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whimsy-sturns · 2 days ago

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The Devil In the Morgue

vampire.ᐟreader x mortician.ᐟmatt

warnings: religious imagery. usage of urban fantasy. no use of y/n. mentions of the dead. overall usage of dark, goth horror themes overall. if this isn’t for you, don’t read.

wc: 2.4k

divider credits to: @/benardsbendystraws, @/junabuggy

Cloudy and wet. The outskirts of the building was fogged and otherworldly. The light above flickers against the tiles. It’s quiet. Too quiet, as if the walls themselves are listening. A place of silent decay, mourning and loss. Warm candle lights adorned the porcelain on the walls. The red on the carpet symbolises the death in this mortuary. The bleak setting overall would send any other person into fearful shivers. The air was dense with the acrid tang of formaldehyde, mingled with something more organic–the stale musk of death that no amount of cleansing could ever fully erase.

A single slab of marble stood in the center of the room, its surface cold and unforgiving, waiting for the next body to be laid upon it. The candelabrum cast long, wavering shadows across the floor, their shapes twisting like specters.

Along one wall, a massive wooden crucifix loomed over the space, its presence both a guardian and a warning. Its edges were worn, kissed by a thousand whispered prayers, yet tonight, it felt like nothing more than a relic–a fragile barrier against the encroaching dark.

A faint dripping noise echoed somewhere in the distance. A pipe, perhaps. Or something else.

There are audible quiet breaths from Matt. Clearing up the slab. His pale fingers wrapped around a damp cloth. Teasing the germs and dust away into the chemicals.

His velvet-like suit, one he wears to the morgue everyday. The overall layout is a coal black, but small ridges in the fabric travel all the way down from his collar to his tail. The tie has a tiny cross embroidered in the middle to give it a neat smock. He pinches his eyebrows together and pushes his glasses back up on his bridge. Wetting his lips in focus as to concentrate his influenced and paranoid mind onto the cleaning.

Matthew, although spending his youth cloistered in scripture, and raised to always serve the divine and devoting himself to the word of the Lord, had an unusual fascination with death.

Even as a boy, he was drawn to the quiet things. While other children ran wild in the streets, he found solace in cemeteries, old books, and the hush of church halls. He was never morbid, exactly–just… curious. The stillness of the dead, the reverence of a final farewell, the idea that a person’s story could be preserved in the way they were laid to rest–it all intrigued him.

He was raised in a strict but loving household, where life and death were seen as part of a grand, divine order. While others feared death, he saw it as something solemn, inevitable, almost sacred.

So, when the time came to choose a profession, the answer was obvious. While others recoil at the idea of tending to corpses. Matt saw it as a noble craft. He prided himself on his work, treating each body with precision and care. He liked the solitude of the morgue, the predictability of his days, the certainty that the dead do not talk back.

He considered becoming a priest, but his faith was more contemplative than evangelical. So instead, he chose a different path–one where he could serve the dead with dignity and ensure that every soul received the farewell it deserved.

Despite his devotion, Matt is still a man–one with a heart and desires he does not fully understand. He prides himself on discipline, restraint, humility, believing that temptation is a test. Although, the construct of his controls start to waver once lust shackles him. And all of a sudden his beliefs go into a screeching halt.

The door groaned open, and the heavy scent of damp earth and cold night air spilled inside.

Matt stood by the embalming table, arms crossed, watching as the two men hauled you in on a stretcher. Their boots scuffed against the stone floor, their faces set in grim lines.

“She was found outside the old chapel,” one of them muttered, adjusting his grip. “Looks like she didn’t stand a chance.”

Matt didn’t ask against what. He only nodded, already looking past the body they carried.

The two men dissipate into the hall, leaving the room as Matt’s jaw becomes unclenched.

Then, the clacking of shoes echoed through the morgue as someone else walked in.

“Another one?” a soft voice, like gentle mewls from a litter of kittens. A girl, Matt’s assistant, Grace.

She is a picture of virtue and devotion, with soft, kind eyes and a voice like a whispered prayer. Raised in the same faith as Matt, she believes in duty, purity, and the sanctity of life. Her presence in the morgue is not one of fascination but of service–she works here because she believes it is her calling, a way to honor the dead and help guide their souls to peace.

