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SYNOPSIS: — the moment holiness forgets its own boundaries; a prayer spoken with stained hands, a vow unraveling in the presence of desire.
deeply inspired by the mini series, Hilda Furacao. also inspired by Lana Del Rey's song, Salvatore and Religion. ordered by @2noraaaa!
HUNTER X HUNTER: Priest Chrollo Lucilfer x Prostitute Reader ( Divine Correspondence Soulmate AU )
CONTAINS: sacrilegious themes, salacious, prostitution, sex work, mature & dark themes, moral ambiguity & eternal conflict, religious themes & imagery ( catholic ) , religious hypocrisy, corruption of authority, violation of religious vows, inappropriate relationship involving clergy, slow burn, moral conflict, alcohol use / intoxication, objectification, psychological tension, manipulation, sexual content ( not that explicit ), dubcon, hints of angel & demon, similar to succubus, blasphemy? existential crisis, dissociation, stalking, voyeurism ( implied ), few orginal characters for plot purposes lol
Word Count: 11,281 words and 61,811 characters ( more / less )
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Verse l. Confession
the darkness presses itself gently against the glass— thick, velvety, and endless.
from this height, the world below dissolves into suggestion. lights scatter in quiet constellations, distant and deliberate, like something arranged for display rather than lived in. whatever noise the city carries never reaches this far up. here, it is all stillness. the kind that money buys. the kind that makes everything feel untouchable.
inside, the air is warmer. heavier, too. it lingers against your skin in a way that refuses to leave immediately, like the room itself is reluctant to let go of what just happened. there’s a faint trace of something expensive in it. cologne, maybe, or the ghost of something sweeter—but it’s already fading.
behind you, there’s movement. subtle. controlled. the soft rustle of fabric shifting back into place.
you don’t turn right away. instead, your fingers move first— slow, unhurried, brushing over your clothes as you begin to fix them. a sleeve smoothed down, a strap adjusted with quiet precision. each motion is deliberate, almost careful, as if restoring yourself requires a certain kind of attention. it doesn’t, really. but you take your time anyway, because time here, stretches differently.
there’s a small, metallic sound behind you. the faint slide of a belt threading through loops. you hear it before you see it. measured, steady.
then— click. final. like something being closed, sealed, returned to where it belongs.
he moves toward the side table where his things wait exactly where he left them. a watch, a phone, a wallet placed neatly beside both. he doesn't look at you as he opens it. the leather creases softly in his hand— clean, expensive, untouched by anything inconvenient.
he pulls out the bills, his thumb grazing the edges with a slow, possessive rhythm. there’s an arrogance in the way he handles it, a quiet confidence that everything in this room— including you— has a clear, manageable price.
you tilt your head, watching his reflection in the glass. a small, playful smile tugs at your lips.
“ Careful, ” you murmur, your voice trailing over the silence like a dare. “ you keep counting like that, you might realize you’re losing money. ”
he pauses, his shoulders shifting as he finally turns to face you. his gaze is heavy, lingering on the line of your throat with a blatant, unshaded lust that he doesn't bother to hide. he looks sure of himself, like a man who has never been told no in a language he understood.
“ It’s just paper, ” he says, his voice low and gravelly, thick with the remnants of his own satisfaction. he fan the bills out slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “ and for tonight? I'd say it’s a bargain. ”
you let out a soft, melodic hum, stepping closer just to watch the way his breath hitches— just a fraction.
“ A bargain, ” you repeat, your tone dripping with a light, practiced flirtation. “ is that what i am? a discount? ”
he laughs, a short, sharp sound that holds no real humor, only the weight of his own ego. he reaches out, the money still caught between his fingers, waiting for you to bridge the final gap.
“ You're whatever I want you to be as long as I’m paying, ” he counters, his thumb brushing the top bill. “ and right now, I'd say you're worth every cent. ”
then—
on the nightstand near the bed, your phone begins to vibrate. the screen lights up, cutting through the moody atmosphere of the room.
Amber.
the name flashes against the dark wood, the buzzing sound persistent and demanding, but you don't reach for it yet. instead, your gaze remains fixed on him. you watch the way he handles the money— the slow, possessive slide of his thumb over the edges of the bills as he pulls them from his wallet.
he finally holds the stack out, his fingers lingering on the paper with an arrogance that suggests he believes this is the only part of the night that truly mattered.
finally, you step toward the nightstand and retrieve your phone. the vibration stops just as your fingers brush the glass, leaving the room in a sudden, ringing silence. you don't answer the notification. you just hold the device loosely, meeting his eyes as you bridge the final gap between you.
the exchange is quiet and efficient. your fingers slip between his, taking the stack of bills with a practiced ease that feels as natural as breathing. the contact is brief—just long enough for him to feel the cool silk of your sleeve against his skin— and then it's gone.
you fold the money once, neat and precise, before slipping it away.
he leans back against the table, a self-assured, breathy laugh escaping him as he watches you prepare to leave.
“ Same time next week? ”
“ If you’ve got the money. ”
a short, meaningless goodbye is exchanged— the kind that evaporates the second the door clicks shut behind you. the heavy silence of the hotel hallway swallows the sound of your heels as you finally reach for your phone and hit the call back.
Amber answers on the first ring, her voice a sharp explosion of static and noise.
“ Where the hell are you? ” she demands, the background roar of the club muffled but present. “ I’ve been sitting here like an idiot for twenty minutes. ”
you step toward the elevator,
“ Relax, ” you murmur, pressing the button and watching the gold doors slide open. “ I’m on my way already. ”
—
the doors part and the noise spills over you all at once— bass, laughter, and glass against glass. light cuts through the dark in restless flashes, painting the red silk of your dress in colors that don’t stay long enough to settle. inside, nothing pretends to be quiet and nothing pretends to be clean.
you step in like you belong to it, because you do.
not in the way they think, but in the way the room reacts. eyes follow; some are obvious about it— lingering too long. others are quieter, stolen glances from behind glasses and shadows. you feel the weight of it— the curiosity and the judgment dressed up as interest. your name moves through places like this without needing to be spoken aloud, wrapped in the half-truths of what they think you are.
that girl.
the one who—
you don’t slow down and you don’t acknowledge it. you let their attention slide off you like it never had the chance to land.
the bar glows ahead, lined with bodies and movement folding into itself in a careless rhythm. and then, you see her.
Amber.
she’s exactly where you expected her to be, elbows resting against the counter and her posture loose. a glass is caught between her fingers— salt clinging faintly to the rim. margarita, not her first and definitely not her second.
she spots you almost immediately. her face lights up all at once, like you’re something she’s been waiting on longer than she’ll admit.
“ Finally! ” she calls out over the noise, lifting her glass slightly in your direction. “ I was starting to think you ditched me for something better. ”
you make your way toward her, weaving through the crowd like it parts just enough to let you through.
“ Please, ” you reply, voice slipping easily into something amused, something familiar. “ this is the better option. ”
you gesture lightly to her drink as you reach her side, eyes flicking over it once.
then back to her.
“ How many is that? ”
Amber squints at the glass like it might answer for her.
“ …Irrelevant. ”
you hum softly, unconvinced.
“ Why are you even drinking on Saturday? ”
Amber leans over the bar, her chin propped up by her hand as she stares gloomily into the neon-green depths of her drink as she breathes a sigh of disbelief.
“ I just don’t get it, ” she rants, her voice rising just enough to cut through the heavy bass and the clinking of bottles. “ I’m out here every night. I look good, I’m fun, I’m right here. where is he? where is the person who’s supposed to actually get me? it’s like the universe is just skipping over my floor entirely. ”
she takes a long, aggressive sip through her straw and huffs, a stray lock of blonde hair falling over her eyes.
“ And you, ” she says, pointing a shaky finger at you. “ you don’t even look like you’re searching. How are you so calm about it? don’t you want to know who’s on the other side of the glass? ”
you don't answer immediately. you just watch a bead of condensation trail down your own glass, your mind slipping away from the noise and back to the rule everyone whispers like a prayer or a curse.
your soulmate will be similar to you. it’s a quiet, terrifying absolute.
they say the universe doesn’t pair you with what you want, but with what you are. like calls to like— a mirror held up to the parts of your soul you try to keep in the dark. if you are kind, they are light; if you are cruel, they are the blade. whether it is for good or for bad, you are destined to meet someone who carries the same weight you do.
you think about your life— the red dress, the exchange of cash in high-rise penthouses, the way you’ve learned to navigate the shadows of other people's desires. if the rule is true, then whoever is out there for you isn't a saint or an angel coming to save you. they’re someone who understands the transactional nature of the world just as well as you do, someone who thrives in the silence and the secrets.
it isn't a romantic thought; it’s a revelation that makes your skin crawl.
“ I’m not searching, Amber, ” you finally murmur, the bass thumping in time with the uneasy rhythm of your heart. “ I’m just waiting to see what kind of mirror the universe decides to hold up to me. ”
“ Surely you're curious, right? ” she presses, her voice dropping into that conspiratorial tone she gets when she’s three drinks deep. “ Even just a little bit— ”
you don't let her finish. you lift a hand, catching the bartender’s eye with a practiced ease that cuts through the noise.
“ Tequila, ” you say, your voice smooth and final. “ salt and lime. ”
you don't look at Amber. instead, you pick up the laminated drink menu, flipping through the pages with an intense, mock-seriousness. you scan the list of over-priced cocktails as if the choice between a cosmopolitan and a mojito is the most pressing matter in the world, pointedly ignoring the way she’s staring at the side of your head.
“ Hey, I’m talking to you. ” she huffs, nudging your shoulder.
you just hum, eyes still fixed on the menu.
she rolls her eyes, but her expression shifts, settling into something uncharacteristically earnest. she leans closer, her breath smelling of agave and citrus.
“ Seriously though, ” she says, and the sudden lack of a joke in her voice makes. “ we should go to that church across town tomorrow. The old stone one. ”
you pause, the tequila shot arriving in front of you. you stare at the clear liquid for a second before a dry, sharp laugh escapes your throat.
“ What, to repent for our sins? ”
“ No, ” Amber counters, her eyes wide and dead serious. “ to pray we find our soulmates. You’d love the priest, I heard he's— ”
you shake your head, licking the salt from the back of your hand before tossing the shot back. the burn is immediate and grounding, a sharp line of fire that clears the fog for a split second. you bite into the lime, the sourness making your eyes water.
“ You’ll find it soon, Amber. ” you murmur, setting the glass down with a heavy clink against the bar.
—
the night doesn’t end so much as it unthreads.
one moment, the world is vaguely yours—Amber’s voice nearby, the glass in your hand, and the bass pressing against your ribs like a second heartbeat. then, without ceremony, everything stops being something you can hold onto.
drinks keep finding their way into your hands. you don’t remember deciding to have them; it’s just a quiet accumulation, as if the night has decided your refusal no longer matters. each glass arrives with a different weight and a sweetness that never quite tastes like the last.
you stop counting. at some point, counting feels like something other people do.
the room softens. the edges of everything blur as if dipped in water. faces lose precision and voices stop landing where they should. you’re still standing— you think— but your balance feels borrowed. your body has stopped negotiating with you before it moves.
Amber is a flickering shape of familiarity. you catch fragments of her— a wide gesture, a laugh rising too quickly— but your thoughts refuse to align. they arrive slightly too late, always lagging behind the moment they were meant for. you blink and the world changes angle, you blink again and it changes back.
then, attention shifts.
you feel it before you see it, like heat before a fire. it isn't casual; it’s a heavy, gathering focus. you don’t remember moving, but suddenly you are the center of something that was forming long before you arrived. the air feels denser here, compressed.
voices begin to stack. they aren't conversations anymore, just fragments— numbers and exclamations that sound transactional rather than social.
then, a voice cuts through the static, sharp and hungry.
“ Seven Hundred and Fifty Thousand! ”
it doesn’t feel like it’s about you. it’s just a number floating in an unreal place. there is a heavy, expectant pause. then, an escalation.
“ Eight Hundred Thousand! ”
the room reacts. bodies shift in a collective, ritualistic rhythm. the numbers climb, overlapping and rebuilding higher each time. you don’t understand what they are measuring anymore, only that they are competing.
your vision narrows. you try to ground yourself in your own breath or the feeling of your hands, but they feel out of reach, belonging to a version of you from earlier in the evening. the voices keep climbing until the numbers stop sounding like value and start sounding like distance.
your name might be said, you aren't sure. you don't answer because you don’t recognize what is being asked of you anymore.
the world tilts. you blink slowly, but the room doesn't right itself. there is no panic, just a slow, spreading disconnection— like a system shutting down one layer at a time. something is being taken out of your hands before you even realized you were holding it.
and then— black.
—
morning doesn’t arrive gently; it crashes in.
through thin curtains, through the half-awake silence, through the dull throb behind your eyes that feels like it’s still finishing a night you don’t fully remember.
your phone is the first thing you hear. then the second, then the third.
Amber.
Amber.
Amber.
missed calls are stacked on top of each other like she’s trying to pull you back into something you’re not ready to touch yet.
you blink slowly, once, twice. the world refuses to sharpen. your eyelids feel heavy and your thoughts are lagging, arriving late to a place they never agreed to enter. you reach for the phone anyway.
11:00 a.m.
it stares back at you without judgment. just fact, just consequence.
for a moment, you don’t move. you just lie there, letting awareness return in uneven, dreamy pieces. ceiling first, then sound. then the weight of your own body against unfamiliar bedding. the sheets are tangled in a way that doesn’t feel like sleep— they’re too disrupted, like the night didn’t end so much as it scattered itself across the room and left without cleaning up.
you sit up slowly, and that’s when it becomes real. the room isn't yours, it’s expensive in a way that doesn’t try to prove itself— muted lighting, clean surfaces, furniture placed with intention instead of comfort.
a hotel room.
you look down at yourself, the bathrobe isn't yours either. white, soft, and slightly loosened at the collar, it hangs off you with a quiet, undeniable weight. you don’t ask questions, because some answers are already sitting in your body before your mind catches up.
a breath leaves you. quiet, steadying. it isn't shock; it’s recognition. recognition of gaps. of missing hours, of the kind of night that doesn’t leave explanations—only aftermath.
your gaze drifts across the room and stops.
an envelope.
it’s resting on the bedside table like it belongs there. no drama, no urgency. just placement, finality. you pick it up; it’s heavier than it looks. thick, organized. cash inside— bundled, stacked, too much to feel accidental. thousands folded into neat certainty, the kind of amount that replaces questions with silence. no note, no explanation. just numbers pretending to be closure.
your mind drifts back to the club— to the neon, the bass, and Amber’s voice cutting through the tequila. she was serious, you think, the realization hitting you with a strange, high-dreamy clarity. she was actually serious about the church thing.
“ Fuck... ” you mutter, the word rough against the quiet.
your thumb moves before your thoughts. Amber’s messages are still piling up, a frantic contrast to the stillness of this room.
Amber: where are you??
Amber: don’t tell me you’re still asleep.
Amber: we’re literally going today!!
Amber: the mass starts at 11:30am !!
you glance at the corner of your screen.
