#but he also wants to know why he wants to know why his father left him and why he betrayed everyone

[baepsays]

I FEEL THE RUSH ──── Gojo Satoru.

synopsis ────⋙ Instead of spending the very last summer vacation of your life like an average university student, you come back to your home town under unexpected and unfortunate circumstances; and silly misunderstandings lead to a blossoming summer romance.

pairing ────⋙ summer fling Gojo Satoru x reader

wc ────⋙ 15.2k (for a spontaneous silly fic i worte in 5 days idk how it got this long)

cw ────⋙ NSFW, MDNI, fluff, i mean some angst, mention of cheating, shitty ex, shitty friends, depressive episode, everyone here is rich af, teasing, banter, oral sex (f! receiving), car sex, flirting, lots of it, nothing else i wanna spoil lol, give it a read.

a/n: art by @/m0ryy , find the art here. the playlist that i used (very fun playlist ngl), also I'm tweaking the layout here and there as it just fits.

Summer is often dubbed the season of fruition, fulfillment, happiness, and new beginnings. Though for you, summer seems to be the season when you just never know what day it is. 

Days blend into each other, hours pass by, the sun never seems to set, and weeks seem to end way ahead of time. And your boyfriend, or now ex-boyfriend to be more accurate, finds it the perfect season to finally break up with you. After months of cheating on you behind your back with your own closest friend, it seems he finally found the nerve to get away with it.

After they were both done leaching off of you and betraying you, it was time to leave you behind. 

You wish you could say you were hurt. Broken and miserable. Well, you were miserable, not because of the recent circumstances. But rather than you being concerned about graduating, the dread of leaving behind the safety net of a tiring education system was daunting, to say the least. But at least it was there.

You don't really blame them for anything, but then you also do, though you knew when it started. When you found one of her socks in his room. Or when you smelled his perfume on her sheets. But you just never did anything; it sort of gave you leverage to not really input anything into these exhausting relationships without feeling like an asshole. A good excuse—that's all it was. 

Maybe your parents wouldn't understand these things so easily; maybe to them you are their heartbroken little girl. That is probably why they showed up at your apartment unannounced immediately the day after you told them about your breakup. 

And now you are in the backseat of your father's car, being driven back to the town you grew up in. Passing by the familiar ocean you always hated looking at whenever you had to drive back and forth. The vast, never-ending, salty mystery never made any sense to you. Probably why you never got around to learning how to swim.

“Are you alright there, sweetheart?” Your mother looked back from the passenger seat, only to hear you hum an unenthusiastic yes. 

“We're almost there. You know they renovated the club? You should come with us tomorrow. Everyone asks about you all the time.” Your father spoke without moving his eyes from the road.

“Sure. I will.” It didn't take much to appease your parents.

Simple-minded or privileged, whatever they were, you were probably worse. With all the comfort in this world, here you were, alone by choice. Left behind and soon forgotten. Which was never your intention; you just could not be what your parents, your ex boyfriend, and your friend's expectations wanted you to be. And therefore you are now taking steps backwards at a time in your life when you are to be sprinting forward.

Summer has always been the season most unkind to you, and you've never made it feel any less unappreciated. The animosity between you and the most beloved season cannot be that easily erased with a renovated country club, or the ocean, or some ice cream, or the wind that breezes by your windows at night, or twelve hours of sleep. 

But at the very least you can hope it does not burn you into the ground.

Every time you step back in your old room, a part of you wishes that your parents just threw everything out and made it into another sitting room or another gym. Then you see the posters of the band you and your high school friends once snuck out to see during your last senior year summer vacation, and it reminds you that maybe summer didn't hate you as bad as you thought.

Then the memories of the summer during your first year of college come back, how miserable it was. Locked in your small dorm, with your annoying roommate gone, yet her side of the room remained as headache-inducing as ever. Parents you could reach out to, as they were not even in the country, and you did not have it in you to ruin their vacation. High school friends who slowly drifted away and suddenly broke all relationships and the promises. All that was left was you and the miserable heat of the summer. 

Anything will always be better than that shitty dorm room, even the room you grew up in that haunts your dreams now.

Walking down the stairs, you found your parents enjoying the wind cutting through them on the patio. And as you passed the living room while looking out at them sitting by each other's side, without even looking where you were going, you realized that maybe you have not really forgotten what that sense of familiarity felt like being back home.

It hasn't even been half a day that you've been back in your childhood bedroom. It was already well past 12:00 AM, and you could still walk from your room to the kitchen with your eyes closed, half asleep. Even the sound of a car pulling up in your neighbor’s driveway, the teenagers giggling in a hushed voice, and someone's dog barking—everything felt comforting and just as it always sounded. It felt like home. 

It felt like you could finally open your windows, at the end of the day, and welcome the summer breeze as happily as your parents did. 

You wish you could say you spent your first few days back home more productively. Instead it was just a routine of waking up at either 4:00 AM or 4:00 PM. Making coffee, eating whatever could be easily grabbed, and then spending the rest of your day rotting away in bed.

This was summer. The summer that everyone longed for and idealized, for you it was days bending into each other. Until the urgency of the decreasing free days finally made you want to pick up your unfinished assignments and open those untouched documents.

“Alright, get ready!” Your father barged into your room unannounced with the amount of enthusiasm that made you kind of regret being back home.

“You have got to stop walking into my room like that.” You didn't bother to look up at him from your bed, keeping your eyes trained on the screen of your laptop. The poor thing has been running since last night without a break. All because you found some horrible show to occupy your brain for some hours and not let you think about anything. 

“Go get changed; we're going to the club!” With every step he took forward, the more you wanted your bed to swallow you whole.

“Why can't I just stay home—AND STOP OPENING MY WINDOWS, IT'S SO HOT OUT!” The sunlight suddenly poured in from your windows, and it felt like just from the looks of the shining rays of light, the heat outside could melt even when you were in the comfort of your nice and cold room, courtesy of the air conditioning. 

“DO NOT ARGUE WITH ME, YOUNG LADY! YOU'RE COMING WITH US!” 

And what is a poor little girl to do when her father is the one paying for her tuition fees and air conditioning bill? Certainly not going against what he asked for. She has to move her butt, take a shower, and change into a presentable sundress. To smile and nod at old neighbors she always found detestable.

You can only hope this white dress passes as presentable. Though there is nothing wrong with the dress, and sure, it is worn in, the cotton has softened significantly from when it was originally bought, which feels better on the skin than anything ever. The thin straps have become a little flimsy, and you genuinely believe the length has somehow shortened from above your knees to now where the hem lies on the middle of your thighs. But the pretty embroidery of flowers that ran all over the dress in a cream thread was what made this dress as captivating as it was.

The country club has never been a place you went with much enthusiasm. It was either about tagging your parents, running away from swimming lessons they forcibly signed you up for, sneaking into some empty room to take a nap, taking tennis lessons, or just simply sitting by the pool with your friends for lack of anything else better to do.

The worst part was always running into familiar faces, especially in such an exclusive place; everyone knew everyone. Especially when you're left by yourself at a table, like right now, sipping on some tea, only for just about any nasty neighbor to come up to you and make a few sarcastic comments.

“Oh my goodness! How have you been, honey? Look at you! It's like you're a fully grown adult now! But I still can't choose a pretty dress I see.” Oh, how you wish Mrs. Wilson would finally change for the better and stop running her mouth. And what is that even supposed to mean? You are a fully grown adult. Even though she will argue you're still the same petty kid from all those years ago. But you'd have to argue that you're a vengeful grown-up now. This is why you'll never see eye to eye with her.

“And you also look like you've aged a lot in these few years, Mrs. Wilson.” Her face soured just as quickly as it always did whenever she stopped to talk to you on the street back when you used to live here. 

“Your tongue is as sharp as ever, huh?” She smiled at you with the most faux politeness.

“Well, some things never change.” And you returned her smile with a similarly fake one.

Thankfully, your parents were done chatting with some of their friends. So you said your goodbyes to her with a tight smile and walked back to your parents. Not before you let out a little chuckle to yourself hearing her scoff behind your back.

“Oh, you met Mrs. Wilson, huh? I hope you were nice.” Your mother asked in a concerned voice, knowing your long, tumultuous history with her. 

Well, maybe you would've had a better relationship with her like the rest of your neighbors, who adore you! If only she didn't insult your fashion choices since you were a baby, and if her daughter didn't spend the entirety of high school trying to compete with you. Then maybe—actually never mind, you cannot be nice to a woman like her. 

“Yep, I was on my best behavior!” Your smile sure didn't say so, and your mother knew that too. At least your father understood your hatred for that woman. And thankfully he still does, given the fist bump he offered you. 

“You two are going to kill me one day. Anyway, we are going to the sauna. Do you want to come with us?” She sighed, tired of you and your father's dislike for the woman who happens to be a big source of your mother's neighborhood gossip.

“Sauna with you two and your friends? Absolutely not.” You'd rather sit in a scorching hot room full of old people who've seen you in your diaper, like any sane person.

“Alright, but the Getos wanted to meet you.” The Geto family lived right across from you. They happened to be your parents’ probably closest friends here. You and their son, Suguru, grew up together. You two have been childhood friends who always had a mutual respect for each other because of your mutual disdain for Mrs. Wilson and Summer. 

“I'll say hello to them after you guys are done or just drop by their place later.” You adored them the best out of all your neighbors. After all, they've been nothing but kind to you growing up. You've spent a lot more time in Suguru's front yard than your own. 

“Alright. We'll let you know when we are done.” You and your parents always had very different ideas about most situations.

“Huh? I can't just go home?” Where your parents wanted you to engage in some social and recreational activities, you wanted to go back to your bed.

“No. Either do something or come to the sauna with us.” At this point it felt like your mother just wanted you to be humiliated in the sauna more than anything.

“Sure, threatening your fully grown-up daughter is the best method of parenting.” The way you were sighing made you sound more like an angsty teenager than anything.

“If you were actually a grown-up adult, we wouldn't have to lecture you like this.” God forbid you get snarky and your mother lets you get away with it.

“Jeez, I'll find something to do.” No one can really argue with your mother, so guess you better find something interesting enough to do while your parents get cooked in the sauna.

“Don't cause any trouble, sweetie!” Your father said, loudly enough from behind you, that made you pick up your pace out of the dining hall. Twenty or seventy-two, they'll never stop embarrassing you on purpose.

“Not a kid, oh my god.” You speed-walked past the pool, full of teenagers and old people. Mumbling to yourself, like some sort of reassurance.

No one you know will ever call you childish or anything but mature. Except for your parents, they'd say you're still a kid. And maybe they are right; you don't really feel like an adult, nor do you feel like a kid. It's a weird limbo of being in your 20s, the supposedly best years of your life, just passing by in vain and emptiness.

The country club truly looked better than ever. The playground for the kids looked like it had been through some major improvement. The pool was now bigger; even the kids' pool was better than what you remember flapping around in. The path around the lake, by the garden, looked newly paved. And the golf course was just as vast but greener than ever.

But all of that did not meet the requisite of your interests. What interested you was beyond the pool, adjacent to the garden, and right before the golf course started. 

It was the tennis court where you spent the majority of your childhood, where you met Geto Suguru. And immediately decided you have to win everything where you face him off, because otherwise he will just tease you to death. You learned your lesson when you lost one friendly match to him the day you met, and that too only on the second day of your tennis journey. And suddenly the reserved new kid on the block was a smug little shit.

‘Maybe you never had to try hard enough, but you'll have to, if you want to win against me.’ Was what he said, if you remember correctly.

Since then you've been great friends. But it was either you tried not to compete against him or made sure to grind in secrecy to not give him even the smidge of a chance to tease you. 

You wish your friendship with Suguru stayed as it was when you guys were kids. Playing in his front yard, getting ice cream after school, going to the beach, and pulling pranks on Mrs. Wilson. You wish some things just never changed. But you can't really say you two are on unfriendly terms now or anything; you still get a text or call from him here and there, and you make sure to always text him back and call him if any opportunity arises. You've met up with him from time to time. And you often hear about him through your parents, and you're sure he also hears likewise. 

So it doesn't feel like you truly lost a friend to your shitty teenage hormones and the span of time. But you sure feel sorry for the both of you. Neither of you had a good time in highschool, it was very similar emotions you both were going through. But you two were dealing with them in your own unique and respectively different ways. Where he chose to completely shut himself away, you chose to try so hard to fit into places you never felt like you belonged. 

It was only after you came back home during Christmas after getting into college that you guys reconciled.

You are glad you met Suguru that day as a kid; otherwise, maybe you wouldn't have ever gone through with your tennis lessons. If only Suguru were there to race you to the pool, you'd have been a state-level swimmer by now. 

The tennis court was empty. In the heat of a summer afternoon, with the sun at its peak, it was obvious only a fool would be on a tennis court. Thankfully there wasn't another fool like you anywhere around.

And since the net was so nicely tied up, the equipment was there looking like it had just been cleaned, and you needed something to pass your time—why not take advantage of the situation? To check your rusty tennis skills and how well your new sunscreen worked. Whether or not you were about to come out looking like a sun-dried tomato depended on it. After all, summer will be here for a while, and so will you.

The neon green ball bounced off the ground and back into your palm easily, just as easily as it flew up in the air and then collided with your racket. It made a snappy sound as it spanned across the court. The ball went to hit the fence on the opposite side. You felt the sweat dripping down your temples, the ball rolled around on the ground, and you felt like something within you finally stirred up after a long while. 

The number of neon balls started to gather on the opposite side of the court, as well as around your feet, from a few missed serves. But it felt good to hear the sound of your heart beating with the sound of the ball hitting the racket.

But you can only serve a few bunches of balls in the air all by yourself without an opponent. So you tried to look for the ball-dispensing machine, which you never got around to figuring out, thanks to the always very helpful staff. But given the time, everyone must be busy serving or helping out for lunch. 

Yet you walked out of the court anyway to find someone to help you out with the machinery. And just behind the court, under a tree, just at the beginning of the golf course, you found a golf cart. To be more specific, you found a man leaning back in the driver's seat of the cart, with his hands behind his head, looking beat and exhausted.

He had a baseball cap covering his face, his white pearly hair was shining in the sun, and a single drop of sweat slowly streamed down his neck, along with his prominent veins, very cinematically. Even though you couldn't see his face, you could tell this guy was not from here; maybe he recently moved or something, or he was visiting for the summer and making some cash. Either way, you felt this intrigue bubbling up in the pit of your stomach as you stared at his bulging biceps and the sheen of sweat at the end of his rolled-up sleeves around his shoulders. 

‘Get a grip, jeez.’ 

You had to warn yourself before walking up to him. Each step you took felt heavier than before; for some weird reason, now you are thinking twice about asking the hot golf cart driver for some help.

“Um, hey?” You finally reached beside the cart and leaned just close enough to his ears. And when your barely audible voice didn't get to him, you had to summon up the courage to speak up.

“Excuse me?” This time the guy jerked up in his seat. The baseball cap fell from his face to his lap, and one of his sleeves rolled down to cover up his bicep because of his sudden movements. 

“Yeah?” Now that you could get a clear look at him, you could feel the tightening knots in your stomach getting worse. Not only did his body look so much better up close, but his build also looked bigger than what you imagined from afar, and his face, oh boy. 

How to start? The root of his pearly hair was damp with sweat, coming off as a darker shade of something in between white and gray compared to the rest of his fluffy hair blowing in the hot summer winds. His eyes were squinted from the sudden change in lighting, but you could see the sunlight reflecting in his blue pupils. There was a layer of sweat accumulated above his upper lip, and you had to conjure up everything to not reach out and wipe it away.

“Hi, uh, I needed some help.” You pointed back at the tennis court behind you with your free hand, and the racket in your other hand came to cover the front of your legs, like some sort of shield from the unfamiliar worker’s eyes. Which made it no secret that they were raking up your body from toe to toe, probably wondering why the fuck you are playing tennis in this heat.

“Oh sure!” He quickly jumped off the cart, leaving the cart to wobble from the sudden movements and lack of weight. 

He took maybe three long strides, and he was already almost at the tennis court, while you were still standing with the empty cart, looking at the silhouette of his thick thighs in those basketball shorts. 

“You comin’?” He called out for you from the entrance of the court, flashing you a toothy grin, waiting for you to reach him there instead of entering the grounds all by himself. You quickly yelled a yes and ran up to him, giggling at your half-effort running. 

You walked into the court, choosing to blame the sudden rise in heat on the sun above your heads. He followed suit obediently, ending up in front of the ball dispenser. 

“So, could you help me start this thing? I don't know how to work this thing.” You explained to the man, hoping for some help.

“Alright. Let's see, did you try turning it on, or did it suddenly stop or something?” He crouched down on the ground to sit on his left knee on the ground. Looking around the machine and toying with the buttons at the side that you also pressed, you were also met with nothing. He inspected the machine further to find any other way to start it, even kicking it a few times.

“Yeah. This thing is definitely broken.” He gets up to now stand facing you, with his hands on his hips, defeated. 

You sighed, all disappointed, but then again it made sense why the tennis court was completely empty. He looked at your face for a bit, contemplating whether or not he should blurt out what he is thinking about offering.

“Uh, I could play against you instead!” He walked up to the rest of the equipment under the shade and picked up a racket and spun it in his hands. 

“Are you sure? I'm not interrupting you, right?” You were happy to hear his offer, but you also didn't want him to get scolded by his boss or something.

“Oh please, it's my pleasure!” Maybe this was part of the service. 

“Alright then, you serve.”

“Gladly.”

 You threw the ball across the net at him, and he caught it without any hesitation.

He slightly bent down to position for his serve as you walked up to your post and got in position as well. He made the ball touch the racket three times before jumping up in the air and served the ball like an experienced and in-practice player. The ball flew right by your head and hit the ground outside of the boundary.

“Surely you didn't call me here to lose to me, did’ya?” A smug smirk stretched on his lips. And it irked you. In a different way than Suguru, sure, you still wanted to beat his ass in the game, but it did more for you than just aggravate you. That tightening sensation in your abdomen was back. 

“No, I called you here to eat shit.” But god forbid you let yourself lose a match against some smug smart ass.

“Oh, ho ho, feisty, aren't we?” He chuckled at your shit talk. You sure didn't look like the type to shit-talk in that pretty white dress, with the wind flowing by you, asking him so politely to help with the ball dispenser.

He didn't get a time to register when you even served the ball; he was expecting another sharp reply. Instead he somehow managed to hit it back, and this time the ball stayed in the air for a while. Until you rushed forward and jumped up in the air and pushed the ball down with as much force as you could, one of his knees bent, and he slid forward to get the ball. Unfortunately, his focus went from the ball to you—the way your pretty white dress hugged you and how the skirt flipped up in the air when you made that jump, exposing more of your thighs and a glimpse of your also white panties and the little lace trim on them. This need started to brew within him, and he couldn't pinpoint what it exactly was; he is not some horny teenager, after all. And so the ball crossed the net and hit the ground, making his efforts useless. 

“Huh, so you're not just all talk.” 

“I am not the one running his tongue here.”

“Uh huh? We'll see who's left tongue-tied at the end then.”

“Yeah, you'd know more about that, since you're losing.” 

And with a chuckle from him, you were in your position, legs spread out, racket in between your legs, ready for whatever he's about to throw your way.

Let's say you were far from tongue-tied even though you just lost.

“No, you were clearly out of the boundary there.” You walked up to the net, ready to swing your racket at him.

“Alright, alright, don't make up things now like a sore loser.” His racket fell out of his hands and landed on the ground as he walked towards the middle of the court. Meeting you behind the net. 

“Sweets, please, you just could not keep up with me; it's ok to admit defeat.” That smile on his face, you wanted to smack it off, but not really.

“This one doesn't count!” You pulled the racket up to his face, not even cognizant of what you were doing at this point, blinded by the fury from your loss. “Alright, sure. Rematch then?” He grabbed the head of your racket and pulled you closer towards him; the net clung to your body, and you could feel his body against yours, with the barrier of the tennis court net between you two.

And you wish you had something to say. But you were finally tongue-tied.

“Satoru!” 

Both of your heads turned towards the source of the voice, ever so familiar to both of you. Thankfully the distant silhouette of Suguru walking up to the court finally had you push away from the stranger's body. This guy you've known for mere hours, apparently named Satoru, suddenly had you at your wit's end. And somehow you had thanked Geto Suguru for interrupting your game, a first for everything, truly.

As Suguru walked up to the both of you, his usual furrowed eyebrows shot up to see you standing there looking clueless, with a racket in your hands. And he rushed his step a little more to get to you.

“And what are you doing here, huh?” His hands reached out in a fist. Which you gladly bumped in acknowledgement, and he instantly pulled you in for a hug. With one arm around your shoulders and another on top of your head, patting it, like he always did.

“Should've told me you're visiting. I saw you like months ago; you weren't even here for Christmas last year.” Suguru kept blabbering with you in his embrace, finally letting you go when you tapped on his chest to let you go for some air.

“You have to lose this habit, Sugu.” You two pulled away with a smile on your faces, glad to be running into each other after a while. It has been just texts and calls for the last few months, since your degree absolutely fucked you over, and so did your boyfriend and your friend. 

“So what, you're here with your loser boyfriend?” Suguru placed an arm around your shoulders, and his smile started dimming down as he saw your genuine smile getting replaced with a tight, awkward one.

“Yeah, oh god, about that.” You explained to Suguru the whole situation with your ex-boyfriend and ex-friend, as his face started contorting in rage. 

All the while, Satoru stood behind you two, leaning on the net between the courts; your hushed voices were barely audible to his ears. But one thing was clear to him: his best friend and this pretty stranger he just met a few hours ago sure had a great bond. The sort of friendship where even when you don't talk for months, you can see each other and hug instantly and spill your guts without any hesitation. Somewhere he felt a little envious, or left out maybe, unsure what it exactly was. The fact that his best friend had someone besides him whom he relied on so heavily, or the fact that you were smiling at Suguru with such ease. But then again, he literally just met you, and he's already getting ahead of himself. He doesn't even know your name yet.

Once you were done calming down a very angry and cursing Suguru, offering to beat up your ex, you finally noticed Satoru leaning on the net. And your eyes lingered on his, staring into each other's eyes, with something dense between you two, beyond physical and comprehensive explanations.

Suguru finally realized Satoru's presence, the reason why he ended up here anyway. And walked up to him, who was still staring at you instead of shifting his focus to Suguru. You felt pinned to where you stood, incapable of any movements under his gaze.

“You dumbass, you said you were going to take a break for a few minutes, and you disappeared for hours!” Suguru smacked his forehead, and finally his focus shifted from you as he got busy pouting and rubbing his forehead. So you used this opportunity to walk up to the benches to grab your bag, take out the water bottle, and check your phone. But even then, Satoru's gaze discreetly followed you there while also trying to give Suguru his attention. 

“Oh, come on, it wasn't thaaaat long, and your parents left for the spa; why would I stay there and get my ass beaten up by you?” So there was another person beside you who would rather back out than go against Geto Suguru; it was somewhat comforting to know.

“Alright, sure. Anyway, how come you two are here? Together?” Suguru looked back at you and then again at Staoru.

“Oh, I was looking for a staff member, and he was just out there. Honestly I did not expect a golf cart driver to be much help to me anyway but—”

“Woah, wait, sweets, what do you mean?” 

He stood up straight and had to cut you off. Because something about what you were saying told him that there was a bit of a misunderstanding here.

“And I was going to say this earlier as well: should you be speaking to a club member like this?” You walked up to the both of them and stood beside Suguru, looking a little disappointed at Satoru.

“Huh?” Genuine confusion poured out of his voice.

“I mean, as an employee here, you should—”

“Wait, wait, wait. So you actually think I work here?” He pointed a finger at himself and looked at you with confusion and dejection. So you've fucked up the calculation here, it seems. 

“Oh, this is hilarious to me.” Suguru chimed in, hands folded over his chest, enjoying the mystery of Satoru's identity unfolding. Smirking to himself, enjoying his best friend's humiliation.

“I mean, you look like it. With the white polo and shorts and those sneakers with socks. In this weather, on top of it.” You tried to contain your smile while describing his outfit; it looked exactly like what some of the part-time, non-uniform-wearing employees wore to come off as more friendly.

“SEE! I told you, you look fucking stupid, Satoru!” Suguru’s voice shot up, and he pointed his index finger at Satoru in an accusatory tone. One you knew oh so well, the ‘Hah! I told you so!’ tone, and you felt bad for throwing Satoru in a situation you've hated being in in the past.

“I thought it was a good golf outfit, ok? I’M SORRY!” Satoru, in return, comically gestured at his attire to make a point for Suguru. If this whole exchange wasn't so funny, you'd have felt really bad for him.

“Yeah, and then you sucked at it on top of your horrible outfit. His father is so good at golf you'd think he'd be good as well.” Suguru looked at you, trying to put up a picture of Satoru's poor skills regarding anything golf.

“Shut up. Also, you have a lot to say for someone who made the same amount of holes as me.”

“That's because I am tired.”

“Excuses.”

Suddenly you were now a key witness for a whole crime that was about to take place; it felt like they were about to throw hands any moment. Fortunately, your phone, along with Suguru's phone, buzzed in your respective pockets. And even before checking, you both knew it was your parents. 

“They're done, so should we head inside?” Suguru placed the phone back in his pocket after checking the text. 

You nodded and gathered your bag to meet up with your parents and the Getos, along with the two men you ran into through a series of unexpected happenings. On the way, Suguru introduced you and Satoru to each other. You gave Satoru your name and a gist of how you grew up with Suguru. In return, you got to know that his full name was Gojo Satoru.

“I mean, I sort of know you already.” His side slightly bumped into yours as Suguru led you two into the building. You tilted your head in confusion, not sure where you even ran into someone this outstandingly gorgeous and then forgot about him. That's not possible; he doesn't have a forgettable face, even for someone like you who forgets people's names and faces really quickly. You were sure if you ever saw him, you wouldn't have forgotten him. If you ever walked past him on a busy street, even then you'd remember him.

“Well, Suguru talks about you sometimes, so it feels like I kind of know you already.” 

You didn't know what was the cause of the fluttering sensation in your chest, the fact that Suguru cares about you enough that you get brought up in his conversations, or the gorgeous smile that Satoru threw after what he said, or was it simply what he said? 

There have been plenty of times someone said they felt like they'd known you for a longer time than how long they actually knew you. And it always irked you to think someone you don't even know thinks they know you, presumably, well enough. Yet in this case you didn't feel that, maybe because he's Suguru's friend. But this wouldn't have been the first time you didn't like one of his friends, so that was not the case. 

Maybe he was just some strange exception.

On your way back home, at dinner, after dinner, during breakfast the next morning—all your brain was occupied with was nothing but Gojo Satoru. 

I mean, what choice did you have left when your parents wouldn't stop singing his praises? Truly simple they are. The whole story about how you thought he was a staff member was a hit. That, accompanied by some flirting with your mother and some bad dad jokes with your father, and now suddenly he is their favorite person ever.

If there was a tier list, surely it's Gojo Satoru, then Geto Suguru, only because he has broken a lot of your windows while playing catch as a kid, and lastly you. And you cannot argue with them. The man sure has his charms and knows how to use them. 

Now that you are just standing by your window, with no one to influence your opinions or thoughts, you cannot help but go back to thinking about that man. For once you wanted to open your windows during the day, in hopes of catching a glimpse of something. Or someone, but you were still too stubborn to admit that to yourself.

But you still were fortunate enough to find what you were exactly looking for. 

Satoru was in the Geto residence’s driveway, right across from your house, visibly clear from your windows. In a tank top that had a Sonic X logo in the middle, which was soaked in sweat and soap water. There were bubbles around his forehead, and his bangs were clumped up and wet. The sheen of the off-white car covered in soapy water reflected an angelic light and all the colors of the rainbow all over him. It was flashy and ridiculously expensive-looking, most probably imported from somewhere, flashier than most of your neighbor's cars, but it really suited him. 

There was nothing remarkable about what he was doing; he was washing his car. And yet, to you it was somehow the most fascinating thing you've seen since you came back home, or maybe in years. 

The shape of his muscles was making outlines in his tight-fitting, drenched top. That silly Sonic X logo somehow made him look cuter. And all it did was make your eyes drag upwards from there, towards the platinum chain sitting on his collarbones. It lay flat around the curve of his neck, and the taut muscles there, as he moved his arms back and forth to clean the car, the chain moved along with his movements. Bouncing off his skin to sit curved on his collarbones again and again.

His teeth grazed his bottom lip from time to time, but his eyebrows and eyes did not show any signs of frustration. How he was just standing in the sweltering sun, in a soggy tank top and shorts clinging to his body, soap all over him, hair semi-wet in that said water and sweat—it was beyond you. But you just could not look away from him.

But maybe the intensity of your eyes reached his skin better than the sun. He looked up from his car, right towards your house, and after a second, his eyes found your window. And also you, standing in the window, shocked to be found caught red-handed, not doing anything bad, but also nothing you were proud of. 

Satoru's unoccupied hand moved up to wave at you with a sweet smile. And you malfunctioned. Instead of waving back at him like a normal person would, you hid behind your curtains. With a heaving chest, you stood there until you felt the heat rising up your body, going down. When you peeked outside, still hiding behind your curtains, you saw him leaning down on the car, with his arms folded under him, head tilted and eyes still directed towards your windows. 

Now you certainly could not just come out and wave a hi back at him. So you did the sensible act of ducking down on the floor to crawl all the way to your door. You remained on the floor until you could shit your bedroom door behind you, and when you did so, your back went against it. For some support to get back up on your two feet, and even then it felt like it was impossible. 

Your heartbeat was racing, and your entire body was burning up in a blaze. 

