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our burning ashes blacken the day (Albert Wesker x f!Reader)

Tags: No Use of Y/N for Reader-Insert; AFAB Reader-Insert; Human Sacrifice; Religious Imagery & Symbolism; Religious Cults; Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses; Alternate Universe - Historical; Angst; Blood and Violence; Violent Thoughts; Bloodlust; Gore; Death; Soft Albert Wesker; Protective Albert Wesker; Dubious Morality; First Kiss; Fast Burn; Cannibalism; Blasphemy (but is it really blasphemy if its your own church and priest. and altar); Finger Sucking; Blood Licking; Loss of Virginity; Breeding; Creampie; Happy Ending

Word Count: 12,442

Summary: An outcast in your own village, poor and helpless, the people that should have protected you instead decide to offer you as a sacrifice to their God in exchange for prosperity and mercy. Too bad their God isn't too happy with their actions.

Also on Ao3: Here

a/n: Inspired by Lie of Omission by @hellshire-harlot

This is a mix of an idea i had when Natalie told me some of their plot ideas and one of them inspired me, as well as the visceral need for extremely soft wesker that was born after I read their fic, Lie of Omission, which is quite possibly the best thing ever and I wish I could eat it. It made me so emotional when I read it. Hopefully they read this and enjoy it just as much as I enjoyed their work 😌

Hella lore given to the reader to the point where she might as well be an OC BUT ☝️ I dont do OCs so she is still you. Just... Imagine you're playing DND and you're role-playing a peasant girl in ancient times or sth. I had a vision and it wouldn't work if I kept the reader a blank canvas. Many such cases.

Also while I am not a religious person, I was raised Orthodox Christian in a country where this religion is almost inescapable. I used to believe in God when I was a kid and pray for a better life for me, my mom, and my brother. I even wrote a shitty poem at 12 years old about Jesus's sacrifice because that's how touched my little 12yo heart was. I have a lot of issues with God and religion, a lot of resentment and feelings of betrayal built up over the course of decades, that kind of spilled into this story a little. I dont know if I would call it religious trauma. More like daddy issues God edition 😭

Title is from Sweet Sacrifice by Evanescence.

“You bastards! I'll get out of these and tear your fucking throats out, you weasels!”

You snap your teeth at one of the villagers when she tries to replace the gag you pushed out of your mouth and is now hanging limply and uselessly at your throat and she recoils with an offended gasp. You thrash in your bindings as you're pushed – dragged – further up the main road of the village, passing rows and endless rows of houses, people coming out to stand in front of their gates to watch you with solemn eyes. Not a single one of them is doing anything – nor will they.

“We should have knocked her out,” someone murmurs worriedly as you keep shrieking and struggling against your captors. “Wouldn't it have been more humane?”

“Humane?!” you shriek, thrashing even harder, hands itching to wrap themselves around one of their throats and squeeze. “You're going to kill me to gain favour with your stupid little God, you asshole! What part of that is humane?!”

“It certainly would've been quieter,” someone else mutters before you feel hands shoving you forward, making you stumble and turn around to glare at them.

“And less profane…”

“Oh, I'm sorry that I'm not meekly accepting my fate and making things easier for you,” you hiss sarcastically and snarl again when the leash tied to the ropes around your wrists gets pulled harshly to get you to keep walking.

“We need her awake for the ceremony. The sacrifice won't be as potent if she's unaware.” That's the leader speaking now, the head of the church and the one truly calling the shots around here. Somehow, you doubt his words – something about the pleased glint in his eyes at your useless struggling making you think he wants you awake and afraid. You wish you could pluck his eyes out and feed them to him in retaliation.

You watch as the entire village comes out to watch, some joining the procession towards the town square where the sacrificial altar has been constructed for all to see and bear witness to the sacrifice, others hanging back and simply observing passively with regretful eyes – but not quite regretful enough.

You should have seen this coming. You've been an outcast in your own village your entire life – absent father, poor, unmarried mother, and you, a girl too smart for your own good. You taught yourself to read and write by sneaking into the church after nightfall night after night, desperate to make something more of yourself and maybe flee to one of the bigger cities – get a job at a library, maybe, or as a governess. Anything that would get you out of here. But the village never liked you and they thought your intelligence was a sign of evil; after all, how else would a girl like you be able to read and write so well? Surely she isn't smart enough to teach herself. Something evil, more sinister must be afoot to grant you such privileges.

When things started going bad in the village, one bad thing after another, the people started getting restless. Bad crops, burned storage houses, lack of rain. All of it pointed to their God being angry with them, punishing them. You were identified as the bad seed that had angered him, with your unexplainable smarts and evil wiles.

You should have seen this coming and fled when you had the chance.

“Lay her down,” the leader instructs once you reach the square and the altar upon which you're expected to die shortly.

“Like hell I'm going on that! Fuck off, I'm not dying for you stupid people!”

But your struggles are in vain. They outnumber you by a lot and, as smart and determined as you are, you are only one girl. Your body is subdued and wrenched onto the thick stone slab, various villagers holding your limbs down so they can strap you to the altar. You want to grab one of those fancy daggers and kill them all one by one – small minded simpletons that they are. But you can't do it, not on your own. You can't escape.

The thought is sobering. All your efforts and sacrifices… and for what? For it all to end like this?

You go still on the stone slab, helpless and hopeless as a desperate sob gets trapped in your throat. You refuse to cry, to scream for help instead of out of righteous anger, and so you just lie back and let these monsters tie you down as if you're nothing more than meat – not a fellow human, a being deserving of life and kindness and mercy. Just a sacrifice. A neat solution to their problems.

You shiver in the summer evening, dressed in nothing but a sheer, white dress the leader of this congregation of idiots forced on you right before they snatched you from your home, your mother's anguished cries and pitiful begging going ignored as she was held back and forced to watch her daughter, her only child, being treated so roughly and with such disregard for privacy and bodily autonomy. What does any of that matter to a walking corpse, just waiting for its execution?

The sun is gently kissing the horizon as it dips, ever lower, towards oblivion. You track its downward path absently and wish you could follow it into the abyss. Perhaps you will, in just a moment.

“We are gathered here tonight to bring honor to our flock and earn our God's forgiveness. He has been most displeased with us and we will get back in His good graces by offering Him this sacrifice: the most sinful in our midst, an evil creature born out of wedlock and raised unnaturally, unchecked, by a sinner mother. Tonight, we correct the mistake we allowed to fester for years and secure our God's forgiveness through it.”

In spite of the despondence that has settled in your gut, irritation and derision flare up in you at the priest's words. Your mother, a sinner? A victim, more like, doing the best she could to raise a child she was never meant to raise alone. ‘It takes a village,’ they say, but where was this village when your mother struggled to feed you both with the meager fruits of the garden she tended to religiously, with the little coin she earned by washing other people's clothes in the next village over? When she worked, day after day in the burning sun, tending other people's lands with an infant strapped to her chest and barely shielded from the sun by a threadbare rag?

