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pomegranatepip · 21 hours ago

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girl language!

synopsis: how the lads men react to girl language! the girlies that get it, get it. characters: xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus, caleb x f!mc warning/s: zayne, caleb and xavier’s contains food note/s: this was a shower thought lmfao. the girl language used is highlighted also omg it's my first ot5 fic yay!

xavier:

you and xavier just got out from reporting at the hunter’s association. it was late and there were barely any restaurants open. but you didn’t want to cook and god forbid you let xavier cook.

to say that you were ecstatic to see a new food truck just at the end of the street. it was opened until late night and you and xavier browsed at the menu beside the truck.

“i don’t know what to get…” you say as you scanned the menu thrice now but xavier didn’t look as bothered as you. you knew that your boyfriend’s taste in food was simple. get the most basic flavor there is, if there’s a meat or hotpot option, it would be that.

“the meat overload looks really good.” xavier suggests. you sighed. “well i already know you’re getting that so i wanna get something else! so we can try two different things.” you explain to him before you sighed, settling on the most adventurous looking food option.

“okay. i made up my mind.” you say as you pointed at the image of the menu you chose. xavier nods as he places the order, grabbing two different drinks as well.

the food comes out and you and xavier find a nearby table at the park to eat your dinner. you opened yours and crinkle your nose as a response. you did not expect it to look like that.

you looked over to xavier’s meal and see that it looked waaay better than yours. xavier takes a bite and you do the same, only to realize that the option you chose was not to your tastes as it had one of the ingredients you couldn’t stand.

“xavi…” “hm?” “yours looks really good. could i try some?” xavier nods as he pushes the takeout box towards you.

you take one bite before the regret shows on your face. you should’ve chosen what xavier chose. fuck being adventurous.

xavier chuckles at the look on your face.

“i take it that you dislike yours?”

you pout. “is it that obvious?”

without another word, xavier swaps your boxes. “have you tried the drinks?” he asked. you shook your head before taking a sip of xavier’s before yours.

“you’re cute.” xavier lets out a small laugh as he plucks out your drink.

“are you sure it’s okay?” you sheepishly asked.

“yeah. enjoy the food, angel.” xavier assures you before he digs into your adventurous meal.

you smiled as you dug in, tastebuds satisfied with the flavor as the two of you enjoyed your dinner.

safe to say you stayed away from adventurous options for a while, your palette wasn’t designed for it.

zayne:

the restaurant that zayne took you to for your anniversary dinner exceeded your expectations. the food was wonderful and the ambience of the place was pleasant.

“that was really nice, zayne.” you say as you walk outside the restaurant, hand-in-hand.

“i’m glad.” zayne smiles as you swing your intertwined hands. the two of you walked around, basking in the cold air that the night provided.

the two of you talked in idle conversations, the busy city lights providing light at the otherwise darkened night sky.

you stopped in front of a bakery, eyes landing on a very interesting looking macaron, you tugged at zayne’s hand before pointing at the sweets display.

“should we get dessert?” you beamed, knowing that your sweet-toothed fiance would never say no to you. if you had a tail, it would’ve been wagging in anticipation

“i’m fine.” he declines. the tail slumps down. “but i’ll accompany you.” he says as he leads the way towards the patisserie’s door. it’s not the same.

you pout, tugging at zayne once more towards the opposite direction.

“ah, nevermind then!” you say as you attempt to pull zayne away from the door. zayne’s brows furrow at your sudden shift.

“but i thought you wanted dessert?” zayne asks, stopping in his tracks, forcing you to stop with him.

you turned to look at him, sheepish.

“yeah, well i don’t wanna be the only one getting something.” you explain. “it’s fine, love!” you say as you try tugging him to move again.

zayne doesn’t budge as he sighs.

“my love, you can get dessert if you’d like. i won’t stop you.” he encourages you. you shook your head as your voice pitches up to a whine.

“yeah well i don’t want to if you’re not getting anything!”

zayne could only huff quietly, an amused smile gracing his features as he pulled you toward the door.

“you know what, fine.” zayne finally concedes. “let’s get something to share.”

it was as if the light suddenly returned to your eyes as you small yay!, arm wrapping around zayne’s as the two of you entered and walked over to the counter.

“good evening!” the cashier welcomes you warmly.

“good evening.” zayne greets before he takes a quick look at the assortment of desserts.

“could we please get one caramel custard, one seasalt eisbock roll, one taro mille crepe and…” he trails off, taking one quick look at you before concluding. “an assortment of your best seller macarons to go.” the cashier nods, smiling. “will that be all?” zayne looks at you for confirmation. you give him a shocked nod— which he willfully ignores. “yes, thank you.” he gives his card before you could even think about paying and moves you to the side as you wait for your sweets.

“i thought you didn’t want any dessert?” you asked your fiance. zayne looks at you with a small innocent smile. “it’s for us to share.” he clarifies.

“zayne�� i just wanted a macaron.”

“we do have that.”

“i wanted just that.”

“my love, are you complaining?”

“...no.”

sylus:

this was the first time that you took sylus to linkon’s mall. well technically, you didn’t invite him. you initially planned on running some errands only to find sylus surprising you at your doorstep. having no way to evade your boyfriend, you begrudgingly invite him to your little solo date.

“oh this is so cute.” you say as you inspect the sweater before placing the hanger back and moving on.

sylus cocks a brow but doesn’t say anything as he follows your tracks. he looks at you as you squealed at another top, placing it on top of your clothes and inspecting how it looked on you before your smile drops and you put it back as if nothing happened.

sylus was now confused. were you broke? why didn’t you tell him? should he open the topic up? he’s given you his black card numerous times so why are you still shy on spending?

