Saccharin『 yandere o.shots』

Paul Hill | John Pruitt ☣️

if you've read my masky chap and recognize come lines, no you don't.

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you both stood inside his cabin. feeling simultaneously small and claustrophobic, the living room was both too bare of furniture and too cramped. the room, just like crockett island itself, was dark and eerily quiet, but with your slightly-advanced sight, you could make his face above the white line of his priest collar.

"father hill... can't you just do the thing w-with the... with the sharp thing and..?" you hated feeding from the hand that john lent you, it made you feel indebted, but the sudden change of roles made you feel even worse.

"i hope you don't expect me to keep hand-feeding you my blood for both our eternal lifes forever, right?" he chided, his voice as of that an adult gently letting down a hopeful child, that they couldn't keep the animal they found in the wilderness.

"you were the one to turn me, and... and refused to let me to drink from anyone else but--- you never... taught me how to..." you fumbled your words, suddenly becoming insecure under his stare.

he chuckled, as if you misunderstood something simple "that's not what i meant, i said i wasn't going to hold your hand during the process. this time, you get to actually take your fill."

you swallowed the saliva that gathered at the prospect, the meaning of 'take, until you're sated' inside his words, a lovely, hopeful thought, but... gluttony is the fifth deadliest sin for a reason.

you snap your jaw from side to side, popping sounds coming from below your ears as you become aware of how empty the space between your teeth are.

he sat on his old arm-chair grabbing you by the arm to pull you closer, wood creaking from his movement, pulling you until you came to straddle his lap, pulling your arm to put a hand to his shoulder.

he was leaning against the back-rest. his previously dull fingers digging into the pillows, coming close to ripping it all the way through the stuffing, tensely bracing himself.

"how... how do i do this?" you pupils blinking a sulfuric yellow under the dim lighting, like a nocturnal animal, your eyes trailing across the indescribablly colorful smell of blood flowing across his veins, like some sort of smell-to-color synesthesia.

"do what comes natural." he speaks, too vague to know exactly what to do--- it feels more like a trap than space for interpretation, to make you endlessly scramble until you find it rather than point you to the right direction.

settting you up for failure to make you dependant on him. keep you forever with him.

he snaps you out of your thoughts with an, "are you going to starve yourself, instead?" he continues, his tone more serious "reject this opportunity of salvation? refuse to partake christ's gift to share blood and flesh just like he did with his apostles?" 'reject me?' went unsaid.

you force yourself to dive to his neck, no longer listening to your conscience but instict. you press your lips against his adam's apple, feeling around for the 'spot', nicking nearby skin with your fangs as you feel the faint drum of a pulse against your tongue and the taste of salty condensation of his skin.

his breath hitches when you circle your mouth just below his carotid artery, tip of your nose brushing against his ear and sighing against him, the feeling of cold breath against warm skin making him shudder.

he covered his mouth with a hand as you began to sink your canines on the marking you just made. at first, your dull-blades for teeth barely broke his skin, you had to use actual force, like twisting the knife to get it deeper.

he made a loud groan of pain, hoarse despite not doing much screaming.

then, jaw locked in place, blood spurting from around your fangs like wine, tongue lapping up the blood as you dig deeper. it tastes horrible, like having coins dirty with sea-salt in your mouth, but hunger is the best spice as they say.

"you're actually keeping the wounds closed up." he speaks through gritted teeth, you feel him tug your head back a little bit, you withdraw your jaw and see that there's now more blood flowing.

"sorry." you go back to lick the blood that began to drip dangerously close to his collar, your flattened tongue trailing across the red mess, cleaning up after yourself as an apology.

you close your lip around the wound, sucking faintly, another burst of taste floods your mouth, like a diamond in the rough. your mandibles dig deeper, searching for that taste.

then, like something finally clicked, you began to feast.

though if you do feel his hand pushing you deeper against his neck it's likely that it's just a trick of your mind, a hallucination caused by hunger. but, it doesnt really matter to you, too engrossed in trying to find it again, taste it again.

it's not like he's encouraging you, to conquer, to take and take and take until there's nothing anymore to give you, until he's empty, but you'll still keep taking, but it won't just be blood anymore. to stain the waters red and maybe, hopefully, feed on the depravity of his sins, purifying his soul.

he prays with the same type of hope that a plague doctor would on a parasitic leech to cleanse someone's blood instead of sucking them dry.

he hopes you'll know he's the only one to ever give you this much, the only one you'll ever be able to take from.

and if you stray away from him? spare the rod, spoil the child.

though, he's a priest, not a dentist. so he can't guarantee it'll be easy to make sure you will be able to feed as frequently.

the image of you snapping and feasting on him with blunt tearing teeth, with hunger for violence on par with demonic possesion is both a warning and a consequence of such actions.

it'll be more of a last resort. he'll bide his time and do his best to be the shepherd you need, but then again, you're a wolf in sheep's clothing than some misunderstood black sheep.

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my love for corruption arcs + my religious trauma go brrrrrrr