HI QUEEN i don’t have an ao3 account so i can’t comment on your fics there BUT I JUST REALLY WANTED TO SAY THAT
your Lohen ghostface fic WAS ABSOLUTELY SCRUMPTIOUS i was rolling in my bed. your writing is so amazingly descriptive and hits in all the right ways! the atmosphere is amazing and it reallt pulls me in!
then i checked the author and realized YOU’RE ALSO THE ONE WHO WROTE THE MURDERER FIC i read like, a month prior,,, when i found out i was GOBSMACKED.
those two fics are DEFINITELY my favorite on ao3 for lohen characterization and i really hope you write some more of him! i’ll be looking forward to all your works! ITS SO PEAK THANK YOU FOR FEEDING THE LOHEN FANS
HIYAA THANK YOU SO MUCH =D apologies for the late reply i have been away!! i'm so glad you're enjoying my works comments like this always have me cheesing so hard, i appreciate the support so so much :-))) MORE LOHEN FICS ARE UP AND COMING I PROMISE 🫡🫡🫡
hiii aaaaa, is there ever a possibility for a ghostface!lohen x reader 🤔🤔🤔🤔
you are a genius. ghostface is hot. lohen is hot. how have i not thought of this before.
i tried to incorporate the opening scene from the first scream movie as best as i could with an absurd, unnecessary amount of references. i have a feeling i may rewrite this at a later date since it feels weaker than my other works, but i just wanted to get this out. nonetheless, i hope i did your request justice c:
the movies halloween and nightmare on elm street are mentioned a couple times in this one, and fun fact, i have never actually seen either of them before. disgraceful, i know. i did my fair share of research on the cast and a few of the scenes for the sake of the fic and my annoying perfectionist need for accuracy (probably would've been more beneficial to just watch the movies atp), so please excuse any mistakes in the brief times they are mentioned. Also highkey spoilers for halloween lul.
sorry for the yap. without further ado, i present to you, ghostface lohen: the biggest freak of them all.
𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒐𝒏 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒌
pairings ; ghostface ! lohen x reader
synopsis ;
The man who sings sweet praises down your phone seems far too charming to be true.
When he shows up with a bloody knife and ruined mask to match, you realise exactly why he feels as such.
tags + warnings ; yandere lohen | ghostface lohen | scream | possibly OOC lohen | written before lohen release | AFAB reader | graphic descriptions | violence | knifeplay (a lil bit) | blood and gore | sadomasochistic lohen | stalking | predator/prey | possessive lohen | chasing | lohen's an asshole in this | horror
word count ; 4.7k
For the third night in a row, your phone rings through the corridors of your home.
You have half the mind to jump out of your skin, had you not been expecting it. With the fourth rerun of Halloween making for a wonderfully gory performance on your television this evening, your nerves are undoubtedly heightened. Yet a part of you knew it was coming—honestly, the man calling seems addicted, after all.
Ah, though you should stay somewhat humble lest you grow an ego that'll weigh you down.
But it wasn't your fault for thinking as such. Your evenings for the past two days had consisted of bizarre, vaguely interesting and surprisingly entertaining chats with a man who had mistaken your number for the one he'd wanted originally—however, now he was quite insistent on the funny ways of fate bringing two strangers together. In a sense, at least. You'd had a total of two conversations over the phone. Admittedly, you would've dismissed his nonsense by now, had he not been graced with an annoyingly attractive voice.
Oh well, what harm would a little messing around bring anyone? You were only bored.
And it's not like you had immediately fallen for his charm the moment you'd first picked up the phone. On Wednesday, you had politely informed him of his error, wishing him a good night before disconnecting the line. He'd called back moments after, with an endearing urge to apologise and a disregard for privacy in the way he inquired what you were up to, and what on Earth the noise on your end was.
"Popcorn!" You'd exclaimed, deciding to entertain him. When you'd explained you were on a horror movie marathon with a brief wince at the DVDs scattered across your coffee table, he had promised to check in the following evening to hear your thoughts on that night's pick: Nightmare on Elm Street.
And he did—at 9:02pm on the dot on Thursday, with the following instalment of Nightmare on Elm Street loaded up and ready, and a fresh, steaming bowl of popcorn situated in your lap. You'd answered the call cluelessly because, to be truthful, you hadn't really expected the mystery man to keep his promise. You teased him for it. He'd breathed heavily down the line for a moment too long, but dismissed it sheepishly before it grew awkward. As a reward for keeping his promise, you indulged him in his fascination; an honest review being that, while yesterday's movie had lived up to your expectations, you didn't have very high hopes for the next.
(You were right. The second had sucked.)
Now, it was Friday, and you supposed he was checking in for that opinion, alongside a variety of other random things he decided he wanted to find out about you. There was no doubt this man was as intrigued about you as you were about him. Maybe tonight you'd even get a name off of him (not that you were actively wondering, or even looking for anything serious, but curiosity usually had a habit of getting the better of you). You swing your legs off the arm of the couch, removing each finger from between your lips with a pop once you'd moved the popcorn bowl to the side. There’s far too excited of a spring in your step as you enter the kitchen, fingers curling around the handset without a second thought. He was later tonight; 11:23pm.
"Hello?"
"Hi! Miss Nightmare on Elm Street!" He sounds ecstatic that you've picked up. You giggle.
"Mister Mysterious Phone Guy! I was wondering if you'd call tonight."
"Aw, you were thinking of me?" You balance the speaker between your ear and shoulder, picking at your nails while his voice remains a low tease down the line. Egotistical bastard. "Sorry I kept you waiting, baby. Got caught up with..."
There's shuffling; something you can't quite hear as he trails off. You blink once; twice again, politely waiting for him to finish before you realise the line must've actually cut out temporarily. No biggie. It was the least of your worries when he was calling you that.
"Baby?"
"Well, I don't know your name, do I? Seems a pretty fair replacement to me."
You pause momentarily; with your tongue digging into the side of your cheek, you barely manage to stifle a smile. Oh, God. He had you smiling. Behave, [name].
Beneath the porch lights illuminating what would've been shrouded in inky darkness, the garden tiles glow; golden and void of life. Your eyes wander across them through the patio's glass doors, taking a moment to readjust positions so you're hovering over your kitchen island now, and for the gears in your brain to kick in and not embarrass you with a stupid response. He was smooth.
"Your words, not mine."
"So what is your name?" His reply is instantaneous, and invasive in the way that heats the blood in your veins.
"How do I know you won't use that information to murder me?" You tease, drumming your fingers across the marble counter. Overhead, your clock ticks, indicating the passing of one second, two, three. You barely hear it over the faint chatter of your television set, and the drumming of your heart you seemingly have no control over.
You'd never been one to deny school girl crushes; unfortunately, you'd been deemed a hopeless romantic from the day you'd been born by Cupid himself. You very much thanked him now, because it was oh so helpful you had the impulse to blush at the words of a stranger you'd only ever talked to over the phone. Twice.
Real fucking helpful.
It's also just as helpful when said stranger chuckles in your ear like you've accidentally shared some sort of inside joke you were unbeknownst to.
"Come now. You really think a murderer has time to sit around and call the girl he doesn't have the guts to meet?" What strange emphasis. You hum, with pursed lips and a doe-like pointing of your eyes to the lampshade above.
"Mm, I dunno. Isn't this exactly how a horror movie would start?"
