Sacrilege
SYNOPSIS: — the moment holiness forgets its own boundaries; a prayer spoken with stained hands, a vow unraveling in the presence of desire.
deeply inspired by the mini series, Hilda Furacao. also inspired by Lana Del Rey's song, Salvatore and Religion. ordered by @2noraaaa!
HUNTER X HUNTER: Priest Chrollo Lucilfer x Prostitute Reader ( Divine Correspondence Soulmate AU )
CONTAINS: sacrilegious themes, salacious, prostitution, sex work, mature & dark themes, moral ambiguity & eternal conflict, religious themes & imagery ( catholic ) , religious hypocrisy, corruption of authority, violation of religious vows, inappropriate relationship involving clergy, slow burn, moral conflict, alcohol use / intoxication, objectification, psychological tension, manipulation, sexual content ( not that explicit ), dubcon, hints of angel & demon, similar to succubus, blasphemy? existential crisis, dissociation, stalking, voyeurism ( implied ), few orginal characters for plot purposes lol
Word Count: 11,281 words and 61,811 characters ( more / less )
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Verse l. Confession
the darkness presses itself gently against the glass— thick, velvety, and endless.
from this height, the world below dissolves into suggestion. lights scatter in quiet constellations, distant and deliberate, like something arranged for display rather than lived in. whatever noise the city carries never reaches this far up. here, it is all stillness. the kind that money buys. the kind that makes everything feel untouchable.
inside, the air is warmer. heavier, too. it lingers against your skin in a way that refuses to leave immediately, like the room itself is reluctant to let go of what just happened. there’s a faint trace of something expensive in it. cologne, maybe, or the ghost of something sweeter—but it’s already fading.
behind you, there’s movement. subtle. controlled. the soft rustle of fabric shifting back into place.
you don’t turn right away. instead, your fingers move first— slow, unhurried, brushing over your clothes as you begin to fix them. a sleeve smoothed down, a strap adjusted with quiet precision. each motion is deliberate, almost careful, as if restoring yourself requires a certain kind of attention. it doesn’t, really. but you take your time anyway, because time here, stretches differently.
there’s a small, metallic sound behind you. the faint slide of a belt threading through loops. you hear it before you see it. measured, steady.
then— click. final. like something being closed, sealed, returned to where it belongs.
he moves toward the side table where his things wait exactly where he left them. a watch, a phone, a wallet placed neatly beside both. he doesn't look at you as he opens it. the leather creases softly in his hand— clean, expensive, untouched by anything inconvenient.
he pulls out the bills, his thumb grazing the edges with a slow, possessive rhythm. there’s an arrogance in the way he handles it, a quiet confidence that everything in this room— including you— has a clear, manageable price.
you tilt your head, watching his reflection in the glass. a small, playful smile tugs at your lips.
“ Careful, ” you murmur, your voice trailing over the silence like a dare. “ you keep counting like that, you might realize you’re losing money. ”
he pauses, his shoulders shifting as he finally turns to face you. his gaze is heavy, lingering on the line of your throat with a blatant, unshaded lust that he doesn't bother to hide. he looks sure of himself, like a man who has never been told no in a language he understood.
“ It’s just paper, ” he says, his voice low and gravelly, thick with the remnants of his own satisfaction. he fan the bills out slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “ and for tonight? I'd say it’s a bargain. ”
you let out a soft, melodic hum, stepping closer just to watch the way his breath hitches— just a fraction.
“ A bargain, ” you repeat, your tone dripping with a light, practiced flirtation. “ is that what i am? a discount? ”
he laughs, a short, sharp sound that holds no real humor, only the weight of his own ego. he reaches out, the money still caught between his fingers, waiting for you to bridge the final gap.
“ You're whatever I want you to be as long as I’m paying, ” he counters, his thumb brushing the top bill. “ and right now, I'd say you're worth every cent. ”
then—
on the nightstand near the bed, your phone begins to vibrate. the screen lights up, cutting through the moody atmosphere of the room.
Amber.
the name flashes against the dark wood, the buzzing sound persistent and demanding, but you don't reach for it yet. instead, your gaze remains fixed on him. you watch the way he handles the money— the slow, possessive slide of his thumb over the edges of the bills as he pulls them from his wallet.
he finally holds the stack out, his fingers lingering on the paper with an arrogance that suggests he believes this is the only part of the night that truly mattered.
finally, you step toward the nightstand and retrieve your phone. the vibration stops just as your fingers brush the glass, leaving the room in a sudden, ringing silence. you don't answer the notification. you just hold the device loosely, meeting his eyes as you bridge the final gap between you.
the exchange is quiet and efficient. your fingers slip between his, taking the stack of bills with a practiced ease that feels as natural as breathing. the contact is brief—just long enough for him to feel the cool silk of your sleeve against his skin— and then it's gone.
you fold the money once, neat and precise, before slipping it away.
he leans back against the table, a self-assured, breathy laugh escaping him as he watches you prepare to leave.
“ Same time next week? ”
“ If you’ve got the money. ”
a short, meaningless goodbye is exchanged— the kind that evaporates the second the door clicks shut behind you. the heavy silence of the hotel hallway swallows the sound of your heels as you finally reach for your phone and hit the call back.
Amber answers on the first ring, her voice a sharp explosion of static and noise.
“ Where the hell are you? ” she demands, the background roar of the club muffled but present. “ I’ve been sitting here like an idiot for twenty minutes. ”
you step toward the elevator,
“ Relax, ” you murmur, pressing the button and watching the gold doors slide open. “ I’m on my way already. ”
—
the doors part and the noise spills over you all at once— bass, laughter, and glass against glass. light cuts through the dark in restless flashes, painting the red silk of your dress in colors that don’t stay long enough to settle. inside, nothing pretends to be quiet and nothing pretends to be clean.
you step in like you belong to it, because you do.
not in the way they think, but in the way the room reacts. eyes follow; some are obvious about it— lingering too long. others are quieter, stolen glances from behind glasses and shadows. you feel the weight of it— the curiosity and the judgment dressed up as interest. your name moves through places like this without needing to be spoken aloud, wrapped in the half-truths of what they think you are.
that girl.
the one who—
you don’t slow down and you don’t acknowledge it. you let their attention slide off you like it never had the chance to land.
the bar glows ahead, lined with bodies and movement folding into itself in a careless rhythm. and then, you see her.
Amber.
she’s exactly where you expected her to be, elbows resting against the counter and her posture loose. a glass is caught between her fingers— salt clinging faintly to the rim. margarita, not her first and definitely not her second.
she spots you almost immediately. her face lights up all at once, like you’re something she’s been waiting on longer than she’ll admit.
“ Finally! ” she calls out over the noise, lifting her glass slightly in your direction. “ I was starting to think you ditched me for something better. ”
you make your way toward her, weaving through the crowd like it parts just enough to let you through.
