#i do think they are in modern times though

[solastarr]

I’m Grown

Sammie/Preacher's Boy x Black Reader

Genre: Smut with plot, Modern AU?(ig)

Warning: Smut, fingering, D in P, unprotected

Word Count: 3.8k+

Summary: You and sammie basically grew up together. Though you were only half a year older, you always treated him like a little kid.

Then college came, and you moved away. Now it's summer, and you start to realize the little preacher's boy you left...is a man now.

Writers note: I’m still new to writing fan fics, so i’m not the best, but i hope y’all still like it! I plan to keep practicing and getting better!!⭐️

In the past…

Your mother and Sammie’s mother were next-door neighbors turned best friends. They did everything together, meaning you and Sammie had to do everything together too. From Sunday school, choir, same school, clubs, sometimes y'all's mom thought it was cute to dress y'all up in matching outfits. 

Eventually  leading to you and Sammie to become besties. 

Now even though you were only a half a year older than him, you made it your soul duty in life to make sure he knew he was the baby. From calling him nicknames like little boy, baby, baby bro, and eventually preacher’s boy. 

Sammie had a deep hatred for these lame ass names, but it was you so he let it slide.

Over time as you and Sammie got older and the teasing continued but started to tone down, as your crush on him started to flourish. But you denied it with all your heart. 

“He’s too young for me. Plus he’s my best friend… and I doubt he likes me.”, you explain to anyone who’d ask about you and sammies relationship. 

But everyone else could see it– how Sammie would zone out to watch your smile across the classroom, the way your lips curl up when you smile at his jokes, how he’d analyze every curl that fell from your hair, the way your skin glistens when you run around the tract for P.E., and the way yall sound beautiful together when harmonizing during choir. 

Sammie had feelings for you–no doubt bout it, but both of you had too much pride, and too much love for your friendship to ever say anything. 

Jump to the end of  Senior year of high school…

You and Sammie are now done with highschool, and now it’s time for you to figure out what the world has to offer you. You and your mother had been going back and forth for months about whether you should go to college near home and out of state. You wanted to stay close to home where your family, friends, and childhood were. But your mother insisted that you’d go much farther in life if you went to a big college some states over. 

Eventually, you caved and agreed with your mother’s claims and chose to go to school out of state.

Now, the day you leave for school, and it’s time to tell your friends, family, and the person you dreaded telling the most goodbye… Sammie. 

Going from seeing each other everyday to seeing each other for only a few months out of the year was going to be rough. But there was no avoiding it now. 

You and your mother walked over to Sammie’s house, greeted by a long hug from his mother and some positive words from his father. You put on a brave face while  talking to them all, not wanting them to see the fear of leaving choking you in your chest to show in your face. You barely talked to sammie the whole time you were over, unsure what to say or even how to say it—avoiding conversation with him at all costs. 

Before it was time to leave, you slipped away to the bathroom, trying to think of what to say to sammie that won’t leave you in tears.

“He’s my best friend, I’ll know what to say…”, but as soon as you opened the bathroom door, there he was. Sammie. Waiting in the hallway like he knew you were hiding from him.

“Damn you already ignoring me you couldn’t wait til left?”, he says sarcastically, but you can hear the concern underneath it. You froze, caught off guard, not thinking your silence would make him think you were ignoring him. So, you immediately threw your wall up.

“Boy, I didn’t know how to let you down easy without leaving you in tears,” you joked, nudging his side. “Plus, don’t think a little distance could make me forget about my little bestie.” You gave him a warm—if slightly worried—smile.

The tension between you was thick as he stared at you, like he was trying to find the words too.

“Of course not. You know you can’t get rid of me girl”, he says with a smirk on his face. “And stop treating me like a baby, I've been grown. You just won't accept it.”

He nudges you back, making you laugh. “Nah,” you teased. “You’ll always be my little preacher’s boy.”, you pulled him into a hug, holding him tight. He held you back even tighter—like he didn’t want to let go.

You could both feel it—the warmth, the bond, the love between you. But the hug didn’t last forever. The tall, masculine figure in your arms would have to stay behind.

For a second, you wanted to say everything. That you didn’t want to go. That you wished things were different. That maybe, if you both had just been a little braver, things could’ve been more than late-night phone calls and unsent texts.

But instead, you just held him like a memory you didn’t want to let go of.

“Now gon on,” Sammie said, voice low and playful. “Before it gets too late and you miss your train.”. You nodded, eyes a little misty, and started walking toward the front door where your mom was waiting.

“Bye, Sammie. Don’t grow up too fast, now!” you called over your shoulder with a laugh.

He chuckled, just enough to cover up the lump in his throat. “Yeah, yeah. And you don’t get into too much trouble, little girl.” 

You turned around one last time and flashed him a mischievous grin.

“Let’s remember who the little one is here.”

Before he could reply, your mom’s voice cut through the moment, calling your name.

And just like that, you were on a train to Georgia…
…leaving Sammie back in Mississippi.

Now your back home for summer…

You hadn’t been home for more than 24 hours and already your mama was dragging you around town, making you run errands like you hadn’t just survived your first year of college. Between unpacking, catching up with cousins, and fake-smiling through “You don’ grown up!” comments from nosy church ladies, there hadn’t been time to stop and breathe—let alone see him.

But you finally slipped away… finally getting a moment to go visit your ole best friend.

You walked down the sidewalk in your old neighborhood, past the familiar houses with chipped paint and crooked mailboxes, past the corner where you and Sammie used to race on bikes. Everything felt the same and yet… you didn’t.

And when you turned the corner toward Sammie’s house, you definitely didn’t expect what happened next.

He was outside. Shirtless.

Standing in the driveway like a man who knew damn well he looked good. He was taller, broader, and his skin was glistening from the heat—golden brown, smooth, and definitely not the “little preacher’s boy” you left behind.

He was working on his car, arms flexing just enough to make your breath catch.

You tried to act unfazed...Tried.

“Boy, you still out here pretending to be a mechanic?” you called out, trying to sound playful.

Sammie looked up, wiped sweat from his forehead with a towel, and his lips curled into that familiar smirk—but there was something different behind it this time. Something slower. Deeper. Like he was seeing you for the first time too.

“Well well well…” he said, voice lower than you remembered. “Look who finally decided to come home.”

You swallowed hard.

His voice was deeper too, not just in tone but in presence. He moved slower, more deliberate. Like a man who wasn’t in a rush to prove anything anymore—just sure of himself. Of what he wanted.

He walked up to you, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes scanning your face like he was memorizing every inch.

“You gon' give me a real hug or just stand there lookin’ surprised?”

You blinked, then gave him a tight hug, suddenly hyper aware of how solid his chest felt against yours. He held you for a second longer than expected, pulling back just enough to look down at you.

“I’ve missed you, my little preacher’s boy” you say softly. 

He scoffed, stepping back a little, “Still calling me that, huh?”

You nudged his side, now more muscular and lean than you remember, “You know you love it.”

He smirked, wiping his hands on the towel. “Love it? Girl, I barely tolerated it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Please. You would’ve cried if I ever stopped.”

“Cried? You forget who you talkin’ to.” He squinted at you, leaning in a little. “I’m not that lil boy you used to boss around, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” you said, glancing him up and down. “You done grew up a lil, huh?”

Sammie raised a brow, clearly catching the way your eyes lingered. “You tryna say I look good or something?”

Your throat went dry. You weren’t used to this version of Sammie—direct, confident, making it hard to tell if he was joking or if he really saw you now... like more than a friend and not just the girl who used to beat him in Uno.

“I’m sayin’ you don’t look terrible.” You shrugged casually, biting back a smile.

He stepped closer. “A year away and you still playin’ with me like we kids.”

“You ain’t ready for grown-woman compliments, preacher’s boy,” you teased, folding your arms.

Sammie chuckled and tilted his head. “Oh, so you grown now? One year outta town and you all woman now, huh?”

“Damn straight,” you smirked. “I eat my greens now.”

That made him burst out laughing, deep and from the chest. “Greens? Girl, you used to cry over broccoli.”

“Growth.” You lifted your chin proudly.

“Well, I like this grown-up you,” he said, eyes scanning you again, slower this time. “Confident. Mouth still slick. But I’ma warn you…”

You cocked a brow. “Warn me about what?”

He leaned just a little closer, voice dropping. “Keep teasing me like that and I might start actin’ like I’m grown too.”

You blinked, heart thumping just a little harder.

“Boy, hush,” you muttered, but your voice came out softer than expected.

“Mmhm,” he hummed, backing up toward his car. “That’s what I thought.”

You stared at him, biting your lip before shaking your head.

“Still cocky, I see.”

“And you still love me,” he tossed over his shoulder.

The next morning…

It was barely 10 a.m. and you were still in your pajamas— some old cartoon shorts and a stretched-out tank top—hair in a messy scarf, and attitude already on 10 because somebody was banging on the door, and you wasn’t expecting no guests. 

You lazily walked over to the door opening it with frustration all over your face. To your surprise it was Sammie. 

White T-shirt clinging to his arms, cargo shorts low on his hips, tool bag in one hand, smug grin in the other. Looking good as hell, unfortunately for you.

You froze.

He didn’t.

His eyes raked over you slowly—taking in your bunny slippers, your tank top with one strap hanging off your shoulder, and your scarf slowly falling off your head.

“Well damn,” he said, cocking his head, “did I catch you fresh out the bed or is this what grown looks like now?”

You crossed your arms instinctively, suddenly aware of every exposed inch of skin and how his eyes didn’t flinch away—not like before. It wasn’t teasing this time. It was... something else. He was really looking.

“Boy, what the hell are you doing here?”

He held up the tool bag. “Your mama told mine y’all kitchen faucet was leakin'. You know how they are. So my momma volunteered me like I’m the damn neighborhood handyman.”

You stepped aside with a sigh.

“She ain’t mention nothing about you coming over.”

“She probably knew you wouldn’t clean up anyway,” he teased, walking past you. “Or put on a bra.”

You threw a couch pillow at the back of his head as he walked past you, mortified. “Don’t play with me this early, Sammie.”

He laughed, easily dodging it. “I’m just sayin’. You had all that grown woman energy yesterday, now I pull up and it look like yo childhood fought you and won.”(damn sis)

“I’m still living out of boxes,” you snapped, following him toward the kitchen. “I couldn’t  find my good pajamas, so don’t start.”

“Right, right. Excuses.” He knelt down by the sink, glancing up.

You crossed your arms. “Fix the sink and shut up, Sammie.”

“I will,” he said, reaching under the counter. “Soon as you admit you missed me.” He smirked as he positioned himself under the sink to find the leak.

You rolled your eyes, smirking despite yourself. “Mmm. I missed peace. And silence.”

He chuckled, tools clinking under the cabinet. “Keep lyin’. You couldn’t even open the door right—you was too busy starin’.”

You blinked, your smirk faltering just a bit. He said it differently this time. Lower. Serious.

But before the silence could stretch too long, he flicked a piece of plastic from under the sink at you.

“You gon’ stand there or at least make yourself useful and pass me that wrench?”

Your fingers brushed his when you handed it over, and neither of you commented on how neither of you pulled back right away.

Trying to focus on literally anything except how his shirt lifted just enough to show the waistband of his boxers and the deep V line leading down.

Flashing that cocky grin.

“Dang you not even gon’ offer me a drink or wipe my sweat or somethin’?”

“I didn’t know ‘neighborhood handyman’ came with customer service demands,” you shot back, leaning on the counter.

He slid out from under the sink, sitting up on his knees. His eyes flicked over you again—longer this time. And it wasn’t funny anymore.

“Damn,” he muttered, looking you over like he was seeing you for the first time all over again. “You really grew up, huh?”

You raised an eyebrow. “That surprise or disappointment in your voice?”

“Nah. Just… something i’m taking note of,” he said, standing up slowly. His shirt clung to his chest now, damp from sweat.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

And then— “You missed me, didn’t you,” he said again, stepping closer this time.

You tried to laugh it off, but it came out breathy. “I missed clownin’ you. Big difference.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Nah. You missed me.”


A beat passed.


His eyes didn’t leave yours.You didn’t answer at first. You just looked at him—really looked. 

“You know I did,” you said finally, your voice lower now, honest in a way it hadn’t been all year.

Sammie stepped closer, “Yeah,” he murmured, “but I wanted to hear you say it.”


Then his voice dropped, that Southern drawl thick and heavy like honey on your skin.
“You just scared.”

That made your head tilt. “Scared?”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping closer, that cocky smirk returning. “You missed me. You just don’t know what to do with me now that I’m not some lil boy followin’ you around.”

You scoffed. “Ain’t nobody scared of you, Sammie.”

He licked his lips, eyes dragging slow over your body.
“You should be,” he murmured. “I ain’t lil no more.”

Your pulse jumped. But your mouth moved before your brain could catch up.

“Then show me how much you’ve grown.”

You reached up, grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled him in, lips crashing into his like you were done playing games—and he didn’t hesitate, didn’t ease in. He kissed you back like he’d been waiting to shut you up for years.

His hands gripped your waist like he owned it, like they’d been there before in dreams he wouldn’t dare confess. He walked you backward, not even breaking the kiss as you hit the counter behind you, gasping as his mouth dipped to your neck.

“Sammie—wait,” you breathed, your hand curling in his shirt.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his voice a low rumble.
“You made me wait long enough.”

Your tank top was halfway up before you could respond, his hands slipping beneath it, thumbs brushing the soft curve of your waist. His lips returned to your throat, to your collarbone, trailing heat with every kiss. One second you were in the kitchen, half-dressed and breathless—and the next?

Your back hit the couch cushions.

He hovered over you, looking down, eyes dark and sure. “Say you don’t want this, and I’ll stop.”

You didn’t say a word.

You just reached for him again, pulled him down by the collar of that stretched white tee, and kissed him like you were starving.

His hands slid down, slow and deliberate, slipping beneath your shorts to grip your thighs. You gasped when he lifted you slightly, adjusting your body beneath his like he knew exactly what he wanted and how he wanted it. You felt him, hard and ready, pressing against the inside of your thigh, and it made your breath catch.

“You still scared?” he asked again, voice brushing the shell of your ear as he rolled his hips slowly into yours.

You tried to keep it playful. “I ain't scared of a little boy who had to listen to lullabies to go to sleep till ninth grade.”

He chuckled, low and dangerous, then caught your chin between his fingers and tilted your face toward him. "That boy’s gone, baby. Been gone. Let me show you what replaced him."

Then he was pulling your tank top the rest of the way off, eyes devouring every inch of skin like it was the first and last time he’d ever see it. His mouth followed, lips and tongue tasting your collarbone, your chest, teeth grazing just enough to make your back arch.

You moaned his name without meaning to. That only made him bolder.

His fingers slid beneath your shorts, teasing the band of your panties until you whimpered, rocking your hips into his touch. “Damn,” he whispered, "You already this wet for me?"

“Shut up,” you panted.

“Nah,” he said, voice dropping, teasing and full of heat. “I gotta teach you sum real quick.”

His fingers slipped between your pussy lips, slow and slick, finding your rhythm like he’d been studying your body in secret. You gasped, gripping the back of his neck.

“Sammie…”

“Now you know damn well I ain’t little no more, but you’re too fucking stubburn.,” he murmured, slipping one finger inside, then two. Curling them. Stroking that spot that made your thighs tighten around his wrist.

“Say it.”

You shook your head, breathless. “Fuck you.”

He smirked. “That’s the plan.”

He kissed you again—messy, possessive—while his fingers worked you open, coaxing soft cries from your throat. When he finally pulled them out, he looked at you like he was weighing a decision.

Then he tugged his shirt off, muscles flexing as he reached for his belt. Your eyes went wide when he freed his dick, thick and hard, no trace of that 'little boy' anywhere. He caught your expression and leaned down, lips brushing your jaw.

“Still think I’m playing?”

You swallowed hard. “Shut up and show me.”

He did.

He eased into your pussy, inch by slow inch, watching your face the whole time. You moaned his name again, louder this time, and his eyes darkened.

“Damn, baby,” he hissed, gripping your hips. “I know you’ve been wanting this.”

He started to move, slow at first, letting you adjust. Each stroke dragged long and deep, the kind that made your eyes roll back. His lips found your neck again, whispering filthy praise between kisses:

“Look at you… takin’ me so good.”

“Still think I’m that lil boy, huh?”

“Say it, baby. Admit it.”

You couldn’t form words at first—just moans and gasps, fingers digging into his back. But he didn’t stop. He rolled his hips with steady purpose, pushing you higher with every thrust.

When he lifted your leg and angled deeper, you nearly screamed.

“Oh my god—Sammie—” 

You started to pull back just a little, breath catching, heart racing. It was almost too much—too good, like you couldn’t handle all of him all at once. Your body wanted more, but your mind flickered with the fear of losing control.

“Why you running?” he laughed, dragging you back against him. “Take this dick like the woman you say you are.”

“You gon’ remember this every time you try to play me like I’m still a lil kid,” he growled, sweat dripping onto your chest as he picked up the pace.

Your nails scratched down his back. “Fuck, you’re grown. Fuck—okay?!”

He smiled against your skin, victorious and still not letting up.

“Say my name,” he growls against your lips.

His strokes are slow, deep, and strategic. Every thrust hitting the right spot again and again.

“Preac…” you almost say out of habit, but the way he grips your thighs, the scent of his cologne, the heat in his stare—it’s too much.

He slows just enough to lean down, lips brushing yours. “Say it right.”

You try to sass back, breath hitching. “Please—Preacher’s b—”

He stops.

Just like that.

Your body whines at the sudden emptiness.

He gives you a cold look, jaw clenched, voice low and cocky.

“Try that nickname again, and I’ll leave you right here—dripping and needy.”

You shoot him a look, trying to tell if he’s bluffing. But no—he’s dead serious. That playful glint is gone, replaced with something darker.

Hungrier.

Still clinging to a shred of pride, you whisper, “Okay, Samm…” You pause, catching yourself—desperate to bring back the friction. Trying to grind against him.

He tilts his head, starts to pull out again. “Try. Again.”

You squirm. “Sammie—please Sammie!”

He grins like the devil and slams into you again, making your back arch off the bed.

“That’s more like it. Now keep sayin’ it—so you never forget who you dealin’ with.”

He doesn’t let up. Just deep, calculated strokes. His voice low in your ear. “I’m grown now, baby… and preacher’s boy ain’t round here no more. But Imma help you remember—every damn time I’m diggin’ inside you.”

He fucked you like a man with something to prove—each thrust rougher, wetter, louder. The slap of skin against skin filled the room along with your cries.

You could barely breathe, let alone think, as his dick filled you over and over, your pussy fluttering around him, gripping every inch.

“Who's grown now?” he grunted.

“You,” you gasped. “You are—fuck, Sammie—”

Your orgasm ripped through you, blinding and hot, your body jerking beneath him.

He followed right after, groaning loud and low as he buried himself deep, hips jerking through his release.

For a long minute, the only sound was the rush of breath between you.

Then you whispered, "Told you I wasn’t scared.", as you smirked against his neck.

He kissed your cheek, lips curling. “You're too stubborn to be scared, but it’s alright. Imma break that habit.”

~ i feel like this was a bit out of character for sammie in the movie, but we can play pretend 😉. Hope yall liked it!💫

Taglist:

@heyyimmisunderstood @marley1773 @sajoi

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@kenziiie @queen-stars2 @sammiesprxncess

@ignotusumbra @goddessofthundathighs

@thickemadame

[bower-quinn]

Where you are is home

Steve x Reader - Fluff, friends to lovers, modern!au Steve is your best friend, but what if... purely hypothetically... you feel more?

The sun over Hawkins hadn’t set yet, but golden light was already creeping through the leaves of the old trees behind the trailer park. You were sitting on the hood of Steve’s BMW – the one he somehow still drove, even though you regularly laughed about how it was basically a moving joke by now.

“Do you think your car will die on its own someday, or do I have to take care of that?” “Disrespectful,” Steve said, chewing on a straw and giving you a mock-offended glare. “This is a classic.” “Classically rusty.” He gave you a playful punch on the arm, and you let out an exaggerated sound, just to grin right after. “You’re such a baby,” he mumbled, leaning back against the windshield and closing his eyes. The wind blew a strand of hair into his face, but he didn’t move it.

That was the thing about the two of you: you didn’t have to say anything. You could be outside somewhere, between trees and chirping crickets, and just… be. You’d been best friends for two years – ever since you’d slipped him chips under the bench during a boring school play. He hadn’t really left your side since. The rumors that you were his latest fling had faded quickly. Like a boring song no one hums anymore. Over time, your friendship had only grown deeper.

He’d taken you on late-night drives, helped you forget your idiot ex (“I almost punched him.” “Come on, Steve, you would've broken your hand!” “But with dignity!”), and you’d helped him write his college applications (“I’m not a college guy.” “You’re just lazy!” “Exactly my point!”) And every time the world felt like too much, one of you was always there. Always.

“Remember when you fell asleep in the kitchen ‘cause you tried to make spaghetti at 3am?” “That was a tactical power nap,” Steve mumbled. “I was waiting for the water to boil.” You laughed – rough and honest. Steve looked at you briefly – just for a moment – but something in his eyes lingered.

“What would I be without you,” he murmured. You felt a lump in your throat. “Probably dead. Or still a terrible cook. A terrible cook with awful taste in music.” “I have fantastic taste in music.” “Steve, your playlist is just Foreigner. Nothing else.” “Romantically speaking, that’s a stroke of genius.” “Romantically speaking, it sucks.”

More laughter. More closeness. And when his head leaned on your shoulder, there was no thunderclap. No explosion. Just a warm, quiet feeling: You loved him. Like a best friend. But also… more.

A few days later, you were sitting with Steve on the roof of his garage. An old wooden ladder, a picnic blanket, two cans of Coke, and a rusty Bluetooth speaker. Your little, crooked paradise.

“Is it sad that this is the highlight of my weekend?” he asked. “No,” you said. “I’m here too.” He grinned – that half-serious grin that hurt if you looked at it too long. “You know you’re irreplaceable, right?” “Obviously,” you replied. “Were you about to confess your undying love?” “God forbid.” A pillow hit your arm. “Robin would’ve declared her eternal love by now. She’s more romantic. And smarter!” “Hey! I successfully built an IKEA cabinet today.” “Steve… I was there. You put the same screw in the wrong place. Twice. Twice, Steve.” “Artistic interpretation!”

Laughter. Deep breaths. Silence.

“You know…,” he suddenly began, “sometimes I feel like I’m missing something. I haven’t dated anyone in over a year. I just want to hang out with you.” You looked at him. “Would you rather go back to dating Cynthia?” “The one who called Chewbacca ‘the roaring bear’? I don’t think so.” You laughed loudly – one of your favorite memories. You’d never forget Steve’s face.

“You need a girlfriend who knows the difference between Star Trek and Star Wars.” “Yeah,” he said softly, leaning closer. “I think I like this. With you. You get me. You know me.” You placed your hand on his. Nothing big. Just… exactly right. His eyes wandered to your face and stayed there.

“You’ve got something,” he whispered, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “Eyelash. Make a wish,” he murmured. “I did.” “What was it?” “If I tell you, it won’t come true.” His gaze flickered. “What if I wished for the same thing?”

There it was. A moment. One second. Two. Three. And it passed. Neither of you made the first move. But still, something had changed. The spark that had only lived inside you was suddenly outside, too. Every touch felt like lightning, and you could see it in his eyes – he felt it too.

Those big puppy eyes. So open. So honest. So vulnerable. And still, weeks passed. Weeks full of longing.

One night at his place. The world outside was quiet, but something inside both of you was boiling – something that had stayed silent too long. Steve looked at you – and in his eyes were the words he couldn’t hold in much longer. He’d never been good at hiding anything.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said. “What do you mean?” “This... almost. This constant almost. Almost kissing. Almost saying how much I want you.” He stepped closer. “I can’t sleep. I only think about you.”

Your heart was racing. “I think about you too,” you whispered.

