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venus-haze · 6 months ago

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God's Got a Sick Sense of Humor (Father Charlie Mayhew x Reader)

Summary: Your decision to dress up as a slutty nun for Halloween has unexpected consequences when you make the acquaintance of an equally attractive and disturbed priest. (AO3 link)

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. Not entirely spoiler-free, but if you’ve watched up to episode 6, you should be good! Also I couldn't find what the parish name was, so I made one up. The gif doesn't really have anything to do with the fic, I just like it🤭 Please look at the warnings before deciding whether to read this fic.

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. Non-con involving degradation, rough oral sex (m. receiving); ambiguous ending.

You knew early on in the night you had made a mistake in costume choice. The vinyl skirt started pinching your waist after less than an hour of wearing it, the nipple pasties were slowly peeling off despite your best effort, and the platform heels weren’t forgiving after several shots of tequila. The vinyl habit stayed in place with the bobby pins you used, but after a while, it felt like it was cooking your head.

Your friends found your plight funnier as the night went on, cracking jokes about how it was God punishing you for wearing the costume in the first place. Lisa had little trouble with her Tinkerbell costume, a green mini-dress and sparkly heels she pulled from her closet and a cheap set of fairy wings from the same Spirit Halloween you got your costume from. Julie’s Bridgerton-inspired costume seemed a bit out of place compared to you and Lisa, but she got a lot of compliments on the details.

For the limited the fun your little desert town had to offer, something was definitely missing from the night out.

“Why did Merritt say she couldn’t make it, again?” Lisa asked, the three of you walking down the street to the next bar you’d inevitably terrorize. All the usual haunts, where the bartenders knew your order and half the patrons were people you’d gone to high school with and definitely didn’t want to see again.

You shrugged. “I texted her earlier, and she said she couldn’t make it, something came up.”

“It sucks she doesn’t hang out anymore,” Julie said. “Did we do something?”

“I mean, her dad’s in a coma, and her mom’s working all the time with those gross murders going on,” Lisa said. “She’s probably the only one keeping things together at home.”

The three of you had known Merritt for years, your friend group becoming tight-knit as time went on. Getting carted to and from soccer games turned into sleepovers and late nights getting fast food. You got to know the Tryons pretty well over the years. Her dad was nice enough, and you always found her mom funny, if not a bit overprotective, but Lois always remembered your birthday.

“I’m gonna stop by sometime this week. It’s been way too long since any of us have seen her,” you resolved.

Lisa and Julie agreed, though you weren’t sure Merritt would appreciate all of you showing up unannounced at her house. You figured you’d be better off going yourself and seeing what the deal was with Merritt.

Stumbling over your platforms, you struggled to keep up with Lisa and Julie until you tripped and nearly wiped out on the sidewalk. You caught yourself on a nearby telephone pole, the lights from the nearby buildings blurring the more you tried to focus.

“Fuck,” you groaned. “I’m gonna call it a night.”

“Are you sure?” Lisa asked.

“Yeah, I’m gonna find a convenience store and then get an Uber home.”

“We can go with you,” Julie said.

You shook your head. “Don’t end your night early because of me.”

“Alright, text us when you get home.”

When the world finally appeared upright again, you looked at the nearby street sign, recognizing where you were, at least. Not far to the nearest shop that you were certain would be open late. You checked your phone for the time and felt especially lame. It wasn’t even midnight yet.

With a sigh, you turned down the street, opening your messages to your most recent text to Merritt. Your FaceTime request went unanswered, so you opted for an audio message instead.

“Hey Mer, it’s me. We missed you tonight!” You paused awkwardly, wishing you could actually talk to her. “Look, there’s a Halloween party tomorrow night, something out in the desert. It’s not too late to get a costume. We could go to the Spirit Halloween in the old Bed, Bath and Beyond—“ A catcall interrupted your rambling. “Look, just call me or something, at least let me know you’re alright? Bye, babe.”

The fluorescent lights in the store were almost headache-inducing, but you powered through for a bottle of Gatorade and a protein bar that you hoped would mitigate the hangover you’d inevitably have in the morning.

Gatorade in hand, you felt almost dizzy staring at the array of protein bars in front of you, wondering how there could even be so many and if they were really any different. A man walked down the aisle, standing a few feet away from you, though you didn’t pay him much mind until you grabbed a protein bar and noticed he was dressed as a priest.

“Hey, nice costume,” you told him.

“Oh, this isn’t a costume.”

You laughed. “Right.” Your inhibitions lowered, you gave him a once over, your gaze lingering on his handsome face, his muscular arms. “You know it’s a shame we didn’t run into each other earlier tonight, we probably could’ve won a couples contest or something.”

He smiled, though something flickered in his brown eyes that made your guts churn. Except, it likely wasn’t him, as you shoved what you were holding onto the shelf next to you and rushed out of the store.

You wretched, the contents of your stomach emptied onto the blacktop. Tears burned your eyes, your throat scratchy and raw by the time you were done. You felt a hand on your upper back, could barely hear the sound of a man asking if you were okay over the sound of blood pounding in your ears.

Glancing up, you were mortified to see the priest looking at you with concern, though disgust was nowhere in his expression.

He handed you the Gatorade you’d been holding in the store, apparently going ahead and buying it for you. Taking a swig, you swished some around in your mouth before spitting it on the ground. He gave you a handful of crumpled napkins as well, and you tried maintaining what was left of your dignity while getting yourself together in front of him.

You managed a mousy thanks, avoiding eye contact with him.

“Don’t tell me you plan on driving home,” he said.

You shook your head. “I came out here with my friends."

"And they just left you like this? Alone?"

"I told them I'd get an Uber.”

“They'll charge you double tonight," he said. "I can drive you.”

Accepting a ride home from a stranger certainly wasn’t the smartest choice to make, but he actually seemed to give a shit about your well-being. You agreed, if not for the fact that you were curious about him, and the horny part of your brain hadn't shut up since you saw him.

He kept his hand on your back as he walked you over to his car. Almost felt like his fingers were twitching against your skin.

Getting into his car, you noticed the rosary hanging from the rearview mirror, a saint card clipped to his visor.

“Oh my god, are you actually a priest?” you asked from the passenger seat as he turned the car on.

“I told you it wasn’t a costume.”

“Shit.”

“Father Charlie Mayhew, from Our Lady of Sorrows, if you don’t believe me.” He smiled, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “What’s your address?”

After giving him your address along with your name, realizing you hadn’t told him yet, you rolled the window down about halfway, finding the fragrant odor of incense and cologne a bit overwhelming for your queasy stomach. The cool night air gave you instant relief, and you laid back on the headrest, keeping your eyes closed for a few minutes.

