#well brief explanations but still explanations there are layers to everything

[sntechsupport]

hey im still playing an old version of sburb that only has the 14 classes and 12 aspects, and i keep seeing stuff on here abt other ones like the grace class and mist aspect?? i tried to find the changelog but i just cant access it for whatever reason. not interested in updating, just curious about the new classpects!

I was halfway through bazillion of explaining words written here when someone hacked and slashed some cables and my computer went dead, and nothing saved, so. You are going to get the links to the posts where I had already explained it.

Here are the remaining 10 Classes.

Here are the remaining 12 Aspects.

Knock yourself out.

Very, very tired Gear out.

[ghost-proofbaby]

SIMPLE. (astarion ancunin x afab!reader)

based upon this request by @leahthesith: you've grown tired of astarion's games of jealousy, and it all comes crashing down one night when he chooses to spoil your fun with shadowheart.

warnings: mentions and allusions to astarion's past, as well as his sexual trauma. biting. lots, and lots, and lots of biting. oral sex ('f' receiving), smut. reader is not explicitly gendered/no pronouns are used. only a brief comparison of a 'schoolgirl crush'. reader has also had almost romantic interactions with several companions. 18+ - minors dni.

wc: 7.4k+

kinktober masterlist

There’s no reason for him to be looking at you like that. 

No explanation, no justification, no reason for those jewel eyes to be glowering at you from across the tavern. For his fist to wrap around the mug of whatever he’s sipping on for show, pale skin going translucent in the dancing candlelight. For his entire chest having gone still the last several minutes, and for you to be unable to decipher if he’s simply too distracted to bother with the last of what remains of his living instincts or if it’s another instinct all on its own – if he’s holding his breath as he watches your conversation with Shadowheart.

Then again, there’s no real reason for you to be watching him back. 

The matter of the fact is that you’re watching him just as closely, just as captivated by his presence from across the room, just to simply notice these things. The stillness in his shoulders and the glint that you swear must be his fangs poking past his lips should not be in your periphery. Your focus, all your attention, should be on the vibrant girl on the stool beside you. The dark beauty who’s speaking more with her hands than her lips, giggling over yet another glass of wine. 

“You know,” she sighs wistfully, and you have to tear your gaze away from where it had wandered towards the vampire currently sulking away from the group, “The wine here in the city is much better than on the road.” 

You hum as you distractedly take a sip from your own glass, tongue immediately peeking out to trace along your bottom lip subconsciously, as if you might be trying to savor the flavor. As if you can even taste the flavor. Your tongue has gone all but numb to the ruby liquid as a very different shade of red has captured your interest. 

This could be the same wine from the druid party at the beginning of your journey, the party in which you snatched a bottle from the very shadow that is watching your every move, and you wouldn’t know the difference. 

“It is,” you lie, swirling the red liquid a little bit, an attempt to bring back the taste all over your tongue. 

And even if she buys your lie, Shadowheart can tell something is off, leaning in just a bit closer, peering at you just a little more concerningly, “Is everything okay? You don’t seem yourself.” 

You don��t feel yourself. You should be feeling much more jubilant. You should be joining in on the same fun everyone else is having, toasting to yet another battle won. The end of it all was so close you could taste it. 

And yet, you don’t. Because he’s in the corner brooding, and with him he’s seemingly taken both your mind and your mood. 

“It’s been a long day,” It’s been one long day after another for months, it seems, “I suppose the wine is just making me relax a bit too much.” 

That it is. The alcohol has managed to wiggle its way into your bloodstream, heading straight up your spine and to your brain. All your thoughts feather at the edge, and perhaps that was why you were watching Astarion back so intensely. 

Months of this journey, and you still felt no closer to figuring him out than you had that very first night of discovering his vampirism. Each layer of him that you had peeled back only revealed more confusion to sit with. Some days, you swore you had him entirely figured out. You knew every in and every out of all his wits, and you knew all the steps to the dance in which he’d attempt to draw you into. You could play into whatever design he was spinning between the two of you; you could beat him at his own game. 

But other days, days like today, you simply couldn’t. 

All his flirtations, all his subtle seductions – you couldn’t decipher what was real and what was still for show. For every innuendo he’d whispered into your ear, he shared just as scandalous a comment with another party member. For every seemingly accidental graze of his cold skin against yours, he was attaching himself at the hip of another one of your companions. For all he gave, he would take just as much. Leaving you spinning in the hope of it all; leaving you with a yearning hunger that probably neared the threshold of his own vampiric hunger. 

You want him. You hate him. He infatuates you. He irritates you. He is both sides of the same coin that has damned you every step along the way of this peculiar journey you’ve embarked on together.

“I know what you mean,” Shadowheart brings you back to reality with one swoop of her hair, a careful gathering of the locks to leave a shoulder exposed, “What is it that they always say? Wine is the secret ingredient for every bad decision?”

Your eyes trace carefully over her skin, the slope of where her neck meets her collarbone, the residual bruising leftover from the latest fight blooming beautifully over her. A welcome distraction.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard them say that,” you muse, a smile tugging on your lips, eyes still traveling. Up, up, up. 

Over the line of her jaw, across the curve of her chin. Pillowy bottom lip and softly rounded nose. Softness – she’s made up of all soft and delicate features, such a contrast to someone such as Ast-

You must stop thinking about Astarion.

You’re no longer asking yourself of it, you’re demanding yourself of it. You make a point to move your body and head carefully, positioning yourself just so that the outline of the confusing vampire on your mind is entirely blocked out by Shadowheart’s silhouette. 

“Oh, trust me – they say it all the time,” something simmers beneath Shadowheart’s returning grin, a sparkle in her eyes that should spark some sort of excitement in you. But it’s a hollow ache; you’re still painfully aware that he’s in the room, “Say, would you like to maybe… I don’t know, get out of here? I’m sure we could sneak some more of this exquisite wine to the room upstairs, perhaps find somewhere to relax together even more-” 

“Oh, my dear Shadowheart, don’t you know that that would be thievery?” 

His voice, so close and sudden, sucks all of the air out of your lungs. 

“Astarion!” Shadowheart jumps a bit at his sudden appearance, but you hardly move a muscle. As though your body had been expecting him, as if you had always known the night was leading to this outcome, “I’m surprised to see you’ve given up your gloomy act to join us all. I thought you might sulk in the corner all night.”

His eyes lock on you, and the facade of his usual self seemingly melts. There’s something darker beneath the surface, an animal caged away, and you can see it as it bares its teeth, “Not sulking. Merely observing.” 

You can’t speak. Your entire chest is still tight, lungs still deflated, by his proximity. 

“Well, hard to tell the difference when you hide away in the darkness,” Shadowheart manages to get out before her lips press tightly together, clearly irritated at your companion. 

She’d nearly had you. She had been giving you clear signals, doing away with any games of cats and mice, and she had nearly had you. 

“It’s in my nature, I suppose,” his tone falls flatter than normal, the words void of all the airiness and usual cadence he accentuates. 

He still has you far more enraptured than she’d ever stood a chance of accomplishing. 

“We were just heading upstairs,” you blurt out, and Astarion’s eyebrows raise at your proclamation.

“Is that so?” 

You don’t quite understand why, but you feel the need to over explain yourself, painfully aware of Shadowheart’s inquisitive gaze as she watches you fumble with your words, “Yes! I- I was just telling Shadowheart how tired I’ve grown. We were just calling it a night-” 

“By stealing a bottle of wine?” his tone is growing sharper, and you squirm beneath what has almost become a glare. In an instant, he’s noticing all that discomfort, and you watch the facade be built back up in real time. Brick by brick, he once again resumes his usual role, voice raising a few octaves and a dangerous smirk returning, “And stealing our dearest cleric away from such a wonderful night of celebration? Nonsense! Allow me to accompany you instead, my sweet.”

The nickname rolls off his tongue as naturally as it always does. Sugary syllables, predatory purring. It almost reels you in until you remember the give and the take. The push and the pull. 

Two sides, same coin. And you’ve yet to figure out the value of that coin. 

“There’s no need for that-” Shadowheart begins to protest, but Astarion quickly cuts her off with a flourish of his hand. 

“Please, I insist,” even with his words lightened, sweetened up the slightest bit, that animal still lingers below the tone. Shadowheart will not be accompanying you up to the room. That much you know. “You were clearly having such a good time. It’s truly no problem, I don’t mind watching after our fearless leader.” 

“I don’t need to be babysat,” you snap, reactive like a dog threatened. 

Like a dog cornered.

Yes, that was what you were. A rapid animal, backed up into a space, given no choice. Your heart was racing at the idea of being alone with Astarion. It was no longer a game of mental chess played across a busy tavern – it would be just you, just him, and all those terrible layers you had yet to decipher. It was a recipe for disaster. It was the perfect storm brewing, set for the destruction of you.

“I won’t be babysitting you, dear,” he smiles, and it looks more like a hungered sneer than a sign of genuinity, “Simply there, at your service, for whatever you may need.

I need you to leave me alone. I need our journey to be over so I can stop being your puppet to string along.

You wonder if the thought may have traveled over the tadpole bond and that was why his face falls, rather than your stubborn silence. 

For a moment, you think Shadowheart is going to speak up. That possibly, she might just fight back against him, save you from the impending doom. But when her mouth opens, you hear the last possible thing you could have ached to have fallen from her lips. 

“I… suppose I’ll be on my way then. Have a good night.”

Defeat. 

It wraps around your name as she whispers it before she stands from her stool, unassuming to all your silent signals begging her to stay. Footsteps echoing over the commotion around you as she turns her back, and you feel the walls of this corner drawing in on you. 

“I-” you start when you finally look back to Astarion, but he’s already reaching out to grab you. 

“She’ll get over it,” he says harshly, pulling you along as if you were nothing. As though you weren’t digging your heels into the creaking floorboards below, as if you weren’t resisting him with every fiber of your being. 

“Astarion- stop, I’m- I’m not worried about her,” you stutter out, cursing the way your voice falters, tugging against his grip on you, “Gods, why do you do that?” 

The question has him halting at the foot of the stairs. The shadows encase the two of you as his eyes glow in the subtle darkness. 

“Do what?” 

“This.”

You wave your free hand in the space between the two of you wildly, as though that might suffice for explanation. But when Astarion only levels you with a blank stare, you know it won’t. You know it doesn’t. 

“You pull me along, you push me away,” you continue, heart still racing wildly, breaths coming out short and fast, “You treat me like something special and then discard me, and the moment I seek out that genuine treatment from someone else, you’re back to collect me as your own personal play toy. I want to know why.”

For all the exasperation you feel, there’s a pride beneath it all. The pride of being able to articulate, the smugness of assuming you’ve left him speechless. You haven’t.

Today is not one of the days in which you can beat him at his own game. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he claims, chin lifting just an inch, eyes flitting towards the ceiling before making their way to the bar scene behind you. Anywhere but you. “I’ve done no such thing-”

“Bullshit,” you spit out, “Bull-fucking-shit. You’ve done it numerous times, Astarion. Do you not recall the night in which Gale had approached me, offering to teach me about the Weave, and how you’d interrupted-”

“Our dearest wizard would have bored you to death. It was a mercy to interject.”

“-or the night of the tiefling party, when Karlach had been on the verge of confessing something that seemed an awful lot like an admittance of liking me-”

“Karlach likes everyone. Have you seen the eyes she makes at Wyll?”

“-And how about the time when Lae’zel openly invited me to share a bed with her, and you’d overheard, and obnoxiously guffawed? Hm? What’s your excuse there?” 

Finally, his grip has slackened on your wrist, allowing you to pull both arms tightly across your chest as you glare at him. Chest still heaving, mind still reeling. 

He clearly doesn’t have a very good answer as his lips twitch briefly into a pathetic smile, fading quickly as he shrugs, “Well, I simply found the entire image conjured amusing.”

Your heart nearly stops, leaving your chest as empty a cavern as Astarion’s, “You find the image of someone wanting me, wanting to lay with me, amusing?”

And for all he plays dumb, Astarion is not a fool. 

He catches the fall in your demeanor, the way your arms slowly drop and your entire face contorts with your frown. Damage has been done. 

“No, wait, I-” he tries to begin damage control, but the damage has been done.

“Save it,” you cut him off, “I’m going upstairs now. You can continue on your moping down here in the shadows – I don’t need a babysitter.” 

He almost looks as defeated as Shadowheart had when he’d intervened for a second, a second just long enough that you begin taking the long strides up the stairs. You think you’ve gotten the last word, for that eternity of a second. Making it all the way to the first platform, turning to take on the second set of stairs. 

When suddenly, your back is flat against the wall behind you, a cold body pressed against the entirety of yours. 

“I do not find it amusing,” Astarion huffs, those beady eyes suddenly staring right into yours, lips dangerously close to your own. The defeat has been long forgotten, “The image of you with the others – entranced by Gale’s magic, giggling by the fire with Karlach, on your knees for Lae’zel – is not amusing,” his hands are tight on your hips, bruising grip keeping you pinned with no escape. His body rolls, every inch of his clothed skin beginning to press against your own, “You, laying with anyone else, is the farthest thing from amusing, darling.”

His head tilts in warning, forehead nearly pressed to yours, the end of his nose bumping against yours. You can feel every unnecessary breath he takes. Every huff of his sudden irritation invades your space, and all you can do is attempt to turn your head. 

One of his hands is quick to reach up, pinching your chin between his thumb and pointer. You want to look away, but he won’t allow it. 

“Would you like to know the truth?” 

A loaded question. A ticking time bomb when it comes to this game between the two of you. 

You decide to set the fuse aflame when you nod your stiff head against his pinching grip. 

“The truth is,” he takes a deep breath, one you know he doesn’t need. He’s sucking all the air out of the room, air he has no need for, before his heavy eyes pour into yours. You’re blinded, all visions of red and smoky warning signs, the chatter of the tavern faded to nothing, “the image of you laying with anyone else absolutely infuriates me.”

Anyone else. 

Anyone else. 

Anyone else.

You open your mouth to respond, not even sure what you could possibly say to that, but it’s Astarion’s lips on yours that kills all words on your tongue. 

There are no witnesses. Not a single soul below can see as he all but devours you, hungry lips melding to yours in desperation. The shadows he had been taunted for haunting for the night now serve as a veil, allowing you to cling to what’s left of your dignity. If anything, it feels as though he might be controlling the shadows, beckoning them to come and wrap the two of you up as his arm sneaks behind your back, pulling your body tightly to his as he chooses to steal the breath directly from your lungs now. 

The push, the pull – the coin. The value, it seems, is finally coming to light. 

Through the kiss, you can feel the damnation of all the emotions Astarion must have been holding back for the journey. All the want, all the yearning, all the anger, all the confusion – every single emotion you’ve been battling, breaking the surface as his fangs nip at your bottom lip. 

It takes more willpower than you’d expected to shove him away. 

“Astarion-” you gasp out, taking gulps of air into your burning lungs. 

“Tell me to walk away,” he begs, body still aligned with yours, hands still clinging to you, “Tell me to leave you alone, and this time, I’ll obey.” 

Your tongue can’t move. The depths of his whispers, his pleads, are ringing in your bones, and you can’t say the words he asks of you. 

“Say it,” he presses on, his fingers only digging deeper into your hips. You can’t tell if they’ve gone numb from the chill of his fingers, or from the lack of circulation due to his strength, “Just say it, and I’ll do it. Say anything. I’m yours to command.”

You should tell him to walk away. You should call off the game of cat and mouse. You should save what’s left of your soul for someone else, anyone else, who won’t send your head spinning with a plethora of mixed signals. 

“Room. Now.” 

Of course, you don’t. 

The game was never one-sided. It was never you, a merciful victim of Astarion, always trapped in his shadows. It’s a game for two – and you’ve earned your blame in it all, the same as Astarion. 

And you continue to earn it as your hands tangle up in the snowy curls at the nape of his neck, silvery strands slipping between aching knuckles, lips attaching themselves to his porcelain skin as he guides you up that final flight of stairs. You’re not thinking of Shadowheart, not thinking of anything delicate or soft. Harsh clashes of teeth, harsh bites to rebuttal his fangs against you, harsh fingers digging into soft meat, harsh red lines left behind across his skin that fade away too quickly for your liking. 

Harsh, harsh, harsh. 

All your tensions and frustrations are put into the meshing, and you hardly notice once Astarion’s gotten the two of you through the threshold of the shared room. Everyone else is still downstairs, still celebrating, still cheersing and chatting away. Completely unaware of your demise. Oblivious to what’s about to happen.

Anyone else.

It’s been a long time coming. 

You can see flashes of it in your mind as he carries you with him, door locked behind his back before he’s finding one of the vacated beds to lay you down onto. The night you’d discovered his vampiric nature, the night you had been his mirror with his scars, all the times in which he’d blatantly saved your ass during fights. The blurry figure that is your savior, conveniently getting between you and goblins or shadows alike as he buries his daggers to the hilt. Always there, always watching.

Always yearning. 

Your heads sing in tune as that tadpole connection comes to life, like an exposed nerve as you feel it all reciprocated from him tenfold. Flashes of yourself, with soft eyes and gentle words. Patient palms and charming smiles. A pulling gravity so grandiose that it sparks sheer fear. 

The room is quiet save for your gasps every time Astarion’s lips leave yours long enough to allow for breathing, the ruffling of clothing and bed sheets filling the air soon enough. Just quiet enough you can hone in on that fear, dig your claws into it instead of his back, focused entirely on following it all the way down. 

More memories of his overriding yours. His exposure of Cazador, his admittance of his past. All the trust he put into you – all the faith he’d blindly handed over to you on a silver platter, only reminiscing and regretting once he was left to his own devices at the end of the day.

And then came the jealousy. 

You’d already felt enough of it through his kisses and movements – the way he pins your body beneath his, the way his fangs graze your exposed neck – but it nearly drowns you once the connection has opened the floodgates. 

The image of you and Gale, and a twist in your gut like no other. Incomparable to even vampiric hunger. 

The image of you and Lae’zel, and a burn in the back of your throat that drives you beyond reason. 

The glimpse of you and Karlach, and the urgency rising in your chest to simply stop it. To pull the brakes, not once considering the consequences. 

Every small moment between you and someone else – companions, strangers, those who have helped along the way – is given to you from Astarion’s point of view. You feel all that he has felt; you burn as he has burned. 

You feel a glimmer of understanding, a pitiful ounce of sympathy, but then you remember all that you have felt. All that confusion, all that unsureness. Every time you’ve had to question the glances the vampire offers in your direction or double back on his words. 

He’d done it to himself. You had to remember that – he’d done it to himself every single step of the way.

“You could have said something,” you whisper out as his lips travel down the path of your neck, sharp tips of his fangs pressing to your pulse but not quite breaking skin, “You could have just told me.”

He’s lithe as a cat above you, each scrap of clothing being removed between the two of you exposing more of your bare flesh to the chill of his. You can feel all those muscles beneath his surface, and you can feel the hesitation as you say this. The freeze – the pause. 

“You make it sound so simple.”

The fangs scrape at your jugular as he whispers it, mouth shaking as he uses all his self-constraint to not simply bite down. Taste your sweet blood, let it sing on his tongue rather than this conversation you can tell is setting fire to all his anxieties. He doesn’t want to talk.

You’re not even sure if you want to talk. 

But you do, with the weight of him between your hips and his hands dancing along your torso. Your head is thrown back as you sigh, “It could be.”

It could be simple, it could have been simple this entire time, if only he’d allow it. 

He’s had you dancing beneath his spell since the moment you’d met him. You had offered yourself over to him, time and time again, knowing all the costs. Despite the warnings from others, and despite all the sirens sounding off in your head every time your eyes had met his, you’d still pined. Still fantasized what this current moment might taste like as you’d lay in your tent at night, still chased after his attention across Faerun. If he had just directly said the word rather than stringing you along, burning in private – you would have been his far sooner than now. He could have had you in the palm of his hands long before he’d ever spotted the Gate of the city. 

He has you now, though. Entirely encapsulated, bending to every whim of his fingertips.  

A flick of his wrist, and you’re exposing more of your neck. A nudge of his knee, and you’re arching your back to press more of yourself against him. Offering your skin, offering your soul, offering your blood. A silent temptation for him to simply devour you whole; a silent begging to not complicate things more than what was necessary. 

You had both been in the wrong. He had sent mixed signals, and you had been complicit in your own silence. 

And right now, you weren’t particularly in the mood to rehash and reassign blame. 

“Show me how simple it could be,” his voice is muffled against your skin, lips velvet against your pulse. It nearly frustrates you – was that not what you were currently doing? Were you not proving to him just how easily he could unravel you with those cold, cold palms? “Go ahead, darling. Prove me wrong.”