"You tell me. You're the expert." You grin, teeth sinking into the flesh of your bottom lip with unrestrained mirth as you straighten yourself from the counter and pad back into the living room, unceremonious in the way you flop down onto the sofa. On the TV, Laurie Strode is running from the masked killer, Michael Myers.
"Actually, no. You sound like too much of a dork to be capable of anything like that."
"Meanie." He comments in your ear, though your eyes remain trained on your TV screen.
You're almost at the climax; a stomach-churning final chase between beauty and beast. The idiot killer doesn't stand a chance when he's stabbed through the eye socket of the damned mask, a piercing scream making you wince and tap the volume down on your remote. Unfortunately, your new stalker huffs, and it's evident in the tone of his voice that he's plastered a smirk on his lips to match the attitude. "What was that?"
"Ah, sorry! I was watching Halloween before you called. Not being murdered. I promise."
"Halloween?"
"Yeah! You know, the guy with the white mask who walks around and stalks babysitters?" Your eyes widen comically as said white-masked villain rises from the floor with horrific intent; your back arched like a startled cat and body tense enough to snap bones. Behind you, Laurie!
"Mm-hmm. I know the one. You must like scary movies, huh?" She doesn't look behind her. Typical.
"To an extent. I thought Nightmare on Elm Street was great, but the second one not as much. And Halloween's good, but there's only so much masked guy with a big knife I can take before it grows repetitive."
He snickers curtly; to your ears, it's as if it's swamped with something like heavy-weighted pity, but you don't understand why.
"You think it's boring?" He asks cryptically.
"The movie?"
"Being chased with a knife." You don't answer—for a short moment, at least, to avoid awkwardness. What a creepily odd question. It's almost enough for you to cease messing around—to inform him he's had his fun, but this wasn't actually meant to end up anywhere, and to finally hang up the line. Almost.
You clear your throat.
"O-Oh. Well, if it were me, that would be much different, of course."
"In what way?" Michael Myers is shot several times with the revolver, a staggering mess of uncoordinated limbs, before tumbling to his grisly demise. It makes you smile, cruel and satisfied.
"I'd be terrified, obviously. Though I think since I'm apparently now an expert in horror movies, I'd have a few tricks up my sleeve to survive." A lamp flickers in your kitchen. You wouldn't have noticed if it weren't for the flash catching your eye in the window reflection ahead. You really needed to get the electrics checked. "I learn from the best. I mean, when have you ever seen the victim actually lose?"
You think the man clicks his tongue; it's too muffled to tell for sure.
"Ehh, but movies aren't the same as real life, pretty." You're sure if he continues to flirt so casually with you like this, you'd drop dead from heart palpitations. You might have to consider a restraining order—might, since the tightening of your stomach was an unfamiliar, but not entirely unwelcome sensation.
"True but—"
"Though something does tell me you'd put up a good fight." He sings his words like a bittersweet praise; inappropriately dreamy for what they are, with strange connotations that bare their blackened teeth if you think about them a little too long.
You don't. Instead, you bite into them with insatiable greed, delicious if you ignore the tangy aftertaste of a contradictory ingredient.
"Exactly! They should know not to mess with me." You exclaim, all prideful smiles and sweet giggles—until you sink into your cushion, sigh shortly, and sport a solemn frown when it hits you how dark of a scene it really was to imagine. "That being said, I don't ever want to wish that actually happening into existence. I'll leave that to the ladies on the TV. It's not the most pleasant thing to think about."
"Is that why you look so uncomfortable?" Your stomach churns; this time, it's not so pleasurable. Look?
"What was that?"
"I said, is that why you sound so uncomfortable?"
In the briefest of moments time has to offer, you sit up forcefully, phone clutched to your ear like a vice. That definitely wasn't what you heard. And while it could've been chalked down to a communication error on behalf of poor connection, you'd indulged in far too many horror movies recently for them not to linger in the forefront of your overthinking mind.
God, silly Halloween had you on edge far more than you realised.
But this was still a stranger, and you were still uncomfortable, exactly as he'd predicted. There was no reason to allow him to continue spooking you so easily, even if it weren't on purpose, and even if he did sound hot. Bummer. It was likely a good time to head to bed anyway.
"Uh, yeah. Listen, I've gotta go, it's getting late. You probably shouldn't call my number again." In the reflection, your kitchen lamp flashes as it had done before. It makes you jump.
"What? But I thought we were having fun talking like this." He whines like an untrained mutt, child-like and petulant.
"We were! But nothing will come out of it, you know that, right?" Your fingers fumble with the remote, onyx void clouding the screen when you switch off the machine. Not even Laurie can comfort you now.
Mirrored in the darkened glass, you're greeted by your face wrecked with nerves. It's evident in the doll-like eyes locked back onto you, glassy, widened and round like discs. "It was lovely talking to you these past evenings."
"Wait—"
"Take care now."
"Don't hang up on me—"
You pull the receiver from your ear, and the house plunges into silence.
Deathly, infected silence. It rams its claws into the skin of your shoulders; draws blood that streams freely across the expanse of your chest; coils around you like a rope and tightens, tightens, until you can't breathe.
You shake your head; air forced in a huff from your nostrils which reminds you, you're being ridiculous, [name], of course you can breathe.
You're alone. You're fine.
Until the phone rings again; a dreaded alarm that pierces loud enough to shock silence into retracting its claws, though somehow you feel more constricted this way. With a heart beating through the flesh of your chest, you shake off the nerves building up, brick by fissured brick, to answer the call with a slightly irritated groan.
"What?!"
"I told you not to hang up on me, dovey." Who does this weirdo think he is?!
"And I told you not to call this number again. I'm serious!" With a flurry of emphasis that probably should've been used the first time, you press the button to end the call—hopefully for the final time.
Though, of course, it isn't.
The phone chimes again; you don't even let it ring once before denying it. You think something flashes past the window in the corner of your eye, though it had to have been those damn kitchen lights again! You think.
In a futile attempt to regain any semblance of the confidence feebly lost in the past two minutes, you shoot up from the sofa, marching with the manner of a reprimanded soldier to the kitchen. You flick the lights off just as the phone sounds again.
Reject call. How many times will this fool keep trying until he gets bored?!
By the following two, you finally lose it, pressing the phone to your ear so hard it stings.
"Listen, asshole—!"
"No, you fucking listen to me or I'll mount your pretty head on a stick, you understand?!" Within seconds, you're back to feeling as though you can't breathe.
What once fooled and fed your delighted ears with insatiable teases soaked in gold and cheeky inquiries that fell nothing short of innocent, had grown dark and vicious, a threat to bite the organs from the sides of your head. A voice that would leave you bleeding and helpless on the side of the road; that would watch as the bears mauled your body ruthlessly—or perhaps no bears were even needed if he were present to do the job.
"What?" You're unsure if you've even spoken, your voice barely audible and crushed by the hands of real fear.
"You heard me, lovely. Oh, you sound so sweet right now." He torments you like you're a puppet; a toy with strings for him to play with, to coo at, to perform for his sadistic pleasure.
"I'm calling the police. Leave me alone!"
"You're too far out, [name]. They wouldn't get here in time." You think you might choke on the sob lodged in your throat, any remaining facade of safety robbed from your fingertips as he speaks.
"How...?"
"Hm?"
