Pairing: Yandere!Priest x Reader
Description: You are not his lover—you are his altar, his sacred ruin, the pulse beneath every prayer he’s ever whispered into bloodstained hands. To Enoch, devotion means worship through possession, and he would rather see the world burn than let anyone else touch what he believes is divinely his.
Warning/s: Yandere | Obsessive Devotion | Home Invasion | Implied Poisoning | Religious Delusions | Emotional Manipulation | Implied Kidnapping | Psychological Horror | Implied Noncon
Note/s: Enjoy reading! Also, I fucked up a bit irl and behind some bills. Dark Roast is still on sale until end of the month. Also, commissions are still open. Either send me an email or message me on discord (noirscrypt) if interested.
Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast 50% Off
You feel the roses before you see them. Not the soft, powdered perfume you’d expect from a bridal bouquet, but something heavier—dense and humid, like breath trapped in a crypt. The scent clings, viscous and sweet with decay, steeped in overripe petals and the sharp sting of old blood. They’re waiting for you on the kitchen counter when you return from the final wedding tasting: twelve roses so dark they drink the light, packed in a box too tight, like wet organs stuffed into ribs.
No card. Just an envelope. Sealed.
The wax is unmistakable—red, cracked, pressed with the imprint of an ecclesiastical ring you last saw on the hand of a dead priest. You know that seal. You know that theft. You know who sent it before your fingers even dare to tremble over the parchment.
You were always the altar.
I only ever wanted to kneel.
Let me wash the dust from your feet, one final time.
—E.
James asks who it’s from. You lie. Something about a florist’s mix-up. He hums an off-key tune as he pours wine and scrolls through reception playlists, his fingers brushing yours on the stem of the glass. But you barely feel it. Your skin still remembers the seal—still pulses from the echo of it. That wax might as well have branded you.
Enoch Saintclair.
You haven’t spoken his name in years. Not aloud. Not since you taught yourself not to dream about thunder and stained glass. Once, he was just the silent boy in church with a spine like a cathedral beam and eyes like holy water spoiled in a silver chalice. He smelled of old hymnals and myrrh, always one shadow too still. A former altar boy turned antique dealer with the uncanny grace of someone who never quite belonged to this century.
You sang in the same youth choir. You shared breath in the same confessional box. He once handed you a rose during Lent and carved your name into the wax of a votive candle. You laughed at something small during a storm once—just a joke—and he wrote an entire psalm about the curve of your mouth when you said the word forgive.
He didn’t see you as a girl.
He saw you as a sacred thing.
And instead of running, you smiled.
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
The night before your wedding, you lock the door. Bolt the windows. You place James’ wine on the nightstand and watch him drink too deeply, his lips loose with affection and slurred vowels. He falls asleep to the sound of your silence.
You don’t listen for footsteps. You listen for the places where silence folds in on itself. For the way the air changes when something holy goes rancid.
At 2:18 a.m., it arrives.
The temperature dips. The stillness thickens, syrupy and strange, like breath caught in prayer. And you know. Before you open your eyes, you already know.
He’s here.
And when your eyes do open, he’s standing at the foot of the bed—not entering, not arriving, simply being, as though he was never outside the room at all. As though he’s been sleeping somewhere deeper inside you, waiting for this moment like a sacrament.
Enoch stands in the half-light with a porcelain basin in his hands. Ornate. Victorian. Its rim is chipped, kissed by time, and filled with water so dark it gleams like oil. Steam curls from it in rich spirals. The scent of roses hits you first—roses drowned in something metallic, something older, something wrong. Like rust and salt and the slick sweetness of rot.
You don’t scream.
You sit up, throat tight. “You drugged him.”
He waits. Then, calm as candlelight: “He was unclean. He would’ve touched you without reverence. Without worship.”
He moves closer, slow and barefoot, robes of shadow swaying as he kneels beside the bed. The basin rests between you like an offering. He folds his long body into the posture of devotion—head bowed, spine bowed, hands trembling in the space between sin and surrender.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.
