,” you shot back, a playful glint in your eye. “What are you going to do about it?”

Without warning, he lifted you effortlessly, settling you on the edge of the bed. You felt your heart race as he knelt before you, his hands gripping your thighs, spreading your legs apart.

“You know I love it when you act like this,” he said, a low growl in his voice as his fingers slid between your wet folds, teasing your pussy. “But let’s see how long you can keep up that attitude.”

His fingers worked expertly, stroking your clit and plunging deep into your slick heat. “You’re already soaked, baby. Can’t resist me, can you?”

You gasped, trying to maintain your defiance but quickly losing your resolve. “Shut up, Raf.”

“Make me,” he challenged, his smirk growing wider as he thrust his fingers deeper, curling them to hit that spot inside you. Your breath hitched, and your back arched as pleasure coursed through you.

“Raf, please,” you whimpered, squirming against his touch, desperate for more.

He didn’t waste any time; with one swift motion, he positioned himself at your entrance, his cock throbbing and ready. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

“I want it,” you begged, feeling the need building inside you. “Please!”

“Good girl,” he said, and in one powerful thrust, he filled you completely. You gasped at the stretch, his cock hitting all the right spots. “Look at you, so fuckin’ needy.”

He set a brutal rhythm, thrusting deep and hard, his body slamming into yours as he kept his eyes locked on yours, watching every reaction. The pressure built inside you, the familiar tension coiling tighter with each thrust.

“Raf, I’m so close!” you cried, feeling your body ready to explode.

“Just a little more, baby. Let it happen,” he urged, his pace relentless, driving you closer to the edge.

With one final thrust, everything snapped. You felt the overwhelming wave of pleasure crash over you as you squirted for the first time, soaking his cock and the sheets beneath you. Your body trembled, and cries escaped your lips as pleasure washed over you in waves.

Rafayel grunted, his thrusts becoming more frantic as he watched you come undone. “That’s it! Just like that!” he growled, losing himself in the sensation.

“Raf!” you screamed, unable to contain the intense pleasure coursing through you.

“Fuck, I’m right there!” he grunted, thrusting deep as he chased his own release, filling you with his warmth as you both rode the wave together.

Breathless, he collapsed against you, the heat of your bodies mingling as you came down from the high. “You really know how to make things wild,” he panted, a satisfied grin plastered across his face.

Rafayel's grin returned as he caught his breath, that playful glint never leaving his eyes. “Damn, babe, you really squirted everywhere,” he said, looking down at the mess you both made. “Guess I really know how to get you going.”

You laughed breathlessly, the tension from earlier still buzzing in your body. “Yeah, well, maybe you should get used to it.”

“Oh, I plan to,” he shot back, a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he playfully nudged you with his knee. “Ready for round two?”

With a quick movement, he turned you around, positioning you on all fours. “Time to show you how fun mirror sex can be,” he teased, guiding himself back inside you from behind.

“Just look at those tits bouncing,” he remarked, his voice light and teasing. “I could watch this all day.”

You felt the familiar mix of pleasure and irritation bubbling up, but the way he kept his tone silly made it hard to stay mad. “You’re ridiculous,” you replied, pushing back against him, wanting more of that delicious friction.

“Ridiculously good at this, right?” he quipped, thrusting harder, the sound of skin slapping filling the air. “Feel that, babe? You like it when I hit you like this?”

“God, yes!” you cried, loving the way his cock filled you up, the way he perfectly mirrored your movements, matching your pace with every thrust.

“Then let’s make a mess again,” he grinned, his tone dripping with playful confidence. With each thrust, he picked up speed, pushing you closer to that familiar edge.

“Raf, I’m close!” you gasped, your clit rubbing against the bed as he drove deeper.

“Let it go, babe,” he urged, his hands gripping your hips tightly, guiding your movements as you both built toward that climax again. “I want to see you squirt again.”

With his words igniting something primal within you, you surrendered to the pleasure, feeling the tension build until it burst. You squirted again, moaning as pleasure washed over you, the sensation more intense this time as he continued to thrust, sending you spiraling into ecstasy.

“Fuck yes! That’s my girl!” he shouted, his own release following closely as he filled you up, both of you lost in the bliss of the moment.

As you both caught your breath, Rafayel leaned down, his playful demeanor returning, pulling you back against his chest. “You ready for round three? I think we can make an even bigger mess this time.”

You smiled, the warmth of his body against yours making you feel alive. “Bring it on, babe. I’m ready for whatever you’ve got.”

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

🐺⛓️

"Please be my meaning," he whispered into the closed door when you quarreled.

"We are alone on the whole earth, in the very heart of my pictures," he thought when you didn’t reply to his messages, he trying to remember your common past over and over again.

"In the whole world of made-up truths, I need your warmth," he begged you, kneeling in front of you.

"I want to be your meaning," he whispered between kisses.

"Please, please, please be my meaning," he whispered into your neck again, pressing your naked body closer to his.

Love and Deepspace x BG3

Vampire Ascendant Sylus

Luke and Kieran personally gifting Sylus a vinyl record, emphasizing this particular one to be extremely rare and special - especially with the attached note of your handwriting that wrote,

from me and the twins to you ♡

Sylus remained silent as he raised an eyebrow at the already unwrapped box of a single black vinyl disc, half wondering if the twins actually took their time to listen to his type of classical music just to buy this gift for him, before placing said vinyl record on the gramophone.

But Sylus was caught off guard by the melody that resonated in his office room; a serene tone, a familiar singing voice, your voice -

A recording of your singing resounding in the air, your sweet voice making his heart flutter with warmth and longing.

Luke and Kieran glanced at each other when their boss fell completely silent, only the sound of your singing surrounding the quiet atmosphere. They couldn't tell what Sylus was thinking with his back turned against them, but they could see the way Sylus traced his fingertips across the record player, him softly humming along with your voice.

They knew right then and there that they finally got their great boss the perfect gift they could ever think off, and all thanks to your (earlier hesitant) cooperation too. The beaming victorious smiled growing on their lips before both Luke and Kieran briefly froze up when Sylus's hands came to rest on top of their heads, their eyes widened at the sight of their boss's genuine small smile as he softly patted their heads.

"Thank you."

Best believe the twins teared up behind their crow masks when they left Sylus's office moments later, feeling like two proud kids after giving their father-figure guardian bossman the best present in his life.

OH MY GOSH

⋆˚࿔ told you so 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

-the LaDS men kissing you during an argument

୨ৎ── . Caleb

You walk fast—heels clicking against the pavement, every step fueled by the mix of anger and embarrassment boiling inside you. The crisp evening air nips at your cheeks, but it’s nothing compared to the heat rising from the mortifying scene Caleb just caused.

“Babe, wait! Please!” His voice is close behind, deep and breathless, but you don’t slow down.

You cross your arms tighter. “I told you to stop following me.” “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to—” His footsteps get louder as he catches up. “I just—he was way too close to you.”

You spin around so fast that he almost runs into you. “Too close? He was asking if I wanted coffee, Caleb!” you wave your hands in frustration, the image of your colleagues’ awkward stares still fresh.

He flinches but steps closer, towering over you, muscles tense beneath his hoodie. “I know. I messed up. I just…I hate the way guys look at you.”

You scoff and turn again, storming forward, but he’s right there, matching your pace. “Stop following me!”

“Not until you talk to me.”

You halt, shoulders tense. “And what should I tell you? That you’re an idiot?”

His lips twitch into the softest smile, like he’s grateful to even hear you insult him. “Whatever you want. I just miss your voice.”

You sigh, still looking at him with a harsh gaze. “Caleb—”

He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your lips, cutting you off.

You huff. “I was saying—”

Another kiss. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Stop kissing me when I’m—”

Peck.

“—trying to talk!”

A longer peck.

Your hands press against his chest, but it’s more to steady yourself than push him away. “It was just a colleague, Caleb. He wasn’t hitting on me.”

“I know…” he mumbles cradling your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against your cheekbones soothingly. “I overreacted.”

“You think?” you mutter sarcastically against his lips.

He chuckles, eyes full of that maddening mix of regret and adoration. “I just… I can’t help it. You’re mine.”

Your heart softens, just a little. You sigh, resting your forehead against his chest. “You have no reason to be jealous, you know I only have eyes for you.”

“And I for you.” he wraps his arms around you, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll bolt again. “I’m sorry. Really.”

Looking up, you shoot him a playful glare before letting a giggle escape your lips. “You’re such an idiot.”

His grin grows wider as he leans down to plant a soft kiss on your forehead. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

୨ৎ── . Rafayel

You’re lying in bed, curled under the covers, warm and cozy—except for one glaring problem. The big light overhead is still on, shining down on you both like some relentless interrogation lamp.

“Can you turn it off?” you mumble, too comfortable to move.

Rafayel, with his head resting lazily on your chest, lets out a deep, dramatic sigh before slowly lifting his head to look at you. His tousled hair falls into his eyes and he gives you his best attempt at puppy eyes—big, soft, and just a little bit sulky. “Sweetheart,” he drawls, pouting, “I’m so comfy. And warm. And cozy next to you.” he emphasizes his point cuddling more into your side.

You snort, unimpressed. “Nice try, but I got up last time. It’s your turn.”

He groans, flopping onto his back like a starfish. “But I painted all day! My arms, my poor arms, they’re like noodles. I’m basically a ghost of a man now.” he throws an arm over his forehead for dramatic effect.

You roll your eyes, already used to his theatrics. “A ghost who’s fully capable of walking the five steps to the light switch.”

He turns his head toward you, mischief sparking in his tired eyes. Slowly, he crawls back over, propping himself up on one elbow. “What if…” he starts, voice low, “I give you a kiss?” his fingers gently tilt your chin up.

You raise an eyebrow, but before you can respond, he leans in and kisses you—soft and lingering, his lips warm against yours. When he pulls back, a cocky smirk tugs at his mouth. “That do it?”

You stare at him flatly. “I’m still not moving.”

His smile falters and he lets out another heavy sigh, before dramatically collapsing on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress as he spreads his arms and legs like a human blanket. “I’m too tired,” he mumbles against your collarbone. “This is it. I live here now.”

“Rafayel, you’re crushing me.”

“This is your punishment for not appreciating my kiss.”

You try to wiggle free but his arms tighten around you like a koala. “Seriously, we can’t sleep with the light on.”

“We’ll adapt,” he murmurs, already sounding half-asleep.

You both lay there, stubbornness thick in the air, neither willing to move. The soft hum of the lamp above is the only sound between your bickering breaths.

Minutes pass, your eyelids grow heavy, and eventually, you give in—not to turning off the light, but to the warmth of him sprawled over you, his steady breathing slowing. You sigh, before sleep takes over—both of you tangled together under the too-bright light, too stubborn and too in love to care.

୨ৎ── . Sylus

The wind whips through the street, biting at your skin, but you keep your chin high, refusing to shiver. Sylus strolls beside you, completely unfazed, his long white hair tousled by the gusts, red eyes practically glowing with amusement.

“Told you this would happen.” he says, his voice laced with smugness.

You glare at him from the corner of your eye. “Told me what?”

He gestures at your shivering jacket-less self. “That this would happen. You never listen to me. It was sunny for like five minutes, and you just—what? Thought winter vanished?”

You cross your arms, trying not to let your teeth chatter. “I’m perfectly fine.”

His grin widens. “Really? Because your lips are turning blue and you’re shaking.”

You scoff. “I already told you that I’m fine.”

Sylus lets out a low chuckle and begins to shrug off his thick coat, holding it out to you. “Here. Before you turn into an icicle.”

You eye the coat like it’s some sort of trap. “I don’t need it.”

“Seriously?” He raises an eyebrow. “Why do you have to be so stubborn?”

“I’m not stubborn.”

“You’re literally freezing.”

“I’m not.” But the tremble in your voice betrays you. Worse, your lips start quivering, and you can’t stop them. Damn it.

Sylus’s teasing smile falters, his sharp eyes softening with concern. “Hey..” he murmurs, stepping closer. Without another word, he cups your cheeks, his hands warm against your icy skin, and leans down to kiss you.

His lips are soft and heated, chasing away the cold. You feel his hands glide down your arms, fingers brushing over the goosebumps before sliding around your waist. In one smooth motion, he pulls you tightly against him, wrapping his coat around the both of you. His scent—warm and familiar—envelops you as much as the fabric does.

You melt into his chest, feeling the warmth seep into your frozen limbs.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his eyes filled with something softer now. “There. Better?”

You huff, but your cheeks are flushed—not just from the cold anymore. “You cheated.”

He smirks. “You’re warm now, aren’t you?”

You roll your eyes, but your fingers clutch the fabric of his coat tighter. “...Yeah. Maybe.”

His grin returns, full force. “Told you so.”

୨ৎ── . Zayne

You stand in the doorway, arms crossed, watching Zayne munch on your cookie—the last cookie—the one you’d been dreaming about all afternoon. His green eyes widen when he notices you, mid-bite, like a deer caught in headlights, but it’s too late. The damage is done.

“Zayne.” Your voice is sharp, dripping with betrayal.

He freezes, cookie halfway to his mouth. “What?”

You gesture dramatically to the now-empty container on the counter, filled with nothing but sad little crumbs. “You ate my cookie. The one I saved. The one I was going to eat as a reward.”

He blinks, then swallows. “I…I’m sorry, I ate it without thinking.”

Groaning, you stomp out of the kitchen, leaving him behind with the offending crumbs. You flop onto the couch, crossing your arms tightly over your chest, an annoyed pout settling on your face. You hear his footsteps approaching, slow and hesitant.

“Love…” His voice is soft, like he knows he’s walking into dangerous territory. “There are still some brownies left, you want them?”

You don’t even look at him. “Not the point.”

He carefully steps closer, holding up an imaginary peace offering. “I can warm them up. They’re gooey. Chocolatey. Even better than a stupid cookie.”

“I’m not hungry anymore,” you mutter, but the traitorous growl of your stomach echoes through the living room.

There’s a beat of silence. Then you notice it—Zayne biting back a smile.

“Really?” you snap, shooting him a glare.

He grins shamelessly, a little glint in his eyes. “How about this? I’ll bake you more cookies. Fresh ones. But…” He leans closer, voice dropping to a playful whisper. “it’ll cost you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Cost me?”

“One kiss,” he nods, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You’re about to roll your eyes when he doesn’t even wait for your answer. He dips down, catching your lips in a soft, warm kiss. It’s sweet—too sweet—and when he pulls back, you blink at him.

“You taste like chocolate.” Despite yourself, your annoyed pout melts into a reluctant smile. Maybe one kiss—and some fresh cookies—weren’t such a bad deal after all.

୨ৎ── . Xavier

You shift on the couch, curled up beside Xavier, who’s been glued to his phone for the past hour. His blue eyes are locked on the screen, a lazy smile tugging at his lips as he scrolls through yet another dumb video.

“Hey,” you start, voice light. “do you wanna watch that movie I’ve been dying to see?”

No response—just the faint sound of whatever clip he’s watching. But you catch the slight curve of his lips, a tiny smile hidden behind his phone and you take that as a silent ‘yes’ to your question. Hopping off the couch, you stretch your arms briefly. “I’ll grab snacks. Can you search for the movie in the meantime?”

“Mmhm” he hums without looking up, still lost in whatever rabbit hole he’s fallen into.

You head to the kitchen, grabbing popcorn, candy and drinks, even taking the time to slice some fruit because, well, balance. When you return with your arms full,you find him in the exact same position you left him—phone still in hand, thumb lazily scrolling.

You stare at him, your patience evaporating. “I can’t believe you right now.”

He hums again, barely acknowledging you. That’s it.

You slam the snacks onto the table, tug on your jacket, and start slipping on your shoes. The sudden movement finally breaks through his phone-induced trance.

“Wait—where are you going?” His head snaps up, red flushing his cheeks slightly.

You roll your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “Home. If I’m gonna be ignored, I might as well do it in my own apartment.”

He stands lazily, as if this is all some mild inconvenience. “Didn’t you want to watch a movie together?”

“Oh, wow, so your ears do work!” you spat sarcastically. 

You head for the door, but before you can reach it, Xavier steps in front of you, blocking your path with his tall, broad frame. His big eyes glint with something teasing, but there’s a softness beneath it.

“You’re not actually mad at me,” he says, voice low and confident.

Your jaw tightens. “I am mad.”

He tilts his head, studying you, then gently cups your face in his large hands. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his thumbs brushing your cheeks. “I wasn't giving you the attention you deserve.”

Before you can respond, he leans down and kisses you—slow, tender, and apologetic. When he pulls back, your tough facade crumbles a little. Despite yourself, your expression softens slightly.

You sigh, dropping your eyes. “Do you…do you think I’m boring or something?”

His entire demeanor shifts. “What?” His voice is laced with genuine concern now. He peppers your face with soft, quick kisses—your forehead, your cheeks, your nose—before meeting your gaze again. “Of course not! Listen, I was just being an idiot. I should appreciate every single second that I can spend with you instead of wasting time with some useless video.”

He grabs his phone and turns it off in front of you. “See? You have my undivided attention now.”

Your heart does a stupid little flip.

“Good,” you mutter, crossing your arms wanting to still look mad at him, but the little smile on your face betrays you.

He grins, taking your hand and leading you back to the couch. “Now, let’s watch that movie, properly this time.”

The LADs boys walk in on you having a mental breakdown in your living room floor with Caramelldansen blasting on your TV, what do they do?

Xavier- lays down with you

Zayne- sighs but brings you a water bottle and snacks, he just watches you on the couch close by

Rafayel- LAUGHS AT YOU and then proceeds to break down next to you

Sylus- brought Mephisto, Luke and Kieran along this time and they all take pics of your misery and make memes out of you

Caleb- orange justices over you after laughing at you

Husband!Rafayel, who has a big portrait of your wedding picture in his studio--he made sure to place it where the sun reflects brightly, so it shines as brightly as you did on your wedding day.

Husband!Rafayel, who made your kiss mark as a seal to every painting he made ever since you two met.

Husband!Rafayel, who is known for his abstract paintings--surprised his fans when he started painting his wife in his recent works.

Husband!Rafayel, who always has you by his side in every art exhibition, interview and event. Proud to show the world that he has a loving wife by his side.

Husband!Rafayel, who made sure to give you two rings---one on your finger while the other one hangs on a necklace. Incase you forgot to wear your ring, you still have the other one hanging around your neck!

Husband!Rafayel, who loves to bring you cute little trinkets and souvenirs whenever he returns from his trips. He always makes it special--he's a "I bought it because it reminded me of you" type of lover:(( you'd be surprised seeing different types of seashells displayed in a big elegant box.

Husband!Rafayel, who claims to hate kids a lot because they are annoying and loud-- but the way you interact with them makes his heart flutter in awe:( it makes him wonder what it would be like to have his own together with you.

Husband!Rafayel, who cried a lot after finding out you're carrying his baby--he's more emotional than you were actually. Hugging you so tightly as he weeps against your chest. He's happy that he's now able to have a miniature version of both of you. You can't help but giggle at his reaction while you pat his back.

He loves you so much:(

masterlist

Poison I am on my hands and knees BEGGING PLEADING IMPLORING for some more teacher Rafayel i did not know I needed it until you made me see the light godbless biggest fattest kiss for you MUAH

(I hope you don’t take this as me demanding you to write anything, definitely only if you want of course!!)

teacher's pet?

♱⋅── a/n: 3k of Professor! Rafayel. It's not his fault you're so easy to tease, to rile up, to get you right where he wants you when you're being a brat and not listening to your dear professor. art credit to @/sugarqiyu on x

Rafayel is a world-renowned artist, known for his masterpieces communicating all the rage and depth of the ocean, a devotion so palpable apparently you could drown in it. A rumor second only to his notorious reputation of having the face of an angel and personality of the devil. 

You can vouch that both these rumors are damn near true. 

Linkon University jumped at the opportunity when the Rafayel offered to become an adjunct professor for the senior year art capstone.

From the first day, the entire lecture hall was captivated under Rafayel's siren spell, his voice like sweet poison as he first introduced himself to the class, words a careful balance between arrogant and playful— that is, until you introduced yourself. 

It was barely noticeable, something you almost swear you imagine, but those sunset eyes light up when you say your name, his smile becomes a little less hollow, and something in his gaze arrests you so violently you nearly forget to look away. 

Little do you know Rafayel has been looking for you in this lifetime for nearly seventy years. And finally, finally he’s found you. So what if these circumstances are a little less ideal than usual? 

He’s not letting you go again. 

Professor Rafayel gives you impossible standards to meet, critiques that cut deep enough to make you want to scream, and grades that keep you shackled to his office hours.

He’s careful, though. His feedback is always just shy of unreasonable, his authority unchallenged, his reputation untouchable. And when you come storming into his office demanding an explanation, he just smiles, leaning back in his chair with the air of a predator who knows his prey walked right into the trap.

“Poor thing,” he drawls, feigning sympathy as his eyes slowly trace your figure from behind his glasses. “Maybe you’re just not cut out for this. But I suppose... with the right guidance...”

He lets the offer dangle, his gaze heated and unwavering. You hate that your heart races, hate that you need his approval, his help. Hate that he looks so damn smug knowing just how to make you beg, just how to make you come looking for him instead. 

Professor Rafayel savors every insult you hurl behind his back, every time you grumble to your friends about his impossible standards and arrogant demeanor. He listens, silently cataloging each biting word, each curse muttered under your breath.

And when he finally has you moaning his name, his mouth wicked and merciless between your thighs, he can’t help but remind you of every cruel thing you’ve said.

“You’ve got such a filthy mouth, cutie. Didn't you call me a sadistic asshole last week?” His fingers dig into your hips, holding you in place as he flicks your clit with his tongue again, smirking as you writhe in overstimulation. “I suppose I am... but you love it, don’t you?”

The way you choke on a sob only makes him smile wider.

Private lessons with Professor Rafayel become a blur between you learning and losing your mind. 