"My name. How do you know my fucking name?!" Your eyes bolt to the patio doors, and you don't waste a second in racing over to lock them. You move onto the windows beside them; then the kitchen's. Out into the hall. Your front fucking door.
"Ohhh, that. Yeah, there's a lot I know about you actually. It's a beautiful house you've got here. Is that real vintage cedar wood?"
Your feet move before your brain can catch up; you're back in the kitchen again, your target as clear as crystal waters. The knife block—offering a multitude of blades to defend yourself.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you." He comments, sickeningly so in the same way you'd done for stupid Laurie Strode. You were his victim on the screen—his doll for amusement. He suddenly snorts, a giddy chuckle that strips skin from bone from how unnerving it is. "Actually, do. Oh, please do, baby. That makes it so much more fun."
Your fingers clasp around the biggest one, wielding it adjacent to your stomach no matter how sick it makes you feel that you've listened.
And with a shaky breath and your body pressed impossibly close against the cornered wall, you speak into the phone.
"What do you want?"
"To play with you! A game, of sorts. Exciting, no?" You shake your head, on the verge of sobbing. He tuts once. "Don't be such a buzzkill, angel. It's nothing difficult, I promise."
"Please! Stop it!"
"Fuck, I love it when you beg." He curses like he's pained; a moment of muffled pleasure down the indistinct connection of the call. "Unfortunately, you don't have a choice."
You cry pitifully, and the man outwardly groans this time. Sick, disgusting bastard. "What?! What is the stupid game?!"
The doorbell rings, and you scream with terror you didn't know you could muster, clutching the phone to your chest and raising the knife within a shaking, clenched fist. It's pure trepidation for your life that urges you lift the phone back up to your ear.
The clock ticks overhead. One.
"You only gotta do one thing, baby." His voice curls around your neck like a noose; you inhale it, breathe it in to throw it up again. The Devil within your system like a deadly drug.
Two.
"What...?" A creak from your hallway's floorboards.
Three.
"Run."
. * , ' * .
You're not sure you know where you're going.
You're not even sure you care.
You'd smashed the phone to pieces; let it crash to the floor as you skid from your hiding place, a true victim worthy of her own horror movie, because this is one. The bile had crept up your throat, threatened to spill onto the tiles like blood—and you'd sprung up like a hare evading a well-hidden trap, buried beneath the leaves of its own burrow.
Hunted in its own home.
It made no difference, now—because before you'd dropped the phone and bolted, before he'd uttered that single, nauseating word, you'd only ever expected to hear him on call.
Instead, you'd heard him, loud and clear, only metres behind you, and very fucking real.
You hadn't turned to look.
All that mattered was that he was in your home. And you'd do whatever it takes to live.
A few corners, a corridor, and you'd meet the front door. Even with the perpetrator hot on your tail, there's hope. Wrapped in silk ribbons and decorated with freshly bloomed roses painted red, because one more corner and you'd make it—
There's a cloaked figure in your lobby. Bathed in black, swarmed by shadows that seemed to open their cruel mouths wide, bare their fangs and engulf the minimal moonlight pouring through the windows and pooling at your feet, soaking it up like wine. It's black everywhere; bar the crimson red coated on his silvery blade and splattered across the ivory ghost mask, mouth stretched into a horrific scream.
You'd forgotten rose petals were the devastatingly beautiful lie that beckoned unsuspecting fingers into pricking themselves on the deadly thorns they guarded.
A trick of the mind to allow you to believe escape was in your grip. He was playing with you.
He blocks the door from reach; tilts his head towards you like he's spotted something fascinating.
And laughs—dauntingly loud, and with no essence of mercy.
You spin around before you have a chance to scream, crashing against your stairs with hands flailing to balance yourself as you topple over with the force of your run. Your knife nicks the inner skin of your thumb; a hiss escapes through gritted teeth as adrenaline pushes you on.
Up, and up. Further and further away from your exit.
Your shoulder collides with the corridor wall, yelping as pain strikes you like a whip. There are footsteps behind you, hot on your tail yet somehow in the opposite of a rush. He takes each step with perfectly timed tranquility, though heavy in their execution.
One step. Two. Three.
You don't stop to listen, eye's dead set on the furthest room possible—your bedroom. If you could just—
You grunt, comfort robbed from your stomach as it's winded and you're pressed battered cheek to wall; head spinning as nausea takes its toll on your vision. Instincts prevail, and you lash out blindly with your knife-clad hand, before your wrist is seized against the wall beside your head and your attempts are rendered futile. Your knife clatters against the wooden floors with a devastating crash.
There's silence in your home again; void of life besides the heavy breaths of a man masked behind plastic who keeps you pressed against the wall. There's a hand on your waist, which travels beneath your rib cage and splays across your stomach, devilishly possessive despite having no right. His pinkie rests just shy of dipping below the hem of your shirt.
Then, he chuckles lowly, all heavy vibrations which take your position for granted. He's directly beside your ear (or at least the haunting mouth of that mask is, you imagine, with eyes squeezed shut), making you flinch like a grazing deer threatened with a hunter's gunshot.
"So much for that knife, huh." You fight the urge to scream, as you know it'll only satisfy him. "Oh well. You looked cute with it while it lasted."
A chorus of pleads stream from between your lips, quiet and pathetic as you beg him for your life, though he quickly dismisses it with his tongue, coaxing you into silent sobs as he shushes you into complacency.
"Aw, baby. You're not giving up, are you?" From the way his tone dips into something borderline stroppy, you're sure he's sporting a pout behind that mask. "No fun."
It's when something sharp accompanies the press of his fingers into your abdomen, that panic slams into you like a truck at full speed. You scream; louder than ever this time, using your free arm to elbow aimlessly behind you. It lands on target; a direct hit to your pursuer's sternum, evident from the grunt (or moan?) on his tongue, and he backs off enough to give you a chance to slip through your bedroom door. There's laughter from behind you; manic and bloodcurdling and terrifyingly thrilled.
Your fingers curl around the wooden frame, only moments from slamming it shut in the monster's face—moments away, had he not gripped your ankle hard, sending you plummeting to the floor with a sickening thud.
Your vision blurs as your head collides with the solid panels, glittery constellations and streaked strobe lights painted across the sense you held most dear. It left you vulnerable, robbed you of your ability to see and now hear, as your ears begin ringing in protest.
When you finally can see again, you're greeted with a boot next to your skull, and a blade to the soft expanse of tissue guarding the vital veins of your neck.
One wrong move and you'd be dead.
"Now that is what I'm talking about, dovey! You're a natural." Above, the ghost-face mask looms, but it's lopsided, and you can just about catch a glimpse of a mint green lock of hair, curled around the plastic border. He's the image of pure, unfiltered horror.
You wonder if it's worth accepting fate now.
As if reading your mind, he pulls back, cocking his head to the side and spinning the knife deftly between his fingers. Suddenly, he's standing, because above your limp body rests your dresser, and something on it has seemingly caught his attention.
With a poor push void of power and weakened by your head still spinning, you clamber away from his feet, nails digging into the plush fabric of your carpet like it were a lifeline. He's whistling—a twisted and sickly happy tune you're not able to place in this state.
You hate how it's so familiar. Every little taunt, a reminder of his stalking that has gone on for God knows how long.
He must've turned because he snickers callously. Must've seen you, a messy combination of desperation and determination; a beautifully deadly mix if it weren't in the hands of prey.