Then he pulled you into him – not gently. Not carefully. But like someone who’s been in love forever. His mouth found yours, hot and urgent, his hands on your back, under your shirt, pulling, searching – like he had to make sure you were real.

“I want you,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Not just now. Every day.” Your fingers ran down his chest, your breath hot on his neck. His grip tightened. He looked at you, half speechless, half overwhelmed.

“You’re everything I want.” When his lips met yours again, there was no more doubt. Only desire – built up over weeks. Months of glances that had never dared to speak. Now, they were screaming. In every touch. Every move. Every trace of skin on skin.

You didn’t fall on each other. You fell into something that had always been there – and finally had the space to catch fire.

[missadangel]

⊱ AMOR MEUS AETERNUS ⊰

(Marcus Acacius x Ofc)

IV. Matrimonium

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Chapter Summary:  Here comes the -unfortunate time-traveller- bride! Ceremony: check, Applause: check, Sacrifice: check, Wedding band: check, Love: nah, Desire: unknown Groom: not leaving unlike the previous one Bride: thinking about escaping. Chapter W. Count and warnings: 11k; denial of feelings, blood, mention about sex, mention about virginity, a little fluff, angst injury, romantic comedy, ancient rome, using drugs (tranquilizer), anxiety attacks, violence, waxing, power imbalance, marriage, wedding, wedding night discussion, embarrasment, alcohol consumption. authors note: Pronuba: The Pronuba, the matron of honor, was still married to her first husband. She is univira, a one-man woman. Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Ofc!Reader (Her name is Rose, and her hair is dyed) Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI, Smut General Warnings: Harsh, cold, grumpy Marcus, and the reader is NOT innocent a little bitchy, Lucilla is mean, Lucius is a jerk(but falls in love with reader), its Septimius Severus' era but Geta and Caracalla are the prince of Rome, time travel, modern-ancient era travels, falling in love, slow burn, rough sex, smut, sex, oral sex (both f&m receiving), all sex, dirty talk, gladiators, battle, war, violence, blood, ancient time language, fluffy, injury, forced marriage, arranged marriage, sexism, haters to lovers, first love, angst, vestal virgins, vestal priestesses, age gap; reader is 25 Marcus is 42, reincarnation my masterlist

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"Julius, are you trying to kill me?"

He looked at you, eyes wide, still glistening with tears though. "Are you well?"

You stood up angrily, still reeling from the heartbreaking story he had just shared. "What exactly was the purpose of telling me all this? Because I'm about to have an anxiety attack." Your hands trembled.

"My apologies. I wanted you to understand the weight of my brother's burdens and the struggles he faces regarding this union—similar to yours."

"I get it; he’s still got that girl in his heart. But honestly, I don’t care. It’s not a real marriage, is it? By the time I get back, it’ll all be over—end of story. I should take my pill now or I won’t be able to sleep tonight due to nightmares." You said, then turned to leave, but he followed. You raised your hand to stop him, needed to be alone—just you and your pill, your best friend.

Trying to push thoughts from your mind as you walked through the dimly lit courtyard towards the stairs was a challenge. Tension gripped you again, a reminder of how cruel this ancient world can be, and you had no clue when you’d escape this nightmare. Your head spun as you climbed the stairs; you had to take your pill, and fast.

Lost in the darkness, your senses dulled by anxiety, you didn’t notice Marcus standing on the balustrade ahead. He noticed you, but just watched you walk by, still in shock and uncertain about what to do.

Upon entering your room, your eyes immediately searched for your bag.

There it was, on the bed. You unzipped it quickly, reaching for your medicine and popping one into your mouth. When you stood to grab the water from the table, you clumsily bumped your knee on the chair.

Yes, the same knee you had hurt earlier.

“Ah, damn!” You plopped onto the bed, lifting the hem of your dress. The wound wasn’t deep, but it was bleeding a bit. You thought you should apply some hand cream to it; after all, there was no pharmacy around. 

“Rosa?”

Startled by Marcus’ voice, you looked up, and he froze at the sight. Oh, right, your legs were exposed again. He averted his gaze, but not before noticing your wound.

"How can you just barge into my room like that?"

"I heard your voice. Are you hurt?" he asked, turning his head slowly, his attention fixating on your knee.

"Why? Are you worried about me now? I thought you came to cut out my tongue."

He exhaled sharply and faced you. "Forgive me, Rosa. I was a bit angry."

"A bit?"

He stepped closer, reaching out to touch your knee, but you instinctively pulled back. “Let me see,” he said, sitting beside you and gently touching your knee. "How did this happen?"

What was going on?

Why was he acting so tender all of a sudden?

"I fell, and Lucius carried me here. Oh right, you didn't bother to ask; you preferred to threaten me instead," you said sarcastically.

"Lucius," he murmured. "Are you interested in him?" His tone sharpened, hinting at something deeper.

Puzzled by his reaction, you decided to tease him. "I don't know; he’s a handsome man."

His brow furrowed. "Keep that opinion to yourself. You’re about to be married."

Ignoring his awkard-possessive tone, you reached for your bag. "Can you hand me my bag? I need some cream for my knee."

He obeyed, passing you your bag while watching intently. His gaze traveled over your face, still stunned by the revelation from earlier. He was trying to reconcile the features of the woman he loved, finding uncanny resemblances in you that sent his mind spiraling.

So this is how she would have looked like if… if they hadn’t taken her from me, he thought.

The same frown line etched on your forehead, the delicate slant of your eyes, your long, lush eyelashes framing your gaze, your perfectly sculpted nose, and, most strikingly, your lips.

Those lips.

They were exactly the same.

Once again, he was taken aback.

How had he not noticed before?

Just the sight of your lips pulled him back into treasured memories, reminding him of their first kiss—a fleeting moment that was forever seared into his mind. So entranced by your lips, he nearly leaned in to kiss you.

Almost.

“Well, I guess this will do,” you said, slipping the cream back into your bag.

Your voice jolted him from his reverie. “That photo,” he said, peering into your bag with curiosity.

“Which one?” You reached into your wallet. “Oh, this one? It’s an old picture of me as a kid. Look, I was really young here—about 11 or 12—and Liz was just five. It was her birthday.” You sighed, gazing at the photo. It held a different meaning for both of you. “I miss her so much,” you whispered.

“Your family... you mentioned that your mother has passed away and that your father is currently experiencing health issues. Is there anyone else in your family?” His serious tone caught you off guard; he seemed genuinely interested, not just asking out of politeness.

“My dad’s in the hospital, in a coma, but I guess you wouldn’t really understand what that means. I have an aunt, but we’re not on the best terms. Why do you ask?”

“Have you always lived in Rome?”

“What’s with the sudden barrage of questions?”

He remained silent, clearly waiting for your response.

“Well, no, I was very young when we moved to Italy from the States— that’s where I was born.”

“States?”

Oh right, how could he know? America hadn’t even been discovered yet; it was still thousands of years away.

“Another... well, another country. Never mind, it’s a long story. I’m not sure I can explain it to you, and honestly, I don’t think you’re ready to hear it.”

You realized he seemed lost in thought, and you wondered what was going through his mind. You broke the silence. “Okay, your turn to answer, Mr. General. Julius said..."

'that the woman you loved when you were younger had a tragic end.'

How could you have said that to him?

The thought twisted in your mind; you could scarcely bear to face it yourself.

“What did he say?”

You took a moment to gather yourself. “Well, he said you visited that place I mentioned. Is that true? Did you go there?”

Nice save.

He looked you square in the eye and stood up. “I appreciate that you informed me,” he said, leaving you bewildered.

“What does that mean—yes or no?”

“You don’t need to concern yourself with that matter now. The wedding is the day after tomorrow. Have some rest. Sleep well, Rosa.” He turned and walked out.

“The day after tomorrow?” Frustrated, you grabbed the pillow and hurled it at the door. “'Have some rest,' you say? You rest!” you shouted as you flopped onto the bed in a fury. “Please, God, help me get back home.”

It was one of those mornings again—heavy, disorienting, melancholic.

Those mornings when you open your eyes and instantly realize that both the place and time you occupy no longer feel familiar. A wave of emotions crashing over—disappointment, longing, a sense of confinement, anger...

And then there’s that other emotion, one that seems to be trying to break through: acceptance.

But surrendering isn’t an option.

No matter what happens, you tell yourself you won’t despair; you’ll find your way back.

You know you will.

Because the moment you let go, the moment you lose hope, this harsh and unforgiving world would consume you whole. You didn’t fit in here; you felt like a puzzle piece that doesn’t belong.

You pulled your phone out of your bag and turned it on, having a sinking feeling when you saw the battery down to 17%.

Just like your hopes, just like your patience, it was wearing thin.

If that weren’t enough, what awaited you in the courtyard with Julius and the others tested your limits further.

"What do you mean I have to stay in another house?" you exclaimed, your voice bouncing off the walls of the courtyard.

Julius placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, trying to soothe your rising frustration. "Please calm down. You only have to stay for tonight."

Balbina lounged in her usual spot, seemingly relishing your discontent, while Lydia stood nearby, smiling awkwardly. "Since you're an outlander, allow me to explain," Balbina started, her tone dripping with condescension. "According to Roman law, the wedding occurs in the bride's home. As patricians, we must adhere to this tradition. Since you don't belong to the patrician class, you might not be familiar with this terms."

"She will be part of our class upon her marriage to my brother," Julius stated, maintaining a respectful tone. He then presented you with a meticulously crafted leather-bound scroll. "This document signifies your new status; you are now a Roman citizen."

You took the document, untying the thread that bound it, and opened it. All you recognized was your name, along with the word 'Roman.' Beneath your name was the seal of Emperor Severus, complete with his likeness. “Well, my Latin isn't great, but is this some kind of identification like an ID?”

“Indeed, it is,” he replied with a smile.

“But why do I have to stay in another house?”

“It’s part of the ritual. You must be brought from the bride's house to the groom's house.”

“Fine, but my house...” -is in Rome in the year 2025.

"You required to stay at Claudia’s house." Balbina instructed, not looking at you. "Julius, take her there at once. We have much preparation to undertake here already."

Julius nodded and turned to you. "If you're ready, we need to leave now."

As you walked to the garden together, ensuring you were away from others, you said, “Julius, please, I don’t want to go. I’m still trying to adjust to this place.”

“You’ll only be there for one night.”

“Where’s Marcus? Does he know about this?"

“He left early for preparations. He chose Claudia’s house—it’s trustworthy and conveniently close to our house. Remember, the law dictates that the wedding must take place at that house, you need to emerge there as the bride, as if the daughter of that house. Marriages within the same family are forbidden, simply as weddings cannot occur in the groom's house.”

“A mere formality, is it?” you muttered, grimacing. Suddenly stopping in your tracks, you added with anxiety, “My bag, I left it in the room.”

“Leave it,” he said as he helped you into the carriage. “Your belongings will be moved to my brother’s chambers tonight, along with your dowry.”

“Dowry?”

He settled next to you in the carriage. “As I mentioned, Marcus is busy with the arrangements.”

It seemed that Marcus had shouldered the burden of all wedding arrangements, paying out of his own budget. Julius had made it clear from the outset that such an approach was rather atypical.

“Your mother, Balbina, asked me to stay in another house to avoid dealing with the wedding preparations she didn't want any part of, right?” you said.

Julius was silent, and you knew that meant yes.

"I'm not surprised," you replied, "after all, she doesn’t like me. But I thought Marcus was the head of the family, that he was in charge. Apparently not, huh?"

Julius chuckled lightly. “You still don’t seem to grasp the seriousness and significance of the situation.”

"What do you mean?"

"You are marrying the head of the Acacius family, and general of Rome. Just imagine how hard this must be for my mother. Soon, you’ll be addressed as 'domina' in the villa. Can you grasp that now?"

You paused, realizing the gravity of his words; you never fully acknowledged how important this was. “But I didn’t ask for that.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Rosa, but your desires are beside the point. What truly matters is what my brother wants. This is the strongest way he can protect you, even from my mother.”

He was kinda right; if you compared it to the modern day, 2025, Marcus was akin to the top soldier in the army, something like a chief of staff. His wife would be both important and respected.

Yet, despite all that, it was an arranged marriage, and the bride had zero desire to marry.

None whatsoever.

The villa where Lady Claudia lived was indeed close by. It was smaller than Marcus’s but still lovely—typical for a Roman villa, modest yet charming. You felt a knot of anxiety in your stomach; staying there even for one night seemed unbearable. As you entered the courtyard, the buzz of activity caught your attention.

Slaves—poor souls—were dashing around: some were decorating with white flowers, others carried trays, while still more were busy cleaning the upper floors. It was a pre-wedding frenzy...

All for you.

Great.

When you spotted a slave who had dropped a cup while rushing along with a tray, you quickly picked it up for him. His eyes widened in surprise, and he bowed his head in gratitude before hastening back to his tasks.

“Julius.”

A woman’s voice called out moments later.

Julius replied, “Lady Claudia.”

At first, you brushed off the similarities in her voice; it had been over a decade since you had last heard it. But as you turned to look at her, shock coursed through you. Lady Claudia’s face mirrored your mother’s—warm smile intact. As she drew nearer, your body trembled, and your heart raced.

The peaceful, lifeless visage you had seen at the funeral was now alive and smiling again. After seeing your father's doppelganger, this was truly mind-blowing.

You covered your mouth, stifling a sob.

"Rosa?" Julius’s voice dripped with concern.

Claudia frowned, her expression a mix of confusion and worry. “Are you well, dear?”

You forced yourself to regain composure, feeling as if you were trying to escape from an invisible weight pressing down on you. "I- I am..." you stammered, struggling to find the right words.

Julius placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. "What’s the matter, Rosa?"

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from Claudia. “Forgive me, I'm just confused. You resemble my mother, whom I lost years ago.”

Claudia smiled softly. "How unfortunate. Please accept my condolences."

Oh, she seemed like a better person than your dad's evil twin.

Overcome by a sudden yearning, you hesitated but then mustered the courage to ask, “Can I hug you?”

The slaves around looked surprised, but Claudia nodded and opened her arms. You embraced her tightly, closing your eyes and burying your head in her shoulder, filled with longing. Claudia wrapped her arms around you, taken aback by the warmth of your affection. "You loved your mother very much, I can tell." You nodded, sniffling, still resting against her. “I hope you meet her again in another life.”

Oh well, that's precisely what is happening now.

Suddenly realizing you were clinging to her a bit too tightly, you pulled back and managed a nervous smile. “Thank you.”

Claudia returned the smile. "That was a warmer greeting than I expected, wouldn’t you agree, Ennius?"

You noticed a young boy beside her looking at you with judgement. He didn’t resemble anyone you recognized, hopefully. “I’d call it slightly inappropriate, Mother.”

“Now, now, my son. Remember, she’s a woman about to marry General Acacius—show some respect. Now, come, dear, there’s much to do.”

“I must take my leave,” Julius said, glancing at you. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

You waved goodbye. "See you."

Normally, you would be in a panic right now—left alone in a place surrounded by strangers. But Claudia reminded you of your mother, not only in appearance but also in her behavior. It was almost enough to make you feel at ease, and you couldn't tear your gaze away from her.

As the hours slipped away, a growing sense of unease began to creep into you while Claudia passionately delved into the traditions surrounding a Roman bride. She described it in vivid detail, almost as if you were her own daughter. Although your grasp of history equipped you with knowledge, nothing compared to experiencing these customs firsthand.

By evening, when the slaves arrived carrying large shells look like plates, you asked Claudia about the sticky substance they held, her response left you stunned.

“Beeswax,” she explained. “Now, undress, please.”

You instinctively wrapped your arms around yourself. “I don’t have any unwanted hair, I swear.” You lifted your skirts to show your smooth legs, a result of your regular laser hair removal sessions.

"I insist on seeing the rest of you," she said firmly.

At her command, the slaves began to undress you, treating your body with the indifference of peeling fruit. Despite their casual handling, you couldn’t shake the feeling of discomfort; thankfully, Claudia exuded a maternal aura. When she glanced at your armpits and noted the absence of hair -due to the laser treatments-, she couldn’t help but express surprise. However, the pubic area was another story. You had let that grow a bit over the weeks, and Claudia’s solemn words echoed in your ears: “We must remove the hair here.”

“But I usually use a razor for that area; my skin is too sensitive for laser treatment, and waxing, I can't even think of it,” you protested.

She didn’t seem to hear you, -probably didn't understand what were you saying- and you flushed with embarrassment as the slaves guided you to sit on the lectus. “I should’ve just done it myself,” you muttered, remembering the sting of waxing in a sensitive area from a previous experience.

Shaking slightly with trepidation, you settled in. One slave held your arms while another nudged your legs apart, and a third applied the honey-scented wax to your skin, coating the hair with it.

Claudia leaned back, chuckling at your plight. “Stay still, dear. You’re a Roman lady now; all the hair must be removed. Agreed?”

Your answer was nothing short of a shrill scream, piercing the quiet, startling any birds perched nearby on the balcony.

Once the brutal hair removal was complete, pain pulsed through you, mixing with a simmering frustration aimed at Marcus. “This is all your fault, Marcus; I hate you,” you grumbled. Slaves girls and Claudia quietly laughed while leaving you alone to nurse your throbbing discomfort.

Thinking twice, maybe you didn't like Claudia that much.

As dusk settled in, you took a moment to gaze from the balcony of your new room in that villa. Earlier, you had a special pre-wedding bath in the private bathhouse, accompanied by Claudia's advice for your wedding night, which made your face turn red from embarrassment. Below, the slaves still scurried about, busy with their tasks, just as they had been all morning. The area they waxed was still a bit sore, but thankfully, Claudia, being the considerate woman she was, had sent you some soothing oil to ease the discomfort.

You couldn’t help but feel sorry for the women of this era.

When some of the slave girls entered to apply the soothing oil for you, you thanked them gratefully. It worked somehow.

"My lady," one of them giggled, "Maybe you could ask the general to help ease your pain tomorrow night when you’re alone together.”

Confused, you asked, “How?” as you rose from the lectus.

Their laughter rang out, and you felt heat rush to your cheeks as you realized the implication of their words.

“Don’t you girls have something better to do?” you scolded them.

They bowed their heads and apologized, still snickering as they left the room.

Once they were gone, you felt your blush deepen at the thoughts they had put in your head.

Damn estrogen.

This marriage was a sham after all; why were you feeling so anxious?

Seeking some fresh air, you made your way to the courtyard. You found a quiet corner away from the noise of the slaves and the chatter surrounding you, retreating to one of the gardens.

A wave of melancholy washed over you; you were off your anxiety pills and struggling to believe this was actually happening. Just a few weeks ago, if someone had told you that you’d be kidnapped to ancient Rome and thrust into marriage, you would have laughed until it hurt.

Yet now, you were living through this absurdity, constantly wondering, 'Why me?'

Looking up at the sky, you noted the crescent moon—perhaps two weeks until the full moon? You hoped to find a way back home then.

Suddenly, a crunching sound drew your attention. Before you could react, a large hand clamped over your mouth. You turned to see Lucius and his intense blue eyes signaling for silence.

He slowly removed his hand.

“What are you doing here? Why are you sneaking around?”

He was wearing a black robe. “I came to take you away from here.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief. “What? What do you mean?”

“I can see that marrying him isn't what you truly want. Let me help you.”

“How can you help?”

“I’m heading out of Rome tonight. I can take you back to your family, your homeland. I promise, I’ll make sure you arrive safely,” he urged, determination flashing in his gaze.

You felt a mix of emotions. “Oh, Lucius, if it were only that simple.”

“Where does your family live? No distance is too great for me. I will find a way to take you there."

Confusion clouded your thoughts. “Lucius, why would you do this for me?”

His gaze dropped to your lips as he took a deep breath. “I…” he hesitated. “You’ve changed something in me. I think I’m in love with you,” he confessed with a grin.

“What? You must be joking. Why would you fall for me? Surely, you have plenty of women around,” you countered.

He shrugged. “I’ve never met anyone like you. But that’s not why I’m offering to help. I am here because Acacius is forcing you into this marriage. I can’t allow it.”

With a heavy sigh, you conceded, “Lucius, you need to understand—I appreciate your offer, but I can’t accept. Marcus isn’t forcing me. I want to marry him,” you lied, hoping to sound convincing. After all, Marcus was your only ally in this unfamiliar world, even if he made you furious.

“Are you certain, Rosa? If it’s protection you seek, I can give that to you.”

You shook your head, your gaze steady. “I have faith in Marcus to look after me. He has promised to reunite me with my family someday. Despite the way he can irritate me at times, he’s a man of his word.”

“But you won’t find happiness with him," he murmured.

“Why are you leaving, by the way?” you asked, changing the subject.

His expression turned serious. “Things might get complicated soon. I need to leave before it does, much like I’ve done before. My whole life has been a series of escapes anyway.”

“Why?”

He let out a sad laugh. “Because I’m an unfortunate, damned prince of Rome.”

He touched your cheek, and you swallowed hard, feeling a strange connection between you. “I hope you find happiness, flower. Take care until we meet again.”

Suddenly, he leaned in and pressed a brief, light kiss on your lips. You barely had time to react before he slipped away into the darkness, lost among the trees and shadows. You stood there, stunned, your lips lingering in shock as you blinked away the moment.

As the morning sun poured into your new room, a battalion of slave girls invaded, bustling in with an eager excitement that danced in the air. One girl flung the thick curtains wide, allowing a cascade of golden sunlight to spill into the space, while another approached with the most exquisite wedding dress, placing it delicately upon the bed like a treasure awaiting its moment. A third girl laid down a long, ethereal tulle in shades of soft yellow and orange, and yet another carefully peeled back the sheet, revealing you to the ancient world once more.

Today, as the bride, you were the center of attention, and all eyes would be on you.

The time traveler bride.

The girls began to dress you in a flowing white dress when Claudia entered the room. Instinctively, you smiled at her. She returned your smile warmly and tenderly touched your cheek. “Rosa, did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you, Lady Claudia,” you replied.

“Do you feel ready?” she asked.

“For what?” you said, smoothing the hem of your dress.

She laughed gently. “It’s your wedding day, dear.”

"Oh, right,” you said, nodding, trying to mask the tumult of emotions swirling within you. You didn’t want her to sense your unease.

Claudia placed her hands on your shoulders. “I don’t know what you feel about him, but I’ve known General Acacius since he was young. He’s a good man, and I’m certain he will treat you well.”

“I guess he is,” you said, pursing your lips. You wanted the day to be over as soon as possible.

It felt like you were reliving a bad dream.Your previous wedding ended with the groom leaving you at the altar, but now it feels like you want to leave the groom this time.

You wished for a way out, but there was none.

As your hair was braided, the other slave girls announced the arrival of the guests. Soft music and quiet chatter came from downstairs. Soon, they informed you that the general and his family arrived. The girls placed the long, yellowish veil on your head, so long that you had to twist it around your arm a few times. Worse still, it obscured your vision.

“Am I really supposed to wear this all day?”

Claudia chuckled. “Have you forgotten already? Your husband will lift your veil when you reach his home. But first, he’ll unveil your face to kiss you.”

The word “husband” hit you like a punch to the gut.

Claudia took your arm as you made your way down the stairs, and the music shifted to a slower tempo, the atmosphere becoming lighter. As she had mentioned, she was taking you to your groom. It was an ancient ceremony, surprisingly representing a modern one: the groom waits by the priest while the bride walks through the guests.

The only difference was that this was ancient Rome.

You sighed, wondering what Lizzie would say if she saw you like this. She’d probably laugh a lot. Smiling to yourself, realizing you had many stories to share when you returned home.

As you approached Marcus, thoughts began to spiral in your mind. What if you couldn’t go back? What if you were destined to live here forever as his wife?

How could you endure this sham of a marriage?

Would you ever come to love him?

Would he ever soften his hardened demeanor?

If you considered things from the perspective of an ordinary woman living in this era—not as a time traveler—perhaps you could find something to appreciate in him or love him. He was handsome and, despite his tough exterior, a really good man.

But you still couldn’t forgive him. He had pulled you into this situation and forced you to marry him. No matter his reasons, it felt wrong. He still had someone else in his heart, and you had no feelings for him that would ever change.