“ Please, ” you reply, voice slipping easily into something amused, something familiar. “ this is the better option. ”
you gesture lightly to her drink as you reach her side, eyes flicking over it once.
then back to her.
“ How many is that? ”
Amber squints at the glass like it might answer for her.
“ …Irrelevant. ”
you hum softly, unconvinced.
“ Why are you even drinking on Saturday? ”
Amber leans over the bar, her chin propped up by her hand as she stares gloomily into the neon-green depths of her drink as she breathes a sigh of disbelief.
“ I just don’t get it, ” she rants, her voice rising just enough to cut through the heavy bass and the clinking of bottles. “ I’m out here every night. I look good, I’m fun, I’m right here. where is he? where is the person who’s supposed to actually get me? it’s like the universe is just skipping over my floor entirely. ”
she takes a long, aggressive sip through her straw and huffs, a stray lock of blonde hair falling over her eyes.
“ And you, ” she says, pointing a shaky finger at you. “ you don’t even look like you’re searching. How are you so calm about it? don’t you want to know who’s on the other side of the glass? ”
you don't answer immediately. you just watch a bead of condensation trail down your own glass, your mind slipping away from the noise and back to the rule everyone whispers like a prayer or a curse.
your soulmate will be similar to you. it’s a quiet, terrifying absolute.
they say the universe doesn’t pair you with what you want, but with what you are. like calls to like— a mirror held up to the parts of your soul you try to keep in the dark. if you are kind, they are light; if you are cruel, they are the blade. whether it is for good or for bad, you are destined to meet someone who carries the same weight you do.
you think about your life— the red dress, the exchange of cash in high-rise penthouses, the way you’ve learned to navigate the shadows of other people's desires. if the rule is true, then whoever is out there for you isn't a saint or an angel coming to save you. they’re someone who understands the transactional nature of the world just as well as you do, someone who thrives in the silence and the secrets.
it isn't a romantic thought; it’s a revelation that makes your skin crawl.
“ I’m not searching, Amber, ” you finally murmur, the bass thumping in time with the uneasy rhythm of your heart. “ I’m just waiting to see what kind of mirror the universe decides to hold up to me. ”
“ Surely you're curious, right? ” she presses, her voice dropping into that conspiratorial tone she gets when she’s three drinks deep. “ Even just a little bit— ”
you don't let her finish. you lift a hand, catching the bartender’s eye with a practiced ease that cuts through the noise.
“ Tequila, ” you say, your voice smooth and final. “ salt and lime. ”
you don't look at Amber. instead, you pick up the laminated drink menu, flipping through the pages with an intense, mock-seriousness. you scan the list of over-priced cocktails as if the choice between a cosmopolitan and a mojito is the most pressing matter in the world, pointedly ignoring the way she’s staring at the side of your head.
“ Hey, I’m talking to you. ” she huffs, nudging your shoulder.
you just hum, eyes still fixed on the menu.
she rolls her eyes, but her expression shifts, settling into something uncharacteristically earnest. she leans closer, her breath smelling of agave and citrus.
“ Seriously though, ” she says, and the sudden lack of a joke in her voice makes. “ we should go to that church across town tomorrow. The old stone one. ”
you pause, the tequila shot arriving in front of you. you stare at the clear liquid for a second before a dry, sharp laugh escapes your throat.
“ What, to repent for our sins? ”
“ No, ” Amber counters, her eyes wide and dead serious. “ to pray we find our soulmates. You’d love the priest, I heard he's— ”
you shake your head, licking the salt from the back of your hand before tossing the shot back. the burn is immediate and grounding, a sharp line of fire that clears the fog for a split second. you bite into the lime, the sourness making your eyes water.
“ You’ll find it soon, Amber. ” you murmur, setting the glass down with a heavy clink against the bar.
—
the night doesn’t end so much as it unthreads.
one moment, the world is vaguely yours—Amber’s voice nearby, the glass in your hand, and the bass pressing against your ribs like a second heartbeat. then, without ceremony, everything stops being something you can hold onto.
drinks keep finding their way into your hands. you don’t remember deciding to have them; it’s just a quiet accumulation, as if the night has decided your refusal no longer matters. each glass arrives with a different weight and a sweetness that never quite tastes like the last.
you stop counting. at some point, counting feels like something other people do.
the room softens. the edges of everything blur as if dipped in water. faces lose precision and voices stop landing where they should. you’re still standing— you think— but your balance feels borrowed. your body has stopped negotiating with you before it moves.
Amber is a flickering shape of familiarity. you catch fragments of her— a wide gesture, a laugh rising too quickly— but your thoughts refuse to align. they arrive slightly too late, always lagging behind the moment they were meant for. you blink and the world changes angle, you blink again and it changes back.
then, attention shifts.
you feel it before you see it, like heat before a fire. it isn't casual; it’s a heavy, gathering focus. you don’t remember moving, but suddenly you are the center of something that was forming long before you arrived. the air feels denser here, compressed.
voices begin to stack. they aren't conversations anymore, just fragments— numbers and exclamations that sound transactional rather than social.
then, a voice cuts through the static, sharp and hungry.
“ Seven Hundred and Fifty Thousand! ”
it doesn’t feel like it’s about you. it’s just a number floating in an unreal place. there is a heavy, expectant pause. then, an escalation.
“ Eight Hundred Thousand! ”
the room reacts. bodies shift in a collective, ritualistic rhythm. the numbers climb, overlapping and rebuilding higher each time. you don’t understand what they are measuring anymore, only that they are competing.
your vision narrows. you try to ground yourself in your own breath or the feeling of your hands, but they feel out of reach, belonging to a version of you from earlier in the evening. the voices keep climbing until the numbers stop sounding like value and start sounding like distance.
your name might be said, you aren't sure. you don't answer because you don’t recognize what is being asked of you anymore.
the world tilts. you blink slowly, but the room doesn't right itself. there is no panic, just a slow, spreading disconnection— like a system shutting down one layer at a time. something is being taken out of your hands before you even realized you were holding it.
and then— black.
—
morning doesn’t arrive gently; it crashes in.
through thin curtains, through the half-awake silence, through the dull throb behind your eyes that feels like it’s still finishing a night you don’t fully remember.
your phone is the first thing you hear. then the second, then the third.
Amber.
Amber.
Amber.
missed calls are stacked on top of each other like she’s trying to pull you back into something you’re not ready to touch yet.
you blink slowly, once, twice. the world refuses to sharpen. your eyelids feel heavy and your thoughts are lagging, arriving late to a place they never agreed to enter. you reach for the phone anyway.
