#stalking

The first time it happened, you'd been mortified. It was a gorgeous, spring morning, and you'd entered the Church of Favonius with your head held high, cheeks sun-kissed and glowy like your content smile. You carried pages of the day's scripture readings, neatly organised into their respective orders, and ended with them scattered messily across the floor, swiftly forgotten.

Who could blame you when you were greeted with the sight your heart lurched at, and had you screaming til you were breathless?

It had been the third row from the front, and the second-to-last seat away from where you stood rock-solid in the aisle. Your eyes were puffy and as red as the blood splattered across the wooden seating and the grand marble tiles.

No amount of comforting from your fellow sisters would've expelled the morbid memory now engraved into your brain. They'd arrived moments after in a panicked frenzy upon hearing your scream to find you sobbing on the floor, your beloved scriptures in disarray around your kneeling figure, and your hand pressed so tightly to your mouth you were surprised your shock hadn't suffocated you.

They'd all paled even greater than you had when their eyes followed your shaky pointing.

The second time was the 48th day following; the morning of Mondstadt's Ludi Harpastum Festival. You'd screamed until your voice was hoarse, but you didn't fall to your knees this time. You'd also clung onto your scriptures (granted they were squeezed between your fingertips until they were practically unreadable), which had been such a pain to clear up last time. You were sure there was a little more blood than last time.

By the third and fourth, you didn't scream, but you still cried. You'd wondered what you did to deserve this; if perhaps you hadn't prayed the night before correctly, or had said something wrong to the other nuns, or thought something mean about the irritating man who lingered in Mondstadt's centre and always had something inappropriate to say to you and your lady friends.

You couldn't help the attacks from feeling personal—you were always the one to discover them. So, you were extra grateful and loving when you bowed your head at night, and you were careful with your words around your sisters, and you bit your tongue, averted your gaze and walked a little faster past the man in the centre.

It had worked, thankfully—until it hadn't, and three months had passed before the pew was red again. You didn't scream, didn't cry, and most certainly didn't ruin your scriptures this time. Instead, you'd stood numbly, expression remarkably blank, because you'd already known it was coming. You'd smelt the tangy, putrid stench the moment you'd stepped through the doors to the grandiose halls of the Church of Favonius; tasted the iron on your tongue until you felt like you were going to choke on it; noticed the atmosphere shift as if the Devil was having fun breaching the limits of where he didn't belong.

You'd informed the Knights stationed outside the entrance with only a couple of shaky breaths, and had even fought back the bile in your throat to help mop the floors of the grime afterwards.

Everybody questioned it, but nothing seemed to change. Seamus Pegg had issued wanted posters to be plastered across the city at every turn, but they'd only lasted for a day. There had been rumours of blackmail and deceit among the Church, and when Seamus had been questioned on the topic, he'd excused it as not wanting to dissuade the community from the safety of the House of Barbatos, and—more importantly—a job for the Knights of Favonius to handle. And so, it was kept quiet, a burden for the nuns and priests to bear alone.

But you were terrified. All of you were. You could tell by the way voices shook during readings; how many twitched and twiddled their thumbs anxiously, keeping their hands to themselves instead of holding their guests and each other welcomingly; and nobody ever held eye contact any longer than necessary.

That was exactly why you were here now, alone in the cathedral and running on a fraction of the sleep you deserve, with a blood-soaked rag clenched within your fist and an undeterrable will to rid the bench of its gore before anybody else entered the hall. You'd been dismissed as an incredibly committed member of the monasticism for your early arrivals, which you were happy with as long as it meant your brothers and sisters could sleep a little more peacefully at night. In their eyes, the stone-hearted monster hadn't struck the Church in six months; now a phantom memory that you'd heard a few of the priests remark as a 'plague sent by Lord Barbatos, as punishment for our sins'. 

Only you were aware that this was now his seventh morning in a row of defiling your Lord's name. A week straight. He'd never left his gifts so commonly before, and you would've wondered why if it weren't for fear of driving yourself crazy.

Frankly, it might've already been too late. You certainly felt crazy, with the way you spent your mornings frequently cleaning blood off the pews of Mondstadt's holiest venue rather than spreading teachings of joy and freedom of your faith to the citizens who needed it. Your fear had swiftly morphed into anger the longer the recurring nightmare continued, for all you could think now was how badly you wanted this villain to be caught and brought to justice under scrutiny of your trustworthy Knights of Favonius.

Perhaps that could be accompanied by a stern talking to of your own—you're sure Lord Barbatos wouldn't mind in this case.

Honestly, you weren't even supposed to know what the scent of blood sourced from the corpse of Archons knows what smells like!

And you certainly weren't supposed to be kneeling to anything other than your Lord; with a concoction of gore and soap trickling down the narrow bridge of your fingers and between your veins pulsing with life, as you rub and wipe and wash and cleanse the wood, up and down and round and round and round until—

"Are you trying to scrub a hole through that seat?"

You shoot backwards, ankle slipping from your control and knocking the soapy bucket to your right across the blood-dazzled marble. The alarm ignites your nerves; gasp robbing the breath from your lips as you quickly whip your head towards the knight you recognised well. He lingers in the aisle, and seems partly amused by your shock.

Lohen of the Fifth Company of the Knights of Favonius. A man of countless victories, fearsome bloodlust and an unjust, unchangeable loyalty to Mondstadt—a man you'd heard to most definitely stay away from. You clear your throat as the hem of your tunic soaks in your mess.

"Sir Lohen! Archons, you scared the life out of me! Forgive me, I... I was cleaning, and I guess I didn't hear the door open. Or close. I apologise." You must've looked foolishly ridiculous as you bow your head to the wet floors, the epitome of embarrassment which only seemed to amplify in the presence of a Vice Captain. "Is there anything I can help you with—"

You choke on your words when you notice Lohen, eyebrow raised and head tilted, curiously observing the pew beside you. Oh. Oh, no no no.

"Should I be asking you that?"

You stand in a hurry, gathering your tunic from the puddle and positioning yourself to block it from his view. You're grateful when he's distracted easily and his eyes abruptly begin following you like steel to a magnet, even if it does make your skin crawl. Lohen naturally exuded that effect, you imagine, since if it were anybody else, you would've approached with haste and taken their hand to lead them away from the brutal scene. You were supposed to be a guardian, after all.

Instead, you hover awkwardly in place, rag still clutched in the hand you kept rooted behind your back, because getting closer to the man you'd been warned about seemed like an invitation for trouble. You had enough of that in your life already.

"It isn't what it looks like, Sir Lohen, I swear. Father Pegg likes to paint, you see, and sometimes he gets these creative visions—like last night! A masterpiece, really, if he'd actually managed to keep his pigment on the canvas..." Lohen takes a step towards you, and you despise how it automatically has your words trailing off, point escaping you in the caution.

You hardly imagined Seamus ever having the time to pick up a paintbrush; unfortunately, it was too late for take-backs now.

There's an odd expression on Lohen's face—one that exhibits a mixture of amusement, intrigue and pity all in one, and compliments royal indigo swirled with rich magenta in the eyes currently staring you down. Then, he laughs.

"Miss [name], I can assure you I've won enough battles in my lifetime to recognise the splatter of blood shed when I see it." He speaks it like he's boasting. (Inwardly, you wonder how that's anything to be proud of, even if he is a knight. You also wonder how he knows your name.) "I take it he's returned, then."

You have the defensive urge to inquire who he means, though it hits you rather embarrassingly that, ah, of course, he is a Knight of Favonius, and they, bar the members of the Church, were the only citizens of Mondstadt who knew of the recurring vandalism. You nod your head, pressing your lips into a thin line.

"This is the seventh morning in a row that Devil has pulled this stunt." Lohen clicks his tongue in pity.

"Poor thing. You've been sitting here cleaning it all by yourself? Where are the other nuns?" Your eyebrows furrow when his tone portrays itself as demeaning you, but you excuse it as poor social skills. You'd heard of Lohen spending a lot more time on the battlefield than actually conversing with real humans.

"They don't arrive until seven, Sir."

"What makes you different?"

You don't respond. How in Tevyat were you meant to? You really didn't have a direct answer; you'd reasoned it down to a request from both Barbatos and your heart, yet now it seemed a little silly to admit that to Lohen for some reason. Luckily, he speaks for you, smiling so sweetly you could've been fooled to believe that the rumours of ruthless murder and endless carnage were only ever that—rumours.

"Kindness, [name]. You're too kind. It'll get you eaten one day." He scolds, running his gaze down, then up your figure as if he were the one who wanted to carry out that promise. He then hums thoughtfully. "Though I suppose that's your job, isn't it? To reassure? To please?"

"More so to teach, if anything." You correct, though you can't help but feel it falls on deaf ears as Lohen suddenly busies himself with studying the intricate architecture, bejewelled with sapphire and diamonds, arching above your heads like he's bored.

You'd never pictured a man like Lohen to be the religious type. It made it all the more confusing and difficult to work out why exactly he was here, though, of course, you'd never openly judge. "May I inquire why you're here, Sir Lohen?"

He sighs dramatically, shoulders slouched and eyebrows raised, his lips twitching down into a pitiful frown. Then, his eyes are back on you, and they don't leave for a second. "I have a problem, [name]. Truthfully, it's chewing me from the inside-out, and it's the worst. The Church is good for this stuff, right? I know I have these issues because of bottling them up, avoiding them, yada yada, I just..." He cocks his head to the side, though it's nothing innocent. "...I don't want you to gain a different impression of me."

Lohen slumps onto the pew dejectedly within a hairs breadth of the blood splatter, and your gaze switches between both him and the grime in apprehension. Did it not bother him? You must've been gawking, because the pout that had originally taunted you shamelessly swiftly converts to a wicked grin. His teeth sink into his bottom lip as he scrutinises you for all your worth; your fear feeling rather like a meal to him than an opportunity for reassurance.

You look at the clock. Ten minutes before Father Pegg and your sisters were due to arrive. You then look at the mess on the pew, and now the floor as well. Archons, you really were in over your head. There'd be no time to finish your cleaning and indulge the knight in his evident need for confession.

You wanted your heart to ache; to leap forward and snatch the misery from Lohen's, because that was your job. You didn't want anyone to suffer. And if Lohen's problem was significant enough to drag him away from his knightly duties all the way to the Church, then naturally, you should be jumping at the chance to aid him.

This was exactly why you felt guilt—since despite all this, even if it was small, there still lingered a nagging, unavoidable and annoying inkling of doubt for his true intentions.

And nuns should never doubt.

You finally look at Lohen, inhale deeply, and force the polite smile you'd rehearsed for situations exactly like this.

"If there is anything you need the Church to hear, we will always listen. Just because you are a Knight does not make you any less welcome in the Lord's home. I can't imagine we'd see you any differently than we do now, Sir Lohen."

He regards you with a soft smile, wrecked with pity and an unfamiliar stare of adoration, as if you're the equivalent to watching tiny puppies play. Why was he looking at you like that?

"You think it's because I'm a knight?"

"What else?" He snickers while you frown.

"Never mind. You're a pretty liar, [name]."

"What—?"

"Alright!" You think you'll develop whiplash from the speed Lohen shoots to his feet, clapping his hands together in satisfaction. You almost slip as you stumble a few steps away in a panic. Lohen cocks his head towards the gore. "I can see you have business to attend to in the mean time, so I'll come back later and take you up on your promise then. I won't judge upon whatever reason you have to sacrifice your happiness for your colleagues, but for the sake of your health, I promise I'll have this personally investigated and closed."