Unfortunately for you, that means it's useless.
"Oh, you're still trying to run? Okay, baby, give it your best shot! You got it, I believe in you!" Footsteps fall into place beside you and crowd your hearing, deafening when it's all your instincts order you to focus on. "Almost there! Though I must say, if you really want a chance at escape, you gotta put more effort into it than this."
The monster clicks his tongue, one knee landing with a thud beside your head as fingers find a home curled into the roots of your scalp. You claw pathetically at the carpet, hands tensed hard enough to snap the ligaments in your fingers when you're helpless to stop him from lifting your head up, effectively arching your back and rendering you immobile.
You're then able to realise exactly what had him so enamoured on your desk—your beloved polaroid camera, now tainted with the stains of a victim's blood. And perhaps yours next.
"Alright, angel. Say cheese now for me. Go on, smile nice and pretty—cheeese." He angles the polaroid on you as if taking a selfie, the fabric of his cloak streaming down your aching back as he hovers above you and snaps the photo. "Beautiful, there we go."
You think he'll end his fun there—you pray to any Lord above he does—though instead, you're released and your cheek smacks against the floor again, only subtly subdued by your rug. You don't have the energy to even crawl anymore.
The thorns on that pretty rose of hope have cut you enough, and now you have bled dry.
Above, he walks around your room aimlessly, as if attempting to kill time. He hums that same tune, the one you can't place. He pinches the polaroid between his thumb and forefinger, waving it like a flag of surrender until it develops.
And the claws of silence return, but this time, they latch onto every surface of skin you have to offer. You hate it when he doesn't speak, and you're left alone to suffer. You hate it more when it grants you the energy to weakly lift your chin and see what has him so quiet.
You wish you hadn't.
The hood of his raven cloak rests lazily around his shoulders; a mess of celadon locks, untamed and shabby, poke out beneath the mask that he's pushed up to reveal the face of a boy no older than you.
He's beautiful; in the way that would create tales and rumours that he would tear the heart from your chest, kiss it dearly, before trampling it beneath his boot. A scar impales itself across his cheek, and you're almost convinced he's monstrous enough to have given it to himself.
And his eyes; so inhuman, so alien. So enchanting. Magenta swirled with cerulean blue, and you understand why, to be a ruthless killer, he would need to stay masked. The thought only makes you sob more, energy depleting as you crash your face against the floor again.
A waste of a face on such an evil soul. How many women had he tricked already without the mask at all?
He giggles at the photo in his palm; approaches your side again and crouches with gleeful enthusiasm.
Fingers tap your cheek twice, and when you refuse to respond, they wrap beneath your jaw to force your gaze onto the picture presented in front of you.
"Sweet, right? I'm thinking this one deserves to be framed." He purses his lips, thankfully drawing the dreaded image away to rub his chin in thought. "Though it still doesn't beat the real thing, sadly."
He bites his lip, hard enough to draw blood though it doesn't phase him.
"Hm. Well. That means one thing, at least."
He leans closer; far too close, close enough that the stench of gore and evil blocks your nose, sticks to the flesh of your tongue and inhabits the surface of your lungs. It's all you can taste, smell, feel.
And when he speaks again, you hope it's enough to suffocate you.
"You'll come home with me."
∧ ,,, ∧
( ̳• · • ̳) . ݁₊ ⊹ . thank you for reading ! ᝰ.ᐟ
/ づ♡
pairings ; lohen x reader
synopsis ;
There's a murderer in your Church, who so graciously enjoys watching your misery as you clean up his messes in the early morning. You think it's punishment from Lord Barbatos for your rogue thoughts.
You soon find out God had never played a part in your story at all.
notes ; this fic is heavily inspired by @ megu_gnsn on tiktok, all art credits to them. enjoy c:
tags + warnings ; yandere lohen | lohen has a god complex (a mini one-he wants you to plead to him and not barbatos lol) | the kof is lowkey corrupted af | possibly OOC lohen | written before lohen release | AFAB reader | graphic descriptions | violence | possessive lohen | explicit | decapitation | gore | religious imagery | stalking | teasing | sadomasochistic lohen | reader is a nun | predator/prey | power imbalance
word count ; 6.6k
The pews were doused in red again.
Tear drops of coal-speckled ruby, dotted along the mahogany surface and soaked into the plush velvet kneelers. As if a man who drooled, exhaled, and weeped blood had welcomed himself into the house of the Anemo Archon and perched upon the very pew you were forced to scrub down relentlessly.
It was just your luck, really. Said man was no stranger to your church, though he never visited often; only when he was sure you were growing too comfortable and beginning to think perhaps he'd left for good.
He never did.
The first time it happened, you'd been mortified. It was a gorgeous, spring morning, and you'd entered the Church of Favonius with your head held high, cheeks sun-kissed and glowy like your content smile. You carried pages of the day's scripture readings, neatly organised into their respective orders, and ended with them scattered messily across the floor, swiftly forgotten.
Who could blame you when you were greeted with the sight your heart lurched at, and had you screaming til you were breathless?
It had been the third row from the front, and the second-to-last seat away from where you stood rock-solid in the aisle. Your eyes were puffy and as red as the blood splattered across the wooden seating and the grand marble tiles.
No amount of comforting from your fellow sisters would've expelled the morbid memory now engraved into your brain. They'd arrived moments after in a panicked frenzy upon hearing your scream to find you sobbing on the floor, your beloved scriptures in disarray around your kneeling figure, and your hand pressed so tightly to your mouth you were surprised your shock hadn't suffocated you.
They'd all paled even greater than you had when their eyes followed your shaky pointing.
The second time was the 48th day following; the morning of Mondstadt's Ludi Harpastum Festival. You'd screamed until your voice was hoarse, but you didn't fall to your knees this time. You'd also clung onto your scriptures (granted they were squeezed between your fingertips until they were practically unreadable), which had been such a pain to clear up last time. You were sure there was a little more blood than last time.
By the third and fourth, you didn't scream, but you still cried. You'd wondered what you did to deserve this; if perhaps you hadn't prayed the night before correctly, or had said something wrong to the other nuns, or thought something mean about the irritating man who lingered in Mondstadt's centre and always had something inappropriate to say to you and your lady friends.
You couldn't help the attacks from feeling personal—you were always the one to discover them. So, you were extra grateful and loving when you bowed your head at night, and you were careful with your words around your sisters, and you bit your tongue, averted your gaze and walked a little faster past the man in the centre.
It had worked, thankfully—until it hadn't, and three months had passed before the pew was red again. You didn't scream, didn't cry, and most certainly didn't ruin your scriptures this time. Instead, you'd stood numbly, expression remarkably blank, because you'd already known it was coming. You'd smelt the tangy, putrid stench the moment you'd stepped through the doors to the grandiose halls of the Church of Favonius; tasted the iron on your tongue until you felt like you were going to choke on it; noticed the atmosphere shift as if the Devil was having fun breaching the limits of where he didn't belong.
You'd informed the Knights stationed outside the entrance with only a couple of shaky breaths, and had even fought back the bile in your throat to help mop the floors of the grime afterwards.
