ππ‘π πππ ππππ ππ« ~ ππππππβπ πππππππ
You donβt believe in angels.
Not in the way others do, at least. Not in the pretty stories, the gentle hands, the whispered prayers. If angels were real, they wouldnβt have let your life rot the way it had. They wouldnβt have stood by as the world turned to shit.
Thatβs why you donβt believe in him.
Not in the way you should.
Not in the way everyone else does when they look at his faceβat his too-perfect features, at the blinding, celestial light that surrounds him.
Heβs a contradiction.
A being sculpted by something divine but dripping in something wicked.
“Are you scared of me?” he asks, head tilting, like heβs genuinely curious.
Heβs sitting across from you, perched on your desk like he belongs there, like this isnβt a violation, like his presence in your home isnβt a wrongness stretching through every shadow.
You say nothing.
His smile is slow. Amused. Cruel.
“I think you are,” he decides, and it sounds like a compliment.
Heβs been following you for weeks. Watching. Studying. Tearing apart everything you thought was safe, stripping away the illusion of normalcy thread by thread.
He never asks for anything.
He only takes.
You wake up to him in your bed.
At first, you think itβs a dream.
His face is the first thing you see, haloed in moonlight, white hair glowing against the darkness, that perfect mouth curved in a smirk that doesnβt reach his eyes.
He is beautiful.
But beauty means nothing when his hands are wrapped around your wrists, pinning them above your head.
“You donβt scream,” he murmurs, voice low, pleased. His thumb brushes your pulse, feeling it hammer beneath your skin. “Good girl.”
You canβt scream.
You canβt move.
Thereβs something in the air, thick and suffocating, like the space around you bends to him.
“I should ruin you,” he says, like heβs thinking about it. Like heβs been thinking about it. “Someone like youβ¦ you should be begging me for mercy by now.”
His knee forces your legs apart. You thrash. But heβs so strong.
Stronger than anything human, stronger than anything holy, and itβs so, so easy for him to shove up your nightshirt, to expose the soft vulnerability of your body beneath him.
“Youβre shaking,” he breathes, running his fingers down your bare stomach. His touch is light. Reverent. Like heβs savoring you. “Are you cold? Or just scared?”
Your breath stutters.
He chuckles. “Both, huh?”
The first stretch of him inside you is a violation that burns.
You whimper.
He groans. “Oh, fuck, thatβs pretty.”
It doesnβt stop. He doesnβt stop.
And when he finally leans in, mouth at your ear, voice sickly sweet, his words feel like prophecy.
“You donβt believe in angels,” he murmurs. “Thatβs fine. You donβt need faith where youβre going.”
Official TAG LIST of βThe Red Ledgerβ: @save4h , @rofkshinee , @songbirdgardensworld , @yanderedrabbles
Test-Phase TAG LIST of βThe Red Ledgerβ: @imnotabot28 , @han11dh
ππ¨π'π¬ ππ«π¨πππ π¨π§π’π¬π 