11:12 a.m.
for a second, everything else fades— the room, the envelope, the memories you aren't willing to hold in focus. only timing remains. you move faster now, breath sharpening as your fingers type back with zero precision.
im coming wait dnot go inside yt
you don’t fix the typos; you just hit send. you’re already out of bed, gathering yourself in uneven pieces— clothes, hair, breath— whatever you can make functional in under a minute. there is no time to think properly, and no time to look back at the envelope.
the hotel room disappears behind you, left open-ended and unfinished, as if it never needed you to stay a second longer than you already had.
—
your head still doesn’t feel fully yours. it’s like you’re walking slightly behind yourself, watching your body move while your thoughts lag a step too late to correct anything. the world is too bright in places it shouldn’t be, too loud in places it should be quieter.
you’re not fully drunk anymore, but you’re not fully back either.
somewhere in between. half-awake, half-lost, stitched together by urgency and habit and the last scraps of memory you’re still holding onto.
the church is there before you properly register it. stone, height, stillness that feels too clean compared to everything you just came from. people move in and out like they already know where they belong inside it.
and then— Amber.
you don’t see her clearly at first, just movement. arms waving somewhere ahead, too exaggerated, too fast, like she’s trying to pull your attention through layers of fog. her voice reaches you in pieces. your name. again. louder. then something else you don’t fully catch.
then you blink—
you’re already inside the church, sitting.
somewhere in the middle rows where the wood is too polished and the silence feels too intentional, like it’s been trained to behave. the air is colder than it should be, carrying that faint, old scent of stone and incense and something you can’t quite name.
you’re not fully stable in it, not yet. your body is there, yes— feet planted, hands resting somewhere they’re supposed to— but your mind is still lagging behind itself, like it took the wrong turn somewhere earlier and hasn’t caught up.
you don’t remember much; that’s the problem. it comes in fragments instead of continuity. Amber’s voice, flashes of movement, the ride here, the way the city looked too sharp and too slow at the same time, the feeling of being guided rather than deciding. and the alcohol still sitting somewhere behind your eyes, not enough to fully erase you, but enough to make everything feel slightly displaced.
you blink, and the church shifts. not literally, but it feels like it does. the walls seem taller than they were a second ago, or closer. or leaning inward in a way that makes you adjust your posture without thinking.
sounds don’t land properly either. a cough becomes too distant, a whisper feels too long. everything is slightly out of sync with you, like you arrived late to a moment that already started without you. you swallow once, slowly, trying to anchor yourself, trying to make the room behave correctly again just by noticing it harder.
it doesn’t work. it never really does.
and then— something changes.
not in the room, but in your attention. like it’s been pulled, gently but firmly, away from the noise and the distortion. your gaze travels up, past the rows of bowed heads and the flickering candlelight, until it anchors on the figure standing at the altar.
until… you see the priest.
your head is still heavy, the weight of the night pressing behind your eyes, but the blurred edges of the world finally find a place to anchor.
it’s him.
he moves with a quiet, deliberate grace that makes the rest of the room feel clumsy. his hands are steady as they adjust the heavy book on the altar— fingers long, pale, and certain. there is a gravity to him that pulls the light inward, making the stone walls and the flickering candles feel like they were only built to frame him.
you watch him, and for the first time since you woke up in that hotel room, the hazy disconnection starts to peel away.
it isn't a holy feeling. it’s something else—something that feels dangerous in its clarity. you’re still wearing the invisible scent of the penthouse on your skin, the weight of the envelope still sitting in your bag like a secret, and here he is. he looks like a sanctuary and a question all at once.
the thoughts in your head are still tangled, still running too fast for your own good.
he’s a priest? really?
the word feels wrong in your mind when you look at the sharp line of his jaw or the way his hair catches the dim, golden glow of the nave. you feel a sudden, jarring urge to laugh— the kind of laugh that would shatter the silence and get you thrown out. the absurdity of it all hits you: the red silk you were wearing hours ago, the money you haven't counted, and the fact that out of everywhere in this city, Amber dragged you here.
but then he turns.
he hasn't looked at the crowd yet, his focus still seemingly inward, but you feel the shift in the air again. it’s a physical pressure, a silent command that forces you to sit a little straighter in the hard wooden pew.
you’re waiting for him to look up. you’re waiting for the moment he finally scans the rows of faces and finds yours— the one that doesn’t belong, the one still vibrating with the pulse of the club.
you’re waiting to see if the mirror you talked about at the bar is finally going to show itself.
the wooden pew feels solid beneath you, a grounding contrast to the way your mind continues to fray at the edges. you are here, but you are also still partially back in that hotel room, partially lost in the blurring lights of the night before, and the collision of it all makes the air in the nave feel thick— heavy with the scent of beeswax and the weight of a thousand unspoken pleas.
then, he speaks.
his voice isn't a command, yet it pulls at the silence until the silence belongs to him. it’s a smooth, resonant sound, like velvet drawn over stone, vibrating in the hollow of your chest.
as he moves toward the altar, your gaze follows— not with the casual curiosity of a visitor, but with the fixated, unblinking intensity of someone who has just found the only steady point in a spinning room.
the world is still slightly tilted, the edges of the stained glass bleeding colors into the gray stone, but he remains in high definition.
he turns. it’s subtle, a natural part of the liturgy, but his eyes sweep across the congregation with a calm that feels terrifyingly absolute. when they reach your row, they don't slide past.
they stop.
the contact isn't a brush; it’s a collision.
seconds stretch, warping under the weight of his stare. it is a long, quiet look— longer than is polite, longer than is holy. you feel the heat of the morning sun through the high windows, the throb in your temples, and the sudden, sharp awareness of the bathrobe still hidden beneath your hastily thrown-on clothes.
he doesn't look away.
there is something in his expression. not judgment, but a profound, quiet observation, as if he can see the invisible ink of the night before written across your skin. your mind whispers, the rule of soulmates echoing through the haze of the alcohol.
Similar to you. Not in habits, but in the parts you show, and the parts you don’t.
the silence between you is a tether, pulling tighter and tighter until the air feels like it might snap.
a sharp nudge at your ribs breaks the spell.
“ Told you, ” Amber’s voice hissed beside you, a jagged contrast to the sacred quiet.
she’s leaning in, her breath still faintly smelling of last night’s citrus and desperation, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. “ Told you you’d love him. I think half the parish is only here to see if he’s actually real. ”
you don't look at her. you can't. your eyes are still anchored to the front, watching the way his hands— pale, steady, elegant—rest upon the altar.
“ Who is he? ” you ask. your voice sounds foreign to your own ears, stripped of its usual armor, reduced to a low, rough thread of sound.
Amber hums, a small, satisfied noise as she settles back, though her eyes remain on the figure at the front.
“ Father Chrollo, ” she whispers, the name sliding out like a secret. “ Chrollo Lucilfer. Can you believe it? Same age as us, too. it’s a total waste, right? ”
she pauses, her tone shifting into something more thoughtful, more puzzled.
“ Everyone wonders why he did it. Why someone like him would choose to shut himself away in a place like this. He’s got that look, hasn't he? Like he knows something the rest of us don’t. Or like he’s hiding something even God hasn't found yet. ”
you watch Father Chrollo as he bows his head, the dark cross on his forehead a stark mark against his skin. he is composed, a masterpiece of restraint and shadow.
Chrollo.
the name settles in your mind, heavy and permanent. you think of the envelope in your bag, the money you didn’t count, and the efficiency you praised just hours ago. you think of the way he looked at you, as if neatness could undo what’s already been done— and suddenly, the church doesn't feel like a sanctuary anymore.
it feels like a mirror.
beside you, Amber is already drifting, her attention caught by someone else, her mind moving on to the next distraction. but you remain locked in the stillness, watching the priest who looks like a sin and breathes like a prayer, wondering if the universe is finally done being quiet.
because if like calls to like... then what exactly did he see when he looked at you?
—
the weeks bleed into a singular, sharp routine.
you trade the velvet of the night for the hard oak of the front row. the transition isn't loud; it’s a quiet, rhythmic shedding of skin. you stop answering the late-night pings from numbers that only know you by a price tag. you start leaving the club before the sun even thinks about coming up, just so your eyes aren't bloodshot when you catch the first light hitting the cathedral’s spire.
from the front, the view is different. you aren't just watching a priest; you’re watching the way his hands never shake when he lifts the chalice, the way his shadow stretches long and demanding across the altar. you’re close enough now to see the slight rise and fall of his chest, the minute shift in his expression when he reads from the heavy, gold-edged book.
and he sees you.
he doesn't have to say a word for the air between the pulpit and the pew to feel charged. every time he turns, every time he raises his gaze to address the room, his eyes find that specific spot in the front row. it’s a silent tally, he’s counting your arrivals. he’s noting the way your posture has straightened, the way the expensive, reckless edge of your clothes has softened into something more deliberate.
you’re a fixture now. a piece of the architecture he has to acknowledge every time he breathes.
the invitations to the efficiency of the city still come, buzzing in your bag, but they feel like echoes from a different life. you don't look at the screen, you just look at him, sitting there in the heavy silence of the incense, waiting for a sign that the recognition in his eyes is more than just a trick of the light.
you’re playing a different kind of game now. one where the currency isn't folded in an envelope, and the stakes haven't been named yet.
behind you, the church is full of people praying for forgiveness. but up here, in the front row, you’re just waiting to see who blinks first.
—
the bass in the club is a physical weight, thumping against your skull in a way that feels increasingly abrasive compared to the hollow, cool silence of the nave. you’re holding a drink. something bright, something sharp— but you haven't touched it in twenty minutes.
Amber leans in, her shoulder bumping yours with a playful, jagged force. she’s three drinks ahead and looking at you with a mixture of amusement and genuine exasperation.
“ You're doing it again, ” she shouts over the music, gesturing to your far-off expression. “ Mm... that sacred look. It doesn't suit you, it really doesn't. ”
You blink, pulling yourself back to the neon and the sweat. “ I'm just tired, Amber. ”
“ Tired of what? The nightlife? Or tired of waiting for a miracle? ” she snorts, sliding her glass along the sticky condensation of the bar. “ I told you he was hot, not that he was a lifestyle change. You're becoming a regular saint, and it's making me look like the local demon by comparison. ”
she laughs, but there’s a flicker of something real in her eyes— a small, growing annoyance at the space that has opened up between your routines.
“ Look at us, ” she continues, waving a hand between your modest posture and her own loose, low-cut dress. “ It’s like an altar boy took a wrong turn into a den of iniquity. We used to be a matched set. Now? I’m worried you’re going to start confessing my sins along with yours. ”
she leans closer, her voice dropping beneath the frequency of the music, sharp and teasing.
“ Is he really worth the boredom? Because the ' angel ' act is fine for an hour on Sundays, but out here? ”
you look at the liquid in your glass, the neon lights reflecting on the surface like fractured stained glass. for a second, the club feels like a stage set— loud, bright, and fundamentally temporary.
“️ I'm not an angel, Amber, ” you murmur, finally taking a sip. it tastes like ash.
“️ Good, ” she says, her grin returning, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes.
“ your priest? He’s not going to save you from being bored on a Saturday night. ”
the cold realization hits like a physical weight, settling deep in your gut where the logic of the rule finally starts to sharpen. if he is the reflection, then the mirror is distorted. he stands at the altar, hands clean and steady, offering salvation to the broken, while you spend your nights in the dark, offering yourself up to the same hunger he’s trying to cure. he is the light that promises to fix them; you are the darkness that confirms they are beyond saving. two sides of the same transactional coin— one taking their sins, the other taking their money.
the thought is too loud. it’s too heavy for a saturday night.
you reach for the tray, and before Amber can even finish her sentence, you’ve downed three margaritas in a row. the salt stings, the lime burns, and the tequila starts to blur the edges of the room back into that familiar, messy static.
Amber’s eyes go wide, her glass pausing halfway to her mouth as she stares at you in genuine shock.
“ Geez, ” she says, her voice cutting through the bass with a jagged, high-pitched laugh. “ I was trying to help you snap out of it, not turn you into a divorced wife whose hot priest husband just left her for the church. ”
she shakes her head, leaning closer to check your pupils in the flickering strobe light.
“ I meant have fun, not drown yourself because the guy in the robes isn't coming home to tuck you in. Drink water, for god's sake. You look like you’re mourning a life you haven't even lost yet. ”
you don't answer. you just wave for another round, the neon reflecting in your eyes like small, fractured fires. the angel is gone, dissolved in agave and spite. out here, in the noise, you’re back to being exactly what the city paid for.
but even as the fourth glass touches your lips, you can’t help but wonder if he’s still awake in that quiet, stone room, praying for the exact kind of person you’ve just decided to become again.
—
the world no longer became solid. it’s a smear of neon and static, a sequence of strobe-lit heartbeats that pulse behind your eyes like a warning. the bass isn't a sound anymore; it’s a thick, warm liquid filling your lungs, dragging you under until the air tastes like sugar and sweat.
you’re moving, but the floor feels like it’s made of water.
one moment, you’re alone in the noise, and the next, there is a weight against you. heat, a body that smells like expensive cigarettes and cold intent. he’s handsome in a way that feels jagged, all sharp jawlines and eyes that don’t look at you so much as they look through you, calculating the worth of the skin he’s touching. you should care, you should feel the predatory tilt of his smile, but your mind is drifting, floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching yourself sway in his arms.
he’s too close, impossibly close. the distance between your breath and his is a thin, trembling line that’s already beginning to dissolve.
through the haze, you see Amber.
she’s a ghost in the crowd, a flickering shape of panic. she’s calling your name, her mouth moving in slow, exaggerated arcs, but the sound never reaches you. she’s trying to push through the bodies, but the air around her looks heavy, like she’s swimming through honey, reaching out a hand that stays perpetually inches away from your shoulder. she’s a memory trying to happen, but the present is too loud.
you feel dizzy. the room spins, the colors bleeding into a single, blinding white.
you blink.
suddenly, the face inches from yours isn't jagged anymore. the predatory smile softens into something profound, something holy. the dark, loose hair. the calm, terrifying absolute of those eyes.
it’s the priest, Chrollo.
the strobe lights turn into the flickering glow of prayer candles. the smell of sweat becomes the heady, thick scent of incense. his hand on your waist feels like a blessing and a sin all at once, his thumb tracing the line of your hip with a devastating, quiet precision. he’s leaning in, his gaze anchored to yours, pulling you into a space where the church and the club are the same thing— a place for devotion, a place for ruin.
your heart stutters, a frantic, euphoric mess in your chest. you’re so close now. the tip of his nose brushes yours, a ghost of a touch that sends a jolt of electricity through the tequila-soaked fog. you want it. you want the collision. you want to find out if he tastes like wine or like shadows.
his lips part, just a fraction.
snap.
the vision breaks. the incense vanishes, replaced by the sour sting of the club. Chrollo’s face shatters like glass, and the hot guy’s mouth is there instead— wet, expectant, wrong.
the euphoria turns into a cold, sharp spike of adrenaline.
you shove him. it’s not a graceful move; it’s a panicked, clumsy flail that sends you stumbling backward into the crowd. your lungs finally find air, and it burns.
you run, you don’t look for Amber. you just push through the wall of bodies, your heels clicking unevenly against the floor as the dizziness tries to pull you back down. the exit sign is a red blur, a beckoning wound in the dark.
you hit the street and the cold air slaps you across the face, but you don't stop. you run until your breath is a ragged sob, until the moon is behind you and the silence of the city starts to settle. your head is spinning, a high-speed reel of priest’s eyes and the clink of money and the weight of that white bathrobe.
you’re still high, still drifting, but the mirror is back. and for the first time, you’re terrified of what’s waiting for you in the front row tomorrow morning.