Out of precaution, your windows remained shut for the rest of the day. And you kept your face buried in your pillows, trying to process the sudden influx of emotions that you were feeling. Unfamiliar and few feelings that people usually feel way earlier in their lives, and yet here you were, early in your twenties. It was not your fault you wasted the majority of your college life on some guy whom you only kept around because you were too scared. Too scared to be left behind and forgotten, you just did not want to be lonely. Even if that meant surrounding yourself with people you knew didn't give a shit about you. It somehow worked in high school, so naturally you thought it'd work out in university.

And now, slightly more mature and a little more comfortable with your own company, you found a strange guy who made you feel strange things. 

It was a strange day altogether. Since you offered to accompany your parents to the club without being pressured. Even they were caught off guard, but there was no way they were about to fumble this with snarky comments. They will save it to throw them at you later at dinner.

It was a pleasant Saturday; if you ignore everything that happened by your window, a perfect day to go out to brunch instead of your usual coffee and toast breakfast before bed rotting. And after the events that happened earlier, you needed to get out, feel the warm wind blowing right in your face, and maybe forget how embarrassing the whole exchange was, if you can even call it that. 

“Oh goodness, fancy running into you guys!” Your mother suddenly spoke out, looking towards the door behind you. 

A part of you was too busy and too delighted by the waffles in front of you to mind your mother's words. While the rest of you already knew who these people could possibly be. Even though you reassured yourself that the Geto family usually doesn't come here on Saturdays, you were still dreading the possibility. And here you were, stumped and with a mouth full of waffles, about to be embarrassed for the second time in a day in less than 12 hours. A new record! 

Chimes of good mornings came from behind you, first in Mr. and Mrs. Geto’s voices, then Suguru's voice, and lastly a very cheerful greeting by the one person you did not want to see today. Everyone was chatting as usual as they took a seat at your table. You also said your greetings to them, trying to not make eye contact with Satoru at all costs, even when you could feel his eyes on you as he sat down directly opposite to you. 

“What a rare sight to see Miss holed-up-in-her-room.” Mr. Geto jokes. 

“These days even vampires need some sun.” As stupid as the joke was, Mr. Geto came down with a boisterous laugh. He has always been an easy audience to please, or maybe it's his bias towards you.

“You two and your stupid jokes.” Suguru grumbled beside you, never a big fan of your and his father's sense of humor.

The table fell into an easy conversation. You caught up a bit more with the Getos, as you didn't get to see them after lunch the other day. And your parents seemed more fascinated by Satoru. Honestly, it was surprising to see your parents having this much interest in an individual your age, other than Geto Suguru. What was weirder was how well Satoru just got along with them, talking about whatever nonsense that is the stock market and business. You presume that his family is some big-shit conglomerate, surely. He found common ground with your mother about his fascination for art, even going as far as naming her art pieces that are his favorites. What a strange, strange man. 

You have had an array of people around you over the years—friends from school, college, and some neighborhood friends—and none of them ever got along with your parents this well, except for Geto Suguru. They couldn't stand your high school friends, they warned you about your college friends, and they never warmed up to your boyfriend. You never officially introduced him, just that they unfortunately visited at a time he was also dropping by. Maybe you were wrong; maybe even they picked up on how miserable you have been regardless of a shitty boyfriend or not, given how much they visited in the last 6 months.

And now that you are back here, at this noisy table, this feels alright. It felt like home, and it felt safe, around people you care about. With the addition of a man who just aroused weird feelings within you, weird and incomprehensible. But it was also just a summer; it'll pass, it'll be gone in mere weeks. 

It was just a normal and nice Saturday brunch until you felt something creeping up on your legs. It didn't feel like an insect or something; it was distinctly the shape of someone's toes. And the only possible answer to who it might be was sitting right across from you. His face was turned towards your father, with his eyes occasionally drifting to the corners to take unnoticeable glances at you. The way one of his hands was placed on top of the table and his other was perched on top of the back of his chair—no one could suspect anything unusual about him or what he was doing right under this table.

“You ok?” Suguru asked, seeing how suddenly you froze up, occasionally twitching in your seat. His toes were trying to map out the plain field, which was your legs. They tangled themselves in the strap of your sandals, which wrapped around your ankle, pulling on them tentatively and snapping them right back lightly, but the sensation could only be described as so good. 

“Yeah. Just tired.” Suguru didn't look like he bought your excuse, but he was never someone to get involved in your business if you didn't want him to, so he went back to the book he was reading. And who honestly does that at a busy table like this? Anyway,

As Satoru's foot glided upwards, from your shin to the side of your knees and right between where your legs crossed. To prevent any further invasion of his foot. Yet you could still feel his toes scraping against the skin over the front of your thighs. Trying to dip between the gap where your thighs pressed together. And it didn't really try to probe in between them, just going up and down there, teasing you, barely giving anything, with hints of everything lying thick in the air. 

And it was frustrating to sit there and take it all and to not let your legs open up themselves willingly. What was more frustrating was just when your legs were about to fall apart and open up, after trembling on their own, pressed together, to aid the feeling pooling in the bottom of your stomach, he swiftly pulled away his foot. 

All while talking to your parents like the most ideal man out there. Like he is not trying to get in between their daughter's legs. The audacity of this man really amazed you, looking at the smile on his face, it's impossible even for the gods to realize what a sinister man he is. And honestly, these are the people you always have made sure to stay away from; cunning and charming was not something you were equipped to deal with. 

But that scheming smile and those side glances across from you, boy, were fun. 

“What is wrong with you?” You managed to corner Satoru before heading home. Making up some dumb excuse about leaving behind your hat (which you didn't even wear) to catch him before he could get to the men's restroom. Let the others wait for the two of you, thinking you were busy doing your own thing, while here you were trying to interrogate Gojo Satoru.

“I would like to think everything is perfectly fine with me.” He simply smiled at you, with either of his hands on his hips.

“No, I know you are fine—I mean—that you are—you know that is not what I am talking about!” It was all utterly cringe-worthy, the way it slipped past your lips, making you wish to bury yourself.

“Yeah? Maybe I am more interested in talking about how fine you think I am.” He walked a step closer to you, making you take a step backwards.

“Don't twist my words.” You dig your index finger into his chest, somehow his hard yet supple chest. You take the step forward that you backed away from, but he did not budge from where he was standing.

“Why would I? I’m not the one playing games here now, am I?” Satoru's head tilted to the right, and his face dipped slightly downwards to look you properly in the eyes. And when you had no answers to give, was it that you were lost about what he was exactly asking or lost in his eyes? It cannot be said for sure which it was.

“So why did you ignore me this morning?” At first you were dumbfounded about what he was even talking about, then the embarrassing moment you had by your windows came crashing down on you.

“I—I don't know. What do you mean?” You did your best to look him in the eyes while also trying to lie through your teeth.

“I mean, when you were checking me out this morning and when I waved at you, you just ignored me!” His eyebrows frowned a bit, and his lips jutted in a pout. If you were not digging a mental hole to bury yourself out of embarrassment, then you'd have rather shamelessly just admired how adorable he looked. 

“It's just that, I was—” “You were…?” 

“I was looking at the car you were washing! Yeah! It didn't look like, uh, what the Getos drive, so... yeah.” You've made bad excuses before and lied like a pro even, yet in this moment you felt like a criminal trying to get away from being convicted. 

“Uh huh? You liked my car then?” Satoru narrowed his eyes at you, and his hands, which remained on his hips this entire time, added to what his eyes were saying—liar. But you nodded a yes with a tight smile, and suddenly instead of interrogating him, you were the one being interrogated.

“What color was it?”

“Huh?”

“My car. What color was it?”

For the love of everything, you could not remember what the hell the color of his car was! Sure, he could've asked you what the color of his shorts was, or the logo on his tank top, that mole under his left eye, or the dip between his collarbones, or perhaps the exact hex code for the color of his eyes—but he had to go and ask you about that stupid-ass car. 

You knew you were fucked, and he knew he had you cornered. For that one step you took forward a few seconds ago, you now had to take two steps back, while he took three steps forward. Your whole charade was up, and your petty crush on your childhood friend's best friend was about to be aired out, and you were about to be embarrassed into the ground. You were sure this is it, but thank God for Geto Suguru, for once in your life, maybe. Your true angel in disguise!

“Oi! What’s taking you two so long?” Suguru asked while walking towards you two through the hallway, at the end of which you were being interrogated by Gojo Satoru.

“Oh! Satoru got lost, so I was helping him! It’s fine now. Let's go!” You enthusiastically said while walking towards Suguru in a hurry. Because if you spent another second around Satoru, you'd lose your mind. 

You pushed Suguru’s back to make him walk away from the hallway, because another second here and he would start interrogating as well. So you pushed a reluctant and suspicious Suguru from behind, leaving a disappointed Satoru to follow your two’s lead outside. And mumbled to himself while looking at your back—

liar.

Since then, you did your best to avert the topic of conversation whenever Satoru tried to bring up your wandering eyes. Being in his close proximity was hard, especially when Suguru was not there. So you made sure he was always there when you were getting involved with Satoru. And yet there were always these moments that made you remember why you sometimes just cannot stand Suguru and his audacity.

“Y’wanna go to Lewis’ party this Saturday?” Suguru casually raised the question while still looking at his phone. Ignoring whatever silly flirting you and Satoru were doing, mostly him looking at you with heart eyes and you getting red like a beet at his little comments here and there. The horrible summer sun was already in the middle of the sky, and the tennis court itself felt like a frying pan. 

So here you three were, drenched in sweat and clad in shorts and loose shirts, sitting under the apricot tree near the tennis court, pressed between the two men. The same tree under which you found Satoru, made assumptions in your head, and dubbed him as a hot new cart driver.

“He still does those?” You looked at Suguru while ignoring Satoru’s finger poking your cheek from your other side. 

“Yeah, he still does, every summer. The dedication of that guy.” Suguru scoffed to himself and finally put his phone down to look at you after quickly throwing Satoru a side eye. 

“Who is this guy?” Satoru’s head suddenly was right beside yours; his body was basically leaning into yours.

“Just some guy we went to school with; he throws these big parties every summer. He can be pretty douchey, though.” Suguru paused a second to think to himself before looking between you two and continuing with a smirk. 

“Yeah, and this hotshot here dated him in high school.” Suguru’s hand landed on top of your head, slightly shaking it and patting it. And your own hands went to his wrist to shove it off you with a scoff.

“Oh please, it was like 5 months or less.” You rolled your eyes while leaning away from Suguru's hands; they can mess anyone up easily. “And it was nothing. Just some stupid summer fling.” 

You looked over at Satoru briefly to gauge his reaction while simultaneously trying to ignore Suguru's teasing. It was honestly never the best idea to date the local party thrower; it meant everyone was up in your business. It was rough after the breakup, because not only did random people come up to you asking questions and being rude, but Lewis chased you around for another two weeks persistently. Thankfully he never had the best attention span. 

You looked at Satoru with eyes that said, ‘please do not think I have bad taste!’ 

It was a lot to ask of Satoru when he did not even know the guy, and you did not know why you felt like you had to justify anything. After all, aren't you two just friends through a mutual connection? It did not feel right to watch Satoru stare at you and Suguru with a blank face while Suguru teased you about some stupid high school ex. But it also didn't feel right for Satoru to feel this bubbling jealousy within him, hearing about your old relationship with this guy you might potentially see tonight, whom you've known longer than you've known him.

“No, I get it. Sounds like a fun guy, huh?” Satoru's tone from earlier flattened just a notch. Not really noticeable to most people, but you and Suguru knew. You've known Satoru for barely a week and a half, and you've come to notice little changes in his voice almost the same way Suguru can notice them. The difference is, you use them as a cue to change topics to something that'll lift his spirits, while Suguru doubles down on things.

“Oh, the most fun guy ever! He threw gummy bears in his pool and timed himself on how fast he could fish out as many of them using just his mouth.” Suguru’s back went against the tree bark in a fit of laughter with a thud, remembering exactly what finally gave you the ick to break up with him. A mouthful of pool water and half-chewed gummies. 

“Yeah, I am going to sit this one out. You guys have fun.” You rolled your eyes at Suguru, who was still laughing like a maniac, and stood up while dusting off your skirt.

“Huh, why? ‘ Cause he might try to smooch you with a mouth full of gummies and pool water again?” And Suguru was back to laughing like it could be a threat to his lungs.

Without any more words, because there were none to defend yourself for dating a frat guy and expecting an intellectual and respectable relationship out of it. You walked away after waving Satoru a goodbye and ignoring Suguru, who was by that point on the grass, tired from giving himself a one-man comedy show.

“She was looking forward to going out this weekend. Do you think she'll be ok?” Satoru asked Suguru while his eyes were trained on you walking on the grass. 

“Yeah. She will be fine.” Suguru knew you better than him, so Satoru should barely doubt his words, but he couldn't help but needlessly worry when you didn't even look much bothered about the party other than the fact that Suguru just outed your dating history. 

“If she's not, you can always check on her.” Suguru stood up and, similarly to you, dusted his shorts before extending an arm towards him. 

Satoru did not say anything more to that, just grabbed onto his hand and stood back up on his feet. There was a silent understanding in the air that Suguru knew whatever Satoru was feeling. Suguru’s hand went up to his shoulder and placed itself there with a sharp slap. Satoru looked to his right and saw Suguru's eyes sharp and unforgiving, not his usual sly, half-smiling, kind eyes. 

“If you do anything stupid or hurt her, it's on sight.” Satoru let out a wheezing laugh and placed his own hand on Suguru's shoulder while looking him in the eye. 

“You got it.”

That's all they needed to speak on this. Any more, and Suguru would punch him square in the jaw unprovoked. It was not that Suguru was expecting him to sweep you off your feet or anything, and he knew Satoru was far from some prince charming. But he respects you two and trusts you, and despite his lifelong protective urges towards you, you were now a grown adult who was more than capable of making her own decisions, and he wanted to respect that. As long as Satoru didn't do anything stupid. Like that recent ex of yours, because when you go back on campus after the vacation, you might hear a thing or two about his fucked-up face or a neck collar. 

Not that it had anything to do with Suguru, surely.

In the blink of your eyes, almost three weeks have gone by since you came back here. And two weeks since you met Gojo Satoru. 

It was already Saturday night, and you were rotting in your bed as usual, trying to forget about the party that you truly had no will to go to. But somehow you could not help but let your mind wander there. Wondering how many people showed up, whether Suguru and Satoru were having a good time, and if Satoru found someone other than Suguru to talk to there. Which you assume he definitely did; he practically befriended everyone on your street, he is a favorite of the retired people at the country club, and he just blended right in with everyone.

It was one of those few summers you will be looking back at with a fond smile. All the parties you three crashed, all the nights you snuck away to the beach in Satoru’s off-white Maserati, all that weed you three burnt away in your room, the day when Suguru was cleaning up the garage and found the little inflatable pool in which you two used to play. It was hilarious for everyone to see three fully grown kids smooshed up in a little kids’ pool, splashing water at each other. 

You have come to love the little watermelon plant that spontaneously shot up from the ground in your backyard, exactly where you three were shooting watermelon seeds with your mouths to see who could get the furthest. You got the flimsy little plant a support stake and made sure to water it every day because you did not want it to wither away in this summer heat. 

Speaking of the summer heat, it seemed as though the weather started getting hotter from last night. When usually things cooled down after the sun set, everything your skin touched was sweating if the air conditioner was not on. And given the occasion tonight, you figured it was best to spend the entire Saturday at home. In the comfort of your bedroom, behind locked windows and doors, with the only source of light and noise being your laptop. 

That was until the wind outside your windows started picking up. It made you feel some relief that it was not going to be a streak of horrible hot days. 

The wind swung by your windows, making swishing noises and rattling the glass doors to your balcony. It made you want to shift your focus from the mind-numbing show playing on your screen to whatever that was going on outside. The swinging trees, sharp wind, dark red hued clouds in the night sky, Satoru trying to climb over your balcony railing, spark of lightning and faint sound of thunder-

Oh, wait, let's backtrack. Did you just see that correctly? Was Gojo Satoru trying to climb into your balcony? Because who else could be in that baby blue cotton shirt and bouncy tuft of white hair? 

You rushed out of your bed, in your short shorts and tank top, probably as old as the eye bags that started to form under your eyes when you got into university. But you could not bother about that, or the crumbs of chips all over your top, and your unkempt and unbrushed hair. You just needed to get to Satoru in time before his wobbling body fell from your balcony and broke some bones in his body. 

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” You grabbed onto his hand and pulled him towards you, then helped him jump over your balcony railings. 

“Climbing your tower, Rapunzel. Even though your hair looks more like a bird's nest than a rope.” He flashed you the whole set of his teeth at the end of his joke. Teasing you, trying to elicit a response out of you, as always.

“I will throw you off my balcony.” You deadpanned in return, ready to push him off, with your hands on his chest, pushing him ever so lightly to not actually make him lose his balance on the edge. He flew to catch yours and held onto them as he erupted into giggles, and the wind blew by his hair, getting it all over his eyes and face. And yet he still looked effortlessly gorgeous, as if that's exactly how it was supposed to look.

“Ok, ok, I just came here ‘cause I got bored at that party; the gummy bear guy lost his edge. It was just people pretentiously gathering around the pool and going, ‘Oh! Are you studying there? I am going here!’ and Suguru fled with some girl, so here I am.” Satoru sat down on the floor of your balcony, with his back against the railing. And pulled you down to sit right in front of him, facing him, with hands still held in his. 

“Also just missed ‘ya.” He said it with such ease and nonchalance, like it was the most obvious answer. It was just a simple little line that crossed more lines between you two than anything, boundaries that must exist in a friendship. All just gradually blurring out of existence. 

“Y’wanna go to the pool?” He says to break your train of thought to get rid of the questions and silence in the air. 

“You were just complaining about people gathering around a pool.”

“So? It was more of a critique of the crowd than the pool; the poor pool has seen some things—leave it alone!”

At this point your hands, which were in his grip, were forgotten. It was like the most natural thing. It feels as natural as pushing your glasses up on your head and forgetting about them.

“Ok, ok, but you want to swim in our pool in this weather? Also, I don't know when my parents last got it cleaned.” Since you came back, you've never once used that thing, and you were never exactly there to see when your parents’ pool boy came around to clean it. 

“Not your pool, silly!” He bounced your hands with his, making a ripple of movement in your entire upper body. “Then?” “I meant the one at the club.”

You just blinked and watched him. With a smile on his face, he did not look one bit hesitant about his suggestion. And honestly, his idea made you want to rather check out how clean or not your pool is instead of trespassing on the property where your family was a regular.

“And how exactly do you plan on doing that without turning on alarms?” 

“I know the security code.” Your narrowed eyes did not look convinced with his answer. 

“How even—” “I play billiards with the general manager.” It did make sense for a social butterfly like Satoru himself to befriend the most terrifying guy in the entire club. The general manager was quite the grump; he was a nice old man. He helped you out of the pool once when you almost drowned because you wanted to join your then high school friends instead of being upfront about not knowing how to swim. The general manager later, when you seemed stable enough, scolded you while drying off your hair with a towel.

“That old man who is always annoyed at every living, breathing thing?”

“Yep. He said, I remind him of his late husband!” Which wasn't far off the mark; the general manager’s husband recently passed away from what you heard from our parents, leaving him to be more annoyed at everything. And Satoru had a similar, blasé positive energy radiating off of him. 

“So you seduced him!?” You jokingly said before pulling your hands out of his and moving to sit beside him, similar to him, with your back to the railing, knees under your chin, and thighs close to your chest.

“Nope. The only person I am trying to seduce is you.” Satoru’s head tilted to the side, and he kept looking at you. Recently, since he caught you checking him out while he was washing his car, his words and actions towards you have gotten bolder.

“Well….you should try harder.” You tried to lighten the tension in the air, which was now at least two or three degrees colder and felt suffocatingly hot, until he spoke up, still staring right into your eyes, with a faint trace of a smile on his lips, “I will.”

There was nothing more left to say after what he said, nothing, not even a joke to retaliate against the frustrating tension hanging heavy between you, making it impossible for you to breathe normally around Satoru.

“So! You're coming with me, or should I kidnap you?” You wish you could say no, but there was no refusing Gojo Satoru; that much you've learned about him clearly in these last couple of weeks.

As you looked out of the glass of the front window, exactly where the headlights of Satoru's car fell, on the side gate of the country club, only accessible by the employees. And yet here you were, getting dragged out of the soft leather seat of the car to sneak through that door with Satoru. Follow his steps closely from behind as he leads you to the pool by dragging you by your hand.

Without any word, Satoru let go of your hand once you two stepped on the paved concrete around the pool. Going straight to strip down to his boxers, his back muscles flexed with each step he took towards the pool. And some of the cold water in the pool splashed on you as he dived inside.

“You comin’ or what?” Satoru then intentionally splashed some water your way, absolutely drenched in the chloride-smelling water. 

“This is as far as I go.” You walked up to the edge of the pool and sat down with your legs in the water. It made you flinch at first, surprising you how quickly the water cooled down since the sun set. The water started to feel nicer around your skin as you watched Satoru do several laps in the water. 

He looked magnificent. One second he was at one end of the pool, and in the blink of an eye he was on the other side. It was easy to lose sight of him; he used the water to his advantage like a pro, which made you wonder if he did swimming back in school. How else was he able to hold his breath underwater so long that it had you worried enough to not notice his silhouette coming up to your legs and dragging you in the water?

“What are you—” You would have slapped his hands instantly off of your thighs if you knew what he was actually up to when they slithered up on them. Instead you were now in the cold chloride water, in Gojo Satoru's arms, trying to grab onto his shoulder and locking your legs around his waist.

It took you a few good minutes to acclimate yourself. With the cold water, and the feeling of drenched shorts and shirt, and especially the feeling that came from being in his arms. You could feel his body radiating heat even in the cold water and the vibrations that rumbled in his chest from laughing at the state of you, a clueless cat thrown off-guard in water.

“You, you're so dead.” His laughs only became deeper at your threats, and his arms tightened around your waist.

“Oh, c’mon, a little water never did anyone harm.” Satoru finally stopped laughing and just smiled at you; his gaze could not remain just on your eyes—they wavered. His pretty blue eyes scaled your face as if he were an archaeologist who just found a new artifact. 

And under the scrutiny of his eyes, you could not continue the banter. It was agonizing to have the little 3-inch gap between you two; it felt more like 3 miles. So you couldn't help but close that distance. Satoru had similar ideas, as he met you halfway through. 

His lips were everything and more that you ever imagined and dreamed of. 

They were soft, and they tasted faintly of those fruit candies he always crunched on: oranges, strawberries, lemons, and pineapples. And overall he oddly tasted of summer. Like the embodiment of everything you ever wanted from an ideal summer. As his lips slotted themselves with yours with more assurance after the first few pecks to measure the boundaries he could step on, you could feel the giddy tingles back in your stomach, shivers that prickled the back of your nape and ran down your spine, when his tongue pushed against yours. 

The hand that crept from your waist to your ass and pushed you up in his arms, your arms tightened around his neck, and one of your own hands went up his nape to his hair, the ends of which were now drenched in the pool water. And you wondered how you've been living without this, without kissing him silly the very day you met him, light tan and sweat covering his body, and just a cap to shield his eyes from the glaring sun. 

“Hey! Is someone there!?” 

You pushed away from him in a snap when the voice reached your ears. You had to push Satoru away by his shoulders to stop him from chasing your lips from the lack of their warmth on his. 

When the guard blew on his whistle, that's when his eyebrows shot up. You placed your index finger on his lips as you saw them part so his voice wouldn't confirm the security guard's suspicions. And he nodded his head once to let you know he won't. 

In a swift few seconds, Satoru swam to the edge of the pool, with you now in both of his arms, like a princess he needed to cradle close to his heart to keep her safe—you found it silly. The platform in the pool on which he was standing was barely five and a half feet deeper than the surface of the water. It was absolutely possible for you to walk to the edge by yourself, but you liked being in his arms. Even if the wiser thing to do in this situation would've been to separately make a run for it. 

Once you two were out of the pool, he grabbed onto your hand in one hand, took both of your shoes in another, and his clothes under his armpit, and then made a run for it. You both ran barefoot on the concrete and crushed the dewy grass under your feet.

“HEY! YOU TWO! STOP RIGHT THERE!” The guard tried to shine his flashlight on you two.

“Don't turn around.” Satoru said while dragging you two towards the main entrance, avoiding the pebble path, and instead running across the prohibited grass fields. 

It was the most invigorating rush you've felt in years. 

Satoru did not stop his car until he was far enough from the country club. He parked his car by the riverbank, turned off his engine, and finally lay back in his seat with an exasperated sigh. You two sat staring ahead towards the river, then towards your sides, when your eyes landed on each other, and neither of you could hold back your laughter. 

It was the most natural thing to be here with him, in your drenched clothes, him in his boxers, in his expensive-ass car, laughing like you two did not just commit a crime, one moment; and in the next moment you're on his lap and kissing him hungrily. 

It was so good. 

There was something about the cramped space, especially how his car was built; there was even less space compared to other cars—something that you usually get annoyed at, especially when you end up in the excuse of a backseat because of Suguru and his stupid long legs, but this time around you did not mind it. 

You did not mind when his hands roamed up your back, hot and dry, a clear contrast to your wet and soggy clothes. It felt like everything had slowed down, from the cars on the road down to the gravity, and it was just you and him, against each other, lips slotted together like two perfect pieces of a puzzle, tongues exploring every little crevice in your mouths, and hands all over one another. You could feel his cock growing under you in his soggy boxers, incentivizing you to move your hips in a slow rhythm. He wasn't even sure anymore if it was wet from the water or just his precum. You could not take your hands off his shoulders nor out of his hair, and he could not take his hands off your ass and hips. It was addictive, and in the humidity of the summer night, it was more than enough to drive you crazy. 

Desperate to feel more of him, more of his skin, you tried to take off your t-shirt while still kissing him, reluctant to take your lips off of his, even just for a second.

“Wait, sweets-wait.” He spoke in between your lips and pushed himself away from you. Without any explanation, he opened the doors on his side and went out of the car and pulled you out as well.

He haphazardly opened his back backdoor, pushed his front seat forward to make more room for the two of you, and lightly pushed on your lower back to make you get inside. Which you did, and finally took off everything on your upper body, then laid down on the seat and held yourself by your elbows, waiting for him to get in as well. 

“Get in here.” You asked him, as you moved forward, to pull him inside the car by his neck, and your lips were back on each other. Your hands traced the shape of his cock over his boxers, and you tried to take off his boxers and slip your hands inside.

“Uh-uh, you first, sweets.” You didn't really understand what he meant by that; you just stared at his pretty smile and trusted whatever he wanted to do. But you couldn't have guessed what he did next. His right hand grabbed the back of your knees, and his other hand was on the seat for support. With flawless movements, your back was flat against his car seat, and he was in between your legs. 

He started from your temples, soft lingering kisses on your eyes, the tip of your nose, a peck on your lips, and on your jaw. Then he went on to suck and bite all around your neck, with every intention to leave marks visible to anyone who tried to stare at you longer than ten seconds, which was generous in his opinion. 

“I've been itching to get my hands on these pretty things.” His hands got a hold of your tits, squeezing them, fingers teasing one nipple while the other felt salient attention from his mouth. As his mouth swirled around your areolas, and his teeth bit down and pulled on your nipples while maintaining clear eye contact with you, you could feel the wetness between your legs dripping down your slit.

“Ugh—Satoru, ah, fuck.” You didn't really have anything to add, other than the moans and grunts that left your mouth. And his hands remained on your hips, rubbing up and down in soothing movements, as his lips continued to kiss downward once he had his fill of teasing your tits and was satisfied with the amount of marks he left behind on each mound and the valley in between them. A true scenic masterpiece in his opinion. 

He stopped right above the waistband of your shorts before pulling them down with careful and calculated movements until you lay bare before his eyes. “Hah. No panties, huh?” He placed his mouth above your pelvic bone, right before your clit, and you could feel his mouth stretching into that very familiar devious smile on your skin. 

“Sato—” 

Your words remained in your mouth, and instead you let out a sharp yelp as his tongue took a long strip of lick from under your navel down to your clit. It was an awkward position to be stuck in, half bent, back almost hitting the ceiling of his car, one knee on the floor of his car, between his legs, and his foot was pressed against the door. But nothing bothered him more than the lack of your taste on his tongue.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You kept on chanting as your hands went to get a tight grip in your hair, almost pulling out a patch of white pearly hair, as his tongue continued to swirl around your clit. And the hands around your hips moved down to your thighs as they tightened around his head, holding a deathly grip around them but doing nothing to loosen them, probably digging his nails deep enough to leave marks and broken skin. 

“Oh, I've fucking dreamed of dying between these pretty things. Fuck. Do your worst, baby.” 

You wish you were the one wrecking him, even if he insisted he was the one blissed right out of his mind, between your legs, tongue teasing your pussy lips. One look at your face and anyone could tell who was absolutely fucked here. There was nothing imploring about how he dove right in like a starved man at your mercy. His teeth pulled your lips open to lick a long and anguished strip down from your clit to your now twitching hole. And in went his tongue.

Burning hotter than the summer sun, you were a puddle on his lips, like a melting popsicle. 

“Sht—shit, shit. Ugh, ah, AH!” 

Each one of your moans was returned with the vibration of his own grunts and moans, which ran through your core, making it worse for you to hold onto any semblance of sanity that remained intact. And it was hard to do that when his left hand was kneading your abdomen, and his thumb was rubbing away on your clit, and his right hand was digging into your thighs, pulling them up on his shoulder, all the while his lips sucked away every drop of arousal your cunt dripped, and his tongue poked around your walls.