Half of the time, Rafayel is a masterful teacher, and his passion for art is as mesmerizing as his paintings. He speaks about color theory with a fervor that none of your other professors have come close to, his eyes alight as he explains the emotional weight of each shade, the way hues can whisper secrets or scream rage. His knowledge is boundless, and his lessons on storytelling through art are so captivating you almost forget to breathe.

But it’s the tales of Lemuria that leave you spellbound, like something out of a fairytale or tragedy. Ancient techniques lost to time, rituals where pigments were mixed with seashells, and spells hidden in brushstrokes. He speaks with such reverence, his voice low and haunting, and sometimes, just sometimes, you catch a flicker of sorrow in his gaze, as if he’s lived through it all.

He shows you his personal collection, paints richer and more vivid than anything you’ve ever seen. Reds deeper than blood, shimmering blues that seem to ripple like water. He teaches you to paint underwater landscapes that feel eerily familiar, scenes of ancient temples swallowed by the sea, fragments of a forgotten and drowned world.

You convince yourself it’s just Rafayel’s eccentric genius rubbing off on you, a byproduct of his intoxicating charisma. But then he watches you with that knowing smile, his eyes gleaming as if he’s waiting for you to remember something you’ve long forgotten.

The other half of the time, Professor Rafayel’s lessons are nothing short of madness. He invades your space, his body always too close, his mere presence overwhelming.

His hands are always on yours when he shows you how to sketch the curve of moving muscle, the delicate slope of a hip, fingers guiding yours with agonizing slowness. His touches linger, featherlight in ways that make you shiver, his breath brushing your ear as he murmurs instructions, his voice addictive and velvety.

You try to stay focused, try to be professional, but his scent wraps around you, warm and heady, and your mind spirals. You spend far too long watching the way his hands move, the lithe grace of his fingers, the gentle strength that could so easily ruin you.

Your paintbrush trembles, your breathing uneven, and you can’t help the way your heart races when his chest presses against your back, his hands guiding yours as he whispers, “Just like that... perfect.”

Your professor knows exactly what he’s doing, of course. Rafayel feels the way your hand trembles around the paintbrush, sees the way your pupils dilate, hears every shaky breath. Rafayel drinks it all in, his smile infuriatingly smug, his sunset eyes heavy with satisfaction.

And when he finally touches you—really, truly touches you—all your remaining morality crumbles.

Of course, it’s punishment when you fail to turn in your twenty still-life practices by the end of the week. 

You’re slammed down on his desk before you can think to protest, paint-stained fingers clutching the wood as he presses you down, his body caging you in. He kisses like he paints, with passion and devotion, stealing your breath and sanity in one fell swoop. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, your thighs—touching, gripping, claiming.

You gasp as he pushes your skirt up, his fingers slipping beneath your underwear, babbling nonsense about how dare you wear something so cute, so sinful to his class and how he’s been thinking about ripping it off your slutty little hips all day long. 

“All that complaining, but you’re rather obedient now,” Rafayel teases, his voice mocking as his fingers curl, instantly finding that spot that makes you scream around his fingers. “Maybe if you weren’t so stubborn, you’d learn faster.”

You curse him, or at least you try, but the words dissolve into a broken moan as he curls them up again, his thumb circling your clit with maddening precision. Rafayel laughs. “You’re very cute when you’re frustrated.”

He doesn’t stop until you’re crying his name, apologizing for being a brat, every stroke and curl of his fingers calculated to drive you to the edge, to make you lose all sense of time and reason. And when Rafayel finally lets you come undone, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer, he watches you fall apart with that infuriatingly smug smile, as if this was his plan all along.

And maybe it was.

Later, you’ll try to paint again, your mind hazy, body aching. But every brushstroke feels too intimate, every color too vibrant, too alive. You’ll stare at the canvas and swear it’s moving, the paint shimmering, swirling, forming shapes that look hauntingly like his eyes. You’ll feel his presence behind you, his hands warm on your shoulders, his voice velvet-smooth as he purrs, “See? Was that so hard?”

Private lessons were always his trap. And now, Rafayel’s got you exactly where he wants you.

When Professor Rafayel suggests you sketch him nude “for practice,” he’s already won. 

You know it the moment his lips curl into that wicked, knowing smile, the kind that makes your pulse race and your stomach flip. You should have said no. Should have refused, made up some excuse, anything to avoid this situation.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t. And now you’re trapped, heart pounding as he begins to strip in front of you.

He’s maddeningly slow about it, drawing out each movement with practiced ease, and you’re hyper-aware of every single detail. The way his fingers deftly loosen his tie, the silk sliding from his collar with a whisper that makes your breath hitch. His eyes never leave you, watching every nervous fidget, every time you shift in your seat pretending to be unaffected. But you don’t fool him. Not for a second.

Rafayel’s hands continued down to the buttons of his shirt, his long fingers working methodically, one by one, exposing more pale skin with every pop of fabric. You can’t help it—your gaze follows the path of his fingers, tracing the lines of his collarbones, the lean muscle beneath his skin.

You swallow hard, mentally debating if it would be worse to watch him or worse to chicken out now, practically surrendering and acknowledging what watching your professor does to you. Not that you could think at all when his shirt falls open, slipping off his shoulders to pool on the tiled floor, leaving him half-naked, so casually beautiful it makes you ache.

Rafayel’s enjoying this far too much. There’s the same smug glint in his eyes as he watches you struggle to maintain your composure. He begins to thumb at his slacks and you whip your head away, your entire body going rigid at the sound of his belt unbuckling, the click of metal on metal echoing through the empty lecture hall.

You don’t dare look, eyes glued to the blank canvas before you as heat floods your cheeks. But your traitorous mind cruelly fills in the details, painting a picture more vivid than any still life you’ve ever drawn. You hear the rustle of fabric, the soft creak of the pedestal as he positions himself, and when you finally gather the courage to glance back the sight makes you forget the canvas entirely. 

Rafayel lounges on the pedestal like he belongs there, all long limbs and lazy grace, his body on full display with a confidence that borders on obscene. His skin is milky pale, the delicate arch of his ribs leading to the defined lines of his abdomen and fuck of course he has a six pack, his muscles lean and corded beneath flawless flesh.

Rafayel is every bit the masterpiece you expected, unfairly beautiful even like this, his glasses still perched on his nose, that infuriatingly smug smile playing at his lips.

“Well?” he drawls, arching an eyebrow as he settles into a pose, one arm draped artfully over his head, his body a careful composition of sharp lines and curves. “I thought you were supposed to be drawing, not gawking. Not the best student, are you?”

Your cheeks burn hotter, and you force yourself to look back at the canvas, gripping the charcoal so hard it threatens to snap. You try to be professional, try to focus on the technicalities—the shapes, the shadows, the proportions. But it’s impossible when every angle of him is so utterly mesmerizing, when every stretch and shift only highlights the elegance of his form.

Your strokes are shaky at first, charcoal dust smudging your fingers as you outline his figure, but it’s hard to stay steady when his ocean dual-toned eyes are fixed on you, gleaming with mischief and something far more dangerous. He knows exactly what he’s doing, each subtle change in his posture designed to make you squirm. When he stretches, his body arching like a cat, you almost drop your charcoal, your mouth going dry at the ripple of muscle, the unapologetic sensuality of it all.

“You’re tense,” he comments, his voice soft, lilting with amusement. “Your lines are stiff. Rigid.” He shifts, his body unfurling as he sits up, one leg bent, his arm resting lazily atop his knee. You make a sound in protest, frowning as you lose your reference. “Heh, you won’t capture the fluidity of the human form like that. You need to relax, loosen up.”

You bite back a retort, teeth grinding as you force yourself to adjust your grip, trying to follow his advice. But then he’s standing, moving toward you without a semblance of shame or modesty, his fingers curling around yours, guiding the charcoal along the paper. His completely bare body is too close, his skin too warm, the faint persistent seasalt and driftwood scent of his cologne too intoxicating as he presses against your back.

You don’t even realize you’re leaning back into his touch, one hand still shading the muscle and contour of his body as the other blindly reaches out for Rafayel’s body, hitting the edge of his abs before sliding downwards ever so slowly. 

“Don’t stop there, I’ll help.” And Rafayel’s hands come to meet yours, encircling the charcoal with one as the other wraps your palm around his dick. “You have to move your hand like this…” Gently flicking his wrist to show you the proper shading technique for the lighter areas, groaning into the back of his neck as you repeat the movement around his base, already leaking down to your fingers. 

“Just like that, nice and fluid.” His fingers guide yours around his shaft, setting a pace that makes his breath hitch, his head dipping to rest against your shoulder as his hips roll forward, chasing the friction. “Good girl.”

You can barely focus, your vision blurring as he curls his fingers around yours, moving the charcoal in slow, fluid strokes over the paper. But your other hand is trapped—held in place by his, wrapped around the velvety heat of his cock, his hips giving the tiniest, most subtle thrusts into your palm as if he can’t help himself.

He’s so hard, so hot, already leaking onto your fingers, and your breath shudders as he groans against your neck, his lips ghosting over your skin.

“You’re sooo tense, cutie. Why is that, hmm?”

“Professor…” His title slips out before you can stop it, your voice trembling, your fingers tightening instinctively around him. His laugh is breathy, wicked, and he nips at your ear, his teeth sharp, his tongue soothing the sting. 

“Remember, it’s just Rafayel when we’re together.”

You can’t breathe, can’t think, not when he’s so close, not when he’s touching you like this, guiding you, molding you. His thumb rolls over yours, smudging charcoal across the page, and you realize you’ve accidentally traced the same curve over and over, lost in the rhythm he’s set. You’re not even drawing anymore, just following his lead, letting him control every movement, every sensation.

“Rafayel.” You repeat, and he swears he loses his mind just a little. 

“That’s it,” he urges, his voice shaking slightly, rougher. “You can be braver than that. This is your art, isn’t it? You decide what to do with it.” Rafayel’s teeth scrape along your neck, and you shiver, your eyes fluttering shut as he ruts against you, his cock twitching in your grip, his moans muffled against your shoulder as he loses himself to the pleasure you’re giving him. 

When suddenly, he pulls away. 

You’re entire body goes rigid. Did you do something wrong? Did he change his mind? Has he finally realized how utterly inappropriate this is and chose to save himself the scandal and embarrassment of being caught with you? 

Mind still racing a mile a minute, it’s Rafayel’s gentle touch on your tense shoulders that has you breathing again.  “On second thought, maybe I’m not in the right condition to teach you. Maybe you also need to…” Rafayel’s arms come to wrap around you, fingers slipping under your shirt as lips trace the shell of your ear, and you swear you feel a light nip. “get comfortable.”

The charcoal hits the ground with a hollow crack. 

Your back hits the wall of his office with a muffled thud, his lips crashing against yours with a hunger that leaves you breathless. This was supposed to be a professional meeting, it was supposed to end with you getting that damned A back on the last assignment. But not like this. Not this.

It’s reckless, dangerous, stupid. But Rafayel’s hands are already beneath your shirt, those stupidly gorgeous and talented fingers caressing bare skin, and each heated touch makes it harder to remember why you were fighting in the first place.

“Wait,” you gasp between kisses, your voice trembling as his mouth trails down your neck, “People might see...”

“Shh, it’s okay, cutie,” Rafayel laughs, his voice a low purr that vibrates against your collarbone. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide with desire, a wicked grin playing at his lips. He’s already ruined you, already got you drunk on his touch, and yet you’re still worrying about silly, inconsequential things. That means he’s not doing enough. “No one will know.”

Not that he’d mind. In fact, the thought of someone catching you like this—of someone realizing that you’re his, completely and irrevocably—only excites Rafayel more. After all, he didn’t lock the door. Anyone truly could just walk in, and his cock jumps at the thought. 

Teeth grazing your pulse, Rafayel’s tongue soothes the sting as his fingers tease below the waistband of your jeans. “You’re so cute when you try to be good,” he teases, his voice mockingly sweet. “Too bad you’re not really the model student you pretend to be.”

Your protest dies in your throat as his hand finds your clit with practiced ease, stroking slow and deliberate through your panties, drawing out a needy whimper that you can’t quite swallow. His mouth is on yours again before you can think to be embarrassed, the kiss possessive, consuming, swallowing every last protest you can think of. 

“See?” he whispers against your lips, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “You don’t really care who hears, do you?” Rafayel then curls his fingers, thrusting deep in as you scream, clawing at his shoulders and desk as your knees go weak.

God, you hate him. You hate the way he knows your body better than you do, the way he unravels you so easily. You hate the smug look on his face, the cocky confidence as he drives you to the edge. But you hate yourself more for how desperately you crave him, how much you want him, consequences be damned.

Because he’s right, nothing matters here. Not anymore. 

Nothing besides your dear professor.

Love and Deepspace men when you're desperate

Warnings : implied smut obv, mentions of kids

Summary : when your kid is distracted, and you want to spend time with your lovely husband.

Xavier | Zayne

Rafayel | Sylus | Caleb

RAFAYEL BDAY SEX NOW

Happy birthday...to you!

pairings: rafayel x reader

cw: unprotected sex, foodplay, missionary, lots of cum, teasing, overstimulation

"ngh- h-hah--, baby 'lemme h-hear you sing it.." Rafayel breathed out, hands gripping your hips tightly as he pounds his gritty cock inside of your poor throbbing pussy. You can't help but be overstimulated with his pace--you're a mess. Hair disheveled, drooling, tears streaming, eyes rolling while you blabber nonsense to your lover.

Rafayel adores this sight of you--the way the party hat tilts to the side of your head, your chest and lips smeared with the icing of the cake you bought him. You're adorable.

"P-please..baby..." He pleaded, hand reaching as it cups your cheek. His thumb gently brushing your tears away--you're so beautiful, even with this state. You pursed your lips as you both locked eyes--maintaining eye contact, while he continued on pumping his gritty cock in and out of your drooling pussy.

Even with situation like this--Rafayel wasn't ashamed to yearn and beg for you. That's one thing that isn't good. Because, once he's in control--you'll never escape.

You can hear gushing of his cum and your juices mixed together inside as it oozes out of your tight hole--he's been painting your walls white many times already, you've lost count. Filling you up to the brim with ropes after ropes of his loading hot cum. And it doesn't miss a chance to make your body tremble beneath him--he knows how to push your buttons so well.

His thumb gently moved to your plumped lips as it touches the icing he smeared--wiping it to the side and brought it to his lips and licked his thumb clean. Earning a soft grunt from you as you stare at him.

"Baby..." He looks at you with his pleading eyes--filled with love and lust. Eyes that you can never say no to. You feel yourself giving up--you know damn well he isn't taking no for an answer.

Your lips quivered and you slowly blink, feeling your mind going blank as it becomes hazy. Rafayel smiled at you and grabbed your hand as he intertwined it with his--placing a soft kiss over your hand.

Your heart flutters in awe as you bit your lower lip--preparing yourself. This will be the last time, you thought--but, he'll surely brought this up in the morning.

"Ha....H-happy..." You muttered, face flustered while Rafayel's ears perked and his cheeks began to redden. His lips can't help but twitch a smile as he watches you struggle to blurt out words while he's still deep balls inside of you--makes him want to tease you even more.

"b-birth...day...."

"What was t-that, baby?" He hum, hand gripping the flesh of your plushed thigh.

"....H-happy....birt--ah!" You let out a loud moan as Rafayel cuts you off when he pulled out his gritty cock out of your drooling pussy and pushed it right back in one go. The action made your body twitch as your back arches, toes curling while you mutter curses at him. He lets out a breathy chuckle and leaned closer to you.

"You don't...h-hah-...want the..birthday boy to be sad...right.?.." He whispered to your ear, breath hitting your skin as it makes you hitch in response. You quickly shook your head and he leaned back. He continues his pace and lets you wrap your arms around his back as your nails dig deeper through the flesh of his skin earning a soft grunt from him.

"ngh- come..on, pretty girl...." He grunted, burying his head in the crook of your neck as he started leaving hot kisses and hickeys on your skin. Making your aching pussy throb as it tightens around his gritty cock inside. He fills you up so good--not leaving any space in your tight pussy.

You can't help but tighten your legs around his hips as he continued drilling his cock in your poor pussy. The heat between the both of you rising while you felt your climax building up through your drooling pussy--preparing to release.

"hah- please...too much! I cant--!.."

"ngh- let me hear you...let me h-hear that sweet voice, baby.." He cooed, moving his lips to your face as he plants kisses everywhere. You cried out while he kissed your tears away--you're definitely left with no choice.

"please...baby..."

"ngh-...! Ah-! Happy.. birth...day! To..ah!" Oh, he's definitely doing this in purpose. Cutting you off with every thrust his gritty cock gives your aching pussy? He's definitely going to sleep on the couch after this.

"hmm....hah- what was that?..." He joked, resting his forehead against your while you glare at him and he chuckled.

"I-I swear to- ah!" You moaned out, as he gives you another big thrust--his angry red tip kissing the lips of your womb as it hits. Making your eyes widen, as you can feel your building up climax bursting as it releases--cumming as you squirt. Letting your high release like a waterfall, hitting his pelvis as it drips to the length of his gritty cock.

Rafayel pants against you and leaned back. Slowly pulling his gritty cock out of your aching pussy, his hot cum leaks out of your poor hole. Ozzing out as it traced down to your plushed thighs to the covers of his bed under, leaving a nasty mess.

You both were a mess, panting heavily while trying to catch your breath. He brushed strands of his hair sticking out of his sweaty forehead as he rests his hardened cock against your clit--earning a soft whimper from you when he started rubbing his length against it.

"Let's continue this in the bathroom, want to hear that sweet voice echoed just for me..."

Maybe he'll make this an "Lemurian tradition" now.

Not proofread. masterlist

MC: *walking around disappointed after visiting the ocean*

Rafayel: Cutie, what did you think a tiger shark was?

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 be expanded and/or altered.

triggers for this chapter: fem. and afab reader. nothing to worry about!

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: 4.1k

masterlist | taglist | next.

I. L'Inverno

"I vow. You vow. We vow."

Snow clung to the thatched roofs of Linkon, its crooked houses huddled together as if seeking warmth from one another. The village was near silent, save for the occasional groan of timber as the wind pressed its icy fingers against shuttered windows. Most homes sat in darkness, their inhabitants tucked away beneath layers of wool and fur, yet from time to time, a candle burned low, casting a feeble glow onto the frost-laced glass.

But the church—ancient, towering, its spire piercing the night like a needle through black silk—stood in stark contrast. Every arched window blazed with golden firelight, the stained glass casting fractured patterns onto the snow. The heavy oak doors, reinforced with iron, remained slightly ajar, beckoning stragglers into its embrace. The bells had long since gone silent, yet the warmth from within promised solace against the night’s bitter bite.

Somewhere, the distant cry of a lone crow shattered the stillness, its echo swallowed by the ever-falling snow. A path, trodden by hurried footsteps, led from the heart of the village to the churchyard, where the tombstones wore thick white shrouds, their inscriptions lost beneath the frost.

Linkon, though quiet, was not entirely dead. The village, half-buried in snowdrifts, exhaled plumes of smoke from crooked chimneys. A child, bundled in layers too thin for the cold, pressed small, chapped hands against the glass of a shop window. His wide eyes traced the contours of a single, dust-covered toy—a wooden horse with a broken leg, long since forgotten.

The boy lingered for a moment longer, his breath fogging up the glass as he gazed longingly at the wooden horse. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if he could will it into his hands just by staring hard enough.

"Mama, do you think I can get that?" His voice was small, barely more than a whisper against the wind. One of his front teeth wobbled slightly as he spoke, not quite loose enough to fall out but just enough to make his words lisp.

His mother, a tired woman with deep lines etched into her face, did not slow her pace. Her grip tightened around his wrist, tugging him away from the window with a scowl.

"You’ve no business playing with toys," she said, her tone sharp but not unkind. "Come now."

The cold bites at your fingertips as you flex your aching hands, the stiff joints protesting after gripping the rough bark for too long. The weight of the log still lingers in your muscles, a dull ache settling in your arms and shoulders. Your breath curls into the air in wisps of pale mist, vanishing as quickly as it forms.

The wagon creaks under the added weight, its wooden frame groaning in protest. You glance over the pile of logs, stacked haphazardly in the cart, some dusted with frost, others stripped bare where the axe had bitten deep. It’s enough for now. Maybe.

Rolling your shoulders, you take a moment to stretch, tilting your head back just enough to see the sky.

From the porch, Gran smoked her pipe. 

She scoffs, tapping the edge of her pipe against the arm of her rickety chair. Bits of ash flake onto her apron, but she doesn’t seem to care.

“Hmph. Thought you was going to be a postulant,” she says again, this time with less interest, as if the idea alone tires her. She takes another slow drag, the pipe’s ember glowing bright before she exhales another cloud of thick, acrid smoke.

You grimace, waving the fumes away with a scowl. The scent clings to the air, thick and cloying.

“I am, Gran. But I can’t let you get cold before I leave. Gotta make sure you got enough wood.” You heft another log into the wagon, the weight of it jarring through your arms.

Gran mutters something under her breath, half a curse, half a grumble of reluctant approval. Something about how you fuss too much, how she’s not some helpless old crow, but she doesn’t tell you to stop. You know better than to expect gratitude—her warmth was never in words, only in the way she let you stay, let you chop her wood, let you fuss.

She shifts in her chair, pulling the quilt tighter around her shoulders before taking another slow puff of her pipe. "Bet the nuns don’t let you run around swinging axes," she mutters.

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you reach for another log. "Probably not."

“Why d’ya wanna be a nun anyway?” She exhales another plume of smoke, the scent thick and heavy in the cold air. “There’s nothin’ for you there, and you sure as hell ain’t no saint.”

You pause mid-motion, a log balanced against your hip, her words pressing heavier than the wood in your arms. You knew this conversation was coming—Gran had been biting her tongue for weeks, waiting for the right moment to let her doubt slip through.

A part of you wants to argue, to tell her that this is the only path left that makes sense, that it’s not about sainthood or salvation. But you know she won’t buy that. Not Josephine.