Everybody questioned it, but nothing seemed to change. Seamus Pegg had issued wanted posters to be plastered across the city at every turn, but they'd only lasted for a day. There had been rumours of blackmail and deceit among the Church, and when Seamus had been questioned on the topic, he'd excused it as not wanting to dissuade the community from the safety of the House of Barbatos, and—more importantly—a job for the Knights of Favonius to handle. And so, it was kept quiet, a burden for the nuns and priests to bear alone.
But you were terrified. All of you were. You could tell by the way voices shook during readings; how many twitched and twiddled their thumbs anxiously, keeping their hands to themselves instead of holding their guests and each other welcomingly; and nobody ever held eye contact any longer than necessary.
That was exactly why you were here now, alone in the cathedral and running on a fraction of the sleep you deserve, with a blood-soaked rag clenched within your fist and an undeterrable will to rid the bench of its gore before anybody else entered the hall. You'd been dismissed as an incredibly committed member of the monasticism for your early arrivals, which you were happy with as long as it meant your brothers and sisters could sleep a little more peacefully at night. In their eyes, the stone-hearted monster hadn't struck the Church in six months; now a phantom memory that you'd heard a few of the priests remark as a 'plague sent by Lord Barbatos, as punishment for our sins'.
Only you were aware that this was now his seventh morning in a row of defiling your Lord's name. A week straight. He'd never left his gifts so commonly before, and you would've wondered why if it weren't for fear of driving yourself crazy.
Frankly, it might've already been too late. You certainly felt crazy, with the way you spent your mornings frequently cleaning blood off the pews of Mondstadt's holiest venue rather than spreading teachings of joy and freedom of your faith to the citizens who needed it. Your fear had swiftly morphed into anger the longer the recurring nightmare continued, for all you could think now was how badly you wanted this villain to be caught and brought to justice under scrutiny of your trustworthy Knights of Favonius.
Perhaps that could be accompanied by a stern talking to of your own—you're sure Lord Barbatos wouldn't mind in this case.
Honestly, you weren't even supposed to know what the scent of blood sourced from the corpse of Archons knows what smells like!
And you certainly weren't supposed to be kneeling to anything other than your Lord; with a concoction of gore and soap trickling down the narrow bridge of your fingers and between your veins pulsing with life, as you rub and wipe and wash and cleanse the wood, up and down and round and round and round until—
"Are you trying to scrub a hole through that seat?"
You shoot backwards, ankle slipping from your control and knocking the soapy bucket to your right across the blood-dazzled marble. The alarm ignites your nerves; gasp robbing the breath from your lips as you quickly whip your head towards the knight you recognised well. He lingers in the aisle, and seems partly amused by your shock.
Lohen of the Fifth Company of the Knights of Favonius. A man of countless victories, fearsome bloodlust and an unjust, unchangeable loyalty to Mondstadt—a man you'd heard to most definitely stay away from. You clear your throat as the hem of your tunic soaks in your mess.
"Sir Lohen! Archons, you scared the life out of me! Forgive me, I... I was cleaning, and I guess I didn't hear the door open. Or close. I apologise." You must've looked foolishly ridiculous as you bow your head to the wet floors, the epitome of embarrassment which only seemed to amplify in the presence of a Vice Captain. "Is there anything I can help you with—"
You choke on your words when you notice Lohen, eyebrow raised and head tilted, curiously observing the pew beside you. Oh. Oh, no no no.
"Should I be asking you that?"
You stand in a hurry, gathering your tunic from the puddle and positioning yourself to block it from his view. You're grateful when he's distracted easily and his eyes abruptly begin following you like steel to a magnet, even if it does make your skin crawl. Lohen naturally exuded that effect, you imagine, since if it were anybody else, you would've approached with haste and taken their hand to lead them away from the brutal scene. You were supposed to be a guardian, after all.
Instead, you hover awkwardly in place, rag still clutched in the hand you kept rooted behind your back, because getting closer to the man you'd been warned about seemed like an invitation for trouble. You had enough of that in your life already.
"It isn't what it looks like, Sir Lohen, I swear. Father Pegg likes to paint, you see, and sometimes he gets these creative visions—like last night! A masterpiece, really, if he'd actually managed to keep his pigment on the canvas..." Lohen takes a step towards you, and you despise how it automatically has your words trailing off, point escaping you in the caution.
You hardly imagined Seamus ever having the time to pick up a paintbrush; unfortunately, it was too late for take-backs now.
There's an odd expression on Lohen's face—one that exhibits a mixture of amusement, intrigue and pity all in one, and compliments royal indigo swirled with rich magenta in the eyes currently staring you down. Then, he laughs.
"Miss [name], I can assure you I've won enough battles in my lifetime to recognise the splatter of blood shed when I see it." He speaks it like he's boasting. (Inwardly, you wonder how that's anything to be proud of, even if he is a knight. You also wonder how he knows your name.) "I take it he's returned, then."
You have the defensive urge to inquire who he means, though it hits you rather embarrassingly that, ah, of course, he is a Knight of Favonius, and they, bar the members of the Church, were the only citizens of Mondstadt who knew of the recurring vandalism. You nod your head, pressing your lips into a thin line.
"This is the seventh morning in a row that Devil has pulled this stunt." Lohen clicks his tongue in pity.
"Poor thing. You've been sitting here cleaning it all by yourself? Where are the other nuns?" Your eyebrows furrow when his tone portrays itself as demeaning you, but you excuse it as poor social skills. You'd heard of Lohen spending a lot more time on the battlefield than actually conversing with real humans.
"They don't arrive until seven, Sir."
"What makes you different?"
You don't respond. How in Tevyat were you meant to? You really didn't have a direct answer; you'd reasoned it down to a request from both Barbatos and your heart, yet now it seemed a little silly to admit that to Lohen for some reason. Luckily, he speaks for you, smiling so sweetly you could've been fooled to believe that the rumours of ruthless murder and endless carnage were only ever that—rumours.
"Kindness, [name]. You're too kind. It'll get you eaten one day." He scolds, running his gaze down, then up your figure as if he were the one who wanted to carry out that promise. He then hums thoughtfully. "Though I suppose that's your job, isn't it? To reassure? To please?"
"More so to teach, if anything." You correct, though you can't help but feel it falls on deaf ears as Lohen suddenly busies himself with studying the intricate architecture, bejewelled with sapphire and diamonds, arching above your heads like he's bored.
You'd never pictured a man like Lohen to be the religious type. It made it all the more confusing and difficult to work out why exactly he was here, though, of course, you'd never openly judge. "May I inquire why you're here, Sir Lohen?"
He sighs dramatically, shoulders slouched and eyebrows raised, his lips twitching down into a pitiful frown. Then, his eyes are back on you, and they don't leave for a second. "I have a problem, [name]. Truthfully, it's chewing me from the inside-out, and it's the worst. The Church is good for this stuff, right? I know I have these issues because of bottling them up, avoiding them, yada yada, I just..." He cocks his head to the side, though it's nothing innocent. "...I don't want you to gain a different impression of me."
Lohen slumps onto the pew dejectedly within a hairs breadth of the blood splatter, and your gaze switches between both him and the grime in apprehension. Did it not bother him? You must've been gawking, because the pout that had originally taunted you shamelessly swiftly converts to a wicked grin. His teeth sink into his bottom lip as he scrutinises you for all your worth; your fear feeling rather like a meal to him than an opportunity for reassurance.