“Please, Satoru, just—just please, want—no, need you inside.” You took one of your hands from where it was in his hair, which was now almost dry, and placed it on top of his hand on your abdomen. And without even moving his face, his fingers intertwined with yours and held onto them for his dear life as he finished giving you the first of the many orgasms for tonight. 

“FUCK, Sat— AH, ah.” And you had nothing more than broken moans and words stuck in your throat to let out. 

It was only when he was done lapping up everything with nimble licks that his hand let go of yours, which was shaking and almost numb. “Not just yet, sweets; gotta stretch you out properly.” 

And the fingers that were just tangled with yours were now inside you. You were simply so out of it that you didn't even realize when his tongue got replaced with his finger, one at first, slowly mapping out the shape and ridges of your walls from within. Then two more to stretch you out well enough to accommodate him. 

“There!” Your eyes rolled back in your head, and your head went back as his fingers found that one spot that almost drove you right over the edge in mere seconds. 

“Here?” His head tilted as he pulled his fingers halfway out, teasing you even in this state, and saying things like he was the pitiful one in this equation. What a liar. 

“Satoru, for fuck's sake!” Your hands flew to cover your eyes as your back arched off of the car seat; if it weren't for his right hand and shoulder holding you down, you would've probably fallen off.

“You surely know how to ask nicely for what you y’want.” You could see him smiling like a little shit between your legs when you took your hands off your eyes and instead dug your nails into his expensive car seat. Not like he minded.

“Will you just let me cum, Satoru?” Your tone was faux sweet, wavering at the mercy of his fingers turning inside of you.

“I need you to beg properly, baby.” 

Satoru’s instructions came out as a matter-of-fact; his smile disappeared and left behind the piercing cerulean eyes, boring into your soul.  

“Pleas—please, please, Satoru, let me cum.” Never in your life have you ever begged for anything like this; this was a first, and you could not be more glad that it was Gojo Satoru in between your legs, eliciting these embarrassing sides of you, instead of someone else. 

And his smile returned to his face, and his fingers went right to work. It took him no more than two minutes to have you come undone on his fingers for the second time since you two ended up in his car. And there was nothing but exasperated breathing in the air, which Satoru assumed was probably more humid than the air outside, when he saw the windows fogged up. It made him chuckle to himself, thinking how cliché this was. But given the state he has gotten you in, he can't waste any more time before you pass out from just two orgasms. So he sat up and got rid of his underwear, finally feeling less suffocated.

“Don't have any condoms, sweets.” Satoru caressed the side of your face, making sure you didn't already pass out. He had no intention of pressuring you into anything; one word and he is cleaning you up, getting you some water, and driving you home to tuck you in your bed and cuddle you to sleep. 

“Don't fucking care…… on birth control.” He chuckled at your scrambling and slurred words before he maneuvered you so that one of your legs was on his shoulder and the other was over his thigh, around his waist. He rubbed the head of his cock in your folds, getting whatever leftover juices that he could not lick clean all over his cock. 

“WILL YOU JUST GET INSIDE?” You could not just tolerate any more of his teasing, so you had to take things into your own hands. Literally, as you moved one hand between the both of you and pushed his tip inside you, that was enough to have you flat on your back, unable to initiate anything else. Satoru also leaned forward from the sudden sensation of your slippery warm walls. 

“Ah, fuck, don't rush it, sweets.” His whimpering was not helping you any more than the burning stretch you felt from just his tip. And he could tell from how your mouth fell open and the nails that dug into his seats harder than before. So he gave the both of you a second to adjust. It was no easy job to acclimate to the heat that you offered; it was dizzying, but he welcomed this heat over the burning sun. 

“I’m goin’ in.” It was only after you gave him a late nod that he pushed the rest of him inside of you. And both of your yelps and grunts remained in the car. But surely if someone passed by, either one of your moans was enough to make them figure out the obvious. 

Once he was inside, you assumed the never-ending dizziness that you felt around him, the rush of accidental touches, and heavy breaths—it'll all come to an end. Unfortunately, nothing really stopped; instead, there was something worse, something hotter and more imprudent between you two now. Each thrust of his hips and the kisses that he placed on your legs: everything was incinerating. And you wanted it all; it didn't matter if it was forever or a week, you needed this summer to never end. 

“Ah—so good, sweets, so good to me.” Satoru kept on placing kisses around your shin, your ankle, and your knees, even leaning slightly down to bite down on your thighs. While his other hand pushed down on your abdomen, you felt his cock going in and out of you, and it was all so surreal—the warmth of your walls, your drooling mouth, the whimpers that left your throat, and those glazed eyes that refused to look away from him. And he didn't want this moment to ever end; he didn't want to pretend like every passing touch of your skin didn't burn him alive, that he could live on from here on forward without having you in his grasp.

“I, I’m coming, ‘toru.” 

“Fuck, sweets—come with me. Please.” 

He dropped your leg on the seat and pulled you on his lap, even while he still remained buried within you. In those last few minutes, he didn't move his hips with the same fervor as before; you two just grinned at each other, chasing your highs, the rush of having each other all to yourselves. With his face buried in your neck, kissing everywhere, down from the column of your neck to your jaw and finally to your lips, his arms around you tightened. And your nails dug into his shoulders as your tongues tangled with one another again, and this time you could taste the remnants of yourself in his mouth. As you both broke away from the kiss, with a single string of aliga connecting you two, all it took was one look for the both of you to come simultaneously. 

“Fuck… fuck, fuck, sweets.”

“I know—I know, Satoru.” 

And you two came together, holding onto each other for your dear lives, kissing one another into some other worldly ecstasy. You could feel his cum shooting up and pooling inside of you, and he could feel you twitching in his arms, your walls tightening, getting warmer with his cum dripping down and slipping out between you two. It took a while for you to come down from the high, and yet neither of you was willing to let go.

“Are you ok, sweets?” He asked while placing feather-light kisses on your shoulders while nudging your head slightly that remained steady on his shoulder. 

“Mmhmm.” You did not have anything in you to utter a single comprehensible sentence. And Satoru knew that well enough to not push you any more; he chuckled to himself and let himself enjoy your company like this for a little longer. And he told himself a few minutes more, and then he'll properly clean you up and take you home.

While you drifted away into sleep, with a matching smile on your face, you told yourself how different this summer has been. And how, despite the disgusting heat and humidity, you never wanted this summer to end. To have one another in your arms, with reciprocity, and with the same rush that made your head silly that day you met—it was so good. 

And you wanted the best out of this summer.

a/n: dividers by @/omi-resources. pictures from Pinterest, art by @/m0ryy

lmao ik i have two big wips in the works rn but lol when i saw moryy's art my mind just suddenly flooded with this plot and i was already singing rush by Troye Sivan in my head for the last few days lol ok and i have like 4 exams tmr bye i gotta cry and study.

tag list: @cheralith @madamechrissy @gojosperms @teddytoru @cuntphoric @cuntyji @cuntphoric @aishi-toru @rriwyu @exquisink @lover-lyn @buckysm @wwwritererm @soupicidesquad @indiewritesxoxo @gojosconsort @shouiow @user25384959574 @dxmnsaera @kazupop @slayzzz @undercvrfan444 @miizuzu @getoistic @infinitatis-ink @theorphicangel @ricecake-mochi @emochosoluvr

[ventique18]

Dragons are greedy creatures.

When Lilia told him stories of the past, he almost never failed to emphasize that point.

"So when your father and I got something for ourselves from that festival, we'd always ask your mother if she wanted some. She would say no, of course, because a princess did not partake in such unpalatable junk food. But then minutes later she'd demand 'Raverne, Lilia. Surrender those snacks to me,' and I'd say 'Why didn't you get your own,' and she'd spend the rest of the day fuming! And she claimed that she didn't like junk food, but her tasteful tongue then drizzled soy sauce onto her sorbet. Can you believe it! Dragons really are such greedy creatures."

Malleus wanted to argue that it was probably an attitude issue of the individual rather than a collective, and that perhaps he shouldn't be so prejudiced to their species, but he let Lilia vent his frustrations anyway. Old people needed to feel supported.

So when here and now, when it was his turn to go around a festival-- hand in hand with his beloved, he couldn't help but be reminded of such stories.

"So then I asked Lucius to kindly shut the hell up because I was trying to finish a homework with ten minutes left. And he just farted in my face! Can you believe him!"

"Abominable creature. Now, I'd like to sample some of those potato sticks. Would you like some as well?"

They shifted their attention to a stall a few ways aside. "Oh, fries? No thanks. I'm on a strict diet. We call those French Fries by the way, but you wouldn't know that because no one here is French. Except for Rook for some reason."

"What is a french? Is that new slang?"

They spent a while explaining the French, and how it was disputable whether French Fries were actually made in France because many Historians claimed they were Belgian. He said that was ridiculous; were even foodstuff colonized in their world? Then they mentioned that Swiss Cheese wasn't actually Swiss, because an American created them. He then asked what an American was.

Before they knew it, half of his food was consumed not by himself, but by his companion who squirreled away his potatoes though they claimed they didn't want some.

They nibbled on a particularly long slab of fries, "Wow, you bought so much. I didn't know princes were allowed to eat this much junk."

Indeed, he bought twice the dose he would normally allow himself to indulge in.

"Well," he said with a grin lifting at the corners of his mouth, "I am a dragon, after all. We're quite well-known to be greedy creatures."

They laughed and finished off the rest of their share from his paper bag.

If he were to guess the timeline of Lilia's story correctly, then it was likely the time when his egg was still developing in his mother's womb. Just as he would buy an excess of junk food for his partner so they would enjoy with no remorse, his mother also betrayed her own sense of taste because he probably asked her to.

And that was when he understood that dragons truly are such greedy creatures. Greedy for the sake of those they loved.

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Start A New

Fandom: The Pitt

Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x F!Reader

Summary: In a tragic car accident, Jack loses his wife, who was your best friend, and you lose your husband, the father of your child. Now both of you navigate life together and co-parenting your daughter, Evelyn, while also trying to figure out your feelings for each other.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who loved the first part! Now here's that happy ending you all wanted...

Undeserving (aka Part 1) | The Pitt Masterlist

Jack tried to get some rest. He really tried, but he kept going over his argument with you. Did you really not see how much he loves you and Evie? Do you really not know how heartbroken he'd be if you left?

He sighs and checks the time on his bedside. It's almost noon and Evie usually takes a nap around this time. It might be a good time for him to talk to you again so Evie doesn't see if things get heated.

He kicks off his blankets and drags himself out of bed. He exits his room and heads to the kitchen. You're there again, looking at your laptop. He hopes you're not looking at apartments again, but it's likely.

"Can we talk?"

"You should be sleeping."

"I can't. My mind is going all over the place," he takes up the empty chair beside you. He glances at your screen and, sure enough, you were looking at apartments.

He rests his arms on the dining table, "Please, don't leave," he says in a broken, pleading tone.

You fully face him, "Jack, I love you. I really do, but...I feel bad. You were my Anna's husband. She was my best friend. The one she was supposed to grow old with. I feel guilty that she's not here, that you and her never got to have kids and grow old together. I feel bad for practically replacing her."

"You're not-"

You hold your hand out, "Let me get everything out...please."

He nods, "Okay."

You take a deep breath, "I feel guilty for being here when she couldn't be. I also feel guilty for loving you when it should be Andrew here helping me raise Evie. I feel guilty for taking up your space, your time. I-I feel like I don't deserve you. You're such a good, loving, caring man and I shouldn't be taking over your life the way that I've been these past few years.

"That's why I want to move out. But also, my therapist think it'd be good for us to live separately. We've become too dependent on each other because we lost our partners in the same accident. We need space in order for us to have a healthy relationship. And I really hope you understand that."

He gulps and nods, "I get it...but fuck, sweetheart. You and Evie are the first and last thing I think about when I wake up and go to sleep. I'm gonna be honest, it's gonna fucking suck not having you two around all the time."

You reach out and place your hand on top of his, "Again, this isn't happening any time soon. I still have to find a place."

"Have you looked at places nearby?"

You nod, "Yeah. I don't wanna be too far from you."

That brings a small smile to Jack's face, "That's something at least," he murmurs. He leans in and presses his lips to your head, "I love you so much, sweetheart." He turns his hand up and laces his fingers with you.

"I love you too," you whisper. You lean back to look at him, "We'll get through it." you cup his face with your free hand, your thumb grazing over his five o'clock shadow, "We've gotten through worse."

He chuckles and shakes his head, "Yeah...we have."

_____________________________

In the upcoming months, you continued to apartment hunt. Jack would accompany you to provide input. You looked at various apartment complexes within two to five miles away from Jack's home.

You eventually found a place just three blocks away from him and much closer to the park the three of you frequented.

Leaving Jack was hard, but you knew it would be good for you two. Evie took it hard, obviously. She didn't want to leave her Uncle Jack Jack and her cries brought tears to your own eyes.

Jack held Evelyn close as he explained everything, "You'll still see me, honey. I'm not going anywhere. We'll still go to the park together and have family time. I'm not leaving you, baby. I promise," he holds her tighter and you see tears welling up in his eyes as Evelyn sobs, "I promise, Evie. I'll always be here for you and mommy."

When move in day came, Jack helped you as much as he could. When he was at work, some of the day shift nurses and doctors came to help you.

Robby grunted as he set a box down, "So...I heard you two confessed your love."

You rolled your eyes, "Yes. We did."

"You know, usually when people love each other like you do, they move in together. Not move out."

"We need the space and more independence. We did everything backwards, Robby." You explained as you begin to unbox the box he brought in.

"I know. But don't tell Abbot I told you this, but he's been really anxious about this. He doesn't know what he's going to do without you girls."

"We'll figure it out eventually. We've spent a majority of these past few years always at each other's sides and we weren't even officially together. It's going to be a big change, but we can get through it. After everything we've gone through, especially Jack, I think we'll make it out okay."

The doctor nodded, "I hope so 'cause now his bitchin' is even more sad and depressing."

You giggled and shoved his shoulder, "Get back to work, doc."

He salutes you, "Yes, ma'am!"

_________________________

Three months living in the apartment with just you and Evelyn was a rough start. Evie was constantly asking for her Uncle Jack Jack and you had to explain that you couldn't go to his house every single day.

Eventually, she got used to it being just you and her. Some nights did feel lonelier than ever. You had to fight yourself on not inviting Jack all the time. But so far, he'd been coming over once a week and you've been going to his the same as well.

It was an adjustment for sure, but you three of you eventually used to it.

Any downtime he had during his shifts, Jack would call you, wanting to hear your voice or see Evie via video chat. You thought things would be tense for a long time between you and he. But, thankfully, it was only tense for the first month and you two fell back into how things were before. You'd joke around, share about your days, but now it's coupled with some flirtatious banter.

It was weird in the beginning, hearing him flirt with you and you flirt back. But now it's second nature with you two. Your flirtatious banter would be silly or cute or downright sinful, but only when Evie wasn't around.

Jack: what're you wearing?

You snort when you read his text. You text him back:

You: aren't you supposed to be working?

Jack: was thinking about you and I'm on my lunch....so what're you wearing?

You take a selfie of you wearing one of his old Army shirts and reply to him with that.

Your phone suddenly starts ringing and you laugh, answering it, "There's no way I'm having phone sex with you while you're at work."

"Well can I come over after my shift and we can have real sex?"

You clasp your hand over your mouth to muffle your laugh. You look beside you to see Evie still passed out after you two started watching a movie.

"Won't you be exhausted?"

"I'm wound up today and sex is a great relaxer." You can hear the smirk in his tone.

"Yeah? Says who?"

"Me, I'm a doctor, remember?"

"Last time I checked, you're a doctor in medicine. Not sexology."

He hums, "Fine. You caught me...I just miss you."

You soften your voice, "I miss you too. I miss you a lot but...this time apart has been good for me."

"I know, but don't get too comfortable. Once your lease is up, you're moving back here. Got that?"

You chuckle, "Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure. I want us to be whole again. It's so fucking quiet in the house now. Fuck, the other day, I had Bluey playing in the background just so it feels like you two are around still."

That tugs on your heartstrings, "Jack-"

"Shit. I gotta go. They need extra help and we're already down a doctor. I gotta go sweetheart and I'll talk to you later, okay? I love you."

"I love you too, Jack. Bye." He ends the call and you lay back in bed. You bury your face into his shirt, wishing it smelled like him again.

_____________________________

It felt like deja vu. You're at the park, sitting on the picnic blanket with Dana like you had all those months ago. Jack and Evie are playing on the playground like they always are.

Dana, feeling the same sense as you goes, "Funny to be here with you guys again but now you and Jack are together. Separate, but also together."

You nod, "I know. Weird, right?"

"That was a rough patch you guys went through, but look at you now. You two have gone through a lot and keep overcoming it. Shows how strong the two of you are," Dana lifts her bottle of water as if giving you a cheers and sips from it.

You smile at the older woman, "Thanks. None of what the both of us have gone through was easy, but we did it together. Loving him is easy. I still feel sad and guilty sometimes. For Anna. For Andrew."

"They would've wanted you two to be happy," Dana says with confidence.

"I know, still doesn't mean I don't feel bad about it sometimes." You sigh, "Therapy has helped a lot though."

"That's good, honey. Really good."

"Sweetheart!" you look up and see Jack looking your way, "You want ice cream?"

"Rainbow pop please!" You glance at Dana, "You wany anything?"

"I'm good."

"Just one for me, baby!"

"Got it!" he gives you a thumbs up and guides Evie to the ice cream truck.

Dana wistfully sighs, "You guys are so fucking cute. I really am happy you two are together."

"Thanks, Dana. I am too."

______________________________

Three Years Later

Evie was at a sleepover at her friend's apartment in the same complex. So that meant you and Jack had the place to yourselves since Jack was off that day.

After a few rounds of sex, you two were just cuddling in your bed. Your head is resting on his chest, his arm wrapped around you and tracing lines along your back.

You two were laying in a blissful silence when Jack slid out of bed, "Where you going?"

"I wanna grab something from my pants," he grabs his jeans from the floor and found what he was looking for in his pocket.

He sits back in bed and presents you with a tiny box. You immediately sit up and look at him with wide eyes, "Jack..."

"Sweetheart, you already know how much I love you. There aren't really words that I can say that you haven't heard before. I love you and Evie so much. We've gone through hell and back. Our lives have been intertwined since that night. I didn't expect to fall in love with you, but I did. I didn't expect to love Evie as much as I do.

"I love the life we've built together, even though the start of it was unconventional and, frankly, extremely traumatizing-"

You snort, "What a way to propose, baby."

"Well I didn't necessarily say the words yet, did I?"

He opens the box to reveal a gorgeous ring. The cut was perfect and it was a ring you definitely see yourself wearing forever, "Y/N, will you marry me?"

"Of fucking course I will," you press your lips to his and you feel him smiling into the kiss, "I love you," you mumble against his lips.

He breaks the kiss, grinning, "I love you too," he takes the ring out of the box and slips it onto your finger.

You look at how it sits on your finger. You didn't think you'd be wearing another wedding ring again, yet here you are.

You giggle and Jack looks at you, "What's so funny?"

"I can't believe you proposed with your dick out and made a comment about our shared trauma."

He shrugs, "Well isn't our entire relationship built on unconventional and traumatic events?"

You roll your eyes and climb onto Jack's lap, "Shut up and make love to your fiancee."

He smiles wide, "No need to tell me twice."

_____________________

"DID HE DO IT?! DID HE ASK YOU TO MARRY HIM?!" Evie asks as into the apartment after her sleepover. Jack follows her inside, chuckling.

You hold up your left hand, "He did, baby!"

"YAY!" Evie wraps her arms around you and then gasps. She turns to Jack, "Can I call you dad now?!"

Jack looks at you. You two have talked about it before. You're okay with Evie calling Jack her dad. He practically is.

He softly smiles at the six year old, "Yeah, honey. You can call me dad." Evie launches herself at Jack and he catches her. He hugs her tight.

It's funny. You and Jack thought you were undeserving of each other, but turns out, you were just what the other needed this whole time.

[b3ach-bunn7]

SO ANXIOUS

Aizawa is your guard, appointed by your father, the king. And you really want to sleep with him.

guard x princess, NSFW!!, forbidden romance, first time

—————————————————————————-

It’s wrong. It’s so wrong on every single level to have a crush on your guard, of all people.

You’d hated the idea. Your father, ever the doting and overprotective man, had appointed him the second you’d turned twenty, and apparently also a target for whatever nefarious things he’d invented in his head. You were his one and only daughter, and so you think all the worry he didn’t need to give your older brothers all got passed down to you.

It’s normal, you suppose. You are a princess after all, heir to the throne and soon to be married off to the richest prince your father can find. You just wish you had more freedom, wished you could walk around the palace without some man trailing behind you. 

You minded it less when you actually met him for the first time.

He was hot. And had you thinking things that a lady such as yourself definitely should not be thinking. 

He was tall for one, taller than you. He was wearing the usual outfit you see on the guards around the castle, but his was different. Where theirs were a deep red, his was white, navy blue detail sewn into the sides. You assume this is so he stands out as your very own personal security. 

You’re all standing in your father’s study. The room is large, much more than necessary, filled with bookshelves and a desk that’s lined with enough gold to feed the kingdom for a year. Your father’s work is forgotten in front of him as he gestures towards the two of you. He’s rambling on about protection and safety, all while you’re struggling to peel your eyes away from said protector. 

He’s standing in front of you, but his attention is all on your father, so you have ample time to look at him as much as you want. He’s fit from what you can tell, all strong muscle hidden beneath his clothes. There’s a scar under his right eye and the stubble that lines his jaw ages him, but he doesn’t look to be much older than you are. His hair is long, half of it tied behind his head, soft black curls you want to reach out and touch. 

And you find out his eyes are a deep, dark brown when they move to meet yours. His left eyebrow raises slightly and you quickly turn away, embarrassed to be caught staring so shamelessly.

“So. Y/N, this is Aizawa.” Your father gestures.

When you look back, the man in question is looking at you intently. He bows. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Princess.”

And when you hear his deep, honeyed tone, you think that is the beginning of the end.

You get to know him quite quickly. The thing about spending every second of your day with the same person is you’re sort of forced to get to know each other. You find Aizawa is not a very emotional man. He doesn’t smile once in the first two weeks together, despite your horrible attempts to make him do so. He only does when he sees a stray cat when the two of you are wandering through the gardens.

You learn that Aizawa is four years older than you, and he’d been working for the kingdom since he was fifteen. He’d fought for the country, he told you, recounted the story of how he scarred his face in battle. Aizawa has no family, but he speaks fondly of a young girl he’d saved once that lives in the village a small way away. He’s kind. He cares for the people he loves despite his reserved nature, and he even can be funny if he tries, in a dry way that makes you laugh more than it should.

All of this is why you think you’re falling in love with him.

The first time you realise this fact is when you’re running for your life.

It’s an intruder. Someone managed to get past the guards at the gates and is now loose in the long corridors of the castle. You’re out in the courtyard when you hear the commotion, head leaning back on the patio chairs, catching the sunlight on your face.

You sit up at the noise. You look to Aizawa for some reassurance but there’s a crease between his eyebrows you’ve come to learn is not a good sign.

“Is everything okay?” You ask. 

He hums a little under his breath. You hear yells from the other side of the castle. 

“I don’t think so. Come.” He says.

His hand curls around your elbow, warm and strong as he helps you to your feet. He walks you the short distance back into the castle, eyes focused somewhere you can’t see. You feel a little trickle of fear in your chest.

You grab the sleeve of his tunic. “What’s going on, Aizawa?”

He pauses at the front gates. Just listening. 

It’s silent, for a second, before you hear a loud crash that sends a ripple of goosebumps up your arm. Your head whips towards Aizawa and before you can say anything he’s pulling you along. You follow quickly, heels clicking against the floor. His hand is on the small of your back. Your breath is fast and light, mind racing. Is the intruder here for you? 

Aizawa curses quietly under his breath. “Your room is too far from here.”

You can almost see the gears turning in his head. You're on the opposite side of your part of the castle, and the closest room to you is the dining room or hall, both open spaces that won’t give you any sort of cover. You see Aizawa’s hand inch towards the dagger he keeps hanging on his waist.

You swallow roughly. “Is- Are we going to be okay?” You mumble. 

He pulls himself out of his focused daze to settle you with a look. It’s not a smile, like you think most people would give in a situation like this. He moves until his hand is holding yours. His is calloused where yours is soft, and he squeezes once.

“Yes. Don’t be stupid.”

You roll your eyes. “Is that any way to talk to a princess?”

“Apologies. Would-”

His words are interrupted by another crash. This time closer. Before you can do anything, he pulls you along. In a practised manner, he opens a door you’ve never seen before, and pushes you both in.

“What- Aizawa-”

Calling it a room would be too generous. It's a closet at best, full of what you think are cleaning supplies and brooms. It’s sort of dusty and dark apart from the barely working lamp above you. The door clicks shut behind him and you're both alone.

You don’t think you’ve ever been this close to a man before. Your hands brace yourself on the wall, the large layers of your dress hard to fit in the small space.

“Wow. Love this little room you’ve found us.” You mumble.

Aizawa raises an eyebrow. “This closet is not to your liking?” 

You huff a laugh. “No, it’s just this dress.” You mutter.

You try and fix the material, tug it out from where it’s caught onto a box on the floor. 

“It’s too long. I think I’m going to fall.”

“Probably not the best idea.”

You glance up at him. “Oh, really? Thank you for the insight.”

“I’m here to please.” 

You bite back a smile. You can hear the faint sound of commotion outside and you wonder how long you’re going to be in here. You’ve had threats on the castle before, yeah, but nothing like this. Nothing that had you hiding in a random room to protect yourself.

You turn to ask Aizawa and find he’s already looking at you.

He’s got dark eyebags like he never sleeps, and you feel a little at fault for that. Being a guard is a full time job after all. It’s quiet, enough that you can hear the faint sound of both of your breathing.

“Hi.” You speak into the almost silence.

Aizawa settles you with a look.

You huff. “Just trying to make conversation. You-“

Your words are cut short as you slip, foot catching on the hem of your petticoat. You gasp, hands reaching for the wall to try brace yourself. But you don’t need to do that, because before you can save yourself, you feel two hands, rough and strong, catch you. Aizawa’s fingers curl around your waist, and they’re so much bigger than yours. You glance up and now, he’s impossibly closer, just a breathe away from you.

Your face is hot as you speak and you’re happy that the darkness conceals it. “T-Thank you.”

Aizawa only nods, and when he lets go, you miss his hands on you the moment he does. It’s only a few moments longer before he finds out that you’re safe. The intruder, simply a petty thief with too much confidence, was caught. But you couldn’t care much about that. Your mind was too busy wondering somewhere else.

And after that, you start noticing him more. How the sun catches on his skin when you wander around the gardens. The strong line of his muscles when he stretches. It was undignified. You knew it was wrong to think about him like this but you couldn’t help it. You had no idea if he’d noticed it, but you elected to decide he didn’t. To save yourself the embarrassment if anything else. 

But Aizawa can’t be anything to you. He’s your guard, for crying out loud, the man tasked with the job of taking care of you. If your father even got a whiff of something suspicious between the two of you, he’d be fired immediately. Or something worse.

The sun sets slowly outside the vast expanse of your bedroom windows. There’s nothing for you to do on evenings like this. The summer lets in a hot draft of air, and your nightgown sticks to your skin. The material is supposed to be light, breathable, but it suffocates you in the loneliness of your room.

You sit up on your bed, eyes darting towards the door of your bedroom, that you know Aizawa is standing behind. 

It’s a stupid idea. Definitely. You don’t even think he’s even been in your room before, but. Maybe that could change today.

You slip on the robe hanging on your dressing room table. The floorboards are warm beneath your feet, and it takes thirty silent seconds for you to convince yourself to open the door. It creaks loudly into the empty corridors. You peek your head outside and Aizawa is already looking at you, startled by the sound of you opening the door. He’s leaning against the wall and you watch his eyes dart down to the expanse of your body, before landing back on your face. You note the slight redness on his face that wasn’t there a moment before.

“I- Aren’t you supposed to be in bed? Asleep?”

“It’s only seven in the evening. It’s still light outside.” You say. 

Your fingers drum against the door. “I’m not tired. I’m bored, if anything.” 

Aizawa nods slowly. His hair is loose today, and it’s grown much longer since when you first met. 

“Am I supposed to do something about that?”

You feel your face heat a little. You feel stupid suddenly, with the way he’s looking at you. 

“N-Nevermind. It’s fine, I-“

“You want me to keep you company?” He tilts his head. 

You laugh nervously. “If- If you want. If you’re not busy.” 

He hums under his breath. “I’m not. You’re inviting me into your room?”

Your hands hold your robe closed. The air is cooler outside, but you don’t think the goosebumps on your arms are from that. You feel shameless. Asking for him like this. But you think it’s too late to back out now.

“I- Well. I don’t think my father would like me running about the castle. Would you- You can come in here. If you’d like.” You swallow.

Aizawa just stares for a little. And just when you regret even getting out of your bed, he stands to his full height.

“Alright.”

He brushes past you and you step aside, shutting the door carefully behind you. 

Your room feels different with a man inside of it. He walks around idly, taking it all in. It’s bare, if you’re being entirely honest. You wonder what he thinks but as usual he’s silent, his thoughts trapped in his head.

Your voice cuts out in the silence. “I like your hair.”  You gesture towards the long black curls.

“It’s getting longer. You- It suits you.”

“Thank you.”  

It’s awkward. Is it awkward? You can’t tell. You're sweating and you wish you could take your robe off but you think your nightgown is too revealing. You sit down on the edge of your bed.