It’s quiet for a moment between you two. 

Gran mutters something half-assed under her breath, the words trailing off into the wind like the smoke she puffs out. It’s too quiet for you to catch all of it, but you hear enough to know it’s not much of a compliment. She never was good at hiding her feelings, though. You’re used to it by now.

"I ain’t some poor fool that needs babysitting, y’know." Her voice is gruff, but there’s a thread of something softer in it—something you’ve learned to recognize over the years. She’s stubborn, always has been.

You give a small nod, moving to stack the last of the logs. "I know, gran. I know. But I won’t feel right leaving unless I know you’re taken care of. You know that."

Gran doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes another slow drag from her pipe, her gaze lingering on the snow-covered fields in the distance, the world outside seeming endless and cold. After a long pause, she huffs again, quieter this time. "Don't go thinkin' you’re some saint for it," she mutters. 

Finishing up, you dust your hands off on your clothes. You’d really need to get some balm for your hands later at this rate. 

The wagon creaks and groans as you guide it up the worn path to the porch, wheels crunching over the frozen slush of mud and snow and dead leaves. 

Steadying it at the base of the stairs,  the weight of the logs a comfort now that they’re safely in place. The cold air bites at your face, the evening shadows stretching long across the ground.

Gran has already begun making her way up the steps, her movements slower than usual but still determined, stubborn as ever. You catch up with her, slipping your arm around her shoulders to steady her, though she gives you a glare that says she doesn’t need it.

"I’m fine," she grumbles, but there’s a softness to it, and you know she’s just too proud to admit otherwise.

You press a quick kiss to her weathered cheek, the touch brief but warm. "Come on, gran. Let’s get you inside before that fire goes out."

As soon as you open the door, Gran makes her way toward the hearth, moving a little more slowly now, her back bowed from years of wear. You follow her, dropping the last of the logs into the small pile beside the fire. The hearth crackles and spits, the flames licking at the logs, eager for the kindling to catch.

You kneel down and add a few smaller pieces to the fire, feeling the warmth crawl up your limbs as the room begins to fill with its heat. The crackling flames dance in the dim light, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Gran settles into her favorite chair, a deep sigh escaping her lips as she rubs her hands together to warm them.

But then. 

The sharp scent of burning soup cuts through the warm, smoky air of the house, and you both freeze for a moment, the sudden change in smell jarring after the comfort of the fire. The frantic voice of Tara rises from the kitchen, a high-pitched, rapid-fire chant of "Oh no, oh no, oh no," each repetition growing more frantic than the last.

A smile finds its way to your face. 

“What the fuck.”

"Girl’s got no business in the kitchen," Gran remarks dryly, her eyes twinkling with the kind of amusement only she can manage at a time like this. She shifts in her chair, clearly comfortable in her role as the unbothered observer. "Can’t even cook a proper pot of soup without burnin' it."

You groan, heading to the kitchen, following the sound of Tara’s  frantic movements, the clatter of pots and pans unmistakable even from here. Gran’s right, as usual, but you can’t help the soft chuckle that escapes you as you push through the doorframe.

Inside, Tara is a whirlwind, her wide eyes locked on the blackened pot on the stove as she mumbles apologies to it like it's the one offended. The soup’s beyond saving, burnt beyond recognition, the acrid scent lingering in the air.

“Again?”

Tara whips around at the sound of your voice, looking both horrified and sheepish. "I—I swear it wasn’t this bad five minutes ago!" She gestures helplessly at the ruined pot. "I just... I wasn’t paying attention. Oh no, oh no..."

Gran’s voice calls from the living room, barely muffled. "She’ll survive, I’m sure."

"Put the damn pot in the sink, Tara," you say, your voice flat and tense, the stress from the day's work starting to catch up with you. The words are sharper than you intend, but it’s hard to keep your frustration in check.

Tara hesitates for just a moment, her shoulders slumping. Then, with a small, defeated sigh, she lifts the pot carefully, her movements slow as if she’s afraid it might bite her.

"You’re lucky I’m not trying to cook tonight," you mutter under your breath, rubbing at your temples as the weight of it all presses down harder. The house feels small, and the noise of the fire and Tara’s flustered movements make it feel even smaller, closing in around you.

That was a year ago. 

The cold slipped through the cracks of the old stone walls, settling deep in your bones no matter how many layers you wore. The convent was quiet this late in the evening, the only sound the rhythmic echo of your footsteps against the frozen floor. Winter, it seemed, was only growing harsher with each passing year, as if the world itself had grown bitter.

You pulled your cloak tighter around your shoulders, the fabric rough but familiar. Outside, the wind howled against the monastery walls, a mournful sound that made the candle flames waver in their sconces. The flickering light cast long, skeletal shadows along the corridor, stretching and twisting with each uncertain step you took.

Stopping by a frost-rimmed window, you pressed your palm against the cold glass, watching it melt some of the frost buildup. 

"Sister, why are you not inside?" A light, charming voice chuckles behind you. 

You turn slightly, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself as you glance over your shoulder. The voice belongs to a man—young, by the sound of him, with a tone too smooth to belong to any of the elder priests or the somber sisters of the convent.

He stands just a few feet away, wrapped in a heavy traveling coat, the fur-lined hood pushed back to reveal lavender curls dusted with melting snow. His features are sharp, striking even, but softened by the amused curve of his lips. His eyes—clever, too knowing—gleam in the dim candlelight as he studies you.

"Sister, why are you not inside?" he asks again, then pauses, tilting his head. "Ah, no—you’re one of the postulants, I take it?" His voice carries an easy charm, the kind that doesn’t quite belong in a place like this.

You straighten, instinctively guarded. "I am."

His smile widens. "Thought so. You don’t quite carry that air of solemn devotion yet." He gestures vaguely, as if that explains everything. "I imagine the cold must be unbearable, then. Postulants don’t get the good cloaks, do they?"

"You shouldn’t be wandering about at this hour," you say, keeping your voice even.

His chuckle is soft, almost indulgent. "Neither should you, Sister."

Something about the way he says it makes your skin prickle.

You don’t have time to say anything, though. A sharp, deliberate clearing of a throat cuts through the cold air, and you both turn.

Sister Jenna stands at the end of the corridor, her hands folded neatly in front of her, but her expression betrays a hint of unease—whether at your presence or his, you can’t quite tell.

“Father Rafayel,” she says, voice carefully measured. “We weren’t expecting you to come so soon.”

Your breath catches slightly. Father Rafayel?

Your gaze snaps back to the man beside you, taking him in with fresh scrutiny. This—this is the new priest?

He hardly looks the part. No somber robes, no quiet piety in his posture. Instead, he carries himself with the easy confidence of someone used to being watched, someone who finds amusement in the scrutiny of others. His traveling coat is dusted with melting snow, but beneath it, you catch the glimpse of a dark cassock, barely visible against the dim candlelight.

Father Rafayel, for his part, only smiles, unfazed by Sister Jenna’s presence. “Ah, yes. I’m afraid the storm made it easier to press on than turn back.” He spreads his hands in an almost apologetic gesture. “I do hope I haven’t caused too much trouble.”

Sister Jenna shakes her head. “No trouble at all, Father. We simply expected you closer to the week’s end.”

You’re still eyeing him, suspicion creeping into your bones like the winter chill. This is the man meant to guide the convent, to lead prayers, to uphold the faith? Something about him doesn’t sit right. Not the charm in his voice, not the sharp glint in his eyes, nor the way he watches you now—curious.

There’s no way he was qualified. He looked too young for such a position—too worldly, too.

A man like him didn’t belong in a convent, much less as its priest. His sharp, knowing eyes, the way he carried himself with an ease that lacked the usual humility of a clergyman.

Priests were supposed to be solemn, restrained. Father Rafayel looked like a man who had seen too much of the world to be satisfied with prayers and penance.

Sister Jenna, however, seemed unfazed. She led him down the corridor without hesitation, speaking softly, though you couldn’t make out the words. You stood frozen in place, watching the flickering candlelight stretch his shadow long against the stone floor.

Just before he disappeared around the corner, he glanced back at you, his expression unreadable. And then, just as quickly, he was gone.

The cold pressed in around you once more, but somehow, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the real storm had just arrived.

You sat curled on the low stool, knees tucked to your chest, as Sister Jenna worked in practiced silence, the soft snip, snip of her shears the only sound between you.

Loose strands of hair fell onto your shoulders, then to the floor, forgotten. It had grown too long, peeking out from beneath your habit—a small indulgence you had let slip, one that had finally caught up with you.

"You're growing it too long again," she chided, skilled fingers steady as they guided the blades. "You know the rules, child."

You knew. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to trim it back, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. Still, you found yourself reluctant each time. The strands fell around you, dark against the cold stone floor.

“You were out late last night,” she said after a moment, not unkindly.

You exhaled slowly. “I couldn’t sleep.”

She hummed, neither questioning nor believing you entirely. The shears snipped again.

It wasn’t a lie. Something about Father Rafayel had set you on edge. His presence felt like an ill-fitting piece in the convent’s quiet, predictable world. He was too young, too smooth, too something that you couldn’t quite place. And the way he had looked at you—like he knew you, or wanted to.

Sister Jenna hummed as she brushed the stray hair from your neck. "Change can be unsettling. A new priest means new ways of doing things. But it is not our place to question Astra’s will."

You exhaled slowly, watching as a strand of hair landed on the toe of your worn leather shoe. "I suppose."

She gave your shoulder a gentle pat, signaling she was finished. You straightened, reaching up to brush your fingers along the freshly trimmed ends, still uneasy.

The morning light filtered pale and cold through the narrow window, casting long shadows across the stone walls. Somewhere beyond, the village was beginning to stir, the air thick with the scent of burning wood and the distant chime of the church bell.

"Sister Jenna? Where is he from? He's certainly not from Linkon. His clothes are too fine."

Sister Jenna paused, dusting stray hairs from her lap before responding. “No, he’s not from Linkon.” Her voice was measured, careful.

You turned to look at her, frowning. “Then where?”

She hesitated, which only made your unease deepen. “The capital, I believe. Or somewhere near enough to it.”

That made sense, in a way. His fine clothes, the way he spoke—it all carried the air of someone who had been raised far from the humble quiet of Linkon. But the capital bred men of ambition, not men of faith.

“And he was sent here?” You couldn’t hide the skepticism in your tone.

“I’m not sure where he’s from, but he was sent from the main cathedral in Anbusas. Handpicked by the bishop himself.”

That didn’t sit right with you. The bishop rarely took personal interest in appointing priests to small villages like Linkon.

“But why him?” You tried to keep your voice measured, but suspicion was creeping in. “He’s young. Too young, I’d say, for a position like this. But….wow. So he must really know what he's doing then..." A hint of awe laced your tone, surprising you.

Sister Jenna glanced over her shoulder at your words, and the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. It was a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"One could say that, yes," she replied, her voice softer now, as if measuring her words carefully. "He has the bishop's favor, after all. It’s not often one is given such a position at his age."

Simone’s voice cut through the quiet like a bird’s chirp, the door creaking slightly as she poked her head into the room.

"Good morning, Sister Jenna!" she chirped cheerfully, unaware of the tension lingering in the air. "Father Thomas wants you to know that Father Rafayel is ready whenever you are and he'll be in the left Temple."

Sister Jenna nodded, her demeanor shifting instantly to one of calm professionalism. "Thank you, Simone. I’ll be there shortly."

Simone smiled and disappeared, leaving the door ajar. The distant chime of the bell rang, signaling the start of the day’s service. Sister Jenna turned back to you, her expression softening.

You blinked, taken off guard. “Wait—no breakfast first? I didn’t wake up late this time though!” You felt a small twinge of frustration at the idea of going straight to the Temple without even a moment to eat, especially after the restless night you’d had. 

Sister Jenna gave you a long, measured look, as if weighing your words. For a moment, you thought she might give in to your light protest, but instead, her lips quirked up into a faint smile, as if she wanted to laugh.

"Breakfast can wait, Sister," she said with a soft but firm tone. "The Lord’s work must always come first. The Temple needs its faithful."

With a reluctant sigh, you adjusted your habit, smoothing out the wrinkles. "I didn’t wake up late this time, though. That’s got to count for something."

Sister Jenna’s smile widened ever so slightly, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Perhaps you can indulge yourself with a piece of bread afterward. But for now, we have more important matters."

And just as expected...

It was dull.

The air inside the Temple was thick with incense, its rich fragrance heavy and choking in the early morning. The dim light from the candles cast flickering shadows against the walls, making the whole place feel like a forgotten crypt rather than a place of worship. The cold stone beneath your feet was no better than the air above, offering no comfort.

Who the hell decides to preach at 5 in the morning?

You stifled a yawn, keeping your head bowed as you sat with the other postulants, staring ahead at Father Rafayel who stood at the altar. He was as polished as ever, his posture impeccable, voice smooth and persuasive as he recited verses in a tone that could put anyone into a trance.

But you weren’t listening. You couldn’t. His words were like an echo in your skull, a ringing noise that faded the longer you stared at the flickering candlelight in front of you.

It’s too early. Too much incense. Too many eyes on me.

Your fingers clenched at the hem of your habit, and you glanced at the other postulants beside you. They were all in some sort of trance, eyes glazed, faces reverent, nodding along with every word he spoke.

How can they stand this? You thought, almost irritated. It’s the same every day...

Your eyes flickered up to the altar again, drawn to Father Rafayel.

He was watching you.

Not the others. Not the candles, not the altar, not even  Astra’s book. No, his eyes were locked on you. A glimmer of something passed between you—something sharp and knowing—and for a split second, you felt like you were the only one in the room. 

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over his face, making the sharp planes of his features seem even more severe, almost otherworldly. His voice carried through the temple, smooth, unwavering—yet somehow, you felt as if his words were meant for you alone.

"And so, Astra delivered both sustenance and shelter, and with that, commanded that the devil’s kin watch as the festivities begin."

The devil’s kin.

Your fingers curled instinctively against the fabric of your habit. The phrase lingered, wrapping around your mind like a vice. The way he said it—like it held weight, like it was more than just scripture—made your stomach twist uncomfortably.

You glanced around, but no one else seemed to notice. Simone was still half-asleep beside you. Sister Jenna sat upright, hands folded, expression placid. The other postulants were dutifully listening, reverent in their silence.

Just you, then.

Just you, under his gaze.

The moment passed as quickly as it had come.

Father Rafayel finally looked back down at his scripture, his tone shifting into something more measured, more fitting of a man in his position. He explained the verses, weaving meaning into them with ease, as if nothing had happened—as if he hadn’t just spent an eternity watching you.

The rest of the sermon blurred together. The words flowed in and out of your ears, but none of them stuck. The incense, the candlelight, the steady rhythm of his voice—it all folded into something dreamlike, something unreal.

And then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

The sun had begun its slow ascent, spilling weak, golden light through the stained-glass windows. The cold stone of the temple seemed a little less biting, but it was still winter, and the air still clung to you, heavy and unmoving.

Father Rafayel closed the book, lifting his head once more.

“Go in peace,” he said, his voice carrying through the space. “And may Astra’s light guide you.”

The sisters murmured their responses, standing from the pews with quiet rustling. Some stretched discreetly, others moved toward the door without hesitation, eager for warmth and food.

You hesitated.

Only for a second.

But it was long enough for Father Rafayel’s gaze to flicker back to you.

A knowing look. A brief thing, barely noticeable.

And then, just like that, he turned away, bidding you all good day.

©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.

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 be expanded and/or altered.

triggers for this chapter: fem. and afab reader. death of minor character(s). small mentions of blood. implied death of a child. decapitation. suffocation. suspicious behavior. panic. careless handling of body parts. choking.

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: 6.0k

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II. Il Ragazzo

"The Uses of Sorrow."

The dull thud, thud, thud of the knife against the cutting board filled the small kitchen, blending with the occasional clatter of wooden wheels against the floor. The boy, sprawled out on his stomach, rolled his new toy cart back and forth, watching the way it wobbled slightly over the uneven planks.

His mother barely spared him a glance, too focused on her task. The scent of fresh-cut onions and herbs mingled with the faint smokiness of the fire burning low in the hearth. Outside, the

wind howled, rattling the shutters, but inside, the warmth of the kitchen kept the winter chill at bay.

“Not so rough, Emil,” she murmured, tossing a handful of carrots into the pot. “You’ll break it before the day’s out.”

Emil grinned, undeterred. He pulled the cart back as far as he could, then let it go, sending it racing across the floor—straight into the table leg with a loud crack.

His mother sighed. “Emil.”

But before she could scold him further, a knock echoed through the house. Sharp. Firm.

The tension in her shoulders eased—just a little.

Standing on the doorstep, framed by the biting winter mist, was a young man with a pleasant smile. He carried a woven basket in his arms, wrapped in cloth to keep its contents from the cold.

"Hello, ma'am," he greeted warmly. "The church is giving out handouts for the freeze. May Astra keep you warm."

She blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his presence. His clothes were simple but well-kept, a thick cloak draped over his shoulders, dusted with frost.

Though young, there was something composed about him, something practiced in the way he spoke.

Her grip on the door slackened. "Oh," she said, glancing at the basket. "That’s… kind of you. I didn’t think they were doing another round so soon."

"We weren’t, but Father Rafayel insisted," the young man explained, shifting the basket slightly. "The freeze’s worse than expected. People are going hungry."

At the mention of the new priest’s name, her lips pressed together. Father Rafayel. She had heard bits and pieces of the new priest, of how he was an Astra-sent blessing to Linkon. Still, food was food. And she wouldn’t be foolish enough to turn away charity in the dead of winter.

She exhaled, stepping aside. "Come in, then. You’ll catch your death out there."

The young man smiled again, dipping his head in thanks before stepping inside. Behind her, Emil peeked up from the floor, wide-eyed, his toy forgotten.

The young man’s smile widened as he glanced down at Emil, who stared up at him with wide, wary eyes.

"Is this your son? Adorable," he said warmly, crouching slightly to be at the boy’s level.

Emil clutched his wooden toy to his chest, not answering right away. His mother, still standing near the door, crossed her arms.

“Yes,” she said simply, watching the man carefully. “Emil, say hello.”

The boy hesitated, then mumbled, “Hello.”

The young man chuckled. “A polite one, too.” He lifted the basket slightly. “There’s bread, dried meats, and a bit of cider inside. Should help you get through the worst of the freeze.”

She nodded, stepping forward to take it from his hands. As she did, her fingers brushed against his—just for a second—and she noted how cold his skin was.

If he noticed her wariness, he didn’t show it. A gust of wind blew harshly inside, the fireplace’s flame stuttering before coming alive again.

"Thank you for letting me inside," he said, his voice smooth, easy—too easy.

She only nodded, shifting the weight of the basket in her arms. Emil had retreated to the hearth, kneeling before the fire as if afraid it might go out again.

"You’ve traveled far today," she observed, glancing at the frost that clung to his cloak.

"A bit," he admitted, brushing snow from his sleeves. "But nothing I’m not used to." His eyes flickered around the small home, lingering on the modest table, the single candle burning low. "It’s good to see a household still keeping warm."

She forced a thin smile. "Astra provides."

There's an awkward pause before he clears his throat and stands up. 

"Well, I should get going! Thanks for letting me warm up!" He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, offering one last pleasant smile.

She nodded stiffly. "Safe travels."

Emil didn’t say anything, only watched from his place by the fire, his small hands gripping the wooden toy like a lifeline.

The young man hesitated for the briefest moment, then reached for the door. As he stepped out, the wind rushed in again, biting and cruel, whipping at the flames once more before he shut it firmly behind him.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the house were the crackling fire and the faint, distant footsteps crunching against the snow.

On the counter, a new toy sat.

She hadn’t seen him place it there. Hadn’t heard it.

A wooden horse, finely carved, its edges smooth—too smooth, like it had been handled many times but never worn. A strange, glossy sheen coated it, as though the wood had been treated with something other than oil.

Her stomach twisted.

"Emil," she called, her voice careful, measured.

The boy turned his wide eyes to her.

"Did you—" She stopped herself, throat dry.

Emil shook his head. "It wasn’t there before."

A draft curled through the cracks in the door, slipping cold fingers across the floor. The fire flickered.

Slowly, she reached out, fingertips grazing the wooden figure.

It was warm.

Father Rafayel’s voice rang clear and steady, each word deliberate as he recited from the scripture, his hands making sharp gestures. "And so, on the first night, Astra had stripped the Vampire of their blood and warmth. Begone, and know that man may deny you entry into their homes!"

Another day, another sermon. The air in the chapel was thick with the faint scent of incense, smoke curling lazily toward the high beams. You shifted on the hard wooden bench, the hem of your habit catching the edge of the seat. Your fingers fidgeted with the fabric, then scratched your nose, the chill of the morning still lingering under the warmth of the candles.

The words echoed off the stone walls, cold and powerful, and for a moment, it felt like the chapel was holding its breath. The fire in the hearth crackled, but not enough to chase away the bite of the winter air that still crept in through the cracks.

Father Rafayel.

You glanced up at him, sitting tall at the altar, his form just slightly illuminated by the flickering candlelight. He continued, undeterred by the subtle tension that settled in the room. His eyes never seemed to wander from the pages before him. "For only Astra could give man the power to protect themselves from that which is evil."

The others in the pews looked entranced, nodding solemnly, whispering the prayers under their breath. Simone beside you was practically leaning forward in her seat, hanging on every word.

"Dear Father," one of the older nuns spoke up, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the dispersing congregation. Sister Agnes, with her hands clasped tightly in front of her, took a breath before continuing. "We are grateful for your teachings, but I must ask—will there be confessions today? Some of the sisters have… concerns."

Father Rafayel smiled—small, measured. "Of course, Sister. The doors will be open until sundown."

"Very good to hear, Father. And, I do sincerely apologize, but perhaps the topic being that of Satan's kin may be too much for our dear postulants?"

Sister Agnes gestured over toward where you, Simone, and the others had been sitting.