Father Charlie filled the quiet with a true crime podcast. Not a particularly odd choice, except that he was a priest, but Catholicism always lent itself to morbidity—his was more modern, you supposed.

“Have you heard about those murders around town?” you asked over the sound of a young woman giving the background of a triple homicide.

“Yes, our parish’s publication has been reporting on it,” he said. “I'm the editor, but one of our nuns is working closely with the lead detective on the case.”

You opened your eyes to look at him in disbelief. “Lois is working with a nun?”

“You know detective Tryon?”

“She’s my best friend’s mom,” you said. “I went to her house all the time growing up.”

“You must know her pretty well, then.”

“Yeah, Lois is one hell of a detective,” you said. “Still, I can’t imagine…whoever’s behind it must be depraved. What he’s doing—it’s not even human, it’s animal.”

“He?”

“I don’t think anyone but a man could be capable of that kind of barbarism, Father.”

“You might be right about that,” he said solemnly.

You drank more Gatorade, hoping to settle your stomach and ease your discomfort with the direction the conversation had taken. But you were the one who brought up the murders in the first place. All had some kind of religious connotation. No wonder the Catholic paper was eating that shit up.

Catholicism was always predisposed to an especially grotesque morbidity. Open wounds considered blessings. Bones of the holy displayed with reverence. Even bread and wine transformed into the body and blood of Christ himself. Whoever was behind the recent murders was either observant or well-read.

Father Charlie pulled up to your building about ten minutes later, and you internally sighed in relief when he turned the podcast off. You couldn’t wait to get out of the damn costume and into bed.

“Thanks, Father Charlie,” you said. “I owe you one.”

“Actually, mind if I use your bathroom?” he asked.

You shook your head. “‘Course not. Come on up.”

Acutely aware of the costume you were wearing again, it was far too tempting not to show off on the way up to your apartment, swinging your hips a bit more than was warranted, knowing he was right behind you, the tight skirt giving him a full view of your ass. You privately bemoaned the fact that he was actually a priest. What a fucking waste. A guy who looked like him had no business giving himself to Jesus and denying the rest of the world the pleasure.

You took a selfie by your front door, a tired smile and a thumbs up that you sent to Julie and Lisa.

“Just letting my friends know I got home safe,” you explained, noticing Father Charlie staring at you.

You could barely hide your self-satisfied smile when you unlocked the front door. “The bathroom’s through the kitchen, first door on the right.”

“Thank you.”

Making a beeline for your bedroom, the first thing you did was take your heels off. Your feet were still sore, with a mean blister that made you walk funny when you brought the heels over to your shoe rack. You could hear the toilet flush and the water from the sink run in the bathroom. Chewing on your lip, you were almost tempted to ask Father Charlie if he wanted to stick around. If you could just brush your teeth and reapply some makeup real quick, you'd be good as new.

You never got a chance to.

“So, why this costume?” he asked, startling you.

You gasped, turning around to see him leaning against the door frame. “Oh, um—I thought it was funny.”

“What’s funny about it?”

“Well, nuns aren’t supposed to have sex, and this costume is—”

“Pornographic," he said. "I mean, it’s something you get fucked in.”

“Yeah,” you whispered, shocked at his bluntness.

“Chastity. The sacred vow to God that all women of the cloth take, and you—” he scoffed to himself, stepping into your bedroom so he was only a few feet away from you, “you mock it.”

You knew you should’ve picked the sexy nurse costume instead. “I’m so sorry, Father.”

“You will be. Get on your knees.”

“Ex-excuse me?”

“Don’t be crude. This is about repentance.”

The searing venom in his voice made your muscles contort to his will, and you found yourself on your knees. You should have been fighting back, screaming for him to get out, but in your heart you knew it was useless. Back in the convenience store, you noticed his fit physique, and you could hardly count on your neighbors to give a shit if you were in any kind of trouble.

"Do you even know how to make a sign of the cross?" he asked mockingly.

You shakily did so, bringing your left hand to your forehead, then your chest, then to each shoulder. He scoffed, apparently you messed something up, but he didn't elaborate, instead ordering you to repeat after him. The prayer came jumbled from your mouth, 'through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault' over and over until his voice was ringing in your ears like a broken church bell.

The bulge in his pants was impossible to ignore. You kept your eyes focused on his face, even when you heard the sound of his zipper and clothes shifting. But you couldn't help it, not when he was pumping his cock right in front of your face. Your repetition dipped with a slight whimper when you glanced at the size of him, foolishly hoping it was just proximity making his length appear so intimidating and angry, as if it wanted to hurt you just like he did.

“Simply praying won’t do someone like you any good," he said abruptly. "You need another form of penance, something more tangible."

Shoving his cock in your open mouth, you choked at the intrusion, attempted to shift backward and finally make a run for it, but he caught you by the habit you so stupidly kept in place with bobby pins and hit the back of your throat.

"Why don't you give me ten Hail Marys?" he mocked, his looming silhouette appearing outright demonic through your tear-filled gaze.

You didn't know the damn prayer. Couldn't even try to fake it when all you could manage was muffled pleas for him to slow down, go easy on you, have mercy. Your jaw ached, throat burned at the force he used to make you take as much of his cock as you possibly could.

He didn't show any signs of fatigue, save for the beads of sweat that rolled from his face and onto your own. He grinned at that, at you, the position you were in. The church was full of sickos, and he was certainly no exception.

Making one feeble attempt to fight back, your teeth grazed his cock, and just as you tried to work up the courage to bite down, he jerked his hips, cursing under his breath.

"Take it," his voice a low growl as he came in your mouth, ignoring your choking, spit and snot and cum leaking down your face and onto your vinyl costume and exposed breasts, "take your penance, slut."

Father Charlie hardly gave you a chance to catch your breath when he pulled his spent cock out of your mouth. You practically collapsed on your bedroom floor, each gasp of air painful against the back of your abused throat. Grabbing you by the habit again, he hauled you over to your bed, bending you over the edge of it.

He shoved his fingers between your legs and scoffed at the wetness that coated your thighs, your thong doing little to contain your subconscious reaction to the way he treated you. "Oh, that's just shameful," he drawled. "You're not repentant at all, are you? Leading a man of the cloth astray, causing me to sin…why else would you have put this costume on tonight?"

Straddling you from behind like a dog, his body was heavy on yours. With one hand squeezing your neck, the other pressed something against your throat. You reached for whatever he was holding, freezing in panic when you realized it was the hair scissors you kept in your bathroom. He must have swiped it while he was in there. They weren't even that sharp, but the extra effort he'd have to put in to mortally injure you with them would mean it would be all the more painful for you.

“Depraved, animal, barbaric,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Is that what you think of me?”

