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zstartrixxx · 18 days ago

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𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍, 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐄

ᶠᵃˡˢᵉ ᵖʳᵒᵖʰᵉᵗ/ᵖʳᶦᵉˢᵗꜝʳᵉᵐᵐᶦᶜᵏ ˣ ⁿᵘⁿꜝʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓: 𝐘𝐄𝐒 | 𝐍𝐎

𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐁𝐄 𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒, 𝐄𝐌𝐌𝐀 𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐋𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔 𝐈. 𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 • 𝐈𝐈. 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐇 • 𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐑

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Restraint that breeds a cold sacrilege. When you least expect it—on the verge of celebrating the Resurrection of Christ the Savior—isolated with God in a frozen monastery, where the wind whispers in your ears and only your fertile imagination keeps your feet rooted to the ground, a special visitor dares to cross the threshold of this sacred soil. Remmick, dressed as a parish priest, knocks on the heavy doors of that wall blessed by a God who, for both of you, seems deaf. With a serpentine smile, an Edenic gaze, and words that both poison and seduce, the man turns this immaculate temple into his wicked abode. Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and finally... Easter Sunday. Three days Christ took to be resurrected now become the same three days Remmick needs to drag you into the profanation of your soul and the rotting of your faith. Kneel before this false prophet and beg twice for mercy, my angel. 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: so, like i sayed in this post, this fanfic draws its deepest inspiration from two works i adore with my entire being: the realist/gothic novels the crime of father amaro (eça de queirós) and the monk (matthew gregory lewis). it also blends countless other influences with my own lived experiences as someone born and raised in the catholic church—which directly and profoundly shapes how i think and create. but know that this holds so much passion, affection, and just a little sleep deprivation and exhaustion. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +18 ADULT CONTENT. DEAD DROVE DO NOT EAT. angst, hurt/comfort, dark romance (???) somnophilia, dacryphilia, heresy, profanation, blasphemy & corruption, vampirism (bite, blood, final form), gore (explicit descriptions of injuries), monsterfuck, smut (oral!both | fingering | spit | penetration), religious fetishism (use of a rosary for sex), religious eroticism, forbidden and mutual desire, power dynamics & toxic relationships, catholicism, religious imagery, internal dialogues—lots of dialogues, slow burn (to the extreme); sin of the flesh and soul (plus more blasphemy); god syndrome/complex; remmick!sardonic, remmick!malicious, remmick!a bit needy (slightly, i think :), fem!reader, melancholic!reader (a classic of mine), curious!reader, active!reader (in whatever she wants). i think it’s all… lmk if i forget smt ;) 𝐖𝐂: 17.3k for whoever is going to read it, a great read! <3 likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)

SPECIAL TAG: @001-side

𝖱𝖤𝖬𝖬𝖨𝖢𝖪 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳 | 𝖬𝖠𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳

“contention, cold sacrilege! colder still for giving in... mercy, mercy! kneel at the base of our conduit and pray, it's faceless grey plains choose blindness.” (monolith, emma ruth rundle & thou) | i recommend that you listen to this song when it is mentioned in the fanfic, but it is not necessary to listen to it, just to get more into the mood of the scene.

The wine dripped from the corner of your lips, trailing a deep purple-red stream down your chin. With your fingers, you wiped away the crimson liquid, bringing the wine-slicked tips to your lips so as not to waste a single drop. The stern look the Mother Superior gave you filled you with self-loathing—she had that special ability to judge you, to make you feel guilty for even the smallest unintended transgressions.

It had been instilled in you that waste was a sin, especially when it came to sacred nourishment that brought pleasure and energy—yet, at the same time, you were taught that too much pleasure in eating would lead to the sin of gluttony, something unacceptable for someone meant to live on sanctified fasts and renunciations of carnal desires. The Elder Sister collected the basket of bread rolls she had baked earlier, eyeing you with that bitter, long-faced stare, signaling that supper was over. You nodded, a rehearsed gesture of humility, rising swiftly to ask for the sisters’ blessing before leaving, making your way to your quarters with measured steps, hands clasped in false simplicity, eyes fixed on the stone floor. Even in vocal silence, your restless mind never stopped racing…

And to think your choice had been entirely different before crossing the drawbridge of that cold stone fortress… Oh, how you spent your long, lonely nights contemplating your melancholy, gray present, glancing back at a past splashed with blues and purples—a life both happy and unhappy—and trying, through the stained-glass mosaic of a saint in your window (vibrant blues, reds, yellows, and greens), to glimpse your future. When sunlight hit and cast those colors over you, still lying in bed, you imagined your future would be bright, full of life, warmth, comfort, and vitality.

But when the silver-blue moonlight, like the veil you sometimes wore over your navy-blue uniform, cast those same colors in darker, muted shades, you feared your future would be cold, inhuman, unnatural. Somehow. And even though you prayed every single day, hands pressed tightly together, your beloved rosary swinging between your body—so large you wore it like a belt, its heavy silver crucifix studded with flecks of ruby-red and sky-blue topaz dangling between your legs, its translucent ruby beads threaded between silver links—your fingers moving habitually from one crystal sphere to the next, you felt empty. A polished gemstone, beautiful yet misplaced, forced into a role that didn’t honor your worth—and so your prayers grew hollow, filled with nonsense for a God who probably wasn’t even listening.

If He had ever heard you, He clearly hadn’t liked what you asked for and instead turned you into His sad little joke.

A nun.

You—so full of beauty, talent, and love to give and receive. The only thing you truly enjoyed about being a Bride’s Christ was the doors it opened to knowledge: you learned to read and write, to cook with the finest ingredients, to sew, even to play the piano and violin—and, as a bonus, you met other girls who secretly shared your melancholy, trapped there by circumstance. But what else could you do? Defy those in authority? Speak against those who ruled over you? Those were the distant days of your past when your voice went unheard—and even now, in your mid-twenties, you still hesitated. The Mother Superior made sure to keep your sharp tongue locked behind your teeth, while the Elder Sister watched your every move with bulging eyes. Even with your feet on the ground, your head was always in the clouds, as if you could fly beyond the monastery’s walls—a mausoleum disguised as a sanctuary. And apparently, that was a sure path to damnation. It would attract evil spirits and ill omens, they whispered to you daily.

And so you lived a life of renunciation, modesty, and… well, a few small sins.

After all, if God was omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent—if He truly was watching your tedious little life in this godforsaken place where even Judas might have kicked off his boots under one of the massive trees where you sat and secretly ate stolen communion wafers, one after another—then He clearly wasn’t all that interested in your mediocrity. Especially not when you lied about aches and pains to skip obligations and stay in bed. And speaking of bed…

Your sacred sanctuary, where you were meant to focus on blessed rest, became the cradle of your vivid imagination on hot and cold nights alike. Your hands took on a life of their own, becoming someone else’s—someone you’d read about in forbidden library books—lips brushing your nipples, fingers threading through your hair, something thick and throbbing pressing between your legs. It was the moment when the entire world erupted from within you, a fleeting constellation, sweating out all those tiny sins and making you feel, for once, like you truly belonged in this world.

And on that night, the eve of Good Friday, curled in the silence of a nearly empty convent—just you and your small universe—watching moonlight pierce the stained glass, your hands too restless to resist, you gave in to temptation once more. Heat crawled up your spine as your dominant hand slipped beneath your cotton nightgown, seeking the center of all your pleasure—and all of Eve’s inherent sin—stroking over warm, soft skin, parting your folds to tease that magic pearl. You loved the comparison that women hid a luminous pearl between their thighs, one that, if touched just right, could blind anyone with its radiance.

No one had ever taught you how to pleasure yourself, but thank Heaven your curiosity and hunger were greater, and so you had learned.

And there you were—eyes shut tight, fingers frantic, breath ragged—chasing that carnal ecstasy. Your imagination flowed so easily into forbidden fantasies that suddenly, it wasn’t just you anymore. A man was there with you—handsome, charming, with a sweet gaze and a smile like no other. His rough hands moved over your body, his touch like a serpent coiling inside you, flooding you with pleasure, pleasure, nothing but overwhelming pleasure.

And so, you and God kept this secret between you.

The next day, all you had to do was pretend—for the sake of your audience—that your purity remained unshaken.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

Remmick knocked on the wooden door, once, twice, three times, until he was finally greeted by a grumpy man who looked him up and down:

"What do you want?"

"Friend, I just wanted to come in a bit and take shelter from this hellish cold and warm up... I'll pay!" His voice was polished, his gaze the most pleading among all the poor wretches, his appearance even more decadent: dressed and walking like a poor laborer, with frayed pants, worn suspenders, a thick, grimy linen shirt, dirty boots—all spoils from his last hunt. He wanted to look like a man of the countryside, someone who belonged to those regions, so he dressed and acted the part. The surly man eyed him up and down, doubting his words. It was late at night, a light drizzle wetting the man outside, who shoved a hand into his pants pocket, pulling out a small bag of coins that jingled heavily.

The man gave him another strange look—it wasn’t common for strangers to show up out of nowhere, knocking on the doors of a tavern and asking to enter. Normally, people just walked in like any other normal person would. But this stranger, with his angular face, dark topaz eyes, thin lips in a smile with prominent canine teeth, looking like a demonic elf with the face of a stray dog, made him doubt the madness of humanity.

Remmick cleared his throat:

"So, can I or can I not—" he made a gesture with his hand, pointing inside the bar: "—come in?" He raised his eyebrows. The other huffed, shrugged, leaving the door open, muttering:

"Come in, then. Just don’t cause any trouble, or I’ll kick you in the balls all the way to the next gutter."

"Yes, sir!" Remmick entered triumphantly, feeling the hot breath of beer and foul stench mixed with the stuffiness of a place where men fell at the feet of women sitting on their laps, eager to earn a coin or two for their services, hot blood pulsing between their sweaty, tired flesh—a mix of possibilities that enchanted him. He looked around, sensing certain distrustful glances at his slender figure—he was a man of average height, neither too tall nor too short, but fortunately, he had preserved the defined physique of his past human life. This was his new persona. A mere wandering peasant, harmless at first glance. He smiled tightly, lowered his head, and walked to the counter, where he gestured to the bartender:

"And you, sir? What’ll it be?"

"Red wine."

"Pay now. We don’t like freeloaders here," the man said, filling a battered cast-iron mug with lukewarm wine. Despite his diet being predominantly blood, Remmick had, over time, come to tolerate certain other liquids—red wine being one of them. He drank it both to reminisce about his long-lost humanity and to play a social role that could deceive others. He pulled three copper coins from the pockets of his borrowed pants, handing them to the bartender, receiving in return the nearly full mug of wine. His mouth watered, the bittersweet alcoholic scent filling his nostrils; he wished it were blood. He looked at the server in front of him, imagining what flavor he might have, when a conversation beside him caught his attention:

"...but it’s just that Father Gael has these crazy systems of his, says it’s safer to travel at night, and now that we’re just one night away from reaching the Benedictine Sisters' monastery, he insists on hurrying this step. Said that as soon as the moon is above our heads, we’ll mount the carriage and head to our destination."

"What a pain in the ass, that priest! He should’ve stayed in his own church..."

"I think so too—" Remmick turned his head discreetly to get a better look at the men chatting behind him, in a corner farther from the rest of the bar: one was tall and thin, wearing a large black cloak, with sunken eyes like someone who hadn’t slept in nights, drinking beer, while the other in front of him was dressed like a local craftsman; "—but without this job, I can’t support my family. And Father Gael is eager to arrive just on Good Friday, to settle these pending matters with the Sisters' monasteries..."

