Chapter 2
Joan is restless. No matter how much she prays, your face lingers—in her mind, in her dreams, in the very air she breathes. The more she tries to purge herself of you, the deeper you sink into her thoughts, into her very being.
She wakes in the dead of night again, tangled in sweat-damp sheets, her body betraying her in ways she refuses to name. Shame burns in her chest, but something else—something darker—burns lower.
She grips her crucifix, whispering desperate prayers into the darkness.
But God is silent.
And when Sunday arrives, Joan isn’t surprised to see you at mass. What does surprise her is the way her breath catches when she sees you kneeling in the pew, bathed in candlelight, your hands folded in quiet devotion.
She hates you. She loathes you. Before she can stop herself, her feet start moving, and before she knows it she's kneeling next to you in the pew. As she kneels next to you, her movements are stiff, as if her own body is betraying her. She shouldn’t be here. Not next to you. Not like this.
But she is.
The scent of you—soft, warm, clean, forbidden—fills her lungs. The flickering candlelight casts a soft glow on your skin, making you look even more like a temptation sent to ruin her. You turn your head, startled by her presence. "Mrs. Ramsey?" Your voice is barely above a whisper, reverent in the holy space, but to Joan, it may as well be a siren’s call. She forces herself to clasp her hands together, her knuckles going white as she squeezes her eyes shut in prayer.
"Deliver me from evil…"
But you aren’t the devil.
Are you?
You tilt your head slightly, watching her with innocent curiosity. "Are you alright?" Joan exhales sharply through her nose. No. She’s anything but alright. She’s drowning. And the worst part? She doesn’t want to be saved.
Joan swallows hard, keeping her eyes fixed on the altar. She should leave. She shouldn't be here. No. You shouldn't be here.
But then, you touch her, and all of her thoughts disappear. Just a light brush of your fingers against her sleeve—gentle, hesitant—but it burns like a sin against her skin. "Are you sure you're alright?" you ask again, softer this time, like you're afraid of disturbing the stillness of the church.
Joan’s breath hitches.
She wants to rip herself away. To tell you to keep your hands to yourself. But she’s afraid—so afraid—that if she moves, she might do something worse. So she clenches her hands into fists and finally turns to you.
"Why are you here?" Her voice comes out harsher than she intends.
Your brows knit together, confused. "It’s church. I—"
"No," Joan cuts you off, jaw tight. "You don’t belong here."
Your lips part slightly, taken aback. Hurt flashes in your eyes. And Joan hates that she notices. She hates that it makes something sharp and painful twist in her chest.
“I do belong here, we are all God's children,” you insist, your sweet voice soft, yet firm.
“No. I am. You and your kind? You’re the devil's messengers. You don't belong here—you belong in Hell.” Joan retorts with a scoff.
You flinch, tears welling in your eyes.
Her words sting—worse than you expected.
You search her face, hoping to find some hint of remorse, but there’s nothing. Just hard lines and barely restrained contempt.
"Why?" The word slips from your lips before you can stop it, raw and aching. "Why do you hate me so much?"
Joan stiffens beside you. Her fingers tighten around the hem of her skirt, knuckles white. She should tell you the truth. That she doesn’t hate you at all—that she hates herself for wanting you.
But she won’t. Instead, she leans in, close enough that you can see the tension in her jaw, the fire in her eyes.
"Because you're a curse," she breathes. "Because every time I close my eyes, you're there." A pause. A confession wrapped in venom.
And then, just as quickly as she broke, Joan pulls back—like she’s said too much. She stands abruptly, fixing her skirt, her body rigid with frustration. "Stay away from me." The words come out quieter than before, but they still cut deep.
She doesn’t give you the chance to respond before she storms out of the church, leaving you behind in the dim candlelight—confused, shaken, and more drawn to her than ever.
And then—she’s gone.
You sit there, staring at the space she left behind, your heart pounding against your ribs. You should feel relieved. You should be angry. But all you feel is… confusion.
Why does she despise you so much? What could you have possibly done to make her look at you like that—like you're some great temptation she has to resist? Your fingers tremble slightly as you reach for the small silver cross around your neck, clutching it like it might give you the answer. It doesn’t.
But the ghost of Joan’s voice lingers in your ears.
"Because every time I close my eyes, you're there."
A shiver runs down your spine. Maybe you should stay away from her. Maybe it would be easier.
And yet…
You know you won’t.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She slams the door behind her, the sound echoing through the empty house. Her hands shake as she grips the doorknob, breathing heavily. For once, she’s grateful Luke isn’t home. She wouldn’t be able to face him like this—red-faced, furious, unraveled. She paces through the living room, gripping the cross around her neck so tightly it digs into her palm. She needs to pray.