He knows his parents–his whole community–would see her as the perfect match. A good, devout woman, pure-hearted, a symbol of everything he was raised to believe in.

And yet, when he looks at her, all he feels is indifference.

Matt barely glanced at her as he pulled off his gloves. “Dropped off just a few minutes ago.”

She sighed, a familiar look of sorrow in her eyes. She always took the dead to heart, as if mourning strangers was her burden to bear. “May they find peace,” she murmured, fingers brushing the small cross pendant at her throat.

Matt gave a noncommittal grunt.

She hesitated, watching him carefully. “You’ve been here late all week,” she said gently. “You should go home. You need rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“You say that, but I don’t think I’ve seen you pray in days.” Her tone was light, teasing, but there was something behind it– an unspoken plea.

Matt finally turned to her, his gaze unreadable. “Go home, Grace.”

She blinked, lips parting slightly. “I can stay if–”

“No.” His voice was firm, final. Colder than she deserved.

A quiet passed between them, the candlelight flickering as if sensing the shift.

Then Grace nodded, forcing a small, knowing smile. “Alright. If you need anything…”

“I won’t.”

A flicker of disappointment crossed her face, but she said nothing else. She only bowed her head and turned, her presence fading from the room like a dying ember.

The heavy door shut behind her. And Matt was then alone again.

The silence in the morgue felt heavier now, like something unseen had settled into the corners of the room, pressing against the air.

Matt stood over the body, hands hovering just above the linen shroud. He had done this countless times–unwrapped the dead, prepared them for their final rest–but something about you unsettled him.

You were pale, as all corpses were, but not like the others. The usual bluish tinge of death did not stain your lips. In the dim candlelight, they were still flush, still full, as if touched by warmth that had no right to be there.

His breath hitched. It was subtle, but he could see it now–the slow, near-imperceptible rise and fall of your chest.

His stomach twisted.

That wasn’t possible.

Matt stepped back, a cold sweat creeping along his spine. You weren’t dead. At least, not in the way you should have been.

The flickering candlelight cast shadows that seemed to shift when he wasn’t looking. A creeping sense of wrongness settled in his bones.

Then, the feeling of being watched hit him like ice water down his back.

He turned sharply, expecting to find someone lurking in the doorway, but the room remained empty–save for the body on the slab.

The candlelight sputtered.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears as his gaze snapped back to your face. His fingers itched for something, anything holy. His hand found the nearest crucifix, clutching the cold metal with fingers that trembled despite himself.

A whisper of air stirred–a breath.

And then–

Your eyes crack open.

A flash of intensity, intelligence, and something darker stared back at him. Matt was completely paralyzed. The air felt thick, suffocating, and every instinct told him to run. But he couldn’t. His feet felt rooted to the ground. His grip on the crucifix tightened, but it did little to ease the dread filling his chest.

Your voice came then–low, almost sultry, the kind of voice that slipped beneath the skin like velvet, chilling and intoxicating all at once. “Such fear, such uncontrolled desire.”

Matt’s throat went dry, his fingers shaking violently around the cross. He stumbled back, his feet catching on the stone, but his eyes never left yours. He couldn’t pull away–your gaze held him, rooted him in place like an ancient spell.

“You…You’re a demon,” he rasped, his words trembling in the face of this thing– this impossibility before him.

You smiled, the expression both mocking and full of something else–something knowing. “A demon?” Your voice caressed the word like it was a joke, “I’m no demon, mortician.”

Your eyes bore into him, unblinking and your presence seemed to fill the entire room. You sat up, slow, deliberate– a languid stretch that made the shadows twist around you like a living thing.

“You call me a demon,” you continue, the words wrapping around him like a spell. “But what is it that you fear… and what is it that you want?” You lean forward slightly, your gaze never leaving his, and you see how his breath falters, how his body betrays him. “You cannot hide from what stirs in you.”

His pulse quickens. You feel it. The heat in his skin. The way his eyes linger on you longer than they should. It’s all there, written in small, subtle movements of his body, the faintest trace of desire that he tries so hard to suppress.

“You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t feel the hunger that has nothing to do with fear?”

