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“God—”
Father Jason Todd smells of frankincense and myrrh and the faint, metallic tang of gun oil; devotion mixed with danger, with intention. The same intention layered carefully between his skin and the cassock draped over it, doing nothing to obscure the wanton desire plain on his face—the sin—as he rests splayed across the small couch in the church’s office. Talon watches, mesmerized, as red light from the stained glass window spills down his vulnerable throat.
The cassock hangs just enough off his frame to reveal faint scars along his hips, half-healed bites pressed by Talon’s own teeth—collarbone, chest, stomach—promises carved into his skin. Promises of its own intention with the man.
Intentions it fulfills now: its strong fingers, normally sharp enough to ribbon flesh, are tempered, blunted for the creature below it. Just for tonight, just for its willing prey—a mark, but not its usual kind. They pump in and out of the man’s clenching cunt, coaxing the tight muscles open, feeling the quiver, the tremble, the throbbing pulse of blood rushing forth at its ministrations. A heartbeat it can feel just as easily as if it were Father Todd’s heart in its hand: a living rhythm that calls to it, sharpens it, grounds it in the exquisite present. A mirror of the pulse at Father Todd’s neck as he bears down, a small, wet gasp leaving him.
“God—” Father Todd moans again, the word breaking, useless here.
“Your god is not here now,” Talon chides, velvet-wrapped threat, as it slides another finger in—four now, slick, obscene. Its fingers work deeper, soaked and shining, and for the briefest instant a thought flickers—could it? Could Talon hollow the priest out, wear him like a glove, turn those screams into something sharp enough to kill?
Not tonight. Not yet.
Tonight is for other things.
“You should instead be crying out the name of the creature who gives you your pleasure.”
Father Todd reacts beautifully in his acquiescence. His hips stutter and roll, chasing, needy, greedy–-burning—for the touch, for the attention, for this. Those same lips that are used to say the Lord’s sacrament now spilling filth: “Ah—fuck—fuck me, Talon—please—God, I need it—”
“Yes,” Talon praises, it knows just how far reward can go, “Such a foul mouth for a man of God.” Its fingers curl with intent, finding that ball of nerves that makes Father Todd keen, “Come. Let me drag you to your god through sin.”
Despite Father Todd’s bulk, he is easy to move. His body yields without resistance, pliant in its hunger—flexible enough for Talon to fold him, arrange him, exactly here it wants him to be. Talon presses him back until broad shoulders anchor against the cushions, legs falling open in instinctive submission—perfect. Talon settles between them.
Leaning down, Talon lets its mouth hover over Father Todd’s neck. Its sharp teeth barely graze skin. The priest shivers. Just a tremble, almost imperceptible. But it makes Talon’s pulse hum.
But Talon doesn’t bite—not yet.
It has learned over the years of stalking, that there can be pleasure taken too in the build-up. Anticipation. To feel, with all of its senses the quiver of life beneath its lips, pounding through every vein. Every heartbeat a drum of blood, but also of devotion, sin, warmth. It could let one bite take it all. End it. Cut the hunt short.
But where would the fun be in that?
Then Talon would not be able to experience Father Todd pressing up, moaning, twisting, seeking more. Hands clutching Talon’s shoulders, pulling it closer, almost as if he seeks to fuse their bodies together. “Come on…fuck you…please—” The words are ragged. Raw. Delicious.
Heat coils through Talon’s spine. Muscles tighten. Nerves flare. Its hunger is sharp, insistent. But it waits. Holds back. Letting Father Todd writhe in suspense is a kind of cruelty it has never grown tired of.
When they had first discussed this, Father Todd had been perched behind his desk, shielded partially from view. Talon had drunk from him that night too, traced its fangs along his skin, watched him shiver. But they had not communed—not like this. Talon had shown power. Demonstrated control—restrained itself. Fascinated by the man who had carved out a space in his bible for a Glock. Who had dared point that Glock at Talon’s head with a smile, and shot it wearing a smile as well.
Which had led them here.
With other prey, Talon could stretch a scene across hours, feed on fear, anxiety, hesitation. Draw it out. Let them beg, let them falter, let the tension twist their nerves into ribbons of panic and need. But Father Todd is different. Different because he wants it. Because he is here willingly. Because he has already touched the edge of death and found himself still wanting. Because he seeks to dance with death, to taste it, to be undone.