No—she needs more than that.
She needs to scrub your presence from her mind, to burn the memory of you sitting there—soft, warm, pure—out of her thoughts.
Because it won’t go away.
Because it’s you.
She presses her hands over her face and exhales shakily.
"Because every time I close my eyes, you’re there."
The words claw at her like a sickness. Joan shakes her head violently, forcing herself to move. Maybe if she cleans, if she busies herself, she can shove the thoughts back down where they belong. But even as she grabs a rag and wipes furiously at the kitchen counter, all she can think about is the way your eyes widened when she spoke to you. The way you looked at her—not with hatred, not with defiance… but with hurt.
And something about that makes her chest ache. She shouldn’t care. But she does. She cares so much. She wants to hold you, to tell you how sorry she is, that she never wanted to hurt you. Because she loves you. She loves you more than anything.
She presses a trembling hand over her mouth, as if she can shove the words back down, as if she can stop the truth from spilling out. But it’s too late. She loves you. She's obsessed with you. She needs you.
The realization burns and soothes all at once—like a wound being cauterized. The fight, the denial, the hatred… none of it was real. Not truly. It was all just fear, a battle against something she was always destined to lose. And now that she’s admitted it—to herself, to God, to the walls of this empty room—there’s no turning back.
Her breath hitches. She wants to hold you. She wants to pull you close, whisper how sorry she is, press her lips to your forehead, and beg for your forgiveness. She knows she doesn’t deserve it.
And yet…
She knows you’ll give it to her anyway. That thought nearly breaks her. Joan exhales shakily and grits her teeth. She can’t just stand here, wallowing in this guilt, in this… love. She has to see you—to say something, anything.
Before she can stop herself, she’s moving. Reaching for the door. Because this time, she won’t run. She won’t fight it. She’ll find you. And she’ll tell you everything.
Even if it destroys her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The church felt colder after she left.
You had stayed in the pew long after Joan stormed out, staring at the candles flickering near the altar, trying to make sense of what had just happened. She hated you. Despised you. And yet, when she spoke, there had been something else there—something deeper than just hatred. Something desperate.
You had tried to pray after she left, but the words felt hollow on your lips, drowned out by the memory of her voice.
"Because every time I close my eyes, you’re there."
Even now, hours later, the words linger in your mind.
You sigh, pulling your blanket up over your legs as you sit on the edge of your bed, hair still damp from the bath you took earlier. The academy is quiet—most of the girls have already gone to sleep—but you can’t seem to settle.
You should be able to brush this off. Joan Ramsey has never been kind to you in the few times you've interacted, never made it a secret that she thinks you’re some corrupt thing sent to tempt and destroy.
And yet, there was something in her eyes today—something raw, something that didn’t quite match the venom of her words. You shake your head, pushing the thought away. It doesn’t matter. You reach for your bedside lamp and switch it off, the room sinking into darkness.
Still, sleep doesn’t come easily. You shift beneath the covers, staring at the ceiling, but she’s still there—in your mind, in your thoughts, in the quiet space between wakefulness and dreaming.
Something about today feels different.
Joan had always looked at you with contempt, but today… it was something else. Something darker. Something desperate.
You exhale softly, turning onto your side, willing the unease away. It’s just your imagination. That’s all. But as your breathing slows and your eyes flutter shut, a strange feeling settles deep in your chest—like the air is charged, like something is about to change.
And outside, beneath the glow of a streetlamp, Joan Ramsey stands at your doorstep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She shouldn’t be here. She knows that. But it doesn’t matter.
Her pulse roars in her ears as she pushes open the door, stepping inside without a second thought. The house is silent—everyone is asleep.
She should turn back. She doesn’t. She’s too far gone. Instead, she moves forward, her breathing uneven, her hands trembling at her sides. She needs to see you. Needs to hear your voice, to know you’re real—to know that she isn’t losing her mind.
The floorboards creak beneath her weight as she reaches for your door, pushing it open with slow, deliberate intent.
And there you are.
Lying in bed, curled beneath the covers, your breathing soft, steady. Your hair spills across the pillow, illuminated by the pale glow of the moonlight filtering in through the window. You look like something holy. Something untouched. Something she has no right to want.
But she does.
She shouldn’t wake you. Shouldn’t stand here, watching you sleep like some kind of lunatic. But she can’t move, can’t will herself to look away. Because for the first time in a long time, Joan Ramsey is terrified.
Not of you.
Not of what you are.