You’re not the one meant to take an action, though. Your hands fly up, fisting at his white curls, and you apply pressure to let him sink deeper into your skin, but you’re not the one who can break the barrier.

It’s him that must – his fangs must do it. The first bite, the smallest of sips. 

Your blood trickles past his lips and you let out a sigh. As if this was what you were waiting for, as if this was all that it took. Your vitality draining slowly to invigorate him, your breath becoming his, your heart now beating for both of you. 

He must feel it. He must taste it. 

The simple entanglement of the living and unliving. How simple it was to become his.

You swear you only allow your heart to race as it does to encourage your blood to pump faster onto his eager tongue. He laps at it, hums at the taste, his grip on you becoming stronger with each pass of the ichor. Each passing second with his mouth glued to the side of your neck isn’t marked with the tick of a clock, but the roll of his hips, and your own desperate legs shaking in those precious moments between, cursed to choose between tightening shut around his hips or spreading wider to encourage more of him to occupy you. 

Just as you start to feel light-headed, he pulls back. Wide and vibrant scarlet eyes boring into yours, fangs tinged pink with you poking against his bottom lip. 

The tadpole connection has gone silent. Not due to either of you cutting it off entirely, but due to the lack of thoughts transpiring. Both your minds have gone quiet, and all that’s left is the warm buzz of knowing you’re connected. Static that you can feel at the back of your head, running down your spine, all the way to the tips of your fingers and toes. 

Simple. Mind-numbingly simple. 

You can feel the spark of something snapping after only a few moments of eye-contact, and you know it’s the ember that blazes within him as his next few actions transpire. Messy kisses leaving behind a trail of pink spit along your skin, hands no longer grappling at you mindlessly but with intention. He slips them between your thighs, a finger trailing down your cunt in time with his tongue down your sternum. What might be a memorized dance to him has become an entirely unknown experience to you, body buzzing with the novelty when his fingertip’s cool caress circles your clit before he slips down to your hole. It’s seamless – the stretch, the crook of his knuckle against you as he sinks deeper, the relief in the curl of your toes. 

“You’re not another mindless dance,” he murmurs as he sinks deeper and lower, an unnecessary breath escaping him across your lower abdomen. 

He’d heard it. He’d heard all of your thoughts at the moment. 

You peer down at the ethereal sight of him between your thighs, his hair and mouth seemingly shimmering with all the stars and moon itself, “No?” 

“No,” his voice is strong as he lets the tip of his nose press against you, mouth creeping closer to where two fingers now pump within you, “You’re not like the others.” 

He doesn’t elaborate, even as the haunting question of who the others might be echoes within you. He completely distracts you as his fingers slip from your cunt and his tongue begins its work, worshiping you with every flick of it. Nose, tongue, breath – they all work in conglomeration as the unraveling truly begins. Every ounce of you is tensing, combating all the relief of having his mouth on you, as he pushes you closer and closer to a precipice you’ve only dreamed of him guiding you to. 

The suckle of his lips. The cut of his fangs when he gets a bit too excited. The lap of a tongue like a dog worshiping at your altar. It’s all almost a bit much. 

When your hands travel to entangle in his hair, you can feel the hesitation. For a moment, you believe he might reach up to take your touch away. Force you to grasp at the bed sheets, at the edge of the mattress, at the frame above your head. Anywhere but him. 

But he doesn’t.

The pause only lasts a few seconds before he’s returning to his mitigations, even more intent than before. Words that could never be spoken between the two of you take the shape of his lips around your clit, sucking almost as hard as he had at your neck. An animal seemingly overtakes him, his mouth not leaving you for the mortal necessity of breathing, but rather for something harsher; he breaks away only for his fingers to slide back within you, and immediately takes to biting at your thighs. 

It isn’t like he had done to your neck. This time, he’s not chasing after your blood. Nips and fuller bites, not just his sharpened canines sinking into fletch but his front teeth as well. 

These aren’t bites to drink from you. These are bites to claim you.  

He lines your legs with them, scattered sporadically as he shifts himself up and down. From the apex of your thigh down to your ankle, there’s hardly an inch of your skin that doesn’t paint with Astarion’s touch. The bite marks, lingering outlines of his hands clinging to your flesh, patient hickies left throughout. 

You’re mine. 

The message is clear enough whether you had seen it in his actions, or if he had sent it through the bond. You understand well what point he is making. 

The point stands stronger and stronger when he works his way back up your body. He offers your hips the same worshiping treatment, leaves his imprints across your chest as well. A few marks brand your shoulders and neck, matching the two pricks that started this entire devourment. 

“Do you have any idea of the hold you have upon me?” he sighs out as he holds himself above your body, hovering just close enough that your skin jumps as the skin of his abdomen brushes your own, “Our entire journey, I have been so focused on… on freedom, on abandoning the concept of ever being controlled…” he trails off, and when he looks into your eyes this time, you can see something clicking into place. A fearsome realization. “Only to end up in the thralls of your beck and call.” 

You hold your breath and await the inevitable. This is the part where he runs. Where he removes his flesh from yours, where he jumps across the room and surely spits out some sarcastic remark. It’s the time in which he is meant to break all the hope that had been built over the minutes spent alone. He’ll make some nonchalant remark, or a crude joke, and he’ll go make eyes at some other poor fool below. He’ll cast his spell over someone else, anyone else. He’ll leave you, wanting and yearning and hopeless, once more. 

His body stays above yours, the thin fabric of space shaking between you two. 

With a trembling hand, warm against his skin, you take a chance, “I’m not your master, Astarion.” 

You aren’t. 

You have no desire to control him the way he describes. You would curse the day should you ever become something even comparable to being a placeholder for Cazador. He isn’t telling you anything new; you’ve known his end goal of this entire journey. Astarion has always wanted one thing and one thing only – freedom. 

And you thought you’d been helping him. Following him blindly through the woes, helping him achieve his ultimate goal wholeheartedly. Never for a single second had you assumed the role he’s seemingly given you. 

A short laugh escapes him, the smallest of smiles flitting his face, “No. No, you aren’t. And that only enthralls me further.” 

His lips descend upon yours in a fervent fashion, even more desperate than before. It feels as if he’s actually trying to devour you whole this time – it feels as though he might actually accomplish melding you into his existence, sinking you right into the marrow of his hollow bones. 

When his cock sinks into your heat, it’s ecstasy. Euphoria. Everything you’ve been wishing for. Everything you’d been hoping for. You stretch around him, just as you had his fingers, body eager to take in every last inch of him. The buzz becomes a roar and your entire body feels as though it might be on fire. You want more, you need more, and he’s more than willing to give it. 

More, more, more. 

His hips roll agonizingly slow against yours, making sure every movement is felt across every nerve ending within your body. Deep within your gut, down along your thighs, all the way up your chest. You feel him everywhere – he makes sure of it. 

Centuries, his voice curls through your mind like dark smoke.  For centuries, this body has felt tainted. Never quite mine, never quite clean. 

His hands are shaking as he lets them caress down your sides, over your hips, clinging for support. 

You take that feeling away. 

The words are heavy, the press of his chest over you heavier. Your own hands wander, and you make a point to avoid the scars on his back. The ones hardly deciphered, the ones that have tied him to a fate you refuse to let him succumb to. No amount of jealousy, no amount of spite, can reverse that ardent decision within your mind. 

You’re not an old coat, Astarion. You whisper it back, along the bond, your physical mouth gaping wide open as you tilt your head back into the pillow, feeling yourself tighten around him. You’re not a worn pair of boots. You’re a person. 

A terrible mon-

You cut off his rebuttal, a complicated person. Snarky, indecisive, too flirtatious for your own good. But still a person, and still worthy. 

Two simple words, and they send shudders through his entire body. Still worthy. You don’t look at him as something to be discarded or owned; you don’t envision him as a prize or a trophy. And you certainly don’t see only his flaws when you look at him. When his ruby eyes meet yours, both his and your own eyelashes flutter ridiculously as all the pressure mounts, the blush of your blood across his cheeks and running down his throat, you both know. You don’t need to put it into words.

Even when he infuriated you. Even when he made you second-guess his companionship in the beginning. Even when he made you swoon like a schoolgirl only to divert his attention. Never once have you fully faulted him for the mistakes. 

He’s done bad things. You’ve all done terrible things. And yet, you still want him. 

He’s worth more than the sum of his worst moments, even if he hadn’t bedded you tonight. You would still help slay Cazador. You would still fight tooth and claw for his freedom. 

You love him. You hate him. You hate to love him, you love to hate him. It’s all smoke and mirrors at the end of the day when you’re feeling the weight of him collapse on top of you. And it’s mutual. The complicated, infuriating emotions are all reciprocated. 

Every inch of your skin stings with the lingerance of his fangs and lips, gasps and mews slipping between your lips as he picks up his pace. His fingers dig into the meat of your thighs and hips in a failing attempt to pull your body back to his, the reciprocation languid in every stroke. Every slap of his skin against yours, every moan of his own – they mingle in the air and spell out the inevitability of this moment. You swear you feel his sharp nails nick you, a bead of blood no doubt bubbling and staining the sheets below.

You don’t care. He doesn’t, either. 

Your whine echoes through the empty room right along with a harsh grunt from him. He’s ravaging you. Bruising you inside and out. 

“Fuck, Astarion,” you gasp out, giving up using the bond. Your mind has melted far too much for coherent thoughts as both your breaths quicken, both abdomens tightening as you feel him reach even deeper inside your cunt, “Fuck.”

You can feel him letting go just as it feels as though your body might give out. Blissful soreness hidden behind a curtain of pleasure that turns your vision white. You almost wonder if your body had been simply a vessel for his own pleasure this entire time. 

You wouldn’t mind if it had been, but he’s made damn sure it isn’t. 

You’ve never felt quite as cared for as when his hips stutter, feeling warmth fill your fluttering cunt as his open mouth places random kisses anywhere they can reach. His head falls to the crook of your neck and you can feel his tired lips pressing repetitively over your marked neck, your shoulder. They even graze the original bite mark, and the simple action sends shockwaves through you to join the rest of the residual quakes that keep your legs shaking around his waist. 

The bedlinen sticks to your skin from a mixture of blood and sweat as he collapses next to you for a moment, still curling up to you like a cat. Nose running along your bare shoulder, lips still reaching out for you. 

It takes you a second, but when you finally catch your breath, you can’t help but ask the dreaded question, “Does this mean you’re officially mine?” 

His chuckle is unexpected, vibrating against your chest as he rolls most of his weight off you and lifts his head, “Have I not made that much obvious?” 

“I just needed to make sur-”

He cuts off all your hesitation, lifting the entirety of his upper body now, “Allow me to make this very clear to you, darling. I have been yours since the moment you reacted to me holding a dagger to your throat with a damned headbutt.”

You smile sheepishly, “So you’re telling me when I did that… I knocked some sense into you?” 

“Never,” he scoffs, waving a hand, the only sign of his own fatigue to match yours being the way he drops back down at your side. You don’t miss the faint smile gracing his lips, “But it was an impressive move. Quite enchanting for this old heart of mine.” 

“So now you admit that you’re old?” you joke, prodding at an inside joke that had been ongoing since he’d admitted the entirety of his vampiric nature to you. He’d always pouted like a child at any mention of his age, but he’d always allowed only you to get away with any jabs at it. Your entire group still doesn’t speak of his reaction to Gale trying his hand at one of the jokes, “Goodness, what has gotten into you, my Star?” 

He flushes at the nickname, eyes diverting as he slowly creeps his body up the bed, face to face with you now. Your heart tightens a bit when he takes his time replying, swallowing hard, tongue peeking out instinctively as he runs it over his lips and fangs slowly. 

You almost believe he won’t look you in the eyes again, but he does. As he says the heaviest words yet, he looks to you as if you’re the only thing in the room for this moment. 

“I care for you,” his voice comes out tight, nearly strained. “Deeply. You make me want to be… a better… man, monster, whatever I might be. And if that’s a crime?” he pauses, and takes another one of those pesky deep breaths that you’re well aware aren’t vital to him. A glimmer of the human, the person, beneath the self-proclaimed monster. “Well, I haven’t been much of a rule follower thus far in our journey anyways, have I?” 

You pay no mind to his joking tone, seeing the words for what they are. Your hand reaches up, fingers carding through silver waves, and you can’t help your grin when he doesn’t swat you away as he had done Shadowheart for the exact same show of affection the week before. 

I adore you, Astarion. 

Quiet words. Silent words. Only for the two of you, within the confines of a shared mine. 

He clears his throat uncomfortably, “Mind you, I may need some time, given all the memories this wretched city brings-”

“Take all the time you need,” you interrupt. From the second he’d opened up to you, offering that vulnerability in the heat of the moment regarding his body, you’d seen this coming. “I can wait for you, my love. Let’s just focus on surviving all this, yeah?” 

He can’t hide his affection. It’s written plainly on his face, it travels clearly across the bond. 

“Yes,” he whispers back, reaching for your wrist finally, but only to hold it placid as he turns his lips towards it. You think for a moment he might bite you one final time, and you’d let him, but he surprises you. No fangs appear – only the softest of kisses against the most vulnerable of skin. “Survival. Of course.” 

It’s not so much words as it is an image, a promise, that comes to mind from him. The fluttering of a future he sees being possible, the threat of a city burned down should any harm come to you. 

“And no more jealousy,” you croak out, trying to not be overwhelmed by his own emotions mixing with yours. “You’re mine, and I’m yours.”

Another kiss to your wrist, this one far quicker, far more habitual than the first. He’s kissing you simply because he can. 

You know there’s more behind his smile when he whispers, “Oh, of course, lover.” 

And you find out later on the reason for such a mischievous smile, once he’s cleaned you both up and migrated for you two to rest in his claimed bed. When Shadowheart is the first of the group to enter the room, confronted with the image of you curled up on Astarion’s chest as his fingers dance over your aching skin, you don’t even have to wake up properly to see the vision of a smug Astarion through your dreary eyes. 

Words are exchanged, but they’re lost to you in your sleepy state. You only catch the ones that matter. 

“Astarion! Are those bite marks-”

“Mine?” if you were any more conscious, you would have scolded him. He knows it, too, as he squeezes you closer to him, “Why, yes. Yes, they are, our dearest Shadowheart.” 

Shadowheart’s huff of breath tells you all you need to know about Astarion’s smirk. You’ll talk more of jealousy in the morning. 

[moodymisty]

Hiii!!! I LOVE everything you write since I followed you a long time ago. I would like to read something about Rogal Dorn. I can't find ANYTHING about him and i just can't stop thinking about him.

I don't mind if it's smut, whatever you feel confortable with, but if it can have a little bit of fluff i would LOVE It.

Thank you for everything.💞

Author's note: Ok so I am deciding to do an idea i have for awhile, that I believe someone else posted but I cannot remember who. anyhoo, enjoy. Perhaps it's not as fluffy as you might have wanted, but fluffy Dorn is sort of awkward, nice Dorn so I hope you still like it;;

Relationships: Rogal Dorn/Fem!Reader (reader is a remembrancer)

Warnings: Perturabo calls you a whore but other than that nothing really of note

"I never did thank you properly for all of the clothes, Lord Dorn."

You look up at him, golden armor still shining in the relative dimness of the bridge- to only get a light nod of his head in response.

Inwit is freezing, unfathomably cold, and the clothes you had worn previously on Olympia failed to cut it. That had been a very quick, and very upsetting realization. Dorn had- in his stalwart silence - requisitioned you more only a few days later. Many more, custom-made. They were lined with warm furs and comfortable, built for hard winds and ice, trapping your body heat close to you. You had taken some of the layers off since you were arriving to Terra, a planet with a much more tempered climate. You don't miss the burning of your cheeks and frozen snot, but you do miss the planet overall.

Terra... Coming here makes you nervous. You know who is going to be here. Take a few deep, self-assuring breaths before looking in Dorn's general direction. The large glass viewport at the front of the bridge illuminates most of the floor, casting you all in a variety of colors.

"Lord Dorn, may I ask you a question about something?"

He turns to you, looking down at your hesitant expression.

"Did Perturabo make you beg permission to speak to him? Just ask it."

He did, more often than not. You remember more than a few instances.

"Well, he was actually going to be what I wanted to ask about."

You twisted your wrists in your hands, trying to do some sort of fidget to focus on while Dorn had his full attention on you.

"Has he always hated you? The entire time I was in his company, there was always just undertone of pure, seething hatred for you, but whenever I saw you, you didn't seem to even care."

There are a few other Imperial Fists on the bridge, watching as Terra comes into view. You're in the process of getting caught by the planet's orbit and mooring close enough to come down to the surface. You can see the palace already, even from this far, a golden target that is still growing larger with each day.

"Perturabo has always been that way, yes."

Dorn turns to briefly give an order to a questioning Imperial Fist, before returning to you and his explanation.

"He sees competition in my existence. I don't care."

Polux approaches, choosing to stand on your opposing side and wait patiently for his moment to speak. You give him a brief smile as greeting before returning your eyes to his primarch. Dorn looks forward and out the viewport, watching the palace of his design inch closer and closer.

"Sanguinius and Horus' rivalry is even matched. They both find growth from it. Perturabo's rivalry with me is a childish urge to beat me into the ground and prove to everyone that he is better."

You don't disagree with him in even the slightest. Perturabo was always so desperate to beat Dorn above all else, even to the detriment of other facets of his life.

"Despite the fact that he isn't?"

Dorn looks at you fully again, eyebrows raised and you swear, you swear, the inkling of a smile on his face.

"You have spent more time with him than I. Do you think that?" He turns on his heel slightly, armor shifting and clanking against eachother to face you more.

"Do you think The Emperor was right in claiming me Praetorian over him?"

You've been with the Imperial fists for a few months now, and this is far from the first time you've spoken to Dorn. Far more than you ever interacted with Perturabo, despite the fact that Dorn is known for being tight lipped and humorless.

You nod.

"Yes, I do. Perturabo's plans are always so complex, and he hinges them and his entire self worth on being better than you. And when he fails, he sulks." You smile. "I don't imagine you or your sons to be the type to sit and pout if something went wrong. You would all be too busy trying to correct it."

Dorn looks down at you, face as stoic and frozen as you've become quite used to. You don't know entirely what he's thinking, but you don't get a chance to ask before someone else's voice interrupts you.

Polux has a younger astartes walk up to him, stating some information that flows in one ear and out the other for you before walking away. He turns to the both of you, looking two his primarch but referring to the both of you.

"My lord, we are ready to depart for the palace. Is she accompanying us?"

You've never stepped foot on Terra before, to even come into it's orbit is an idea that you could barely handle; Alongside the fact that the primarch and his captains have little need for you there. You gather yourself, preparing to return to the Librarium aboard the ship to continue your work before Dorn's voice stops you in your tracks and sends almost every emotion through you at once.

"She is. Let us go."

Your first time on Terra was going well, in the first hour or so.

Dorn isn't much of a communicator, so he has spent the long of it conversing with his men, giving orders even while not aboard his ship. Either orders given to send back to the Phalanx, or to the Imperial Fists on Terra assisting with the Palace construction. You stand idly by and occasionally draw, or write something down that interests you.

The smoothness stops however, when Dorn looks away abruptly. His sons are confused, before they also perk up not a moment later. You look to Polux, as you know he's the one who will most likely acquiesce to your questions.

"What is it?" You say. He tilts his head vaguely in your direction, but doesn't actually look at you.

"Primarch Perturabo is on his way. He must've heard we had arrived," Polux takes a breath, presumably steeling himself for whatever is to come.

"His... footsteps are quite loud." Not a few more moments later now even you can hear them, and then see him shortly thereafter.

Perturabo storms closer; You can tell by the red flush over his tanned skin, that he is beyond furious.

Dorn looks down at you, and points behind him. His voice leaves no room for question, not as if you would even considering doing so in the first place.

"Go to Vulkan."

The Salamander's primarch had finished speaking to Dorn not long ago, now standing across the massive open area that you presumed served as a training ground for the astartes. You do as your now primarch commands and rush towards him, feeling his eyes on him as you approach.

"I am terribly sorry to bother you Lord Vulkan, but My lord Dorn told me to-" He ushers you closer with a hand, his voice gentle despite his overwhelming size.

"I am well aware of your circumstances, and what is more than likely about to play out. You can stay here with me."

You take refuge close to the Salamander's primarch, both standing and watching as Perturabo confronts Dorn. Multiple of his Imperial Fists straighten up and hold themselves at the ready, prepared to fight for their primarch if it ever be needed.

"Dorn!"

A disrespectful finger points his way, but Dorn pays it no mind. The white fabric of Perturabo's Olympian clothes flow softly and comfortably in the gentle wing, in contrast to the sharp, unforgiving features of his face.