Father Rafayel’s gaze followed Sister Agnes’s gesture, settling once more on you and the others. His expression remained composed, but the corners of his mouth twitched—whether in amusement or irritation, you couldn’t tell.

“My apologies, Sister,” he said smoothly. “I hadn’t realized our postulants were so faint of heart.”

A few of the other sisters bristled at his tone, but Sister Agnes only smiled, the lines on her face deepening. “It is not a matter of heart, Father, but of propriety. There are some lessons that require a certain maturity.”

"Ah, yes, I see," he said softly, "But we must remember, Sister, that knowledge is power. Shielding them from the truths of the world may only delay their understanding of it."

Sister Agnes' face tightened, but she said nothing more. There was a brief, pregnant silence before she nodded stiffly. "Of course, Father. I just wanted to be sure."

“Thank you, Sister Agnes,” Father Rafayel said, his tone returning to its usual charm, yet something about it was too rehearsed. "But I assure you, they will be fine."

Simone shifted uncomfortably beside you, her hands folding in her lap as she avoided his eyes. 

Getting up from the pews at the end of the sermon, you were already gathering your things when Father Rafayel's voice cut through the quiet bustle of the departing congregation.

"Sister," he called softly, and despite the casualness of his tone, you felt the weight of his attention draw you in.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to stay seated or make your way out, but something in his voice made you rise, your feet moving before your mind had fully decided.

As you approached, his eyes studied you carefully, too carefully, and a flicker of something—anticipation, maybe—passed between you. You couldn’t quite place it, but it set the hairs on the back of your neck on edge.

"Yes, Father?" Your voice was steady, though you were unsure why you felt so unsettled.

He smiled, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and gestured toward the door. "I just wanted to speak with you for a moment. A brief word, if you don’t mind."

You nodded, though a small part of you wanted to turn and leave before he could say anything further. But you stayed, unsure of what was expected of you in this moment.

"Of course, Father. What is it?" You asked, your voice steady, but your stomach tightened. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off about this—about him.

Father Rafayel took a small step closer, the faintest scent of incense still lingering on him, mixed with something sharper, more metallic. His smile softened, but the intensity of his gaze never wavered.

"You’ve been... quiet during my sermons," he began, his tone low, almost conversational. "Not that it’s any concern of mine, but I do wonder, Sister, what you think of the teachings I’ve shared. But on the other hand, you seemed particularly engaged with today’s sermon."

You blinked. Had you? You had barely been paying attention—at least, not to the words. You were too caught up in the fact that he had been watching you.

“I always listen, Father,” you answered carefully.

His lips twitched, like he was amused by something. “That’s good. A sharp mind is a gift from Astra.” He took a slow step forward, forcing you to tip your chin up to meet his gaze. “Tell me, Sister—do you believe in the Vampire?”

You frowned, unsure where this was going. “Of course. Astra’s word is truth. I believe in Astra’s wisdom, Father. And I trust that the scriptures speak the truth," you replied, carefully choosing your words. It was a general enough answer, one that wouldn’t invite further questioning—but you could see the faint glint of curiosity in his eyes, like he was sizing you up.

Before he could continue on, you clear your throat. "Forgive me, Father, it’s just... I’ve heard the scripture many times before."

He tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into a smile that didn’t sit quite right. "I understand. But even the most familiar truths can reveal something new, don’t you think?"

"Perhaps," you said, though it sounded more like an attempt to push the conversation to a close.

Father Rafayel didn’t seem in any hurry to end the conversation. He stepped back, giving you a little space, though the weight of his presence remained. "I would like to see you in my office later today, Sister," he said, his voice smooth as ever. "We can discuss your thoughts on the sermon, among other things. I’m curious to hear your perspective."

Your heart skipped a beat, but you nodded slowly, unsure of how to respond. "I’ll be there, Father."

He smiled again, that same predatory smile that made your skin crawl just a little more. "Good. I’ll look forward to it."

And with that, he turned, robes sweeping against the stone floor as he walked away, leaving you standing there Simone poked your back. "That Father Rafayel is surely a scholar in his field. I don't think I've ever heard anyone talk about the Vampire with that much confidence.”

You forced a small nod, though your mind was still tangled in the conversation you’d just had.

"He certainly speaks like someone who knows what he’s talking about," you murmured, keeping your voice low.

Simone huffed a small laugh. "More than that! He talks as if he’s seen them with his own eyes." She shivered, rubbing her arms. "The way he described the Vampire... it gave me chills. Like they were right outside, waiting for the sun to set."

Your fingers twitched slightly against the folds of your habit. Begone, and know that man may deny you entry into their homes. The scripture had never felt so... heavy.

"Maybe he just wants to scare us into faith," you said, though the words felt hollow even to you.

Simone gave you a sidelong glance, eyes full of mischief. "Or maybe he’s just dramatic." She leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "But I’ll tell you this—I don’t think he’s just a priest."

You blinked, turning to her. "What do you mean?"

She shrugged. "I mean he’s too polished. Too sure of himself. Most priests—Father Thomas, even—speak with humility, with reverence. But him? He speaks as though he’s telling a story only he remembers."

Your chest tightened slightly, but before you could respond, the bells tolled for morning duties.

"Well, whatever he is," Simone sighed, straightening her posture, "he’s our new priest. Best we behave, lest he start preaching about us next."

You snorted, covering your mouth to stifle the sound. "Oh yeah, a whole sermon about some low-level postulants getting caught yawning. That’d really bring in the crowds."

Simone grinned. "Imagine the scripture. 'And lo, Astra cast his gaze upon the weary postulants and said—Why dost thou slumber in my house?'" She put on an overly serious tone, clasping her hands together in mock reverence.

You shook your head, still grinning. "If that happens, I’m blaming you."

"Hey, if Father Rafayel ever needs new material, I’m happy to provide," she teased, nudging you lightly before heading off toward the kitchens.

You lingered a moment longer, glancing toward the door Father Rafayel had disappeared through.

He speaks as though he’s telling a story only he remembers.

Dim candlelight flickered, casting shifting shadows over the vials—rows upon rows of them, filled with dark, sluggish liquid. Some were sealed, pristine in their careful organization, while others lay shattered, their contents staining the floor in dried, rust-colored streaks.

"And on the second day, Astra be damned, had banned the Vampire from flesh, lest they make do and multiply." 

The shard trembled in his grip, thin fingers wrapped tight around the jagged glass as he carved into his own flesh. His breath hitched—more in frustration than pain—as he watched the pale, violated skin remain just that. Unbroken. Unyielding. No blood welled, no crimson life spilled forth to prove he was still something human.

His ragged reflection stared back at him from the shards littering the floor, the candlelight distorting his gaunt features. The words of Astra’s scripture echoed in his skull, the weight of them pressing against something primal within him.

His breath hitched as he stared at the wound, watching the skin close with unnatural speed, the edges of the cut knitting back together as though no injury had ever been there. He let out a shaky laugh, soft and hollow, his fingers trembling with the shard still in hand.

"Astra, what have you done to me?" he whispered into the stillness, the question swallowed by the weight of the air around him.

The scriptures—so sure, so sure in their warning—repeated in his mind, their words echoing through the stillness. Banished from flesh... to make do and multiply.

And yet here he was, unable to bleed. Unable to feel the pulse of life that marked him as living. 

The toy horse sat on the desk, its painted eyes vacant and lifeless. The edges of its once bright mane were chipped, the wood smooth and worn from where small fingers had often grasped it. He wiped the corners of his mouth, the motion slow, deliberate, as though the taste of something still lingered.

The toy horse mocked him in its innocence.

And truly, those stupid nuns were fools for believing that Astra was their savior. Astra—a god of light, of warmth, of protection. A comforting lie wrapped in scripture and ritual. They worshipped her as though he could save them from the darkness, from the horrors that lurked beyond their narrow walls. He ran his fingers along the rim of the broken vial, cold and jagged. No god would save him. No divine hand would reach down to pull him from the abyss. They had all been so eager to kneel, to pray, to deny the truth. 

The anger seethed through him like a slow-burning fire, suffocating in its heat. Sister Agnes—that wretched, meddling hag. How dare she question him, challenge his authority? How dare she presume to understand, to see through the layers of carefully crafted facades he’d spent so long building? She, with her wrinkled face and tedious morals, had thought she could stop him. She had no idea what he was capable of, what lengths he would go to for the sake of his own desires.

But no—he had to calm down. Control. That’s what he needed. Control over the hunger, the madness that clawed inside him.

And yet, the satisfaction still lingered in his chest. The chase—oh, how he delighted in it. The cat-and-mouse games, the little dance of power and submission. And now, the culmination of his efforts sat before him, staring blankly into space. Sister Agnes’s head, severed cleanly at the neck, her wide eyes frozen in the last moments of her futile struggle.

The blood had drained long ago, leaving only the dull, lifeless pallor of a body deprived of its essence. The head, once so full of righteous indignation, now rested in a jar beside him, as though it were just another object.

A trophy.

He tilted his head, examining her face, the expression of surprise forever frozen in her glassy eyes. There was something so... satisfying about this. The sweet, quiet stillness of her defiance now extinguished. The silence where her voice once preached.

“Foolish woman,” he murmured under his breath, his fingers brushing the cold glass of the jar. The satisfaction rose within him, and for a moment, the hunger seemed sated.

The confessional was a hollow place, thick with the acrid scent of incense and the heavy weight of untold sins. Sister Agnes sat before him, her trembling hands folded in her lap, her voice wavering with a concern that had long since turned to dread.

“Father…” she began, her voice shaking ever so slightly. “I’ve been troubled. Very troubled. The village… it’s been losing its way, Father. People speak of terrible things in the streets, whispers of shadows in the night, of things moving in the fog. Murders, Father. There have been more murders. “First it was old Jonah, the fisherman. Found in his cabin, throat slit, his body drained of life. No blood, no struggle.” Her voice cracked slightly. “Then the widow, Miriam. They found her in the woods, her hands twisted like claws, her face frozen in terror. The children—Father, the children are scared. They hear things, strange things, things they can’t explain.”

Father Rafayel’s lips twisted into a thin smile. “Ease your woes, Sister. It’s just fear,” he said, his voice silky smooth, laced with venom. “Fear that grips their hearts, turning them into monsters in their own minds. The darkness always seems to grow larger when the sun sets, doesn’t it?” His words lingered, the insinuation almost lost in the haze of his own twisted amusement. “But the truth, Sister Agnes, is that the devil’s kin walk among us already. They always have. They are the ones who whisper and lie, who pretend to be good, only to turn and bring ruin to the innocent. They wear the face of faith, but their hearts are black. They prey on the weak.”

"Father, I fear I have sinned. For I have doubt of Astra's mighty words. Is He truly protecting us? Linkon seems to be a farm for the monsters. And your sermon of the Vampire-”

“Doubt,” he repeated softly, the word slipping from his mouth like poison. “Is that what you feel, Sister Agnes? Doubt in Astra’s protection? How terribly… fragile.”

She flinched, her breath catching as his words wrapped around her, tightening like a noose. His voice was smooth, disarming.

“You question Astra, and yet you fail to see the truth, the dark truth. Linkon? A farm for monsters?” He chuckled, though there was no mirth in it. “Astra’s protection is only as strong as the hearts of the people who believe in it. 

He chuckled again, the sound hollow and cold, as if mocking her desperate grasp at hope.

"But don't worry, Sister," his voice smooth, dripping with false reassurance. “Doubt shows you think. Astra would forgive.”

He paused for a moment, studying her reaction through the screen, savoring the tension thickening the air between them. His gaze lingered on her, calculating, watching her every movement as if she were a delicate thing on the edge of shattering.

"Yes, Sister. Your doubt is a sign of thought, of reason," he continued, "And it is in that reason that Astra would see you through. But… you see, doubt is a dangerous game. You play it, and it will devour you. It has a way of slipping through the cracks, feeding on the weakness of your mind, your heart."

around them, cloaking the confessional in an oppressive darkness.

"But fear not," he added, his voice a velvet promise, “Astra will forgive. After all, faith is a precious thing, and where faith falters, there is always room to begin anew.”

Sister Agnes hesitated, fingers tightening around the rosary in her lap. She swallowed hard before speaking again, her voice quieter this time, as if fearful the very walls might hear.

"The elders and I… we do not doubt your competency, Father Rafayel, but—" she paused, exhaling shakily— "but we do wonder if, perhaps, your knowledge of the Vampire is… too thorough. Too intimate."

A flicker of something sharp and amused crossed his face. He leaned back slightly, hands resting in his lap, perfectly still.

"Is that so?" he murmured, the candlelight casting strange shadows over his face. "And what, dear Sister, do you suppose that means?"

"It is only that you speak of them as though you—" She stopped herself, shaking her head, her next words barely above a whisper. "As though you know them. As though you have seen them. And the murders—"

He chuckled then, low and rich, sending a cold shiver down her spine.

"Ah, the murders." He tilted his head, his smile widening ever so slightly. "You think I am connected to them?"

Sister Agnes' throat bobbed as she struggled to swallow her fear. A part of her screamed to leave, to excuse herself, to abandon this conversation altogether. But she had come this far. The doubt had already taken root. And doubt was a dangerous thing.

"Forgive me, Father," she finally whispered, voice trembling. "I only wish to understand. The people are afraid. And we… we seek guidance."

For a long moment, he said nothing. Simply watched her, that eerie, knowing smile still stretched across his lips. Then, in a voice soft and sweet as poisoned honey, he whispered:

"Then let me guide you, Sister Agnes."

The divider screen slid down with a low creak, and in the dim light, all Sister Agnes could see were his eyes. Irises of blue and pink, swirling like the depths of an ocean she had never dared to enter—yet now, those eyes seemed to draw her in, pulling her closer with every fleeting moment.

Her breath hitched in her throat as she locked eyes with him, her body frozen in place, as if some unseen force had bound her to the spot. His gaze pierced through her, sharp and calculating, as if he could see every crack in her facade, every wisp of fear that had begun to cloud her thoughts.

The colors—those sickly, shifting hues of blue and pink—were not human. Not holy. Not of Astra.

Her fingers clenched the rosary, nails biting into her palms. The silence between them was suffocating.

"You look frightened, Sister," Father Rafayel mused, tilting his head. "Is it me?

She tried to speak, but the words withered on her tongue. Her pulse thundered against her throat, a frantic drumbeat in the quiet chamber.

"Shall I confess to you, dear Sister?" he whispered, leaning forward. "Shall I tell you of the Vampire? Of their hunger? Their patience? Of how they slip into the cracks of faith, unseen until it is too late?"

Her lips parted, a prayer barely forming—

He moved. Faster than she thought possible, his hand was at her throat, fingers pressing gently—almost tenderly—against her fragile skin. Not yet squeezing. Just feeling. Testing. The way one might test the ripeness of fruit before the harvest. 

"Your eyes betray you," he murmured, voice low and soothing, yet sharp with an edge of something darker, something much older. "The mind may try to shield the heart, but the eyes are always honest."

Sister Agnes' pulse quickened, and a cold sweat beaded on her skin. She couldn't look away—couldn’t tear herself from his gaze, even though every instinct screamed at her to flee. He was not a man. Not entirely. Not anymore.

"I… I don't understand," she whispered, her voice trembling as she sought desperately for some semblance of control, but the more she spoke, the less it felt like her own voice at all. It was as if it came from a place much farther away, like a sound drifting in from the depths of the void.*

He smiled then, slow and deliberate, a smile that did not reach his eyes. No, those eyes remained cold, distant, as though they had seen and understood far more than any mortal should ever know.

His hand squeezed, again, testing. 

Until he wasn’t. 

The pressure turned sharp, a vice tightening around her windpipe. Sister Agnes choked, her hands flying up to claw at his grip, but it was like steel—unyielding, immovable. Her breath came in short, panicked gasps, her eyes wide as terror bloomed in her chest.

"Shh," he cooed, tilting his head as if he were studying an insect beneath glass. "No need for prayers now, Sister. Astra isn't listening."

She thrashed, her feet kicking against the wooden confessional wall, her nails raking against his wrist. But he didn’t even flinch. His grip only tightened, his expression calm—serene, even—as he watched the life drain from her eyes.

The candlelight flickered wildly, shadows dancing like specters across the carved wooden walls. Her vision blurred, dark spots creeping in. Her struggles grew weaker. Slower.

"There it is," he murmured, almost reverently, watching as her body began to still. "The moment of surrender. Isn’t it beautiful?"

And when the last breath rattled from her lips, when the fight had drained completely from her limbs, he finally let go.

Sister Agnes crumpled forward, her habit pooling around her like a funeral shroud.

Father Rafayel exhaled slowly, stepping back to admire his work. Then, with the same serene expression he always wore, he bent down and gently smoothed a stray wisp of gray hair from her face.

"May Astra keep you," he whispered, his voice almost kind. Almost.

He pushed the head off of his desk. It was utter garbage. Not even a snack.

Granted, the hag was old. Her blood had been thin, stale—tainted with time and piety. He should’ve known better than to expect anything satisfying from a woman who had spent her years fasting and kneeling before an absent god.

The severed head hit the floor with a dull thud, rolling until it came to rest against the leg of a chair. Her glassy eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, her mouth slightly open in an eternal, silent prayer.

Pathetic. He kicked it under his desk for now. 

Father Rafayel wiped his hand absently against his robes, smearing away the last remnants of her touch.

Looking at the vials of blood on his wall shelves, he pulled the curtain over them, concealing the evidence of his indulgence just in time for a knock at his office door.

His fingers twitched. The scent of old blood clung to his skin, but he forced himself into stillness, smoothing his expression into something softer, more pious.

“Enter,” he called, voice steady, measured.

The door creaked open.

You enter, poking your pretty head in before entering fully, bowing your head slightly. "Father Rafayel. You wished to see me?"

He smiled—just enough to be warm, to appear composed. His gaze flickered over you, sharp but unreadable. "Yes, Sister. Come in, close the door behind you."

The air felt heavier in his office, thick with incense that barely masked something metallic. You stepped inside hesitantly, the door clicking shut behind you.

"I trust you found this morning's sermon enlightening?" he asked, folding his hands neatly on his desk, as if nothing was amiss. As if Sister Agnes' blood hadn't dried beneath his nails.

His smile remained, but there was something colder beneath it, a quiet sharpness in his eyes as he leaned forward just slightly, as if pulling you closer without moving an inch.

"Just curious," he replied smoothly, his voice a velvet laced with hidden danger. "You seem... attentive. More so than most of the others. It's a rare thing, Sister."

He studied you, taking his time, watching how you responded—how you carried yourself, what you didn't say.

"Tell me," he continued, "do you ever wonder if Astra truly watches over us? Or if the faith we've placed in Him is... misplaced?"

"Not at all! I mean, of course I have moments where my faith isn't the highest, but I trust He will lead me back again." 

He leaned back in his chair, a slight smile playing at the corner of his lips as he listened to your response. His voice was soft, almost conversational as he folded his hands together.

"Anyways, I was wondering if you'd be willing to join me in the delivery of care packages. You're from here, and I want to give a good impression to the people- so they will trust the church in my hands, you see." Rafayel says, a kind smile playing at his lips, ever the charming display. He straightened up and leaned forward just slightly, his tone more earnest.

"I know it’s a bit of a humble task, but I think it will mean a lot to the people—seeing us, the church, taking care of them, showing that we’re invested in their well-being. I can’t do it alone, though. I would appreciate your company, Sister. I’d be honored if you’d join me.”

"Oh! Um...I... I suppose? It's a group effort yes?"

He chuckled softly, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Of course, it's a group effort. But you and I will be the faces of it, the ones who lead by example."

There was a pause, and his gaze lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, as if weighing your words carefully.

"Think of it as a way to bond with the village. To connect with the people. It’s important, Sister, for them to see us as approachable, as... present." He gave a slight shrug, as if the task was merely a small step in a larger picture.

"I’ll leave the details to you, of course. But yes, I’d like to think of it as a shared effort." His voice softened, making the offer sound inviting. 

You nod slowly, still considering his offer. It made sense—he was new to Linkon, and you knew the village better than most. This would give you a chance to interact with the townsfolk, maybe even help smooth things over after all the... tension. Plus, it wasn’t like you had much else to do today.

"I suppose it wouldn’t hurt," you say, offering him a small smile. "But just so you know, Father, I'm not the best when it comes to all these... pompous religious speeches. I’m more of the quiet, helpful type."

Father Rafayel raises an eyebrow, the corners of his lips curling into a smirk. "Pompous speeches? Is that what you think of me?" He chuckled lightly, but there was no malice in his voice. "Don’t worry. There’ll be no speeches—just a little good work. Perhaps you can show me the ropes. Teach me how to blend in."

"Hmm...very well. I can join you. Is that all you wanted? Or was there something else?”

Father Rafayel watches you carefully for a moment, his eyes thoughtful before that same smirk tugs at his lips again. "No, nothing else for now." His tone is casual, almost playful. "I just wanted to see how you felt about it, since, well, you’ve got more of a pulse on Linkon than I do. And," he adds with a shrug, "I’m not opposed to having you around. Maybe you’ll make me look good in front of the village."

"Alright. And when will this be? And who else? Will Sister Agnes join? She's been wanting to do some charity for a while now."

Father Rafayel nods, clearly pleased with your response. "It will be tomorrow morning, bright and early. I think the sooner the better, don’t you?" He paces slightly, then turns his attention back to you. "As for who else... I thought it might just be us for now. Perhaps once the first round is done, we can get others involved. I’m not sure if Sister Agnes will be available—she seems... occupied lately. But if you think she should be included, I can send for her."

There’s a brief flicker of something in his eyes—an unreadable look, but it’s gone just as quickly as it appeared.

"Very well. Thank you for the opportunity, Father,"

"Of course." He pauses. "Would you care for some tea? I seem to have forgotten to asked when you came- forgive me." 

You smile, politely shaking your head. "No need to apologize, Father. I’m quite alright, but I appreciate the offer."