"What’s been going on, my friend?" The other man, who had been listening to the first, asked, fueling Remmick’s sudden interest, who, in turn, also wanted to know more, sipping his wine; the other shrugged, took a generous swig of beer, wiped his thin lips with the back of his right hand, while his left rummaged through his pockets for something, the rustling of fabric and jingling coins audible to the vampire’s sharp hearing:

"From what I’ve heard these past days of travel, the diocese is making some kind of deal with the imperial government to turn some of the more remote monasteries into boarding schools for troubled youth, the divergent types, and they need the approval of the evaluating Fathers and Mothers. That’s why I’ve been on the road for months with Father Gael, going up and down these remote areas in these far-off places... We left this monastery for last because it was a place of great emotional memory for the priest."

Remmick smiled, slowly turning back to face forward, his eyes gleaming with the thoughts swirling in his fertile, purely wicked mind. A special meeting with the Sisters on Easter? It sounded like an opportunity to surrender to his past.

He whistled to call the bartender:

"Hey, where’s the Benedictine Sisters' monastery?"

The bartender eyed him suspiciously, wiping a mug with a damp cloth:

"And why the interest? You looking to take vows?" he mocked, laughing. Remmick kept his expression neutral, holding back from letting his teeth accidentally protrude at that ugly face of his:

"Not that it’s any of your business, but—" he glanced again at the thin man, judging by the conversation, the carriage driver, who stood up and tossed some coins on the table: "—let’s say I have business with the Sisters."

"Hmm, whatever kind of business you have with them, even if I gave you the exact address, you’d hardly get in..." the man replied, taking Remmick’s empty mug and refilling it, provoking a confused expression from the vampire, who furrowed his brows and pursed his lips. The bartender grinned, explaining:

"This one’s on the house, for your courage to want to enter one of the most well-protected places against any man not wearing a cassock or carrying a letter addressed directly to the Mother from the Pope!" He handed him the mug, a smirk framing his face.

But Remmick had already thought of exactly that. He accepted the mug with a smug smile:

"That’s not a problem for me."

And it wouldn’t be. When the Devil wishes to enter somewhere, even if it’s the dwelling of God, he finds a way. And Remmick could already visualize the monastery’s doors wide open to him, as well as the baptism of blood and the prayers that would profane that place.

And that was already making him thirsty with anticipation.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

You woke up to knocks—no, more like violent banging—on your door. Rubbing your eyes, drowsy, you waited for the noise to stop so you could return to your sacred slumber, but instead of fading, the pounding grew louder, more irritating, piercing your head with sharp noises. You took a deep breath, opened your eyes to the warm, colored lights above you—outside, the sun’s rays announced the new day. Good Friday. Your heart warmed, for this was the best time of the year—when you and your sisters came together to prepare delicious feasts, held storytelling circles (even if biblical, you still cherished them immensely), and played in the hallways, free from the fixed duties of cloistered nuns in the middle of nowhere. You loved feeling minimally alive, and they almost always had visitors: men of God. Parish priests from distant lands, some handsome, most old and repulsive, who celebrated the Word and Easter Sunday with you.

You huffed, your thoughts interrupted by the Mother Superior’s grave voice:

"Wake up, girl! Wake up, for the priest will arrive soon, and we want everything in perfect condition to receive him!"

Silence. You were somewhat sulking under the covers, staring at the wooden door in front of you. The woman behind the door waited for your response, but when she got none, she scolded:

"Say something, girl, don’t be so rude!"

"I’m awake," you retorted, then added: "I’m already putting on my clothes, I’ll join you and the Elder Sister soon..."

"You won’t. I’ve told you. It’s madam. We’ll be waiting for you in the kitchen. Hurry, time waits for no one."

You rolled your eyes, silently repeating the words: 'you won’t, madam,' with some anger, staying exactly as you were: lying in bed. Suddenly, when you realized you were alone—the Mother Superior’s heavy footsteps always betrayed her presence, now fading down the hallway outside your room—you felt a sadness afflicting your flesh. You didn’t like feeling physical or emotional pain; either was a symptom of near-death to you. Pain caused anguish, a deep state of prostration and lack of spirit. You only liked the easy pleasures of the flesh, putting your mouth on something juicy and delicious, feeling those very carnal pleasures, and being in the heavens of dreams—and when the other sisters were one by one reassigned to other churches, convents, hospitals, or wherever else, leaving only you, the poor wretch among them all, the Elder Sister, and the Mother Superior, lately your days and nights had been an eternal balance between staying on that ledge of hopes, tiny pleasures, and silent laments.

And unfortunately, this would be the worst Easter for you.

With resentment, you woke up fully, got out of the warm bed, stepping onto the icy stone floor, clumsily removing your nightgown, grabbing your uniform: the loose black tunic. Your belt was your rosary, wrapped around your waist, tied tightly around your body, the end where the crucifix dangled swinging back and forth as you moved around the room, searching for your shoes. You found them under your bed, slipped on the leather shoes, and ignored the veil—at least you always avoided wearing them when no stranger who might covet you was around. You left the room, leaving behind the sorrow that weighed on your soul and the sins of the flesh committed under the moonlight.

All you had to do was close that door, and all your secrets would stay hidden in the intimacy of your room.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

"The arrival of this priest won’t be happy this time..." you began your lament while peeling garlic, feeling your fingers grow sticky with its viscosity, something you particularly disliked—much less the smell that clung to your fingers.

You received a condemning look from the Mother, but even so, you continued: "They always come when something truly happy and special is happening. But this time, it’ll just be to decree our end."

"Watch your tongue!" the Elder Sister cut you off sharply, stopping her potato-peeling for a moment: "You know better than anyone that this change is a necessary evil for all of us. Regardless of the occasion Father Gael arrives, we’ll welcome him with open arms and hearts."

"Yes, and you’ll have to keep that sharp tongue of yours inside that little mouth of yours—" the Mother commented, a malicious little smile playing on her dry lips as she seasoned a freshly slaughtered piece of lamb with red wine and fine herbs from the garden: "—or we’ll have to cut it out of your mouth."

You made a face, feeling frustration course through your body, rolling your eyes as the older women laughed behind your back.

It was always like this: they scolded you, made malicious comments, made you feel terrible about yourself, and then forced you to do something. Peeling garlic became a difficult, almost hateful task at that moment. In your heart, holding back tears of resentment that had built up in those last days, you hated that man who would come to bring bad news to your home.

To you. Into you.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

"This priest is taking too long... Did something happen to him? Worse yet, a storm is coming..."

"On Good Friday, no less!" the Mother replied to the Elder Sister, making the sign of the cross, while you stared at the flickering candlelight in front of you, feeling distant from everything, one hand supporting your face, the other playing with the flame; your fingers went back and forth, making the light waver with your movements. You were so engrossed that you jumped when you heard the loud, sonorous, and shrill ringing of the bell from the back, announcing someone at the gates. In a flash, the Elder Sister stood up, a smile stretching from ear to ear on her long face with big eyes, clasping her hands in front of her chest, stunned with sudden joy:

"He’s here! Father Gael has finally arrived!"

"Great things—" you murmured, making a disinterested gesture, turning back to the candle when the Mother said:

"You go welcome the Father. The Elder Sister and I will set the table."

"Me!?" you pointed at yourself, indignant, frowning. Behind the Mother, through the long, oval window where the sky was as dark blue as the sea, the clouds collided, and lightning split them apart. You could almost swear it was a divine sign. The Mother merely nodded, already grabbing the heavy, rough set of keys from her belt—she handed you a smaller ring with two master keys, rusty and heavy, shedding flakes and smelling metallic from age.

"Go before our special guest catches a cold in this rain."

Like a cursed mouth, the rain burst forth, loud and thick. You clenched the keys in your palm, relaxing your shoulders, a sign you would obey the Mother’s orders. Before leaving, you heard her shout after you: "And don’t forget your veil!"

You shrugged, ignoring her.

Father Gael was familiar, practically family.

And it wouldn’t be any martyrdom for you to hide from a man as charming as the young priest. It never was.

Your steps were slow; you felt you had all the time in the world to open that enormous front door, even if it meant getting drenched by the rain to reach the wall, holding the metal lamp that swayed in your hand. You were convinced it would be like the other times Father Gael had visited the monastery: you’d open one of the wooden doors, then the metal gate, welcome him with timid smiles, gesture for him to enter, smile, and wait for him to step inside in his large cassock, perhaps a hat on his head, holding his suitcase, adjusting his collar and clerical neckband. He’d thank you with sweet eyes, a shy smile, head bowed, enter, and you’d have a dinner full of sermons at the dining table.

And unlike what you told the other nuns, biting your tongue, this would be a happy Easter.

But everything changed when you turned the key to one side of the wooden door, swinging it open, raising the lamp to illuminate what was in front of you, only to find another man standing behind the metal gate. Your heart stopped, and as if God wanted you to see with your own two wide eyes, lightning split the sky, illuminating everything in a vibrant pale blue, and the rain grew heavier, lashing the ground, splashing onto you and the stranger. A powerful thunderclap—a muffled cry from Saint Peter—announced the man standing on the other side. He was drenched, his straight dark hair plastered to his forehead, an angular face smiling without teeth, just a press of thick lips, hiding something from you, clean-shaven, eyes the same dark blue as the sky piercing you as he waited on the other side of the iron bars. Illuminated by the flame of your lamp—at least that’s what you wanted to believe—his hands were clasped in front of his body, harmless, wearing the cassock like a black cloak, the white clerical collar around his neck. A suitcase rested at his feet.

Calm, even soaked by the rain.

You swallowed all your questions, already preparing to simply close the wooden door behind you and run back into the castle, when the man stepped forward and made himself heard—very clearly to your ears, a deep voice with a heavy accent penetrating you:

"My lady! Don’t be alarmed! It’s me! The priest who came for this Easter..."

"Who the hell are you?" Your voice came out sharp, your eyes immediately widening at the naturalness of the curse, seeking instant reprimand from the priest. But the so-called Father didn’t scowl; on the contrary, the man opened his mouth in a nasal laugh-smile, revealing uneven, almost sharp teeth:

"I understand your question, my dear, but I can explain everything!" He clasped his hands, smiling as amiably as possible: "Just let me in to take refuge from this deluge, and I’ll explain everything."

You raised an eyebrow between suspicion and curiosity. You looked behind him, trying to spot any silhouette of a carriage or even Gael;

"Are you alone?"

"Just me and God..." he replied complacently, hands still clasped: "...and you now."

He added, looking at you with a gaze you’d never been looked at with before. Something coursed through your body, a warmth that didn’t come from the lit candle in your lamp. A strange fervor tinged your cold, rain-splashed cheeks. Hot, you felt feverish even in the rain. With newfound courage, you stepped out from behind the door, revealing yourself fully to him, receiving from the other priest a lingering look that stripped your soul uncomfortably, for you didn’t want to be undressed that way. You barely remembered the modesty you lacked: the veil that would hide your hair, exposing your nature to the strange man.

You stopped a few meters away from the man, gathering words at the tip of your tongue, shining the lamp near his face:

"And by what name may I call you, Father?"

A glint passed through his eyes, red-ruby, making you shiver. Quickly, he wiped his chin and lips with his hand, drying what you assumed was rainwater:

"I am Father Remmick, my sweet Sister, and you, by what lovely name may I call you?"

Your lips curled into a self-satisfied smile, completely taken by the vanity of being courted that way. Remmick smiled, waiting for your answer, but before you could reveal your name, a question crossed your mind:

"And where is your carriage, Father? You’re not telling me you came all this way on foot."