11:00 a.m.
it stares back at you without judgment. just fact, just consequence.
for a moment, you don’t move. you just lie there, letting awareness return in uneven, dreamy pieces. ceiling first, then sound. then the weight of your own body against unfamiliar bedding. the sheets are tangled in a way that doesn’t feel like sleep— they’re too disrupted, like the night didn’t end so much as it scattered itself across the room and left without cleaning up.
you sit up slowly, and that’s when it becomes real. the room isn't yours, it’s expensive in a way that doesn’t try to prove itself— muted lighting, clean surfaces, furniture placed with intention instead of comfort.
a hotel room.
you look down at yourself, the bathrobe isn't yours either. white, soft, and slightly loosened at the collar, it hangs off you with a quiet, undeniable weight. you don’t ask questions, because some answers are already sitting in your body before your mind catches up.
a breath leaves you. quiet, steadying. it isn't shock; it’s recognition. recognition of gaps. of missing hours, of the kind of night that doesn’t leave explanations—only aftermath.
your gaze drifts across the room and stops.
an envelope.
it’s resting on the bedside table like it belongs there. no drama, no urgency. just placement, finality. you pick it up; it’s heavier than it looks. thick, organized. cash inside— bundled, stacked, too much to feel accidental. thousands folded into neat certainty, the kind of amount that replaces questions with silence. no note, no explanation. just numbers pretending to be closure.
your mind drifts back to the club— to the neon, the bass, and Amber’s voice cutting through the tequila. she was serious, you think, the realization hitting you with a strange, high-dreamy clarity. she was actually serious about the church thing.
“ Fuck... ” you mutter, the word rough against the quiet.
your thumb moves before your thoughts. Amber’s messages are still piling up, a frantic contrast to the stillness of this room.
Amber: where are you??
Amber: don’t tell me you’re still asleep.
Amber: we’re literally going today!!
Amber: the mass starts at 11:30am !!
you glance at the corner of your screen.
11:12 a.m.
for a second, everything else fades— the room, the envelope, the memories you aren't willing to hold in focus. only timing remains. you move faster now, breath sharpening as your fingers type back with zero precision.
im coming wait dnot go inside yt
you don’t fix the typos; you just hit send. you’re already out of bed, gathering yourself in uneven pieces— clothes, hair, breath— whatever you can make functional in under a minute. there is no time to think properly, and no time to look back at the envelope.
the hotel room disappears behind you, left open-ended and unfinished, as if it never needed you to stay a second longer than you already had.
—
your head still doesn’t feel fully yours. it’s like you’re walking slightly behind yourself, watching your body move while your thoughts lag a step too late to correct anything. the world is too bright in places it shouldn’t be, too loud in places it should be quieter.
you’re not fully drunk anymore, but you’re not fully back either.
somewhere in between. half-awake, half-lost, stitched together by urgency and habit and the last scraps of memory you’re still holding onto.
the church is there before you properly register it. stone, height, stillness that feels too clean compared to everything you just came from. people move in and out like they already know where they belong inside it.
and then— Amber.
you don’t see her clearly at first, just movement. arms waving somewhere ahead, too exaggerated, too fast, like she’s trying to pull your attention through layers of fog. her voice reaches you in pieces. your name. again. louder. then something else you don’t fully catch.
then you blink—
you’re already inside the church, sitting.
somewhere in the middle rows where the wood is too polished and the silence feels too intentional, like it’s been trained to behave. the air is colder than it should be, carrying that faint, old scent of stone and incense and something you can’t quite name.
you’re not fully stable in it, not yet. your body is there, yes— feet planted, hands resting somewhere they’re supposed to— but your mind is still lagging behind itself, like it took the wrong turn somewhere earlier and hasn’t caught up.
you don’t remember much; that’s the problem. it comes in fragments instead of continuity. Amber’s voice, flashes of movement, the ride here, the way the city looked too sharp and too slow at the same time, the feeling of being guided rather than deciding. and the alcohol still sitting somewhere behind your eyes, not enough to fully erase you, but enough to make everything feel slightly displaced.
you blink, and the church shifts. not literally, but it feels like it does. the walls seem taller than they were a second ago, or closer. or leaning inward in a way that makes you adjust your posture without thinking.
sounds don’t land properly either. a cough becomes too distant, a whisper feels too long. everything is slightly out of sync with you, like you arrived late to a moment that already started without you. you swallow once, slowly, trying to anchor yourself, trying to make the room behave correctly again just by noticing it harder.
it doesn’t work. it never really does.
and then— something changes.
not in the room, but in your attention. like it’s been pulled, gently but firmly, away from the noise and the distortion. your gaze travels up, past the rows of bowed heads and the flickering candlelight, until it anchors on the figure standing at the altar.
until… you see the priest.
your head is still heavy, the weight of the night pressing behind your eyes, but the blurred edges of the world finally find a place to anchor.
it’s him.
he moves with a quiet, deliberate grace that makes the rest of the room feel clumsy. his hands are steady as they adjust the heavy book on the altar— fingers long, pale, and certain. there is a gravity to him that pulls the light inward, making the stone walls and the flickering candles feel like they were only built to frame him.
you watch him, and for the first time since you woke up in that hotel room, the hazy disconnection starts to peel away.
it isn't a holy feeling. it’s something else—something that feels dangerous in its clarity. you’re still wearing the invisible scent of the penthouse on your skin, the weight of the envelope still sitting in your bag like a secret, and here he is. he looks like a sanctuary and a question all at once.
the thoughts in your head are still tangled, still running too fast for your own good.
he’s a priest? really?
the word feels wrong in your mind when you look at the sharp line of his jaw or the way his hair catches the dim, golden glow of the nave. you feel a sudden, jarring urge to laugh— the kind of laugh that would shatter the silence and get you thrown out. the absurdity of it all hits you: the red silk you were wearing hours ago, the money you haven't counted, and the fact that out of everywhere in this city, Amber dragged you here.
but then he turns.
he hasn't looked at the crowd yet, his focus still seemingly inward, but you feel the shift in the air again. it’s a physical pressure, a silent command that forces you to sit a little straighter in the hard wooden pew.
you’re waiting for him to look up. you’re waiting for the moment he finally scans the rows of faces and finds yours— the one that doesn’t belong, the one still vibrating with the pulse of the club.
you’re waiting to see if the mirror you talked about at the bar is finally going to show itself.
the wooden pew feels solid beneath you, a grounding contrast to the way your mind continues to fray at the edges. you are here, but you are also still partially back in that hotel room, partially lost in the blurring lights of the night before, and the collision of it all makes the air in the nave feel thick— heavy with the scent of beeswax and the weight of a thousand unspoken pleas.
then, he speaks.
his voice isn't a command, yet it pulls at the silence until the silence belongs to him. it’s a smooth, resonant sound, like velvet drawn over stone, vibrating in the hollow of your chest.
as he moves toward the altar, your gaze follows— not with the casual curiosity of a visitor, but with the fixated, unblinking intensity of someone who has just found the only steady point in a spinning room.
the world is still slightly tilted, the edges of the stained glass bleeding colors into the gray stone, but he remains in high definition.
he turns. it’s subtle, a natural part of the liturgy, but his eyes sweep across the congregation with a calm that feels terrifyingly absolute. when they reach your row, they don't slide past.
they stop.
the contact isn't a brush; it’s a collision.
seconds stretch, warping under the weight of his stare. it is a long, quiet look— longer than is polite, longer than is holy. you feel the heat of the morning sun through the high windows, the throb in your temples, and the sudden, sharp awareness of the bathrobe still hidden beneath your hastily thrown-on clothes.
he doesn't look away.
there is something in his expression. not judgment, but a profound, quiet observation, as if he can see the invisible ink of the night before written across your skin. your mind whispers, the rule of soulmates echoing through the haze of the alcohol.
