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Bloody Mary’s lips were ice cold.

Pretzel really shouldn’t have been surprised. Everything about the food soul was cold, from his skin to his piercing gaze. It still surprised Pretzel when he felt those cold lips against his own. Hours later, it was the only sensation that had lingered. The coldness against his warmth. The desire against his aversion. The want. The lust.

The cold.

Pretzel stood in front of the altar. He stared at the holy figures behind it and thought back to his master attendant. He thought back to the stories he was told. The morals held in them. To the faith instilled in him. Pretzel was a virtuous food soul. He was meant to be a righteous priest.

He could still feel Bloody Mary’s ice cold lips against the side of his neck. He could still feel his ice cold hands against his skin, helping him shed his layers of clothing, stealing his warmth, sliding lower…

Pretzel was supposed to be an honorable priest.

He had sinned.