You whimpered, feeling his cruel laughter rumble in his chest against your back. “No—no, you can’t be—”

“I was going to do something about that costume anyway, but having that mutual friend in common,” he mused, “I just can’t pass up the opportunity to leave Detective Tryon a personal message. Call it divine will.”

“I’m sorry,” you choked out.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. You can tell God yourself how sorry you are,” he whispered.

“No—Father, please don’t—”

#father charlie x reader #father charlie mayhew x reader #father charlie mayhew #father charlie grotesquerie #father charlie smut #grotesquerie #charlie mayhew #father charlie #nicholas alexander chavez #nicholas chavez

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ruthlessrogeroverhere · 27 days ago

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my interpretation on roger 🫡

i’ve seen a similar post on here i’ll tag who i was inspired by, but i just wanted to share one of my interpretations about roger and perhaps an explanation as to why he acts why he does, this isn’t canon at all it’s just my interpretation and thoughts and i’m aware the killing of the sow is meant to interpret how boys were taught to treat woman as the female pigs were the only female things on the island.

( tw for SA mention and racism )

alright so we know roger is a part of jacks choir, described as a “quiet furtive boy” (this will be important later), who we don’t see much of until chapter 4 when he’s with maurice and the littluns and towards the end of the book. during the killing of the sow, we all know roger pushes his spear into the pigs ass which the boys all find funny; “a phrase which was received uproariously” but why?

this book was set in the time when the book was written, around 1940-1950, and as we know roger is in a presumably strict catholic choir with jack and the others. around that time period, the church held a lot of power over people and especially schools. this then meant that vicars, priests and other people of the church were extremely respected people. because of this as im sure we’ve heard in instances before, child sexual abuse was in fact alarmingly common and unreported in the church, especially back then when churches had so much power. i’m sure you can see what i’m trying to imply here but it’s a possibility that jacks choir could’ve been in the same unfortunate situation.

now, when i said roger is described as a “quiet, furtive boy”, this could represent how kids that had succumbed to sexual abuse acts in the church were told to stay silent about what was happening, and/or turn a blind eye when it happened to other people. then with the killing of the sow, what roger did isn’t normal and clearly isn’t something that should be the first thing that comes to mind when you see a female pig. this could mean that an adult had told him that that stuff was okay, thus why he did what he did. sexual abuse victims often also become angry and develop personality disorders because they’re confused and scared and they don’t understand what’s happening to them, this also would further explain roger’s ‘sadistic’ behaviour, and inability to communicate a lot.

i’d like to add in something about simon too, how he’s in the forest and watches the killing of the sow take place but doesn’t do anything. in my opinion, this heavily represents seeing something take place (sexual abuse in the church) but being taught to stay silent because it’s the ‘right thing to do.’

alright this is the second part of my essay which is my other interpretation which in my opinion could lead roger to act the way he does. throughout the book, roger is described as having a dark complexion, but sometimes it’s hard to tell whether golding is talking about dark nature-wise or in skin colour. sometimes throughout the book though you can tell he’s of a dark complexion such as; “the swarthiness of his skin” “a dark face appeared” and the fact he’s so dark he doesn’t tan. taking this into account i personally am very convinced roger isn’t white. in chapter 4 when roger throws stones at henry, it quotes “round the squatting child was the protection of parents and the school and policemen and the law” also in the time period when this was set, it was common for policemen to pick on kids that aren’t white because they hold a prejudice against them, the same of which could’ve happened to roger pre-island. it doesn’t say anything else which could have a meaning to racism anywhere in the book but it’s just an interpretation i thought of, that roger could’ve been subjected to racial profiling before the island thus another reason as to why hes ‘uncommunicative’ and rather aggressive.

thank you for reading this! again i’d just like to remind that this is just an interpretation, none of this is canon and it was just a thought of mine id like to share! this was inspired by @shaky-b0n3s post 😎😎

#lotf roger #lotf #lord of the flies #lotf jack #jack lotf #jack merridew #lotf ralph #roger lotf #lotf simon #simon lotf #christianity

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lilactwilights · 24 days ago

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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

#a heathen clung to piety #ahctp #jujutsu kaisen #satoru gojo #jjk gojo #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo x yn #gojo x you #satoru gojo x reader #priestgojo #fanfiction #fem reader #reader insert #jjk x reader #jjk #gojo smut #lilactwilights #writing

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lunarriviera · 1 month ago

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okay look i'm sorry okay I'M SORRY, i KNOW i've posted these stills like three times today already but can we just. can we just look at them one more time. i promise then i'll shut up. i promise. i swear it on a stack of rosmei priest vol 1s i promise I PROMISE—

first of all, luo yiguo. or pingüino or whatever tf we're calling him now. (yes i know it's 平锅 i'm being funny) listen everything about this cat is wrong. first of all he tiny, when we all know perfectly well that luo yiguo is about the size of a capybara, a well-fed healthy dude who drinks red wine and gives no fucks that lwz calls him "spherical" and is always threatening him with a nonexistent diet. also, while priest doesn't ever say what color yiguo is, in all the audio drama art he's an orange tabby, sometimes with white markings; whereas on the manhua page for luo wenzhou, and in a lot of fan art as well, he's a rare male calico. definitely not black.

(i love the last one the most. look how cute he is down in the corner, asleep but still smiling. he has a sweet life. all is well in his soul.)

do i care, though, that this luo yiguo is the wrong color and size, and worst of all, has been renamed for a frying pan? no, no i do not care. i am a simple girl at heart. i see a person feeding a cat, and i am content. i honestly need nothing else from a drama. just: person. cat.

2. okay that first one was fun but now it's getting serious. just look at what the homosexuals are doing to me. what an OUTRAGE.

because here's THIS motherfucker. suddenly unbearably domestic in his fuzzy grey SWEATER or LONG UNDERWEAR or whatever this incredibly soft-looking garment is, that i definitely do not want to mash my face into or anything. you would never GUESS he spends his entire work life as a irritable hotheaded ill-tempered police captain constantly barking commands at his subordinates with a CIGARETTE hanging out of his belligerent mouth. instead this guy looks like he runs a gay B&B in vermont and bakes his own fresh blueberry muffins every morning for the guests. i literally hate him.

(what if the whole appeal for lwz of a live-in boyfriend is that he gets to pretend he has perpetual house guests? and he must anticipate and fulfil their every need? i'm not saying he's codependent but actually that's exactly what i'm saying, please see my forthcoming fic on this curiously misunderstood topic)

3. anyway so yes, i do suffer. but not as much as i suffer from what's coming next. because what on god's abandoned earth is THIS:

i'm sorry, WHAT NOW. what in the WHAT NOW? i've been looking at this still for over 16 hours and i'm still beside myself about it.

just. look how soft he is. it's the softest we've seen him yet, in this entire drama. no longer president fei. look how unguarded, how undefended. glasses off, barefaced, hair slightly mussed. (like maybe someone just blew it dry for example. or tangled their fingers in it while [redacted].) standing here hesitantly at the BEDROOM door in in his BATHROBE. watching lwz feed his (his) (their) cat.

he's literally two seconds away from saying "...come back to bed?"—and he's in lwz's HOUSE. do you understand what i'm saying. fei du is finally HOME. in a strange way, considering how bad everything is going to be? everything also gets better from this point onwards.