Rafayel's lips curve into a small, knowing smile, though there's something almost imperceptible in the way he studies you. He nods in acknowledgment. "Very well. Perhaps another time, then."

There’s a moment of silence, thick but not uncomfortable. Then, with a subtle motion, he turns his attention back to the papers on his desk. "I shall see you tomorrow morning, then. We’ll make a good start with the deliveries."

As you make your way to the door, you feel the weight of his gaze follow you, but you don't turn back. The door creaks as you push it open, the soft sound lingering in the air as you step into the quiet hallway.

You pause for just a moment, letting the silence settle, before continuing down the corridor, wondering if tomorrow’s task would bring more than just the cold morning air.

©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.

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): 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.

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: 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.

©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.

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.

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 altered. trigger warnings: (for this chapter.) afab. fem reader. implied pregnancy. period sex. piv. wax play. incorrect use of holy water. fingering (fem receiving), biting. overstimulation. corruption. virgin reader. non-con. dubious consent. hate sex. vampire transformation (though not explicit, just implied, and not in standard means; I took creative liberty). blood. slight belly buldge. major character deaths. spit. 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: 6.1k masterlist | prev.

V. Trasformazione

“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark"

It’s all-consuming, how he seems to swallow the oxygen before you can breathe. Like he’s taking it straight from your lungs, leaving you lightheaded, weak. His hands are everywhere, mapping you, learning you, claiming you in ways you don’t know if you should allow—but you do.

The tree digs into your back, rough and unyielding, but his body is just as unrelenting. His lips drag along your jaw, down your throat, his breath hot against your skin. A shudder wracks through you as his teeth graze your pulse, and he lingers there, as if tasting your heartbeat.

His fingers tighten their grip. "You’re mine," he murmurs against your skin, voice low and raw. It’s not a question. It’s not a request. It’s a vow.

Your stomach hurts, the cramps from your cycle gnawing at you, twisting in sharp, unforgiving waves. Your body burns, the feverish heat meeting his coldness in a clash that sends a shiver up your spine—a mess of sensation, of discomfort, of something deeper you refuse to name.

You turn your head away, not because you want to, but because you can’t bear to look. His breath ghosts over your exposed throat, his grip firm, possessive, unrelenting. You feel his lips press there, lingering, and it only makes the ache inside you worse, different.

A breath shudders from you, and you hate how weak it sounds. His fingers flex against your skin, and you feel the sharp edge of his teeth as he hums in something like satisfaction.

“You’re burning up,” he murmurs against your throat, his tone almost gentle. Almost. “Poor thing.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. You hate him.

His fangs graze your skin but never sink in, lingering like a silent threat—or maybe a promise. His breath is cool against the feverish heat of your neck, sending a shudder through your already trembling body.

Then, his hands are on you, pulling your leg up and around his waist, pressing you closer until there’s no space left between you. The motion is seamless, practiced, like he’s done it a thousand times before. Like he’s meant to hold you like this.

And it’s humiliating.

Your nightgown is thin, ruined, sticky with blood, the fabric barely clinging to your form. You’re exposed—more than you’ve ever been, more than you should be. And yet, the very sight of you like this seems to draw him in more.

His fingers press into the flesh of your thigh, his breath hitching. "Messy little thing," he murmurs, voice rough, reverent. His lips trail the line of your jaw, slow, deliberate. "Do you know what you do to me?"

You don't want to know. You don’t want to feel the way your body reacts, the way the fever in your veins has nothing to do with your cycle anymore.

You press your hands against his chest—whether to push him away or pull him closer, you don’t even know.

His lips press against your collarbone, soft yet insistent, his breath cool against your heated skin. The way he inhales deeply, savoring your scent, makes your stomach twist—not just in fear, but something else, something raw and unfamiliar.

"Wait—wait, Rafayel—I don’t—I don’t get it." Your voice trembles, caught between confusion and something dangerously close to surrender.

He shushes you gently, his hands smoothing over your waist, his touch both possessive and reverent. "You don’t have to," he murmurs against your skin, voice thick with something deeper than want. "You just need to feel it."

You shudder, your fingers twitching against his chest. He’s cold, so unbearably cold, yet his presence is suffocatingly warm. Every nerve in your body is on fire, your pulse hammering, your breaths short and uneven.

You should push him away.

You should run.

But Astra above, you can’t move.

His eyes flicker down to the deep crimson staining your nightgown, pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the color of his irises. His chest rises and falls sharply, unsteady, his fingers twitching where they grip your waist.

And yet—his expression twists. Something raw flickers across his face, something tangled between hunger and revulsion.

Not at you.

At himself.

He looks away, jaw tightening, his grip faltering for just a second. His breath comes sharp through his nose, as if he’s trying to will himself into control.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "Damn it," he mutters, voice tight, nearly shaking. His fingers flex against you like he’s about to let go—like he should let go.

But he doesn’t.

You barely have time to react before his grip tightens—hard.

“Jump.”

Your breath catches. “Jump?”

“Jump, damn it.” His voice is sharp, urgent, commanding.

His hands slide down, gripping the backs of your thighs. He hoists you up with inhuman ease, your legs scrambling for balance around his waist. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, your heartbeat hammering against your ribs.

He presses you hard against the tree, the rough bark biting into your back. His face is so close now, too close, his breath mingling with yours, cool and sharp. His hands flex against your legs, his grip possessive, unyielding.

Rafayel's hands are ironclad around your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin, pinning you where he wants you. The pressure is bruising, possessive. He isn’t just holding you; he’s claiming you.

The air is thick, damp with the scent of earth and blood. Your blood. It clings to you, drying into the fabric of your nightgown, and you can feel how his eyes linger on the stains. His pupils are blown wide, black nearly swallowing the eerie glow of his irises. His breath fans against your jaw, cool and sharp, but his body is burning.

"Tree or the grass." His voice is low, firm. Not a question. A command. "Hurry up."

You grip his shoulders, nails biting into the fabric of his robe. The tree behind you is rough, its bark scraping against your spine as you shift in his grasp, trying to steady yourself. But it’s useless. He’s already made the choice

He holds you up with one hand, your legs around his waist as he undoes the zipper of your nightgown, pulling it down swiftly. 

The nightgown pools around your hips, the weight of it dragging against your thighs as Rafayel's cold fingers skim over your ribs. Your breasts free, the cold air on your exposed nipples makes them harden. His touch is reverent, but there’s nothing holy about it. The moonlight barely reaches through the dense canopy above, casting fractured beams of silver across his face. His expression is unreadable—somewhere between hunger and hesitation, worship and possession.

“You look divine like this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, almost awed. His thumb presses into the dip of your waist as if to test the reality of you. As if he doesn’t believe you’re real.

The night air chills your exposed skin, but you burn beneath it, a fever licking at your spine. Your blood, your scent—it’s making him tremble. You can feel it in the way his grip falters for a moment before he steadies himself, locking you tighter against him.

His grip tightens as the scent thickens, as the warmth of it seeps into the fabric of his trousers. He shudders, a groan tearing from deep within his throat, something raw and starved.

His fingers flex against your hips, betraying his restraint, the barely-contained need that trembles beneath the surface. He exhales sharply, like he's forcing himself to remember something—like he's fighting the very nature that compels him to sink his teeth into the tender flesh of your throat.

"Mine."

The word isn’t spoken, but you feel it in the way his body tenses, in the way his fingers dig just a little too hard into your sides, like he’s trying to brand himself into you. His breath is uneven now, and you realize—with something close to horror, close to exhilaration—that he’s shaking.

His head dips lower, mouth pressing just beneath your ear. “You’re going to ruin me,” he murmurs, almost reverent. His lips are cold, but his voice burns.

Your hands are firm on his chest, trying to push him off, 

“Stop- stop, I’m dirty,”

He doesn’t budge. If anything, your resistance only seems to ignite something deeper in him, something far more desperate.

His hands trace your thighs, smearing warmth into your skin, fingers painting patterns in the mess of crimson and sweat. His grip is firm but reverent, like he's touching something sacred, something he refuses to let slip through his fingers.

"You don't get to be ashamed," he breathes against your jaw, his voice shaking with something dark and unspoken. "Not from me."

You shudder, your fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt. “Rafayel—”

“I don’t care.” His lips brush your temple, your cheek, his breath fanning hot over your ear. His voice lowers, dark and hushed, almost mournful. “I would bathe in you if you'd let me.”

He grabs your chin roughly, forcing you to make eye contact. He looks utterly feral. “I want to be in you. I need it. In your skin. In your very soul.”

His lips crash against yours, not with brutal force, but with a yearning so deep it feels like he’s trying to devour something unseen, something hidden inside you. The kiss is desperate, frantic. It’s not just want—it’s need. A need that claws at him, that shakes his very foundation.

His grip tightens, fingers digging into your flesh with an urgency that borders on bruising. His palm presses into the small of your back, pulling you flush against him—your soft warmth clashing against the hard, unyielding chill of his body. His breath, cool and fanning across your lips, mingles with your own, the contrast dizzying.

His mouth moves against yours with a hunger that leaves no room for hesitation, lips parting just enough for his teeth to graze your lower lip—sharp, teasing, just barely holding back from drawing blood. The press of his fangs sends a shiver down your spine.

Your nightgown slips further  down and bunches up more as he tugs at the fabric, his fingers tracing up the length of your spine, nails dragging lightly, leaving a tingling trail of sensation. His free hand moves down, skimming over your thigh before gripping it, pulling your leg higher against his waist. The rough friction of his clothes against your bare skin sends a jolt of sensation up your body.

He shifts, pressing forward, pinning you against the tree with his body weight. The bark bites into your back, a stark contrast to the way his hands explore your skin, cold and burning all at once.

"I—" A kiss, deep and forceful, swallowing any protest you might have had.

"Hate—" His hands tighten, fingers bruising against your skin, as if trying to mold you into him, make you stay, make you his.

"You—" He bites your lip this time, just enough to sting, and you gasp into his mouth.

And despite everything—the fear, the confusion, the war between sense and something darker—you kiss him back.

His tongue swipes at your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, tasting the remnants of your breath. His grip tightens around your waist, pressing you flush against him. The rough bark of the tree digs into your back, but you barely register the sting—your senses drown in the feeling of him.

Rafayel’s tongue pushes past your lips, hot and insistent, swirling against yours in a messy, feverish dance. He doesn’t kiss with precision—he kisses with hunger, his movements uncoordinated yet consuming, like a man starved.

Saliva slicks your lips, the wet sounds of your mouths moving together filling the night air. He groans into the kiss, a deep, guttural noise vibrating against your tongue as he sucks at it, pulling you deeper into him. His teeth graze against your lower lip, nipping and tugging before soothing the sting with another deep, open-mouthed kiss.

Your breaths are ragged, mingling with his as he swallows every gasp, every whimper. His fingers dig into your hips, keeping you locked against him, refusing to let you pull away. His tongue moves greedily, exploring, claiming, savoring every inch of your mouth. The kiss is hot, messy, intoxicating—his spit coats your lips, mixing with your own, leaving you breathless and lightheaded.

When he finally pulls back, a thin string of saliva connects your mouths, breaking only when he licks his lips, his eyes dark and hooded with desire.

“Gods-” His palm is firm, pressing against your lips as his eyes darken. "Don’t," he repeats, voice low, almost dangerous. His fingers linger against your cheek, the coolness of his skin a stark contrast to the heat radiating from your own.

His grip tightens slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you—he is in control. His breath is heavy, ragged, his pupils blown wide as he watches you, drinking in every detail of your flushed face.

For a moment, there’s only silence, the weight of his hand against your mouth the only thing grounding you. Then, slowly, deliberately, he leans in, his lips just ghosting over the shell of your ear.

"Do not speak of them here."

The weight of his body against yours is suffocating, his grip unrelenting. His thumb brushes over your cheek, deceptively gentle, a stark contrast to the feral hunger in his gaze. "You’re mine now," he breathes, his lips hovering just above your skin. "No gods. No saints. Just me."

His teeth graze your jaw, sharp but restrained, a warning and a promise all at once. His grip tightens at your waist, pressing you further into the rough bark of the tree, as if he could mold you into the very world around him—an extension of his own being.

"You feel that?" he murmurs against your skin, his breath cool but his presence searing. "That’s the only thing that’s real now. Me. Us."

His fingers trace along the dip of your spine, slow, deliberate, memorizing every shudder, every unwilling response he draws from you. He’s reveling in it, in the way your body betrays you, in the way your heartbeat hammers against his own.

"Say it," he demands, his lips brushing just below your ear. His voice is steady, but there’s something almost desperate beneath it. "Tell me you understand."

His mouth finds the pulse at your throat, lingering there, savoring, but never quite sinking in. His hands roam, gripping, kneading, learning the shape of you as if carving it into memory.

You try to focus—on his words, on his demand—but it’s impossible when his teeth drag along your skin, when his hands press you tighter against him, when every touch pulls you deeper into something dark and inescapable.

"Rafayel—" you manage, but it’s breathless, barely a whisper.

He chuckles against your skin, the sound low, wicked. "You can’t even think, can you?" His fingers slide up to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back so you're forced to meet his eyes. They gleam with something unhinged, something hungry. "Good."

He lays you down before you realize. 

The earth is rough beneath you, twigs and dead leaves pressing into your skin, but it barely registers over the sensation of him. His lips ghost over your sternum, his breath warm despite the unnatural chill of his body.

His hands slide down your sides, slow, deliberate, as if savoring every inch of you. The contrast between his cold fingers and the feverish heat of your skin makes you shiver.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice thick with something unreadable. Reverence? Possession? It’s all the same with him. "You belong to me."

He presses a lingering kiss to your ribs, just above where your heartbeat pounds wildly against your bones. He exhales, and his lips curve against your skin in something dangerously close to a smile.

But you remember you’re technically free bleeding, and your pulse spikes, a rush of panic coursing through your veins as you instinctively try to close your legs. But his hand is there, swift and firm, stopping you. His grip is too strong, his presence too consuming.

He doesn't let go, his fingers brushing over the inner parts of your thighs, his breath shallow and erratic as he drinks in the sight of you. His pupils are blown wide, almost black, utterly lost in something feral and primal. He’s staring at you like he’s found something sacred, something far darker and deeper than just physicality.

"Don’t hide it," he murmurs, his voice raw and low. His gaze flickers down to the blood, and there's something almost reverent in his eyes. "This—this is perfect."

He throws your leg over his shoulder, and your face burns. 

Your breath catches as his lips linger against your calf, the warmth of his mouth searing against your skin. Your face burns, a flush creeping down your neck, spreading like wildfire. His touch is reverent—too intimate, too consuming.

He watches you through lidded eyes, something unreadable flickering behind them. "Look at you," he murmurs, dragging his lips higher. "Divine."

The forest around you is silent, as if holding its breath, as if bearing witness. Your pulse pounds in your ears, the rhythm syncing with his own quiet, shuddering breaths. You don’t know what’s more terrifying—the way he touches you like you’re something sacred or the way you’re starting to believe it.

Divine.

He did not want you to utter a word of the gods, and yet here he was, revering you as though you were made of stardust and prayer. His lips traced blessings into your skin, his hands mapping out every fragile piece of you with something dangerously close to devotion.

Your breath shuddered, caught between fear and something deeper, something you couldn’t name. He worshipped you in contradiction—loathing, needing, aching.

His voice was a rasp against your skin. "You don’t even see it, do you?" His fingers ghosted over your thigh, his grip tightening as though you might disappear. "You are holy in a way the heavens could never understand."

He pulls the nightgown off you completely, throwing it aside. The ruined nightgown lands in a crumpled heap, forgotten the moment it leaves his hands.

His gaze devours you, tracing every inch of exposed skin like a man starved, like something sacred has been laid bare before him. His fingers, cool against the heat of your body, press into your waist, lingering, memorizing.

"You were never meant for them," he murmurs, almost to himself. His touch drags up, slow, reverent, mapping out the curve of your ribs, the plane of your stomach. "Never meant for their rules. Their prayers."

His lips follow the path his hands have taken, pressing against you like whispered blasphemy.

His devotion was feverish, a worship not of saints or gods, but of you.

Your body was his temple, and he knelt before it without shame, lips pressing against every inch of exposed skin as though engraving his reverence into you. His hands roamed—possessive, greedy, desperate—as if afraid you might vanish between his fingers like mist at dawn.

“You were made for me,” he murmured against your hip, his voice rough with something deeper than hunger. His teeth grazed your skin, a silent vow. “No holy book, no doctrine—only this. Only us.”

The forest bore witness to the sacrilege, the rustling leaves whispering secrets to the wind. But he did not care. And, Astra help you, neither did you.

“Rafayel, that blood-” “It’s precious. Don’t you dare say otherwise.”

His words came like a command, hard and unyielding. His fingers gripped your wrists, holding you still as if your very body was his to claim, to savor. There was something in his eyes—intensity, obsession, an almost maddening hunger as he traced the lines of your skin.

The blood, your blood, had already stained him, and yet it seemed to hold him captive. It wasn’t just an act of possession—it was reverence, as though your very essence was sacred, and he couldn’t bear to waste a drop of it.

"Every part of you," he whispered, eyes now fixed on the path of blood trickling along your skin, "is mine." His voice was raw, desperate. "And I’ll cherish every bit of it, even if the gods themselves would frown upon us."

His lips hovered just above the blood, as if he was waiting for permission, the tension between you both palpable, thickening the air.

His lips hovered, teasing, just barely brushing against your skin as he waited, and you couldn’t hold back anymore. Without thinking, you pulled him closer, your fingers tangling in his hair, pressing his mouth to your blood-streaked skin.

It was an act of surrender. You were no longer the person who feared him, who resisted his touch. Now, you were simply a part of the chaos between you, caught in the storm of his desire and your own.

His breath hitched as his mouth met your skin, his hands roaming to claim you further. Every inch of him was pressed against you, his body marking you as his, as he whispered your name—like a prayer, like an obsession, like a promise.

If he was going to damn you, it may as well be worth it. 

His tongue laped at the blood on your thighs, his grip bruising on your hips as he cleans you up. Nipping and kissing up, up, up, his breath fans over your cunt, abd you can’t help but shiver. 

“And Astra said do not be wasteful, so thank you for this meal.”

His lips were on you, drinking your blood. "I could spend an eternity feasting on you,”

His words sent a thrill of excitement through you as he continued to lavish attention to your sensitive flesh, a cold hand coming to press down on your stomach, cool to the touch. Rafayels tongue traced patterns along your folds, your breath hitching as waves of pleasure rippled through your body, conflicting with the apprehension that still lingered in your mind. You let go of his hair, grasping at the dirt, clawing at whatever could ground you, fighting to maintain control over your desires. But with each flick of Rafayels tongue, each gentle suckle, your resolve waned, your resistance crumbling like sand beneath a relentless tide. 

Despite yourself, you arched your back, offering yourself more fully to his ministrations, your moans mingling with the soft sounds of his fervent attentions. Lips parting to taste the blood that came from your core, he teased and taunted with each languid stroke. 

Rafayel savored you like a forbidden fruit, movements deliberate and precise as he explored every inch of your trembling form. Eliciting gasps and moans from your lips, he threatened to consume you. 

His hands, strong and commanding, roamed over your body, tracing the curves of your hips and thighs as he held you in place, ensuring you remained at his mercy. 

"Please," you begged, your voice a breathless whisper. "I can't... I can't take anymore..."

Of course, the faux priest ignored you. 

His lips were bloody- so bloody, smearing across his chin and mingling with the spit that connected him to your cunt. 

“You- you’re beautiful.”

He licks it away, groaning at the taste as he reluctantly pulls himself away, sitting up, keeping your legs apart as he undoes his buttoned shirt, pulling it over his head and-

As if your cheeks couldnt burn any more. 

It was as if Astra had carved him himself, and he probably did. 

No clay was made to make his form, no. 

He was made from fire and starlight.

Two fingers replaced his mouth, inching their way. Your eyes threaten to roll at the intensity of it all, and the feeling of shame was ever present in its advancements. 

Rafayel made his way up your body, lips trailing along the curve of your neck, leaving a trail of hot kisses in their wake as he moved towards your breasts. Capturing one of your nipples between his lips, he sucked and nipped at the sensitive flesh, his fangs nearly breaking the skin. 

“Divine.”

It was said like a mantra, a prayer on your skin, an obsession with the salvation he so desperately craved. His free hand grabbed one of your own, interlocking your fingers and holding it about your head. Worshipping your breasts with a sense of reverence, he nearly whined. 

"I could spend an eternity feasting on you,”

The words send a thrill of excitement through you.

But the ins and outs of his fingers, his mouth on your tits, and the utter act of it all-

You don’t know whether to cry or beg. 

Beg for it to be done?

It’s too much- and he knows this. Of course he does. 

Father Rafayel always knows. 

He lets your nipple go with a lewd pop, taking his fingers out of you before grabbing your face. If you weren't so overwhelmed, you might have gagged. 

Until he spits in your mouth and pushes your head back down. 

“Stay down.”

His hands go to his pants, and you watch. Watch him take himself out. 

Astra above. 

He was pretty just about everywhere. Endowed, leaking, his skin tinged the faintest of blues up until his tip, an aggressive deep red-almost purple. 

And there's so much cum. 

He lines himself up with your quivering hole, breathing hard as if he needed the oxygen. Maybe he did now. “I- hah- I’m taking you. You understand, don’t you? I need this.”

But your gaze is too focused on his member, too distracted. 

“He’d probably marry a book,”

Oh, Yvonne, you sweet ignorant soul. 

Your blood smears across his tip, and he hisses. “So hot- too hot,”

Breathe in. 

Breathe out. 

Breathe in. 

Breathe ou-

You cry out, the push too uncomfortable, too harsh, too mean. And finally- finally- closes his eyes, long lashes giving his cheeks butterfly kisses as he damn near growls. 

He leans over you, his forehead meeting yours as he presses his lips to yours, whether just for the sake of kissing or to not look foolish, you don’t know. Don’t have time to think as he goes to your throat. 