“What do princesses do when they’re bored?” He muses.

You smile slightly. “Sit and think about my life, usually. Father keeps dropping hints about suitors.” You sigh. “I guess that’s the life waiting for me.”

Aizawa nods slowly. He drags the chair from your dressing table until it’s sitting in front of you. His knees brush against yours.

“You don’t sound very happy.” He mumbles.

You lick your lips. “No. Well. I don’t know.” 

You cross your arms. His eyes feel heavy on you. 

“I think that… I guess I’m nervous, if anything else. You never know who you’re marrying until you’re married.” You laugh slightly. 

It’s not that funny. You wish it could be a decision you make on your own, but you are not nearly brave enough to bring the idea up to your father. You tell Aizawa as much, and he nods.

“I understand. It’s a frightening idea. Marrying a stranger.”

“Exactly. I understand my duties as a princess, but. You know. Makes me wonder.”

Aizawa leans back in his chair. “About what?”

“How… Things will happen. You know. Relationship things.”

Aizawa raises his eyebrows and your face heats. 

“Scandalous.”

“Enough. I- It’s normal to- to wonder! Everybody does.” You whine, as he snorts a laugh.

“It’s- It’s a valid concern. God, I’ve never seen you show so much amusement before.” You groan.

He holds up his hands in surrender. “Apologies. Very valid concerns you have, princess.”

“I told you to stop calling me that.” 

“Right. Though, Y/N feels inappropriate.”

“It is my name, after all.”

A small silence settles over the both of you. You fiddle with the edge of your robe. 

“What are you scared about the most?” He asks.

You look up. He’s shaved the stubble on his face and he looks younger. His hands are clasped in front of him and you have the urge to reach over and grab them. 

“Well, you know. The more intimate parts of it.”

The silence feels more awkward now. More tense.

“I see.”

You shake your head and tufts of hair slip out of the loose braid you’d put it in. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?” He laughs.

“Like- Like I’m just a lustful teenager.” 

You regret the words the second they leave your mouth. You shake your head, hand covering your mouth.

“I- please. Pretend I didn’t say that.” You mutter, face heating.

“Aw. You’ve gone all red.”

“Aizawa.”

He takes a deep breath. He pauses for a moment, like he’s thinking. “You can ask me, if you want.” He says the words quickly.

You freeze a little. “Ask… ask what?”

“About the intimate parts.” 

You swallow roughly. You want to move away from him and get closer all at once. He’s had intimate moments. Your stomach pools with feelings you’re not used to. Jealousy?

“You’ve- Do you- Are you married?” 

He scoffs. “No.”

You’re confused. You’re sure it’s visible in your face, because Aizawa winces a little.

“Well, I know it’s not exactly good of me, but I was young, and there was beautiful women in the villages we used to travel through.” He shrugs. 

You nod slightly. “I- I understand.” 

The idea of Aizawa, younger and probably fitter, with women. In villages, in their homes, in their rooms like he was in yours. Your face heats just thinking about it.

He smirks. It’s a new look you’re not sure if you love or hate. 

“That too much for you, princess?”

You scoff. “No. No. It’s not.”

“I can tell you about it all. What it’s like to be with someone.”

What he says seems innocent enough, but the way he says it. There’s something else, something dangerous in his voice. And then a thought that enters your head. A thought that you think could send you straight to hell. But Aizawa has this look on his face. This look that you pray you are not reading wrong.

The room is silent for a moment. You lick your lips and watch him follow the movement.

“Can… Can you show me?”

For the first time it’s not you blushing a furious red. It’s Aizawa. It’s dusts his cheeks so cleanly and you can’t help but smile a little.

“Show you? Princess, I-“ He stutters, tripping over his words. “This is highly inappropriate. You’re father- if he found out-”

You inch closer. 

“He won’t find out. Nobody even knows you’re in here.” You whisper. “And I wouldn’t be the first. I know girls who’ve.. who’ve- you know.”

He stands, chair scraping against the floor. He takes a few steps back, moving away from you. Aizawa looks at the wall, the floor anywhere but at you.

It’s nice to have the power between the two of you for once. You move towards him. You’re sure the light from the window catches on your robe, on the sheer material of your nightgown.

“I can’t do this. Y/N, please.” He speaks like the words hurt to leave his mouth. He walks towards the door, but he doesn’t leave. Just lingers, fingers ghosting the polished handle. 

“Why? Why can’t we do this?”

“Because it’s wrong? Don’t be stupid.” He snaps.

“But you’re still here.”

Your voice is calm in comparison to the panic lacing his. You clasp your hands in front of you. Aizawa is still by the door, and the distance between you two is large. Large enough that you shouldn’t feel the anticipation that you do.

“If I’ve made you uncomfortable, I apologise. But… you’re still here. You haven’t left.” 

You take a step forward. 

“So, I Can only assume that i haven't. And that you’re interested?”

You pose your words like a question and he curses under his breath. 

“This- This is bad. I’m your guard, for gods sake. You- And I’m older than you.”

You roll your eyes. “Only by four years.” 

“That’s a lot of years.”

Your eyes dart to the ground. He hasn’t rejected you, but it feels like it, which only serves to make you feel stupid. Childish. You can’t imagine what he must think of you.

 You sigh. “Well. If that’s what you think. So be it. Leave.” 

But he doesn’t. The two of you just stand, staring at each other. You fiddle with the hem of your robe. And just when you think you might have to kick him out yourself, he strides towards you. You startle for just a second, but there’s no time to be shocked because his hands are gripping your face and he’s kissing you.

His lips are warm, and your teeth click against each other from your lack of practise, but it feels good. He grips your face like it’s the only thing keeping him a float. Your hands graze his cheek and you feel the stubble on his jaw catch against your skin.

Your whimper and Aizawa swallows it hungrily, tongue licking your own. He tastes like the expensive coffee your father imports from Mexico, and the low groan he makes as he bites your bottom lip stirs something in your gut. 

Aizawa leans back, breathing heavily. “Fuck, you taste so good.”

The desperation in his voice makes heat pool in your gut, legs clenching together. You whine, hands clutching his shirt to pull him closer. “Stop talking.”

Aizawa tuts, one hand reaching up to clasp both of yours. He pulls them down and kisses your lips once more, down your jaw, achingly slow as he bites the soft skin on your neck.

“So much attitude.” He sighs. Your eyes flutter shut as he sucks a mark into your skin. “I’ll have to fuck that out of you.”

Your head drops back at his words, a shiver of anticipation crawling up your spine. You’ve seen Aizawa at his best, all stoic and controlled, and so you can’t be surprised by the way he takes the lead. His fingers interlock with yours as he takes you to your bed. You crawl on it, dropping back on the silk sheets. Aizawa towers over you, forearms resting next to your head as he kisses you once more. 

“I’ll go easy on you.” He mumbles. 

“Boring.”

He ghosts up your arm, landing on the knot of your robe. “Can I take this off?”

You nod. And he does, and the sheer nightgown you have on underneath suddenly feel like nothing. You’ve never had a man see this much of you, any of you, if you’re being completely honest. But he has this look of complete adoration as he scans the curves of you waist, running a hand up your thigh, that you feel no shame.

“I feel severely underdressed.”

He hushes you. He unbuttons his shirt, shucking off the layers of his uniform to reveal the defined muscle of his body underneath. You can’t help but shamelessly stare as he runs a hand through his hair, the black curls circling his face like a halo. His body is muscular, defined and littered with scars from his battles. Your hands trail over them and he just watches.

“You’re so…” Your words quieten at his rapt attention.

He smirks. “Come on. Use your words, baby.”

Your face heats and you turn away embarrassed. “I don't want to say it now.” 

Aizawa grabs your chin, turns you back. You can see the different colour specks of brown in his eyes this close, and your fingers trace over the scar on his face.

“You tell me if you want to stop. Okay?”

You nod. It happens quickly, the way he slips off your nightgown and your undergarments. He does it slowly, unwrapping you like you’re a gift just for him. 

But he doesn’t touch you.

He just lets your clothes drop on the floor as he unbuckles the belt around his waist. You wriggle restlessly on the bed, skin almost aching with how much you want him to. Your eyebrows furrow and your grip his arms. Aizawa is sitting back on his knees now, and he tilts his head a little. He leans down to your ear, breath hot against it.

“You want something from me?”

You try to speak but his hands reach up to your chest, ghosting over the hardened peak of your nipples. You gasp, back arching, voice lost.

“Anybody ever touched you like this before?”

You sink into his touch. “N-No. Nobody.” You mumble.

He rubs one nipple between his fingers, and it sends jolts of pleasure down your body. He bites the soft skin of your other breast. You wince slightly and he's licking over the mark before you can even say anything.

He moves his attention to the other nipple, eyes watching the expressions on your face. “Have you ever touched yourself before?”

You feel embarrassed to admit it, but you have. Desperate to feel that pleasure you’d read about in books and whispered in the halls of the castle. And you did, but this felt different. His fingers are rougher and more practised than your own, and it feels a million times better than anything you’d ever done to yourself. 

“Yes, but. Not- Not for a while.” 

It’s harder to speak when he presses his mouth over your breast, sucking you softly. 

“You must be so frustrated.” He murmurs. “Poor girl. I’ll make it better.”

Any other time you might have made some retort back, but his finger starts rubbing light circles on your clit and you're moaning, nails digging into his skin. Your hips jump and it's uncanny how easily he can find where you need him to be. The pleasure feels too little and too much al at once. You’re soaked, arousal dripping down onto your thighs.

“Feels- Feels good, Aizawa.” 

He tuts, finger dipping down to collect your arousal, as he keeps rubbing your clit in deliberate motions. “Shota.”

“Shota, fuck.” You breathe out.

“Such a bad mouth.”

Your legs shakily shut and he easily pulls them apart. “You’re shivering. We can stop anytime you want.”

His voice is low and rumbling in his chest and you know it’s the last thing you want.

“No. No, please.” You laugh, a little nervous and a little breathless. 

He splits your folds open and one hand squeezes your thigh as the other dips inside you. His finger is longer than your own, reaches further, and a strangled noise slips past your lips. Aizawa licks a stripe up your neck as he starts a steady rhythm pumping inside you.

“You like that?” 

It's an unfair question. Highly unfair, especially considering the fact that your hips are bucking erratically as he presses them deeper and deeper. Your pussy is making a loud wet noise that makes you face heat, but feels good enough that you don’t let the embarrassment matter.  You mumble his name as he presses another one in, scissoring his fingers. It dawns on you that he’s preparing your for something bigger, for him, and you wonder how you can fit in anything else considering how full you already feel.

Aizawa sighs. “You need to calm down, pretty girl, you're squeezing me so hard. Relax, okay?” He coaxes you, his voice smooth and soft.

It feels weird having another persons fingers inside you. You’re not sure it feels entirely good, but then he curls them and the pads press against something that has your hips jerking and you sitting up.

“What- What was that?” You breathe, eyes wide.

Aizawa just laughs and presses into it again, and your hands claw at the bedsheets. You feel so full of him, so sensitive that when he starts rubbing your clit once more you know your orgasm is coming.

“Oh- Shota, I-I’m close.” 

Aizawa swallows your whines with a kiss, and when your orgasm hits you it's slow, your body clenching as it travels through your body. Your walls clench around him and he sighs against your lips.

Your head drops onto the pillows. Your eyes flutter shut.

“Shota.” You whisper.

“Don't worry.” He kisses your cheek. “I’ve got you.”

Aizawa pulls down his underwear. And when he pulls himself out you find that you’re staring all over again. You don’t have anything to go by, but you assume hes well-endowed, long and curved as he pumps himself lightly. You reach out and touch him the noise he makes turns you on all over again. His hand grabs yours and pulls you away.

“You don’t have to.” He swallows and you frown.

“I want to.” You plead, but he lets your hands fall to your sides.

“Tonight is about you. You’ll have time for that another day.”

The promise of doing this again makes you compliant, but you still let your hands run over his skin dangerously close. He smirks just slightly, shaking his head. He presses a kiss on one of your wrists.

“One of these days I’ll tie you to this bed and teach you how to listen.” 

Whether it’s a threat or a promise, it does its job in making you comply. Aizawa grinds over you once, and he's so hot, so warm and you sigh. You try to tilt your hips into his but he holds you down effortlessly.

“We need to be careful.” He warns. “If- If you-”

“I won’t.” You cut him off. You smile as reassuring as you can without your impatience shining through.

Aizawa grabs himself at the base, lining himself up. You watch with bated breath as he begins the slow push inside. Your fingers clench his arm and shut your eyes, small whimpers leaving you as your walls stretch. It burns, the sting unfamiliar. 

When you open your eyes you find he’s looking at you intensely. Gaging your reactions. He stops the push when you still for too long, but you shake your head.

“No. Don’t stop.”

“You sure?” There's a crease of worry between his eyebrows and your heart tugs at how concerned he is for you.

“Yes. Please.”

He kisses your cheek once more. “Just try and relax, okay?” You nod quickly.

He starts pushing again, and the pain lessens as each second goes by, and you let out little noises and whines.

“God, you- You’re clenching so hard-” His words break off with a groan. “Just-”

You can feel him throb inside you and you moan. The sight before you is one you can’t forget, his chest flushed and his muscles flexing as he tries to control himself.

“I’m okay, Shota. You can- You can move.” Your say, hands coming up to circle his neck.

And your express consent is enough for him to rock his length in and out of you once. Then again, and in a steady motion that has you dropping your head on his shoulder. He bottoms out and both of your fevered breaths fill your empty room. The suns almost set, and the almost darkness makes everything feel that much more intimate.

“So full, Shota.” You utter, mindless as Aizawa hisses.

“You okay?”

You nod, wrapping your legs up around his waist, and you can feel the drag of him against your walls. He hits that spot again and you almost scream, and he shushes you quickly.

“You, fuck, you need to be quiet. Someone could hear us.” He whispers against your mouth, punctuating his words with a kiss.

You whimper, the sound of your thighs slapping against each other as pleasure rips through you. Your skin feels tingly, electric as he hits the spot over and over.

“So unfair. You don’t even know.” He groans into your skin.

You’d ask him what he means but words seem to leave you, too focused on not waking up the castle with your screams. He’s slow and sensual, deep rolls that hit that spot inside him until you’re a mess beneath him. His fingers press bruises into your hips and your eyes tear up.

It’s nothing like you’d imagined. You know this moment should be saved for a husband and wife. You can almost feel the warmth of fire from the hell you will probably be damned too, but you don’t care. Because you think you love him. And you don’t know if this will ever happen again, if he will regret this moment later, so you’ll take what you can.

“Feels good?” He asks, and you're nodding before he even finishes speaking.

“Feels good.” And the tears fall, and you realise, with the slow way he moves, that it isn't enough. 

“Shota-”

“What do you want, baby?” He grits his teeth. “Tell me.”

“Harder. You-”

Aizawa slows, brows furrowing with the effort it takes for him to slow down. “What?”

“Want you to fuck me harder. Please.” You plead, and the words sound so filthy. 

He makes a noise that's half a laugh and half a moan.”Yeah?” His hips thrust into you hard and you yelp. “Like that?”

Your body buzzes with the feeling and you nod. “Yes. I- Yes.”

He nods too, burying his head in the crook of your shoulders. “Whatever you want, pretty girl.”

Your nails scratch lines down his back. The new found pressure he fucks you with makes you realise how close you are, your thoughts slow and stupid, and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to stand another man touching you again.

“M’close, Shota.” You groan. “Gonna cum-”

Aizawa is more vocal than you’ve ever heard him, his words slipping out his mouth as his thumbs rolls over your clit at the same time he pushes you down hard onto your bed and you’re done. Your eyes squeeze shut and you bite your lip to stop the scream that almost leaves you. Your body shudders from the force of the orgasm that hits you. It’s not like your first, it's fast and sudden, and your head spins as you make a low noise in the back of your throat. 

Aizawa only lasts a moment before he pulls out, finishing over your stomach. The two of you breathe heavily, foreheads pressed against each other as your bodies come down from their highs. You grab his face, kissing him once more before you drop onto the sheets. 

Aizawa falls besides you. He screws his eyes shut. 

“Your father is going to murder me. Have me hung in front of the entire kingdom.”

You snort. “He won’t find out. If you go back to your post. After you get me a towel.”

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IMBACKKKKK omg i missed writIng i missed all u lovely readers

my last exam is actually on the 20th... but i got this request agesss ago and writing it was so fun i couldnt put it down once i started

guys icl like im such a bit fat virgin..? all my smut knowledge is from fanfics LMAO i have never even held a mans hand before so like plz bare with if some of my smut is not actually doable..

ANYWAYS! next fic posted will be a ot 2 to that hawks fic so.. stayed tuned... and ILY ALL!

request by @princeasimdiya12

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

The Keys Of Heaven [Chapter 4: The Giver Of Life]

Series summary: Three years ago, Father Aemond Targaryen performed a miracle. Now he is a cardinal, a media sensation, and a frontrunner to be elected pope. You are a nun who has been brought to Vatican City to assist with the papal conclave. But when your paths cross by happenstance, you must both reckon with your decision to join the Catholic Church…and what you want from the future.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to abuse and violence, volcanoes, bodily injury, death, peril, scheming, pining, some drugs/alcohol/smoking, Catholic trivia you never asked to learn, kangaroos!

Word count: 6.6k

🦘 A very special thanks to my Aussie slang consultant @bearwithegg and also her mum (any mistakes are mine) 🦘

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @lauraneedstochill @ecstaticactus @neithriddle, more in comments! 🥰

🗝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🗝️

Boats speed past him as he approaches Nea Kameni, fishing vessels, sailboats, small yachts weighed down with tourists and celebrities and business tycoons, and even if they were to turn back towards the erupting volcano—which none of them are—they wouldn’t be able to carry all the people stranded there to safety without going under themselves. This is why when Aemond commandeered a boat from the Old Port of Fira, he chose the largest one, a Grand Banks trawler that can withstand the burden of fifty desperate souls clawing their way abroad. The owner, a man in a suit who looks like he could afford the $2,000,000 price tag, had just been coming down from the cockpit and immediately handed over the keys when Aemond demanded them. Who could mistrust a priest?

“What will you do, Father?” the man had asked in a thick Greek accent, and then, when he saw Aemond’s pale blue eyes flick to the rupturing volcano: “No, you can’t, it’s suicide.”

But it’s not: it’s a resurrection, a chance to be born again. Aemond’s cassock is a humble and undistinguished black, the color of mourning, the death of his old life, the promise of something brand new. Why should people worship Mother Teresa or Joan of Arc or Thomas Aquinas and not him? It is not talent that he lacks. It is only their attention; it is only a miracle.

Now asteroids of pumice and scoria and basalt and obsidian are raining down into the waves thrashing around him, sea spray swashing up over the deck, and the sky is dark with ash and noxious lung-searing fumes, afternoon turned to nightfall. Red veins of lava are snaking down Nea Kameni, and the tourists trapped there are like specks of ants as they flee across the island, their own boat buried in a landslide and useless. And it is not just thankless obscurity that Aemond is leaving behind. It is the person he was when he left Nisyros as a teenager, escaping things he does not think about if he can help it, and most of the time he succeeds.

The ocean is sloshing, swirling, steaming where lava spills into the waves and makes them boil, and to leap into the currents would be certain death. He knows he won’t have long once he docks; even in the shelter of the tiny crescent-moon harbor, the boat will soon be ripped from its moorings by the fury of the sea, and then he will be trapped too and perish in the cinders and the heat and the suffocating toxins that have replaced the oxygen in the air. So he climbs over the deck railing and ropes the vessel to one of the piers that is still standing, and by the time he turns to wave to the castaways they have spotted him and are flocking to his boat in the same way thousands of believers once received the loaves and fishes from Christ.

“Father! Father!” they are screaming in the apocalyptic gloom, the earth quaking and the air like acid, and as they sprint down the embankment he points to warn them: a lava flow that is pouring from the exploded crater, a red-glowing river that will consume them. The tourists look back and see the molten cascade and shriek hysterically, pleading, praying, knowing they cannot outrun it, feeling the lethal heat of it already, blisters bubbling up on their exposed skin.

And then—as Aemond’s hands are still raised in warning, as the tourists have their back to the lava flow as they race for the boat—a new fissure opens up in the earth and Aemond watches as the lava floods down into it, and the besieged visitors to the island are spared. Then they are swarming the boat and Aemond is helping them aboard—Thank you Father, bless you Father—and already he can hear them repeating a lie he does not correct: Did you see that he stopped the lava? It was there and then it was gone, a godsend, a miracle.

It’s almost too dark to see, but Aemond steers the boat out of the harbor and begins crossing the narrow strait of the Mediterranean Sea back to Fira on Santorini. As his passengers cling to each other and meteors of volcanic rock pummel the vessel and splash into the waves, he reaches into one of the pockets of his black cassock—one day red, one day white, he cannot stop himself from thinking—and finds there the rosary that a girl once gave him on a beach in Sydney, Australia. He thinks of her sometimes, but not in a way he could explain to anyone else. She is a ghost, a whisper, far more than a friend, far less than a lover, and yet a ricochet that he hears again and again in moments when he thinks he has forgotten her.

What if I never met her on that beach? What if we had never left?

There is a blinding pain and then the impact of his body hitting the deck and then nothing, and later Aemond will learn that a piece of pumice struck his left eye and fractured his skull. Blood flashes red across the white paint, hemorrhaging like the poisons from the earth. His ash-soiled collar turns crimson and sopping. As the boat is tossed by rough waves and the sky grows ever-darker, the afternoon sun eclipsed, Aemond’s devotees staunch the bleeding and keep him safely aboard, and one of them takes the helm and manages to guide the vessel safely back to Santorini.