#jitd spoilers #jitd #justice in the dark #mo du #silent reading #fei du #luo yiguo #luo pingguo #luo wenzhou #zhoudu

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moodymisty · 10 months ago

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Just had a thought for a cute fic request. What if Lady Guilliman catches some nobles/inquisitors/clerics complaining about and insulting her husband behind his back, and just goes off on them. "How dare you! He's doing a fantastic job!" And what if Guilliman overhears his usually patient, even-tempered wife vehemently defending him? Just a sweet, supportive spouse moment. Because that man desperately needs it.

I know you're probably overwhelmed with requests right now, so I just want to encourage you to relax and take your time. No rush. We're grateful for whatever you give us, whenever you decide to give it.

Author’s note: Something short and sweet, and a bit funny XD

Relationship: Guilliman/Fem!Reader

Warnings: None really

You aren't entirely paying attention to the conversation at hand, drifting in and out of interest until there's a moment that catches you again.

"I just worry about his, lack of interest."

You can infer by the quieter tone- the way they emphasize he - that they're referring to Guilliman. It's then that you realize that while these deacons and pontifices know that you are under the banner of the Ultramarines for your duty, they do not know your close relation to Guilliman at all.

"He had the cherubs removed,"

Another deacon says, her voice a hushed whisper. Your eyes dart between them all to feign interest so they'll keep speaking grievances in your company.

"I heard from one of the priests that he doesn't even allow them to say the armoring rights when he dawns his armor!"

You will admit you found that odd, at first. Then over time Guilliman has explained to you the galaxy he came from wasn't like this, and you understand now that the vehement nature of the current Imperium's worship over the Emperor is not something he has wished for.

He would've hated this. This galaxy now spits on the ideas he created us for. This all would've disgusted him.

You wish you could understand what he meant, but, it's the Emperor. Even you struggle to think about him not being seen as a god.

"What is going to happen if we allow a man who borders the line of heresy like this to lead us?"

You clench your fists, and open your mouth to speak unable to hold your tongue any longer.

"Lord Guilliman?"

The primarch looks up at the Ultramarine who approaches. His face seems, apprehensive? He nods at the man to continue speaking.

"Your lady has gotten into a fight with some of the Ecclesiarchy's deacons. They have begun to issue accusations of heresy at her in return."

Guilliman finds himself walking towards the marine sooner than he'd expected. The surprise of this, let alone that you are involved- and possibly in no shortage of trouble - is not something that he had expected.

"Where is this happening?"

Guilliman had known you would probably come into contact with the deacons at some point, but a fight? He rushes behind the Ultramarine through the halls, and soon hears your voice.

"If you are so upset over his choices, how about you just tell him yourself!"

Guilliman steps into the room and sees you pointing down a pontifice, face twisted with anger. You are spouting insults, some of which he has never heard before; Though he's sure by the expressions of surprise and anger on each of the deacons and pontifices faces that they are not insults used by the faint of heart.

"You all seem quite eager to accuse him of heresy, but you do know you're accusing the Lord Regent, correct? What does that make you if you're wrong?"

The pontifice at your center attention purses his lips and recoils, as his own vehement faith is thrown back at him.

"I suggest you all shut your mouths and let the Primarch who walked beside The Emperor himself decide what is best for all of us."

The primarch stands back for a few moments longer than he thought he would, watching you. The way you have defended him so vehemently, most would simply allow them to spout their lies before skittering away; To avoid the hammer of a institution so powerful as the Ecclesiarchy.

While it is most important to prevent you from getting into trouble, he can't help but feel... Prideful. He is not used to being the one defended.

Guilliman approaches before anyone decides to escalate things any further. Once the deacons notice him they quickly shut up, and you turn to look up at him in surprise.

"My men told me you all had gotten into an argument," He looks down at you. "Your shouting has given me all the context I believe I need."

Your mouth stays firmly shut as Guilliman turns to the others, and you wonder what the consequences of your outburst will be.

"I suggest you all learn to keep your muckraking to yourself. Or bring it up with me, if you're so bold as to accuse me of heresy." Guilliman nods in the direction away from him.

"Leave."

They waste no time in doing so, not forgoing proper farewells before shuffling away with tails between their legs. Guilliman has had more than his fair share of issues with them as they skitter around the Macragge's Honour, so he's eager to shoo them back into their rat holes for a bit longer. Once gone, Guilliman turns to you.

"You, have an even bigger mouth than I thought."

You raise your eyebrows at him and try not to laugh; It takes Guilliman a second to understand why and his face warms and wrinkles.

"That is not what I meant."

He shakes his head and continues his earlier thought without your inappropriate interruption.

"You cannot be getting into such big fights with these men and women. They have significant power."

He takes a kneel, putting his hands to your jawline.

"I, appreciate you defending my honor. But I do not need it. Do not waste your effort on the likes of them." You smile and nod.

"I will try but, no promises."

Guilliman leans forward and kisses your forehead.

"In this modern day, that is good enough."

#roboute guilliman x reader #primarch x reader #warhammer 40k x reader #reader insert #reader #mywriting

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aardvaark · 24 days ago

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leverage rewatch: s1e6 "the miracle job"

its cute that they're all being invited to sophie's plays apparently, though clearly it's not so much as invitation as it is an obligation lol. but it's cute she wants them there and they all go and try to pretend it was good. i mean, parker says "it was like a horror movie" lmao but that seems to be her attempt at praising it.

eliot saying that sophie's play was THE worst night of his life, including times he was actually tortured, is always hilarious to me.

the first maggie mention!! she's the one who calls nate to tell him that his priest friend paul is in hospital.

nate thinking he has to convince the team to take the case (since it's kinda a personal favor to a friend after all), but they're all very much in already! they're well and truly past needing to be convinced. and we're only at ep 6. compare this to the wedding job, ep 3, when nate doesn't want to take the job and they all (besides sophie) want to bail partway through.

eliot being excited to take hardison to face a gang. "let's get you out in some fresh air. get you off the computer. come on!". love that his argument is that getting into a fight would be good for hardison's health.

