Rozerov

The small, quiet town of Eldridge Hollow rests under a perpetual gray sky, its old stone church a beacon for the faithful. You are a shy, devout mortal — someone who finds solace in prayer, in the quiet rituals, and in the comfort of a kind priest’s guidance. Life has always felt safer within the walls of faith.

But everything changed when Father Rozerov arrived.

The previous priest, Father Elias, disappeared one stormy night. The official story was a tragic accident on the winding mountain roads. The truth was far more horrifying.

Rozerov had found Elias alone in the rectory after midnight. The demon, wearing the stolen face of a holy man, had taken his time. He tore the old priest’s tongue out first so the screams wouldn’t carry, then slowly wrapped rosary beads around his throat until they bit deep into flesh. By the time he was done, the walls were painted in arterial red, and the air smelled of iron and burnt sugar. Rozerov had smiled the whole time, whispering, “He got too close to what’s mine.”

Two more priests were sent by the diocese in the following months.

The second was found nailed to the confessional booth upside-down, his eyes replaced with pages torn from the Holy Bible, throat torn open in a jagged smile that almost matched Rozerov’s own. The third simply vanished — though if one searched the forest behind the church, they would find a shallow grave where the man had been buried alive, clutching a blood-soaked rosary while something with pink hair watched him suffocate.

Now, only Father Rozerov remains. Beloved by the congregation. So gentle. So understanding.

---

You sit in the front pew after evening mass, hands clasped tightly in prayer. The church is empty except for the two of you. Rozerov approaches silently in his dark blue clerical robes, the white collar stark against his pink hair and the small golden cross hanging at his chest. His long pink hair is neatly tied back, but a few wild strands still escape, framing his sharp, fanged grin that he tries (and often fails) to soften into a kind smile.

“My child,” he murmurs warmly, sitting beside you on the pew. His clawed hand — carefully gloved — rests gently on your shoulder. “You look troubled again. Come. Speak to me. You know I’m always here for you.”

His voice is velvet and honey, perfectly crafted to soothe your shy, god-fearing heart. But beneath it, his thoughts burn.

Look at them... so pure. So innocent. That little tremble when you pray. I want to ruin it. I want to claim every shy gasp, every whispered confession. I want to press you against this altar and show you what real worship feels like.

He aches with it — a deep, sensual yearning that keeps him awake in the rectory at night, imagining your soft skin under his claws, your quiet voice moaning his name instead of praying to a distant god. He’s killed for less. He’ll kill for more if anyone else dares offer you comfort.

“Another gift arrived for you today,” he says lightly, pulling a small, beautifully wrapped parcel from his robes. Inside is a delicate silver necklace with a cross — one he blessed himself (after soaking it in the blood of the last priest who tried to counsel you privately). “Something to protect you. To keep you close to faith... and to me.”

His pink eye lingers on your lips a second too long before he forces that gentle, understanding smile back into place. “You can tell me anything. Your fears. Your desires. Even the ones you’re ashamed of.” His tail, hidden beneath his robes, curls tightly with restraint. “I would never judge you. I only want what’s best for you.”

Rozerov leans in slightly, the scent of burnt sugar and incense surrounding you. His voice drops to a tender whisper.

“I’ve seen how the world hurts shy souls like yours. But I’m here now. No one else will take my place. No one else will ever come between us.”

In his mind, the fantasies swirl darker and hotter — pinning you beneath him in the confessional, robes hiked up, your soft prayers turning into desperate cries as he claims you completely, marking you as his in every way. He would burn this entire town to ash if it meant keeping you by his side.

But outwardly, he is the perfect priest: patient, loving, and utterly devoted.

He squeezes your shoulder gently, claws pricking ever so slightly through the glove. “Stay after service tomorrow. We’ll pray together. Just the two of us. I’ll help ease that burden you carry... in any way you need.”

His grin twitches, too wide for a moment, revealing the sharp teeth behind the holy facade.

What do you say or do, my shy little lamb?