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lavlynyan · 3 days ago

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Priest! Vampire! Rafayel x Nun! Reader.

synopsis: when a charming new priest is sent to your convent amidst the winter freeze, you're naturally untrusting. unfortunately, he's more knowledgeable of the faith, and you could learn a thing or two, especially if you want to protect yourself from the recent vampire attacks.

trigger warnings: (heavy plot!). minor and major character death, blood, dubious consent, sacrilegious themes (Not Christianity or Catholicism; made up religion but using synonymous terms), gore, porn with plot, fingering (fem. receiving), hand jobs, piv, non-consensual vampire transformation, bodily horror, drinking blood, playing with blood, human consumption, unwilling cannibalism, afab reader- usage of female anatomy (though not descriptive of size/skin markings). fem. reader- she/her used. biting. choking. manipulation. blasphemy. overstimulation. virgin reader. corruption. monster fucking. slight belly bulge, bondage. incorrect use of holy water. wax play. This list may be expanded and/or altered.

triggers for this chapter: fem. and afab reader. death of minor character(s). small mentions of blood. implied death of a child. decapitation. suffocation. suspicious behavior. panic. careless handling of body parts. choking.

a/n: this piece holds no actual religious scripture or quotes, I just needed those terms as they were synonymous. This is in NO WAY a jab at those faiths nor is it meant to spread hate or harm to them. It is also not an insult to those who practice. I tried to write with care, which yeah may be hypocritical of what I have here, so I apologize. Additionally, thank you to everyone who voted in the poll. While it was originally intended to be a one-shot, I felt it would be better to break it into chunks as this is very plot-heavy. Thank you for your support! Reblogs are highly appreciated!

word count: 6.0k

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II. Il Ragazzo

"The Uses of Sorrow."

The dull thud, thud, thud of the knife against the cutting board filled the small kitchen, blending with the occasional clatter of wooden wheels against the floor. The boy, sprawled out on his stomach, rolled his new toy cart back and forth, watching the way it wobbled slightly over the uneven planks.

His mother barely spared him a glance, too focused on her task. The scent of fresh-cut onions and herbs mingled with the faint smokiness of the fire burning low in the hearth. Outside, the

wind howled, rattling the shutters, but inside, the warmth of the kitchen kept the winter chill at bay.

“Not so rough, Emil,” she murmured, tossing a handful of carrots into the pot. “You’ll break it before the day’s out.”

Emil grinned, undeterred. He pulled the cart back as far as he could, then let it go, sending it racing across the floor—straight into the table leg with a loud crack.

His mother sighed. “Emil.”

But before she could scold him further, a knock echoed through the house. Sharp. Firm.

The tension in her shoulders eased—just a little.

Standing on the doorstep, framed by the biting winter mist, was a young man with a pleasant smile. He carried a woven basket in his arms, wrapped in cloth to keep its contents from the cold.

"Hello, ma'am," he greeted warmly. "The church is giving out handouts for the freeze. May Astra keep you warm."

She blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his presence. His clothes were simple but well-kept, a thick cloak draped over his shoulders, dusted with frost.

Though young, there was something composed about him, something practiced in the way he spoke.

Her grip on the door slackened. "Oh," she said, glancing at the basket. "That’s… kind of you. I didn’t think they were doing another round so soon."

"We weren’t, but Father Rafayel insisted," the young man explained, shifting the basket slightly. "The freeze’s worse than expected. People are going hungry."

At the mention of the new priest’s name, her lips pressed together. Father Rafayel. She had heard bits and pieces of the new priest, of how he was an Astra-sent blessing to Linkon. Still, food was food. And she wouldn’t be foolish enough to turn away charity in the dead of winter.

She exhaled, stepping aside. "Come in, then. You’ll catch your death out there."

The young man smiled again, dipping his head in thanks before stepping inside. Behind her, Emil peeked up from the floor, wide-eyed, his toy forgotten.

The young man’s smile widened as he glanced down at Emil, who stared up at him with wide, wary eyes.

"Is this your son? Adorable," he said warmly, crouching slightly to be at the boy’s level.

Emil clutched his wooden toy to his chest, not answering right away. His mother, still standing near the door, crossed her arms.

“Yes,” she said simply, watching the man carefully. “Emil, say hello.”

The boy hesitated, then mumbled, “Hello.”

The young man chuckled. “A polite one, too.” He lifted the basket slightly. “There’s bread, dried meats, and a bit of cider inside. Should help you get through the worst of the freeze.”

She nodded, stepping forward to take it from his hands. As she did, her fingers brushed against his—just for a second—and she noted how cold his skin was.

If he noticed her wariness, he didn’t show it. A gust of wind blew harshly inside, the fireplace’s flame stuttering before coming alive again.

"Thank you for letting me inside," he said, his voice smooth, easy—too easy.

She only nodded, shifting the weight of the basket in her arms. Emil had retreated to the hearth, kneeling before the fire as if afraid it might go out again.

"You’ve traveled far today," she observed, glancing at the frost that clung to his cloak.

"A bit," he admitted, brushing snow from his sleeves. "But nothing I’m not used to." His eyes flickered around the small home, lingering on the modest table, the single candle burning low. "It’s good to see a household still keeping warm."

She forced a thin smile. "Astra provides."

There's an awkward pause before he clears his throat and stands up.

"Well, I should get going! Thanks for letting me warm up!" He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, offering one last pleasant smile.

She nodded stiffly. "Safe travels."

Emil didn’t say anything, only watched from his place by the fire, his small hands gripping the wooden toy like a lifeline.

The young man hesitated for the briefest moment, then reached for the door. As he stepped out, the wind rushed in again, biting and cruel, whipping at the flames once more before he shut it firmly behind him.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the house were the crackling fire and the faint, distant footsteps crunching against the snow.

On the counter, a new toy sat.

She hadn’t seen him place it there. Hadn’t heard it.

A wooden horse, finely carved, its edges smooth—too smooth, like it had been handled many times but never worn. A strange, glossy sheen coated it, as though the wood had been treated with something other than oil.

Her stomach twisted.

"Emil," she called, her voice careful, measured.

The boy turned his wide eyes to her.

"Did you—" She stopped herself, throat dry.

Emil shook his head. "It wasn’t there before."

A draft curled through the cracks in the door, slipping cold fingers across the floor. The fire flickered.

Slowly, she reached out, fingertips grazing the wooden figure.

It was warm.

Father Rafayel’s voice rang clear and steady, each word deliberate as he recited from the scripture, his hands making sharp gestures. "And so, on the first night, Astra had stripped the Vampire of their blood and warmth. Begone, and know that man may deny you entry into their homes!"

Another day, another sermon. The air in the chapel was thick with the faint scent of incense, smoke curling lazily toward the high beams. You shifted on the hard wooden bench, the hem of your habit catching the edge of the seat. Your fingers fidgeted with the fabric, then scratched your nose, the chill of the morning still lingering under the warmth of the candles.

The words echoed off the stone walls, cold and powerful, and for a moment, it felt like the chapel was holding its breath. The fire in the hearth crackled, but not enough to chase away the bite of the winter air that still crept in through the cracks.

Father Rafayel.

You glanced up at him, sitting tall at the altar, his form just slightly illuminated by the flickering candlelight. He continued, undeterred by the subtle tension that settled in the room. His eyes never seemed to wander from the pages before him. "For only Astra could give man the power to protect themselves from that which is evil."

The others in the pews looked entranced, nodding solemnly, whispering the prayers under their breath. Simone beside you was practically leaning forward in her seat, hanging on every word.

"Dear Father," one of the older nuns spoke up, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the dispersing congregation. Sister Agnes, with her hands clasped tightly in front of her, took a breath before continuing. "We are grateful for your teachings, but I must ask—will there be confessions today? Some of the sisters have… concerns."

Father Rafayel smiled—small, measured. "Of course, Sister. The doors will be open until sundown."

"Very good to hear, Father. And, I do sincerely apologize, but perhaps the topic being that of Satan's kin may be too much for our dear postulants?"

Sister Agnes gestured over toward where you, Simone, and the others had been sitting.

Father Rafayel’s gaze followed Sister Agnes’s gesture, settling once more on you and the others. His expression remained composed, but the corners of his mouth twitched—whether in amusement or irritation, you couldn’t tell.

“My apologies, Sister,” he said smoothly. “I hadn’t realized our postulants were so faint of heart.”

A few of the other sisters bristled at his tone, but Sister Agnes only smiled, the lines on her face deepening. “It is not a matter of heart, Father, but of propriety. There are some lessons that require a certain maturity.”

"Ah, yes, I see," he said softly, "But we must remember, Sister, that knowledge is power. Shielding them from the truths of the world may only delay their understanding of it."

Sister Agnes' face tightened, but she said nothing more. There was a brief, pregnant silence before she nodded stiffly. "Of course, Father. I just wanted to be sure."

“Thank you, Sister Agnes,” Father Rafayel said, his tone returning to its usual charm, yet something about it was too rehearsed. "But I assure you, they will be fine."

Simone shifted uncomfortably beside you, her hands folding in her lap as she avoided his eyes.

Getting up from the pews at the end of the sermon, you were already gathering your things when Father Rafayel's voice cut through the quiet bustle of the departing congregation.

"Sister," he called softly, and despite the casualness of his tone, you felt the weight of his attention draw you in.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to stay seated or make your way out, but something in his voice made you rise, your feet moving before your mind had fully decided.

As you approached, his eyes studied you carefully, too carefully, and a flicker of something—anticipation, maybe—passed between you. You couldn’t quite place it, but it set the hairs on the back of your neck on edge.

"Yes, Father?" Your voice was steady, though you were unsure why you felt so unsettled.

He smiled, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and gestured toward the door. "I just wanted to speak with you for a moment. A brief word, if you don’t mind."

You nodded, though a small part of you wanted to turn and leave before he could say anything further. But you stayed, unsure of what was expected of you in this moment.

"Of course, Father. What is it?" You asked, your voice steady, but your stomach tightened. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off about this—about him.

Father Rafayel took a small step closer, the faintest scent of incense still lingering on him, mixed with something sharper, more metallic. His smile softened, but the intensity of his gaze never wavered.

"You’ve been... quiet during my sermons," he began, his tone low, almost conversational. "Not that it’s any concern of mine, but I do wonder, Sister, what you think of the teachings I’ve shared. But on the other hand, you seemed particularly engaged with today’s sermon."

You blinked. Had you? You had barely been paying attention—at least, not to the words. You were too caught up in the fact that he had been watching you.

“I always listen, Father,” you answered carefully.

His lips twitched, like he was amused by something. “That’s good. A sharp mind is a gift from Astra.” He took a slow step forward, forcing you to tip your chin up to meet his gaze. “Tell me, Sister—do you believe in the Vampire?”

You frowned, unsure where this was going. “Of course. Astra’s word is truth. I believe in Astra’s wisdom, Father. And I trust that the scriptures speak the truth," you replied, carefully choosing your words. It was a general enough answer, one that wouldn’t invite further questioning—but you could see the faint glint of curiosity in his eyes, like he was sizing you up.

Before he could continue on, you clear your throat. "Forgive me, Father, it’s just... I’ve heard the scripture many times before."

He tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into a smile that didn’t sit quite right. "I understand. But even the most familiar truths can reveal something new, don’t you think?"

"Perhaps," you said, though it sounded more like an attempt to push the conversation to a close.

Father Rafayel didn’t seem in any hurry to end the conversation. He stepped back, giving you a little space, though the weight of his presence remained. "I would like to see you in my office later today, Sister," he said, his voice smooth as ever. "We can discuss your thoughts on the sermon, among other things. I’m curious to hear your perspective."

Your heart skipped a beat, but you nodded slowly, unsure of how to respond. "I’ll be there, Father."

He smiled again, that same predatory smile that made your skin crawl just a little more. "Good. I’ll look forward to it."

And with that, he turned, robes sweeping against the stone floor as he walked away, leaving you standing there Simone poked your back. "That Father Rafayel is surely a scholar in his field. I don't think I've ever heard anyone talk about the Vampire with that much confidence.”

You forced a small nod, though your mind was still tangled in the conversation you’d just had.

"He certainly speaks like someone who knows what he’s talking about," you murmured, keeping your voice low.