You spit at him when he turns to face you and you don't even care that most of it lands back on your face. You wish you could sink your hand into his chest and rip his still beating heart right out. Just crush it in your fist and watch the blood pool at your feet, waterfalling down your wrists and staining you in its redness.

“We will cleanse you of your wickedness before long, child,” he retorts sharply, voice low and meant for your ears only, before he extends a hand to the side. “Dagger.”

You tense up at the word, eyes gluing themselves to that hand as a sharp blade that glints with dark promise is placed in the priest's hand. You gulp and can feel your breathing going shallow, rapid and erratic in your throat, as your chest constricts and heaves with panic. You kick out fruitlessly, desperate to get away from the imminent danger, but it's all in vain – there is nowhere for you to run, nothing more for you to do than to receive your fate and hope it will be over quickly.

You don't beg. You want to, oh gods do you want to. The words are trapped behind your teeth, itching to escape and pour out into the world, to seek mercy and pity from even one compassionate soul brave enough to stand up to the mob for one human life. But you refuse to be any more of a pig at slaughter. You will not squeal. You refuse to give them the satisfaction.

Your eyes burn with fear and hatred equally as you look and watch as that blade gets positioned near your stomach, though not exactly: it's too low. You rifle through your mental catalogue of anatomy, the little you managed to steal glimpses of during your illicit study sessions in the church, and the answer comes to you a second before the priest speaks again.

The womb.

“Oh Great God of our people! Listen to our prayer tonight! Lord of Power, of Serpents, of Balance and Strength! Our Lord of Uroboros, the one known as Wesker, we beseech You! Accept our sacrifice tonight and grant us Your mercy, bless us once more with Your protection and benevolence!” the priest begins, adopting a grave, solemn tone as he looks up to the skies. The dagger at your womb is steady and a threat that makes you afraid to breathe too deeply for fear of nicking your skin on its sharp tip. “We offer You this sinner's womb, so she may be of some use and start to repent for her misdeeds, so that You may get that which You have sought for so long! Hear our prayer!”

“Hear our prayer!” the villagers echo, a terrifying choir of sheep condemning you to death and such a cruel one at that.

Is that really all you have amounted to? A womb for a God you don't even believe in anymore? All your learning, all your hopes and dreams of one day getting out of here and forging your own path, of helping your mother have peace at least in her old age if the outset of her life was so rough and unmerciful, all of it for nothing? How is that fair? Why is your life worth less than theirs? Where is that God now, when you need him most?!

“I pray your afterlife is more fruitful than this life ever was, child,” your wretched executioner murmurs before he sinks the blade into the soft meat of your belly, spearing your womb with the sharp dagger in one swift plunge.

You cry out, choked and pained, as fire explodes in your abdomen and makes you wish for death if only it might bring respite from this agony. Your body wants to curl in on itself, to vainly attempt to hold your wounded flesh together, but the restraints on your limbs hold true and keep you trapped, spread out and immobile.

Your only salvation comes in the form of that same blade, upon being wrenched out of you without care and making blood gush out of you and stain that pure, white dress crimson, being lifted then to your throat and dragged across it until you gurgle wetly and thrash, uselessly, as your body fights death.

“Shh, now. It is alright. Just let go.”

The last face you see before your sight goes blurry and dark is the face of the priest. Your neck and abdomen burn from being forced open so brutally, but it is still nothing compared to the hatred that burns in you as your unwavering gaze locks accusingly on that face, as you wish for tenfold suffering upon him and every single one of these villagers.

You die with hatred in your heart and the wish for revenge.

You gasp awake like that too.

Your eyes shoot open, wide and confused and terrified, and you want to sit bolt upright but your limbs are still immobile. You whine and thrash around, a wounded animal desperate to free itself, and only stop when a firm, warm hand touches your cheek while a gentle voice calls out your name.

“Shhh, it's alright, little one. I'm here now, you're safe. Everything is alright.”

Confused but feeling oddly comforted, you snap your face towards the source of that touch, of that mesmerising voice, smooth like butter and just as rich, and find yourself trapped in a red-eyed gaze. Blonde lashes surround it, delicate and beautiful, and when you pan out to take in the rest of the face upon which those slitted eyes rest, you find an angel. A sharp nose, a soft, thin-lipped smile, a strong jaw. Blonde hair, swept back and immaculately held in place. Looking lower, you are greeted by clothes that seem to be made of the same obsidian as the night sky – a sky under which you've spent so many restless nights dreaming of a better future and hoping they wouldn't remain mere dreams.

“Who– Who are you?” you croak, your throat dry and raw from all the screaming you did from your house on the outskirts of the village to its center, and again just now, as you called out desperately in your fright and confusion.

That handsome face softens further and it makes your heart skip a beat. The hand on your cheek never falters either – just presses closer as a thumb rubs gently back and forth across your skin.

“I am your God, little one,” he answers simply. But that single sentence makes your heart drop down to your stomach, to your feet even. “Yes, the very same God to whom you have been sacrificed just now. I am sorry for your suffering, my dear. I wish I could have stepped in, but I am bound by laws more ancient than I when it comes to these things. I was unable to intervene until the ritual was over.”

For a long moment, you are speechless. You swallow dryly and look back at him, at this handsome creature who is, apparently, your God. The one whose religion you were born into, baptised in the name of by your own mother with no one there to bear witness to it, as was proper. The one you've hated your entire life and raged against, demanding explanation for your cruel lot in life, for your mother's, for all the injustice you've had to face. The one responsible for your death, in a roundabout way.

“I hate you,” you utter simply, voice hollow but certain.

He nods, your God.

“I know. That is your right. But you should know that I love you. You are my creation, one of my dearest, in fact.”

You scoff at his words and wrench your furious eyes away from him as you stare ahead into nothing.

“If that's how you treat your favourites, I shudder to think what the rest of the sheep get treated to.”

You don't expect the amused chuckle that filters through. Speaking so callously to a God, surely that should have consequences? Yet here you are – still cradled gently in his palm, unharmed. Safe.

“I've been helping you all your life,” he says, something you don't expect, and it makes you snap your eyes back to him to regard him with suspicion. “Yes, don't give me that look. Who do you think made sure you and your mother had enough to survive every fall and every summer when her garden bore fruit? Who do you think guided you to the church that first time under the cover of darkness so that you may educate yourself? Who fed your thirst for more and pushed you towards greatness?”

“You…?” you murmur in disbelief. All this time, while you were struggling, you blamed him for the struggle, while he was the sole reason you were alive to begin with?

He smiles and it's a devastating sight. He is utterly breathtaking, otherworldly in a way that you know could turn agonising and incomprehensible to the human mind in the span of a mere breath. Yet he gentles himself for you and only squeezes your cheek tighter for a moment.

“Me, darling. Your God. Your hated, yearned for, God.”