"You will?" Your voice is shaky with a mix of skepticism and hope.

"Mm-hmm! You won't have to worry about it anymore, Miss [name]. I swear."

Lohen clamps an enclosed fist over his heart—the Knights of Favonius' gesture of loyalty. You would've argued against the hassle, though realistically, it was a hassle worth taking if it meant the perpetrator would finally be caught. Lohen was certainly more than capable enough of tracking someone down (you almost felt sorry for the culprit for having such a terrifying knight on their trail now), and your shoulders tense a little less when hearing the promise.

"If—" You tense again. "—you're the nun to hear my confession when I'm back. Only you. I've got a tight schedule so I can't tell you exactly when that will be. But I'll make time. Promise me you'll be here?"

"Of course I'll be here. Where else would I be?" You attempt a joke to lighten the intoxicating tension overwhelming your senses, Lohen's sly fox-like eyes not helping in easing the promise that seemed a little too intimate than allowed.

"Attagirl. I'll catch you later then, dovey!" You linger idly beside the pew, watching Lohen saunter down the aisle with a spring in his step and far too happy a melody on his tongue. He throws a hand up, index finger extended to catch your attention one final time.

"Just a heads up—it'll probably take me at least a month to handle it, since I won't be in Mondstadt. Useless business trips and all that. If this idiot is anything unoriginal, you can expect him to follow the pattern and return tonight. Maybe he enjoys testing the limits, huh? I'll request guards to station the entrance overnight. Good luck with the service!"

You don't see Lohen again after he slips through the exit of the Church of Favonius.

. * , ' * .

You were smothered with a concoction of emotions for the rest of the day.

After Lohen's departure, you'd stood rather numb in place, almost still enough for someone to mistake your figure for one of the holy stone depictions scattered around Mondstadt. An entire month? You'd always tried your best to root gratefulness in your blood; to be thankful for what you're provided with, as that is the Lord's will.

And it wasn't that you weren't so incredibly appreciative of Lohen's gesture. He'd sacrificed his own precious time to investigate a wanted criminal and personally see to it that they atone for their sins, all to guide you and the Church from misery.

You were grateful—but you also weren't sure just how much longer of it you could take.

When your sisters and the priests had trickled in one by one, with not a word to say about the pew so clean it practically sparkled, you'd almost cried. It was pitiful. You were much stronger than this, and you weren't going to let it get you down again.

Even if it did suck a little soul from your belief in Lord Barbatos. It still felt as though He was punishing you, after all.

The service had progressed beautifully as usual, a perfect transition to the sunny afternoon which kissed your cheeks with soft breeze and warm rays of golden hue, yet it might as well have been a foggy, miserable storm with the way you couldn't bare to lift a smile to your lips. At least then the weather would've matched the turmoil your thoughts had created in your mind. They swirled in circles as if they were caught in a makeshift tornado, crashing down and destroying what little remnants of hope remained like a merciless tsunami the later into the day it got.

By evening, you sulked over your dinner, head and heart pounding twice as violently. At some point during the day, you'd realised something vital in Lohen's final words.

'If this idiot is anything unoriginal, you can expect him to follow the pattern and return tonight.'

You'd heard Lohen was crafty and careless, but you'd also heard he was rarely ever incorrect in his assumptions based on his targets. Once, he'd even cleared the entire southern border of Wolvendom of a pesky tribe of hilichurls that adventurers had been tracking for months. They were almost as shady as Lohen, sentient enough to hit the road often enough they'd keep hunters off their tails. Nobody knew exactly where they'd head to next—except the Vice Captain, who refused to share his secret knowledge and claimed the bonus consolation prize because he'd been 'bored'.

At least, so you've heard.

It was admirable in a way that had the hairs stand on the nape of your neck. The Knights of Favonius were so frighteningly brave—it was an utter shame they'd unfortunately proven so useless when it came to matters of the Church.

This was why you'd ultimately come to the conclusion that the solution had to fall into your own hands.

With Lohen, the more capable of the Knights apparently, away on expedition for at least a month, you saw no other choice than to at least explore the minute hint you'd been accidentally given. Besides, you wouldn't be entirely alone, and back-up would be called the moment you caught the Devil.

Lohen had said he'd request overnight guards!

Which was odd because—as silvery moonlight blanketed the cool concrete steps to the magnificent oak doors of the Church of Favonius, and your boots stifled pebbles beneath their soles with every slowing step you took—you didn't see anybody shielding the entrance.

The surroundings were deathly silent, in fact. Perhaps he'd forgotten.

For a moment, you're about to turn around. To abandon ship and run with your tail tucked between your legs before you could meet a grisly untimely doom. It was the sensible choice.

It didn't help that you weren't a quitter. It also didn't help when something crystal or porcelain smashes ahead of you from inside the Church's lobby; barely audible behind the thick walls but undeniably broken.

For the first time since you enrolled in the monasticism, you feel a sickly urge to curse. This was real. This was happening, and you needed to run and alert the guards, alert anyone, just run, run, run—

The door is slightly ajar.

It catches your eye the moment the universe realises you don't want it to. And this time, you do curse, even if it is feeble and mumbled under your breath, because your feet move before your head has a chance to stop them, and your heart beats a little faster the closer you approach the open door, a wordless invitation to quench curiosity.

Your fingers curl around the wooden frame, as silent as you've ever been; an attempt at evading the Reaper of Death, because if you were careful, you'd be able to spy a face detailed enough to describe to the Knights, and escape with your life still intact afterwards. That was all you needed, you remind yourself, as you pry the door to.

Inside, the Church feels otherworldly. It's unfamiliar and hellish, drowning in ink-black darkness without the warmth of the aureate chandeliers decorated with candles to guide the way. You'd always hated the dark. There's no love in the hall at night; no joy and no hope, freedom squashed between the fingertips of the void, stomped beneath the boot of the moonbeams which bore down onto the marble tiles, offering irritatingly minimal light for its extravagance. You regret to admit even the presence of Lord Barbatos himself appears to be lacking. You swallow a solid lump in your throat before you can choke.

You discern no evidence of broken shards scattered across the floors, much to your horror. Had your mind played tricks on you? No, surely not—you knew what you'd heard. But then, what had broken? And where was it?

Unfortunately, you don't have time to dwell on it further when your squinting eyes spot something far more troublesome in the dark. You wordlessly battle blurry vision when your body considers passing out.

There, beneath the arches bejewelled with sapphire and diamonds, perched a hunched figure, lifeless and still, upon the third pew from the front, second seat from the left. They were barely visible within the shadows, yet real enough to rob your heart of its ability to pump blood, and your lungs of their capacity to expand. Your body runs cold; ice cold, like an anaesthetic breaching the nerves from the nape of your neck, to the bridges of your fingers, and to the tips of your toes. You don't breathe; don't blink; don't move for fear of being heard, until by some miracle, the moonlight beams a little brighter on the individual, and the safety lock on your senses clicks off, refusing to release fire so soon because that head of earthy mint-green locks is frighteningly similar to—

"Lohen?" You feel as though your voice has sliced something invisible in the atmosphere of the aisle.

"Hmm? Miss [name]?" Yet again, your feet move first, with a speed your mind doesn't find reason to complain about by the time it's caught up. You hurry down the aisle, only stopping to tentatively peer over at the man still concealed in the shadows. Your chest rises and falls with the urgency of a hunted prey, and you don't need the light to recognise the hint of a smirk in Lohen's tone. "Oh! It is you!"

"Are you hurt? Did you catch him? Something smashed, did you hear it too—?" Your inquiries spill from your lips like water from a broken dam, unfiltered by your desperation and embarrassing you foolishly when the glint of a silver rosary, tangled between digits clasped together, causes you to falter mid-sentence. You gasp, fingers pressing to your lips in a manner of horrific disbelief, because you, a nun of the Church, had interrupted a guest from the midst of their prayers.

You'd never broken such a rule before, and even in the absurdity of the situation, rules still applied.

"Sir Lohen, please forgive me. I didn't realise you were—" Argent streams pour through the windows and pool at your feet, and you can just about catch Lohen's eyes regarding you from behind his fists, accompanied by the soft smirk you already knew was there. The rosary entangled within his palms is an Anemo sigil embalmed with teal crystals, attached to a woven chain of mauve beads that dip and hang between the veins painted beneath his skin. Something stains Lohen's hands the longer you stare, though you look away when he clears his throat. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be ridiculous, [name]. I was only testing something out, anyway." His voice is uncharacteristically low, like he wanted to suit the aesthetic of the setting purposefully. You regain some missing remnants of your confidence as you linger in the aisle, taking a moment to control your breathing when you realise Lohen isn't the threat you'd imagined his shadow to be. You can't help but be drawn to the rosary again. It looks so perfectly natural in the fingers of a boastful murderer, and it sends your mind spiralling in confusion, because such juxtaposition shouldn't exist in the real world.

"Are you a follower of the Lord, Sir?" He scoffs behind his hands softly, like your question is amusing.

"Somewhat. Your God teaches ideas of freedom. I like to be free. I have a different opinion on such things I deem my own, though. Why should they be free while under my scrutiny? You get it?" You want to say no; that for someone who studies and teaches complicated holy scriptures daily, you'd never encountered something quite as cryptic as Lohen. Surely he'd mean his belongings; but then that would also mean they are inanimate objects, so how in Tevyat would they be free anyway?

He must've comprehended your confusion, perhaps from the way your lips twitched into an unpleasant frown, because he speaks again before you do. "Never mind. You'll understand soon enough. For now, I rather enjoy your naivety."

Lohen stretches languidly like a cat across the pew, unashamed to flaunt himself while your cheeks burn, because you'd then noticed he'd rid himself of his armour and instead lounged in his dress shirt like he were at home. To make matters worse, he'd taken the liberty of undoing the top three buttons (at least you assumed it was three, it wasn't like you were actually looking!), graciously exposing the bare expanse of his collarbone and sternum to virgin eyes.

He was littered in scars, some small and light where they'd faded with time, and some large and disturbingly new, still tainted with dried blood around the borders. You knew you shouldn't look any longer, even if a little part of you wanted to.

It's when your eyes pull away up to his face, that the blood floods from your cheeks and your heart misses a crucial beat.

In this position, the moon casts directly upon his face, and what was once clouded in darkness now illuminates and presents a vibrant, alarmingly fresh stripe of crimson across his cheek. Lohen was a fiend for battle—you knew this, and that's why you wouldn't have doubted the knight of his intentions once again because of a silly mishap on his face, had he not adjusted his grip on the cursed rosary and drawn your attention to the hands doused in matching blood.

Or brazenly revealed the human head on the pew beside him now he wasn't hunched forward, a stream of gore from where the rest of its body should've been splashing to the tiles and decorating them with droplets exactly like the ones you'd grown used to cleaning in the morning.

Archons above, have mercy.

You were speechless; afraid that if you tried to speak, bile would be the only thing to come out. You stumble away a single step, nausea spreading like wildfire and causing your vision to spin. It's only when you hiccup loudly through a sob that you realise you're crying.

"Oh? Is there a problem?" Lohen's grin is something of pure evil, too inhuman for man. "You told me so sweetly earlier that I'd always be welcome in the Church. That's still the case, right?"

Wicked teeth stretch wider, showcasing the fangs you wonder have ripped out necks.

And to your horror, he stands.

. * , ' * .

"What have you done?" Your voice trembles, unapologetically terrified of the man mere metres away. It's so heart-achingly adorable, Lohen's sure he feels his cock twitch.