hardison: i rappelled! did no one see me rappel?? sophie: i heard about it. on the one hand she's saying that to soothe him, which seems sweet, but on the other hand, she's likely only doing that to encourage him to leave with eliot to face that gang lol. this season especially, many of her nice gestures tend to be either a little manipulative or shallow. which just makes sense - she's spent her life looking out only for herself, ultimately alone no matter how many people are around her. her default mode is to manipulate people into what she wants them to do, without even thinking about whether that's necessary or hurtful. it's just her job. it's gonna take a lot more than six episodes to change a lifetime of ingrained beliefs about other people and the world.

hardison gets to punch someone!! not only does he notice the guy's shoulder being off, he also knows it's dislocated, where nate just sad it was "messed up". i love seeing hardison apply his intelligence to problems outside hacking, cause it really goes to show how he's so quick-thinking and a genius in any situation.

for the record, gina bellman spent her early childhood in aotearoa, so i can only assume she's doing a decent job of the kiwi accent.

also i love when sophie looks all offended when the marks don't immediately play into her con lol, even though she's well aware this mark would likely brush her off - that's the whole point of setting up the elevator con. but she still makes this face like "uh! wowww, rude," lol.

who let parker choose the drugs to give this guy lmao?? like of course she laced them with speed, that's on the rest of the team for assuming she'd stick to just caffeine. when has she ever done anything by halves?

and that pays off a few mins later when nate says "parker, i need you to go to the hospital and keep father paul there no matter what [pause] up to a point" lol. he's learning. doesn't help that she has the most evil grin ever when he says that lmao.

and THEN it immediately turns out that parker took his words as permission to poke the priest with needles and take his blood. i wonder what she did with his blood...

hardison being able to make those fake statues too! he is ridiculously talented.

sophie having to remind nate that he never actually cheated on maggie is a little funny to me. and he's saying he was tempted and acting like he did something terrible and she's just like "dude i was there". but that scene's also so very bittersweet cause at this point she really is just waiting for him and here she tells him not to take too long, and, well...

i like how the actor playing this week's mark really takes the comic evil to its logical extreme. he looks feverish almost, in a frenzy. and the team has psychologically destroyed him and he's STILL coming up with new plans for bibletopia, probably the most capitalist hellscape christian-flavored invention imaginable. on that note, i also liked the priest and his arguments with nate, which you can tell comes from frustration with wanting to help a grieving, depressed friend who won't help himself. good guests this episode.

"it's the vatican" *parker, hardison & eliot immediately disappear*. i love the little implication there that they've each wronged the holy see at some point, enough to run off.

okay 1) the team using the confessional as a hiding spot, love it, and 2) parker refers to the confessional as "that closet" lol. apparently she knows that zeus is a god who strikes people down with lightning, but she doesn't know what a confessional is. i love how it's pretty much impossible to predict what things are within her realm of knowledge.

parker as an angel!

i LOVE the arc that the mark's assistant, tomas, has over the course of this episode. yes, good, take down your boss!!

sophie dropping the accent! god that really makes her scary. it's like she's saying, "just to be clear, the last few days have been a complete and utter lie, and there's no one who's got your back".

i like the way the team all watch nate light a candle (something catholics do for the dead), sincerely sombre. probably partly feeling for nate, partly thinking of their own grief. parker watches especially carefully, and takes a big breath in like she's overwhelmed. makes me think of how she suppresses her grief over her brother and so much loss she's experienced in her life.

eliot seems to put a hand on nate's shoulder as they exit the church. he also knows a thing or two about grief.

#leverage #leverageposting #lvgwatch25 #the miracle job

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airandyeah · 22 days ago

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Bastard Prince!Gojo X Foreign Princess!Reader Heavy Is The Crown Pt.9

My Masterlist Series Masterlist Warnings: Non-descriptive sex, exhibitionism, virginty loss, mentions of heirs/pregnancy, consummation.

The mood shifts the moment the sun begins to dip low across the palace walls.

Golden light spills in through tall windows, soft and warm—but the halls you’re escorted through are anything but.

You’re flanked by two maids in pale blue, and one older priest in white, who says little but walks as though judgment itself follows in his shadow. Their hands are gentle, their faces unreadable, but the air is thick with ritual.

You don’t need anyone to explain what’s happening.

This is tradition.

The Preparation.

They separate you from Satoru at the top of the grand staircase—his eyes flicking to yours for one last, steady look before he’s turned and taken away.

Your fingers tighten around your skirts.

A door opens. You step inside.

The room is soft, almost sacred in its design. Pale marble floors. A basin of rose-scented water. A single chair in the center, where you're asked to sit.

“You understand what we must do,” one maid says gently.

You nod once.

You’ve known for weeks. Known the whispers. The old rites. The price of queenship.

A “purity inspection” before the ceremonial consummation. A way to “prove” the bride's untouched status. A relic from centuries past—kept alive not out of faith, but out of power.

It’s humiliating. It’s intrusive. It’s expected.

You try not to flinch when the priest says a prayer behind you. Try not to shift when gloved hands move too carefully over your shoulders and down the sides of your bodice.

“Breathe, Your Highness,” one of the maids says. “We are almost done.”

You don’t.

You can’t.

When it’s finally over, they dress you in a new gown—this one sheer, soft white and barely lined with silver threading. Meant to be beautiful. Ethereal. But you know what it’s really for:

To be seen through.

Because tonight, you won’t be hidden. Not fully.

Silk screens will separate you and Satoru from the eyes of the court—but shadows will still pass. Outlines. Movement. The vague confirmation of a sealed union.

You look down at your reflection in the basin. For a moment, you don’t recognize yourself.

Then someone knocks at the door. ~~~

Across the palace, Satoru’s experience is far colder. The room he’s brought to is clinical and silent, save for the rustling of robes and the clatter of ceremonial steel. The priest overseeing him doesn’t speak beyond the necessary, offering a single cloth to wrap around his hips as his own inspection is performed.

He doesn’t make it easy.

“What’s the point?” he finally asks, voice sharp. “You want to know if I’ve slept with anyone? Just ask the court, I’m sure they’d be delighted to inform you nobody wants a bastard.”

The priest glares. “This is not meant to shame, Your Highness. It is tradition. A cleansing. A necessary rite before the binding of—”

“Tradition,” Satoru scoffs. “Funny how that word always comes up when it’s about controlling something, or someone.”

Still, he endures it. He says nothing more. But when it’s done, and he’s left alone to change, he lingers over the sheer ceremonial robes. The same ones every heir has worn.

He clenches his jaw. You’ll be alone behind a screen. Cold. Watched.

And tonight, the first person you’ll see after the court has taken everything from you—

Will be him. ~~~ The ceremonial chamber is quieter than you expected.