Similar to you. Not in habits, but in the parts you show, and the parts you don’t.
the silence between you is a tether, pulling tighter and tighter until the air feels like it might snap.
a sharp nudge at your ribs breaks the spell.
“ Told you, ” Amber’s voice hissed beside you, a jagged contrast to the sacred quiet.
she’s leaning in, her breath still faintly smelling of last night’s citrus and desperation, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. “ Told you you’d love him. I think half the parish is only here to see if he’s actually real. ”
you don't look at her. you can't. your eyes are still anchored to the front, watching the way his hands— pale, steady, elegant—rest upon the altar.
“ Who is he? ” you ask. your voice sounds foreign to your own ears, stripped of its usual armor, reduced to a low, rough thread of sound.
Amber hums, a small, satisfied noise as she settles back, though her eyes remain on the figure at the front.
“ Father Chrollo, ” she whispers, the name sliding out like a secret. “ Chrollo Lucilfer. Can you believe it? Same age as us, too. it’s a total waste, right? ”
she pauses, her tone shifting into something more thoughtful, more puzzled.
“ Everyone wonders why he did it. Why someone like him would choose to shut himself away in a place like this. He’s got that look, hasn't he? Like he knows something the rest of us don’t. Or like he’s hiding something even God hasn't found yet. ”
you watch Father Chrollo as he bows his head, the dark cross on his forehead a stark mark against his skin. he is composed, a masterpiece of restraint and shadow.
Chrollo.
the name settles in your mind, heavy and permanent. you think of the envelope in your bag, the money you didn’t count, and the efficiency you praised just hours ago. you think of the way he looked at you, as if neatness could undo what’s already been done— and suddenly, the church doesn't feel like a sanctuary anymore.
it feels like a mirror.
beside you, Amber is already drifting, her attention caught by someone else, her mind moving on to the next distraction. but you remain locked in the stillness, watching the priest who looks like a sin and breathes like a prayer, wondering if the universe is finally done being quiet.
because if like calls to like... then what exactly did he see when he looked at you?
—
the weeks bleed into a singular, sharp routine.
you trade the velvet of the night for the hard oak of the front row. the transition isn't loud; it’s a quiet, rhythmic shedding of skin. you stop answering the late-night pings from numbers that only know you by a price tag. you start leaving the club before the sun even thinks about coming up, just so your eyes aren't bloodshot when you catch the first light hitting the cathedral’s spire.
from the front, the view is different. you aren't just watching a priest; you’re watching the way his hands never shake when he lifts the chalice, the way his shadow stretches long and demanding across the altar. you’re close enough now to see the slight rise and fall of his chest, the minute shift in his expression when he reads from the heavy, gold-edged book.
and he sees you.
he doesn't have to say a word for the air between the pulpit and the pew to feel charged. every time he turns, every time he raises his gaze to address the room, his eyes find that specific spot in the front row. it’s a silent tally, he’s counting your arrivals. he’s noting the way your posture has straightened, the way the expensive, reckless edge of your clothes has softened into something more deliberate.
you’re a fixture now. a piece of the architecture he has to acknowledge every time he breathes.
the invitations to the efficiency of the city still come, buzzing in your bag, but they feel like echoes from a different life. you don't look at the screen, you just look at him, sitting there in the heavy silence of the incense, waiting for a sign that the recognition in his eyes is more than just a trick of the light.
you’re playing a different kind of game now. one where the currency isn't folded in an envelope, and the stakes haven't been named yet.
behind you, the church is full of people praying for forgiveness. but up here, in the front row, you’re just waiting to see who blinks first.
—
the bass in the club is a physical weight, thumping against your skull in a way that feels increasingly abrasive compared to the hollow, cool silence of the nave. you’re holding a drink. something bright, something sharp— but you haven't touched it in twenty minutes.
Amber leans in, her shoulder bumping yours with a playful, jagged force. she’s three drinks ahead and looking at you with a mixture of amusement and genuine exasperation.
“ You're doing it again, ” she shouts over the music, gesturing to your far-off expression. “ Mm... that sacred look. It doesn't suit you, it really doesn't. ”
You blink, pulling yourself back to the neon and the sweat. “ I'm just tired, Amber. ”
“ Tired of what? The nightlife? Or tired of waiting for a miracle? ” she snorts, sliding her glass along the sticky condensation of the bar. “ I told you he was hot, not that he was a lifestyle change. You're becoming a regular saint, and it's making me look like the local demon by comparison. ”
she laughs, but there’s a flicker of something real in her eyes— a small, growing annoyance at the space that has opened up between your routines.
“ Look at us, ” she continues, waving a hand between your modest posture and her own loose, low-cut dress. “ It’s like an altar boy took a wrong turn into a den of iniquity. We used to be a matched set. Now? I’m worried you’re going to start confessing my sins along with yours. ”
she leans closer, her voice dropping beneath the frequency of the music, sharp and teasing.
“ Is he really worth the boredom? Because the ' angel ' act is fine for an hour on Sundays, but out here? ”
you look at the liquid in your glass, the neon lights reflecting on the surface like fractured stained glass. for a second, the club feels like a stage set— loud, bright, and fundamentally temporary.
“️ I'm not an angel, Amber, ” you murmur, finally taking a sip. it tastes like ash.
“️ Good, ” she says, her grin returning, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes.
“ your priest? He’s not going to save you from being bored on a Saturday night. ”
the cold realization hits like a physical weight, settling deep in your gut where the logic of the rule finally starts to sharpen. if he is the reflection, then the mirror is distorted. he stands at the altar, hands clean and steady, offering salvation to the broken, while you spend your nights in the dark, offering yourself up to the same hunger he’s trying to cure. he is the light that promises to fix them; you are the darkness that confirms they are beyond saving. two sides of the same transactional coin— one taking their sins, the other taking their money.
the thought is too loud. it’s too heavy for a saturday night.
you reach for the tray, and before Amber can even finish her sentence, you’ve downed three margaritas in a row. the salt stings, the lime burns, and the tequila starts to blur the edges of the room back into that familiar, messy static.