He stumbles backward, grip tightening on the crucifix, but you can sense it now–the pull between you. The tension, the silent draw that he can’t deny. It’s there, so much more than fear. It’s something he’s tried to bury, something that has been lying to wait for far too long. You see it, even if he won’t admit it.

“You could run from me,” you whisper, voice soft like the caress of a shadow, “but it will always follow you. Because what you desire isn’t something you can escape.”

Your body shifts, the motion smooth and thoughtful, unsettling in its grace. You rise from the slab into a full stance unnervingly slow, as if the air itself is part of your being, swirling around you. You are untouchable. Inescapable.

“The question is,” you murmur, your voice a low drawl, “how long can you resist it?”

He watches, trapped, as you move, each step, deliberate, but it’s the way your eyes lock onto his that makes his heart race. The way the shadows seem to bend to your will, wrapping around you like a cloak.

“You feel it,” you continue, your voice almost a hiss now, “the pull. It’s not fear that makes your heart beat faster. It’s me. Isn’t that right, Matthew?”

You let the words hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. He can’t escape it–not the hunger in him, not the way he watches you like a predator watches its prey.

And then, in deep contrast to how you rose, you vanish, slipping back into the shadows, leaving him in silence. The room is still again, but the tension lingers.

Matt is left standing there, his hands still trembling, clutching the crucifix so tightly it aches. His breath comes in short gasps, like he’s just run a race, but it’s the pounding of his heart that drowns everything else. He can still feel it–the pull of you, like a tether wrapped around him, tightening with every passing second.

His mind is in a swirl of confusion. He stumbles backward, his legs weak, like they can no longer carry the weight of what he’s seen, what he’s felt. He drops the crucifix, the symbol of his faith, but it does nothing to stop the cold sweat that beads on his forehead. The room around him is still, but it feels alive–watching him, waiting.

What happened? What was all that? He’s tried to make sense of it all, but the more he thinks about it, the less it makes sense. You–whatever you were–shouldn’t be real. Shouldn’t exist.

But you did. And he felt it. The lust, raw and dangerous, simmering under his skin, a fire he had never known before. And worse… he hadn’t fought it.

His thoughts turn to the tight, suffocating grip of his moral compass, that guiding light of faith and righteousness. His parents’ voices echo in his mind–”Be strong. Stay true. Don’t let temptation lead you astray.” But you, you were the temptation he couldn’t escape, even in the darkness of his own soul.

His body feels wrong now, as though it’s no longer his own. He doesn’t know what you’ve done to him, but he feels the desire inside him, a thing growing, stretching, pulling at him from within. It’s like he’s been marked, and no matter how much he prays, how much he tries to push it away, it will always return to him. You will return to him.

He can’t trust his thoughts, his body, or his soul anymore. Not when everything he’s believed in feels so fragile, so easily bent by the weight of a single encounter.

And then the thought strikes him: What now?

His chest tightens as he stares at the empty morgue, his eyes darting to the shadows, avoiding the crucifix that lay still on the wall, like it knows–it sees Matt giving into the temptation.

And that’s when he hears it–the softest whisper in the dark, a lingering voice that sends a chill down his spine: “I will return for you, Matthew.”

He shudders, the sound of your voice still fresh in his mind. You had left, but you hadn’t gone. He could feel your presence like a constant shadow over him, an unseen weight that clung to him, to his every thought.

It’s then that he realizes–you will keep coming. And with each visit, with each encounter, your power over him will grow. The temptation. The hunger.

And deep down, in the pit of his soul, he knows he’s already lost. And he doesn’t even know why he’s still trying to fight it.

For you, it’s just the beginning.

out of the coffin: first ever actual piece of writing to post kinda nervous eeaaaa. what if i told you i'm so infatuated by this series i'm already like 5 parts into writing it.. guys i have a problem LOLL i'm not gonna release them all at once though, gonna have to wait!!

this was a blast to write, more to come soon!!

Love and bitten kisses, May. 𖤐.☾

#mortician .ᐟmatt𖤐 #vampire .ᐟreader𖤐 #whimsysturnsau ☾✧˖°#matt sturniolo x reader #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #chris sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo

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