He bites. 

Not enough to break skin, but it hurts. 

Hurts more when you gaze at his hands, how they are fisted in the damp soil beneath you, nails caked with blood and dirt, holding himself back. 

He moves his hips, pushing in, and your arms scramble around his bare back, nails gifting crescents into his skin. A bulge in your tummy- he presses down on it. 

“Here. Here is where I’ll be. Where we will be. Do you understand?”

“What?”

“Miseal. It’s already decided.”

His thrusts are deep- rough, and something feels off as he takes you. Though you’re not sure what.

Almost as if you’re being watched. 

And he feels it too.

“Damn him,”

A rush, a rush as he tries to make you both finish, no longer worried about the pleasure of it all, so long as it was done. You whine, legs wrapping around him, keeping him in as he rocks into you. 

Soon enough, he spills. 

But it's strange, how he pulls away fast, grabbing his pants.

You watch as he pulls out a candle, a muted red wax of a long shaft and a packet of matches. 

“You move, and you’re getting burned. Do you understand?”

What?

He lights it. 

Panicking, you try to get up- 

His hand is on your throat, keeping you down. “Stay. Still.”

He holds it over your body, letting the wax melt and then-

When it drops onto your skin, it burns.

You bite back a yelp, throwing your head back and gritting your teeth. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

His gaze is hard as he lets it fall onto your body, watching it roll down the curves and valleys and dips of your body. Tears pool in your eyes, and all sense of warmth he had in his gaze is gone. Why was he so hard to understand?

He brings a hand to your stomach, smearing the wax before it solidified. 

It hits you. 

He was drawing something on you. Swirls of roses and vines, stars and something else you can't quite see. 

“Rafayel, what’s wrong-” “Quiet.”

His tone is sharp, cold. And then- 

Holy water?

He splashes it onto you. 

“Rafayel, wha-”

“Stop- Just stop it! Let me finish what I need to do!”

Rafayel’s breath came fast and uneven, his hands shaking even as they held you firm. His panic bled into you like ink in water, spreading thick and inescapable.

No—no, no, no. This was wrong.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, drowning out everything else. 

He jerked back as if burned, his expression twisting. Regret? Shame? Desire? It all mixed together, unreadable.

"Astra," you whispered, your throat tightening. "Astra is going to punish us."

Rafayel's face darkened, his pupils blown wide, his grip on you tightening like a noose.

Then, before you could utter another breath, he shoved his hand over your mouth, pressing you into the earth.

"Shut. Up." His voice was a raw, desperate growl. His body caged you in, his hand firm against your lips, his eyes blazing with something almost wild.

The wind only grew stronger. The trees groaned. The stars above flickered—then vanished.

Astra was watching.

Your chest heaved, but no air came. His hand was firm, unyielding, stealing the breath from your lungs as the wind raged around you. Your fingers clawed at his wrist, nails digging into his skin, but he wouldn’t budge.

Your vision blurred at the edges, a ringing building in your ears. Above you, the sky churned—inky black swallowing every trace of light, the heavens convulsing in silent fury.

Rafayel’s eyes bore into yours, his grip trembling. His own breath was ragged, his expression torn between panic and something darker.

Then, just as your limbs began to weaken, he let go.

You gasped, choking on the rush of air, your lungs burning. The moment your breath returned, you shoved him away, scrambling backward across the damp forest floor.

"What have you done?" Your voice was raw, torn.

Rafayel didn’t answer. His lips parted, but his eyes weren’t on you anymore. They were locked onto the abyss above, where the sky had fractured.

A sob clawed up your throat, raw and broken. You could feel it—like something had been ripped from you, something sacred and irreplaceable.

Your soul.

The weight of it hit you all at once. A terrible, hollow emptiness where divinity had once dwelled. The connection to Astra, the light you had clung to in your darkest moments—it was gone. Torn away by his hands.

You curled in on yourself, fingers digging into the damp earth as if you could anchor yourself, as if the ground would not reject you like the heavens had. You had been forsaken.

A gust of wind howled through the trees, the sky above still shuddering, the heavens themselves mourning you.

And he—he only stood there. Watching.

"You’ve ruined me," you whispered, voice shaking, eyes wet with grief.

Rafayel flinched as if struck. But he didn’t deny it. Didn’t apologize. He only took a step closer, the shadows curling around him like a crown, his expression unreadable.

"You were never theirs to begin with." His voice was low, reverent, filled with something close to adoration.

You hated him. You hated that you wanted to believe him.

A breeze flows through your hair, comfortable on your scalp. 

A field of golden wheat. The stalks sway, whispering secrets in the wind. The sky is endless, a soft, hazy blue, and the sun is warm on your skin.

And then you see it.

Her.

Your body—mangled, broken, wrong. Blood seeps into the dirt beneath, soaking the golden earth in deep crimson. Your eyes are open, clouded and lifeless, staring at nothing. The wind does not touch you. The sun does not warm you.

You are dead.

But you are also here, standing above yourself, barefoot in the soft earth, small hands trembling at your sides. You are a child again.

A shadow looms over your corpse. You look up.

Astra?

No.

A hand grabs yours. You turn, blinking in confusion. There, standing beside you, is a younger version of Rafayel, his eyes wide, full of an unspoken fear. The wheat sways gently around him, but the warmth of the sun, which once bathed you, now feels distant, cold, almost unreal.

“Are you scared?” you ask softly, your voice trembling, not sure if the words are meant for him or for you.

He doesn’t answer at first, his gaze fixed on the mangled body lying in the dirt, still and lifeless. Slowly, he nods. His expression is tense, strained, haunted. The faint trace of a tear glimmers in his eye, but he refuses to look away from the vision of death that lies before you.

Another figure steps forward, his presence almost ethereal amidst the vast expanse of the golden wheat.

He is a man—older, perhaps, though not by much—and yet, his features carry an odd resemblance to both you and Rafayel, as if the strands of your lives had intertwined in ways too complex to decipher. His face is solemn, filled with a quiet sadness that mirrors your own unease. He crouches by the mangled body, planting roses in the earth, the delicate flowers contrasting sharply with the harshness of death surrounding them.

When he finishes, his eyes slowly rise to meet yours, the sorrow in them palpable. "I can't wait to meet you," he murmurs, his voice tinged with a melancholy that feels out of place in this strange vision. There's a heaviness in his words, as though he’s already resigned to an inevitable fate that neither you nor he can escape.

You stand still, caught in the moment, unsure of what to make of him or what he means by his cryptic words. His gaze lingers for a moment longer before he turns away, his figure slowly dissolving into the wheat as if he were never there to begin with. 

The familiar sound of Gran's laughter fills the air, cutting through the tension of the dream and pulling you back to reality. You blink, suddenly disoriented as you stand in your kitchen, the smell of burnt soup wafting in the air. Tara, your younger cousin, stands at the stove, a guilty grin plastered across her face.

You roll your eyes and call out, annoyed, “Tara, did you burn the soup again?”

Gran chuckles from her rocking chair in the corner of the room, clearly entertained by the chaotic dynamic. She has seen this a thousand times before, but her amusement is unwavering. "Let her be, love. She’s learning."

Tara, red-faced and clearly embarrassed, scoops a ladle of the charred soup into a bowl, trying to salvage what she can. "It wasn’t that bad," she protests weakly, though the scorched smell says otherwise.

You sigh, but the irritation fades quickly as you watch Tara and Gran in the soft light of the kitchen. It’s a comforting scene, one you’ve known all your life. Still, that dream lingers at the back of your mind, its strange figure and cryptic words echoing through your thoughts, mixing with the mundane and ordinary.

"Gran, I had the strangest dream last night," you start, trying to shake off the unsettling feeling. She pauses, her hands stilling on her knitting as her sharp eyes meet yours.

“Did you now?” “I…yeah. I dreamed I was trying to be a nun…and there was a vampire.” Gran raises an eyebrow, her lips curling into a knowing smile. "A vampire, eh? Sounds like Astra's handiwork, that does."

You roll your eyes, but before you can speak, you hear a soft chuckle from the doorway. The voice is familiar, comforting, yet too smooth—too perfect. "Nightmares again, cutie?"

You freeze, instinctively glancing over your shoulder. There, standing in the doorway, is him. The man who doesn't quite fit, but is always somehow there, a shadow in the corner of your life. He wears the same smile as always—charming, relaxed, but with an undertone you can't quite place. His eyes gleam, mischievous with amusement. 

Gran raises a knowing eyebrow. “Rafayel, you causing my grandbaby nightmares again? You ought to be more gentle with her.”

“I can’t help it, Josephine. Gotta get it out of my system before the wedding.”

Gran snorts. You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “So what, you just had to torment me one last time before I walk down the aisle?”

Rafayel grins, lazy and wolfish. “Of course. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t haunt my bride’s dreams before the big day?” His voice is teasing,

Gran swats him lightly with a dish towel. “Enough of that nonsense. Go set the table if you’re gonna stand there running your mouth.”

Rafayel winks at you before grabbing the plates.

©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.

Art date

gang baby

❝she told you she celibate, but she told me i can nail her shit!❞

♡ sylus, caleb, rafayel, zayne, xavier ♡

sypnosis: you're just a girl. yeah, you can't decide between five hot LI's presented to you in the popular otome game, love and deepspace, but that's okay. who said you can't have them all? literally.

wc: 11k (lots of smut beware)

a/n: valentines day special!! guys, don't question it, ok? i wrote this with my whole pussy. ok bai. (⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝)

reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated <3

content: all lads LI's x fem!reader (yes, you read right), gangbang, slight plot, reader gets transported in lads universe, smut (no details, find out hehe), all acts are consensual, not edited. disclaimer: not based off tomorrow's catch-22!!

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

"fuck!" you yelled out in frustration, chucking your phone off your bed as the poor device fell on the floor with a loud thud. you could hear your best friend giggling from your laptop, making you shoot her a sharp glare.

"shut up." you sneer, but it only fueled her laughter more.

"damn, infold really hates you, bro." she pokes further at your miserable failure, making your shoulders slump in defeat as you grumble.

"i can't believe it. i've been grinding for two months straight to save up fifteen thousand diamonds for the valentines day banner! i was sure i'd pull them all, and you're telling me i only got two out of the five?? this is a fucking joke." you ranted, making your friend hum as she understood your anger.

"yeah, i'd be mad as hell too. but hey, at least you got sylus and caleb. just watch the rest on twitter or something." your best friend tried to comfort you, but it only made you pout.

"but i want them all." you sulked, making her roll her eyes.

"you're such a whore." she sighed, making you grin.

"duh, why choose one when i can have them all." you nonchalantly responded.

"yeah, yeah, forgot you had no shame." she shook her head in disbelief.

"man, i don't know what else to do. i literally milked the game dry, there's no other way i can get more diamonds for more pulls before the event ends. this is so unfair." you whined, fingers tangled in your hair.

"you can always-"

"no. i'm not giving those greedy hoes my money." you cut off her suggestion, your tone stern.

you were a poor college student who worked part-time at a stationery supply store (living the aesthetic life while crying over classes and fictional men); money's tight, and you're not about to spend hundreds on this because you know it'd become a horrible habit sooner or later.

despite being broke, your spending habits were outrageous.

"yeah girl, then i don't know what to tell ya. i'm chilling with my rafayel card. oh shit, it's almost three in the morning, bitch. we have class tomorrow, go to sleep." she yawned tiredly.

"you're leaving me just like that? after i went through so much pain and trauma? is this how deep our ten years of friendship runs? just say you hate me and want me to die a slow painful death." you dramatically rambled, making your best friend rub her temple in faux annoyance as she groaned at your stupidity.

"when i see you tomorrow, i'm gonna slap you. goodnight, hoe." with that, she hung up.

you closed the lid of your laptop and placed it on charge, stretching before standing up to go pick up your phone. you noticed the small cracks on your screen as you walked back to your bed.

you unlocked your phone, noticing how the lads server kicked you out. you exited the app, clicking on it again as you were met with caleb's face.

so l-long for longe-ge-... before fa-fa...dust

so long for-for-.... fading-fa..-dus..

so-so...lo...ng-..fading...

your eyebrows furrowed as you watched the app glitch horribly, the audio was choppy and produced crackling noises. the graphics were disoriented and there was a pop-up notification saying you needed to upgrade your memory.

you could feel your irritation rise once again, getting tired of this shit as you decided to deal with it tomorrow or something. however, every time you tried to exit the app, it wouldn't let you.

your phone literally froze.

"great. just fucking great." you sarcastically murmured.

not only did you not get the limited cards you wanted, you were broke (in the real world and in lads), you're screwed for your morning classes and your phone is currently on its last breath.

also, you were hungry as fuck right now, craving for some five guys.

"fuck this." you sighed in defeat, settling your phone next to you before laying down to sleep. you figured that eventually your phone would turn off once the battery died, so until then you just turned to the other side and ignored the device.

soon enough, fatigue took over your body as you were slipping away into a deep slumber.

unaware, your phone screen turned off momentarily, before flickering on once again as the screen crackled and glitched before stopping.

data retrieval complete, memory upgrade...

successful.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

you stirred in your sleep, eyebrows pinched together as you felt a cold breeze run across the bare skin of your thighs and arms.

nonetheless, you don't remember leaving your window open, it was the middle of february. you groaned, eyes still shut tight as your hand reached down, trying to locate your blanket.

"comfortable, sweetie?" you heard an oddly familiar, deep voice suddenly speak.

did someone break into your house? and why the hell did your mattress feel so hard and cold?

your eyes shot open, adjusting your blurry vision as you realized you were not in your bedroom. you were laying on the cold, dirt ground and it made you panic.

you helplessly sat up and noticed the long pair of legs in front of your body, making you look up as you saw the towering figure of a man. the night sky was dark, making it hard for you to make out his face.

"who are you? and what the hell am i doing out here?" you asked, but your voice barely came out as a whisper.

a deep chuckle rumbled from his chest, before he bent down to come eye-level with you. as soon as you met the bright, ruby red orbs of his foxy eyes; your jaw dropped in horror.

no. fucking. way.

"shouldn't i be the one asking you those questions, sweetie?" sylus smirked, head tilting as he keenly watched your facial expressions.

"you're not real. i'm dreaming, yeah, just a dream that feels too real." you blurt out, a breathy laugh scratching your dry throat, trying to calm yourself from freaking out as your heart leaped to your chest when he directly looked at you.

"a dream, you say? hmph, you're a strange one." he shook his head before grabbing your wrist, bringing your palm to his lips. the warmth of his rough hands, which were definitely double the size of yours, made you shiver due to the contrast of your cold ones. he bit the side of your palm before gently sucking on it, making you jolt from the sudden sensation.

sylus watched you with pure amusement glinting in his eyes.

"you're like a scared little kitten, so expressive." sylus commented, making you swallow harshly.

well, this definitely was not a dream, thanks to sylus's help for that confirmation.

but the question was.... how the hell did you end up here?

suddenly, there was rustling in the distance, making his eyes twitch as he became alert. sylus slightly shifted closer to you, now scanning the area for the intruder.

"miss bodyguard?" with a dramatic gasp, you heard rushed footsteps approach you. it was hard to miss the hues of indigo, pinks and blues in his eyes along with the striking dusky purple hair that was a little more visible thanks to the moonlight.

"r...rafayel?" it felt odd saying his name out loud, it almost made you feel a little schizophrenic.

just a bit.

"duh, who else would it be? what are you doing here in the N-109 zone at this hour. also, the hell are you wearing? so not creative or fashionable." rafayel questioned, of course, not forgetting to throw in his snarky little insults along with it.

"what's wrong with what i'm wearing?" you glared at him.

"it's the middle of february and you're dressed like it's a hundred degrees outside." the lemurian smirked down at you.

you cursed at yourself for going to bed in shorts and a thin shirt. well, to be fair, it's a cute snoopy set. also, who in the hell could've predicted this to happen!?

"she wanted to have a little sleepover with the wanderers that lurk around here." the dragon teased, making your face heat up.

"i did not." you mumbled under your breath.

"uh-huh, you're not really in the position to defend that claim." rafayel egged further.

"whatever, what are you doing here? you usually don't go out of your way to come to the N-109 zone." you tried to change the subject, remembering from his anecdotes that he usually has third party people as his "networks" to gain intel.

"just some business you shouldn't sweat your pretty little head over, cutie. but, you know, we should really talk about what your business is with the leader of onychinus." he cocked an eyebrow, his eyes flickering between you and sylus.

"it's nothing, uh, i don't even know him." you chuckled nervously, making sylus look at you with a sharp look.

"is that so, kitten? you wound me. and here i thought we had something more than just... acquaintances. i guess those nights of naughty touches, kisses and naked glances mean nothing to you, right?" sylus shamelessly bullet-pointed, his tone dropping an octave lower as your cheeks grew warm.

on the other hand, rafayel's eyes widened at the revelation.

"you fucked the leader of onychinus?! woah, woah, woah, pause. what about everything that happened between us?? we had sex in my bathtub, the hotel and don't forget-" he was flabbergasted, only to be cut off by sylus.

"you were messing around with this half-baked fish, sweetie? i'm disappointed in your taste. if you planned on two-timing, you could've selected a better opponent for me. this is just... offensive." he snarked, his red eyes beaming with irritation as he looked at rafayel, who's face grew dark from his brash words.

"what did you say to me, you fucking crow? half-baked fish? i'm the god of tides, a majestic lemurian. you dare to speak to me like that?" rafayel's voice became husky, languid footsteps towards the other man.

"h-hey, hey, let's all calm down. there's a very logical and reasonable explanation, i swear." you tried to mediate between them, but it didn't seem like they planned on giving a flying shit about what you had to say any time soon.

"y/n? there you are. i've been blowin' up your phone for hours. thought a wanderer got to you and i got worried about how i'd pay the rent by myself." xavier walked from the shadows, his words laced with a gentle joke as he approached you and the other two men.

holy fuck, this was not good.

"and who are you guys?" the ash-blonde male asked, eyes narrowing before looking down at you.

"xavier." you meeked, not even knowing what to say anymore.

"why are you seeing other guys, y/n? am i not enough? you know i don't like it when you hide things from me. i thought you learned your lesson after i punished you for choosing lumiere over me." xavier now towered over you, his voice laced with envy as you gulped.

fuck, fuck, fuck.

"xavier, i promise i can explain. this is all just a-" you tried to somehow pull an excuse out of your ass, but your brain was fogging up.

"pipsqueak?"

"y/n? what an odd place to be at during such an odd hour, you left your patient copy in my office."

two other figures emerged from the sides, making your eyes close in disbelief, wishing that you could somehow disappear from the face of earth right now.

why the fuck are they all here.

at the same time.

"you've got to be kidding me." you covered your face with the palm of your hands.

"caleb? i thought you were dead." zayne spoke in a monotone, glancing at his childhood friend.

"wow, i missed you too, zayne." caleb rolled his eyes, sarcasm dripping from his words. however, the small spark of tension barely lasted before caleb looked back at you.

"care to explain why you're in such a dangerous zone at this time? you know you can't hide from me, pipsqueak. what connections do you have here? who are you seeing? was locking you up in the attic not enough for you?" caleb lectured, his voice gruff before zayne decided to add on to the fire.

"you're utterly reckless, your heart condition isn't getting any better." zayned pushed the frame of his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

all five on them now circled you, bickering and arguing with each other along with bombarding you with questions. you balled your fists in annoyance and frustration.

"shut up! oh my fucking god, i don't know, okay?! i don't know how i ended up here, so stop asking me. fuckin' hell, i can't even get a moment to breathe or think because all of you little shits won't shut up for a second!" you snapped as you stood up, making all of them look at you with surprised eyes.

you gulped, feeling a little cornered as you have five insanely tall, broad and buff men look down at you; like helpless prey.

caleb was the first person to break the momentary silence, grabbing your arm to pull you towards him.

"let's go home, pipsqueak. i'll cook your favorite tonight since it's valentines day." he smiled, only for your other arm to be tugged backwards as you yelped.

"home? her home is with me, we're roommates. i think you got the wrong person." xavier calmly replied, but his words were laced with venom.

"she's going nowhere with either of you. she's my bodyguard and i need her to come back with me to my studio. y'know, in case some scary wanderers are lurkin' around." rafayel pushed xavier to the side, intertwining his fingers with yours before giving you a charming smile as he attempted to walk off; only to bump into someone.

"i don't think so. she's been out here for so long, i might need to give her an exam to make sure she's okay." zayne cleared his throat, pinching the bridge of his nose.

you felt like you were the rope being tugged in tug-of-war. sylus deeply sighed at the situation and before you knew it; in one smooth swoop you were now in the strong arms of the leader of onychinus.

"what fools. she's in the N-109 zone for a reason. for me, of course. come on, sweetie, you must be freezing. let's go inside." sylus look down at you with a gentle smile playing on his lips.

you groaned, squirming out of his hold as sylus let you, watching you get back on your feet.

"this is ridiculous! you all are acting like a bunch of kids, fighting over me like i'm some kind of toy. none of you own me!" you stood your ground.

"fine, then why don't you choose?" sylus scoffed, crossing his arms. you grew quiet, looking at each of them before averting your gaze to the ground.

"i... i can't." you whispered.

"you can't? or you don't want to?" xavier snickered.

"you're the one who's been toying with us. we deserve an explanation, no?" rafayel grinned.

"explanations are too time-consuming, actions speak louder than words. so, how are you gonna fix it, y/n?" hazel eyes peered at you with intensity through the glass lenses.

oh, you're so fucked.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

everything happened so fast, you didn't know who swiped your panties off or unclasped your bra.

you felt betrayed at how they evilly plotted against you, telepathically agreeing to punish you for your unfaithfulness. what happened to hating each other? so, here you were now, splayed on the soft mattress in sylus's room; like art on a display.

they drank in the sight of you, perky tits spilled out as the smooth glaze of your skin glimmered under the dim lighting of the room. their eyes were full of hunger, eye-fucking you as you grew shy under their intense gazes.