—
the church doors are heavy, too heavy, but you shove through them with a desperation that doesn’t care about being quiet. inside, the air is a cold, sharp slap to your lungs, smelling of centuries of stone and the lingering, sweet rot of incense.
you don’t look at the altar, you can’t.
your feet move on their own, stumbling slightly on the polished floor as you head for the shadows of the side aisle. the confessional booth stands there like a dark, wooden ribcage, waiting to swallow the things people are too ashamed to say in the light.
you slip inside. the door clicks shut, and the world vanishes.
it’s small. cramped. the darkness is thick, pressing against your skin like the bathrobe from the hotel, like the red silk from the club. you sink onto the bench, your knees hitting the wood with a dull thud. the alcohol is still a warm, chaotic hum in your blood, making the tiny space feel like it’s swaying on the surface of the ocean.
your heart is a frantic bird trapped in your ribs. then, the small wooden slide moves.
the screen is there— a mesh barrier that hides his face but lets the heat of his presence bleed through. you can’t see him, but you know. the air in the booth changes instantly. it becomes still, it becomes focused.
you don’t wait for the greeting. you don’t wait for the prayer.
“ I saw a ghost tonight, ” you whisper.
your voice is a jagged thread, raw from the club’s smoke and the tequila’s burn. you lean your forehead against the screen, the cool metal biting into your skin.
“ I was in the dark. I was… working. and there was someone there. a man. he was touching me, and the lights were flashing, and suddenly… it wasn’t him. ” you swallow hard, the taste of salt and lime still ghosting on your tongue.
“ I saw a face that didn’t belong there. I saw someone holy in a place that’s built for ruin. It felt like a hallucination, but it was clearer than anything else in the room. It felt like… like he was watching me. ”
the silence on the other side of the screen is absolute. it isn’t the empty silence of a room; it’s the heavy, weighted silence of someone who is listening with their entire soul. you can hear the faint, rhythmic sound of his breathing— steady, controlled, a perfect mirror to your own frantic gasps.
“ I’m not supposed to see things like that, ” you breathe, your eyes stinging in the dark. “ I’m supposed to be the one who doesn’t blink. I’m the one people pay so they don’t have to feel guilty. But tonight… The ghost wouldn’t let me go. He looked at me like he knew exactly what I was. Like we were the same. ”
you stop. the words are out, hanging in the narrow space between you. the alcohol makes you bold, makes you reach out a hand to touch the mesh of the screen, your fingertips inches away from where his shadow sits.
“ Forgive me, ” you murmur, the words sounding more like a challenge than a plea. “ for seeing things that aren't there. Or for finally seeing the one thing that is. ”
a long moment passes. the silence stretches until it feels like the wood of the booth might crack under the pressure.
and then, a voice— low, resonant, and so familiar it makes your blood turn to ice—drifts through the screen.
“ The things we see in the dark are rarely ghosts, ” he says, the words slow and deliberate. “ They are usually just the parts of ourselves we haven't found a place for yet. ”
the screen doesn't slide back. the silence returns, but it’s different now. it’s a confirmation.
the slide doesn’t close.
that’s the first thing your alcohol-thinned blood registers— the sound of the wooden panel staying open, leaving that small, mesh-covered window into his world gaping wide.
his voice is still humming in the air, a low frequency that makes your skin prickle under your clothes. the parts of ourselves we haven't found a place for yet. it’s too quiet. it’s too honest.
a sudden, violent wave of nausea hits you, but it isn’t the tequila— it’s the weight of being seen. you’ve spent your life being a shadow, a transaction, a surface for other people to project their needs onto. but through that screen, he didn’t look at the surface.
you stand up so fast your knees knock against the wooden bench. the sound is like a gunshot in the silent church.
“ I have to go, ” you choke out, though you aren't sure if you say it out loud or if it just echoes in your skull.
you fumble for the handle of the narrow door, your fingers slick with a cold sweat.
you burst out of the booth like you’re escaping a fire, your heels skidding on the stone floor. for a split second, you catch a glimpse of the priest’s side of the confessional— a sliver of shadow, the edge of a white sleeve— and you bolt.
you don’t look back. you run past the rows of pews, past the flickering vigil lights that look like judgmental eyes, and heave your weight against the massive oak entrance.
the dawn air hits you— sharp, freezing, and honest. it cuts through the tequila fog, making your lungs ache, but you don't stop running until you're a full block away. you stop, gasping, your heart a frantic bird trapped in your ribcage.
you reach for your bag, your fingers shaking as you dig for your phone, your keys— anything to prove you’re back in the real world. your hand brushes the side pocket, the unzipped one.
keys, phone, envelope.
but something is missing.
your thumb drags along the lining, searching for the smooth, heavy weight of the cylinder that’s always there. your red lipstick in the shade divine wine. your signature, your armor, your effeciency in the city.
you freeze, the world spinning in a slow, sickening circle. the realization hits you with the force of a physical blow, leaving you breathless.
you didn't just leave your sins in that booth, you left your trace.
on the cold, wooden bench of that confessional, in the dust and the shadows of a holy place, sits a bold, red lipstick. a smear of vanity. a piece of the night that isn't supposed to exist in the daylight.
you stare back at the church’s massive stone arches, distant and judgmental against the dawn. inside, he’s going to slide that wooden screen back. he’s going to step out into the aisle. and his pale, steady hands— the ones that handle the gold chalice— are going to pick it up.
he’s going to look at it. he’s going to know the shape of your mouth without ever having seen your face.
and suddenly, the church doesn't feel like a sanctuary. it feels like a cage, and you just locked the key inside.
—
the silence that follows the slamming of the heavy oak doors is different than the silence before you arrived. it’s bruised, it’s vibrating with the ghost of your frantic breathing and the sharp, chemical scent of your panic.
Chrollo remains still behind the screen for a long moment. he doesn't move to close the slide, he doesn't offer a final blessing to the empty air. he simply sits in the dark, his hands folded in his lap, listening to the way the church seems to exhume the remnants of your confession.
a face that didn’t belong there.
he knows he should feel the weight of his collar, the gravity of the vows that sit like lead in his bones. but instead, he feels a pull— a tether tightening in the center of his chest. he had seen you every sunday, a splash of expensive, restless color in the front row. he had counted your breaths from the pulpit. and now, you had come to him in the dark, smelling of rain and agave and something far more honest than prayer.
he stands slowly, his white robes whispering against the wood. he steps out of his side of the booth, the dim morning light filtering through the high windows and catching the dust motes dancing in the aisle.
he moves to your door. it’s still slightly opened, a silent invitation to the chaos you left behind. Chrollo reaches out, his fingers brushing the polished wood before he pushes it open.
the booth is small, cramped, and still warm from her presence. he looks down at the bench where you sat, where you trembled, where you spilled the secrets you thought were yours alone.
there, resting in the corner against the dark velvet cushion, is the trace. it’s a small, weighted cylinder of gold and black. it looks violent against the somber tones of the confessional— a jagged piece of the world outside, brought into the silence.
Chrollo leans down, his pale fingers closing around it. it’s cold, but as he brings it into the light, he sees the smear of red along the cap. a bold, defiant crimson. the color of a wound, or a promise.
he doesn't put it in the lost and found. he doesn't leave it for the sexton to find during the morning rounds.
instead, he unscrews the cap with a slow, rhythmic precision. the wax is pristine, carved into a sharp, elegant point. he brings it closer to his face, catching the faint, artificial scent of vanilla and roses—the smell of the armor you wear when you navigate the dark.
he thinks of the way you looked at him through the screen, your voice stripped of its defense. he thinks of the ghost you saw in the club.
Chrollo traces the edge of the gold casing with his thumb, his expression unreadable, settled in that calm, terrifying absolute. he knows you will come back. not for the money she likely hasn't missed yet, and not for the salvation he’s supposed to offer.
you’ll come back for the part of yourself you left in his hands.
he slides the lipstick into the deep pocket of his cassock, the weight of it settling against his hip. as he turns toward the altar to begin the morning mass, his fingers remain curled around the cool metal.
the mirror has finally been held up. and he isn't planning on letting it go.
—
it’s a jarring kind of quiet when you finally step out of your apartment.
usually, there is a ritual to your armor. the deliberate click of the lipstick tube, the way the pigment coats your mouth in a sharp, defensive line of red— it’s the final seal on the version of you that the city is allowed to see. but this morning, the ritual is broken. your vanity is a graveyard of things that feel like lies now.
you left the apartment feeling half-finished.
the plain, charcoal dress hangs on your frame with a sobriety that feels heavy. it hits just above the knee, modest and unremarkable, a far cry from the silk and shadows of your usual nights. you didn't even use a brush to tame your hair into its usual sleek precision; you just tied it back, leaving your face completely open.
walking to the church, you feel a phantom itch on your lips.
every person you pass on the sidewalk feels like a threat. you’re convinced they can see the missing color, that they’re noticing the paleness of your skin and the dark circles under your eyes that no concealer is hiding today. you feel small, you feel like a ghost that accidentally wandered into the daylight.
it’s just a face, you tell yourself, your heart thumping a jagged rhythm against your ribs. people walk around with bare faces every day. it doesn't mean anything.
but you know it means everything. it means you’re coming to him without a price tag, it means you’re coming to him as the person who stumbled into that booth and begged a stranger for a reason to stop seeing ghosts.
by the time you reach the heavy oak doors of the cathedral, you’re lightheaded. the cold air stings your unpainted skin. you want to turn around. you want to run back to the vanity and paint the red back on until you feel powerful again.
but then you think of the gold cylinder sitting in his pocket, he already knows what’s under the paint.
you take a breath, feeling the raw, stinging clarity of the morning, and you push the door open. you aren't the efficiency of the city today. you’re just a woman in a plain dress, walking toward the front row to see if the mirror is going to break you or save you.
—
the church is a cavern of cold stone and suffocating expectation.
the air is thick, weighted with the scent of beeswax and the collective breath of hundreds of people looking for a way to be better than they are. you sit in the front row, your hands tucked into your lap to hide the way they’re shaking. you feel the absence of the red on your lips like a physical wound— exposed, pale, and raw. you are a blank canvas in a room full of icons.
the rustle of the congregation settles into a heavy, expectant hush as he ascends the steps.
Chrollo moves with a terrifying kind of grace. his white robes follow him like a shadow that has finally decided to take shape. he reaches the pulpit, his hands resting on the carved wood. he doesn't look at the scriptures, he doesn't look at the rafters.
he looks at you.
“ We are a people of masks, ” he begins.
his voice is a low, resonant frequency that pulls at the very center of your chest. it isn't a shout; it’s a secret shared with a thousand people, yet meant for only one.
“ We spend our days polishing the surfaces we show to the world. We paint ourselves in colors that signal our worth, our beauty, our efficiency. We build these altars of vanity so that no one sees the ruins behind them. We use our appearance as a shield, a way to move through the world without ever truly being touched. ”
he leans forward slightly, the light from the high windows catching the calm, absolute darkness of his eyes.
“ But what happens when the mask is lost? ”
the question hangs in the air, cold and demanding. you feel the blood rush to your face, your bare lips tingling as if his gaze is physically brushing against them.
“ What happens when we are forced to stand in the light without our armor? When the traces of our night— the traces of our true selves— are left behind in the dark for someone else to find? ”
he pauses, his hand sliding down to the pocket of his cassock. you see the slight, weighted movement of the fabric. you know exactly what his fingers are touching. the gold. the black. the red.
“ Most would flee, ” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper that carries to the back of the cathedral. “ Most would run from the recognition. They would rather be lost in their lies than found in their truth. They fear the mirror because they fear that the person looking back isn't an angel, but a ghost seeking a place to rest. ”
he holds your gaze, his expression unreadable, a masterpiece of sacred restraint.
“ But there is a strange kind of freedom in being unmasked. When you have nothing left to hide behind, you are finally capable of being known. And once you are known... You can finally be claimed. ”
he breaks the contact then, turning his head to bless the rest of the room as if the last two minutes hadn't been a surgical strike on your soul.
“ In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit. ”
the congregation murmurs the response, a dull roar of habit, but you remain silent. you are anchored to the wood of the pew, your heart hammering against your ribs. he didn't just give a sermon. he just told you that he has your mask, he has your secret, and he isn't going to let you hide anymore.
the mass continues, but for you, the world has narrowed down to the weight in his pocket and the terrifying clarity of his eyes.
—
the organ music fades into a low, ghostly hum, and the heavy thud of the oak doors signals the departure of the last parishioner. the cathedral is suddenly cavernous, filled only with the scent of cold stone and the dying light of the afternoon sun.
you don’t move. you’re anchored to the front pew, your fingers digging into the worn wood. you feel small in your plain dress, your face feeling strangely cold and naked without your usual mask of makeup.
then, you hear it. the slow, rhythmic click of shoes against the marble.
Chrollo descends the altar steps. he’s stripped away the heavy gold vestments, standing now in a simple white cassock that makes him look like a shadow that has finally decided to take a human form.
he doesn't go to the sacristy, he walks straight toward you.
the air between you charges with a terrifying, electric stillness. as he stops a few feet away, you feel the heat radiating from him, a sharp contrast to the chill of the church.
he reaches into his pocket. his hand emerges, and between his long, steady fingers sits the gold and black cylinder of your lipstick. he holds it out, the light catching the tiny smear of crimson on the cap— a stain of your sin in his holy hands.
“ I believe this belongs to you, ” he says.
his voice is lower than it was during the sermon, stripped of its public authority and replaced with a dark, intimate resonance.
you’re frozen, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. a priest, this priest, standing inches away, returning a piece of your night-life. the shock is a cold rush, but beneath it, a spark of jagged excitement catches fire.
“ I... yes. Thank you, ” you breathe, your voice sounding small in the vastness of the hall.
you reach out to take it, but he doesn't let go immediately. he holds it for a second longer than necessary, forcing your fingers to brush against his cool skin. his eyes— dark, bottomless, and entirely too observant— trace the lines of your face. he lingers on your mouth, noting the pale, unpainted curve of your lips.
a small, unreadable smile touches the corner of his mouth.
“ You should leave it off more often, ” he murmurs, his gaze locking onto yours with a weight that feels like a physical touch. “ There is something... refreshingly natural about you today. Most people spend their lives trying to hide what is beautiful because they are afraid it is actually broken. ”
the compliment is a blade wrapped in silk. he’s talking about your face, but you can feel the double meaning vibrating in the air. he’s talking about the ghost you confessed, he’s talking about the fact that he saw through your armor the moment you stepped into that booth.
he finally lets go of the lipstick, his hand returning to his side, but the tether he’s wrapped around you doesn't slacken.
“ The light suits you, ” he adds, his voice dropping an octave. “ It’s much harder to lie when the sun is up, isn't it? ”
the echoes of the departing crowd have finally bled into the stone, leaving a silence so heavy it feels like it’s pressing the air out of your lungs.