You stood directly in front of him, dismissing the curious gazes around you, while the high priest began his ceremonial speech. As you caught a glimpse of his face, you couldn’t help but stare.

He looked undeniably handsome.

When you suddenly heard the sound of the sacrificial pig, you found yourself gaping at Marcus, disbelief washing over you.

What the hell?

Did he notice you staring?

Yes, he did, and he was looking right back at you.

That smirk—damn.

Oh no.

Why was your heart racing?

Get a grip, Rose. You’re angry with him—cool your jets.

Why was there this sudden flutter in your chest, especially when you hadn’t felt an ounce of excitement since morning?

You weren't marrying the man you loved; you didn’t love him at all.

You hated him.

The high priest’s words sounded like murmurings, lost amid the cacophony of voices swirling in your head and heart. He gestured for you to raise your hands, and Claudia, as your pronuba, grasped your right hands with both of hers, intertwining them. Marcus slipped a gold ring onto your finger, featuring the image of two hands clasped together, reminiscent of the ones you’d seen in museums.

Oh great, the anxiety was creeping in again.

When he lifted your veil, it became time to recite the words you’d been trying to memorize since the night before. “Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia,” you said, your voice steady but avoiding Marcus's gaze, opting instead to focus on his chin.

“Ubi tu Gaia, ego Gaius,” he replied softly. As he leaned in for the kiss, you held your breath; even though it was obligatory, you weren’t prepared for it. Yet, his kiss was gentle and brief, and you were surprised to find his lips warm and soft against yours.

“And the contract is signed. General Acacius, this woman is now yours,” the high priest announced, his voice resounding like a solemn bell. The guests responded with a warm blend of applause and joyful laughter.

Claudia then handed Marcus a cake that one of the slaves had brought on a special plate. You swallowed hard; your stomach grumbled—hunger gnawed at you, and you couldn’t wait to eat something. Marcus made you take a bite of the cake, but he didn’t offer you much. He chuckled when you frowned at him, especially since he broke the cake over your head as part of a Roman wedding tradition.

Damn ritual cake.

You should be enjoying it in your belly, not having it drop on your head.

Fortunately, the rituals wrapped up, and the feast commenced. The food was delightful—lamb, fresh and dried fruits, bread, and, of course, wine.

Okay, the Romans knew how to celebrate.

Laughter filled the air as people indulged in food and drink, coming over to congratulate you both. If you weren’t so busy devouring everything in sight, you might have noticed Marcus watching you intently all night, but your hunger took precedence. You probably ate so eagerly on your wedding night that your appetite became the subject of conversation throughout the entire city more than your beauty did. Julius and other men approached and exchanged words with Marcus. Soon, Lucilla came over to congratulate Marcus as well. He responded to her with a cold but respectful thank you.

“That’s enough,” Marcus said all of sudden, taking your hand to stop you from reaching for the wine cup.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Isn’t this my wedding night? I can drink as I please.”

“Then I’ll stop you, as your husband.”

“I thought this marriage wasn’t real,” you muttered.

Marcus glanced around and then leaned close. “Be quiet; someone will overhear.”

His tone conveyed anger, but it felt more like a warning than a rebuke. Something had changed in him but what?

Or was he merely playing the part of a devoted husband?

After the banquet, you walked from Claudia’s villa to Acacius', accompanied by the sound of drums. To your surprise, the streets outside were crowded with people cheering for Marcus while gazing at you with wide-eyed awe. Their excitement felt genuine, unlike the women who had eyed you with envy during the banquet. As you attempted to walk beside Marcus, young men, including Julius with torches in hand, accompanied the procession. Occasionally, you stumbled over your long veil, prompting Marcus to offer you his arm. Accepting it made navigating the dark streets easier, but by the time you finally reached the villa, your legs were exhausted. After enduring a few more rituals, your patience was wearing thin.

Sure, they knew how to celebrate, but their devotion to ceremonies was grueling.

Once the fire and water rituals concluded in the villa’s courtyard, everyone suddenly turned to stare at you. You were accustomed to the typical glares from Balbina and Lydia, but the attention from even the slaves was unsettling.

Did you miss another ritual?

Marcus leaned in close, whispering, “My apologies.”

“Apologize all you want; I won’t forgive you. How dare you force me to—ah! What are you doing?”

He suddenly scooped you up, tossing you over his shoulder. Others laughter echoed as you thrashed about.

“I meant to say, ‘apologies for this.’”

“Marcus! My stomach is full; put me down now or I swear I’ll throw up! I mean it!” You struggled, but then his hand found your backside, you froze.

“Calm down; I’ll lower you down shortly.”

You couldn’t see much being upside down, but he turned left after ascended the stairs, veered a little, passed through a grand doorway, and behind a satin curtain, gently placing you back on your feet. It took a moment to regain your balance, then you took in your surroundings.

This must have been the biggest room you’d ever seen—a large bed, a big wardrobe, a hefty desk, chairs, and a passage that led to a balcony.

“Wow, so this is Mr. General's room,” you said, glancing around. 

“Do you like it?” he asked. 

You turned to him. “I prefer my own room, but this isn’t bad. Oh, I’m so tired; let me just sit here.” You plopped down on the edge of the bed. “Hey, this bed is really comfortable,” you remarked, bouncing slightly and testing the mattress. Although spring mattresses didn’t exist back then, this one was surprisingly soft.

Marcus approached you. “Let me help you with your veil; it seems tangled in your hair,” he offered, reaching out. 

“Yeah, I’m finally getting rid of this annoying thing.” 

“It suits you,” he said with a smile. 

You squinted at him.

“I didn’t intend to call you annoying; it suits you beautifully I meant to say.” 

“Whatever,” you yawned. “What a long day.” 

“Yes, it truly was,” he murmured.

You both stared at each other in awkward silence for a moment until you finally broke it. “It feels strange, doesn’t it? The fake wedding, and now we’re pretending to be husband and wife.” 

Suddenly Marcus frowned, turning away to lift the curtain and scold someone outside. “Return your quarters immediately. No one is allowed near this room."

Once he was came back, you were taking off your shoes. “What just happened?” 

“Slaves. Must be Balbina’s doing.” 

“What do you mean?” you asked, removing your other shoe. 

Marcus let out a weary sigh. “She’s intent on finding out if the marriage has really been consummated.”

You widened your eyes in surprise. “They were actually waiting to listen? Wow, you people surprise me every single time.” 

Marcus began to remove his shawl. “It’s tradition. Isn’t it the same in your time? The married couple does something different on wedding nights?”

“At least no one eavesdrops on you there, except in some narrow-minded cultures,” you replied, struggling to untie the belt around your waist. “Ugh, it’s too tight.” 

He stepped closer. “Allow me,” he said, effortlessly untying the knot. 

“Wow, you follow traditions so well. Are you taking this marriage seriously or what?” you said with a smirk. 

But you immediately regretted the joke when he shot you a piercing look. “If I truly took this marriage seriously, I wouldn’t be standing here having a conversation with you. Instead...” He tilted his head, gesturing the bed.

You turned your head away, swallowing hard. “Okay, okay, it was just a joke. By the way, where’s my bag?” you asked, glancing around. 

Marcus unfastened his belt and left it on the bed, then retrieved your bag from the wardrobe and handed it to you. “Here.” 

“Oh, my bag,” you exclaimed, taking it from him and giving it a tight hug. 

He laughed. “You must really have missed it.” 

“Oh, you have no idea,” you admitted. “Thanks for looking after it.” You pulled out your cell phone. “Now I can finally clear my head,” you said, sitting back on the bed. 

Marcus came over and perched on the edge of the bed. “What are you doing?” 

“I need to jot down the lunar calendar and important dates. The battery might die soon,” you explained while searching for your notebook in the bag. 

“You mean you need to write? You can use my desk,” he suggested, glancing at it. 

You peeked over and noticed a reed pen, ink, and parchment set up nicely. “Thanks, Mr. General, but I’ve got something better.” You pulled out a ballpoint pen and a small heart-shaped notepad. 

Marcus frowned. “You’re going to write with that thing?” 

You chuckled. “Oh, I’m sorry; you don’t know about this invention, do you? It has a little reservoir for ink, so you don’t have to keep dipping it.” 

He examined the pen and scribbled something on the paper. “If I’d known about this earlier, I would have written my letters faster.” 

You took the pen back from him. "Just be careful; you might change history in a dangerous way."

You both smiled.

He stood up and grabbed some fruit from the table while you continued to write on the notepad. 

“Care for a taste? Or perhaps you've had your fill after the banquet,” he asked with a teasing glimmer in his eye, lifting a luscious grape to his mouth. 

“Yeah, I’d love some grapes, please.” 

“You certainly possess a much appetite for a woman,” he teased, placing a plate of grapes on the bed. 

“Hey, it says here that the next full moon is in six days,” you remarked, focused on your screen while popping a grape into your mouth.

Marcus seemed to enjoy watching you. “Six days,” he echoed, and a strange sensation pricked at him. He didn’t like the thought of you going back home in six days; it stung. 

“Yeah,” you replied cheerfully. “I hope it works this time,” you said with a grin. 

“And what if it doesn’t?”

You frowned at him. “Hey, let’s steer clear of negative thoughts; we need to stay positive.” 

He couldn’t fault you for that; he understood. He had already promised to help you return, yet he found it increasingly challenging to let you go, as the mere thought of it hurt him.

“Oh shit, no fucking way.”

“What happened?” he asked, bending down to look at the phone's display. 

“My battery's almost dead, the phone's going to shut off,” you said sadly.

“This little device was everywhere in your time; every individual was holding it. It must hold a lot of significance.”

“Yes, very much so. Some people walk around never putting the phone down. You can keep up with the news, chat with your friends, get recipes, take notes, anything you can think of.”

"It allows you to send messages and speak with each other, it does not?"

“You are a good observer, general. You know, you could have called the barracks with it,” you laughed at the prospect. “Of course, first you'd have to have a cell phone and a cell tower nearby."

He laughed softly. "It could've simplify things."

“Yeah. You know what I say? Since the battery is running out, I might as well look at the photos for the last time. I miss my sister. Do you want to take a look? After all, you're stuck here with me tonight.”

“True, I have nothing else to do,” he said, smiling nervously.

He asked you a lot of questions as you showed him the photos from the gallery, he didn't look amazed like Julius, just observant and detailed. When you mentioned that Claudia looked like your mother, he was surprised and even more surprised when you showed him an old picture of your mother.

And then he was lost in thought.

When you paused at a picture, he realized that your face had fallen.

“I should have deleted this photo,” you said angrily. And you deleted it and threw it in the trash.

“Why?”

“I mean, I tore that stupid wedding dress and seeing it again made me angry.”

“You never mentioned that you were married before.”

“I wasn't, the asshole left me on my wedding day.”

"What kind of man would do such thing," he muttered.

“Someone who's not a man, obviously,” your voice cracked.

He touched your shoulder. “Rosa,” he whispered. You looked at him, his brown eyes were intense, sparkling. "He is not worth your sorrow; do not allow yourself to feel sad because of him."

What the hell?

Your heart raced, pounding against your ribcage like a drum—thump thump thump thump.

“Thanks, Marcus,” you said, feeling warmth spread through you at his kindness. His hand lingered on your shoulder, igniting a flutter of nerves within you—not in a bad way but in a thrilling, electric way as he looked you over, his features undeniably charming.

Suddenly, the phone vibrated, and then the screen went dark.

“Shit,” you said and threw the phone across the room.

Marcus picked up the phone from the floor. “It might be broken now,” he said.

“Forget it,” you said, standing up. “There's no electricity anyway, I can't even charge it, so it doesn't matter.” you said, pouring the wine decanter on the table into a cup. Then you took your pill out of your bag and were about to pop one in your mouth when Marcus came up to you and stopped you by grabbing your wrist. "You have consumed enough wine already, and I've noticed you reaching for that medicine too frequently."

“What, have you decided to pretend to be my husband?” you asked sarcastically.

He took you in his arms without breaking his serious expression. You gasped. “Hey Marcus, I was joking!”

He approached the bed and laid you on it. You opened your eyes wide when he leaned over you, but he was bending down to pull the covers over you. “Sleep now, you must be tired.” he said, turning around to extinguish the oil lamp.

“But where will you sleep?”

“Here,” he said as he lay down on the lectus.

You sat up on your elbow and looked at him. “Hey that thing looks pretty uncomfortable.”

He smiled and put his arm over his face.“I’ve endured far brutal conditions during the war. This is comfortable option compared to that one.”

“Hmm, okay then,” you murmured and lay back down. “Good night, Mr. General.” As you closed your eyes, a wave of unexpected drowsiness washed over you, and you drifted into sleep almost instantly.

Marcus shifted his arm from his face and turned to watch you slumber, a soft smile gracing his lips. “Good night, Rosa,” he whispered, his voice barely audible in the quiet darkness.

Marcus awoke before you, the remnants of a restless night still etched on his face. He had spent countless hours watching you sleep, captivated by your peacefulness, while thoughts of you swirled in his mind. In an attempt to quell his overwhelming desire to reach out and touch you, he had paced the room like a caged animal, frustration simmering beneath the surface. A nascent anger bubbled up within him—for your inability to remember him—but he quickly quelled those feelings, aware that neither of you held the power to change things.

It felt as if the gods themselves were casting a mocking smile in his direction.

As you stretched in bed, you were pleasantly surprised to feel refreshed when you opened your eyes. It had been a long time since you had slept this well. Marcus's bed was far more comfortable than you had expected.

But where was he?

You sat up and scanned the room, yawning.

Just then, he lifted the curtain and walked in, his face lighting up with surprise at the sight of you awake. "Did you sleep well?" he asked.

"Yes. You won't believe it, but I actually slept great," you replied. He approached the bed and lifted the covers, which caused you to startle. "What are you doing?"

When you spotted the dagger-like knife in his hand—an instrument used by Roman soldiers—you instinctively pulled back and curled your legs up. "Marcus, are you out of your mind?"

“Easy now, I won't hurt you,” he reassured you. “The slaves will be here shortly to collect the sheets."

He pressed the knife into his palm. You were shocked that he didn't even flinch when he cut himself. He placed his hand firmly on the sheet and clenched his fist, few drops of blood trickled down and stained the fabric. You looked at him in confusion, but he seemed completely at ease, as if he were completing a task.

"Geez, we should have poured some wine or something. Did you really have to cut yourself?" 

"Balbina would have noticed." 

"What is she, Sherlock Holmes or something?" you muttered, wrinkling your nose in disgust at the sight of blood on the sheet. 

As he wiped the knife on a piece of cloth, you stood up, reached for his hand, and examined it. The cut was deep, but it was nothing Marcus would worry about. "You're quite determined to cut yourself, aren't you?"

He frowned at the insinuation in your voice. 

“Julius told me you were willing to die.” He looked into your eyes, waiting for you to continue. You sighed before you spoke again. “He also mentioned why that is.”

You both locked eyes in a moment that stretched on, the air thick with unspoken words. “Do you really feel that way? Do you want to die so badly because it would take away your pain?”

He didn't answer, he was still looking into your eyes, but he wasn't angry, as if he had a lot he wanted to say but couldn't put it into words. He looked at the piece of cloth again and picked up the other one, but you took it from him. “Let me do it,” you said as you wrapped it around the cut on his hand.

He watched you intently as you worked, swallowing hard, captivated by the sight of your eyelashes and the beauty in your eyes. Resisting the urge to touch you, to kiss you... Such a strong urge that it felt far more challenging than facing an enemy on the battlefield. He knew he would have to learn to cope with it.

“Don't die,” you whispered, not taking your eyes off his hand as tears began to trickle down the sides. "If anything happens to you, I can't go back. You're the only one I trust here. I need you." When a tear fell on his palm, he surprised, took your face in his hands. “I assure you that I won't. I no longer have a desire to die, so please, do not cry.”

You smiled and wiped your tears, sniffling. “We have a deal.”

He smiled and wiped the other tears with his thumb, nodding. 

"Besides, you promised to help me back. You can't die without keeping your promise." you said, teasing him.

He nodded again. "You have my word."

And at that moment there was a knock at the door. Marcus withdrew his hand and returned to the bed. He picked up the sheets and walked to the slaves waiting at the door. Then he came back. "I have some duties in the barracks and need to leave soon. You shall have this room—and the entire villa—as your own home now. Feel free to indulge in whatever pleases you."

You looked around. “Okay, I'm sure I'll find something to do.”

"And please, don't go out unannounced. Now that you are my wife, you can put me in a difficult situation, you understand? It's essential to consider the reputation of your general husband."

With a playful salute, you nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He chuckled and took one last look at you before leaving the room. 

After he left, you sat on the bed.  It felt peculiar; something had changed within Marcus—he was softer now, more open than before. Even when you brought up the past with him, he didn't get angry or avoid the subject. Maybe he felt sorry for yelling at you last time, who knows.

Later in the day, the slaves entered the room to change the sheets and dress you in your new attire. You walked around, feeling uncomfortable in the elaborate attire. Sewing and designing appeared to be easier than actually wearing it. The gold bracelets on your arms and the necklaces and earrings around your neck clinked with every movement. Typically, you weren't fond of wearing so much jewelry, but it seemed that being a married woman in this era came with such expectations.

How lovely.

Your heart sank when one of the slaves informed you that Balbina wanted to see you. You hesitated, dreading the encounter with her, but you had no choice; your step mother-in-law called for you. Sooner or later, you would have to face her, given that you lived in the same house.

As you descended the stairs, you stumbled a few times, struggling with the stola while trying to keep the shawl wrapped around your arms. Balbina was seated in the courtyard with Lydia and Claudia. Once they spotted you, all heads turned in your direction. You smiled at Claudia, you were pleased to see her. She stood up and greeted you, “My lady.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Me?”

She chuckled. “Now that you’re the General’s wife, you must be treated with respect.”

Lydia looked away, while Balbina stared at you intently. “What wife? Your husband left the villa early, it seems he’s not quite satisfied with you. You obviously failed to please him.”

You rolled your eyes, trying hard not to say anything bad. 

Claudia joined you on the same lectus, making herself comfortable. “Come now, Balbina, isn’t that typical for the first night?”

Lydia let out a sarcastic laugh. “Lady Claudia is right mother. It’s quiet impressive they even managed it.”

They all burst into laughter.

What the fuck?

Were you really being interrogated about your wedding night? And worse, being ridiculed for it?

What was wrong with these people?

The rest of their conversation was nothing short of appalling, filled with discussions about blood on the sheets and other cringeworthy topics. It seemed normal to them to make the newlywed woman feel embarrassed, part of their tradition.

Before she take her leave, Claudia discreetly spoke to you in the garden by the fountain. She not only resembled your mother but treated you like one too, almost. “I noticed the sheets. Are you in pain or bleeding?”

You sighed, feeling annoyed. “No, I’m fine, really.”

“I’m relieved to hear that. Try to gather strength for the next time you’re together. I know it’s tough, but I assure you you’ll adjust in time, Each time, it will get easier."

Your face flushed, but you felt irritated. Remembering your first time, you hadn’t even thought about it, much less discussed it. It was just a fleeting memory. Yet, in this era, it seemed to carry immense weight. But it was hard to listen to her, not only because you are not inexperienced but because you and Marcus are not really husband and wife, and you had not done it but pretending like you did.

“To earn Balbina's admiration and respect, you must bear a child. If you give the General a son, you’ll earn the highest respect in this villa.”

You pursed your lips, still pretending as if you cared. “Does it really matter that much?”

“Indeed. When you’re together, after he finishes inside you, I advise you to lie back, stay still, and place a pillow under your hips—it will help."

Oh, damn, you were well aware of all this and more, coming from a modern era.

But how could Claudia have known? You wouldn't blame her for that.

You nodded, your cheeks burning. “Well, thank you,” you replied nervously.

What she suggested got something stirring inside you; it had been so long since you last hooked up that it was hard not to feel anything.

Yet, there was no fucking way you were going to sleep with someone in ancient Rome.

“Damn it,” you sighed softly as you sank onto Marcus's bed in the dim light of the evening, squinting into a small mirror you had fished out from the depths of your bag. The roots of your hair stood out starkly against the golden caramel hue, begging for attention. Your natural color contrasted sharply with the caramel hue. As you fidgeted with your hair, frustration bubbling beneath the surface, Marcus stepped into the room. He caught sight of you—holding the mirror in one hand, your fingers tugging at the offending roots with the other. He couldn't help but smile as he observed you from behind the curtain. “Is it your hair that’s making you so angry?”

You turned to face him, noticing he was wearing his dark red tunic. You hadn’t seen it on him before because he usually kept it hidden under his armor. That’s right—you were in his room, and you were technically his wife, so he felt at ease around you.

“As soon as I get back, I need to get it root-dyed again,” you sighed.

“The color of your natural hair is more beautiful,” he said.

You rolled your eyes. "Thanks, but you're not helping. And my French nails are a disaster, too. I need to get those done as well. You have no idea how tough it is for someone who goes to the salon every week.” You stretched out your hand to him.

He took your hand , observing your hand. “I think your nails are perfect."

"Why am I even asking for your opinion?” you complained.

“How was your day?” he asked, settling on the edge of the bed.

"It was a bit dull. It’s so hard without my phone."

"I am considering forgoing my duties at the barracks tomorrow. Would you be interested in joining me for a horseback riding excursion?"

You raised your eyebrows. “Really?”

He smiled, and for the first time, he enjoyed saying the word from your time: “Really.”

"That would be fantastic, Marcus. So you can skip work whenever you feel like it?"

"Not quite," he smirked. "Julius and my second-in-command will be present in my absence."

"Your second-in-command? Since you're a general, is he a lieutenant general, major general, or something? I’m not great with military ranks."

"I do not understand the terms you are using. A second-in-command is called Optio."

“Hmm.”

A peculiar silence fell between you.

Normally, as newlyweds, you should have been preoccupied with other activities during your alone time at night, but this wasn’t a real one. You both exchanged anxious smiles that lingered until the silence became nearly unbearable.

You finally broke the stillness.

“Marcus, I just had a great idea. Since we have some time to sleep, why don’t we play a game? It would help us get to know each other better. What do you think?”

“A game?”

You stood up. "A drinking game—It called 'I Never.'"

He frowned. “I am uncertain about what that is.”

You set the wine decanter and cups on the tray, returned to the bed, and placed them down. “It’s quite simple,” you explained as you settled cross-legged in the middle of the bed. "You say 'I never,' and finish the sentence. If it’s something you did, you drink; if not, you don’t."

Marcus positioned himself more comfortably at the edge of the bed, facing you with his arms crossed. “It doesn’t seem to make much sense.”

You rolled your eyes. "That’s why it's called a game. Learn by example. I’ll start: I never killed a man. Now you drink, because you did, right?"

"True, I killed many." He smiled slightly as you poured him some wine. “I think I understand the logic now.” He took a sip.

"Yes. Now, Mr. General, your turn.”

Pursing his lips, thinking. “I never had a phone."

You laughed. “You’re getting the hang of it.” Pondering your next move, you continued, “I never fell in love.”

He met your gaze.

You shrugged. “I thought I was in love with that jerk, but I was mistaken.”

Marcus took another sip of his wine, clearly enjoying what you just admitted, a smirk playing on his lips as he spoke. “I never dyed my hair.”

You chuckled. “I'd pay to see that.” You considered the things you were curious about him. “I never slept with a woman.”

Marcus shot you a look. “Do you think I’m pure?”

“Okay, let’s put it this way: I never slept with a whore.” You raised your eyebrows, waiting for his response.

He sighed, taking a sip of his wine sheepishly.

“Aha, not quite so innocent, are we?”

"I never claimed that I am an innocent man," he explained, smiling.

"Wait, are you actually playing or just saying?" 

"Just saying," he echoed your words, looking at you piercingly, which left you blinking and swallowing.

“I’m not judging. I don't care who you slept with or... how many." You cleared your throat. "It’s just a game. Okay, your turn.”

“I never slept with a man.”

You rolled your eyes. "Come on, really? You know I’m not a virgin."