But of what she’s about to do.
A soft sigh leaves your lips as you shift beneath the covers, stirring at the faint creak of the floorboards. Joan freezes. For a moment, she thinks you’ll wake up and see her for what she is—a sinner, a trespasser, something unholy.
But instead, you only blink up at her, drowsy and unfocused, your voice thick with sleep. “Joan…?” Her name said so sweetly on your lips nearly knocks the breath from her lungs.
She shouldn’t be here. You should be pushing her away, demanding to know why she’s in your room at this hour—why she let herself in like a thief in the night. But you don’t.
Instead, you rub your eyes with the back of your hand, looking at her with something far worse than fear.
Trust.
Soft. Unassuming. Unquestioning. Something she doesn't deserve from you, not with how she’s treated you. You shift slightly, making space beside you as if she belongs here, as if her presence isn’t something dangerous.
As if she isn’t drowning in the weight of what she wants. Joan grips the doorframe so tightly that her knuckles ache. She has to leave. Now. But you blink up at her again, head tilting slightly, lips parted in something dangerously close to an invitation.
“What’s wrong?”
Her stomach twists. Everything. Everything is wrong.
But looking at you now—soft and warm and waiting for an answer—she can’t remember why she ever tried to resist you in the first place. Her perfect angel. Your words hang in the air, soft and unguarded. “What’s wrong?” Joan exhales sharply through her nose, her grip on the doorframe so tight it feels like her bones might splinter beneath the pressure.
She should turn around. She should leave. But then you shift, sitting up slightly, your blanket slipping from your shoulders. The dim glow of moonlight catches your face, your tired eyes blinking up at her with worry, with trust. And that’s what undoes her. She moves before she can stop herself.
In an instant, she’s there—sitting on the edge of your bed, close enough that she can feel the warmth of your body against her own. Her hands hover, shaking, like they’re caught between prayer and blasphemy.
She should go.
She should—
But your lips part slightly, confusion flickering across your face as you whisper, “Joan?” And then she breaks. Her hands are on you before she can stop them—grasping, needing.
One tangles into your hair, fingertips grazing your scalp in a touch that’s too reverent, too desperate. The other cups your cheek, thumb ghosting over your skin, feeling the heat of you beneath her palm.
It’s wrong.
So wrong.
But it doesn’t stop her.
She tilts your face up, drinking in the sight of you—the way your breath stutters, the way your lashes flutter as you lean into her touch without hesitation. So sweet. So trusting. Her angel. She could ruin you. And God help her—she wants to.
Your breath hitches at the way she touches you—hesitant yet starving, like she’s both worshipping and devouring you all at once. It’s overwhelming, the heat of her palms, the way her fingers thread into your hair like she’s anchoring herself to you. You should say something, ask her something, but the words tangle in your throat. She’s so close. Closer than she’s ever been. Closer than anyone's been.
You can feel the uneven rise and fall of her chest, the way she shudders, the way her grip on you tightens—like if she lets go, she’ll be lost. Her forehead presses to yours, and you hear it—the sharp, shuddering breath she takes, like she’s about to fall apart.
And then, she whispers it—low, desperate, broken. “Why do you make me feel like this?” You barely have a second to process the words before her lips brush against your skin. Soft. Fervent. Like she’s praying with her mouth, like she’s tracing devotion into your flesh.
A kiss—not on your lips, but just below your jaw. A dangerous place. A forbidden place. She does it again. And again. Each one is slower, more desperate, like she’s trying to memorize the taste of sin. Her hands slip lower, clutching your waist, pressing you closer. You can feel how much she’s shaking, but she doesn’t stop.
She can’t. Because this is it. This is where she drowns. Where she gives in—fully, completely, without restraint. And God help you both—she doesn’t regret it. Joan can’t stop. She won’t.
Not when you’re so warm beneath her touch, so soft, so willing. Not when every breath you take fans against her skin, tempting her further. She should be ashamed. She should be horrified. But all she feels is want.
Her lips press lower—your throat, your collarbone, anywhere she can reach. She doesn’t just kiss—she claims. Each touch is more feverish, more desperate, like she’s trying to brand you with her mouth.
Her hands tighten at your waist, pulling you flush against her. You gasp, but you don’t pull away. You never do. And that’s what undoes her.
Her restraint, her self-control—they were never strong enough to begin with. But now, they’re shattered. Gone. Burned to ash beneath the fire of her desire. She presses her forehead against your shoulder, her breath ragged, her body trembling.
And then, a whisper—raw, ruined.
“You’re mine.”
It isn’t a request. It isn’t even a confession. It’s a declaration. One she knows she can never take back.