"You think you can just steal from me now? Are you truly so bold now that you're praetorian?"

Dorn only speaks up when Perturabo is close enough that he doesn't have to yell.

"She wanted to leave."

Dorn speaks plainly, bluntly, as if he's just totally uncaring of the conversation.

You've learned over time that Dorn is far from emotionless; He merely doesn't waste it on things he deems pointless. This is pointless, and so he only speaks with the most blunt, monotone voice. It pisses Perturabo off to an unfathomable degree.

To think he was so upset about your departure without his dismissal. He had been nothing but cold and cruel to you, despite the fact that you were merely there to document his legion's progresses.

"I don't care what she wanted. She was indebted to my legion, and I will not tolerate deserters no matter how useless I think they are,"

Perturabo yells. Once his frustration at Dorn is exhausted enough that his attention can be deviated, he turns his gaze to you.

It feels like the gravity of a planet is pushing down onto you, the sheer weight of his anger. Even from so far away. Even the weight of Primarch Vulkan's hand on your shoulder does nothing to shield you from it.

"I hope you heard me, you lying, traitorous little whore. I hope you know I'll wring your neck myself when I catch you."

It takes every bit of energy to avoid crumbling instantly, at the threat of a primarch. Thankfully he leaves shortly after, storming off with the flowing white fabric of his clothes flowing behind him.

Vulkan sighs. You think he said something to reassure you, but you can't hear it over the thumping of your heart in your ears.

"I truly don't think there is much we can do to change him." Corvus- whom you've only just realized was here the entire time with a startle upon hearing his voice - shakes his head.

"His desire to be superior is tripped up at every point by his insufferable personality."

Vulkan looks down at you as an Imperial Fist approaches.

"Are you alright?" He says, and the caring nature of it is a bit overwhelming.

"I, I hope so." Vulkan doesn't laugh, but there is a softness on his face as he smiles at you. Corvus simply watches, and you once again realized that he was there.

"We all know Dorn. He has mentioned you quite a bit,"

"For him," Corvus adds. Vulkan gives him a quick look before turning back to you.

"I do not think he would ever allow anything to happen to you."

The reassurance of a primarch is a feeling next to none; But so it's the threat of one. They both battle in your heart and soul as the Imperial Fist reaches you.

"Lord Dorn is going to have one of us escort you back to the ship."

You nod, looking up to Vulkan to thank him. He simply smiles and speaks before you have a chance to give any gratitude.

"Stay safe, little one."

You follow that Imperial Fist back, before he leaves you on your own close to your quarters. Once you get into them, the door shutting behind you with a hiss, your chest starts to tighten like something has a hold on it.

Every Iron Warrior now likely knows that Perturabo wants your head on a pike. You try to steady your breathing, dumping your papers onto your small desk and sitting on the edge of your bed with a soft thud.

It's getting harder to breath, you swallow a massive knot in your throat. You try to shake your leg, dig your fingers into your palms to stop the feeling, like your heart is going to explode, the thumping of blood in your ears-

It starts to level down after awhile, the room steadies and no longer is spinning. Once that happens, the tears actually start to come, and you keep trying to wipe them away each time a few fall.

You don't regret leaving the Iron Warriors; Olympia. You don't know what Dorn saw in you that was enough for him to offer you a place but you don't regret taking it. His legion's treatment of you compared to your time on Olympia was incomparable, but the petty nature you had witnessed from the primarch was now focused on you; Your betrayal of fleeing to Dorn.

You have your arms wrapped around yourself, tightening them as someone opens your door. Your momentary startle fades when you realize who it is.

It's Dorn. You don't know when his presence stopped being so intimidating, even as a primarch; Perhaps it's the time you've spent with him recently that has gotten you used to him.

"You have been crying."

It would surely be easy to tell- you can still fear the wetness of tears on your face. You take a deep breath and clear your throat to try and speak normally.

"Primarch Perturabo wants my beaten corpse at his feet, and I don't, I don't know what to do-"

He comes closer, face neutral and stoic. You try and contain the emotion on your face.

Stupid, all of it, is what Perturabo would've said to you. You were always a stupid, pointless inconvenience forced upon him. But yet one he was still so upset to see leave.

"I knew very well how he would behave when I offered you a place here. I will not allow him to harm you."

In his own, odd way, the sentence calms you. It's not a lie, it is the utmost truth put into blunt, simple words. You sniffle and unwrap your arms from around yourself, returning to some level of normalcy.

"Thank you..." You say, and Dorn- to your surprise - kneels.

"Do not thank me for something I should do. I put you in this predicament and made you an enemy of him."

Dorn is quiet for a moment. You look at him questioningly, but he doesn't seem to notice. Then suddenly a hand rests heavy on your shoulder, and he leans in to press his lips to yours.

It's only a split second, it's chaste and quick, and he pulls away as a string of spit snaps between you both. You barely even have a chance to process it all; A primarch just kissed you. You had liked him, but you firmly pushed those thoughts from your mind for the sheer absurdity of them.

“You shouldn’t cry.” At first you think he’s telling you not to be weak- To suck it up.

“I, should not have allowed him to speak to you that way. I allowed him to make you cry.”

Crying is nothing; the fact that he has said he would protect you from an enraged primarch that by all intents and purposes you betrayed, is more than worth its weight. You don’t care about the crying.

"I'll be fine. I just needed a minute, and," You laugh. "Hopefully that's the last time I ever see his face." Dorn doesn't smile, but his voice has a gentle tilt of amusement that makes you smile a bit wider.

"I admit I would be jealous of you if that were to be the case."

You don't envy that he will have to continue to deal with Perturabo, especially now that your presence has created a deeper rift. Alongside his duties as Praetorian.

Dorn rises up from his knee and reaches out a hand.

"I am going to speak to my men about progress of the Palace walls. Come with me."

You take his hand, and you expect him to just allow you to pull yourself up, but instead he wraps his fingers around it and holds your hand, guiding you out of your room. He lets go moments after, but the gesture was there none the less.

[cruyuu]

Oooh since you're on a Sukuita streak, I'm dying to know how you think Yuuji and Sukuna feel about each other in chapter 271 👀 that's a question that's been nagging at me since we don't see this new and enlightened Sukuna interact with or mention Yuuji (unfortunately 😔) But I can't help but feel there's some fondness there on both sides

Hi anon! I'm on a sukuita streak bc I'm currently trying to complete my re-read of jjk for my skit analysis but failing terribly because I'm busy as hell (+ they're on my mind a lot these days). Thank you for allowing me to yap a bit more about them in the meantime tho!

I'll start everything off with this: Everything's very subtle in these few last chapters and it's so subtle that some still think nothing's changed. It's there if you care but if you don't, it can easily go over your head.

Now, to answer your question, I'll have to state that my personal opinion is that the moment of Sukuna's change had started since the day of his reincarnation into Yuuji's body, but that he only acknowledged it in Chapter 271- when he finally called him by his full name. I'll keep it brief here but will offer a more proper explanation in my analysis. For now, I'll just put it like this: Sukuna was changing but wasn't admitting it to himself. He was fighting that and lost because of that. If he was still as unhinged as he was back in the Heian era and didn't give two fucks, trust me, the ending (and his relationship with Yuuji) would've been waaaaay different that it is now.

This opinion of mine has affected how I view canon in some aspects and hence, to me, it makes it plausible that their relationship would've been the same whether at Chapter 1 or post-embraced "change" (Chapter 268 and 271).

It would not be a total "change" with them skipping rocks and laughing and being all lovey dovey but rather... no longer extreme but sort of reluctant, awkward and competitive (with lots of teasing) friendship??? There would be similar vibe they had when we first grew to love them. I do think there would've been more pronounced fondness there after the acceptance.

The reason for all of this up above is that this is a shonen work and that they're labeled as enemies (meaning that if it was a different genre, you know damn well they'd be lovers...).

Anyway, Yuuji had officially joined the "favored by Sukuna" club when Sukuna called him by his full name and was "surprised" he'd take this "farce" so far. One thing that's known about Sukuna is that he tends to compliment his opponents and then say their name and Yuuji seemingly joins the trend... with an insult (but I'd call it a disguised compliment).

and yeah, I know, "How can I claim that it means something when he didn't compliment him nor his abilities?"

Well, that's the thing. There's always something different.

If there's one thing unique to these two, it's the fact that they're stubborn shits whose relationship is like a locked room mystery. The key is to pay close attention. Don't trust the words, look at the actions because it isn't that simple. That's where usually those who don't care fail to see the relevance and why they're confused with, for example, why Yuuji told Sukuna that he is him. It's because it's not directly stated, but rather hinted at, time and time again. These two have that sort of relationship, one extremely layered, with lies and deceit, and haunted by double meaning and subtext.

Yuuji was always the one (and I cannot stress that enough). If you've read this manga then you know just how yappy and weird Sukuna tends to get about this "insignificant brat" who he relentlessly mocks and teases and argues with and then claims he's boring. He's constantly doing the opposite of what he says when it comes to Yuuji, and as it happens, so does Yuuji too.

Yuuji is always singled out. Even if he blended into the surroundings and disappeared, Sukuna would still manage to find a trace of him because that's totally a normal way to think about someone you deem "insignificant". The same goes with Yuuji, who in his intent in stopping Sukuna, forgets about his act of being the embodiment of good (and claiming moral superiority to Sukuna) and goes on to cannibalize his half-brothers (which is... very Sukuna of him). This is even given more relevance when you remember Sukuna never ate someone in the story despite being proclaimed "a cannibal".

Still, this is why Yuuji no longer argues about morals with him and why his talk with him in 265 appeals to the fact that they are similar, more than they can even seem to admit and that arguing against who's right and wrong is pointless.

The reason why Yuuji is singled out is because he is the closest we'll ever know of Sukuna who doesn't talk about himself much. They may seem vastly different at first, but as you go deeper and deeper into the story, the lines between them start to blur and at times, even Yuuji's behavior is unexplainable because even he, too, doesn't act accordingly at times. They're both the same (said by Yuuji himself) and hence via them interacting with each other is how we learn more and more about them individually. Because, even if they are "the same", they are still different because their choices are what shaped them as well as how they view life (again, stated by Yuuji himself).

They're not your "everything is right there", but rather "everything is there if you know how to look". In my revisiting of Chapter 271, I realized that Sukuna had already stated everything there is to state. The fact that he's open with others, that he's capable of being weak, finding weak opponents "worthy", being killed, being defeated, being treated as a human being... all of that goes to Yuuji.

He doesn't need to state anything directly because he's quite a skilled liar:

Sukuna had lived for years. He wasn't defeated, instead, he accepted Kenjaku's proposal and sealed himself into fingers for a different purpose. That purpose was participation in the Culling Games. Why did he do that? Well he didn't give any explanation so we have figure it out.

Back then, there was no Itadori Yuuji and back then Sukuna was hailed as the strongest with no one there to equal him. He was feared, revered, loved, hated, but ultimately never defeated. Also, he was cursed. If this curse (as he calls himself) lived according to his principles, he'd be enjoying every second of his life, but in the Yorozu flashback he appears... very bored. That's the first contradiction that we have with Sukuna. The fact that he lives according to his own whims yet never appears satisfied nor happy. Hell the happiest he seems is in modern times, when he awakens in Yuuji's body and excitedly shouts about how much things have changed.

Now was Kenjaku's proposal just giving Sukuna more people to slaughter in the future? No. Seems pointless. Could it be that they were offering Sukuna a way out from the curse that he was carrying? Seems way more probable. After all, Kenjaku would go on to create Yuuji, and curiously, he'd be the one to take everything away- liberate Sukuna from his curse and offer him a different perspective, even offer to be there for him no matter what (which again, I cannot fucking imagine is actual reality... I still think 268 is a fever dream).

The truth comes out in the end, after Yuuji looks at his torn fingers, calls Sukuna's fingers harmless and smiles at the sky. Sukuna isn't even alive and yet Yuuji predicts correctly that he's harmless- as Sukuna would go on to say that he lost and that it'll be nice to take a different path in life. It's just confirmation that the fondness he has for him is there because he doesn't belittle him, doesn't make any negative comments but just... says it's all good and smiles. The same is true for Sukuna because he's no longer stubbornly clinging on to his way of "contradictory living" and is actually considering doing what Yuuji told him. He doesn't vehemently reject the idea (as would be expected), but rather embraces it.

Courtesy of Itadori Yuuji.

Again, to quote myself:

Sukuna had stated everything there is to state. The fact that he's open with others, that he's capable of being weak, finding weak opponents "worthy", being killed, being defeated, being treated as a human being... all of that goes to Yuuji.

This is what Sukuna had learned via Yuuji, something that he had no way of experiencing before, otherwise he would've changed a long time ago and wouldn't stubbornly cling to life nor make deals with Kenjaku who also longed for fulfillment (which they had found ;) ). It seems pointless to trap yourself just to kill more people in the future or cause "mass chaos" via the Merger, just because "the humans have different flavors". I bet he also had a great share of amazing battles and "unique flavors" even back then and besides, doing grand schemes for shits and giggles is a bit boring. Hence why "looking for a way out of his cursed state" / "change" is a more better explanation imo.

So! I went off track here a bit lmfao. But yep, Sukuna is quite a good liar. The change he was looking for- something which didn't bring him fulfillment back in the Heian era- was found in the modern era, where he shared a body with this brat who will ultimately "change the trajectory of his life".

Sukuna lived within Yuuji and even if he likes to pretend that he doesn't know him, he does. He knows him just as well as Yuuji knows him in return. The narrative spells it out. Both of them are extremely strong and quite perceptive about others so why in the hell's name would they not be about each other? It appears like they've just been blind or ignoring the truth until they had to face it.

Still, anon, I understand the feeling and I know it seems weird and off to just end it like that without discussing it in greater detail, especially after what I ranted about above. Their relationship is a clusterfuck and that's why I love them a lot because you can't exactly place where it lies exactly. It's ambiguous as hell, with both romantic, sexual, familial, hell all undertones there are. Are they enemies? Are they lovers? Are they just misunderstood friends? Nephew and uncle? Who knows (do not ask Gege).

Even if jjk has ended, it still feels like something's missing. The question and the definite answer. Here, the question is posed and has seemingly remained unanswered because Sukuna's dead and Yuuji alive. They've been separated.

So how will we ever know what enlightened Sukuna thinks about Yuuji? How do they truly feel about each other?

I talked about it briefly here (regarding Chapter 271 and how valuable it is) and I already discussed up above how I view them. How even if nothing's there, there's still something there and that something is a lot. It seems confusing as hell but it's the best explanation I can give you.

In short: Yes, there is fondness there post-Chapter 271 due to just how much these two had impacted each other and how the ending played out and I bet there's a lot of suppressed love which couldn't get out due to Sukuna being lowkey put off by emotional conversations and quite stubborn in his view of life and being "misunderstood". Yuuji is way more open emotionally and hence why he's all "sunshine and rainbows about it" while Sukuna is still being subdued about it... but not totally because even he admitted that he lost to Yuuji and that his "farce" got him good in the end (so much so that he'd love to meet him again if there is life again).

In true tragic romance cliche fashion, our fated lovers enemies do not make it but alas, it isn't that dark and the send off is extremely pretty imo. Sure, like I said, it's confusing if you don't know the details nor dwell on it but yeah. They are... just being them. I love them lol.

[skwangmbyul]

rusted [pжавый] - captain america: tws (2014) pt 3 - bucky barnes x tony stark's daughter

summary: nick fury was a lot but he believed hennessy stark

<<< Previous Chapter rusted masterlist

Hennessy Stark knew Steve would barge into Fury's office. She'd seen the storm brewing in his eyes on the ship, the righteous anger that would inevitably clash with Fury's layers of secrets.

Their text exchange later that day confirmed her suspicions but also offered a familiar comfort.

 Still mad.

Seconds later the explanation came:

At Fury. Not at you.

The message, followed by a teasing

Paid Sam a visit. I’ll invite you next time.

brought a faint smile to her lips. Their unspoken truce was solid, at least for now.

She was aware of Steve's visits to Peggy Carter's nursing home. He'd mentioned them a few times, but never seeking deeper conversation. Hennessy respected that.

So, she kept herself occupied. Clint was off-grid with Laura and the kids. Natasha was… wherever Natasha disappeared to on her days off.

Hennessy Stark often found herself with no one to simply bother.

Her college friends were scattered across New York and Miami, thriving in comfortable, well-paid jobs, coming home every night without a single bruise or the lingering scent of smoke. That, she sometimes thought with a dry chuckle, was not a bonus of her job.

That specific night, the mundane quiet was shattered by the ring of her phone. It was Steve. His voice, usually so composed, was strained. "Fury’s been shot." That was all he said before texting her the address of the hospital.

Hennessy’s mind snapped into a tactical focus honed by years of training. Snatching her car keys, she was out the door and in her car in less than a minute. Fury might be a pain in the ass, but he was family in this strange, unpredictable life they all shared.

_____________________________________________________

Hennessy pushed the hospital room door open in a rush, her eyes immediately finding Steve Rogers. He stood, tense and unmoving, behind the observation glass, his gaze fixed on the frantic scene inside. Maria Hill was there too, visible in her peripheral vision, but Hennessy's focus narrowed on Steve. She saw the deep lines of worry etched into his face, and her own eyes welled up, tears spilling over as she hurried to his side.

Steve turned his head, his brows furrowing in concern, seeing her tear-streaked face. He knew her well enough to understand the intensity with which she felt everything.

— Is he gonna make it? she asked, her voice tight, directed at no one in particular. Steve sighed, a heavy sound. He knew the answer he had wouldn't offer her any comfort.

— I don't know —he replied, his gaze returning to the chaos behind the glass.

She nodded once, a stiff, almost imperceptible movement. Despite the tears still tracing paths down her cheeks, her expression hardened with determination.

— Tell me about the shooter.

— He's fast and strong. Had a metal arm. — Steve's voice a stark recall of the impossible fight.

Just then, Maria Hill stepped forward, her own face grim, joining them fully at the glass.

— Ballistics? — Hennessy asked Hill.

— Three slugs, no rifling. Completely untraceable — the older woman stated, her tone flat and professional.

Hennessy felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach. She immediately thought of Natasha's lessons, the detailed briefings about untraceable weaponry, the chilling patterns of old Cold War arsenals.

— Soviet-made — The knowledge clicked into place.

— Yeah. — Hill's simple confirmation hung in the air.

Suddenly, shouts erupted from inside the operating room. All three of them watched in horrified shock as Fury's vital signs plummeted on the monitors.

The doctors and nurses were all screaming at each other, demanding equipment and action.

Hennessy pressed a trembling hand against the cold glass, her breath catching. Her eyes darted from the frantic doctors to the monitors, where Nick Fury's heart rate flatlined.

— Don't do this to me, Nick — Hennessy whispered over and over, her voice barely audible as she watched the frantic medical teamwork around Fury. She took a step closer to Steve, her hand reaching out, fingers brushing his forearm. She didn't consciously grip him, but the proximity, the shared anxiety, was a desperate anchor.

Steve's gaze was fixed on the scene, but he felt Hennessy's trembling grip, her quiet desperation. His free hand instinctively moved, coming to rest on her back, a firm, reassuring pressure. He squeezed gently, offering what comfort he could without words.

When the doctor's voice, now resigned, called out for the time of death, and the precise minute was given, Steve finally turned away from the glass. He lowered his head, his shoulders slumping just a fraction, pulling Hennessy a little closer into his side.

Maria Hill, her face a mask of resolve, exited the room, leaving them in a stunned silence. For Hennessy, it was a silent permission. She finally turned fully into Steve, her arms wrapping around his waist, burying her face against his chest. Her body shook with silent sobs.

Steve Rogers was still learning to navigate Hennessy's open affection, her physical touch, so different from the guarded emotional landscape he was used to. But he felt her raw grief, the tremor in her shoulders, and his arms instinctively came up, holding her tightly. He gently rubbed her back, a silent, steady comfort.

— I'm so sorry, Henny — He murmured into her hair, his voice rough with shared loss.

— He was... he was a lot — The Stark girl just shook her head against his chest — But he believed in me.

— I don't understand, Steve — Hennessy said, her voice hoarse, a whisper of confusion. —  We always walk prepared for these kinds of things. The vests, the strategy... I don't... — Her words trailed off, a silent question hanging in the air.

— We're not invincible, Henny. None of us is.

Hennessy pulled away slightly, her eyes locking onto his face, an analytical expression replacing her grief. 'Except for you, right?' The thought unsaid, a sharp contrast to his words. But before she could voice it, Maria Hill's voice cut through the heavy air.

— Captain. Stark. We need to go to another room. — Hill's tone gave no room for argument or further contemplation.