You look at the clock. Ten minutes before Father Pegg and your sisters were due to arrive. You then look at the mess on the pew, and now the floor as well. Archons, you really were in over your head. There'd be no time to finish your cleaning and indulge the knight in his evident need for confession.
You wanted your heart to ache; to leap forward and snatch the misery from Lohen's, because that was your job. You didn't want anyone to suffer. And if Lohen's problem was significant enough to drag him away from his knightly duties all the way to the Church, then naturally, you should be jumping at the chance to aid him.
This was exactly why you felt guilt—since despite all this, even if it was small, there still lingered a nagging, unavoidable and annoying inkling of doubt for his true intentions.
And nuns should never doubt.
You finally look at Lohen, inhale deeply, and force the polite smile you'd rehearsed for situations exactly like this.
"If there is anything you need the Church to hear, we will always listen. Just because you are a Knight does not make you any less welcome in the Lord's home. I can't imagine we'd see you any differently than we do now, Sir Lohen."
He regards you with a soft smile, wrecked with pity and an unfamiliar stare of adoration, as if you're the equivalent to watching tiny puppies play. Why was he looking at you like that?
"You think it's because I'm a knight?"
"What else?" He snickers while you frown.
"Never mind. You're a pretty liar, [name]."
"What—?"
"Alright!" You think you'll develop whiplash from the speed Lohen shoots to his feet, clapping his hands together in satisfaction. You almost slip as you stumble a few steps away in a panic. Lohen cocks his head towards the gore. "I can see you have business to attend to in the mean time, so I'll come back later and take you up on your promise then. I won't judge upon whatever reason you have to sacrifice your happiness for your colleagues, but for the sake of your health, I promise I'll have this personally investigated and closed."
"You will?" Your voice is shaky with a mix of skepticism and hope.
"Mm-hmm! You won't have to worry about it anymore, Miss [name]. I swear."
Lohen clamps an enclosed fist over his heart—the Knights of Favonius' gesture of loyalty. You would've argued against the hassle, though realistically, it was a hassle worth taking if it meant the perpetrator would finally be caught. Lohen was certainly more than capable enough of tracking someone down (you almost felt sorry for the culprit for having such a terrifying knight on their trail now), and your shoulders tense a little less when hearing the promise.
"If—" You tense again. "—you're the nun to hear my confession when I'm back. Only you. I've got a tight schedule so I can't tell you exactly when that will be. But I'll make time. Promise me you'll be here?"
"Of course I'll be here. Where else would I be?" You attempt a joke to lighten the intoxicating tension overwhelming your senses, Lohen's sly fox-like eyes not helping in easing the promise that seemed a little too intimate than allowed.
"Attagirl. I'll catch you later then, dovey!" You linger idly beside the pew, watching Lohen saunter down the aisle with a spring in his step and far too happy a melody on his tongue. He throws a hand up, index finger extended to catch your attention one final time.
"Just a heads up—it'll probably take me at least a month to handle it, since I won't be in Mondstadt. Useless business trips and all that. If this idiot is anything unoriginal, you can expect him to follow the pattern and return tonight. Maybe he enjoys testing the limits, huh? I'll request guards to station the entrance overnight. Good luck with the service!"
You don't see Lohen again after he slips through the exit of the Church of Favonius.
. * , ' * .
You were smothered with a concoction of emotions for the rest of the day.
After Lohen's departure, you'd stood rather numb in place, almost still enough for someone to mistake your figure for one of the holy stone depictions scattered around Mondstadt. An entire month? You'd always tried your best to root gratefulness in your blood; to be thankful for what you're provided with, as that is the Lord's will.
And it wasn't that you weren't so incredibly appreciative of Lohen's gesture. He'd sacrificed his own precious time to investigate a wanted criminal and personally see to it that they atone for their sins, all to guide you and the Church from misery.
You were grateful—but you also weren't sure just how much longer of it you could take.
When your sisters and the priests had trickled in one by one, with not a word to say about the pew so clean it practically sparkled, you'd almost cried. It was pitiful. You were much stronger than this, and you weren't going to let it get you down again.
Even if it did suck a little soul from your belief in Lord Barbatos. It still felt as though He was punishing you, after all.
The service had progressed beautifully as usual, a perfect transition to the sunny afternoon which kissed your cheeks with soft breeze and warm rays of golden hue, yet it might as well have been a foggy, miserable storm with the way you couldn't bare to lift a smile to your lips. At least then the weather would've matched the turmoil your thoughts had created in your mind. They swirled in circles as if they were caught in a makeshift tornado, crashing down and destroying what little remnants of hope remained like a merciless tsunami the later into the day it got.
By evening, you sulked over your dinner, head and heart pounding twice as violently. At some point during the day, you'd realised something vital in Lohen's final words.
'If this idiot is anything unoriginal, you can expect him to follow the pattern and return tonight.'
You'd heard Lohen was crafty and careless, but you'd also heard he was rarely ever incorrect in his assumptions based on his targets. Once, he'd even cleared the entire southern border of Wolvendom of a pesky tribe of hilichurls that adventurers had been tracking for months. They were almost as shady as Lohen, sentient enough to hit the road often enough they'd keep hunters off their tails. Nobody knew exactly where they'd head to next—except the Vice Captain, who refused to share his secret knowledge and claimed the bonus consolation prize because he'd been 'bored'.
At least, so you've heard.
It was admirable in a way that had the hairs stand on the nape of your neck. The Knights of Favonius were so frighteningly brave—it was an utter shame they'd unfortunately proven so useless when it came to matters of the Church.
This was why you'd ultimately come to the conclusion that the solution had to fall into your own hands.
With Lohen, the more capable of the Knights apparently, away on expedition for at least a month, you saw no other choice than to at least explore the minute hint you'd been accidentally given. Besides, you wouldn't be entirely alone, and back-up would be called the moment you caught the Devil.
Lohen had said he'd request overnight guards!
Which was odd because—as silvery moonlight blanketed the cool concrete steps to the magnificent oak doors of the Church of Favonius, and your boots stifled pebbles beneath their soles with every slowing step you took—you didn't see anybody shielding the entrance.
The surroundings were deathly silent, in fact. Perhaps he'd forgotten.
For a moment, you're about to turn around. To abandon ship and run with your tail tucked between your legs before you could meet a grisly untimely doom. It was the sensible choice.
It didn't help that you weren't a quitter. It also didn't help when something crystal or porcelain smashes ahead of you from inside the Church's lobby; barely audible behind the thick walls but undeniably broken.
For the first time since you enrolled in the monasticism, you feel a sickly urge to curse. This was real. This was happening, and you needed to run and alert the guards, alert anyone, just run, run, run—
The door is slightly ajar.
It catches your eye the moment the universe realises you don't want it to. And this time, you do curse, even if it is feeble and mumbled under your breath, because your feet move before your head has a chance to stop them, and your heart beats a little faster the closer you approach the open door, a wordless invitation to quench curiosity.
Your fingers curl around the wooden frame, as silent as you've ever been; an attempt at evading the Reaper of Death, because if you were careful, you'd be able to spy a face detailed enough to describe to the Knights, and escape with your life still intact afterwards. That was all you needed, you remind yourself, as you pry the door to.
