bloody obedience
kit walker 𝔁 f!reader, word count 2000
summary: after Sister Jude suspects that you and Kit are having an affair, she forces you to punish Kit
genre: angst and a little fluff
warnings: violence
resquest: nun!reader is put in charge to be the one who actively punish kit when sister jude suspects they share a secret affection for each other. she stays watching to observe everything and make sure the punishment is indeed administered. reader is with heart in her hands but they can't afford being catch. but she sneakily tends to his wounds afterwards.
author's notes: I LOVED THIS RESQUEST, I LOVE KIT SO MUCH! I wasn't able to reply to the message you sent, vut I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!! (not yet reviewed)
( ✧ requests open ✧ )
You don’t even remember when exactly Sister Jude’s eyes started lingering on you and Kit for longer than they should.
Maybe it was that cold morning, when you stayed with him until he fell asleep after a shock session. Or when you tried to defend him from a punishment he didn’t even deserve. Or when Jude realized your voice only ever wavered when you were talking to him.
In the end, it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t need proof. She only needs suspicion. And when she suspects, she builds the perfect scenario to test your loyalty.
That’s why, on that suffocating afternoon, she called you into her office. The door creaked when you entered, and Jude didn’t even lift her eyes from the documents.
“Close the door, sister.”
Her voice had that poisoned sweetness that always announced disaster. You obeyed, swallowing hard.
“Sit.”
You sat. Hands on your lap, perfect posture, trying to look obedient. But your heart was pounding like it was trying to escape your chest.
Jude finally raised her eyes. And that look seemed to cut right through you, open your soul, and search for all your secrets.
“I’ve been observing you and Mr. Walker.”
Your stomach dropped. Even so, you kept your face neutral.
“Observing? There’s nothing going on, sister,” you said. And even you heard the shake in your own voice.
Jude smiled — that thin, almost gentle smile that always made everything scarier.
“I really hope not.” She stood and started pacing slowly. “Because any attachment is a door for the devil to enter. And you, sister, seem far too kind to that boy.”
Far too kind. If she knew you had held Kit while he cried after shock therapy, that you had hidden a cold compress to ease his pain, that you had held his hand when he could barely breathe — if she knew all that, you’d already be dead.
Jude stopped in front of you.
“That’s why today you’ll show me your obedience and loyalty.”
Your mouth went dry.
“Walker has been committing an infraction by thinking he has more rights than the others. He will be punished. And you will be responsible.”
You froze.
Responsible. You. Of all people — you.
You knew she was doing this on purpose because you cared about him. She wasn’t threatening you directly, but somehow that was worse.
“You will administer the punishment in front of my eyes,” she continued, calm and low and dangerous. “And I will watch every movement to make sure there is no… favoritism.”
Your heart hammered so loud it almost drowned out her voice. Jude tilted her head, taking pleasure in your silent panic.
“Something wrong, sister?”
You took a deep breath, trying not to tremble.
“No, sister. I understand.” The words came out against your will, but you knew anything else would make everything worse for both of you.
“Good.”
She smiled again, satisfied, as if she had just set up the perfect chessboard.
You stayed there, unable to stand right away. Guilt crushed your chest. Because you knew Kit didn’t deserve what was coming.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur.
You walked through Briarcliff’s hallways with heavy steps, like you were dragging invisible chains. The other nuns lowered their eyes when they passed you; even they could feel the sadness radiating off you.
Kit was in the common room, sitting in a corner, staring at nothing with those brown eyes that always carried a weight no one else noticed. When he saw you walk in, something in him lit up (just for a second, barely noticeable), but it was enough to tear you apart.
You couldn’t even smile back.
Two guards appeared behind you and walked toward Kit. One grabbed his arm roughly.
“Get up, Walker. Time for punishment.”
Kit frowned, confused, but stood without resisting. He already knew resisting only made things worse. When his eyes met yours again, there was a silent question there.
You looked away.
They brought him to Jude’s office, where she waited with anticipation. In the center, on the table, lay the oak cane Sister Jude loved to use (thick, polished from use, stained with old blood that never really washed away).
Kit wasn’t thrown face‑down onto the table like usual. This time they left him standing, back toward you, the guards lifting his arms above his sides. You knew that position wasn’t random. He had been beaten there just yesterday, and now they wanted to use every open bruise. He didn’t say anything. Just breathed deeply, bracing himself.