Simone huffed a small laugh. "More than that! He talks as if he’s seen them with his own eyes." She shivered, rubbing her arms. "The way he described the Vampire... it gave me chills. Like they were right outside, waiting for the sun to set."

Your fingers twitched slightly against the folds of your habit. Begone, and know that man may deny you entry into their homes. The scripture had never felt so... heavy.

"Maybe he just wants to scare us into faith," you said, though the words felt hollow even to you.

Simone gave you a sidelong glance, eyes full of mischief. "Or maybe he’s just dramatic." She leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "But I’ll tell you this—I don’t think he’s just a priest."

You blinked, turning to her. "What do you mean?"

She shrugged. "I mean he’s too polished. Too sure of himself. Most priests—Father Thomas, even—speak with humility, with reverence. But him? He speaks as though he’s telling a story only he remembers."

Your chest tightened slightly, but before you could respond, the bells tolled for morning duties.

"Well, whatever he is," Simone sighed, straightening her posture, "he’s our new priest. Best we behave, lest he start preaching about us next."

You snorted, covering your mouth to stifle the sound. "Oh yeah, a whole sermon about some low-level postulants getting caught yawning. That’d really bring in the crowds."

Simone grinned. "Imagine the scripture. 'And lo, Astra cast his gaze upon the weary postulants and said—Why dost thou slumber in my house?'" She put on an overly serious tone, clasping her hands together in mock reverence.

You shook your head, still grinning. "If that happens, I’m blaming you."

"Hey, if Father Rafayel ever needs new material, I’m happy to provide," she teased, nudging you lightly before heading off toward the kitchens.

You lingered a moment longer, glancing toward the door Father Rafayel had disappeared through.

He speaks as though he’s telling a story only he remembers.

Dim candlelight flickered, casting shifting shadows over the vials—rows upon rows of them, filled with dark, sluggish liquid. Some were sealed, pristine in their careful organization, while others lay shattered, their contents staining the floor in dried, rust-colored streaks.

"And on the second day, Astra be damned, had banned the Vampire from flesh, lest they make do and multiply."

The shard trembled in his grip, thin fingers wrapped tight around the jagged glass as he carved into his own flesh. His breath hitched—more in frustration than pain—as he watched the pale, violated skin remain just that. Unbroken. Unyielding. No blood welled, no crimson life spilled forth to prove he was still something human.

His ragged reflection stared back at him from the shards littering the floor, the candlelight distorting his gaunt features. The words of Astra’s scripture echoed in his skull, the weight of them pressing against something primal within him.

His breath hitched as he stared at the wound, watching the skin close with unnatural speed, the edges of the cut knitting back together as though no injury had ever been there. He let out a shaky laugh, soft and hollow, his fingers trembling with the shard still in hand.

"Astra, what have you done to me?" he whispered into the stillness, the question swallowed by the weight of the air around him.

The scriptures—so sure, so sure in their warning—repeated in his mind, their words echoing through the stillness. Banished from flesh... to make do and multiply.

And yet here he was, unable to bleed. Unable to feel the pulse of life that marked him as living.

The toy horse sat on the desk, its painted eyes vacant and lifeless. The edges of its once bright mane were chipped, the wood smooth and worn from where small fingers had often grasped it. He wiped the corners of his mouth, the motion slow, deliberate, as though the taste of something still lingered.

The toy horse mocked him in its innocence.

And truly, those stupid nuns were fools for believing that Astra was their savior. Astra—a god of light, of warmth, of protection. A comforting lie wrapped in scripture and ritual. They worshipped her as though he could save them from the darkness, from the horrors that lurked beyond their narrow walls. He ran his fingers along the rim of the broken vial, cold and jagged. No god would save him. No divine hand would reach down to pull him from the abyss. They had all been so eager to kneel, to pray, to deny the truth.

The anger seethed through him like a slow-burning fire, suffocating in its heat. Sister Agnes—that wretched, meddling hag. How dare she question him, challenge his authority? How dare she presume to understand, to see through the layers of carefully crafted facades he’d spent so long building? She, with her wrinkled face and tedious morals, had thought she could stop him. She had no idea what he was capable of, what lengths he would go to for the sake of his own desires.

But no—he had to calm down. Control. That’s what he needed. Control over the hunger, the madness that clawed inside him.

And yet, the satisfaction still lingered in his chest. The chase—oh, how he delighted in it. The cat-and-mouse games, the little dance of power and submission. And now, the culmination of his efforts sat before him, staring blankly into space. Sister Agnes’s head, severed cleanly at the neck, her wide eyes frozen in the last moments of her futile struggle.

The blood had drained long ago, leaving only the dull, lifeless pallor of a body deprived of its essence. The head, once so full of righteous indignation, now rested in a jar beside him, as though it were just another object.

A trophy.

He tilted his head, examining her face, the expression of surprise forever frozen in her glassy eyes. There was something so... satisfying about this. The sweet, quiet stillness of her defiance now extinguished. The silence where her voice once preached.

“Foolish woman,” he murmured under his breath, his fingers brushing the cold glass of the jar. The satisfaction rose within him, and for a moment, the hunger seemed sated.

The confessional was a hollow place, thick with the acrid scent of incense and the heavy weight of untold sins. Sister Agnes sat before him, her trembling hands folded in her lap, her voice wavering with a concern that had long since turned to dread.

“Father…” she began, her voice shaking ever so slightly. “I’ve been troubled. Very troubled. The village… it’s been losing its way, Father. People speak of terrible things in the streets, whispers of shadows in the night, of things moving in the fog. Murders, Father. There have been more murders. “First it was old Jonah, the fisherman. Found in his cabin, throat slit, his body drained of life. No blood, no struggle.” Her voice cracked slightly. “Then the widow, Miriam. They found her in the woods, her hands twisted like claws, her face frozen in terror. The children—Father, the children are scared. They hear things, strange things, things they can’t explain.”

Father Rafayel’s lips twisted into a thin smile. “Ease your woes, Sister. It’s just fear,” he said, his voice silky smooth, laced with venom. “Fear that grips their hearts, turning them into monsters in their own minds. The darkness always seems to grow larger when the sun sets, doesn’t it?” His words lingered, the insinuation almost lost in the haze of his own twisted amusement. “But the truth, Sister Agnes, is that the devil’s kin walk among us already. They always have. They are the ones who whisper and lie, who pretend to be good, only to turn and bring ruin to the innocent. They wear the face of faith, but their hearts are black. They prey on the weak.”

"Father, I fear I have sinned. For I have doubt of Astra's mighty words. Is He truly protecting us? Linkon seems to be a farm for the monsters. And your sermon of the Vampire-”

“Doubt,” he repeated softly, the word slipping from his mouth like poison. “Is that what you feel, Sister Agnes? Doubt in Astra’s protection? How terribly… fragile.”

She flinched, her breath catching as his words wrapped around her, tightening like a noose. His voice was smooth, disarming.

“You question Astra, and yet you fail to see the truth, the dark truth. Linkon? A farm for monsters?” He chuckled, though there was no mirth in it. “Astra’s protection is only as strong as the hearts of the people who believe in it.

He chuckled again, the sound hollow and cold, as if mocking her desperate grasp at hope.

"But don't worry, Sister," his voice smooth, dripping with false reassurance. “Doubt shows you think. Astra would forgive.”

He paused for a moment, studying her reaction through the screen, savoring the tension thickening the air between them. His gaze lingered on her, calculating, watching her every movement as if she were a delicate thing on the edge of shattering.

"Yes, Sister. Your doubt is a sign of thought, of reason," he continued, "And it is in that reason that Astra would see you through. But… you see, doubt is a dangerous game. You play it, and it will devour you. It has a way of slipping through the cracks, feeding on the weakness of your mind, your heart."

around them, cloaking the confessional in an oppressive darkness.

"But fear not," he added, his voice a velvet promise, “Astra will forgive. After all, faith is a precious thing, and where faith falters, there is always room to begin anew.”

Sister Agnes hesitated, fingers tightening around the rosary in her lap. She swallowed hard before speaking again, her voice quieter this time, as if fearful the very walls might hear.

"The elders and I… we do not doubt your competency, Father Rafayel, but—" she paused, exhaling shakily— "but we do wonder if, perhaps, your knowledge of the Vampire is… too thorough. Too intimate."

A flicker of something sharp and amused crossed his face. He leaned back slightly, hands resting in his lap, perfectly still.

"Is that so?" he murmured, the candlelight casting strange shadows over his face. "And what, dear Sister, do you suppose that means?"

"It is only that you speak of them as though you—" She stopped herself, shaking her head, her next words barely above a whisper. "As though you know them. As though you have seen them. And the murders—"

He chuckled then, low and rich, sending a cold shiver down her spine.

"Ah, the murders." He tilted his head, his smile widening ever so slightly. "You think I am connected to them?"

Sister Agnes' throat bobbed as she struggled to swallow her fear. A part of her screamed to leave, to excuse herself, to abandon this conversation altogether. But she had come this far. The doubt had already taken root. And doubt was a dangerous thing.

"Forgive me, Father," she finally whispered, voice trembling. "I only wish to understand. The people are afraid. And we… we seek guidance."

For a long moment, he said nothing. Simply watched her, that eerie, knowing smile still stretched across his lips. Then, in a voice soft and sweet as poisoned honey, he whispered:

"Then let me guide you, Sister Agnes."

The divider screen slid down with a low creak, and in the dim light, all Sister Agnes could see were his eyes. Irises of blue and pink, swirling like the depths of an ocean she had never dared to enter—yet now, those eyes seemed to draw her in, pulling her closer with every fleeting moment.

Her breath hitched in her throat as she locked eyes with him, her body frozen in place, as if some unseen force had bound her to the spot. His gaze pierced through her, sharp and calculating, as if he could see every crack in her facade, every wisp of fear that had begun to cloud her thoughts.

The colors—those sickly, shifting hues of blue and pink—were not human. Not holy. Not of Astra.

Her fingers clenched the rosary, nails biting into her palms. The silence between them was suffocating.

"You look frightened, Sister," Father Rafayel mused, tilting his head. "Is it me?

She tried to speak, but the words withered on her tongue. Her pulse thundered against her throat, a frantic drumbeat in the quiet chamber.

"Shall I confess to you, dear Sister?" he whispered, leaning forward. "Shall I tell you of the Vampire? Of their hunger? Their patience? Of how they slip into the cracks of faith, unseen until it is too late?"

Her lips parted, a prayer barely forming—

He moved. Faster than she thought possible, his hand was at her throat, fingers pressing gently—almost tenderly—against her fragile skin. Not yet squeezing. Just feeling. Testing. The way one might test the ripeness of fruit before the harvest.

"Your eyes betray you," he murmured, voice low and soothing, yet sharp with an edge of something darker, something much older. "The mind may try to shield the heart, but the eyes are always honest."

Sister Agnes' pulse quickened, and a cold sweat beaded on her skin. She couldn't look away—couldn’t tear herself from his gaze, even though every instinct screamed at her to flee. He was not a man. Not entirely. Not anymore.

"I… I don't understand," she whispered, her voice trembling as she sought desperately for some semblance of control, but the more she spoke, the less it felt like her own voice at all. It was as if it came from a place much farther away, like a sound drifting in from the depths of the void.*

He smiled then, slow and deliberate, a smile that did not reach his eyes. No, those eyes remained cold, distant, as though they had seen and understood far more than any mortal should ever know.

His hand squeezed, again, testing.

Until he wasn’t.

The pressure turned sharp, a vice tightening around her windpipe. Sister Agnes choked, her hands flying up to claw at his grip, but it was like steel—unyielding, immovable. Her breath came in short, panicked gasps, her eyes wide as terror bloomed in her chest.

"Shh," he cooed, tilting his head as if he were studying an insect beneath glass. "No need for prayers now, Sister. Astra isn't listening."

She thrashed, her feet kicking against the wooden confessional wall, her nails raking against his wrist. But he didn’t even flinch. His grip only tightened, his expression calm—serene, even—as he watched the life drain from her eyes.

The candlelight flickered wildly, shadows dancing like specters across the carved wooden walls. Her vision blurred, dark spots creeping in. Her struggles grew weaker. Slower.

"There it is," he murmured, almost reverently, watching as her body began to still. "The moment of surrender. Isn’t it beautiful?"

And when the last breath rattled from her lips, when the fight had drained completely from her limbs, he finally let go.

