igris and kiyotaka beloved . . . ♡

**

He doesn’t remember the ruin; the blood soaked fingers that thread through his hair. Softly, gently, lovingly. He doesn’t remember his trembles beneath him, the soft, strangled moans, the claw marks left on his back. Y/n didn’t remember any of it — his memory is closed and bottled and gone and his mind is a mess. He remembers scratching at the door of the church for mercy, and being welcomed.

Y/n remembers first meeting him, the man clothed in white; the man with silky golden hair and cerulean blue eyes. The man who was so devastatingly and damningly beautiful that people stopped to stare at him; the man with the gentle smile that swallowed your rage. The man named Anton.

“Poor thing,” Anton had told Y/n, and his fingers had been warm then. Y/n would’ve mistaken anything for warmth; he was so horribly starved of touch and affection that even the simplest of words could feel like the sun to him. And so he basked in it. “Poor thing,” Anton said quietly, “you are at the mercy of God. At me.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Y/n choked out. He knew the emptiness gnawing at his brain. Chewing at nothing, with a bottomless hunger that had yet not been satiated. His fingers had clutched at the priest’s robes; he had nearly cried out from reprieve at seeing another human; another life form. He had stumbled on the bare roads alone. Something about the priest had seemed so familiar and it filled Y/n with indescribable relief.

“You’re trembling,” Anton had murmured softly and gently in return, his fingers brushing Y/n’s cheek. “How fortunate, then. You have stumbled upon the one place that you can be saved. The only place you will be saved.”

Y/n had drunk his words in at the point of time. He had been — ah, what’s that word? He had been docile, yes he had. He had been so painfully and ridiculously pliant to the priest’s needs then, so much like a lamb that had been reared for him, the shepherd — that he now laughed at the absurdity of it all.

The priest, who had been so charming at first, was a vicious monster. The smile never left his face; that ineffable mannerisms he had that was so graceful; so powerful, so divine…and yet Anton robbed people of their lives so easily; with a careless flick and a sanguine, saccharine smile. His fingers were bloody when they traced Y/n’s back, when they touched his face…when they left a crimson, unforgiving trail.

He will kill me, Y/n always thought, he will kill me one day. He will murder me; like he has murdered so many of his foolish believers who throw themselves at his feet…

“When will you kill me?” Y/n had begged once, after the thirty eighth slaughter, after the last of the flames had been snuffed out and burnt carcasses lay on the floor again. “Why did you welcome me? Why did you — why did you let me live and why do you treat me so well? Why do you treat me like I’m special — when you are simply going to kill me?”

Oh, yes, Anton treated him so differently. During service Anton rebuked those who tormented Y/n for being a new believer. Y/n watched as others poured their savings out for Anton and he didn’t bat an eye at them. But with Y/n…why? Y/n’s memories had not yet returned; and he was beginning to accept the bleak reality that it would never do so. And so now he was left to spiral here, in this crazed madness where the priest ruled this place like a cult and he had no answers and only him —

I should never have come, Y/n found himself thinking over this all the time, I should never have been on that path, walking towards the church. This is not holy: this is not divine.

“Oh, Y/n,” Anton sighed. “Oh, Y/n.” He stalked towards Y/n; his large strides making Y/n flinch and cower and summon the last vestiges of his strength to bare his teeth; like a dog that had yet not been tamed. The priest’s hands were cold this time round as he tipped the (h/c)-haired boy’s chin up. “You will never die. You are the Chosen One. The one who is my most beloved ordained proxy. The heavens have chosen you. I have chosen you.”

His words were sweet, coated in so much honey that Y/n wanted to vomit.

“You kill all of them,” Y/n choked out, “you -you cannot possibly believe that what you’re doing is —”

“You don’t understand,” Anton said sadly, “not yet; it seems.”

“Murder,” Y/n finished, “it’s fucking murder- do you hear me? I can’t believe I ever listened to you- I can’t believe I ever thought I would — kill me, just kill —”

“You were like this before,” Anton’s tone had hardened, but it held that tone of wistfulness from before. Almost stern; like a beguiling parent chiding a naughty child. “Then I went through all that trouble to do that…and still you rebel; still you fight. How many lessons do you need to learn?”