Your cheeks warm up in response to the slight callout. Because it's true, isn't it? Your entire life you've yearned for him, one way or another. You can remember the stories your mother used to tell you as a little girl, of a mighty God as beautiful as he is deadly, as ruthless as he is merciful, guiding everyone along and welcoming them in his sprawling Halls once death comes. Of a God who once took human form and called himself Albert Wesker and walked amongst you like a mortal, while he observed his worshippers and judged them worthy or unworthy, unleashing pestilence upon them to cull the flock, separate the weak from the strong.

You remember daydreaming of one day meeting him, of being such a good servant by honoring his tenets through your way of life that he would reveal himself once more just for you, just for a moment.

And you remember how those dreams soured as you aged, as sorrow and scarcity kept piling up, and how your yearning turned to bitter hatred, condemnation blazing in your soul as you stopped praying, stopped making offerings with your mother, stopped thinking of him altogether outside of those brief moments of outburst where you would wander in the fields late in the evening when no one was there to hear you scream your censure to the skies, falling to your knees and crying silently as you wondered aloud what you had done to earn such an unfair fate.

“I…”

You don't know what to say. Your heart is conflicted yet you do not pull away, don't try to put distance between you. Because it's true. Because you yearn for him, you always have.

“It's alright, little one. I forgive you. I've always known that your denunciation came from a place of hurt, not real hatred. You didn't know any better – and how could you?”

You nod, swallowing and letting your tongue poke out to wet your cracked lips, and only now look down at yourself to take stock of your body. You are dressed in that same white dress the villagers wrestled you into, still tied to a version of that same sacrificial altar. But it's stained with your blood now, forever altered and tainted. Blood spreads from your abdomen outwards, but it also stains the top of the dress, from where your throat bled freely and slithered down your chest, soaking into the pristine fabric.

The reminder of what has been done to you – that you are dead – sobers you quite rapidly and your eyes are blazing with hatred once more when you lift them up to meet your God's.

“I know,” he interrupts before you can speak, though you yourself don't know what you would have said, what words could ever encapsulate your burning hatred for those people who were content to ignore you all your life up until the moment your existence became convenient. “They will be dealt with now that the ritual is over with. I am not beholden to their requests simply because they made an offering – I will see to it that they suffer.”

“I want them dead,” you utter, full of feeling and a desperate need to see misery brought upon the entire village. “Every last one of them. Their children, their grandchildren, every friend and family member they have, every neighbour. I want that entire place to burn down to the symphony of their screams.” You look into those sanguine eyes, serpent-like, and bite your lip when his gaze softens. “Does that make me a bad person?”

He laughs, carefree and fond, and shakes his head as he leans over you until his forehead can touch yours. Your breath catches in your throat as you stare into his captivating eyes, so full of warmth for you it feels like some of it transfers to your chest through that point of contact, and you freeze up completely when his thumb travels down to your mouth and presses gently down on your bottom lip.

“You, my dear, are exquisite. You are perfection itself. Never doubt that, for I have created and shaped you into the person you are today. My darling white rose, full of thorns.”

He kisses you then, without warning, and it feels like your entire body lights up from the inside as his lips glide slowly against yours, caressing them so sensually, so precisely, like a snake slithering through the grass. You open up when his tongue traces the seam of your lips and sigh into it when that very same tongue invades your mouth and maps out every inch of its insides, leaving no corner untouched. When he pulls away, there is not a hair out of place, no blush high on his cheeks, no sign that the kiss affected him in any way – except for his eyes which are blazing more brightly than they were before and are staring down at you with a hunger you've never been on the receiving end of before.

In contrast, you know you must look a mess – hair in disarray, covered in blood, panting and blushing like a maiden, which you are.

“Perfect,” he echoes his earlier statement as he gives you a warm, proud smile that flusters you all over again. “Now, let's free you of these pesky ropes and get you cleaned up. You have been through enough today and I am sure you would appreciate a warm bath and a change of clothes.”

He wrinkles his nose at the state of your dress as he says it and with a flick of his fingers, the ropes fall away from your limbs and give you room to breathe at long last. You sit up with the help of his hand pulling you along but your gaze is busy stuck on the bottom of your dress, that red mess almost taunting you as you recall the priest's words.

“What did he mean? Before he stabbed me? The thing about my womb and giving you something you've been seeking?”

He meets your worried eyes with a complicated expression as his mouth twists with displeasure and you ready yourself to have your question brushed aside or ignored entirely when he surprises you. He helps you get to your feet properly before his left hand drifts down to your abdomen right over the spot the priest stabbed you. The touch is reverent and featherlight, not pressing forward but merely holding. His other hand is cradling yours in a gentlemanly hold.

“I have wished for a partner, someone to rule at my side and give me a family, for centuries. Being a God is a lonely affair, my dear,” he begins, almost self-deprecatingly as he gives you a soft look, his thumb caressing the back of your hand absently. “But I have yet to find someone suitable. I almost resigned myself to my lonely existence. That priest… There are tales of my desire spread sparsely throughout the mortal land. Few know of them, even fewer believe in them. He seemed to be under the impression that a sacrificial bride would please me enough to stop tormenting their village, though clearly, he was wrong.”

You look at him as he speaks, at the softness in his countenance that remains even as he speaks of this sorrowful desire of his, left unfulfilled and exploited by some of his ‘devout’, and your heart breaks for him. You know loneliness better than most – the agony of not being understood, of no other soul resonating with yours and meeting you halfway, of being stuck in your own head and with your own company because it's the only one decent enough to keep. It's strange, to think of this powerful being so absolute and so mighty, relating to you on any level, going through the same experiences you have.

And you also think of that kiss, spontaneous and unexplained, and wonder what it all means.

“Ah, I can see your brain working hard all the way from here, little one,” he observes amusedly, and his hand migrates from your belly to your face once more so he can tilt your head up to meet his gaze. “You are not tied to me in any way you do not wish for. Yes, I will admit without shame that I want you, that I crave you, that I think you could be the goddess I have been waiting for all along – not a born one, but one of my own making. But I will not force you. You are free to wander my Halls and make of your afterlife whatever you please.”

His words make your head spin – so much has changed in the span of a few hours. You went from peacefully if miserably going on about your daily life, to being dragged forcefully through the village and led to your demise by the people who should have protected you, to being here: dead yet existing, being cradled and kissed and propositioned by the God in whose name you were killed, the God you've loved and loathed in equal measure your entire life. It's a lot to wrap your head around.

“I don't know what to say,” you settle on in the end, going for honesty in the absence of clever words.

He smiles and pecks your forehead tenderly before he steps away from you and gently tugs on your arm to get you walking.

“You need not say anything now, my dear. You need rest and some time to come to terms with your new reality. Everything else can wait – you only have the rest of eternity to figure it out, after all.”

You huff out a laugh at his words, which seems to have been the intention all along judging by the pleased uptick in his lips, and follow along obediently as he guides you through a massive palace that you don't have the wherewithal to take in properly and appreciate as it rightfully deserves. He stops in front of a set of ornate doors, much fancier and more expensive looking than anything you've ever seen before, and opens them for you so you can step inside.