Inside, the Church feels otherworldly. It's unfamiliar and hellish, drowning in ink-black darkness without the warmth of the aureate chandeliers decorated with candles to guide the way. You'd always hated the dark. There's no love in the hall at night; no joy and no hope, freedom squashed between the fingertips of the void, stomped beneath the boot of the moonbeams which bore down onto the marble tiles, offering irritatingly minimal light for its extravagance. You regret to admit even the presence of Lord Barbatos himself appears to be lacking. You swallow a solid lump in your throat before you can choke.
You discern no evidence of broken shards scattered across the floors, much to your horror. Had your mind played tricks on you? No, surely not—you knew what you'd heard. But then, what had broken? And where was it?
Unfortunately, you don't have time to dwell on it further when your squinting eyes spot something far more troublesome in the dark. You wordlessly battle blurry vision when your body considers passing out.
There, beneath the arches bejewelled with sapphire and diamonds, perched a hunched figure, lifeless and still, upon the third pew from the front, second seat from the left. They were barely visible within the shadows, yet real enough to rob your heart of its ability to pump blood, and your lungs of their capacity to expand. Your body runs cold; ice cold, like an anaesthetic breaching the nerves from the nape of your neck, to the bridges of your fingers, and to the tips of your toes. You don't breathe; don't blink; don't move for fear of being heard, until by some miracle, the moonlight beams a little brighter on the individual, and the safety lock on your senses clicks off, refusing to release fire so soon because that head of earthy mint-green locks is frighteningly similar to—
"Lohen?" You feel as though your voice has sliced something invisible in the atmosphere of the aisle.
"Hmm? Miss [name]?" Yet again, your feet move first, with a speed your mind doesn't find reason to complain about by the time it's caught up. You hurry down the aisle, only stopping to tentatively peer over at the man still concealed in the shadows. Your chest rises and falls with the urgency of a hunted prey, and you don't need the light to recognise the hint of a smirk in Lohen's tone. "Oh! It is you!"
"Are you hurt? Did you catch him? Something smashed, did you hear it too—?" Your inquiries spill from your lips like water from a broken dam, unfiltered by your desperation and embarrassing you foolishly when the glint of a silver rosary, tangled between digits clasped together, causes you to falter mid-sentence. You gasp, fingers pressing to your lips in a manner of horrific disbelief, because you, a nun of the Church, had interrupted a guest from the midst of their prayers.
You'd never broken such a rule before, and even in the absurdity of the situation, rules still applied.
"Sir Lohen, please forgive me. I didn't realise you were—" Argent streams pour through the windows and pool at your feet, and you can just about catch Lohen's eyes regarding you from behind his fists, accompanied by the soft smirk you already knew was there. The rosary entangled within his palms is an Anemo sigil embalmed with teal crystals, attached to a woven chain of mauve beads that dip and hang between the veins painted beneath his skin. Something stains Lohen's hands the longer you stare, though you look away when he clears his throat. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be ridiculous, [name]. I was only testing something out, anyway." His voice is uncharacteristically low, like he wanted to suit the aesthetic of the setting purposefully. You regain some missing remnants of your confidence as you linger in the aisle, taking a moment to control your breathing when you realise Lohen isn't the threat you'd imagined his shadow to be. You can't help but be drawn to the rosary again. It looks so perfectly natural in the fingers of a boastful murderer, and it sends your mind spiralling in confusion, because such juxtaposition shouldn't exist in the real world.
"Are you a follower of the Lord, Sir?" He scoffs behind his hands softly, like your question is amusing.
"Somewhat. Your God teaches ideas of freedom. I like to be free. I have a different opinion on such things I deem my own, though. Why should they be free while under my scrutiny? You get it?" You want to say no; that for someone who studies and teaches complicated holy scriptures daily, you'd never encountered something quite as cryptic as Lohen. Surely he'd mean his belongings; but then that would also mean they are inanimate objects, so how in Tevyat would they be free anyway?
He must've comprehended your confusion, perhaps from the way your lips twitched into an unpleasant frown, because he speaks again before you do. "Never mind. You'll understand soon enough. For now, I rather enjoy your naivety."
Lohen stretches languidly like a cat across the pew, unashamed to flaunt himself while your cheeks burn, because you'd then noticed he'd rid himself of his armour and instead lounged in his dress shirt like he were at home. To make matters worse, he'd taken the liberty of undoing the top three buttons (at least you assumed it was three, it wasn't like you were actually looking!), graciously exposing the bare expanse of his collarbone and sternum to virgin eyes.
He was littered in scars, some small and light where they'd faded with time, and some large and disturbingly new, still tainted with dried blood around the borders. You knew you shouldn't look any longer, even if a little part of you wanted to.
It's when your eyes pull away up to his face, that the blood floods from your cheeks and your heart misses a crucial beat.
In this position, the moon casts directly upon his face, and what was once clouded in darkness now illuminates and presents a vibrant, alarmingly fresh stripe of crimson across his cheek. Lohen was a fiend for battle—you knew this, and that's why you wouldn't have doubted the knight of his intentions once again because of a silly mishap on his face, had he not adjusted his grip on the cursed rosary and drawn your attention to the hands doused in matching blood.
Or brazenly revealed the human head on the pew beside him now he wasn't hunched forward, a stream of gore from where the rest of its body should've been splashing to the tiles and decorating them with droplets exactly like the ones you'd grown used to cleaning in the morning.
Archons above, have mercy.
You were speechless; afraid that if you tried to speak, bile would be the only thing to come out. You stumble away a single step, nausea spreading like wildfire and causing your vision to spin. It's only when you hiccup loudly through a sob that you realise you're crying.
"Oh? Is there a problem?" Lohen's grin is something of pure evil, too inhuman for man. "You told me so sweetly earlier that I'd always be welcome in the Church. That's still the case, right?"
Wicked teeth stretch wider, showcasing the fangs you wonder have ripped out necks.
And to your horror, he stands.
. * , ' * .
"What have you done?" Your voice trembles, unapologetically terrified of the man mere metres away. It's so heart-achingly adorable, Lohen's sure he feels his cock twitch.
He was already undeniably worked up the moment he'd seen the first tear trickle down your ghostly cheeks, yet for his ears to be blessed with the sound of your sweet voice, vulnerable and pleading for him to say something, anything that indicated it wasn't real—ah, that was true pleasure.
He stalks you like the prey you are, taking a step forward for every one you took back. Honestly, he was surprised (and a little disappointed) you hadn't attempted to run. He was a sucker for the chase—that much was known by everybody who'd heard of the man—yet here you stood, eyes gorgeously glossy and a pitiful tremble in your bottom lip, not retreating just yet like you were attempting to defend your territory.
Lohen supposed this was your home, after all. He'd intruded, of course, to achieve your attention. Countless times by now, in fact. He could argue that the pay off was well worth it. He tuts once, purses his lips to feign innocence, and smoothly curls his fingers into the scalp of the decapitated head, lifting it to present it to you fully and relishing in the way your face contorts into something of pure terror.
"What, this? Come on, don't tell me you don't recognise him. Take a good look, pretty." Oh, how beautifully you were obeying, fighting the urge to turn your gaze away completely as you study the displayed head through tears. The addictive realisation blossoms across your cheeks, shifts like a roaring fire in your eye, a drug for Lohen to soak up whole. "That's it, baby. You know him, don't you?"
He watches you with the manner of a hawk as your lips part and close like a fish out of water, yet no words come out. Now, it seems as though you find it easier to look at the damned head than Lohen himself as you fight to keep your expression steady, fixing him with a glare of tearful repulsion. It's adorable.