You tilted your head, analyzing Remmick, who stepped closer to the gate:

"Let’s say I had a terrible accident further down and had to leave the coachman to take care of things while I climbed the hill before it got too late... But it seems even so, the weather turned, and this deluge started pouring... So, darling, may I come in?" he asked, raising both eyebrows in a pleading look. Wind blew between your faces, your hair flying back, Remmick closing his eyes for brief seconds, nostrils flaring, his chest rising and falling slowly. When he opened them, again that strange gleam in his gaze, almost opaque, which would’ve prompted another impertinent question if not for the Mother’s booming voice behind you:

"Let Father Gael go in—good heavens, who are you!?"

"You must be the Mother Superior—" Remmick changed his expression, making it polished, flashing his best smile at the woman eyeing him suspiciously, clasping his hands in supplication: "—as I was explaining to the dear Sister here, I am the priest who came in Monsignor Gael’s stead, who unfortunately couldn’t make it for this special occasion. I am Father Remmick, from another diocese not even from this region, but it’s with great honor that I come in the name of the Church and the State to settle pending matters and, well—" he looked at both of them, keeping his charming smile: "—if possible, spend Easter with you. I just ask that you let me in! Or I’ll turn into priest soup!"

You laughed, along with the man in front of you. But the Mother remained silent, observing him cautiously. Remmick seemed to remember something, bent down, and picked up the suitcase he carried, pulling out two letters, straightening and showing them to the Mother:

"Here! I have the diocese’s letter about the matters, and another signed by Gael himself about my coming in his place."

"Hand them to me," the Mother ordered. Remmick lowered the hand holding the papers, his voice more petulant:

"Only if you let me in. I’m freezing to death here, madam, and it wouldn’t be very Christian of me to die of some sudden illness."

You stifled a giggle while the Mother raised her eyebrows at the acidic reply. The Mother didn’t like it one bit, grumbling behind your back, but by hierarchical orders, it was up to her to accept his entry. She spat dryly:

"Open that gate and let him in, girl! God is in control of everything."

"Yes, madam," you replied obligingly, unlocking the other gate with a clank of the latch opening. Remmick remained still, watching you, waiting for your command. You cleared your throat and gestured with the hand holding the lamp for him to pass through the gate:

"Father... You may enter, and welcome!"

"Thank you, Sister!" He bowed his head, stepping one foot behind the other, smiling smugly at the Mother as he extended the letters, adding smoothly:

"Here you are, Mother! And surely, He is in control of everything!" He winked at her, smiling even wider.

To your eyes, he always seemed to hide something he wouldn’t say, not so soon, to you. Perhaps more comforting news that the diocese had decided to keep you there, or that in the end, you’d have the chance to choose your future... Or something worse. Your judgment of him was neutral, staying on the surface of cordial first impressions: polite smiles, welcoming gestures, soft voices, restrained glances... Especially since he was a man, a stranger—really, quite strange. Despite being handsome in his own way, still... Strange.

Remmick passed by you, walking side by side with the Mother, who had taken your lamp from your hands without ceremony, handing it to the man beside her, to open one of the letters, setting off ahead.

A cold air pierced you as you locked the iron gate, listening to their footsteps fade away. You looked beyond the bars of that gate where the rest of the world opened into a downpour of thick water, booming thunder, and occasional lightning illuminating the earth. Your heart filled with the smell of wet earth, rust, and something else that had entered with Father Remmick—metallic, dense, wet, somewhat sticky, and intrinsic to flesh, which pierced the soul. It was unnatural and almost bestial.

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"Father Remmick, please, say a prayer so we may dine in blessings this Good Friday!" the Elder Sister requested, looking with interest at the man seated across from her, still damp from the rain, droplets dripping from the corners of his hair, a cigarette between his lips. Remmick was searching for a match to light his cigarette—another human habit he’d inherited after centuries of socializing with the living—receiving a lit candle from her hands. He smiled in thanks, took a slow drag, and blew the gray smoke upward, nodding at the request; they were seated at the kitchen table, the wooden surface full of useless food for the vampire, who only had eyes for the three women, mentally listing which of those lambs he’d sacrifice first. For you, your mouth watered at so much abundance before you, eager to devour every dish in front of you, playing with the crystal beads of your rosary as you waited for the signal to eat.

Remmick took another drag of his cigarette, seated at the head of the table, watching you with a certain fascination while the Mother eyed him with latent distrust, leaning at the other end. The vampire disguised as a priest searched his memories for the sermons and general knowledge Father Gael had offered him before becoming his dinner the previous night, as well as the prayers taught by those who had stolen his father’s lands—he took a final drag, immersed in that awkward silence, stubbing out the cigarette on his plate, a useless gesture for him, filled his glass with wine, took a sip, and finally made himself heard, loud and clear, dramatic like a small-town priest:

"On this special night of Good Friday, may your God bring peace and salvation to your hearts, as well as reveal to each of you here the true path of happiness, mutual love, and also life. Through Christ, Our Lord, amen!" He made a quick sign of the cross with his index and middle fingers, looked at the sisters who stared at him and repeated the gesture, murmuring "amens."

They waited for him to serve himself:

"Help yourselves, Sisters! I’ll stick to the wine, as I’m fasting and—"

"But Father Remmick, fasts are usually absolute. Both liquids and solids..." you said. The Mother tapped your hand:

"I told you to keep that tongue in your mouth—"

"Oh, no, don’t scold her for that—" Remmick intervened, amused internally by it all, gesturing with his hands, looking deeply at you: "—and you’re right, my young one, fasts are absolute, but I’m human, and like anyone, I have my weaknesses. And I believe that in times of death and rebirth like these, our Christ wouldn’t mind such trivialities, hmm?" He winked at you, making you nod again. The Elder Sister giggled in agreement, while the Mother Superior kept her stern expression.

You tried not to stare too much at Remmick, who remained motionless in his posture, like an absolute and static king in that chair, eyes attentive to each of you, occasionally bringing the wine glass to his lips. Until inevitably, your curious eyes noticed a rather peculiar detail

"Remmick, why aren’t you breathing?"

"What do you mean, Sister?" Remmick asked you, relaxing his tense shoulders, sighing deeply; the other two glared at you, embarrassed, you tried to redeem yourself:

"I think it was just my imagination, you know..."

"It must’ve been—" he affirmed, leaning toward you, an indecipherable little smile on his lips: "—in the dark, sometimes we can’t see well what’s right in front of us."

You nodded, feeling a shiver crawl up your spine.

They returned to that sepulchral silence, the Mother watching you eat; the way you served yourself wine and drank, letting the liquid trickle from your mouth at times, so great was your thirst for the wine. Remmick was leaning back in his chair, hands crossed, eyes attentive to how you served yourself and chewed the rare meat, blood splattering your plate, wine sliding down your chin, grapes bursting between your teeth. A full plate, a beautiful appetite.

The Mother held your arm as you reached for another glass of wine, muttering through her teeth:

"You’re more than satisfied, my dear. Now clean up and go to bed, it’s getting late..."

"Well, I think it’s time for me to retire to my quarters as well," Remmick drew your attention to him, standing from the table in a leap, grabbing his suitcase from the side. He turned to the Mother: "Where will I rest?"

"Follow me," the Mother indicated sternly. Remmick nodded, glancing quickly at you.

"Excuse me," he gave a brief nod to the Elder Sister and passed by you, but stopped near you, one of his hands holding your shoulder, squeezing the soft flesh lightly:

"And for you, my beloved Sister, I wish you the best and most unforgettable dreams! May God bless and protect you. Sweet dreams."

His voice entered you and took residence in your soul.

You looked at the Elder Sister, who watched you both distance yourselves, eyeing you from head to toe and whispering:

"I’ll accompany them. Have a good night’s sleep."

She left, the footsteps of the three fading, leaving only you and your solitude in the middle of that cold kitchen.

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Your entire body was frozen, your bare feet touching stone after stone beneath your soles, the wind whistling and entering through the enormous windows of the hallway stretching, dark, ahead of you, piercing like ghostly hands through your cotton nightgown.

Your lips were slightly parted; at any moment, your deepest secrets could escape them, coming straight from your core. Your arms stretched forward, supporting you with each step toward the only lit light in that gallery of walls—from the end of the hallway, where a door was ajar and noisy sounds of things falling could be heard, echoing through the sedimentary stones. With glazed eyes, dulled by the veil of sleepwalking, you saw everything as a distant, blurred dream; you stopped at the doorframe, glimpsing the collapsed body of the Mother Superior lying around a thick puddle of a red liquid, a strange kind of clotted wine spreading around her. She was in her sleeping attire—like yours, a thick white nightgown—stained with the same red; her head was tilted back, eyes open in an expression of horror, from her gaping lips, a scream of fear that would never leave her mouth.

Not in life.

You followed the slender silhouette of Father Remmick dropping the body to the floor, the flesh of the Mother’s jugular torn by a sharp bite that ripped out a chunk, a piece of her flesh. The puddle expanded gradually, dyeing the woman’s thick, gray hair red.

And everything was red, the smell of death enveloping you, and the icy wind piercing your soul.

The scent of death enveloped you, and the icy wind pierced your soul.

Remmick turned around. He wore a white tank top, black tailored pants, and shoes on his feet. Blood dripped from his mouth full of sharp, thorn-like teeth. He held something between them. His eyes were dark, glinting like blood pearls as they fixed on you. His nails were claws, stained with blood. He smiled, twisted and grotesque, like a bestial, bat-like humanoid, staring at you in ecstasy before spitting the piece of meat onto the ground. His voice was no longer the same—it was unnatural, as if another being had overlaid his human speech:

"My little angel, it’s time to rest!"

Your eyes widened. Suddenly, your body felt weightless, floating toward him. Remmick’s clawed hand stretched out to you. Your heart raced, and for a few seconds, your soul slipped free from your body. Face to face with the monster, you saw your reflection in his eyes—completely drenched in red. Blood.

Remmick cupped your face, his nails pricking your skin, his breath reeking of nauseating copper against your cheek, the tips of his claws sending shivers down your spine:

"Just sleep, my angel. Your time hasn’t come yet… Sleep well. And dream of me."

Everything was blood. Dark red. Cold and hot. In the blink of an eye, you plummeted into freefall. And then, everything became warm dreams—of a human, smiling Remmick reaching out to you under a beautiful, sunny sky. Your heart calmed, and all was peace.

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The morning dawned strangely. Through your window, gray mingled with amber as dark clouds drifted across the sun’s rays. You remembered nothing of your dreams, only the last moments before bed—Remmick’s words carved into your soul, the chill of your room, the heat of your body burning from wine and something deeper, something intimate, blooming inside you. It made you shed your heavy clothes, seeking relief in nakedness, sitting on your bed, yearning for something. Something your mind conjured before your eyes, yet you refused to see.

You needed a touch that would caress your soul.

You took a deep breath, your legs pressed together, feet on the cold floor, ears attuned to the symphony of rain. You lay back fully on the bed, hoping to hear someone at your door—knocking, asking to enter. And if that unexpected visitor came, by the gods, you’d let them in immediately. But nothing happened, and in a moment of lucidity, you thanked the heavens that it was just a fleeting thought, a restlessness against everything you’d learned to reject, a lethargic symptom of the wine. Another deep breath, hands against your breasts, hot skin against sweaty palms. Beneath your skin, you felt your heartbeat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The sound of your breath through your nose. Until everything calmed, and you felt steady enough to rise and slip on your nightgown.