"s-stop staring at me like that." you whined, looking away as your face reddened at the attention.

you felt someone stroking your thighs, making you shudder as you looked in front of you, seeing caleb gripping the supple fat of your plush thighs.

"never knew you were such a dirty little slut, princess. all these years of knowing you... and to think you were capable of this? how naughty." caleb smirked, prying your thighs open as you gasped.

but, your lips would soon be sealed with zaynes as he kissed you roughly. his pillow-soft lips molded with yours, the smacking sound of saliva filled the room. a big, veiny hand came up to cup your cheek gently as he slid his tongue inside your mouth, licking the wet muscle before sucking it.

caleb used his thumb to spread your soaked folds apart, watching the lewd string of your arousal connect them both. your clit was puffy from being neglected, a sheen of wetness covering your cunt; making his mouth salivate. he leaned down, mouth hovering above your pussy.

"fuckin' beautiful." caleb swore under his breath, the warm air fanning above your aching cunt, giving you goosebumps. you moaned into zayne's mouth, feeling caleb's warm and wet tongue lick a fat stripe up your cunt.

"hope you didn't forget about us, cutie." rafayel pouted, licking at your nipple before wrapping his lips on the swollen pebble. sylus soon followed his footsteps, greedily kneading at your other tit before leaning down and pressing open-mouthed kisses on the soft mound.

meanwhile, xavier's lips were buried in your neck as he punished you with licks and bites on the expanse of your unmarked flesh.

"ngh~ xavier!" you whimpered against zayne's lips, the doctor now nibbling on your bottom lip.

he licked the side of your neck before softly clamping his teeth down, suckling and leaving a purplish bruise. as a soothing apology, xavier kitten-licked the fresh mark before moving down to your collarbone with wet kisses.

caleb continued to lap at your wet cunt, his saliva mixed with your juices dripped down his chin. the tip of his tongue circled your clit before suckling on it, making your legs tremble as a moan ripped out of your throat as you tried to close your legs.

"f-fuck.. hnghh.." you cried out, feeling him plant his palms on your inner thighs, forcing you to keep them open. caleb peered up at you from between your thighs, amethyst eyes glaring at you as his lips were glossy.

"don't interrupt me when i'm eating." he huskily spoke before slapping your dripping pussy, producing a wet 'pap!' noise. you yelped because of your increased sensitivity, not having enough time to recover before he dove back in.

with one last wet smooch, zayne released your lips before crawling down right next to his childhood friend. they exchanged a quick look, a mischievous smirk dancing on the colonel's lips.

"oh? was my tongue not enough for you, princess?" he lowly spoke, pinching your inner thigh as you bit your bottom lips.

"ahh... need z-zayne to help... please?" you begged, making him scoff. zayne couldn't help but grin with pride, your words stroking his ego a little.

"you heard her, move." zayne pushed caleb a little to squeeze himself between your legs, taking off his glasses before throwing them to the side. caleb, utterly betrayed, seethed with jealousy.

"so that's how you wanna play? fine." caleb accepted it as a challenge, but of course, he won't let neither of you get the last word.

zayne ignored his little childish outburst, digging in as his scarred hands rested on your lower stomach before his fingers stroked the expanse of it, gently moving to the side to hold your hips; caressing your smooth skin while tracing the faint stretch marks decorating it.

your puffy clit peaked out of your wet slit, making zayne lean down to press a wet smooch on it. you shuddered, mouth gaping open as your breathing quickened. zayne dragged his tongue up your sopping folds slow and languidly, the tip of his tongue digging into your wet pussy. the difference in how zayne and caleb ate you out was clear. caleb liked to eat your honeyed cunt like a starved dog, as if it was his last meal; unlike zayne, who liked to take his time and savor the taste of your sweet cunt.

"mhmmm.... zaynee~" you slurred his name, drunk in pleasure as he took his time to lap at your pussy, suckling and nibbling on your clit. amethyst eyes bore into the back of zayne's head, fuming with anger and envy.

caleb's fingers dug into your thighs, making you wince in pain but soon it deliciously simmered into the pleasure you were getting from zayne's tongue. the colonel snickered, watching how slick your pussy was from saliva and your juices, deciding to toy with you as revenge.

you felt the pads of caleb's middle and ring finger brush against your hole, probing the tight opening. you groan, feeling him push in both fingers at once.

"c-caleb!" you stuttered out, feeling him scissor his fingers in and out of your tight hole; the thickness and length of his digits rubbing you in all the right places.

suddenly, xavier roughly grabbed your jaw, squishing your chubby cheeks in his hands; forcing you to look at him. the expression on his face was dark, eyes clouded with lust and possessiveness.

"you seem to be enjoying yourself, dirty girl. you like having four other guys touch you, hm? this mouth is fucking filthy, maybe i should clean it, yeah?" he smirked, blue eyes sharply peering down at you.

"x-xav.." you were cut off by his grip tightening just a little more, making you wince.

"shhh... not another word, my dumb little girl. now i just wanna hear you gagging on my cock, 'kay?" xavier unbuckled his belt before unzipping his pants. he pulled the waistband of his boxers down, making his hard cock spring against his abs, your eyes widening at the sight.

his dick didn't have a lot of girth, but fuck it was long. xavier tapped the blush pink tip of his leaky cock on your lips, spreading his precum all over them like it was your own personal gloss. his thumb rested on your chin before pulling it down, forcing your mouth to open as he slid his cock in; the ash-blonde male let out a shaky sigh.

both sylus and rafayel continued to paw at your tits, biting and sucking on your nipples. with a lewd 'pop!', they released your swollen bud, eyeing their shared masterpiece as your tits were littered with hickies and trails of saliva.

"why don't you return the favor, sweetie? these cute little hands of yours seem empty." sylus gives you a toothy grin, bringing your hand to the tent forming on his pants, making you palm him through them. a deep groan escaped his lips as your hand stroked him through the rough fabric of his leather pants.

rafayel now sat on his knees by your other side, grabbing your wrist before bringing it up to his lips. he kissed the soft, warm flesh of your wrist; inhaling the scent of your skin as he let out a moan.

"you smell so fucking good. god, it's driving me insane." he breathed out, licking your pulse point before gently biting down on it. rafayel continued to sniff and kiss your wrist, using his other free hand to undo his pants and pull his aching cock out; stroking it as it throbbed in his palms. he teased his slit, spreading the sticky precum all over the tip.

your eager hands fumbled with sylus's belt as you tried to undo it, a little difficult because your mouth was still full of xavier's cock and forced you to maintain eye contact with him; as if looking at anyone else in this room would make his existence perish. but, sylus decided to be kind enough and help you because who is he to deny you?

you dug your hand inside his boxers, eyes widening as you realized that you couldn't even fully grasp his dick. he was fucking hung, thick and long, not lacking in any area. a guttural moan escaped his lips, feeling your soft fingers caressing his balls.

you took out his cock from the confinement of his boxers, stroking the shaft of it as your fingers teased the throbbing vein that ran on the underside curve of his dick. sylus threw his head back in pleasure, a soft whimper heard as his chest heaved.

"feels so fuckin' good, sweetie." he praised, your hand still lazily moving up and down his thick meat.

you felt the tip of zayne's nose nudging your clit, providing more stimulation as he continued his assault on your sopping wet cunt; his tongue flicking at a leisurely pace between your folds. caleb matched the rhythm of zayne's tongue, finger-fucking you with deep and hard strokes.

your moans were muffled by xavier's cock as he drove his hips into your mouth; your cheeks hollowing as you tried to not graze the skin of his dick with your teeth. you could hear the soft grunts and whimpers falling from his lips, eyes closed in bliss as he still had your cheeks firmly squished between his fingers.

"fuck yeah... you were made for this, takin' my cock so well." xavier breathed out, slender fingers tangling in your hair as he pulled your head closer.

you could feel the pressure of zaynes tongue slurping your clit along with caleb's fingers abusing your cervix collide. the familiar knot began to settle in your lower stomach, making your thighs tremble as your eyes screwed shut, toes curling in pleasure.

caleb could feel your walls contracting, you were definitely close and as much as he would love to see you cream all over his fingers; you've been cruelly unfair to him.

xavier lazily opened his eyes, cerulean orbs looking down at you half-lidded. he scoffed, watching your face flush as saliva trickled down the corner of your mouth. you opened your eyes briefly, he watched as they rolled back from the pleasure you were recieving from your childhood friends.

he pulled his cock out of your mouth, glaring down at you.

"nghhh~ p-please..!" you mumbled against his tip, crying out in pleasure as you tried to kick your leg forward to get away from the two men ravaging your pussy. however, both caleb and zayne pinned your legs down.

"focus on me." xavier scowled, and in one swift and hard thrust, his cock slid down your throat as far as you could take him. your eyes blew wide open, as you gagged on his dick. he was being nice earlier, but now you really pissed him off.

you had the nerve to think about those two when he was being kind enough to rinse that dirty mouth of yours with his cock?

"fuckin' ungrateful brat, ignoring me when i'm stuffing this filthy mouth full of my dick." he panted, fucking your face as tears streamed down your face and drool dripped down your chin.

zayne and caleb continued their combined attack, making you scream as your felt zayne sucking on your clit harder while caleb's fingers continued to rub against your walls at a faster pace.

suddenly, all sensation was lost as caleb pulled out his fingers while simultaneously grabbing onto the back of zayne's head with his free hand; yanking his hair back to unlatch his mouth from your weeping cunt. your eyes widened as tears streamed down your face, your hole pulsating at the feeling of nothing.

"only good girls get to cum." caleb darkly chuckled, zayne wincing in slight pain as he swatted the hand that yanked his hair.

"do that again and i'll fucking kill you." zayne murmured, making caleb roll his eyes.

"mmphh...!" your cries were muffled as xavier continued to use your throat as his personal fuckhole. he continued to shove his dick deeper, a small bulge forming on your throat as he pressed against it.

"there we go." xavier grinned sadistically, continuing to chase his high.

"h-hahhh... fuck, gonna cum." he panted, face flushing as he threw his head back, driving his hips forward. you could feel his cock twitch in your mouth, before he grabbed the back of your head and pulled you towards his lower stomach; shoving his cock deep in your throat one last time as your nose was buried in his soft pubes.

"shit.. shit- hnghh... take it- fuck, take it all." xavier moaned, his thick cum painting your throat as he came so much. your mouth became overloaded with his cum, leaking through the corner of your lips as you tried to swallow as much as you could. he pulled out, watching your gasp for air as you coughed.

"what do you say, slut?" he darkly asked.

"t-thank you." you breathed out, voice croaking.

"good girl." xavier smiled wickedly, stroking your bottom lip with his thumb, your tongue peeking out to lick it.

with the intense throat-fucking session with xavier and the cruel denial of your orgasm, you forgot about sylus who was still painfully hard in your hand.

"come on, sweetie, i know you could do better. want some help? yes, no, maybe so?" sylus whispered huskily, leaning down to bite your ear before kissing your temple.

"s-sorry.." you sniffled, still extremely sensitive.

"poor baby, don't cry. i'll help you." he cooed, grabbing your hand before spitting on it. the warm feeling of his spit made you shiver, he brought your hand to his cock; guiding you as you used your spit coated hand to grab his dick again.

this time, his hand firmly stayed on yours, tightening the grip. the silver haired male moaned, moving your joined hands up and down his throbbing cock; fucking your wet fist.

"hnghh... yeah, f-fuck..." sylus panted, thrusting his hips into the makeshift hole he made using your hand. his foxy eyes narrowed, bright ruby orbs rolling back as he rasped out swears from the absolute pleasure he was feeling.

rafayel hovered above your naked torso, his pretty cock resting on the valley between your tits. he grabbed his dick, giving it a few strokes, whimpering at his own touch before looking down at you.

"you're so beautiful." the lemurian whispered through labored breaths, face flushed as his mixed indigo eyes peeked at you through a half-lidded lust-filled stare.

rafayel swallowed harshly, guiding the tip of his leaky cock to your nipple; circling the hard bud as his precum coated it. your breath hitched, watching him use his hard cock to paint streaks of his precum all over the expanse of your hickey-littered chest.

he then spat on his hand, rubbing his spit all over his dick to lubricate it before settling it between your soft tits. using both of his hands, he squished your tits together to squeeze his warm cock between them. the whimper leaving his mouth was almost embarrassing from how loud and needy it was.

without a second more of hesitation, rafayel began to rut his hips forward, thrusting between your tits. he stroked your nipples before using his thumb and index finger, pinching the swollen buds and rolling them between his fingers.

"ahhh~ rafayel! f-feels good...!" you moaned, watching the blush pink tip of his cock peek through your cleavage every time he motioned his hips forward.

"hnghh... love your tits so much, cutie. so soft... so tasty and cute." he breathes out a small chuckled, eyebrows pinched in pleasure as he continued to thrust his cock between your boobs. his precum coated the valley of your tits, making it easier for him to slide between them.

while he continued his ministrations of using your titties to fuck himself, you focused on making sylus cum. you increased the pace of your hands, feeling his hand tightening the grip on yours, the vein on his cock pulsating as frequent deep whimpers left his lips. your thumb caught his slit, teasing it as he could feel his balls tighten.

"hmm... gonna make me cum, kitten." he groans, continuing to pump his cock using your hand until you felt the warm, thick wads of his cum dribble down your fingers. his hands slightly trembled, chest heaving as he tried to compose himself.

"fuck, that was... so hot." sylus chuckled, releasing your hand as he watched you bring your cum covered fingers to your mouth; licking his release as you hummed in approval.

he could feel himself get instantly hard again from such an erotic sight.

"you're mean, darling." he shook his head, making you grin.

you broke away your gaze from sylus, watching rafayel fall apart as he desperately groped your tits.

"h-hahhh... need y..-your help, cutie! please?" he pathetically begged, swallowing harshly as his hips stuttered. rafayel grabbed your wrist once more, smelling your scent and licking your flesh; groaning at how intoxicated you made him feel. the tip of his tongue traced your fingers before encasing them with his soft lips, sucking and biting on your digits; indigo eyes looking at you with a pleading look.

you smirked, knowing that it'd be easy to tease him. you were basically at all of their mercy, but knowing you still had just a little bit of power against him at least; it made your heart beat in your pussy.

"you poor thing, need my help?" you pouted, faux sympathy written all over your face. the others watched in amusement and rafayel's horny-fucked brain couldn't even have the dignity to feel embarrassed.

"p-please... promise i'll be good, so good." he breathed out and you smiled in satisfaction, sitting up before pushing him back. rafayel now sat on the mattress, hungry eyes watching you sit back on your knees.

you leaned down, squishing his cock between your tits before sliding them up and down. rafayel's eyes screwed shut in pleasure, countless of goans and whimpers slipping out of his tongue; showering you endlessly with praise.

"y-yeah cutie, just like that... nghhh~ gonna make me cum." rafayel shamelessly moaned, mouth gape open as his breathing was uneven. you stuck your tongue out, lapping at his tip before wrapping your lips around it; suckling on it as if it was a lollipop.

you rubbed your tits together on his shaft, using your mouth to suck the rest. your drool trickled down from his swollen tip to the squishy tight slit created by your tits; making his cock slide with ease. the sounds produced was obscene, shlick shlick shlick. rafayel could feel his body tremble in pleasure, stroking your hair as his balls twitched.

"gonna cum! h-hahhh... p-please, cutie!" his lips were swollen from how much he bit them. soon enough, his hot cum was painting your tits, dripping down your nipples as his cock throbbed.

"fuck.." rafayel sighed, stroking your cheek as he glanced at what he did.

mentally clicking a picture to remember for the rest of his life when he fucks his fist to the thought of you.

"better?" you innocently batted your eyelashes, looking up at him with a dazed expression.

"you little minx." his breath hitched as you turned your face to the side, catching his thumb between your lips to give it a small suck before biting it playfully.

"you seem to be enjoying yourself a little too much, brat." you heard a daring voice break the moment, looking up to see a mean caleb glowering down at you.

you swallowed harshly, looking at rafayel for some help, but the cheeky lemurian only grinned at you; eyes twinkling with trouble as he moved away.

"you like being used like this, don't you? have you forgotten who's in control here?" now, xavier came into view as he scoffed, taking in your pitiful state.

"i think it's time that you learn your place." caleb suddenly pushed you towards the ash-blonde haired male, making you gasp as you were now sitting on his waist; hands pressed against his bare chest. you could feel the curve of xavier's hard cock press against your ass, making you unknowingly grind against the throbbing length of it to seek for some friction.

"tch, look at you. you're like a fuckin' bitch in heat." xavier snickers, holding down your hips with a bruising grip, making you wince. you felt the tip of his dick slip between your wet folds, his hands maneuvering your hips to help you glide on him. a breathy whimper leaves your lips, feeling his sticky tip caress your achy clit.

you hear the clinking sound of caleb's belt being undone and in what felt like mere seconds; you could feel his warm body heat radiating behind you. his lips grazed your nape, the tip of his nose gliding on your skin. he left wet kisses all over your neck and shoulder, trailing down the deep passage of your spine; making you arch forwards from your increased sensitivity.

xavier on the other hand fondled your tits, pinching and twisting your nipples. his fingers moved down, brushing against your hips. suddenly, you felt his tip prodding your tight hole, making you gulp.

they were all so fucking big and thick, you were wondering how you'd take them all. god, you couldn't even use process of elimination to figure out who'd be less painful to take in.

however, all that thinking flew straight out of your ears as xavier planted his feet on the mattress; harshly thrusting upwards into you. a croaky moan ripped out of your throat, your head lolling back to caleb's chest as you breathed heavy.

although xavier wasn't that thick, he was long as fuck; he couldn't even bottom out fully inside your cunt. you could feel his tip kissing your cervix. while caleb continued to place bite marks and lick at his work, xavier paid no mind to his counterpart; fucking you at a brutal pace.

"hnghh~ a-aahh... xav! w-wait!" you tried to slow him down, but that only made him go faster. he grabbed your hands which were resting on his lower stomach, pulling you forwards as you fell on his chest; away from caleb's touch.

the colonel scowled at the loss of your skin, glaring at the ash-blonde male in front of him. xavier didn't care, his hand finding purchase to the supple fatty flesh on your ass, spanking you hard as you yelped in pain and pleasure. your eyes squeezed shut, trying to form coherent words.

"you know i hate it when you don't look at me while i'm fucking you. open your eyes, y/n." he tapped your face, forcing you to look down at him. you bit your lips, trying to prevent another moan from flying out of your mouth, feeling xavier's cock rub your wet velvety walls just right.

his tip continued to bruise your cervix, his thrusts were deep and hard as he made sure you felt every inch of him in you. a ring of cream began to form at the base of his shaft, your juices dripping down to coat his heavy balls as you felt your thighs burning.

"hope you didn't forget about me, princess." caleb whispered, hovering behind you as you felt him grope your ass cheek. your eyes widened as you felt him spread them, his index finger gently grazing your other untouched tight hole.

"nghh.. wait, caleb! h-hahhh, never did it there before." you confessed, making him chuckle.

"well then, i'm glad to be your first here. don't worry, i'll make sure you're ready for me." caleb's words did seem genuine but rather because of the fact that he was about to touch you and feel you somewhere no one ever has.

you nodded at his words, too fucked out to even care about anything else. you were more focused on cumming, your cunt puffy and weeping from being neglected the last time your orgasm was denied; thanks to caleb.

so, you definitely didn't wanna get on his bad side again.

caleb spat on his fingers, bring it down to your ass before spreading the sticky spit on your hole. you soon felt his wet digit push through the tight ring of muscle, making you wince in pain as you breathed heavily.

"f-fuck... hurts.." you whined, but it would soon dissipate as xavier continued to drill into your pussy, distracting you from the pain of having caleb's finger in your ass.

it took some time but eventually the colonel was able to finger-fuck your ass with two of his fingers, meanwhile, xavier thrusted up into your leaky pussy that sheathed his throbbing cock. the ash-blonde haired male rubbed your clit to provide some more stimulation, your body trembling once you felt caleb withdrawing his fingers from inside you.

caleb sat on his knees, spreading your ass once more before leaning in, the tip of his tongue dragging from where you and xavier were connected; all the way up to your ass hole.

"ah! caleb!" you cried out, feeling him land a glob of spit on the tight hole before pulling away. caleb grabbed the base of his cock, his tip was a reddish-purple; angrily weeping precum as he stroked himself a few times. you could hear him groan behind you before feeling his wet tip squish against your hole.

"c'mere." caleb commanded, a hand coming down to gently grab your jaw, pulling you back to him. he tilts your head up, making you look into his eyes; leaning down to press his lips on yours in a searing kiss.

that's when you felt the burning stretch of his fat tip pushing past the tight ring of muscle in your ass, a pained cry leaving your lips, only to be muffled as he swallowed it; not letting go of your lips. tears pricked your eyes, feeling him slowly feed his cock into your tight ass, inch by inch.

the kiss with caleb was rough and messy, full of tongue and spit. the wet smacking sound of his lips clashing with yours as he drinks in your moans was so erotic. as his cock was now thrusted deep in your ass, he was kind enough to let you adjust to his size. his hand still firmly grabbing your jaw in place to not break away from the kiss while the other played with your tits.

meanwhile, xavier continued to give you nice slow and soft thrusts in your cunt, paying close attention to stimulate your clit. you were so full of both of their cocks, your mind was blank.

all you thought of was dick, dick, dick.

it was embarrassing and greedy, how full they made you feel, how good the burn felt as they both stretched out your holes.

it was definitely a pornographic sight.

as you grew used to having both of them inside you, caleb was the first to quicken his pace, pistoning his hips into you as his cock began to rub your walls. following in suit, xavier tried to match his rhythm, fucking your cunt with more rigor. your mouth gaped wide open, unable to respond to caleb's kiss anymore as you were too cock drunk.

"a-a..ahh! nghh~ feels so good!" you cried out in pleasure, feeling them both rub against the thin barrier that separated the two. you could feel your lower stomach churn in pleasure, your eyes rolling back as you began to drool from the corner of your mouth.

