In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

In the glow of the candle lit church, you sit perched on your knees in the aisles—your hand going from forehead, to chest, and to shoulders—your lips forming around the prayer; your faith clear. Your head— bowed down, eyes closed as you began to pray.

Well, weren’t you something, little lamb.

In the shadows beyond the candles, and in the creak of the floorboards—something that would make God himself shudder in fear lurked. He had been watching you for a while, and fuck, you didn’t disappoint. He craved you—deeply. His fingers flexed as if to restrain himself, his jaw feathering. He knew when you’d be in the church, spouting those bullshit vows to Christ and singing the hymns. You were the softest sin; the purest of prayers; with scripture swollen lips and devoted doe eyes—God, the thoughts were anything but holy. He could feel his stomach growl—a hunger deep inside where his soul resides; that only you could satiate. There was something different about you. Special. He craved to corrupt your sweet innocence; rip you apart and taste you from the inside out. Did you moan as pretty as you sounded when you called out to God? He could feel himself aching at the thought. He needed to know you. He needed to have you. He had so many questions, too many, even. Why did your face falter when you first became a nun? Why did you only pray at night?

He remembered the day you became a nun clearly; saw the way your brow furrowed—the slight tremble in your tone. The priest didn’t notice it, but he did. He saw it when you looked over your shoulder, as if you knew something—someone was watching. And you were right. There was someone watching. 
And he was watching you right now.

Sukuna’s red eyes singled in on you; his clothes tattered by centuries of lurking in the shadows, he sat perched upon the top of the church—looking in through the window above. Shadows rippled along him and his markings. As you stayed kneeling—he relished in that view. He’d have you kneeling soon enough. He had to bite back a groan at the thought, physically having to bite at his knuckles—fangs aching to dig into you.