Now properly dressed to leave your quarters, your hands lingered on your breasts, feeling your heartbeat as you tried to decipher the shadows in your room. Outside, Saint Peter had stopped sending rain—and wherever Father Remmick was, his words still echoed in your mind. Maybe that’s why you dreamed of him. Even if you couldn’t recall the dream itself, you carried the certainty that he had appeared to you.

Stepping out of your room, you noticed how truly odd that Easter Saturday morning was. Normally, the Mother Superior would knock on every door to announce the second day of Easter—yet there you were, dragging your own feet, the sound of your closed shoes echoing through the empty hallway. Your eyes darted to each door, once the rooms of your fellow sisters, wondering where in God’s name they all were. You even wondered, as you descended the spiral staircase to the ground floor, where Remmick was staying.

When you reached the kitchen, you saw steam rising from a kettle and the slender figure of the Eldest Sister with her back turned. You approached slowly, scanning the corners for any sign of the Mother Superior or the priest. Neither was there.

"Where is everyone, Sister?"

"My God, child! You scared me!" she exclaimed, dramatically clutching her chest, her eyes bulging as she looked you up and down. You raised an eyebrow. The Eldest Sister took a deep breath, adjusted her headscarf, and gave you a stern look before replying:

"The Mother Superior will be absent for a few hours… As for Father Remmick, he will join us once the sun sets…"

"How strange—" you muttered, making a face. "Why?"

"Not that it’s any of your concern, but—" the Eldest Sister turned back, kneading a lump of dough. "—from what Father Remmick told us yesterday—me and the Mother Superior—he prefers to remain secluded and fasting during Easter. He asked not to be disturbed and said he’d join us tonight for the celebrations."

"I see…" you whispered, running your fingers over flour-dusted utensils on the counter. The Eldest Sister continued her labor:

"He’s a man of great faith, locking himself away for hours without seeing sunlight. Great faith indeed."

"Or at the very least, he’s peculiar for avoiding sunlight… Where is he staying?" you asked, genuinely curious about the guest.

The Eldest Sister huffed:

"Your curiosity will lead you astray one day, dear. But to shut you up: he didn’t want the usual guest quarters. He takes his Christian philosophies seriously, so we put him in the most isolated room—the one in the back, the lower level."

"Strange… That’s more like a dungeon than an actual floor."

"Well, now leave me be. We must prepare the finest meal for tonight."

"And what should I do?" you asked. The Eldest Sister sighed, stopped kneading, wiped her forehead with her forearm, and glanced at you over her shoulder:

"I don’t know, find something to do. Praying would be good—especially for God to grant you a little more restraint in your words."

You nodded slowly.

"Yes, ma’am."

You turned away, grabbing a stale piece of bread and a glass of milk for breakfast. The rest of the day was spent wandering the monastery halls, your hands trailing along the stone walls, pausing occasionally to admire a tapestry or the colossal bust of some ancient Mother Superior mounted on the rough-hewn rock. The eyes of illustrious priests seemed to follow you as you couldn’t stop thinking:

‘Strange Easter. Weird priest! He’s like one of those creatures I once read about… The Mother doesn’t even show up to say good morning. The Eldest Sister, as always, stupid toward me—when will I ever leave this place? I hate all of this. I hate all of them.’

When you looked out your window after a bath, your skin still damp and fresh with herbal soap and hot water, your hair dripping as you dried it with a cotton towel, the sun was already setting, casting red, blue, and green reflections against your skin. You smiled, and your heart swelled with a strange hope. You dressed, leaving your veil on the chair beside your bed.

You left your room almost eagerly, your steps quick, descending the stairs with a lantern in hand, your eyes alert, your ears straining for any unfamiliar voice.

"I come from lands far from here, Sister. I bring with me the promises made to my late father…"

Remmick was there, seated at the kitchen table, a flickering candle casting timid light before him as he pulled a cigarette from beneath his cassock, which draped over him like a black cape. His hair was damp, and a watery sheen on his skin suggested he’d just bathed.

When his eyes caught you approaching, his face broke into an almost sympathetic smile of sharp teeth:

"Little angel! We’ve been waiting for you!" He gestured for you to sit beside him, sliding the chair out with his foot. He remained still, watching you settle in. Once you did—between shyness and euphoria—he finally moved, pressing the cigarette tip to the candle’s flame. You noticed the Eldest Sister tense at your arrival, her gaze rigid. Still no sign of the Mother Superior.

"The Mother will arrive soon… She’s just preparing for this blessed night," Remmick said, spreading his arms, looking between you and the other nun with a mocking smile. A strange silence settled, all of you staring—mostly you and the Eldest Sister—while the air filled with the bittersweet scent of his tobacco. He cleared his throat, recapturing your attention:

"And you, dear Sister? What’s your story? I already know the Mother’s, and soon I’ll learn hers—" he glanced at the Eldest Sister, smirked, then fixed his gaze back on you, as if trying to read your soul. "What’s your story? Why are you here?"

You hesitated, looking down at the rosary coiled around your waist, seeking tactile comfort in your nervousness. It was hard to talk about yourself when no one had ever asked. You lifted your face to Remmick, finding his gaze strangely comforting.

You glanced at the Eldest Sister, leaning back in her chair, before gathering your words:

"I’m from this region. Born and raised in a good family. My parents are laborers—my father a clothing artisan, my mother a spinner of the wool and cotton he uses. I have other siblings; two don’t even live here anymore. And well… I was promised to the convent while still in my mother’s womb, so for as long as I can remember, I’ve been part of the Church, and it of me, in some way… But here, I learned to read, write, play instruments—things I might never have had if I’d stayed with them…" You paused, searching for more to say. "I guess that’s it."

You waited for his reaction. Remmick studied you with a mix of deep interest and something like pity:

"Interesting story. It reminds me of mine… Being forced into something you don’t belong to—not how things should be. But thanks to your God, I found my salvation…" His voice grew distant as he side-eyed the Eldest Sister coughing violently.

"Something wrong, Sister?"

"No—cough!—I just—cough!—think I choked."

"Drink some wine. It’ll help," he said, offering her a cup. "Sometimes, we can’t keep our opinions to ourselves."

The Eldest Sister glared, formulating a retort to Remmick’s mocking tone. From the shadows, slow footsteps echoed until the Mother Superior appeared—erect and rigid, her veil gone, revealing long gray hair, her hands clasped over a heavy wooden cross hanging from a braided cord. She stopped at the far end of the table, her dark eyes meeting Remmick’s:

"Good evening, ladies… And sir."

"Good evening, Mother. Please, join us in this communion of food," Remmick said, staring deeply at her. You felt the atmosphere shift—something cold and heavy settling around you as the woman simply nodded politely and sat. The Eldest Sister finished her wine while you blurted out:

"Mother Superior, where were you all day!?"

"I was—" She hesitated, her eyes locked on Remmick. "—occupied with our transfer papers. So tomorrow, we may have a special Easter Sunday."

"Transfer? So we really are leaving…" Your voice was a thread between sudden sadness and anxiety. Then a cold hand covered yours—Remmick, looking at you with sweetness:

"Don’t worry, my angel. After tomorrow, everything will be different for you. For all three of you." He smiled—a closed-lipped, gentle smile, his fingers stroking your skin, his presence calming you.

The Eldest Sister scoffed, stirring her cup, staring at her full plate, then at the empty ones before Remmick and the Mother. She forced a smile:

"Aren’t you going to eat my food? And aren’t we having a special Easter vigil tonight?"

"Actually… I was thinking we could sit around a fire, sing beautiful songs that move us…" Remmick looked at you, tilting his head back slightly, revealing his row of sharp teeth. You shivered. He turned fully to you, his knee brushing yours under the table, sending a thrill through you. His cigarette was nearly burnt out on his plate, his right index finger between his lips:

"You just told me you play instruments, didn’t you?" He bit the tip of his finger, his irises flashing crimson for a split second.

You blinked, wanting to believe it was just the candlelight. Swallowing hard, you searched the others’ faces for support but found only blank stares. You looked back at Remmick, who grinned charmingly, making you whisper:

"Mhm... Violin and piano, mostly."

"Do we have either here?" he asked the Mother. "Ah, yes… I think I saw a piano somewhere. Would you play for me, dear?"

The mere thought of playing for him made your skin prickle. You stared, stunned, as his hand grazed yours over the table, his eyes piercing, empty of human warmth, as if he were peering into your soul, trying to claim your heart with the ice in his gaze.

"But Father, on Holy Saturday, we don’t usually—" the Eldest Sister began, breaking the moment. Remmick’s face darkened, a storm brewing in his thick brows, his voice cutting like a blade:

"But I do things my way, Sister."

He flashed her a tight smile, winked, then turned to the Mother. You noticed her pupils dilate slightly, her tongue flicking behind closed lips before she spoke, eerily calm:

"Sister, let Father Remmick guide our next actions. He is our shepherd, and we shall not want if we follow him."

"Then let us make music!" Remmick exclaimed, clapping his hands. He stood abruptly, adjusting his white collar, and offered you his hand:

"Would you do me the honor?"

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

You stared at the piano keys, searching for divine inspiration. The music room—another stone chamber—was draped in wool and cotton tapestries for warmth. A fireplace, which Remmick had lit effortlessly (just a match and a breath, and the wood roared to life). The piano, black and vinyl, stood as the centerpiece of the monastery’s music lessons, its bench upholstered in red velvet, positioned before the crackling fire. Remmick sat behind you, legs crossed, his gaze boring into your back while the other sisters sat side by side, waiting for you to begin.

Lost in sheet music you knew by heart, your fingers slid over the keys—sharp, unprepared, a screech that made the Eldest Sister wince and Remmick stifle a malicious chuckle. Too nervous to face your small audience, you didn’t dare look at them.

You could’ve just convinced them you couldn’t bear this humiliation—until someone sat beside you, a cold aura making the candle flames tremble. A warmth surged through you despite his sharp scent. Head bowed, all you saw were his hands—male, thick-fingered, short-nailed, pale, veins a sickly blue.

They looked like a corpse’s hands.

"My angel, perhaps we can try this one—" he whispered in your ear, his breath vinegary with wine. Then he began to play, his fingers flying, the chords funereal and macabre, evoking death, funerals, midnight ladies and chrysanthemums, full moons and blood, burnt candles, ochre and rotting flesh. Your heart clenched—he was playing Marcia Funebre, your favorite piece, with the same possessed fervor you felt when playing.

Your left hand joined his right, slowly at first, then in sync, the music swelling—high notes like imminent death, low ones like the Reaper stalking his prey, then back to the sharp, fighting against fate, angels guiding you to fields of flowers you’d never seen, a moonlit lake, welcoming smiles… But Death lurked, always, blood-red eyes devouring you in crimson and dark blue, shadows swallowing your captive soul. Sadness, melancholy, lonely cloudy days, despair—Oh God, why have You forsaken me?—then serenity again. Tears welled in your eyes, violent as the notes you played, your heart racing with each high tremble.

Serenity returned. Lingering. The last breaths of a life surrendering to Death’s veil—but was Death not the eternal sleep? The final darkness before rest? The return to nothingness? The music faded. The funeral march brought solace, the acceptance that if this was everyone’s end, why not embrace it? Like hugging a saint in the flesh, weeping your sorrows, begging for freedom from human pain.