And when Aemond wakes up three days later—missing an eye, gaining immortality—the first thing he does is fumble for the remote so he can turn on the television and see witnesses acclaiming his miracle on Alpha TV: Father Targaryen saved us, Father Targaryen made me believe again.

~~~~~~~~~~

“What’s going on between you and the nun?” Lucky asks.

He and Aemond are standing beside the koi pond in the Vatican Gardens. It’s early, and the older cardinals are still scraping their arthritic bones together as they crawl out of their beds. The December morning is grey and dull like iron. Near the bottom of the pond, comets of gold and white and red and black scales travel unhurriedly through rippling water like the darkness of the night sky.

Aemond, preoccupied, puffs on a Karelia cigarette. “I told you. We met when we were children.”

Lucky lights a cigar and takes an impatient drag. That’s not what he meant, and they both know it. “Who is she to you now?”

“Nothing. We’re friends.”

“Not a good enough answer.” Lucky flicks ashes onto the sand-colored tuff pebbles, damp with daybreak mist. “Auclair is running around saying you have an improper attachment to her. Kazi told me there was candle wax all over her face. How did that get there, I wonder? Par hasard?”

Aemond hesitates. His cigarette smolders between two fingers of his right hand, a tiny pinpoint of pulsing red light. “I was consoling her. Auclair...in the chapel, she accidentally dropped a candle on his cassock, and he grabbed her arm.”

Lucky’s brow furrows, incredulous. “He struck her?”

“He startled her.”

Lucky doesn’t understand. “And this compelled you to...lose your composure entirely, risk everything we’ve worked for? Auclair startling a nun?”

Aemond shrugs, peering into the koi pond. “It’s difficult to explain.”

“Aemo, are you serious about this?” About being the next pope.

“Yes,” Aemond replies immediately.

“Because...you know...it would not be the worst thing in the world if Jake got it. Or another moderate, an obscure consensus candidate we could dig up, some old unassuming Italian, the conclave is full of them. And if we pivot now, we might be able to box out Jahoda, even without you.”

“But that’s not what you want.”

Lucky smiles and opens his hands. “I am of the conviction that your gifts are too extraordinary to waste. I think you’re the best of us.”

Aemond averts his gaze as he takes a drag on his cigarette. “I’m not without flaws.”

“Oh, you have them, I’m sure. Pride, wrath, envy, lust.”

“A multitude of earthly motivations.”

Lucky chuckles, a gruff baritone rumble. “And who among us is selfless? Kazi joined the Church because in Poland in 1985, his job options were soldier, coal miner, or priest, and priest was the clear winner. Cam wanted his parents to be proud of him, I wanted a better life in Haiti. And Lando…well…I’m not sure, perhaps that was genuine.” Lucky exhales a plume of smoke and looks at Aemond. “I won’t pretend to know your ignoble reasons for joining the Church, but I’m certain you had them. Mortals don’t often do things out of pure altruism, we are imperfect by design. But that doesn’t mean we can’t still try to make the world better.”

“And you believe my elevation will facilitate that.”

“I do,” Lucky says honestly, then his expression turns fierce. “But you must either commit or get out of the way. You cannot sabotage this conclave and give the Chair of Saint Peter to someone like Jahoda, and you cannot be the pope if you intend to continue indulging your temptations. It is not just a sin, it is murder. When you hurt the Church, you are hurting everyone who might have been saved by it.”

Aemond nods, but he is still distracted. He finishes his cigarette and tosses the end of it into a row of laurel hedges slick with dew. Then he gazes across the gardens at the stone statue of Saint Agatha, eternally young, sinless, vulnerable. He says softly: “I just never thought I’d see her again. I couldn’t remember her name or her hometown, but I knew she wasn’t from Sydney, so how would I ever find her? Then to cross paths with her here...it’s an almost impossible coincidence. And to let her go for the second time seems so wrong. Painful. Intolerable.”

“Do you think I don’t know what it feels like to care for a woman? To love one, even?”

Aemond is stunned; he’s never heard this before. He waits for Lucky to continue like a priest listens silently in the confessional booth.

“I had a girlfriend when I was young,” Lucky says after a while. He kicks away some of the tuff pebbles, drops the end of his cigar in the trough, buries it in the shards of volcanic rock. “And she got pregnant. I couldn’t marry her, I was already planning to join the Church. But I promised that I would provide for her and the baby to the best of my ability. It would have been like Auclair’s situation, you know? Rumors, sure, but that’s all. Visits a few times a week. A child with my face. She took it better than I thought she would, honestly. She understood why I wanted to be a priest, and she knew we would all benefit from my position. She was pragmatic, even at eighteen.”

He has a child? Aemond thinks, astonished. He understands what that’s like?

But no: It would have been like Auclair’s situation, Lucky said. Not it is, not it was.

“She was living with her parents because she couldn’t live with me,” Lucky continues. “And one night when no one else was home, men broke in to rob the house thinking it was empty. They found her, and they killed her, slit her throat down to the vertebrae of her spine. There was no reason for it. She wasn’t trying to stop them or anything. She was hiding in a closet, six months pregnant, just waiting for them to leave. And if she and I had been living together in our own home, she wouldn’t have been there when those men shattered the window and climbed inside. I think about that all the time. It never goes away. Forty years later, and I’m still picking up the phone every day, hearing her father’s voice tell me what happened over and over again.”

The burning in Aemond’s throat makes him think of embers, lava, the gridiron Saint Lawrence was roasted alive on. He lays a gentle palm on his friend’s shoulder. “Lucky, I’m so sorry.”

“There have been times when God spoke to me so clearly it was like He was standing in the same room. And then there were other times...” Lucky closes his eyes for a moment, breathes deeply and unsteadily, shakes his head. “Many, many others, when I heard nothing, and my doubts filled me from my heart all the way down to my fingertips, and it was so heavy and so dark, and it’s contagious, you see, that sort of faithlessness. Contagious and unbearable.” Then, miraculously, he smiles. “But when I saw the news reports about what you did on that island, all those people you saved...parents, children, lovers, friends...all the sudden, it was so much easier to believe. How can one deny the existence of God when a miracle worker walks among us? Fifty witnesses, fifty lives spared, there’s been nothing like it since the ancient times, if you even give credence to those accounts. God has blessed you so abundantly, Aemo. How can we ignore that?”

Aemond lifts his hand from Lucky’s shoulder. What did God have to do with it? “I think I understand,” he says instead.

“In my good moments, I remember the suffering of Christ and all those martyred saints, souls who were so pure and so loved by God, and who were welcomed home by Him when their time came, and who will live on eternally. I have to believe that, Aemo. That we aren’t forsaken, that we aren’t alone, that death isn’t the end. All people have to believe that.”

“Then I’ll do everything I can to win,” Aemond says. When he looks down at the pond again, he sees a dead koi floating there, its scales a vibrant glittering gold. Another one? He gestures to the fish. “Help me bury it.”

Lucky is mystified. “Why?”

So she won’t get in trouble. So they won’t send her away.

“Just help me,” Aemond insists, and Lucky does.

~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s like Whac-A-Mole with all these Italians,” Kazi says over lunch, miming smacking them with a mallet. He means the three candidates that have rapidly surged and then fallen again when it became clear they didn’t have the votes: Cardinal Edoardo Rossi, Cardinal Davide Marino, Cardinal Frederico Abatantuono. The frontrunners remain unchanged; but in the last ballot, only a single vote separated Aemond from Jake, and they both lagged conspicuously behind Jahoda. Lando, now with five silent, anonymous supporters, is clearly stymied.

Outside, it has been drizzling. You and the other nuns are delivering baskets of bread and bowls of Sicilian-style fish stew to the cardinals: garlic and herbs and vegetables and sea bass, capers, golden raisins, a steaming broth of white wine and blood red tomatoes. Across the dining hall, the nonagenarian Cardinal Bogdi Marcu of Romania has spilled soup on himself and Sister Nuru is helping to clean him up. The lean, white-haired Cardinal Auclair is stalking between the tables, pausing to whisper to other cardinals, who frown and nod at whatever he is telling them. You feel your stomach drop, but try not to appear nervous.

He’s duplicitous, and everybody knows it. He’s a sinner, he’s a liar. And he doesn’t have proof of anything.

“How’s it going?” you ask brightly as you set a bowl of stew down in front of Aemond. “I didn’t get to say hi at brekkie.”

You certainly didn’t; he was absorbed in conversations with his companions and had barely looked at you. Now he is still evasive, sipping his glass of water and pretending to brush bread crumbs from the sleeve of his red cassock. Randomly, you wonder what he is wearing under it. Beneath your white wool habit, you have on a simple navy blue cotton skirt and a light jumper, striped with black and white. “Hello, Sister,” Aemond says flatly, fidgeting with the large gold cross that hangs from his neck.

Kazi gives you a brief smile but then resumes his commentary on the revolving door of Italian candidates. Lucky and Cam don’t acknowledge you, in the same way so many cardinals treat the nuns as invisible. You are perplexed; your heartbeat is thudding, hot and ashamed.

What do they know?

“Thank you, Sister,” Lando says quietly as you serve him his stew.

“Everything alright?” you ask Aemond, trying to sound cavalier.

Please don’t ignore me. Please don’t decide this is over.

“I think it’s best to keep some distance for now,” Aemond replies, a low murmur without eye contact.

“Of course.” You steel yourself, keep your expression impassive like a statue’s, then hurry back to the bowls of stew that are still waiting to be delivered. Your white runners squeak against the tile floor. The thin iron chain of your medallion is cold against your throat. Your composure must waver once you’ve turned away from the cardinals; Rhaena is concerned when she sees you.

“Are you alright, mate?” she asks.

You force a smile. “Yeah, I’m just a bit knackered.”

“Have a snooze this arvo?”

Before you can reply, there is a loud voice from across the dining hall, Kazi cackling as he points to one of the windows: “Oh look, there is a rainbow outside. No one tell Jahoda, he will spend all afternoon lecturing it about how it is destined for Hell.”

Cardinal Auclair leaps up from where he was hissing to a group of cardinals from Ireland. “Brother, can we desist with this slander? In his work on the Dicastery for the Doctrine of the Faith, Cardinal Jahoda played a pivotal role in the drafting of the Dignitas Infinita of 2024, which condemned violence and discrimination against homosexuals—”

“While the Church itself remains prejudiced against them. How many stones can we hurl from our glass house?”

Auclair smiles patiently, as if he is speaking to a child. “Cardinal Jahoda has unfailingly advocated for the dignity and salvation of every person, no matter how imperfect. Perhaps if you read more, you would know that.”

“I read about how he spoke out against the distribution of condoms, even in the midst of HIV outbreaks,” Kazi flings back.

Jahoda stands, his chair screeching against the floor as he pushes it out. All gazes snap to him. Cardinal Auclair looks on with eyes that flash like silver coins, grinning. “You progressives, you visionaries,” Jahoda growls, his voice deep and commanding. “You will take a system that works for ninety out of a hundred people and burn it to the ground until we can all suffer together. The Bolsheviks promised liberation. The Soviets promised equality. The Enemy wraps sin and chaos in beautiful words and thus we are seduced, but Brothers, we must resist this temptation. Our Faith has endured for two thousand years, but what is the Church without traditions? What should we ask the over one billion Catholics on the planet to believe in if we do not know ourselves, if we are forever redacting and revising and daring to place our weak mortal judgment over God’s?”

Throughout the dining hall cardinals are muttering, some in disapproval, more in concurrence. Kazi rises to his feet. “But the Church is always changing, Brother. Should we never have permitted Mass to be held in local languages, or moved away from our teachings on the divine right of kings, or improved our working relationships with other faiths—?”

“And yet it is this tolerance of other faiths and doctrines that so often imperils the most vulnerable!” Jahoda says, and now some of the cardinals are applauding. “I still remember that summer when Brezhnev’s tanks rolled into my country. I remember helping my neighbors paint over all the road signs so there were none left except those that pointed the way back to Moscow, I remember giving the soldiers wrong directions as they threatened us with their guns, we who were children, we who were having our innocence destroyed before our own eyes.”

Kazi sighs; he’s heard this so many times. “Yes, yes, Brother, we all know you were there in Prague championing democracy—”

“And my father took a bullet for it!” Jahoda thunders, and no one has anything to respond with except hushed awe or reflection or shame, and after a moment Kazi sits down and gives Aemond an apologetic glance like he knows he’s made a mistake.

Maybe Aemond won’t win, you think, and what you feel in your ribcage glowing warm and low like embers might be hope.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Sister!” you hear someone shout frantically, and here comes Sister Penny hurtling out of the Domus Sanctae Marthae just as you are headed there to tend to the washing. There were two more ballots in the afternoon, two clouds of black smoke loosed from the chimney of the Sistine Chapel, and so there is no new Holy Father yet. Dinner is in a few hours. You are ravenous to see Aemond again and yet dreading it; he fills your skull like sea water, stormy, swirling, full of riptides.

What is happening to me? Where can this lead?

“Sister Penny?” you answer. She is characteristically frazzled, strands of unruly red hair escaping from under her veil, her pale freckled face flushed. She canters to you, huffing from the exertion.

“Would you do me a favor, Sister? I’m so sorry to spring it on you like this.”

“No wukkas, mate.”

“Would you please ride with Cardinal Marcu to the airport?” Sister Penny says. You envision him: slow and stooped and shaky, wrinkled, archaic, a relic of a far older Church, here only as an advisor to the cardinals, over eighty and therefore ineligible to vote in the conclave. “He has an urgent medical appointment he can’t reschedule, a CAT scan or something. Sister Augustina had arranged for him to travel home to Romania today, and she promised she’d accompany him to the airport, but obviously she’s not here anymore and I just found out about all of this when I saw Cardinal Marcu in his room packing his suitcase. He’s expecting a chaperone, and I have to supervise the dinner preparations.”

You study the brick wall that surrounds Vatican City. “But I’ll be allowed in again, right?”

“Of course,” Sister Penny assures you. “We have a driver, you’ll stay in the car the whole time. As long as you don’t speak to anyone outside, you haven’t violated your oath of secrecy.”

You smile, relieved. “Beautiful.” No one assisting with the conclave can contact the world beyond the Vatican for any reason aside from an absolute emergency, not even greeting the crowds gathered in Saint Peter’s Square, not even a phone call or a text. To break seclusion is to risk not just expulsion from the conclave but excommunication from the Church, lifelong banishment, perpetual dishonor.

“Assistants from Cardinal Marcu’s parish have flown in and will be there to meet him at the airport and escort him the rest of the way. You’ll just keep him company in the meantime.”

“Schmick.”

“What?”

“Cool, I got it.”

Sister Penny exhales, mollified, and pats your shoulder gratefully. Behind her, you see Cardinal Marcu shuffling out of the Domus Sanctae Marthae with one of the other Romanian cardinals, who is carrying Marcu’s suitcase for him and soaking in those last convoluted ramblings of wisdom. “Thank you so much for your flexibility.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” you say cheerfully. “To help.” And as far as Sister Penny knows, that’s true.

Soon a Vatican employee arrives, sitting grim-faced behind the wheel of one of the tiny white Fiat Pandas in a black suit and sunnies. He is heaving Cardinal Marcu’s suitcase into the boot and Sister Penny is wishing the elderly cardinal farewell when you notice Aemond watching from a side street, one of the narrow snaking paved paths draped in the shadows of the buildings. You wander over to meet him when it becomes clear he’s waiting for you to.

Aemond says uncertainly, looking at the gate and then back to you: “You’re breaking seclusion?”

“I’m not breaking anything.”

“But you’re leaving.”

“I’ve been asked to accompany Cardinal Marcu to the airport. I’m not stepping foot outside the car or speaking to anyone else. No phone, no radio, I won’t even roll the windows down. I’m not being unduly influenced. I’m not violating any rules. It’s cruisy, I’ll be back in an hour.”

Aemond glances uneasily at the gate again. “Tell them to send someone else.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have the authority to refuse Sister Penny’s requests. But you do.”

But of course he won’t say anything; he can’t be perceived as interfering on your behalf, he can’t fuel the rumors. And so Aemond only frowns, vexed, conflicted, powerless in a way he so rarely is now.

“Goodbye, Cardinal Targaryen,” you quip as you turn away.

But he’s not done yet. “What if something happens and they won’t let you back into Vatican City?”

“You can’t talk to me anyway, so why do you care?”

Aemond doesn’t reply. He only watches you leave, his remaining blue eye fixed and brooding.

You spin around and walk backwards a few steps. “See you at dinner,” you say with a smirk. “From a distance, of course.” Then you whirl towards the car, your white habit gusting in the brisk December wind. On the periphery of your vision, the red pillar that is Aemond stalls a moment longer and then strides off in the direction of the Domus Sanctae Marthae. From the other side of the brick wall, you can hear that the crowds gathered in Saint Peter’s Square with their signs and their prayers and their candles are singing Joy To The World.

You climb into the back seat of the Fiat, and there the prehistoric Cardinal Bogdi Marcu is eagerly awaiting you. You have the sense he would be just as pleased to see Sister Rhaena, or Sister Penny, or Sister Nuru, or Sister Helvi, or anyone else, really; he just doesn’t want to be alone. This is one of the great triumphs of the Church, however marred it may be by the inexhaustible failings of mankind. You get a family for life, and it is over a billion souls strong.

As the driver exits Vatican City via a skinny paved street—passing through a gate monitored by the Swiss Guard—and follows the perimeter of Saint Peter’s Square, Cardinal Marcu points with gnarled arthritic hands and describes the features to you: nearly three hundred marble columns encircling the piazza, cobblestones made of volcanic basalt, two fountains, an ancient Egyptian obelisk that has stood at the center since the 1500s. Then he begins yammering about the horribly sinful shows he’s stumbled across recently while home in Romania—Big Brother, Survivor, Love Island—and how there’s been no decency on television since that shameless American president spoke about his affair with a White House intern, something Cardinal Marcu seems to think transpired just a few years ago. You smile and nod along politely.

Ordinarily, the ride to Leonardo da Vinci International Airport would only take half an hour, but traffic is bad and many of the roads near the Vatican are closed or altered to accommodate the tens of thousands of tourists who have made the pilgrimage here to witness the ascension of the next pope. From the back seat, you watch Cardinal Marcu toddle out of the Fiat and into the waiting arms of two assistants, and by the time you’ve returned to Saint Peter’s Square, dusk is descending and the sky is pink and gold. The driver sighs as he waits in a long line of taxis, the route blocked by a tour bus that took a wrong turn and is now being directed by a fleet of police officers to spin around on the narrow street. Your driver, avoiding the radio, turns up the volume as he listens to an Andrea Bocelli CD. You have the ludicrous temptation to ask: Can you play some Bruce Springsteen? Can you play Atlantic City?

From the far end of the piazza, you gaze at the façade of Saint Peter’s Basilica, where statues of Christ and his apostles preside over the sea of congregants with their flickering candles and their handwritten signs. You see supporters of Cardinal Jahoda waving miniature flags of the Czech Republic and Hungary and Germany, Jake’s followers from Lebanon and Jordan and Syria and Cyprus, Aemond’s devotees from Greece and Italy and the United States. One woman’s poster reads, alongside a newspaper article about what happened on Nea Kameni framed in blue glitter glue: I believe in miracles!

As car horns blare and the driver mutters in Italian, your eyes trace the perimeter of the square. Perched atop the marble columns like benevolent gargoyles are the statues of over a hundred saints: Saint Lawrence who was roasted alive on a gridiron, Saint Sebastian who was pierced by arrows, Saint Lucy whose eyes were gouged out, Saint Thomas Aquinas who died comfortable and revered. Absentmindedly, you touch the plain iron medallion that hangs from your neck. You wonder which of the statues is Saint Agatha.

A small, flimsy-looking metal fence separates the road from the entrance to the pedestrian area. The Fiat rolls forward a few sluggish meters, then stops again. The driver groans. You have to get all the way around the piazza before you can enter Vatican City via one of the stone gates manned by the Swiss Guard. You imagine—against your will, and yet undeniably—that Aemond is waiting there, anxious to ensure that you are granted reentry and thus your stolen time together is not yet over.

“I can walk from here,” you offer, before you remember that isn’t allowed.

“Stay in the car, Sister,” the driver barks in a thick Italian accent, then he gets out and slams the door shut behind him. Through the windshield, you watch him jog over to where the tour bus is still blocking the road and start shouting at the police officers. At first they yell back, then the driver shows them a badge identifying him as a Vatican employee and the police officers are suddenly much more accommodating, pointing him towards a side street that is blocked off by orange traffic barrels but will presumably be opened for him.

As you wait for the driver to return to the Fiat, you peer through the window at the crowd again. It is beginning to thin out, now that today’s ballots are past and twilight is approaching. The sky is turning fiery, blood orange and incandescent amber. The driver is walking back to the car and the traffic barrels are being moved aside. Your eyes catch on a group of Filipino tourists carrying massive cardboard cutouts with Lando’s face on them, and they are laughing as they chat with each other and share a package of Sky Flakes, and you smile and then—

There is a vicious jolt, the shriek of metal on metal, and the Fiat is spinning as it crashes through the metal barrier and into Saint Peter’s Square. Pedestrians are screaming and running; your head whips around and cracks against the window, and for a few seconds the pain is blinding, your vision black and your hands flying up to cushion your skull, and when you start getting glimpses of the world again you see just enough to realize what has happened: a lost tour bus has rocketed out of the side street and collided with the car, and as the bus squeals to a stop near the edge of the piazza, the whirling Fiat smashes sideways into one of the massive marble columns. The door you’ve been pinned against by the centrifugal force caves in; you are thrown from your seat and then yanked back by the seatbelt so forcefully the air is wrenched out of your lungs. You gasp for breath, letting your head rest against the cool window.

You think nonsensically, your skull hammering: I’m just going to have a quick snooze.

Your eyes dip shut for what could only be a minute or two. Muffled through the mangled car, there is the distorted, dreamlike warbling of voices: Italian, English, other languages too. You don’t want to wake up; being conscious is where the pain is, and the weights dragging you down into the darkness are overwhelming, intoxicating.

It’s too hot. Why is it so hot?

Your eyes flutter open, and what you see through the car window is rising threads of black smoke and the dusk-colored radiance of flames. Pedestrians from the square are pounding on the doors and shouting that there is a nun trapped inside.

That nun is me, you think dazedly, and then you lurch into full and horrifying alertness.

You click off your seatbelt and bolt across the back seat; both doors on your side of the Fiat are barred by the marble column. You unlock the door from the inside and then yank the handle...but the door remains closed. You try again, and again, and the car is getting hotter. It’s no use. The impact of the bus warped the door somehow and now it’s stuck, and you can’t get free. Pedestrians are pulling on the outside handle and trying to bust out the window, some are attempting to roll the car away from the marble column to unblock the other doors. The flames are growing taller, and now there is so much smoke the faces of the people trying to save you are obscured.

You scramble over the center console and into the passenger’s seat, where you tug franticly on the handle. This door won’t open either; you are imprisoned, you are entombed. The people outside are backing away as the heat becomes unbearable. They are calling for firefighters who will be able to extinguish the flames or pry a door open or break a window, but by then it will be too late.

“No!” you scream, pounding your fists on the window. “No, don’t leave! Don’t give up yet! I’m still alive in here, please help me!”

But the fire is scorching, the fire is lethal; the metal inside the car is hot enough to scald you when you touch it. You are in an oven. You are dying. You are Saint Joan of Arc tied to the stake; you are Saint Lawrence being roasted alive.

“Help me!” you sob, beating your hands against the window. Sweat is slick on your palms and pouring down your face. Your skin is flushed and burning. The rubber soles of your runners are melting into the floor. “Help! Someone help, please!”

But your would-be rescuers are gone. No one can withstand the flames. You can just barely decipher their silhouettes through the wall of thick, churning grey.

You curl up against the window, fumble your rosary out of the pocket of your habit, and clasp the white pearl beads, taking deep trembling breaths into your lungs. Dark acrid smoke sears your trachea and capillary beds. Sweat stings when it streams down into your eyes.

“I’m not ready to go,” you tell God in a choked, terrified whisper. “Please don’t abandon me. I’m not ready, I’m not ready. There are too many things I haven’t done yet.”

And then you see him cut through the smoke like a red blade, undaunted by the inferno, moving swiftly so he won’t be consumed by it, won’t be claimed, won’t be incinerated. The fire glows on his face; the flames are reflected in the blue of his eye. Aemond rips his gold cross off his neck and then there is a clang and a snapping sound; later, you will learn that he shoved the cross into the door gap and struck it with the heel of his hand so hard he split his palm to the bone. The car door pops open, and you collapse into his arms.

You try to flee from the blaze with Aemond, but you can’t walk; your knees and ankles buckle, your skull is throbbing and the world spiraling. You stumble and Aemond grabs you, drags you, pulls you singlehandedly back from the brink of oblivion.

He’s on fire, you think dizzily as the smoke begins to clear and the clamoring pedestrians reappear, shouting in relief and astonishment.

“That’s him!” you can hear people saying. “That’s Cardinal Aemond Targaryen!”

Aemond feels the heat of the flames licking on his shoulders and rips off his cassock, and it billows in the wind like a red sail. Underneath he has on black trousers and a white dress shirt, the top few buttons torn open in the turmoil, a small gold medallion glinting against his bare chest. You’ve never seen this before. Through the haze of shock and smoke and pain, you wonder who he is wearing.

Aemond realizes before you do that the wool of your white habit has caught fire, and in seconds he has tugged it off of you; but underneath your navy blue cotton skirt and light jumper are smoldering too.

Is he going to strip me? you think, disoriented. Here in front of everybody?

But no, Aemond has other ideas; he hauls you into the cold pattering water of one of the fountains and splashes into the pool with you, cradling you as you sputter and shake violently, the adrenaline evaporating, the agony in your skull and spine all-consuming. You are crying as you cling to him. Your rosary is still tangled in your fingers. By the marble column, the Fiat is now entirely engulfed in flames. The sirens of firetrucks are approaching.

I almost died. And if that was the very end, what regrets would I have?

“I’m here, I’m here,” Aemond is saying, taking the pins out so he can remove your veil, smoothing back your hair with the hand he’s not yet aware he is hemorrhaging from, blood pouring from his palm like a stigmata. “You’re safe now. Shh, you’re alright. Nobody will hurt you. I’ll never let anything hurt you.”

Cardinal Seaborn appears, panting from his sprint across the piazza. His crimson cassock is rumpled and his zucchetto blown away, his face furious. Behind him, the metallic shell of the Fiat burns luminously. “You broke seclusion!” he booms at Aemond. “You could be disqualified! You could be excommunicated!”

“Then do it!” Aemond roars back, his blood running down your face, copper on your lips, scarlet salt on your tongue.

But of course, Cardinal Seaborn cannot dismiss him, this man who has just performed his second miracle and will so effortlessly be declared a saint upon his death. Pedestrians have gathered around the fountain like pilgrims to a holy site and are taking photos and video clips, they are cheering, they are praying, and they are chanting loudly enough that even the cardinals inhumed within the walls of Vatican City must be able to hear: “Targaryen, Targaryen, Targaryen!”

You murmur to Aemond as he holds you, icy water lapping at your charred jumper, your skirt fanning out like a koi fish’s tail: “Well, you’re defo going to win now.”

And then there in the fountain, as the dusk sky spins high above, you black out and sink into an infinite, starless sea of silence.

[whateverjynx]

Co-Parenting

Your new boyfriend and baby daddy, Eren, have never gotten along, so it only made sense that when it came to your daughter’s birthday, your boyfriend would sit this one out—not knowing that this would turn out to be the biggest mistake of his life.

1:00 PM

It was a hot day in June, so it was only reasonable to throw your six-year-old a pool party at the community pool of your apartment complex. A table was set up with blues and purples, her favorite colors, along with an assortment of food and drinks for the kids and parents who would be coming. You wore a beautiful blue two-piece that matched your daughter's one-piece, with your Brazilian wavy bundles styled into a messy bun, gold hoops, and dangles to match.

“Where’s Daddy?” your daughter asked after just coming out of the water leaving her friends. The party had started an hour ago! But it was typical for Eren to show up late.

“He should be here soon, baby, I promise,” you assured her with a smile as you watched her accept your answer before turning and running back to her friends.

Just as you were about to pull out your phone to start blowing him up, you saw that same emerald green Trackhawk that had brought you here in the first place pull into the nearest parking space. Out stepped Eren, wearing white swim trunks that showcased his chiseled abs, holding a large purple gift box and two bags. You rolled your eyes at the sight, trying your hardest not to smile—even just a little bit—at his entrance. You could hear your daughter scream, “DADDY!” as she dashed past you.

You watched as he dropped the box and bags, picked her up, and twirled her around, water dripping from her soaked swimsuit onto him. They chatted for a few seconds before walking to you in the swimming area.

“You’re late,” you said, rolling your eyes and trying not to look at his beautifully sculpted body.

“Hey to you, mamas,” he said with a slight chuckle.

“What did you get me?” your daughter asked eagerly, having overheard the small talk beforehand.

“You’ll see when we open all your presents. Now go play so I can talk to your father.”

She did as told, leaving the two of you. It was silent as you both began to study one another's attire for just a few seconds, like a race against time.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re late?” you asked, turning around so he couldn’t see you begin to fluster.

“You try wrapping a dirt bike; that shit is harder than a motherf—”

“You bought her a dirt bike?” you asked, irritated.

“That’s what she texted she wanted.”

“Yeah, she also said she wanted the Willy Wonka Chocolate Factory. You don’t see me buying that.”

“Girl, calm down. She’s good; she’s eight now.”

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose as you began to mentally figure out where you were going to put it in your apartment.

Still turned around, you could feel him step closer, just a step away before your butt would touch his shorts. “Where’s that man at?” he asked in a low tone.

“At work,” you said smugly, cocking your head to the side while turning around in the small space you had, trying not to bump into him, getting a good look at just how close he was.

“And where’s that bitch at?” you asked just as cockily.

“Damn, why she gotta be a bitch for?” he said with a low chuckle, using his fingers as a comb to fix his hair.

“Oh, you must have Alzheimer’s or something,” you said, folding your arms.

“I mean, shid, you right, you right. But nah, we, um, broke up.”

“Hmm, I wonder why.”

“Chill, nothing like that, I swear. We just weren’t a good match, you know?”

You raised an eyebrow before rolling your eyes, a smile creeping onto your face as the words left his mouth. Why were you slightly happy about that?! You’re in a relationship—REMEMBER!

You could see a smile beginning to form on his lips as you could feel where his mind was going.

“Anyways, I’m going to go set up the birthday cake—tired of looking at you,” you said in a serious yet playful tone.

“Yeah, right.”

This was normal for you and Eren, although unhealthy. You’d find yourself in a relationship, then he would be too, but once you broke up, he would also. But not this time! Or so you thought...

Nighttime came, and by now everyone had left. Your baby had enjoyed herself, and that was all that mattered. You were feeling like an accomplished parent, and everything had gone to plan—except that Eren was still here...

“She’s asleep, you know,” you said cockily as he began to open your balcony door.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, pulling his shorts up while walking around like he owned the place and not even bothering to put on some real clothes. You followed him onto the balcony in only a nightgown, your daughter fast asleep from the day’s activities.

“So, what are you still doing here?” you asked.

He chuckled in response, pulling out a cigarette from the pack already on the balcony and lighting it.

“Why that man really didn’t show? I mean, this is his what…daughter-in-law?” he asked, taking a puff while eyeing you up and down slowly.

“Well, let’s see…you fucked me, got me pregnant, and are still fucking me. I mean, the list goes on—”

“I’m still fucking you?” he asked, a smirk creeping onto his lips as he took another hit.

You rolled your eyes, annoyed with his bullshit, as if he were oblivious to just two months ago when you and that “man” were on a break.

“So what does that mean? Because he knows I ain’t going nowhere. The real question is, why stay? Some simp ass shit if you ask me.”