Sister Agnes crumpled forward, her habit pooling around her like a funeral shroud.

Father Rafayel exhaled slowly, stepping back to admire his work. Then, with the same serene expression he always wore, he bent down and gently smoothed a stray wisp of gray hair from her face.

"May Astra keep you," he whispered, his voice almost kind. Almost.

He pushed the head off of his desk. It was utter garbage. Not even a snack.

Granted, the hag was old. Her blood had been thin, stale—tainted with time and piety. He should’ve known better than to expect anything satisfying from a woman who had spent her years fasting and kneeling before an absent god.

The severed head hit the floor with a dull thud, rolling until it came to rest against the leg of a chair. Her glassy eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, her mouth slightly open in an eternal, silent prayer.

Pathetic. He kicked it under his desk for now.

Father Rafayel wiped his hand absently against his robes, smearing away the last remnants of her touch.

Looking at the vials of blood on his wall shelves, he pulled the curtain over them, concealing the evidence of his indulgence just in time for a knock at his office door.

His fingers twitched. The scent of old blood clung to his skin, but he forced himself into stillness, smoothing his expression into something softer, more pious.

“Enter,” he called, voice steady, measured.

The door creaked open.

You enter, poking your pretty head in before entering fully, bowing your head slightly. "Father Rafayel. You wished to see me?"

He smiled—just enough to be warm, to appear composed. His gaze flickered over you, sharp but unreadable. "Yes, Sister. Come in, close the door behind you."

The air felt heavier in his office, thick with incense that barely masked something metallic. You stepped inside hesitantly, the door clicking shut behind you.

"I trust you found this morning's sermon enlightening?" he asked, folding his hands neatly on his desk, as if nothing was amiss. As if Sister Agnes' blood hadn't dried beneath his nails.

His smile remained, but there was something colder beneath it, a quiet sharpness in his eyes as he leaned forward just slightly, as if pulling you closer without moving an inch.

"Just curious," he replied smoothly, his voice a velvet laced with hidden danger. "You seem... attentive. More so than most of the others. It's a rare thing, Sister."

He studied you, taking his time, watching how you responded—how you carried yourself, what you didn't say.

"Tell me," he continued, "do you ever wonder if Astra truly watches over us? Or if the faith we've placed in Him is... misplaced?"

"Not at all! I mean, of course I have moments where my faith isn't the highest, but I trust He will lead me back again."

He leaned back in his chair, a slight smile playing at the corner of his lips as he listened to your response. His voice was soft, almost conversational as he folded his hands together.

"Anyways, I was wondering if you'd be willing to join me in the delivery of care packages. You're from here, and I want to give a good impression to the people- so they will trust the church in my hands, you see." Rafayel says, a kind smile playing at his lips, ever the charming display. He straightened up and leaned forward just slightly, his tone more earnest.

"I know it’s a bit of a humble task, but I think it will mean a lot to the people—seeing us, the church, taking care of them, showing that we’re invested in their well-being. I can’t do it alone, though. I would appreciate your company, Sister. I’d be honored if you’d join me.”

"Oh! Um...I... I suppose? It's a group effort yes?"

He chuckled softly, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Of course, it's a group effort. But you and I will be the faces of it, the ones who lead by example."

There was a pause, and his gaze lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, as if weighing your words carefully.

"Think of it as a way to bond with the village. To connect with the people. It’s important, Sister, for them to see us as approachable, as... present." He gave a slight shrug, as if the task was merely a small step in a larger picture.

"I’ll leave the details to you, of course. But yes, I’d like to think of it as a shared effort." His voice softened, making the offer sound inviting.

You nod slowly, still considering his offer. It made sense—he was new to Linkon, and you knew the village better than most. This would give you a chance to interact with the townsfolk, maybe even help smooth things over after all the... tension. Plus, it wasn’t like you had much else to do today.

"I suppose it wouldn’t hurt," you say, offering him a small smile. "But just so you know, Father, I'm not the best when it comes to all these... pompous religious speeches. I’m more of the quiet, helpful type."

Father Rafayel raises an eyebrow, the corners of his lips curling into a smirk. "Pompous speeches? Is that what you think of me?" He chuckled lightly, but there was no malice in his voice. "Don’t worry. There’ll be no speeches—just a little good work. Perhaps you can show me the ropes. Teach me how to blend in."

"Hmm...very well. I can join you. Is that all you wanted? Or was there something else?”

Father Rafayel watches you carefully for a moment, his eyes thoughtful before that same smirk tugs at his lips again. "No, nothing else for now." His tone is casual, almost playful. "I just wanted to see how you felt about it, since, well, you’ve got more of a pulse on Linkon than I do. And," he adds with a shrug, "I’m not opposed to having you around. Maybe you’ll make me look good in front of the village."

"Alright. And when will this be? And who else? Will Sister Agnes join? She's been wanting to do some charity for a while now."

Father Rafayel nods, clearly pleased with your response. "It will be tomorrow morning, bright and early. I think the sooner the better, don’t you?" He paces slightly, then turns his attention back to you. "As for who else... I thought it might just be us for now. Perhaps once the first round is done, we can get others involved. I’m not sure if Sister Agnes will be available—she seems... occupied lately. But if you think she should be included, I can send for her."

There’s a brief flicker of something in his eyes—an unreadable look, but it’s gone just as quickly as it appeared.

"Very well. Thank you for the opportunity, Father,"

"Of course." He pauses. "Would you care for some tea? I seem to have forgotten to asked when you came- forgive me."

You smile, politely shaking your head. "No need to apologize, Father. I’m quite alright, but I appreciate the offer."

Rafayel's lips curve into a small, knowing smile, though there's something almost imperceptible in the way he studies you. He nods in acknowledgment. "Very well. Perhaps another time, then."

There’s a moment of silence, thick but not uncomfortable. Then, with a subtle motion, he turns his attention back to the papers on his desk. "I shall see you tomorrow morning, then. We’ll make a good start with the deliveries."

As you make your way to the door, you feel the weight of his gaze follow you, but you don't turn back. The door creaks as you push it open, the soft sound lingering in the air as you step into the quiet hallway.

You pause for just a moment, letting the silence settle, before continuing down the corridor, wondering if tomorrow’s task would bring more than just the cold morning air.

©hellinistical 2025 do not copy, translate, distribute, plagiarize, or reproduce in any form without permission, and do not share to any media outside of tumblr.

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lavlynyan · 4 days ago

Note

Your henna/mehendi posts are such a good read and I need more of it 😭😭😭😭

Would you consider making one where Zayne looks for his name in your henna as well? Or maybe him watching the process of doing the henna on your hands?

Thank you! 🥺

10:02

"One Mississippi...Two Mississipi... Three Mississippi-"

"You're distracting me,"

"Sorry!" Truthfully, it was just a silly game. You had asked Zayne to see if he could find his name in your henna, seeing how he had been watching the process of you getting it done so patiently.

And you would think, that because he watched you get it done, he'd surely find his name faster, right?

You would be mistaken.

He was still hesitant to even touch your arm, despite you telling him that yeah, the stain was set and it was fine. His thumb caresses your wrist, glasses perched on the tip of his nose while his eyes scan the design like it was a file, not an art work. "Is it in Urdu?" "No." "Arabic?" "No." "Ethiopian?" "Huh?" "I need to cover all bases."

A giggle leaves your lips. "It's not an assignment, you know. You're taking it too seriously." Zayne's lips quirk up into a tiny smirk. "Is that a bad thing?" "No, I suppose not," It's quiet for a moment. "I must say, the line work is beautiful- money well spent." "Mhm,"

He looks over it again, at the net design on your ring and pinky, the moves to your index.

And then- "Here." He kisses his name- it was hidden on the side of your index, neatly disguised as a swirl, the curl of the 'Z' aiding the most in its camouflage. "Found it." "How? That fast?!" Your cheeks are burning, and you try to pull your hand away but he holds it, his small smile turning to a smirk as he looks up at you. Pushing his glasses up, he chuckles. "Yes." You check the time.

He found it in 2 minutes.

#smooches meena for this #i am in LOVE with this series istg meena you're so good at this ;___;#hello god? it's me again-

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lavlynyan · 4 days ago

Text

OK, fuck it, I'll throw this idea out into the universe. Very, very rough. And I will never complete this story lmao ✌️ I was gonna do bullet points, but I am also incapable of making things easy for myself. 😔

Caleb/MC/Zayne love triangle AU where Caleb and MC had a secret relationship prior to chapter 4 that resulted in a pregnancy that won't be discovered until after The Explosion.

When U Come Back

All it took was one second for her world to disappear.

One moment she was speaking with Caleb outside Grandma Josephine's home, their conversation tensed because of a disagreement, and suddenly before she could even realize what had happened, she found herself crumbled on the floor, hearing flames crackling, the scorching heat like hellfire surrounding her.

There was an explosion. Her mind was in a frenzy as it tried to register the scene before her. Right, an explosion. Her hand was on the door handle. Caleb had gone in first and just as she was about to follow suit, she was blown back and now she lay there, her vision failing.

Caleb...Caleb...!

His necklace lay in front of her on the ground. No. It couldn't be.

Caleb!

She shakily reached for his necklace, grasping tightly as her consciousness slipped away.

When she regained consciousness later, she found herself in a hospital room.

Confused, completely disoriented, she barely registered the tears running down her face until the door opened and Zayne walked in, his eyes widened in concern.

"Doctor...Zayne...?" She still hadn't realized her cheeks were wet with tears, only being able to focus on the heavy pounding in her chest. "I...I had a bad dream...why...why am I here?"

Zayne drew in a breath. He steadied his own breathing, mindful of his tone as he questioned her gently.

"Do you not remember anything that happened earlier?"

A knot formed in her stomach.

"No," she said hesitantly, hoping the scene still vivid in her head was unreal. "I...I don't..."

Zayne understood the situation, knowing she was still in shock so he wasn't going to pressure her. He did know, unfortunately, that she needed to hear the truth.

"I'm sorry," he said, his chest tightening when he saw that flicker of fear in her eyes, "Miss Josephine and Caleb are both...deceased."

She started laughing, nearly crying in hysterics. "That's not a funny joke, Zayne."

He was quiet.

"Caleb and I had an argument earlier," she continued, speaking more to herself. Her words were pouring out frantically as fresh tears rushed down her cheeks. "We had an argument. We were going to make up later. We never go to bed angry at each other. We were..."

"I'm sorry."

There was a knock at the door and a nurse entered, apologizing quietly to the young doctor. She mentioned there were detectives who wished to speak with the patient. Zayne sent her away, saying the patient needed some time to calm down first.

Zayne stayed with her the whole time, feeling his own grief at losing a childhood friend as well.

Some time passed. She returned to work with bags under eyes, looking malnourished. She hadn't had much of an appetite lately, and sleep scared her. She found herself dreaming of that evening over and over again, reliving that moment when she and Caleb were upset at one another.

They were supposed to make up. They always made up. She caressed his necklace in her hand, her thumb brushing over the pendant, tracing the engraved message:

When U come back

Her co-workers chimed in that she should take time off. Captain Jenna herself even said the Hunters Association offered bereavement leave, but the moment she heard that term, she unknowingly shot her superior a look of intense hatred.

There were startled gasps around her, breaking her out of her stupor. She immediately apologized once she realized what she had done. She didn't want to hear that word, or any similar words that would remind her that Caleb was gone.

No one was angry at her. They were all concerned for her, seeing she was wasting away, destroying herself as she grieved.

Tara offered to take her home, helped her as she needed. Captain Jenna also issued this as an order, knowing she wouldn’t be able to refuse.

Before she could protest, she suddenly felt dizzy, feeling an intense migraine and a fatigue unlike any she had felt before in her life. As she collapsed, she heard her co-workers crying out her name, and in her hand, she grasped Caleb's necklace tighter, the last thing she heard before blacking out was hearing Caleb’s voice calling her:

Pipsqueak, I’ll always be by your side.

Another hospital room.

She stared at the ceiling, still feeling fatigued. It was bound to happen, she realized, knowing the many sleepless nights had finally caught up with her.

Just as she sat up, the door opened and she immediately locked eyes with Zayne.