He tilted his head curiously. “The game, you said.”

“Fine.” You squinted and took a drink. “Just one man, and you know who.”

He nodded in understanding.

And the game continued on.

By the time the jug of wine was empty, your head was spinning. “I think I’m getting drunk,” you admitted, feeling a bit woozy. "I guess you won," you said, laughing uncontrollably as you clapped your hands and leaned your head on his shoulder.

He wrapped his arm around you gently. "Are you well? Rosa?" He lowered his gaze, checking your face, but your eyes were closed—unconscious. Brushing the hair back from your face, he sighed softly.

"I regret having made that promise. How can I endure watching you leave?" His fingers gently caressed your hair. "After all these years of yearning, how can I allow you to slip away once more?" He leaned down and placed a tender kiss on your temple.

"When will you truly remember, my love?”

“It’s beautiful here.”

As the midday sun bathed the landscape in a golden glow, Marcus led you to that enchanting spot he had spoken of. The meadow unfolded like a green carpet, vibrant and alive, with a shimmering pond nestled at its center, reflecting the azure sky above. You eagerly took off your shoes, walking barefoot on soft grass that tickled your toes as you stepped onto the earth.

“What are you doing?” Marcus asked, astonishment written all over his face.

“Earthing. I’m just savoring the feel of the soil,” you replied.

“Be careful, Rosa—you might step on a thorn."

But then, a realization struck him; this moment felt oddly familiar.

“Relax, I’ll be fine. It’s good for your feet and body; it helps you unwind, lowers the stress. Just give it a try, Marcus.” 

'Come now, Marcus. Try.’

He smiled.

The way you pronounced his name was like music to his ears, just as she used to say it. In that moment, he realized that no one else could say his name quite like you did. He had brought you here hoping to spark some memories, but he felt uncertain.

This was where he had first met her—a sanctuary, a place of refuge where they had spent countless moments together. Now, as he heard that familiar phrase from you, it ignited a flicker of hope in his heart. He needed to try something different. 

He removed his sandals. “It might be a bit challenging to fasten these later. Would you be able to lend me your assistance?” he asked, his heart racing in anticipation, waiting for your answer. 

The response he received wasn’t what he expected—not even close. “What am I, your babysitter, old man?" you laughed while reaching for an apple on the tree. "'Ain't your mama. Oh, I love that song. I wish I could listen right now.” you kept murmuring the song unaware of Marcus' feelings.

He frowned, feeling annoyed.

Still, he shook off the momentary disappointment; he was determined to keep moving forward. While you dipped your legs into the cool pond, he wandered through the meadow, gathering a bouquet of wildflowers bursting with colors—bright yellows, violets, and whites. He returned to you, presenting the vibrant collection with a hopeful smile.

“Okay, you’re starting to freak me out,” you said, your eyes wide in surprise. 

He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?” 

“Because you’re being way too nice to me.” 

He took a breath and said, “I realize I haven’t treated you as kindly as you deserve. How about these flowers I collected for you? Will you accept my apology?"

“No, but it’s a step in the right direction, I guess,” you said with a wry smile as you accepted the flowers. 

“Which one do you like more?” 

“Hmmm. The daisy. It’s simple and lovely, just as it is. Plus, it doesn’t have a scent, which is perfect because I’m allergic to pollen.” Just then, an itch made you sneeze. 

He frowned. “What about jasmine?” 

“No way, the smell will make me sneeze even more,” you grimaced in response. 

Marcus was taken aback; this was different—she had loved jasmine. What was it that made you so uniquely distinct, yet somehow mirrored her in so many ways?

As the days went by, that day finally arrived; the radiant full moon loomed ever closer on the horizon. You and Marcus had agreed to head to the temple that evening together, so you found yourself anxiously waiting for him all day. But he never arrived; in fact, Julius was nowhere to be seen either. You ventured down to the courtyard and glanced around. Balbina and Lydia were in their usual spot, chatting with some other women. Ah, those curious ladies again—the type who scrutinize you with interest and pepper you with questions about your family, homeland.

Luckily, they didn’t notice you slipping away.

On your way out, you spotted one of the slaves and told him you were headed out to meet Marcus. It wasn't a lie; he would have suspected you were at the temple anyway. You could no longer bear staying cooped up, especially with your phone out of battery and only two anxiety pills left.

The soldiers at the gate hesitated to let you leave alone, insisting one of them accompany you to the temple. You had no choice but to accept their escort; the general had given strict orders not to let you wander off unaccompanied.

Minutes felt like hours as you arrived at the temple, and yet, no one awaited you there. The soldier lingered on the stairs, while you gazed into the stillness of the temple. Suddenly, you heard the familiar sound of a horse's neigh, and Julius arrived. He instructed the other soldier to return and approached you with a serious expression. “Rosa, it would be better for you to leave right now.”

“What do you mean?” you replied, confusion twisting in your gut. “Marcus said we were to meet here.”

“Emperor Severus has been poisoned. Prince Geta and Caracalla are preparing to seize the throne.”

“What?”

“We’re keeping all soldiers on high alert,” he continued, glancing around as if the shadows held unseen threats. “We’re prepared for an uprising at any moment.”

“Julius, I need to go back. The full moon is up there; it'll be even more prominent at midnight. This time, I know it’ll work.”

Julius sighed, troubled. “Marcus is gathering a force to counter the praetorians' threat. However, If he promised to arrive, he will. My orders are to control the city’s entrances. Stay hidden. I’ll try to return shortly.”

“Okay. Just be careful, Julius.”

He smiled reassuringly and hurried down the stairs. You settled into the quiet of the temple, waiting, but no one came. The silence felt suffocating. You couldn’t go back to the villa; your patience had worn thin.

Just then, you heard the quick gallop of horses outside. You instinctively hid, unsure who rode by. Another minute passed; this time, footsteps echoed on the stairs. You glanced up to see not Marcus, but a young boy who gazed at you with curiosity. "Lady Acacius?"

You tensed but nodded.

“The general is wounded and sent me to deliver a message. He said 'if I don’t make it in time, you should leave without waiting for me.'”

The boy glanced over his shoulder before dashing down the stairs. You wanted to ask how he was hurt, but he was gone in an instant, swallowed by the shadows.

What was happening?

Why was he wounded?

You pulled out the parchment, reading the words just to try, shock washing over you.

It had worked.

Your mouth fell open as a wave of joy surged through your body. Instinctively, you took a step toward the rift of bright light, but then stopped. The last time you saw Marcus was that morning, and now he was hurt, maybe close to death.

Panic tightened your chest.

How could you abandon him like this?

What if something happened to him?

No, you couldn’t let that happen. The rift would have to wait. You couldn’t leave without seeing him safe and sound. Determined, you knelt by one of the temple pillars and prayed—both to your god and to all the Roman gods.

Fear crept into your heart. For perhaps the first time, you found yourself crying for him.

If it was before weeks ago, you wouldn't care about his well-being and would jump at the chance to leave here.

But now...

Now you couldn't leave without seeing him.

Had you truly fallen in love with him?

You pushed the questions aside, focusing only on your desire to see him safe.

A little later, you peeked over the pillar as hoofbeats approached. When you saw him, you quickly stood up.

“Rosa!”

You scrambled down the stairs to meet him, your heart fluttering. “Marcus!” you wailed, throwing yourself into his arms. He caught you, his warmth enveloping you, but the moment was cut short as he pulled back to gaze intensely into your eyes. “You were awaiting?” His eyes widened in disbelief as he noticed the pulsating rift shimmering within the temple. "You managed..."

“Forget that. Where are you hurt?” You noticed the rag wrapped around his calf, which was stained red with blood.

“It’s nothing—”

Suddenly, an arrow flew from nowhere, piercing the air, striking him in the shoulder. He stumbled toward you, and you cried out in shock, “Marcus!”

“Acacius is here!” someone shouted, followed by the clamor of more horses approaching.

He shielded you behind him and drew his sword. “Run into the temple! Leave now, while you can!”

“No!”

Struggling but determined, he grabbed your hand and urged you into the temple. “Rosa! I said leave! I can’t let anything happen to you!”

“I won’t leave you in the middle of this chaos! Come with me. That wound looks serious; you need modern treatment!”

Just then, several soldiers arrived, clashing with the guards as the sounds of swords echoed around you. “Leave now! I can’t abandon my men!” Marcus yelled.

“No, I can't leave you like this!”

Suddenly, another arrow flew through his stomach. Then, another one, from behind, all from behind, dastardly, cruelly.

Another arrow plunged into his chest. Marcus spat blood from his mouth yet forcing himself to stand. You froze, shuddering with terror.

“NO! Marcus!” you screamed.

You forced your brain to think.

As soon as Marcus sank to his knees, struggling to catch his breath, you slipped under his arms and hoisted him up with every ounce of strength you could muster, ignoring the sting in your muscles, ignoring your dress covering in blood, his blood. You focused entirely on saving him. "Come on, Marcus, don't die, please! You promised me! Don't die!“ You cried out as you pulled Marcus toward the rift. "Please, God! Don't let him die! Help me! Marcus, I can save you. Please don’t die; the doctors can help you. You have no idea what they are capable of. Please, just stay with me!"

“Amo te, Rhea,” he murmured, his voice barely escaping his lips as he surrendered to the darkness, closing his eyes. You heard that name for the first time, but you didn't care. Panic surged through your veins. "Marcus, open your eyes, damn it! Don’t you dare slip away from me!”

You dragged him into the light, leaving his blood painting everywhere, and then something happened.

A blink.

A blinding light, intensely bright.

An unusual wind, chilling and invasive, seemed to seep into every cell.

And then, once more.

A blink of the eye.

And darkness.

But not just any darkness—the deep, enveloping darkness of the night. Rain poured down, heavy yet warm. You stood up in shock, taking in your surroundings.

Tall buildings loomed over you, street lamps flickered, the car horns filled the air alongside the tangles of wires on electric poles.

You were back.

Tears of joy streamed down your face, blending with the rain. Then you came to your senses, you had just been crying—for him.

For Marcus.

You turned around, frantically scanning the area, searching the ground. The shadows from the trees cloaked everything in darkness.

But there he was.

Marcus lay there, motionless.

You rushed to him, heart pounding.

"Marcus! What the fuck-"

There was no blood on him, just a few scattered drops. You ran your trembling fingers over his armor. The holes in his armor were visible, but the arrows had vanished along with the wounds they caused. Placing your head on Marcus's chest, you listened intently. His heart was beating.

His face was wet from the fall of rain. As you gently brushed your fingers against his cheek, you felt warmth.

Not dead.

He was alive.

It was absurd, impossible—even miraculous—but he was alive.

Your jaw dropped, then a grin spread across your face.

And then he opened his eyes, blinking as raindrops fell on his eyelashes. Relief washed over him as he saw you, yet confusion clouded his gaze as if he couldn’t believe it was happening again.

You smiled at him, “Marcus, I know this sounds crazy, but you’re not dead. We’re back. Together.”

hope you enjoyed the chapter babies, thanks for reading ❤️

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[lilactwilights]

a heathen clung to piety (a priest!gojo x reader fic)

series masterlist

summary: everything about satoru gojo is pristine. from his charming looks, to his unblemished family name and his exemplary priesthood. because of that, attraction is nothing more than fuel for what you assume is a one-sided fantasy, a carefully kept secret you are content to keep deep within. but when you end up in his bed, the vows he broke end up cracking the surface of his immaculate facade and bringing forward the painful memories and the cruel truth of a tragedy all too familiar.

or, you find out the angel named Satoru Gojo may have fallen a long time ago, and that you might end up falling with him too.

chapter summary: with satoru’s return, a new arrival at the city and winter prevailing, you are forced to confront all you have been trying to run away from.

word count: 10k

Hello there! ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼Thank you for your interest in reading! This was in my drafts for some time and in my mind for considerably longer. I have thought about Gojo a lot. And Priest Satoru Gojo spawned after playing with his canon counterpart like a Barbie, witnessing the talent of fandom creators and exploring a bit of my catholic memories. Let it be known that, funny enough, I have never experienced attraction towards a real-life priest and I don't think that day will come. Nonetheless, there's something about Gojo that has made his lil priest self my favorite plaything and that´s why I promised myself that, if I ever posted a fic again, I wanted him to do the honors. Excited to say that the day has finally come.I won't say much more here other than be mindful of the tags here, I will be updating them accordingly and letting you know if there is any specific thing you should keep an eye out for in the upcoming chapters.English is not my first language and I'm more than a bit rusty so it's a bit nerve-wrecking to put this out there /ᐠ ╥ ˕ ╥マ. Regardless, I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it ♡ (Might edit this chapter a bit in the near future)I'm new to tumblr so I apologize if the formatting looks a bit wonky, I´m still working on it, this is a reupload so if you have seen this before, yeah it was me :p

You don’t like winter.

It brings cold and sickness and painful memories with it. For you, the best part of it are the droplets of melting ice announcing its imminent departure and the first sightings of green peeking through the remnants of snow. Trees are still skinny and mostly naked, branches trembling at the wind, bending under the weight of the last snowfall but, between the leisure movement of a heavy cloud and the other, the sun has started to reach out with its lukewarm rays. 

As you stand on the platform, you claim the only spot touched by the sun, though it does little to alleviate the stubborn reminder of a winter you would chase away if you could. The wind remains almost freezing cold, it makes you shiver and shut your eyes tight every time it slaps you in the face, every hit of air chafing your skin. 

You mourn the scarf you left hanging at the rack back home. You were already two streets away when you realized you had forgotten it and you were quick to dismiss it in favor of catching the train on time. 

Now you are here, with no scarf, a freezing frame and a train running late, because, of course, only Satoru Gojo would manage to be late even by train. 

In fact, if a person could be blamed for making a train run late, it would probably be Gojo, somehow. Last time you took a train together, a few months back, you almost missed it because of him. He doesn’t have anyone to nag at him this time, so you can only hope he boarded on time, like he always seems to barely do.

This town needs an actual train station, you think, as you nuzzle further into your winter coat. There’s a little lobby next to the platform that is “closed for remodeling” because the administration had to choose the worst time of the year to modernize the cozy little lounge.  The platform you are currently shivering on was renewed by the Gojo Family almost two years ago, upon the arrival of their heir. The outline and build of the little ticket booth attached to the side of the station is reminiscent of the village props you saw at The Nutcracker the winter before. It’s too fancy for such a little spot outside of a small town like yours, too opulent for a place that’s not used as much anymore, but it’s a nice view you appreciate. However, all the cutesy and intricate carving does next to nothing to shield you from the cold. You heard the Mayor refused the Gojos’ offer to donate a proper train station and you can’t help but resent him too. After all, his pride is costing you your body temperature.

You nuzzle further into your clothes, pressing yourself against the column at another hit of wind. When you first arrived, the nice lady at the booth had offered you a place inside while you waited, but the space was already cramped enough with just one person in it, so you had to politely decline. It might have been a good decision considering she is currently nursing a cigar and likely emitting more fumes than the train you are waiting for. Right now, you can barely see her silhouette through the window with all the smoke condensed into the little booth. You have the itch to tap on the glass to see if she hasn’t passed out. Maybe if she is still conscious you can walk back your decision and ask for a little place in there with only your nice perfume and healthy lungs to pay the price. 

As you take a hesitant step towards the impromptu smokehouse, your attention is caught by a distant whistle, the telltale sound of a locomotive approaching. You perk up, waddling further into the platform to take a look as the sound of the machine gets louder. Indeed, the outline of the wine red train greets you between smog and frosty wind and you sigh, retreating once more to your waiting place.  

“About time,” you huff. 

Satoru left two weeks ago for a series of meetings with some higher ups from the Church. He called you every other day, mostly to nag or entertain himself. 

You don’t ask too much about what goes in there nor does he go into detail, he only ever talks about them to complain. Sometimes you think he has caught on to how much you truly dislike most of them and you are the only person he can sincerely unload his grievances with. 

As expected, only Satoru is getting off in this station. Your eyes meet through the window as he stands in the door waiting for it to open. His eyes widen for a second but crinkle immediately after as he smiles, all perfect teeth, mouthing something you can’t quite understand. You wave at him with a smile, cheeks feeling suddenly warm despite the cold. 

You point at your wrist while you lift a brow but it’s hard to keep the stern expression when the uncomfortable fluttering in your stomach makes you nauseous. 

You step back as the doors open and stand there, changing your weight from one foot to the other as he gets off, sturdy suitcase in hand. He doesn’t even take two steps into the platform before he leaves his luggage on the floor, gaze fixed on you. Someone that appears to be a young train worker, judging by the uniform, is trailing behind him with a bunch of boxes that Satoru ends up maneuvering in one hand after he places the suitcase on the floor.

Before the young boy can say something else, Satoru shoves one of the little boxes in his hands with a loud thank you. The boy blinks and bows his head awkwardly, a low expression of confused gratefulness escaping his lips as he retreats. You lift a brow at the display, your own confusion tampering with your smile but Satoru, as always, just returns it wholeheartedly, balancing the boxes on top of his luggage.

“I asked if you missed me,” he says in lieu of a greeting as he straightens up, bright blue eyes regarding you from above. 

The color in his gaze somewhat softens thanks to all the white and the gray around. That’s probably how the blue of the seas in the frozen lands far away look like. He is all pale colors, a striking contrast to his black jacket and dark blue scarf and his pink lips. He rarely flushes, but there’s a pleasant blush in his chiseled cheeks from the warmth that hasn’t died down under the harsh wind. He speaks again. And you see the way his lips curl. They look soft and plump as they dance and mold to the words that your cottoned ears can’t quite catch: “…missed”

“I asked if you missed me”

“Huh?” is your elaborate reply.

Satoru’s grin evolves into a chuckle. It’s a pleasant sound that you indeed have missed . Other days, when he directs that sound towards you, you find the sound irritating enough to pretend it doesn’t cave a pit in your stomach. Not today. 

Today he extends his arms, his wide form taking up the space with his broad back and his long limbs. You don’t think twice before sinking into him. You have missed him too much for your own good, you resolve, as he squeezes you so tight it steals a breathless huff of a laugh from you. 

“Get off…”

Satoru chuckles too, a rumbling sound vibrating against your smothered cheek. His hands don’t go lower than your back, but the feeling of his fingers pressed against you through your clothes projects all over your body.

“Not before you answer,” he adds, against your temple. 

“What?”

“If you miss me”

You gulp. It’s only the two of you between the cold and the fog on the platform. “I didn’t hear you say that at all.”

“But I did,” he retorts, leaning back just enough so your eyes meet, “And you still haven’t answered.” 

He smells like warmth and caramel. He probably ate sweets onboard and the smell of it swirls along his fresh cologne. Not unpleasant, but sure overwhelming when it’s paired with those intense eyes looking at you. 

“So?”

“I didn’t,” you answer. Way too quickly, way before your heart and your brain realize you are lying and make you stutter as punishment. 

Satoru smiles lazily, letting you go with a languid movement that has his fingertips sliding off your waist. He tugs at one of the strands of hair hanging at the side of your face instead. 

“That’s a shame,” he laments, sighing, puncturing each word with a twirl of his fingers, the start of a shit-eating grin on his lips. “Because I did”

“It’s been two weeks,” you huff, gently pushing his hand away in a lighthearted gesture. You don’t mind his touch at all. Or, you didn't mind it. You are now bothered by the appalling urges born in your core and traveling to your every limp. 

“And? That’s more than enough to me,” he switches the grip of his hand to grasp at yours and give it a squeeze. “Believe it or not, I prefer your pretty face over the nagging of our dear church authorities” 

“I’m touched,” you deadpan, a little smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite yourself. 

Satoru hums. “I am too, considering I wasn’t expecting a welcome back committee”

Your lips part, brows furrowing. “Didn’t you say you wanted me to come!?”

“That was before I realized our lovely weather could turn you into an icicle,” he says, eyes scanning you intently. He takes a few steps forward and places both his hands in your cheeks. You feel yourself stiff. “Although the flush of your face is rather pleasant to look at, there’s no reason for you to stand here and freeze for little ole’ me”

Your frozen hands try to peel away his wrists on instinct. Satoru is touchy, probably more touchy than a priest should be, but he is also more nonchalant than the average gentleman is so you can’t say you aren’t used to it. 

It’s the mortifying somersault your stomach does and the warmth that bleeds from your chest to your lower belly like molten what you are not used to. He is not even touching you directly, the fabric of his gloves is less soft than his hands, but it’s warm and kind in comparison to the wind. Nonetheless, the sole implication of him touching you so casually is enough to make you short of breath. 

For a few seconds that stretch incredibly long, Satoru rubs your cheeks intently, as if trying to coax the warmth of your blood to bleed into your skin. There’s something in his eyes as a slow, cheeky curve takes place on his lips. You forget the flustered feeling for a moment, but your body stays locked on it, a prickling sensation climbing up your neck as you frown up at him, tugging at his wrists. 

“Father?” 

Satoru’s well trained to react the exact opposite way to your flustered, hurried flurry. As you jump, he waltzes back in calculated steps, casually sliding his hands down to your shoulders, squeezing them only slightly before taking his hands off you for good. By the time his hands are by his sides, yours are still fidgeting about, tugging at your winter coat. 

You turn your face towards the familiar voice and force down the lingering feeling of self-consciousness, sketching a smile that lacks the blinding brightness of the dishonest one Satoru offers to the clueless newcomer. 

“Ah, Ijichi, you are finally here!” he announces, eyes crinkling. The cherry on top is, of course, the thunderous clap that accompanies his words. “I started to think you had forgotten about me”

You have known him for almost two years, so you can catch it. The way his smile curves and hardens before it stretches all the way. He seems slightly bothered about something you can only theorize about.

“N-not at all!” Kyotaka bows his head, face a bit flushed because of the cold or because his eyes are also trained in Satoru’s micro-expressions. “Welcome back, Father” 

You think you have imagined it, though, because Satoru’s expression is back to his relaxed, jovial façade. Or maybe it never really changed. You try not to stare too long or think about his face too hard lately. 

“C’mon Ijichi!” he protests, “I’m not wearing the habit right now! We can be a bit flexible” 

Ijichi is not deterred, sharing a look with you as a resigned, little smile grazes his lips. He is one of the very few people that has fallen victim to Satoru’s overly familiarity and, just like most, he is not playing along. That always makes you consider if you should also be more mindful of the difference in your positions, but Satoru’s arm casually slinging around your shoulders chases any further reflection away.

Ijichi is abruptly intercepted by one of Satoru’s arms as well when he steps closer to retrieve some of the boxes laying over Gojo’s luggage and you can see the way his shoulders fall in a reluctant acceptance. His glasses are crooked now by the unexpected motion but he makes no effort in shrugging Gojo as the latter pats his back energetically. You share a look once more.

“I-ji-chi! Guess who was freezing on this platform, waiting for me?” Satoru asks, squeezing his hold on you as he rhythmically pats Ijichi’s frame. “Certainly not you!”

At that, Ijichi’s resigned face tenses back to his default expression, a mix of mortification and surprise in his widened eyes. 

“I a-apologize, I wasn’t aware you were coming here as well! I would have offered you a lift!” 

“Oh, see? You are so formal with me but you call her by her name!”

You both ignore Satoru as you shrug his arm off your shoulders, offering Ijichi an appeasing smile, lifting a hand in a dismissive gesture. 

“Don’t worry about it, I didn’t know you were picking him up either,” you reply earnestly, brushing your hair out of your face as you start to walk, “I think it’s his fault”

As Kyotaka takes the boxes Satoru brought with him, he regards you with a look that seems suspiciously close to a silent agreement. Once again, both of you ignore Gojo’s whines, moving along the platform until he desists on his protests and easily falls into step with you, suitcase in tow. 

“I’m glad Ijichi and you have found friendship, but I don’t appreciate you bonding over disregarding me” is what he says,  with a suffering sigh that evolves into a little smile when you eye him up. 