“Because he actually loves me, Eren, and he wants to give it a chance and work to be a family and grow a family—”

“He ain’t special. F/n, I love you too; it’s just you be tripping, bro.”

“I be tripping? Asking you to come home was tripping, and asking you to be involved with your family was tripping? You act like I was asking for money?! Mind you, I worked just as hard as you—”

“Bro, that was what, seven years ago? We were kids, and I didn’t know what I was doing. I’ve told you I’m sorry for all that.”

“Yeah, well, sorry doesn’t account for me going through my pregnancy alone, Eren. I didn’t even have my family…member? I was doing all this shit alone, remember?”

“And I’m sorry, mamas, I am. I tell you that every time we have this conversation,” he said, his voice getting lower as he walked towards you, moving a few strands of hair from your face behind your ears.

“I’d tell you that every day just to make it right—to take it back, I would. Why won’t you let me?”

You glared at him, but it was hard to resist those pleading green orbs staring into your soul. A mix of regret and sadness lay behind them, but you weren’t falling for it…or were you?

You looked away, rolling your eyes, not knowing what to say. Why was it that you couldn’t take him back? Why, in his case, he been trying to make it right? What was it about him that made you want him yet hate him all at the same time? So many question yet no answers tonight…

there was no telling how to two of you had gotten from point A to point B but it was happening.

Without another word, Eren closed the distance between them, his hands cupping her face as he leaned in. Their lips met, tentative at first, as if testing the waters. But it didn’t take long for the kiss to deepen, growing more passionate with each passing moment.

F/n melted into him, her hands finding their way to his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as she pulled him closer. The taste of him was intoxicating, a mix of warmth and sweetness that sent shivers down her spine. Eren’s hands moved to her waist, drawing her against him, their bodies fitting together perfectly.

As the kiss intensified, F/n felt her body responding to him, the heat spreading through her as she pressed herself against him. Eren groaned softly, the sound reverberating through her, fueling the fire that burned between them.

They kissed like they were the only two people in the world, losing themselves in the moment. Eren’s lips traveled from hers to her jawline, trailing soft kisses down her neck, eliciting a sigh from F/n. She leaned her head back, giving him more access, reveling in the sensations he was creating.

“Eren,” she whispered, her voice a mix of desire and urgency.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with need as he searched her face. “Tell me you want this,” he urged, his breath warm against her skin.

“I want this,” F/n breathed, her heart racing. “I want you.”

With that, Eren captured her lips again, their kisses growing more frantic, fueled by the overwhelming emotions they had been holding back. The world outside faded away, leaving only the two of them, lost in their own universe of passion and connection.

By now, they were on the bed, slowly pulling off one another’s clothes, barely breaking the passionate make-out session the two shared. The air was thick with desire, and each kiss ignited a fire within them that couldn’t be contained.

Eren’s hands roamed over F/n’s back, his fingers tracing the soft curves of her body as he peeled away the last barriers between them. Her skin felt electric under his touch, and he couldn’t suppress the low growl that escaped him as he reveled in the warmth of her.

F/n responded eagerly, her hands exploring the toned muscles of his chest and arms, feeling the strength in his body. She pulled him closer, their bodies pressed tightly together, the heat radiating between them almost overwhelming. Every kiss deepened their connection, and every touch sent shivers down their spines.

As they finally broke apart to catch their breaths, Eren looked into her eyes, a mix of desire and tenderness in his gaze. “Are you sure?” he asked, jokingly, the weight of the moment settling between them.

“Yes nigga now fuck me,” she breathed with a couple giggles in between, her heart racing with anticipation.

With a shared understanding, they leaned into each other again, kissing hungrily as Eren’s hands found their way to her thighs, gently coaxing her legs apart. F/n gasped against his lips, the sensation sending waves of excitement coursing through her.

Eren took a moment to admire her, his gaze filled with awe and longing. “You’re so sexy,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

F/n felt her cheeks flush at his words, and before she could respond, Eren captured her lips again, their mouths moving together as he positioned himself between her legs. The heat between them was palpable, and F/n could feel the tension building once more.

As Eren began to move, slowly at first, he watched her reaction closely, wanting to savor every moment. F/n arched her back, a moan escaping her lips as he deepened their connection, their bodies moving together in a rhythm that felt both exhilarating and intimate.

“Eren,” she gasped, gripping the sheets as he continued to thrust, each movement sending ripples of pleasure through her body.

“Just like that, baby,” he encouraged, his breath coming in heavy pants as he lost himself in the sensations.

F/n met his movements with her own, her body instinctively arching against him, urging him on. The world outside faded away as they became lost in each other, the only sounds filling the room were their breathless gasps and whispered encouragements.

Eren’s hands found her waist, pulling her closer as he quickened their pace, the intensity building with each thrust. F/n felt the pressure mounting within her, a delicious tension that threatened to consume her.

“Eren, I’m so close,” she cried out, her nails digging into his back as she clung to him.

“Fuck mama,Me too,” he grunted, his voice thick with desire. “Let go for me, F/n. I’m right there with you.”

With his words, the dam broke. F/n’s body surged with pleasure as waves of ecstasy washed over her, and she cried out Eren’s name, the sound echoing in the room. Eren followed closely behind, his own release crashing over him as he buried himself deep inside her, their bodies trembling together in the blissful aftermath.

They collapsed onto the bed, breathless and entwined, the world around them fading away as they held each other close. Eren pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, a satisfied smile spreading across his lips.

*high as FUCK writing this I promise imma get better 😭🙏🏾

[mister0ctopus]

We Are All Sinners 06

Pairings: Jungkook x Reader

Summary:  You left Jungkook and this town behind, but every visit pulls you back into his arms, chasing a high you can never leave behind.

Ratings: 18+ ONLY!!! MDNI!

Warnings: Explicit language, Mature Contents, angst, toxic relationships, unresolved feelings, infidelity, unprotected sex (please be safe)

Word Count: 4.2K

SERIES MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

THEN 

Jungkook’s childhood bedroom was small and cozy, its walls plastered with faded posters of his favorite bands, Dragon Ball fanarts, and polaroids of his band and friends from high school.

His single bed was covered in a blue plaid bedsheet. The pillows didn’t match. One had flowers on it. The other had cartoon dinosaurs. It was painfully endearing.

It was your first time staying at his family’s house, your first full weekend there, even though you’d visited a few times before.

His mom had greeted you with warm hugs and too much food, Jin had made jokes at Jungkook's expense, and his dad had insisted you call him dad.

They were all laughter and random stories.

It felt like stepping into a different reality of home.

Their house is smaller, actually smaller than yours and your mom’s.

But somehow, it fits three bedrooms: one for his parents, one for Jin, and one for Jungkook.

Their house is smaller, actually smaller than yours and your mom’s.

So you wondered how such a small space could feel so overwhelmingly full.

Of warmth. Safety. Love.

Things you weren’t exactly used to.

“You’ll sleep here, love,” Jungkook said, dropping your overnight bag onto his bed. 

He moved to the window and pulled the curtains open, letting the late afternoon sun spill into the room. A breeze slipped in with it, fresh with the scent of pine and cut grass.

You stood there for a second, trying to take it all in.

You’d told your mom you were staying over at a friend’s house from uni.

Which wasn’t a lie.

Jungkook was your friend at university.

He was also everything else you didn’t dare mention anymore.

You’d stopped bringing Jungkook up around her a long time ago.

She never had anything kind to say, especially on the bad days, which were happening more often now.

“He’ll drag you down. Waste your potential. Keep you locked in this town to rot.”

Then came the line you’d heard too many times to count:

“I didn’t claw my way up and marry into that family just so you’d throw it all away for some boy. You’re your father’s only daughter. You need to go take your place in that family. You were meant for something grand.”

You sat on Jungkook's bed and ran your fingers over the soft cotton blanket.

“Where are you sleeping?” you asked.

“Couch in the living room,” he muttered, joining you with a little dramatic sigh. “Jin snores loudly these days. I’d rather sleep on the couch than torture myself in his room.”

“Aww, poor baby. You're gonna survive out there alone?” you reach to fix his already neat hair.

He pouted, giving you a look. “Nope. I’m gonna suffer. Dreaming of you.”

You grinned. “Your mom doesn’t want us sleeping together?”

Jungkook snorted. 

“She said the bed’s too small for two people. I told her I’d sleep on the floor and she glared at me….”

“...I mean, she definitely knows we sleep together. She knows we crash at each other’s dorms all the time... and yeah, probably knows we fuck like rabbits.” He shrugged, totally unbothered.

You smacked his shoulder, eyes wide. “What do you mean she knows we fuck like rabbits?!”

“She saw hickeys or scratches on my chest, like, multiple times. I told her it was insect bites, but come on, what kind of insect bites leave teeth marks?!” He shrugged. “Pretty sure that’s why she’s separating us now. Her house, her rules.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands.“OMG. You need to control yourself then.”

Jungkook turned toward you, pointing at himself. “Me? Control myself? You’re the one who went werewolf on me!”

Then he leaned in, in that mocking and whiny voice, “Okay, but don’t come crawling into the living room at 2am whispering, ‘Jungkook, please, I need you.’”

He added a few fake obnoxious moans and you burst out laughing and smacked him with a pillow.

“I don’t sound like that!”

He was cackling, grabbing your waist before you could scoot away.

“No, you don’t, baby,” he said, grinning.

“Yours was hot. But even if you did sound like that– your moans alone could make me bust on the spot.”

Your jaw dropped.

“Jungkook! Oh my god! Your mom’s literally in the next room!”

He just shrugged, then pouted.

“No one talks about the burden of dating the hottest girl alive. No one understands my pain.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smug smile tugged at your lips.

You glanced around, trying to shake off the throbbing between your thighs, thanks to his innocent eyes and slippery mouth. 

Then, you noticed the corkboard on the wall– pinned with colorful, messy sketches. Some done in ballpoint pen, others in watercolor. 

All Jungkook’s.

But what caught your eye wasn’t a drawing.

It was a test paper. 

Your test paper.

 “Wait…what’s this? This was mine in highschool!”

Jungkook’s head snapped up.

His face flushed instantly, and he scrambled to stand like he’d been caught doing something illegal.

You walked closer and leaned in to inspect it. It was your paper– your handwriting, your answers, your neat little score circled at the top. 

And at the bottom, was a sketch of you.

Drawn in black pen. Delicate, careful lines forming your side profile.

It was a little messy, so you could tell he’d rushed it judging by the quick, uneven lines, but the details were on point. The little strands of hair, the slope of your nose, even the way your lips curved when you weren’t smiling.

And right underneath, was a signature:

Jeon Jungkook ♡♡♡

You stood there, stomach twisting into one of those little dances.

You turned to him, biting back your smile, holding the paper. “I didn’t know you did this. When exactly did you draw it?”

Jungkook scratched the side of his nose, clearly flustered, eyes darting toward the window like he was considering jumping out of it.

“I– yeah.” he muttered, clearing his throat. “First time I got assigned to check your paper.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“I don’t know… I just ended up sketching you. Absentmindedly. Then I got shy and didn’t return your test paper cause of the drawing. I didn’t want you to think I was a creep or something.”

He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck, and you couldn’t help the smile pulling at your lips.

You turned to face him, grinning. “How long did you have a crush on me before we started talking?”

He groaned. “We’ve talked about this.”

“Still wanna hear it.”

He sighed, and he was smiling shyly, but he still continued.

“Your first day. When the teacher introduced you as a transfer student. You walked in, stood in front of the class, and I swear, I forgot how to breathe. Jimin called me a mouth breather for like, a week. Said I looked like I was buffering…

You giggled.

He continued. “Then you said your name, and I thought… it sounded just as pretty as your face.”

You pressed your nose to his neck, warmth bubbling in your chest. You never got tired of hearing this, even though he’d told you a hundred times before.

“But you still haven’t told me when you started liking me. You always say you don’t exactly remember, but I wanna know too,” he whined, pulling back just enough to pout at you.

“I seriously don’t remember,” you said with a laugh. “But I started noticing you when you were being stupid with Jimin and the others. You were so annoying. Like… loud.”

Jungkook gasped, looking offended. “I was trying to get your attention! You looked really sad!”

You grinned. “But I thought you were really cute… especially when you smile."

He straightened his shoulders, that shit-eating grin spreading across his face as he narrowed his eyes at you.

“But when did you start liking me, huh? Was it when you saw me perform on stage the first time and realized how hot I was? Or… wait, was it when I topped that exam? Be honest.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Why do you need to know so badly?”

“I need it for my ego, pleasepleaseplease,” he whined dramatically, eyes pleading like a puppy. “I need to know.”

“I don’t know when it happened exactly,” you said, voice soft and tender. “It just… snuck up on me. Maybe during one of those lunch breaks where you pack extra lunch for me. Or those walks home after class, when you'd wait for me even if I was late. Or maybe… when I saw you doodling in the back of your notebook. Little sketches of animals in class, and you’d sign them with tiny hearts…”

Jungkook’s eyes widened, surprised. “You noticed that? My doodles? I never showed anyone...”

“Of course I did.” 

You leaned in closer to rest your chin on his chest. “How could I not?”

The rest of the day was full of laughter and food, and Jungkook being relentlessly mom-handled at every turn.

After dinner, his mom proudly showed you her indoor plants, beaming as she pointed at her thriving Fiddle-leaf fig. “Jin helped me set this up,” she said sweetly, patting his arm. “Since he’s the one who actually makes time to visit.”

“That’s not fair, he got time since he graduated and has a full-time job now,” Jungkook muttered, clearly offended.

Jin, of course, just closed his eyes, smiled, and nodded slowly.

Then she turned to you, resting a light hand on your arm. “Sweetheart, you’re going to be comfortable in Jungkook’s room alone, yes?”

“Yes,” you nodded politely, trying not to combust on the spot.

“I know our home’s a little smaller and simpler, not as fancy as what you might be used to, but I do hope you’ll feel comfortable while you’re here.”

“Oh, no, you have a beautiful home. It’s warm and so comfortable. I’m truly grateful to be here, and I hope I’m not causing any trouble.” You said with a small, polite smile.

You let out a soft, nervous laugh, fingers gently fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.

“No, sweetheart, you’re welcome anytime!” She gave your arm a gentle pat, eyes crinkling with kindness. “We’re so happy to have you here. Don’t ever feel like you’re a bother.”

She then turned to Jungkook, eyes narrowing.

“Jungkook, don’t you dare bother her. Be a good host and let our guest be comfortable in your room.”

You and Jungkook exchanged a look– just a split-second glance. 

But it was enough.

“Mom,” Jin pointed dramatically, “I saw them look at each other. I think they’re planning something. Like… tonight. When everyone is asleep!”

His mom whipped her head around so fast you heard her neck pop. “Jungkook! I told you– control yourself! Be respectful! You both graduate first before any nonsense, you hear me?”

Jungkook leaned into you and whispered, “She said graduation before fornication,” before throwing his head back in laughter. But it was loud enough for everyone to hear.

You shot him the sharpest glare you could muster, which, admittedly, wasn’t very effective given that everyone else at the table was already cackling, except his mom.

You didn’t know what to do, so you did what anyone would in that moment: laughed nervously and hoped your face wasn’t too red.

And then, of course, his dad, the quiet one, the calm one in the house who rarely spoke, joined in to say “That was a good one.”

It was past 1 am and the house was dead quiet—except for the faint hum of the fridge, the soft snoring from his parents’ room, and maybe from Jin’s down the hall.

You’d been tossing and turning for what felt like forever. Scrolled through your phone. Checked your texts. Checked the pictures you took today. Nothing worked. 

And then—

A text. 

From your boyfriend.

Who is in the living room, literally just right outside this bedroom.

“Babe.”

“Baby.”

“Love.”

“🥺”

“😫”

You didn’t reply.

You already knew what was running through your boyfriend’s head.

And honestly? His mom’s not wrong.

You really do fuck like rabbits.

You try to be subtle, you really do, but it’s hard to control. Especially when he looks that hot, which, by the way, is all the time.

And he’s always touching you. 

Always.

Sometimes it’s innocent, like your knees just barely brushing, or his hand on your thigh.

Other times, it’s full-blown: arms wrapped around you, pulling you on his lap.

Even around your friends.

He’s never shy about it.

And at this point, his bandmates and your friend group have stopped teasing.

You were really trying to behave. Like really, really trying to be the respectful, proper guest his mom would adore.

You know, the type who sleeps early, doesn’t sneak around…

But then–

Creeeaak.

The door opened slowly, quietly, suspiciously.

You panicked.

Shoved your phone under the pillow, and pretended to sleep.

You cracked one eye open.

You can still see clearly, thanks to the streetlamp outside, and the moonlight.

There was a figure crawling– literally crawling– across the floor.

You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing. He looked like a komodo dragon.

“Love?” Jungkook whispered softly.

You stayed still, trying to suppress your laughter. 

"Baby, are you asleep?" he whispered, so quietly you could barely hear him.

You cracked your eyes open and saw his face right at your level, him kneeling beside the bed.

“How can I sleep if you’re here?” your voice somewhere between a whisper and a panic. “Oh my god, your mom is literally going to kill us!”

"Baby, I'm begging you. Please. I can't do it anymore," he hissed, voice cracked, forehead pressed to the mattress like he was in pain.  

You blinked at him deeply confused. "Why, babe, what’s going o—"

"No, no, listen– " he scrambled up, grabbing your hands. "I can’t even jack off anymore, I swear–" He looked genuinely distressed.

"I tried, baby. On the couch. I tried not to think about it. But the thought of you in my bed–MY bed, where I would literally fall asleep in high school imagining you… I tried to take care of it, I promise, but my hand’s not you. It’s not even close. Nothing’s fucking close–"

You choked on a laugh, shoving his shoulder. "Jungkook, your whole family is literally–"

"I’ll be quiet!" he whispered back urgently, his hands already crawling up your stomach with trembling fingers. "I swear to God, I’ll be so fucking quiet, baby. Please. I won’t even breathe."

You snickered and rolled your eyes, but you cupped his face and kissed him gently.

“Okay.”

He whined. Actually whined.

"Thankyouthankyouthankyou," he mumbled, breathless, in between kisses, already moving to crawl on top of you.

The bed creaked beneath both your bodies, too small for this, but neither of you cared.

You were still giggling when his mouth found yours, slow, deep kisses that swallowed every sound, every inch of hesitation.

His hands slipped under the blanket, pushing your pajama shorts and panties down to your knees. Then his sweats followed, low enough to free his cock, hard, leaking.

He spat into his palm, slicked himself up, and then slowly, he pushed in.

And you opened your legs wider, wider, to let him in.

His mouth moved to your neck, lips finding that one spot– the one that always made you roll your eyes. Then he sucked gently, and you arched into him with a quiet gasp, fingers clutching at his shirt.

And once he was finally inside, he started to move. Slowly. Deeply. 

It was torturous. He kept hissing through clenched teeth with every movement.

“Fuck, baby, you’re killing me,” he whispered against your ear, breath ragged. 

You bit your lip hard, trying to muffle the moan rising in your throat. 

He picked up the pace, just slightly, but even then, the soft sound of skin meeting skin began to echo too loudly in the small, quiet room.

“Shit, sorry baby,” he muttered in frustration, pulling out and shifting beside you on the bed.

Sorry? Was he sorry for pulling out? For making a noise?

You hadn’t even noticed he made a sound.

You were too busy choking on your own pleasure to notice anything else. He just felt too fucking good.

Then he guided you gently onto your side, your back pressing flush against his chest. One arm slipped beneath your neck, the other curled around your chest, fingers sliding under your shirt, holding you close, anchoring you.

He slid into you again, this time from behind, with your legs pressed together.

He began to move– not too fast, not too slow. Just deep. Just right.

And it made your whole body shiver.

You felt everything– his thickness, his hardness.

And you felt his pain too– his muffled groans and his teeth on your neck. 

You exhaled—too loud.

His hand flew up to cover your mouth gently, and he chuckled into your ear, still moving with that same steady rhythm.

“Shhh, baby. Gotta keep it low,” he whispered, his smile audible in his voice.

He didn’t change his pace. 

And you could feel it building, right there.

He was hitting that spot– the spot– that made your eyes roll back and your legs tense.

Your fingers curled tight around the arm covering your mouth, nails digging into his skin as your body pressed back into him on instinct.

You were close.

So close.

“Jungkook, baby” you gasped, voice barely a breath as his hand pressed firmly over your mouth, “you’re gonna make me come just like t-that—”

“I know, baby. You’re squeezing me so tight,” he murmured against your ear. “You gonna cum for me, hmm?”

He sucked gently on your earlobe, tongue flicking, making you shiver.

You nodded.

God, it was so hard to stay quiet like this, especially with the way he was fucking you: steady and deep, all while trying not to make a sound.

“You gonna be quiet for me?”

You nodded again.

“Promise?” He smiled through a whisper.

You nodded again, suppressing a whine that sounded like a gasp.

His hand slipped from your mouth, trailing down your body like familiar territory he knew by heart, until it gripped your ass, lifting you just enough so he could fuck into you harder, deeper, rougher.

And the other hand– previously tucked beneath your neck– slid up to cover your mouth again, then he leaned in and whispered,

“Be a good girl and come for me.”

And you do—just like that.

Like being struck by lightning.

Then his thrusts turned erratic and messy, until he spilled inside you, leaving you both shaking in the aftermath.

And he made love again to you again after that– twice more, maybe three– slowly, reverently, like a quiet thief in the dark, stealing nothing but soft gasps and broken whimpers.

Maybe it was your begging, “Don’t stop,” or maybe it was him, pleading, “Just one more.”

Until he was spent.

Until you were sore. Until you were left full—utterly, achingly—of him.

NOW

Dessert is finally served, and for a moment, you almost feel relieved that this dinner is almost over.

You’ve spent the last ten minutes fixating on the chandelier above. Baccarat, probably. Worth a small country. You wonder if staring at it long enough could spare you from the weight of eye contact.

Your aunt– your father’s eldest sister– had summoned everyone for what she called “an intimate family dinner.” 

She’s spent the entire meal recounting her son’s recent accomplishments, all whilst maintaining effortless poise, flawless posture, and rehearsed laughter.

Apparently, he’s taken up fencing. French. Sculpture. A director of the family company now, of course. Finally.

“I’m just so pleased that my son has been finally appointed Director.” she began, her voice silky, spoon elegantly swirling her panna cotta. “Frankly, it was long overdue. I was actually quite surprised YN got promoted before him.”

Your father sets down his fork with a deliberate click. “YN earned that promotion. Three years in the department, from the ground-up. She’s been hands-on in operations, she understands the business.”

Your aunt smiles. “Of course. Still, my son was groomed for this company since he could walk. That kind of legacy matters.”

Then she turns to you, still smiling.  “Now, YN, darling– bless your heart–- ”

then, she turns to your father, who sits stoic as ever, unmoved,

“–-spent most of her years in a small provincial town with her mother. A very... different background.”

Your father shifts beside you. His jaw clenches, but he says nothing.

You place your spoon down, dabbing your lips with the napkin even though you’ve barely touched the dessert.

“Yet, here we are– both Directors.” You set your spoon down, folding your napkin with care. “Perhaps the board understands that the company runs on competence, not inheritance.”

You offer them the sweetest smile you’ve managed all week.

Your father clears his throat but doesn’t look up, eyes fixed on his plate.

Across the table, your aunt’s smile doesn’t falter—but her head tilts ever so slightly, and you catch the faint twitch of a nerve pulsing at her neck.

“You always did have a flair for theatrics,” she says, voice smooth as polished glass. “Just like your mother.”

You lift your glass, take a slow sip, and set it down gently.

“Yes,” you reply, tone soft but firm. “And like my mother, I will never to let anyone speak over me. Even at their own dinner table.”

The smile she gives you this time doesn’t reach her eyes.

Your father speaks then—low, firm. “That’s enough.”

You don’t argue. You simply smile again. 

“Please excuse me,” you say, rising gracefully. “I’d like to use the ladies’ room.”

Your chair slides back without a sound. You don’t hurry. You don’t look back.

You take your time– too much time, probably. But you couldn’t care less.

You smooth a palm over your skirt. Check your teeth. Reapply gloss. Powder your nose.

Just one more minute with these people and you swear you’ll lose your sanity. You’re this close to snapping– to flipping the entire dinner table and giving them a real taste of that “provincial girl” they love to whisper about.

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck.

You step out, heels clicking against cold marble, and walk straight toward the garden exit. 

To get some air.

You push the glass door open and step into the crisp night air.

You nearly trip when you spot another figure already occupying the beautifully curated garden– lean and impossibly elegant in a brown suit that hugs him perfectly.

Cigarette in hand, smoke curling like silk around his long fingers. 

He looks up as if he’s been expecting you.

“YN,” he says, voice velvet and deep.

You inhale sharply. “Taehyung.”

“How’s my favorite cousin?” he drawls, eyes twinkling. “Had fun at the quarterly Hunger Games?”

You exhale. “Eventful, as always.”

“Damn, I should’ve sat through it. Who was the tribute this year?”

“You're looking at her.”

“Oof,” he winces playfully. “Did you win?”

You smirk, eyes narrowing slightly. “I don’t know. Why don’t you go inside and check? Which reminds me– you’ve been suspiciously MIA from these family dinners for a while now.”

Taehyung takes a slow drag, eyes glinting. “Well, God forbid a man work hard and honest, running his own law firm.”

You roll your eyes, but there's a trace of admiration behind it.

“I envy you, Tae. Not everyone has the balls to stand on their own... to go against the current and completely ignore their parents’ expectations to fall in line and join the family business.”

He huffs a laugh, flicking ash. “Free will exists, cousin. You should try it sometime.”

You give him a defensive look.

“When you realize you have that,” he says, “you’ll stop trying to be the daughter they want– and start being the person you want to be. Including not forcing yourself into a loveless marriage.”

“I want it,” you snap, too quickly. “It may be loveless, for now. But there’s respect.”

Taehyung lets out a quiet, almost sad laugh.

“Is there?” he asks, glancing at you. “Because I keep thinking about that guy. The one back in your hometown.”

“What? How did you–” Your stomach tightens.

“It’s a small town, YN,” he says calmly. “People talk. You know that better than anyone."

You hug yourself.

“I was there long enough to hear things,” he says, flicking ash from his cigarette. “What can I say? In this line of work, you pick things up easily. And staying there, sorting through your mom’s house… it wasn’t hard to connect the dots.”

You glare at him, searching for a retort, anything to shut him down. But your mind blanks. 

You hate that it blanks.

He takes another drag of cigarette, exhaling the smoke upward.

“Do yourself a favor, dear cousin. Be still, just for a moment. And ask yourself, honestly: Is this what you want? Not what your mom wants. Not what your dad expects. You. What do you want?”

You open your mouth.

Then close it.

“You don’t have to say it out loud,” he says gently. “But whatever popped into your head just now... that’s your answer.”

You blink, stunned at how much you suddenly want to cry. Or scream. 

“This is what I want." you manage.

Taehyung nods.

“Okay. I just hope you’re chasing what you want…not what you’ve been taught to want.”

A beat.

“Regret’s a patient ghost, YN. It always waits for the quiet.”

And with that, he exhales smoke into the night before flicking the cigarette to the ground.

taglist: @investedreader @daskewl @softhaes

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[msfantasy-comics]

The Pre-Teen Three’s First Mission

Platonic!Damian Wayne x WonderGirl!Reader x Platonic!Jon Kent

Summary: Your first mission together ends horribly.

Warning: Descriptions of death

Part III

“Turn around Robin!” Batman growls authoritatively over the radio.

The commands alone shoots fear down your spine. The unspoken threat forcing every cell in your body to comply. Yet despite what you want, you stare at Robins solid back, still running ahead of you without so much as a wavering hint of submission.

“Trust me Batman- I can do it! I grew up here! I know what I’m doing.” Robin reassures.

“It’s not about trust Robin- abort the mission now!”The radio runs silent. Robins reassurance falling on deaf ears.

Feeling torn between supporting your leader, your best friend, something in your gut was telling you to turn around and high tail it out. “Stop Robin, we should abort the mission.”

“No I can do it.” He waived you off without a second to spare. Suddenly, his sense of self-assurance has you doubting your reluctance.

Jon frowns, also torn between obeying his father and being a trusting team member. “We know you can do it Robin, but we shouldn’t. Let’s just go and reassess later.” Jon coax’s unsuccessfully.

“There’s no time, I can do it.” Robin voice cracks down on both of you like a whip. His tone commanding you both to shut up and put your trust in him.

“WonderGirl, return to base now!” Wonder Woman commands, the angry voice of a mother talking to a defiant child.

“I’m sorry- I can’t just abandon him.” You say, reaching for your communications. tearing the ear piece from its place.

“Yes you can sweetie- listen to M-“ You hear the end of your mother’s pleading, less like a super hero and more like a desperate mother trying to reach her daughter.

“Superboy come back to base now!” Superman yells uncharacteristically, you expect Jon to be quaking in his boots, but Jon continues to stare forward, certainty and trust in Damian, clouding his better judgement.

“I can’t just leave them.” He says, also reaching for his comms and turning it off.

“Son-“

You three reach the end of the hall. Throwing open the doors an ultrasonic sound reverberates, a green sparking flash, bangs, instantly killing all vision.

Two hands slap against Damnians back with a brutal shove, Robin, smacks hard into the floor, the speed knocking the speed knocking the wind out of him.

One moment the world was black. The next he was crawling to Jon’s side, who continuously groans in pain. Unable to fathom the onslaught of questions falling from Damian’s mouth.

Jon continues to groan as he shakily lifts a crocked finger to point at your body laying unnaturally limp on the floor.

Your hair sprayed in strands.

One eye sealed shut whilst the other eye is left open, pupil remaining unchanging to the shifting lights. Your arm sits twisted behind your back as your unrising chest seems to release a loud sigh before you remain unmoving.

“No!” Robin screams scrambling to your devastating state. He reaches to pull you in his arms, to safety. But the mangled state of your appearance makes his arms wrench away. Terrified that the slightest movement could kill you.

‘Analysing…’ the AI voice says ‘WonderGirl: ECG is 0. SP0C is 78% and rapidly declining. Pulse is undetected. Temperature is 34 degrees Celsius and declining. Injuries sustained are significant.’

The blood rushes to Damian’s head. The roars of rushing blood drowns out any and all sound.

‘Analysis complete. Sending a black alert to headquarters. WonderGirl is deceased.’

Without uttering another word, Damian picks up your body and pulls Jon at his tattered sleeve as he sobs. “Come Superboy, we’re going to the Lazarus Pit.”

Damian stands in the Lazarus Pit, cradling you with sincere regret. Your sorry state burning permanently into his broken mind.

“Why isn’t she coming back?! She should be back right now right?” Jon says, flailing in panic behind Damian.

“Calm down Jon- sometimes it takes time.” He reassures, but Damian’s shaky hands breaks the facade of his confidence.

“Calm down?! She’s dead! You-“

“Knew you would save me Short Stuff.” You mutter weakly. Cutting Jon off from uttering any words of regret he’ll be unable to take back.

Damian pulls you into a crushing hug. Needing to feel your liveliness himself. Jon leaps into the pit, throwing his arms around you both. His teary face pressing into you.

“Jeez, if I knew I would get this kind of treatment, I should’ve kicked the bucket earlier.” You chuckle, weakly returning the hug to these two lugs.

“Yeah well don’t get use to it freak.” He whispers with a wobbly lip. “… don’t ever do that again.” He says, pulling you even closer than before.

“Idiot,” You wheeze, slight pain shooting up your spine at how tight Damian was holding you. “you would’ve been obliterated on the walls. I have no regrets and I’ll do it again if I have too.” You reassure which only makes Damian pull away with a crooked brow.

“Moron! No you won’t.” He reprimands. Making you gasp.

“You absolute brat! Don’t tell me what to do!” You lecture back, shoving a pointed finger into Damian’s chest.

“Stop trying to sacrifice yourself you masocist.” He yells back, throwing you onto the floor with a loud thud.

Still weak from revival, you remain limp on the floor. “You ungrateful brat! I died for you-“

“Oh great, how long are you going to hold this over me.” He cuts you off, turning his back once again and walking off.

Jon sighs in resignation, scooping up your weak form and carrying you right out with him. “A lifetime.”