Talon has always been in control. Always. But here—now—with this man under its hands something crawls under its skin. Something it cannot command. Something that bends Talon’s will as surely as its claws could tear flesh. Desire thrums, primal and unfamiliar. A pull it does not want to resist.
So it doesn’t.
Talon presses a fingertip along Father Todd’s jaw, tilting his head, guiding him, coaxing. Teeth hover. Breath hot, tasting the priest’s pulse, his need, his abandon. The metallic tang of life, mingled with incense and sweat, fills its senses. Every quiver beneath it calls to something ancient and feral, something sharp and dangerous.
Finally, it moves.
Hand sliding to the nape of Father Todd’s neck, cupping him, pressing him gently but insistently flush against its mouth. A tentative bite first—just enough for a few hot drops to flood across its senses, to feel the quiver racing through the priest’s body at the intrusion before it begins to drink in earnest, deliberately crossing the threshold. The taste explodes on its tongue: metallic, sharp, intoxicating, with the heady undercurrent of frankincense and sweat and devotion. Fire spreads through it from the tips of its teeth to the pit of its chest, coursing through its veins, making it tremble.
Every pulse, every heartbeat against its lips reverberates in its own chest. Father Todd’s fingers clamp over Talon’s, gripping, twisting, as if he could anchor himself against the surge of sensation—or punish it for teasing him so cruelly. His moans fracture, ragged, breathy, a raw mix of frustration and need—“come on, stop teasing, yeses”—slipping past his lips in broken rhythms. Talon lets the sensation wash through it, letting Father Todd’s body guide the rhythm as much as its own will dictates it.
Talon pulls back slightly, fingers catching on the rim of Father Todd’s cunt and stretching it wide, letting the tip of its tongue trace the puncture wound, tasting the metallic tang mingled with sweat and incense. Father Todd groans, a mix of longing and protest, aching for both the lost sensation of fingers and the exquisite, dripping pain of withdrawal at his neck.
“Are you sure you want this, little birdie?” Talon asks, blinking owlishly as he watches the flush that rises to Father Todd’s cheeks, question wielded as a blade.
Father Todd hisses, breath ragged, trembling with need. “God, yes!—I can take it, Talon! Fuck, I can take it!” His hands dig in harder, trying to claim, to anchor, to punish the teasing withdrawal even as he begs. His desire spills out in raw, tremulous syllables, fierce and unrestrained.
“Just making sure,” Talon replies with a flash of its teeth.
Talon leans in again, drinking greedily now, letting the pulse of Father Todd’s life feed it, savoring the heat that courses its body as it does. Its fingers resume their rhythm inside Father Todd, curling and pressing, harder this time, driving the priest’s hips to jerk instinctively against it.
Talon knows death. Has pressed against death, shaped death, held death in its claws countless times. But this—four fingers deep inside Father Todd, feeling the subtle ripples of life, the pulse of heat, the desperate thrum of want, bleed ever closer to an end—is unlike anything else. Father Todd is not a corpse to manipulate, nor a hesitant prey to bend. This is a creature exquisite in his willingness, a being begging to be opened, pushed, taken to the edge. Father Todd had asked for this. Asked to be fucked while seeking God, seeking the brink of something beyond, and Talon—predator, machine of careful curation—makes an exception to its nature.
It will take Father Todd Todd there.
Talon’s drinking becomes more deliberate, measured as Father Todd’s body trembles beneath it. It pushes just to the point of near-abandon—from the slowing of Father Todd’s pulse, the weakening of his grip it has likely drained 5 pints of blood already—then slows, keeping its fangs grazing, still inside Father Todd’s neck. Panting fills the room—Father Todd’s moans, the wet squelch of Talon’s fingers sliding inside him, mingling with a purring deep in Talon’s throat, a rumble that comes when it is close to being sated. Talon knows there are only a few more precious drops it can take, and it wants to make each one last.
So, Talon withdraws its fingers, eliciting a whine from Father Todd that twists into a raw cry the moment Talon cock sheaths fully inside the priest—raw—in one careful thrust. The priest clings, hips shuddering uncontrollably, body clenching, every muscle bearing down on Talon as it drives in, pressing deeper than fingers could ever reach.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, I am so close, Talon, Talon,” Father Todd sobs, and Talon is sure that he is close, close to collapse from the dual stimulation, with how exhausted he sounds, how lose to ruin.