“I’m sure making everything about you is a sin” you comment lightheartedly and Satoru rolls his eyes. “For your information, Kyotaka and I have been friends for a while and agreeing on your obnoxiousness is not the reason our friendship begun”

“But your blatant animosity is what makes it thrive,” Satoru points out, with an accusing finger. “It’s the same thing with Sister Uta–”

“Is your nagging my reward for picking you up at the train station?” you inquire. “I should have stayed warm and cozy at home”

“You waited for me. If we want to get technical, my dear sister, Ijichi is the one picking me up.”

He watches the beginning of an indignant protest in your face, to which he walks back his teasing statement and raises a calming hand. “Both of which I deeply appreciate,” he adds, and there’s a softness in his honest smile that mellows you down enough, until he pokes at you once more. “A good Christian doesn’t expect anything in return for a good deed, anyway” he chirps. “God shall provide” 

“Good thing I’m not a Christian then,” you retort and Satoru huffs a laugh, shutting it too quickly in favor of shaking his head in disapproval. “So you shall provide”

“I’m not but God’s humble messenger,” Satoru bows his head, eyes glinting as he regards you “So consider the souvenir I brought God’s way of acknowledging your selfless act”

He is serious, but there’s an amused tilt to his gentle smile that warms and softens you up enough to forget about the banter and grin earnestly.

After a silent look that lingers enough for the prickling feeling in your face to make a comeback, you simply turn your face to the front. By your peripheral vision, you notice Satoru’s gaze linger just a few seconds more before he follows your lead.   You both keep walking side by side, arms brushing at every swing. Your throat closes up and you focus on ahead. 

Ijichi is a fast-walker by nature, you have learned, and you saw him hurry his step as Satoru reached your side with long strides a few moments ago. If Satoru wanted, he could outpace you and Ijichi with ease, but he has decided to linger beside you and you soon realize there’s a reason beyond any friendly banter or the announcement of any souvenir. 

You step over a branch peeking through the melting snow on the ground and that’s when he speaks.

“The snow is finally melting” he whispers, “I’m relieved” 

There’s a sympathetic inflexion on his voice that’s not lost to you. The same off-handed tone present on his words these last two weeks through calls and letters. You lean against him almost on instinct, shoulder surprisingly at ease as it bumps against his arm. “Me too”

On a personal level, being friends with Satoru means a lot of things and has plenty of implications you don’t want to get at most of the time. You were both relieved and saddened by his absence during the last snow storms of this winter which tells you enough about the dichotomy that persists in your relationship. It’s easier to dwell on it during this season, which is why you occupy yourself like a maniac during it, which is why you cling to any semblance of sun or warmth amidst the cold. 

The car ride is silent enough, the soft sound of the wheels scraping against the road lulling you as you lean against the window, eyes chasing any rays peeking through the clouds, even if you have to narrow your eyes at the unexpected force of a sun recovering its strength. 

“Hey,” Satoru’s voice is soft, a callback to the time and space you are in right now, tugging you away from cruel memories. 

He offers you his hand, without a glove. Long and pretty and pale. Warm as you press your hand over it.  “The other one too”

That’s when you notice he took both his gloves off and, as he envelops your hands with his, your thoughts linger on how warm and soft and soothing his skin is. 

When he rubs his palms over your cold, trembling fingers, he triggers a scorching heat in your hands and your arms and your whole being. “Your hands are freezing,” he says, none the wiser to your melting insides. “I noticed earlier, you weren’t wearing gloves, or a scarf” 

There’s more than a hint of disapproval in his tone. For real this time. Not like the one he uses to half-heartedly scold your thinly-veiled anti-church sentiments. 

“I-I forgot”

Does he know your mouth feels dry and cottoned? Can he notice the way your breath catches in his throat at his proximity, or the way your heart skips at every motion of his thumbs over the back of your hands? 

“You shouldn’t have walked there with this weather” Satoru whispers, and there’s something in his eyes that goes beyond the earnest care you have grown acquainted with. “You are not even properly clothed for it,” he hums, there’s a bit of the teasing back that gets lost on the deep look in his eyes. 

You don’t even know what to make of it. 

It’s like that one time, over a year ago. 

Just like his voice grabbed you away from the claws of the cruel, painful past, his eyes push you back into that void, except in a kinder, warmer part of it. 

The train ride to the next city and the memory of the gorgeous display on stage. 

It’s a nice memory. 

Nevermind the mortifying discoveries about yourself that trip uncovered. 

Absolutely not. Because it is the beautiful memory of your first ever trip to a professional ballet production, a long-time dream, the one guilty of the fluttering sensation in your stomach.

Not the memory of the seating booth in the train back home feeling strangely suffocating, or his hands over your skin, trying to cool away a fever you couldn’t get rid of. A fever and itch that has been chasing you ever since you sat way too close in the same room, the same bed.

That’s not it. 

It’s the pretty parts, the softer parts you should focus on because it is a nice memory, one that is not tainted by the origins of the crude ruminations that keep you awake at night to this day. Not at all. 

“I wanted to,” you say with a shrug. “To go there, I mean.”

To wait for you. To see you again.

Satoru hums, blowing hot air into your fingertips. Your whole being rattles. 

“You should have waited for me at the church, then” he whispers. His lips are inches away from your hands, you almost want to stretch your fingers, just to try–

“I don’t like to go there when it’s empty,” you respond, voice steadier than your beating heart. 

“It’s never empty,” he replies, thumbs massaging up to your fingertips, squeezing them for barely a second. “It’s the house of God, he is always there” 

He isn’t. And you aren’t either. What’s the point? But you don’t say that, you don’t say anything more. You almost feel like you don’t need to, because Satoru smiles at you then, and it’s almost sad.

You feel you might be privy to what most people in town are not. Your friendship with Satoru didn’t blossom out of shared faith or thrived because of your trust in him as a recipient of God. Quite the contrary.  It was born despite your reservations and your disagreements. As such, you are allowed to see beyond the charming, quick-witted, perfect priest image he projects for all believers to see. For you, he is equally if not more charming and wiser when he is “just Satoru” but you won’t ever tell him that out loud.

Instead, you let your shared secrets and time together speak for you. He knows a lot about you. You know a lot about him. Or so you think. 

Satoru has always given you the impression of false openness. He makes people, you included, feel as if he is sharing a lot, but most of the time, it’s just superficial lore or inconsequential sentiments.

You don't usually pressure him to share anything beyond what he usually does, but there’s a trust that has been nurtured during your time together that has given you both a space to share what you both know is no common knowledge. He doesn’t need to tell you “I have never told this to anyone” but you have learned to recognize when it’s the case. You know when it’s something he wouldn’t share with the world. 

It is often, though, that you get the impression that these secret things have been shared before with someone else out there. There’s something about his speech, the careful distant expression on his face that betrays a sense of dejavu or melancholy that disappears as soon as it appears, between a blink and another. He has travelled the world and he has confessed his sins often. It could be any person out there, a priest or God himself. 

Who knows? You don’t push. You never do. After all, there is a whole story you haven’t shared with him. And you don’t think you will soon. He has the right to have his secrets too, and despite the big chunk of your life that remains hidden close to your chest, you bet he has way more secrets than you do. 

You wear your heart in your sleeve, he doesn’t. You could be fooled by his easy smile and his running mouth, though, like everyone else. 

And you are. 

It seems rather meaningless, but in retrospect, this little thing that Satoru willingly withholds from you unravels the whole mess and tells you more about all the things he doesn’t tell you. 

At some point, it becomes public knowledge that a newly ordained priest will come to your little town. The people are concerned their angel darling of a Father is being moved away. But it doesn’t seem to be the case, as one particular Sunday, Satoru addresses the whispers and concerns from the altar with good humor. 

That’s how you find out, like everyone else. 

Kento Nanami, a priest from the same college as Satoru, will become part of the little community. 

When you question Satoru about it later, ignoring his who-know-what attempt at explaining checkers to you, he sighs, shoulders falling. It is so different from the usual flair he would answer you with, he seems almost defeated for a second, the flames of the chimney of his office flickering all over his face, raising his high cheekbones further. 

“We used to be together in the seminary,” he finally says.

Satoru doesn’t talk much about the seminary. It’s one of the things he pretends he enjoys being open about except all he has ever told you has to do with the multiple headaches he induced on everyone around him. 

“But,” you say, leaning forward in your seat. You try to ignore the way Satoru’s foot brushes against yours as he shifts and stretches his legs under the table. “The people say he is newly ordained”

“Ah, our lovely town is as adept in gossiping as it is in their daily praying,” Satoru comments, propping his chin over his hand with a lazy tilt of the head, a shaper one on his lips . “He is.”

You don’t need to do the math for that one. It doesn’t add up.

“But if he was with you–”

“He left,” Gojo cuts you off with a bit of a bored, resigned expression. “Then he came back.” 

He is not even hiding his unwillingness to share any details. The tense smile is the same he uses when he wants to cut a conversation short. It’s the first time he has used it with you.

And it’s the first time you decide to press, as well. 

“Why did he leave?”

Satoru takes a few seconds to respond, eyes focusing on the dancing flames in the chimney, gaze concerningly distant. For a moment, you think he might tell you it’s none of your business. Strictly speaking, he would be right. 

“Some people aren’t made for it,” he whispers, in the most monotone voice you have ever heard from him. It brings a chill down your spine, suddenly feeling an infinite wall rise between you. You feel you might reach out to touch him and you won’t be able to snatch him away from whatever place he is sinking into now.

But, as it always happens, the wall crumbles as soon as it builds. And Satoru, seemingly sensing your unease, seems to snap out of whatever haze the flames have induced on him.

He smiles, again, eyes flickering towards you. 

“But don’t worry,” he says, even if you are less worried about priest Nanami’s abilities than you are about the all-seeing eyes that look right through you. “Nanamin is. That’s why he came back.”

Kento Nanami sure seems like the kind of guy made to be a priest. He is sober, proper, humble. Kind and polite at the welcoming party your good-spirited town throws for him. He seems genuinely taken aback by the warm reception, but earnest in his shy appreciation. You study every interaction from afar, just like you did back when Satoru first came to town. 

Satoru had been charming, talkative, and full of initiative in every interaction. He had had the hard task of living up to the expectation the priest before him, a beloved local, had risen in forty years of service. Satoru was young. Maybe a bit too young, people had first observed with wariness. But it was that, along with his good-natured humor, his refreshing speech and his impeccable looks, that ended up making him the darling of the town in no time. 

Nanami’s regal presence is impeccable as well, in a different way. There’s nothing out of place, not a hair, not a button, not even a blink, as if everything is carefully crafted with little to no effort. And while he doesn’t seem to have the social energy Satoru has delighted everyone with these past years, he appeals to the community all the same with that mix of youth and firmness reminiscent of a soldier. He looks older than Satoru.  There’s something in their interactions that suggests something you can’t quite put your finger on. Satoru is cheery, as always. Friendly and familiar with his arm thrown over the other priest’s shoulders, with his animated voice raising over the bustle of the party but something in Nanami’s shoulders remains tense in a way they weren’t in any other interaction. 

It’s so weird once you see it. 

It could be simple shyness at Satoru’s familiarity, but he doesn’t seem shy or flustered. You don’t even know if, judging by his stern expression, he is even capable of it. 

It’s seems there’s a world they are part of you are not privy to. That’s probably the case. Priesthood and seminary life it’s not something you ever can or want to fully comprehend.

But, despite whatever weird energy surrounding them, they make for a nice picture, standing side by side, overlooking the party and the towners from the first landing of the stairs leading up to the church. The single photographer from the local paper thinks the exact same, snapping a shot with little warning. It captures Satoru leaning towards Nanami, a smile frozen midway as the flash explodes in their faces. 

Nanami is tall, but looking at them like this, you can truly put into perspective how tall Satoru truly is, his shoulder some inches above the other man’s. 

No matter, you have to lean your head back to look at the two of them properly. 

Kento or “Nanamin” is polite enough to stay quiet through Satoru’s enthusiastic introduction but it’s soon clear to you that he is barely tolerating the other’s incessant, loud chatter right into his ear. He still smiles, bows his head at you, as he introduces himself as if Satoru hadn’t done it for him over three times already. There’s a distant echo in your head that bothers you and there’s a weird feeling in your chest as you catch Nanami’s eyes looking at you as if he is trying to decipher a puzzle himself. 

“Sorry if I overstep but, have we met?” he finally asks.

Satoru finally pauses beside you, only then paying attention to the fact that Nanami is not listening to his vibrant spiel, but he doesn’t seem baffled, face dropping to a rather curious, questioning glance more for Nanami than for yourself. Your smile doesn’t waver, tensing just the slightest bit as the echo in your head raises its volume. 

“I don’t think so, no” you say. 

Just like you did almost two years ago, when Satoru first came to the church, you leave the party early and find yourself pulled towards the limit of the woods at the outskirts. Once you step onto the only proper road leading to the next town, your eyes focus on the giant oak tree that stands at the top of the one little hill overseeing your step.  The path is painful yet soothing in its familiarity, your heels digging in the dirt and light layer of snow enveloping the steep as you balance your weight and propel forward. 

As you make your way to the top, the big, old oak greets you with a rustle of leaves. The leaves persevere during winter, for a reason you would like to think you know. 

You feel your face warm with the effort and you can see your breath escape in little puffs of hot air that evaporate into the frosted wind as you walk towards the wide, rough trunk, and press your cheek against it.

You lean on the trunk and focus on the sounds coming from within, the endless shifting of it akin to breathing. Even if you wanted to hug it, you wouldn’t be able to. The immensity of it makes it impossible.  It’s ironically cruel. You can’t hug him again and you can’t hug the one breathing thing that reminds you of him either. 

“I’m sorry I haven’t visited,” you  say, closing your eyes. You can almost pulsing with life against your face. One of your hands curls over the trunk. “I missed you today.”

At this time of the year, you are forced to confront plenty of things. You thought you had survived this winter without having to think, but there’s a sweet and painful song of melancholy in the air that follows you through these events. 

It makes you think again about how you would have forgiven him, if he came to town like Satoru did. Like Nanami did. You would have forgiven him. Even if he was clad in priest robes and stood over the altar with the pride of a soldier of God. You would have forgiven him even with the sting of all the broken childish promises. 

“It would have been okay, at the end,” it's the only other thing you say out loud. 

It’s a sad and embarrassing thought, that you don’t have to say much. Wherever he is now, he knows what he didn’t know before. And everyone knows too. Everyone that loves you and loves him knows. That the pain has subsided and dulled but lingers like a chronic nightmare that sharpens every so often. 

That you spent years mad at him and now you can only be mad at yourself. You have matured and you see things in a different light now, left to wonder if you , rather than him, could have done anything in another way. 

It’s sad and embarrassing when Satoru meets you at the entrance road to the main street, concern or pity barely veiled as he heaves, cheeks rosy, his rebellious white hair slightly dancing at the tune of the frosty wind, all that betraying the hurried steps he took upon realizing your absence. 

You offer him a little smile, finally having cried what you had to cry these past days, your head doesn’t feel as heavy with dark thoughts anymore. You can leave your penances with the oak tree.

“Did my mother ask you to come look for me?” you ask, not thinking twice before hooking your arm with the one he is offering you.

Satoru stares at you intently, head tilted as you both turn back towards the main square in a dance you don’t have to rehearse anymore. It feels natural, walking with him like this. 

“More like I offered,” he replies, eyes finally focusing ahead. “Watching her pace around pale with worry, I had to ask what was her cause of concern”

You feel a pinch of guilt.

“She—”

Satoru spares you from having to offer an excuse or apology.

“She knew where you were, but she was worried you would stay there until dark so I told her it would be better for me to bring you back.”

You sigh, head leaning against his arm, gaze focused on the thin mantle of snowflakes in the ground. 

“I didn’t need to stay for long.”

“That’s a good thing.” You don’t know if you imagine it, but you can feel Satoru speak against the crown of your head.  “It’s still pretty cold out here.”

You answer with a hum, hiding your face into his arm, even his jacket is impregnated with his cologne. Moments like this are met with such intense yearning everything else you feel along with it melts into a pool of sweet resignation.  

“You know you can talk to me,” he says, stopping on his tracks. You inhale a bit more of his perfume and the winter air before looking up at him. 

You know he can probably see the red trails and rims that expose your silent, lonely tears from earlier but you don’t mind. He looks into your eyes, brows furrowing just a bit, before he shifts his body to face you as well. The snow crunches slightly under his boots. 

“What?” you ask. 

He raises his hand and reaches for your face. Your eyes flutter in anticipation of his touch and that’s when you feel the phantom pressure of his fingertips against your heavy eyelashes. There’s a sole huff of air that resembles a laugh escaping from his lips, in tandem with the sigh that escapes yours and his soft smile and sad gaze is all you see as you open your eyes.

“There’s frost in your eyelashes,” he whispers, his thumb barely grazing the apple of your cheek, probably following the abandoned path a tear left behind. 

Your breath hitches and a surge of adrenaline makes you turn your face to the side, just in time for Satoru to caress your cupid bow and the curve of your upper lip. Your eyes flutter close. It’s only for half a millisecond and his hand retreats as if you were burning him, curling on itself in the air, hovering over your face. Not a sound comes from him. 

“I know,” you breathe out.

“Hm?” 

“I know I can talk to you,” you clarify, blinking up at him with a soft tilt of your head and in your lips. 

He doesn’t escape your gaze, and you can see yourself reflected on his darkened, tempestuous blue eyes.

“But you won’t,” he says. 

“Not about this,” you reply honestly. 

“But we are–”

You cut him off, before you can hope, protest or rejoice on whatever epithet escapes his lips.

“I know,” you unhook your arm from his, pressing a hand over his forearm. “But you don’t tell me every single thing about you either,” you squeeze slightly and you can feel his muscles clench under the pressure. “Do you?”

After seconds that feel like minutes stretching, he presses his hand over yours and squeezes in a thousand unspoken words.

“No.”

“And that’s okay.”

After all, there are things you don’t want him to know about, even if a part of you thinks he does already. 

A part of you wants to believe he understands.

But how could he? 

Someone like him can’t never lose, not anything nor anyone.

Your mother forgives your brief disappearance and requires you to run a few errands to pay back any concern you may have caused, mostly to soothe any lingering guilt from your part. It’s always like this between you both, the silent agreements and the subtle conversations. 

You can talk about pain freely but you are candid enough about it for her not to worry about you letting it eat away at you in silence. 

“Did the visit help?” she asks, hands busy and eyes fixed on you, as you wait patiently, leaning against the kitchen counter. 

“Hm,” you nod, a faint smile. “It had been a while, I think that’s what I needed” 

“I know you usually like to go up there alone,” she starts, “but please try not to linger too close to sunset, the air gets colder and the path is too dark for my peace of mind”

“You know I don’t like to walk in the snow at night.”

Your mother’s eyes trail away from you. “Right.”

“I’m okay,” you say, voice not wavering. 

“I know you are,” she replies, looking back at you with love and concern mingling in her pupils. Your throat would close up at the sight on worse days. 

Today, though, you smile at her with veiled gratitude and a hint of apology as she hands you a knitted bag, heavy with homemade goods.

“You know,” you point out, weighing it in your hands with a pensive pout in your lips. “I think you spoil that man way too much.” 

“Those are for Father Nanami as well,” your mother protests, lifting her brow at you, affronted. “And ‘that man’ is our priest” 

“It’s just Satoru,” you said. A slip up that you paid mind to a little too late. 

“Precisely because it’s Father Satoru,” your mother replies, casual, as swift as her hands rearranging the last few envelopes. Her brief yet disapproving sideways glance is the only other indication that she has taken note of your disrespectful nonchalance. “He is a friend.”

“It doesn’t matter,” was the answer that made its way to your tongue. It didn’t come out of your lips though, it was too much of a lie. 

“He should be thankful we prepared him anything at all.” 

The piercing glare your mother throws your way is enough to seal your lips shut and make you swallow your complaint. You smile innocently, fluttering your eyelashes. 

“Last time that look worked on me was when you were nine years old” 

You don’t receive yet another earful regarding your lack of respect towards the so-called angel of the town, though, so you are thankful. Your mother is aware of the particular familiarity between Satoru and you and while you both have talked about the level of casualness you are okay with, she insists you follow the proper etiquette with a man of God. 

“Smile when you deliver this,” she reminds you, planting an obnoxious kiss on your cheek. “We made such an effort putting this together,” your mother comments, eyes much softer than her admonishing voice. The ghost of a smile in her lips suggests a tease that you decide to ignore pointedly, your cheeks flaring. “Presentation is everything.” 

You roll your eyes, making your way to the door, “Right...” you drawl. 

“Don’t forget your scarf”

You hum in response, stopping at the foyer and grabbing it from the rack next to the door. As you tie it around your neck, a thought makes you pause.

“Mom?”

She peeks into the foyer. “Yes?”

You grab the door handle, eyeing her just briefly before twisting the knob. 

“Did you tell Satoru?”

As you open the door, the cold wind blows into the warmth of the house. Your hair waves with it. 

“About the tree?”

It’s always like this between you both, the silent connection and the subtle communication. 

“About why I go there,” you say. 

Your mother is quick to answer both with words and with a firm shake of her head.

You almost regret asking when you see the sorrowful lines that map her face.

“Of course not, it’s not my place to tell.”

You nod, smiling a bit. “Okay.”

As you step out, her voice reaches your ears. “But–“

You look over your shoulder. She looks sheepish, hands dancing on her lap. “Don’t you think it would help? Talking about it with him ? He is your friend and he is closer to God.”

You let out a soft laugh, not unkind. “I think it would be the most awkward conversation to have.”

Whenever you walk towards the parish, you think of Satoru. At the beginning, it was out of curiosity and wariness, as you imagined and played around with the endless possibilities of the mystery of his personality. Now, it is unbearable. The sense of anticipation that used to precede your meetings has mixed in with a yearning, an itch that you can barely scratch and which nature makes your stomach twist. 

You are aware there’s an inherent wickedness permeating your feelings now, that most of your thoughts linger close to the line of impropriety and don’t reciprocate Satoru’s unconditional respect for you. 

Because, even if he is unconventional in more ways than one, especially in comparison to the strict mold a catholic priest is expected to fit in, there’s nothing about him that suggests a questionable morality.  Even with the way he is always getting close, shimming in your head and personal space, talking your ear off about everything and nothing and making jokes that walk and tether the line of strict propriety. And even with your proximity and the familiarity that allows him to touch you freely, there’s a delicate balance and respectful boundaries in your relationship. 

His hands never wander or linger beyond the socially acceptable, invisible limits society has mapped a woman’s body with. The looks he gives you, while filled with open interest and regard, are void of a dark, twisted intention you have seen other men possess. 

You are the one that avoids looking at him too much or staring at his eyes for too long, fearing the kind of expression you will see reflected on his all-seeing eyes. You are the one terrified about the possibility of him reading the hidden thoughts swirling in the depths of your brain. 

The innocence of your friendship has mixed in with a dark pull that makes you crave Satoru’s proximity in a way you shouldn’t dare to entertain. It’s a cruel irony. Even beyond all the key reasons why your fascination should remain concealed behind platonic affections. 

It’s wrong. 

For the first time in the entire winter, you feel grateful when a whip of harsh, cold air hits your body. It’s heaven’s warning. A way to tell you to focus on the goosebumps instead of whatever black holes your mind is spiraling into.

You walk up the last steps leading to the entrance of the parish feeling nauseous, fighting and locking away the last thoughts. You inhale deeply before walking through the open doors, your nose filled instantly with the sweet smell of incense as the muscle memory takes over and you sign the cross over your upper body.  It’s true when they say the church is truly never empty, and not because of the hypothetical presence of a higher being, but because it’s always open. During the day hours, there are always a few believers praying or waiting for a confession, head down, silently holding a conversation with either God or themselves. 

Your eyes scan the few people scattered in the pews and you are not surprised to realize you are familiar with the back of the heads of half your neighbors. You walk to one side, moving along the rows of pews and nodding politely to those that are alerted by the movement in their peripheral.  Nonetheless, as you get closer to the partly hidden hallway that leads to Satoru’s office and the sacristy, a smaller frame catches your attention. He is sitting right at the edge of the pew closest to the hallway leading to the offices. You walk closer and look over the scrawny shoulder, making sure he is not praying. 