“A lifetime? You-“ Damian’s sentence cut-off by Jon as he rips him into a group hug again, a large smile plastered across his face.

[aleksa-sims]

RL Story

This is where my Sis, Sonja, Rafi and I used to spend our summer holidays with our Grandma, when we were little . After the fight with my Mom yesterday, today started quite relaxed. We were all looking forward to this trip and wanted to spend a nice day together. For my son and nephew our trip was almost like a little adventure. We splashed in the lake, saw turtles and picked berries.

Later that afternoon, Sonja and I had a picnic with the kids. That was so funny. Lucas fell asleep while eating!!😄Almost exactly as in the picture above, just without Teddy Bear but with a slice of bread in his hand. And little Denis played soccer with Nico.

As the sun slowly set, this beautiful day ended with a quarrel like yesterday.  After finishing dinner together, I left our table for a short moment. On the way to the bathrooms I was approached by a stranger. I immediately felt uncomfortable. On the one hand I just wanted to ignore that guy- but on the other, I didn’t dare to be rude. After all he asked me for help?

Anyway, he wanted to know if I was familiar with this area? I told him that I was only visiting my grandma. Then he just started yapping... He told me he was here with his father, who has married a girl and yada, yada, yada....

Nico sat somewhere on a bench just a few steps away from us, but I didn’t notice. He watched me/us. I think he was waiting for me to end this conversation, but somehow I couldn't, bcs that guy just wouldn’t stop talking!!

Now I saw N. heading toward us. He explained to the stranger that I am his girlfriend! The guy apologized, several times! And wanted to leave. But that wasn’t enough for N. He wanted me to understand and feel, how pissed he was. 🤦‍♀️

So, he demeaned me in front of that strange guy 😒 and my DAD, who I (but also N.) didn’t see right away! And even though I was used to N.'s .....anger issues and all the fights with my Dad in the past, I got... really mad & hurt at the end.

N. asked the stranger if he finds me hot? 🤨 He wanted to know what the guy would do with me, alone? N. explained to him that I belong to him. That guy must ask him first, if he wants me! And I will do what Nico asks, whether I want it or not. That’s about how.... it came off and my Dad heard everything and understood it just the same! 😠And ofc, my Dad confronted Nico!

Nico: Come on, man, just relax. I was just joking.

Dad: You haven’t changed at all! Stop treating my daughter like a dog! Apologize to her! 😠

Nico: Stay out of our lives! I can talk to her any way I want! And since you just mentioned it, how about you apologize to me? 🤨

Dad: I certainly don’t apologize to you for trying to help my kid!

Nico: By getting me out of the way, to do Philip a favor?.. That was your first mistake back then! The second was, that you let her marry a drug addict. But well, I get it, everybody’s better for her than me... Why don't you just give up? You fucked up anyway.

Dad: Watch how you talk to me! And now listen to me so that you finally understand it! I didn’t like Daniel at first too. I threw him out of my house just like I did with you and her. But compared to you, Daniel had the balls to apologize to me AND ask for help! You instead left my daughter alone with your mother for weeks, to play soccer abroad. Then you took her pills away from her to get her clean. Like you’re a fucking doctor! And when that also didn’t work out, you got Philip into this shit, so he could watch her while you’re away!!! That’s crazy what you did!! You could have just come to me or my wife and just admit that you can’t deal with her alone.

Nico: That’s exactly what I did, man! But you sent me away! You forced me to break up with her or you didn’t want to help her.

Dad: By that time, she had already started using. And be honest! She asked me for help, not you! You broke my daughter then, and will do it now too. Because you haven’t changed at all! But I won’t let that happen!

Nico: And I don’t make the same mistake twice!

Nico: If you ever try to get rid of me again, I’ll take everything you have. Lucas! He's my son! If I want...... you’ll never see him again! 😠

Dad: What are you going to do? You’re never here anyway? And my daughter won’t keep my grandkid away from me.

Nico: If she doesn’t do what I say, I leave her.

Dad: Fine! Thats perfect! 🤷‍♂️

Nico: But I’m taking Lucas with me! He’s my son!

Dad: And she's his MOTHER!!!! 😠

Nico: A drug-addicted Mother, who may..... even relapse? And is still, married to a smackhead! 😡

Me: STOP!! I can’t listen to you two anymore! Honestly, I’m gonna puke! Besides, all this crap you two are always arguing about is PAST and over four years ago! 😡🤷‍♀️

I got my Mom to help me with them. I was afraid they might come to blows. And as for N’s threat to take our son away from me bcs of my addiction, my Mom warned me exactly about this already during my pregnancy. But I never told him or talked to him about it. I just never believed he could- or would do that to me.

But now, I wasn’t sure anymore. 😓😢Also I didn't really get why N. got so mad at me today? I mean,..... I had an idea, but....yea, anyway. He has clearly gone too far this time!! 😠

Previous/Next

[athenasdaydreams]

MISS AMERICA | CHAPTER IV

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader

series summary: you're steve's sister, and bucky barnes' girlfriend. and maybe also a supersoldier from the 40s

chapter summary: letters, stitches and ginger water.

chapter warnings: someone gets stitched up, lots of sad sappy stuff

A/N: hi gang i got an A+ for chemistry, feeling great so i decided to write this

series masterlist ♡ masterlist ♡ next chapter

The door slammed open, rattling the already crumbling walls of the apartment.

"I did it! I enlisted!"

You heard some vague sounds of jumping and decided to see what exactly Steve had enlisted for. There was no way he had actually gotten enlisted to the army, so you assumed it was for a less important job, like the metal-collecting-in-a-wagon job that Bucky had jokingly suggested a month ago. Well, a job was a source of income; and any source of income was good enough for the destitute Rogers' twins.

"What're you jumping around for? Did we win the lottery? Is the war over?" You asked sardonically as you got out of the kitchen where you had been making potato stew, the third time this week.

"I'm going to fight. For real this time" Steve said as he stuffed a piece of paper into your hands.

You couldn't believe your eyes. There was a '1A' where the '4F' usually was. "Stevie I knew you faked your address and your name so many times, but how did you manage to fake your physical state? Did you fake the stamp or something?" You asked incredulously. "Nope! They said I could enlist!"

Through your happiness of your brother finally getting what he'd been wanting since the war broke out, you saw reality. As a clinically trained nurse, you knew that someone like him would be snapped in two the moment he stepped onto the battlefield. You'd cleaned up guys twice as strong as him, but most of them wouldn't ever be able to live normal lives again. You had already lost your father to the unforgiving frontlines; you didn't want to lose your brother too.

With these concerns plaguing your mind, you pushed your thoughts aside, and gave your brother a hug. "I'm so happy for you Steve." You wiped away the tears at your eyes.

"Don't cry," Steve said as you pulled away. "Besides, there's a letter for you. I think it's from you-know-who..." he pulled out a crinkled envelope from inside his jacket. "Why don't we read this together, huh?"

You two sat down at your small dining table and Steve cleared his throat before starting.

"To my girl, Hi, sweetheart. I miss you."

You almost started crying right there.

"I know Steve’s probably reading this out loud to you right now—and I hope he’s not butchering it with that raspy gremlin voice of his."

Steve rolled his eyes dramatically.

"(Steve: if you rolled your eyes just now, I felt it. Keep reading.)"

You smiled.

"Y/N, it’s only been a month since I shipped out, but it’s felt like a year in my chest. Everything here is grey and loud—and I guess that means I finally see the world the way you always have. But even in black and white, it’s still not as sharp, not as alive as when you’re in it."

You let out a breath, trying not to break down.

"I keep thinking about the night before I left. You stayed quiet for so long, I thought you'd fallen asleep. But your hand was curled into my shirt, and your heart was beating like it was trying to talk to mine. I listened. I still am."

"I really did not need to know that" Steve interjected. You swatted at him and said, "keep reading."

"I think what’s hardest about being here is knowing you’re there. At home. Not with me. You should be. It feels wrong without you beside me. It’s like the world’s gone off-center. They’ve got us running drills out here like we’re machines. I’m sore, I stink, and everything’s mud or metal. But you? You’re still my softness. Still my light. I think about you when my hands are bleeding. I think about you when I finally sleep. I think about how you're about to leave for Camp Lehigh soon, and how they have no idea what’s about to hit them."

That's right, you were leaving in a week. Your stuff was packed neatly at the foot of your bed. Tucked into the side of your bag was a blurry picture of you and Bucky, that you'd taken together on your first anniversary.

"God, I wish I could be there when you walk in for the first time. Some poor sap’s gonna try to flirt and you’re gonna look at him like he’s wallpaper. Then you’ll tie a bandage one-handed and make it look like art. That’s my girl."

"Seriously, is this the guy who I used to play ball with? I can't believe he's such a sap-" Steve cut himself off after looking up at your face, your eyes already glassy.

"I know sometimes you hate reading letters. I know the words all scramble up and make your head hurt. I hate that I can’t read it to you myself. I hate being so far. But I’m gonna keep writing. Because I need you to know—you’re not alone in this. Not in the waiting. Not in the working. Not in the nights that stretch too long."

Your heart felt twenty times heavier. He knew you. Everything about you. Even the bad parts. Even the embarrassing parts. He knew you inside out. He knew you better than yourself. He was consoling you, while he was out fighting a literal war.

"You always asked me why I looked at you the way I do. It's because even when you're tired or messy or scared, you're still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And no matter how far they send me, you’re the one I fight to come back to. Wait for me, doll. I’m waiting for you too. I love you. God, I love you. Yours Always, Bucky"

You were fully sobbing at that point. Tears ran down your face as you practically weeped with your head in your hands. It was embarrassing. Steve held your hand through it. Your mind was a mess of words. It was like someone was playing a thoroughly destroyed record. Glimpses of words flickered through your mind.

I love you Bucky. I miss you. Come home. Please. I can't stand being without you. I love you.

"He drew a stupid looking cow at the bottom, said it's to cheer you up after reading this letter," Steve turned the letter towards you. The cow did look really stupid. For someone who went to art school "for fun" it was a really ugly cow. That made you even sadder. He had to make the cow look stupid on purpose so you wouldn't be sad. You started crying all over again.

"My Bucky; My sweet, sweet, Bucky." you lamented as you put your head on the table. Steve took this as a cue to go check on the stew, which he was sure had already boiled over. You two ate dinner in silence. He knew how fragile and delicate your state was; a single word could make you start crying all over again.

After dinner, Steve suggested he help you write a letter back to him.

So, the two of you did.

You talked, while pacing around the living room (which was just a tattered couch and a tiny coffee table), about everything. How much you missed his smile, the neighbourhood cat you two took care of, Steve's enlistment. Although a bit incoherent at times, Steve managed to arrange it into legible paragraphs. All your feelings were neatly folded, stamped, and dropped off at the post office.

Soon, you and Steve were both packed and ready. By some divine coincidence, Steve was sent for training at Camp Lehigh too. At least you'd be able to keep an eye on him. Or bandage him up after he gets punched for his smart mouth.

You were told that you were going to work for the medical department that was closely aligned to the Strategic Scientific Reserve, an incredibly secretive sector of the war efforts. There was talk of a special project in the works. One that could end this war once and for all. Although, you didn't really know much. It barely concerned you, how the next SuperBomb would be able to kill more nazis. Your job was to fix soldiers. Not to listen to mindless gossip churned out from the nurses' break area. That's why you spent most of your stay there working overtime. While most nurses clocked out the moment their shifts were over, to take a smoke and gossip about the 'cute soldiers', you spent time talking to the broken ones. It had become somewhat of a habit. To cure not just their loneliness, but yours. The med tent smells of antiseptic, blood, and exhaustion. The rest of the nurses are clocking out for the evening, but you're still on your knees beside a cot, your sleeves rolled up, your hands stained with iodine. The soldier—Private Martin—was caught in a training explosion. Shrapnel in his thigh. His skin was grey with pain and fear.

He was barely 18. Still more muscle than Steve though.

"I keep thinking… if I’d just moved faster… I wouldn’t be here. I’m such an idiot. I shouldn’t be here at all," he said, his eyes looking over at his bloodied pants tossed to the side of the tent. "You’re here because you stepped forward when others didn’t. That doesn’t make you an idiot. That makes you a soldier. That makes you brave." You got up to grab the supplies you needed to stitch him up. Meanwhile, Dr Erskine had been reading over some candidate profiles in his temporary quarters. His cough had been bothering him all day, so he shuffled toward the medical tent after lights-out, hoping to quietly ask one of the nurses for a lozenge or maybe a cup of water. Just something to soothe his throat before it got worse. As he slipped through the side flap of the tent, the quiet caught him off guard. Most of the cots were empty or had sleeping patients. The air smelled of antiseptic and old canvas. He expected to find one of the night-shift nurses at the front desk, but the station was empty. Then he heard your voice. Low. Steady. Coming from the far end of the tent, past the drawn curtain. He didn’t mean to intrude. But the softness in her voice, the ache beneath it, made him stop. He stepped closer. Not enough to interrupt—just enough to listen. Just enough to see.

And what he saw was a nurse, kneeling beside a soldier who looked more boy than man, blood still caked on his boot, fear written all over his face. She was tending to him, yes. But what struck Erskine wasn't the skill of her hands.

"I don’t feel brave. I feel like I want my mom. That make me pathetic?" Private Martin asked, his voice getting softer. "No. It makes you someone who remembers love. That’s not weak. That’s what’s going to keep you alive. Hold still—this next part’ll sting." You pressed down on his leg and began stitching him up. He winced but he didn't flinch. "You talk like you’ve seen this before." You knew he wasn't referring to the injury, but to the lovelorn soldier he was.

"I have. I knew someone who used to smile through every nightmare. Said fear meant you still had something to come home to. He taught me that. I remind myself every day." You finished up the stitches and wrapped up his leg with a white bandage. "He’s over in Europe now. Somewhere cold, probably soaked through, being all noble and reckless. Like always. And every day I wake up and pretend I’m not terrified I’ll never hear his voice again. But I still believe in him. And if he can keep going, so can you." the Private smiled at that.

Erskine had been listening patiently, but a sudden fit of coughing overcame him. You turned around and stood up. "Can I help you?"

Dr. Erskine blinked, caught off guard more by the warmth in your voice than by your presence. You didn’t sound annoyed. Just tired. Like someone who’d been holding too many people together for too long.

“I—ah, I didn’t mean to intrude,” he said, lifting a hand apologetically. “I was only looking for a glass of water. Or perhaps something for the cough. It’s nothing serious, just… persistent.”

You glanced at the soldier on the cot behind you—he’d finally dozed off, breathing a little easier now. You stepped aside quietly, motioning toward a tin kettle warming by the small stove. “There’s ginger water. It’s not good, but it’s warm.”

Erskine smiled faintly. “Warm is more than I deserve tonight.”

You poured the steaming liquid into a chipped mug and handed it to him. He noticed the way your hands moved—quick, capable, gentle even in exhaustion. You didn't look like a soldier, but there was a kind of steel in you, tempered by kindness. The sort of strength he couldn’t chart in a file.

“You were speaking to the boy,” he said, sipping the drink. “He is lucky to have you.”

You gave a tired shrug. “He reminded me of someone. Someone I love.”

“Overseas?”

You nodded, then glanced down at your boots. “Yes. He’s with the 107th. His name is James Barnes.”

Erskine raised his brows slightly. “Ah. Yes. I’ve heard that name.”

You smiled, just barely. “Of course you have. He’s always doing something reckless enough to end up in someone’s report.” You paused. “He drives me crazy. But he’s also the best man I’ve ever known.”

Erskine said nothing, letting the quiet settle between you.

You went on, softer now. “He’s probably somewhere cold. Soaked through. Charging headfirst into trouble with that stupid, noble grin. And every morning, I wake up and pretend I’m not terrified I’ll never hear his voice again.” You swallowed hard. “But I still believe in him. And if he can keep going… so can I.”

The words hung in the air. You weren’t really talking to him anymore.

Erskine didn’t interrupt. He just watched.

Finally, you looked back at the cot. “I told him he’d be okay. The boy. I don’t know if it’s true. But sometimes you have to believe something before it can be.”

Erskine raised the mug slightly in thanks. “You have a gift. For making people feel safe.”

You shrugged. “It’s just… what you do. When someone matters.”

He nodded quietly. “It is not as common as you’d think.”

With that, he turned to go, murmuring another word of thanks as he stepped into the night. You barely noticed. The soldier behind you stirred faintly, and your hands were already reaching for the blanket to tuck him in.

You didn’t see the way Erskine paused just outside the flap. How he stood there for a long, thoughtful moment. Like something he’d been trying to find for a very long time had just walked past him and handed him a cup of ginger water. - wc: 2.5k

[blueinkedfrost]

Incredible meta! This is an excellent deep dive into Sarevok Anchev's character and history.

Because Baldur's Gate 1 has been out for so long, you tend to forget that Sarevok being the greater mastermind of the evil plot is a twist in the story. From the prologue, you know about the 'ominous figure', but not who he is, and it falls in the background when you get into the iron crisis- a crisis that has nothing to do with Gorion's ward. Sarevok is the foster son of Rieltar Anchev, a leader within the Iron Throne. It's a criminal organization where Sarevok is a member, but not a leader. It should be a cushy position, but it isn't. Let's see why.

First, let's recall the setting of Sarevok being adopted by Rieltar:

Sarevok is a homeless, orphaned child. He describes himself as an 'urchin', meaning he likely resorted to stealing and other mischief to live on the streets.

Rieltar is a wealthy man, a 'higher-up' within the Iron Throne, a mercantile organization with shady practices, a gang of sorts, closer to bandits than merchants.

I don't think I need to spell out how dodgy the whole thing is.

How Sarevok gets adopted is left up to the player, but a few things are certain. Sarevok is part of a vulnerable population, while Rieltar is of the upper class. Sarevok has no person nor structure to turn to should he need help. As a child, he entirely depends on Rieltar. Hunger, thirst, housing, clothes, other material needs and various threats that comes with being a homeless child, all of this gets taken care of if Sarevok stays with Rieltar. It's priceless, and a child wouldn't think past no longer being cold or hungry. Sarevok is affiliated to the Iron Throne from a young age, when he couldn't decide otherwise.

Sarevok is not a leader. it's his foster father's, Rieltar, who is the leader of the western branch of the Iron Throne. The 'chief of operations'. He has two co-leaders with him, Brunos Costak and Thaldorn Tenhevich. Sarevok is the commander of their mercenary forces of the region, one of Rieltar's officer. Compared to Rieltar's own status, Sarevok's role is minor. There isn't as much nepotism going on as you might expect from a criminal organization passing off as a legitimate mercantile group.

The first time Sarevok is mentioned, he's a passing name in a letter found in the bandit camp, not a master mind- and that's how it was supposed to be.

Tazok,I have noticed that your shipments of iron have slowed of late. It is imperative that we receive another ton of ore. Step up your raids, and get a shipment to our base in Cloakwood within the next week. We need to stockpile as much ore as possible before our ultimatum is given. Also, Sarevok wants to know what has happened with the band of mercenaries. Have they been killed? You had better ensure that they have been, as Sarevok will not take kindly to any other news.Davaeorn

It's the first hint you get that he isn't like the rest of the Iron Throne. His own focus is more on the mercenaries disrupting the iron plot, more than the plot itself.

One interesting thing here:

"You had better ensure that they have been, as Sarevok will not take kindly to any other news."

-> Davaeorn is threatening Tazok with Sarevok, but Davaeorn himself isn't worried. Davaeorn could be nervous that Sarevok, son of the big boss, may cause him trouble if he doesn't get what he wants, but he isn't. No reason to think Sarevok is anything more than another Throne member.

After defeating Davaeorn, you find letters on him from Rieltar himself. In one, Sarevok's role and title are clearly stated:

"Davaeorn,Our plans go smoothly. Sarevok has arrived from our headquarters in Ordulin. He brings news from our superiors; they are pleased with our progress so far. I plan to place Sarevok as the commander of our mercenary forces in the region. He has already sent his subordinate, Tazok, to the Wood of Sharp Teeth to take command of the forces located there. Things go apace here in Baldur's Gate. We have placed our first agent among the ranks of the Seven Suns trading coster.RieltarFlamerule, 1367"

It's not said in the letter that Sarevok is Rieltar's son. He is going to be named commander of the mercenary forces of the region. It's a new title, so I'd say his previous rank was equal or lower.

During your first stay in Baldur's Gate, you discover Sarevok is the foster son of Rieltar Anchev. Being the son of a wealthy man explains how Sarevok manages to get within the noble circles of the city for his popularity campaign, which I talked about in another post. Here's one interesting thing I got from this:

"From what I've heard, the new man with the Iron Throne, Sarevok, is an unmarried man."

-> He's considered new, however, the story happens in Mirthul (May) 1368, and from Sarevok's diary and another letter, you know he's been in Baldur's Gate in 1366, went back to Sembia at some point, then returned in Flamerule (July) 1367. That's two years on and off the Sword Coast and almost one full year on it, not to mention he's been in the Throne since an early age, but he's seen as new.

Sarevok's presence may not be public because he's working with the bandits, however, not knowing about Rieltar's son is common. Yeslick Orothiar is a companion who moved to Sembia where he met Rieltar. He pretended to befriend Yeslick, then tortured him to learn the location of the Cloackwood mines. Yeslick was in Sembia, and he doesn't mention Sarevok, or recognizes him when he comes to the party under a false name. So it's not just in Baldur's Gate, even back in Sembia, before Sarevok was commander, Rieltar doesn't mention his foster son— or the fact that he has one.

It can be explained by how Rieltar and other higher-up of the Throne see Sarevok, both his capacities and how far he can go. One telling example is during the Candlekeep chapter. Gorion's ward is going after Rieltar, the big bad at the time. You can go to Rieltar with the advice of 'Koveras', who tells you Rieltar is defenceless and this is the perfect time to kill him. He even gives you a nice ring to protect you. If your start digging through Koveras' dialogue, you might find something's odd with him and decide you don't want the ring. Joke's on you, it won't change a damn thing. Don't be too quick to laugh at Sarevok for only switching his name backward to change identity, it worked on Charname and their whole party (also worked on me when I was ten and had a pikachu face during the reveal).

Rieltar is a lot quicker to catch up than Charname though.

"Koveras! Who is Kove... of course. It seems I taught my son all too well. Well, my young pups, you've been set up to be used as dupes. Koveras does not want what's best for you, but rather what's best for him."

-> There's a brief moment of outrage before Rieltar realizes who Koveras is. The realization doesn't anger him more, it makes him calm down. He doesn't see Sarevok as a threat. It's unlikely he thinks Sarevok's plan goes beyond killing him, when it's in fact much more elaborate than that. Other Throne members straight out of Sembia underestimate how dangerous Sarevok is.

Here are a few more examples:

"She seemed surprised that Sarevok had taken control of this regional base. He is thought of as an upstart"

Kalessia: I have been sent from Sembia to determine why this branch of the Iron Throne has floundered [...]. Valdis (Charname): Why not ask Sarevok? He seems to be the one in control now.Kalessia: Sarevok? That upstart? Then the rumors I have heard are true. Our regional leaders here are dead and Sarevok has assumed their roles. Such arrogance! No doubt he has a hand in their demise, I'll wager. [..]"

-> The outrage these criminals feel toward Sarevok's, well, criminal actions against them will never not be funny to me. Kalessia calls Sarevok an 'upstart'. She doesn't sound any more worried than Rieltar was, she sounds pissed that he would dare to do this. Also, she thinks he participated in the demise of their leaders, not that he orchestrated the whole thing. As if he isn't capable of it. I will stress this again, but Sarevok is the foster son of a high-ranking member of the Throne with wealth and influence. Yet, they talk about him as if he's of low rank. Somehow, I don't think the Iron Throne is a progressive organization that thinks wealth and social status shouldn't determine an individual's worth.

Later, inside the Undercity, you come across more people working for the Iron Throne. You get the following dialogue from two dialogue paths.

"We've been sent to hunt down Sarevok. Seems as if he went crazy and started murdering all who got in his way, including Rieltar, and the Throne don't take too well to having their high-ups killed."

"He doesn't seem that skilled at making friends. I am Rahvin, in the employ of the Iron Throne. My companions and I have traveled from Sembia to learn what has been happening to our operation in Baldur's Gate."

They're off to kill Sarevok. Just like that. Like he's just another guy with a bounty on his head. The twist of BG 1 is not only realizing Sarevok is the true antagonist, it's realizing Sarevok is not just a brute working for the Throne, he's major threat to the Sword Coast and far from stupid. That's something characters who only know of Sarevok what is known in Sembia and have just arrived in Baldur's Gate don't realize. He has overthrown the entire leadership of the Iron Throne in the region, almost got the whole leadership of Baldur's Gate as well and they're simply going to 'hunt him down'. The way he's being talked about him is also telling:

"Seems as if he went crazy and started murdering all who got in his way"

-> He's talking about Sarevok as if he was a dog who went rabid, not someone who actively orchestrated the downfall of his employer.

"He doesn't seem that skilled at making friends."

-> Sarevok had the entire city eating out of his hand, he was about to be lawfully elected Grand Duke. Sarevok is skilled at making friends, when he needs them— and, when he has the right background to make the right friends. For example when he's known as the foster son of a wealthy business man without anyone knowing anything beyond that, like in Baldur's Gate. Something that's more complicated in Sembia, where people around him would already know he used to be a penniless urchin until Rieltar adopted him.

When you encounter characters working for Sarevok, rather than characters he works for, you get a different image of him, one that's closer to what you encounter in the game. There are two kinds, first, the zealots, those who already worship him as a new god.

"You have breached an inner circle, fool. There are no hired lackeys for you to bribe here [...]. We are servants of Sarevok and Sarevok alone, selected by hand to protect his destiny. [...] His will... be done!"

"So it has been decreed, so it shall be done. So orders Sarevok!"

-> Sarevok doesn't know how to make 'friends' in the strict sense of the term, but he knows how to be charismatic. He got servants to worship him before his actual godhood. These followers aren't part of the Throne. Sarevok independently recruited them to be his first faithful. Which is smart, considering gods in Forgotten Realms get stronger with more fervent and more numerous followers. Sarevok is planning ahead so he already has worshippers when he's a god.

If you played SoD (which is mid writing wise, but has good moments), you'll find that Sarevok's charisma struck again with other nondescripts fanatics.

"S. and I had a long talk last night. Everything he says make so much sense."

The other group of people are Sarevok's own underlings. These are mercenaries he recruited who are unaffiliated to the Iron Throne and only answer to him. You get interesting dialogue from Diarmid.

"Not a terribly original alias to be sure, but who is going to tell him that? Sarevok is quite used to getting his own way, and I gather subtlety is something that doesn't quite come naturally to him. He doesn't have the patience for it, though his mind is amazingly tactical. Certainly this made him perfect for organizing the Iron Throne's mercenary forces, though I doubt his superiors would say so now, what with his plot to have them killed. Such is the trouble with hiring highly motivated people. As underlings we can safely serve, but woe to those in a position he desires."

-> Is Diarmid scared of Sarevok? Yes. Does he respect him? Also yes, which increases the 'fear' part, I think.

Diarmid is a mercenary who's been working with Sarevok for weeks, maybe months. What he knows of Sarevok is surface level, but it doesn't match what other characters, who've been around Sarevok since Sembia know of him. Here are how different visions contradict each other:

"She [Kalessia] seemed surprised that Sarevok had taken control of this regional base." VS "[...] though his mind is amazingly tactical. Certainly this made him perfect for organizing the Iron Throne's mercenary forces [...]" / "Such is the trouble with hiring highly motivated people."

"Seems as if he went crazy and started murdering all who got in his way [...]" VS "[...] I doubt his superiors would say so now, what with his plot to have them killed." / "[...] woe to those in a position he desires."

Characters within the Throne are not supposed to know about Sarevok's plans, but they all react as if his behavior is an anomaly, they're blindsided. Yet, these plans match what Sarevok's mercenaries know of him: "have a tendency to only give information on a need-to-know basis"; "notoriously impatient"; "quite used to getting his own way"; "subtlety doesn't quite come naturally to him"; "his mind is amazingly tactical"; "highly motivated"; "woe to those in a position he desires"; "wouldn't sully his hands on those he didn't deem worthy of personally killing".

The Sembians's reaction is more understandable when you read the following letter, written by Sarevok to Rieltar. Sarevok's tone isn't what you would expect from him.

Father,I received your letter, and I can assure you that the mercenaries led by <Gorion's ward> will no longer trouble our operations. I have dealt with them personally. Before dying, they were most forthcoming in their revelations. It is as you had surmised: They were agents of the Zhentarim. I am also writing to tell you that I cannot attend the meeting at Candlekeep. Some problems have arisen with the Chill and the Blacktalons. They have had trouble working with each other, and I am needed there to smooth over any dissension. I am sorry that I will not be at your side.Sarevok

This letter reads like a dutiful son from start to finish. It's also a pack of lies from start to finish. Everything he says goes along Rieltar's own opinion, to placate him. The perfect son and officer, committed to his role. And it works, since Rieltar doesn't suspect Sarevok until he's told of 'Koveras'. You can assume the dutiful, uncompromising tone of the letter was the front Sarevok presented to Rieltar, and to other members of the Throne.

Reading Sarevok's diary, you see this is a front he has to present. Remember how Sarevok was named commander of the mercenary forces by Rieltar? Well, he wasn't even supposed to be part of his foster father's project.

"I have expressed interest to my 'father', and he has promised to include me within the operations along the Sword Coast. He mentioned Mother in our conversation: how I wasn't to be unfaithful to him as she had. He made it clear that I would suffer her fate if I was."

-> What a lovely father-son relationship. Anyways, if Rieltar had his way, Sarevok wouldn't have been commander, he would've left him in Sembia. Sarevok had to ask to be given a role. You'd expect the son a wealthy man to have a prime spot saved for him in his big project.

The next part of the excerpt is, in my opinion, the core to explaining the dissonance between what people from the Throne perceived of Sarevok, and what he's truly like. Rieltar threatens Sarevok, and that shows what this 'father-son' relationship really is about. For those who don't know, Sarevok's foster mother, who to this day doesn't have a canon name, was 'unfaithful' to Rieltar. It might be she cheated on him, but since it's never stated clearly, you could go with something else. Like trying and failing to kill her abusive husband, for example. As a punishment, Rieltar strangled her with a garotte in front of Sarevok when he was young.

Rieltar doesn't just threaten Sarevok, he reminds him of his place, which is the same as his mother. It's my guess that this is why he murdered her in front of Sarevok to begin with, so he would learn his place as a 'family member'. Someone Rieltar has complete authority over, including a right of life and death.

Sarevok brushes off the threats, but he does that as an adult and experienced fighter who is already planning to kill Rieltar and crush his operations. He wasn't always in that position. For the urchin Rieltar adopted, this threat wasn't 'weak' or 'hollow'.

This would explain why, despite being the 'foster son' of a wealthy and influential member, Sarevok is seen as an 'upstart' without a place in the upper ranks of the Throne. Because he is not his son to them, he is the urchin 'sponging off' Rieltar.

Another piece of the journal gives a little more information.

"The fool still insists on calling me his son, and for now I will let him. He assumes that I am loyal to him because he raised me."

-> Rieltar is confident in Sarevok's loyalty because he raised him. He provided for him and considers that should make Sarevok loyal no matter what. Even though Rieltar adopted Sarevok, their social classes are still very distinct. He's the one with the money and Sarevok should be grateful he spent some on him. 'Son' isn't an affectionate term (if the death threat above didn't make that clear), it's the reminder of what Sarevok 'owes' Rieltar. It would explain why Rieltar rarely mentions him. He has a debtor, not a son. When he discovers his plot to kill him, Rieltar says Sarevok wants 'what's best for him'. He knows why Sarevok wants out of this situation— he's the one who created it. Hence the threat. The devoted front is something Sarevok has to show, to ensure his own safety and the success of his plans.