Chrollo doesn't move. he stays standing in the center of the aisle, the white of his gown a stark, blinding contrast to the dark, polished wood of the pews. he looks like a monument of purity, yet the way he watches you— silent, patient, and entirely too still— feels like a trap closing in.
you’re still standing by your seat, your fingers white-knuckled around the lipstick. the oh god realization is screaming in your head now, you are alone in a locked church with a man who just dismantled your entire identity from a pulpit. you look at your plain dress, your bare hands, your unpainted lips, and you feel like an intruder.
he doesn't speak for a long time. he just lets the quiet do the work, watching the way your chest heaves with every shallow breath. he is studying the natural version of you, the one that doesn't have the red armor to hide behind.
“ It is much quieter now. ” his voice is a low hum that seems to travel through the floorboards rather than the air.
“ The church has a way of holding onto the truth once the noise stops. Do you feel it? ”
he takes a single step closer, he isn't rushing. he’s moving with the deliberate grace of someone who knows you have nowhere else to go. the white of his sleeve brushes against the edge of a pew, a soft, sliding sound that feels like a thunderclap in the stillness.
“ I think... I should leave. ”
you whisper, the words catching in your throat. you take a half-step back, your heel clicking sharply against the marble.
Chrollo tilts his head, a small, unreadable shadow of a smile touching his face.
“ And yet, your feet haven't moved toward the door. ” he stops, still a respectful distance away, but the space between you feels electrified.
“ Tell me. ”
“ Are you waiting for me to give you a penance? or are you waiting for me to tell you that the ghost you saw in the dark... was never really a ghost at all? ”
the shift in his voice is what finally breaks the spell.
it isn't the practiced, melodic resonance he uses to comfort the grieving or the rhythmic lilt of the liturgy. it’s a dry, sharp, and dangerously grounded sound. it’s the voice of a man who has seen exactly what you have seen, stripped of the divine and left only with the cold reality of the flesh.
you flinch, the sound of your own heart is like a drum in the cavernous silence of the nave. the weight of your unpainted face and the plainness of your dress suddenly feel like an admission of guilt you weren't ready to make.
“ ...Sorry father. ”
the words tumble out, breathless and jagged. you take a clumsy step back, your hand instinctively flying to your mouth as if to shield the pale lips he was just studying. you look everywhere but at him—the altar, the flickering candles, the dust motes—anywhere but the blinding white of his gown.
Chrollo doesn't move to follow you. instead, he lets out a breath that might have been a laugh in another life. a small, genuine smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, softening the predatory edge of his features just enough to be disarming.
“ No need to apologize. ” he murmurs, his voice returning to that low, intimate hum.
“ I should be the one to thank you. Most people come here to be told what they want to hear. It is rare that someone is honest enough to force me to be direct. ”
he tilts his head, his dark eyes shimmering with a quiet, terrifying sort of amusement.
“ You have a gift for stripping away the theater, don't you? It’s a very... persuasive quality. ”
the air in the nave feels static, humming with the weight of the things he isn't saying. you shift your weight, the fabric of your plain dress rustling against your legs, and the sound feels loud, clumsy, and entirely too human.
it’s awkward— this lingering silence between a priest in white and a woman who feels like she’s standing in the middle of a spotlight with no clothes on.
you don't know how to look at him, so you just nod, a quick, jerky motion that sends a stray lock of hair over your shoulder.
“ ...I have to go, Father. ”
you mutter, finally finding the strength to break the invisible tether holding you to the floor. you don't wait for him to step aside; you just start moving toward the back of the church, your shoes clicking a frantic rhythm against the marble.
Chrollo doesn't follow. he simply turns his head slightly, watching your retreat with that same calm, terrifyingly patient expression. his hands disappear into the wide, snowy sleeves of his gown, his posture settling into something almost peaceful.
“ Take care of yourself. ” he calls out, his voice soft enough that it barely reaches you, yet clear enough to make you pause for a heartbeat near the heavy oak doors.
“ I’ll see you next week. ”
the promise— or the threat— hangs in the air long after you’ve pushed through the doors and escaped into the noise of the city. you don't look back to see if he's still watching, but you can still feel the weight of his gaze, a cold, white shadow that follows you all the way home.
—
the apartment is a graveyard of the person you used to be. you stand in front of the bathroom mirror, the harsh overhead light spilling across your shoulders and reflecting off the plain, charcoal fabric of your dress. the silence is absolute, yet it feels like it’s screaming.
you look at the woman in the glass. her skin is pale, her eyes are tired, and her lips are a soft, naturally pale pink— the way they looked when he was standing inches away from you, his white gown reflecting the ghost of a light you didn’t think you deserved.
You should put it on.
the thought is a reflex, a desperate reach for a safety blanket that has already been burned. your fingers brush against the gold cylinder of the lipstick on the marble counter. it’s cold. it’s heavy. it’s the final piece of the armor you’ve worn for years to survive the city, the efficiency, the people who only love the paint.
you uncap the tube. the scent of it— waxy, expensive, and artificial— fills your nose. you raise it to your mouth, the crimson pigment hovering just millimeters away from your skin.
Why are your hands shaking?
you stare at your own reflection, but you don't see yourself. you see the way his dark eyes traced the curve of your mouth as if he were reading a poem written in a language only he understood.
the memory of his voice isn't a comfort; it’s a sentence. you look at your bare lips in the mirror and you don't see nothing anymore. you see the person he claimed. you see the raw, exposed truth he pulled out of you without even trying.
you try to press the color to your lip, but your hand stops. the red looks garish now. it looks like a wound. it looks like a desperate, bloody scream for attention that you no longer have the energy to give.
you set the lipstick down. it rolls slightly, the gold catching the light before settling into a still, heavy silence. you look back at the mirror— at the tired eyes and the unpainted mouth— and you feel a terrifying sense of vertigo.
the mask is broken. and the worst part is, you don't even want to fix it.
your eyes drop to the lipstick one last time. you notice a small, dark smudge on the very top of the gold cap— something you hadn't seen in the dim light of the church.
it’s a fingerprint. a single, perfect smudge of charcoal or ash, right where he held it. he didn't just find it in a pew. he had to have been holding it for a long time, watching you, waiting for the moment to hand it back.
you realize then that the doors of the church weren't locked to keep people out. they were locked to keep you in. and as you look at the fingerprint, you realize it isn't a mark of return— it’s a mark of ownership.
and,
I'll see you next week.
don't sound like a goodbye anymore. they sound like a countdown.
this is a work of fiction. any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not intended. all characters depicted are not owned by me and belong to their respective creators. this work is purely fictional and for illustrative purposes only.
art is from @thief0, used with permission. don't use w/o permission and obviously don't steal. check out their works ! everything is a masterpiece ^^
UGHHH I love the concept of Chrollo as a priest😩😩 seeing this masterpiece made me feel... well feelings I could not find proper words to say. ( skipped 2 nights of sleep for this ) this art is such a masterpiece, seriously! this is how I'd imagine Chrollo to be, and the lighting and details? oh... don't get me started.
yeah I made reader go crazy after 2 interactions with Chrollo, I mean I'd feel the same. You probably would too... I lowkey got carried away with my feelings, its starting to sound like Chrollo x Author.. I hope none of you noticed...
if I saw Chrollo as a priest, I might start a lifestyle change aswell. 👅
BUT DON'T WORRY. we are far from over with this Priest Chrollo madness. this is just the beggining, and expect more plots and happenings ;) I'll try to stretch this out as long as I can if anyone would like.
also sorry if there are mistakes regarding the details of church, I go to church but like a regular person, I don't know all the details and names of stuffs.
Your wedding with Satoru — the one he never showed up to.
✦. cw : tragic love, doomed love, heavy angst, hurt no comfort
Satoru stood in the hallway already dressed, his hair slightly tousled as if he had just woken up, even though he had gotten up very early today. He was smiling — that bright, easy smile that always made your breath catch in your throat.
Satoru told you not to be afraid.
He lightly touched your chin with his fingers, making you lift your head and meet his unbearably bright, sparkling gaze.
He convinced you that everything would be fine.
That it was just another boring business trip, some kind of formality, a couple of days — and he would be back to nag you about dinner and demand that you scratch his head while he slept with it in your lap...
The music starts.
You take a step. The heavy satin skirt rustles against the marble floor, and the sound deafens you, drowning out the quiet chords of the cello. The bridal veil slips down before your eyes like a thin veil of fog.
It still feels like you’re dreaming...
Satoru had always been confident. Always the best. Always the one who laughed in the face of danger. But looking into Satoru’s eyes, into that endless azure you only ever saw when he let himself be real with you, vulnerable, you were absolutely, unshakably sure he would come back.
Although there had always been a silent distance between you because of his work — the way his phone could start ringing in the middle of the night, the way he would simply silence it and pull you closer, murmuring that it was nothing — you believed him.
You believed him with every piece of your soul.
So when he disappeared for nineteen days, you were more than confused.
For the first three days you were angry that he didn’t warn you, that he didn’t text or call. Then you started writing first. At first gentle messages, then worried ones, then desperate ones that remained unread.
You called — and only heard the cold “The subscriber is unavailable.” And with every beep, with every new day, a sticky, icy horror grew inside you, crowding everything else out.
You didn’t know anyone you could contact.
You didn’t know where Satoru worked, who his friends were, whether he had a family besides the one the two of you had created in your small apartment...
At some point, when the silence became unbearably loud and you stopped sleeping and eating, staring into the darkness outside the window, a thought crept into your head that made you physically sick: was there ever really anything at all? Had you imagined him?
Or, even worse — he had simply left.
Got tired, got bored, and left without saying a word, leaving you in this ignorance...
Satoru had always seemed closer to the sky than to the ground, and you didn’t even have wings.
You squeeze the bouquet so tightly your fingertips go numb, and the delicate stems of the white roses seem about to snap under the weight of your longing.
Your father’s hand on your elbow feels strangely unfamiliar. You feel his warmth, his pride, his desire to pass you into “reliable hands” — and it makes you nauseous.
Not because of him.
Because of yourself.
Because you’re here.
All of this is wrong.
With every step toward the altar your heart pounds somewhere in your throat, drowning out your breathing. You stare straight ahead at the figure of the groom waiting at the end of this endless path.
And then Satoru came back.
He simply opened the door with his key on the evening of the nineteenth day, and when you heard that click you nearly lost your mind running into the hallway.
He was there. Alive.
Satoru stood with his back against the closed door and looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Shadows lay beneath his eyes, his shoulders were lowered, and there was some strange metallic smell in the air that you instantly hated.
But when he saw you, his face changed.
The exhaustion didn’t disappear, but something flared up in him, something so hungry, so desperately longing, that your heart clenched.
Satoru looked at you as if those nineteen days had been an eternity to him, as if all that time he had done nothing but wait for the moment he could see you again.
You wanted to scream, to beat your fists against his chest, to demand explanations.
Instead, you burst into tears.
Silently, your whole body shaking, your face buried in his chest.
Satoru explained nothing.
He only whispered, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry…” somewhere into your hair, and his hands, usually so confident, were trembling as he gathered you into his arms.
His embrace was greedy, aching, almost bone-crushing.
Satoru kissed your wet face, your lips salty with tears, and there was such anguish in those kisses that you stopped asking questions.
You didn’t dare to ask.
You ended up in the bedroom without even turning on the light.
Satoru hovered above you, and when he pushed inside you it wasn’t familiar, not playful. It was desperate. As if he was trying to become a part of you, dissolve into you, hide.
Hide from everyone.
At first you didn’t notice his gaze — heavy, studying, unusually thoughtful. You only saw the features you loved, felt his weight, his warmth. Then you thought he was just deathly tired.
That he needed this — oblivion.
And you pulled him closer, wrapping your arms and legs around him, pressing him to you as tightly as you could.
You let him love you, letting him all the way inside, and you loved him back — with blind, almost painful desperation.
And at some point, when you were already on the edge, when the world had narrowed to the point where your bodies touched, you thought his eyes were shining.
When Satoru, pressing his forehead into the curve of your neck and shoulder, exhaled, “I love you so much… you have no idea,” there was so much pain in his voice that you only squeezed your eyes shut tighter, afraid to scare him away.
The priest begins to speak.
His voice is even, echoing like in an empty church filled with people, but you don’t hear a word.
You only hear the silence.
The same silence that screamed in your ears on the nineteenth day.
The one from five years ago.
The one that settled in your chest forever after that morning when you woke up alone.
You look at the groom, nod at the right moments, smile faintly.
Satoru didn’t let you go for a long time after.
He lay there with his fingers laced through yours, stroking your palm with his thumb. Then, as if remembering something important, he reached for his trousers carelessly thrown on the floor.
You heard the rustle, and when he turned back something glinted in the moonlight in his hand.
Satoru took your hand, and you felt cold metal on your finger. A ring…
You froze, staring at him...
Satoru propped himself up on his elbow, his face very close. He was smiling — that same soft, warm smile you loved so much — but in his eyes something had frozen… something wistful, doomed, that made your heart drop.
“Marry me,” he asked. No pathos, no usual arrogant smirk. “Be mine. Forever.”
Satoru was begging you to stay with him.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to unite this man and this woman in holy matrimony,” the priest’s voice reaches you as if through cotton.
“What if we were standing here together, Satoru? What if this day were ours?” you ask yourself silently.
Your groom is good. Kind. His eyes are calm and warm, without that terrifying endless blue you used to drown in every day...
But you don’t see him.
You imagine Satoru standing at the altar instead.
He wouldn’t stand still, he would definitely lean toward you and whisper something stupid to make you laugh at the worst possible moment.
You close your eyes for a moment and the image comes to you so vividly it almost hurts: him in a perfectly fitted suit, you in this same dress but with a different light in your eyes. Satoru looking at you, and there’s no longing in that gaze, only happiness. Pure, untouched by pain.
Satoru had always been too full of life, and it burned everyone around him.
You say yes to him and take his last name “Gojo” instead of your own.
He slides a ring onto your finger and you place one on his.
You kiss under the applause, his hands on your waist so familiar you think you might die from happiness right there.
You had a chance.
A chance to anchor all that fragile happiness and call it yours.
But you were afraid.
Afraid of the seriousness in his eyes, afraid it was too good to be true, afraid you’d scare him away by saying yes.
You thought there was still time.
You thought he always would.
Because Satoru always came back.
You didn’t manage to say anything, but he, too perceptive, read everything on your face.
His wistful smile widened slightly, and Satoru removed the ring from your finger himself, placing it in your palm and closing your fingers into a fist.
“It’s okay,” his voice was steady. “Think about it, sweetheart. And when I come back, you’ll give me your answer.”
Something inside your chest snapped at those words.
“You… you’re leaving again?” you breathed, panic ringing in your voice.
Satoru pulled you close, pressing his nose into the top of your head.
“Just for one day, silly,” that familiar teasing note slipped into his voice. “I’ll take care of something and come right back. Meanwhile you can think about how you’re going to call me ‘husband.’”
He kissed you until you relaxed in his arms, lulled by his warmth and a false sense of safety.
You pressed closer to him, feeling how hard his heart was beating, and whispered, “I love you.” You fell asleep with the cold metal of the ring clenched in your fist.