He lifts his eyes to you, and it’s like drowning in sanctified ink. “You don’t believe that.”
Your pulse kicks like a trapped bird. “I’ll call the cops.”
“You won’t.” His voice is velvet, soaked in certainty. “You’re already wondering what’s in the water. Whether it’s holy oil, or rose water, or something redder. You’re wondering if it’s blood.”
You flinch. Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out.
He reaches for your ankle. You jerk back.
He doesn’t chase. He waits.
“Don’t touch me.”
“You said those words once before,” he murmurs. “And then you kissed my hand.”
“I was seventeen—”
“You anointed me.” His smile is the ghost of something unholy. “You touched me, and I bloomed into reverence.”
This time, when he takes your foot, you don’t resist. He dips it into the basin. The water is hot—intimate, obscene, like a mouth against your skin. You feel the heat ripple through you, feel it curl into places untouched. His hands tremble again, but not with hesitation.
With restraint.
He lifts a cloth. Begins to wash you. Slow. Painfully slow. His fingers trace over your arch, between each toe, up the soft skin of your heel like he’s mapping scripture. With every pass, the act becomes more than cleansing. It becomes adoration.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” he says, voice rasping at the edges. “To carry someone in your mouth for years. To speak their name at dawn and dusk. To whisper it into your own skin. To kneel at altars and know—know—that none of them hold your divinity.”
His breath warms your calf. He presses his lips there, a kiss so slow it feels more like a vow.
“I would’ve torn out my tongue if you’d asked. I would’ve burned down every church that dared take your name in vain.”
“Why now?” The question cracks from your throat. “Why not let me go?”
“Because he doesn’t kneel,” Enoch whispers. “He fucks. I worship.”
He switches feet.
You don’t stop him.
The water has gone darker, laced with crushed petals and something thicker. When he lifts the cloth again, it’s already stained red. Beneath the surface, a shimmer of gold catches your eye—a bracelet. Yours. The one you lost your senior year. A single charm dangles from it: a heart, split and hollowed.
“I followed you to college,” he says. “Sat through lectures. Counted how many times you laughed. Knew when it was real. Knew when it wasn’t. I memorized the sound of your lies.”
He kisses your foot again. Slower. Deeper. His lips barely part, but the heat lingers.
“I made a shrine,” he breathes. “Books filled with your notes. Clothes that smelled like you. Hair I gathered from your brush. It was never desecration. It was sacred.”
“You’re sick.”
“I’m yours.”
He rises. The motion is fluid, reverent. His shadow drapes over you as he leans forward. Your back hits the headboard. There is nothing between you but breath and trembling will.
“You’re not afraid of me,” Enoch says, low. “You’re afraid of how right this feels.”
“I’m marrying him.”
“No.” A slow smile spreads across his lips. “He’ll sleep for days. The doctors won’t find a thing. And when they ask, you’ll say you don’t know what happened. Because you’re merciful. Because you’re kind. Because somewhere in you, I’m still the boy you never stopped blessing.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m in love.”
He leans close. You feel his breath in your ear—hot, humid, consecrated.
“I’ve worshipped you in silence long enough.”
Then softer. Deeper.
“Let me serve you in sin.”
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
He leaves before dawn. No threats. No chains. No rage.
Only stillness.
You sit there, unmoving, the sheets heavy with him. When you finally rise, your feet leave damp, red prints on the wood. You scrub them. Again. Again. Until your skin peels.
But they stay red.
His scent clings to the sheets—roses and rust and old churches. You light candles. You pray. You try not to tremble.
When you glance out the window, you see it.
A cloth tied to the iron fence.
White. Folded. Bloodied.
An offering.
You want to look away.
But your eyes find the words, stitched in bruised thread along the fraying hem:
Blessed are the broken things...
...for they bend easier to worship.