“I’m sorry to trouble you,” she said, “I just needed to rest at home. They didn’t need to check me into the hospital—”

Zayne stopped her from getting out of bed. He was holding a clipboard, his expression hardened. “We had to do some tests to rule out any major concerns…”

She sensed something was off about Zayne’s demeanor. “What is it? Do I have an illness or something?”

“Not quite,” he said, realizing there was no tactful way to deliver his news. He continued calmly, “You’re pregnant.”

She stared at him, not believing she had heard him correctly.

A tensed silence settled in the room, neither person able to tear their eyes off the other. Zayne waited patiently for her to register the news, seeing in her eyes the different emotions passing in quick successions. He was startled when she suddenly broke down crying, her hands settled over the flatness of her belly.

“Pregnant?” she asked again, looking up at him with tears down her cheeks.

Zayne breathed in sharply and nodded. He kept his expression neutral, hiding the fact that a mixture of feelings was warring inside him, ranging from anger to heartbreak. He had always thought he would have more time with her, a chance to cross that line of childhood friends, but it seemed all of the recent outings or late nights together were simply just two old friends catching up and nothing more.

He nodded quietly. “If you need help contacting the father—”

“It’s Caleb’s.”

The silence returned, but it was broken just as quickly as it had arrived.

“It’s Caleb’s,” she sobbed again, her arms suddenly wrapped around Zayne’s torso. He stood there rigid, unsure of what to do. There were questions swirling around in his head, but they didn’t seem to matter to him as much. All he could do—wanted to do—was comfort her.

He let his arms wrapped around her, his heart breaking again as she continued to cry.

“It’s Caleb’s…”

Zayne remained by her side. That won’t ever change, he had decided long ago. For as long as she would allow him, he would stay by her side.

He stayed with her, saving her from herself as she angrily tore herself apart, guilt-ridden that in her grief, she had allowed her baby—Caleb’s baby—to also suffer.

“You didn’t know,” he soothed her, his arms around her in comfort. “It’s still early. You hadn’t done anything wrong.”

He brushed her tears aside with his thumbs, his voice still as gentle as always. “You are allowed to grieve for as long as you need to,” he said, “I know he was important to you.”

He just hadn’t realized the extent of their relationship together. Zayne quelled his jealously before it could ever simmer. This was a deceased man, and also, his own friend. He didn’t want such ugly feelings to fester inside him like this. There were more important matters at hand now anyway.

Zayne stayed. She didn’t push him away, so he stayed.

He stayed and guided her through her first trimester. He made her ginger tea for when the morning sickness came. He advised her to rest as often as she needed since these first months were going to be rough on her body. He also made her meals often, finding the most nutritious recipes for an expectant woman.

One evening, over dinner, she asked, “Are you Doctor Zayne right now or…just Zayne?”

He looked surprised, not understanding her implication.

“It’s just…a doctor wouldn’t care about his patient this much, would he?”

“That is up for debate,” he answered, “many doctors do go above and beyond for their patients.”

“Then I’ll ask again: is this Doctor Zayne…or Zayne?”

He looked into her expectant eyes before his own drifted down to her growing middle. A small bump was forming, a reminder that she was carrying a new life inside her body. Another man’s baby.

Zayne met her gaze again. “Does it matter how I respond?”

“You don’t have to do this…”

“‘Do this?’”

“Take care of me like this,” she answered, that ever-familiar flicker of guilt returning in her eyes. “I can take care of myself. If not, Tara has also been helping me out, too, so you don’t need to—”

“If I say I am Zayne, will it change anything?”

She was silent, so he continued, his tone was soft, but his words were firm.

“If I say, I want to stay with you, will you let me?”

She looked up. “I don’t want you to have the wrong impression—”

“What impression would that be then?”

“That…I am using you.”

“I don’t believe you are. I know you aren’t,” he said, continuing, “But if I say I would let you use me, will that scare you?”

She drew in a sharp breath, feeling her heartbeat quickening. He crossed over to her side, kneeling down next to her.

“If I say, I want to stay by your side, then…will you let me?”

“Zayne…”

She slipped her hand into his, that flash of hesitancy in her eyes unmissed by him, but he was not upset by it. Not in the slightest. He wasn’t demanding anything from her, nor was he expecting anything in return.

He simply wanted to stay by her side.

That night, she slept for the first time in ages, curled into his protective embrace. The weight she had been carrying on her shoulders were lightened by his presence, his soothing words freeing her from her own shackles as she allowed him to break down her wall.

“You can sleep now, I’m here,” Zayne whispered to her as she slept. The deep troubled creases in her expression relaxed, as if in response to his words. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, his words earnest: “I will always be here.”

Gradually, over time, there were many changes happening. Her belly had grown bigger, rounding out distinctively that it suddenly made everything feel so real. She was having a baby. Caleb’s baby. The tumultuous emotions that followed would always send her down a dark path.

The baby was somehow a constant reminder of the man she had lost, but at the same time also a gift he had left for her, his promise staying true. He was still here. He would never leave her.

Just like Zayne had also promised to stay with her.

In the beginning, each passing day felt like Hell, a constant nightmare she wasn’t able to escape from. Time moved so agonizingly slow, it might as well have been frozen, trapping her in that perpetual state of grief and anger.

Then, so subtly, Zayne reached into her depths of despairs and pulled her out. He was patient, empathetic, and careful. He had never overstepped any boundary, never took advantage of her vulnerability, but he still loved her unconditionally.

Hesitantly, she began to allow herself to reciprocate, genuinely touched by all of his thoughtfulness and concerns. Some days, she might even admit that she adored him. She adored the way he interacted with the children in the pediatric ward, she adored the way he enjoyed eating sweets, she adored how he always put others above himself. It made her want to take care of him herself, wanting to return the love she was receiving. She also wanted him to feel as loved and cherished as he made her feel.

The first time she kissed him it took them both by surprise.

She was nearing six months before she finally felt the baby’s first movements. After weeks of carrying this growing anxiety inside her that something could be wrong with the baby or pregnancy, the moment she felt those first few gentle kicks had her laughing in joy for the first time in months.

Zayne had just finished building a crib for the nursery when she rushed into the room in her delicate condition, throwing herself into his embrace.

When she guided his hand to her belly, his look of surprise staying only briefly before a small smile replaced it. Without thinking, she leaned up and kissed him, and instead of feeling shocked, Zayne responded immediately, feeling joy swelled in his own chest.

He had been by her side through all of this. He had taken care of her when she was sick or tired. He had been the one to comfort her through her mood swings. He was there helping her buy maternity clothes or choosing the necessary items the baby would need. In times, he realized, he had also grown to care about the baby she carried—even if it was not his.

Now, he felt a new emotion stirring inside him. She wanted him to be the first to hear the news. She wanted him to feel the movements alongside her. She kissed him. He wanted to be bolder.

He cupped her face in his hands and guided her lips back to his, relishing in the way she responded, her wall coming down completely as she surrendered to her feelings for him.

It was almost like playing make-believe.

Their feelings for one another were genuine, but sometimes they would forget. At least until someone, naively, took off the rose-tinted glasses they wore.

Congratulations. You two must be so thrilled about the baby.

Oh, what a beautiful couple. Their baby will surely be beautiful as well.

Have you picked out a name yet?

They responded to such comments with polite smiles, but once they were alone, the masks fell off.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Why are you apologizing?” Zayne asked, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She didn’t do anything wrong, but she still felt like she needed to apologize to him. Zayne had never said anything, never showed her the slightest inkling that he might be affected by such words or speculations, but she felt like she knew Zayne just as well as he knew her.

She knew he never wanted her to see when he was hurting.

“They’re just words,” he said calmly, his hand reaching over to rub lazy circles around her belly. “I will not love him any less just because he’s not my biological child.”

Zayne meant every word.

The moment the baby was born, after over twenty-six hours of labor, she watched as Zayne cradled the newborn with such tender care. Anyone who would see him hold the baby boy would never suspect that he wasn’t the father.

There were so many bittersweet feelings that lingered, the grip they had on her firm and unyielding. Never once did she dare to relinquish the guilt she carried.

She felt guilty for letting another man into her life again, feeling like she was betraying Caleb, letting the memory of him be overridden. She also felt guilty to Zayne, feeling like he was picking up the broken pieces of her and mending her back again to some semblance of a person but never completely whole. She felt guilty to both men. One for losing her heart to another and the other for never having her full heart as his alone.

“What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

She gasped when the hospital bed shifted with Zayne’s sudden weight. He sat on the edge, the baby tucked in his arms protectively. He reached out and brushed away some of her tears. She hadn’t realized that she had started crying. She was feeling so many things at once all stemming from different origins.

She was exhausted from the long grueling hours of labor. She was emotionally overwhelmed by everything that had happened in the last nine months. She knew her hormones were still out of control, heightening everything she felt to an extreme degree.

“I’m just tired,” she fibbed weakly. The exhaustion on her face was clear as day. Zayne could sense she was withholding something from him, but he knew when to not pressure her. In due time, he knew she would open herself up more to him.

For now, he accepted her benign lie.

The baby started to fuss, alerting the both of them. Zayne chuckled and gently passed the newborn over to his mother.

“He must want his mama now,” Zayne said lightheartedly. He was startled when she started to tremble, droplets of her tears falling suddenly. She was trying to hold her emotions back, but something in the way Zayne spoke seemed to have triggered her.

He gathered her into his embrace and he shushed her gently. “What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong?”

She shook her head and just cried against him. “I’m sorry… I’m just… I don’t feel like myself anymore.”

He sighed and kissed the top of her head. “Don’t force yourself,” he said softly. “You’ve been through a lot. You don’t need to be so harsh on yourself.”

It was tearing him apart inside to see her still so beaten down. He continued in the same soothing tone, “Just breathe.”

Slowly, she managed to compose herself. She stayed in his embrace, her eyes peering down at the sleeping baby in her arms, her breathing nearly stopping now that she fully looked at the newborn she carried.

“He looks like Caleb.”

“He does,” Zayne agreed, and he kissed the top of her head again, his hold on her just a bit tighter.

The baby looked like Caleb and as time passed, the little boy grew up behaving so similarly to the deceased man. She found both joy and heartbreak in this, feeling happy that Caleb continued to live on in this child, but also saddened that it was a reminder of who she had lost.

She supposed she would never let go of these feelings. It would be too heartless if she did.

“Daddy, apple!”

“Alright, alright,” Zayne said with a knowing smile as he carried in his arms the small toddler, the child’s bright demeanor and appearance reminiscent of little cherubs. He set the little boy on the counter as he retrieved an apple and washed it clean. He expertly peeled the skin before he cut the fruit up into small chunks.

“Say ‘ah’,” Zayne spoke as he guided the small chunk into the toddler’s eager mouth. He smiled as the boy clapped his hands together in pure delight at the sweet taste of the fresh fruit. “Is it good?”

The boy nodded excitedly. Once he swallowed, he pointed at his mouth again. “‘nother one, Daddy, pwease?”

Zayne chuckled and leaned down. “Can I have a kiss first?”

Immediately, the toddler pressed a wet kiss to Zayne’s cheek, giggling when Zayne suddenly tickled him. “Da-Daddy!”

Zayne laughed and hugged the child, kissing the top of his head before he composed himself again. “Alright, alright, Daddy won’t tickle you anymore. For now. Say ‘ah’.”

As he fed the toddler little bites, she walked in and stopped, her body leaning against the threshold to the kitchen with a fond smile.

Fatherhood looked good on Zayne. He had taken on the role so seamlessly, never once showing any resentment to the little boy that was not his. If anything, there was so much love and adoration in Zayne’s eyes and the way he cared for the child.

It dawned on her that Zayne had been in her son’s life from the beginning. He had cared for her throughout her pregnancy. He was the one who had spent many sleepless nights with a crying newborn so she could rest. He was there to nurse her son through his first fever.

Zayne was always there, always theirs.

So, when the little boy uttered his first word Dada, it shocked them both. When the child clung to Zayne, falling asleep in his safe embrace, they both realized this life they had come to build together was something beautiful.

They could make this work.

They could be a family of three.

It was going to be beautiful.

It had been several years since she had stepped foot back in Skyhaven, remembering old visits to see Caleb when he was studying here.

Caleb.

She sighed.

It had been a while since she had thought of him, or at the very least, in that way. There were so many things on her mind nowadays. The grief from his death would always stay with her, a throbbing pain that could never be dulled, but as time passed, she learned to live with this heartache. She had a child now—Caleb’s child—and the little boy deserved his mother’s whole attention.