There are no instruments playing, no booming announcement, no cascade of rose petals. Just the hush of heavy doors opening, the soft shuffle of attendants, and the rustle of silk canopies swaying ever so slightly in the cold draft of the palace night.

The bed sits at the center of it all—four-poster, grand, draped with white silk curtains from the frame above. They glow gently under the careful placement of lanterns, chosen not for warmth, but for visibility. For casting shadows.

You and Satoru are led in separately, but simultaneously. From opposite ends of the chamber, your eyes lock the second you cross the threshold.

He’s already watching you.

In his ceremonial robe—thin, open at the throat, and tied loosely at the waist—he looks like the very embodiment of royal expectation.

But when he sees your face, something shifts in his.

He offers his hand without a word.

You take it.

Behind the silk canopy, the world quiets further.

You slide beneath the covers first, skin prickling from the cool air and thinner fabric. Satoru follows, pulling the bedding over both of you. There's not much space, not much warmth, but somehow, having him beside you makes the whole scene bearable.

The light beyond the veil is deliberate—casting shadows, allowing silhouettes of your movement to be visible to those who would arrive in moments. The court. The council. Foreign ambassadors.

Strangers. All of them.

But right now… it's just him.

He turns onto his side, facing you, eyes softer than they’ve ever been.

“You look like a ghost,” he murmurs, his breath just grazing your cheek.

You exhale a slow laugh, voice no louder than a sigh. “Good. Maybe they’ll think I’ve already died from shame.”

He smiles—but his eyes stay serious.

“They can watch the shadows. But they don’t get you,” he says, fingers brushing yours beneath the blanket. “Not really.”

You swallow. “And what about you?”

He leans in slowly, pressing a kiss to your temple. Then your cheek. His lips linger there for a moment.

“I get everything,” he breathes. “Eventually.”

You close your eyes as your foreheads touch, the moment heavy but delicate—like glass on the verge of cracking.

And then— the doors open.

Footsteps. Controlled breathing. Whispered prayers. The rustle of robes and the faintest creak of wooden pews being sat in. Witnesses take their places along the perimeter, far enough from the canopy to preserve your modesty—but close enough for the silhouettes to be clear beneath the light.

You and Satoru remain still for a beat longer.

Just two figures behind a curtain.

Two people pressed into roles they never asked for.

And then—

He slowly wraps an arm around your waist. You shift closer. You press your cheek to his collarbone.

The shadows move.

The audience watches.

But what they don’t see—what they can’t see—is the way his fingers link with yours beneath the covers. The way he whispers, barely audible—

“Just hold onto me.”

And you do.

Satoru’s breath is warm where it touches your temple. You can feel the tension in his body—the weight of expectation pressing down on both of you from beyond the veil.

But his touch is light. Reverent. His fingers trail down the curve of your spine beneath the covers, not to stake a claim, but to learn you.

“To them,” he whispers, voice low and dry, “this is proof. Performance.”

You press your lips to his shoulder, delicate, shy. “And to you?”

He shifts to face you more fully, his leg sliding gently between yours, the heat of him seeping into your bones.

“To me,” he says, brushing your hair back, “this is ours.”

The world holds its breath.

You kiss him first.

It’s slow. The kind of kiss that trembles at the start, because you're both trying not to shatter. His lips move with caution, then deepen with a need you can feel thrumming under his skin. You taste wine on his tongue, but also sincerity—something heady and searching that wasn’t there before.

His hand slips beneath your bodice—softly, slowly—until it rests against the bare skin of your waist. He doesn’t grab. He holds. Warm and solid and grounding.

You sigh into his mouth, your body arching just slightly against his. And it’s that small sound that breaks something in him.

He breathes your name like a secret and rolls over you, the silk veil swaying faintly from the movement.

From the outside, it’s a shadow—an outline. One figure above the other. Hips close. A movement of hands. The ceremonial consummation.

But beneath the covers, beneath the weight of royal duty and silk screens and watching eyes—

You are his. And he is yours.

He kisses every place the light can’t reach. Your collarbone. The space just beneath your ear. The center of your chest, where your heart races so hard, you think it might betray you.

“I’ll go slow,” he whispers.

You nod.

And he does.

The rhythm he finds with you is soft, worshipful. Like he’s trying to give you something gentle in the middle of something cruel.

Outside, the shadows shift.

Inside, he kisses you like he means it.

Over and over again.

And when your fingers clutch the back of his robe, and he groans quietly against your neck, you realize that even in this staged intimacy, there’s something real anchoring it.

Something you’re both reaching for, in the dark.

When it’s over, you lie tangled in the silence, your fingers still brushing softly against his chest.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He leans in to kiss your brow.

“No,” he murmurs. “Thank you.” ~~~

You wake to the faint clatter of silver trays beyond the chamber doors and the murmuring of voices just outside. Early morning light filters through the frost-dusted windows, casting long, golden streaks over silk-draped furniture and half-burnt candles.

Satoru is already awake.

He lies beside you on his back, eyes on the ceiling, one arm tucked beneath his head. His snowy hair is a mess of soft tangles, and the corner of his mouth lifts slightly when you shift beneath the covers and curl into his side.

“They’ve been whispering for a while now,” he says, his voice still thick with sleep. “Didn’t even wait for sunrise.”

You blink blearily, pressing your face into the crook of his shoulder. “What are they saying?”

His hand finds your hip beneath the sheets. He squeezes once—absent, protective.

“‘Successful union.’” He says the words with mock importance. “‘Consummated before witnesses. Her Highness was suitably... cooperative.’”

You groan. “Disgusting.”

“They’re also placing bets on when the heir will be announced.”

You lift your head, raising a brow. “Already?”

Satoru turns his head toward you now, lashes still low with sleep but his smile curling sharp at the edges.

“They want proof of productivity,” he says dryly. “Romance is for peasants and poets. We exist to breed empires.”

You wrinkle your nose and sink back down against his chest, sighing dramatically. “What a romantic thing to wake up to.”

He laughs, the sound soft and warm beneath your cheek. “There was some romance last night. Don’t forget who kissed you first.”

You slap his chest lightly. “You kissed my cheek.”

“And then your lips.”

“You practically begged.”

“You moaned, sweetheart.”

You gasp and shove him playfully, but he catches your hand with ease, dragging it up to his lips to kiss your knuckles.

For a moment, the world is quiet again. The kind of quiet you know won’t last long—not in a palace where every step is heard and every shadow watched. But for now, there’s still time.

Still warmth.

Still you and him.

“I don’t want to get up,” you murmur.

He grins. “Who said you had to?”

You blink up at him.

He shifts, turning toward you entirely now, fingers tucking back a piece of hair that had fallen over your eyes.

“Let the whispers fester. Let them wonder,” he says. “They already think you’ve bewitched me.”