Remmick had stopped playing, hypnotized by you—how you commanded the instrument with such passion. Soul. Something he lacked. His eyes widened, lips parted, a suffocating feeling in that cassock that wasn’t his—though it was all a lie. Dressed in deceit for the cruel pleasure of ancestral vengeance, he felt his unbeating heart—no longer human—stirred by your playing.

And for all his falseness, so were the notes he’d just played. Death no longer haunted him as it did mortals. You were the melancholic lows, fleeing death; he was the ominous depths, the danger in the shadows. Tragedy. Blood. Corruption. Yet in the end, he was the joy, the grand guest of the funeral march you now played for him. And Remmick consumed you, the piano’s vibrations piercing his undead flesh, ecstatic at this art that could reach him despite his damnation.

His scarlet beast-eyes traced your profile, lost in the death of your music. Your beauty, the tears making you saintly, the blood pulsing in your neck inviting a bite, your wine-and-warm-skin scent enchanting him. Thick drool slid from his jaw.

His thoughts narrowed to desire, lust, boiling blood, crimson, flesh—The music crescendoed.

He leaned closer, lips parting. You, entranced by your own playing, eyes closed, swaying, didn’t notice the monster beside you, drawn to your warmth. The final notes—tam-tan-tan, tan-tan-tan-tan-tan.

Dazed, you didn’t see the beast lurking, pressed against you, coveting your warm flesh.

Remmick jerked upright, wiping his mouth, glancing at the Eldest Sister’s sharp glare. You, still numb from the music, didn’t notice him beside you, clinging to your heat.

His fingers brushed your cheek, ghostly soft:

"You played beautifully, my angel. We made beautiful music together today…" You smiled between relief and tears, a sob escaping.

"Don’t cry," he murmured, drying your tear. His touch was so… unfamiliar. Present in flesh, yet strange, like icy porcelain against warm wool.

Your eyes traced his face—fine wrinkles, stubble along his jaw, a crooked smile of jagged teeth.

He was so close yet so far, aching in your heart, in some part of your soul that shouldn’t yearn for this.

His persistent touch, holding your face like a precious thing despite its chill against your burning skin, sent vibrations through you. And staring so close, tasting his bloodlust, you imagined him naked for a fleeting second—your mind merging the crucified Christ from your chapel’s altar with a naked Dionysus from a forbidden book. Divine human beauty, dangerously exposed, sacred sweat, honeyed saliva…

His nature was far more bestial.

He wanted to tell you—the good and the evil in him, to touch you freely, to liberate you from everything he’d seen in the Mother Superior’s memories. Smiling his broken smile, he whispered so only you could hear:

"You played beautifully today, my angel. You stirred a heart that hasn’t beaten in ages…"

"Stop, I wasn’t that good—" you feigned modesty, afraid the sisters would catch your act, staring shyly at the keys. His closeness was surreal—something even Father Gael had never given you. Remmick laughed at a thought only he knew.

The Eldest Sister interrupted, her grating voice shattering the moment:

"I think that’s enough for tonight. It’s late, and tomorrow is Easter Sunday. We should all rest."

Remmick grimaced, exhaling stale air from lungs that didn’t breathe humanly, turning to the sisters—the Mother, plastic as if brainwashed; the Eldest, judgmental, earning his pity. From the Mother’s memories, he knew her—bitter, resentful, everything that made his venom boil with disgust.

He glanced at you, poking at phantom notes.

"She’s right," he said, standing, lifting the golden candlestick. "But first, I’ll escort our young musician to her quarters." He offered his hand again. "Come, angel."

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Your steps were slow, right then left, your shadows stretching on stone walls from the candlelight. His voice dripped like melted honey:

"Do you like living here, Sister?"

"Hmm," you fumbled for the right words, fear creeping into your lips and wide eyes, captured by Remmick’s gaze—under the light, his irises held a strange crimson glint. He added:

"You can be honest. I’m a fervent listener, and I only want the best for you."

You looked straight at him—golden and fiery in the candlelight, his sharp features carved by God’s hands, yet now more sinuous, his eye sockets darkened so only that eerie glow remained. His hair gleamed, his clerical collar pale against his throat, his lips full, parted in a smile of jagged pearls. No statue of Apollo could rival him. Your heart pounded, and something deeper ached.

Your mouth opened, confessing what you’d never say aloud:

"No. To be honest… It’s lonely here. Too cold, almost inhospitable. I miss human contact, warmth, town festivals… Things I had to leave behind."

"I understand, angel. I know that pain better than anyone—" He touched his chest. "—and I can save you. Free you from all this."

"H-how?" Your voice faltered as you stopped outside your door.

The air grew thick, buzzing in your ears, your blood hissing. Strange. Remmick turned fully to you, candlelight illuminating your fearful curiosity.

“Exactly what you heard, my dear. I can save you—show you how wondrous the world can be. Let you taste the bittersweet tang of grapes, the burning sweetness of honey, even the rancid bite of spoiled butter... and savor it all with delight. Pleasure. Without restraint..." His hand rose to your face, his voice shifting into something ethereal, as if speaking to an empty room with unsettling intimacy: "I am what you desire, my angel. I am the one who heard your call and came to you—"

"I never asked anyone to come," you snapped, pulling away. The man’s expression twisted into mock sorrow, eyebrows lifting. "I... I don’t need any salvation, Father Remmick."

"Not even from your God?" His tongue clicked, a near-demonic smirk playing at the edges of his lips, fangs glinting. You didn’t see them—you were too hypnotized by the priest’s burning gaze, fear and a strange, gnawing desire eating at the core of your being.

"Least of all Him. When I know my prayers will never be heard."

"Perhaps I’m the one who will listen." His whisper was a serpent’s promise.

Silence.

Only your ragged breath, your pounding heart, your thoughts spiraling as you tried to see the real Remmick in the dim light. Your head felt heavy yet empty, the air thin, the taste of your own blood sharp in your nose and throat. Remmick savored it too—sweet, blessed, holy crimson running through your veins, his beast-eyes full of lust and corruption.

You stepped back, reaching your door.

Fleeing temptation and fear seemed wisest.

Remmick followed, lifting the candlestick to expose his face—now devoid of bestial traces, fading with the light.

Your hand gripped the icy doorknob—warmer than his—twisting it sharply, ready to escape, when a cold hand seized your shoulder. Large. Heavy. A touch that sent tremors through you, making you turn, meeting his pleading gaze—so genuine, so light, it made you pause.

Something unspoken hung between you—something no nun should voice, much less feel. A tension years in the making, caged by morality and hypocrisy, desire vivid in your eyes, your untouched body’s secrets laid bare before him. In your eyes, he was your superior, the one you should revere, kiss his blessed hands, wash his feet with oils and dry them with your hair—not want like a vulgar woman wants a man. Not like Eve craving Eden’s apple or Lilith mounting Adam.

Remmick sensed it radiating from you—your flesh crying for something, and he, attuned to such things, felt it. He hadn’t come here for you, didn’t know you existed—but the moment he saw you, he knew. It was intense. Voracious. Vile. Carnal. Crimson lust, purple desire, white sin.

He wasn’t lying about saving you. At least, not in his reality—already envisioning the celestial union between a damned soul and a pure one. Ironic. Delicious to him, who’d been judged by such people.

Remmick licked his lips, his voice like angels singing:

"I didn’t mean to frighten you. I only wish you the sweetest dreams."

"Likewise… Father Remmick," you replied softly.

Waiting.

His hand the tether between you.

At your answer, he leaned in, his lips brushing yours. A kiss. Chaste, closed-mouthed, the oaky taste of wine on his breath flooding yours. Your eyes widened in surprise before fluttering shut, years of sleepless fantasies fulfilled in the simplest way. Your hands flew to his face, trying to hold him there.

But he pulled back, leaving you chasing his lips, craving more.

He didn’t offer the apple for biting—just a taste, a scrape of teeth against the skin, soft yet unyielding without that first bite. And that bite, he’d only give at the right time—when God was watching, to catch you in sin. Your sin.

Laughing darkly, Remmick stepped away, leaving only the ghost of his lips on yours, tingling with need. Like a shadow, he retreated into darkness, murmuring:

"Goodnight, angel. Tomorrow will be a special day."

He didn’t give you time to reply, to protest the rupture, his heavy footsteps fading, the candlelight following until he turned the corner. You shut your door behind you, half-desperate, every hormone alight, shivers wracking you like Remmick’s fingers on the piano. How you longed to be played.

You muffled a scream of euphoria and fear—fear that He had seen your sin. The rot already spoiling your apple.

But you didn’t care, tiptoeing to bed, sinking into the covers, still in your nun’s garb, replaying the feel of Remmick’s lips on yours.

Again. And again. And again.

Until sleep took you, his words blending with dreams of longer kisses and bolder hands.

"I can save you. Show you the world’s wonders, let you taste the sour grape, the burning honey, the rancid butter—all with delight. Pleasure. No restraints… I am what you want, my angel. I heard your call and came to you—perhaps I’m the one who will answer your prayers."

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

It all began with an icy hand slipping beneath your skirt, creeping like the serpent of Paradise along your skin, making your drowsy eyes blink beneath the weight of sleep that cradled you. You were dreaming, of course. Even if this one felt too vivid—even for you, who lived with your head in the clouds and your feet planted on the ground, caught between losing yourself in your fertile imagination and the austerity demanded in that claustrophobic space.

That touch continued to make its way beneath the fabric of your habit, a weight between your legs sinking into the mattress, those ghostly hands parting your thighs with delicate precision, tracing invisible paths along your burning skin until finally, finally, they were where it hurt the most. At your core, stroking your throbbing clit, drenched in your own wet excitement, making your hips roll in an indecent dance and your chest rise and fall slowly, gasping for air. Those same phantom hands slowly traveled between your folds, spreading them, exposing you completely to something… new.

The sensation was like someone’s lips kissing you.

Remmick’s lips sealing against your wet pussy, pressing tiny vibrations against your little bud while his tongue slid along your entrance—just enough to send a pang of pain through your untouched hole. Then he returned to kissing that sweet spot, flicking his tongue up and down, sending tremors that forced your hips to obey the firm grip on your thighs, grinding against the tongue and lips that devoured your flesh. Your body writhed, hands grasping at the air, eyes tightly shut as thin tears streaked down your cheeks, a weight pressing on your chest because you were sinning in your dreams. "God, oh my God, forgive me, but it feels so good… so good—yes, like that, yes… Oh, God!" You cried out in your dream—or were you moaning your obscene prayer aloud? You had never had a dream so realistic before.

That tongue tormented you, those lips kissed you with fervor, fingers tracing paths along your legs, and a chuckle seemed to pierce the barrier between the dream world and reality, making you think of the priest. That loud, slightly high-pitched laugh, amused, ending in deep tones. Overcome with sinful desire, you couldn’t hold back the strangled little moan that escaped as you came—hard, as if reaching heaven itself. He sucked you greedily, draining every last drop, his tongue vibrating against your clit, your pussy pulsing, hips clenching, thighs trembling—the ecstasy of the glorified seizing you, leaving you pale and trembling, eyes snapping open as you tried to process everything—only to see, with horror, something moving in the shadows before you. Flames flickered, the Devil’s eyes blinking lazily in the darkness, your bunched-up skirt exposing you to him.

You wanted to scream and cry, but a hand emerged from the shadows, piercing the pale curtain of moonlight—just enough to illuminate your waist—and reached your lips, a hoarse voice soothing you:

"Don’t scream, angel. That was just a taste of Paradise. Now sleep, sleep well."

You widened your eyes against the hand on your mouth, a strange taste seeping through your lips, a thick tear sliding down your right cheek—captured by the thumb of that hand.