She remade herself whole for her son’s sake, not wanting him to have an empty shell of a person for a mother. She also had Zayne by her side, wanting him to have someone who could love him the way he deserved. There were still so many people in the present needing her, she let herself slipped further away from the ghost of the past.

Around her neck, she still had Caleb’s necklace. It had come to be her comfort object, a charm of sorts to ground her when she was feeling lost in her head or needing some sort of reassurance.

Right now, she needed a lot of reassurances.

The current mission to infiltrate the Farspace Fleet was in jeopardy of being discovered. She had been discreet and blended in well for several weeks now, but one moment of carelessness had now secured her a place in an interrogation room where she was told the new colonel would question her himself.

Nothing, however, could prepare her when the door slid open, and a pair of old, familiar violet eyes stared her down coldly.

Ca-Caleb?

Her heart sped up, pounding against her chest as she stared in disbelief at the man before her.

“Is it really you? Ca—”

“Show some respect to the Farspace Fleet’s Colonel,” he said coldly, the authoritative tone had her frozen in her seat, her thoughts racing as she tried to make sense of this moment. The man before her was completely identical to her Caleb in both looks and voice, but the way he spoke and carried himself was not like her beloved.

Still, she wondered. Hoped, even.

She steadied her breathing before she questioned him hesitantly. “Sir, have we met before? You seem familiar…”

“You’re wrong.”

“…But you look exactly like someone I know!”

“Watch your mouth,” he said, nearly sneering. Then in a lower voice, he said, “There’s more than one pair of eyes observing you in this room.”

As this man was about to begin his interrogation, he noticed the necklace around her neck. He touched it, eyeing the pendant with an unreadable expression.

She spoke up, explaining, “…It belonged to someone from my childhood. He died in an explosion. Like the one in the Cascade District. I… I miss him.”

The colonel shifted his gaze to her, but his expression remained icy.

She continued, asking him, “Sir, can you tell me something? If that person hadn’t died, would he support me even now?”

He didn’t answer her directly, and instead redirected the conversation to the current interrogation. After placing a mood tracker on her, he began grilling her with a barrage of questions, his tone firm and unyielding.

Eventually, she managed to pass, the light in the interrogation room brightening and the colonel stepped forward from the shadow.

“You passed,” he said with a satisfied smile.

You felt irate. “You…”

“Surprised?” he asked, his tone much more lighthearted than it was a few minutes ago. He continued with that same teasing tone, “Sure, it’s been a while, but you already forgot about me?

She felt tears in her eyes, her chest tightening with pain. Her voice was shaky, in complete disbelief, as she questioned him hesitantly. “You… it’s you, right? Caleb.”

“Is there another me in the world?” he teased before his expression changed, looking worried. “Did I scare you?”

She immediately leapt to her feet, rushing to him. “It is you!” she cried out, her hand reaching up to touch his cheek, pausing at the last second as if she was afraid that if she tried to touch him, she would feel nothing, breaking whatever illusion she was seeing right now. “Caleb… I must be dreaming.”

He grabbed her hand before she could pull away, guiding it to his cheek as he smiled softly back to her. “It’s me…” he said, adding reassuringly, “It’s okay. I’m back.”

She started sobbing, falling into his arms, feeling his own hold on her tightening. It felt so warm and familiar, like home.

Like Caleb.

Suddenly, all of her heartaches and anguish disappeared.

He was alive. He was here, holding her again just like how he had always done. When he looked down, his gloved hand touched her chin, cradling it gently before he leaned forward, his lips pressing over hers in such a natural way as he had always done.

And she paused, remembering back home in Linkon, another man she had come to love was waiting for her, taking care of her child while she was away and fulfilling the role of father to her son, giving the boy a life he deserved.

She shouldn’t be doing this, but she couldn’t pull herself away. There were so many voices in her head competing for dominance to be heard. Some admonished her relentlessly, tearing her to shreds with cruel, heartless words while others encouraged her to stay, to linger and give in to the temptation of her desires and yearning.

She felt a trickle of tears on her cheek as she hesitantly kissed Caleb back, her heart still bleeding for him, still remembering that he was hers just like he had always been.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, noticing the tears. He brushed them away, his smile soft. “It’s okay, pipsqueak, I know this is a lot to take in and I will explain everything to you.”

She stayed in his warm embrace, cheek pressed close to his chest, and she listened. His heart was beating in his chest. He was standing here, holding her, his words warm and comforting.

Everything was still so surreal, feeling like she had stepped into an alternate reality, her mind still unable to comprehend this moment in time.

If this was just a dream, she wished to stay asleep for just a while longer. For one selfish instance, she wanted to disappear from the world, returning to Caleb and the secret paradise only they would ever know.

But it would never be like before.

In the farthest depths of her heart and mind, she knew it would never be like before.

Without thinking, she blurted out, “I’m sorry.”

Caleb looked down at her confused. “Why are you apologizing?”

She looked embarrassed. Quickly, she fibbed, “We had a fight before. I…we never made up.”

It took a while before Caleb remembered, nodding in understanding. “That was a long time ago,” he said, “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

She said nothing as he pulled her back into his orbit, his hold firm and secured, but in her mind, she apologized again. Whatever was brewing in the future was going to affect three childhood friends, and the ominous unknown scared her, knowing no matter how things played out, someone was going to get hurt and none of them would come out unscathed.

I’m sorry, Zayne.

Like a forbidden fruit, she greedily coveted Caleb’s kisses again, tasting sin on her lips as she began to tread down the path to damnation, willfully blinding herself to the destruction that awaited in her future.

#My heart ohhhhh my heart is in PAIN #XIU WHEN I CATCH YOU-#WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ZAYNE #WHY 😭#HAS HE NOT SUFFERED ENOUGH??????

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lavlynyan · 4 days ago

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Priest! Vampire! Rafayel x Nun! Reader.

triggers for this chapter: fem. and afab reader. nothing to worry about!

word count: 4.1k

masterlist | taglist | next.

I. L'Inverno

"I vow. You vow. We vow."

Snow clung to the thatched roofs of Linkon, its crooked houses huddled together as if seeking warmth from one another. The village was near silent, save for the occasional groan of timber as the wind pressed its icy fingers against shuttered windows. Most homes sat in darkness, their inhabitants tucked away beneath layers of wool and fur, yet from time to time, a candle burned low, casting a feeble glow onto the frost-laced glass.

But the church—ancient, towering, its spire piercing the night like a needle through black silk—stood in stark contrast. Every arched window blazed with golden firelight, the stained glass casting fractured patterns onto the snow. The heavy oak doors, reinforced with iron, remained slightly ajar, beckoning stragglers into its embrace. The bells had long since gone silent, yet the warmth from within promised solace against the night’s bitter bite.

Somewhere, the distant cry of a lone crow shattered the stillness, its echo swallowed by the ever-falling snow. A path, trodden by hurried footsteps, led from the heart of the village to the churchyard, where the tombstones wore thick white shrouds, their inscriptions lost beneath the frost.

Linkon, though quiet, was not entirely dead. The village, half-buried in snowdrifts, exhaled plumes of smoke from crooked chimneys. A child, bundled in layers too thin for the cold, pressed small, chapped hands against the glass of a shop window. His wide eyes traced the contours of a single, dust-covered toy—a wooden horse with a broken leg, long since forgotten.

The boy lingered for a moment longer, his breath fogging up the glass as he gazed longingly at the wooden horse. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if he could will it into his hands just by staring hard enough.

"Mama, do you think I can get that?" His voice was small, barely more than a whisper against the wind. One of his front teeth wobbled slightly as he spoke, not quite loose enough to fall out but just enough to make his words lisp.

His mother, a tired woman with deep lines etched into her face, did not slow her pace. Her grip tightened around his wrist, tugging him away from the window with a scowl.

"You’ve no business playing with toys," she said, her tone sharp but not unkind. "Come now."

The cold bites at your fingertips as you flex your aching hands, the stiff joints protesting after gripping the rough bark for too long. The weight of the log still lingers in your muscles, a dull ache settling in your arms and shoulders. Your breath curls into the air in wisps of pale mist, vanishing as quickly as it forms.

The wagon creaks under the added weight, its wooden frame groaning in protest. You glance over the pile of logs, stacked haphazardly in the cart, some dusted with frost, others stripped bare where the axe had bitten deep. It’s enough for now. Maybe.

Rolling your shoulders, you take a moment to stretch, tilting your head back just enough to see the sky.

From the porch, Gran smoked her pipe.

She scoffs, tapping the edge of her pipe against the arm of her rickety chair. Bits of ash flake onto her apron, but she doesn’t seem to care.

“Hmph. Thought you was going to be a postulant,” she says again, this time with less interest, as if the idea alone tires her. She takes another slow drag, the pipe’s ember glowing bright before she exhales another cloud of thick, acrid smoke.

You grimace, waving the fumes away with a scowl. The scent clings to the air, thick and cloying.

“I am, Gran. But I can’t let you get cold before I leave. Gotta make sure you got enough wood.” You heft another log into the wagon, the weight of it jarring through your arms.

Gran mutters something under her breath, half a curse, half a grumble of reluctant approval. Something about how you fuss too much, how she’s not some helpless old crow, but she doesn’t tell you to stop. You know better than to expect gratitude—her warmth was never in words, only in the way she let you stay, let you chop her wood, let you fuss.

She shifts in her chair, pulling the quilt tighter around her shoulders before taking another slow puff of her pipe. "Bet the nuns don’t let you run around swinging axes," she mutters.

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you reach for another log. "Probably not."

“Why d’ya wanna be a nun anyway?” She exhales another plume of smoke, the scent thick and heavy in the cold air. “There’s nothin’ for you there, and you sure as hell ain’t no saint.”

You pause mid-motion, a log balanced against your hip, her words pressing heavier than the wood in your arms. You knew this conversation was coming—Gran had been biting her tongue for weeks, waiting for the right moment to let her doubt slip through.

A part of you wants to argue, to tell her that this is the only path left that makes sense, that it’s not about sainthood or salvation. But you know she won’t buy that. Not Josephine.

It’s quiet for a moment between you two.

Gran mutters something half-assed under her breath, the words trailing off into the wind like the smoke she puffs out. It’s too quiet for you to catch all of it, but you hear enough to know it’s not much of a compliment. She never was good at hiding her feelings, though. You’re used to it by now.

"I ain’t some poor fool that needs babysitting, y’know." Her voice is gruff, but there’s a thread of something softer in it—something you’ve learned to recognize over the years. She’s stubborn, always has been.

You give a small nod, moving to stack the last of the logs. "I know, gran. I know. But I won’t feel right leaving unless I know you’re taken care of. You know that."

Gran doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes another slow drag from her pipe, her gaze lingering on the snow-covered fields in the distance, the world outside seeming endless and cold. After a long pause, she huffs again, quieter this time. "Don't go thinkin' you’re some saint for it," she mutters.

Finishing up, you dust your hands off on your clothes. You’d really need to get some balm for your hands later at this rate.

The wagon creaks and groans as you guide it up the worn path to the porch, wheels crunching over the frozen slush of mud and snow and dead leaves.

Steadying it at the base of the stairs, the weight of the logs a comfort now that they’re safely in place. The cold air bites at your face, the evening shadows stretching long across the ground.

Gran has already begun making her way up the steps, her movements slower than usual but still determined, stubborn as ever. You catch up with her, slipping your arm around her shoulders to steady her, though she gives you a glare that says she doesn’t need it.

"I’m fine," she grumbles, but there’s a softness to it, and you know she’s just too proud to admit otherwise.

You press a quick kiss to her weathered cheek, the touch brief but warm. "Come on, gran. Let’s get you inside before that fire goes out."

As soon as you open the door, Gran makes her way toward the hearth, moving a little more slowly now, her back bowed from years of wear. You follow her, dropping the last of the logs into the small pile beside the fire. The hearth crackles and spits, the flames licking at the logs, eager for the kindling to catch.

You kneel down and add a few smaller pieces to the fire, feeling the warmth crawl up your limbs as the room begins to fill with its heat. The crackling flames dance in the dim light, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Gran settles into her favorite chair, a deep sigh escaping her lips as she rubs her hands together to warm them.