“If anyone knows of any reason why these two should not be joined in marriage, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Your heart skips a beat. Forever.
You swallow hard.
Inside you something tears, screams, thrashes in hysteria.
Your mind is screaming: Say it! Say you love someone else! Say that the ring hanging on your chest isn’t just jewelry! Say that your heart has been dead for five years, buried with him wherever he is!
You look at the hall.
Guests sit there smiling, some wiping sentimental tears. Your mother sits in the front row, happy. Finally her daughter has “found a home.” Finally you stopped “living in the past.”
But the past isn’t something you can just stop waiting for.
The past is something that lives inside you.
Breathes with your lungs.
Beats with your heart.
The silence stretches a second too long.
A too long.
The groom gently squeezes your fingers in reassurance. He thinks you’re nervous. And you are. Just not for the reason he thinks you are.
“Very well,” the priest smiles. “Then we shall continue.”
And you hate yourself for staying silent.
In the morning Satoru was already gone from your apartment.
Satoru left.
You woke from the cold on the side of the bed where he had been, from the silence. Only the ring you had loosened in your sleep still glimmered on the sheet.
Satoru left without saying goodbye.
And never came back.
He didn’t come the next day, didn’t call in the evening, didn’t text a week later.
Satoru Gojo disappeared without a trace, dissolved as if he had never existed.
As if that night with his desperate love and the ring in your hand had only been a dream.
“I,” the groom begins, his voice firm and confident, “take you to be my wife…”
You look at his lips and see different ones.
Feel another kiss on your own — the last one before sleep. Salty with your tears, gentle, promising a quick return. A lie. Or not a lie?
You will never know.
He vows to love you in sickness and in health, in riches and in poverty, until death do you part.
Until death do you part…
It wasn’t even death that separated Satoru from you.
It was something else.
Something he never told you.
Something that took him away from you, leaving only a ring on a string and a question without an answer.
You waited.
First a year, then two, then five.
You learned to live again, forced yourself to leave the house, smile, work.
You met a good, caring man who looked at you with steadiness and calm.
He proposed, and you said yes. Because you should. Because it was time. Because he was good.
But he was never him.
Because you had always loved only Satoru.
Your turn.
You open your mouth, and it feels like a broken howl will tear out of it. But you speak. You say the words you’re supposed to say.
You vow love to the man standing in front of you.
And every word is a lie.
Not because you don’t want to love him.
Not because he’s bad.
But because the part of you that knew how to love for real — desperately, completely, down to your bones — left with Satoru that morning five years ago.
And you’re still waiting for it to return.
Just like him.
“As a symbol of your love and commitment, please exchange rings,” the priest’s voice drifts.
The groom takes your left hand. You watch as he slides a new ring onto your finger — smooth, golden, proper. It settles exactly where Satoru’s ring had rested that night.
It covers that memory, erases it, makes it nonexistent.
Goosebumps run across your skin. Cold, sticky like fear.
Under the fabric of your dress, on your chest, the small metal circle burns against your skin. It knows. That ring knows you’re betraying it. That you’re choosing life without him.
That you’re giving up.
Now it’s your turn.
You take the ring for the groom from the velvet pillow, your fingers trembling. You slide it onto his finger, and the gesture feels like a final sentence. For you. For the girl who five years ago lay in the arms of the most incredible man on earth and believed it was forever.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride!”
Your groom leans down.
His lips touch yours softly, carefully, properly.
You close your eyes, and in that moment, in that darkness, you don’t feel him.
You taste the salt of your own tears on your lips and the sharp metallic scent that has nothing to do with this bright hall.
The guests are touched, happy for you.
You are not happy. You are mourning him. Mourning yourself. Mourning the life that was stolen from you — by circumstances, by silence, by his cursed job, his cursed confidence, his cursed love that Satoru carried away with him.
The kiss ends. You open your eyes.
Your husband smiles at you, wiping your tears with his thumbs.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I love you.”
You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat.
Everything is fine.
Now you’re married.
Now you have a home, a family, a future.
You have everything except him.
And when you walk back down the aisle while guests shower you with rose petals, your hand reaches your chest on its own. Through the fabric of your dress you clutch the ring, the only thing left to you from Satoru. You squeeze it so tightly the metal seems to bite into your skin.
And in your head pulses one thought, one prayer, one scream no one will ever hear:
What if I had said yes back then?
What if I hadn’t let you go?
What if you had stayed?
What if you were alive?
What if you were here?
You walk out of the church to the sound of the wedding march, and the sun blinds your eyes.
But inside you it’s night. That last night. And Satoru looking at you with longing and the purest love as he slides the ring onto your finger, only to disappear forever.
Satoru squeezed your hand back then in the dark of the bedroom, and there was so much tenderness in his eyes you could have drowned in it.
Satoru said he would come back.
He promised you.
But Satoru never came back.
And you marry someone else.
But inside you die every time you remember him.
And standing on the threshold of a new life, in a white dress, with a stranger’s ring on your finger and a new name you now carry, you know one desperate truth: you will love Satoru until the day you die.
Until your very last breath.
Until the moment you close your eyes and maybe finally see him again — smiling, with those crazy eyes that hold the whole sky, his hand reaching out to you.
I’m so sorry, Satoru.
I’m so sorry I didn’t say yes.
And I’m even more sorry that I’m saying it now — to someone else.
But more than anything I’m sorry I never found out whether you would have said something else, if you had known you were leaving forever.
And you will never know that the most desperate wish Satoru had before he died was to see you one last time.
Do not repost, copy, plagiarize, translate, or feed my work into AI in any form!)
Divider credit: @omi-resources
☆ nerdjo x reader: Was it ever theoretical casual? (masterlist!)
Synopsis - Satoru Gojo, brilliant in all but anything small talk. Until he gets a teeny tiny crush on miss popular English lit major. Oh, but what is he going to do when his very well-intentioned brother finds out? Or worse, places a bet on you?
cw - idiot nerdjo, slow burn, very romcom, college au, eventual angst
ch. 1 - at rest / ch. 2 - an unbalanced force / ch. 3 - incoming..
“So…Satoru. Got the hots for anyone lately?”
Satoru’s attention shifted from the swirl of his "non-alcoholic" drink to Toji Fushiguro, Basketball team captain and professional player (outside the court). A smirk grew on his scarred lip as he leaned in, too drunk to address any kind of personal boundary. I mean, given his infamous reputation of being the worst kind of womanizer alive, the fact that such a crude question would come from him wasn’t surprising. To Satoru Gojo however, who had never climbed above the bottom of the school social hierarchy, the question itself was downright outrageous.
“I, uh, I mean-” He felt his skin prickle and his cheeks flush slightly.
“Knock it off, Fushiguro. The kid’s practically shaking and you’re over here tryna feel him up.”
“I was just askin’..” Toji muttered under his breath, pushing himself off the couch and heading back to the party.
“Sorry ‘bout him. Trust me, he’s better company to have around when he’s sober. Mostly.” Geto plops himself down on the couch, watching as Toji staggers off in the distance with a few long-legged blondies already tailing him.
“Right. Yeah, he always got a lot of fans, huh?” Gojo mumbles. Sure, Geto was Satoshi’s best friend and he’s talked to him a few times. He’s been in his dorm once or twice, usually accompanying his brother. But still, he felt out of place. This wasn’t his usual scene nor the kind of people he’d choose to be around.
“Yeah. Nothing like your brother, though. You should see the crowd at his games.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
He never felt more out of place. Not where he’s clearly behind.
“Okay, so. What Toji said, anybody you've been interested in lately?” Geto leans in, whisper-shouting above the music that still managed to make its way into the room. Satoru blinks, as if pondering the question. As if an answer wasn’t already written so clearly in his mind.
“Nah, nope. No one.”
“..Ah. Anyways, Satoshi’s been saying how you need, y’know, a group. I’m surprised, though. You’re head of the astrophysics club and robotics, yeah? Surely you got your own crowd going on there.”
“...Satoshi said that?”
Sure, Satoru wasn’t nearly as outgoing as Satoshi. Even during childhood, Satoshi would be off outdoors and return late at night, sunburned and ready to ramble about the new friend he had made that day. He remained indoors, fixated on the new lego set he had received. He couldn’t lie, he wished he had Satoshi’s confidence or his charisma that made interacting with people so effortless.
Maybe just a little of it. Maybe his life wouldn’t be so..quiet.
Yes, he had friends like Yuji, Haibara, Inumaki and the rest. But the most they’d ever done was spend hours in a game cafe, finishing where they last left off in D&D. They know that they’re the campus dorks. The kind that spends time absorbed in worlds of fiction rather than social events.
He had to wonder, did they wish their life was a little bit different as well?
“Nah. Well, he sort of…hinted at it. I get it, though. Toshi’s just looking out for you.”
As much as the concern would’ve been appreciated, he’d rather Satoshi didn’t bring any of his personal business up to someone else. A tinge of irritation plucked at his nerves.
Fuck it.
He tipped his head back, shutting his eyes.
He downed his drink, letting the smooth liquid slide down his throat.
Yep, definitely not punch.
His body lurched forward. A strange bitterness, strong, swam from his throat to the pit of his stomach. He let out a hacking cough, then a wheeze.
“Shit, man, you okay?” Geto laughed, patting his back with mild force. Gojo nods, his eyes still scrunched shut. Once his coughs stopped, he leaned back and let out a long exhale. Despite having his glasses on, he felt his vision swim. Just a little. And his hearing buzzed. Just a bit.
“Okay, okay. I get it. How about this..” The sly man leans in, pulling Satoru in. He obliges, still slightly out of it.
“If you can get a girl, any girl. To kiss you, before this semester ends, you’re guaranteed a place at Alpha Phi.”
Pause.
His hearing cleared at that. He couldn’t deny, a small part of him did long for friends. And that same part of him felt a fraction of envy whenever he’d pass by the house, seeing his brother having the time of his life. Living the full college experience. Even if it meant that his grades dipped sometimes. The trashy aspect of it could use work and some people were better company than others.
But, was there really any better opportunity than this?
“..Any girl?”
“I’ll pick the girl.”
Right. Of course. There was gonna be a catch. It wasn’t going to be easy, not with Geto.
Satoru watched as Geto’s eyes scanned the room. His eyes landed on a tall, leggy blonde. Giggling under Fushiguro’s beefy arm. No, definitely not that. Then, to that dark haired girl with a ponytail and glasses? She definitely glared at me just now. That girl with blue hair and bangs seems..alright. Maybe a bit ditzy.
“Hold on. Right…there.”
Gojo hiccups. His vision blurred for a split second, the world turned over on its axis. But strangely, it felt..warm. And strangely buzzy. Like static accompanied by some kind of pleasant friction that softened at his consciousness. Did that even make sense? His thoughts, always linked in some indestructible chain of logic, suddenly seemed to melt like butter on a pan. It swirled around in its own path, gliding free as he could only do so much as watch and let it happen.
He forced a slow blink, or essentially a vain attempt at restoring his already lacklust vision. Geto nudged him, cocking his head in the direction of the cased opening of the room.
It’s you.
Arms linked with Nanami, mid-laugh at something Shoko said.
He bites the inside of his cheek. Of course. Coincidence or not, it wouldn’t be easy. Not with Geto.
“Pick someone else.”
“Ah, so you do know Y/N.”
“..Satoshi mentioned that too, didn’t he?”
Geto says nothing, that stupid smirk getting a fraction of an inch wider. If Gojo had any sense left in his head, he’d know better. He’d turn down that bet, all mature and sensible. Leave that party, do anything else except watching helplessly as his conscience disappears on the opposite end of the universe. In fact, the last thing he expected to be on a Wednesday school night, was in some sorority mixer at 1 AM.
Of course, there wasn’t any sense left in his head. He’s a fresh 20-something-year old and this was his first drink.
That damn non-alcoholic punch.
“..Fine. You’ll eat your words, watch.” He muttered that last part, staring down the bottom of his cup. White, round, in a loop. Infinite. Numbers are infinite, where do they go after? Stop it, Satoru, get it straight.
“..Alright. We have a deal, until this semester ends, yeah? I’ll be looking forward to seeing you, at initia-”
Satoru suddenly shoots up, Geto’s words flowing one ear out the other. Despite not even being in the same room as the deafening bass music, he could practically feel every beat thundering in his being. His mind swam, his limbs weighed a ton, and his throat felt especially raw.
All he could think about in that unreliable head of his was you.
And the bet, right. That bet.
So, first order of business, talk to you.
Because that’s how you get to know a girl, right? You talk. Make her laugh. Say something cool. Sweep her off her feet.
The words are running a million miles a second. The conveyer belt of his thought process is crashing and every single stop-and-think button is malfunctioning. With his unreliable vision, his balance wasn’t doing much better either. He was walking. At least trying to, one foot in front of the other. No direction, just straight ahead.
He’s heard Satoshi rambling about some of his girlfriends. He’d complain or update him on the latest news of his very messy love life while he sat on the other corner of the room, eyes glued to the computer. Occasionally, he’d actually listen to tidbits. And he’d wonder why this one didn’t quite have the same personality that Satoshi was ranting about only to realize it’s a completely different girl, precisely 3 girlfriends ago. He’d occasionally pass him in the halls, leaning over some second-year cheerleader as she practically falls all over him. Or, just a few hours ago, dancing with some sorority girls.
All in all, he was no Satoshi. But he could try.
He walked. Slowly, unsteadily. One foot in front of the other. Breathe, Satoru.
She’s laughing, she says something to Nanami. He laughs too.
Big deal. He can make her laugh. Just like that.
That punch was really doing the job, actually.
His hands felt unusually clammy.
The tips of his ears burned.
And a strange hammering somewhere beneath his ribs.
That’s funny. Last time he read on the effects of alcohol, it didn’t read out any of these symptoms. Then again, what’s on paper isn’t quite what it is in real life.
Ignore it.
Talk to her.
Wait, what does he say? Oh god, she saw me.
She saw me.
Those (e/c) eyes could charge him with a million volts at a glance. She didn’t even have to look at him. She’d just peruse the room, not committing anything to memory or thought. To you, he’d be just some guy at a party.
Shoot.
Okay, he’s here now. No turning back.
“..You’re Satoru, right?”
His mind blanks at that. Your voice. That smile. The way your head tilts when you ask a question.
It’s so painfully you.
The words dry up in his throat. His eyes were glued to the ground, struggling to even make eye contact with your shoes.
Say something, dammit.
“Oh, yeah, uh. That’s me.”
He tilts his head up. His eyes focus on anywhere but your face. Your shoulder. Your clavicle.
The blaring music does nothing to ease his nerves. His clammy palms felt uncomfortably moist, one buried into his jean pocket and the other clenching the red solo cup.
He sees you nod in his peripheral vision. You turn your attention elsewhere.
You weren’t interested.
“..I heard it’s your party. This one, I mean.” A lame attempt at filling the empty hole in the conversation. That one came without thinking, no script-writing or planning out in his head.
His entire being, in this moment, felt completely impromptu. As if pulled entirely by intrusive urges.
It felt utterly foreign to him. Because he never pushed through anything if he didn’t run it over once or twice. Or if he knew absolutely sure it was going to work out according to his favor.
When it came to you, every thought or action he had articulated beforehand no longer existed.