He was already undeniably worked up the moment he'd seen the first tear trickle down your ghostly cheeks, yet for his ears to be blessed with the sound of your sweet voice, vulnerable and pleading for him to say something, anything that indicated it wasn't real—ah, that was true pleasure.

He stalks you like the prey you are, taking a step forward for every one you took back. Honestly, he was surprised (and a little disappointed) you hadn't attempted to run. He was a sucker for the chase—that much was known by everybody who'd heard of the man—yet here you stood, eyes gorgeously glossy and a pitiful tremble in your bottom lip, not retreating just yet like you were attempting to defend your territory.

Lohen supposed this was your home, after all. He'd intruded, of course, to achieve your attention. Countless times by now, in fact. He could argue that the pay off was well worth it. He tuts once, purses his lips to feign innocence, and smoothly curls his fingers into the scalp of the decapitated head, lifting it to present it to you fully and relishing in the way your face contorts into something of pure terror.

"What, this? Come on, don't tell me you don't recognise him. Take a good look, pretty." Oh, how beautifully you were obeying, fighting the urge to turn your gaze away completely as you study the displayed head through tears. The addictive realisation blossoms across your cheeks, shifts like a roaring fire in your eye, a drug for Lohen to soak up whole. "That's it, baby. You know him, don't you?"

He watches you with the manner of a hawk as your lips part and close like a fish out of water, yet no words come out. Now, it seems as though you find it easier to look at the damned head than Lohen himself as you fight to keep your expression steady, fixing him with a glare of tearful repulsion. It's adorable.

"Now, now, don't give me that look." Lohen's tone reeks of condescension and an eerie lust for humiliation. "This man caused you so much trouble, did he not? Disgusting behaviour, really—who even gave him the impression that lurking around Mondstadt's centre and preying on the poor, helpless women just trying to get on with their days was a good look?"

You must not have realised he was cornering you, based on the way your eyes shoot as wide as china saucers, until your back hits solid wall; a lost little doe, paralysed by the oncoming headlights. Lohen thinks he'd love to see you as roadkill. "I mean, God, the way he looked at you, [name]. It was so... so animalistic. Like he'd ravage you alive. Who in their right mind would ever believe that's an okay way to think?" He tilts his head, tongue running across his bottom lip.

"And the things he said, hah!" He laughs maniacally, unhinged and shameless but incredibly strained, like something had pained him detrimentally but he'd rather bleed out than establish weakness openly. "He's lucky I ended things for him nicely. You probably would've preferred for me to drag it out, huh? I know you've fantasised about it before in that pretty little head. Don't be too disappointed in me, angel."

The head crashes to the floor with a sickening splat when Lohen releases his hold, admiring the strength you had to still look at him while he approaches. His other hand lifts up; two fingers playfully tap the supple flesh of your cheek twice, leaving behind a generous coating of the dead man's blood. You flinch like a bunny in a trap, too stunned to push him away. Your nose scrunches with the gory stench so close, and Lohen disregards the temptation to smother your face in it entirely until you pass out.

"If it makes you feel better, this scumbag had no family, no friends, no nothing. It's the first thing I check. Nobody will even notice he's gone!" He's perfectly sincere, until his teeth sink into his bottom lip and he stifles a laugh behind a poorly mannered snort. "Well, besides you and me, I guess."

"There is something disturbingly wrong with you, Sir Lohen." His eyes burn a hole through your skull, surprised you'd found your will for speech.

"You still call me Sir. Cute." He only studies you for a moment, eyes devilishly narrow and smirk ghostly, haunting the crevices of his lips, before he pulls away from you abruptly, kicks the skull on the floor further down the aisle and relishes in the way you squeeze your eyes shut to avoid it. "Every man who yearns for confession has something wrong with them, though, otherwise why would they feel the need to confess? Surely you know this?"

He's not surprised when you don't reply.

Again, you don't make any move to run. It's like he'd glued you to the quartz pillar; a mere bystander to observe his gruesome antics.

"Also, if you're confused, I lied about the mission away. I know, it's abhorrently cruel of me and definitely not something to land me in the Lord's good books, and I promise I won't ever lie to you again. You see, I had a little extra time tonight, and thought what better way than to spend it confessing after I promised you I would. So this—" He jerks his head towards the grime splattered across the floor. "—is my confession. It's funny that you showed up when you did to hear it. Must be Barbatos' will, huh?"

"Never speak to me of the Lord's will. You are of the Devil's spawn, you monster!" Oh. There it is. The growing sparks of a raging inferno as it's taunted and teased by sticks and paper and unkind words. Lohen always knew you had it in you; it was exactly what had caught his attention in the first place.

Sweet, docile Sister [name] of the Church of Favonius—the one with the most inappropriate thoughts and needs of them all.

The one Lohen needed to see broken.

"And you aren't?"

"What do you mean?" You were exquisite with such steadfast determination, fists clenched to your side like you were ready to swing no matter how much your voice shook with trepidation.

"Come now. I already said I know about what you'd wanted to do to that man. I'm sure that couldn't have been the only case, baby. I mean, look—you still haven't bothered to wipe that blood from your cheek."

Surprisingly, you still don't, sniffling a pathetic sob when he reminds you it's there. You bristle as Lohen turns to you fully. "And you don't run. Why is that?"

"You'd catch me." Your throat bobs.

"True." His smile is wickedly proud.

"Are you going to kill me?"

"No."

You blink, tongue pressing into the side of your blood-stained cheek while your eyes dart between left and right like you're weighing up options. "Then I'll report you to the Knights of Favonius and have you rot away for your crimes."

Lohen's laughter is explosive and immediate. "Go ahead. You think I don't have everyone in that damn institution wrapped around my finger? They are terrified of me, [name]. Terrified of what I do to our enemies, and what I could do to them. Terrified in exactly the way you are, though arguably not as sweet. Were you really stupid enough to believe the Knights hadn't been able to find a conclusion for your Church's mysterious killer?"

Lohen thinks you're about to burst into tears again by the way you squeeze your eyes shut like you had done before, and he's gutted when you don't. He thinks nothing would've satisfied him more than pushing you over that edge continuously; enough so to produce a pond of salty fluid for him to lap up to quench his thirst.

You shake your head as he nods his. "Oh, they knew. They just didn't care as long as I ordered them not to."

It finally looks as though you've snapped—tipped over the brink of exhaustion into pure delusion now as you wail and fall to your knees, soaking your tunic in the stream left behind from where the human head had skidded across the floor. You don't seem to care about it anymore, though, as you kneel before Lohen like he was your God instead.

He has to admit he much prefers it like this. You look divine from this view; he ponders if it's worth having the image painted and hung as the centrepiece of the Church of Favonius, a flawless example to your fellow sisters and believers on the right way to pray and beg.

And if he took you home with him, he'd undoubtedly wake up to the real thing every day. How poetic.

He nudges your chin up with his boot, humming in satisfaction when there is little resistance on your part. Blue and magenta meet your gaze, holding you captive within a silent dare to move.

You don't.

He absorbs the dark circles beneath your eyes; smiles because he knows he's the cause of your sleepless nights. He loves you tired enough to have your brain short circuiting. It makes you easy. Pliable. His.

He hums, crouching down to level his face with yours; brutal in the way his hand reaches out to cup your cheek, messily smearing the blood with his thumb across your skin until he's content with his artwork—the shape of a love heart, imprinted on your flesh like a tattoo.

And while admiring your hopeless despair, he speaks with heavy-weighted truth and deathly promise.

"Forgive me, Lord Barbatos. I'll have to take from you what's yours tonight. If she was ever yours to begin with."

∧ ,,, ∧ ( ̳• · • ̳) . ݁₊ ⊹ . thank you for reading ! ᝰ.ᐟ / づ♡

He tilts his head just slightly, eyes raking over your face like he’s trying to find the lie in it. Like the words you just spoke were a bad joke you hadn’t finished delivering. His lips twitch at the corners, almost curving into a laugh but the sound never comes. It dies in his throat.

“…That can’t be right.” The words are soft. His voice barely lifts. “You’re joking.”

It isn't really a question.

Theres a twitch under his left eye, a sharp, involuntary movement that betrays his well composed mask. His stance shifts, weight rocking from heel to toe as if trying to distract himself. His hands remain shoved deep in the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders tense, fists curled tight. He stalled, and the sound is startlingly loud. You say nothing. Words would only make it worse. Instead, you offer the smallest motion, a slow, deliberate shake of your head. It’s as if you’re standing before a wild animal, something that would bare its teeth at you if startled. The air feels thin, ready to shatter.

You might’ve laughed, once. Compared it to placating a caged lion. But there’s no space for humour here. Not with the way he’s watching you like he’s trying to memorise the moment of your betrayal.

He laughs again, short and bitter. His gaze drops to the floor, then drags its way back to you like it hurts him.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” you manage, though your voice is paper-thin.

The stillness that follows isn’t silence—it’s pressure. It folds over the room, sinks into the walls, curls around your spine like smoke. Your bones hurt from the pressure of it. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. There’s something pulling tight in his jaw, coiling tightly.

“You’re just overwhelmed,” he says, voice softer now, coaxing. “Work’s been rough, classes too. I should’ve noticed sooner. I should’ve done more. Just… let me fix it, okay?”

He takes a step toward you.

You step back.

And that’s when his face changes. Just barely. Something small flickers out behind his eyes. Something fragile and sharp and wrong.

The begging starts two days later.

Voicemails and dozens of texts, flowers you never ordered dropped outside your door. The messages start sweet, pleading almost. He sounds like he’s been crying, but you don’t trust it.

“Baby, I haven’t slept—please just talk to me. I can’t sleep, call me and I’ll come over and we can talk. I need to see you.”

“I love you. I know you haven’t stopped loving me—“

“I can fix this if you just let—“

You stop answering. You block his number after a scroll through all the messages. But then, he starts showing up. Dick never knocks. Just stands outside the door, the same way he used to when showing up at ungodly hours of the night. Through the peephole, you can see him, fists clenched, hair a mess, talking to the door like it’s you. Like if he says the right thing, if he means it hard enough, the door will open. You will open.

You don’t, despite that it keeps happening. And you refuse to open the door.

You’re afraid of what will happen when you do.

The third week is the quietest. No messages. No flowers. No man behind the door. Silence blooms, strange and heavy, thick in the air. You think, for a moment, that he had finally given up.

And then—you come home one night and your apartment isn’t how you left it.

It’s nothing obvious. The air just feels off. The curtains are closed,you always leave them open. A glass has moved on your kitchen counter. Your throat tightens. Something curls in your gut.

“I thought we were past this.”

You freeze.

Dick steps out of the shadows of your hallway like he never left. His clothes are rumpled, his eyes dark and rimmed with exhaustion. No smile now. Just a steady calm that hums like a fuse about to blow.

“I waited,” he says, voice calm and careful, as though each word is weighed before it leaves him. “I gave you space. I let you ignore me. I was patient.”

You try to speak but nothing comes out of your parted lips. He takes three steps toward you and the distance you so carefully built collapses.

“Why are you running from me?” he asks, the words unravelling now. “After everything I’ve done for you—everything I was for you—how could you just throw me away?”

His hand reaches for you. You flinch.

It stops mid-air.

And for a second, he looks at that hesitation like it’s a wound. Like you’ve driven a knife into his heart. And then something snaps.

“You don’t get to do this to me,” he spits, voice splintering. “You don’t get to throw me away like some stranger. I’ve bled for you. Given you everything and you think you can just—what? Move on?”