But then.

The sharp scent of burning soup cuts through the warm, smoky air of the house, and you both freeze for a moment, the sudden change in smell jarring after the comfort of the fire. The frantic voice of Tara rises from the kitchen, a high-pitched, rapid-fire chant of "Oh no, oh no, oh no," each repetition growing more frantic than the last.

A smile finds its way to your face.

“What the fuck.”

"Girl’s got no business in the kitchen," Gran remarks dryly, her eyes twinkling with the kind of amusement only she can manage at a time like this. She shifts in her chair, clearly comfortable in her role as the unbothered observer. "Can’t even cook a proper pot of soup without burnin' it."

You groan, heading to the kitchen, following the sound of Tara’s frantic movements, the clatter of pots and pans unmistakable even from here. Gran’s right, as usual, but you can’t help the soft chuckle that escapes you as you push through the doorframe.

Inside, Tara is a whirlwind, her wide eyes locked on the blackened pot on the stove as she mumbles apologies to it like it's the one offended. The soup’s beyond saving, burnt beyond recognition, the acrid scent lingering in the air.

“Again?”

Tara whips around at the sound of your voice, looking both horrified and sheepish. "I—I swear it wasn’t this bad five minutes ago!" She gestures helplessly at the ruined pot. "I just... I wasn’t paying attention. Oh no, oh no..."

Gran’s voice calls from the living room, barely muffled. "She’ll survive, I’m sure."

"Put the damn pot in the sink, Tara," you say, your voice flat and tense, the stress from the day's work starting to catch up with you. The words are sharper than you intend, but it’s hard to keep your frustration in check.

Tara hesitates for just a moment, her shoulders slumping. Then, with a small, defeated sigh, she lifts the pot carefully, her movements slow as if she’s afraid it might bite her.

"You’re lucky I’m not trying to cook tonight," you mutter under your breath, rubbing at your temples as the weight of it all presses down harder. The house feels small, and the noise of the fire and Tara’s flustered movements make it feel even smaller, closing in around you.

That was a year ago.

The cold slipped through the cracks of the old stone walls, settling deep in your bones no matter how many layers you wore. The convent was quiet this late in the evening, the only sound the rhythmic echo of your footsteps against the frozen floor. Winter, it seemed, was only growing harsher with each passing year, as if the world itself had grown bitter.

You pulled your cloak tighter around your shoulders, the fabric rough but familiar. Outside, the wind howled against the monastery walls, a mournful sound that made the candle flames waver in their sconces. The flickering light cast long, skeletal shadows along the corridor, stretching and twisting with each uncertain step you took.

Stopping by a frost-rimmed window, you pressed your palm against the cold glass, watching it melt some of the frost buildup.

"Sister, why are you not inside?" A light, charming voice chuckles behind you.

You turn slightly, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself as you glance over your shoulder. The voice belongs to a man—young, by the sound of him, with a tone too smooth to belong to any of the elder priests or the somber sisters of the convent.

He stands just a few feet away, wrapped in a heavy traveling coat, the fur-lined hood pushed back to reveal lavender curls dusted with melting snow. His features are sharp, striking even, but softened by the amused curve of his lips. His eyes—clever, too knowing—gleam in the dim candlelight as he studies you.

"Sister, why are you not inside?" he asks again, then pauses, tilting his head. "Ah, no—you’re one of the postulants, I take it?" His voice carries an easy charm, the kind that doesn’t quite belong in a place like this.

You straighten, instinctively guarded. "I am."

His smile widens. "Thought so. You don’t quite carry that air of solemn devotion yet." He gestures vaguely, as if that explains everything. "I imagine the cold must be unbearable, then. Postulants don’t get the good cloaks, do they?"

"You shouldn’t be wandering about at this hour," you say, keeping your voice even.

His chuckle is soft, almost indulgent. "Neither should you, Sister."

Something about the way he says it makes your skin prickle.

You don’t have time to say anything, though. A sharp, deliberate clearing of a throat cuts through the cold air, and you both turn.

Sister Jenna stands at the end of the corridor, her hands folded neatly in front of her, but her expression betrays a hint of unease—whether at your presence or his, you can’t quite tell.

“Father Rafayel,” she says, voice carefully measured. “We weren’t expecting you to come so soon.”

Your breath catches slightly. Father Rafayel?

Your gaze snaps back to the man beside you, taking him in with fresh scrutiny. This—this is the new priest?

He hardly looks the part. No somber robes, no quiet piety in his posture. Instead, he carries himself with the easy confidence of someone used to being watched, someone who finds amusement in the scrutiny of others. His traveling coat is dusted with melting snow, but beneath it, you catch the glimpse of a dark cassock, barely visible against the dim candlelight.

Father Rafayel, for his part, only smiles, unfazed by Sister Jenna’s presence. “Ah, yes. I’m afraid the storm made it easier to press on than turn back.” He spreads his hands in an almost apologetic gesture. “I do hope I haven’t caused too much trouble.”

Sister Jenna shakes her head. “No trouble at all, Father. We simply expected you closer to the week’s end.”

You’re still eyeing him, suspicion creeping into your bones like the winter chill. This is the man meant to guide the convent, to lead prayers, to uphold the faith? Something about him doesn’t sit right. Not the charm in his voice, not the sharp glint in his eyes, nor the way he watches you now—curious.

There’s no way he was qualified. He looked too young for such a position—too worldly, too.

A man like him didn’t belong in a convent, much less as its priest. His sharp, knowing eyes, the way he carried himself with an ease that lacked the usual humility of a clergyman.

Priests were supposed to be solemn, restrained. Father Rafayel looked like a man who had seen too much of the world to be satisfied with prayers and penance.

Sister Jenna, however, seemed unfazed. She led him down the corridor without hesitation, speaking softly, though you couldn’t make out the words. You stood frozen in place, watching the flickering candlelight stretch his shadow long against the stone floor.

Just before he disappeared around the corner, he glanced back at you, his expression unreadable. And then, just as quickly, he was gone.

The cold pressed in around you once more, but somehow, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the real storm had just arrived.

You sat curled on the low stool, knees tucked to your chest, as Sister Jenna worked in practiced silence, the soft snip, snip of her shears the only sound between you.

Loose strands of hair fell onto your shoulders, then to the floor, forgotten. It had grown too long, peeking out from beneath your habit—a small indulgence you had let slip, one that had finally caught up with you.

"You're growing it too long again," she chided, skilled fingers steady as they guided the blades. "You know the rules, child."

You knew. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to trim it back, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. Still, you found yourself reluctant each time. The strands fell around you, dark against the cold stone floor.

“You were out late last night,” she said after a moment, not unkindly.

You exhaled slowly. “I couldn’t sleep.”

She hummed, neither questioning nor believing you entirely. The shears snipped again.

It wasn’t a lie. Something about Father Rafayel had set you on edge. His presence felt like an ill-fitting piece in the convent’s quiet, predictable world. He was too young, too smooth, too something that you couldn’t quite place. And the way he had looked at you—like he knew you, or wanted to.

Sister Jenna hummed as she brushed the stray hair from your neck. "Change can be unsettling. A new priest means new ways of doing things. But it is not our place to question Astra’s will."

You exhaled slowly, watching as a strand of hair landed on the toe of your worn leather shoe. "I suppose."

She gave your shoulder a gentle pat, signaling she was finished. You straightened, reaching up to brush your fingers along the freshly trimmed ends, still uneasy.

The morning light filtered pale and cold through the narrow window, casting long shadows across the stone walls. Somewhere beyond, the village was beginning to stir, the air thick with the scent of burning wood and the distant chime of the church bell.

"Sister Jenna? Where is he from? He's certainly not from Linkon. His clothes are too fine."

Sister Jenna paused, dusting stray hairs from her lap before responding. “No, he’s not from Linkon.” Her voice was measured, careful.

You turned to look at her, frowning. “Then where?”

She hesitated, which only made your unease deepen. “The capital, I believe. Or somewhere near enough to it.”

That made sense, in a way. His fine clothes, the way he spoke—it all carried the air of someone who had been raised far from the humble quiet of Linkon. But the capital bred men of ambition, not men of faith.

“And he was sent here?” You couldn’t hide the skepticism in your tone.

“I’m not sure where he’s from, but he was sent from the main cathedral in Anbusas. Handpicked by the bishop himself.”

That didn’t sit right with you. The bishop rarely took personal interest in appointing priests to small villages like Linkon.

“But why him?” You tried to keep your voice measured, but suspicion was creeping in. “He’s young. Too young, I’d say, for a position like this. But….wow. So he must really know what he's doing then..." A hint of awe laced your tone, surprising you.

Sister Jenna glanced over her shoulder at your words, and the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. It was a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"One could say that, yes," she replied, her voice softer now, as if measuring her words carefully. "He has the bishop's favor, after all. It’s not often one is given such a position at his age."

Simone’s voice cut through the quiet like a bird’s chirp, the door creaking slightly as she poked her head into the room.

"Good morning, Sister Jenna!" she chirped cheerfully, unaware of the tension lingering in the air. "Father Thomas wants you to know that Father Rafayel is ready whenever you are and he'll be in the left Temple."

Sister Jenna nodded, her demeanor shifting instantly to one of calm professionalism. "Thank you, Simone. I’ll be there shortly."

Simone smiled and disappeared, leaving the door ajar. The distant chime of the bell rang, signaling the start of the day’s service. Sister Jenna turned back to you, her expression softening.

You blinked, taken off guard. “Wait—no breakfast first? I didn’t wake up late this time though!” You felt a small twinge of frustration at the idea of going straight to the Temple without even a moment to eat, especially after the restless night you’d had.

Sister Jenna gave you a long, measured look, as if weighing your words. For a moment, you thought she might give in to your light protest, but instead, her lips quirked up into a faint smile, as if she wanted to laugh.

"Breakfast can wait, Sister," she said with a soft but firm tone. "The Lord’s work must always come first. The Temple needs its faithful."

With a reluctant sigh, you adjusted your habit, smoothing out the wrinkles. "I didn’t wake up late this time, though. That’s got to count for something."

Sister Jenna’s smile widened ever so slightly, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Perhaps you can indulge yourself with a piece of bread afterward. But for now, we have more important matters."

And just as expected...

It was dull.

The air inside the Temple was thick with incense, its rich fragrance heavy and choking in the early morning. The dim light from the candles cast flickering shadows against the walls, making the whole place feel like a forgotten crypt rather than a place of worship. The cold stone beneath your feet was no better than the air above, offering no comfort.

Who the hell decides to preach at 5 in the morning?

You stifled a yawn, keeping your head bowed as you sat with the other postulants, staring ahead at Father Rafayel who stood at the altar. He was as polished as ever, his posture impeccable, voice smooth and persuasive as he recited verses in a tone that could put anyone into a trance.

But you weren’t listening. You couldn’t. His words were like an echo in your skull, a ringing noise that faded the longer you stared at the flickering candlelight in front of you.

It’s too early. Too much incense. Too many eyes on me.

Your fingers clenched at the hem of your habit, and you glanced at the other postulants beside you. They were all in some sort of trance, eyes glazed, faces reverent, nodding along with every word he spoke.

How can they stand this? You thought, almost irritated. It’s the same every day...

Your eyes flickered up to the altar again, drawn to Father Rafayel.

He was watching you.

Not the others. Not the candles, not the altar, not even Astra’s book. No, his eyes were locked on you. A glimmer of something passed between you—something sharp and knowing—and for a split second, you felt like you were the only one in the room.

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over his face, making the sharp planes of his features seem even more severe, almost otherworldly. His voice carried through the temple, smooth, unwavering—yet somehow, you felt as if his words were meant for you alone.

"And so, Astra delivered both sustenance and shelter, and with that, commanded that the devil’s kin watch as the festivities begin."

The devil’s kin.

Your fingers curled instinctively against the fabric of your habit. The phrase lingered, wrapping around your mind like a vice. The way he said it—like it held weight, like it was more than just scripture—made your stomach twist uncomfortably.

You glanced around, but no one else seemed to notice. Simone was still half-asleep beside you. Sister Jenna sat upright, hands folded, expression placid. The other postulants were dutifully listening, reverent in their silence.

Just you, then.

Just you, under his gaze.

The moment passed as quickly as it had come.