Amber’s eyes go wide, her glass pausing halfway to her mouth as she stares at you in genuine shock.
“ Geez, ” she says, her voice cutting through the bass with a jagged, high-pitched laugh. “ I was trying to help you snap out of it, not turn you into a divorced wife whose hot priest husband just left her for the church. ”
she shakes her head, leaning closer to check your pupils in the flickering strobe light.
“ I meant have fun, not drown yourself because the guy in the robes isn't coming home to tuck you in. Drink water, for god's sake. You look like you’re mourning a life you haven't even lost yet. ”
you don't answer. you just wave for another round, the neon reflecting in your eyes like small, fractured fires. the angel is gone, dissolved in agave and spite. out here, in the noise, you’re back to being exactly what the city paid for.
but even as the fourth glass touches your lips, you can’t help but wonder if he’s still awake in that quiet, stone room, praying for the exact kind of person you’ve just decided to become again.
—
the world no longer became solid. it’s a smear of neon and static, a sequence of strobe-lit heartbeats that pulse behind your eyes like a warning. the bass isn't a sound anymore; it’s a thick, warm liquid filling your lungs, dragging you under until the air tastes like sugar and sweat.
you’re moving, but the floor feels like it’s made of water.
one moment, you’re alone in the noise, and the next, there is a weight against you. heat, a body that smells like expensive cigarettes and cold intent. he’s handsome in a way that feels jagged, all sharp jawlines and eyes that don’t look at you so much as they look through you, calculating the worth of the skin he’s touching. you should care, you should feel the predatory tilt of his smile, but your mind is drifting, floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching yourself sway in his arms.
he’s too close, impossibly close. the distance between your breath and his is a thin, trembling line that’s already beginning to dissolve.
through the haze, you see Amber.
she’s a ghost in the crowd, a flickering shape of panic. she’s calling your name, her mouth moving in slow, exaggerated arcs, but the sound never reaches you. she’s trying to push through the bodies, but the air around her looks heavy, like she’s swimming through honey, reaching out a hand that stays perpetually inches away from your shoulder. she’s a memory trying to happen, but the present is too loud.
you feel dizzy. the room spins, the colors bleeding into a single, blinding white.
you blink.
suddenly, the face inches from yours isn't jagged anymore. the predatory smile softens into something profound, something holy. the dark, loose hair. the calm, terrifying absolute of those eyes.
it’s the priest, Chrollo.
the strobe lights turn into the flickering glow of prayer candles. the smell of sweat becomes the heady, thick scent of incense. his hand on your waist feels like a blessing and a sin all at once, his thumb tracing the line of your hip with a devastating, quiet precision. he’s leaning in, his gaze anchored to yours, pulling you into a space where the church and the club are the same thing— a place for devotion, a place for ruin.
your heart stutters, a frantic, euphoric mess in your chest. you’re so close now. the tip of his nose brushes yours, a ghost of a touch that sends a jolt of electricity through the tequila-soaked fog. you want it. you want the collision. you want to find out if he tastes like wine or like shadows.
his lips part, just a fraction.
snap.
the vision breaks. the incense vanishes, replaced by the sour sting of the club. Chrollo’s face shatters like glass, and the hot guy’s mouth is there instead— wet, expectant, wrong.
the euphoria turns into a cold, sharp spike of adrenaline.
you shove him. it’s not a graceful move; it’s a panicked, clumsy flail that sends you stumbling backward into the crowd. your lungs finally find air, and it burns.
you run, you don’t look for Amber. you just push through the wall of bodies, your heels clicking unevenly against the floor as the dizziness tries to pull you back down. the exit sign is a red blur, a beckoning wound in the dark.
you hit the street and the cold air slaps you across the face, but you don't stop. you run until your breath is a ragged sob, until the moon is behind you and the silence of the city starts to settle. your head is spinning, a high-speed reel of priest’s eyes and the clink of money and the weight of that white bathrobe.
you’re still high, still drifting, but the mirror is back. and for the first time, you’re terrified of what’s waiting for you in the front row tomorrow morning.
—
the church doors are heavy, too heavy, but you shove through them with a desperation that doesn’t care about being quiet. inside, the air is a cold, sharp slap to your lungs, smelling of centuries of stone and the lingering, sweet rot of incense.
you don’t look at the altar, you can’t.
your feet move on their own, stumbling slightly on the polished floor as you head for the shadows of the side aisle. the confessional booth stands there like a dark, wooden ribcage, waiting to swallow the things people are too ashamed to say in the light.
you slip inside. the door clicks shut, and the world vanishes.
it’s small. cramped. the darkness is thick, pressing against your skin like the bathrobe from the hotel, like the red silk from the club. you sink onto the bench, your knees hitting the wood with a dull thud. the alcohol is still a warm, chaotic hum in your blood, making the tiny space feel like it’s swaying on the surface of the ocean.
your heart is a frantic bird trapped in your ribs. then, the small wooden slide moves.
the screen is there— a mesh barrier that hides his face but lets the heat of his presence bleed through. you can’t see him, but you know. the air in the booth changes instantly. it becomes still, it becomes focused.
you don’t wait for the greeting. you don’t wait for the prayer.
“ I saw a ghost tonight, ” you whisper.
your voice is a jagged thread, raw from the club’s smoke and the tequila’s burn. you lean your forehead against the screen, the cool metal biting into your skin.
“ I was in the dark. I was… working. and there was someone there. a man. he was touching me, and the lights were flashing, and suddenly… it wasn’t him. ” you swallow hard, the taste of salt and lime still ghosting on your tongue.
“ I saw a face that didn’t belong there. I saw someone holy in a place that’s built for ruin. It felt like a hallucination, but it was clearer than anything else in the room. It felt like… like he was watching me. ”
the silence on the other side of the screen is absolute. it isn’t the empty silence of a room; it’s the heavy, weighted silence of someone who is listening with their entire soul. you can hear the faint, rhythmic sound of his breathing— steady, controlled, a perfect mirror to your own frantic gasps.
“ I’m not supposed to see things like that, ” you breathe, your eyes stinging in the dark. “ I’m supposed to be the one who doesn’t blink. I’m the one people pay so they don’t have to feel guilty. But tonight… The ghost wouldn’t let me go. He looked at me like he knew exactly what I was. Like we were the same. ”
you stop. the words are out, hanging in the narrow space between you. the alcohol makes you bold, makes you reach out a hand to touch the mesh of the screen, your fingertips inches away from where his shadow sits.