“sylus, you coming?” your voice interrupts his trance and he nods as he takes your outstretched hand, letting himself be pulled by you as you dragged him inside another store.

the store was filled with an assortment of plushies, themed mugs, blind boxes. the interior was colorful as well and it was easy to get lost in it, which to sylus’detriment, you were no exception as you let go of his hand and grabbed a plushie off the shelf, squishing it in your hands.

sylus looks around the store, taking note of his surroundings before his eyes stop at the stack of baskets beside the cash register.

without notifying you, he plucks out a basket and silently follows your tracks.

you touched the little crow keychain? in the basket. your eyes looked at the plushie too long? in the basket. the lipstick you swatched complimented your skin? in the basket.

by the time you noticed, sylus’ basket was almost full.

“sylus, what is this?” you asked, eyeing the basket before your eyes widened in realization.

“no…”

“are you all done, sweetie?” he asked, smirking at the expression in your face. “sylus, put it back!” he scoffs. “that would make me look broke, kitten.” he says as he intertwines his hand with yours.

“wouldn’t want that now, right?” he pulls you to the register, taking note of the way you were flustered.

you didn’t dare touch anything in the next store you went to, but sylus already knew when you looked at an item a second too long.

you dragged him back home not long after.

rafayel:

you hated dress shopping. you hated the fact that your friend invited you to a themed wedding and the theme was waaaay different from your usual aesthetic so you confided in your boyfriend who believes that he knows what suits your body frame the best.

“no.” rafayel says as you open the curtains to the dressing room. you sighed, closing it.

another attempt.

“nope.”

another attempt.

“cutie, seriously. that color?”

the curtains draw shut once more.

you couldn’t count the stores that you’ve entered to only exit with no dress in hand. it was by the seventh store where you finally saw the dress that you think would look nice on you and it seemed that rafayel agreed as well as he urged you to try on the dress.

the curtains to the dressing room drew shut once more and it only took a few moments for your lips to quiver.

the dress looked… okay but it could be better. the fit was alright but there were awkward pieces of fabric that were loose in some places.

“cutie? is it on yet?” you hear rafayel’s voice get closer to the curtains and before you could stop him, he pulls it opened.

you see rafayel through the mirror, you turn around to face him as you dejectedly gesture to the dress hugging your body.

“do i look nice?” you asked, knowing that rafayel was about to either laugh at you or sugarcoat his words.

“yeah.” rafayel says with no malice in his tone. “huh?”

rafayel purses his lips before he pinches a section of the fabric together. “it just needs a little stitching up and pizzazz, but!” rafayel smiles and examines the dress once more. “i love how this compliments your skin and brings out your eyes. we just need to accentuate some areas.”

you turned around to look at the mirror and try to imagine the vision that rafayel was painting.

“you know, if you don’t see it. i can just… make the dress for you.” rafayel says as he leans back against the wall.

“besides, whatever you wear won’t overpower this.” rafayel teases as he taps your chin twice with the back of his hand. “my cutie’s face card is lethal. it’s only right i make her a dress just as deadly.”

he pouts. “now that i think about it, why didn’t you just approach me for the dress?”

“well you never told me you could sew.” you defend.

rafayel shakes his head. “i can do everything, cutie. you wound me.”

he takes a step back and closes the curtain to the dressing room.

“take it off so we can pay for it, we can use that as our base.”

after rafayel worked his magic, the dress looked absolutely ethereal on you. the amount of compliments you received on the dress only served to stroke your boyfriend’s ego.

you truly look nice. it didn’t matter if you wore a dress for a goddess or a worn out sweater. you are beautiful in rafayel’s eyes and he would never let any doubt fill your pretty little head.

caleb:

“pipsqueak, you hungry?” caleb calls out as you were splayed on his couch, back on the cushions and legs crossed as you absentmindedly scrolled through the channels.

“no. i’m not hungry” you respond. “i’m about to fall asleep.” you say as a yawn escapes you.

you hear caleb yell out an “are you sure?” but you chose to ignore it as your eyelids feel heavy and without a second thought, your eyes fell into a close.

you didn’t know how long you were asleep but it must’ve not been that long as you woke up to caleb sitting on the space left on the couch, a fresh batch of braised chicken wings with white steamed rice and an ice cold can of softdrink on the table in front of him as he flicked through the movie streaming site.

“oh. you’re awake?” caleb asks as he feels your legs move from behind him. “yeah. how long was i out?” you asked as you took a look at the clock.

“not that long, but it could count as a power nap.” caleb responds. he settles on a sitcom to serve as his entertainment. he picks up the bowl of rice and shovels a spoonful of it into his mouth, taking a bite of the chicken wing right after.

you watched as he ate, smelling the freshly cooked chicken that permeated the air. you hear your stomach grumble and you could only hope that caleb didn’t hear.

but with the twitch of his lips, all prayers went down the drain as he looked at you with a teasing smirk.

“didn’t you say you weren’t hungry?” caleb asked.

“i’m not hungry.” you confirmed. ignoring the way that your mouth was salivating at your favorite food that was within your grasp. you huffed, crossing your arms and turning to the side.

“would you hurry up? i wanna stretch my legs and i can’t do that if you’re sitting there.” caleb chuckles as he hears the pout in your voice. you distract yourself with your phone as caleb eats.

suddenly, you feel yourself being repositioned. caleb smiles at the grouchy look on your face.