"Now, now, don't give me that look." Lohen's tone reeks of condescension and an eerie lust for humiliation. "This man caused you so much trouble, did he not? Disgusting behaviour, really—who even gave him the impression that lurking around Mondstadt's centre and preying on the poor, helpless women just trying to get on with their days was a good look?"
You must not have realised he was cornering you, based on the way your eyes shoot as wide as china saucers, until your back hits solid wall; a lost little doe, paralysed by the oncoming headlights. Lohen thinks he'd love to see you as roadkill. "I mean, God, the way he looked at you, [name]. It was so... so animalistic. Like he'd ravage you alive. Who in their right mind would ever believe that's an okay way to think?" He tilts his head, tongue running across his bottom lip.
"And the things he said, hah!" He laughs maniacally, unhinged and shameless but incredibly strained, like something had pained him detrimentally but he'd rather bleed out than establish weakness openly. "He's lucky I ended things for him nicely. You probably would've preferred for me to drag it out, huh? I know you've fantasised about it before in that pretty little head. Don't be too disappointed in me, angel."
The head crashes to the floor with a sickening splat when Lohen releases his hold, admiring the strength you had to still look at him while he approaches. His other hand lifts up; two fingers playfully tap the supple flesh of your cheek twice, leaving behind a generous coating of the dead man's blood. You flinch like a bunny in a trap, too stunned to push him away. Your nose scrunches with the gory stench so close, and Lohen disregards the temptation to smother your face in it entirely until you pass out.
"If it makes you feel better, this scumbag had no family, no friends, no nothing. It's the first thing I check. Nobody will even notice he's gone!" He's perfectly sincere, until his teeth sink into his bottom lip and he stifles a laugh behind a poorly mannered snort. "Well, besides you and me, I guess."
"There is something disturbingly wrong with you, Sir Lohen." His eyes burn a hole through your skull, surprised you'd found your will for speech.
"You still call me Sir. Cute." He only studies you for a moment, eyes devilishly narrow and smirk ghostly, haunting the crevices of his lips, before he pulls away from you abruptly, kicks the skull on the floor further down the aisle and relishes in the way you squeeze your eyes shut to avoid it. "Every man who yearns for confession has something wrong with them, though, otherwise why would they feel the need to confess? Surely you know this?"
He's not surprised when you don't reply.
Again, you don't make any move to run. It's like he'd glued you to the quartz pillar; a mere bystander to observe his gruesome antics.
"Also, if you're confused, I lied about the mission away. I know, it's abhorrently cruel of me and definitely not something to land me in the Lord's good books, and I promise I won't ever lie to you again. You see, I had a little extra time tonight, and thought what better way than to spend it confessing after I promised you I would. So this—" He jerks his head towards the grime splattered across the floor. "—is my confession. It's funny that you showed up when you did to hear it. Must be Barbatos' will, huh?"
"Never speak to me of the Lord's will. You are of the Devil's spawn, you monster!" Oh. There it is. The growing sparks of a raging inferno as it's taunted and teased by sticks and paper and unkind words. Lohen always knew you had it in you; it was exactly what had caught his attention in the first place.
Sweet, docile Sister [name] of the Church of Favonius—the one with the most inappropriate thoughts and needs of them all.
The one Lohen needed to see broken.
"And you aren't?"
"What do you mean?" You were exquisite with such steadfast determination, fists clenched to your side like you were ready to swing no matter how much your voice shook with trepidation.
"Come now. I already said I know about what you'd wanted to do to that man. I'm sure that couldn't have been the only case, baby. I mean, look—you still haven't bothered to wipe that blood from your cheek."
Surprisingly, you still don't, sniffling a pathetic sob when he reminds you it's there. You bristle as Lohen turns to you fully. "And you don't run. Why is that?"
"You'd catch me." Your throat bobs.
"True." His smile is wickedly proud.
"Are you going to kill me?"
"No."
You blink, tongue pressing into the side of your blood-stained cheek while your eyes dart between left and right like you're weighing up options. "Then I'll report you to the Knights of Favonius and have you rot away for your crimes."
Lohen's laughter is explosive and immediate. "Go ahead. You think I don't have everyone in that damn institution wrapped around my finger? They are terrified of me, [name]. Terrified of what I do to our enemies, and what I could do to them. Terrified in exactly the way you are, though arguably not as sweet. Were you really stupid enough to believe the Knights hadn't been able to find a conclusion for your Church's mysterious killer?"
Lohen thinks you're about to burst into tears again by the way you squeeze your eyes shut like you had done before, and he's gutted when you don't. He thinks nothing would've satisfied him more than pushing you over that edge continuously; enough so to produce a pond of salty fluid for him to lap up to quench his thirst.
You shake your head as he nods his. "Oh, they knew. They just didn't care as long as I ordered them not to."
It finally looks as though you've snapped—tipped over the brink of exhaustion into pure delusion now as you wail and fall to your knees, soaking your tunic in the stream left behind from where the human head had skidded across the floor. You don't seem to care about it anymore, though, as you kneel before Lohen like he was your God instead.
He has to admit he much prefers it like this. You look divine from this view; he ponders if it's worth having the image painted and hung as the centrepiece of the Church of Favonius, a flawless example to your fellow sisters and believers on the right way to pray and beg.
And if he took you home with him, he'd undoubtedly wake up to the real thing every day. How poetic.
He nudges your chin up with his boot, humming in satisfaction when there is little resistance on your part. Blue and magenta meet your gaze, holding you captive within a silent dare to move.
You don't.
He absorbs the dark circles beneath your eyes; smiles because he knows he's the cause of your sleepless nights. He loves you tired enough to have your brain short circuiting. It makes you easy. Pliable. His.
He hums, crouching down to level his face with yours; brutal in the way his hand reaches out to cup your cheek, messily smearing the blood with his thumb across your skin until he's content with his artwork—the shape of a love heart, imprinted on your flesh like a tattoo.
And while admiring your hopeless despair, he speaks with heavy-weighted truth and deathly promise.
"Forgive me, Lord Barbatos. I'll have to take from you what's yours tonight. If she was ever yours to begin with."
∧ ,,, ∧
( ̳• · • ̳) . ݁₊ ⊹ . thank you for reading ! ᝰ.ᐟ
/ づ♡
⤷ 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗆𝗌 𝗂'𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 ; 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗍
⤷ 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽 ; 𝖻𝗌𝖽, 𝗁𝗌𝗋, 𝗐𝗁𝖼
please MDNI for the adult works !!
݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑ genshin impact ! ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑
୨୧ 𝗅𝗈𝗁𝖾𝗇
𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒 𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚎 18+
⤷ yandere possessive lohen, AFAB reader, graphic descriptions, religious imagery, stalking, teasing, reader is a nun, predator/prey, power imbalance
⤷ ' There's a murderer in your Church, who so graciously enjoys watching your misery as you clean up his messes in the early morning. You think it's punishment from Lord Barbatos for your rogue thoughts.
You soon find out God had never played a part in your story at all. '
𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚔 18+
⤷ yandere ghostface!lohen, AFAB reader, graphic descriptions, stalking, knifeplay, predator/prey
⤷ ' The man who sings sweet praises down your phone seems far too charming to be true.
When he shows up with a bloody knife and ruined mask to match, you realise exactly why he feels as such. '