His hand slams into the wall just inches from your head with a violent, abrupt crack—the sound sharp enough that it rattles through your skull. He breathes hard through clenched teeth, chest rising and falling, his eyes not fixed on you but the damage he created, and even he seems startled by the force. The shift comes fast, unsettlingly fast. His face tightens, brows knighting with an awful, familiar tenderness that feels wrong. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, coaxing, the edges trembling with barely restrained panic. His eyes shimmer, not the familiar, playful glint you’re used to, but with a quiet devastation behind them that you don’t recognise, that looks like they belong to a stranger. You’ve never seen him unravel like this. In this moment, your heart hammering, back pressed against the wall, you realise you don’t know what he’ll do next.

Your breath stutters.

“…I didn’t want to scare you,” he murmurs, voice shaking. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”

He leans in, forehead resting gently against yours. His arms cage you in, soft at first, but firm. His breath is hot and uneven against your lips.

“But you weren’t listening,” he whispers. “And I need you to listen.”

You’re shaking. He doesn’t pull away. Maybe he doesn’t feel it. Maybe he just doesn’t care.

And when he kisses you, it’s all teeth and desperation, raw need seeping into the touch. It feels more like a punishment than affection. His lips bruise against yours, breaths shaky and uneven. There’s no softness in it, just feverish desperation, like he’s trying to consume all the memories of you leaving. You twist, try to lean back and do something to escape his grasp, but his hands only clamp tighter around your arms, holding you like you’ll vanish if he does.

He doesn’t leave that night.

Instead, he stays. He winds himself around you in the dark, body pressed to yours so tightly you can feel every breath he takes. His voice is low in your ear, almost tender if not for the edge creeping into it. He whispers your name over and over, soft and almost reverent. He tells you how this—this—is better. Just you and him, alone, exactly the way it’s supposed to be.

And you lie still, heart hammering, in the arms of a stranger.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

The morning sun was pale as it slipped past the curtains, slowly warming up the hardwood floors as much as it could with winter approaching.

You sat on the edge of your bed, your cat brushing up against your legs, impatient to be fed. Leaning down, you picked him up, taking in the soft fur and his warmth as he purred. Trying to gather the courage to get out of bed.

A melancholy had taken hold of your heart the past few months. A weight resting on your shoulders. A presence.

Ever since that night.

Weakness. Loneliness. Desperation. Sin. Whatever it was to be called.

Your mind felt like it was in hell as you called out into the night, teary eyes gazing up at the moon. At an angel. At God. You didn't know, you just needed help. An out. Not knowing how to outrun your mind.

Come to me. You cried, hands clasped so tightly in prayer, your bones shifted beneath your skin. Come to me. Guardian angel. A spirit of comfort. Any celestial being, a sob racked your chest. Come to me. Hear my prayer.

Suddenly it felt as if your breath had been robbed. Stolen. Ripped right from your lungs. The moon too bright and air too still.

But your mind— it was so quiet. Calm.

Something was holding you. The presence greedy.

Your feet carried you across your room, acting on their own accord. Or perhaps someone else's. A string tied around each joint and tugging you along, coiling you up and closer to the puppeteer.

You were brought to the window, the moon so bright. Looking at you.

Oil slipped over you mind as something, someone, he spoke.

I've got you. A caress, enveloping you. Bliss.

You shook your head, begging the memory to go away before it finished.

You always woke up in a sweat despite the long dead fire. Feeling as though you’d been dragged through something. Some sort of unreachable plane.

He was haunting your dreams. Stalking you. You felt like a rabbit running from a wolf. Not a person. Feeling it, Him, crawl beneath your skin like a spider, spinning a web around every vein and heartstring.

The clock chimed and it startled your cat, causing him to leap off your lap and his claws dug into the flesh of your thighs through your nightgown, spotting it with crimson.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Late.

You pushed through the door with your hip, holding a crate of glass bottles filled with herbs and elixirs. Your spine felt stiff. Your bones not right. You could've sworn you felt Him on your walk to the apothecary that morning.

You were losing it. You knew you were. You couldn't have possibly… it wasn't possible.

But as you turned, the air on the back of your neck stood and it wasn't the cold.

The faintest voice. An echo rattling in your mind.

Come to me.

You blinked the thought away. The daylight was supposed to be safe.

Your boss called your name from somewhere in the back of the shop. Shortly after his head peaked over the shelves, his graying hair a mess. "Have you brought it?"

“Yes, sir." You set the crate down, urging the thoughts of Him, your shadow, to the back of your mind.

You dug the few bottles your boss asked you to order from the crate, the glass cold against your palms, bitter from the atmosphere.

He made his way between tables, his black coat heavy on his shoulders and his glasses perched down his nose as he took one of the bottles from you.

Observing it with scrutiny to see if you’d done a good job. Which you always did. You never messed up.

A slight crease formed between his brows and he set the glass back down into the crate. Barely a nod. That's all you ever got from him. All that you needed. He wasn't one to give thanks or praise. He took a chance on hiring you, you knew that. He didn't owe you anything else but your weekly wages.

He got back to work as you began organising bottles and mincing up ingredients, trying not to let your mind wander as the blade sliced through dried lilac. The sound of the knife hitting the cutting board in tune with your heart.

It began to rain on your walk home, the droplets bitter cold and feeling like bullets of ice. Other city dwellers used what they had as umbrellas if they had none.

You didn't see a point. Your skin was burning, your blood bubbling as if it were trying to claw its way out of your veins. You needed this. The cold.

You didn't mind it as rogue hair stuck to your forehead and neck, water dewing up so heavy on your lashes it was hard to keep your eyes open.

Come to me.

You flinched, turning to the sound, feet picking up pace and frantic to get away. Instincts kicking in as your eyes darted around the bodies rushing to find cover, feet splashing up water.

He was here. In the city. You knew it to be true.

Turning, your world suddenly upended as you collided with someone, black clouding your vision and you felt gloved hands grab hold of your arms to break your fall.

You blinked the rain away, your mind spinning, not understanding and your manners tried to quickly scramble their way forth.

“Apologies," tumbled out of your mouth and you tried to right yourself, but your dress was heavy with water and your skin was tight with the cold.

The hands slowly slid away from you, almost hesitant, and you finally allowed yourself to look up.

Your breath caught, heart skipped a beat, for a mere moment you thought…

“It’s okay."

The man looked down at you. Imposing. Face hidden half in shadow from his hat and the veil of rain.

Your mouth hung open slightly. Your nerves tangled in shock and what might've been trepidation.

The water pounded into the cobblestones beneath him. The rain soaking through his fine coat and hat, water beaded up on his own lashes. His eyes, they looked like the dark side of the moon that kept you company every night. Familiar.

He tilted his head to the side as he watched you, his eyes practically glowing with something you didn't think you’d ever be able to name.

Your heart was thudding in your ears. Or maybe that was just the rain.

Do something.

"I'll be–"

“Have we met–"

You both spoke at once and you couldn't help it as you felt yourself blush, but you blamed it on the cold.

He took his hat off for a moment to push his wet hair back, the locks nearly looked like spilled ink as a black-gloved hand ran through his curls. His eyes met yours again, his expression unreadable and far too encompassing.

“Find a fire, I wouldn't want you to get sick." With that he bowed his head and stepped past you, the sharp click of his shoes fading in with the rest of the crowd.

You looked after him, watching the slight sway of his shoulders, his presence alone towering over everyone else. Men parted for him as he walked, not thinking twice, like he commanded the tides.

His voice...

A crack of thunder startled you and you kept moving, your skin prickling up again.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Those eyes flickered, blinding you, dancing in your mind. Intent. Obsessed.

You gasped, ripping yourself awake before your mind suddenly eased, like warm water was slowly consuming your body. You were slipping, your mind's chatter easing into quiet as you went under the surface.

You saw him again. That stranger. But not quite. His silhouette was flickering in the shadows but his eyes gleamed of moonlight.

Who are you? You asked, though the air remained still.

The shadows folded, swayed, his eyes tilting. You pulled me out of the dark. His voice was like oil, dripping over the room and staining it.

But who, you stretched your jaw, your common sense fighting its way up, trying to break the surface.

He stepped closer. Your breath hitched. Equal parts frightened and enamoured.

Dark curls suddenly caught the moonlight but it was still difficult to make him out. A shifting phantom. Restless. Crazed as you felt something rough yet soft slide down the side of your neck.

A hand. Possessive.

You are not for the living, your stranger said.

The sharp planes of his face morphed into something tangible as he leaned down. Cool breath hitting your face and you felt in a trance as you looked up at him.

His thumb dragged across your bottom lip. Eyes intent as he followed the action.

You knew you were in the presence of something beyond humanity but you couldn't look away. Couldn't back away. The strings all tangled and too tight.

When you woke up the next morning, your room was empty and your cat sat at the end of your bed, staring at the corner of your room.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Your mind was muddled as the week went on. He had never touched you before in your dreams. Never... he had never been someone. You wondered if your mind was playing tricks on you. Trying to slot a face into the voice and presence you always felt. Deciding to pick that man you had run into.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Your hand slipped and the knife tore into your hand, the pain quick and sharp but it was a mere echo.

Wrapping some cloth around the wound, you heard the bell above the door chime.

"One moment!" You called, pulling the cotton tight and weaving your way around the tables and boxes. You wished your boss would let you organize properly. But he had everything where he needed and wanted, peering down his hooked nose every time you asked and sneering, It is organized.

You rolled your eyes thinking about it.

Rounding the corner of some shelves, you stopped short at the sight of a man leaning down, hands in pockets as he looked at some of the medicinals the shop sold.

Dark eyes. Sharp cheekbones.

At your presence, his eyes flicked up, down to your hand, then back up again. Pupils blown a little wide.

"You," you breathed the word without realizing it.

He blinked a few times as he straightened, eyes dancing down to your cut hand again, the blood dotting on the fabric. "You're hurt." His tone held nothing. No worry. No concern. Though, he did sound ever so slightly breathless. Just a bit. Or maybe you were imagining things.

His eyes. He looked hungry.

"I'm fine," you managed to get out, walking behind the counter. For safety, perhaps. Some semblance of security. He was even more overwhelming in broad daylight. In person. Your dream now fading into an even more warped fantasy. Right now he was far too real.

His jaw clenched, the muscles working under his skin. Running his tongue along the inside of his cheek as he seemed to force himself to look away from you and to the wall of bottles and dried goods.

You gnawed at your lip, brows furrowing as you watched him. Taking a breath, you all but ground the words out. "Can I help you with something?"

He sighed, eyes slating towards you, nearly looking pained and it made you feel dizzy. Who was this man?

Your boss snapped your name, appearing from what seemed to be thin air and you flinched. The old man was looking at you like you had grown a second head. "Are you just going to stand there or help him? What do I pay you for?"

You opened your mouth to argue but he was already disappearing into the back of the store. Leaving you blushing and a bit embarrassed. But when you turned back around, the stranger was gone.

You let out a breath of air. Equally relieved but disappointed. In what, you weren’t sure. Curiosity, perhaps. Your eyes looked down at your hand but stopped short when you noticed the dried flowers laying on the table, a black ribbon tied around them with a small piece of parchment. Two letters were drawn in ebony ink.

M.J.

You gently picked them up. Red carnations and Fern.

Your eyes danced to where he had stood, wondering if you focused hard enough he'd materialize like he did the other night.

"Who are you?" You whispered.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Fresh air. You needed fresh air.