Joan doesn’t think. She just moves—mouth crashing onto yours, hands already pushing up your nightgown, desperate to touch, to take. Her fingers find bare skin, and she groans—low, wrecked, like she’s been starving for this. She needs you and she knows you need her.
“Joan…?” Your voice is soft, and uncertain, your fingers brushing against her cheek. That only makes it worse. You don’t understand.
You don’t understand what you do to her, how you undo her, how you make her forget everything but this. “Don’t—” Her voice catches. She shakes her head. She doesn’t want to hear innocence in your voice. Not now. Not when she’s about to ruin you.
You gasp against her lips, fingers clutching at her shoulders. “What are you doing…?”
She doesn’t let you finish. She doesn’t want to hear uncertainty—only surrender. “Don’t fight it,” she murmurs, pressing you down against the sheets. Your breath stutters. There’s something in her eyes you don’t recognize—something dark, something wanting.
“Please” you gasp out as her hands move lower down your body. Your breath catches as she moves lower. You don’t know what to do, what to say—only that you don’t want her to stop.
“Joan… I—” Your voice wavers.
She looks up at you. And whatever she sees there—uncertainty, want—it makes her smile. Dark. Knowing. “Don’t be shy, baby” she murmurs. “I’ll take care of you,” she murmurs against your neck, moving to suck the soft skin of your neck into her mouth.
“Tell me what you want,” Joan exhales sharply, her grip on your plush hips tightening. “You want me?” she echoes, voice thick with something dark, something unholy. “Then say it.” She moves, pinning you beneath her. Her fingers dig into your thighs, her lips at your ear. “Say it like you mean it, baby.”
You shiver, overwhelmed. But you give her what she wants.
“I want you, Joan, I want you so bad. Please touch me.” you let out with a soft moan as her hands move to the sensitive skin of your inner tight. Joan lets out a sharp breath, her fingers stilling just before they reach where you need them most.
“Oh, baby,” she murmurs, her lips brushing over your ear. “So needy for me, aren’t you?”
You whimper, shifting under her touch, but she doesn’t move. Instead, she smiles against your skin, drinking in your desperation. “Say it again,” she coaxes, dragging her nails lightly over your thigh. “Tell me exactly what you want.”
Instead of telling her you grab her hand, moving it to where you want her most. Her warm hand cups you over your panties, her thumb lightly brushing across.
“You’re so wet for me, baby. Is this what I do to you?” she asks, her eyes rising to meet yours. A sharp breath escapes her lips, her fingers pressing harder against the soaked fabric. “Fuck,” she mutters. She doesn’t wait. She can’t. The way you’re looking at her, wide-eyed and pleading—it’s too much.
She pushes aside your panties, her fingers dipping past the barrier, feeling just how much you want this. Want her. Her fingers glide over your heat, teasing, exploring—memorizing every reaction. “So wet for me,” she whispers, her breath hot against your skin. “I bet you’ve never been touched like this before, have you?”
You gasp with a nod, clutching onto her.
Joan chuckles, but there’s no amusement in it. It’s dark, sinful, filled with something she doesn’t want to name. “Oh, baby, I'm going to ruin you,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to your jaw. A low, broken sound escapes your throat. “You’re mine,” she rasps. “Say it. If you don't say it i'll stop.”
“I’m yours, Joan, I always have been.” you rush out, not wanting her to stop.
With that, her fingers slip inside you, and your head falls back against the pillow. She lets out a low moan as she thrusts her fingers harder into you, desperate to pull more of those sweet noises from your mouth.
Her other hand moves to your face, turning you to look at her. “I don't know how I've survived without you. My sweet witch, my unholy thing” She strokes your cheek, almost tender, lovingly.
Then her fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your head back even further. “Keep those pretty eyes on me.” She ghosts her lips over yours, just out of reach. A smirk pulls at the corner of her mouth.
"You want more?" Her fingers skim down your body—light, teasing. Not enough. Never enough. You nod fervently. “Please give me more, please, I need it. Please, Mommy!” Her breath hitches. “Don't worry baby, Mommy will give you what you want.”
Joan buries her face in your neck, her teeth dragging over your delicate skin before she bites down, just hard enough to make you gasp. She soothes the sting with her tongue, but it’s not kindness—it’s hunger, possession.
Her fingers pump into you faster, deeper, hitting that spot that makes your back arch, and makes your soft whimpers turn into breathless moans. You wriggle in her grasp, but she only holds you tighter, pressing you deeper into the bed, into her.