You were gravity itself. An omnipresent force of nature he could neither solve nor prove.
Affecting every equation as an absolute entity. Equally potent regardless of assumption or proposition.
And he was caught in your repercussions.
“Not really. I just organized it. Shocker, right? I think Utahime’s just glad not to have anything to do for once.” You let out a chuckle at the last part.
“..So, what, she’s being a normal sorority girl tonight?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s enjoying herself out there. She deserves it though, for all the hard work she’s done.”
Frankly, Satoru didn’t even know who this Utahime was. He didn’t really care to ask.
He just liked being able to contribute to the conversation. To indulge in this back-and-forth as he anticipated your replies.
“..You’re good at this. Throwing parties and stuff.”
Something in his gut held him back, his tone falling flat despite the compliment.
If he expressed too much, you’d be weirded out. If he cut himself short, you’d be uninterested.
“..Thank you.”
He stared at your lips. How they turned upward slightly at the corners.
Something was off, though.
Your smile was there. But that familiar sparkle in your eye didn’t accompany it, meant to be more polite than genuine.
Stop overthinking, Satoru.
“..For the record, you’re a lot less overbearing than some..ditzy sorority girl.”
It wasn’t until the atmosphere grew dense when he realized how it sounded.
Like car-crash disaster level word vomit.
Every ounce of his level-headedness decided to return the instant the deed was done.
It came out so so wrong. He didn’t mean for it to sound like that.
Like a jerk.
“Excuse me?”
Strained. Like delicate silverware bent out of shape.
“No, wait. I’m sorry, I- I didn’t-”
“..I better go. Um, Yuki’s calling me.”
He finally lifted his eyes.
The sight of the back of your head is so achingly familiar.
He’d seen it in the cafe across campus. In the library. In bustling hallways.
He never imagined that he’d see it again.
With you walking away from him.
“Yuki, you should’ve BEEN there. Gosh, the audacity of some guys..”
The aftermath of the mixer was nothing short of catastrophic. Not that you weren’t used to it though, since you were mostly assigned to clean-ups even before then. It was 3pm now. You’d manage to haul yourself through the morning classes, your mind stuck in that fog that associates with the lack of sleep. Eventually, you gave up and made a mental note to go over the notes of the lecture on your own.
Here you are. In the spic-and-span Delta Nu sorority house.
The floors were mopped.
The trash was taken out.
Every surface imaginable was sterilized, scrubbed, and shining.
Not a single leftover piece of evidence from last night.
Well, that spoke for the house.
Your hair is done up, out of your face. Sweater rolled up to your elbows. Eyes squinted in terrifying concentration.
What better way to let out your feelings than baking?
It’s a very normal, human thing to get stressed. And when people get stressed, they find some way to ease up. Maybe jogging, writing, or some kind of hobby that takes anxiety on a hike.
For you, it was baking.
And currently, the Delta Nu fridge was going to be very stocked.
“Not only that, he was so..uninterested the entire time. He sounded so painfully bored, and he didn’t even bother to look at me when he talked! I mean, really..”
“He really said that? Dang, and I thought he was different from the other one.”
“He is different. He’s worse.” You were on your third batch of muffins. Your hands were working with practiced exertion. Flour, sugar, eggs, baking powder, salt, vegetable oil. All the ingredients were worked up in a silky golden batter. The preheated oven warmed the room. You let out a deep, exhausting sigh as you finally look up from the repetitive revolving of the whisk.
“Okay, how about we take a break from the muffins? I’m sure the girls will appreciate it but..” Yuki pries the whisk from your hands, tossing it into the sink.
“The party was great, trust me. If Utahime doesn’t think so, she was probably too drunk to even form an opinion.” She gently pushes you onto a stool, wiping remnants of flour off your cheek.
“..You sure? The DJ’s different this time, maybe-”
“The DJ was just fine, Y/N. No use worrying about it when it’s done. And it was done great.”
“...Okay.” Your shoulders relaxed a bit as you managed a tired smile.
“Good. Now, uh, you head back to the dorm. I’ll take care of the rest, yeah?”
She reaches into her purse and presses the dorm keys into your hands. You stared at it, turning it over in your palm and letting the light shimmer in its jagged ridges.
“..Yuki.”
“Hm? What is it?”
“..Do we..really come off the way? ‘Ditzy’?..”
“..Y/N. Don’t let some jerk ruin your day just because he’s just saying whatever. Besides, he was wasted. The others had to practically drag his unconscious ass out.”
“..We’re not..ditzy, easy girls. We’re nothing like that.”
“We aren’t, hon. Regardless of what people say, we aren’t. Don’t let him get to you.”
You watch as Yuki pours the golden batter in the baking tray. She tips the bowl over, fills some of the slots halfway and others nearly to the brim. You cringe internally as puddles of batter drip on the kitchen counter. Relief soon fills you as you realize that even if you and Yuki didn’t always see eye to eye, she’d always have your back.
Even if it meant showing up on the bad days.
Satoru Gojo had never been drunk before.
I mean, he’d sip wine at gatherings. But that was occasional, and if he could get out of it he would.
But he’d never been so drunk, he blacked out.
And, speaking of drunk, he had never been hung over before.
His vision doubled as he stared up at the ceiling light. His ceiling light.
…How in the world?
He scrunched his eyes shut as he extended his hand out to his bedside table. Feeling around for his glasses, he always put it right underneath the table lamp.
Wait.
There was no bedside table.
..This is not his dorm.
“..Oh, you’re awake.”
That was Satoshi’s voice. Thank god, the one person he’d trust to handle if he ever passed out.
He opened his mouth to reply only to be met with that scratchy friction in his vocal chords. Painfully dry. Gosh, he was thirsty. It certainly didn’t help that he had a killer migraine. The kind that was deeply lodged in your skull and made you want to take out your brain to run it under cool water. His eyes remained shut the entire time. The lights burned into his retinas, raw under exposure.
How can someone possibly be nauseous with an empty stomach?
Apparently, he managed it.
“I told you you’d have fun. I bet staying in your room feels boring now, huh?”
“..Toshi, please shut up. You’re making my ears ring.”
“Ah. Right.” He could make out the sound of his brother's footsteps, clunky and irregular. The lights dimmed. His brain finally stopped cooking on high heat.
“..Geto told me, by the way. About the whole bet thing.”
His eyes flutter open. For a moment, his face twitches in confusion.
It hits him. Recollection of flashing lights, dense air, and you.
And him being a complete, utter idiot.
Shit.
“Toshi.”
“Yeah?”
“What time is it?”
“Why the hell do you care? You should-”
“What. Time. Is. It.”
“..7:30 AM. You passed out a whole day, bro.”
He sits up, abruptly. Despite being nauseous and fatigued and generally unwell, getting up was the first step. And he had to do it fast, like ripping off the bandaid.
“Woah. Hey, man. Nobody’s after the perfect attendance award.” Satoshi watches as he scrambles the room, feeling around his pockets.
“Here.” He hands him his glasses. Satoru nods, taking it from him and already reaching for the doorknob.
“Thanks. Uh, I owe you one.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Satoru stumbled halfway out the entrance, dropping his glasses in the process. He can handle himself, he thought.
Retching, then silence.
Then very uneven, clumsy footsteps down the hall.
Oh boy.
The warm streaks of light poured in the cafe window as you stood in line, waiting your turn to the cashier. It was exactly 8:00 AM. Which meant, in your realm of superstition, that it was going to be a good day. You weren’t too early, or too late. You had saved yourself the awkwardness of entering when the employees were still opening shop and the hectic morning rush of university students.
You believed in living, one day at a time.
You simply planned out what you had to do for that week. Prepare, study, go over what you need to do. Contrary to popular belief, it is a lot more sustainable than worrying years into the future. The time you spent worrying over what could’ve been is what should’ve been used to actually do something.
People, mostly freshmen, would ask you for advice on how to stay afloat even amidst the bustling university life. And your reply, honest if anything, never failed to leave them surprised. Not that you cared if it was in a good way or not.
You did things your way. That was just how you liked it.
The person in front of you shuffled out of line as the barista gave you a familiar smile. Polite but comforting all the same. It was one of the reasons why you kickstarted your days here, it never fails to uplift your spirits.
“Good morning, Y/N! Just the usual?”
“Yeah, I’ll-”
“WAIT! Wait, wait!”
Oh, god.
Maybe you spoke too soon.
You kept your gaze ahead, that smile still frozen on your face. This white-haired douchebag practically towered over the counter table. He catches his breath for a moment, clutching the edge of the counter. His strands of ivory stuck out in all directions, a tinge of red on his already pale complexion, and not to mention his glasses were inches from falling off his nose.
The barista eyed you, giving you that look of “do you know this guy?” You scrunched your nose in reply, you sort of did. Not exactly in the most pleasant of circumstances. She nods before quickly punching in your order, chai latte and a pan au chocolat.
“No, no. It’s on me.” His cheeks remained slightly flushed. Pupils of icy blue stuck on the girl across the counter, staring at the gleaming platinum card he tossed onto the marble surface.
A moment of silence passed.
What in the world did this mean?
“..Go on, what are you waiting for?” He asked the employee, cocking his head. Snapping out of her daze, she takes the card very hesitantly. Because nobody in this whole cafe has ever even touched this level of financial superiority.
You reach out her hand to stop her just in time. “Hold on, what are you trying to do here? How did you..were you looking for me?”
It was certainly a weird start to your morning to see the guy whose guts you hated suddenly paying for your breakfast.
Weird, but not..bad?
“I just..Look. I was a jerk the other night. Believe me. I had no idea what made me say that. Or even say anything at all. I should’ve-”
“..You were drunk, Satoru. Don’t try to flip this.”
He couldn’t even look you in the eye for a half-assed apology.
Is this what rich kids are like? Thinking they could throw money at problems?
“..Please. Just, let me.”
A beat of silence.
The pair of icy blue eyes finally made contact with yours.
His snowy hair falling over his eyes, unkempt in a somewhat annoying but charming way.
He almost seemed desperate.
“Uh..Y/N? There’s..a line..” You bit your lip, the tiny voice of your barista friend bringing you back to your senses.
“..Fine.”
You conceded.
Only because there was a line. And people needed their coffee.
That’s all there is to it.
He breathes out a sigh, scratching the back of his neck. You could feel his gaze as you retrieve your order from the counter.
“..Thank you.”
I mean, any university student would jump at the opportunity for anything free. It would be rude not to thank him. Even if it pained you to do so.
“Don’t mention it.”
Huh, it seemed he returned to his stuck-up self.
Guess that’s the extent of it.
You smile, nodding gratefully. Quite the eventful morning but it shouldn’t disrupt anything. You could tell Yuki about it later, over an overload of muffins.
“..Wait.”
You were already walking the sidewalk, a few steps from the cafe.
Jeez, this isn’t over yet?
Biting your bottom lip, you turn slowly.
That desperate, hopeful look in his eyes.
The kind that couldn’t hide behind his black frames.
“I..uh..” He was looking at you now. Hesitantly. Like having you in his field of vision was something he wasn’t quite used to.
How is his face still flushed?
“..Y’know, I go to this cafe too. Every morning.”
His voice is hushed but firm. He’s selecting his words carefully. Even so, his voice has a sort of waver.
You get it.
Even if you prepared a script beforehand, nothing matched the feeling of actually articulating it in front of an audience.
What you didn’t get is why he’d be nervous with you.
“..Would it be..alright if..I could see you again? Tomorrow, maybe? Wait, but if you’re busy, I get it. I wouldn’t want you to- I’m not saying-”
“..Start over.”
“..Sorry?”
“Your words are all over the place. Start over.”
One of the things you found important when knowing a person is the way they talk.
I mean, classic English lit major, right? Looking too deep into things, trying to find significance in the ordinary.
To you, it told you the most about a person. Whether they expressed it in a way that was concise or even verbose, it allowed you a small window of their identity. Their thoughts. Their experiences. And as cheesy as it sounds, their hearts.
Maybe that was just your philosophy.
But you also happened to believe that you shouldn’t judge a person by their worst moments.
This was one of the things you struggled to stick by. And you’d get tested on it, over and over again.
Now, you’re standing in front of the guy who insulted your sorority to your face.
But again, he was drunk.
And you’d be a hypocrite if you said you didn’t do stupid things when you were drunk.
You watched as he straightened himself, pushing his glasses up with his knuckle. His shoulders rose as he took a deep inhale. The chai latte in your hand suddenly felt slippery with condensation.
“Y/N. I would like to see you again tomorrow. If that’s..okay with you.”
Not a single tremor. Concise, straight to the point. Maybe a little unsure but then again, who isn’t?
Not bad, Satoru Gojo.
“Same time, right?”
taglist (open): @gosh1kisimp @suguphile
a/n: js experienced the worst canon event but writing always makes me feel better :)
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☆ nerdjo x reader: Was it ever theoretical casual? (masterlist!)
Synopsis - Satoru Gojo, brilliant in all but anything small talk. Until he gets a teeny tiny crush on miss popular English lit major. Oh, but what is he going to do when his very well-intentioned brother finds out? Or worse, places a bet on you?
cw - idiot nerdjo, slow burn, very romcom, college au, eventual angst
teaser / ch. 1 - at rest / ch. 2 - incoming..
“Oh my god Yuki, how am I ever gonna get this all done in time?” You groaned, your hands rubbing your eyes in disdain. Stacked on your study table was a mountain of readings, ranging from obnoxious Russian Literature to Shakespeare. Not only that, you had a couple of video projects due in, what, a week? And neither of your groupmates had even sent their summaries of the lecture in time. And, of course, you had the liberty of editing the video. Right, great, super.
“Girl, you say that and get A’s across the board.” Yuki calls out, mid-brushing her teeth as she taps away on her phone.
“You’re not even paying attention to me. Who even is this guy? I swear, this is the longest you’ve talked to someone, and I pray it’s-”
“Y/N! Let me tell you, this guy, he’s great. You have to meet him, he’s from Alpha Phi-”
“Don’t even.” You groaned out. Yuki laughs, and you let out a scoff in response. She saunters out of the bathroom, her long blonde hair bouncing playfully behind her. Her face is mildly damp and dewy, practically radiating a glow with that smile on her face.
You spin the chair, watching her flop onto the bed and unto her back, her phone practically inches from her face. You begrudgingly take a book from the stack, already annoyed by its hefty weight. On its cover, “Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy”. You’ve attempted to read it, back in middle school, but if there’s one thing you should know about Russian authors is that they never proofread their work a day in their life. They couldn’t understand that not EVERY detail was necessary like how many threads formed a 2 meter silk curtain spanning the guest room. Jeez, all because this guy couldn’t remain faithful to his wife and keep it in his pants. Hey, at least you know, guys were jerks even a century ago.
Typical.
“Oh, Yuks, you coming to the mixer? I’ll probably leave early, Utahime needs to double-check with the organizing committees.”
“Duh, Choso’s gonna be there.”
“Wow, it’s like I’m your side hoe.”
“Relax, Y/N, I return home to you every night.” Yuki winks, blowing a kiss across the room as she scrounges through her closet. You chuckle, making a mental note to update your to-do list. As soon as the lectures are finished up tomorrow, you have to do a final clean-up check at the house, and pray to some extent that there weren't any casualties to deal with. Which was next to impossible if you invited Alpha Phi. On top of that, Mei Mei was starting to complain.