“Yuuji?” you whisper.

The boy raises his head, turning his gaze away from the missal on his lap. You smile down at the way his slightly bewildered expression morphs into a wide grin. 

“Miss—!” he whispers back. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, ruffling his hair. 

He gestures for you to get closer. When you do, he leans forward. 

“I’m here to tell Father Gojo something” 

You raise a brow, leaning back just enough to admire the anticipation in his expression.

“Father Gojo said I could be an altar boy next Sunday if Grandpa agreed,” he chirps.

You resist the urge to raise both eyebrows. You would think Yuuji is too young to be an altar boy, and you know Satoru does too, having denied his multiple, enthusiastic and incessant requests. Nonetheless, you also know Wasuke is spending more time at the hospital lately and that might be enough reason for him and Satoru to reconsider. Yuuji seems excited enough though. He thinks Satoru is the coolest guy around and has been trailing after him like a baby duck for a while. 

“Let me guess,” you lean down with a conspiratorial whisper. “He said yes”

“Yes!” 

Yuuji’s outburst bounces off the old rock walls but he doesn’t seem to mind it. You notice some people looking in your direction, raising their heads from their silent prayer with varying degrees of bewilderment. You shrug at them, an apologetic grimace, before turning back to Yuuji. 

“Oh my” you huff out a laugh, keeping your voice at whisper-level. “Congrats on the promotion!” 

Yuuji almost bounces off the pew but his voice is lower this time. “Thank you.”

“What’s your salary?”

“I-I don’t think I have one,” he perks up, intrigued. 

“You should ask for one” 

“Oh,” the boy doesn’t even question you, but furrows his brows a bit after a moment. “It shouldn’t be money, though”

You nod, mimicking his serious expression. “Of course.”

Yuuji’s legs swing over the edge of the pew as he looks at the bright colored windows.

“Movies” he suggests, doe eyes looking for your approval. 

You bite back a smile but click your tongue and reign in your expression for the sake of the serious aura around him. 

“He already lends them to you,” you tap your chin before your expression brightens. “I will help you negotiate weekly cinema tickets and all-you-can-eat ice cream” 

Yuuji’s eyes are bright and wide as a gasp escapes his lips. “You would?”

“Uh-huh,” you wink, straightening back to your height. “I’m sure Father Satoru will honor this deal”

Yuuji beams up at you, body almost bouncing off the pew. You giggle, ruffling his hair before fishing some baked goods from your knitted bag.

“For you and Gramps”

“Thank you!” He promptly opens the envelope with enthusiasm and eyes at them. He sniffs unapologetically, “They smell so good! Did you make them?”

“My mom and I did,” you confirm, gently pressing your hand over his so he closes the paper. “They are better hot, so don’t open until you eat them”

“I will go eat them now!” he declares, clutching into them as if you would change your mind and snatch them away. “Outside,” he adds. 

You laugh, propping a hand over your hip. “Wait, don’t you want to come to see Father Satoru?"

Yuuji is already sliding off the bench. “He told me to wait a few minutes, he is busy having a grown up talk with Father Nanamin!”

“Nana—“ you trail off. “Isn’t it Nanami?”

The young boy shrugs, already munching on a cookie despite his earlier promise. “Father Gojo calls him Nanamin and Father Nanamin says it was okay if I called him that. He doesn’t seem to like when Father Gojo does, though”

“I see.” 

“You are a grown-up, so you can talk to them now,” Yuuji instructs sagely, pointing towards the hallway.  

You salute, “Understood, boss”

Yuuji waves at you before skipping out the church. You observe his bouncing frame until it disappears beyond the entrance and you shake your head fondly, before turning around. As you pass the side of the altar, your gaze lingers in the Virgin Mary figure, the flickering flames of the candles at her feet dancing along her body. The candle you lit up many years ago should be right there.

With that last thought, you look forward and slide into the hallway. 

At this point, you are familiar with every single corner of this place. Satoru gave you a personalized tour last year, almost scandalized at the thought of you not being familiar with the parish you had grown up in. So, w ith time, you found yourself feeling comfortable enough to explore around on your own, mostly to pass the time while Satoru is attending his priestly duties.

You have grown familiar with every nook and cranny of Satoru’s office as well and you know you can waltz right into it when the door is left ajar. Which is always.

Well, almost. 

Strangely enough, you are greeted with the side of a closed door. You frown a bit, eyes fixed on the engraved name at the door. Satoru Gojo. You raise your hand to knock, fearing to walk into a serious conversation you shouldn’t overheard.  Something makes you hesitate, though. Probably the hushed whispers traveling through the door. 

You stand there, even if you know you shouldn’t. 

“…it’s been almost seven years.”

“Didn’t know there’s a rule that says I should stop caring after–”

It takes you a few seconds to realize but what you assumed was a casual conversation sounds way more heated than that. You can’t always quite tell what’s being said, but there are moments the whispers evolve into louder 

“….I’m just saying, a long time has passed, maybe you should let it go.”

“You want me to forget it!?”

“I’m not saying you should forget it, but God knows moving on is the best thing we can do. I did–”

“Jesus Christ,” Satoru huffs, “don’t you dare lecture me about moving on, you are here .”

You are so baffled by the fact that Satoru’s voice has the capacity to reach that level of defensive hostility that you don’t quite register how long the silence stretches after his last retort.

“I thought you had matured,” Nanami finally says and the casual coldness in his voice sends a shiver down your spine. “But you are the same impulsive, hot-headed, imprudent kid from all those years ago. Be mindful of your role.”

“Yeah, well, what the hell do you think I have been doing?” Satoru’s voice raises further, a sardonic tone permeating every word. “I’m so close to–”

“You have plenty of people depending on you,” Nanami cuts you off. “If you care about them, you will move cautiously.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence after that. You shift the weight from one foot to another, raising your hand to knock. 

“And [Name]–“ Nanami starts.

And you startle. 

Nonetheless, Satoru clicks his tongue. You can hear him pacing around in the room. Or it might be Nanami. 

“Don’t even bring her up,” the former hisses, in a fiery protest. “Don’t even start. We are friends”

“It’s not that, Satoru, she’s—”

“I’m done with—”

You can barely register the sudden movement, a surge of warmth and a woody, earthy aroma hitting you right in the face. Your eyes focus on the wall of Satoru’s office. Opposite of you, there’s an ample bookshelf of the same expensive yet old wood of the desk. There are no windows and the lights are out which makes the flames cast shadows and dancing figures all over the room and on Nanami’s surprised face as he leans against the desk.  “—this.”

You take a stumbling step back when your eyes meet as if the force of it was enough to make you lose balance. Only then, when your eyes run away from his, you find yourself face to face with Satoru Gojo, still with his hand on the knob, the most baffled expression you have ever seen on him. “You—”

“I–” your mouth feels dry, your heartbeats ringing in your ears. “I was just…” 

“Not now.”

Whatever fluster, shame or guilt you might have begun to feel instantly evaporates into a cloud of pure befuddlement. Satoru’s face is not a display of perplexity anymore but rather an inexpressive, almost dismissive mask. It’s so foreign it makes you take a step back. 

“H–huh?” you let out. “I was just—”

“[Name], I apologize,” he mutters in a tone that doesn’t suggest a hint of regret, “but the confessional opens at ten, so not now.” 

“I just wanted—”

“[Name]…” there’s a hint of a plea this time, as he tilts his head to the side and avoids your gaze, as if he is trying to repel you.

Nanami frowns, stepping closer. “Gojo—”

The cloud of bafflement dissipates to expose a mix of indignation and humiliation. It’s the fact that he has never spoken to you like this. Ever. Not until today. You feel yourself ruffle and warm up under his gaze, a glare settling on your eyes. 

He opens his mouth again and you clutch the strap of your knitted bag, feeling defensive. 

“Gojo,” Nanami speaks, pressing a hand over his shoulder. 

Satoru bites his inner cheek but doesn’t say anything else. He shrugs Nanami off after a few seconds, though. You can only observe, trying to wrap your head around what you are seeing and hearing and what you thought you would see and hear and how you imagined your day would go. 

You retrace every step in your head as you physically walk back, affronted. Before you can even say anything, though. Before you can defend yourself or protest, something catches your eye.

You wish you had never seen it.

Nanami is wearing a black cassock, just like Satoru is. The clerical collar is pristine and there’s a cross hanging off his neck. It catches the light of the flames in the chimney.

At the left, an ornate badge is proudly fixed against his chest. It’s a beautiful one, the fanciest kind of needlework. And a very familiar one. You have spent hours staring at the embroidery, the design, at the way the crimson and the plum and the gold thread harmonize in an intricate embrace. 

All of a sudden, you feel bile rise up your throat.

“[Name]–”

You don’t care if Satoru's tone is kinder this time. The sight surely isn’t. 

We recovered a locket, a badge and a cross. The ring is missing.

The words ring in your ears, the voice all too clear after all these years, hands without a body handing you a box too light.

We recovered a locket, a badge and a cross. The ring is missing.

Your hand tugs at the fine chain around your neck, your hand molding around the little case in an anxious grip. Your hand is sweaty and your thumb traces over the curves and lines of the initials engraved on the locket in a silent callback.

“H–hey…”

You turn around without looking back. Your steps are swift, desperate. The hallway seems to stretch on and on and the rest of the church closes in on you as you focus on the light of the outside world ahead. Your hurried steps echo off the walls, the beginning of a sob held back by your tight-sealed lips.  You might have heard your name but you don’t mind, you want to keep running until you can finally breathe. Until the light outside erases every memory of the cold winter. 

In reality, you run until you physically tire out. Until you are heaving, leaning on your knees, droplets falling from your face and into the snow. They could be tears or sweat, you don’t know. 

We recovered a locket, a badge and a cross. The ring is missing.

You might want to retch out of the sickening voice replaying in your head over and over again or because you have moved forward like a mad-woman. Either way, you inhale and exhale as frantically as you have run until the need for oxygen subsides and you don’t have a choice but to kneel down. Your hands and knees are partly buried in the snow. 

You hate winter.

It brings cold and sickness and painful memories with it. For you, the worst part of it is the phantom hold that clings and suffocates you like a constricting vine.  Trees are still skinny and mostly naked, branches trembling at the wind, bending under the weight of the last snowfall. 

All but one. 

Your head rises. It’s easy to see it from the bottom of the hill. 

Between the leisure movement of a heavy cloud and the other, the sun has started to reach out with its lukewarm rays and, right at the top, the giant oak tree stands proud and imposing. Its monstrous shadow seems to stretch impossibly long, all the way down the hill where it reaches you and envelopes you like a mantle. 

“You have finally come back to haunt me” 

hi again ฅ^>⩊<^ ฅ i want to thank you for reading all the way to here. You absolutely rock and I'm profoundly flattered. this post is crazy to me because despite my long time in fandom trenches, this is the first time I post a self insert / OC fic aaaaand a fic on tumblr. Kudos to Satoru Gojo and my catholic upbringing for mingling in my brain! Anyway, you probably have more questions than answers and for that I apologize. I feel this introduction is a bit more confusing than anything but that's exactly what I wanted to go after. Hopefully it gives you an idea of the messy state of things. There’s a whole menu of mildly fucked up stuff here and I'm so excited for you to browse it in the upcoming chapters.Anyways! Any doubts you have feel free to drop in the comments or in an ask, I will be more than happy to answer if it's nothing to spoilery :v If you don’t have any questions yet, don’t worry i'm looking forward to read your thoughts and comments or constructive criticism about the chapter as well! Thank you so much for taking the time to give this lil work a chance! Til next time my beloveds ♡ Have a good day/night!

©️ lilactwilights | no repost allowed | likes, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated!

©️ divider by strangergraphics

[pineconepie]

CHARACTERS: Octavian, Reader/You

WARNINGS/TAGS: Mostly fluff, brief descriptions of animal cruelty and death (from a movie), blanket forts, modern AU, parental yandere, slight infantilization, cuddling, gender neutral reader

WORD COUNT: 1.6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a commission! To the commissioner, I hope this is satisfactory! <3

"All of these screens are an eyesore," Octavian says, though doesn't resist as you drag him down the technology aisle. His cloak sweeps against his legs with his movements. You both get a lot of weird looks, to which Octavian glares them all down and pulls you close, as if they're giving weird looks at you and not his strange attire.

You smile at him. "Have you ever really seen a TV? Or a phone, for that matter? Anything?"

"Telegraphs are as far as I go, and those things were insufferable," Octavian huffs. "Though I have seen others on their phones many times when in town like now. I just never felt very curious about them."

"Here!" You point out the TVs on display, ranging in different sizes and shapes. Some of them have curved edges while others are so thin they can be mistaken for picture frames. They all play the same scene from some random drama show and none of them seem to hold Octavian's attention. You reach up and tap his nose, "You see how many colors they are? That's much better than a telegraph."

He laughs a little at that. "Sweetheart, anything is better than a telegraph. If this is what you want, I'll get the entire stock." He reaches into his cloak and pulls out an old-fashioned looking billfold.

"We only need one, Papa."

At the check-out, he pays, to which you awkwardly look away from the cashier.

"Sick costume," he says. "Did you guys come from the convention down the street?"

"Sure did," you answer upon seeing Octavian's confused expression. The cashier begins talking to another customer, prompting you to turn to Octavian while he fills out some things. "Are you excited to have some kind of entertainment other than books and gardening?"

"And cooking," he adds, not looking up from struggling with the electronic device. "I have you, though, and that's all the entertainment I need. You keep me on my toes every hour of the day." He finishes his indecipherable signature, making you snort. He sends you a playful glare. "Why on earth is everything digital nowadays? I can't even write my signature on a piece of paper now!"

You roll your eyes fondly.

...

Octavian tries hard to follow the directions you read to him. His eyebrows pinch together in concentration and there's a line between his brows from him wrinkling his nose. He wears reading glasses, which slip down his nose throughout the endeavor. He constantly pushes them back up.

Every time you try to help him, he refuses. "I've got it, Just let Papa handle this."

You're pretty sure he doesn't have it, but you don't dare argue. Instead, you just continue sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the living room floor while reading the directions.

Finally, after a grueling hour and thirty minutes, Octavian triumphantly stands back and looks at the TV propped against the wall. You grab the remote beside you, scooting up on your knees, and press the power button.

The screen comes on, much to your relief. Octavian lets out a big sigh as if he'd been holding his breath during the entire set-up process.

"So... what now?" Octavian asks.

"Now, we build our cozy little blanket fort in front of the TV and watch movies." You grin widely at him and put down the remote. You pick up the two bags filled with blankets, pillows, stuffed animals, and everything you bought for movie night. Well, Octavian was the one to do the buying, but you picked out everything.

"Let me do that, silly," he chuckles and grabs them from you. You stand back up, ready to protest, but he wags a finger at you before turning away to start setting up.

You think about helping, but then remember how stubborn he gets whenever you try to make things easier for him.

Once everything is set up, Octavian turns around with open arms. "Well? How is it? Does this pass inspection, Your Highness?" There's a mock bow to finish off.

Instead of answering him right away, you duck down and crawl into the little fort made of soft sheets and blankets. Inside, it's very spacious— much bigger than any blanket forts you ever made as a kid. In here, the cushions are soft and inviting and warm.

"It passed," you tell him as you wiggle around, searching for the perfect spot. Octavian makes his way in and lays himself across from you.

"How do we work this thing?" he asks, picking up the remote.

"Oh, right." You crawl out of the fort to grab the bag, showing him the movies that were on sale. "They were buy three get one free. For your first movie ever, I'd like you to do the honors of choosing."

He squints at each one like it's a foreign language. All of them are animated children's movies from the past thirty years or so. You're afraid anything more than a lighthearted kids cartoon would be too much for him, rather than yourself.

"The Fox and the Hound, The Princess and the Frog, Ponyo, and The Land Before Time," he reads aloud. He looks mildly concerned. "These are all age-appropriate, right?"

"I think your mind can handle these all, so yes."

"I meant for you, dear." He picks The Fox and the Hound movie case. "When I was younger, still a human, I had a bloodhound that looks like the dog here." You can't resist smiling at how cliche that sounds. Octavian puts the case down. "Ah, before we start, should I make some snacks?"

"Snacks!" you repeat happily and start getting up, but he pushes you back down gently.

"I'll make them, sweetling," he says. "Just stay here and wait, okay? Don't start the movie without me!" There's a playful spark in his eyes before he starts toward the kitchen.

"I won't, I won't," you laugh.

Barely five minutes later, he comes back with a bowl full of popcorn and two glasses balanced on the same tray. He's careful when he gives them to you.

As he pops open the DVD player and slides the disk inside, you notice him struggle with getting everything just right. You know he doesn't want you helping him, so instead you just lean back and pop pieces of popcorn into your mouth.

There's a few minutes of shuffling around and fiddling with the buttons, then the screen brightens and music begins playing. Octavian hurries back to the fort, careful not to step on any of the pillows and blankets. Finally, he settles in beside you, wraps an arm around your shoulder, and pulls you close to his chest.

The usual trailers started to play.

At a trailer for the Beauty and The Beast sequel, Octavian points. "Oh, that one looks lovely. I would love to see that when it comes out."

You shake your head fondly. "It's been out for probably two decades at least." Once again, his amazed expression is amusing.

The beginning scene starts, and Octavian is already clutching you closer. "The mother fox is going to be killed!"

"Papa, it's not real, don't worry," you reassure.

Octavian's expressions change rapidly, already emotionally invested from the first few seconds. He lifts you into his lap to cradle you like a baby when the mother fox hides her baby away to save him from the dog chasing her. His clutch tightens when the gunshots go off, insinuating her death. His wide-eyed stare of horror almost makes you feel bad.

"Are all movies like this?" he asks in horror.

"No," you answer. "But older movies like these were a bit more violent than most of today's movies meant for kids." You pat his chest lightly in reassurance.

"It has a happy ending at least, right?"

"Uh..." you trail off. "No spoilers."

Though he continues clutching you during moments of tension in the movie, his reactions make it worth the discomfort. You find yourself focusing more on him than the actual story. During every sad or remotely violent scene, Octavian covers your eyes with his palm.

His reactions end up feeling more like the movie rather than the one being played by the TV. Octavian does not have a good poker face at all, even if he were trying to subdue his reactions to each scene.

Despite it being a little intense, there are a lot of sweet scenes too, to which Octavian relaxes and stares at the television, absentmindedly petting your hair and kissing your forehead. His affectionate gestures are also distracting, but it feels nice to just be held like this after such a long day.

"Who's your favorite so far?" you ask.

He thinks about it briefly. "The owl, but I also do love Tod. I'll cry if anything happens to him. I definitely do not like that hunter." It makes you smile seeing how strongly he feels for the characters.

For the entire hour and a half, Octavian's reactions range from sorrow to shock to laughter to anger to amusement.

After the final scene plays and the credits begin, he stares at the TV. "That's... it? I thought they'd be friends again and live off somewhere happier!"

"It's a bittersweet ending."

He dramatically sighs, resting his cheek on top of your head. "That was the saddest thing ever. You broke my heart, (Y/n). Are you proud of yourself? You broke your poor father's heart." Despite this, he doesn't seem truly upset, just acting as if he were heartbroken.

"Well, this is your first-ever movie! If you didn't end up sobbing your heart out, then it wouldn't count as a successful movie experience." You snuggle closer against him. "Did you like it?"

"I loved it, believe it or not. Can we watch another one?" He hugs you even closer. "Something happier this time, for heaven's sake."

"Ponyo it is!"

[reiinaissance]

STEP UP YOUR GAME ft. arataki itto (genshin impact) x female! reader

⟢ summary Arataki Itto, one of the troublemakers in your university, needed to pass his test in his failing subject to be able to play this year's football game. So he begged for you, the smartest girl in his class, to tutor him. You never thought it would lead to something more...

⟢ content warnings nsfw, modern! university! alternative universe, sub! reader, oral (male receiving), dirty talk, size kink, unprotected. minors do not interact.

⟢ word count 1.5k

⟢ notes this is a repost from my old account ☻

archive of our own

"No."

Arataki Itto almost dropped to his knees. No? "W-What?"

"I won't tutor you."

"Why?!"

You told yourself you wouldn't get involved with the Arataki Gang who were notorious on the campus for being... well... troublemakers. Kuki Shinobu was an exception, though, because she's your best friend. And she mostly stayed out of trouble. You never knew how she joined them, it just happened.

"I just... I have a lot of stuff to do this week." You said, opening your notebook to read the lecture for today's class.

You heard Itto sighing sadly, and you almost felt bad. Almost. "You don't have time to tutor me this week? Even just for an hour?" When you didn't respond, he clasped his hands in front of you, "Please! I'll do anything! I really have to pass this subject to be able to play the upcoming game!"

Okay, you lied. You felt bad.

Shinobu sometimes drags you to one of Itto's football games, and he was a good player. It would really be a waste for the team if he doesn't get to play in his upcoming game.

...You know what?

Clicking your tongue, you nodded. "Fine. Every 8 p.m. on weekdays at starting tomorrow."

He pumped his fist up in the air, "Woo-hoo! I'll see you tomorrow... Uh..." You tilted your head. "What's your name again?"

All you have to do is to do your best in tutoring Arataki Itto and hope to God he does well in the test. So much for not wanting to be involved with the Arataki Gang.

"This is the third time I've explained this, Itto." You pinched the bridge of your nose. You've been in his dorm for almost 2 hours now, and you had to be back in your dorm by 11 p.m.

"Wait, wait!" Itto shook his head vigorously. "Just explain to me one more time and I'm sure I can understand it!"

You sighed at the pouting look he gave you and stood up to get your water bottle from the table. "So why didn't you ask Kujou Sara to tutor you instead? She's smart." You asked, and Itto shuddered at the mention of her name. "...What's wrong with Sara?"

"Are you seriously asking me that...?! She's literally the most difficult person to get along with!"

You furrowed your eyebrows, walking back to the bed. "No she's not. I get along with her."

"Hah, right. Of course, smart people get along." Rolling your eyes at his remark, you continued teaching the math problem to him. After a few more explaining, he got the problem right.

"Hey, that's correct! Good job." You flashed him a small smile, and you could've sworn his eyes twinkled with joy.

"Really?!" Without any warning, he hugged you, catching you off-guard. "I'll make sure to focus really hard so I can get all 'em right!"

You get that he was happy about it... but...

You never thought his abs would be that rock-hard. Your clothed breasts were pressed up against his clothed abs, and you felt a weird sensation in your—

Y/N! Snap out of it!

"Uhh, you there?" Itto pulled away, looking at you with a concerned look, then his eyes widened. "Oh— Oh. Sorry, it's just when I'm happy I hug... people. Like when we win games, you know? I hug my teammates and I'm sorry if I—"

"It's fine." You chuckled, and there was an awkward silence until you spoke again. "Um, let's move on."

He nodded and answered the next question. Wrong.

"No, no, it's like this..."

And before you knew it, it was already 11 p.m.

“Thank you… really! I already think I’m gonna ace this test ‘cause of you!” Itto flashed a handsome smile, “Be safe on the way to your dorm, alright?”

You returned the smile, waving at him. “I will, bye.” Itto was about to close the door but you stopped him when you heard footsteps. “Wait.” Shit. Shit, shit, shit!

You completely forgot someone monitors the dormitories as soon as it is 11 p.m!

Itto pulled you into his room and closed the door. You leaned back on the door in distress, “Oh, I forgot about the dorm monitor. You can’t go back to your dorm any time soon…”

“No shit.” You sighed and looked up at him.

He looks… attractive. You were so focused on tutoring him that you never realized he was this attractive.

“Y/N?”

You came back to your senses, “Hmm?”

“I said, you can stay here till the monitor is gone. They’re usually gone by 12 a.m.”

You cleared your throat, nodding, “…Yeah… yeah.”

He chuckled, “Y/N? You okay?”

You nodded once again, “I am…”

“Then… why do you keep staring at me like that?”

“…Like what?”

“Like that.”