“Fuck you,” the words had slipped from Y/n’s throat before he knew it, “fuck your murderous tendencies and your cult and your deranged —”

Anton had taken his arm then, in a grip so tight it bruised, and had forced Y/n to stare at those unsettling eyes of his. Y/n had swallowed; Anton had looked hungrily at him; with thinly veiled desire and fondness and reluctance.

Reluctance…?

“It pains me to do this,” Anton said calmly, his voice soft. “But it seems punishment is needed for you. I shall not do something as extreme as what I did the last time…but you do need to learn a lesson.”

“No,” Y/n whispered.

“You will be declared holy. You will be consecrated. You will be freed from sin.”

The lessons would be the start of despair; of torment.

**

Y/n remembers his attempts at fighting. He remembers clawing at locked doors that won’t budge; the endless darkness that he was drenched in, the protest of not eating food and water. He remembers the corpses lined up in his mind, relentless and determined to make him miserable. He remembers screaming; until his throat is hoarse and until he is sure the Gods have grown tired of his misery. He remembers cursing God at his pain; at his situation.

“Will you surrender yet?” Anton asks softly. He holds a starved Y/n; his arms the only flicker of warmth. Y/n’s head, on his lap, the hallucinations driving him mad. He looks at the priest; he stares. He feels emptiness, hatred.

Starving himself had not worked; he had been forcibly fed. He had tried to stab the priest with a knife, and it had melted into a puddle of wax.

“Sin is resistance,” Anton tells him, smiling so serene, so beautiful. “I will purge you of it. You are Chosen, Y/n: remember that. I will allow no one to taint you; no one to touch you.”

Y/n remembers slipping into a haze. He remembers lips against his own. He remembers being too weak to fight back.

**

Days become weeks; and weeks — they become something completely indecipherable; slipping elusively through the cracks of time. Y/n doesn’t remember Anton ever harming him — not physically, at least; but Anton torments him. Anton bathes him; dresses him in all white, and prays over him with hands that linger too long on the throat. Y/n feels the anger dying in his mouth: but it is so bountiful, so full that it wriggles between his gum like cavities. Anton’s obsession is so sweet it rots Y/n’s teeth.

He speaks of the prophecy; at how they united together through divine matrimony — “You belong to me,” Anton says sweetly. He whispers quietly and presses their foreheads together while Y/n squirms and sobs.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Y/n says deliriously, “I cannot. I cannot — I cannot accept this: I cannot — I cannot live like this. Let me go, Anton. Let me go —”

Who was he before this? Has he ever been a person? What had the outside been like?

I am utterly isolated, Y/n realizes and he weeps; he weeps big, grieving, loud cries. I do not know anyone else except for him; why has Anton imbued me with only the knowledge of him?

Anton tilts his head and his voice is flat as he speaks. “You still choose to rebel.”

“I —”

“Was everything I did for naught?” He says tonelessly. He looks at Y/n. “I have gone to this extent and you want me to let you go,” he says. His tone is terrifyingly dark and Y/n is shaking, and oh god, the mantra of please let me go repeats in Y/n’s head and he’s stumbling and crying and —

“I declared that I would make you holy,” Anton says, smiling. But it is without mirth; it is completely empty.

“And so I will,” Anton says, “perhaps it’s time to purify you.”

Anton takes Y/n’s hand; very very gently. He pulls Y/n away; for once Y/n is out of that dark attic and he winces when light meets his skin and he wonders if the word purify has a negative or positive connotation to it because he’s free, and he’s seeing the outside world, and —

Oh.

There are hands tearing at his robes, there are harsh kisses pressed to his collarbone and Anton is undressing and there is an — altar; an incense burning in a censer and its smells sweet…Y/n hallucinates a lute playing; a pipe…

“After this I will give you a choice,” Anton says cruelly with a smile; “to leave. If you can walk, that is.”

**

Y/n learns that his moans are loud; strangled, like his screams. Or perhaps his moans and screams are blending together and he doesn’t know which is which; but he does know that they are ripped mercilessly from his throat and at least the constant thing in his life is that he is offered no mercy.

“This is what I was supposed to do,” Anton says, his voice a sigh. His eyes are impossibly dark and his expression is so cold and terrifying and warm at the same time…his fingers ghost over Y/n’s body and he shivers; he feels the touch glide up to his nipples and he feels teeth rest at the curve of his throat.

I can feel his pulse, Y/n thinks. I can feel him…entering me…breaking me…all of him.