No matter, you can handle it. You always have.
“Girl, you need to loosen up a bit. I’m starting to think being Vice President has got your hair falling out.” Yuki peeks over your shoulder, her scent of cherry perfume wafting through the air. Playful yet unforgettable, just like her.
“Utahime’s letting me organize this one on my own. Because once she graduates, you know..”
“Girl, listen.” She spins your chair, her face inches from yours as she props her hands on the armrests.
“You. Got. This. I don’t know how you do it but you do it every time. And you do it amazing.” She says, firmly.
“..Thanks, Yuks.” You smile, letting the corners of your lips turn upwards and your shoulders drop slightly..
Even if Yuki never fully understood your struggle, she always said the right words to snap you out of your doubt. To be honest, you always felt a bit...small compared to Yuki. She effortlessly matched the energy of whatever room she walked in, like talking to her felt so natural that her number was saved in your phone before you even knew it. Not to mention, her charisma made her perfectly capable of handling social events of Delta Nu, she saved your ass way too many times. She had standards too. For someone who had become quite the campus crush, she never dated anyone in Jujutsu Tech. Sure, she had talking stages here and there, but she knew when to cut the line where it counted. If there was anybody you could depend on, it would be her.
“That’s my girl. I’d ask you what to wear but I know you’re busy with your big girl stuff. Anyway, good luck!” She skips to the other side of the room, laying out half her wardrobe that only made sense once she wore it. You couldn’t deny it had to be a talent.
“Yeah yeah, you’re gonna look fantastic, as always. Call me up once you’re there, ‘kay?”
“Duh, see ya!”
Yuki was right. You couldn’t bring yourself to enjoy a party, even if you were the host. You'd be much better off standing at the door, welcoming guests who you couldn't quite put a name on. Nonetheless, the more the merrier. And who doesn't love a house party with free drinks?
"Wow, Y/N, you really went all out." You turn, Utahime smiling with a red solo cup in hand. Her dark hair nearly bordered on indigo in fluorescent light, held back by her signature white ribbon. She was dressed up now, in some top you've never seen her wear and a mini-skirt with enough sequins to refract a rainbow. Like an actual sorority girl. For once, she didn't seem so tensed up, trying to prevent Delta Nu heirlooms from ending up on the floor or beer bottles shattered in the most frequented areas.
That was your job now.
She swirled her drink, looking around at the blaring bass music and the bumping bodies that crowded the floor. It was a sea of blurred out faces, cheap body cologne, and conversation too pointless it melded into drunken laughter. Occasionally, someone would get too riled up on one corner. Over a muddled up game of beer pong or a game of billiards that disregarded every rule on the planet. But it would blow over, because the crowd was far too tipsy to care and far too drunk on the party rush.
"Oh, it's..nothing. Couldn't have done it without everyone's help, really."
"You owe yourself more credit, Y/N. Why don't you relax and enjoy the party, you earned it." She places a gentle hand on your shoulder, giving you that older sister kind of smile that always eased the tension forming in your gut.
"One word of advice, Y/N." She pulls you in, her voice lower now but stern enough to drown out the music in the background.
"Hm?"
"Do not trust those lying snakes from Alpha Phi. Seriously, do not give them the idea that they've got one over you."
"Oh, yeah, of course-"
“And, I repeat, do NOT let them leave this house without both socks and shoes. Christ, the amount of times..” She rants, her eyebrows furrowing as she pinches her nose in near-frustration. She calms herself, sighing and taking a long needed sip from her cup.
"Really, Utahime. Thank you..for everything." You chuckle, feeling quite sentimental about life once she’s off, starting on whatever great agenda she had in mind.
"All you, Y/N. You're ready." She gives you a smile, before nodding off to enjoy the rest of the night with her friends. Her white hair ribbon bouncing with every carefree step, drink in hand and fate be damned. You, however, are left alone to do your duties. Cheers to being the responsible one in the house while everyone else gets wasted.
*ding*
“babe i’m at the kitchen with cho, come meet him” – Yuki
“okay” you replied, ignoring the taut numbness in your heels as you proceed to take the long route around in order to avoid the hyperactive crowd.
Despite not being known as a party person, people from all over campus did a double-take on their own schedules when they heard a social event being hosted by none other than Delta Nu’s beloved Vice President. Because you were the sorority sweetheart, the mediator in every conflict, and the apple in the eyes of every professor you studied under. It was astonishing, really, how someone like you was so popular and yet, didn’t actively seek or even try to be.
And you were oh so painfully unaware of it.
You never notice how the University football team pushes themselves a little over the limit once they catch a glimpse of you with your camera, taking candid shots for the school newspaper.
You never notice how the anxious freshmen always gravitate their concerns and questions towards you, more than any other senior.
You never notice how the younger sorority sisters feel more at ease when you act as the voice of judgement in regular meetings, because they know they’re in good hands
You never notice how the cafe baristas add a little extra to your drink whenever you make your routinely visits because you always greet them with a smile and wish them a good day ahead as you leave.
You never notice how in every organization you’re in, they trust you with a little more responsibilities than the rest, knowing you’d get it done flawlessly and without issue.
And, always, you do it with a smile.
Because, to you, nothing made you happier than making someone’s life a little bit lighter. In any way you can.
“Yoo hoo, Y/N!” You’re snapped out of your fluorescent haze when you hear that chirpy cadence. To the left, utterly stunning in a sparkly red party dress, was Yuki. You smile in relief, grateful for someone you could actually converse with more than just “drinks are in the back!” or “don’t enjoy yourself too much!”
Before you could even fully turn to walk towards her, she already has one arm around your shoulder as she ushers you to the table of food. I mean, really, it’s only been 2 hours since the DJ entered and the crumbs were sparse. On the bright side, it meant a whole lot of people. And what’s a good mixer without a whole lot of people?
“Wait!” Your body suddenly lurching forward as she skids to a full stop. You look up at her in confusion as she stops in front of you.
“Do I look okay?”
“What? Yuki, where-”
“No, listen, I’m not saying that this place has department store lighting but like...do I have something in my teeth? Is my lipstick stained? Oh gosh, is this dress too much? Too short?” She gave you a turn, looking at you as if you were both a mirror and her personal stylist.
“Yuki, you look like a goddess. Don’t even play with me right now. Wait, have you already talked to Choso?”
“For the past hour I’ve been in here. Let me tell you, not once, during our entire conversation, did I even think to run to the bathroom for a retouch. It’s like, I don’t know, like I actually enjoyed whatever we were talking about..”
“Oh. Oh, you’re in deep.”
“Hah, like that’ll be the day! Now, come, you have gots to meet him!” Yuki took you by the arm, her contagious confidence rubbing off on you. She waves to a dark-haired guy with this peculiar pig-tailed hair style that, oddly enough, made sense. He had this tattooed line across his nose, a sharp contrast to his stark pale skin. His bored gaze fizzes out as he notices her approaching, immediately adjusting his slouchy stance.
“Cho, remember Y/N? I’m sure you’ve seen her around, y’know, since she’s so famous.”
“Yuki! Stop saying that..” You groan, feeling your cheeks flush.
“Nah, she’s not wrong. You got a special knack for these kinds of things, gotta give you credit.” He says, surprisingly upbeat despite his intimidating impression. Maybe Yuki rubbed off some of her magic on him.
“Seriously, Y/N! I’ve never seen a mixer at Delta Nu so..full! Like, even I’m caught off guard!” Yuki nudges your shoulder. You didn’t know if it was the obnoxious neon lighting but it seemed as if she couldn’t get a sense of your bashful expression. Receiving compliments was never your strong suit.
“Really, it wasn’t hard to bring them over. Y’know, we should go and meet my brothers. They’re all chillin’ over there, except for Gojo.” He says, nodding his head off where you can see a very infamous and intoxicated Satoshi Gojo, who was practically a quarter a drink away from launching himself at the DJ. His frosty white hair is covered by a black beanie as his chain glints with every erratic movement. You can practically see Utahime’s vein popping.
“Yes, okay! Y/N, let’s go!” She steals you away before you feel your own annoyance building up at the sight. With linked arms, you make way to the common area as Yuki pulls you through the crowd. “Make way! I got host privileges!” She hollers over the bass, marching across the stampede. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes in a mix of amusement and embarrassment.
You come into view of the sorority common room, a pentagonal room with a winding staircase that leads up to the top floor. Amidst the witty banter and lively chatter, sat a few of the Alpha Phi members. The life of the party circulated on the other side of the world, this certain territory had a different cadence to it. Like the eye of a hurricane, the calm amidst the chaos. Or more like the adult table at a rowdy kids party.
“Y/N, you’ve really outdone yourself this time.”
You turn, a smile broadening on your face as you sense that familiar tone. Gelled blonde hair, square glasses, and a solo cup that definitely didn’t serve its intended purpose. Nanami was one of your classmates at your business finance class back in your 2nd year. While you never really understood the relevance of the class to your major, whatever topic you found the professor danced around on in a couple of hours was condensed in a mere 15 minutes by your seatmate. Always such a pleasant surprise, this one.
“Nanami! Enjoying the party? Or the alcohol?” You chuckle, raising an eyebrow at him.
“Oh, you know me. Much too drunk to handle the wheel. Leave it to the rest.” He shoots back, offering his arm. You take it, feeling a little bit steadier on your feet with the added guidance. With the music mulled over and the lights diluted, you finally had a clearer vision. Okay, Suguru, Haibara, Shoko, Gojo- wait, what?
Wasn’t he literally just out there? In the lobby, getting drunk off his ass?
Wait, no, he doesn’t wear glasses. And he sure doesn’t wear anything like that. A gray plaid flannel shirt over a white under shirt, acid wash jeans, and stainless stark white sneakers. The dim light accentuates the shadows on his face, somehow highlighting that shade of brilliant blue in his irises you couldn’t quite akin to anything you’ve seen in your life. He has a red solo cup in his hand, grasping it far too firmly to be relaxed. You watch as his glasses nearly slid off his nose bridge as Geto laughs heartily, somehow letting it out on the guy with a heavy slap on the back.
“Nami, is that..Gojo? Wait, I’m not drunk or anything, but-”
“Gojo Satoru. His twin brother.”
What?
“It wouldn’t kill you to attend one party.”
Satoru sat hunched at his study table, his white hair tousled from his never-ending frustration as his code fluctuates for the nth time. From the moment you walk into his dorm room, you’d immediately know the kind of person he is. Slivers of the standard cream white walls peeked out from layered posters ranging from Digimon, Star Wars, Spiderman, and D&D. From every vertical surface imaginable was his collection of figures, undoubtedly well kept compared to the clothes in his own closet. Even his own bed was never made, often left in a crumpled mess of sheets.
And on his own bed, lay his twin brother, Satoshi Gojo.
“..darn it.” Satoru grumbles, staring at the screen. He never usually struggled with coding. Like, he was pretty well-versed with the basics of Python and he did some side jobs here and there for the Gojo Foundation. But he never really got into the specifics like data manipulation or networking.
No matter, he’ll get it. Somehow.
“Yo, are you done with that? Pretty sure the screen provides you with more vitamin C than the sun.” Satoshi smirked, mid-tossing a football in the air. When people eventually figured out that the identical twins were in fact not the same guy with a personality disorder, they still struggled to believe they were even related at all. Their personalities were basically on opposite poles of the spectrum and they weren’t usually seen in public together. Not that they hated each other's guts or anything, they just didn’t really need to declare it to the world. They shared a kind of bond that didn’t need proximity to stay intact, or even conversation. Most of their interactions usually consisted of Satoshi crashing Satoru’s dorm or Satoru needing to help his very intoxicated brother from getting anywhere near the Dean’s building.
But in everything, they had each other.
Being the twin heirs of the prominent Gojo Foundation was a life riddled with expectations, media training, and purely to be admired from the outside. And a functional family dynamic was far from promised. Sure, they had a grandiose villa which overlooked the city, maids and butlers waiting at their beck and call, and just about any of their desires that had a price tag attached to it. The perfect life was gifted to them on a silver platter, spoonfed even.
Perfect never really meant fulfilling, though.
The elaborate birthday parties of the Gojo twins weren't celebrated by guests of their choosing but instead by associates and ambassadors, which could practically be labelled a social event. The recognition ceremonies and baseball games were only rewarded with the presence of the other twin, and the requested accompaniment of their personal butler. And when their parents did show up, it wasn’t for long. The spacious master bedroom was far too pristine to be lived in. The bed was cold to the touch.
Their astounding differences never brought them apart. It only showed how much they needed each other, then and now.
Through childhood and through university.
“Ha ha. That’s rich coming from someone who lives off beer-liquor-whiskey shots. I’m not lending you my kidney, by the way.” Satoru shoots back, pushing his glasses atop his head.
Satoshi chuckles, sitting up from the bed and making his way across the room. His eyes absentmindedly scan the myriad of posters, recognizing a few from his brother’s childhood bedroom. He never really found the appeal in these kinds of things, not on such a fan-obsessed level anyway.
“Okay, real talk. There’s a mixer at Delta Nu tonight. I’m not forcing you to come, and I’m gonna try not to dunk your head in the punch bowl. I’m just saying, you could use-”
“Fine. I’ll go.”
“See, you need to experience a little bit of fun. Like, the college thing isn’t complete without- Wait, what?”
“Yeah, I’ll go.”
“Huh. Okay, wow. By the way, the Delta Nu house is, like, a couple of streets across campus. It’s near that one restaurant. Also, everyone’s going. Like, everyone everyone.”
“Everyone? Including Nanami?”
“Oh yeah, he’s not stuck on cleaning duty this time. And besides, Y/N’s hosting.”
Satoru’s eyes shot up. Huh, he didn’t realize you were part of a sorority. His words hovered, as if your name caused his own voice to plunge somewhere in between the lines. He pursed his lips, averting his gaze away from his brother. Unfortunately for him, he had already caught on.
“Oh, you know Y/N? Makes sense, she’s sorta well-known.” Satoshi says, taking notice of his usually composed sibling suddenly shifting in his seat.
“Really?” He says, trying to appear as if he had never heard your name. Or knew your face so well he mapped out your features in his head. Or wanted to hear you talk for a little longer, even if it wasn't to him. Or wished your perfume lingered a little while longer.
“...Man, you suck at lying.”
“I just didn’t know she’s part of those things. Like, I can’t imagine her and Utahime being in the same room.”
“Oh, yeah. Utahime’s always so easy to tick off and Y/N’s, well, not. Also, she’s kind of everywhere. I swear, she’s somehow in every club and looks like she gets her sleep in. Y’know, unlike us.” He walks to Satoru, ruffling his hair as an ode to his typical tough-love antics. Satoru groans, leaning back in his chair as his glasses fall instinctively back onto his nosebridge. He couldn’t tell if he was that easy to read or if Satoshi just knew him that well.
“I’ll head out. Be there by 8. Wait, no, 9 actually. Shoko takes hella long to get ready.” He heads out the door, making sure to leave it open a crack just to annoy him. Satoru sighs, still very much in his own thoughts to shut it himself.
☆ nerdjo x reader: Was it ever theoretical casual?