“ Forgive me, ” you murmur, the words sounding more like a challenge than a plea. “ for seeing things that aren't there. Or for finally seeing the one thing that is. ”
a long moment passes. the silence stretches until it feels like the wood of the booth might crack under the pressure.
and then, a voice— low, resonant, and so familiar it makes your blood turn to ice—drifts through the screen.
“ The things we see in the dark are rarely ghosts, ” he says, the words slow and deliberate. “ They are usually just the parts of ourselves we haven't found a place for yet. ”
the screen doesn't slide back. the silence returns, but it’s different now. it’s a confirmation.
the slide doesn’t close.
that’s the first thing your alcohol-thinned blood registers— the sound of the wooden panel staying open, leaving that small, mesh-covered window into his world gaping wide.
his voice is still humming in the air, a low frequency that makes your skin prickle under your clothes. the parts of ourselves we haven't found a place for yet. it’s too quiet. it’s too honest.
a sudden, violent wave of nausea hits you, but it isn’t the tequila— it’s the weight of being seen. you’ve spent your life being a shadow, a transaction, a surface for other people to project their needs onto. but through that screen, he didn’t look at the surface.
you stand up so fast your knees knock against the wooden bench. the sound is like a gunshot in the silent church.
“ I have to go, ” you choke out, though you aren't sure if you say it out loud or if it just echoes in your skull.
you fumble for the handle of the narrow door, your fingers slick with a cold sweat.
you burst out of the booth like you’re escaping a fire, your heels skidding on the stone floor. for a split second, you catch a glimpse of the priest’s side of the confessional— a sliver of shadow, the edge of a white sleeve— and you bolt.
you don’t look back. you run past the rows of pews, past the flickering vigil lights that look like judgmental eyes, and heave your weight against the massive oak entrance.
the dawn air hits you— sharp, freezing, and honest. it cuts through the tequila fog, making your lungs ache, but you don't stop running until you're a full block away. you stop, gasping, your heart a frantic bird trapped in your ribcage.
you reach for your bag, your fingers shaking as you dig for your phone, your keys— anything to prove you’re back in the real world. your hand brushes the side pocket, the unzipped one.
keys, phone, envelope.
but something is missing.
your thumb drags along the lining, searching for the smooth, heavy weight of the cylinder that’s always there. your red lipstick in the shade divine wine. your signature, your armor, your effeciency in the city.
you freeze, the world spinning in a slow, sickening circle. the realization hits you with the force of a physical blow, leaving you breathless.
you didn't just leave your sins in that booth, you left your trace.
on the cold, wooden bench of that confessional, in the dust and the shadows of a holy place, sits a bold, red lipstick. a smear of vanity. a piece of the night that isn't supposed to exist in the daylight.
you stare back at the church’s massive stone arches, distant and judgmental against the dawn. inside, he’s going to slide that wooden screen back. he’s going to step out into the aisle. and his pale, steady hands— the ones that handle the gold chalice— are going to pick it up.
he’s going to look at it. he’s going to know the shape of your mouth without ever having seen your face.
and suddenly, the church doesn't feel like a sanctuary. it feels like a cage, and you just locked the key inside.
—
the silence that follows the slamming of the heavy oak doors is different than the silence before you arrived. it’s bruised, it’s vibrating with the ghost of your frantic breathing and the sharp, chemical scent of your panic.
Chrollo remains still behind the screen for a long moment. he doesn't move to close the slide, he doesn't offer a final blessing to the empty air. he simply sits in the dark, his hands folded in his lap, listening to the way the church seems to exhume the remnants of your confession.
a face that didn’t belong there.
he knows he should feel the weight of his collar, the gravity of the vows that sit like lead in his bones. but instead, he feels a pull— a tether tightening in the center of his chest. he had seen you every sunday, a splash of expensive, restless color in the front row. he had counted your breaths from the pulpit. and now, you had come to him in the dark, smelling of rain and agave and something far more honest than prayer.
he stands slowly, his white robes whispering against the wood. he steps out of his side of the booth, the dim morning light filtering through the high windows and catching the dust motes dancing in the aisle.
he moves to your door. it’s still slightly opened, a silent invitation to the chaos you left behind. Chrollo reaches out, his fingers brushing the polished wood before he pushes it open.
the booth is small, cramped, and still warm from her presence. he looks down at the bench where you sat, where you trembled, where you spilled the secrets you thought were yours alone.
there, resting in the corner against the dark velvet cushion, is the trace. it’s a small, weighted cylinder of gold and black. it looks violent against the somber tones of the confessional— a jagged piece of the world outside, brought into the silence.
Chrollo leans down, his pale fingers closing around it. it’s cold, but as he brings it into the light, he sees the smear of red along the cap. a bold, defiant crimson. the color of a wound, or a promise.
he doesn't put it in the lost and found. he doesn't leave it for the sexton to find during the morning rounds.
instead, he unscrews the cap with a slow, rhythmic precision. the wax is pristine, carved into a sharp, elegant point. he brings it closer to his face, catching the faint, artificial scent of vanilla and roses—the smell of the armor you wear when you navigate the dark.
he thinks of the way you looked at him through the screen, your voice stripped of its defense. he thinks of the ghost you saw in the club.
Chrollo traces the edge of the gold casing with his thumb, his expression unreadable, settled in that calm, terrifying absolute. he knows you will come back. not for the money she likely hasn't missed yet, and not for the salvation he’s supposed to offer.
you’ll come back for the part of yourself you left in his hands.
he slides the lipstick into the deep pocket of his cassock, the weight of it settling against his hip. as he turns toward the altar to begin the morning mass, his fingers remain curled around the cool metal.
the mirror has finally been held up. and he isn't planning on letting it go.
—
it’s a jarring kind of quiet when you finally step out of your apartment.
usually, there is a ritual to your armor. the deliberate click of the lipstick tube, the way the pigment coats your mouth in a sharp, defensive line of red— it’s the final seal on the version of you that the city is allowed to see. but this morning, the ritual is broken. your vanity is a graveyard of things that feel like lies now.
you left the apartment feeling half-finished.
the plain, charcoal dress hangs on your frame with a sobriety that feels heavy. it hits just above the knee, modest and unremarkable, a far cry from the silk and shadows of your usual nights. you didn't even use a brush to tame your hair into its usual sleek precision; you just tied it back, leaving your face completely open.
walking to the church, you feel a phantom itch on your lips.
every person you pass on the sidewalk feels like a threat. you’re convinced they can see the missing color, that they’re noticing the paleness of your skin and the dark circles under your eyes that no concealer is hiding today. you feel small, you feel like a ghost that accidentally wandered into the daylight.
it’s just a face, you tell yourself, your heart thumping a jagged rhythm against your ribs. people walk around with bare faces every day. it doesn't mean anything.
but you know it means everything. it means you’re coming to him without a price tag, it means you’re coming to him as the person who stumbled into that booth and begged a stranger for a reason to stop seeing ghosts.
by the time you reach the heavy oak doors of the cathedral, you’re lightheaded. the cold air stings your unpainted skin. you want to turn around. you want to run back to the vanity and paint the red back on until you feel powerful again.
but then you think of the gold cylinder sitting in his pocket, he already knows what’s under the paint.
you take a breath, feeling the raw, stinging clarity of the morning, and you push the door open. you aren't the efficiency of the city today. you’re just a woman in a plain dress, walking toward the front row to see if the mirror is going to break you or save you.