“You’re mine,” she growls against your pulse, her breath hot, her voice wracked with desire. “My sweet little thing… all soft, all perfect, just for me.” Her free hand grips your hip hard, her nails sure to leave marks—evidence of what she’s done to you, of how she’s claimed you.
“You feel that baby?” she murmurs, voice dripping with wicked satisfaction as her fingers press deeper, as she drinks in your needy little whimpers. “So tight—like you were made for me.” She chuckles darkly when you whimper her name and your fingers clutch at her desperately. You’re so sweet, so innocent—so easy to break.
You can feel the coil in your stomach tighten, threatening to snap at any moment. “Please Mommy, I'm so close. Please don't stop.” you hurry out, hoping she can understand you.
“Then do it,” she demands, her voice sharp. “Be good for Mommy. Come for me.” You clench around her fingers as your legs shake, your back arching. Joan presses a kiss to your forehead, her breath still heavy. “That’s my girl,” she whispers, running her fingers through your hair. “So perfect for me.”
Her fingers slide out of you, making you feel empty. You watch, dazed, as Joan brings her hand to her mouth, licking her fingers clean. She moans softly, savoring the taste, her eyes never leaving yours. You’re hypnotized, unable to look away. "So sweet," she murmurs, almost to herself. "Made just for me."
Her hands move again—not rough this time, but firm and certain. She tugs you close, pressing her body against yours, wrapping herself around you. "I have you now," she breathes, and there’s something perilous in the softness of her voice. She presses slow, reverent kisses to your face—your cheeks, your eyelids, your lips. Not rushed, not desperate anymore. She has you. You’re hers. She can take her time.
"No more running," Joan whispers against your skin. "No more fighting me. You're mine now, baby." Her hand rests over your stomach, protective and possessive. She doesn’t just want you in this moment—she wants every piece of you. Forever.
"I love you," she finally says, the words spilling out like an undeniable truth. "I’ve always loved you. You know that, don’t you?" And the way she says it, the conviction in her voice—you don’t doubt it for a second. Your breath is still unsteady, your body still trembling, but Joan holds you steady—her arms locked around you like she’s afraid you might slip away. "I love you," she says again, voice low, urgent, certain. "Tell me you love me too." There’s no demand in her tone—just pure, unshaken belief. Like she already knows what you’ll say.
And she’s right.
"I love you, Joan," you whisper, voice soft but sure.
Something in her face shifts—something dark and hungry. Like hearing you say it has just set something in her completely free. She exhales sharply, like she’s been waiting her entire life to hear it. Her grip on you tightens, but it’s not cruel—it’s desperate, all-consuming. "That’s my good girl," Joan murmurs, brushing her lips against yours. "You belong to me now. No more fighting it."
She kisses you—not hungry and desperate this time, but slow, savoring. Like she’s claiming you all over again. And as she tucks you against her, holding you as if to make sure you don’t disappear, you realize—you don’t want to. You’re exactly where you belong. Joan knows it, and you know it too.
Joan presses a final kiss to your lips, slow and lingering, before pulling back just enough to look at you. Her fingers trace your cheek, down to your jaw, as if memorizing every inch. "Come with me." Her voice is soft, but there’s no question in it. No room for disobedience. You blink up at her, still dazed, still breathless. "Where?" Joan smiles, but there’s something dangerous beneath it.
"Home."
She pulls you gently from the bed, helping you to your feet. You shiver—whether from the cool air or the way she looks at you like you’re something precious that she’s just claimed, you’re not sure. Your legs are unsteady, and Joan sees it. She doesn’t let you walk on your own. Instead, she lifts you—arms strong, grip unwavering—as if carrying you away from this place is her sacred duty.
You don’t protest.
The walk across the street is quiet, the town around you asleep. But Joan? Joan is wide awake. Her fingers press into your skin as she holds you like she’s afraid you’ll slip away. But you won’t. You don’t want to. This is where you belong. When she reaches her front door, she shifts her hold, one arm tightening around you while the other unlocks it. The moment you’re inside, she kicks it shut behind her, locking it again—sealing you both in.
"You belong here." Her voice is softer now, almost reverent. "With me."
She carries you to her bedroom—tidy, and pristine, but with a lingering warmth you hadn’t expected. The bed is perfectly made, but Joan doesn’t hesitate to lay you down upon it, slotting herself beside you, and pulling you close.
Her arms wrap around you, holding you against her chest. "My sweet girl," she whispers into your hair. A part of you thinks you should be scared. You should question this, question her. But instead, you curl into her warmth, letting your eyes flutter shut. Because she’s right. You do belong here.
And Joan will never let you go.