“you can ask for a bite, y’know.” he taunts you, you huffed, not wanting to lose.

“i’m not hungry.” you repeat, only to be betrayed by your stomach that rumbled.

“pfft.” caleb huffs before raising a chicken wing to your lips. “come on, pipsqueak. i know it’s your favorite. won’t you taste my cooking?” he asked, intentionally widening his eyes to resemble a kicked puppy.

the meat touches your lips and you take a bite, immediately tasting the flavor of the wing.

“it’s good huh?” caleb asks as he feeds you a spoonful of rice.

“shut up.” you say as you swallow. you grabbed his drink off the table to take a small sip. caleb laughs as he stands up and walks away.

“where are you going?” you asked and caleb looks back with a smile.

“i’m getting your portion. i knew you couldn’t resist the charm of my braised chicken wings.”

sometimes you hate that caleb knows you too well.

#xavier and sylus have me kicking my feet and giggling lol #love and deepspace

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pomegranatepip · 2 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 expand and/or altered. trigger warnings: (for this chapter.) afab. fem reader. implied pregnancy. period sex. piv. wax play. incorrect use of holy water. fingering (fem receiving), biting. overstimulation. corruption. virgin reader. non-con. dubious consent. hate sex. vampire transformation (though not explicit, just implied, and not in standard means; I took creative liberty). blood. slight belly buldge. major character deaths. spit. 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: 6.1k masterlist | prev.

V. Trasformazione

“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark"

It’s all-consuming, how he seems to swallow the oxygen before you can breathe. Like he’s taking it straight from your lungs, leaving you lightheaded, weak. His hands are everywhere, mapping you, learning you, claiming you in ways you don’t know if you should allow—but you do.

The tree digs into your back, rough and unyielding, but his body is just as unrelenting. His lips drag along your jaw, down your throat, his breath hot against your skin. A shudder wracks through you as his teeth graze your pulse, and he lingers there, as if tasting your heartbeat.

His fingers tighten their grip. "You’re mine," he murmurs against your skin, voice low and raw. It’s not a question. It’s not a request. It’s a vow.

Your stomach hurts, the cramps from your cycle gnawing at you, twisting in sharp, unforgiving waves. Your body burns, the feverish heat meeting his coldness in a clash that sends a shiver up your spine—a mess of sensation, of discomfort, of something deeper you refuse to name.

You turn your head away, not because you want to, but because you can’t bear to look. His breath ghosts over your exposed throat, his grip firm, possessive, unrelenting. You feel his lips press there, lingering, and it only makes the ache inside you worse, different.

A breath shudders from you, and you hate how weak it sounds. His fingers flex against your skin, and you feel the sharp edge of his teeth as he hums in something like satisfaction.

“You’re burning up,” he murmurs against your throat, his tone almost gentle. Almost. “Poor thing.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. You hate him.

His fangs graze your skin but never sink in, lingering like a silent threat—or maybe a promise. His breath is cool against the feverish heat of your neck, sending a shudder through your already trembling body.

Then, his hands are on you, pulling your leg up and around his waist, pressing you closer until there’s no space left between you. The motion is seamless, practiced, like he’s done it a thousand times before. Like he’s meant to hold you like this.

And it’s humiliating.

Your nightgown is thin, ruined, sticky with blood, the fabric barely clinging to your form. You’re exposed—more than you’ve ever been, more than you should be. And yet, the very sight of you like this seems to draw him in more.

His fingers press into the flesh of your thigh, his breath hitching. "Messy little thing," he murmurs, voice rough, reverent. His lips trail the line of your jaw, slow, deliberate. "Do you know what you do to me?"

You don't want to know. You don’t want to feel the way your body reacts, the way the fever in your veins has nothing to do with your cycle anymore.

You press your hands against his chest—whether to push him away or pull him closer, you don’t even know.

His lips press against your collarbone, soft yet insistent, his breath cool against your heated skin. The way he inhales deeply, savoring your scent, makes your stomach twist—not just in fear, but something else, something raw and unfamiliar.

"Wait—wait, Rafayel—I don’t—I don’t get it." Your voice trembles, caught between confusion and something dangerously close to surrender.

He shushes you gently, his hands smoothing over your waist, his touch both possessive and reverent. "You don’t have to," he murmurs against your skin, voice thick with something deeper than want. "You just need to feel it."

You shudder, your fingers twitching against his chest. He’s cold, so unbearably cold, yet his presence is suffocatingly warm. Every nerve in your body is on fire, your pulse hammering, your breaths short and uneven.

You should push him away.

You should run.

But Astra above, you can’t move.

His eyes flicker down to the deep crimson staining your nightgown, pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the color of his irises. His chest rises and falls sharply, unsteady, his fingers twitching where they grip your waist.

And yet—his expression twists. Something raw flickers across his face, something tangled between hunger and revulsion.

Not at you.

At himself.

He looks away, jaw tightening, his grip faltering for just a second. His breath comes sharp through his nose, as if he’s trying to will himself into control.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "Damn it," he mutters, voice tight, nearly shaking. His fingers flex against you like he’s about to let go—like he should let go.

But he doesn’t.

You barely have time to react before his grip tightens—hard.

“Jump.”

Your breath catches. “Jump?”

“Jump, damn it.” His voice is sharp, urgent, commanding.

His hands slide down, gripping the backs of your thighs. He hoists you up with inhuman ease, your legs scrambling for balance around his waist. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, your heartbeat hammering against your ribs.

He presses you hard against the tree, the rough bark biting into your back. His face is so close now, too close, his breath mingling with yours, cool and sharp. His hands flex against your legs, his grip possessive, unyielding.

