𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒 | [𝐁𝐋]

第一 | ONE.

( warnings: blood, religious imagery, violence, yandere behavior, sin, purity, discrimination, drugs and alcohol, addiction, unhealthy coping mechanisms, sexual assault, mentioned self harm, graphic scenes, extreme self hate. )

In general, warnings will be included at the start of every chapter if necessary. Please tell me if I leave anything out. The content inside might be sensitive to some so viewer discretion is advised.

Regarding the religious aspect, it is heavily based on Christianity, but it's written to be more of a cult than an actual religion. Only certain aspects are similar to Christianity, but the majority of it is made up and written to be slightly more diabolical.

This chapter was written with the help of a friend yvessaint. This is the sequel to twisted faith and can be extremely triggering to some. READ WITH CAUTION. Context will be given so that this can be read as a standalone book.

Comment for motivation!

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To Y/n, touches smelt like anesthesia and they felt like fire. Every touch from his father crashed down on him like scorching embers ready for ruin —every touch hurt, each blow from his father left reddening splotches that marred his skin and seeped into his bones.

Touch had always been unsettling. It had made Y/n feel hollow inside when he had realized that every person that had popped up in his life had left some sort of indelible mark on him. Whether it was Lucas, or his mother, his father—or Anton...

Because God, it had hurt when Y/n could feel his flesh weeping underneath his bruised skin, when his father had come home with that acetic smell of alcohol on his shirt-collar. It hurt even more, on days when the alcohol marked him alongside his father's fists, leaving behind a bitter odor that Y/n just couldn't scrub off his skin. No matter how long he spent scrubbing at the beer-sodden redness of his wounds, he could never truly rid himself of it.

The stench of alcohol on his skin felt as hourly as the tolling of a Church bell; Every time Y/n smelt its raw smell on his bruises, his brain rattled in his skull, and he would find himself back in another humid night – being beaten by his father within an inch of his life, all while he prayed to some God that he knew couldn't save him.

It was ironic that even in another world, God, in all his ideals, would turn a blind eye to him.

Whether he had ignored Y/n's desperate cries—begging him to tear Anton away from him, or whether it was during his father's beatings, when bruises had blossomed a violent shade of purple on his skin—

Y/n never felt the love of God, not even once. Even when his throat was raw from calling for him.

After every beating, he would rummage through the drawers of the medicine cabinets, grabbing at any bottle of expired painkillers he could find, using medicinal creams that smelt like ammonia and tree bark alike. He downed the painkillers until his breath reeked doubly more bitter than alcohol. He layered his wounds with that medicinal cream until his skin permanently shared the crisp smell of anesthesia.

His mother had never spared him either. She would squeeze Y/n's wounds, pinching the flesh till his skin broke; she'd sink the half-moons of her long fingernails into him, and that achingly hot pain from his mother's touch forced him to scream. Y/n would sob for her to stop, and if he were lucky that day, she would. But only because his mother thought that his loud wails would have alarmed the neighbors.

And now everytime his skin grazed another, Y/n felt the touch of searing fire, and he could barely fathom it. Touch had never been something that Y/n sought out; it had never been something he had longed for, it wasn't even something he knew could feel unlike fire.