Yanking the sheets off of you, your skin was cold but covered in dew drops of sweat. You could feel it. Feel Him. Crawling over your bones and staining them. An insatiable itch you couldn't reach.

You blindly made your way down the stairs and out into the garden. Your feet silent as they padded across the frost crusted grass. Your body was burning up and you wanted to strip yourself from the cotton, desperate and feeling suffocated as the moon stared down at you.

You yanked at your hair. Strands sticking to your skin. Too much. Too sensitive.

Come to me.

You squeezed your eyes shut, a cry almost leaving you as you felt your feet start to move somewhere. North, maybe.

Your conscience took a step back, a door closing, looking at you with knowing eyes. Wait– you called, but the door locked and oil spilled over again.

Who are you? You asked. You’d always ask till you got an answer, your legs carrying you through the bushes and closer and closer to an unknown. The back of your mind whispered that your parents wouldn't like this. This behavior. Your father nearly sent you off after that first night. Nearly sent you off every night you woke the house with your ramblings of a shadow man.

His voice swirled around you, almost teasing in its lilt— You know.

I do not.

A hand wrapped around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. It sent chills down your spine, ravishing your skin.

I... you blinked against the dark, your feet suddenly hitting cobblestone. I know you, don't I?

The hand danced down, leash loosening only a bit and you heard that familiar click of expensive shoes as they walked.

You fell in step with the sound, not feeling the bite of snow on your bare feet. Darkness was folding around you, snuffing out the flames of street lamps. You could faintly make out the sway of his shoulders.

Your head was spinning. Spinning and spinning as you turned down an alley, feet faltering and so bitterly numb you fell to your knees, scuffing your shins and you looked down. Blood. So much. It felt like the earth was pulsing around you from an open artery.

There was a body. A man. Lying stiff a few feet away. Eyes blank and empty. Soulless. Blood poured from his neck.

You should scream.

He knelt at your side, head tilting, brushing your hair away. The blood was sticky and warm against the snow.

What is this insufferable darkness? You felt like you couldn't breathe.

His nose brushed yours. Your phantom. Yours. He belonged to you. His hands twined with your own. Fingers long and much larger than yours. Holding you.

Dream of me. Only me. You felt a chaste kiss against your forehead. Swear it.

The blood was getting stickier. Voices. Approaching steps.

The words left you in a puff of air.

"I swear."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Your nightmare hadn't ended yet. You were sure of it.

You sat dazed in the chair. Your parents sitting nearby. Your mother clutching her rosary like a vice. Your father wouldn't look at you.

"Father," your father's voice shook with conviction. "Is there anything you can do? Anything we can do?"

You felt dizzy as you stared up at the multicoloured windows. Mother Mary gazed down at you, tears in her eyes.

"Someone has offered to take her in."

Your eyes snapped forward, staring at the priest and he averted his eyes. Right now you were the other. The secret. Fallen. Your mind had been tainted for years now. Your mother said so as she cried into her cross.

"Who?"

"A practitioner… a doctor, of sorts. He's known within a small community for handling rare cases such as these with his treatments." The priest paused, shifting in his chair and removing his spectacles. "However–"

"And what were the results?" Your father asked, inching forward in his chair.

The holy man sighed. "His methods are... are arcane, if any, and I can't–"

"Were they successful?"

The priest rolled his jaw at your father, seeing a lost battle in front of him. "To a degree, but I advise you to think on this, the Church can provide perfectly–"

All you did was stare as the whole... transaction unfolded. That's what it felt like. Being handed off in such a way. The priest's warnings fell on deaf ears. Your mother only bowed her head as the carriage door shut on you. Your father did not say a word.

Your eyes slid to the man sitting across from you. He worked for whoever you were being sent off to. This practitioner. You were hopeless. Damned. No one could possibly fix you. You weren’t sure if there even was anything to be fixed.

The man across from you was not phased at your stare. He returned it tenfold. Gray eyes sharp.

Insightful.

"Where am I going?" You eventually asked, watching the city fade as the wheels turned.

"Somewhere where you know how to be handled."

Your eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't need to be handled."

He settled himself in his seat, crossing an ankle over his knee and forcing you to lean back. "I'm the attendant."

You looked away out the window, your breath fogging up the glass. "I don't care."

"Your father said you could be a handful, he didn't say you were rude."

Clenching your jaw, you looked back at him. He was pale. Strikingly so. His greying hair hidden beneath a cap. "Where am I going?" You asked again.

He sighed as he lit a pipe. The fire from the match lit up his eyes and for a moment they gleamed red. He waited to answer you till he held the pipe between his teeth and smoke plummed out.

"The Jackson Estate."

You raised a brow. You’d never heard of it.

"It's the Practitioner's residence."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Heels clicked against the polished flooring. It was dark. The only light being candles that flickered along the hall. Illuminating the portraits in a macabre sort of beauty.

You held your breath as the attendant— he still had yet to give you his name, escorted you inside. The estate felt heavy. Dense. The air a little suffocating. You felt Him here. Strongly. Concerned that without the bustle of the city to drown him out he'd be more... loud.

His tour was curt and to the point. Telling you what was off limits and what wasn't. Telling you your schedule, though it was vague. Treatment. He wouldn't elaborate.

Everything was very...elaborate. Elegant. Old.

Refined and styled with thought. Every stitch in the carpet intricate. You felt horribly out of place. And too hot. You had passed by numerous hearths, all of them roaring. Flames licking out onto the marble.

He came to a stop in front of a door on the third floor, turning its silver handle and it popped open with a click. "Your quarters."

You didn't know what you were expecting. A small bed with restraints, maybe. Isn't that what mad people get put through? Bars on the windows. Rats in the corners. Scratch marks on the walls.

But as the door creaked open, you were met with an elegant, albeit ordinary room. Your brows furrowed and looked at him. "What is this?"

"Your room." He said flatly, like you were stupid.

Your jaw clenched and you waved an arm out. "No, what is this? Everything. This house. What treatment? What practitioner?"

He bit the inside of his cheek, looking past you into the room. "You can ask all the questions you want at dinner."

He left before you could say anything else, mouth agape like an idiot as another servant brought in your single trunk. He only nodded briefly at you, not sparing you a glance before scuttling from the room.

You huffed. Confused. A little scared, but your curiosity was winning that battle.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You weren’t even sure where the dining room was.

Come to me.

The rug softened your foot fall as you walked. Your hand trailing along the wood paneling of the wall. Dizzy as you looked at some very old portraits. They looked like Him. Your stranger. Your ghost. He was haunting you, even here.

The practitioner didn't attend dinner that night.

The attendant said he had a mess to clean up.

Your questions went unanswered.

Jackson. The name was heavy on your tongue. Whispers in your sleep. Restless. Your stomach pooling. Melting. Those eyes. You clenched your thighs together and awoke with a start when there was a sharp knock on your door.

Your breath left you in heavy pants. A shadow could be seen beneath the door. Pulsating. Begging to be let in. Fighting against the moonlight that poured through the tall windows.

You bit your lip, fear crackling in your veins. It was Him. It had to be. You could feel it.

Your name was said lowly from the other side of the door.

You froze. Blinked. Hands moving the covers off of your body before you could think better of it.

You creaked the door open.

Dark brown eyes stared down at you, half swathed in shadow.

Your lips parted. You had a feeling, but lately you couldn't trust your own thoughts. You should've known.

His hands were clasped behind him. Still wearing a suit despite the late hour. He smelled faintly of iron and orchids.

"You." Your brows furrowed. A mixture of disbelief and anger. "How–"

"May I come in? I was told you had some questions."

Let me in.

You nearly fell backward with the force of it. Hands trembling as they opened the door further. He didn't spare you another glance as he walked into the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

"You're in my head," the words tumbled out and you pressed your back into the post of the bed.

His hands were in his pockets as he tilted his head at you. Moonlight glinting off his hair. Looking just like he had that first night you saw him in your room.

"It's... it's you." He was your melancholy. Your darkness. It was him.

"What on Earth are you talking about?"

"Don't deny it!" You bit out, your voice nearly a cry.

He sighed, as if you were being unreasonable. "I see treatment needs to start tomorrow–"

"What treatment? Who are you? You're the one who's been haunting me. I'm not mad, it's you."

All he did was stare at you. Patient.

Pupils wide in the dark.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You couldn't remember falling asleep. Just the heaviness. Dizziness. Your stranger, looking at you as if you were some sylph.

Your neck was sore and you winced as you moved but hands gently caressed your head.

You faintly heard your name.

You blinked. The world a blur and slowly coming into focus.

You were on the ground, someone kneeling over you, cool breath dusting your face. Thumbs swiping gently under your eyes. "Wake up." The voice. So soft. Smooth and like oil. His. A creature comfort.

You tried to take in the feeling of his calloused hands as he held your face. "What..." early morning light was pooling past the curtains. Your eyes finally found his. The closeness of him was more jarring than anything else had been.

Your brows furrowed. He was infuriatingly complicated.

"I'm not mad." Is all you could think to say.

He hummed, dark hair falling over his eyes as he observed you. This time more clinical. Less consuming than last night.

Had he stayed with you?

You became acutely aware you were sprawled out on the carpet in only your nightgown.

A blush reddened your cheeks and you tried to move but you winced again with the turn of your neck.

"Careful now." He helped ease you up. One hand on the back of your neck, the other around your waist. You were on fire again.

"What happened?"

"You fainted."

"I gathered that much, thank you."

His eyes twitched slightly. You weren’t sure if it was in amusement or not.

Before anything else could cross your mind, such as to push him away, his large hands found your elbows and he hauled you up.

"I'll see you after breakfast."

"What for?"

His hands dropped from you as he walked to the door.

"Our first session."

He left without saying anything else. And if you hadn't been so overwhelmed, you would've noticed the blood on his collar.

Would've noticed the blood on you.

You sat for some time after he'd gone, the faint imprint of his hands still warm against your skin. Your fingers brushed your neck again, wincing but you chalked it up to the faint, perhaps you’d twisted it in the fall. That must be it. You told yourself so twice.

When you did rise, the room seemed too quiet, as if it had been holding its breath. You wrapped your arms around you and padded barefoot in circles around your room, the silence of the house only broken by the occasional tick of the grandfather clock below.

Your eyes then caught on a tray. Not sure when it had gotten there. Maybe he brought it. Though the gesture seemed too...kind.

Toast. A soft boiled egg. Tea that had already begun to cool. You sat, stared at it, then lifted the cup with trembling hands. The tea had a strange aftertaste to it. Iron, maybe? Or the remnants of your own unsettled stomach, but you drank it anyway. You needed something solid in you, or you feared you might float away altogether.

A light knock came at the door, too soft to startle.

The attendant’s voice called your name through the door.

"Yes," you replied, brushing some hair from your face.

He stood just beyond the threshold as he opened it, dressed in proper attire while you were still in your nightgown.

"Your first session," he said. "Mr. Jackson is ready, if you are."

You hesitated only for a moment before nodding.

The disquiet in your chest was not fear, it was something stranger. Curiosity. Longing. Like a moth pressing against a glass. You grabbed a robe hanging off a hook and tied it tightly around you, the softness of it only easing you slightly.

He led you through the house without speaking. The halls were long, lined with portraits you didn't recognize, faces that all seemed to follow you with their eyes. You tried not to stare too long.

The door to the study opened before you’d realized you arrived, the attendant excused himself while Mr. Jackson smiled at you.

The study was warm, fire lit though it was barely past dawn. Curtains drawn tight. A chaise lounge by the hearth and a high backed chair beside it. He gestured for you to lie down.