Rafayel's hands are ironclad around your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin, pinning you where he wants you. The pressure is bruising, possessive. He isn’t just holding you; he’s claiming you.

The air is thick, damp with the scent of earth and blood. Your blood. It clings to you, drying into the fabric of your nightgown, and you can feel how his eyes linger on the stains. His pupils are blown wide, black nearly swallowing the eerie glow of his irises. His breath fans against your jaw, cool and sharp, but his body is burning.

"Tree or the grass." His voice is low, firm. Not a question. A command. "Hurry up."

You grip his shoulders, nails biting into the fabric of his robe. The tree behind you is rough, its bark scraping against your spine as you shift in his grasp, trying to steady yourself. But it’s useless. He’s already made the choice

He holds you up with one hand, your legs around his waist as he undoes the zipper of your nightgown, pulling it down swiftly.

The nightgown pools around your hips, the weight of it dragging against your thighs as Rafayel's cold fingers skim over your ribs. Your breasts free, the cold air on your exposed nipples makes them harden. His touch is reverent, but there’s nothing holy about it. The moonlight barely reaches through the dense canopy above, casting fractured beams of silver across his face. His expression is unreadable—somewhere between hunger and hesitation, worship and possession.

“You look divine like this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, almost awed. His thumb presses into the dip of your waist as if to test the reality of you. As if he doesn’t believe you’re real.

The night air chills your exposed skin, but you burn beneath it, a fever licking at your spine. Your blood, your scent—it’s making him tremble. You can feel it in the way his grip falters for a moment before he steadies himself, locking you tighter against him.

His grip tightens as the scent thickens, as the warmth of it seeps into the fabric of his trousers. He shudders, a groan tearing from deep within his throat, something raw and starved.

His fingers flex against your hips, betraying his restraint, the barely-contained need that trembles beneath the surface. He exhales sharply, like he's forcing himself to remember something—like he's fighting the very nature that compels him to sink his teeth into the tender flesh of your throat.

"Mine."

The word isn’t spoken, but you feel it in the way his body tenses, in the way his fingers dig just a little too hard into your sides, like he’s trying to brand himself into you. His breath is uneven now, and you realize—with something close to horror, close to exhilaration—that he’s shaking.

His head dips lower, mouth pressing just beneath your ear. “You’re going to ruin me,” he murmurs, almost reverent. His lips are cold, but his voice burns.

Your hands are firm on his chest, trying to push him off,

“Stop- stop, I’m dirty,”

He doesn’t budge. If anything, your resistance only seems to ignite something deeper in him, something far more desperate.

His hands trace your thighs, smearing warmth into your skin, fingers painting patterns in the mess of crimson and sweat. His grip is firm but reverent, like he's touching something sacred, something he refuses to let slip through his fingers.

"You don't get to be ashamed," he breathes against your jaw, his voice shaking with something dark and unspoken. "Not from me."

You shudder, your fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt. “Rafayel—”

“I don’t care.” His lips brush your temple, your cheek, his breath fanning hot over your ear. His voice lowers, dark and hushed, almost mournful. “I would bathe in you if you'd let me.”

He grabs your chin roughly, forcing you to make eye contact. He looks utterly feral. “I want to be in you. I need it. In your skin. In your very soul.”

His lips crash against yours, not with brutal force, but with a yearning so deep it feels like he’s trying to devour something unseen, something hidden inside you. The kiss is desperate, frantic. It’s not just want—it’s need. A need that claws at him, that shakes his very foundation.

His grip tightens, fingers digging into your flesh with an urgency that borders on bruising. His palm presses into the small of your back, pulling you flush against him—your soft warmth clashing against the hard, unyielding chill of his body. His breath, cool and fanning across your lips, mingles with your own, the contrast dizzying.

His mouth moves against yours with a hunger that leaves no room for hesitation, lips parting just enough for his teeth to graze your lower lip—sharp, teasing, just barely holding back from drawing blood. The press of his fangs sends a shiver down your spine.

Your nightgown slips further down and bunches up more as he tugs at the fabric, his fingers tracing up the length of your spine, nails dragging lightly, leaving a tingling trail of sensation. His free hand moves down, skimming over your thigh before gripping it, pulling your leg higher against his waist. The rough friction of his clothes against your bare skin sends a jolt of sensation up your body.

He shifts, pressing forward, pinning you against the tree with his body weight. The bark bites into your back, a stark contrast to the way his hands explore your skin, cold and burning all at once.

"I—" A kiss, deep and forceful, swallowing any protest you might have had.

"Hate—" His hands tighten, fingers bruising against your skin, as if trying to mold you into him, make you stay, make you his.

"You—" He bites your lip this time, just enough to sting, and you gasp into his mouth.

And despite everything—the fear, the confusion, the war between sense and something darker—you kiss him back.

His tongue swipes at your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, tasting the remnants of your breath. His grip tightens around your waist, pressing you flush against him. The rough bark of the tree digs into your back, but you barely register the sting—your senses drown in the feeling of him.

Rafayel’s tongue pushes past your lips, hot and insistent, swirling against yours in a messy, feverish dance. He doesn’t kiss with precision—he kisses with hunger, his movements uncoordinated yet consuming, like a man starved.

Saliva slicks your lips, the wet sounds of your mouths moving together filling the night air. He groans into the kiss, a deep, guttural noise vibrating against your tongue as he sucks at it, pulling you deeper into him. His teeth graze against your lower lip, nipping and tugging before soothing the sting with another deep, open-mouthed kiss.