______________________________________________________

Hennessy stood motionless by the gurney, her gaze locked on Fury's still form. Tears streamed freely down her face, a clear sign of the raw grief that twisted in her gut.

—I need to take him — Maria Hill said to Steve, both of them watching the girl from a distance, her voice quiet, a clear command cutting through the heavy silence.

Steve moved then, a figure of strenght. He approached Hennessy with deliberate softness, his touch a stark contrast to the rough grab on the ship earlier that week.

 — Henny — he murmured, his voice gentle, his hand coming to rest lightly on her arm. He felt the tremors shaking her body, her vulnerability laid bare. He knew she wasn't afraid to show her feelings; that was just Henny. But beneath the sorrow, he sensed a building storm of confusion and anger.

She didn't respond to his touch, her eyes fixed on Fury. Slowly, with a tenderness that was inherently hers, she reached out, her fingers brushing against the cold skin of Fury's head. It was a final, silent goodbye. Then, abruptly, she turned, her gaze distant, and walked towards the door.

— Hennessy! — Steve called, his voice laced with concern, following her. He could feel her pulling away, not just from the scene, but from him.

She stopped just outside the room, her back to him, her voice a fierce whisper.

— Why was Fury in your apartment?

Steve's breath caught. He had expected the question, the logical mind of Hennessy wouldn't let it go, but he was still unsure how much truth he could reveal.

— I don't know.

—Cap, they want you back at SHIELD. — Before Hennessy could press him further, a new voice cut through the tense air. It was Rumlow, his stiff posture, his eyes flicking between them with a cold assessment. Hennessy felt an immediate spike of tension, a familiar chill running down her spine.

—Yeah, give me a second — Steve replied, his gaze still fixed on Hennessy, trying to convey reassurance amidst the intrusion, eager to dismiss Rumlow.

—They want you now. — Rumlow's voice held an edge of impatience, an unmistakable command.

— Okay. — Steve's jaw tightened. He turned back to Hennessy, his heart aching with the unspoken chasm opening between them.

— Will you tell STRIKE if they ask, huh?  — Hennessy met his eyes, her own glistening but sharp, a direct challenge.

Steve blinked, taken aback by the pointed nature of the question, but then his expression hardened.

—Are you asking who my loyalty lies with?

—I'm asking why you don’t seem to trust my judgement as much as you trusted theirs — she countered, her voice rising with a raw, frustrated pain. She gestured vaguely towards the direction Rumlow had come from.

—Henny, you know I’ll always tell you if that makes you safe. — Steve insisted, stepping closer, reaching for her hand.

—You're a terrible liar.— Her words were a chilling finality. She yanked her hand away, the space between them widening. Without another glance, she turned and walked off, leaving Steve standing alone.

Captain America: TWS (2014) - pt 4 coming soon

[paradox-valleyy]

Lost and Found

Pre-canon rdr 2 x Teen!fem!oc

Prologue | Chapter 1

Word count: 2,8k

Note: I don’t know if anyone will actually like this, but I tried to do something new.

Summer, 1895, Western America

The midday sun scorched the earth beneath its relentless heat, a blinding gold disk high in the pale blue sky. Even the wind had given up, leaving the streets of the small western town dry and desolate. A fine layer of dust clung to everything, swirling briefly in the occasional stir of movement but settling back quickly. Horses shuffled lazily in front of saloons and shops, flicking their tails to ward off flies. A dog lay panting in the shade of a porch, barely lifting its head as a boy walked by.

Joel was twelve—maybe. He didn’t know exactly, well that’s what he told everyone around her. Since actually, Joel was Jolene, a 15-year-old girl, who hid her identity to make surviving easier. She trudged down the town’s narrow main street, her head low but her eyes alert, scanning for anything or anyone that might pose a threat. Or an opportunity. Her light brown eyes, sharp despite their weariness, flicked from person to person, catching glimpses of tired faces under wide-brimmed hats, leather boots caked in dust, and the occasional glint of coins as men passed money over to shopkeepers or into saloon bartenders’ hands.

The girl’s stomach growled audibly. She hadn’t eaten in two days—three, maybe—and hunger gnawed at her like a desperate animal. Her body was all wiry limbs and bones, stretched too thin by starvation. Her skin, tan from the harsh sun, was smeared with dirt, and her short-cropped light blonde hair stuck to her forehead in sweat-soaked clumps. She wore a pair of trousers several sizes too big, cinched at the waist with a fraying length of twine, and a torn shirt that hung loosely off her small frame. Her torn boots dragged along, accustomed to the rough ground.

The scar across her face was old, though it still itched sometimes, stretching from the center of her forehead down through her right brow, ending just above her eyelid. People often asked about it, wondering how she’d gotten it, but Jolene never offered explanations. Out here, survival spoke louder than words.

Her path brought her to the general store, a worn building with weather-beaten signs and dusty windows. The storekeeper was an old man with a calm demeanor, but Jolene had learned long ago how to be invisible in places like this. She could slip in, slip out, and no one would be any wiser.

The girl pushed the door open, a bell above it jingling softly as she stepped inside. The cool, stale air of the store washed over her, a brief respite from the oppressive heat outside. Shelves lined the walls, stocked with everything from canned goods to tools, clothing to medicine. Jolene’s eyes went immediately to the counter, where the shopkeeper, Johnson, sat hunched over a ledger, muttering under his breath as he tallied numbers.

Jolene approached slowly, her hand already fishing in her pocket for the few coins she had. She barely had enough to buy anything, but that didn’t matter. She was after something else entirely. She picked up a small pack of gum from the counter and tossed her coins next to it.

“How much?” she asked, her voice hoarse from the dry air.

The shopkeeper glanced up, squinting at Jolene. “Two cents,” he grunted.

Jolene pushed the coins forward, making a show of counting them out, as her other hand slipped toward the shelf beside the counter where salted meats hung. Her fingers brushed against one of the packets, and with a quick, practiced motion, she swiped it, tucking it into the loose folds of her shirt.

She picked up her gum and pocketed it. “Thanks,” she mumbled, backing away toward the door. The shopkeeper barely looked at her, already turning back to his ledger as he muttered “Take care.” Jolenej pushed the door open and stepped back into the sun, her heart pounding with adrenaline.

Outside, she slipped into the narrow alley beside the store, crouching behind a stack of crates. She pulled the packet of salted meat from her shirt, tore it open with trembling hands, and bit into it. The salt stung her dry mouth, but the taste was heavenly. She chewed slowly, savoring each bite, her stomach finally calming as it felt the first touch of food in days. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then tucked the rest of the meat into her pocket for later.

Once she was done eating, Jolene wandered back onto the main street, moving carefully now, her sharp eyes darting around as she spotted potential marks. There was always someone drunk in this town no matter the time, or just plain stupid—people who didn’t keep a close eye on their wallets or purses.

She spotted a man leaning heavily against a post outside the saloon, a half-empty bottle of whiskey dangling from one hand. His jacket was unbuttoned, and Jolene could see the bulge of a coin pouch hanging loosely from his belt. The man swayed slightly, his head lolling forward, and Jolene’s pulse quickened. This was an easy mark.

As she moved closer, keeping to the shadows, Jolene reached out, her hand just inches from the pouch, when a voice called out behind her.

“Joel!”

She froze, her heart jumping into her throat. For a split second, she thought she’d been caught, but when she turned, she saw a familiar figure standing on the porch of the doctor’s office across the street. Dr. Avery, the town’s doctor, was waving at her, his face a mix of curiosity and kindness.

Jolene hesitated, glancing back at the man with the coin pouch, but she knew better than to risk it now. She took a step back and quickly crossed the street to where Dr. Avery stood.

“Afternoon, Doc,” Jolene said, trying to sound casual despite the nerves buzzing in her chest.

Dr. Avery smiled, wiping his hands on his apron. He was a tall, lean man with sharp features, his dark hair streaked with gray at the temples. He had a habit of looking at people like he could see right through them, and Jolene always felt a little uneasy under his gaze. But the doctor had never treated her with anything but kindness, and in a town like this, that counted for something.

“You look like you could use a little work,” the doctor said, his eyes glancing over Jolene’s dirty, torn clothes. “Got a job for you, if you’re interested.”

Jolene’s eyes lit up. “What kind of job?”

“I need some herbs. They grow out by the river, near the edge of the woods. Won’t take you too long to collect ’em, and I’ll pay you for your trouble.”

Jolene nodded eagerly. Work was hard to come by, especially for someone like her, and she couldn’t pass up the chance to earn some real money. “What do you need?”

Dr. Avery pulled a small cloth bag from his pocket and handed it to Jolene. “Burdock Root, mostly. You’ll know it when you see it—grows near the water. Bring back as much as you can, and I’ll pay you fair. Just don’t take too long. Sun’s only getting hotter.”

Jolene took the bag, nodding. “I’ll be quick, Doc.”

The doctor gave her a nod. “Good lad. I’ll be waiting.”

Without another word, Jolene turned and headed for the outskirts of town, the dust kicking up beneath her boots as she hurried toward the river. She’d been to the riverbank plenty of times—it was a quiet spot, a small, winding stretch of water that cut through the valley just beyond the town. The woods nearby were dense, thick with towering pines and scrub brush, but the river itself was a peaceful place, far enough from town that no one bothered you.

As Jolene made her way through the dry brush, the sun beat down on her, making her sweat through her shirt. She wiped her brow with her sleeve, squinting against the brightness. The ground sloped downward, and soon the sound of trickling water reached her ears. The river came into view, its clear, cool waters a stark contrast to the dry, dusty land around it. Jolene smiled despite herself, the sight of the water offering a brief sense of relief.

She crouched down by the water’s edge, dipping her hands into the cool current and splashing her face and neck. The water felt like heaven against her skin, washing away the dust and grime. She took off her boots, lifted her pants to her thighs, and stood in the river, the water reaching up to her knees, and for a moment, she allowed herself to relax. She looked around for the herbs Dr. Avery had asked for and soon spotted clusters of it growing near the water, their bright green leaves standing out against the rocky shore.

Jolene got to work quickly, crouching down to pull out handfuls of the roots, stuffing them carefully into the cloth bag. The sun was rising higher, and she could feel the heat pressing down on her, but she kept at it, her mind focused on the promise of payment.

As she worked, something caught her eye in the distance—a small caravan moving into the trees on the other side of the river. Jolene paused, crouching lower in the water as she watched the caravan wind its way through the woods. They were far enough away that they hadn’t noticed her, just a small, ragged figure kneeling by the riverbank. The caravan seemed like an odd sight—there wasn’t much reason to be heading into those woods unless you were looking for trouble or trying to hide from it.

Jolene watched them for a few moments longer, curiosity tugging at her, but eventually, she shrugged and turned back to her task. Whatever business those people had, it wasn’t her concern. She had her own survival to worry about.

The afternoon wore on, and the sun climbed higher, its heat becoming more oppressive as Jolene worked, her fingers swift and steady as she filled the small bag with roots. Her shirt clung to her back, damp with sweat, and she could feel the sunburn setting into her neck and arms. But it didn’t matter—she was nearly done, and the thought of the coins jingling in her pocket by the end of the day kept her going.

Finally, when the bag was full, Jolene stood up, brushing her dirty hands on her trousers. She looked back across the river where the caravan had vanished into the woods, a lingering curiosity tugging at her. What kind of people went off the main trails and into the thick, untraveled forest? Bandits, maybe—or strangers passing through, just looking for a quiet place to camp. Either way, it wasn’t her problem. Not yet, at least.

Jolene began the trek back to town, moving at a brisk pace despite the heat. The walk was mostly uphill, and by the time she reached the outskirts, her legs ached, and sweat dripped down her face. The sight of the town made her feel a strange sense of relief and weariness all at once. She didn’t belong here, exactly, but it was the closest thing she had to a home right now.

She headed straight for Dr. Avery’s office, trying not to look too eager as she pushed open the door. The doctor was inside, bent over his desk, scribbling in a notebook. He glanced up when Jolene entered, his sharp eyes taking in her dusty clothes and sweaty face.

“You’re quick,” Dr. Avery remarked, setting down his pen. He held out a hand for the bag, and Jolene handed it over, watching as the doctor inspected the contents with a practiced eye. “Good work,” he murmured, nodding in approval.

The doctor turned to a small wooden drawer and pulled out a canteen, pressing it into Jolene’s hands. “Here, take a drink. You look like you’ve been to the desert and back.”

Jolene took the canteen gratefully, tipping it back and gulping down the cool water. It tasted faintly of metal, but to her, it was the best drink she’d ever had. When she was finished, she handed the canteen back, wiping her mouth on her sleeve.

Dr. Avery reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wad of cash. He counted out five dollars and placed it in Jolene’s outstretched hand. Her eyes widened at the sight of the money. Five dollars was more than she’d expected; it was enough for several meals, maybe even a new shirt if she bargained hard enough.

“Thank you, Doc,” she said, the gratitude clear in her voice.

The doctor smiled faintly, his gaze softening. “You earned it, Joel. Hard work deserves fair pay.”

Jolene nodded, tucking the money carefully into her pocket. She didn’t linger, giving Dr. Avery a short nod before heading out the door. As she stepped back into the blinding afternoon sunlight, she felt the cool weight of the money against her thigh, a comforting reminder that, for now, she’d have a little bit of security.

Jolene settled into an alley. The money she’d just pocketed was a comfort, and the shadow of the alley hid her from the biting sun. She nibbled on the last bite of her salted meat, savoring every grain of salt, every scrap of toughness.

As she leaned back, the sound of footsteps reached her ears. She didn’t startle—she’d learned long ago how to stay calm, even when it felt like someone was creeping up on her. Glancing down the alley, she saw a familiar figure lumbering toward her.

Mr. Doyle, the town’s gunsmith, was a tall, heavyset man with a face weathered by the sun and dusted with soot. He looked about ready to burst, his whole posture screaming the need for relief. He barely even registered Jolene as he staggered to the far corner of the alley and, with a muttered curse about the “damn hot day,” got to the business of taking a piss.

Jolene smirked a little and kept her gaze pointedly elsewhere, deciding the best thing she could do was make herself as invisible as possible. Once done, Doyle exhaled a loud sigh of satisfaction, tucking himself back in place and pulling out a cigarette from his breast pocket. He struck a match, bringing it to his lips, and took a long drag before finally noticing Jolene in the shadows.

“Ah, Joel. Sneakin’ around as usual, I see,” Doyle said with a half-smile, leaning against the wall. His voice was gruff, but there was a friendly note under the rough edges.

Jolene grinned back, chewing the last bit of meat. “Not sneakin’, just resting.”

Doyle nodded, taking another pull on his cigarette and letting the smoke drift upward. He eyed the scrap of meat in Jolene’s hand with a quirked brow. “You didn’t happen to lift that from old Johnson’s store, did ya?”

Jolene shook her head, pulling out on of the bills from her pocket. “I bought it fair, with the money Doc Avery gave me. He had me collect some herbs by the river.”

Doyle let out a chuckle, his laugh rough and deep. “Well, well. Look at you, an honest working man. Keep that up, and maybe you’ll even make something of yourself one day.” He took another drag, eyeing Jolene with a blend of amusement and something that might have been respect.

Jolene gave a small shrug, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Guess I’ll have to keep the work comin’ to make that happen.”

The gunsmith chuckled again, flicking the ash from his cigarette. “You’re all right, kid. Stay out of trouble, yeah? Doc Avery’s got a soft spot for ya, and who knows? You stick around, keep workin’—maybe life won’t be so rough on you after all.”

With that, Doyle gave a casual wave and walked off, his boots crunching softly on the dusty ground as he disappeared back onto the street.

Jolene leaned back against the wall, still feeling the cool weight of the coins and bills in her pocket. She didn’t trust people too easily, but Doyle’s words settled in the back of her mind like a small, stubborn spark of hope. For the moment, life was simple. She had enough money to get by for the next few days, maybe even buy herself a small meal or two.

As long as she stayed smart, stayed quiet, and kept her head down, she could survive. And for a girl like her, survival was enough.

Jolene glanced up at the sky, watching as the colors shifted, orange and pink slowly blending into the deep purple of night. Her life was a patchwork of dusty streets and stolen shadows, but at least it was hers. And for now, that was just fine

[pparamnesiaa]

Your art style is sooo pretty i recently saw your dst oc art and is super curious how you do the little animation and how you emulate the dst art style so well if you don't mind answering :D!!!

Tutorial for Animation/Art

Hi thanks for asking!! Here I will provide you a small tutorial for both, although it WILL be messy because I can't do tutorials to save my life and I tried to keep it as brief as possible! Although if it remains unclear or other users still have questions (about either the whole thing or certain aspects) I won't mind making full videos where I tackle everything step by step. :P

I will begin with how I make the gifs and then I will repost with a small guide to the artstyle because this is my FIFTH attempt at posting the entire thing and tumblr says no... ALSO ORIGINALLY THE VIDEO WAS SPLIT IN GIFS FOR EACH STEP BUT TUMBLR DOESN’T WANT THAT EITHER, I FEEL ANGER

(LONG THREAD BELOW, PROCEED WITH CAUTION /j)

Animation

Oh boy here we go again

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1. As an example, here I have the animation I did for Sky's introduction. So basically what I do is draw whatever I desire to animate in different layers, in this case I drew the arms holding the headphones on a different layer above the body, fairly simple. I use IbisPaint X by the way!

2. Then I save the parts separately and move onto the animation bit, I previously used CapCut for animation too but now I use Alight Motion and I crop out the watermark.

!! On the first example I used a green screen so I can add the animation onto the background, but this may not work if your animation itself contains green or a similar color, so be mindful of the palette used on your art. !!

3. Once the animation is exported, I place it on the background along with added assets, effects, etc. To remove the background from the animation, you'll have to use the chroma key feature.

4. AND LASTLY, I use my precious website EzGif to turn it into a gif, and don't worry if the gif is too large in size, for this website has an optimisation feature that allows you to fix that issue (and if it doesn't work I just go on other optimisation websites lol).

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Here’s the video, just a showcase of each step! No explanation in them.

[cctinsleybaxter]

not sure if uve talked about this before but what are your thoughts on the catch 22 1970 film 🧐 the way alan arkin plays yossarian excuses the messier plot to me

The movie's grown on me over time; it gets a lot 'wrong,' but the book is a real beast to adapt so I mostly just admire that they went for it, and my own favorite performances are so random! Richard Benjamin as Danby, Orson Welles as Dreedle (+ Austen Pendleton playing off him as Moodus), and Olimpia Carlisi as Luciana. My favorite scenes are:

"Then why are they shooting at me MI-Lo?"

Daneeka's explanation of catch-22

Milo marking up everything on the beach

Yossarian and Luciana dancing and spending the night together (director Mike Nichols is really, really good at that kind of layered intimacy; sweetness with an underlying nastiness, and vice versa)

All of 'The Eternal City' in adaptation (Milo's delivery of "then they'll understand" re: Nately's parents still makes me shudder)

Scenes that are played for straight comedy are honestly more of a miss imo, but the briefing with Dreedle's nurse knocks it right out of the park

Back to your point- Arkin's definitely doing what I think was called for with the more 'out there' behaviors, but on second watch I actually really liked his take on a quieter Yossarian. It's hard to tell what he's thinking, which is at odds with the book's whole ethos but not out of character

[tilecleaningtoday]

What is Parquet Flooring?

Parquet flooring became a huge trend in the 1970’s. Decades later, it still remains one of the most popular types of flooring on the market.

With its striking, luxurious looks, parquet is a popular choice for businesses and homeowners alike. So, what is it and why should you consider adding it to your home? Find out everything you need to know about parquet flooring below.

A Brief Explanation of Parquet Floors

Parquet flooring is defined by its short planks and distinctive patterns. Traditionally, it was created from solid wood, making it an expensive option for homeowners. These days, however, parquet designs are featured in several types of flooring. Not only does this give you a lot more choice when choosing a parquet floor, but it also makes it affordable to a wide range of budgets.

The Different Types of Parquet Styles

You can choose from a huge range of parquet flooring. Not only are there different designs on offer, but there are also different flooring types to choose from too. Let’s start by looking at the different flooring types you can choose from.

Parquet Style LVT Flooring

LVT parquet flooring is the most affordable option. Featuring the practical benefits of vinyl and striking parquet looks, these floors are commonly used in family households. Many variations offer a waterproof design too, enabling you to enjoy a parquet effect in high-moisture environments like the bathroom.

Parquet Style SPC Flooring

If you fancy a step up from LVT, SPC flooring could be a great option. These types of floors are closely similar and have many of the same features. You can read more about SPC vs LVT here.. Short for Stone Plastic Composite, these floors have a unique rigid core. This gives them the same benefits as LVT flooring, alongside added strength comparable to engineered flooring.