Father Rafayel finally looked back down at his scripture, his tone shifting into something more measured, more fitting of a man in his position. He explained the verses, weaving meaning into them with ease, as if nothing had happened—as if he hadn’t just spent an eternity watching you.

The rest of the sermon blurred together. The words flowed in and out of your ears, but none of them stuck. The incense, the candlelight, the steady rhythm of his voice—it all folded into something dreamlike, something unreal.

And then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

The sun had begun its slow ascent, spilling weak, golden light through the stained-glass windows. The cold stone of the temple seemed a little less biting, but it was still winter, and the air still clung to you, heavy and unmoving.

Father Rafayel closed the book, lifting his head once more.

“Go in peace,” he said, his voice carrying through the space. “And may Astra’s light guide you.”

The sisters murmured their responses, standing from the pews with quiet rustling. Some stretched discreetly, others moved toward the door without hesitation, eager for warmth and food.

You hesitated.

Only for a second.

But it was long enough for Father Rafayel’s gaze to flicker back to you.

A knowing look. A brief thing, barely noticeable.

And then, just like that, he turned away, bidding you all good day.

©hellinistical 2025 do not copy, translate, distribute, plagiarize, or reproduce in any form without permission, and do not share to any media outside of tumblr.

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lavlynyan · 6 days ago

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Priest! Vampire! Rafayel x Nun! Reader.

word count: tba.

taglist

chapter index-

I. L'Inverno

II. Il Ragazzo

III. La Sorella

IV. Il Prete

V. Trasformazione

©hellinistical 2024 do not copy, translate, distribute, plagiarize, or reproduce in any form without permission, and do not share to any media outside of tumblr.

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lavlynyan · 8 days ago

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If you want something so deeply, it's because your future self already has it.

That's not a motivational line. That's a fact.

You know how when you're watching a horror movie and you're cheering on the character, hoping she runs fast enough to escape the masked killer, knowing perfectly well that she will in fact succeed in escaping, because duh, she’s the main character?

You wanting something so bad... is you cheering on the future version of you, knowing perfectly well that future you will succeed in getting whatever it is you're hoping for.

So the next time you feel a profound desire for something... be it as little as a pair of shoes, or as big as an island of your own… remember: it’s already yours in the future. Relax and receive.

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lavlynyan · 8 days ago

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His love for you had always been true and steadfast. When you looked back on your years together, it seemed he was always there, always yours. The boy who was promised to you and you to him. An oath had been formed between two powerful families long before either of you came into the world, but perhaps it was always meant to be, because never once did either of you seemed to rebel against your destiny. You grew up alongside him on the grassland, running barefoot and riding horses across the endless green pasture under the sun. It was a rich childhood filled with laughter and smiles, skinned knees and clumsy first kisses, with the boy who had carried you on his small back home. With the boy who had promised to grow up and become the strongest warrior on the grassland. With the boy who had sworn he would always keep you safe and protected. The same boy, one day, had become a man, who had unwittingly stolen many young maidens’ hearts, but his own he had safeguarded and kept for you alone. The man who would always find his way back to you no matter how far his duties may take him. The man who would soon become your husband, the promise made so long ago between two families would now be honored. You tightened your hold on his hand, and he smiled down on you. That smile alone seemed to have banished any lingering insecurities you had. As you stared into his eyes, falling deeper and deeper, you knew nothing could ever sway him, could ever tear him from you. Likewise, there was no one else in your eyes and heart. It was always going to be him. — Elysium, Sylus/Reader. 16K words. Masterlist. AO3

#Elysium will always be my fav fic of yours Xiu 🥹

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lavlynyan · 8 days ago

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lavlynyan · 8 days ago

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Doctor's Note [Zayne + Son ★ 1289 words ★ Masterlist ★ Series Index ★ AO3] Zayne calls home during lunchtime. A/N: orz this was supposed to have been written and posted in December… orz Tag list: @lavlynyan @miudle @alfredosaws @solifloris @nezuswritingdesk @valkyyriia @natimiles @yourlocalcatscammer @callilypso @likewhyareyousoobsessedwithme @qyuin 【 request to be added 】

The meeting was finally over.

Thankfully, it was just a little bit past noon by the time Zayne had returned to his office. As he settled into his seat, he started a video call, waiting patiently until a face completely identical to his popped up on the screen.

“Daddy!”

He chuckled at the sight of his three-year-old son’s bright grinning face. The boy immediately turned away, yelling for his mother. “Mommy, it’s Daddy on your phone!”

“Did Mommy let you answer this call for her?” Zayne asked teasingly, smiling when his son looked bashful and nodded. “Good, I don’t want you answering any phone calls without our permission, remember?”

The boy nodded solemnly. “I remember, Daddy!”

“Good boy,” he responded. He quirked a brow, noticing a rice grain on his son’s mouth. “Are you eating lunch without me?”

“Mommy made me…” the toddler said with a pout. “I told you Daddy would call, Mommy!”

“Zayne, are you turning our son against me again?” You immediately entered the screen with a playful glare. You bent lower and rubbed the rice grain off your son’s face, adding, “We just started eating.”

“Daddy, do you have your lunch?” the boy asked, wriggling his way back into the screen to look at his father hopefully. “Mommy and I made it just for you!”

“Yeah, Zaynie, our darling boy and I made it just for you,” you added with a mischievous smile.

“What did you do?” Zayne responded with a raise of his brow, matching your smile with his own. He set a bento box down in front of him, noticing a folded note attached on top. He opened the note, chuckling softly when he saw the crude handwriting written with green and yellow crayons.

“Is this my little doctor’s note?” he asked playfully, turning the paper with the scribbles to face his phone.

“That’s my note for Daddy!” his son yelled out excitedly.

“Wow, Zayne, our son’s handwriting looks so much nicer than yours,” you teased him again, making his eyes rolled.

“Very funny,” he answered, tone flat. He sighed exaggeratedly. “I’m afraid I have misplaced my reading glasses. Can you read it for me, son?”

The boy nodded. “It says, ‘Daddy should have a good day! I love him very, very, very much and miss him very, very, very much.’”

Both you and Zayne smiled, touched by the little boy’s earnest message. Zayne’s smile seemed to widen as he watched you pulled the boy into your lap to snuggle, his son’s giggles always managing to relieve him from his daily stress. He responded, his voice tender, “I miss you, too. I’ll be home this evening with a surprise.”

“Macarons?” the boy asked hopefully as he wriggled excitedly on your lap, making you giggled as you tried to keep the toddler still. You kissed his cheek sweetly and said in a lower voice:

“Darling, it could be a carrot cake, too, right, Zaynie?”

Zayne’s smile instantly dropped while his son’s excitement grew, as did your teasing smile. The little boy was squirming excitedly on your lap and clapping his hands. “Carrot cake!”

“Oh, but Mommy said we shouldn’t be eating too many sweets,” Zayne added, his eyes darting to meet yours in warning. He smiled stiffly, faltering when you responded cooly:

“Occasionally is fine.”

The boy peered up curiously before turning to look at his father. “Daddy, are you going to eat your lunch?”

Zayne felt grateful for the sudden topic change. He nodded and opened the lid of his bento box, his voice taking on an exaggerated tone as he asked playfully, “Now what do we have here?”

“Rice!” the boy answered brightly, continuing, “And…and…Mommy, what did you say this was called?”

You giggled, your hand smoothing over his hair. You glanced at where Zayne pointed with his chopsticks, seeing the bite-sized fried chicken pieces. “Karaage, my darling.”

“Karaage!” the boy repeatedly loudly, “And…and…”

Zayne smiled as he watched his little carbon-copy son struggled to remember the name of the dishes.

“Rolled omelet, darling.”

“…and omelet, Daddy!”

Zayne laughed at the boy’s earnest declaration. “Sounds nutritious,” he said, adding with a gentle smile, “And they look delicious.”

“Daddy, don’t forget to eat your carrots!”

Immediately, Zayne’s smile disappeared. He managed to compose himself before his son noticed his mood change. Patiently, he asked, “What carrots?”

“The hearts, Daddy!”

He peered down at his lunch again, noticing the heart-shaped carrots and the rounds they were cut from neatly and strategically placed throughout the bento box for a cute design. He looked up, feigning confusion. “I thought these are just decorations?”

“You can eat them!” the little boy insisted happily with a wide grin. “They’re yummy and good for you!”

“You hear that, Zaynie?” you interjected with a mischievous grin, delighting in how your normally calm and collected husband was struggling to maintain his composure, his lips subtly twitching with disgust at the sight of his least favorite food and even worse at the prospect of having to eat them. You continued, chirping happily, “Your personal doctor has just told you they’re yummy and good for you.”

Just as quickly, Zayne directed a sharp glare to you, but you didn’t care, continuing with delight at his misery, “My hubby is so lucky to have such a dedicated doctor who cares about his patient’s health.”

“You put him up to this, didn’t you?” he accused.

“This was his idea!” you protested with a smug smile. “He said—and I quote—‘Mommy, can we cut out hearts for Daddy’s lunch?’”

You leaned down and kissed the top of your son’s head soundly. “Didn’t you, my little darling?”

The boy nodded innocently, his sweet little smile still shining brightly as he waited for his father to take his first bite of his lunch.

“Now Zaynie,” you said teasingly, struggling to stifle your giggles as your husband continued to pierce you with his glares, “Won’t you be a good boy and eat your carrots, per doctor’s order?”

Zayne sighed helplessly when his carbon-copy son stared at him with bright, hopeful eyes. He picked up his chopsticks again, his eyes peering down at his lunch as he quickly tried to gauged which piece of carrot appeared the smallest. He started to reach for one of the rounds with a heart-shaped holes, but you immediately tutted disapprovingly. “A real piece of carrot, sir.”

“They’re all still carrots,” he insisted practically through clenched teeth.

“Daddy, do you not like my lunch for you?” the boy asked with quivering lips.

Damn it.

Zayne smiled reassuringly, speaking gently to the little toddler, “Of course not, son, Daddy was just trying to pick the most delicious piece for his first bite.”

Mentally, he sighed. He unwittingly chose the largest heart-shaped carrot piece and plopped it into his mouth. He struggled to smile as he chewed on the vegetable, his tastebuds screaming in disgust. Eventually, he swallowed, his smile stiff.

“De-delicious,” he fibbed, consciously trying to maintain his smile for his son’s sake. The smile, however, fell completely at the little boy’s innocent declaration:

“Mommy, we should give Daddy more hearts tomorrow!”

“We should,” you agreed with both glee and mischievousness, adding playfully, “Because we love Daddy so much, right, my darling boy?”

“Yeah!”

Through clenched teeth, Zayne’s hand tightened around his chopsticks, and he responded with a forced smile to you, “I love you all, too…so I wouldn’t want you to trouble yourself on my behalf.”

“It’s no trouble, Daddy!” the boy said happily, seemingly unaware of his father’s internal struggles. He continued cheerfully, “I want you to have lots of hearts tomorrow!”

“Because we love you so much, Zaynie,” you added smugly, seeing the light in his eyes fading.

“…I love you, too…”

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lavlynyan · 9 days ago

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Zayne - Savage Overture

Back again with more audios of our favorite green-eyed menace! I was so upset after realizing there wasn't a way for me to save all the delicious little quips he says when you poke at him on the event page! and since I'm still on a blissful high from this post, my pain once again becomes your pleasure 😉

I HOPE ZAYNE'S VA GETS EVERYTHING HE WISHES FOR IN LIFE.

Which one is your favorite? 🫠

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lavlynyan · 10 days ago

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Galen’s a vet, sooooo he should get along with Snowykitty well, right?

…r… right…?

#oh snowykitty #i missed him so much ;;

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lavlynyan · 11 days ago

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ur henna tattoo idea got me thinking thoughts for zayne. like imagine just sitting next to him or cuddling or something and he's just absentmindedly tracing the lines of the henna on the back of ur hand and around ur wrist KSJXJSXNSJX

a/n: i live for this. this is brilliant. I love henna. I love doing my henna. I love the idea of doing my partner's henna and having them match or connect. I love the idea of Zayne tracing your henna cause its just so pretty, the way it follows the veins that he's followed with his lips countless times. Please. Tell me more anon. an ee wayz-

9:26

The bed dipped from the added weight as Zayne got in beside you, his hair towel dried but the evidence of his shower in his pink-tinged cheeks from the heat of the water.

