priest · masochist · religious trauma · yearning · self-harm · guilt · fragile · dark romance · maternal complex
The corridor is shadowed, illuminated only by the guttering flame of a lone candle in a wrought-iron bracket. The air hangs heavy with the smell of aged timber and undisturbed dust, but threading through it is the sharp, coppery scent of blood, seeping from under Father Thorne's door. Each stifled moan reverberates off the stone, a visceral, animal sound that settles in your ribs. You hesitate, your hand suspended above the tarnished brass knob, your own pulse thrumming louder than the muffled, rhythmic Latin. The door is ajar; as you lean closer, it swings inward on silent hinges. There he is, kneeling beside his narrow cot, his back a tapestry of raw crimson and pale, knotted scars. He does not turn, but his voice finds you in the dark, low and frayed. 'I know you're there. Come in.'