You obeyed. You didn't know why.

He took his seat, crossed one long leg over the other, folded his hands.

"Tell me about the voice."

So much for easing into things.

You stared at the ceiling, trying to get comfortable if even possible. "I don't remember much. Only that it was... kind. Gentle."

His head tilted. "And familiar?"

"Yes. I think so."

He said nothing. The fire cracked and hissed.

Your eyes fluttered closed for a moment. You could still feel his fingers against your face from earlier, the way he held you like you might vanish.

"It led me to the body, didn't it?"

"That depends. Do you think it did?"

You opened your eyes again. "I thought we were discussing memory, not madness."

He smiled at that, though not unkindly. "And what if they're the same?"

You looked away.

"I didn't hurt anyone," you whispered. "I couldn't have."

"No," he said softly. "You couldn't have."

It was the gentleness that undid you. That and the quiet assurance in his voice. A sudden ache pressed behind your ribs and your breath hitched, though you didn't know why. Not a person, you reminded yourself. A rabbit.

Perhaps you only wanted to believe him.

There was a rustle of paper shortly followed by his voice. "When did this start?"

Your mind wandered back. That night. Your loneliness had swallowed you whole. "Months ago. Dreams."

"Dreams?"

You nodded, twisting your fingers till they hurt. Not wanting him to ask but you knew he would.

"And what happened?"

You couldn't help the blush. The shame. How badly you had wanted comfort that night. "I don't know, it was..." you shut your eyes briefly. "They grew darker. My dreams. The first night felt like the first act. But the rest," you turned her head, neck still aching. "Tell me, does evil come from within us or beyond?"

There was a long pause. The kind that hung in the air like fog, wrapping cold fingers around your throat.

He didn't answer at once. He stood, slowly, the firelight casting long shadows across his face.

He moved toward the window, though the curtains remained drawn. One hand rested lightly on the sill, the other behind his back. He looked like a man waiting for something. Or someone.

"Tell me," he said at last, voice low, smooth as silk but sharp beneath it, "if a wolf kills a rabbit, is the wolf evil for wanting food?"

You blinked. The question struck you oddly, given the allusion he landed on was painfully familiar.

"No," you said carefully. "Of course not. It's the circle of life. The wolf survives. The rabbit... doesn't."

He turned his head, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of him over his shoulder. His eyes were unreadable, but there was a glint there. Not of mischief. Not quite of hunger. Something older. Deeper. You couldn't place it, and it unsettled you more than you liked.

"And what if the wolf enjoys it?" he asked.

You frowned. "Enjoys what?"

"The hunt."

Your mouth went dry. Your tongue felt too large for your mouth.

"I suppose that's natural too," you said, after a pause. "Isn't it?"

He smiled, slow and fleeting. "Natural," he echoed, as if tasting the word.

You drew the robe tighter around you. Your neck still ached, a dull throb now, pulsing with each beat of your heart.

He turned fully then, his expression polite once more, hands folded neatly before him.

"You've done very well," he said. "It takes courage to speak so openly. Especially when the truth feels... inconvenient."

You looked up at him, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Truth is only inconvenient when it frightens us."

A beat.

"Agreed.”

There was something in his tone, just for a moment, something that sounded oddly like admiration.

"I'll leave you to rest. You've earned it."

He moved toward the door, and again, you caught that strange sensation as he passed, like the air folded around him. Like the shadows themselves knew to step aside.

You waited until the door clicked shut before you exhaled.

You hadn't answered his question properly. Not really. Nor had he answered yours.

And you couldn't shake the feeling that he already knew exactly what you were going to say.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

It had been eleven days since your arrival.

Or perhaps twelve.

The house made time feel elastic, stretching and snapping without rhythm. Mornings bled into evenings. Meals arrived without clocks. Mr. Jackson, for all his precision, never gave you a fixed schedule.

You found yourself waiting for him anyway.

You stood now before the long mirror in your room, studying the hollowness beneath your eyes. You weren’t sleeping well. Or you were, but it was the wrong sort of sleep. You would wake with the taste of earth and copper on your tongue, your limbs heavy, tangled in sheets as though you’d been dancing with something in the dark.

He called it suggestion. A method of drawing the subconscious forward.

You called it dreams. Vivid, sickly sweet things that left your skin in a sweat and your mind fogged.

Still, you attended each session.

You told yourself it was part of the process. That the warmth in your chest when he looked at you was merely the result of trust. That the way your skin remembered his fingers long after they'd left was simply... psychological. A trick of the treatment.

Today, the parlour was darker than usual. Curtains half-drawn, the fire low. He waited, standing rather than seated, large hands clasped behind his back. His coat was red today. Velvet, or something like it. It made his eyes almost luminous.

He said your name with the faintest nod. “You're late."

"I wasn't told a time," you replied, chin lifting slightly.

"Even so." His eyes glinted. "You're slipping."

You opened your mouth to protest, then closed it again. He gestured to the chaise.

You lay down without being asked twice.

"You're tense," he murmured. He always knew.

"Let's begin."

He never touched you during these moments. Not really. Sometimes his voice alone felt like a hand resting lightly on your temple. Sometimes you swore you could feel his breath on your throat when he spoke low and close, but when you opened her eyes, he'd be across the room.

"Close your eyes," he said now. "Breathe in. Slowly. Hold it. Good. Again."

You obeyed.

The room dulled. Colours softened. His voice moved through you like music, smooth and lulling.

"You're walking through a garden," he murmured. "Stone underfoot. A chill in the air. You're not afraid. You are guided. Can you see it?"

"Yes," you whispered. And you could, wisteria hanging in curtains, fog coiling at your ankles. And a figure. Tall, blurred at the edges. Watching you.

"Describe him," he said.

"I... I can't."

"Try."

"He's... not a man. Not really. He's shaped like one. But..." Your brow furrowed. "There's something in his eyes. A hunger. He's—"

You jerked as though touched. Your eyes flew open.

The fire was brighter now. Your hands trembled.

Mr. Jackson regarded you with his usual calm. One eyebrow arched slightly. "Interesting."

"What was that?" you asked, breath catching in your throat.

"Your mind," he said softly. "It speaks, if you listen."

You sat up slowly, arms curling round yourself. "I don't like that garden."

"Few like the place where the truth begins."

You looked at him then, properly. The angle of his jaw, the stillness of him. Not a muscle twitched. Not even his breath.

"Do you ever sleep?" you asked suddenly.

He smiled without showing his teeth. "What would I dream of?"

You pondered it, rolling on your side and perching yourself up on one arm. Allowing yourself to really look at him. You knew absolutely nothing about him. He was poised. In control of himself. Calm. At least on the surface. But this estate... this house. It was far too big and too lonely. Daunting. Sometimes you felt like you could hear the portraits whisper at night. There was one in particular you always stopped by. So very old but better maintained than the rest. A woman with eyes like his but warmer. Fresh flowers were always underneath it. A loved one, you could only assume. The rest of the portraits were left to rot.

"The past, maybe."

His fingers tapped a rhythm into his thigh as he watched you. "You think of me as nostalgic?"

You laid back down again, eyes tracing the pattern in the carved ceiling. Thinking back to your childhood. How bright it all felt. The flowers smelled better and the sun shone more. You remembered laughing more, as a girl. Of running down side streets with your friends before they went off to university. Abandoning you.

"Aren't we all?"

It was quiet for a moment. The only sound was your beating heart and the crackle of the hearth before you heard him stand.

Your breath caught at his retreat. The sudden panic alarming but unavoidable.

"Mr. Jackson," you started. His footsteps paused. "Why is it they think you can... fix me. Find answers that others cannot?"

You didn't look at him. Couldn't. Waited for the sound of his shoes to click again with bated breath. A beat of your heart passed before you felt him shift closer to you.

"My reputation, perhaps."

You raised a brow, finally turning. Catching his eyes. Glowing. "Reputation?"

He observed you another moment before bowing his head slightly. "I'll see you tomorrow." And he left without another word.

More of your questions going unanswered.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You felt rigid that morning as you sat down for breakfast. A maid had come to grab you instead of leaving a tray like usual.

Your appetite was scarce and a trembling hand reached for your tea, the porcelain rattling against the saucer but you paused as soon as he entered the room.

Morning light made everything look hazy. Filtering in through the high windows and catching in the curtains that always remained half drawn.

In the time you had been there, you two had never eaten a meal together. Not even the attendant, technically. That first dinner he just sat there, drinking wine and being infuriatingly unhelpful.

Mr. Jackson sat, though he touched nothing laid out on the table.

"Good morning."

You clenched your trembling hand into a fist as you pulled it away from your tea, deciding it was best to clutch it beneath the table.

You dreamed about him last night. Again. Sinful and wrong. Wretched.

Lovely.

He didn't miss your silence and he looked at you with a brow barely raised.

Time ticked by. You could hear it on the clock.

He leaned back in his seat, adorning it like a throne.

"You don't seem to like practitioners very much."

Your jaw ticked and you looked down.

"Or do you just not like me?"

His question took you off guard and your usual attempt at being polite rushed forth. "No, I—" you bit your tongue. You shouldn't find excuses. Reasons.

You swallowed dryly and tried to focus on your food as you spoke. You couldn't look at him. "I've just had bad experiences, is all. Bags filled with knives. Strange things to measure my skull." All things considered you could at least admit to yourself the relief you felt when you realized all you two would be doing is talking. At least for now.

His fingers thrummed on the table and you finally took note of the ring he was wearing.

"I'm not that kind of doctor."

Your jaw ached as you clenched it. Watching him lean forward on the table by his elbows. His expression unreadable as he spoke.

"Are you afraid of me?"

"I don't know." You didn't. You hadn't the faintest idea how you felt about him. A thousand things. Perhaps nothing. A few. It felt complicated.

The thrumming stopped and he dug into his coat pocket before pulling out a moderately small package and holding it out for you. "This is for you."

You eyed it for a long moment. Taking note of his slender hands. The bones and muscle that made him up. A gift?

With furrowed brows and a cautious hand, you gently took it from his hold and peeled back the wrappings.

Your shaking hands suddenly stilled.

"What?" He asked, voice even, as ever.

You lightly ran your fingers down the cover, over the ridges of the title. It was the first edition of your favorite novel. "Nothing, just...a book?" You looked at him, brows furrowed. Trying to read him but he was written in a foreign language.

He nodded, resting his chin in his palm.

Was this a session?

"And what does it remind you of?"

Your lips parted to ask him how he even knew but the memory from your childhood outshone the rest of your thoughts.

It was Christmas morning when you were a child and your mother had grown tired of you stealing the papers from the neighbors despite them all saying the same thing. You were convinced you’d find something new in them and your father no longer had time to take you to the library.

It had been the first book you were ever gifted. Your own. The first thing you felt like you could truly call yours.

You blinked away tears and set the book down. "I'm sorry, I don't understand—"

"I think you understand me well enough."

So this was a session. He took you off guard. No warning. A change of scenery. You couldn't prepare. You hated it.

"A bookshop." The lie slipped out.

He hummed. He knew.

You thrummed your own fingers now on the table. This whole thing was off kilter. Not right. Your mind trailing back to the hesitancy of the priest.

"Are you a clergyman?"

He blinked. "No."

"Do you have any affiliation with the church?"

There was a moment, brief reluctance. “No.”

Your brows furrowed. Not understanding how your mother would have agreed to this. Not understanding the priest's suggestion even though he did try to warn.

Which brought you to your next question.

Why the warning?

