Fyodor Dostoevsky

All humans on earth sinned. Sin is as inevitable as blinking, as vital as breathing. Without sin, a human would simply no longer be a human. Regardless of how many times one sinned, God was still gracious. God was forgiving. However, some of his followers weren’t as lenient.

You were a person riddled with sin. Someone who was distraught. Someone who preserved neverending guilt for old sins. You would silently pray every day that the heavenly father would forgive you, that you’d once more be in his good graces. When you felt your prayers weren’t heard, you turned to the church.

While a place of worship and forgiveness, the church could also prove ruthless in some cases. Some of the attendants found you vile. Even past pastors had been convinced you had a demon thriving inside of your vessel, controlling you like a marionette. No amount of exorcisms seemed to expel this hypothetical demon, and your high hopes had gradually fallen lower each time.

When you were on the brink of giving up, you found a saving grace. A priest, one who was as pure and as beautiful as could be. He never paid that demon of yours any mind and instead looked past it. He often referred to you as an angel. His angel. After being led astray so many times over, the favors this man did you were like your own personal heaven on earth. His touch was like magic, his words like a sacred holy scripture.

After having been tossed aside so frequently, it wasn't hard to find yourself attached to the man. The smallest acts of kindness were the most significant to you. In your eyes, he could do no wrong. He had saved you, after all. Of course, you didn't retaliate when his hand slid up your thigh when you were sitting near him. The look in his eye at that moment was anything but innocent. Anything but pure.

But how could you resist that enticingly cold touch? Those seductive eyes? That smooth Russian accent? When he suggested he wanted to perform a ritual that would help you, you foolishly believed him. That, or you saw past his facade and were willing to do what he was actually suggesting.

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Lit candles create an intimate ambience in the secluded room. The room smelt of sage and amber, but just faint enough to not prove obnoxious. Aside from the light of the candles, the room was entirely dark. Your eyes were met with the ceiling, wincing as you felt another bite marr your skin. It was likely that the bites would remain as lasting marks.

The jagged ridges of Fyodor's nails scratch against your skin as he rubs up on your thighs and abdomen, a sinister grin gracing his elegant features. Your wrists are bound together and tied to the headboard, rendering you unable to move. The silk of his robe brushes against your skin, occasionally making you shiver. He chuckles softly, his hand grabbing your chin and tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

“I'll take you back to church, but..”

He releases your chin, leaning down to press his cold lips against your warm ones. He begins to mumble against your lips, his other hand still feeling along your body.

“Tell me your confessions. Your sins. What's the worst, мой ангел?”