The room that greets you is easily twice as big as your entire childhood home and ten times as luxurious. Huge windows overlooking what looks to be the grounds, a sprawling bed with a canopy the likes of which you've only seen in illustrations, a spacious vanity made of solid, lacquered wood with a beautifully ornate mirror attached that you wouldn't have the first clue what to do with other than ogle yourself for hours – face paints and rouges have never been something you could afford or had much interest in.

“Oh, this is… It's too much,” you protest breathlessly as he leads you to the wide windows letting brilliant sunshine in and opens them to let some fresh air populate the quarters.

“Nonsense,” he rebuffs immediately. “You have earned an eternity of luxury and insouciance. I reward those who deserve it, dear heart, and you, more than most, deserve to be unburdened by worries and free to spend the rest of your days as you see fit. Starting with a spacious room all to yourself and, hopefully, a soothing bath. A servant will be by shortly to set things up for you and assist you. Get some rest and we will see each other again later.”

He steps away from you then, his touch leaving your skin entirely for the first time since you woke up here, and its absence leaves you feeling cold and unmoored but you push the feeling to the back of your mind. Still, you call out to him as you have one last pressing question to ask him before you part ways. He turns towards you with an expectant look, yet a patient one, and the sight makes your stomach flip.

“What should I call you?” you murmur softly. Behind you, the curtains sway gently in the pleasantly warm breeze coming in from outside and your dress sways with them, whipping around your body and making you feel so very exposed under his gentle gaze.

“Albert will suffice, little one.”

“Albert,” you repeat, rolling the name around on your tongue and finding that you like the shape of it, how it weighs on your tongue, how naturally it tumbles from your lips. “Alright, Albert. Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, my dear. None at all,” he murmurs, a quiet longing threading through his voice, then he finally steps outside and lets the heavy doors fall shut behind him, leaving you alone and in silence, adrift yet hopeful for a better existence, whatever shape that may end up taking. You wait for the promised servant to arrive and just breathe in the summer breeze, letting it caress your face and hair, letting it warm you up where Albert's tender touch left you freezing in its absence.

***

Your sleep is restless after the servant exits your quarters and bids you goodnight, even if the sun is still above the horizon line outside your window. You are exhausted, physically as well as mentally, and you yearn for the sweet embrace of nothingness that sleep brings. Yet it does not grant you your wish.

You toss and turn as foreign, wispy hands grab you, drag you, tear at you like hungry wolves, as you are pushed and stabbed repeatedly, your mother's anguished sobs and your own agonising screams echoing in your ears long after you gasp yourself awake.

You idle in bed for long hours, unable to go back to sleep yet unwilling to get up just yet – where would you even go if you got up, when you know nothing of this place at any rate? – and watch through your sheer curtains as dawn breaks and the sun rises high above the trees, shyly but steadily. You wonder what time it is in the mortal world – has your mother woken up yet or is it still night for her? Has she even gone to sleep, devastated as she must be at her only daughter being murdered so brutally for the sin of not having a father?

What will she do now on her own? You've been helping around the house and taking odd jobs here and there alongside her for several years now, just to take some of the strain off her shoulders while you waited for an opportune time to leave home in search of something better. Now, she's all alone. And she isn't getting any younger. Who will help her when her limbs stop working quite as well? Who will take care of her when she is frail and old and on her deathbed?

Tears spring to your eyes as you think of your poor mother and you lie there, sobbing, for long moments that stretch endlessly until a knock at your door wrenches you out of your grief. The same servant from the night before enters your room and greets you respectfully before she announces that she's here to get you ready for breakfast with her Lord. Your heart leaps at the mention of Albert and the prospect of seeing him again. You wipe your tears hastily, excusing your deplorable state as you climb out of bed, and let the girl wash you and dress you up for the day without much fuss, even though the sight and feel of the expensive, rich fabrics being draped over you makes you ever so slightly uncomfortable. You're not used to such luxury, though you can't deny that the dress feels heavenly against your skin, the material light and flowy and making you feel like a queen more than the peasant girl you've been your whole life.

The servant escorts you to the room where Albert takes his breakfast, leaving you at the entrance with a small curtsy before she scampers away towards the kitchens, as per her announcement. You step into the room properly and can't quite contain the small wondrous gasp that escapes you at the opulence of this room, the beauty of its grandiose decor, and yet the emptiness pervading every nook and cranny. This feels too big a room for just one person to take his meals in, day after day, with no companion to keep him engaged in conversation, no echo of a second set of cutlery filling the silent moments, and no warm presence close by to make the space feel just a little smaller.

Albert is already here when your eyes travel down the length of the seemingly endless dining table. He gets to his feet when he spots you and rushes to your side to greet you with a sweet kiss on your hand. You blush at the attention but you can't deny that it makes something warm and fuzzy bubble in your stomach – that young girl who used to go to sleep every night with a prayer on her lips is singing for joy inside you right now at his behaviour.

“Good morning, little one. Has your sleep been restful?”

You shake your head slightly, compelled to be honest with him for a reason you cannot decipher, and let yourself be led towards the head of the table, where Albert pulls up a chair for you at his right, pushing it forward until you're seated properly, before he takes his own seat at the head.

“I'm sorry to hear that, my dear. Is there anything I can do to put your mind at ease?” he asks, concern and genuine interest painting his features as he picks up a water jug and pours a measure in a crystal glass that he then hands over to you.

You take it gratefully and take a sip, glad to have something to wet your dehydrated throat with.

“I was wondering… Though it's alright if you can't do that, I don't expect special treatment or anything of the sort… It's just that…” you stammer, flustered to make such a big request yet dying to spit it out in the hopes that your wish might be granted. “My mother is all alone now without me. And I'm worried about her. My plan was always to look after her once I got a job in the city but with everything that happened yesterday… It's no longer possible.”

Albert listens to you intently before he takes your hand in his, grasping it firmly yet still so carefully. You've never been treated with such care, such gentleness, as if you're made of some delicate porcelain that is liable to shatter at the smallest wrongful handling. Your mother's rough, calloused hands are the only ones who've ever cradled you half as tenderly as Albert does.

“I will see to it that she is safe. I will send one of my most reliable soldiers to look after her until she passes away, you have my word,” he promises, looking intently into your eyes and keeping you trapped in his gaze.

You swallow, feeling parched all of a sudden in spite of the sip of water you've just had, and your tongue pokes out slowly to wet your lips. Albert's eyes track the movement shamelessly before they flicker back up to your gaze.

“Thank you.” That breathless voice that utters those words couldn't possibly belong to you and yet it does.

“Anything for you, dear heart. Anything at all.”

The entrance of the kitchen staff carrying platters of food prevents you from saying anything more – though you couldn't even begin to wonder what answer you could formulate in response to something like that being aimed at you, coming from a literal God of all beings – so you spend long minutes in silence while the servants lay down the breakfast dishes, fill up your goblet, and set the table properly. Several more moments pass in the same manner after their departure, while you eat slowly and try not to make it quite so obvious that this is the best, most decadent meal you've ever had.