Now I will go into a more 'grey' territory regarding a bunch of things that can't be checked with canon but are worth considering because of the situation:

First, does Sarevok have money? Rieltar does, yes. Sarevok works in the same group at a lower rank, he's both Rieltar's 'son' and his employee. As a commander, he likely has allotted money, but that's not his gold, that's for his job. Chances are he either doesn't get paid because he's working 'for the family' and that's another thing to be grateful for, or he does get money for his work, from Rieltar. Either way, Rieltar is the one who has control over Sarevok's finances. It's a good way to restrain him, and ensure his loyalty, since he won't get far without gold. Sarevok lived on the street before, he has ambitions, it's unlikely he's willing to rough it out again and be a homeless nobody. Rieltar surrounds himself with people he has control over. Like his co-leaders: Brunos is dumb, and Thaldorn is a coward. They defer to Rieltar, who likely has an easy time controlling both. Having Sarevok at an officer position allows Rieltar to keep a leash on him, which fits his pattern.

Second, Sarevok has two genuine relationships that we know of. One was with his foster mother, and the other with his lover, Tamoko. If he had any real connections while living in the streets, they'd have ended once he joined Rieltar's household. Growing up, he'd be surrounded by people from the Iron Throne. The lowest in ranks would be under Rieltar's authority, and those of higher rank would only see the urchin Rieltar pulled out of the gutter. It's likely there were few children his age or anyone he could trust and build a relationship with. His connections are to characters he works for, and those who work for him. He's isolated, he doesn't have allies. That's another way for Rieltar to restrain him. There's the uncertainty of what 'unfaithfulness' means to Rieltar. Does Sarevok having someone he cares about gets in the way of being the devoted son Rieltar wants? Would the threat he makes on Sarevok's life include anyone important to him? It's possible. It would make any relationship Sarevok could have a weakness, which would impact how he views them. I would imagine he'd fight any feelings he developed for Tamoko before giving in, and he wouldn't introduce her to the man who murdered his mother. Having any attachment in this situation becomes a drawback.

Third, could Sarevok leave the Iron Throne if he wanted? Criminal groups rarely offer retirement. He's been involved since Rieltar adopted him, he's been working with them for years, and likely knows the group's inner workings well. The Throne is a criminal organization that wants to keep a legitimate front. With everything Sarevok knows, it wouldn't be smart to let go of him. Unless it's off a cliff. He's probably not an isolated case either. Youth with nothing to their names and no better options are easy to recruit and make good underlings.

Recap and conclusion:

Sarevok was pulled from poverty at a young age by Rieltar, a wealthy man who's part of a criminal organization. Through the murder of his wife, he's shown that he gives himself total authority over his family, and will harshly punish any form of rebellion. Growing up with Rieltar, Sarevok was affiliated to the Iron Throne from a young age and became another member. All that time, he remained under Rieltar's thumb, acting the part of the loyal son, while not showing anything that might cause suspicion. It's no surprise Sarevok charmed the city of Baldur's Gate when he has been fronting his whole life for Rieltar and the Throne, downplaying his ambitions and capacities. He doesn't appear as the true antagonist until late in the game, when he turns on the Iron Throne. They're blindsided and unable to fight back, while Baldur's gate is ready to name him Grand Duke. It's a victory on every front. He outsmarts the entire Iron Throne, the leadership of Baldur's Gate, he has the city eating out of his hand, he believes he's on his way to become a god. He used the organization that used him, got revenge for his mother's murder, his years of abuse, and had the nobles at his feet. He failed the godhood part, but he beat odds stacked against him. The urchin from the streets of Sembia rose higher than anyone ever thought possible.

It's important because Sarevok's situation connects to a game's theme and to his misbeliefs. One of Baldur's Gate theme is that your choices matter more than your nature- which is the direct opposite of one of Sarevok's own misbelief. He is convinced his nature as Bhaalspawn predestines him for violence and destruction. The most telling example is in ToB during dialogue if you're trying to change Sarevok's alignment.

"And do you believe I have another choice?"

"After… after all you have been through? With the taint in your soul, you still believe this?"

If you reply positive, you wreck his world enough to make him speechless. And enough to trigger his alignment change. It's a deeply rooted belief, one that affects how he interacts with the world around him, and it's directly connected to his past. Sarevok is also convinced he needs the ability to dominate others, hence his quest for power.

"I… don't understand. What is the use of power if you do not carve out an empire for yourself?"

Sarevok grew up first in the streets, where he was prey to all manners of dangers. Then, he was in a brutal and callous household where his freedom and his life were conditioned by his obedience. It's not said how long he's been working for the Throne, but likely as soon as he could fight. Growing through this, violence would be an everyday part of Sarevok's world, and of himself. He views the world through that twisted lens, where the strong crushes the weak. Learning he's a spawn from a god of murder would cement that belief by giving meaning to that violence. Sarevok isn't a wealthy, privileged man greedy for more power, he's someone from an impoverished background who only views his relation to others and the world as either having others at your mercy, or being at the mercy of others. And he's been the one preyed on for a large chunk of his life. By seeking power, he ensures control not only over his own life, but over other people's life, because if he controls them, they can't control him.

Sarevok was shaped by his environment, which allowed him to survive, but also messed up his adult life. He has no genuine relationship, they're all transactional. Cythandria, who will brag about loyalty, is with him for wealth, power and sex. Sarevok knows that, he's with her for similar reasons. They're intimate, but their self-interest comes first. Winski Perorate is 'loyal' because he's getting his divine glory by proxy through Sarevok. They follow Sarevok because they get something out of him and he keeps them around for the same reasons. Tamoko is an anomaly in this, because Sarevok caught feelings. Feelings he wasn't equipped to handle because they couldn't fit with his mindset. That's the core tragedy of their relationship, it was doomed from the start, even without the game's events. Tamoko loves Sarevok without wanting anything from him but his company, and he cannot believe that. I made a post about them, and I do think he leaves her because the taint would push him to kill her if she stayed, but I also think it's easy for the taint to manipulate Sarevok, because he's predisposed to believing the worst. Being with Tamoko required effort, because it challenged Sarevok's mindset. Her betrayal confirmed it: he let someone get too close without check and got stabbed in the back.

While Tamoko didn't fully understand Sarevok, she's the on who sums up the situation best:

"You had Gorion to guide you did you not? Sarevok had no one. He draws his strength from his hatred, from the thought of rising above those he knows to be inferior."

In BG 1, Sarevok doesn't fail because he's weaker than Gorion's ward, he's more powerful when you face him, but he's holding on to misbeliefs that make him the puppet of the taint, whereas Charname is master of their own choices, harnessing the taint or rejecting its control. But there is nothing about Charname's nature that is superior to Sarevok and vice versa. The one thing that separates them is the past that shaped them.

Sarevok's story is tragic. He doesn't become a ruthless man because of his nature, but because he was young, alone and poor. Those around him exploited that. His situation gives nuance to his character, enough to make you feel for him. Even when he's only the antagonist, he has depth, and ToB further improves his writing, making a point to show his duality and his struggle to change, to uproot himself from the soil he grew up in. Sarevok never is a one-dimensionnal character, not as a villain, and not as a companion.

Sarevok's situation with Rieltar and the Iron Throne

There's a lot of room for guessing the details of Sarevok's life in the Iron Throne, but you have the outline of his situation. It's not as good as one might expect for the son of a leader, and it's vital in shaping his character. Sarevok becomes who he is because of his past and current situation. He's a character with depth, nuances, ambitions and motivations, not a flat, cardboard villain planted on his throne in an underground sewer, waiting for the murder race of 1492 DR.

This got way too long, you've been warned.

Because Baldur's Gate 1 has been out for so long, you tend to forget that Sarevok being the greater mastermind of the evil plot is a twist in the story. From the prologue, you know about the 'ominous figure', but not who he is, and it falls in the background when you get into the iron crisis- a crisis that has nothing to do with Gorion's ward. Sarevok is the foster son of Rieltar Anchev, a leader within the Iron Throne. It's a criminal organization where Sarevok is a member, but not a leader. It should be a cushy position, but it isn't. Let's see why.

First, let's recall the setting of Sarevok being adopted by Rieltar:

Sarevok is a homeless, orphaned child. He describes himself as an 'urchin', meaning he likely resorted to stealing and other mischief to live on the streets.

Rieltar is a wealthy man, a 'higher-up' within the Iron Throne, a mercantile organization with shady practices, a gang of sorts, closer to bandits than merchants.

I don't think I need to spell out how dodgy the whole thing is.

How Sarevok gets adopted is left up to the player, but a few things are certain. Sarevok is part of a vulnerable population, while Rieltar is of the upper class. Sarevok has no person nor structure to turn to should he need help. As a child, he entirely depends on Rieltar. Hunger, thirst, housing, clothes, other material needs and various threats that comes with being a homeless child, all of this gets taken care of if Sarevok stays with Rieltar. It's priceless, and a child wouldn't think past no longer being cold or hungry. Sarevok is affiliated to the Iron Throne from a young age, when he couldn't decide otherwise.

Sarevok is not a leader. it's his foster father's, Rieltar, who is the leader of the western branch of the Iron Throne. The 'chief of operations'. He has two co-leaders with him, Brunos Costak and Thaldorn Tenhevich. Sarevok is the commander of their mercenary forces of the region, one of Rieltar's officer. Compared to Rieltar's own status, Sarevok's role is minor. There isn't as much nepotism going on as you might expect from a criminal organization passing off as a legitimate mercantile group.

The first time Sarevok is mentioned, he's a passing name in a letter found in the bandit camp, not a master mind- and that's how it was supposed to be.

Tazok, I have noticed that your shipments of iron have slowed of late. It is imperative that we receive another ton of ore. Step up your raids, and get a shipment to our base in Cloakwood within the next week. We need to stockpile as much ore as possible before our ultimatum is given. Also, Sarevok wants to know what has happened with the band of mercenaries. Have they been killed? You had better ensure that they have been, as Sarevok will not take kindly to any other news. Davaeorn

It's the first hint you get that he isn't like the rest of the Iron Throne. His own focus is more on the mercenaries disrupting the iron plot, more than the plot itself.

One interesting thing here:

"You had better ensure that they have been, as Sarevok will not take kindly to any other news."

-> Davaeorn is threatening Tazok with Sarevok, but Davaeorn himself isn't worried. Davaeorn could be nervous that Sarevok, son of the big boss, may cause him trouble if he doesn't get what he wants, but he isn't. No reason to think Sarevok is anything more than another Throne member.

After defeating Davaeorn, you find letters on him from Rieltar himself. In one, Sarevok's role and title are clearly stated:

"Davaeorn, Our plans go smoothly. Sarevok has arrived from our headquarters in Ordulin. He brings news from our superiors; they are pleased with our progress so far. I plan to place Sarevok as the commander of our mercenary forces in the region. He has already sent his subordinate, Tazok, to the Wood of Sharp Teeth to take command of the forces located there. Things go apace here in Baldur's Gate. We have placed our first agent among the ranks of the Seven Suns trading coster. Rieltar Flamerule, 1367"

It's not said in the letter that Sarevok is Rieltar's son. He is going to be named commander of the mercenary forces of the region. It's a new title, so I'd say his previous rank was equal or lower.

During your first stay in Baldur's Gate, you discover Sarevok is the foster son of Rieltar Anchev. Being the son of a wealthy man explains how Sarevok manages to get within the noble circles of the city for his popularity campaign, which I talked about in another post. Here's one interesting thing I got from this:

"From what I've heard, the new man with the Iron Throne, Sarevok, is an unmarried man."

-> He's considered new, however, the story happens in Mirthul (May) 1368, and from Sarevok's diary and another letter, you know he's been in Baldur's Gate in 1366, went back to Sembia at some point, then returned in Flamerule (July) 1367. That's two years on and off the Sword Coast and almost one full year on it, not to mention he's been in the Throne since an early age, but he's seen as new.

Sarevok's presence may not be public because he's working with the bandits, however, not knowing about Rieltar's son is common. Yeslick Orothiar is a companion who moved to Sembia where he met Rieltar. He pretended to befriend Yeslick, then tortured him to learn the location of the Cloackwood mines. Yeslick was in Sembia, and he doesn't mention Sarevok, or recognizes him when he comes to the party under a false name. So it's not just in Baldur's Gate, even back in Sembia, before Sarevok was commander, Rieltar doesn't mention his foster son— or the fact that he has one.

It can be explained by how Rieltar and other higher-up of the Throne see Sarevok, both his capacities and how far he can go. One telling example is during the Candlekeep chapter. Gorion's ward is going after Rieltar, the big bad at the time. You can go to Rieltar with the advice of 'Koveras', who tells you Rieltar is defenceless and this is the perfect time to kill him. He even gives you a nice ring to protect you. If your start digging through Koveras' dialogue, you might find something's odd with him and decide you don't want the ring. Joke's on you, it won't change a damn thing. Don't be too quick to laugh at Sarevok for only switching his name backward to change identity, it worked on Charname and their whole party (also worked on me when I was ten and had a pikachu face during the reveal).

Rieltar is a lot quicker to catch up than Charname though.

"Koveras! Who is Kove... of course. It seems I taught my son all too well. Well, my young pups, you've been set up to be used as dupes. Koveras does not want what's best for you, but rather what's best for him."

-> There's a brief moment of outrage before Rieltar realizes who Koveras is. The realization doesn't anger him more, it makes him calm down. He doesn't see Sarevok as a threat. It's unlikely he thinks Sarevok's plan goes beyond killing him, when it's in fact much more elaborate than that. Other Throne members straight out of Sembia underestimate how dangerous Sarevok is.

Here are a few more examples:

"She seemed surprised that Sarevok had taken control of this regional base. He is thought of as an upstart"

Kalessia: I have been sent from Sembia to determine why this branch of the Iron Throne has floundered [...]. Valdis (Charname): Why not ask Sarevok? He seems to be the one in control now. Kalessia: Sarevok? That upstart? Then the rumors I have heard are true. Our regional leaders here are dead and Sarevok has assumed their roles. Such arrogance! No doubt he has a hand in their demise, I'll wager. [..]"

-> The outrage these criminals feel toward Sarevok's, well, criminal actions against them will never not be funny to me. Kalessia calls Sarevok an 'upstart'. She doesn't sound any more worried than Rieltar was, she sounds pissed that he would dare to do this. Also, she thinks he participated in the demise of their leaders, not that he orchestrated the whole thing. As if he isn't capable of it. I will stress this again, but Sarevok is the foster son of a high-ranking member of the Throne with wealth and influence. Yet, they talk about him as if he's of low rank. Somehow, I don't think the Iron Throne is a progressive organization that thinks wealth and social status shouldn't determine an individual's worth.

Later, inside the Undercity, you come across more people working for the Iron Throne. You get the following dialogue from two dialogue paths.

"We've been sent to hunt down Sarevok. Seems as if he went crazy and started murdering all who got in his way, including Rieltar, and the Throne don't take too well to having their high-ups killed."

"He doesn't seem that skilled at making friends. I am Rahvin, in the employ of the Iron Throne. My companions and I have traveled from Sembia to learn what has been happening to our operation in Baldur's Gate."

They're off to kill Sarevok. Just like that. Like he's just another guy with a bounty on his head. The twist of BG 1 is not only realizing Sarevok is the true antagonist, it's realizing Sarevok is not just a brute working for the Throne, he's major threat to the Sword Coast and far from stupid. That's something characters who only know of Sarevok what is known in Sembia and have just arrived in Baldur's Gate don't realize. He has overthrown the entire leadership of the Iron Throne in the region, almost got the whole leadership of Baldur's Gate as well and they're simply going to 'hunt him down'. The way he's being talked about him is also telling:

"Seems as if he went crazy and started murdering all who got in his way"

-> He's talking about Sarevok as if he was a dog who went rabid, not someone who actively orchestrated the downfall of his employer.

"He doesn't seem that skilled at making friends."

-> Sarevok had the entire city eating out of his hand, he was about to be lawfully elected Grand Duke. Sarevok is skilled at making friends, when he needs them— and, when he has the right background to make the right friends. For example when he's known as the foster son of a wealthy business man without anyone knowing anything beyond that, like in Baldur's Gate. Something that's more complicated in Sembia, where people around him would already know he used to be a penniless urchin until Rieltar adopted him.

When you encounter characters working for Sarevok, rather than characters he works for, you get a different image of him, one that's closer to what you encounter in the game. There are two kinds, first, the zealots, those who already worship him as a new god.

"You have breached an inner circle, fool. There are no hired lackeys for you to bribe here [...]. We are servants of Sarevok and Sarevok alone, selected by hand to protect his destiny. [...] His will... be done!"

"So it has been decreed, so it shall be done. So orders Sarevok!"

-> Sarevok doesn't know how to make 'friends' in the strict sense of the term, but he knows how to be charismatic. He got servants to worship him before his actual godhood. These followers aren't part of the Throne. Sarevok independently recruited them to be his first faithful. Which is smart, considering gods in Forgotten Realms get stronger with more fervent and more numerous followers. Sarevok is planning ahead so he already has worshippers when he's a god.

If you played SoD (which is mid writing wise, but has good moments), you'll find that Sarevok's charisma struck again with other nondescripts fanatics.

"S. and I had a long talk last night. Everything he says make so much sense."

The other group of people are Sarevok's own underlings. These are mercenaries he recruited who are unaffiliated to the Iron Throne and only answer to him. You get interesting dialogue from Diarmid.

"Not a terribly original alias to be sure, but who is going to tell him that? Sarevok is quite used to getting his own way, and I gather subtlety is something that doesn't quite come naturally to him. He doesn't have the patience for it, though his mind is amazingly tactical. Certainly this made him perfect for organizing the Iron Throne's mercenary forces, though I doubt his superiors would say so now, what with his plot to have them killed. Such is the trouble with hiring highly motivated people. As underlings we can safely serve, but woe to those in a position he desires."

-> Is Diarmid scared of Sarevok? Yes. Does he respect him? Also yes, which increases the 'fear' part, I think.

Diarmid is a mercenary who's been working with Sarevok for weeks, maybe months. What he knows of Sarevok is surface level, but it doesn't match what other characters, who've been around Sarevok since Sembia know of him. Here are how different visions contradict each other:

"She [Kalessia] seemed surprised that Sarevok had taken control of this regional base." VS "[...] though his mind is amazingly tactical. Certainly this made him perfect for organizing the Iron Throne's mercenary forces [...]" / "Such is the trouble with hiring highly motivated people."

"Seems as if he went crazy and started murdering all who got in his way [...]" VS "[...] I doubt his superiors would say so now, what with his plot to have them killed." / "[...] woe to those in a position he desires."

Characters within the Throne are not supposed to know about Sarevok's plans, but they all react as if his behavior is an anomaly, they're blindsided. Yet, these plans match what Sarevok's mercenaries know of him: "have a tendency to only give information on a need-to-know basis"; "notoriously impatient"; "quite used to getting his own way"; "subtlety doesn't quite come naturally to him"; "his mind is amazingly tactical"; "highly motivated"; "woe to those in a position he desires"; "wouldn't sully his hands on those he didn't deem worthy of personally killing".

The Sembians's reaction is more understandable when you read the following letter, written by Sarevok to Rieltar. Sarevok's tone isn't what you would expect from him.

Father, I received your letter, and I can assure you that the mercenaries led by <Gorion's ward> will no longer trouble our operations. I have dealt with them personally. Before dying, they were most forthcoming in their revelations. It is as you had surmised: They were agents of the Zhentarim. I am also writing to tell you that I cannot attend the meeting at Candlekeep. Some problems have arisen with the Chill and the Blacktalons. They have had trouble working with each other, and I am needed there to smooth over any dissension. I am sorry that I will not be at your side. Sarevok

This letter reads like a dutiful son from start to finish. It's also a pack of lies from start to finish. Everything he says goes along Rieltar's own opinion, to placate him. The perfect son and officer, committed to his role. And it works, since Rieltar doesn't suspect Sarevok until he's told of 'Koveras'. You can assume the dutiful, uncompromising tone of the letter was the front Sarevok presented to Rieltar, and to other members of the Throne.

Reading Sarevok's diary, you see this is a front he has to present. Remember how Sarevok was named commander of the mercenary forces by Rieltar? Well, he wasn't even supposed to be part of his foster father's project.

"I have expressed interest to my 'father', and he has promised to include me within the operations along the Sword Coast. He mentioned Mother in our conversation: how I wasn't to be unfaithful to him as she had. He made it clear that I would suffer her fate if I was."

-> What a lovely father-son relationship. Anyways, if Rieltar had his way, Sarevok wouldn't have been commander, he would've left him in Sembia. Sarevok had to ask to be given a role. You'd expect the son a wealthy man to have a prime spot saved for him in his big project.

The next part of the excerpt is, in my opinion, the core to explaining the dissonance between what people from the Throne perceived of Sarevok, and what he's truly like. Rieltar threatens Sarevok, and that shows what this 'father-son' relationship really is about. For those who don't know, Sarevok's foster mother, who to this day doesn't have a canon name, was 'unfaithful' to Rieltar. It might be she cheated on him, but since it's never stated clearly, you could go with something else. Like trying and failing to kill her abusive husband, for example. As a punishment, Rieltar strangled her with a garotte in front of Sarevok when he was young.

Rieltar doesn't just threaten Sarevok, he reminds him of his place, which is the same as his mother. It's my guess that this is why he murdered her in front of Sarevok to begin with, so he would learn his place as a 'family member'. Someone Rieltar has complete authority over, including a right of life and death.

Sarevok brushes off the threats, but he does that as an adult and experienced fighter who is already planning to kill Rieltar and crush his operations. He wasn't always in that position. For the urchin Rieltar adopted, this threat wasn't 'weak' or 'hollow'.

This would explain why, despite being the 'foster son' of a wealthy and influential member, Sarevok is seen as an 'upstart' without a place in the upper ranks of the Throne. Because he is not his son to them, he is the urchin 'sponging off' Rieltar.

Another piece of the journal gives a little more information.

"The fool still insists on calling me his son, and for now I will let him. He assumes that I am loyal to him because he raised me."

-> Rieltar is confident in Sarevok's loyalty because he raised him. He provided for him and considers that should make Sarevok loyal no matter what. Even though Rieltar adopted Sarevok, their social classes are still very distinct. He's the one with the money and Sarevok should be grateful he spent some on him. 'Son' isn't an affectionate term (if the death threat above didn't make that clear), it's the reminder of what Sarevok 'owes' Rieltar. It would explain why Rieltar rarely mentions him. He has a debtor, not a son. When he discovers his plot to kill him, Rieltar says Sarevok wants 'what's best for him'. He knows why Sarevok wants out of this situation— he's the one who created it. Hence the threat. The devoted front is something Sarevok has to show, to ensure his own safety and the success of his plans.

Now I will go into a more 'grey' territory regarding a bunch of things that can't be checked with canon but are worth considering because of the situation:

First, does Sarevok have money? Rieltar does, yes. Sarevok works in the same group at a lower rank, he's both Rieltar's 'son' and his employee. As a commander, he likely has allotted money, but that's not his gold, that's for his job. Chances are he either doesn't get paid because he's working 'for the family' and that's another thing to be grateful for, or he does get money for his work, from Rieltar. Either way, Rieltar is the one who has control over Sarevok's finances. It's a good way to restrain him, and ensure his loyalty, since he won't get far without gold. Sarevok lived on the street before, he has ambitions, it's unlikely he's willing to rough it out again and be a homeless nobody. Rieltar surrounds himself with people he has control over. Like his co-leaders: Brunos is dumb, and Thaldorn is a coward. They defer to Rieltar, who likely has an easy time controlling both. Having Sarevok at an officer position allows Rieltar to keep a leash on him, which fits his pattern.

Second, Sarevok has two genuine relationships that we know of. One was with his foster mother, and the other with his lover, Tamoko. If he had any real connections while living in the streets, they'd have ended once he joined Rieltar's household. Growing up, he'd be surrounded by people from the Iron Throne. The lowest in ranks would be under Rieltar's authority, and those of higher rank would only see the urchin Rieltar pulled out of the gutter. It's likely there were few children his age or anyone he could trust and build a relationship with. His connections are to characters he works for, and those who work for him. He's isolated, he doesn't have allies. That's another way for Rieltar to restrain him. There's the uncertainty of what 'unfaithfulness' means to Rieltar. Does Sarevok having someone he cares about gets in the way of being the devoted son Rieltar wants? Would the threat he makes on Sarevok's life include anyone important to him? It's possible. It would make any relationship Sarevok could have a weakness, which would impact how he views them. I would imagine he'd fight any feelings he developed for Tamoko before giving in, and he wouldn't introduce her to the man who murdered his mother. Having any attachment in this situation becomes a drawback.

Third, could Sarevok leave the Iron Throne if he wanted? Criminal groups rarely offer retirement. He's been involved since Rieltar adopted him, he's been working with them for years, and likely knows the group's inner workings well. The Throne is a criminal organization that wants to keep a legitimate front. With everything Sarevok knows, it wouldn't be smart to let go of him. Unless it's off a cliff. He's probably not an isolated case either. Youth with nothing to their names and no better options are easy to recruit and make good underlings.

Recap and conclusion:

Sarevok was pulled from poverty at a young age by Rieltar, a wealthy man who's part of a criminal organization. Through the murder of his wife, he's shown that he gives himself total authority over his family, and will harshly punish any form of rebellion. Growing up with Rieltar, Sarevok was affiliated to the Iron Throne from a young age and became another member. All that time, he remained under Rieltar's thumb, acting the part of the loyal son, while not showing anything that might cause suspicion. It's no surprise Sarevok charmed the city of Baldur's Gate when he has been fronting his whole life for Rieltar and the Throne, downplaying his ambitions and capacities. He doesn't appear as the true antagonist until late in the game, when he turns on the Iron Throne. They're blindsided and unable to fight back, while Baldur's gate is ready to name him Grand Duke. It's a victory on every front. He outsmarts the entire Iron Throne, the leadership of Baldur's Gate, he has the city eating out of his hand, he believes he's on his way to become a god. He used the organization that used him, got revenge for his mother's murder, his years of abuse, and had the nobles at his feet. He failed the godhood part, but he beat odds stacked against him. The urchin from the streets of Sembia rose higher than anyone ever thought possible.

It's important because Sarevok's situation connects to a game's theme and to his misbeliefs. One of Baldur's Gate theme is that your choices matter more than your nature- which is the direct opposite of one of Sarevok's own misbelief. He is convinced his nature as Bhaalspawn predestines him for violence and destruction. The most telling example is in ToB during dialogue if you're trying to change Sarevok's alignment.

"And do you believe I have another choice?"

"After… after all you have been through? With the taint in your soul, you still believe this?"

If you reply positive, you wreck his world enough to make him speechless. And enough to trigger his alignment change. It's a deeply rooted belief, one that affects how he interacts with the world around him, and it's directly connected to his past. Sarevok is also convinced he needs the ability to dominate others, hence his quest for power.

"I… don't understand. What is the use of power if you do not carve out an empire for yourself?"

Sarevok grew up first in the streets, where he was prey to all manners of dangers. Then, he was in a brutal and callous household where his freedom and his life were conditioned by his obedience. It's not said how long he's been working for the Throne, but likely as soon as he could fight. Growing through this, violence would be an everyday part of Sarevok's world, and of himself. He views the world through that twisted lens, where the strong crushes the weak. Learning he's a spawn from a god of murder would cement that belief by giving meaning to that violence. Sarevok isn't a wealthy, privileged man greedy for more power, he's someone from an impoverished background who only views his relation to others and the world as either having others at your mercy, or being at the mercy of others. And he's been the one preyed on for a large chunk of his life. By seeking power, he ensures control not only over his own life, but over other people's life, because if he controls them, they can't control him.

Sarevok was shaped by his environment, which allowed him to survive, but also messed up his adult life. He has no genuine relationship, they're all transactional. Cythandria, who will brag about loyalty, is with him for wealth, power and sex. Sarevok knows that, he's with her for similar reasons. They're intimate, but their self-interest comes first. Winski Perorate is 'loyal' because he's getting his divine glory by proxy through Sarevok. They follow Sarevok because they get something out of him and he keeps them around for the same reasons. Tamoko is an anomaly in this, because Sarevok caught feelings. Feelings he wasn't equipped to handle because they couldn't fit with his mindset. That's the core tragedy of their relationship, it was doomed from the start, even without the game's events. Tamoko loves Sarevok without wanting anything from him but his company, and he cannot believe that. I made a post about them, and I do think he leaves her because the taint would push him to kill her if she stayed, but I also think it's easy for the taint to manipulate Sarevok, because he's predisposed to believing the worst. Being with Tamoko required effort, because it challenged Sarevok's mindset. Her betrayal confirmed it: he let someone get too close without check and got stabbed in the back.

While Tamoko didn't fully understand Sarevok, she's the on who sums up the situation best:

"You had Gorion to guide you did you not? Sarevok had no one. He draws his strength from his hatred, from the thought of rising above those he knows to be inferior."

In BG 1, Sarevok doesn't fail because he's weaker than Gorion's ward, he's more powerful when you face him, but he's holding on to misbeliefs that make him the puppet of the taint, whereas Charname is master of their own choices, harnessing the taint or rejecting its control. But there is nothing about Charname's nature that is superior to Sarevok and vice versa. The one thing that separates them is the past that shaped them.

Sarevok's story is tragic. He doesn't become a ruthless man because of his nature, but because he was young, alone and poor. Those around him exploited that. His situation gives nuance to his character, enough to make you feel for him. Even when he's only the antagonist, he has depth, and ToB further improves his writing, making a point to show his duality and his struggle to change, to uproot himself from the soil he grew up in. Sarevok never is a one-dimensionnal character, not as a villain, and not as a companion.

[keen-eye]

Hello, Dean 🫵

[atopvisenyashill]

if i did a reread of the walking dead and wrote an essay on how aegon ii and carl are doomed to be the last man standing by their narratives, and what starts out as a sort of cool & nifty super power of always surviving turns into this horrific curse where everyone they know is dying around them & sometimes it’s their fault & sometimes it’s not but either way they can’t ever stop it until they’re sitting at the ending with nothing but their lone daughter to protect but so broken they can no longer connect to her and then their story abruptly ends-

would that be like the Most stupid, nerdy thing i have ever done in my life or

[donnatroyyyy]

Batman has/had some kind of miscommunication going on with every single one of his kids. The bat family is just one big miscommunication trope after the other.

[dennisboobs]

i'm. i can't do proper metas until i actually have the time to do them. but i will eventually dig further into charlie and bonnie's relationship and mac and his mom's. its stewing.

[fujouppy]

thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking some more . i think i hate my half-sister