—
the church is a cavern of cold stone and suffocating expectation.
the air is thick, weighted with the scent of beeswax and the collective breath of hundreds of people looking for a way to be better than they are. you sit in the front row, your hands tucked into your lap to hide the way they’re shaking. you feel the absence of the red on your lips like a physical wound— exposed, pale, and raw. you are a blank canvas in a room full of icons.
the rustle of the congregation settles into a heavy, expectant hush as he ascends the steps.
Chrollo moves with a terrifying kind of grace. his white robes follow him like a shadow that has finally decided to take shape. he reaches the pulpit, his hands resting on the carved wood. he doesn't look at the scriptures, he doesn't look at the rafters.
he looks at you.
“ We are a people of masks, ” he begins.
his voice is a low, resonant frequency that pulls at the very center of your chest. it isn't a shout; it’s a secret shared with a thousand people, yet meant for only one.
“ We spend our days polishing the surfaces we show to the world. We paint ourselves in colors that signal our worth, our beauty, our efficiency. We build these altars of vanity so that no one sees the ruins behind them. We use our appearance as a shield, a way to move through the world without ever truly being touched. ”
he leans forward slightly, the light from the high windows catching the calm, absolute darkness of his eyes.
“ But what happens when the mask is lost? ”
the question hangs in the air, cold and demanding. you feel the blood rush to your face, your bare lips tingling as if his gaze is physically brushing against them.
“ What happens when we are forced to stand in the light without our armor? When the traces of our night— the traces of our true selves— are left behind in the dark for someone else to find? ”
he pauses, his hand sliding down to the pocket of his cassock. you see the slight, weighted movement of the fabric. you know exactly what his fingers are touching. the gold. the black. the red.
“ Most would flee, ” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper that carries to the back of the cathedral. “ Most would run from the recognition. They would rather be lost in their lies than found in their truth. They fear the mirror because they fear that the person looking back isn't an angel, but a ghost seeking a place to rest. ”
he holds your gaze, his expression unreadable, a masterpiece of sacred restraint.
“ But there is a strange kind of freedom in being unmasked. When you have nothing left to hide behind, you are finally capable of being known. And once you are known... You can finally be claimed. ”
he breaks the contact then, turning his head to bless the rest of the room as if the last two minutes hadn't been a surgical strike on your soul.
“ In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit. ”
the congregation murmurs the response, a dull roar of habit, but you remain silent. you are anchored to the wood of the pew, your heart hammering against your ribs. he didn't just give a sermon. he just told you that he has your mask, he has your secret, and he isn't going to let you hide anymore.
the mass continues, but for you, the world has narrowed down to the weight in his pocket and the terrifying clarity of his eyes.
—
the organ music fades into a low, ghostly hum, and the heavy thud of the oak doors signals the departure of the last parishioner. the cathedral is suddenly cavernous, filled only with the scent of cold stone and the dying light of the afternoon sun.
you don’t move. you’re anchored to the front pew, your fingers digging into the worn wood. you feel small in your plain dress, your face feeling strangely cold and naked without your usual mask of makeup.
then, you hear it. the slow, rhythmic click of shoes against the marble.
Chrollo descends the altar steps. he’s stripped away the heavy gold vestments, standing now in a simple white cassock that makes him look like a shadow that has finally decided to take a human form.
he doesn't go to the sacristy, he walks straight toward you.
the air between you charges with a terrifying, electric stillness. as he stops a few feet away, you feel the heat radiating from him, a sharp contrast to the chill of the church.
he reaches into his pocket. his hand emerges, and between his long, steady fingers sits the gold and black cylinder of your lipstick. he holds it out, the light catching the tiny smear of crimson on the cap— a stain of your sin in his holy hands.
“ I believe this belongs to you, ” he says.
his voice is lower than it was during the sermon, stripped of its public authority and replaced with a dark, intimate resonance.
you’re frozen, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. a priest, this priest, standing inches away, returning a piece of your night-life. the shock is a cold rush, but beneath it, a spark of jagged excitement catches fire.
“ I... yes. Thank you, ” you breathe, your voice sounding small in the vastness of the hall.
you reach out to take it, but he doesn't let go immediately. he holds it for a second longer than necessary, forcing your fingers to brush against his cool skin. his eyes— dark, bottomless, and entirely too observant— trace the lines of your face. he lingers on your mouth, noting the pale, unpainted curve of your lips.
a small, unreadable smile touches the corner of his mouth.
“ You should leave it off more often, ” he murmurs, his gaze locking onto yours with a weight that feels like a physical touch. “ There is something... refreshingly natural about you today. Most people spend their lives trying to hide what is beautiful because they are afraid it is actually broken. ”
the compliment is a blade wrapped in silk. he’s talking about your face, but you can feel the double meaning vibrating in the air. he’s talking about the ghost you confessed, he’s talking about the fact that he saw through your armor the moment you stepped into that booth.
he finally lets go of the lipstick, his hand returning to his side, but the tether he’s wrapped around you doesn't slacken.
“ The light suits you, ” he adds, his voice dropping an octave. “ It’s much harder to lie when the sun is up, isn't it? ”
the echoes of the departing crowd have finally bled into the stone, leaving a silence so heavy it feels like it’s pressing the air out of your lungs.
Chrollo doesn't move. he stays standing in the center of the aisle, the white of his gown a stark, blinding contrast to the dark, polished wood of the pews. he looks like a monument of purity, yet the way he watches you— silent, patient, and entirely too still— feels like a trap closing in.
you’re still standing by your seat, your fingers white-knuckled around the lipstick. the oh god realization is screaming in your head now, you are alone in a locked church with a man who just dismantled your entire identity from a pulpit. you look at your plain dress, your bare hands, your unpainted lips, and you feel like an intruder.
he doesn't speak for a long time. he just lets the quiet do the work, watching the way your chest heaves with every shallow breath. he is studying the natural version of you, the one that doesn't have the red armor to hide behind.
“ It is much quieter now. ” his voice is a low hum that seems to travel through the floorboards rather than the air.
“ The church has a way of holding onto the truth once the noise stops. Do you feel it? ”
he takes a single step closer, he isn't rushing. he’s moving with the deliberate grace of someone who knows you have nowhere else to go. the white of his sleeve brushes against the edge of a pew, a soft, sliding sound that feels like a thunderclap in the stillness.