Your breaths are ragged, mingling with his as he swallows every gasp, every whimper. His fingers dig into your hips, keeping you locked against him, refusing to let you pull away. His tongue moves greedily, exploring, claiming, savoring every inch of your mouth. The kiss is hot, messy, intoxicating—his spit coats your lips, mixing with your own, leaving you breathless and lightheaded.

When he finally pulls back, a thin string of saliva connects your mouths, breaking only when he licks his lips, his eyes dark and hooded with desire.

“Gods-” His palm is firm, pressing against your lips as his eyes darken. "Don’t," he repeats, voice low, almost dangerous. His fingers linger against your cheek, the coolness of his skin a stark contrast to the heat radiating from your own.

His grip tightens slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you—he is in control. His breath is heavy, ragged, his pupils blown wide as he watches you, drinking in every detail of your flushed face.

For a moment, there’s only silence, the weight of his hand against your mouth the only thing grounding you. Then, slowly, deliberately, he leans in, his lips just ghosting over the shell of your ear.

"Do not speak of them here."

The weight of his body against yours is suffocating, his grip unrelenting. His thumb brushes over your cheek, deceptively gentle, a stark contrast to the feral hunger in his gaze. "You’re mine now," he breathes, his lips hovering just above your skin. "No gods. No saints. Just me."

His teeth graze your jaw, sharp but restrained, a warning and a promise all at once. His grip tightens at your waist, pressing you further into the rough bark of the tree, as if he could mold you into the very world around him—an extension of his own being.

"You feel that?" he murmurs against your skin, his breath cool but his presence searing. "That’s the only thing that’s real now. Me. Us."

His fingers trace along the dip of your spine, slow, deliberate, memorizing every shudder, every unwilling response he draws from you. He’s reveling in it, in the way your body betrays you, in the way your heartbeat hammers against his own.

"Say it," he demands, his lips brushing just below your ear. His voice is steady, but there’s something almost desperate beneath it. "Tell me you understand."

His mouth finds the pulse at your throat, lingering there, savoring, but never quite sinking in. His hands roam, gripping, kneading, learning the shape of you as if carving it into memory.

You try to focus—on his words, on his demand—but it’s impossible when his teeth drag along your skin, when his hands press you tighter against him, when every touch pulls you deeper into something dark and inescapable.

"Rafayel—" you manage, but it’s breathless, barely a whisper.

He chuckles against your skin, the sound low, wicked. "You can’t even think, can you?" His fingers slide up to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back so you're forced to meet his eyes. They gleam with something unhinged, something hungry. "Good."

He lays you down before you realize.

The earth is rough beneath you, twigs and dead leaves pressing into your skin, but it barely registers over the sensation of him. His lips ghost over your sternum, his breath warm despite the unnatural chill of his body.

His hands slide down your sides, slow, deliberate, as if savoring every inch of you. The contrast between his cold fingers and the feverish heat of your skin makes you shiver.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice thick with something unreadable. Reverence? Possession? It’s all the same with him. "You belong to me."

He presses a lingering kiss to your ribs, just above where your heartbeat pounds wildly against your bones. He exhales, and his lips curve against your skin in something dangerously close to a smile.

But you remember you’re technically free bleeding, and your pulse spikes, a rush of panic coursing through your veins as you instinctively try to close your legs. But his hand is there, swift and firm, stopping you. His grip is too strong, his presence too consuming.

He doesn't let go, his fingers brushing over the inner parts of your thighs, his breath shallow and erratic as he drinks in the sight of you. His pupils are blown wide, almost black, utterly lost in something feral and primal. He’s staring at you like he’s found something sacred, something far darker and deeper than just physicality.

"Don’t hide it," he murmurs, his voice raw and low. His gaze flickers down to the blood, and there's something almost reverent in his eyes. "This—this is perfect."

He throws your leg over his shoulder, and your face burns.

Your breath catches as his lips linger against your calf, the warmth of his mouth searing against your skin. Your face burns, a flush creeping down your neck, spreading like wildfire. His touch is reverent—too intimate, too consuming.

He watches you through lidded eyes, something unreadable flickering behind them. "Look at you," he murmurs, dragging his lips higher. "Divine."

The forest around you is silent, as if holding its breath, as if bearing witness. Your pulse pounds in your ears, the rhythm syncing with his own quiet, shuddering breaths. You don’t know what’s more terrifying—the way he touches you like you’re something sacred or the way you’re starting to believe it.

Divine.

He did not want you to utter a word of the gods, and yet here he was, revering you as though you were made of stardust and prayer. His lips traced blessings into your skin, his hands mapping out every fragile piece of you with something dangerously close to devotion.

Your breath shuddered, caught between fear and something deeper, something you couldn’t name. He worshipped you in contradiction—loathing, needing, aching.

His voice was a rasp against your skin. "You don’t even see it, do you?" His fingers ghosted over your thigh, his grip tightening as though you might disappear. "You are holy in a way the heavens could never understand."

He pulls the nightgown off you completely, throwing it aside. The ruined nightgown lands in a crumpled heap, forgotten the moment it leaves his hands.

His gaze devours you, tracing every inch of exposed skin like a man starved, like something sacred has been laid bare before him. His fingers, cool against the heat of your body, press into your waist, lingering, memorizing.

"You were never meant for them," he murmurs, almost to himself. His touch drags up, slow, reverent, mapping out the curve of your ribs, the plane of your stomach. "Never meant for their rules. Their prayers."