Parquet Style Laminate Flooring

If you are looking for an affordable alternative to solid and engineered wood floors, laminate parquet is a fantastic choice. These multi-layer floors come with a photographic layer to reproduce a solid wood effect. Manufacturing processes have improved dramatically over the years, with today’s laminates featuring a highly realistic finish.

Renowned for its durability and practicality, you will find a great variety of laminate parquet floors available. The Lifestyle Floors range has breathtaking designs available, such as the Camden Premium Herringbone Grey. You will also find great quality options from Quick-Step, such as this Impressive Patterns Chevron Oak design.

Parquet Style Engineered Wood

Engineered wood parquet floors are a great choice for those seeking a “true parquet” effect. These multi-layer floors are durable, and much more resistant against moisture and temperature changes than solid wood. The top layer is constructed from real wood, ensuring you still get the same beautiful look as hardwood floor.

You can choose from an outstanding range of engineered wood parquet floors at Stories Flooring. Our own range offers a great choice of parquet effects, including smoked, brushed, and natural oiled designs.

Parquet Style Solid Wood Flooring

Traditionally, parquet flooring was made from solid wood. If you want to stick to the original parquet design, installing a solid wood variation in the home is your best option. Solid wood floors can last for decades when cared for properly. They also provide stunning aesthetics that leave behind a luxurious effect.

Most solid wood parquet floors are created using oak. However, you can find them made from other, more exotic woods if preferred. Browse the full range of solid wood parquet floors here.

The above are the different types of parquet flooring you can invest in. Consider where you are installing the floor, and the conditions it will be exposed to, when choosing the right type for your home.

Different Parquet Designs

As well as choosing what type of parquet flooring you want to invest in, you also need to decide the type of design you prefer. There are different styles of parquet flooring available. The two main types you’ll choose from include:

Herringbone Style Explained

Herringbone patterns are one of the most popular parquet designs available. They get their name from the herring fishbone effect they create. The planks of the floor are staggered in a zig-zag pattern, and they aren’t cut at a right angle. Instead, they feature a rectangular shape. They produce a sophisticated and uniform finish.

Chevron Style Explained

Chevron style parquet is becoming a popular option for homeowners. Unlike the Herringbone effect floors, this style of parquet features boards that have a sharp point. This produces a distinctive V-shape when the floor is fitted. They are also cut at an angle, and like Herringbone effects, are available in a wide range of finishes.

These are just the main two parquet effects that you can choose from. Other options include basket-weave and mixing and matching different patterns for a bespoke finish.

Versailles Style Explained

Named after the Palace de Versailles, this style of parquet creates an intricate and luxurious look. They consist of square patterns, filled with interwoven strips of wood. You’ll find a vast range of designs to choose from, each of which producing a luxurious finish.

Source: StoriesFlooring.co.uk

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

I’m rereading How I Live Now because I just finished the book of the same name (fantastic titling, the depth of the allusion was lovely) and that brief exchange about time travel in chapter four took me out. This time Tom gets to cryptically reference absurd happenings and never explain it. Of course he just went home and didn’t mention that that happened, of course the Animorphs don’t know about it

1) How I Live Now is on my list of sci-fi books that are just... life-changingly, life-ruiningly good. I'm a huge sucker for the ant's-eye view of the apocalypse, when there are heroes off fighting the eldritch abominations but that has nothing to do with our protagonists who are just trying to survive. That story is epic and intimate at the same time, which is not easy to do. So if I induced anyone to read it by accidentally advertising it in a fic, then that's wonderful news.

2) The moment in How I Live Now the fic where Tom passingly alludes to having time traveled and offers no actual explanation was part of my broad headcanon about him, that he never bothers to make waves or draw attention when he doesn't need to. He didn't go rushing home after the events of Escape from L.A. and tell Jake all about it; he called the Matter Over Mind office's security team, added a layer of screening to their mail without bothering to explain why, and then stopped to get a pizza on his way home to take a nap. If it'd ever come up he'd have mentioned it, but otherwise, why bother?

Broadly, I headcanon Tom as coming off like the single blandest, most boring person in existence. He doesn't draw attention to himself, he rarely smiles, he rarely raises his voice, he has a bad habit of trailing off mid-sentence and never picking back up... You can be in the same room as him for half an hour before you even notice he's there, and then your first thought will be "is that guy still breathing?" People who don't know him that well mistake him for being dumb as a rock and emotionless to boot. People like Jake and Bonnie who are fluent in his quirks know that he's often sarcastic without sounding sarcastic, and can be highly competent at everything from jump shots to logistics planning. But Marco can be forgiven for dismissing Tom, or else overlooking him entirely.

[aimer-arts]

What’s your drawing process like? everything’s so cute, id love to see how you put everything tgt

AH thank you <3 My drawing process really isn't anything special, but I can try to give a brief explanation on it!

Basically, my process can be summed up in a few steps, the first step being a sketch. This step is VERY messy and not supposed to be perfect!! It’s basically just laying out the groundwork for what I want the drawing to look like.

And after I have a basic sketch that I’m satisfied with, I clean up the sketch and make it neater! I make the lines look sharper and erase any unneeded sketch lines while also adding some extra details (lineart is very tedious and stressful so I skip it lol). I often use a soft textured brush for this step!

Next I add flat colors to each character (there’s not much else to say about this step- but sometimes I add a texture to the flat colors to make it look softer)

And then I usually add some sort of shading (I use the regular ‘Brush’ tool on Sai with a Multiply layer and often play around with the colors until I like the way it looks. Sometimes I smooth out parts of the shading with the ‘Airbrush’ tool to make it look even softer)! I often add some subtle highlights to the characters in this step as well by using a ‘Shine’ layer

...And last is the final touches (I add the background, tweak any mistakes, etc.) I usually add overlay layers on top to make the colors pop more and turn up the saturation to make it look brighter! Sai also has some really nice filters to make it look extra soft :D

So yeah, that’s basically the gist of it!! Sometimes I do steps a bit differently but this is almost always how it goes (I use Sai for basically all of my art because I like the textures and filters it has and plus I’m too used to it to switch to anything else at this point)

(and here’s an example of slightly softer shading! Not the best example, but hopefully it still makes sense) ^^

[galdrameistari]

@hollustu

Ever since his 'humiliating defeat' in New York, Loki had been wrestling with what to do once he came home to his family, and was faced with the expectance of a FULL EXPLANATION as to why he had attacked Midgard in the first place. Let alone why he had caused so much needless suffering and destruction, only to seemingly GIVE UP IMMEDIATELY after being thrashed about and beaten like a rug by a MASSIVE GREEN CREATURE.

Even considering his past deeds, even the most RECENT of Loki's acts before falling from the Bifrost and into the ENDLESS VOID OF SPACE...his display in New York didn't add up.

And that was due to the simple truth that INVADING NEW YORK HADN'T BEEN A SCHEME OF HIS OWN.

Sigyn's questions and her demand for answers to those questions weren't unwarranted, but the answers that his wife sought...they existed in so many layers, and when it was all pulled away, it was going to reveal the LIVING NIGHTMARE that the trickster had been seeking to thwart, for not just his own sake, but the sake of everyone and everything that he held dear.

Whether the questions were warranted wasn't in question though. Loki DID feel a pang in his chest when his wife suggested that he might send their own children away, as though he had done so to Torunn without a second thought. It wasn't as though he wasn't more than fully aware of what he had done, what the repercussions were for it and the potential danger that it presented to his niece. His motivation rested with the fact that there was an even WORSE danger, that was just on the horizon.

On some level, despite her RIGHTEOUS ANGER, she HAD to know that wasn't the case...RIGHT?

"The ONLY reason I have not spirited both you and the children somewhere that I know would be safe, is my own SELFISHNESS, Sigyn." It wasn't often that Loki dropped the use of a pet name altogether with his wife, but he didn't raise his voice at her. His tone had become more firm, though, as his chest rose and fell a little quicker under the emotional turmoil. Mostly though, his voice was tinted with HURT.

"The Allfather was going to bring Asgard to ruin in all of his INFINITE WISDOM. Sending him to Midgard was a service." He knew that he didn't need to explain that to her, but there was a point to all that he spoke, and he moved further down the list of those that he had sent off-world. "Sif...all but LOATHES ME, sending her elsewhere with a necessary mission to get the Aether as far away from here as possible, didn't hurt me too much, I will give you that." The brief levity in his voice lasted no more than a moment as he moved to the crux of his explanation.

"Sending Torunn to Midgard...was an attempt to keep her SAFE. I love her, as do you and the entire realm alike, but her FATHER is the sworn protector of Midgard. To keep Torunn safe, I have more faith in my brother and even his petulant Avengers...than I do myself."

By that point, his voice had lost all vigor that it previously had, and he felt a near-palpable weight on both his heart and his shoulders.

"I tried desperately to convince myself of the same logic for sending you and the children there as well...but the thought of being well and truly alone here, without my family or a single friend, waiting for..." His throat felt tight and he closed his eyes briefly with a small shake of his head.

"I couldn't. Even now, I still can't." He reached out then and took her hand. "Darling...there is a threat, not only to Asgard, or the Nine Realms, but to the whole of creation." He swallowed back his emotions. "And it's because of me."

˚‧⁺ ･˖·✦  ──  𝐒𝐇𝐄  𝐖𝐀𝐒  𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐑𝐘  ,  𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇  𝐖𝐀𝐒  𝐅𝐎𝐑  𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍.   But  more  than  that  ,  she  had  been  𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒚  in  his  absence.   He  could  say  all  he  wanted  that  he  had  been  𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕  𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆  ,         but  they  both  knew  that  just  wasn't  the  case.   In  Asgard  ,  yes.   But  as  far  as  she  was  concerned  ,  he  may  as  well  have  been  in  the  halls  of  Valhalla.   It  wasn't  until  Torunn  had  bee  sent  away  that  she  started  thinking  about  𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓  𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒃𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒔.

He  was  off  to  a  good  start  though  ,  giving  her  the  𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒕  𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒓.   Good  ,  if  he  had  the  never  to  𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏  𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒕  to  reason  with  how  her  loneliness  had  done  anything  to  aid  him  in  his  plans.   And  so  ,  she  kept  stepping  forward  ,  little  feet  carrying  her  ever  closer  to  him.

It  was  a  good  choice  as  well  ,  on  his  part  ,         that  he  had  opted  to  remain  seated.   Sigyn  was  by  far  smaller  than  most  of  the  Asgardians  ,  but  that  had  never  made  her  any  less  of  a  force  when  she  was  𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒗𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒅  𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉.   She'd  still  never  harm  another  soul  ,  not  unless  the  situation  truly  called  for  it.

She  scoffed  a  little.  She  hadn't  known  Loki  to  take  𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕  𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈  to  come  up  with  a  plan  ,  but  she  was  still  willing  to  hear  him  out  on  the  rest  .   When  he  brough  up  Odin  ,  declaring  him  to  be  𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍  𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆  ,         but  merely  serving  a  sentence  only  his  adopted  son  could  have  conjured  up  for  him.   Eyes  rolled  again  in  annoyance.   She  had  never  𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚  𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆𝒅  the  Allfather.   Loki  knew  that  more  than  anyone.   She  merely  acted  with  the  decorum  that  had  always  been  expected  of  her.   𝑫𝒆𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆  ,  that  had  always  been  the  way  Odin  had  described  her.   Hardly  anything  endearing  ,  sentimental.   She  could  see  why  Loki  had  sent  Odin  there  ,  but  she  was  still  feeling  as  though  Loki  was  𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈  𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈  from  her  ,  at  least  for  the  time  being.    

Bringing  up  Sif  next  was  like  he  was  keeping  her  𝒐𝒏  𝒉𝒆𝒓  𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒕.   But  it  did  give  her  some  clues  ,         as  to  the  uncharacteristic  move  of  sending  her  away.   At  face  value  ,  it  looked  like  he  was  trying  to  cover  up  what  he  had  done  ,  by  𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈  𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚  one  of  the  few  people  in  Asgard  who  might  have  been  able  to  expose  him.   The  only  problem  with  that  theory  ,         was  that  she  happened  to  know  that  Loki  had  loved  his  dear  niece.   They  both  did.   She  was  their  family  ,  she  was  kind  ,  good  friends  with  their  children.   Everything  that  Odin  had  𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒅  𝒕𝒐  𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉  within  his  own  sons.   No  ,  sending  Torunn  away  wasn't  for  the  sake  of  hiding  ,  otherwise  he  would  have  𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕  𝒉𝒆𝒓  𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚  as  well.   And  here  she  was.   

Next  he  was  standing  to  his  feet  ,  though  she  made  𝒏𝒐  𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒆  to  stop  him  ,         there  was  a  warning  in  her  eyes  not  to  try  anything.   The  sheer  fact  that  she  had  been  kept  in  the  dark  this  whole  time  creating  a  storm  of  betrayal  in  her  ,  that  she  tried  her  best  to  𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒆.   

She  looked  around  her  ,         though  she  knew  there  would  be  no  guards  to  come  running  ,  as  he  had  sent  them  all  away.   There  was  nobody  to  𝒘𝒂𝒊𝒕  𝒕𝒐  𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆.  Just  them.   Crossing  her  arms  ,  she  paused  for  a  moment  ,  before  nodding  for  him  to  go  on.   ❝  Go  on  then  ,  I'm  keen  to  hear  why  you  would  sent  her  away  from  the  only  thing  she  had  ever  known.  ❞   Torunn  was  a  𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈  𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍.   Despite  her  age  ,         everyone  knew  that  she  was  going  to  go  far.   ❝  She's  a  child  ,  Loki.   Hardly  any  younger  than  Eric  or  Astrid.  ❞   Sending  her  away  felt  like  perhaps  hers  were  next.

❝  What's  next  then?   Hm?   Will  I  have  to  say  goodbye  to  our  children  next  Loki?  ❞

[daily-rayless]

Meme taken from @ringneckedpheasant

As always, while I would recommend most of these authors, I do not support everything each of them has ever written and in some cases object strongly to some of their stuff.

I enjoyed this exercise a lot. First lines, “hooks”, can be so iconic, and it's interesting to look at them in isolation.

Lady of Quality – Georgette Heyer: The elegant traveling carriage which bore Miss Wychwood from her birthplace, on the border of Somerset and Wiltshire, to her home in Bath, proceeded on its way at a decorous pace.

Haven't read this one yet, but this strikes me as a very Georgette Heyer opening line – you know it's going to be a fancy setting about fancy people. That being said, it's also extremely bland. I would take out the information about her birthplace (because why does it matter at the outset?) and replace it with something more energetic. Overall it, feels staid and, well, decorous.

Rating: 5/10

The Complete Fairy Tales of George MacDonald – In this case, the opening line isn't by MacDonald; it's an introduction by Roger Lancelyn Green: Once upon a time there was a poor farmer's son who lived in a little house in the north of Scotland, a house so small that he and his five brothers had to sleep in the living-room, in little box-beds built against the walls with sliding doors to keep out the draught and make it even more box-like.

The details about the beds are good. I can see a child (or an adult) reading that line and being intrigued by the boxiness. Is it a cozy box, tucked away, or a box where things are put and forgotten? The fairy tale style is also charming. My quibble here is that I would've broken it into two sentences somewhere around the north of Scotland.

Rating: 7/10

The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe – CS Lewis: Once there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy.

Tidy, straight to the point, no gimmick. A bit boring, but it moves you along quickly to the more interesting stuff. But still, a bit bland. I've always believed in reading The Chronicles of Narnia in their publication order rather than the chronological order the American editions go with, and this partially demonstrates why. Lion was the first to be published, and its language can feel simpler than the other books.

Anyway, nothing special about this opening line. Lewis is lucky the book's dedication is so much more memorable.

Rating: 2/10

Mockingjay – Suzanne Collins: I stare down at my shoes, watching as a fine layer of ash settles on the worn leather.

Most of the books on this list are fairly old, so this highlights the stylistic change in more modern books. Immediately in the protagonist's head, brief language, an indirect hint at conflict. It's an effective opener, letting the reader know something bad has happened, leading into the explanation rather than trying to pack too much into the first line. Though the line comes after seeing the title for Part One, which is just “The Ashes” – so having the ashes immediately referred to reads as unintentionally funny to me. The ashes. There they are, on my shoes.

Rating: 8/10

The Luck of the Bodkins – PG Wodehouse: Into the face of the young man who sat on the terrace of the Hotel Magnifique at Cannes there had crept a look of furtive shame, the shifty, hangdog look which announces that an Englishman is about to talk French.

As an opening vault goes, the style is roundabout but the landing is pure Wodehouse. It's maybe a little too wordy before it hits the punchline, but I can't actually see where I'd cut anything to try to improve it.

Rating: 9/10

Anne of Green Gables – LM Montgomery: Mrs. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed with alders and ladies' eardrops and traversed by a brook that had its source away back in the woods of the old Cuthbert place; it was reputed to be an intricate, headlong brook in its earlier course through those woods, with dark secrets of pool and cascade; but by the time it reached Lynde's Hollow it was a quiet, well-conducted little stream, for not even a brook could run past Mrs. Rachel Lynde's door without due regard for decency and decorum; it probably was conscious that Mrs. Rachel was sitting at her window, keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, from brooks and children up, and that if she noticed anything odd or out of place she would never rest until she had ferreted out the whys and wherefores thereof.

Merciful Providence, Maud, you are s t r e t c h i n g the definition of an opening line! This line spills out and babbles like a brook – like the book's heroine Anne. There's nothing wrong with that, I just don't understand why she went with semi-colons instead of periods. Was her typewriter broken? As a single opening line, it's ungainly. But the line about the brook behaving itself as it passes the Lynde house is golden.

I think it's interesting to see the famous Green Gables called merely “the old Cuthbert place”. Anne of the Old Cuthbert Place would never have sold fifty million copies worldwide.

Rating: 4/10

Singer in the Shadows – Irving Litvag: I discovered Patience Worth (or, as true believers in the occult would say, she discovered me) by the flimsiest of coincidences.

This is the only nonfiction book on the list, and the subject is fascinating. In the 1910s, a woman named Pearl Curran claimed to be the medium through which a spirit named Patience Worth communicated – and launched a successful writing career. I've read one of Curran's/Worth's novels, Hope Trueblood, and I wasn't very impressed by it. But Litvag's investigation of the supposed phenomenon is very engrossing. To that end, I would have clarified more of the wild premise in the first line – I discovered the ghost Patience Worth – or something like that, because otherwise it's a pretty tame opener.

Rating: 6/10

Spells of Enchantment – ed. Jack Zipes: It has generally been assumed that fairy tales were first created for children and are largely the domain of children.

This is a collection of myths, fairy tales, and folktales, so the opening line comes from its introduction. It is huge, and even though I've owned it for probably twenty years, I still haven't gotten all the way through it. Zipes' opener is fine, but basic. I feel like most people who pick up an 814-page fairy tale anthology already know that fairy tales weren't originally intended for children. But it works for what it is, implying a contradiction, egging the reader on to find out what the truth is.

Rating: 5/10

Shadow Scale – Rachel Hartman: Let us first consider the role of Seraphina Dombegh in the events leading up to Queen Glisselda's reign.

I love it when fantasy authors not only present the immediate story, but add scholarly meta commentaries on their own fantasyworld. This opener lets the reader infer that the heroine, Seraphina, is going to do stuff that's so important and remarkable, she's not just a protagonist, she's a figure in history. This is a good example of using a “spoiler” to actually spur the reader on to learn more; giving them a glimpse of the future doesn't mean that a plot twist is ruined.

Rating: 6/10

Forever Amber – Kathleen Winsor: The small room was warm and moist.

Not much of an opener. Forever Amber, one of many twentieth century historical sagas that tried to follow the success of Gone With the Wind, became a bestseller on the strength of its salacious, amoral heroine Amber. But this opening does nothing, not by itself. Whatever interest is going to be generated will have to come from the following sentences. Gone With the Wind, despite its serious flaws, does a much better job of setting tone and sparking interest in its opening line.

Rating: 2/10

If this interests you, consider yourself tagged!

[todoscript]

SEQUEL TO  “don’t forget it”

SYNOPSIS: One week after accidentally blowing you off on your date, Bakugou Katsuki seeks your forgiveness.

pairing: bakugou katsuki x fem!reader

genre: fluff, very little angst

word count: 5.4k+

warnings: none really accept maybe a character sustaining an injury

author’s note: hellooooo this is a very very very late part 2 of my don’t forget it drabble that many people asked for! i hope this lived up to your expectations and was worth the wait!

Since the events that led you to leave Bakugou’s room in a fit of bitterness after attempting to penetrate that thick head of his, he hadn’t been able to speak to you for a week.