Itto was looking at you, and you couldn’t help but gulp at the way he was gazing at you. Archons… he looked so hot. What the hell? “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” You walked past him and sat on the bed. “Guess I’ll have to wait… like 30 minutes or so.”

He turned, a smile on his face, “Wanna do something fun to kill time?”

All you could think about was him fucking you senselessly, trying to keep quiet so you don’t wake the others.

“Sure. I’ll tutor you some more.”

Tutor, my ass.

You were on all fours on Itto’s bed, his dick in your mouth as he stood in front of you. You wrapped your hand around the rest of his length that you couldn’t fit into your mouth, and looked up at him. He was biting his lip, grunting quietly.

“Archons, Y/N… Who knew you could suck dick so good?”

You didn’t know how it got to this point — You were tutoring him once again, but you couldn’t focus. You kept stuttering and Itto couldn’t understand you. But then seeing his hard-on… You looked up at him and he was gazing at you…

You both couldn’t resist each other.

Choking on his cock, he gripped onto your hair, hissing, “Fuck…”

Then he pulled your head away, the string of saliva connecting your lips and the tip of his cock. You looked up at him, breathing out, “Fuck me.”

Itto was still panting, and the side of his mouth curled upwards. “Yeah? You gonna be quiet while I fuck you?”

“Mhm… Please…” You whimpered, then gasped when he pulled you up and then pushed you down onto the bed.

He kissed your neck, his hand reaching for your wet clit and rubbing it. You moaned quietly, rolling your hips against his hand then whining when his hand pulled away from you.

"J-Just the tip, first..." You whispered and bit your lip, feeling the head gliding along your clit. "It won't fi— Agh!"

Itto covered your mouth with his hand, growling quietly as he carefully thrust into you. "I'll make it fit, don't worry."

Suddenly, footsteps were heard outside the room. You looked at Itto as he covered your mouth, and your eyes widened when he moved against you. “Shh. Don’t make a sound…” He whispered as removed his hand from your mouth and kissed you.

You couldn't help but clench around him and he groaned, pushing deeper into you. You moaned through the kiss as your legs wrapped around his waist. “Mhhf… O-Oh…”

He's so big that you could feel his tip touching your cervix, hitting it with every thrust he does. He pulled away from your lips as he fucked you harder, your moans coming out as silent gasps.

"Fuck, baby..." Itto whispered, gritting his teeth. "You like that? Does it feel good?"

You could only nod your head in response, afraid to talk because you might moan too loud. He let out a breathy laugh as he continued pounding deeper into you.

Tears filled up your eyes from the pleasure and you could feel the knot on your stomach as Itto went faster. "Mm— 'm gonna...!"

"Shhh, do it for me, baby. Come on."

Your body shook as your orgasm washed over you. He grunted once more, biting into your neck softly.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck..." And he finally pulled out, cumming on your stomach, "Fuck…"

The sight of your almost-passed-out figure on his bed almost made him hard once again, but he resisted himself. He fell next to you, letting out a contented sigh.

You closed your eyes, still panting. "I was only gonna tutor you. Not fuck you."

Itto laughed, caressing your thighs. "Too bad."

"So you're telling me you weren't at your dorm last night because you were at Itto's?" Shinobu gave you a disapproved look. You smiled sheepishly.

"...Look, it just happened, okay? What were we supposed to do while waiting for the monitor?"

Shinobu sighed. "So much for telling yourself to not get involved with the Arataki Gang."

reiinaissance © 2025 | all rights reserved. do not claim as your own, modify, copy or repost.

[borutosdad]

what people don't get about tim drake is that his robin is batman's partner qua batman's partner. unlike the others, his robin doesn't have an end date because it is not a mode for him to grow into himself. from the start he had a very defined view of what "robin" as a mantle means, and everything he does is in service of that, with or without batman immediately by his side.

i honestly don't think the idea that "robin is for children" has any real canon basis besides the broader cultural miasma of robin is a kid. but the broad cultural understanding of robin is generally incorrect about what robin is in the comics -- how many non-comics readers do you know who are surprised there is more than one robin? even people who like comic book movies and games and the like?

dick grayson was going to university when he was still robin. he's definitely been robin longer than most people on this site have been alive. they're still publishing ongoings about his time as robin. jason died, steph was fired and 'died'. neither of them were given the opportunity to be robin until adulthood and by the time they were adults it wasn't something they wanted to be anymore. i truly don't see what is obstructing tim from continuing to be robin as an adult besides people's acanonical gripe about robin being for children. (and personally i think this is an exciting opportunity to expand on tim's thesis of robin as batman's partner, as an adult.)

tim was a character designed to embody the platonic ideal of what robin is: the david facing down goliath, someone who is always physically weaker and less skilled but uses his smarts and his connections to fight for what he believes in. he is someone who believes wholeheartedly in community and solidarity and fights to achieve that end. tim likes to be respected and taken seriously, but he doesn't need to be a leader (even though he's happy to take on that role when it comes to it). he likes being a bit of a fixer and a floater. he has chronic "i'm right and i'm going to be holier-than-thou" about it disease, and a strong moral sense (even if he doesn't always default to it). he takes many qualities from dick and jason's runs and expands on them to an extreme that's both in homage and also totally new. tim's robin has had such a profound impact on the mantle that the other robins were retconned to align closer to his take, such that it's difficult to seperate out what makes tim so unique.

however, from conception, tim is positioned in opposition to the other robins: he is robin before he is bruce wayne's ward/son, he has no personal stake in crime fighting beyond a belief it is the right thing to do, his crime fighting and civilian lives are divorced from each other and he's maintaining that balance, etc. he is also still markedly different from the robins who come after him: both steph and damian follow the same story beats as dick & jason of having some initial stake in the criminal world, and needing guidance and direction from batman to find themselves and their place in the world. (the "robin" who is really the most tim-like in terms of behaviour and backstory is maps.) so, why would he follow the same path as other robins before and after him?

the problem is that the modern dc editorial doesn't understand tim as both the ur-robin and the contra-robin, so they don't know how to use him. he feels unstable and incomplete because he has been left to rust and fall apart, and because he is given few opportunities to show the contradictions of his character on the page.

it's silly to think he needs to "find himself" because he already did. this is why all the "get tim his own mantle" attempts don't work.

[callme-holly]

Hey!!

I saw the one request and thought it was a good idea

The gang x reader who’s on broadway? Like they go to one of her shows and they meet after the show? Modern headcannons def

Thanks!

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐱 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐰𝐚𝐲!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

a/n: as someone in theatre this is so perfect i cant even. thank you so much for the request !!

Darry curtis: 

Darry is so incredibly proud of you and makes sure that you know it. If he’s going to watch you perform, he’ll dress up nice, simply because he sees the occasion as something special. It’s clear to everyone that he’s buzzing with excitement and nerves

He’ll watch with laser focus, his eyes solely on you, analysing every little thing you do, brimming with awe. During the interval, he’ll turn to whoever’s next to him and go, “she’s amazing, huh? I get to hear that voice every damn day.” 

He might get a little emotional during bows, marvelling at the number of people who give you a standing ovation. He’s clapping and cheering the loudest, though, and you’ll catch sight of him grinning widely. 

When you come out, he’s waiting with flowers and wrapping you in the tightest hug, whispering about how good you were.

Sodapop Curtis: 

He is so incredibly excited to see you perform and is buzzing in his seat the moment he sits down. His legs bounce, his hands tap against his knees and he’s humming the songs along like he’s heard them thousands of times (he has). 

He’ll whisper “that’s my girl” at the end of all your solos, not for people to hear, but unreply because he’s so incredibly proud of you.

He buys you the biggest bouquet of flowers and presents them to you at the end like you’re a celebrity, claiming how you almost made him cry whenever you were on stage. 

Ponyboy Curtis:

Pony adores the fact that you’re in shows and makes sure he knows the whole plot before   going to watch it, wanting to make sure he can grasp what’s happening whilst paying attention to you. 

He doesn't dress over the top, keeping it casual but still smart enough to show he’s excited to be seeing you and that the occasion is an important one. 

He’s leaning forward in his seat to see you anytime you’re on stage, smiling to himself through each of your lines. He loves seeing you in the playbill and while people might catch him smiling, he never brags about you being his, even though it's clear to everyone.

Johnny Cade:

Johnny feels a little out of place in the crowd at first, but once he’s found his seat and it hits him that he’s seeing you perform, all his anxiety disappears and is instead replaced with pure excitement. 

You’re the only one he’s watching on stage, even in big group numbers. He’s fixated on you, smiling the whole time and clapping so loud for you that it startles a few people. 

He’ll get shy afterwards, going up to you and giving you a hug, telling you how proud he is of you whilst others praise you for your performance. He’s just glad he can call you his. 

Dallas Winston:

Dally tries to act unimpressed at first and like he doesn’t care. Musicals aren’t his thing at all, and he couldn’t think of anything worse than sitting in a crowd of annoying people and listening to jazzy numbers. But he does it for you. 

When the lights go down and he sees you on stage, he’s speechless. Because everyone is watching his partner, marvelling at the person who is his, and yet he’s the one you’re going home with. 

He’ll leave during the interval for a smoke and surprisingly comes back for the second act, purely just to stare at you in your costume while you dance. 

Afterwards, he tries to play it cool, but anyone can tell he’s proud of you and he might brag to a few people. 

Steve Randle:

Steve gets so invested in the plot and your character immediately becomes the centre of his focus. It's rare he’ll sit and watch something for so long, but if you’re in it? He’s fixated. 

During all your songs, he grins like an idiot, fist pumping the air time you hit a big note and not caring when he receives weird looks. He’s heard you belting enough in the shower and now he gets to see what all the rehearsals were for. 

Afterwards, he’ll throw his arms around you and pull you into the biggest kiss, brimming with awe and pride. 

“You’re telling’ me I’m dating’ a broadway star?” 

Two-Bit Mathews:

Two surprisingly really likes musicals and will bring a hoard of snacks, treating it like he’s going to the oscars. He gets the seat right where you can see him if you were to search the crowd, so you can see just how amazed he is of you. 

He laughs far too loud and probably sheds a tear during the sad parts. He cheers and claps loud enough for you to hear and enough for you to almost break character. 

Afterwards, during the bows, he’ll loudly announce that you’re his star, not caring who cares. He wants everyone to know who stole the show and who you’re going home with after. 

tag list. @mrsdillonx , @goingdelux18 , @princesshailierawr , @r0seb100d let me know if you want to be added <3

[ddeerslayer]

Modern TSH Pandemic AU

Henry got to opt out of standardized testing because unis and colleges weren’t requiring it (also one of the things that helped Bunny get into the school).

The class only has zoom classes for a few weeks before Julian is able to convince the school to let them be in person (both he and Henry hate the online schooling with a burning passion, the rest of the Greek class do too, but Julian and Henry much more). Richard still has to do online classes for French.

The twins experiment with cooking together because of boredom. Charles begins to play the piano more often, and Camilla gets into origami (don’t ask me why I just feel like this makes sense).

Bunny’s an anti-masker, this freaks Francis out a lot, considering he will not leave his place without hand sanitizer, masks, and a prayer (even though he’s not the biggest science believer, he’s still superstitious and a hypochondriac).

Charles and Camilla ask Richard for advice on how to cut their hair themselves, and considering they have each other to make sure it doesn’t go too poorly, it turns out alright for them. Bunny tries to cut his because he doesn’t want to let it grow too long and look ‘girly’, it goes about as well as anyone would expect and gets an actual laugh out of Henry. Francis just grows his out, being too lazy and not caring enough to cut it. Henry’s hair somehow stays looking the same, and it makes them wonder if he’d been cutting it himself beforehand or if he’s got some personal barber who will still take him.

Bunny, being on his own and insanely bored (which he makes very clear in the class group chat (that does not include Henry, who only has a landline, but Bunny just calls him to blab), and to his other friends like Cloke), starts to draw more.

Bunny’s more prone to getting sick because of his asthma (weakened immune system), and when he does get sick, the twins bring over some soup, and Marion goes over to help him out sometimes. Bunny milks it, of course, but actually doesn't feel well, and when there’s an actual scare, and Bunny ends up in the hospital, Henry gets called because he was Buns emergency contact. When Bunny recovers, “Of course I’m alright! I drank a lot of milk when I was growing up, still do. Grew up a strong boy, just like my Dad said I would!”

Judy gets really into the whole ‘whipped coffee’ thing that was going around, and experiments a lot more with makeup.

Richard spends a lot of time binging movies.

Charles and Francis end up on a lot of late night calls, which often end with actual admittance from both ends on missing each other, it could mean something different for both of them, they don’t talk about it.

Henry’s still getting dressed as usual everyday, Francis is just lounging around in a robe, Richard is wearing his older clothes that he usually wouldn’t wear in front of the class, Charles and Camilla just gave up on any separation of their clothes and just wore whatever, and Bunny was in his pajamas practically every day.

The isolation hits them all hard, even Henry, and especially Bunny. At some point, after Francis insists on multiple tests beforehand, they go out to the Country house and everything feels just a bit better for that week or two.

(Thank you to this post for making me think about this.)

[star-lights-up]

okay okay okay but hear me out: cherik modern au no powers, mob boss dark!charles.

But we don't know that yet.

This starts with Erik.

He had a rough past, I'm thinking probably something related to Shaw, something with his parents dying, probably some time in jail, failed relationships, and some internalized homophobia mixed in there.

Anyways. He's doing okay, now. He keeps to himself. He does NOT go to therapy even though he probably should. He works a very basic nine to five. He's probably got depression. Possibly a bit of an eating disorder, because for some reason i love doing that to him. No friends, no family, just kind of numb and drifting.

Then he meets Charles.

I don't know how exactly it would happen, but it would be the most typical meet cute to end all meet cutes. Pure, fluffy fluff, straight from a hallmark movie type shit -- someone spills coffee, someone reaches for the same carton of milk at the same time as the other, SOMETHING. But Erik meets Charles, this cute little british guy with big blue eyes and freckles and an eighties haircut. He's obviously flirting with him, and Erik finds himself flirting right back, and so it goes. Charles asks for his number.

He goes out to dinner with Charles the next day, ends up spending the night at his apartment -- a big penthouse suite in one of the nicest areas of the city. And Charles is funny and charming and very, very good at making innuendos when Erik least expects him to, and with Charles's lips on his Erik begins to wonder if this could be his happily ever after, the thing that all the songs on the radio talk about, the big finale at the end of every movie.

Quickly, he learns that Charles is rich -- very, very rich. How a genetics professor is that rich, he doesn't know, but Charles buys him expensive gifts and takes him traveling and Erik refuses at first, of course, because he doesn't need Charles's charity, but Charles insists that it's just his love language, and it could make no difference to him and, well, Erik doesn't mind it so much when they're sequestered in a nice hotel room in Paris.

Soon enough, he's living with Charles. Marrying Charles.

It's wonderful. Erik feels so at home with him, feels adored and special in his eyes, feels like this is payment for everything he's ever suffered through.

And then he stumbles upon some things. Some things he shouldn't have seen.

And that's how he learns that Charles -- sweet, Charles, the guy who comes off as so innocent (though Erik knows he's anything but, but he didn't expect THIS) -- is the most feared crime lord in the whole of the city.

It becomes increasingly clear that everything charles does, everything he says, even to Erik, is calculated. His entire life is a game of manipulation, and Erik's found himself on one of the strings.

Charles has crafted the image he portrays, the perfectly sweet and wide-eyed, bumbling professor. Erik sees it fall away, sees him with his underlings, the way he's feared. The way everyone's spines straighten when he walks into a room.

Part of Erik feels special. Here's this terrifying man, of great means and with great looks and charm, who could have anyone and anything he wants -- who's chosen Erik. He says that that hasn't changed. He tells him that he does love him. That he is special. That he doesn't want anyone else.

The other part of Erik is terrified. The logical part. He tries to file for divorce, tries to run. It works for a little while -- even though his existence seems entirely desolate without Charles's easy smile and witty conversation to fill it.

Of course, Charles comes after him. Asks him to please, reconsider. He's still committed, if Erik is. That Erik can have anything he wants in the world, out of life, with him by his side. Reminds him that Erik loves him. He said so.

Erik tells him that whatever they had clearly wasn't love. It was lies. But somehow he ends up in Charles's arms and Charles's bed again, and he knows that it was his choice, and... well...

That's how Erik Lehnsherr ended up the most feared mob boss of New York city's husband. Till death do them part.

[unsolicited-opinions]

You people and your obsession with monotheistic religions is what is holding us back as a species

Let's try to entertain this criticism as though it has validity.

"You people"

Let us assume that Anon means Jews.

"Obsessed with monotheistic religions"

~45% of Israelis are secular.

~30% of US Jews are secular.

Both groups still identify as Jews because they are, even if they don't observe any form of Judaism, the traditional religion of the people of Judea.

"holding us back as a species"

The accusation that “Jews are holding us back as a species” is a modern repackaging of longstanding antisemitic tropes that have historically framed Jews as impediments to progress, civilization, or moral order. This accusation came from, among others, Adolf Hitler, Henry Ford, and David Duke.

I suspect Anon incorrectly believes that the Jewish claim to Judea is based on a religious belief. It is not. Jews...are from Judea. This is why they're called Jews. The vast majority of Jews are Zionists not for religious reasons, but because they believe that they should have the right of self determination in their indigenous homeland.

While Christianity and Islam each preach that theirs is the only way to know, be loved by, or join with the divine, Jews do not share this attitude.

The religious position of Judaism towards other religions is that if they're following the Noahide laws, they're fine...and that people of other faiths are loved by God. At no time have Jews emulated the Christians and Muslims in demanding that others convert to their faith. On the contrary, Jews are forbidden to prostelytize or seek converts.

Jews have enjoyed exceptionally positive relationships with religions which do not seek to convert, wipe out, or replace Jews. Judaism is innately ecumenical in a way that the two "Abrahamic religions" which were based on parts of Judaism...are not.

But Monotheism, Anon, isn't limited to these three faiths. Other monotheistic religions include:

Zoroastrianism

Sikhism

Bábism

Baháʼí Faith

Tenrikyo

Some Hindu traditions

Yazidism

Druzism

You really think it makes sense to lump all of these together? Have you studied the theology it history of any of them? (Of course you haven't.)

I'm an atheist.

I agree with Christopher Hitchens that the net result of religion is negative for huanity.

I also agree with Hitchens that some religions are far more dangerous than others. Hitchens knew that in order to criticize religion, one needs to study an understand religions...and appreciate their enormous diversity.

Hitchens was close friends with all kinds of religious people. It is entirely possible to be an atheist without being an asshole to people of faith.

Don't take my word for it, Anon. Listen to some of the greatest atheists of the 20th and 21st centuries:

Be forthright when religion intrudes into public life, but always be polite to individuals.

- Richard Dawkins

We must find ways of criticizing beliefs without alienating people who hold them

- Sam Harris

Being intellectually honest doesn’t require being emotionally hostile

- Sam Harris

Attack the idea, not the person.

- Christopher Hitchens

Don’t condescend, don’t misrepresent—but don’t be silent either.

- Daniel Dennett

For small creatures such as we, the vastness is bearable only through love.

- Carl Sagan

I have a great deal of respect for the Jewish tradition of moral seriousness and intellectual inquiry.

-Christopher Hitchens

I am a partisan of the Jews, even if I am not one. Without them, there would be no concept of conscience.

- Christopher Hitchens

If I had to give up all other identities, I would probably keep Jewishness. Not the religion—I am an anti-theist—but the culture, the history, the resistance, the humor.

-Christopher Hitchens

The Jewish emphasis on education and argument is something I deeply admire, even if I don’t share the theology

- Richard Dawkins

Judaism has had the virtue of being more self-critical and less dogmatic than many other faiths

- Sam Harris

My Jewish heritage taught me to cherish learning, to ask questions, and to be skeptical of easy answers. These are the same values that guide science.

- Carl Sagan

Jews have contributed vastly to the Enlightenment, science, and modernity—not in spite of Judaism, but through cultural values Judaism long upheld: learning, debate, and moral responsibility.

- Steven Pinker

Anon hasn't read any of these thinkers. Anon is an edgy young atheist who believes that his atheisim justifies behaving like an asshole towards strangers in general...and Jews in particular.

And none of the atheists above share his views.

I hope he'll read more and grow a bit.

If you want reading suggestions, Anon, to help you learn enough about relgiions to criticize them intelligently, my Asks are open.

[currently-reading-a-book]

The Phantom’s Kiss

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: A brilliant FBI agent goes undercover to catch a phantom art thief—only to find himself entangled in a dangerous dance of seduction, secrets, and stolen hearts.

Genre: mystery, romance

Warning: kiss, art thief, seduction

Word Count: 994 words

Note: Hey cuties! I'm back. Sorry for being inactive for so long. Just had a creative writing block. This isn't my best work, but I really wanted to post something. So here you go! Also currently started my 5th book or smth (I really should stick to one and finish a draft)

A/N: As always, any criticism is very welcome. Sorry for any spelling or grammar mistakes. English is not my first language. Not proofread.

Anyway, enjoy :)

✧ 🎀 -------------------------------------------------------------- 🎀 ✧

A ghost. This art thief was a ghost. Spencer couldn’t think otherwise. One moment he was there, and the next—gone. Gone with the art. The exclusive, prestigious art. His job was to catch the thief… but how do you catch a phantom? Someone who doesn’t exist?

Spencer Reid adjusted his cufflinks nervously, his heart pounding as he stepped into the grand foyer of the city’s most prestigious art gallery. Dressed in a tailored suit, he looked every bit the part of a wealthy art enthusiast, but his mind was focused on the mission.

As an FBI agent, Spencer had been assigned to work undercover to catch an elusive thief who had been targeting galleries across the city. Posing as a wealthy collector, he was determined to uncover the mystery behind the stolen masterpieces and bring the thief to justice. Just a simple job, he told himself.

The gallery buzzed with excitement as guests mingled among priceless pieces. The moon shone brightly through the towering glass windows, casting silver beams across polished marble floors. The building stood tall and modern in the heart of the bustling city. Spencer moved through the crowd, his keen eyes scanning for anything unusual.

“Art—it’s art that makes us feel the most, isn’t it?”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly at the soft voice beside him. A beautiful woman stood staring at a Monet, her chocolate-brown eyes fixed on the canvas with an intensity that drew him in. She wore an elegant gown that hugged her curves perfectly. There was something about her—a mysterious, sophisticated aura, yet she felt oddly familiar.

He took a deep breath. He regretted it immediately. She smelled like heaven. He cursed under his breath.

“Yes… art is truly a gift. Most people don’t value it enough,” he replied, overwhelmed by the addicting scent lingering in the air. How would her lips feel? he wondered briefly.

“It’s a beautiful painting, isn’t it?” he continued, nodding toward the canvas, his eyes shimmering with curiosity.

With elegance, the woman turned to him and gave a soft, knowing smile. Spencer felt a jolt through his entire body. He needed to know who she was.

“Yes,” she replied in a melodic voice. “But beauty can be deceiving, don’t you think?”

And just like that, she was gone—melted into the crowd, as though she’d never been there. Like an illusion. Like a muse he’d imagined.

For weeks, the thief remained silent. Spencer grew frustrated—not only because the case had gone cold, but because he couldn’t stop thinking about her and their encounter. The mysterious woman haunted his mind, his body, his life.

Then, suddenly, the thief struck again. But this time, it was a less valuable painting—not consistent with the usual pattern. Spencer crouched in his fitted suit, examining a bit of dust beneath the space where the painting had hung.

“This was a clean and quick job… How did you do this?” he muttered to himself.

As he examined the wall, a familiar scent hit him. That same scent. His head snapped up—and there she was.

She smiled gently, her red lips teasing. Spencer stood quickly, brushing imaginary dust off his suit.

Could it be her? Could she be the art thief he’s been chasing? But it was her perfume at the crime scene. Her signature.

The biggest event of the year had arrived. Spencer adjusted his cufflinks nervously as he stepped into the grand foyer again. His hair neatly styled, his suit perfectly tailored—he blended in among the city’s elite collectors. But all he could think about was her. The woman from three weeks ago.