"what a dumb little slut, fucked your brains out already?" you heard xavier darkly chuckle, pinching your clit as you yelped at the sudden sharp sensation.

"p-please... wanna cum so bad! x..-xav.." your throat was parched as you tried to control your breathing, your lower stomach tightening as you could feel the familiar build-up of your orgasm.

"tch, you're moaning his name when i'm stuffing you full of my dick? where are your manners, pipsqueak?" caleb's tone was gravely, glaring at you with a look that could only make your knees grow weak, his grip on your jaw tightening just a little to remind you he was still here; balls deep in you.

"s-sor.. hgnhh.. sorry! please, c..caleb.." you stammered out, feeling the alternating push and withdraw of their cocks syncing together; turning your brain into mush.

displeased with your switch up, xavier yanked you forwards by your arm, squishing your cheeks together.

"you deceitful vixen, running to him when you don't get what you want? i'm the one taking care of this slutty pussy and you have the nerve to beg him? the fuck is wrong with you." xavier seethed with anger, his hips bucking into yours with more intensity; making you wail out in pleasure.

"i'm sor-" you tried to helplessy apologize again, only to be pulled back by caleb; the start of a tug-of-war as if you were a toy.

"don't fucking apologize to him, princess. you're mine, so when i say that you can cum, then you cum." caleb whispered, making you shiver as you sniffled out a cry.

"please.. fuck, please- i can't! t..too much.." you whimpered, making them both scoff.

"you can take it." both caleb and xavier sneered, making you whine.

"ungrateful brat, wanting us both and now you're saying it's too much?" xavier slapped your clit, making you jolt. you felt caleb bite down on your shoulder, the cold metal of his dog tag pressed against your warm, flushed skin.

you felt them twitch inside you, throbbing thick cocks rubbing against your insides. caleb and xavier continued to slide in and out of you, making your body grow hot.

"fuck, fuck, please! s-so close..!" you breathed out, feeling xavier's thrusts grow sloppy as with one final hard thrust; he emptied his balls inside you. his thick, warm cum filled your cunt as you quivered, his hips still rolling back in you.

your head was spinning, both of their scents were intoxicating. their hands were groping, slapping and stroking every bit of skin exposed to their lustful eyes. both caleb and xavier's thrusts held no mercy, battering your cunt and ass as your thighs felt like jelly. you squealed, feeling your walls tightening as you desperately squirmed, trying to lift yourself off and escape.

"where are you going? don't run away, i'm not done yet." caleb yanked you back to him. caleb's grunts and groans got louder by your ear, his arm wrapping around your stomach to hold you down in place; his cock fully in your ass as he shot fat wads of his sticky cum.

before you could process anything, they sadistically exchanged a cruel smirk, pulling out of you as your holes gushed out an obscene amount of their mixed cum.

"n-no! no! hnghh.. w-why.." you sobbed at the loss of contact, the fullness of their cocks gone as your orgasm was destroyed for the second time.

"since we weren't enough, why don't you go ask the others." caleb pushed you to the side, making you collapse on the mattress as tears ran down your cheek.

you looked up and noticed sylus and rafayel looking down at you, an unwavering glint pinned on your ruined form as they waited for your next move. it was humiliating, how you were begging them to let you cum; but it was too much.

you were going insane, needing some relief.

you weakly crawled to sylus and rafayel, sniffling as your body began to shake. your thighs were dripping with xavier and caleb's cum, your messy holes pulsing and aching.

"sy.. raf.. please, make me cum. i-i... i promise i'll be a good girl." you desperately pleaded, fat teardrops running down your flushed cheeks; making them both groan as your pathetic state only made their cocks harden.

"poor little kitten, they were so mean to you, weren't they?" sylus cooed as he wiped your tears away, tone honeyed with gentleness but with an undertone of mischief.

you nodded helplessly, leaning into his touch as you nuzzled your cheeks into his palm. you kissed the inside of his hand, licking the warm and rough skin.

just like a kitten.

sylus grinned at your antics, amused at how compliant you were. however, he wasn't that mean; he'd humor you.

"need us to make her feel better, cutie?" rafayel teasingly spoke, long fingers running across your slit as you whimpered; the tip of his digits circling your clit.

"mmphh, y-yes... please.." you bit down on your lip, tasting the metallic taste of blood.

"alright, sweetie. we'll help you." sylus chortled, leaning against the headboard. he grabbed your hips, spinning you around in one fluid motion, your back now facing him. he then lifted you up before placing you on his waist, as if you weighed nothing.

you yelped as sylus hooked his beefy arms under your thighs, pulling them up to your head; putting you in a mean full nelson. the sudden pressure and stretch made your cunt gush out more of the cum that was fucked into you earlier, soaked pussy lips spread apart as you were now exposed and on display in a very vulnerable position.

"s-sylus!" you shyly meeked, making him hum.

"what? don't be selfish, sweetie. you know the fish is an artist, let him see this masterpiece." sylus bit your earlobe.

rafayel settled between sylus's legs, now in front of you as he shamelessly stared at your messy folds. he salivated as it took everything in him to not just lean down and makeout with your tempting cunt.

"stop lookin'." you whined, feeling how intense his gaze was. however, rafayel just gave you a breathy chuckle.

"why not? she's sooooo pretty." he licked his lips, flashing you a boyish grin, making your heart leap into your throat.

the lemurian lowered his head, pressing gentle kisses on your soft stomach, dragging his lips up your navel until he reached your tits. he sighed in bliss, smoothering his face between your boobs as he kissed and licked the mounds of flesh.

his dick rested on top of your pussy, sticky tip parting your folds as he rutted his hips; sliding the length of his cock against your slick covered cunt. his tip repeatedly nudged your clit, rubbing it as you moaned in bliss from the heavenly contact.

your hand found purchase in his dusky, purple hair; carding your fingers through his soft locks. you tugged on his hair, making him moan as the vibration rumbling from his lips were felt on your nipple as he sucked; making you choke out a moan.

the silver haired male kissed your temple, smiling.

"come on, sweetie, need you to hold your legs up for me so i can take care of you." his voice was groggy, releasing your legs before grabbing your hands to help you lift them as you obeyed.

"there you go, good girl." sylus praised, grabbing the base of his cock, swiping it a few times between your messy folds, nudging his tip on your hole. you moaned at the feel of his cock deliciously rubbing against your aching pussy.

"p-please... nghh- no more teasing." you were breathless, feeling rafayel once again capture your nipple in his mouth, suckling as if his purpose in life was to worship your tits.

"if you say so, sweetie." sylus compliantly shoved his inches in you, feeding your greedy hole his hard dick. your jaw dropped, eyes rolling back as his fat girth stretched your cunt; sliding in with ease because of your arousal along with xavier and caleb's shared cum.

rafayel watched your hole eagerly swallow up sylus's cock, gulping at the sight as his dick was painfully hard; globs of precum dripping onto your clit.

"so tight even after all that? how cute." sylus lets out a huff, slowly moving his hips upwards to give you some slow and deep strokes; tip squishing against your cervix.

"h-hnghh... fuck... feels so good, sy." you moaned, turning your head to the side to capture his lips in a sweet kiss. he happily accepted, sucking on your bottom lip before swiping his tongue against it for permission to explore your mouth.

his hands firmly grabbed your hips before planting his feet on the mattress, grounding both himself and you before pounding upwards into your dripping cunt. your mouth flew open from his sudden shift in pace, and he took that chance to shove his tongue in your mouth; exploring every cavern and crevice. both of your tongues mingled and tangled, sucking and licking as drool trickled down your chin.

"fuck, cutie... you look so hot like this; it's tempting. i can't let the crow have all the fun now, can i?" rafayel's fingers stroked your thigh, leaning down to kiss your plush thighs, gently biting the soft skin.

"ahhh... raf.." you whimpered, biting your lip as you feel his tip poke your ass hole. you released one of your legs, pressing your foot on his chest to stop him.

"hm?" the lemurian tilts his head in confusion at your sudden action, stopping his advances.

"n-not there... need you and sy at the same time.." you licked your dry lips, words barely coming out as a whisper. rafayel's eyes widened at your request, sylus's ruby orbs mirroring the same bewilderment.

"naughty girl, you want us both in this sweet cunt of yours? you think you can handle it?" sylus teased, a cocky smirk painted on his lips.

you nodded frantically, your foot running down rafayel's chest as you looked up at him with a cheeky smile; eyes barely open as you gazed at him with a dazed look.

"i can handle it, p-promise." you assured, making rafayel grin.

"well you heard her, crow. make some space." he grabbed the base of his shaft, now aligning his cock with your hole that was already occupied with sylus's thick cock. the silver haired male scoffed, rolling his eyes before momentarily stopping his thrusts; letting rafayel ease into you.

a screamish-moan ripped out of your throat, your walls clamping instinctively on both of their cocks; both men grunting in response as the space became tighter. your eyes swelled with tears, the salty warm fluid streaming down your cheeks as you tried to adjust to the painful stretch of having two giant cocks lodged in your cunt at the same time.

"shh... there, there, pretty girl. it's okay." rafayel tried to console you, his words barely making it to a full sentence before his voice betrayed him; a strangled whimper slipping off his tongue.

"i gotcha, sweetie." sylus mumbled against the skin of your nape, his hand snaking around your waist, fingers finding your clit as he began to rub soothing circles on the bundle of nerves to distract you.

the both of them allowed you to adjust to their cocks, providing additional stimulation to help you relax so that your walls aren't as tense. rafayel's teeth grazed your nipples, teasing and flicking the pebbled buds while sylus's fingers worked their magic to affectionately pinch and stroke your clit.

"nghh~ feels good... hnnghh- need more." you whined, moving your hips on your own accord, wincing as you could feel both of their dicks rubbing against your velvety wet walls.

"ya sure you're ready, cutie? we have all night." rafayel let out a shaky laugh, half-joking.

"moveee." you bucked your hips, making sylus chuckle.

"someone's impatient, not that i mind." with that being said, sylus once again began to slowly thrust into your pussy. he grunted, feeling his cock graze against rafayel's, the sensation feeling a little weird but he ignored that fact.

rafayel moaned at the sudden friction, his hand wrapping around your calf to push it by your head; mirroring your other leg which you still held up obediently. rafayel leaned closer, pressing against you before latching his lips onto your; kissing you senselessly.

you moaned into his mouth, feeling the both of them pistoning into your tight, dripping hole. rafayel hissed as he felt your fingers tug his hair, angling your jaw to deepend the kiss.

the room was full of wet skin slapping followed by the lewd sound of your pussy gushing out your juices; coating their cocks in your arousal as it dribbled down to their balls. rafayel's lips continued to suck and kiss at your swollen and bitten once; his tongue suckling with yours before pulling away as a string of saliva connected you two.

he pushed himself off of you, bringing the leg he held for you towards him. he kissed your ankle, running the tip of his tongue down to your calf before kitten-biting the flesh of it.

"mmphh... you taste so fucking sweet." rafayel swore under his breath, thrusting his cock deeper into your weeping hole. sylus followed in suit, both of their tips bruising your cervix.

"shit... you're taking us both so well, sweetie." sylus praised, now matching the movement of his fingers that were once leisurely rubbing your clit to the pace of his thrusts.

in seconds, everything shifted.

their gazes darkened, clouded with need and hunger. you squealed, feeling both sylus and rafayel thrusting in and out of your cunt with no mercy as their movement didn't falter.

not once.

they were so perfectly synced together, as if they were one.

"a-ahhhh~... f-fuck! please, please, please! so close... god! i'm gonna cum!" you choked on your tears as you sobbed, the pleasure you were feeling was intense.

your eyes rolled back, toes curled as you were gasping for air. both men grunted and moaned; focusing on chasing their high.

"how bad you want it, kitten?" sylus groaned, fucking his hips upward as you whimpered.

"so bad, fuck, need it so bad!" you desperately answered, convinced that you wouldn't survive another ruined orgasm.

"yeah? ask nicely, where are your manners, cutie?" rafayel snickered, driving his hips into your; pelvis meeting yours with brutal thrusts that made your body jerk.

"h-hahhhh... oh my god...- please, please, please. let me cum? i promise i'll be good, so fuckin' good. please raf... sy... need it so bad." you threw out every last ounce of dignity within yourself to beg them with your last bit of voice.

both men, clearly satisfied with your answer, feed your cunt with their cocks using an unforgiving pace of thrusts. rafayel's hips were a bit sloppier, but they were fast and needy, like he was scared that you'd disappear. in contrast, sylus's pace was slow but his thrusts were hard and deep; making sure his tip met your cervix with every movement of his hips.

"fuck, fuck, fuck..." the silver haired male let out a guttural moan, eyes screwed shut as he could feel his cock pulsate; vein twitching as blood flowed with adrenaline.

rafayel shamelessly moaned on top of you, panting like a dog as he continued to fuck his dick into your wet hole.

"open your mouth." he demanded and too fucked out to even decipher his intentions, you obeyed. rafayel spat into your mouth, the thick glob of spit coating your tongue before you swallowed it.

"good girl." rafayel grunted, feeling his balls tightening as he was close to cumming as well.

your stomach knotted, the build-up of your orgasm even more stronger as your gummy walls clamped down on their cocks viciously.

"auughh~ i'm cumming! fuck.. hnghh..." you choked out a moan, eyes screwed shut as hot liquid squirted out of your cunt; coating rafayel's lower abdomen. you creamed on their cocks, body twitching as you feel both of them creampie you; shoving their sticky and gooey cum deep into your womb.

your juices and their cum dripped down your thigh, coating sylus's balls as you could hear his breathing become uneven from the aftermath of such intense pleasure. rafayel collapsed on top of you, still mindful to not crush you with his entire weight.

"so tired..." he childishly whined, biting your nipple playfully as you huffed.

"you're heavy, raf, get off." you grumbled, making him pout as he smoothered his face between your boobs once again.

"nah, you're too soft." he argued, making you roll your eyes.

"i feel sticky and gross.." you mumbled, noticing how the room was a bit more quieter. xavier was passed out on the couch and caleb left the room a few minutes ago for whatever reason; zayne watching the whole scene intently from the edge of the bed.

you locked eyes with him, noticing the slight blush on his face. he cleared his throat, looking away.

"perhaps a hot shower might be nice." he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"yeah, it does sound tempting." you hummed.

"need some help, sweetie?" sylus offered, but his tone had a hint of mischief.

"i got it." zayne suddenly spoke up, walking over to where you were sandwhiched between rafayel and sylus. he pushed the groggy lemurian over, making him groan.

"hey! i was comfy." rafayel complained, making the doctor roll his eyes.

"it's my place, surely i know my bathroom better." sylus snickered, making zayne narrow his eyes.

"if i could perfom hundreds of heart surgeries, i'm sure i can figure out how to work your damn shower." zayne snarked back with an equal amount of bite, making the silver haired male smirk.

"touche, she's all yours, doc." sylus chuckled.

zayne sighed, scooping you up in his arms before heading into the bathroom; locking the door behind him.

"you look... fucked." he blurted out, making you laugh at his dry comment.

"wow, thanks, i didn't know." you playfully rolled your eyes, making him crack a small smile.

"that was... intense. after you shower, i could get you some painkillers to help with any soreness. can you stand?" zayne asked with a flicker of concern in his hazel orbs, settling you on your legs and lightly loosening his grip; only for your knees to wobble as you held onto his bicep for support.

"i guess not." he answered his own question, making you chuckle.

"mind helping me out, doc?" you asked, peering up at him with a girly smile. zayne felt his heart skip a beat, heat creeping up to his neck.

it's not like this would be his first time being intimate with you, but you still made him feel incredibly nervous.

"if you insist, then i don't mind." his tone was soft and gentle. you smiled at his agreement, taking off his glasses. you leaned onto the sink for support, watching him undo his tie before unbuttoning his shirt; revealing his chiseled chest.

fuck, his physique was like a greek god.

he undid his belt, zipping down his pants before kicking them off together with his boxers; his cock springing to life as his pinkish tip was a little swollen while dripping with precum. you leaned forwards, now pressed against him as your bare chest rubbed against his.

zayne groaned at the intimate skinship, his cock rubbing against your soft thighs. your hand reached down, grabbing the shaft as you experimentally gave it a few strokes.

"let me take care of you." your voice was a bare whisper, making him shudder. but, to your surprise, he shook his head.

"no, you don't have to do this for me, i'll get myself off or something. just ignore it, okay?" zayne tried to convince you, but it only made you frown.

"but i want to... i've been wanting to feel you the whole night." you pressed soft kisses along his jawline, making him swallow harshly as you saw his adam's apple bob.

"then let me make it up to you since that bastard pulled me away from you. i'll make you feel good, baby." he lifted your hips, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist as his cock was now nestled between your folds.

he walked inside the shower, pulling the glass doors to close it before turning on the water; adjusting the temperature. you cupped his face, pulling him closer to yours to seal his lips with yours.

zayne moaned into your mouth, molding his lips with yours as he softly kneaded your ass. your tongue poked his bottom lip, seeking for entry which he happily granted. you kissed him with a needy vigor, sucking his tongue as you stroked his wet jet black hair.

pulling away breathlessly, zayne looked down at you with swollen lips. he attacked your neck with kisses, making your whimper as you felt his tongue graze your flesh, softly tracing the hickies left on your skin with the tip of his tongue. he moved down to your tits, sucking your nipples as your hand held the back of his head; pushing him closer as you moaned.

"mhmm... feels so good, zayne." you praised, watching him tug your nipple between his teeth before giving it a deserving suck. he soon lets go of your swollen bud, hazel eyes meeting yours.

"i'll be gentle, okay?" he assured, making your chest feel warm and fuzzy as you nodded; wrapping your arms around his neck.

zayne grabbed the base of his cock, tapping your clit a few times, making you jolt. he smirked at how responsive your body was, aligning his tip with your hole. with a firm grip on your hips, he begin to sink you down on his hard cock, slowly shoving his inches inside you.

your mouth formed an 'o' shape as your eyes shut tight, feeling full as he bottomed out.

"s-so full.." you moaned, feeling him slowly thrust inside of you as the curve of his dick molded so perfectly in your wet walls. you clenched down on him, making him grunt at the sudden tightness.

"you feel so good, babygirl." zayne whispered, pressing a gentle kiss on your cheek and temple before sliding you up and down his dick. you rested your head on his shoulder, inhaling his scent as you kissed his neck.

this felt so new compared to what happened just minutes ago. the others fought over you like you were some piece of meat to claim; but zayne treated you like you were made of glass.

he was so gentle with his touches and strokes, you could almost cry.

zayne's tip nudged your cervix with every push of his hips, now having you pressed against the wall to have a better hold of you so that he can drive his hips into yours faster. your cunt weeped with arousal, gummy walls coated with his precum.

his thrusts were sharp yet slow, making sure it applied the right amount of pressure and friction to make you feel like you were seeing stars. his balls slapped against your ass, your nipple between his lips.

"hnghh.. love your cock, zyane. g-gonna cum.." you let out a shaky breath, clenching down on him as your increased sensitivity betrayed your body, not allowing you to hold onto your orgasm for too long.

"it's okay, baby. you can cum." he grunted against the wet skin of your tits and you didn't realize how intimate and erotic the whole sight was.

a choked out whimper escaped your throat, your cunt clamping down on him as you squirted all over his cock. your body twitched and trembled at your orgasm, panting as you leaned against his chest.

"shit, please... i need you to fill me up." you begged and that's all it took him to bust a fat load of his thick, hot cum inside your hole.

"fuck.." he swore and god it sounded so hot coming from his mouth.

the bathroom was filled with the sounds of uneven breathing and the running showerhead.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

you stirred awake, groaning as you now laid on your back. sunlight beamed into your room, making your eyes burn as you tried to crack one of them.

"fuckin' hell.." you cursed under your breath, adjusting your vision as you sat up on your bed. your head was swirling as you held it in pain, wincing.

it was all a dream.

you slapped yourself, not believing how delusional you became to believe that whatever the hell that was could be reality.

"yeah, i'm losing it." you sighed deeply, scratching your head. you tapped your phone screen, reading the time as your eyes blew wide open.

fuck, it was well past noon, meaning you missed your morning classes already.

"you're kidding me." you huffed out in annoyance, leaning back on the headboard as you unlocked your phone.

you saw the many, many, many missed calls from your best friend; making you snort.

as you swiped through your applications, your eyes fell on the love and deepspace icon. memories of your strange dream replayed fresh in your memory, your body weirdly aching.

you brushed off those thoughts, clicking the icon as you wondered if infold fixed those weird bugs and glitches by now. you were surprised to see the app back into shape, running in good quality as you logged in with ease.

"huh, weird." you mumbled to yourself, calmly collecting your daily’s.

until you realized you had five undread messages.

hey pipsqueak, hope you're not still mad at me for being a bit mean to ya. i'll cook for you when you come back :p

hope you're not missing me too much, sweetie. come back and i'll take you for a joyride.

cutieeee! i miss you already :C come back soon, okay? need my personal pillow back.

if your throat is still sore, come back so we can have hotpot together. it'll be my treat.

have you taken those painkillers like i told you to?

your jaw was wide open, not believing your eyes. these texts seemed way too real to be automated.

"what the fuck." you quickly opened your front camera, only to see the faint purplish marks decorating your neck.

holy shit, all of that was real.

a smirk etched on your face as you quickly tapped the facetime app, ringing the only person you knew could stand this news and have a silver of faith in you to be convinced.

"finally decided to call me back? thought you died in your sleep or something." your best friend nagged at you, making you chuckle.

"you won't believe what happened last night." you giggle, making her roll her eyes at you.

"let me guess, you had a dream about all the lads guys fucking your brains out." she responded with a bored voice.

"even better."

---

a/n: hehe, if you made it to the end, kuddos to you cuz rereading through this was a pain the ass. if you couldn't tell by now, this was very self-indulgent, so i got carried away. hope you guys enjoyed it tho!!