Communion at the Rose Church
(if you read this at night maidenless behavior jk I love youđ)
The incense in the Rose Church is always thick, heavy enough to coat the back of your throat with the cloying scent of blood and rotting swamp. But beneath it, there is always the sharp, antiseptic smell of clean linen and the metallic tang of White Mask VarrĂ©âs obsession.
He stands before you, his white robe pristine despite the filth of Liurnia just beyond the crumbling stone arches. The stitched smile of his mask is fixed, unreadable, yet his eyes gleam with an intense, quiet heat through the narrow slits.
"Ah, my lamb," Varré murmurs, his voice a low, purring caress that sends a shiver straight down your spine. "You return to me. So faithful. So beautifully eager."
He steps closer, the distance between you evaporating. He doesnât touch youânot yet. He merely leans in, inhaling deeply as if catching your scent, savoring the very aura of your devotion. His gloved hand rises, a slender silver blade resting between his fingers. It catches what little light filters through the ruined roof.
"You desire to be closer to the Luminary Mohg, yes? To feel the true warmth of the Formless Mother," he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. "But to taste that divinity, we must first read the poetry written inside your veins."
You don't pull away. If anything, you step into his space, your heart hammering against your ribs. The danger is the point; the submission to his strange, bloody faith is the thrill.
"Such a brave little lamb," he coos, clearly delighted by your lack of fear.
VarrĂ©âs left hand gently grips the back of your neck, his fingers pressing into your skin just firmly enough to anchor you. With agonizing slowness, he brings the silver blade to the meat of your shoulder. He doesn't plunge it in; he merely presses the sharp edge against your skin, dragging it down in a slow, deliberate line.
A sharp sting gives way to a sudden, blooming heat. A bright crimson line parts your skin, and a thick bead of blood wells up, spilling over and tracing a slow path down your chest.
You let out a soft, involuntary gasp.
"Yes... just like that," Varré husks, his voice dropping an octave, thicker and darker than before. "Look at it. The sheer vibrancy of you. It is a sin to keep it hidden away."
He drops the blade, letting it clatter to the stone floor. He doesn't need it anymore. He presses you back against a weathered pillar, his body heavy and warm against yours. His hands, still gloved, slide up your thighs, bunching your clothes out of the way, his touch demanding and possessive.
Before you can catch your breath, Varré leans down. His tongue licks a slow, wet stripe right over the fresh cut on your shoulder.
A ragged moan catches in your throat. The sensation is an overwhelming rush of sharp pain and intense, throbbing pleasure. He drinks from you, his mouth hot and ravenous against your wound, soaking in the taste of your blood as if it were the finest nectar in the Lands Between.
"Magnificent," he groans against your skin, his composure fracturing for the first time. The refined, mocking gentleman is gone, replaced by a man consumed by a primal, intoxicating lust. "You taste of pure devotion. It drives me mad."
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His white mask is smeared with your crimson, a gruesome, beautiful mockery of a blush across the porcelain features. The contrast is devastatingly erotic.
Varré reaches down, his fingers slick with the blood that has pooled on your skin. He guides that wet warmth downward, sliding his hand between your thighs. When he touches you, slick and already aching for him, the added heat of your own blood makes you arch into his hand with a desperate cry.
"Do you feel it, my lamb? The communion?" he whispers, his fingers working you with an agonizingly perfect rhythm, driving you closer and closer to the edge. "Your blood, my hands, bound together in her name."
He doesn't let you wait. With a hurried, desperate movement, Varré frees himself from his robes. He hoists your legs up around his waist, pinning you securely against the stone pillar. When he drives into you, the fullness of him takes your breath away entirely.
It is a fierce, bruising rhythm. Every thrust is deep, mirroring the violent devotion he preaches. The scent of blood, sex, and swamp water mixes into an intoxicating haze. Varré buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth nipping at your pulse point, bruising the skin as he takes you harder, faster, chasing the same peak you are.
Your hands grip his shoulders, your nails digging into the fabric of his robes as the tension builds to a breaking point. The friction, the heat, and the psychological weight of his bloody worship converge into a sudden, blinding crescendo.
You spasm around him, crying out his name into the empty church.
Varré lets out a low, guttural growl at your ruin, following you into the abyss with a few final, devastating thrusts. He spills himself deep inside you, his forehead resting against your shoulder, chest heaving as the adrenaline slowly drains from the air.
For a long time, neither of you moves. He stays buried inside you, holding you tight against him as the silence of Liurnia settles back over the ruins.
Slowly, Varré pulls away, though his hands remain lingering on your hips. He looks down at your shared mess, a dark, satisfied smirk evident in his voice even if his mask hides his mouth. He takes a clean corner of his sleeve and gently dabs a rogue drop of blood from your collarbone.
"A truly sacred union, my lamb," he murmurs, his voice returning to its smooth, velvety cadence. "I knew you would be my most beautiful disciple."