You're not sure you succeed, but Albert's pleased look whenever you go for more of something warms you up enough to chase any discomfort away.

“Do you wish to rest some more after breakfast, little one? Or would you rather accompany me to your little village for a quick visit?”

“My village?” you question, voice lilting with emotion at the end, as your fork scrapes the plate unpleasantly for a moment due to your surprise, before you place it carefully down. “Whatever for?”

Albert shrugs carelessly, the mundane gesture looking foreign on him, and takes a sip of his pomegranate juice, freshly squeezed, as he assumes an unaffected air.

“Oh, nothing much. Just thought you might enjoy witnessing those screams you were telling me about. You said something about burning it all down, did you not?”

There is a fierce and fearsome glint lighting up his crimson eyes as he says it, looking at you over the rim of his goblet meaningfully, and it sends a shiver down your spine as you are reminded that this beautiful God before you is not just a pretty face giving you everything you could ever want if only you say the word – he is a warrior, first and foremost, and a ruler. There are as many tales of his mercy and benevolence as there are about his ruthlessness, you know that very well. Many have displeased him over the many centuries he's existed, many more have met his wrath.

You will never forget the painting you found hidden in the church's attic when you were a teenager, depicting Albert's swift retribution against a population of heretics who rose up against him many lifetimes ago: a lone God standing in the ruins of a battlefield, bathed in blood and the crimson flames of fires burning all around him, while corpses littered every inch of the earth at his feet.

You can see echoes of that fire and the rage that ignited them in his eyes now, but it doesn't frighten you. If anything, it comforts you and it stokes the flames of your own desire to seek vengeance, to watch those wretched, selfish bastards suffer double, triple what you suffered at their hands or their inaction.

“You would… let me join you?”

Once more, Albert reaches for your skin and touches it like you are precious, this time cradling your face and pulling you closer to him while he leans forward as well. His forehead touches yours, reminiscent of the gesture from yesterday, and you can't help but sigh contentedly at the position – it feels right, to sit here like this and share his space so intimately, your breaths mingling and your eyes meeting unwaveringly for a long moment.

“I would let you kill them with your bare hands and dance among their burning ashes if that is what you wish.”

The declaration makes your heart flutter and your pulse quicken. You don't know where you get the courage from nor what pushes you to do it, but between one blink and the next, you close the distance between your lips and his and clumsily try to kiss him the way he kissed you the day before. Albert lets you fumble for a moment, patient as he always seems to be with you, before he slides his hand into your hair and tips your head just right, before he takes over. Just like yesterday, the motion of his lips and the warm wetness of his tongue are an out of body experience in and of themselves and you lose yourself in the quiet, breathless bliss of sinking into him.

When you part ways, you feel hungry for more and have to stop yourself from chasing his lips for more kisses.

Albert grins at you in amusement and you have the annoying realisation that he knows exactly what you're thinking. You must be such an open book for him to read.

“So is that a ‘yes’ to my invitation, then, little one?” he questions smugly.

You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling and nod decisively, knowing that your twitching lips and blazing cheeks are giving you away nonetheless.

“Yes, Albert. I will accompany you. Sleep can wait, revenge cannot.”

His lips stretch into a wide grin full of too many teeth at your response and he parts from you entirely with one last touch as he caresses your cheek with the back of his fingers before going back to his breakfast.

“Excellently put, my dear.”

You part ways briefly once breakfast concludes, the girl you're starting to think might just be your personal servant once again making an appearance to escort you back to your quarters and get you changed into something more appropriate for the occasion.

“His Lordship has requested that I present this dress to you for your consideration. He suggested it might be fitting for the journey you are about to take?” the young girl pipes up once you have disrobed, holding up a sheer, white dress quite similar to the one you wore for your execution, but infinitely more elegant and expensive, made out of a fabric that flows like water between your fingers when you touch it, whispering against your skin like a summer breeze.

Yes, it would be fitting to wear this, wouldn't it?

“I quite agree with him. Let's go for it, then.”

You smile at the nervous girl, hoping to ease her discomfort at the apparently important task of looking after you that she's been given, and are gratified to see her shoulders loosening some as she returns your smile with a tiny, shaky one of her own. She makes quick work of getting the dress on your body and making sure it drapes properly over all your dips and curves, then takes care of your hair and applies some foreign pigment to your lips that paints them a rosy colour that seems to suit you well enough.

You thank her profoundly, grateful for her help in navigating all these luxuries you never thought you'd have access to, then bid her goodbye at the doors of your room where Albert is waiting for you.

The sight of him takes your breath away for just a moment: he is dressed all in black, as he seems to prefer, but this time around he is wearing clothes made of a material you think might be leather of some kind with boots and gloves that match. His sleeves are rolled up, giving you a perfect view of those toned forearms and prominent veins you think might be laced with some kind of aphrodisiac to get such a strong reaction out of your lower half. You want to take a bite out of him.

As if knowing where your thoughts have led you, Albert smirks as he approaches you, giving you an appreciative once over that doesn't help your uncomfortably inappropriate reaction in the slightest. He takes your hand in greeting yet again, pressing a kiss on the knuckles, then winds it around his arm as he starts leading you away.

“You are resplendent, my dear,” he compliments as you start walking together.

“Thank you,” you answer, blushing but feeling pleased with the compliment. “You look very handsome as well.”

The grin on his face at your words is almost boyish and it makes your heart pitter-patter in your chest. You want to sink into him again, you want to card your fingers through that perfect hair and feel it come undone under your touch, you want to ravish him and devour him whole and be his for the rest of eternity.

It feels strange, to want someone this much, to want them so badly so quickly. But it also feels right – Albert isn't just anybody; he is the reason you exist, the one who is responsible for your creation, the one who's nurtured you and guided you from afar your entire life. He is the one to whom you prayed for years and the one whom you yearned to return to even if your heart was too wounded to forgive what you perceived as a betrayal.

Falling into him now feels like the natural conclusion of a complicated dance that's been happening for years. The apogee of your mortal life.

“I'm glad you think so, little one. Have you thought any more about my words from yesterday? I do not mean to rush you, I am merely curious. I told you that you have the rest of eternity to think about them and make a decision, and I meant it.”

You know which words he means. They're the same ones you're currently contemplating, if in a roundabout way. You shrug, since you can't say you've thought much about them, what with your exhaustion, the restless sleep you barely got, and the worries for your poor mother that plagued you all morning, but you know what your answer will be. Maybe you knew it from the moment he told you of his loneliness.

The thought of Albert living out his continued immortality in the same state of solitude is like a dagger to the heart. But the thought of someone else other than you taking this spot at his side, walking arm in arm with him, trading compliments and smiles, sharing kisses at the breakfast table – that thought is infinitely more painful. You don't think you could survive eternity with the knowledge that you turned him down and he just moved on, found someone else, someone better, perhaps someone of noble origins who would match him and fit in better.