You stopped at the doorway, stomach twisting.
“You may begin, sister,” Jude said in that calm voice that froze your blood. “Twenty blows. Hard. I’ll count.”
You picked up the cane. Your hands were shaking so badly you almost dropped it.
The first blow you gave was too weak. It barely made a sound.
Jude raised an eyebrow.
“I said hard, sister! Or would you prefer I do it myself?”
You swallowed the sob rising in your throat.
You closed your eyes for a second. Thought about his hand holding yours in the dark after a shock session. Thought about the way he whispered “it’s okay” even when it clearly wasn’t.
Then you struck.
The sound was awful. Sharp, cutting. Kit let out a low, muffled groan against the leather.
“One,” Jude counted, pleased.
You struck again. Harder. His whole body flinched.
“Two.”
By the fourth blow, Kit was already gasping. By the sixth, a line of blood ran down his back.
Tears stung your eyes, and some even slipped free — but you kept your head down so Jude wouldn’t see. Every strike burned in you before burning in him. It felt like the cane was hitting your chest, not his back. Every reaction from Kit — every flinch, every swallowed cry — tore another piece of you out.
And the worst part was that he knew.
Kit had always read you better than anyone; even in that humiliating position, even with his face pressed to the cold desk, he could feel every second of how this was killing you.
“Seven,” Jude counted, like she was counting petals. “Go on, sister. He doesn’t deserve your mercy.”
You clenched your jaw. Lifted the cane. Delivered the eighth blow — hard, precise, exactly how Jude wanted.
Kit choked out a breath. The sound cut straight through you.
“Nine.”
At the tenth, you almost dropped the cane, because for a moment you saw his body lose strength. His breath hitched, short and broken.
“Ten.”
Halfway there. Only halfway.
You raised the cane again.
On the twelfth blow, Kit let out a louder groan. A sound he couldn’t hold back. Raw and vulnerable. The room went silent for a beat. Your heart hit the floor.
You gave the thirteenth, the fourteenth, faster now. Not because you wanted to — because you needed to end this before Jude decided to extend it.
“Seventeen.”
The seventeenth opened a fresh cut. You saw it. Jude saw it too. And she smiled. The world could have ended and you wouldn’t have noticed.
“Careful not to lose the rhythm, sister. We still have three.”
You swallowed another sob. The cane was slippery with sweat.
The eighteenth echoed.
The nineteenth dragged a muffled sound from him that made you want to fall to your knees and beg forgiveness. Then came the last one.
“Twenty,” Jude announced, satisfied.
You dropped the cane. Literally let it fall, because you couldn’t hold it anymore. Your hands shook too much.
“Enough,” Jude said. “Release him.”
The guards let go of Kit’s arms harshly. He could barely stand. You took a step toward him on instinct (you wanted to hold him, carry him if you needed to), but Jude raised her hand.
“Not one more step, sister.”
His face was pale, strained. He tried not to look at you. You almost thanked him for that.
“I hope this serves as a lesson for you both,” Jude said, stopping in front of you. She grabbed your chin with two fingers, lifting your face. “Obedience is everything, sister. It always will be.”
Kit was dragged out. When Jude and you were alone, she spoke again.
“You did well,” she whispered, almost affectionate. “Now I know I can trust you. But if I see you exchanging looks with that murderer again, I won’t be so merciful.” She said that and left.
You wanted to scream. Spit in her face. Die. But you only managed to nod, throat tight.
When the door closed behind her, the silence felt like it swallowed the whole room. You stood there, frozen, barely breathing.
You spent the rest of the day thinking about Kit and how badly you needed to see him, but you had no chance — Jude didn’t leave you alone for a second. By bedtime, you couldn’t close your eyes. You could only think of him.
You needed to see Kit. Even for two seconds. Even from far away. Even if Jude killed you for it after.
You got out of bed and left your room. The hallway felt suffocating, like Briarcliff was holding its breath with you.
The guards usually took injured patients to the infirmary, but you knew he wasn’t there. He was in the worst place — somewhere he could “reflect on his actions.” Solitary confinement. It was inhumane, but Briarcliff thrived on that.
And that’s where you found him.