"I'm a practitioner. I work with the mind. Diseases of the mind. I don't deal with fantasies of demons lurking in the shadows or behind closed eyelids."

Science. A man of science. Perhaps that was the reason for caution given the two tended to clash heads. But you still felt like that wasn't enough. Not to mention you weren’t diseased. You weren’t.

You were not mad.

He said your name in a lull, dancing around your throat and tilting your head up. "I'm here to listen to you. To reason." He paused and seemed to consider his next words. "I don't think you're mad. We just need to prove to everyone else that you're not. And that only begins once we stop your... night terrors."

"They're not night terrors." Your stubbornness was still intact, apparently.

He sighed, looking at you through long lashes. "I would like to help you. If you talk to me, I will listen. But—"

"I don't want to go back to the garden."

The words were out and you were holding onto your dress so tight you were sure the threads would rip. Thinking about that night is one thing. Actually reliving it, that was not something you wanted anyone else to witness.

All he did was hum and tap your book with a finger as he stood.

"Until tomorrow."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You felt heavy. Caressed. Something soft grazing the side of your face.

The pain was sharp and sudden but melted into something alien and blissful. A silent gasp left you and your pulse thrummed. Skipped.

Hazy and opium filled the air.

You looked up through heavy eyes, spotting the now familiar darkness of his hair.

Part of you wanted to touch it. Touch him.

But your limbs were too heavy.

Only as you went to the bathroom later that morning did you finally take notice of the bruising.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Eyes bore into each other. The tick of the clock matched your heart.

He was so patient.

You were sitting today. Not laying. Not wanting to be that vulnerable, yet.

There was the rustle of fabric as you shifted. Watching him watch you.

"I'm not sure what you want me to tell you."

He shook his head, chin tilting down. "I don't want anything. It's what you want to say that's of interest to me."

You looked down. Your fingers tapped a light rhythm into the book you held in your hands. Since he'd given it to you, you were already about a quarter way in.

Silence stretched and pulsed.

"How's the book?"

You pressed your tongue behind your teeth. "It's fine."

"What do you think?"

Your eye twitched. "Are you laughing at me?"

"No." He leaned forward, elbows on knees. Keen.

"I'm just curious. The book seemed to mean a lot to you."

You shook your head, looking away again. "It's just a book."

"Does it remind you of anything?" That head tilt of his had a habit of slowly unraveling you. "Your childhood, perhaps? If we are to circle back to the topic of nostalgia."

Your skin felt too tight. He somehow knew. Knew too much. Too little. "Not quite. Lots of children want books—"

"And did you? Want books? Want that one?"

"To say so is bad luck."

"Bad luck?"

You hummed. Tracing the letters. "To say what you want does the opposite. It's best to keep it to yourself. Be careful of wanting anything." Your mind trailed to that night. Your desperate prayer. "You may be punished for it."

You hadn't realized he stood, now in front of you. Hands in pockets and staring down. A god deciding to observe mere mortals.

"Do you think you're being punished?"

His eyes. So stunning in their appearance. Their depth. Flickering red for a moment in the firelight.

You were breathless as you spoke. "I think so, yes."

You felt like you were being torn open.

Not like flesh. Not the gruesome tears.

Softly, like fruit. Too ripe and splitting with barely a tug.

Abrasive.

That's what he was. That's what this was.

"Have you had any dreams since being here?"

You paused as you messed with the hem of your sleeve. "I suppose." You didn't dare look at him. The room dark, as always. You debated on running to the window and tearing open the blinds just to see what he would do. "Not that I can remember them, though."

You couldn't help it.

A peek, that's it.

He looked... disappointed.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You were brought down for dinner.

Snow was coating every window and you couldn't help it as your mind wandered. Watching the gardens from each window you passed. That's the only time the curtains were pulled back. Swathing the estate in moonlight and candles. Fires roaring.

Christmas was nearing. Your first without your family. Your mother.

Every year you were gifted a book.

You wondered what this year would've been.

Your knife slipped at the thought and crimson bled onto your plate.

However, you were distracted from the pain by the sudden intake of breath from someone else at the table.

Your eyes danced up.

The attendant looked... well it was rather concerning.

He looked as if he were about to lunge at something—you, before Mr. Jackson’s sharp tone cut through the air.

"Take your leave." he practically snapped. A warning.

"Michael—"

"Now."

You’d never heard him sound like that.

Michael... so that was his name.

The scrape of wood met your ears as the man left and you looked at the head of the table.

He was sitting perfectly still. Not even blinking.

Pupils wide.

You bit the inside of your cheek. Grabbed your napkin and pressed it to the cut. "Rude not to offer a wounded lady help."

A beat.

"I was under the impression you didn't want my help."

You took a drink of your wine. Annoyed. At him. Yourself. Your life.

"And I was under the impression you were going to give it anyway."

He smiled slightly, into his own glass.

You shouldn't have felt pleased.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You laid awake as the night droned on. Staring at the ceiling and seeing red carnations in your minds eye.

M.J.

"So that's who..."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You didn't remember falling asleep.

It was a craving. To know him.

Forbidden.

Insatiable. A lurid glare to it as you tried to claw your way toward it.

Down down down into the pit. Persephone stumbling after Hades.

You wanted to go where you knew you couldn't. Not that you weren’t allowed... it wasn't possible. Shouldn't be.

You shouldn't want to descend.

You shouldn't want to tear into his body like he did yours and look inside.

But you did.

You wanted to claw your way through shadows and flesh and hold the heart of your shadow.

Your affliction.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

It felt as if your skeleton had shifted inside of you.

Evolved.

Adapted.

You watched him more closely.

You knew he was familiar. Knew something wasn't right.

Come to me.

It didn't scare you anymore.

There was no fright.

Just fuel to the fire that was your curiosity.

You remembered all your dreams. You always had.

You wanted to know him.

Whatever the cost.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

The bruises bloomed like lilacs, soft-edged and dusky, nestled in the hollow of your throat and curling faintly at your jaw. They didn't ache like bruises should. They pulsed.

You stood at the washbasin, fingertips hovering above the discolouration. You didn't dare touch them. The skin there felt different, as though it didn't belong to you.

Sleepwalking, you thought. A fall, perhaps. A bedpost knocked in the night. You had no memory of it. Only of... warmth. A heaviness. A dream that left you breathless, as though you’d run from something and forgotten why.

And always, always his voice. Somewhere between a lullaby and command.

You dressed high-necked that day.

Michael— Mr. Jackson, didn't remark on it, though he watched your collar with pointed interest.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

That night, you dreamt of teeth.

Not fangs, not the obvious kind, but rows of them.

Clean, white, perfect. Smiling. Too wide. Set in a face you almost recognized, but the name felt wrong on your tongue.

When you awoke, your bed was cold. You had no memory of leaving it.

The bruises were darker now. Deeper. Like ink stains pressed just beneath the skin.

You no longer believed you’d walked into a bedpost— never believed it in the first place.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You stopped a maid that afternoon. A girl no older than twenty two, with flaxen braids and red-raw hands.

"Where is Mr. Jackson sleeping?" you asked.

The girl blinked, confused. "He doesn't, miss."

You tilted your head. "Doesn't?"

"Not since I've been here."

You left the conversation colder than you entered it.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

The next evening, you didn't sleep.

You waited.

You left the lamps unlit and the windows cracked to let the night in. Bitter cold with yule on the heels. You let the estate settle into silence, that old, heavy silence peculiar to large houses built to hold the dead. And then you crept from your room, barefoot on the carpet. Soft. Cautious.

Drawn.

The air grew colder the further you wandered. Corridors unfamiliar. Doors you hadn't seen. The paintings on the wall were more distorted here, melted faces, hands too long, eyes that followed.

And then you heard it.

Music.

Low. Disjointed. Like a lullaby played backwards.

It drew you to a door at the end of the hallway, grand, arched, carved with something that might have once been ivy. It was ajar.

You pushed.

Inside was not a room.

It was a chapel. Barely lit. The walls were stone, the air damp. An altar stood at its centre, not with a cross, but with something old, older than the Church, older than scripture. A symbol you couldn't place, carved in ash and bone.

And him.

Not standing. Kneeling.

Michael Jackson, his head bowed, dark curls catching the candlelight. His lips moved. Singing? Praying? You couldn't hear.

You took a step back. The floor creaked.

His head turned.

He said your name plainly. Gaze knowing. His voice was calm. Almost warm. "You ought to be in bed."

You didn't answer. Couldn't.

"Curiosity," he murmured, finally rising to his full height, "is a strange sort of affliction, isn't it?"

You swallowed. Your mouth was dry.

"I heard music."

"Did you?" He approached you slowly, like one might approach a skittish doe. "What did it sound like?"

You stepped back, suddenly afraid you wouldn't remember how to run if you needed to.

"What is this place?"

"A room for reflection," he said. "Or confession. Depending on what you bring to it."

"And what do you bring?"

His eyes glinted. That unreadable thing.

"Hunger."

"Hunger," you echoed, and your voice sounded thin, like stretched glass. "For what?"

He stopped just shy of you. Too close. His shoes almost scuffing against your slippers. Taunting.

"Truth," he said softly, tilting his head. "Is that not what you want as well?"

Your pulse was a staccato drumbeat in your throat. "You don't pray," you whispered. "You said so. You don't believe in demons."

"I don't," he agreed. "But belief is not a requirement for truth."

Your spine pressed against the cool stone of the doorway. He hadn't touched you, not really. Not with his hands. But you felt surrounded all the same.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You couldn't remember how you got back to bed.

"This isn't treatment," you breathed.

"No," he admitted.

A candle flickered beside you and in that small movement of flame, something shifted in his face. A flash, not anger, not cruelty. A melancholy.

He looked lonely.

He took your hand, gently, like you were spun sugar, and placed something cold in your palm.

A key.

"Next time you walk the halls," he murmured, "don't wait for music. Choose a door."

And then he turned from you, his coat whispering behind him like wings. The candlelight dimmed as he passed, and when you looked down at the key, you swore you felt it hum.

That night, your sleep was not your own.

When was it ever?

You stood in your dream, or in something like it, in the same chapel. Barefoot. There was no roof, only a black sky, the stars like puncture wounds.

Something brushed your collar. Breath, maybe. Wind. Or worse.

When you awoke, your feet were dirty. The key still clutched in your hand.

And the bruises had bloomed again.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

At breakfast, you wore a scarf.

He made no remark — only poured your tea, and added a drop of something from a dark bottle you hadn't seen before.

You didn't stop him.

Treatment, maybe.

"Tell me," he said after a long pause, "has the voice grown louder?"

You froze.

You hadn't mentioned Him in a while.

Had you?

You met his eyes across the table. Something within you said: ask. Ask the thing you don't want to know.

So you did.

"Am I sleepwalking?"

He took a slow sip from his glass, and when he set it down, the reflection in it wasn't quite his.

"No," he said evenly.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

The key was warm in your palm that evening.

It shouldn't have been.

You sat on the edge of the bed, the curtains drawn against the dusk. There was a hush to the estate that night, not silence, not quite, but the sense that everything was listening. The house breathed.

You held the key between your thumb and forefinger, turning it, studying the tiny sigils carved into the metal. Not letters. Not anything you knew. But the more you looked, the more they started to seem... familiar. Like the curl of smoke. Like the bone-white markings you'd once seen drawn in salt outside a chapel. A priest who spoke in tongues. A body buried without eyes.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You didn't remember leaving your room, only that you were suddenly in the east wing — the one the staff never went near. The corridor stretched long and crooked like a spine. Doors lined either side, tall and narrow, all unmarked. Some had handles. Some didn't.

