#fenrico

Heels clicked against the pristine floor as your legs carried you closer, and closer, to none other than your mentor.

Fenrico.

Imperator’s chosen one, divinity’s messenger.

The embodiment of temptation.

He, who had rescued you, given you shelter. He–who was your blessing and your curse, your savior–was a devil in disguise.

To fall from grace as an acolyte demanded a price too steep for you to pay. You knew exactly what would happen if you refused the Enlightened One.

In return for his selfless generosity, he had but one simple request.

Meet the Primus in the evening, after all acolytes had retired to their quarters.

So there you were, walking into the Primus’s private chambers, deep within the cathedral, which most acolytes had never glimpsed during their lifetime.

“Primus.”

Dark lashes fluttered open, revealing a pair of contrasting, pale blues. A sharp gaze, honed by years of experience—bonds and betrayals, calamities and outbreaks. Reverence and disdain.

He was loathed by many, but revered by many more.

“You came.”

Abiding by his orders, as always. A good, obedient little acolyte.

He didn’t stand. His left hand extended toward you—an invitation—one you didn’t refuse, couldn’t refuse, hadn’t refused in the past few weeks.

As much as you hated to admit it, pushing the lingering guilt aside, you enjoyed it—every second of your nightly rendezvous—his hands exploring your curves settling beneath the fabric, lips trailing kisses from your neck down to your chest, heavy breaths marking desire upon your skin.

The golden hem of your robe swept across the floor as you approached, walking closer Further into his room, deeper into the shadows. Moonlight spilled through the windows, mingling with the curtains, the autumn wind blowing in an icy delight. Yet, your body only grew warmer.

He stared at you, gaze unwavering, waiting. He knew you couldn’t run. You had no escape, no luxury to refuse and break this arrangement, for death would be your only way out—a humiliating one at that, through a pilgrimage sail.

Your limbs refused to move, frozen like a deer in headlights. Helplessness, guilt, desire– swirled into a sweet and savory cocktail inside your mind, leaving a confusing aftertaste behind. You inhaled, breath trembling. Then, you stumbled forward, unlike the graceful walk you were planning.

Once you stepped within his reach, gloved fingers clasped around your smaller ones, pulling you closer. Fenrico sat up straight. With a gentle tug, he urged you to straddle his lap, right hand caressing your thighs.

Your breaths slowed down, so did time in this sanctuary– where two souls intertwined in a devil's tango.

You felt large, slender fingers splayed across your back. Not control, not possession, no.

Admiration is a word for it. But another dangled at the tip of your tongue, never braving to take the leap, nagging at the back of your mind for some reason– worship.

He slipped off your cloak. Piece by piece, your robes came undone, lying a pool of silk at his feet. His eyes raked across your moonlit, bare body–shivering in cold, and perhaps, excitement–in his arms.

So fragile, and soft, and utterly precious.

If you'd paid attention, you'd have caught the faintest, quietest sigh he lets on every time while unravelling you, like unveiling a sacred relic. But your mind remained elsewhere. It was evident by your lack of response and the glossy, unfocused look in your eyes. He didn't like it.

He almost felt hurt, upset at the feelings of negligence and carelessness. Was he not worthy of the least bit of your attention?

"Look at me."

You did, attention lazily gliding over his broad, squared shoulders as they relaxed at your acknowledgement.

'Pathetic', you thought.

You wondered who'd come out on top if you were to compare between you and him based on pitifulness.

A deep, low hum of approval vibrated through his chest, a reward for your compliance. He lifted a hand to your cheek, cupping your face as the other one laced itself around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest.

A sigh escaped your lips at the feeling of his hard panes against your softer curves. The foam dipped underneath your combined weight as he leaned back on the plush sofa holding you. Laboured breaths mingled together. Your gaze locked on his lips.

A long, painful minute passed by. He was taking his sweet time, building up the pressure, eyes dragging over your face like a lover's farewell. Every night, it only seemed to get longer, as if your encounters grew into something meaningful, something deeper; intimate, even.

It scared you, more than the early times when you were fucked senseless by a lust-crazed lunatic, a man of the cloth falling from his high throne of vows and values.

It was safer that way.

This? This was dangerous, an absolute threat to your mind and soul.

His lips pressed into yours. Slow. Tantalizing. With such tenderness you'd only expect from the devout of a goddess.

As the night draped the cathedral in shadows, he whispered your name like a silent prayer.

It confused you. He confused you–when he prolonged your meetings, not just the nightly rendezvous; what he's done to save your skin in both trivial and crucial matters; how he himself knocked on your door when you hadn't showed up for a meal once-

Why, you never dared to ask. Not him, nor yourself. The possibilities of a particular answer–the possibility of deeper feelings, perhaps, love, had crossed your mind countless of times, leaving you terrified.

And so, you buried the questions deep underneath your desires, letting lust take over each time when fear and doubt plagued your mind.

The devil wasn't a silly, red man with a tail and a pitchfork. He was a handsome man– an achingly, devastatingly handsome man–with keen eyes and a gentle smile.