It goes without saying he did his best to chase you down the hallway from his room and toward the elevator the moment he realized his faults. But at the stink eye you shot him through the minimizing slit of the elevator doors sliding into place, he knew he had no right to reconcile with you after pulling a stunt like that. Nor did he think you’d want to spare him any more words to begin with. It was clear you were done arguing with him.

“C’mon man, it’s probably best to let her cool down before you try to make up with her,” was the advice Kirishima offered when Bakugou returned to his room, disgruntled as he heavily fell back into his seat next to the desk. He did the bare minimum to acknowledge his friend’s words with a grunt before resuming tutoring the redhead, his method of teaching suddenly harsher than how it began thanks to his soured mood. He lapsed the day away by pounding Kirishima with problems upon problems against that hard noggin of his, both literally and figuratively.

At the very least, Kirishima earned himself a passing grade on their exam as a result of his hard work and their rigorous tutoring sessions. But what followed Bakugou’s and your relationship was still undetermined.

Days later and you were relentless in giving him the cold shoulder.

Bakugou was met with nothing but empty glances and blatant disinterest whenever he crossed your path. It felt like the wall you slotted between him grew another layer at each encounter, your defenses so impenetrable, it could give Kirishima’s quirk a run for its money. He couldn’t so much as utter a word in your direction without you effectively dodging every possible interaction in favor of joining another conversation nearby.

At first, Bakugou shrugged it off, calling your “childish attitude” unwarranted for something he thought was incredibly trivial. In his eyes, it was just an ordinary date at some run-of-the-mill restaurant he just happened to suggest to you because he took a liking to their spicy food. Not like it was some fancy dinner reservation serving caviar on dry toast beside a pretty, city night skyline. To him, it was nothing special.

However, as the week continued to roll by, it became clear to him how much he hurt you due to his selfishness. In a hangout with the Bakusquad, he learned that you apparently told Mina, along with the rest of the girls, everything during one of your girls’ nights. Which included the events prior to your heated argument in Bakugou’s dorm. And Mina, being just as peeved as you were at how Bakugou stood you up that day, had to let the blond know of the damage he’d done.

.

.

“I swear, Bakugou Katsuki, I know you can be an asshole sometimes—”

“Make that all the time,” Sero quietly adds in the middle of Mina’s rant while he lounges backward on Kaminari’s bed. If it wasn’t for his current dilemma, Bakugou would have elbowed him in the back of the head.

“—but this is crossing the line!” she finishes. Her arms are thrown exaggeratedly over her chest. The amber surrounded by the black scleras of her eyes points a beady look at the ash-blond crisscrossed on the floor between Kirishima and Kaminari.

“Poor girl sat there for hours waiting for you, only to find out she got blown off because you couldn’t even properly check your reminders!” She paces back and forth in the room, feet excessively stepping across the floor as she’s engulfed by the emotions she feels for her friend. “What’s worse? She comes back and finds out you’ve been doing your own thing with Kirishima the whole time!”

“Hey! It’s not like we were playing around! We were actually having a very serious study grind, thank you very much,” the redhead immediately clarifies. Though his explanation doesn’t alleviate Bakugou’s case in the slightest, who pounds his palms against the surface of the table they’ve gathered around.

“Look. I fucking get it, Ashido. I screwed up, okay?! Now what the fuck do you want me to do about it?!” he exclaims, anger overpowering his voice, but it does little to deter Mina.

“Fix it, obviously!” she quips back with equal fierceness, leaning in eye level with Bakugou.

“And how do you propose I do that, Raccoon Eyes? Hah?” Repositioning his elbow to rest on the table, he leans his cheek against his hand. “Y/n won’t even let me within five fucking feet in front of her and you still expect me ‘fix this’?”

Despite the situation weighing heavily on his shoulders, no immediate answer is bestowed upon him. That is, except the obnoxiously loud crinkle of a chip bag popping open next to Bakugou that cleaves into the scene like a record scratch. As if unable to read the mood in his own room, Kaminari fishes a chip to throw in his mouth, stirring the awkward silence into tension.

“Wow, Bakugou. I know you’re bad with girls and all, but you really messed up this time,” he remarks. His voice is slightly muffled as he munches his chips, continuing to wrinkle the bag for more. It incites a vein to swell on Bakugou’s forehead. He amasses all the willpower within him not to blast the bag of chips to ash, and the boy alongside it.

“If you dunce faces are just gonna sit here and throw salt in my wound then I’m outta here.”

“No, wait!” Kirishima catches Bakugou’s wrist before he fully lifts himself off the floor. “Come on, Bakugou, I’m sure we can think of something! We just need to put our heads together! Right, guys?” he assures. Finding it hard to deny his friend’s hardened conviction, Bakugou gives Kirishima the benefit of the doubt, albeit with slumped shoulders and a tentative raise of his brow as he slowly sits back down.

“Right! Everyone, let’s get some brainstorming done!” Mina yells encouragingly.

The atmosphere of Kaminari’s room is consumed by moderately thoughtful silence for the next ensuing minutes. A few hums pass, followed by an exchange of contemplative looks as four of the five rack their heads together to uncover a solution. The one in need of help only hunches in his seat, waiting with mild disinterest.

“Oh hey, don’t we have hero training with All Might tomorrow?” Sero is the first to comment, scooting to the edge of the blond’s bed.

“Yeah. So?”

“He said we were going to work on group exercises this time around. You know, teamwork and stuff,” he explains further.

At that, Mina snaps her fingers, the work of a brilliant idea flickering in her head. “Sero, that’s it! Tomorrow, during training, we’ll just form a group together with Y/n! After all, she’ll have to talk to Bakugou if you two are on the same team!” She claps her hands in front of her, her enthusiasm rippling through her body and shown energetically with each raise of her voice. “Then, while the rest of us ‘split up’ to cover more ground, that will be your chance to make everything better with Y/n! It’s genius!”

���You missed one fucking crucial detail, Pinky,” Bakugou gruffs. “That will only work if Y/n doesn’t join another group. The moment she sees I’m on yours, she’s not even going to hesitate making a u-turn.”

“Worry not~ I’ll just text all the girls except Y/n about the plan later and ask them to help sort everyone out!” She solves the problem with relative ease—quick as a click of her phone lighting up and finger sliding open to her messages.

“Uh, another thing though.” Kirishima raises his hand to spare his concern. “All Might says we’ll be splitting into groups of five at most, but there’s already five of us here.”

There’s a brief moment of deadpanning until Mina speaks casually. “Oh, that’s right. Kaminari. Take one for the team and make sure to join another group, ‘kay?” She settles without batting a lash.

Kaminari almost chokes on a mouthful of chips. “H-Huh?! What?! Why me?!!” he sputters.

“Because you’ve been eating chips this entire time and haven’t contributed to anything.”

“Hey, I offered the room, didn’t I?!” He tries justifying but is inevitably rejected by Mina’s wagging finger.

“Ah-ah, no complaints! Besides, it’s only one day of training. If we want this dilemma between Bakugou and Y/n fixed then we all have to play our part, got it?” Mina finalizes with a firm point of her finger nearly grazing the tip of the blond’s nose as he leans back to avoid it, eyebrows scrunched in discontent at the role he’s been reduced to.

“Alllllright!” Kirishima springs from his seat with outstretched arms and tightened fists. “Operation: Get Y/n to Forgive Explosion Boy is underway!”

“Dude, that’s a terrible name!” Sero laughs but rises from the bed to join the redhead’s cheer alongside Mina, the group already in high spirits.

Despite rolling his eyes at their swell of confidence, Bakugou does not object to the state of things. As crazy as it sounds, one could almost decipher the cusp of a grin pulling the seams of his lips as a possible sign he’s actually all for this extravagant little plan. Quite a first for Bakugou, but then again, there’s not much else he can do in this situation except rely on his pack of chumps.

Meanwhile, Kaminari grumbles something beneath the salty grit between his teeth.

“Alright, can you all get out of my room now?”

.

.

The scowl etched on your face carries a strong air of disdain that dampens the mood around your teammates considerably. Well, no one should be surprised. With Bakugou standing across from you, staring into the void of your expression, it’s to be expected that you wouldn’t be happy with this outcome.

No, “unhappy” doesn’t quite do your circumstance justice. You are beyond livid.

You feel your eyebrow twitch as you try quivering your lips to form a tinge of a smile. Unfortunately, all that quickly falls apart when you suddenly recall the disaster of last week, triggered by an accidental glance at Bakugou’s mug.

Trying to simmer down, you release a mental sigh amidst the turmoil boiling inside you.

Okay, maybe you’re over-exaggerating. Maybe you’re still just a bit too bitter for your own good and letting your emotions get to you. But in a class of twenty or some students, how did you end up in a group with the one person you were actively trying to avoid?

The moment All Might gave everyone the go-ahead to form their teams for today’s training exercise, you swiftly made a beeline toward two particular star students. Midoriya and Todoroki.

It was simple really. Your experiences throughout the school year told you Bakugou planned on staying away from his rivals when it came to teamwork, regardless of whether you’re there or not. He’s a competitive ass whose goal is to beat anyone he deems a threat in his climb to be the number one hero. It’s only logical you partner with people he adamantly dislikes to evade him.

Yet it seems fate has other plans for you today. By the time you found yourself pacing over to the two students you had in mind, they’d already gone and picked their own group members, forming teams before you could even ask.

Your nose wrinkles like you’ve taken a whiff of something rancid. Or, to be more specific, something fishy. Hooking an arm around Mina’s elbow, you drag the pink-haired girl off to a corner somewhere while tilting your head back at the three other boys.

“Ex. Cuse. Us.” Your words sound as stiff as cardboard. It comes out in practically a hiss when your eyes cross Bakugou. Once you’re positive you’re out of earshot, you whip your head at Mina.

“Mina, what the hell? When you dragged me over here to form a group with you you didn’t tell me he’d be there,” you groan. Childish and petty as you may sound, you just couldn’t fathom the idea of confronting the boy so soon.

Mina holds her hands out, ready to rationalize the whole ordeal. “C’mon Y/n, this is actually an advantage for us! With us four plus you on our team, we’re sure to knock the rest of the other guys out during training today! I mean we showed pretty good teamwork together at the sports festival, didn’t we?”

Steadying your gaze, you hold a finger below your chin as you slowly buy into the explanation. The reasoning is there. It’s hard to argue against a case like that, fully aware that being on the same team as explosion boy will easily snag good results for you and your party. ‘Cause as much of an arrogant jerk as he is, you have to admit Bakugou Katsuki knows his way around hero action like the back of his grenade gauntlets.

“Besides it’s not like you could avoid him for the entire school year. I mean, you two are in the same class. It was only a matter of time before you had to—”

“I know, Mina,” you interject, not wanting the rest of her sentence about the inevitable fall to your ear. “I just… Agh, you know what I mean!” You ruffle your hands through your hair in confliction, unsure how to piece your thoughts together.

Tilting your head over Mina’s shoulder, you sneak a glimpse at Bakugou, watching him as he’s cast to the side with the others. He’s fending himself from Kirishima and Sero’s combined jokes, that usual look on his face sending glares at the two and yelling something you could almost pick up on if you honed your ears a bit more. Surprisingly, when his eyes meet yours for a split second, he stands there looking nonchalant again. Both of you immediately avert your gazes.

Mina pats your shoulder, bringing you back to the conversation at hand. “I know, I know, but after this, I’m sure you can go back to ignoring his ass. After all, it’s just one training exercise, right?” she says. As her words deliver some relief to your ill-timed situation, you give in with a sigh.

Unbeknownst to you, turning your back to Mina and striding toward the rest of your teammates again, you miss the small glint in her yellow eyes, along with the subtle gestures she aims at the three boys, waving her pointed thumbs over your head secretively.

“So I take it you’re on the team with us, Y/n?” Sero asks when the two of you return. You nod in reply and the boy flashes his pearly whites in a wide grin that Kirishima mirrors. He nudges Bakugou at his sides which you subtly catch in the far corner of your eye.

You raise a brow suspiciously at their fidgeting, wondering why having you on their team warrants such enthusiasm, but you’re thankful for their energy at least. Someone has to lift the atmosphere for this not to be a complete drag and Bakugou surely isn’t going to be the mood maker of the group.

The blond scoffs. “Yeah, well, if you dumbasses are going to form a team with me, you’ll follow under my leadership, got it?”

The three readily agree. Though you roll your eyes, you don’t challenge his position, considering no one else is that much up to the task as he is. You’ll simply have to deal with the fact that you’re forced to tread through the day under his leadership. So with no objections, the five of you walk back to the class, gathering around the entrance of today’s battlefield.

Jumping into the activity, All Might goes about explaining today’s lesson to the four sets of teams—consisting of a group exercise to heighten teamwork. The name of the game? Capture the flag.

In short, each team will be split off into different sections of the labyrinth where their assigned flag is stationed. The objective is to not only protect your flag from being stolen but also try and steal an opposing team’s flag from their base and escort it safely to your home field. Nice and simple.

Not long after All Might’s explanation, the gate to the training grounds opens and you all scatter off into your teams, navigating through the twists of the maze to locate your flags. Once your group situated themselves onto your home base, you assemble in a huddle to devise a strategy before the game starts.

“So what’s the plan?” Kirishima asks, eyes darting around his teammates until they rest on Bakugou—the team leader. The ash-blond crosses his arms, a confident sneer plastered on his face as he’s already thought of his plan of action the moment All Might announced the mission.

“Easy. I’m going straight to the front-lines to swipe one of those dumbasses’ flags. You lot are gonna stay here and guard ours until I come back.” He delivers the strategy in a matter-of-fact tone that you quickly don’t take a liking to. Your fist curls in irritation.

“What kind of a plan is that?” you question audaciously, your voice louder than you intended. “So you’re just going to do all the work while we sit around and wait for you?”

Bakugou grits his teeth, leaning further into the huddle to direct his senseless logic. “Look, it’s the fastest and most surefire way to snag our victory without sacrificing anyone,” he says. Playing over his words again, he finds it surprising he even chooses to offer his reasoning. Because if it were anyone other than you he was arguing with, he’s certain he’d leave it at that.

Knowing the current tension between you was a result of his misjudgment, it feels only right for Bakugou to make an effort in communication. He ignores the antsy expressions belonging to the others who signal from behind you to follow along with their original plan.

You don’t seem to catch the hint, nor do you buy into his ridiculous strategy. “Oh, so you’re that confident you won’t get taken out by the other team then?” you quip. As a result, Bakugou’s brows tighten at your noncompliance.

“I know how to take care of myself. You of all people should realize by now that no other nerd in this whole damn class can outmatch me.”

“And what about an ambush? How do you know they simply won’t anticipate your strategy and see you coming?” You fire another counterargument and the boy purses his lips, beginning to find this quarrel spiraling into a headache rather than a step in the direction of reconciliation.

While Sero and Kirishima stand there, shifting their heads back and forth throughout the fiery exchange, Mina speedily reacts. The gears of that cunning mind of hers click into place again.

“You know what, Y/n’s right. Why don’t you two go together then?” she proposes boldly. Her suggestion catches you by complete surprise. You veer in her direction with an incredulous look blown in your eyes.

Before you can open your mouth to protest, the two boys standing beside her immediately back her up.

“Hm, Mina has a point. The chances of you falling into a trap wouldn’t be much if you two work together,” Sero remarks.

Kirishima follows, “Yeah, you guys can watch each other’s backs while going to collect the flag! It’s safer to go in a pair than by yourselves I’d say.”

The three seem adamant about the idea, sharing equally content expressions, and with all that said, you find it hard to dig yourself out of this situation. In a way, you practically volunteered yourself after questioning Bakugou’s plan and doubting his abilities. The group only feels it’s right you come along as his support since you clearly must be worried about his well-being.

Pushing your objections down your throat, you reluctantly agree to tag along with the blond. What you find exceptionally shocking is how Bakugou doesn’t oppose these new conditions. Given his hard-headed temperament, you thought he would’ve scoffed and turned his back at being paired without notice, but no such things were happening here.

...Odd.

“Tch, whatever. Let’s get going then,” is all he gives, starting in the direction into the urban area of the training course.

You trail behind him. “Coming, Boom-Boy…” you mutter the last bit but don’t suppress the urge to let your words be known. Bakugou turns his head and gives you a look akin to an uptight six-year-old you just offended at your local playground. You shrug in response, a corner of your lip pinched upward. He doesn’t pick a fight over the nickname, but his eyebrows remain fiercely slanted, and coupled with his heavy steps and the excessive swinging of his gauntlet-clad arms, it tells you of his emotional constipation plain as day.

.

.

The journey toward the other teams’ flags is cloaked in strained silence and the physical gap between you two does not encourage any of you to speak up. At this point, both of your levels of annoyance for each other have mellowed out. Now it just feels... awkward—strange. You don’t see his expression, nor does he see yours. It feels like you’re being left in the dark, having only the back of Bakugou’s head to stare at the entirety of the way, and though you supposedly have his back, Bakugou feels precarious in this state as he trudges along at the front, not daring to turn his head to cross your eyes.

The ambiance is reminiscent of the ancient Greek legend of Orpheus and Eurydice. Where Bakugou walks through the depths of the underworld, seeking you out in hopes you’d join his side once again. If he turns around now and spills his thoughts to you too soon, he fears that your forgiveness would be whisked away, thoroughly beyond his reach, and replaced with your promises of retribution.

That was the eloquent version of the situation anyway. To put it bluntly, Bakugou was just impatient as hell to say something to you. The silence suffocates him to the point where the words are nearly about to be squeezed out of his throat, but he bites his lip to snuff out the urges.

The more he keeps them in, the more fidgety he becomes, hands itchy and mouth trembling with grit between his teeth. The idea of not letting his voice be heard was something Bakugou detested. Mainly because it was already such a challenge to even keep his mouth shut, given his fiery attitude and lack of patience.

Man, what the hell am I hesitating for? he asks himself, that outspoken side of him spurring him on.

Ah, screw the uncertainty, he thinks. If he doesn’t say anything now, then he won’t get to say anything ever.

Bakugou stops in his tracks, turning his head. Here goes nothing,

“Hey, Y/n, I–”

“Katsuki–”

Words collide into each other, jumbled and incoherent, which take you two by surprise as you meet each other’s furrowed gazes. It’s quiet as you both piece your way through this, eyes trained like you haven’t seen each other in months when the reality is that a week of bitterness has somehow made you act like strangers. The bewildered look crossing his features is foreign to you; you’ve never quite seen Bakugou as taken aback as he is now.

“You first,” you grant before Bakugou could mix up your words again. Even being given permission, the blond still isn’t sure what to say, his thoughts lost on him the moment his voice clashed with yours. He takes a deep breath, calming his senses and steadying his mind for what he wants to convey.

“Look, Y/n, I don’t know how to put this as nicely as I can,” he begins, tone consistent yet wary, assessing your expression, “but I know I fucked up and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you there all by yourself. I shouldn’t… have blown you off like that and forgotten about you.” He delivers this bluntly—honestly—as open as a boy of his nature can muster with arms spread out, willingly exposing him to his faults and your reprisals.

Looking at you, he finds your eyes are cast to the floor, assuming to be reflecting on his words carefully. After some deliberation, you come across the vermillion in his eyes.

“Frankly, I haven’t entirely forgiven you just yet. But I will say that despite how I’ve been acting, I’m not as mad at you as you think,” is what you give, and Bakugou would be lying to himself if he didn’t achieve relief at your statement. He mentally releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding throughout the exchange. However, you aren’t done yet.

“I just want you to understand what moments like those mean to me. It’s during that time where I can share my feelings and learn more about you—understand who you are,” you say. Bakugou latches onto every word. “And it goes both ways, you know. It’s hard to want to stay in a relationship with someone who doesn’t make an effort to make time for you.” It’s obvious you aim that comment at him as Bakugou’s eyes soften slightly hearing it. His calloused, glove-clad hands wrap into his palms. Man, he really was a jerk.

“Still… I know you’re making an effort to be sincere and that you’re genuinely sorry for what happened, especially considering how the others seem to have set this whole conversation up, right?” Bakugou winces over the Bakusquad’s ploy coming to light and makes a note not to follow along next time unless those dummies can scrape up a more elaborate plan.

Despite that, he presses on, “So, what does this mean?” A smile settles on the curve of your lips, sensing his impatience as his voice hastens you along.

“Well…” you begin, speech drawn out in anticipation as you step toward him to where Bakugou follows your movements. That is until he catches a few shadowy figures shifting around atop the small building behind you. Before you can open your mouth to continue, his instincts flare to life.

“Hey, look out!” he exclaims, already acting on his warnings by lunging forward to push you out of the way. Your breaths draw back into your lungs, your body thrust abruptly into the opposite direction. Landing on your butt, you wince at both the shock and the pain, but your whines desist when you witness Bakugou taking a force to the head as a result of coming to your aid.