“ I think... I should leave. ”
you whisper, the words catching in your throat. you take a half-step back, your heel clicking sharply against the marble.
Chrollo tilts his head, a small, unreadable shadow of a smile touching his face.
“ And yet, your feet haven't moved toward the door. ” he stops, still a respectful distance away, but the space between you feels electrified.
“ Tell me. ”
“ Are you waiting for me to give you a penance? or are you waiting for me to tell you that the ghost you saw in the dark... was never really a ghost at all? ”
the shift in his voice is what finally breaks the spell.
it isn't the practiced, melodic resonance he uses to comfort the grieving or the rhythmic lilt of the liturgy. it’s a dry, sharp, and dangerously grounded sound. it’s the voice of a man who has seen exactly what you have seen, stripped of the divine and left only with the cold reality of the flesh.
you flinch, the sound of your own heart is like a drum in the cavernous silence of the nave. the weight of your unpainted face and the plainness of your dress suddenly feel like an admission of guilt you weren't ready to make.
“ ...Sorry father. ”
the words tumble out, breathless and jagged. you take a clumsy step back, your hand instinctively flying to your mouth as if to shield the pale lips he was just studying. you look everywhere but at him—the altar, the flickering candles, the dust motes—anywhere but the blinding white of his gown.
Chrollo doesn't move to follow you. instead, he lets out a breath that might have been a laugh in another life. a small, genuine smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, softening the predatory edge of his features just enough to be disarming.
“ No need to apologize. ” he murmurs, his voice returning to that low, intimate hum.
“ I should be the one to thank you. Most people come here to be told what they want to hear. It is rare that someone is honest enough to force me to be direct. ”
he tilts his head, his dark eyes shimmering with a quiet, terrifying sort of amusement.
“ You have a gift for stripping away the theater, don't you? It’s a very... persuasive quality. ”
the air in the nave feels static, humming with the weight of the things he isn't saying. you shift your weight, the fabric of your plain dress rustling against your legs, and the sound feels loud, clumsy, and entirely too human.
it’s awkward— this lingering silence between a priest in white and a woman who feels like she’s standing in the middle of a spotlight with no clothes on.
you don't know how to look at him, so you just nod, a quick, jerky motion that sends a stray lock of hair over your shoulder.
“ ...I have to go, Father. ”
you mutter, finally finding the strength to break the invisible tether holding you to the floor. you don't wait for him to step aside; you just start moving toward the back of the church, your shoes clicking a frantic rhythm against the marble.
Chrollo doesn't follow. he simply turns his head slightly, watching your retreat with that same calm, terrifyingly patient expression. his hands disappear into the wide, snowy sleeves of his gown, his posture settling into something almost peaceful.
“ Take care of yourself. ” he calls out, his voice soft enough that it barely reaches you, yet clear enough to make you pause for a heartbeat near the heavy oak doors.
“ I’ll see you next week. ”
the promise— or the threat— hangs in the air long after you’ve pushed through the doors and escaped into the noise of the city. you don't look back to see if he's still watching, but you can still feel the weight of his gaze, a cold, white shadow that follows you all the way home.
—
the apartment is a graveyard of the person you used to be. you stand in front of the bathroom mirror, the harsh overhead light spilling across your shoulders and reflecting off the plain, charcoal fabric of your dress. the silence is absolute, yet it feels like it’s screaming.
you look at the woman in the glass. her skin is pale, her eyes are tired, and her lips are a soft, naturally pale pink— the way they looked when he was standing inches away from you, his white gown reflecting the ghost of a light you didn’t think you deserved.
You should put it on.
the thought is a reflex, a desperate reach for a safety blanket that has already been burned. your fingers brush against the gold cylinder of the lipstick on the marble counter. it’s cold. it’s heavy. it’s the final piece of the armor you’ve worn for years to survive the city, the efficiency, the people who only love the paint.
you uncap the tube. the scent of it— waxy, expensive, and artificial— fills your nose. you raise it to your mouth, the crimson pigment hovering just millimeters away from your skin.
Why are your hands shaking?
you stare at your own reflection, but you don't see yourself. you see the way his dark eyes traced the curve of your mouth as if he were reading a poem written in a language only he understood.
the memory of his voice isn't a comfort; it’s a sentence. you look at your bare lips in the mirror and you don't see nothing anymore. you see the person he claimed. you see the raw, exposed truth he pulled out of you without even trying.
you try to press the color to your lip, but your hand stops. the red looks garish now. it looks like a wound. it looks like a desperate, bloody scream for attention that you no longer have the energy to give.
you set the lipstick down. it rolls slightly, the gold catching the light before settling into a still, heavy silence. you look back at the mirror— at the tired eyes and the unpainted mouth— and you feel a terrifying sense of vertigo.
the mask is broken. and the worst part is, you don't even want to fix it.
your eyes drop to the lipstick one last time. you notice a small, dark smudge on the very top of the gold cap— something you hadn't seen in the dim light of the church.
it’s a fingerprint. a single, perfect smudge of charcoal or ash, right where he held it. he didn't just find it in a pew. he had to have been holding it for a long time, watching you, waiting for the moment to hand it back.
you realize then that the doors of the church weren't locked to keep people out. they were locked to keep you in. and as you look at the fingerprint, you realize it isn't a mark of return— it’s a mark of ownership.
and,
I'll see you next week.
don't sound like a goodbye anymore. they sound like a countdown.
VERSE ll WILL BE RELEASED AFTER 30 LIKES
© 2026 by lycheepetals. all rights reserved.
this is a work of fiction. any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not intended. all characters depicted are not owned by me and belong to their respective creators. this work is purely fictional and for illustrative purposes only.
art is from @thief0, used with permission. don't use w/o permission and obviously don't steal. check out their works ! everything is a masterpiece ^^
UGHHH I love the concept of Chrollo as a priest😩😩 seeing this masterpiece made me feel... well feelings I could not find proper words to say. ( skipped 2 nights of sleep for this ) this art is such a masterpiece, seriously! this is how I'd imagine Chrollo to be, and the lighting and details? oh... don't get me started.
yeah I made reader go crazy after 2 interactions with Chrollo, I mean I'd feel the same. You probably would too... I lowkey got carried away with my feelings, its starting to sound like Chrollo x Author.. I hope none of you noticed...
if I saw Chrollo as a priest, I might start a lifestyle change aswell. 👅
BUT DON'T WORRY. we are far from over with this Priest Chrollo madness. this is just the beggining, and expect more plots and happenings ;) I'll try to stretch this out as long as I can if anyone would like.
also sorry if there are mistakes regarding the details of church, I go to church but like a regular person, I don't know all the details and names of stuffs.