Talon drives him to the release he so craves, thrusting steadily, giving Father Todd everything he had asked for and more. Their bodies mashing in two places—flesh and blood, desire and devotion, sin and surrender. Talon presses himself to Father Todd’s throat, drawing the last shivering drops needed, feeling the tremor of life quake beneath it.
Father Todd reacts perfectly.
Not a lamb led to slaughter—no. A mortal surrendering to pleasure, to ecstasy. A long, unbroken whine spills from his lips as his body spasms around Talon, overwhelmed. Exquisite. Then he goes slack, a marionette with his strings cut, head rolling back, limbs loose and sated. Gone—for the moment. But the blood still moves beneath his skin. Their bargain holds.
Here, Talon could stop.
It could pull back, let the experiment conclude, let the good Father drift in the fragile aftermath until he wakes—perhaps changed. That alone tempts it; the sight of a man who courts death so ardently that he invites it inside himself.
But the priest did not ask for rest.
And Talon does not grant it.
Its fingers, still slick, find the throbbing heat of Father Todd’s cock, flushed and heavy, cradled in the folds that still cling to Talon’s own raging need. It continues to move, measured and relentless, rolling Father Todd’s cock between its fingers with exacting precision, watching—waiting—as the limp body beneath it begins to stir, chasing its own much needed release as Father Todd balances on the edge of death beneath him.
It does not take long until Father Todd awakens in a desperate mess. He arches, writhes, cries out as another wave of pleasure crashes through him, Talon drawing it out of him just as easily as it draws life from others—dragging him to the brink again.
Father Todd’s hands find Talon’s own where it mercilessly pinches the priest's cock, voice breaking, body clenching desperately around its cock—then pulsing as he gushes forth, enough to soak the cassock underneath him—screaming. The endless undulations that accompany the release are enough to finally pull Talon over the edge. Its own release burning deep into the heat of Father Todd’s warmth, its own satisfaction to go with the heady feeling it gets every time it feeds well.
“Oh God, Talon—oh, fuck, Talon—” Father Todd moans, voice fragile, still clearly disoriented from the blood loss.
Talon hums low, a deep, reverberating sound, reverent yet dark, almost purring with satisfaction. It leans closer, chest brushing against the priest’s, tongue darting to lap at the slow drip of blood from the bite it had left at his neck. Tiny huffs escape Father Todd, weak and delicious, his head heavy, mind clouded with the dizzying combination of orgasm and life-blood still feeding Talon’s stomach. “Oh,” it murmurs, lazy, sated, “Back from the dead…with the right name on your lips, little birdie. You are very wet.”
Father Todd blinks, lips trembling, breath shallow, pupils blown wide. “I…uhh…oh fuck, I didn’t know I could do that.” His words are half confession, half awe, and the vulnerability curls inside of Talon’s chest. It wants to hold that feeling there forever.
Talon tilts its head, satisfaction seeping deep—yet it is buoyed with fascination, anticipation maybe too. “Well?” it prompts.
Father Todd swallows, still staring at Talon, shivering at the weight of Talon’s presence and the lingering heat of its mouth, hands reaching halfway up to Talon before stopping. “Well?” he repeats, cheeks flushed.
Talon hums again, a vibration that thrums through its chest. It leans down enough to nuzzle that half raised hand, pinning Father Todd with a look as it raises an eyebrow, daring: “Did you see your God, little wing?”
Father Todd’s pupils flicker, a mixture of confusion and post-orgasmic bliss clouding his gaze, lips parting in a breathless, uncertain smile. “I…no? Maybe. I was…so…warm. Like I was wrapped up in a blanket. And my head…was resting on someone’s shoulder.” His words come slowly, as if he has to test out the weight of each one on his tongue.
Talon’s thumb traces a slow, deliberate line down the priest’s chest before curling around the sensitive cock laying spent just above Father Todd's now leaking cunt, still stretched around Talon. Fingers pinch and knead, sharp and insistent, eliciting a shudder that runs the length of Father Todd’s spine, hips twitching even as he lies spent.
“So…” Talon asks, faux innocence in his face, “Should we do this again?
Perhaps next time I could even suck you half dry from your cock.”