His lips follow the path his hands have taken, pressing against you like whispered blasphemy.

His devotion was feverish, a worship not of saints or gods, but of you.

Your body was his temple, and he knelt before it without shame, lips pressing against every inch of exposed skin as though engraving his reverence into you. His hands roamed—possessive, greedy, desperate—as if afraid you might vanish between his fingers like mist at dawn.

“You were made for me,” he murmured against your hip, his voice rough with something deeper than hunger. His teeth grazed your skin, a silent vow. “No holy book, no doctrine—only this. Only us.”

The forest bore witness to the sacrilege, the rustling leaves whispering secrets to the wind. But he did not care. And, Astra help you, neither did you.

“Rafayel, that blood-” “It’s precious. Don’t you dare say otherwise.”

His words came like a command, hard and unyielding. His fingers gripped your wrists, holding you still as if your very body was his to claim, to savor. There was something in his eyes—intensity, obsession, an almost maddening hunger as he traced the lines of your skin.

The blood, your blood, had already stained him, and yet it seemed to hold him captive. It wasn’t just an act of possession—it was reverence, as though your very essence was sacred, and he couldn’t bear to waste a drop of it.

"Every part of you," he whispered, eyes now fixed on the path of blood trickling along your skin, "is mine." His voice was raw, desperate. "And I’ll cherish every bit of it, even if the gods themselves would frown upon us."

His lips hovered just above the blood, as if he was waiting for permission, the tension between you both palpable, thickening the air.

His lips hovered, teasing, just barely brushing against your skin as he waited, and you couldn’t hold back anymore. Without thinking, you pulled him closer, your fingers tangling in his hair, pressing his mouth to your blood-streaked skin.

It was an act of surrender. You were no longer the person who feared him, who resisted his touch. Now, you were simply a part of the chaos between you, caught in the storm of his desire and your own.

His breath hitched as his mouth met your skin, his hands roaming to claim you further. Every inch of him was pressed against you, his body marking you as his, as he whispered your name—like a prayer, like an obsession, like a promise.

If he was going to damn you, it may as well be worth it.

His tongue laped at the blood on your thighs, his grip bruising on your hips as he cleans you up. Nipping and kissing up, up, up, his breath fans over your cunt, abd you can’t help but shiver.

“And Astra said do not be wasteful, so thank you for this meal.”

His lips were on you, drinking your blood. "I could spend an eternity feasting on you,”

His words sent a thrill of excitement through you as he continued to lavish attention to your sensitive flesh, a cold hand coming to press down on your stomach, cool to the touch. Rafayels tongue traced patterns along your folds, your breath hitching as waves of pleasure rippled through your body, conflicting with the apprehension that still lingered in your mind. You let go of his hair, grasping at the dirt, clawing at whatever could ground you, fighting to maintain control over your desires. But with each flick of Rafayels tongue, each gentle suckle, your resolve waned, your resistance crumbling like sand beneath a relentless tide.

Despite yourself, you arched your back, offering yourself more fully to his ministrations, your moans mingling with the soft sounds of his fervent attentions. Lips parting to taste the blood that came from your core, he teased and taunted with each languid stroke.

Rafayel savored you like a forbidden fruit, movements deliberate and precise as he explored every inch of your trembling form. Eliciting gasps and moans from your lips, he threatened to consume you.

His hands, strong and commanding, roamed over your body, tracing the curves of your hips and thighs as he held you in place, ensuring you remained at his mercy.

"Please," you begged, your voice a breathless whisper. "I can't... I can't take anymore..."

Of course, the faux priest ignored you.

His lips were bloody- so bloody, smearing across his chin and mingling with the spit that connected him to your cunt.

“You- you’re beautiful.”

He licks it away, groaning at the taste as he reluctantly pulls himself away, sitting up, keeping your legs apart as he undoes his buttoned shirt, pulling it over his head and-

As if your cheeks couldnt burn any more.

It was as if Astra had carved him himself, and he probably did.

No clay was made to make his form, no.

He was made from fire and starlight.

Two fingers replaced his mouth, inching their way. Your eyes threaten to roll at the intensity of it all, and the feeling of shame was ever present in its advancements.

Rafayel made his way up your body, lips trailing along the curve of your neck, leaving a trail of hot kisses in their wake as he moved towards your breasts. Capturing one of your nipples between his lips, he sucked and nipped at the sensitive flesh, his fangs nearly breaking the skin.

“Divine.”

It was said like a mantra, a prayer on your skin, an obsession with the salvation he so desperately craved. His free hand grabbed one of your own, interlocking your fingers and holding it about your head. Worshipping your breasts with a sense of reverence, he nearly whined.

"I could spend an eternity feasting on you,”

The words send a thrill of excitement through you.

But the ins and outs of his fingers, his mouth on your tits, and the utter act of it all-

You don’t know whether to cry or beg.

Beg for it to be done?

It’s too much- and he knows this. Of course he does.

Father Rafayel always knows.

He lets your nipple go with a lewd pop, taking his fingers out of you before grabbing your face. If you weren't so overwhelmed, you might have gagged.

Until he spits in your mouth and pushes your head back down.

“Stay down.”

His hands go to his pants, and you watch. Watch him take himself out.

Astra above.

He was pretty just about everywhere. Endowed, leaking, his skin tinged the faintest of blues up until his tip, an aggressive deep red-almost purple.

And there's so much cum.

He lines himself up with your quivering hole, breathing hard as if he needed the oxygen. Maybe he did now. “I- hah- I’m taking you. You understand, don’t you? I need this.”