“And have I?” you ask, unable to help the teasing lilt in your voice.

Satoru’s expression softens. His thumb strokes over your jaw, then lower, tracing your lower lip.

“I think I bewitched myself the second I saw you in that sun-kissed little dress with your chin held high in a kingdom made of frost.”

You feel your breath catch—and then a knock cuts through the moment.

A maid’s voice follows, muffled but clear: “Your Highnesses, breakfast will be served shortly. His Majesty and Their Graces await you in the sunroom.”

Satoru groans quietly, rolling onto his back again.

You shift to sit up, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before slipping from the sheets. Your legs ache faintly, your skin still marked in places from where he held you too tightly, kissed you too long.

The marks of proof, they’d say.

You look back at him, where he remains sprawled and unbothered.

“You coming?”

He lifts a brow. “Tempting offer.”

You narrow your eyes.

He smirks, finally throwing off the blanket. “Fine, fine. Let’s go let the court gawk at us.” ~~~ You slip your arm into his as the two of you step into the corridor, the warmth of his body a steady presence beside you.

Satoru says something teasing under his breath—some comment about skipping the sunroom entirely and stealing breakfast from the kitchen like thieves—but the words fade as your gaze lingers over your shoulder.

Behind you, the chamber doors are held open by two waiting maids.

Their heads are bowed, eyes downcast as they carry in fresh linen bundles and cleaning basins. Silent. Efficient. Familiar with the routine.

And then you see it.

A flicker of red against the bundled sheets they remove. A deep stain that blooms across white, undeniable and cruelly intimate.

Proof.

Your steps falter for just a moment. Satoru notices.

He follows your gaze, then tightens his grip on your hand.

“They’ll send a priest,” he says, his voice low. “To bless the bedding and carry word of the proof to the court.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your mouth is suddenly dry.

It had been real. Not just performance. Not just duty. You’d wanted him. Craved that moment of closeness. Of choosing him in a room where everything was choreographed to feel stolen.

But still—

It stings to see it so stripped of meaning. Reduced to red on linen. Something to be recorded. Passed around like a trophy. Whispered about over tea.

As if it were the only part that mattered.

You feel Satoru’s fingers slide between yours again.

“I hate it too,” he murmurs, voice just loud enough for you to hear. “But I swear—none of this changes what was ours.”

You look up at him.

He isn’t smiling. Not this time.

Instead, his gaze is solemn—grounded. A rare thing in someone so used to masking everything behind laughter.

You nod, and he leads you forward.

The palace continues to hum around you. Servants bustle. Nobles pretend not to stare. Somewhere, a herald announces your names. But none of it reaches you.

Not fully.

Because all you can think about is the weight of that red mark, and the fire that still quietly smolders in your chest.

You had been obedient. You had played your part.

But you are not something to be measured in stains and whispers.

And you decide what your fire burns down next.

Taglist: @megumuro , @pickledsoda , @jinjen , @bubera974 Perm Tags: @thenightperson , @makingtimemine , @nina-from-317

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #x reader #jjk gojo #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #prince gojo #princess!reader #royalty au

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desertfangs · 4 months ago

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Is Mael alive? Sources say yes.

This is just something I think is sort of funny so I wanted to make a quick post about it. Because The Vampire Chronicles are told largely in first person by various characters, what they know and believe can vary.

We know that Mael did go into the sun in Memnoch the Devil, much like Armand. (Discussions of why a druid would do this are fun and interesting but not why we're here today.) Armand obviously survived that and he's much younger, so it stands to reason that Mael should have (or at least, could have) survived it, as well.

Mael only appears in future books in flashback and does not join the others at Court. But in Blood and Gold, Marius does say he survived his attempted suicide by sun:

It was a Druid priest who brought me to this peculiar death, a creature named Mael, mortal when he wronged me, but a blood drinker soon after, and one who still lives though he tried not long ago to sacrifice his life in a new religious fervor. What a fool.

(BTW, I love Marius' judgemental editorializing of this, and it's extra funny because if I recall correctly, he does not comment on Armand doing the same thing in the same way, and is in fact very worried for him in TVA. The first person narration is gold sometimes.)

However, in Prince Lestat, Lestat believes Mael is dead, though not with any conviction, even commenting that he doesn't think such an act should have killed him:

Mael, I knew, had perished in New York, though precisely how I wasn’t certain. He’d gone into the sun on the steps of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, but surely that had not been enough to destroy him.

So Lestat thinks he's dead but isn't like, sure sure and Marius says otherwise.

I'm inclined to believe Marius has kept better tabs on this and Mael is, in fact, alive. He's just not interested in participating in Court, and probably a little embarrassed about the whole business.

(I personally believe Jesse also knows he's alive and that he has no interest in joining the others at Trinity Gate, but that is pure headcanon.)

#mael #vc meta #lestat de lioncourt #marius de romanus #vampire chronicles #the vampire chronicles #vc #tvc #these are the things running through my brain on any given day in case you're curious #jesse reeves #he's my favorite druid cowboy

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shineonyoucrazyyandere · 1 year ago

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What WOULD'VE happen if its the jofoes who saw a kid up skirting reader aka their darling?

I know they're villains and is very much cruel, but they wouldn't kill a child...right? (1-8, since the jofoes in P-9 haven't been revealed yet.)

Hmmm I could see a couple of instances of that happening, sadly (but I mean they are villains, but some are more restrained than others, perhaps more for image than anything)

Yandere! Part 1 (Pre Vampire) Dio - I could see this going with him yanking the brats hair and shoving them to the ground. It’s fairly easy for him to maintain his positive status to outsiders, so he could have something happen to them later (but I’d consider this the best outcome for that kid).

Yandere! Post Vampire Dio

Big chance this kid may die by being manipulated by Dio himself, he might decide to turn them/zombify them by apologizing and groveling (chance they could attack their own family). There’s also a chance the kid could just flat out be devoured by the other zombies, the blond wouldn’t even flinch at that. If he’s sorely out of patience he might kill/maim them himself, but it never would come to that. Keep in mind Dio was the type to turn a mother into a vampire and she ended up eating her own child.

Yandere! Kars

Absolutely no cares given about slaughtering a child, not even joking here. He only cares about you, not some slimy brat that decided to pull some nonsense on you. He’d probably lick you clean of the blood afterwards as well. No matter how mad or upset you got, would not make him anymore remorseful for the dead body strewn on the ground.

Yandere! Part 3 DIO

You’d more than likely be held captive in the mansion he’s in, within Egypt so this happening is unlikely. But in the unlikely event something like this happens, he’ll state how brazenly stupid such a move was. Unless he can use the kid in someway, he really doesn’t care what happens to them. So he might “punish” the kid as he sees it fit or have a stand user take care of them.