Synopsis - Satoru Gojo, brilliant in all but anything small talk. Until he gets a teeny tiny crush on miss popular English lit major. Oh, but what is he going to do when his very well-intentioned brother finds out? Or worse, places a bet on you?
cw - idiot nerdjo, slow burn, very romcom, college au, eventual angst
⋆｡°✩ teaser
⋆｡°✩ ch. 1 - at rest
⋆｡°✩ ch. 2 - an unbalanced force
⋆｡°✩ ch. 3 - in motion
⋆｡°✩ ch. 4 - collision
⋆｡°✩ ch. 5 - an equal, opposite reaction
a/n: hope you guys enjoy! cuz im having a lot of fun writing this hehe
summary: at the division one level, tennis is more than a sport. it’s your livelihood, and with your doubles partner maki training overseas for the summer, you know you need to step up your game for your last season. luckily for you, your coach has connections. and who better to train you than a rising star olympian? over the course of the summer, you’ll push each other to your breaking points, and maybe farther. set by set, day by day, you start to untangle the mystery that is yuta okkotsu, the man he is off the court and the force he is on it. you might have finally met your match. but just like always—it’s all in the name of the game.
content: completed. 38.3k words. f!reader, warnings preceding each chapter, yuta's an olympic tennis player, you're a d1 tennis player, NOBAMAKI CANON, yuta is a little feral sometimes, he's really intense about tennis, and you, unhinged toge, coach gojo, coach shoko, satosugu is there in every universe, tennis makes no fucking sense, why are the d1 rules so different than the pro rules, wii sports would never do me like this, no use of y/n, sfw, gratuitous use of italics and also em-dashes and also swearing
directory
🎾 // set one: to stand alone
set two: stay sharp
set three: work-life balance
match point: a double endeavor // 🎾
☆ nerdjo x reader: Was it ever theoretical casual?
Synopsis - Satoru Gojo, brilliant in all but anything small talk. Until he gets a teeny tiny crush on miss popular English lit major. Oh, but what is he going to do when his very well-intentioned brother finds out? Or worse, places a bet on you?
cw - idiot nerdjo, slow burn, very romcom, college au, eventual angst
If there’s one thing Satoru Gojo would put his life on the line for, it would be Physics.
Because unlike people, chances, or circumstances, numbers never failed him.
Because they were predictable and infinite and absolute.
Because no matter how many times you reversed, rearranged, simplified it to the downright basics; it will always hold up in the same form.
Because it was constant, it never failed to follow the same set of laws predicted over centuries ago.
Because nothing made more sense to him than Physics.
So, why did every single competent neuron in his mind suddenly malfunction at the sight of you?
Every morning, before his 9 AM lecture, he always made a non-negotiable stop at the cafe right across the university entrance. So conveniently placed that students from just about any major or clique imaginable have paid a visit. Which is why he always made a point to show up an hour before his lecture, and to beat the morning rush of course. He always got the same thing; a jumbo caramel mocha macchiato with an extra pump of caramel. Disguised in a generic coffee cup that definitely made him feel like people took him a little more seriously.
And every morning, you’d enter.
Sometimes it was 8:02, 7:53, once even 8:13.
But he’d always find himself looking around, sneaking glances. Hoping to see that familiar head of (h/c) locks that swayed effortlessly, that caught the light and framed your face just right.
Not that he noticed or anything.
He’d let the person behind him go first when he’d notice you’re a little later than usual.
Or he’d whip his head around so fast when he’d hear the doors open and that familiar waft of your perfume peeks in.
Vanilla, was it? Or jasmine?
God, he could never place it. But it was so you.
And he wouldn’t have it any other way.
And the way you spoke so politely at the cashier? Saying “thank you!” every time you ordered your usual drink?
Always an iced chai latte.
No matter if the weather was practically sweltering or so frigid the pacific ocean froze over, it was always that drink.
Not even coffee, like every sleep-deprived student in the vicinity running low on energy. It’s like you were in your own world, that everything else that mattered came so naturally and fell into place.
God, you were perfection personified.
“Iced chai for Y/N!”
He snaps out of his thoughts, running a hand through his snow-hued hair. Praying to whatever to the universe or whatever divine creature must be entertained, to not to look so mesmerized as you step up to the counter, smiling so earnestly as you take your drink.
You looked as your wardrobe consisted purely of those Hollister sweaters that hugged your curves, with the sleeves that clung all the way up to your knuckles. With those bootcut jeans that fit you so well. And how does someone look so attractive in converse? That’s something he could never solve for all the Calculus in the world.
And when someone approached you, you always responded with that heartachingly sincere smile. Like you genuinely cared. How you'd tilt your head when faced with a question, as if sparing a moment or two before responding. The way you'd bite your lip whenever you're hung up over an assignment, twirling your pen in between your fingers. You had the cutest lips that never once spoke profanity, always coated in your favorite gloss. The one that you keep in the side pocket of your bag. And those doe eyes, huge and glass-like, that can break down the layers of the coldest heart. It was over for him.
You had the kind of beauty that didn’t beg for attention. Or asked to be noticed. Like it was out of this world yet here you are, in a cafe amongst hundreds of others in the city. Like you carried it as a damn weapon you didn’t even know you had.
And he was willing to take all the hits.
You turned on your heel, your (e/c) eyes catching a ray of light that poured in from the windows. As you walked, it felt like the world froze on its axis. Like the whole world granted him one long second to take you in fully, to admire you for a little while longer.
“Hey!”
You’re walking in his direction. Oh, god. Did she notice me? Does she think I’m a creep? Did I stare too long? Oh, crap, what–
“How have you been?” You said, your expression brightening. You walked past him, your voice chirping up as you approached the person in line behind him. He felt his breath knock out of his lungs, then he realized.
You were so close, he could practically reach out and hold you.
He can smell that perfume, much stronger now. Tinging the air with that light scent, the very atmosphere lifted. He couldn’t eavesdrop, he wasn’t THAT crazy, but your tone. Your aura of sunshine, practically spilling out in how you reverberate your words and bounce on the balls of your feet with energy. Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see every tilt of your head. How you emitted such a genuine reaction that never failed to charm. No wonder you always seemed at the center of crowds.
“Oh, crap, gotta go. Catch ya later, yeah?”
He listened as your footsteps faded out, the cafe door closing shut.
He didn’t even realize his own heart beating fast, his emotion running wild in his chest.
“Your order, sir?”
He flinches, realizing he's in the front of the line. His eyes automatically darts to the menu, his heart still tight from moments ago. He adjusts his glasses, clearing his throat.
“Oh, nah. I’ll..sit out. This time.”
The cashier pauses, looking up in confusion before shrugging it off. He coughs, realizing what he just said. He shuffles out of line awkwardly, letting the next person step forward. Running a very sweaty hand through his hair, adjusting his frames, and promptly brisk-walking out of the cafe.
Maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll catch a glimpse of you.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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used these dividers for my masterlists! They’ve been sitting in my roll and didn’t know who’s they were! Thank you to the kind anon that helped me findthis!!!
Synopsis - Megumi Fushiguro, 3rd year Veterinary Medicine Major. Calm, collected, keeps to himself. Until a ballerina he can never seem to forget comes into his life, unexpectedly but not unwanted. His once quiet and routine-centered way of living is suddenly thrown off balance, not that he's complaining anyway.
cw - slow burn, all fluff, romcom-ish, sunshine x grumpy trope, college au
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Synopsis - Megumi Fushiguro, 3rd year Veterinary major, calm, collected, keeps to himself. Until a ballerina he can never seem to forget from over a decade ago comes into his life, unexpectedly but not unwanted. His once quiet and routine-centered way of living is suddenly thrown off balance, not that he's complaining anyway.
cw - slow burn, fluff, romcom-ish, sunshine x grumpy trope, college au
prologue.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ᯓ★ Chap. 1
Megumi Fushiguro, Apartment Complex B, Room 2.
“Damn boy, you live like this?” Said Yuji Itadori, the pink haired sport science major with a tan freckled face that was unrecognizable without a smile. His voice a decibel above “polite neighbor” volume, earning a couple of complaints from Megumi’s floor of the apartment.
The wooden flooring was mopped, as if freshly varnished. A scratchless chocolate brown surface that had never seen rouge pairs of socks or a layer of dust skipped over. Upon first entering, you’d notice a rotation of shoes paired neatly on the shoe rack.
And walking down, you’d find the main room divided into the kitchen to the left and the sitting room to the right. While it certainly was clean, it wasn’t obsessively scrubbed over. The kitchen was tidy, a part of it due to routine clean ups but also due to the financial demand of university that made plenty of room in one’s fridge. The couch was well-kept despite Shiro and Kuro’s shedding fur. Even the houseplants seemed to be thriving. The general picture being – he did just enough, which was usually better than most.
Ironically, despite being close friends since their freshman years at Jujutsu Tech University, Yuji had never been in Megumi's room. Heck, he never even went past the doorway. The most he had ever seen was bits and pieces from backgrounds of photos of Kuro and Shiro. Even then, it felt slightly...surreal.
"What..? I just sweeped."
"You sweep?"
22 year old Megumi sighed. He has seen Yuji's room; A bed that was never made, cans of protein powder that refused to be thrown away despite being long emptied, and at least 4 pairs of socks littered somewhere on the floor. He made it a point to at least clear the floor once Yuji's passed out after several reruns of The Last of Us or Human Earthworm Trilogy (which seemed to be all he ever watched).
Yuji stepped in, whistling at the several posters of animal anatomy posters which ranged from canis lupus to various species of lacertilia. Megumi always had a natural fascination and bonding with animals, more than he did with humans. Make no mistake, he wasn’t anti-social...maybe, but he found himself naturally inclined to anything living that didn’t feel the need to strike small talk.
"Huh, your schedule is, like, full. I just put it all in my head." Yuji chuckled, taking a glance at a schedule with different classes, appointments, internships, and such scrawled in navy blue neat script.
"Yeah, and has that ever worked out for you?" Megumi said, a hint of snarkiness in his tone. Yuji laughed, scratching the back of his head.
"Hey, now, I always make the deadline. Gotta keep that memory in check, y'know?"
Megumi watched Yuji's eyes scan the rows of anatomy science, calculus, chemistry, and social science textbooks lined up neatly on the wooden shelves. Knowing damn well he isn’t reading a single one of those titles. He will probably take one, turn to a page, see the word “abdominocentesis”, and never approach that certain bookshelf. He turned away, searching for the TV remote that was sure to keep Yuji busy for a few hours while he kept at whatever he needed to do.
"..You're into ballet, Fushiguro?"
The raven haired boy's head whipped up from his search. He turned, seeing the schedule now inches from Yuji's face as he scanned it. He resisted the urge to snatch it from his hands, shove it in a drawer, dismiss it entirely. Only that would only draw more attention. He set his sights elsewhere, shoving his hands into his pockets lest one would notice how it had begun to dampen slightly.
"..It's..something I've been putting off. For a while." Megumi mumbled.
"Huh. Never took you for that kind of guy." Yuji shrugged, putting it down as his interest dropped.
Megumi felt a quiet sense of relief, internally grateful that he didn't push the topic further.
Truth was, he hasn't watched the ballet since that fateful Christmas Eve with Gojo and Tsumiki. Hell, he hadn't even stepped foot in the theatre. Or any theatre, for that matter.
But in those quiet spaces of vacant thoughts, his mind lingered in Row 16.
Dead center.
His eyes fixed upon the young Clara that charmed the audience on the tips of her toes.
The scene portrayed in such a dream-like quality. Of charming, effortless and seemingly languid movements of fluttering snowflakes. As if pulled into a trance. A flurry of sparkling silver and white as Clara dance amidst the snow.
As if with such broad and unwavering certainty, that was where she belonged.
Every once in a while, his mind rewound that particular scene. Right before his alarm whisked him back to reality to the first signs of snow descended upon the streets of Tokyo.
The slumber struck Stahlbaum house whirled away in a flurry of snow. The corps de ballet in their frosty white costumes that fluttered about in the manner of snowflakes. Young Clara makes her first steps into the Land of Sweets, that youthful smile that came with a heart swelling with passion. That smile, not Clara's, but a dancer he never truly got to know.
No, not her either...
It was the summer before Megumi was to enter his first year of University. A sweltering hot day, at that. His AC was turned on full blast and an electric fan at its highest setting. But still, strands of raven hair stuck to his forehead as sweat beaded his forehead.
It was the perfect time to be out, in a swimming pool or even spending the last of his pocket money on convenience store ice cream. But no, he sat unmoving in front of his computer.
Skimming youtube for Nutcracker performances.
Specifically, Young Clara's of the Tokyo Ballet Company.
While, yes, technically it was narrowed down. But Christmas was when the theatre seats filled up and everyone scrambled for tickets. There had to be at least 30 shows of the Nutcracker every season. And with every season, there had to be more than one young girl playing the role of Clara. So really, Megumi, how easy is it?
Hardest thing in the world, apparently.
Not to mention, the Tokyo Ballet Company was an international company. Young dancers from all over the world came to audition for roles, from Clara to Mother Ginger's Polichinelles.
*SLAM*
Being a single father of more than 10 years, you'd think Gojo knew a little more about privacy. Especially when it concerned a teenage boy. But no, he never once thought nor attempted to knock.
"Jeez, it's so hot! Talk about turning on the AC in here, would ya?"
Despite the very boisterous yet unwelcomed entrance, Megumi didn't suddenly flinch at his legal guardian entering his field of privacy. Rather, his focus remained solely on the screen. Where he browsed through countless variations of Clara's party dance and Waltz's of the Snowflakes.
"..You still hung up over little miss ballerina?" Gojo snickered, peeking over Megumi's shoulder. He leaned his elbow atop that messy crown of raven hair, peeking through his sunglasses.
"..Just curious, is all."
"Right, right. Very curious. Totally not..stalker-ish or whatever.." Megumi glared at the sound of Gojo chuckling to himself. The trills of Clara’s variation cut short as he paused the video, noticing the sound of Gojo making himself comfortable on one of his bean bags.
"..Do you know her name?" He asked, swerving the chair to face him. Gojo ran a hand through his silvery mess of hair, eyebrows furrowing in thought.
"..T'was years ago, Megs. I mean, Ijichi booked the tickets. There were probably tons of Clara's, she just happened to be the one performing at the time."
"..Oh."
"..Hey, I know. You should go watch one of the company rehearsals. They're certainly a lot cheaper than regular show tickets..and not to mention, you have a higher chance of seeing her since it's a COMPANY rehearsal. I mean, that's if she's still dancing under them." Gojo said, his tone regaining that exuberant gait that usually meant he "had an idea" or in other words, an incoming disaster. He slung an arm over Megumi’s shoulder, raising an eyebrow again at what might’ve been the hundredth Clara variation scanned over. This one had long brunette hair and was dancing about in cornflower blue.
Only her smile dropped occasionally. As if the moment curtains dropped, so did the performance.
Not what he was looking for.
Not a smile that was far too genuine to be fabricated. Or bound by a role. Or overlooked once the season melted away to spring.
"..She could be off in the Royal Ballet or some big shot company a hundred miles away."
snowghoul
gamechangershow
gracieabrams
vaporwave
yousharknotpass
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