But your gaze is too focused on his member, too distracted.

“He’d probably marry a book,”

Oh, Yvonne, you sweet ignorant soul.

Your blood smears across his tip, and he hisses. “So hot- too hot,”

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe ou-

You cry out, the push too uncomfortable, too harsh, too mean. And finally- finally- closes his eyes, long lashes giving his cheeks butterfly kisses as he damn near growls.

He leans over you, his forehead meeting yours as he presses his lips to yours, whether just for the sake of kissing or to not look foolish, you don’t know. Don’t have time to think as he goes to your throat.

He bites.

Not enough to break skin, but it hurts.

Hurts more when you gaze at his hands, how they are fisted in the damp soil beneath you, nails caked with blood and dirt, holding himself back.

He moves his hips, pushing in, and your arms scramble around his bare back, nails gifting crescents into his skin. A bulge in your tummy- he presses down on it.

“Here. Here is where I’ll be. Where we will be. Do you understand?”

“What?”

“Miseal. It’s already decided.”

His thrusts are deep- rough, and something feels off as he takes you. Though you’re not sure what.

Almost as if you’re being watched.

And he feels it too.

“Damn him,”

A rush, a rush as he tries to make you both finish, no longer worried about the pleasure of it all, so long as it was done. You whine, legs wrapping around him, keeping him in as he rocks into you.

Soon enough, he spills.

But it's strange, how he pulls away fast, grabbing his pants.

You watch as he pulls out a candle, a muted red wax of a long shaft and a packet of matches.

“You move, and you’re getting burned. Do you understand?”

What?

He lights it.

Panicking, you try to get up-

His hand is on your throat, keeping you down. “Stay. Still.”

He holds it over your body, letting the wax melt and then-

When it drops onto your skin, it burns.

You bite back a yelp, throwing your head back and gritting your teeth.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

His gaze is hard as he lets it fall onto your body, watching it roll down the curves and valleys and dips of your body. Tears pool in your eyes, and all sense of warmth he had in his gaze is gone. Why was he so hard to understand?

He brings a hand to your stomach, smearing the wax before it solidified.

It hits you.

He was drawing something on you. Swirls of roses and vines, stars and something else you can't quite see.

“Rafayel, what’s wrong-” “Quiet.”

His tone is sharp, cold. And then-

Holy water?

He splashes it onto you.

“Rafayel, wha-”

“Stop- Just stop it! Let me finish what I need to do!”

Rafayel’s breath came fast and uneven, his hands shaking even as they held you firm. His panic bled into you like ink in water, spreading thick and inescapable.

No—no, no, no. This was wrong.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, drowning out everything else.

He jerked back as if burned, his expression twisting. Regret? Shame? Desire? It all mixed together, unreadable.

"Astra," you whispered, your throat tightening. "Astra is going to punish us."

Rafayel's face darkened, his pupils blown wide, his grip on you tightening like a noose.

Then, before you could utter another breath, he shoved his hand over your mouth, pressing you into the earth.

"Shut. Up." His voice was a raw, desperate growl. His body caged you in, his hand firm against your lips, his eyes blazing with something almost wild.

The wind only grew stronger. The trees groaned. The stars above flickered—then vanished.

Astra was watching.

Your chest heaved, but no air came. His hand was firm, unyielding, stealing the breath from your lungs as the wind raged around you. Your fingers clawed at his wrist, nails digging into his skin, but he wouldn’t budge.

Your vision blurred at the edges, a ringing building in your ears. Above you, the sky churned—inky black swallowing every trace of light, the heavens convulsing in silent fury.

Rafayel’s eyes bore into yours, his grip trembling. His own breath was ragged, his expression torn between panic and something darker.

Then, just as your limbs began to weaken, he let go.

You gasped, choking on the rush of air, your lungs burning. The moment your breath returned, you shoved him away, scrambling backward across the damp forest floor.

"What have you done?" Your voice was raw, torn.

Rafayel didn’t answer. His lips parted, but his eyes weren’t on you anymore. They were locked onto the abyss above, where the sky had fractured.

A sob clawed up your throat, raw and broken. You could feel it—like something had been ripped from you, something sacred and irreplaceable.

Your soul.

The weight of it hit you all at once. A terrible, hollow emptiness where divinity had once dwelled. The connection to Astra, the light you had clung to in your darkest moments—it was gone. Torn away by his hands.

You curled in on yourself, fingers digging into the damp earth as if you could anchor yourself, as if the ground would not reject you like the heavens had. You had been forsaken.

A gust of wind howled through the trees, the sky above still shuddering, the heavens themselves mourning you.

And he—he only stood there. Watching.

"You’ve ruined me," you whispered, voice shaking, eyes wet with grief.

Rafayel flinched as if struck. But he didn’t deny it. Didn’t apologize. He only took a step closer, the shadows curling around him like a crown, his expression unreadable.

"You were never theirs to begin with." His voice was low, reverent, filled with something close to adoration.

You hated him. You hated that you wanted to believe him.

A breeze flows through your hair, comfortable on your scalp.

A field of golden wheat. The stalks sway, whispering secrets in the wind. The sky is endless, a soft, hazy blue, and the sun is warm on your skin.

And then you see it.

Her.

Your body—mangled, broken, wrong. Blood seeps into the dirt beneath, soaking the golden earth in deep crimson. Your eyes are open, clouded and lifeless, staring at nothing. The wind does not touch you. The sun does not warm you.

You are dead.

But you are also here, standing above yourself, barefoot in the soft earth, small hands trembling at your sides. You are a child again.

