sojournlangdon

[sojournlangdon]

What are your sins?

Sojourn!Michael Langdon x gender neutral reader

Warnings: mentions of death, light satanism (if that’s a thing)

Her voice is brash and grating. The garish red she wore could not be more fitting, with its loudness and lack of subtlety. You don’t know why you keep returning to this congregation. The admission process was a joke, which may explain the pitiful leader and members. Surely there was something better than this.

The creak of a door signalled a potential escapee. You feel relief on their part, and wonder what’s stopping you from doing the same. Her unblinking eyes and tense jaw turn to you. You feel your heartbeat more intensely following her question:

What are your sins?

Lips part, and shut. You blink too many times, and an awareness of it only worsens the behaviour. Why the fuck did you sit in the front row?

She looks at you with furrowed brows for a few counts, before opening the question to everyone. You feel heat brush over your face. So much for being above all of this.

The replies are almost as pathetic as your lack of one, petty theft, gun money and adultery. With the bar this low, your actions seem devilish. Were they? You don’t think so, but you decide to get a second opinion.

“Actually, I do have one.” The confidence in your voice is short-lived. She looks at you expectantly, and you feel the intrigue of the sad souls around you.

Voice small, you begin unclearly, before she demands that you speak up. The second time is better, desensitised.

“I killed him, I killed a person.”

You have their attention now, this was a step up in severity, to say the least. She grins, shouts her praise, and tells you to stand and inspire the ‘weaklings’.

You clear your throat, and try to diguise your trembling hands by holding them against the dark fabric brushing your thighs. Most everyone looks morbidly interested, but one unfamiliar face appears transfixed, desperate to hear the events.

Tangled, honey-tinted hair, light stubble framing parted full lips, glossy eyes so tired they looked bruised. You may be as equally as enthralled by him. You focus on the space around him, eyes flitting back to him to observe how he digests your story.

“It wasn’t senseless, or random. I may have planned it, but he well and truly deserved worse than what he got. To be honest, I was surprised by my own strength. I mean, keeping someone’s head underwater while they scratch and kick and bite is no easy feat. Drowning doesn’t happen in thirty seconds, and even after he stopped moving I had to hold him down - to make sure.”

You catch your breath, slightly dissociated, no longer aware of their reactions. You don’t know when to stop, so you keep going.

“It was yesterday, in the evening. He’s still there. But I drained the tub and refilled it with ice. I didn’t think about the fact that it would melt, though.”

Heat rises to your face a second time when you see him smile warmly at you, as if you said something endearing. You are once again brought back to reality, reluctantly noting the rest of the room. Some look nauseated, others inspired.

She once again litters you with praise as you return to your seat. For the remainder of the meeting, your mind is somewhere else entirely. You register movement around you as people start to leave, others staying for the shitty potluck. Arms crossed and eyes lowered, you languidly move towards the staircase. That was stupid, a stupid fucking thing to say in front of so many people. What if someone reports you, or tries to copy you or -

“Good riddance. To whoever it was. I’m sure you did the world a favour.” Up close, you can see just how disheveled and weary he looks. A gentle smile graces his features, and when you don’t reply, he gives a light nod and ascends the stairs.

You follow, reaching out to stop him, not willing to let him go just yet. The motion is messy, and you end up with the crumpled black shirtsleeve in your tight grip. Nice fucking going.

He stops suddenly, upper body twisting round. His raised eyebrows makes you cringe slightly, as you lean into the wall to let others filter past.

“I could use some help. You know, with the body. If you’re interested.” Another excellent move on your part.

His eyes soften, and you think he would have laughed if he was any less fatigued. He nods, tells you to lead the way. So you do. At some point during the walk home, you notice that your hands are loosely intertwined. You’ve been so fraught with nervous energy, that you don’t remember who moved first.

It’s quiet, mostly your own voice. You talk about where you live, potential dinner ideas, and that forensic psychology module you did once. He looks relieved when you insist that he takes a nap before anything else, and you when confirm that the shower is separate from the bath.

Only when you’re outside the building do you think to ask the blonde boy’s name, learning that it’s Michael. His delicate features work with his name, you decide.

“Like the Archangel. Cute.” He scoffs at that.

“Not quite. Really, I could prove you wrong there.”

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