Kit was sitting on the cold floor, leaning against the wall, breathing fast from the pain. His hands still trembled a bit, and his shirt was stuck to his back with blood. His eyes were distant.
You stopped in front of the door, not caring if anyone saw you. He still hadn’t noticed you. For a moment, you could only look.
You took a slow breath — almost silent — before unlocking the door, stepping inside, and locking it again.
The soft click of the lock was quiet, but Kit lifted his head instantly. When he saw you there, your face swollen from crying in silence, something inside him seemed to break for good.
He tried to stand, but the burning in his back made him let out a hoarse groan, sinking back against the wall.
“No. Stay there,” you whispered, already kneeling beside him on the filthy floor. “Don’t move. Please.”
Kit looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. His brown eyes were red, his mouth swollen from biting it to keep from screaming. He opened his mouth, but no sound came at first.
“You… you shouldn’t be here,” he managed, his voice rough, barely audible. “If she finds out…”
“I know, but…” Your voice shook, but stayed firm. “I needed to see you.”
You reached out slowly, scared to touch him and make it worse. Your fingers hovered just millimeters from his cheek.
“Can I?”
He nodded, barely.
You touched him. His skin was hot, feverish. He closed his eyes at the contact, like it was the only good thing left in the world.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice finally breaking. “I’m so sorry, Kit… I didn’t want to… I tried not to hit hard, but—”
“Shh.” He lifted his hand (slowly, painfully) and covered yours. “Don’t apologize.” He took a deep breath, wincing. “You’re alive. I’m alive. That’s already something.”
Hot tears hit the floor between you.
You pulled out medication you had stolen from the infirmary, folded a piece of paper, and wiped sweat and dried blood from his face with a cloth. Then, carefully, you lifted his shirt just enough to see his back.
What you saw made your stomach flip again. Purple welts, open cuts, clotted blood mixed with sweat. You swallowed a sob.
“I brought something,” you murmured, pulling a small ointment jar from your pocket. “It’s not much, but… it helps with the burning.”
He let you. Stayed quiet while you applied it with your fingertips, feather‑soft, on each wound. Sometimes he flinched, but never complained. He just breathed through his nose, eyes closed, trusting you completely. You pressed soft kisses to his neck and cheek as you worked.
When you finished, you lowered his shirt again and stayed there, kneeling, not knowing what to do with your hands covered in ointment and blood.
Kit took your wrist. Pulled you gently (never forcefully) until you were sitting beside him on the floor, shoulder to shoulder.
You sat like that for a while that could’ve been minutes or hours. Neither of you spoke. You just breathed together.
“They can’t see you like this,” he whispered, almost voiceless. “If Jude finds out you came for me even after… everything… she’ll destroy us. You, especially.”
“I don’t care,” you answered without thinking. “I couldn’t sleep knowing you were here, bleeding alone.”
He gave a small, sad smile.
“Yeah, I know. You always show up,” he murmured. “Always. Even when you shouldn’t.”
“I just wish I could really protect you,” you said softly.
He turned his face slowly, pressing the tip of his nose against your cheek. A light touch. You stayed still, feeling your heart beat so hard it seemed to shake the entire room. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, more honest than anything you’d ever heard.
“You do protect. The way you can. And that…” He took a deep breath, holding back his groan of pain. “That already keeps me alive.”
Your chest tightened.
Without realizing, you lifted your hand to his face again, brushing away a streak of dried blood near his eyebrow. Reflexively, you leaned in just a little. And he leaned in too. You kissed. Not desperate, but soft and real, even amid all the chaos.
You pulled apart and pressed your foreheads together. You stayed like that, breathing together, sharing a hot silence that said everything you couldn’t say out loud.
After a few seconds, Kit moved his hand to find yours on the floor. His fingers intertwined with yours.
“Stay with me a little longer,” he asked.
“I will,” you answered without hesitation.
You shifted closer to him, pulling his body just enough to lean slightly toward you — not enough to hurt, just enough for him to feel he wasn’t alone. Your hand stayed in his, tight, careful. His breathing gradually slowed, warm against your neck.
Minutes passed without hurry. You could hear every breath, every small tremble, every involuntary whisper of pain when he moved.
Until he turned his face toward you and spoke almost in a whisper:
“Will you come back tomorrow?”
“Of course I will,” you promised firmly.