Yandere! Yoshikage Kira

As long as this kid didn’t see his rather “unusual” indulgences in the past, he doesn’t see a need to murder them right there, though I could see him consider it internally, where the kid wouldn’t be seen. He’s absolutely miffed however, and does grab their hand in a painful way though. Gives them the nastiest glare and reprimand there is, and the kid probably runs off heavily unsettled.

Yandere! Diavolo

Doppio is likely the one to take care of this of course, not that Diavolo he himself isn’t miffed. This probably just makes him consider to keep you locked away somewhere permanently. (This probably happens shortly after this little thing). Doppio makes sure to get it through this kids head, with the harshest grip known to man, that you don’t go doing that to anyone. Let alone anyone he or his boss likes.

Yandere! Enrico Pucci

His reaction is interesting, he is irritated perhaps even a bit visibly by this child’s behavior. He can’t let this kid get away with deciding to upskirt his darling either. He also is a priest image wise, so he has that to consider when punishing this adolescent person. He still has a firm grip on them and decides to take them aside and talk. He’ll face away from you while doing so, and moments later the kid is suddenly apologizing. You can’t tell if Pucci has an uncanny knack for speaking with people or if it’s something else. (It’s likely both).

Yandere! Funny Valentine

He’ll stop this kid almost immediately and there’s a sound of a smack to the back of the head. A stern look and a small speech about respect, Funny Valentine somehow manages to make the kid shame with those words. He wouldn’t let the kid run either and would personally escort them back home to their parents. As busy as he is as a president something childish like that won’t be overlooked by him. There’s a brief dark look in his eye, he can pull the strings to make things happen, he just doesn’t feel the need to expend them here. He does ask you to follow him closer for now on, (maybe an extra guard but he finds it more efficient to be the one to protect you)

Yandere! Toru

He certainly doesn’t appreciate it, and somehow they end up tripping or have some little mishap happen. Yet there’s a bit of a hum in his voice when he tells them he shouldn’t be doing such a thing to people. Any anger or frustration that gets thrown off at Toru, he nonchalantly brushes off. Suggesting the kid apologize, and nothing more will come of it. But there is a stern veiled threat in there somewhere that makes the kid decide to walk off.

#yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere jjba #yandere imagines #yandere #yandere jjba imagines #yandere jjba x reader #yandere headcanons #jjba imagines #Yandere Dio brando #yandere kars #yandere funny valentine #yandere enrico pucci #yandere yoshikage kira #yandere Toru #yandere drabble

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gaoau · 6 months ago

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priest's crown

good in yellow warnings — none. word count — 935

prev.

you have learned how to love Cheng Xiaoshi. you see him when you find dandelions growing in cracks on the asphalt. you feel him when you stand in the sunshine for too long. you think of him when something makes you smile. the way you reach for your phone to text him when you come across dogs on the street has made you consider you've played right into his hand.

he hands you your drink, ordered exactly the way he knows you like it, and settles down next to you on the bench. when his eyes wash over you and he grins so brightly, you still think it's completely unfair. this whole game he's way too good at playing despite not even knowing what he's doing.

you can't complain. Xiaoshi giggles to himself before falling quiet, suddenly deep in thought. the look on his face is one you have carved into your brain; eyes squinted, brows slightly furrowed, lips pursed. "can you…" he starts his sentence like he doesn't know how to speak, "can you make… a flower necklace…?"

nothing should surprise you at this point, but you blink at him with raised brows, trying to understand what he's asking. you know for a fact you weren't talking about flowers a second ago. this is what happens when you let him think by himself for a little longer than usual.

as you giggle, he tries to explain his thought process better. he points at you and simply states, "ring." you have to hold back the grin pulling at your lips out of sheer endearment. then he points at himself. "crown." he finds your eyes with the most sincere gaze you've ever seen, earnestly saying, "it's your turn again."

you can't help the laughter tumbling from your tongue. "are we making this a thing now?"

"you don't want to?" it really is unfair, you think, the way he pulls his lips into a pout and stares at you like a kicked puppy on the side of the road. you can't tell if he knows exactly what he's doing or if he's simply reacting sincerely, but you know you would rather die than be the reason he looks so dejected.

you try to salvage it the best way you can. a soft smile, a roll of your eyes, "flowers die, though," and a quiet chuckle.

"then i'll do something different."

you know Xiaoshi is stubborn. no matter what you argue, he'll try to do something different to make up for all the flowers in the world he wishes he could wrap around your fingers. so you don't argue and you wait for him to get off the bench or pull a gift out of his pocket or anything. he doesn't, however, and you worry for a moment he's already backing out of whatever funny idea he got.

it's strange. you've never seen him so distant and hesitant. his fingers fidget with the zipper of his jacket and his eyes dart everywhere and you can see the blush creeping over his cheeks to consume even his ears.

"Xiaoshi?"

he finally finds your gaze with a determined stare; it's either now or never, he thinks, he's come this far. you have plenty of time to react, but you barely do as Xiaoshi leans closer. too close almost, but you hardly care. so close, in fact, that the cologne you gifted him for his birthday wraps around you to make your head spin. his hand on your cheek is warm enough to lull you to sleep. his lips hover over yours as he glances nervously between your eyes and your equally nervous smile. you laugh, but when you don't pull away, he takes it as a sign that this is okay.

this will be okay. you both will be okay.

he kisses you so tenderly and you kiss back so eagerly that you think the way your fingers bunch up his jacket is enough to demonstrate how much you've waited for him. stupidly, maybe, but Cheng Xiaoshi is worth every second of your time and patience.

he's taught you how to miss him, you've learned how to love him, and now you're finding out as much of his topography as you can to carve it all into your brain.

Xiaoshi pulls away a few moments later—you can't tell if it's been a few seconds or five minutes, but you're breathless either way. his eyes cast down, the hand on your cheek slowly and shakily disappears. "we can… make this a thing… if you want…" you hear his words tremble, just as much as you can feel his second-guessing in his fingers.

you know Xiaoshi really well. you know the last thing he wants to do right now is take his hands off you. you make it easier for him, tugging him back towards you with a hand on his nape. you giggle, both out of joy and the tension in your muscles, "no, we can totally make this a thing. go ahead, let's make this a thing."

right before having him in your hands for the rest of your life. Xiaoshi grins so unbelievably bright that you think you never want to look at anything ever again. his lips are on yours again so you can learn more than you could ever need. your greatest accomplishment will always be becoming the reason Cheng Xiaoshi smiles like that.

#good in yellow #link click #cheng xiaoshi #cheng xiaoshi x reader #link click x reader

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lilactwilights · 4 months ago

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A heathen clung to piety

priest!gojo x reader - 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 has been 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