He was sure of one thing: the art thief would strike tonight.

“Good evening, Agent,” a familiar voice purred beside him.

Spencer froze.

She stood close—too close. Smiling like she knew everything.

His voice was barely a breath. “Who are you, really?”

“The phantom you’ve been searching for, my love,” she murmured, her red lips barely moving.

Spencer’s mind spun. She knew who he was. But how?

Her lips brushed his ear. “Come with me, darling.”

He should arrest her. His rational mind screamed it. But his body betrayed him. In a trance, he followed. He couldn’t help it.

She took his hand—his large, rough hand engulfed in her delicate one—and led him away from the crowd. Down an empty corridor, quiet and hidden.

“How…” his voice cracked, “How could you do this?”

She brushed her hands up his chest and pushed him gently against the wall. Her touch feeling like fire on his body.

“But darling,” she smirked, tilting her head, “it was so much fun playing with you.”

She kissed his neck—soft and slow. Spencer shuddered, unsure of what to do. His hands hovered before finding her waist. Her lips continued their trail upward. He groaned, torn between duty and desire.

She kissed the corner of his mouth, her brown eyes locked with his.

“What do you want?” she whispered. Her red lips teasing him.

Yes… what did he want? Maybe he doesn’t know. He just knows he needs her touch now or his body might burn.

“You,” he breathed, his back arching toward her.

She smirked. She knew she had him. Without warning, she kissed him—hard.

Spencer gasped, shocked by the intensity. He grabbed the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. He pulled her closer. Her tongue teased at his lips, and he let her in. Letting her consume him.

“I don’t even know your name,” he murmured against her lips.

“You don’t need to,” she whispered.

And just like before, she vanished into thin air.

Gone in an instant. Spencer stood breathless, confused, wanting more.

Leaning back against the wall, he exhaled deeply, his fingers raking through his hair in frustration.

But now he was sure. No matter what she did. He didn’t care.

He needed her.

His muse. His phantom. His new, dangerous obsession.

[theyluvlyss]

i saw your post on needing more creativity (to word it briefly) in remmick/sinners fanfics and IM HERE TO SUPPLY!! im thinking of making a new account should i do it???

𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 !!!

per my last couple of posts, I would LOVE some requests to start piling up. I wanna see more ideas and thoughts for me to work with (and fangirl about🥴✋🏽-).

and as far as you making an account goes, anon, I ofc encourage you do it if it will make you happy - legit, the whole reason I started this blog was because I wanted my own space to write, say, request, post, etc. whatever tf I want, so you'll never get a 'no' from me when trying to do the same😌🫶🏽.

reminder to all, though !! to reiterate/add to some of my boundaries when it comes to sinners requests specifically !! ...

───────── 《 .°•♡•°. 》 ──────────

I know I have and am usually/typically willing to write taboo topics when it comes to other fandoms, but sinners (to me, in my personal opinion) is a lot more sacred and special, so there's certain changes i'm making/abiding by apart from my usual/normal rules out of both respect and just the simple fact that it's just gonna be strict 'round this bitch, like, idk what to tell you lmao.

- NO moore twins incest or stepcest, i'm not doing it.

- no weird "sammick" bullshit, this is not a sammick ship friendly blog, don't interact, follow, or request things regarding that ship towards me, you'll be blockt with a QUICKNESS.

- I do welcome think, theory, and thirst pieces in my ask inbox, but be aware each of those topics will be kept separate from one another. time and place rules; don't bring up think piece material in the comments of an imagine I worked hard on that has nothing to do with the nuances of the movie and it's themes - and vice versa - don't start thirsting under posts I may make regarding how I view the characters and their role/purpose and whatnot.

- i'm not at all opposed to age gaps, but i'm not doing anything illegal, so don't even go there. but yeah, again, this is vampire media/content - age gaps are a large chunk of the appeal and if you don't like that, then maybe you're not ready to engage in vamp content, idk😭🤷🏽‍♀️.

- unless written or requested otherwise, reader will always be assumed 20+ years old, black/black-coded, and southern. and when it comes to requesting otherwise, plz be clear with your intentions on why, and don't be weird - like seriously, if I see something I don't like, it's not getting written and I will put you on blast, I don't have patience whatsoever for nonsense, so don't start😭🙏🏽.

- i'm a bit picky when it comes to plots, fair warning (i'll try not to let it be an issue tho lol no worries) - especially modern au's, so don't expect a whole lot of those unless you want some of my more "awkward" writing (for lack of a better word) lmao.

- I will write for...

elias "stack" moore

elijah "smoke" moore

sammie "preacher boy" moore

remmick

bo chow

- I shouldn't even have to say this, but NO, I will not be doing any kkk members x reader, kkk dynamic work, kkk NOTHING. I don't even have the words to explain the disgust and anger that it brings me to even think about it, i'm fighting for my life not to say nothing violent and out of pocket rn-...

- be aware that I don't have an official masterlist yet, so stay tuned for when that gets uploaded, because when it does, that means the very first of any sinners related fics of mine has been completed and added :D !!

- and last but not least, basic fanfic/account etiquette...

don't like what I write? don't read it.

don't like me or my content? block me.

questions? just ask, and be respectful.

and finally, if you leave any type of negativity on my page, you'll be dealt with accordingly.

───────── 《 .°•♡•°. 》 ──────────

anyways, that's all for now. thanks for reading this and for all of the strong engagement, love, and support I've received so far on the topic of sinners fanfic, it's really jarring in a good way after being kind of a dead account for a while😭🙏🏽. I hope I can deliver what y'all want/are expecting💕.

byeeee /ᐠ^˕^マ !!!

[gingervitus]

WIP Wednesday/Davrin WIP Wednesday

ok ok ok

last week @serensama and @mythals-whore tagged me for WIP Wednesday which I never got to (I ended up finishing the not gratuitous smut I was working on and don't need to become an NSFW tumblr for stupid self indulgent nonsense) and then @thedissonantverses tagged me in Davrin WIP Wednesday this week.

So here's what will be Davrook, although he's not there YET. He's mentioned briefly, though not by name.

All I've done this week is just self indulgent modern AU nonsense, so I don't walk out on my job.

“Harding, I hope you know if this sideways I’m legally entitled to fucking murder you.”

Sitting on a stool with a cushion made of cracked pleather at a crowded bar isn’t exactly Silvia’s ideal way to start off a Saturday night. The sharp material digs into the meat of her thighs. Adjusting her position is no use. Each move she makes has her more uncomfortable than the last. Maybe she should have worn the jeans that make her ass look like something out of a horny school boy's fantasy. Sweating her tits off might be bearable compared to this damn stool.

“It's not going to go sideways, Silvia.” Lace is laughing. To be fair, Lace is normally laughing when they're together. Usually, Silvia is, too, but the scowl on her face is undeniable. “You can trust me.”

Knowing she’s right, Silvia can’t bring herself to argue, choosing to instead swallow half of her tequila soda in two gulps rather than question the wisdom of Lace Harding. The house tequila is sharp. More peppery than a bottle she would buy for herself. Then again, she’s been buying the same liquor since she dropped out of college. One that’s expensive and smooth enough to be sipped. Unlike whatever is mixed with the soda water here. She plucks the lime off the rim of her glass to squeeze into the liquid. Much to her chagrin, the wedge doesn’t yield any juice at all. Not shocking but still disappointing.

Lace nudges Silvia with her shoulder, grinning into whatever ale is on tap. “Come on. Lighten up.” Silvia grumbles something incomprehensible into her drink before tossing the rest of it back. “It’s good for you to get out. Things have been… tough lately.”

Eyes slide shut. She knows her friend is right, but that doesn’t mean she’ll talk about it now. Everything she’s known for so long has been spiraling out of control in the last month. Any time not spent at work has been spent either in solitude or stepping into shoes she never wanted to wear. “Lace,” she sighs. She knows Harding is correct. It is good for her to get out. To get her mind off of the chaos and despair. To think about anything that isn’t sickness or impending death. To relax for the first time in weeks.

“He’s really great, Sil.”

Silvia just isn’t sure that blindly being set up with a friend of her friend’s partner is exactly the way to get her mind off of things. 

Nose scrunched, she finally looks over to Lace to find a regrettably pitying gaze staring back at her. She doesn’t want her pity. She wants everything to go back to normal. “Why didn’t you ask Lucanis to do this?” she grunts, pushing her glass forward in hopes that she might grab the bartender’s attention. “He needs to get out as much as I do.”

“Are you kidding?” Lace spits out. Golden ale swishes in her glass as she barks out a laugh. “I think he would rather get run over by a bus than come out to a bar.” She sips her beer. “Also, I don’t think this guy is his type.”

Also ily Lace Harding.

soft tags to @partially-controlled-chaos @thatgaymerguyb @feelslikepants if y'all are working on anything Davrin-related or not

[strangepetscomicbooksbat]

Chapter Update

Hunger is So Heavy by Mau_Iren on ao3 Chapter 18: Hellish Shopping Trip Chapter under the cut for those who don't use AO3, link above for those who do. Word Count: 2954

After the eventful texts early in the morning, Madison decided to take up their favorite tool in their toolbox. Avoidance. They ate their breakfast, had like.. half a pancake. Which is more pancake than they usually stomach, so they were pretty happy with it. And they took their medication. That they did not ask their Psychiatrist about, and just split the pill in half and prayed. There were plenty of things to do today that didn’t involve thinking about Tom and Alex, and how those two were apparently in the know about stuff that they weren’t. That Alex has been in regular communication with Tom, who was the first to leave, but not with Madison. Not like Madison missed him or anything, they were just his baby sister that he used to spend every day with. They aren’t upset. They aren’t upset at all. 

Eurylochus seemed concerned. He really shouldn’t be, they’re gonna be so productive today. There’s plenty of stuff that needs doing. They could get groceries, they could do laundry, they could maybe even change the sheets on their bed. It’s gonna be summer soon, maybe they need to change the bedsheets to a more summer-y color. When they went back upstairs after breakfast, they couldn’t help but glare at the words on their phone. “Since when did you have a roommate?” 

The question is giving them pause. Since.. a while ago, really. Maybe he would know that if he visited more often. The question is reasonable, considering the fact that this is an owned house with no mortgage, and Madison doesn’t actually have that many friends that they would be likely to live with. But still. Something ugly curled in their chest when they texted back, “I’ve had a roommate for a while now.” After some thinking, they answer his other questions, “I guess I was. I’m trying not to text him as much though, since he clearly doesn’t feel like talking to me.” 

That felt mean. They didn’t know if they could delete it though. Probably not. Madison tried to shimmy into one of their favorite pairs of cargo pants. It was just their luck that they noticed a hole. In a very inconvenient place. It kind of made them feel like crying. They just want to wear their stupid pants and put on a shirt that probably needs to be washed, and they can’t put on a sweater because it’s getting too hot. Their eye-watering frustration was once again interrupted by Eurylochus kneeling next to the bed, already dressed in that green flowy dress he likes. He looked imploringly at them and asked, “do you want help?” His eyes are pretty. Have they ever noticed how pretty his eyes are? They need to tell him how pretty they are, they’re nice eyes. Not like, perfectly symmetrical, but the color is really cool. “..yeah, I’d like help please.” 

Eurylochus was just.. a godsend. Madison was taking deep breaths, trying desperately not to cry as he helped them out of the torn cargo pants. It was sometimes hard getting changed sitting down. They never really realized how easy it could be if they had help. She isn’t sure why this is bothering her so much today. It’s literally just ripped pants. Their activity of distraction for the day has literally fallen right into her lap. They need new pants, they can go take an uber or something to the mall and buy pants. That’s great. They can take an uber, and when they get there, they could get agua frescas again, like when Eurylochus first got here.

And he knows fruit names now! They could take him to get agua frescas, and he could order this time! That could be really exciting. First time ordering food in modern English. That feels like something they could celebrate, too. 

Madison was so consumed in her own thoughts, she barely noticed Eurylochus taking a different set of softer green pants out of their dresser. He knelt down again at the side of the bed, rolling the pant legs up until they could just slip their feet through a simple ring of fabric, which then could glide up their legs. At least, until they got to their hips, where they could either have to awkwardly shimmy or eventually stand. 

She opted to stand, putting both her hands on his shoulders for balance. They shouldn’t have abandoned their cane earlier this morning; now their joints ache. Their phone dings. “Who is it? A girl from school? Or that Rebecca girl?” Once again, their irritation wells. Oh yeah, that Rebecca girl, their best friend.. when they were eight. They haven’t really talked to Rebecca since the woman broke up with her over text for not wanting to go out on dates during a literal pandemic, as an immunocompromised person. Breakup mid-virtual date planning. How does an asexual manage to keep dating people who want her for her body? Their luck is astonishing. “Hey, do you want to go to the mall? Since these tore,” they hold up their sad, hole-y cargo pants, “I was thinking we could go replace these? Maybe we could get drinks again too. You could try ordering your own this time and everything.” Eurylochus looks like he wants to push the topic, but he doesn’t. He just nods his head and agrees, “sounds nice. I’ll put on my shoes.” Madison almost feels guilty for their immediate reaction, which is to think, Holy Shit, that was a good sentence. They briefly wonder if he is even gonna need them for much longer. They very pointedly ignore the way that the thought unsettles them.

While Eurylochus walks across the hall to his own room, they type out a response to Tom. “I’m not really friends with Rebecca anymore. The breakup made things awkward. And I got covid after she tricked me into going to a megachurch with her.”

The text back was almost instant. “I’m sorry, did you just say you got COVID? Are you okay??” It kind of made them laugh. “Uh, yeah. I got covid two years ago dude. I’m literally fine, I didn’t even lose my sense of smell. I was just tired all the time for a bit. But the covid test was definitely positive.” They still kind of can’t believe that happened. But hey, that’s what you get for trying to stay friends with your ex, huh? Their smile dropped again when Tom wasn’t completely distracted by their clearly superior storytelling skills. “If not Rebecca, who are you rooming with?” It was cute the first time he asked. But now they were getting annoyed. “A guy I know. He’s really nice and makes good breakfast. Why do you suddenly care?”

Now they know that one was mean. They said that to try and hurt him on purpose. But never once in their life have they proofread or second thought a text, and they won’t be starting now. Especially not when Eurylochus walks back into their bedroom with his shoes on, and they remember that they probably should have put theirs on too. She doesn’t have the mental bandwidth to take off yesterday and last night’s socks that she slept in to put on fresh socks. But also.. What about when they try on pants? No stinky socks in the fitting rooms. So with a groan that stays completely on the inside, they take off their kinda dirty socks in favor of fresh white ones. 

Putting on their sneakers made them want to cry. Again. Their sneakers were supposed to be slip-ons, but they ended up just crumpling under their heel most days, and they just couldn’t slip their foot in, so they just end up tying their shoelaces anyway, and it’s so dumb. It’s so dumb.

Getting to the mall didn’t help as much as they wanted it to. Eurylochus had their phone in his hands, because he was watching Spinch over the nanny cam. Which was objectively hilarious, but Madison was on a mission. New pants, shoes that don’t suck. Preferably velcro. They don’t care how childish velco might make them look, they just want to wear shoes that don’t make them spiral. 

They feel nauseous, which is kind of putting a dark cloud over the whole trip to the mall. She is willing to bet it’s the medication’s fault. They should have just made that stupid appointment to ask about changing medications, but now they’re just gonna be vaguely nauseous for the rest of the day. Lovely. 

The first stop is shoes. They can do shoes. Shoes are easy. The mall is a maze of escalators, and women with double-wide strollers that should really look into a sleeker model. Maybe those kinds that stack the kids on top of each other. Their mom used to just have their dad pull them around in a little wagon, and they remember loving it. 

This mall in particular has a lot of shoe stores with big fancy shoes. Heels that make Madison almost green with envy, because they are so pretty, but they can just imagine the ways they would manage to twist their ankles in them. But there is at least one store that is filled with sneakers. It’s the same place that also had comfy sandals for Eurylochus the first time they brought him here. “Mind holding my bag?” they’d ask while sitting on one of the little benches to try on a pair of blue velcro sneakers. 

Eurylochus, like the great guy he is, held their bag. And he also made suggestions, “I think.. those are tight.” He was right. But they weren’t sure how he could tell from just looking. But they nodded their head regardless. “Yeah, I think I need just a half-size up.” Their estimate was pretty much right. Going from a size 7 to a size 7½  pretty much made all the difference. “Hey, since these fit, do you think I should get them in just blue, or in other colors?” 

Eurylochus holds up the box, inspecting the label. “This is the size, yes?” he asked while pointing at the 7½ in bold. Upon their little hum of confirmation, he inspected the labels of the same shoe but in pink, offering them the box to try these as well. “Test.

It was smart to give them a second test. But they fit as expected, and Madison felt slightly less crappy. Pink was a good choice, they really like pink. It’s a cute color, they really need to buy more of it. 

Pants shopping is hell, actually. 

Not to be dramatic, but cargo pants come in such a variety of fabrics. Some fabrics? Soft, lovely to touch. But they sag too much when they try to put their phone in their pocket. No use for cargo pants if the pockets, the main focus, are useless. Other fabrics are very structurally stable, but so rough on their skin. They tried to take a singular step with this one pair, and they just felt the fabric rub against their inner thighs with every movement. 

They are holding onto their mental stability by a thread. And not a fun, stable, six-stranded embroidery thread. A pathetic singular thread of a spider web that is about to get run through by a toddler with absolutely no fear of insects, type of thread. They bought a singular pair of pants. Not cargo pants, but vaguely acceptable sweatpants. Because they simply would not be trying anything else on, and they wanted an adjustable waist. After the disastrous attempt at buying pants, they just wanted to get their fun little fruity drinks. Madison is ready to buy a fruity little drink and go the fuck home. They aren’t even worried about looking childish in public. They are holding their favorite stuffed bunny that was previously in their bag, because if they don’t hold something, they might lose their mind. 

The mall feels especially loud, and they almost tripped on the way down the escalator, and Eurylochus had to catch them by the elbow and it was embarrassing, and there is this crying fucking baby that they would like better if it was quiet. Their sleeves are touching their arms, and it’s bad. Their sock folded in a weird way inside their shoe. They should have worn contacts, because their headphones are squeezing their glasses so their glasses won’t rest on their nose and are actually slightly in the air, ever so slightly askance, and it is driving them insane, They were almost half way to the agua fresca stand when Madison gave the fuck up. It was too much. They were too nauseous, and everything was too loud, and too many things were touching them. Madison could feel Eurylochus’s confusion as they sat down on the carpeted floor, next to the walkway railing. But they really just needed a moment. Several moments. Once again, they are crying today. It starts with sniffles, then progresses to ugly sobs and hiccups. Their mother used to hate it when they cried. There was never a good enough reason for tears. Years later, and they can’t stop the corners of their mouth from straining tight into a weird not-smile when they cry. It hurts. 

Eurylochus kneels. It feels like he’s doing a lot of kneeling down today. That’s their fault. They want things to stop being their fault. 

Eurylochus runs a hand through his.. host/charge’s hair, and he tenderly cups their cheeks once more. “Are you okay?” He doesn’t get a verbal answer. Or any answer beyond Madison shaking her head. But that’s okay. He doesn’t need a verbal answer, as long as she isn’t completely unresponsive. It’s an awkward first few moments, waiting to see if she would stand on her own. But she didn’t. 

“I just wanna get our stupid drinks and go home,” her voice cracked, and so did his heart. He carefully arranges the bag with her purchases over his shoulder, folding her cane to fit into one of the totes, and gently tucks his hands under her legs and back. When he stands, he arranges Madison onto one arm. He feels her tuck her face into his neck and shoulder, and he asks again, “are you okay?” She nodded her head, which he could feel against his skin. This was fine. He could carry her. He could carry her for as long as she wanted. Eurylochus started to walk towards the drink stand again, not wanting to deny the tearful woman half of her main request. The hustle and bustle of the line was loud, and he watches her clamp one hand over the ‘headphones’ that cover her ears. Once at the front of the line, Madison passed him the green ‘cash’ that they often use for purchases while he did his best to request drinks for the both of them. “One watermelon, and one.. mango,” he settled on, only faltering when asked if he wanted medium or large. He glanced down at his upset friend and answered, “Large.” The wait for their drinks to be served wasn't awkward. At least, not to him. Madison wasn’t exactly calming down yet, but she wasn’t openly sobbing. He can only imagine that the lack of open sobbing is a good sign. When their drinks were handed to them, Madison took the watermelon cup. 

The drive back to the house was.. Interesting. Madison was quieter than Eurylochus had ever known her to be. He noticed her gnawing on the straw of her drink as she quietly sipped from it, and she occupied herself with watching Odysseus on her phone. Getting out of the car was another matter entirely. Eurylochus helped her unbuckle herself from the safety bindings and carefully juggled holding her, the bags, and their drinks. Madison very helpfully unlocked the door for him. 

Their keychain jingled as the lock turned, and Odysseus was immediately upon them as the door opened. Eurylochus carefully sidestepped the small beast to set his now-finished drink down on the small table situated near the entryway and closed the door behind him. He isn’t sure what to do with this armful of teary-eyed Madison. But he has a theory. 

Madison felt really silly. With their silicone chewelry in their mouth, headphones over their ears, and bunny in their arms, and it still wasn’t enough? Somehow? They really only half registered Eurylochus setting them down on the couch, draping a soft throw blanket over them. The gesture was really appreciated.. because yeah, they are a big fan of soft things. A post-breakdown nap on the couch is always nice. 

But what really made them tear up anew was watching Eurylochus fumble with the TV for a few seconds, first turning on the screen, and then the DVD player. He messed with the remote for a few moments, and then the lyrics to the Aristocats opening song started to filter through the living room. Eurylochus settled back on the couch with them, hefting Madison up into his lap, and then Odysseus into their lap. And it was.. nice. Odysseus protested at first, then seemed to settle when he realized both of his humans were, in fact, also on the couch, and that he did want to be included. 

This was just.. a level of care that Madison found almost overwhelming. Her phone chimed, and she didn’t pick it up. Instead, they toss it to the other side of the couch. Unburdened with any need to respond to Tom right that second, they rest their head against Eurylochus and mumble a small, “thank you..” 

Eurylochus hums, gently rearranging Madison into a slightly more comfortable position before answering, “Any time, my friend.” 

[wahhzo]

FINALLY... I OFFER UP TO THEE... THE SACRED HEADCANON POST!!

i do have a Lot more, but just wanted to compile a few together and draw em as a group. more of these silly guys to come!!

(also check out @minkshame and @holy-reference-in-a-username bc they greatly influenced my headcanons for these guys!! amazing artists and writers!!)

EDWARD GUINTO

• Half-Filipino, Half-British

• Asexual but other than that he dgaf (he/she/they)

• Freelance Animator and Comic Artist

• AuDHD 👍

• Stopped shaving in solidarity with Tom!!

• Stopped wearing earrings after a few years...

• Only one responsible for the house keys lmao

• Multiples of the same green hoodie (zip-up and closed)

THOMAS REEVES

• Half-British, Half-American

• Omni, transmasc (he/they)

• Part-time at records store, freelance composer

• Hair is styled like that bc it is damaged from years of dyeing and straightening 😔

• Stopped shaving bc of. Depression

• Broken nose bridge from a fight w/ Tord (pre-25 FT)

• Pierced his, Edd's, and Tord's ears when they were teens (Matt was too scared)

MATTHEW HARRISON V

• Half-British, Half-Scottish

• Pan, and gendefluid (he/she)

• Hair stylist and nail tech

• Used to straighten hair, doesn't anymore (whines to Tom about his hair)

• Braids his hoodie strings :- >

• Assigned cook and baker for everyone (they are his test subjects also.)

• AuDHD and OCD 👍

TORD LEONARDSEN

• Norwegian

• Asexual, biromantic, and transgender man (he/him)

• Mechanical engineer

• Autism and OCD 👍

• Pock marks bc he picked at his it constantly

• Pronounced upper lip!!

• Scars on hands from. Work, fighting, and tinkering 😭

• Sleeper build... Worked out a lot after he moved out