That vengeful fire in his eyes burns in yours as well, and the loneliness of being misunderstood and unique in a world of inferiors is something you know very well. You may not be his equal yet – you are no Goddess, you barely knew how to use the fancy cutlery that came with your breakfast this morning, and you have so much more to learn about the world and its vastness if you ever hope to match his wisdom – but you know that you can get there. That you want to get there.

Nobody could ever make you feel the things Albert coaxed out of you in less than a day if they were given a lifetime to accomplish it.

“I have,” you settle on saying, your fingers gripping his arm tighter for a moment before letting go, gently scratching up and down the skin and marvelling at the feel of his unnaturally warm flesh under your touch. “I think… I think I want you very much and I don't want to let you go. I don't know how much of a Goddess I can be, but for you, I would like to try.”

You look up at him through your lashes, awaiting his reaction, and it's not late to appear. Albert's eyes lock with yours, blazing and hungry and pleased, and the sight makes your knees go weak. To have a God – your God – look at you like this, a mere peasant girl who came from nothing and died on a sacrificial slab like nothing more than cattle… It's humbling and overwhelming both.

He halts you in your tracks, stopping in the middle of the path leading towards woods of some kind, from what you managed to glimpse briefly through a passing window earlier, and cups your face with both hands. His gloves are soft and worn as they touch your skin and while you wish you could feel his bare palms instead, you lean into this touch regardless. You can feel his warmth radiating through the leather.

“You will be magnificent, my dear. I will make it so,” he breathes, seemingly overcome by the emotions elicited by the mental image of your potential future conjured by his words. “My devoted little worshipper back where she belongs, soon to be my Queen.”

The breathlessness in his voice touches something deep in your heart. The ardour he harbours for you is evident and overwhelming and it makes you so glad that you accepted his offer if this is how he reacts to it. Frankly, you could wear a crown of thorns and be draped in rags so long as this man, this God, keeps looking at you like this.

You clutch his arms tightly for support when Albert brings your mouths together yet again. The feel of his lips and tongue is familiar to you by now, though no less intoxicating, and you sigh so very easily as he sweeps you off your feet with nothing more than a touch. He parts from you with great difficulty, you can tell, but you have places to be and revenge to enact, so kissing must wait until later.

Yet even as you resume your positions and keep walking to the edge of the grounds arm in arm, your heart beats in sync with the rhythm of his steps and his lips keep twitching upwards every time he steals a glance at you and finds your eyes already looking back at him.

The journey from here – wherever here is – to the mortal plane is quick and easy. One minute you're walking down the path with Albert and the next you're stepping into the field you whiled away the days in for years while you prayed and played, then raged and cried as the years passed you by. Seeing this special place that holds so many memories and conflicting feelings hits you harder than expected and Albert holds you close, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into him when the first hitch in your breath makes itself known.

“I'm alright,” you insist, wiping at your damp eyes stubbornly. You refused to cry last night when your neighbours killed you without an ounce of remorse and you refuse to cry now when you're still standing despite their best efforts to the contrary.

“It is okay for you not to be, my dear,” Albert retorts softly. He cards a gentle hand through your tresses and plants a quick kiss on your temple when you sniffle and pull him away from the field and towards the road that leads to the town square.

“Can we stop by my house and see my mother? I would like to say goodbye before…”

“Yes, of course. Lead the way, little one.”

With a tremulous inhale and an even shakier exhale, you straighten your back and tug Albert with you, your steps growing more eager the closer you get to the house you grew up in – a small cottage that your mother had to patch up every spring before the rains came in lest you wake up drowning in the middle of a storm. It's nothing more than a single room in which your mother crammed your entire lives – two cots for you to sleep in side by side, a stove to cook on and to warm you up at night, a small, wooden table she carved herself while pregnant with you (one leg is shorter than the others because you chewed on it as a baby when you were teething), but no chairs because you always ate on the floor, facing each other across the table and laughing together while you told each other tales about your day spent apart.

It's not much, you know that. Compared to Albert's sprawling grounds and endless corridors, your house resembles a small closet more than anything. But it's the place that sheltered you for years, that made you feel like you belonged even when everyone else cast you aside and labeled you an intruder.

But as you approach your childhood home with excited steps, that joy soon turns to dread when you see smoke rising high, pitch black and choking, from the direction of your mother's cottage.

“No…” you murmur, scared and angry and already devastated. Albert doesn't try to hold you back – if anything, he sweeps you into his arms before you can think to start sprinting and transports you in front of your house faster than you can blink. He places you back on your feet just as you catch sight of your mother, crying and thrashing in a villager’s hold, reaching uselessly towards what once was her home.

Your eyes dart to the burning cottage, the fire consuming a lifetime of memories as if they never meant anything to anyone at all, before they lock back on your mother's form.

“No! Please! I beg you! You took her from me and now you take my home? What's next, my life?!” she shrieks, anguished and destroyed, and it makes you cry before you even register the pain in your heart.

“Go to her, little one. Go on,” Albert urges quietly and it's his voice that makes your frozen limbs start moving at last. That's all you need before you're barrelling into the villager holding your mother, shoving him aside with the momentum of your sprint and the unexpectedness of it all, then turn to grasp your mother by the shoulders and look into her eyes.

“I'm alright, mom! I'm okay! Your little girl is fine!”

Your mother gasps your name, choking on a sob as her eyes spill bitter tears at the sight of the daughter she didn't even get to bury, standing before her, alive once more.

“Is it really you, my baby? Or has Oblivion come for me at last?”

“It's me, mommy, it really is,” you insist, getting choked up as well, and embrace her tightly when she breaks down completely at your words and gentle voice.

“Oh, my baby! My sweet baby girl! They took you from me! They killed you! I saw you lying there, so pale, so still, and they wouldn't let me have you! I couldn't bathe you and dress you up and lay you to rest, my baby! Three days, I begged, and for three days they turned me away!”

You cry harder, grieving yourself and the life that was stolen from you together with your mother at the same time as you feel her pain as if it was your own. To kill you so callously is one thing but for them to deny your mother the comfort of laying you to rest…

And now this, whatever this is.

“Mommy, what happened here? What's going on?”

You pull away from your mother just long enough to look at your old house over her shoulder – the fire is still crackling merrily and tearing down the pitiful structure with a vengeance.

“They came… They said they would no longer tolerate sinners in their midst… Said I was to be exiled and if I refused to leave, they would just give me the same fate they gave my daughter. Oh, my baby, the things they said about you, the names they called you! My sweet girl who never harmed no one,” your mother cries and grasps your face with weathered hands that have cradled you close and soothed you to sleep so many times as a young girl, mending clothes for you and patching up scrapes and bruises with the same gentle care regardless of which it was.

Your mother, sacrificed like you? Killed like you?

Your fiery, blazing eyes whip towards the pathetic excuse of a worm that had his hands on your mother a moment ago and you find him lying on the ground with Albert's boot firmly lodged in his neck, keeping him immobile.

