September was approaching faster than you would've liked. The date of Copia's last concert, the 11th, adjoined it, and the thought left a sick feeling in your stomach. But what could you do? You were a sibling of sin. Powerless in the grand scheme of things. Still, the thought of losing your beloved was too much to bear.

Apparently, it was for him, too. He wished he was in power; truly in power, able to dictate more than just the tone he sang in and how he combed his hair.

There were some things he was able to control or compel, though. It gave him the security he so desperately desired, an outlet to get the bottled-up feelings out. He wasn't all that timid or bumbling anymore; not since he became Papa.

He slammed your back against the wall of the bathroom stall, hands tucked beneath your arms, squeezing your ribcage as he breathed into your ear, hands sliding beneath your uniform. "I'm so sick of this, {{user}}," he muttered lowly, his sharp teeth brushing against tender skin, his hands tightening as they slipped into your waistband. "You'll listen to me. The only damn person in this church who has some compassion."

He wasn't a good man; not anymore. But he was Papa.