“Katsuki!” you yell, immediately getting off the ground to rush to his side, but he can’t find it in himself to respond. Afflicted with a substantial blow to the crown of his head, his whole being throbs and his vision spins.

Fuck, is Y/n, okay? is the first thing on his mind, ignoring the liquid trickling down his forehead. His question is answered upon turning his head to meet your anxious expression—your eyes wide and lips quivering as they move to say words he can’t exactly make out beneath the pounding sensations consuming his mind. As he feels a set of arms wrap around him, he tries discerning his surroundings to form a reply, but can only capture bits and pieces.

“—tsuki! ...old… n!”

“...god—! I’m so dead!”

A sputter of words tangling together is the last he hears before his vision fades to black.

.

.

The next time Bakugou awakes, his eyes slowly sever open to come face-to-face with a blurry white ceiling. The lights assault his vision as his senses take time to adjust, unraveling the environment to realize he’s laying on a bed—a hospital bed to be precise.

He attempts lifting himself but is met with retaliation in the form of his pulsating head which he immediately flinches at. His hand goes to rub his scalp to soothe the ache and he finds bandages wrapped tightly around him. “What the hell happened?” The last he remembers is traversing the urban area with you for the capture the flag mission before finally confronting the subject that had been plaguing your minds for a week now. After that, he caught sight of some object descending toward you and before he had even realized it, his feet had moved on their own. Next thing he knows, he’s waking up in the nurse’s office with a headache from hell.

Wait, what about you? Were you okay? Surely, he had to have pushed you out of the way in time, right?

His head moves quicker than it should’ve, revealing the other hospital bed in the room to be unoccupied, vacant. He sighs and his relief is further bolstered by the door to the nurse’s room opening to unveil you unharmed with only your heavy look of concern troubling him.

“Katsuki, oh thank god, you’re okay!” you say, quickly pacing over to his side with a glass of water in hand. You leave it at his bedside, sitting before him. Gauging your appearance up and down, Bakugou tries making out even the smallest details.

“You aren’t hurt?”

You’re appalled he would ask this despite clearly being the one patched up in a hospital bed right now, and likely sporting some serious head trauma.

“Of course I am, you’re the one that lunged forward to protect me,” you tell him. Bakugou looks down at his lap, figuring that was what happened, but hearing it from you comforted him more than he thought. However, his comfort is wretched from him by the intense pressure persisting in his skull. Seeing him in pain, you urge him to lay down and rest.

“How the hell did I end up here anyway?”

You fidget with your fingers, hesitating on answering. At that, the blond lifts a brow, suspicious.

“Mineta… accidentally dropped a rock on your head.”

“...You gotta be joking, right?”

Bakugou leers hard, finding the reason he was out of commission to be a damn pebble hitting his head a detriment to his pride. And because of Mineta of all fucking people. Still, if he hadn’t acted as quickly as he did, you would’ve been the one to meet his fate instead, and he weighed this outcome to better than the former.

Then you explain how the teachers had temporarily intervened to bring his unconscious body to the nurse’s, where the old lady went about tending to his injury. Said she did her job and all he needed was to rest and let her quirk take fuller effect within that time.

“So did we win the game?” He switches the topic to today’s mission of capture the flag that was cut short on his end.

You shake your head, but at least grant him the benefit of knowing Mineta’s team ended up placing last. At that, his eyelids shut and he crosses his arms behind his bandaged head. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t my intention to win anyway.”

You give him a look. “...Liar.”

Bakugou cracks an eye open at you. “Hah? What do you mean I’m a fucking liar?”

“I know you, Katsuki. I dated you, after all. And the Katsuki that I dated is an arrogant, competitive jerk who thinks of being the best above all else.” Bakugou scrunches his nose, wondering what you’re implying through your... overly frank descriptions. “Still… he’s sweet and caring at times… and reliable when he needs to be,” you continue, tone softening that draws Bakugou in, “And the kind of guy I want to give a second chance to.”

Absorbing your words, Bakugou blinks. “S-Seriously?” He doesn’t mean to stutter, but the offer catches him off-guard. He replays what you just said. That’s what he heard, right? A second chance?

You giggle at how uncharacteristically astonished he sounds. “Yes, seriously.”

“Does that mean you forgive me for what happened last week?”

You hum between pursed lips in playful contemplation. “Well, maybe you can redeem yourself by going on another date with me then?”

Hearing your proposal, a wide grin arcs his lips, edging into a smirk.

“That’s it? Well, I can definitely fucking do that,” he states, confidence rejuvenating his body at the new, hopeful chance before him.

“Oh, just one more thing though,” you suddenly add.

“What?”

“We are not going to that Chinese Restaurant again.”

[cheekypriest]

He saw the sudden change as soon as it swept across the detective, how he seemed to tense to the very core of his being, a part of him itching to throw any defence he could muster to keep the topic at bay. James knew that feeling well, although he came across as rather casual about most things, talking about the night he'd lost his parents still stung his ageing heart. It wasn't that he couldn't talk about it, or simply summarise the events of that night, but he just didn't want to. It had happened, it had shaped him into the man he was now, the path he'd chosen to walk and there was no amount of thought or wishing that would ever change it, ever make it right. So, why become bogged down by it? Why let it fester in an already mighty chasm of horrors that experience had piled up on top ever since? He'd even reached the stage where he could manage a few witty remarks during brief explanations if needed, he'd answer, tell them about it, but it certainly wasn't because he liked to do so.

On the surface, he always seemed to calm, so collected. Maybe he was, to some degree, he met every challenge with both determination but also acceptance that any day now could be his last, that he'd slip up and lose everything he had left. He wasn't even sure where he'd end up at the end of it all, with all he'd done to protect people from the literal personification of evil, would he end up in Heaven? Or given his tendency for throwing a sin or two around rather carelessly, would he end up in Hell? Either way, it didn't matter to him. He'd stay true to himself and fight the good fight regardless of what God thought about him. It wasn't about him, it was about the innocent people he sought to protect.

So, who was he to judge someone for their own sins? No man was without sin, himself more than most people would ever expect, so priest or not, how could ever look down on someone like Connor for simply being wired differently? Wasn't he wired differently too in his own way? "If I were trying to get a confession out of you, I'd have brought in the big guns already." Another joke to try and ease him a little, just needing to reassure him that he wasn't about to give him some holy lecture about whatever it was that would pass his lips. Again, who was James to judge?

But as he spoke, the Brit remained silent, patient, every movement slow and gentle as if he feared a sudden move might startle the other man like a frightened deer and he'd scamper away into the bushes -- - his answers along with him. He needed the detective to know that he was listening, absorbing every word and doing his utmost to understand. Maybe not perfectly, he couldn't always put himself in the exact shoes of those who came to him or those he spoke to, but he could try and see it from their point of view as best he could.

But his first question wasn't going to be a particularly easy one. Slowly, James began to sit forward, his expression pensive as he placed his other leg back onto the floor between them and finally softened his brow. "Was it traumatised into you?" For once, there wasn't even the slightest flicker of amusement on his face, no sliver of a joke behind those old blue eyes that had literally stared down Hell itself -- - twice. "You don't have to answer, all right? I'm just... curious, that's all." It helped, getting these glimpses into the other man's mind, let him see the damage that was already there, or just gauge the consequences of letting a whole other layer of the world be ripped away if he dared take that step into the supernatural. He already saw so much just being a detective, was there more underneath it? Was it right to pile even more on top? Would it finally break him?

Of course, James didn't think the American weak, but there was only so much people could take and everyone had different limits. Himself? Maybe he was already too far gone, too far down the rabbit hole, looking at his breaking point in the rearview mirror? When things did truly test every last morsel of his character, it was whisky that comforted him, alongside a few sneaky cigarettes that would have him practically hanging outside his living room window in Rome so that he could grasp a few hefty puffs into his lungs and put himself back together all over again.

Yet there was something else that caught him as well. The empathy thing was definitely something to be tucked away for another time, it didn't overly worry him too much, he certainly wouldn't label him as a general danger to people on a daily basis, but it was something to note down just in case. He liked to think that Connor would understand that as well, just taking in every bit of him and piecing it together like a jigsaw puzzle. It wasn't out of judgment or anything of the sort, but simply to understand. Though this time, James sat up a little and stretched his neck with a slight nod of his head. "Sometimes it's from the offender's perspective?" He tried to finish the male's sentence, brows still gentle, sparkling genuine intent to listen, to learn and even to care. At times it was maybe easy to forget that beneath all that dry wit and charm, there was still a man who cared -- - and he cared deeply.

At the end of the day, it all fell to the point he intended to get across to Connor, albeit taking the long way around rather than diving in head first and either offending the guy or making him think that the Brit needed to go for a psychological evaluation. Then again, he might still think the latter once they were done. "Doesn't make you a bad person, you know." He felt the need to remind him, letting him see that he wasn't sitting there labelling the man as some sort of sociopath or something similar. "And yeah, you're first thought might be to presume I'm just here blowing smoke up your arse. Some holier-than-thou priest who's about to bang on about how all can be forgiven and how only God can judge you..." He continued, never breaking eye contact. "But right now, I'm not talking to you as a priest, Connor. I'm talking to you as a friend. Maybe more of an acquaintance at present, but I'm sure we'll be holding hands and singing Kumbaya together in no time." That wit was back again, it never left for too long. "So, tell me, what's the worst thing you've seen yourself do? And again, I'm not forcing you to give me an answer. It might not seem like it, but it'll all make sense soon enough."

As if the vague imaginings of the priest dodging scooters & showing compassion for strays hadn’t already elicited a feeling of charmed amusement, the description offered by Rutherford had Connor chuckling to himself lightly into one hand. Ever the demure creature, one who played well as being coy when he was anything but. The detective liked the idea of visiting Rome. He expected that the culture, the Mediterranean climate & rustic cuisine would be a nice change for a time, perhaps inspiring a new kind of introspection in him that his home state had not. Connors eyes followed his host as he moved about the room, gathering a glass & pouring himself a stiff drink. Though he was clearly shaken by this whole situation, the older man was calm, still seeing fit to tease & make banter.

It took an inner strength of character to face one’s fears with such regulated decorum. The detective observed as he wondered to himself how many places Rutherford had been, what experiences he had gained in life. He seemed a wealth of knowledge & patience, having grown wiser with age. He was also a cheeky bastard, never passing up a moment to flirt with his younger guest. That prideful side of Connor thrived on it. He wanted more. Though outwardly, he displayed a poised air of attentiveness, his mind was buzzing with anticipation of future prospects.

If he were given the chance, he would absolutely ask this man out for a drink. The detective didn’t partake in such vices often, preferring the numbing, corrosive high of nervous chain smoking when it suited him, but he could be persuaded. Besides, he knew of some beautiful views in the city. It wasn’t Italy, but it was nice.

Those silent internal musings faded as Rutherford came to sit before him once more, for as he settled himself into the chair, a question arose. Several. Inquiries which gave the detective pause as his subconscious mind suddenly felt the desire to withdraw. The invisible realm within Connor wished to escape, throw up its defenses. Outwardly, it manifested in a faintly hitched breath, in momentarily pitted pupils. The pretty youth shifted slightly in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. A slender leg came up to cross at the knee, over the other, almost mirroring Rutherford. A closed-off gesture. He was keenly aware of his body language, & chastised himself inwardly for giving himself away.

He tried to make light of this turn of events, a small laugh escaping him as his eyes drifted askance, as though avoiding that intense gaze upon him. “Still trying to persuade me into confession.” His dusky voice held a flirtatious tone, but the same energy of before was absent. He knew the priest would hear it, that he would figure him out. Connor didn’t like talking about himself to other people. He didn’t appreciate the stigma surrounding his strange mind, & he felt threatened by the idea of others finding him out. But then, was that really what he was feeling now? A passive contemplation of his own emotional state at this abrupt shift in conversational topic forced Connor to approach his personal perspective on this exchange. Though assurances were made on both ends, the detective worried that his was the only genuine one. Even as he knew that wasn’t the case - he sensed no deception with the priest's intentions.

He was being genuine. Whatever the cause of the nightmares which plagued the young detective, he wasn’t going to be judged. Though as Connor contemplated how he would approach this - brush the queries off with vague responses to pacify the priest, or to be truthful with him - he found himself leaning towards the latter. Rutherford… James had been sincere with him. He needed to be sincere in return. Besides, if anyone was going to be leaving this meeting questioning the other’s sanity, it would be the priest.

A slow, steady intake of breath. Grounding. Released as a small sigh from his nose. Connor’s gaze returned to that of the priest. A brief pause as he set his coffee cup aside, let his hands return to fold neatly in his lap. A mirrored image of calm, his tightly crossed legs loosened somewhat, tense muscles relaxing. A sign of openness. A willingness to communicate. His voice was somewhat hushed as he began.

“They’re reconstructions.” It felt vague at first, nonsensical. Connor allowed that meager morsel to hang in the air a moment, enough to entice, before continuing. “I have a… unique mind.” An understatement. His eyes fell but a split second, returning to their mutual gaze. He was searching for the right words. Always so careful. “I have a condition that’s… relatively rare. A person can be born with this kind of brain chemistry, or it can be traumatized into them. Either way, it manifests itself with time.” He didn’t care to explain how for him & his brothers, it had been both. How their upbringing had been a catalyst as much as it was a way to nurture a shared experience of uniqueness known only to them. No one else thought quite how the triplets thought. No one else could see quite how they saw.

Connor swallowed against the feeling of growing dryness in his throat. He didn’t want to ruin whatever potential there might have been between he & the priest, so he was adamant to approach this mindfully. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing & scare James off.

“There are some issues with empathy &... other aspects.” A lack of self preservation, a dogged relentlessness. A cruel streak that rarely showed itself, but was always possible. The detective didn’t elaborate. He chose to move on. “That condition also provided us with certain talents that we perfected together. My brothers & I can see past events from the clues left behind, & reconstruct them in our minds eye.” That imaginative capability, while astoundingly intriguing to an outside viewpoint, had manifested itself into the mind of a homicide detective. Suddenly the vague euphemisms about bad dreams took on a whole new light. “Sometimes it’s from the victims perspective. Sometimes…” He let the sentence trail off, watching James with those soft, attentive eyes, somewhat fretful. He worried what the man was thinking.

[kohakuarisaka]

Untamed (chapter 2 of 5)

Takami Keigo x (fem!)Reader

[ SUMMARY ] Every year, without fail, Hawks went into a rut: when autumn began, and then again in early spring. He would honker down up north in a secluded cabin. For the first time, he brought you with him.

[ WARNINGS ] R18+ for graphic sexual content and language. Non-canon compliant: Hawks’ quirk does not work like this. Reader is a hero that works at Hawks agency. Pre-existing relationship. Reader is a female with female genitalia. Feral behavior. Rutting. Biting. Spanking. Slight BDSM. Consensual sex. Wing kink. Oral sex. Romantic relationship.

Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4 • Chapter 5

[ My BNHA Fanfic Masterlist ] ~ [ Also on my AO3 ]

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As it turned out, 'secluded cabin' was a pretty accurate statement.

Hawks had arranged for a very discreet hero taxi service to drive you the 5-hour trip from Musutafu to a quaint mountainous village that was so small and quiet, you almost doubted it was even on the map.

Past the snowy village, through the winding roads and towering trees, over a bridge, past a frozen lake, and then some miles off the main road, tucked away in a small clearing, was a beautiful cabin.

While the days were steadily growing warmer as spring rapidly approached, it still snowed at night. The snow had melted off the trees from the warmth of the midday sun; but, there was still a light blanket of white on the rooftop and across the surrounding grounds.

There were no poles lining the street, nothing that could bring electricity to the house; however, you could see what was likely a generator tucked away in the back. Someone had propped the cover off and cleaned out the snow.

At that sight, it became obvious that Hawks had beat you here. He already taken to clearing the snow out of the entry way as well, exposing a beautiful cobblestone pathway.

You exited the vehicle and retrieved your bags from the trunk. The very second you closed the hatch, the driver made a speedy exit, wheels skidding in the snow as they backed out before doing a sharp U-turn and barreling down the road.

Luckily, the entrance to the cabin opened before you could worry that you had just been abandoned in the middle of nowhere. Sure enough, Hawks stepped out, wild blonde locks brushed back, a little fluffier than usual due to the change in humidity.

Despite how cold it was, he was wearing a black tank top and loose, light grey sweat pants. He even stepped out onto the cold stone pathway with bare feet. Yet, with a light flush to his skin, he didn't look cold at all.

You had been making a face when he approached, and he offered an explanation, uttering, "I told 'em not to linger. It's suspicious."

Some large plumes departed his wingspan and grabbed at your luggage, one even pulling your shoulder bag off your back. They whipped away, bags in tow, and zipped past Hawks and through the doorway, disappearing into the cabin.

The winged hero didn't immediately usher you inside, as he usually did in these types of situations, but arched over you suddenly, arms bringing you into a tight embrace while his lips captured yours.

The sudden closeness forced your back to arch. Unconsciously, your hands fell onto his barely clothed shoulders, and you felt how warm he was. If you didn't know any better, you would have thought he was running a fever.

The kiss was brief, but uncharacteristically messy, not that you were complaining. It was a kiss of longing, like he had missed you dearly, as if it had been months and not a day and a half.

He pulled back, a distant, albeit blissful, look on his face. His eyelids sagged as if he was tired, but the gold of his iris was bright and his pupils were focused.

"I didn't get to clean yet, but - ugh - do you wanna see inside?" he asked, some slight nervousness to his tone.

"Yeah," you breathed.

Hawks stepped aside and you gently brushed past him and stepped inside. The wood floors creaked softly beneath your feet as you crossed the threshold. Immediately, you were hit with a wonderful scent, earthy, like tree bark, but sweet, like raw honey.

It was a decent sized cabin, spacious and not heavily furnished. The kitchen was on the small side, but seemingly to accommodate a larger living room.

As Hawks had warned, there was a thin layer of dust all across the wood floors. The furniture was covered by clear tarps, shielding them from the debris.

The dining area tucked away in the corner had a chabudai in place of a western style table. It was small and clearly only intended for two people. You had a feeling it was new, considering how spotless it looked compared to the rest of the cabin.

A huge, stone fireplace rested against the north wall, surrounded by large windows that gave a beautiful view of the outside. They were adorned with heavy curtains, pulled back to let the sunlight in.

Hawks was lingering, following close, staring down at you as you walked around and took in the sight of the place. When your eyes landed on him, and you caught his unblinking stare, you realized he was awaiting feedback.

It startled you a little, for Hawks wasn't the kind to fuss over these sorts of things; but, you had a decent enough understanding of what a rut was to know what was going through his head.

"Relax, birdbrain," you cooed, reaching up to tap gently at his cheek with a closed palm. That seemed to knock him out of his stupor, for he blinked and suddenly looked sheepish. He flickered his gold eyes away, as if to give you space.

"I love it," you praised, looking back into the living area. "Cozy, and smells nice."

You heard him exhale a relieved sigh through his nostrils.

"We should get to work. Where's the cleaning stuff?" you asked, peeling your jacket off.

"Oh. I'll-" he began.

"You'll let me help," you interrupted him gently.

When you turned back to face him, and saw the bewildered expression he was wearing, you wondered if maybe that wasn't the right thing to fit with his current state.

"Unless that's... bad?" you offered uncertainly, shoulders sagging.

Hawks laughed suddenly at the sunken expression on your face, as if the joyous sound came sputtering out against his will.

"No," he answered softly, leaning in suddenly for another kiss, as if he couldn't help it. You didn't get a chance to kiss back before he was retreating.

"Don't change," he sighed. "I want you as you, not as my..."

"-subservient housewife?" you offered, just a little teasing.

He chuckled softly, breathing out a harsh, "fuck, no."

Hawks maneuvered around you and headed for what you guessed was a supply closet. Inside, the cleaning gear was also neatly packaged in containers and safe from dust.

It made sense, how neatly arranged everything was. Hawks was a fairly neat person; but, it was also clear that he had this whole thing down, neatly tuned and properly sorted out. He had been coming here for years, after all.

This place was special to him. That much was clear.

The two of you started to dusting and sweeping, followed by a diligent mopping, with the two of you working in tandem.

Hawks was fairly quiet during the whole ordeal, seemingly focused sternly on the task at hand. It had been his nest for years. This was hardly anything new; but, it was now going to be yours, too.

He didn't tell you that he had been worried he would react negatively to your presence. He didn't always react rationally during this time. Seemingly average things would sometimes irritate him, and a part of the possessive onslaught included this abode.

Fortunately, that hadn't been the case. Cleaning the cabin with you was soothing. He wasn't unaware of the obvious implication: that you were preparing a nest together, your shared nest. He didn't say it aloud, but you had come to that realization, as well.