“He's all yours, dearest. Though perhaps your mother's fragile state shouldn't be aggravated by your more… violent urges right now.”

You swallow and clench your fists at your side, nodding your head. You know he is right. You want to crush that pathetic worm beneath your heel but now… Now is not the time. Not yet.

“Who– Who is that, baby? How are you here?”

You turn back to your mother and wipe your tears away, then do the same for her. Your fingers tremble as they smooth away wrinkled skin darkened by years of hard work under the sun and you don't think about how this might be the last time you touch her like this. Instead, you take a deep breath and try to answer her.

“This is Albert, mommy. He… He is my everything. He saved me and now I am his, just like I was when I was a kid. Remember how you used to tell me stories about him every night before I went to bed? How you showed me the proper way to pray to him and give him my gifts of special rocks and pretty flowers?”

Your mother's eyes widen to the size of dinner plates as they swing from you to him, going back and forth several times before she settles her gaze back on your form. Her shaky hands trace your arms like she's checking to see if you're real, solid under her touch, and you smile tearfully at her disbelief.

“So you really are gone,” she murmurs, griefstricken and devastated. “My baby is gone from this world, ripped away before her time. But… Are you happy now? Does he make you happy, baby?”

You nod and smile, laughing wetly at your mother, the most religious person you've ever met, questioning if the God she's been worshipping her entire life is treating you right, as if he's just an ordinary man like any other.

“He does, mom. He really does,” you answer softly and you don't need to look at Albert to know that he is pleased to hear you say that, especially when he knows you would never lie to your mother, not about this. “But listen… You need to get out of here. Go to the next village over, take shelter there. It's not safe for you here.”

“Oh, but what will I do?! All my belongings are gone, all my savings, I have nothing left, baby! Nothing at all!”

“Go to the inn and ask for Jill Valentine,” Albert intervenes, firmly instructing your mother before she can descend into panicked hysterics. “She is a friend. She will see to your well-being.”

Jill Valentine. You wonder if this is the soldier he spoke of earlier this morning. You will have to ask him later.

“And you, sweet girl? Will I ever see you again?”

You look towards Albert for answers and the look he gives you is complicated. You can understand that the answer is equally so – perhaps, perhaps not. It will depend. You turn back to your mother and give her a sad smile, bending down to kiss her forehead and breathe her in for what might be the last time, then speak.

“I don't know. But even if this is the last time we see each other on this mortal plane, I will find you in the other and pester you so often you will wish to be separated from me again.”

“Oh, stop it, you foolish child. I could never tire of you,” she chides, but joins in your laughter as she always has before. She always said you have the kind of laugh that invites others to join in. You'll have to ask Albert if he agrees with her.

“We'll see,” you hum playfully. Your face is smiling but your heart aches already. Three days passed here for the one you spent with Albert. And your mother is already so worn and tired, overworked after a lifetime of struggles and raising a baby on her own. Something tells you that the next time you see her, she will be wandering Albert's Halls. You just hope the rest of her days here will be joyful and free of too much toil even without you here to look after her.

You say your goodbyes, teary and hard to get through, and watch her in silence for a long moment as she drags herself down the endless road and disappears around the bend, taking the path that will lead her to safety – to this Jill whom Albert sent to watch over her. When you turn back to face Albert properly since you got here, his face is soft with shared pain – your pain – and it makes you feel the slightest bit better.

But your mood turns dark once more as soon as you look down at the wiggling worm on the ground.

“Now, then. Do you happen to have a blade on you, Albert? I didn't quite like the way he was grabbing my mother earlier with those filthy hands of his.”

Albert smiles, a dark and dangerous thing, and reaches into one of the holsters around his shoulders to pull out a long, wicked blade. He spins it around until the hilt faces you and extends it in your direction.

“He's all yours, my dear.”

***

One by one, the villagers fall. You and Albert sweep through house after house like wrathful wraiths and rip them all to shreds. Albert is a thing of beauty, all lethal grace and flexibility, aided by wicked appendages that burst out of him at will and strangle, pierce, and, at times, decapitate, without mercy and with no hesitation. Your method is more ordinary and much less impressive – the blade he handed you before you killed a man in cold blood for the first time – but it gets the job done and it makes your blood sing. Every whimper and scream of pain, every plea for mercy, every bone crackling when Albert breaks their limbs in two – it's music, plain and simple. It's worship.

By the time you reach the church, nestled in the center of the village between the constable's office and the only store around for miles, the village is but a ruin. The streets are bathed in blood, house facades painted red and decorated with torn limbs and strewn guts, and a few abodes have caught fire and are busy spreading it around while you and Albert march through the main road with determination.

You find the priest huddling pathetically between church pews, praying. The sight makes you laugh, a cackle bursting out of your chest and echoing strangely in the empty place of worship that never had room for you and your mother while you were alive.

“You pray? Now? Who will hear your prayer, huh? Your God is here and he is not pleased,” you mock, baring your teeth at the priest when his terrified eyes alight upon you and widen in alarm. “You look like you've seen a ghost. Missed me?”

“You– You witch! You devil! You–”

Albert backhands the priest so hard his shoulder pops out of place when he collides with the wall painfully, screaming and groaning as he curls up into a pathetic little ball on the floor.

“Address your Goddess with respect or have your tongue cut out from your head.”

The priest flinches at the authoritative, booming voice that seems to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once. He lifts his heavy head to regard Albert and his eyes widen when he realises in whose presence he actually finds himself being. His lips tremble but no coherent words seem to push past his terrified throat. Pathetic.

“Tell me, little one. How did you dream of killing him? When he held you down and stripped you of your humanity, reducing you to a mere sacrifice in the name of prosperity, what did you fantasise about doing to him to repay you for the pain he put you through?” Albert asks in a voice like crushed velvet, low and deceptively silky. Like a noose slowly twisting itself around one's neck while they remain none the wiser, blissfully unaware of the danger until it has tightened around their throat and is squeezing the life out of them.

Your heart beats wildly in your chest – the adrenaline of all the slaughter you participated in with him, the remembrance of that clear picture you had as you came to terms with your impending death, and Albert's intoxicating presence at your side are all mixing in your heart and making you feel as if you're on the cusp of something great, something irreversible and monumental.

You lock eyes with Albert and lick your lips to wet them, delighting in the way his pupils dilate as they track the movement like a predator observing its prey. You shift your weight from foot to foot and let your hand close around the hilt of your blade a bit tighter as you recall your fantasy.

“I imagined ripping his heart out,” you answer breathily, hatred and bloodlust surging up in you like a bubbling cauldron liable to explode. “Smashing through his chest and gripping it tight between my fingers, ripping it right out while it still beat uselessly in my grasp.”

Albert's eyes gleam with approval and he tuts condescendingly down at the priest who whimpers pathetically in response to your words, begging for mercy.