Y/n knows his scream is loud when the priest pushes his large cock into his body; when he feels his walls tighten around painfully around him like they’re welcoming him, the traitorous hardening of his own cock that is left untouched. He feels delirious, delirious with painful pleasure when the thrusts become forceful and Anton is moving, he’s moving and pushing into him and each time Y/n accepts him, Y/n’s hands go to his back and they scratch and claw.

Their kisses are ravenous. They are dotted with sin, lined with pleasure and desire that should not exist. It is the forbidden fruit; they are falling from the Garden of Eden and Anton has claimed him. There are bottomless pools of blood in Y/n’s vision when he looks at Anton; when he cries for him to stop! And yet his own body aches; wants more. Y/n arches his back still, feels the delicate curve of his spine bending in submission and he twitches his hips while Anton takes more; he takes more and more and he does not stop.

“You will not leave,” Anton says in between his thrusts; as he nips Y/n’s ear. He smiles victoriously above Y/n’s body. “After I’m done…you shall be complete; perfect. I have held back for you.”

“Anton,” Y/n cries out. The name is stuck in his throat, hoarded in his mouth. Why is it all he knows? Where are his memories? Where is the past, the before? Where is his identity — is Anton right; does it rest with him?

(Chosen; chosen, chosen. You are the Chosen One. Why run away?)

“My darling,” Anton says; and he laughs. “Do you want me to continue? You want choices, don’t you? There it is. Do you want me to continue?”

Y/n whimpers below him. “Anton,” he repeats. His mind is broken; he cannot think but god everything is empty and the church is all he has, and —

“Beg,” Anton says, his voice stern. His fingers thrum against the expanse of Y/n’s flesh. He waits to take him apart, to peel him like a fruit and to devour him whole. The bruises on Y/n’s hip have a dull sort of pain. He cannot think.

“Do it, Y/n,” Anton coaxes, tone gentler this time. He kisses the tears off Y/n’s face. “Be good for me. You can do that, right? You can be so good…”

“Please,” the word leaves Y/n’s mouth. “Please ruin me. Please purify me. Please save me.”

Anton crashes his lips onto Y/n; drunk off his declaration; his plea, his piteous, soft cries. He knew Y/n would come around one day. He knew Y/n had to; he knew it was their fates intertwined, their destinies together melding into a singular line. The sex that follows is even more overwhelming; but it is glorious, it is divine.

After it is over, after Y/n is sprawled on the stained sheets and the sweet smell of the incense continues to permeate Y/n’s nostrils… Anton cradles him; soothes him after it’s over.

“Do you still wish to run?” He asks. Then, a more brutal question; “Can you still run?”

**

Y/n is given a choice. He remembers the ruin; the divinity; the purification. He is sanctified, he is pure, he is holy. He is made new.

Anton smiles. “Darling; do you still want to leave?”

Y/n feels a barrage of soft kisses on his forehead. The priest is gentle. The priest is kind. He is chosen.

(Forgive me, Y/n thinks to whatever God who has ignored him, Forgive me, for I no longer wish to be saved.)

**

PAST

“You disobey me,” Anton said quietly. “You slit your wrists; you run away. I have no choice but to start over; to erase your reality. To start from point one.”

“Stop,” Y/n screamed, “do you have enough of this? Do you have enough of —”

“I shall erase your memory,” Anton said, sounding pleased with himself. “Yes; that will be brilliant.”

“I will always run,” Y/n told him through his despairing tears, through the haze of pain and through the priest’s clutch on him. “I will run from you.”

Anton stared at Y/n, before he laughed. He laughed for a good minute; before he stared at Y/n like he had said something so painfully amusing.

“My darling,” Anton shook his head, “my dear. You will never stray from the divine path. You will find me. You will be helpless; you will knock on my door and you will beg for me.”

“No,” Y/n choked out, “I will not. I will kill myself before doing so.”

Anton looked fondly at Y/n. “You funny thing. I will bring you from the dead. You cannot run from me.”

The priest kissed Y/n for the last time; the (h/c)-haired male struggled viciously, but eventually slumped in the priest’s arms.

Anton smiled. Ah; yes, Y/n was his. Nothing could tear them apart; he was God; he commanded the will of the universe. He would wait. He would wait to purify him; to make him stronger; to make him holy…

To sanctify him.

**