A shadow looms over your corpse. You look up.

Astra?

No.

A hand grabs yours. You turn, blinking in confusion. There, standing beside you, is a younger version of Rafayel, his eyes wide, full of an unspoken fear. The wheat sways gently around him, but the warmth of the sun, which once bathed you, now feels distant, cold, almost unreal.

“Are you scared?” you ask softly, your voice trembling, not sure if the words are meant for him or for you.

He doesn’t answer at first, his gaze fixed on the mangled body lying in the dirt, still and lifeless. Slowly, he nods. His expression is tense, strained, haunted. The faint trace of a tear glimmers in his eye, but he refuses to look away from the vision of death that lies before you.

Another figure steps forward, his presence almost ethereal amidst the vast expanse of the golden wheat.

He is a man—older, perhaps, though not by much—and yet, his features carry an odd resemblance to both you and Rafayel, as if the strands of your lives had intertwined in ways too complex to decipher. His face is solemn, filled with a quiet sadness that mirrors your own unease. He crouches by the mangled body, planting roses in the earth, the delicate flowers contrasting sharply with the harshness of death surrounding them.

When he finishes, his eyes slowly rise to meet yours, the sorrow in them palpable. "I can't wait to meet you," he murmurs, his voice tinged with a melancholy that feels out of place in this strange vision. There's a heaviness in his words, as though he’s already resigned to an inevitable fate that neither you nor he can escape.

You stand still, caught in the moment, unsure of what to make of him or what he means by his cryptic words. His gaze lingers for a moment longer before he turns away, his figure slowly dissolving into the wheat as if he were never there to begin with.

The familiar sound of Gran's laughter fills the air, cutting through the tension of the dream and pulling you back to reality. You blink, suddenly disoriented as you stand in your kitchen, the smell of burnt soup wafting in the air. Tara, your younger cousin, stands at the stove, a guilty grin plastered across her face.

You roll your eyes and call out, annoyed, “Tara, did you burn the soup again?”

Gran chuckles from her rocking chair in the corner of the room, clearly entertained by the chaotic dynamic. She has seen this a thousand times before, but her amusement is unwavering. "Let her be, love. She’s learning."

Tara, red-faced and clearly embarrassed, scoops a ladle of the charred soup into a bowl, trying to salvage what she can. "It wasn’t that bad," she protests weakly, though the scorched smell says otherwise.

You sigh, but the irritation fades quickly as you watch Tara and Gran in the soft light of the kitchen. It’s a comforting scene, one you’ve known all your life. Still, that dream lingers at the back of your mind, its strange figure and cryptic words echoing through your thoughts, mixing with the mundane and ordinary.

"Gran, I had the strangest dream last night," you start, trying to shake off the unsettling feeling. She pauses, her hands stilling on her knitting as her sharp eyes meet yours.

“Did you now?” “I…yeah. I dreamed I was trying to be a nun…and there was a vampire.” Gran raises an eyebrow, her lips curling into a knowing smile. "A vampire, eh? Sounds like Astra's handiwork, that does."

You roll your eyes, but before you can speak, you hear a soft chuckle from the doorway. The voice is familiar, comforting, yet too smooth—too perfect. "Nightmares again, cutie?"

You freeze, instinctively glancing over your shoulder. There, standing in the doorway, is him. The man who doesn't quite fit, but is always somehow there, a shadow in the corner of your life. He wears the same smile as always—charming, relaxed, but with an undertone you can't quite place. His eyes gleam, mischievous with amusement.

Gran raises a knowing eyebrow. “Rafayel, you causing my grandbaby nightmares again? You ought to be more gentle with her.”

“I can’t help it, Josephine. Gotta get it out of my system before the wedding.”

Gran snorts. You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “So what, you just had to torment me one last time before I walk down the aisle?”

Rafayel grins, lazy and wolfish. “Of course. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t haunt my bride’s dreams before the big day?” His voice is teasing,

Gran swats him lightly with a dish towel. “Enough of that nonsense. Go set the table if you’re gonna stand there running your mouth.”

Rafayel winks at you before grabbing the plates.

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#this genuinely made me tear up #his love for her that's interlaced with hate for the way they're bound together.#he's so resentful of the fact that his salvation lies in the hands of another and its not something he has control over #kept thinking about all the ways he took away her agency without seeing he went though the same thing #does it make his actions justifiable? no. but it provides a better understanding of why he is the way he is #her panic at losing her soul and wanting to seek refuge in the one who was responsible for it? God #i don't think he's AS selfish as to completely disregard how she feels about all this.#he knows he's hurting her and he feels sorry for it in that strange way of his.#but she doesn't realise she's just as cursed by astra as he is #astra provided her a false sense of security by taking her under the cover of the church #he knew full well what would happen. he wrote their fates! and he made sure to make it as painful as possible for both of them #he made it so they would incur his wrath and granted them a gruesome death before giving them their salvation #and afterwards. where rafayel was cursed to live forever and remember while she lived and died and forgot every time #she was cursed to remember while he had no recollection of their past lives. it is cruel but also a blessing in a way #he doesn't have to hold onto his previous resentment of their bond and can love her the way he wants. the way they both deserve #and she knows enough to remember and not blindly put her faith in a deity as cruel as astra. IN MY HUMBLE OPINION.#the domesticity and ease with which he interacted with her in the end genuinely hurt me because they suffered so much to get to this point #and he doesn't remember.#sighs. I'll be thinking about this fic for a very long time #if u made it this far into the tags here's a candy 🍬#vampire au #rafayel love and deepspace

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