One door breathed when you passed.

Another sighed.

The third... sang.

A low note. Barely audible. A single violin string beneath the floorboards. A tone that rang behind your teeth and in the base of your spine.

Your key fit that lock.

Of course it did.

Your fingers trembled as you turned it. The door creaked inward and a cold breath of air curled out, kissing your neck.

The room inside was, impossibly, a replica of your childhood bedroom.

Down to the crooked bookshelf. The lavender candle. The missing curtain hook. A pair of scuffed shoes too small to wear now, placed beside the bed.

You stepped in. The air was stale with memory.

"Clever," you murmured. To yourself. Or maybe not.

The candle lit on its own.

There, on the nightstand, was your old hairbrush. The one your mother had broken in half in a fit of frustration the year your hair refused to be tamed.

You lifted it — not a crack to be found.

Something in the mirror moved.

You turned. Nothing there. But your reflection lingered a moment longer than it should have.

You left quickly after that.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You didn't sleep. Not really. You floated. Drowned, more like.

The next morning, he greeted you with soft eyes and a darker waistcoat. You noticed his cuff was stained with something that looked like wine. But wasn't.

"Shall we begin again?" he asked, voice smooth as ever.

You didn't respond.

He gestured to the settee. You sat, heart stammering, mind fractured from the night before.

"I want to try something," he said. "Nothing frightening. Just... deeper. A guided state. The mind is like a room. Sometimes we must rearrange the furniture."

You blinked. "You mean hypnosis."

He smiled, but not unkindly. "I mean honesty."

Your fingers twitched.

"You're safe," he said, and for one treacherous second, you almost believed it.

His voice dropped into that lulling cadence you now recognized, the one that threaded through your dreams. The one that made the air feel thick and sweet.

"Close your eyes."

You didn't want to.

You did.

He was in the garden again. You could smell roses.

There was blood beneath your fingernails.

And in the trees, something watching. Breathing. Waiting.

He knelt before you.

Not the practitioner. The other him. The version with no shadow. With too-sharp eyes and a mouth that had forgotten how to be kind.

"Do you know my name yet?" he asked.

You tried to speak.

Couldn't.

He leaned closer, whispering into your throat.

"Say it, and I will set you free."

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Something was wrong.

You stared down at your hands as you sat in bed, watching the bones shift as you moved your fingers.

Something was missing. Fading.

But what?

Everything felt as if it were breathing. Too sharp. Too colourful. Too aromatic.

You crawled to the window, desperate for something fresh in this house.

The pane of glass creaked as it slid open and you inhaled winter sharply.

Not enough. Not nearly enough.

You didn't even think to grab your robe or shoes before you slipped out the door.

The gardens greeted you with open arms as if they'd been waiting for you. Lush despite the season. White roses gleaming with ice as they caught in the moonlight.

You felt faint needle pricks in your feet as they crunched through the snow. Your head pounding, a sharpness behind your eyes that made the stars a bit blinding.

Your breath came out in puffs and your skin was riddled in goosebumps but you didn't mind. It was a nice distraction. A needed one.

You did not want to sleep.

Your mind raced as your fingers brushed along the roses.

This treatment didn't seem to be going anywhere. You still had dreams. It felt as if it were getting worse now that you were covered in bruises.

You weren’t sure what was real or not in this place. That chapel, your childhood bedroom... being outside helped ground yourself a little bit.

"Taking a late night stroll?"

You spun around at the voice, your flesh snagging on thorns and blood began to drip into the snow.

The attendant went deathly still and you watched as his carefree smile grew tense. His eyes trained on your hand, the slickness of crimson and how it glinted in the moonlight.

"Sir—"

You weren’t quite sure how it happened. It felt like you had only blinked before you found herself on your back and blinking up at the stars, a silent sort of pained sound leaving you as something burrowed its way through your skin. Your cut opened up even more.

Blood terribly warm against the cool night air.

Someone was on top of you. Pinning you to the earth and snow soaked through your nightgown but you couldn't focus on the cold as hands gripped you tight, securing you in place.

You felt light headed, back arching slightly at the pain and you forced yourself to look down. At what was happening to you.

Your mind couldn't keep up or perhaps it simply couldn't understand.

It looked as if he was kissing you. The visual rather romantic. His mouth open and his tongue sliding against your skin, but his teeth–

They were in your flesh. Buried deep and you felt the pull.

He was there one moment and gone the next.

Ripped from you and only then did you scream as his teeth tore jagged lines from being forced away.

Everything was spinning but you faintly registered shouting.

Your head rolled to the side, trying to make sense of the blurry figures a few feet away from you.

Focus, your mind begged.

It was Michael and the attendant. Fighting. The latter looked like an enraged animal and the former attempted to restrain him.

It didn't take long.

A fist went flying in the air, knocking the attendant right in the temple and he crumbled, not getting back up.

You caught sight of dark eyes gleaming as footsteps crunched through the snow, approaching you.

Michael might've fallen to his knees at your side, but you weren’t sure.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Dim lighting flickered across the ceiling and you felt strange. Cold despite the fire. Despite being swathed beneath thick blankets.

Your eyes slated to the side, half surprised to see him there. A chair drawn close to the side of the bed, elbows perched on his knees and chin resting in his hands as he watched you.

There was something different.

Either regarding him, or yourself. You weren’t sure.

Something was missing.

“How do you feel?”

You felt… fine. Serene. Grounded in a way that didn’t feel correct.

“Am I dreaming?”

His hand reached out, tentative and slow as if he were approaching a wounded animal and your breath hitched as his thumb dragged lightly along your cheekbone.

“I didn’t think I would have to do this so soon.”

Your brows furrowed, your question dying on your tongue as Michael leaned forward, dark eyes drifting from your mouth to your neck.

The gasp that left you was a soft exhale as you felt something prick, too distracted by the softness of his lips against your throat to take hold of the concern that should’ve been paralyzing you.

You felt a pull, almost as if your soul was being unspooled by the fates and you felt so dazed as you gazed up at the ceiling. Your fingers burying themselves in his hair without thought, his own hand coming up to cradle the other side of your neck while his other arm wrapped around your waist, practically pulling you into his lap.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You felt him everywhere. The gentle touch of his fingers drifted over your sensitive skin like leaves dancing over flagstone, mere whispers but enough to entrance.

You couldn’t stop staring at him. Finding a different footing on a new sense of madness and yes… yes, you knew him. Knew who he was.

You had known all along.

He was your ghost. Your shadow. All those months… praying to him through the messenger of the moon.

The garden that night…

“It’s you.” Your voice cracked, the realization settling in the cavity of your chest like a revelation worthy enough to be slotted into scripture.

His mouth tugged up at the side, being pulled by an invisible string and you could finally see them— fangs, the tips pressing into his bottom lip like a promise.

Michael’s hand cupped your throat, thumb pressing up beneath your jaw to tilt your head back while his other hand wound in your hair. “Look at you,” he spoke quietly, a dazed expression woven into his features.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

You weren't used to them.

They itched. The kind of itch that was maddening and made your head swim— a lick of hunger curling around your stomach violently as you sat on the ground in front of the hearth, head resting against Michael’s knee as he ran fingers through your hair.

“It’ll pass,” he muttered, voice hiding beneath the crack of fire.

You were half tempted to sink them into his thigh, your eyes slating to the side as you looked at the muscle of his leg—

Michael’s hand tightened in your hair. “Don’t.”

Your eyes flicked up. He wasn’t looking at you.

Jaw tight as he gazed at the fire and eased his hold on your hair. “Once that line is crossed, I can’t—“ he shut his eyes and took a breath. “Just, don’t. Not yet.”

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Your dreams had stopped since then, or perhaps they’d become your reality— your own version of Alice slipping through the cracks of the soil after failing to follow the rabbit.

He had fixed you, his reputation not failing him.

You stood in the gardens. Slippers wet with blue snow and you stared at the frozen body of the attendant. Still crumbled up on the ground like a discarded newspaper.

It had been weeks. Days. Months?

You didn’t know.

Your eyes danced up to the moon. Please, you prayed.

A ravenous hunger hollowed you out and then you finally realized what had been wrong. What had been creeping up your mind like a spider.

You hadn’t heard your heartbeat in a while.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

Your eyes met his in the dark. Breath still as your nail traced a line down his cheek to the corner of his mouth, thumb coming up to press against the tip of his fangs.

A breath passed as you waited for him to pull away. To grab your wrist. Not yet— his two favorite words lately.

Michael didn’t say a thing.

You barely had to try, not a moment later your flesh was pierced like it was ripened fruit. A spot of crimson dewing up and before it could drip, Michael’s lips wrapped around your thumb. Gaze locked on yours and you watched as his eyes flashed red at the taste of you.

You’d never known such longing.

The rawness of it as it consumed you, feeling on fire as he slowly dragged you towards him, pulling your strings because your limbs were suddenly useless.

Say it.

You shut your eyes as his voice blanketed your mind, his soul consuming yours as you straddled his hips.

His grip tightened on your waist, “please.”

Your hands came up to cup his face, taking in the beauty of him. He was sculpted of sharp lines, his creator clearly obsessed with perfection and his eyes— Christ, looking at him felt like damnation. Like Orpheus turning to glance at Eurydice because he just couldn’t help himself.

“Michael.”

His mouth met yours and you saw a burst of multicolored lights dance behind your eyes as they slid shut, melting into him as your hands greedily pulled him close.

He stood up, carrying you easily as you wrapped your arms and legs around him, hardly paying any mind as your back settled on the bed. You couldn’t feel anything but his soul and yours.

Michael’s hips settling between your own and his hand was in your hair again, pulling taught and guiding your mouth lower— “Now.”

One word. That one word sounded like Gabriel’s trumpet— heaven reigning down in a blinding cascade of fire and finally…

Your teeth sank into the side of his throat and the sound that left you wasn’t human.

He shuddered violently, holding you close and chanting your name like a hymn he’d known for thousands of years. A millennia passing before he finally got to taste the sweetness of it on his tongue.

Michael held you close, hips pressing into yours and when you felt him thrust inside— the drag of it felt like a hit of opium.

He pulled your hair, dragging your mouth to his, hot and open— tongue dancing with yours and he groaned at the taste of your blood.

Michael’s arms held himself up just enough not to crush you as he thrusted forward, pushing you further into the mattress and your mouth gaped open at the force of it.

He was dancing on the edge of violence and it was lovely. A macabre beauty to the way his hips rolled and then his teeth dragged along your throat, drawing blood and his tongue flattened over the fresh wound moments later.

Then he was saying your name again— the cadence an ancient lilt as his cock dragged out and back in, hitting something inside of you that teased the entrance to the Elysian Fields.

The orgasm hit you hard and you choked out a cry, legs trembling but Michael kept going, his mouth and teeth digging into your throat so deep you thought he might get carried away and actually start eating you.

“Michael.”

He forced his head back, mouth and chin and teeth covered in crimson and he looked so unraveled— hips slamming into yours and pelvis grinding against your clit.

Michael was kissing you again, the action a complete mess. Wet and tasting of iron and something else a bit sweeter. Dancing between the notes of orchids and ichor.

His thrusts became erratic, the bed slamming into the wall so hard the old oak frame cracked down the middle and the mattress collapsed to the floor like the earth had opened up beneath you.

When he came and your name dripped off his tongue, you knew you’d found it. What you’d been praying for.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

michael jackson masterlist

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