Remmick.

The name formed on your lips.

And before you could even speak it, he vanished.

Your eyes grew heavy as if weighed down by deep sleep, your eyelids unable to resist, and once again, you were embraced by the blackness of night. Your body still trembling from pleasure, your legs spread open to nothing but the icy wind slipping through the cracks of the window and door.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

With a start, as if jolted by sudden fear, you woke with wide eyes, your heart in your throat and sweat soaking your body. You felt disgusting. That guilt, always at your side, consumed you for having such an… indecent dream. You could still feel those phantom lips, that serpentine tongue, those firm fingers against your body if you closed your eyes and focused.

But the last thing you wanted was to cling to fragments of your overactive mind.

The illusion of desire blinding you coldly. You slid to the edge of the bed, your feet still in those tight, uncomfortable shoes touching the floor. A wet sensation—no, soaked—lingered between your legs, beneath layers of rough fabric. Summoning what little courage you had, you lifted your dress, parting your thighs with morbid curiosity, only to find a mess between them—something you had never seen before. Sticky and crystalline, a truly pitiful disaster.

"Shame on me," you murmured, lifting your eyes to the window, where the dim light told you it was still the middle of the night. You took a deep breath, the cold air filling your lungs, drying the sweat on your forehead with trembling hands. You jumped out of bed, smoothed your dress, lit a lone candle, and grabbed it with shaky fingers before picking up your nightgown and a towel from the chair. You opened the door carefully—a hollow noise echoing through a desolate hallway, swallowed by the night’s abyss. The sound of wind whistling through the windows and distant wolf howls reached your ears.

You headed toward the bathroom, turning right into a corridor lined with portraits of past Sisters, thick tapestries, and plaster statues of Saints—whose dull painted eyes seemed to judge you even in the dark. You passed the Elder Sister’s closed door, terrified she might hear even the slightest noise. Thank Heaven, you made it through unscathed, slipping into the bathroom.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

The water enveloping you was freezing.

Yet real enough to make you forget, for a moment, that dream from earlier. But as you scrubbed the cotton cloth against your skin, you imagined it was his hands instead of fabric, his fingers the trickles of water running down your body, his tongue the waves lapping between your thighs—vibrations that left you entranced. You dropped the soapy cloth, letting it float around you. The bathroom was a rectangular room with a row of white ceramic tubs. The window was slightly ajar, letting the biting wind touch your wet skin, sending a shiver through you.

Your thoughts strangled you, loud as a symphony of off-key hymns, disturbing and grating. Desperate to silence them—the ugliness of your desires—you gripped the edges of the tub, took a deep breath, and submerged yourself in the water, letting it embrace you with a heavy hug. You opened your eyes beneath the translucent veil, feeling all your rage flow from your nerves, your anguish escape your flesh, your hatred boil your blood.

And then you screamed, swallowed by your own fury.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

As you walked back to your room, holding your dirty clothes in one hand and the half-melted candle in the other—its flame nearly spent—wearing your nightgown and untied shoes, you heard a constant whisper coming from the Elder Sister’s room. Frenzied words that caught your attention, pulling you toward them in a sudden impulse. You pressed your ear against the wood, catching fragments:

"...my Lord, if I trust in You, then... deliver me from all evil... keep the Beast away... who pursues me..."

Frowning, judging her in your soul, you turned away, the candle’s flame flickering as you walked down the hall.

You didn’t notice—your mind too lost in your own turmoil—but as you passed through the darkness, just before turning the corner toward your hallway, two incandescent red dots blinked. Suddenly, like smoke materializing softly, Remmick emerged from the shadows—but he did nothing to you. He merely watched you walk away, oblivious to the dangers lurking, smiling with the pleasure of one who enjoys causing harm.

He glanced to the side, where the Mother Superior opened the Elder Sister’s door, extending a hand to invite him inside.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

Easter Sunday.

That used to be your first thought upon waking on the third Sunday of April. But this time was different. In color, form, and meaning.

Father Remmick.

You woke with his name pulsing in your mind, frenzied, in scarlet lines like delicious wine spilling from his lips. Lips—just like Father Remmick’s in that wretched dream.

Then came the guilt, bitter as bile, sharp as if a crown of thorns were tightening around your throat. You tried to forget everything that had happened in the last two days, seeking solace in that date so special to you, clutching the sheets between anxious hands, trying to erase the dream. That vile dream, now haunting the gaps of your fresh memory like monstrous claws dragging you closer to sin. ‘Oh heavens, how long must I endure these torments!?’ you thought, closing your eyes even tighter.

You expected the door to be slammed open by the Mother’s rough hands, but all you heard was absolute silence. Nothing. Nothing, just like your faith.

Fragile, empty faith. ‘You are so fragile,’ you could hear the Mother’s voice in the shadows of your mind, from one of those cloudy days when, during the recitation of the Song of Songs, you had let slip a malicious comment about one of the passages. ‘Your weakness stains your flesh, girl. May God have mercy on you.’

And all you knew was hatred in your heart, questioning—if He truly existed, why had He left you alone? Why had He blinded His eyes and silenced His divine mouth?

Your hands still clutched the sheets, eyes brimming with memories spilling over in waterfalls, sobs wracking your body on that mattress. All the magic of that Easter now felt like horror. Your mind then slid to the enigmatic features of Remmick hidden in shadows, a sensation of fear possessing you even as it drew you in. You saw yourself as if in a mirage—your feet guiding you to him, standing at the end of a dark hallway, extending a clawed hand, viscous blood dripping from his fingers, eyes burning like flames, inviting you to dance. The gates of Hell were his cannibal mouth full of twisted thorns, gaping wide.

"God, God, God... My... Remmick."

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

"The Mother is gone, the Elder Sister too... Remmick must be resting. What the hell am I going to do?" you muttered aloud to yourself—your reflection in a foggy mirror, trying to see beyond what was visible. You wanted to dive deep inside yourself, reach that soul everyone said was corrupted, seize it with your desire-filled hands and scream with all the blood and air in your lungs. But you remained still. Thoughtful.

You shrugged after a while, too bored to stare into the abyss.

You walked to the music room, sitting on a couch in the corner, eyes fixed on the piano that seemed to play the song from the night before. Slowly, your body slid to the side, a strange sleep taking hold of you—heavy, slow. Pleasant. As you closed your eyes, you slept the sleep of a thousand nights, almost as if in eternal rest.

"My angel, wake up."

A nearly angelic voice echoed in the distance, a hand touching your face, the rustle of fabric near you, the scent of herbal soap and lilies—Father Remmick. As you opened your eyes and took in the figure of the man in his cassock, clerical and dark-haired, smiling at you with hands clasped in front of his belly, a black-beaded rosary with a golden chain—the crucifix swinging near his legs looking much like Father Gael’s—your heart raced, and the indecent dream with him seized your memory once more.

Looking at him was torture because Remmick was now the embodiment of your desire. The priest was wide smiles and incandescent gazes directed at you:

"Come, supper awaits us!"

He extended a clean, friendly hand to you.

You took it like a lamb willingly led by its shepherd.

You walked in silence—pleasant, admittedly—to the dining room, where one table was overflowing with every kind of Easter feast. Your eyes lit up, and your stomach growled beneath your heavy habit, drawing the priest’s attention:

"Seems we have a hungry one here!"

"Forgive my lack of manners, Father! I’ve had no appetite since morning."

"Then let me be your appetite!" he said with a chuckle, gesturing to the abundance on the table: "Our dear Sisters prepared this lovely banquet especially for you, angel."

"And where are they?" You sat in the chair he pulled out for you, beside the head seat where Remmick sat, legs crossed beneath his cassock, hands folded, his oceanic blue eyes devouring you.

"They’re around... I asked them to leave us alone."

"Hmm—" you mumbled between a grape bursting between your teeth and a goblet of fresh wine: "—and what did you want to talk about that required all this? On Easter Sunday?" you asked, genuinely curious, trying with all your might to pretend that just looking at him didn’t send shivers of lust through your body.

Those lips that curled into warm smiles, that wet tongue sliding inside his mouth—an invitation to penetrate it with your own. The dream merged with the stolen kiss from last night, making the act of pretending even more exhausting. Remmick swung his suspended foot, the movement beneath his cassock catching your attention.

Your mistake—because your eyes immediately landed on a place you had never dared to look, except in drawings and paintings from books. A quick glance had outlined the thick, oval shape men kept hidden beneath fabric. You imagined what it would be like—large, wide, veined, the skin of the glans like the anatomy books you once traced with your fingers before the Elder Sister caught you with it between your thighs, hidden in a corner of the library—and your mouth watered. You breathed quickly, holding back profanities, raising your eyes to the man who had undoubtedly caught your lustful gaze.

Remmick whispered, hushed:

"Isn’t it obvious what my intentions are with you, my dear?"

"What intentions?" you retorted, widening your eyes at him.

Remmick tilted his head, delighted:

"Don’t you remember anything from last night?"

Your mind blanked, twisting painfully at the now-vivid memory of the stolen kiss and... well, the wicked dream. But you swallowed the bittersweet wine along with those images, your breathing growing heavy, something nauseating crawling through your body. Remmick laughed, shaking his shoulders, extending a hand to take the goblet you nervously lifted to your lips.

"Oh, my angel, don’t lie to me or play such perverse little games..." His voice was soft, his hand lowering the cup, moving it away from your mouth. He leaned closer like a serpent ready to strike, the apple in his hands as his eyes gleamed, offering you the Edenic sin: "...I know you enjoyed being kissed more than you’d ever admit..." He dragged his chair beside you, inhaling your scent, circling his head as he studied your static profile, eyes locked on the curve of your neck where a thin line of sweat trailed into your habit.

"Remmick!" you hissed between pain and surprise, feeling the tip of the knife you’d just picked up to cut bread prick your finger. Blood welled, and from the blood came saliva—the man simply took your wounded finger, pressing it to his teeth, sucking the blood as you gasped. Your eyes half-lidded in surrender, glimpsing the reddish glint in his irises. ‘God, what is wrong with me!?’ you lamented internally, exhaling that charged air vibrating from your lungs down to between your thighs as he sucked tenderly, the cerulean of a stormy sky enveloping you, his hand caressing yours while the other held your wrist, dominating you with gentleness.

You closed your eyes and thought of God.

Yes, you fought against that grotesque, twisted desire, against the feel of his soft flesh around your finger, wetting your skin, sucking your blood—and you thought of God. Summoning the last shred of courage, terrified of sinning completely, you yanked your arm back, recoiling as Remmick wiped the thick drool from his chin. Your voice was a thread between despair and fervor:

"Please, Father Remmick. Please."

He just stared at you. Smiling.

Smiling.

"Please, Father, please, stop."

The words tangled, tears choked you, you stood abruptly and ran. In the distance, you could hear him humming, wanting to reach you.

Wanting to claim you.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

That was the place you knew with the palm of your hands, the soles of your feet, and the strands of your hair. It was practically a part of your entire body, a sacred, incorruptible place.

The air was sharp against your face, painted by the edges of your tears. The plaster statues with hollow stares gazed at you—Our Ladies of Sorrow, Jesus Christ on His Altar, candles burning, and a stagnant air of sin and grace circulating through the chapel where you ministered your prayers. In better times, it was a space of celebration and jubilation for God—but today, precisely on the day His Holiness would resurrect, all you could feel was the funeral march of the emptiness consuming you, desire lurking and lacerating you, the voice of the man behind you.

