#el.

el capitxn ;

call me el, call me jang or don't call me at all.

mysterious korean vampire who produces music and travels the world. can probably be found attempting to smoke half a pack of cigarettes before the night is over. if I'm not doing that, you can catch me trying to find a coffee or attempting to sleep for more than three hours.

father feofan has been here all your life. that’s what you tell yourself. that’s what everyone seems to believe. but really, it’s odd. he isn’t in any of the village’s records until a few years ago. your neighbors considered it an odd and offensive mistake and promptly corrected it, changing the records of the past to suit the present. no one could agree on when he arrived, and he’d always simply laugh almost sheepishly and admit he forgot when he arrived, too, but certainly it’s been many years.

he’s well-traveled and even better spoken. he poured unfathomable amounts of money into the town— wise investments in his youth, he says. as money is the root of all evil, it is only right, then, for him to be rid of it— and to help correct the evils in the world in the meantime. scarcity is a thing of the past in your little hometown now. people have started to come from neighboring villages to live and work here too and join in the prosperity, and father feofan welcomes them all with open arms.

his doctrine is different from what you expect from the church— equivalent exchange, he says, ought to be the way the world works. we must put in good to receive good. sins only make it harder for us to receive good in the long run.

no one can every quite remember the full contents of his sermons each week, just the gist of them. no one recalls a quote or exact words. you all stopped questioning it long ago.

stranger to newcomers though is that once a week, he proclaims one villager “chosen by god” and they must reside with him at the church until the next proclamation. this week he has chosen you.

you don’t remember much of it. you walk through the door and he speaks softly and your mind goes fuzzy, his voice echoes in your head the way it does in church, and he gently pressed a glass of communion wine to your lips.

“tell me, my dear lamb,” he says softly, “what sins have you to confess?”

you don’t even realize you’re speaking when you answer— “i… have had sinful thoughts about you, father.”

“my, my. no wonder i was told to take you in. such a thing must have caused you much distress, has it not?”

you nod. his eyes open, just a bit. perhaps it’s odd not to do this confession in a booth…? but you can’t quite think.

“very well, then. i know of a special ritual that can alleviate these thoughts, but it will require your utmost trust in me. can you do that, dear lamb?”

again, you nod— and so you don’t question it when he lies you down upon the altar. you don’t question it when his hands wander below your clothes— how did he know you thought so often of his hands on those exact spots, touching you just so…?

you don’t have a moment to think of fear as he sinks his fangs into your neck. your body floods with heat and your head spins. your vision goes fuzzy—

“you must try to stay conscious, dear lamb. the ritual has only just begun.”

el. - Styles