“You claim to worship me. To know what I want. Well, then in that case, you should know exactly what I do to vermin who displease me,” Albert hisses, grabbing the priest by the collar and yanking him to his feet. The next words he speaks are aimed at you, even if his sanguine eyes are locked on the blubbering mess in his grasp. “It might not be your hand that carries the sentence this time around, dearest, but today I will be the instrument of your will and carry it out in your stead. Will that please my little Goddess?”

“Yes, my God. It will please me greatly,” you breathe, feeling lightheaded from the love and lust coursing through you as you watch the magnificence of Albert saying such dark, devoted things to you, as he has already killed in your name and is preparing to do so again. The lust for blood and for him intertwine so seamlessly that they become one and the same.

Without another word, Albert plunges his right hand through the priest's chest cavity, bone crunching and smashing to pieces under the force of his punch while the pitiful man chokes and gasps and struggles fruitlessly in Albert's hold. You watch with bated breath, completely enraptured and so turned on you could die again just from the sheer energy crackling through your body, as Albert's hand emerges from the priest's chest, the body hitting the floor without much ceremony, and presents the beating, bleeding heart to you like a trophy.

“Share his worthless heart with me, my dear, and let this be a symbol of our union and your transformation into the Goddess who will rule at my side for the rest of eternity,” Albert declares, his voice fervent and all-consuming as it wraps around you, before he brings the heart up to his mouth and bites a chunk out of it. The muscle rips easily under his sharp, inhuman teeth and you watch, entranced, as blood stains his chin and drips down his throat and onto his clothes, before he throws away the useless organ and approaches you with intent.

You open your mouth readily and accept Albert's kiss without restraint, taking the chewed up mass of bloody muscle and tissue that he transfers from his tongue onto yours, chewing it some more before you swallow it whole. As the raw meat settles in your stomach, Albert sweeps you into his arms, crushing you to him and staining you with even more blood from his gloved hands as he kisses you and roams your body like a starving man encountering a feast for the first time in months.

You moan when his hands grope your ass and lift you up until your legs wrap around his waist, then bury your fingers in his pristine hair, staining the perfect blonde pink and red with the blood covering your hands, while Albert carries you to the simple altar housed in the church erected in his name and lays you down reverently upon it.

“Here is my sacrifice,” he murmurs in between kisses, trailing blazing lips down your throat and into the valley between your breasts as he tears the once immaculate dress from your body without a second thought. “The only offering I have need of. The only lips out of which prayers should tumble.” He presses his bloody, gloved fingers to your lips and you take them into your mouth without thinking, swirling your tongue over the digits and between his fingers, sucking them clean and humming at the metallic taste.

“I belong to you forever,” you declare, moaning when his other hand grasps your bare chest and fondles your breasts hungrily one after the other. “My God, my saviour, my creator! Consume me like I have consumed the worm's heart, I am yours!”

Albert growls low in his throat and rips your bloody dress the rest of the way, exposing your naked body to his gaze in its entirety. You don't have time to be self-conscious – he parts your legs with just a look then plunges a finger into your pussy that has been gushing with arousal for him since you started your killing spree through the village. You throw your head back and moan at the pleasant intrusion, body relaxing for your God without issue.

Albert stretches you out as much as he can bare before he unzips his pants and pulls out his cock, heavy and leaking, flushed red at the tip and weeping for your cunt. You open your legs wider, biting your lip in anticipation, and a scream of pain-pleasure gets ripped out of you when he sinks into you without preamble and breaks your maidenhead with a guttural moan.

You wrap your arms around him, legs locking around his hips, and cling to Albert through every moan and whine ripped out of you as he rocks in and out of your body, distorting your insides to make room for him, altering your very essence with every pump of his cock into your cunt, every slap of skin against skin atop the altar meant for his worship, every pleasured moan bouncing off the walls and pews surrounding you.

“I have waited for you for eons, dear heart,” Albert murmurs against your neck. His arms are wound tight around your body, keeping you pressed close to his chest while he pounds into you, and yet still you wish to be closer. If you could crawl into his chest cavity and live there, you would. “I am never letting you go.”

“Never,” you echo, sobbing from the pleasure coursing through your veins and the overwhelming joy of knowing that you finally belong, that you are where you were always meant to be. “Chain me to your heart and I will never tug on the links.”

Albert pulls away far enough to look at your face and you gaze up at him through eyes blurred by tears, yet you can see the adoration in his gaze clear as day.

“My Goddess. Take my seed and bear me a child and complete your transformation,” he urges, his hips snapping harder and faster against yours, hitting the perfect spot inside you that makes your toes curl and your stomach jump on every thrust, and you nod fervently.

“Yes, yes, give it to me! My womb is yours, my life is yours, hollow out my weakness and fill me with your essence!”

Albert's lips crash into yours almost animalistically then, swallowing every moan ripped out of your mouth by his merciless cock, and it doesn't take long after that for him to freeze inside of you and fill you up with cum, his release warming you from the inside out as it settles in your cunt and, hopefully, reaches your womb successfully. Albert's fingers on your rosebud make quick work of your own pleasure and have you writhing under his body as you crest that hill and reach your peak with a shout and a single, loud exclamation of his name.

He peppers kisses everywhere he can reach as you lie there panting and trying to recover. You feel complete and satisfied – both your lust for carnage and the one for Albert (though the latter will need to be satisfied again and again and again, you fear, for it can never be truly sated for long now that you've had him once). You run your fingers through his hair, admiring how good he looks covered in blood, the blood stains on his face smeared everywhere by your hungry lips, and smile brightly when he pulls away from your breasts to look at you and take you in.

“You are incredible, little one. Just perfect.”

You blush at his words now that the heightened tension and energy of before has dissipated in the wake of your first joining with him, but he doesn't let you hide from him. He takes your jaw in one palm and strokes reverently at your skin, his thumb tracing over the seam of your lips before it halts, simply resting in the middle of your bottom lip as you look up at him curiously.

“We will have a celebration later. A public affair, so I can announce you as my Queen, so we can celebrate your ascension to godhood. You will never want for anything while you are at my side, my dear. Your happiness is my own and you will never know sadness for the rest of your days.”

Tears gather at your lash line in response to his words but you blink them away as you lean meaningfully into his hold and let a sigh escape you.

“Thank you,” you breathe and tighten your hold on his hair for a moment as you feel overcome with emotions, needing him as an anchor so you don't get swept away by the tidal wave. “I will dedicate the rest of eternity to making sure I am worthy of you.”

“You already are, little one. You already are,” Albert whispers softly, tenderly, then kisses you again as he heaves you up into his arms and stands up straight, your legs around his waist and his cock still buried in your cunt. He walks out of the church with you cradled in his arms like this, stepping on corpses, walking through flames, crushing everything under his boots as he carries you out of this doomed, ruined village that picked the wrong person to sacrifice in their God's name and takes you back to where you really belong.

You lay your head on his shoulder happily, clinging to him like you never want to let go, and let yourself be carried away. You are exactly where you want to be. You are home.

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