Kneeling, staring at the twisted face of pain of that scourged, bloody, condemned Christ, you prayed. You prayed like one who once had no faith and then came to believe in salvation, prayed from the depths of your being, hands clasped, eyes burning, murmurs slipping through the cracks of your dry lips.

“Save me. Please, save me. Do not let me fall into temptation or falter, I do not wish for this. Have mercy on me, please! All I ask is this… Mercy, mercy!”

Heavy footsteps behind you, approaching. A hand touching your shoulder, once more.

The frigid air of a living corpse on your face. When you slowly turned, still on your knees, facing him, it was like burning in the passion of sacrilege. Remmick smiled, sitting beside you. You slowly moved toward him, sitting in silence beside him, feeling that cold hand against your face, enveloping you. Without words in that moment, he merely pierced you with fiery eyes, carefully kissing away a tear he sipped from your lips before kissing you with your own weeping. Returning it to you. Subtle, natural.

You gasped, held his face, willingly accepting that sinful offering before your God. It was just the meeting of lips, timid, brushing against each other in fear—your fear.

When your lips parted, a thin thread of saliva connecting them, Remmick whispered:

“There is nothing to fear, my sweet idyllic lamb. I am here.”

You raised your eyes to meet his celestial blue, only to find a beastly red. Immediately, your heart raced inside your chest, something ignited within you—that survival instinct mixed with pure horror. A scream was muffled by a pressing index finger against your lips as Remmick hissed, serpent in human tongue:

“Shhh, no, no! No need to be frightened, my love! This is me. And I only wish to embrace you as I am. There is nothing to fear.”

“No—what the hell are you!?” You stood, tried to pull away, but were swiftly trapped between his arms and the cramped space of the pew, cornered between the church’s wood and Remmick’s flesh, arching backward with the priest close to your face, eye-to-eye with the monster. He laughed at you: the crown of thorns in his smile.

“I am something beyond God. Perhaps I am His creature, or some misfortune of the Devil—whatever madness you’ve been force-fed about us…”

“Us who?”

“Those who came before me, those who live through my memories, my blood defiled by this curse, my angel… Something only I can offer you. And darling… You won’t regret tasting the sweetness of death on your lips.”

You shook your head, fighting something inside you—a primal fear of the fall. Lucifer turning against his Creator and plummeting for his betrayal and mistake. You gripped the wood behind you, nearly splitting in two as Remmick’s hands seized your shoulders.

“Oh, darling, you don’t know the atrocities I discovered once I bit into those indigestible women! So much lament, so much resentment, a dried-up well of pleasures, hatred for everything and everyone… A rage toward you, my sweet lamb, that made me wonder just how much you must despise all of this. How much you hate it here. And I was right, for a single drop of your blood revealed everything to me.” He closed his eyes with relish, laughing. “And how deliciously addictive you taste. It makes my mouth thirst for your blood. Immaculate.”

He pressed your face between his hands, his eyes like living infernos burning you, yet his voice was like divine honey melting on your lips. You wanted him with longing, with ardor and lust—just as you repelled him with defiance, terror, restraint. But all it would take was one word from Remmick, and you would be saved. And he knew it.

With care, the monster tempted you, ghostly lips brushing yours:

“I am truer than this God who does not hear you, for I am made of the flesh that touches you, and I can reveal to you the true Paradise hidden within yourself. Let me consume you like the blood of salvation, which will make you feel the ecstasy of glory that this God—whom you were taught to obey—could never allow you to experience.”

You stared at him intensely, your tears still wetting your face.

No longer with fear.

But with awe: this profane god burning before you, in the guise of a priest, revealing himself to be none other than the Devil—or whatever he was—uttering the sweet words that would lead you to your downfall.

Remmick continued, swaying his head side to side as if dancing:

“I feel you, my angel. Through your sacred blood, I saw your lies, your hunger, your morbid desire. You simply pretend to be someone you’re not, and it’s such a waste… Of all this beauty, life, and soul, so unique and…” He paused, dragged a thumb over your cheek where a solitary tear fell, his gaze transforming before you, shifting back to opaque blue, tender as if he had just been possessed by someone else: “...admired by the most beautiful roses in a garden. And your mouth like fine wine for my beloved, that flows smoothly, moving the lips of those who sleep. I am my beloved’s, and his desire is for me. Come, my beloved, let us go to the countryside, let us spend the night in the villages.¹”

They were Father Gael’s words, which had touched you deeply when he read the Song of Songs, between giggles and stolen glances. But you had never sealed your lips together, never exchanged wine between your tongues, and he had certainly never touched your breasts like clusters of grapes. Yet here was Remmick at your disposal, now tracing your waist as no one ever had, so close, breath like blood-wine, eyes scorching crimson, wanting to kiss and devour you, to taste the fields of Elysium on your lips and enter Eden between your legs.

‘Weak, how weak you are—’ you began to think as Remmick gripped your waist, waves of heat coursing through your body, your mind one step from surrender—‘but this feels so… human.’ Your inner voice slowly gave way, allowing you to fall.

Remmick cupped your face as if holding the Body of Christ between his fingers after celebrating the Word during Communion:

“Take this, all of you, and eat of it, for this is my body—” Then his lips crashed against yours, his tongue piercing you, flesh made alive inside you as you pulled him closer, opening your mouth so he could take your tongue, letting yourself be led by the man who uttered such sacrileges like the most beautiful poems of green fields from some bucolic dream of yours. The kiss was wet and profane, your breath ragged through your nostrils, guided by him, pressed even tighter between the pew and his body.

He then lifted you by your arms, wrapped around him, walking to the center of the pews, down the aisle that led the Brides of Christ to the Altar. There, he set you down, smiling victoriously, capturing your lips once more in a wet kiss, your tongues meeting softly as if that kiss were your destiny. Your heart pounded in your throat, your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer with a plea:

“Remmick!”

He pulled away, saliva mingling between you, his eyes once again blood-red:

“Today, as it is Easter Sunday, it is fitting for us to celebrate the glory of your Lord over death! So let us pray together.” His hand slid down your dominant arm, taking your sweaty, icy hand in his, placing it against the bulge between his legs. There, beneath the black cassock, beneath layers of fabric, you felt him hard. A rigidness that filled your palm and made you want to weep with desire, feeling your cunt grow wet and throb for him. Remmick licked his lips:

“Kneel before me, for we shall pray together, my little angel!” he uttered sordidly, his other hand pushing your head down to kneel there, at a distance from the Altar and the Christ who watched with rigid, dead eyes. You obeyed, your weak knees hitting the floor, looking up at him as if about to receive your holy host.

He caressed your face, fingers pressing your lower lip, his other hand slipping beneath the cassock, unbuckling a belt that jingled, unzipping and parting the robe to expose the cock that sprang free for you—wet and rigid, veins tracing from base to reddened tip, an invitation to kiss it with relish. Remmick guided you to his length, whispering:

“Open your mouth, Sister, to receive your sacred host.” He groaned roughly when your mouth embraced him, your tongue pressing against cold flesh, a deep taste of skin and lust, making you rise and fall with hoarse moans of pleasure, thrusting into your mouth, fucking you with his cock, gripping your hair with one hand, making you gag slightly, tears welling each time he hit deep, delighting in your wet, lewd noises as he vengefully eyed the image of that Redeemer.

You moaned longingly when he pulled away, raising your eyes like a merciful one in prayer. Remmick stroked your face, marred by drool and escaped tears, his cock hard, slick, dripping precum between him and your face.

“We’ve only just begun our celebration, darling. Stand up.”

He motioned with a commanding finger, making you rise on unsteady legs, gazing at him with adoration. Remmick looked you up and down, pausing at the rosary wrapped around your waist, taking it between his fingers. But as he brushed against the silver chain linking each crystalline bead, he hissed in pain. You glimpsed a wisp of smoke rising from his fingertips.

“Silver, hmm? This will be interesting—” He yanked the rosary from your waist, coiling it around his dominant hand: “—Take off your clothes and lay them on the floor. I don’t want you to feel the cold of these tiles.” He shrugged, watching you nod, drunk on his taste in your mouth and the desire surging in your body: “Only the ice of my cock splitting you open.”

You didn’t mind the crude language.

You smiled, in fact, feeling free as you undressed before him, baring your virginal nakedness like a sacrifice offered for slaughter. The frigid air made you shiver, but Remmick’s body enveloped you—the embrace of death—kissing your neck with the passion of a Christ who surrendered to the cross, pulling you down until you lay on your back atop your once-immaculate habit. You, naked before him. Remmick, still in his priestly cassock. From that angle, he radiated a bluish aura, smiling with diabolical pleasure, thick drool trailing from the corner of his lips to his chin, hair disheveled, the white clerical collar beneath his Adam’s apple ready to claim his Eve, his cock wet and exposed, your rosary coiled in his hand, the slightest contact with the silver causing faint burns and pain.

Remmick growled authoritatively:

“Pray for me.”

“Huh?” you asked, dazed, lost between his flaming eyes, blue soul, and the wetness between your legs. Remmick repeated, softer this time:

“Pray for me, angel. Don’t you say that condemned souls like mine need salvation? Then… Pray once more. Extend your hands.”

Obedient, you did as he asked, for he was your Shepherd, and all you needed was to follow.

You clasped your palms, extending them upward—toward him. He took them, winding the rosary around your wrists, binding you to him and to God. His fingers trailed bead by bead, silver upon silver, until the rosary’s end—the silver cross—which he gripped like claws forming at his nails. Remmick smiled his most wicked, sardonic smile. You kept your knees pressed together, hiding the valley of Lilith between them. The monster teased:

“Open those legs for me, darling.”

“What will you do…?” Your voice came out thin, a flicker of courage. Remmick clicked his tongue, his free hand squeezing your knee as he knelt between your legs, the cassock now covering his cock.

“Just open them and accept Jesus Christ inside you.”

You gasped and relented, spreading yourself, baring flesh and desire to him.

Remmick wet his lips, never breaking eye contact, guiding the silver between your legs. The cold metal against your burning clit made you shudder and writhe, steadied only by the vampire’s grip. The tip of the crucifix pricked you painfully, pleasurably, your body restless, craving more as he devoured every reaction—your parted lips, rough moans, languid gaze—while his finger, though burning from direct contact with the silver, pressed the cross against your clit. He laughed at the pathetic comparison—that he was exorcising your body, wielding the cross against your slit, the pearl that had only ever been touched by your own hands, commanding you with the rosary coiled around your wrists, growing ever thirstier for what you could offer—not just your dragged-out moans of virginal pleasure, not just your climax or your virginity—but the corruption of a soul, the rotting of Christian faith, the rupture that made Cain turn on Abel and Bathsheba betray her husband for King David. It was funny how those biblical tales echoed in his mind, still fresh from Father Gael, whom he had made sure to sink his teeth into. Gael's prayers threaded through in Remmick memories as he fucked you.

He gathered saliva in his mouth, bent down, and spat against your slit, slicking where he rubbed, watching you with servitude, his other hand keeping your leg spread as you felt something unfamiliar grow inside you—that precipice you had stared at earlier now staring back, your heart pounding alive, sweat beading on your forehead and spine, your fingers twitching restlessly, your eyes squeezed shut, gasping for air, arching until the crown of your head pressed against the floor, turning your now-open eyes toward the altar, seeing an upside-down Crucified Christ on the day of His Resurrection.

“Remmick! Remmick! Remmick!”

“You sound like Mary Magdalene, my Holy Angel—” Remmick laughed, fingers working your cunt, smearing his claws in your heavenly nectar, anointed with his own toxic saliva. Your eyes met his, restless: “—the Lord’s whore who wept at His feet. Crying for her dead Messiah… Ironic, no?”