It had actually calmed him quite a bit. He had been on edge before you arrived, skin prickled with heat and sweating unreasonably considering the cold. Those weren't abnormal during his ruts; but, it felt intensified with that knowledge that you were going to be here.

Darkness swept across the forest as the hours dragged on. Luckily, you were just about finished by the time it got dark.

There was a neat stack of firewood arranged on a carrier near the fireplace, making you wonder if that was what he had worked on before your arrival. The logs looked freshly cut and heavy.

Crimson feathers delivered logs to the hearth. Hawks retrieved a set of matches from a cubby near the carrier and then kneeled before the hearth. He set one of the matches ablaze and carefully ignited the firewood arranged in the pit.

Warmth and light flooded the cabinet. Plumes gathered along the edges of the curtains and pulled them back, covering the windows. When they returned to his wingspan, he stepped back and monitored the fire briefly.

While cleaning, you had learned there was a cellar and partial second story, as well as an indoor bathroom. It seemed that the main use of the generator was to power the water heater and indoor plumbing.

The cellar was small, down a short flight of stairs, with concrete floors and walls, the perfect size for containing a month's worth of food and supplies, far more than was necessary for just a week.

The second story was a loft that oversaw the living room, giving a great view of the fireplace. There was no safety railing on the upstairs, likely for the very obvious fact that Hawks could fly. There was, at least, a staircase.

Upstairs, there was a large bed frame with a plush mattress, wrapped up tight to protect from dust, a large chest pressed up against the wall, and a desk without a chair.

After he removed the bed cover, you watched Hawks pull neatly folded blankets and pillow cases out the chest. It was fascinating to see someone, who normally slept wherever his body landed, so meticulously prepare the bedding: layers and layers of blankets, followed by dressing the pillows and laying them out.

It was especially perplexing because of the intense, concentrated look on his face. He had been so focused that he hadn't even realized that you had paused what you were doing to watch him.

Luckily, you caught yourself staring before he did, and shuffled back downstairs before he could notice.

A sudden howling had startled you, before a sharp wind rattled against the shutters. Something was thumping gently against the roof and when the wind picked up, you could almost hear the trees shuddering outside.

"It's snowing," Hawks observed, suddenly at your side.

You could see a glimpse of crimson in the corner of your eye, and realized he had a wing fanned out around you, not quite close enough to touch, but hovering. Maybe, he hadn't even realized he was doing that.

"Oh," you answered quietly.

Together, you prepared dinner, settling for a classic favorite of his: yakitori chicken and stir fry noodles.

Eating dinner together, and talking about nothing, made you realize, it had been the first time in a long time, if ever, that you hadn't discussed work: nothing about the agency, nothing about heroes or villains, nothing about police business or missions.

It was just senseless conversations that amounted to nothing.

The dining table was small and the floor was cold; but, your hands brushed constantly due to the lack of space. It made you realize that you had longed to have this type of moment with him, something so utterly domestic.

"I know it's not super late," Hawks began, on his way to the kitchen with the dirty plates. "But, I'm gonna wake you up early; so, let's get to bed, okay?"

His voice was soft, surprisingly drowsy, you realized, and he continued, "it's - well, there's something I wanna show you, and it looks best in the sunrise."

He had started the dishes before you could; so, you stepped in close, deciding to tease him a little.

"I bet you do look best in the sunrise," you uttered, leaning against the counter top near the sink, where he had busied his hands. He was looking away from you; but, you could see his lip twitch into a faint smile.

Hawks laughed, a low chuckle that rumbled through his chest. "Not me," he replied softly. Yet, he found himself feeling enamored with the knowledge that that was where your mind had wandered first.

"Do you want me to wait for you?" you offered, standing upright and shifting away from the counter.

"Nah," he replied simply. "I'll join ya' in a bit."

You changed into your pajamas, brushed your teeth and pulled your hair back, before heading upstairs. Blankets and pillows were stacked high on top of the mattress, making the bedframe disappear beneath it.

It not only looked incredibly warm, but incredibly soft, and an inspection with your hand, smoothing over the surface, confirmed that. There were several pillows pressed against the headboard and even more at the foot of the bed.

If you hadn't seen him arrange it, you would have doubted it was even Hawks' bed. From the glimpses you had seen into his life, he was a minimalist.

His office at the agency was fairly large, but looked almost comical with the lack of furniture in it. He wasn't one to buy much of anything outside of perishables.

"Take those off."

You had heard that commanding tone many times before; but, in the peace and serenity of this cabin, it startled you. Your shoulders twitched a little and you turned to face him, having not heard Hawks approach.

His gold eyes were glaring at your body, shifting up to meet your gaze when you turned to face him.

You gawked back at him, dumbfounded by his boldness, and a little intrigued, if you were being honest. He had warned you about this, and you were about to comply when his dark expression suddenly softened.

"Oh fuck," Hawks blurted, embarrassment washing over his face. The intensity of the moment dissipated and you found yourself unable to hold back a faint smile at the way his face so rapidly changed from anger to shame.

"Shit - I - sorry - ugh," he stammered, some redness tinting the tops of his ears. His dominant hand came up and ruffled his hair. "That was messed up. Ah - what I mean is, can we sleep naked?"

It was clear he wasn't embarrassed about the request, but the way that he had asked. You couldn't hold back a soft chuckle at his frazzled state.

"Of course," you uttered, and began shedding your clothes.

He was staring at your nudity as if it wasn't something he had seen many times before, as if his hands and mouth hadn't explored every inch of skin, hadn't touched and claimed parts of you your own hands couldn't reach.

It made you feel powerful, beautiful.

"Did you brush your teeth?" you asked, knocking him out of his stupor.

He didn't respond, but made a face that gave you your answer. He turned away then, and hopped over the edge of the loft, floating down into the lower floor, and scurried off to the bathroom.

Promptly, you disappeared beneath the blankets, shivering from the cold, skin prickled with goosebumps. You were about to scold yourself for complying with him so eagerly, without demanding a compromise, mainly that you expected him to warm you up.

Luckily, it didn't take him long to join you, and you suddenly felt a very warm, and very naked, body slot into the space behind you, wiggling beneath the blankets. It was almost concerning how warm he was, like he had just flung himself into the hearth before running back over here.

You rolled onto your back to greet him and Hawks wasted no time slotting over you, tangling legs, arms falling on either side of your head. Wispy bangs fell over his forehead, longer strands catching on his eyebrows.

Your eyes peered over his shoulders, where you could see his wings were fanned out above him, plumes stretched wide, looming possessively. When your gaze shifted to his face, your breath hitched.

His stare was hypnotizing, as if he couldn't believe you were here, gold eyes practically glowing in the dimly lit loft.

It made you sad to think just your presence alone had pleased him so much, whereas nothing else had yet to occur. It made you think of all the years he had to endure this alone, the loneliness far more straining than the lack of a pliant body.

"Hey," he began, voice hoarse, distant.

His dominant hand shifted from the bed to cup your cheek, thumb gently prodding at your cheek bone. Just like the rest of his body, his hand was so warm.

"I know I said I wouldn't let you leave," he explained, fingers sliding carefully across your temple. "But, if you want to, at any time, I'll call the taxi and-"

You leaned up, taking his lips in a gentle kiss to silence him. He moaned into the kiss, clearly surprised by your interruption. His hand departed your face, lowering to caress the side of your neck.

When you pulled back, he chased, not letting you depart from him quite so quickly. The kiss carried on for a short while, Hawks only leaning back when he was satisfied.

"No," you disagreed in a soft hum, hands rising to push strands of his hair out of his face. "I'm not leaving. We're going through this together. Okay?"

He let out a sigh that fluttered across your cheeks. "Okay," he agreed, as if he couldn't believe it.

Hawks shifted until he was lying beside you, one arm loose around your waist. You turned a little to lay on your side and lean into him, cheek falling comfortably into the pillow beneath your head, and felt him nuzzle into your back, bringing you as close as he could without ruining your comfort.

One of his wings folded carefully over you while the other sprawled out across the bed. The light from the fire just barely reached the loft, an amber glow that flickered with the dancing flames.

The sounds of the gentle snowfall outside was a little louder upstairs. One of the nearby windows rattled softly, trembling weakly from the breeze that shook the shutters. The rafters above creaked occasionally in melodic hums.

Behind you, Hawks' chest undulated with his breathing, moving against the skin of your back. His wings shifted ever so slightly in harmony with the expansion and shrinking of his lungs. The longer plumes on the ends twitched occasionally.

"Keigo?" you whispered.

He didn't answer. Judging by the way his arm had slackened where it rested over your waist, you figured he had fallen asleep already.

The bedding was soft, and you had no doubt that he had washed them diligently; yet, mingled with the earthy tones of the cabin, they smelt like him. The hearth crackled distantly, the sound a faint echo through the cabin.

It didn't take long to slip away.

• • •

• • •

Sometime in the middle of the night, you were woken by a strange sound. In your groggy state, it sounded like a distant animal cooing into the night.

Once you properly came to, you realized the warmth against your back had retreated. The blanket had been partially ripped away in the process, leaving the skin of your back exposed to the cold air of the cabin.

What had sounded far away you now realized was coming from right behind you, pained little noises and harsh wheezing. You rolled over to take in the sight of Hawks, blindly reaching for him in a moment of panic.

Worry struck you when your skin touched his. He had already been warm to the touch before; but now, his skin felt scorching, sticky with sweat. Your hand had landed on his chest, where you could feel his muscles rapidly rising and falling with each staggering breath.

The noise that had woken you became obvious then; he was panting, sharp and labored breaths that whooshed in and out of him, occasionally accompanied with a quiet, pained sound.

He had shoved the blankets away and was laying on his back, wings tucked in uncomfortably tight beneath him. Through the faint glow of warm light from the fireplace, you could see his chest raising and falling rapidly, head tossed back, face contorted in pain. Some strands of blonde locks were clinging to the sweat soaked skin on his face.

"Keigo - Keigo," you called to him, hands rising to his shoulders so you could shake him.

It wasn't until he jerked suddenly, eyes opening and head whipping towards you, that you realized he had been sleeping. His labored breathing intensified, but only for a second, before he started to calm down.

His gold eyes were glossy for a second, staring at you blindly, before he started to wake properly. His lips were parted, sharp breaths still escaping him in harsh wisps.

"Are you okay?" you whispered harshly. "Are you sick? You look-..."

You could see a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. Now, with him leaning up a little, you could see the flush of red tinting his skin, all down his chest and across his cheeks. His shoulder muscles were tight and his wings twitched helplessly beneath him.

"I'm f-fine," Hawks answered, voice low and hoarse. He swallowed roughly. "It's - it's a n-normal side effect."

"You're burning up," you hissed, hands touching his skin so carefully, like you would hurt him if you were too rough. "Are you sure you're okay?" you insisted.

"Just need-" he growled, cutting off as he tried to sit up.

His movement had repositioned your hands, causing them to drag from his shoulders to his chest, less you lose stability and collapse on top of him.

It was a familiar touch, a place you had touched him many times before; yet, he froze suddenly, gaze shifting down to your hands as if they were grounding him to this plane of existence.

Hawks' gold eyes fluttered shut and his pained expression softened. He flopped back on the bed, giving up his attempt to sit up as if he had suddenly lost all strength in his body.

Catching on, you uttered into the cold air, "is that what you need? Keigo, do you want me to-"

"Yes," he answered sharply, hissing through the cold, chilled air. He sounded relieved, thankful that you had offered before he had to ask.

"God, fuck - I - I need you, need to - to - be inside you-"

His babbling briefly ceased when you pushed the blankets off yourself and rolled on top of him, a gesture you had done many times before, now a nearly perfect art.

You watched, hypnotized as Hawks arched his back off the bed and flexed his wings until they were sprawled out on either side of him. The beautiful crimson plumes stretched out across the sheets, shuddering in faint waves that matched his heavy breathings.

In the shift, his cock became pinned against your inner thigh. If you didn't known any better, you would have thought he was prodding you with an iron rod pulled straight from the fires of a forge.

It was unbearably hot, hard as steel and painfully poking against your flesh. You could feel his heartbeat through his cock, throbbing against you as if pleading to be touched.

Arousal had never struck you this hard before, with enough force that it made your never regions throb and chest tighten. Blood rushed to your face so quickly, you briefly feared you would pass out.

Now, hovering, looking down at him, it was almost unbearable. It was clear that Hawks was in pain, and you felt a tinge of guilt at the realization that his state had aroused you.

But, the truth was, he looked stunning.

Maybe it was the red flush staining his skin, or the glisten of sweat, shiny with the reflection of the fire burning in the hearth. Maybe it was the way his gold eyes practically glowed through the darkness, staring up at you like a starving predator, glaring with dangerous intent.

Some sort of inhuman growl escaped him and Hawks grabbed at your meaty hips, roughly pulling you forward. It didn't take you long to figure out what he was doing; but, your attempts to aid were waisted, for he simply dragged you down to his liking, until the heat of your sex collided with his face ungracefully.

The first thing you registered was his mouth kissing sloppily at your sex. His tongue followed, lapping at your folds impatiently before breaching your heat. Hawks was always the kind to give sloppy oral; but, this was something else entirely.

He moaned shamelessly when his tongue registered your taste, hips rising off the bed as if attempting to chase a sensation that wasn't there.

Your hands fall onto the wall, and you tried to keep yourself up; but, he wasn't having it, growling and pulling you back down. It was difficult to not go dead weight when his tongue was lapping at your walls, mouth suctioned around your entrance like he was trying to suck juices from a ripe fruit.

One of your hands weaved through his hair, gently massaging his scalp in a praising gesture. It was difficult to get out sensible words. Instead, you moaned broken pieces of his name, thighs trembling on either side of his head.

You had no idea how much time had passed before he seemed satisfied and finally lifted you up enough to remove his mouth. The wet gasp that escaped him, suggesting he had been holding his breath, riddled you with shameful lust.

"You made a mess," Hawks observed deliriously.

He sounded immensely pleased with himself and even leaned in to take another taste, this time honing in on your pearl. You felt more than heard his pleased chuckle when you whined at the sudden touch.

This time, when he pulled away, he let you retreat. As you shimmied down his body, you caught him wiping your essence off his face with a careful finger before popping it in his mouth.

Hawks' skin was still flushed red, all the way up to his ears; but, now, he looked damn smug to top it all off. You couldn't see the look you were wearing, but you knew by the heat on your face that it was lewd.

The cold of the cabin had been lost to you, especially when you positioned your hips over his and felt the head of his cock nuzzle at your entrance, threatening to breach your core.

Hawks' head fell back into the sheets with a whine, eyes squeezing shut. Tantalized by the sight, you intended to tease him a little; however, he nudged his hips forward with a sudden jerk, effortlessly impaling you on his cock, and taking that opportunity away.

"Ohhh, fuck!" Hawks shouted before sucking his bottom lip beneath his teeth. He released it after letting out a low hiss.

You closed your own eyes for a moment, adjusting to the sudden intrusion of his impressive girth, and felt his hands slowly slide up your thighs into the dips of your hips, slotting over a spot he had practically engraved for himself ever since this began.

When your eyes opened, you looked down and took in the deliriously beautiful look on his face. His thumbs nudged your hip bones pleadingly and his eyes opened, peering up at you through dark lashes.

Forgoing any thoughts about teasing, you planted your hands on his chest and rolled your hips. The motion punched a whine out of him. The sound drawled out into a growl when you kept the rhythm, chasing your own pleasure.

"Yeah," he hummed encouragingly. "Come on. Use me. Fuck yourself on my cock. Just like - ahh - fuck..."

You hardly needed the encouragement; but, the dirty words spewing from his lips further ignited the heat in your belly, and you whined in response.

He could have easily pulled your hips down to intensify the moment. Instead, he lifted his hips off the bed to meet yours, effortlessly matching your movement and chasing the delicious warmth and wetness of your core, while letting his hands hold you gently.

"Baby, do you feel good?" Hawks uttered lowly, his pleading question gently breaking through the moment.

"Y-ye-s, Kei - go," you sobbed, stuttering out your response and groaning halfway through his name.

It was always good; but, something about this moment made it more intense than ever before. You could already feel the sensation rising, thighs trembling every time his cock slid back inside, hitting the perfect spot again and again.

"Yeah?" he hummed, sounding so breathless and fucked out, despite you having just barely begun. "You feel good, so fucking good," he praised between labored pants and low moans.

"You're so fucking good to me," Hawks babbled on, head falling back into the sheets, where he closed his eyes. You watched his adam's apple bob, noticed how tight his jaw was clenched.

A growl vibrated through his chest, followed by a breathless sympathy of curses, "oh fuck - oh fuck. Come on, fuck my cock - yeah - ahhh. Ya' hear that? Those sounds. God, you're so f-fucking perfect."

Your union was loud, skin slapping together and wet, fleshy sounds echoing between the two of you.

His dominant hand released your hip and slid around, thumb prodding between your folds and seeking out your pearl. You were already so sensitive, feeling him so deep, teetering on the edge. When his calloused skin touched that spot, you let out a cry.

"Come on this cock," Hawks groaned. "Sooo close - f-fuck. Come on. Come for me. Fucking come. Gonna fill you up. You want that? My seed. Yeah you fucking d-hnn-"

His babbling ceased when your orgasm took you, the sudden spasms and fluttering of your walls making all sensible thoughts drain from his mind.

His hand returned to your hip, fingers gripping your waist, and he started roughly dragging you up and down to meet his thrusts. You went limp, letting him bounce you on his cock to your liking. Your hands slipped off his chest and you fell onto him, forehead knocking gently against his cheek.

You could hear him huffing and grunting, the occasional growl seeping through, right into your ear as he fucked you through your orgasm, and continued on, chasing his end.

His cock throbbed, firmly enough that you felt it and the sensation startled you a little; but, that thought was lost when he let out an uncharacteristically loud shout, crying out in ecstasy.

Hawks had always been loud; but, this was something else entirely, and the moans and growls didn't stop, along with his undulating hips, for what felt like an eternity.

To top it all off, you could feel it, spurts of his seed, burning hot as it filled you. In the corner of your eye, you could make out his feathers, each and every one trembling beneath him.

Then, finally, he went still.

Hawks' panting filled the room, almost loud enough to drown out the crackling of the fireplace. Even after his panting died down, he let out quiet groans, his orgasm having not yet waned in full.

Eventually, he turned his head and pressed a wet kiss against your cheek. You turned your head to meet him, at first catching the corner of his mouth before he angled his head to kiss you properly.

You could practically feel the praises behind each kiss, thank you's and love pouring from his mouth to yours in a nonverbal gesture. His hands ran up and down your back, massaging your skin but also ensuring that you didn't move and he remained deep inside you.

When he finally released your lips, you busied your hands with his wild mane, gently pushing strands away from his face. He seemed to like the preening, letting his eyes flutter shut and head fall back.

You didn't have to ask if he was feeling better. His all-body, harsh red blush had mellowed out and he wasn't panting like a parched dog.

You hadn't realized you were still trembling until he uttered, "it's okay," in a soothing, worried voice.

His hands shifted to your thighs, where he carefully pushed them back and rolled you onto your side, keeping his cock nuzzled deep. His arms wound around your back, bringing you into an embrace while his wings stretched out behind him before sagging comfortably to the bed.

You realized, as he brought you in, that you were still shaking a little. The worry was evident in his eyes, like he had done something wrong.

"D-do you want me to pull out?" he offered in a weak voice.

"It's not that," you replied softly. "That was... intense."

When your eyes locked with his gold orbs, and he took in the sight of your expression, it seemed to steadily become clear to him, what you were feeling. His lips sought our your skin, senselessly kissing whatever he could reach, all over your cheeks, down your chin and along the expansion of your throat.

Hawks’ head fell onto the pillow and his wispy blonde hair tangled with yours. The unease began to fade away as he held you close, bringing the blanket back over your forms when his intense heat finally started to wane. So did the spell, and something concerning struck him.

"Please, tell me if it gets too intense," Hawks uttered, breath fluttering out against your temple. “I’ll-...”

He cut himself because he wasn’t quite what he would do, what he could do. Could he stop? In this moment of clear thoughts, he sure hoped so. But, part of him feared that wasn’t true, and the last thing he wanted was to lie to you about what he was capable of.

You had figured that he had yet to hit the apex of his rut. Yet, his warnings hadn't frightened you in the slightest, especially after what had just occurred. If anything, you were enticed by it. Maybe, in some strange way, it was affecting you to.

"I can handle you," you promised.

You felt more so than heard the uneasy breath that stuttered out his nostrils. Your words stirred something deep in his gut, overcoming the fear, burning arousal and adoration.