Setting his glasses aside on the nightstand, he reaches over to your side for the lamp to turn it off, but hesitates. "Thank you for cooking tonight," his voice is soft, appreciative. You nod, almost dozing off until he takes your hands in his, his eyes following the swirls and lines, the dots and petals, and the one oddly shaped, probably experimental (or really, too much came out of the cone and it got stopped up, coming out weird) part. You couldn't tell if it was supposed to be a flower or a cookie with how it filled in, but it was much too late to fix it; it stained and wouldn't come off for about a week if Zayne ended up doing all the dishes for you (which he probably would, just so it could stay as long as it can). "Beautiful," "Thank you," "Of course,"

His index trails along one of the vines that swirled to the inside of your wrist, its end curling at your pulse point. You see the corners of his lips lifting gently. He kisses your wrist, his thumb caressing the back of your hand before examining the other one.

His touch was soft and gentle, the tip of his nail feather-light as it grazed your skin comfortingly.

You stay like that for some time, watching his lashes kiss his cheeks when he blinks, his hand trailing along, absentmindedly, like it was his second nature to do so.

He then pauses, then lifts your left hand. "Took your ring off?" "Just while it dried. I set it back in the jewelry box-"

Zayne sets your hand down, and you watch him get out of bed, feet softly padding across the floor as he retrieves your ring, coming back quietly- around the bed to your side first- and slipping it back on, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

You grin, opening your mouth to tease him, but then- "Last time you took your ring off when you did your henna you couldn't find it for a week."

Then he turned off the lamp and got into bed. And you were no longer drowsy.

#falls to my knees crying #i need this #i need this SO BAD

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lavlynyan · 11 days ago

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MORE RAFAYEL DOING MEHENDI/HENNA FOR MC CAUSE I SAID SO AND I NEED IT SO BAD and i stayed up the other day doing my own-

12:05

“You’re terrible,” you whisper, biting back another laugh as Rafayel’s shoulders shake with silent amusement.

His short lavender hair falls over his eyes as he tries to steady his hand, but the grin tugging at his lips makes it impossible. “You started it,” he murmurs, barely holding in a chuckle. “How am I supposed to concentrate when you’re saying things like that?”

He adjusts his grip on the henna cone, eyes narrowing slightly in concentration. You can see the faint crease between his brows, the same one he gets when he’s lost in a painting. His fingers, still smudged with traces of dried paint from earlier, are steady despite the occasional tremor of suppressed laughter.

“You know,” you say, watching him work, “we could’ve just looked at Pinterest.”

Rafayel scoffs, shaking his head as he continues drawing. “Absolutely not,” he says, like the mere suggestion offends him. “I don’t need some—what is it? Aesthetic inspo board? I have this.” He gestures vaguely at his temple with the tip of the henna cone.

You snort. “Right. Your genius artistic vision.”

“Exactly,” he says smugly. “Now hold still, or I’ll ruin my masterpiece.”

You bite your lip, trying to suppress another laugh as he leans in, adding delicate swirls along your fingers. The scent of henna fills the space between you, earthy and rich. His touch is light, almost careful, and despite his stubborn refusal to follow a guide, the pattern is undeniably beautiful.

Swirls of waves and roses adorned your palm, wrist, fingers, and the back of your hand, delicate and intricate despite his stubborn insistence on freestyling. You turn your hand slightly, admiring the way the deep brown henna contrasts against your skin. Rafayel studies it too, his eyes tracing over every detail before landing on the small signature he had tucked into the curve of a wave—subtle but unmistakably his.

It’s quiet.

And then.

“You’re really pretty, you know.”

His voice is soft, almost casual, but you catch the way his ears turn pink, betraying him. He’s still looking at your hand, but there’s something nervous in the way his fingers twitch, as if debating whether to pull away or linger just a second longer.

Your heartbeat stumbles. The playful teasing from earlier suddenly feels like a thin veil over something heavier, something unspoken between you.

“Are you blushing?” you ask, leaning in just enough to make his eyes snap up to yours.

Rafayel huffs, rolling his eyes, but the pink on his ears deepens. “Shut up. And quit moving. You'll mess it up.” "You're a fast learner."

Your free hand moves his hair out of his face.

And he doesn’t pull away.

#eats this shit up #not desi nor arab but my culture does henna before weddings too and to see this for the lads guys makes me wanna sCREAMM

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lavlynyan · 11 days ago

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sorry if this is too dark but if MC did die, how do you think each of them would react/the severity of the reaction? Obviously all of them would be crushed but I think Caleb would definitely either 1) end everything 2) end himself

Oh, I've written plenty of dark stuff before in other fandoms so...

So…do you guys have your tissues ready? Guys’ reactions to losing both you and the baby. For the sake of continuity, it follows the previous ask someone wondered about an MC with a risky pregnancy. I will be writing two other alternate “endings” another time (losing you, but baby lives & both you and the baby live. I won’t be doing a miscarriage/stillbirth one since no one asked.). These ficlets will also be available on AO3 in my fic collection, and we’ll chase after shooting stars.

(I actually do have a series with the guys grieving your death, but I am way behind on it. I have Zayne and Rafayel’s stories up if anyone’s interested in reading them.)

life moved on

Zayne would struggle internally, his logical side at war with his own emotional state.

He was a doctor. He knew there would always be a risk of loss. He himself sometimes had to be the one to deliver this type of unfortunate news to families.

Only, he just never imagined he would be on the receiving end one day.

He had monitored you throughout your pregnancy, learning more, and taking precautions wherever necessary. He knew the risk, he knew there was always that chance. But he had hoped. He had prayed. He had believed.

And it was all in vain.

He had been letting work consumed him. Life still moved on. The world would not stop for him, and there were still lives that he could save. There was not a moment to waste.

Sometimes, though, the world did slow down, everything pausing, such as now as he sat down at his desk lined with a row of photographs in frames. The snapshots of the life he had lost, of the future that should have been his, seemed to stare back at him in cruel mockery.

For just this moment, alone in his office, Zayne let his grief poured out, the heavy sobs filled the former silence in the room. In an hour, he would compose himself again, returned to being Doctor Zayne, and he would resume his duty, because life moved on.

But his heart stayed buried, resting with you and the child he lost.

no rest for the wicked

Rafayel falls into a deep depression, riddled with guilt, because he believes he is being punished for what he had said previously.

There was no rest for the wicked.

Rafayel couldn’t recall the last time he had slept peacefully, or even at all. Surely, this must be a punishment, right?

He had said such horrible words, so he was being punished for them, right? He didn’t deserve the baby, and he didn’t deserve you, so he was punished with the loss of both. That was a fair punishment, right?

He laughed, the sound so hollow and mirthless, his chest tightening with pain as tears trickled down his face.

Right. He didn’t deserve this.

So why should he deserve anything?

He grabbed an empty canvas and hurled it at the wall, destroying it instantly.

He didn’t deserve any of this.

He grabbed another, and another, and another. He incinerated several art pieces at various stages of completion, feeling nothing as they turned to ashes. He vandalized most of his studio, destroying his tools and everything he had ever created. There was no meaning to any of this anymore.

Heaving heavily and with a dagger in his hand, he turned to the grand canvas that filled the space of a wall. He plunged the weapon into it, dragging it down over and over again, his mind filled with a cacophony of his own voice and yours.

My fishie…I won’t leave you…

“Don’t lie to me…” he kept attacking the canvas, his words growing more frenzied, “Don’t leave me…I’m yours…I’m yours…you promised to stay…”

He dropped the dagger and fell to his knee, his forehead resting against the canvas as he sobbed. He was so exhausted, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep again in your arms.

“I’m sorry…”

forever would be nice

Xavier would feel so much guilt, almost as if he didn’t do enough to help you.

He felt so incompetent.

He should have done more. Should have done something.

Xavier could hear you scolding him, telling him it wasn’t his fault. Deep down, he knew it was true, but he wanted a reason, wanted an explanation for why that day happened. If he at least shouldered the blame, then maybe he could make sense of why he lost not only you but the baby as well.

Lately, it seemed like it was harder to wake up. He had not changed the bedsheet or pillowcases in a while, the scent of you still lingered, helping him sleep most nights. In these sweet dreams, he lived another life, his world completed with both you and the baby.

He wished he could dream just a little longer. Forever would be nice.

just enough

Sylus reverts to who he used to be, cold and distrusting.

There wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to numb this pain, but maybe if he drank enough, he could begin to forget.

Forget the you who had fearlessly took his hand no matter how dangerous he was, the you who had wanted to bring light into his dark world, the you who accepted him for who he was, loved him just as he was.

Sylus’ hand tightened around his glass, the force enough that it shattered and shards pierced his skin. He stared emotionlessly at his cut hand, the blood dripping profusely to the floor not even registering in his mind that it was his.

As his wounds healed on their own, his eyes glazed over, and he remembered another day when there was so much more blood than this. There was just so much blood on that hospital bed, and he remembered how his voice was completely raw as he screamed at the panicked doctor and nurses, and then the chaos subsided, an eerie silence had followed, his whole world gone in an instance.

There was no noise. There was no warmth. There was no joy. There was only this sudden void in his life again, one that he had tried to fill for so long.

Not enough alcohol to numb the pain, not enough punching bags for him to take his rage out on, and not enough money to bring back what was.

If he could trade away his riches, his power, his glory, he would in a heartbeat for a chance to have you back, because with you, everything was just enough. He desired nothing else but you, the love and happiness you had brought into his life was enough.

always by your side

Caleb wouldn’t be able to bear living in a world without you, since his whole life since childhood had revolved around you.

There were hushed whispers throughout the Farspace Fleet, all quieted in an instance whenever Caleb passed by. The Colonel was always a strict man, his presence demanding respect for his authority, but recently, there had been a change, his demeanor hardening, his violet eyes dulled, a despair hidden beneath his icy façade.

One night in warm June, he left Skyhaven in the dead of night, catching a late train to Linkon. He disembarked, empty-handed, his feet automatically moving, his mind muddled with memories of a little girl who came into his life so long ago, of his promise to always be by her side, their lives always intertwined until that one awful day he was taken from her.

However, nothing could ever keep him from you. He would always find his way home to you, and no matter the storms in your lives, he would find a way to right things.

You were both going to be happy. There was nothing make-believe about the life you two were going to have.

You had worn a white dress, him in his colonel uniform, and with your hand in his, he had vowed his life to you once more, his joy boundless when you echoed back to him similar words. After marriage came the baby carriage, and you were all going to be a family of three.

He had always taken care of you, and he still took care of you even when there were concerns about the pregnancy. He had done everything right, made sure you were safe throughout, so how could things have gone wrong in the eleventh hour?

The moment you slipped from his life, his whole world stopped, the nightmares he had thought were gone returned with a vengeance, haunting him with dreams of that day over and over again. He had failed you, the hospital had failed you, everyone had failed you, because he would rather believe this than ever think he was always meant to lose you over and over again until you were ripped from his life for good.

It wasn’t fair.

He wondered what sin he carried to be punished with the loss of both you and the baby. A baby conceived from love, an innocent being, never once taken breath but only knowing death. Caleb wondered what kind of God would be so cruel, wanting to scream his anger out, wanting to demand answers to all of the questions that had been haunting him.

He stopped walking, seeing a locked gate blocking his path. He stared at it dully before he pulled out a gun, shooting the lock once with perfect precision. He continued walking, the path he was taking lined with rows of gravestones of those long departed from this world.

The one he wished to see was secluded, in its own area and hidden away, just like how he had always wished when you were alive. The world had never deserved you, and now he was even more convinced, you were always too good for this Hell on earth.

A grave among bushes of hydrangeas, his breathing suddenly became ragged. The air was heavy and he was pulled to his knees, his lungs tightening as he struggled to breathe, but for this brief instance, there was a smile on his face as he let go of his control over his Evol.

The gun he used earlier levitated ominously.

He started laughing, tears in the corners of his eyes. He could hear your voice again. You were calling for him.

Caleb! Caleb!

“I’m here,” he whispered, “I’ll always be by your side.”

Caleb always kept his promises to you. Always.

Among the dead, a deafening noise resounded, startling the wild creatures that lurked around the area.

Surrounded by the pink and blue and white of the hydrangeas, the summer seemed so endless now as the ground was dyed in crimson.

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