A strangled whimper escaped your lips as the pulsations of orgasm overtook your body. Remmick brought his slick fingers to his mouth, sucking them lasciviously before leaning over you, covering your body with his, hovering above your head, whispering against your parted lips as you gasped for thin air:

“Feel the holy water on your lips.” He cupped your chin, tilting your head back, opening your mouth to spit into it.

His taste mixed with yours. Wine and blood. Cruelty and lies.

And it was so delicious because it was the sin your flesh craved. Smiling against his lips, you kissed him, met by his tongue caressing you slowly, almost patiently, contrasting with the entire scene. Remmick pressed his hard cock against you, breaking the wet kiss, looking down:

“Now it’s my turn to desecrate this beautiful Temple of God, hmm?” Almost purring, already pushing aside his cassock to grip his cock when your voice cut through, clear:

“Get naked.”

“Sister?” he asked, almost genuine curiosity in his tone, raising a brow. You mustered a mischievous smile:

“Please, Remmick. I want you naked, just like me.”

“Equal for equal…” He nodded. “Fair.”

First, he removed the clerical collar from his neck, discarding it like nothing—the stiff fabric that had choked him. He unbuttoned the cassock hastily, shedding the black robe to reveal that beneath, he wore only pants and shoes, exposing his bare torso—defined, pale as a petal of a Night-Blooming Jasmine, veined in blue and green. A putrid, marbled body, a sculpture of a pagan god before you. His cock stood rigid, even more beautiful adorned with dark hair, like his locks. He rose against that blue aura, now blazing red, his eyes aflame for you, his diabolical smile breaking into fangs.

Completely naked amid the candle flames, in the chapel’s icy air yet burning infernally, you desired him with your entire being. The air was so thin your chest heaved violently, your sweat warm, and between your legs, a scorching ache. Your eyes begged for him—he who had discarded the rosary to undress but now reclaimed it as he knelt before you again.

“You are like a God,” you murmured, strangled between ragged breaths, just as he aligned himself with you, the tip of his cock brushing your slit. Remmick exhaled a stagnant breath, covering you, his rigid torso against your soft breasts, releasing a needy moan—he, too, had thirsted for this. His hand guided his length to your entrance, locking eyes with you—a silent warning that the pact had been made, and there was no turning back—before burying himself in you, corrupting you, flooding you with his flesh, your sin, splitting you open with voluptuous ferocity. But there was no rush. No, quite the opposite—Remmick stayed still inside you, feeling you pulse and ache around him, the dagger finally piercing the Lamb of Sorrows’ heart—for that was what you were, like the Mater Dolorosa², your agony the monster’s joy, who tasted through the blood staining his fangs the seven swords embedded in your heart.

And then he began, slow and painful, whispering in your ear as he speared you with his length:

“The first pain came from those who promised you the world but abandoned you here.”

You closed your eyes, feeling your heart burn as if he were truly driving the swords into you. He continued, another thrust: “The second pain came when you found yourself alone here… And the third—” He snapped his hips, driving into you twice, deep: “—this one, my love, pierced you like a rusted dagger, for it came when your menstruation arrived and they told you the blood leaving your body was impure…”

“Remmick… How do you—” You choked back the rest, wanting to cry. He stared at you, bloodshot eyes, drooling like a rabid animal, releasing the rosary’s grip on your wrists to slide his hands to your throat, squeezing as he delivered three more rhythmic thrusts—deep, pain and pleasure mingling, leaving you dazed with desire: “I know because I tasted your blood. And blood does not lie. The fourth—fifth—” He panted, restraining his own pleasure, your soft, tight walls squeezing him, almost pushing him out: “—and the sixth sword, all at once, when the only ones who stood by you in this cursed place left. Oh, my angel, how pitiful you are…” He held you as if to console you.

He paused.

He waited for something—and you gave it:

“And the seventh sword…?” You arched against him, seeking the blade that might finally kill you.

Remmick then raised your body, kneeling beneath your hips, lifting you open before him, gripping your thighs, the rosary coiled between you like chains, binding you to him. Still buried inside you, he looked at you with apathetic sympathy. His voice deepened, a bestial echo rising from within as his claws lengthened and his teeth grew more monstrous:

“It is my pain.”

You stared in confusion, but as he thrust once more—deep and hard—you understood. You gasped, your arms seeking support on the habit shielding you from the cold floor, but he was right—his body was cutting against yours. Yet so pleasurable. Moving in and out, drooling and bending to your breasts, where he captured a nipple, his tongue worshiping where flesh was softest, your sweet sweat making it tastier. Fucking into your wetness, virgin blood and slick, he dragged his tongue to your left breast—where your heart pounded. His throat tightened with hunger, lips sealing over your skin in a harsh, loud suck before sinking his fangs into the flesh.

Stabbed through the heart.

He, your greatest pain.

You moaned, rolled your eyes back, gripped his head as the vampire consumed you, drinking from the hot spring, filling his mouth with that sacred liquid. When he pulled away, leaving a stigmata, he murmured the final words of Communion:

“And Jesus said: take this, all of you, and drink from it, for this is the eternal blood of the new covenant. Our covenant.”

Your blood dripped from his mouth, the burning pain and relentless thrusts lifting you to a state of relief in death. You whispered a fragile “Amen.” But Remmick wasn’t satisfied. He stood, pulling you up by the rosary, forcing you to your knees, seeking your lips to kiss you hungrily, offering you his wine—from his lips, the sacred chalice, from his wine, the consummation of this personal Christ’s body. The bread becoming flesh, the wine becoming blood.

Your blood stained your skin in vivid streaks. On your knees, he turned you toward the Altar, toward He who watched in perpetual static permanence—He who did not hear you.

The monster’s hand cupped your face, keeping it fixed on the image. His other hand reclaimed you, winding the rosary around your wrists again, binding you to him. He began thrusting deeper, frenzied, licking your neck:

“What is your favorite prayer, my angel? The one you used to cry out when you were still God’s little lamb?”

“Hail Mary,” you murmured. The monster laughed, already knowing what you’d say—he just wanted to hear it from your lips, dirtied with your own blood. He scraped his fangs against your sensitive skin, feeling your jugular pulse:

“Then pray it, so we may finish our celebration, angel!”

A shiver ran down your spine, pleasure filling you more than the pain of corruption and the wound on your breast, as you began the prayer taught to you years ago:

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum (Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee).” Remmick pressed deeper into you, teasing your neck, feeling you tighten around his cock. “Benedicta tu in mulieribus et benedictus fructus ventris tui Iesu. (Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.)” Your voice rose shrill, high-pitched, eyes shutting as he bit your neck—the Final Supper, sating himself with your virginal blood—more than what now stained his cock, but the blood within, the most intimate. You ran out of air.

Remmick whispered in his beastly voice: “Continue, I’ll help you…” leading the chorus as you followed:

“Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, (Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners)” Thick tears mixed with your blood, diluted by the vampire’s venom, the prelude to your death embracing you alongside fatal ecstasy. Your voice came out in a sigh, then a long moan, as behind you, he growled the final words: “nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. (now and at the hour of our death.)” Your body arched, your eyes glimpsed the glory of Heaven, and that was the greatest moment of your life.

In unison, you and Remmick cried:

“Amen.”

Remmick came abundantly inside you, keeping you bound to him, releasing a bestial, guttural groan from the depths of his cursed being.

Then came your last words in life:

“I think Paradise is more beautiful here with you, Remmick… Paradise is here with you.”

“You’re right, my love. It is here with me. Your god.” He murmured as your body went limp and trembled in his arms, blood staining your skin, a look of blissful joy as you died the sweet death he promised.

And Remmick held you.

Your body stretched in his arms, fragile, welcoming the imminent death of the flesh, your spirit rejoicing in the Angels blowing trumpets above you—and the Demons crawling at your feet. Blood washing the skin tainted by bites, divine wetness soaking where the beastly bond was made. You, like a dead Jesus, the spear that pierced His heart now the bite of your Pietà—Remmick in an expression of condolence and pleasure, holding in his arms, stained with morbid wine, your body. The false prophet, the vampire-monster, raised his blazing eyes to the heavens, as if challenging that supposed God who condemned him to this burden—this venomous curse that now corroded and blessed your body. Baptism of a life. Resurrection of a damned soul; death of vile flesh.

Remmick smiled in delight, glorying in corruption for mere whim, in devastating those poor souls and claiming for himself a lamb tainted by that God who once brought him so much torment. The vampire, in his monstrous form, had elongated claws that enveloped you like dry branches impaling you, his eyes nothing but scarlet limbo, his fangs jagged and protruding past his lips, the holy blood corrupted by his venom.

Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, trailing a thick, flesh-red rivulet down his chin. With his fingers, he wiped the crimson liquid, bringing the wet tips to his lips so as not to waste a single drop. For you had been taught that waste was a sin—and now your sacred teachings lived inside him.

Eternal.

♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱ ♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱♱

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: [a/n continuation...] by far one of the longest pieces i've written here for remmick (and maybe the only one, ksksksksk), i poured myself into this story because if there's anything i love, it's tales of love and profanity, hatred and human disbelief... mixed with the eroticism and bestiality of a vampire? EVEN BETTER!!! so yes, it was a laborious labor (forgive the redundancy, soskkssk)—writing, pausing for days, returning, rereading, rewriting sections, cutting others—like my scientific methodology professor once said ('bout write smting): "it's the work of an artisan." and obviously, there's the direct inspiration/basis from the song 'monolith', from that album that sparked the idea to create at least three fanfics inspired by my favorite songs from it, and the AMAZING mini-series 'lambs of god' (2019). IF YOU'VE READ THIS FAR, THANK YOU FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY DAMNED UTERUS AND CORRUPTED HEART!!! seriously... writing this was SURREAL for me—insane yet so fucking delicious kssksksksk. i won't lie: the more depraved and drenched in catholic imagery (for reasons already screamed above sksksksk), the BETTER for me. hell, if so many men have written far worse things, who am i to hold back, right? now a heads-up: as mentioned, this is the second of three special fics inspired by emma and thou's god-tier album. but for the third installment... i'll need more time—like, a month-ish? until then, i'll be cooking up other fanfics about other jackie characters. see you in the next one, my loves. <3

"THE ECSTASY OF SAINT TERESA" created by GIAN LORENZO BERNINI. it depicts SAINT TERESA OF ÁVILA experiencing a mystical union with GOD, described as 'a spiritual pain that also brought physical pleasure'. (source: google). basically how i imagined the whole scene a few lines above, then finally, the PIETÀ (by far my fav sculpture ever :)

#[★] zstartrixxx #[⋆♱⋆] zstar fanfics #remmick fanfic #remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick × reader #remmick × you #after this fanfic with remmy i'll be away from writing with him for a while...#but it will be for a good reason people!!!#(like I have plots for two more fanfics with him...)#the killing room and another one... but for now I WANT A BREAK FROM HIM #for now i'll focus on other cat characters and other things #jack o'connell fanfic #but i wouldn't deny him the violent fuck in front of the altar #priest remmick #father remmick #priest remmick x reader #father remmick x reader #priest remmick x you #father remmick x you #priest remmick × reader #priest remmick × you #father remmick × you #[R] MAY OUR CHAMBERS BE FULL ZSTARTRRIXX #[🦇] zstar jack o'connell #SEE U'LL IN SOON 🫂💖#happy friday 13th #Spotify

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