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nowoyas · 9 months ago

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thinking started feeling like burning - nishinoya yuu/reader

m.list - deleted smut scene - read on ao3

A/N: would you believe I wrote the majority of this BEFORE having a complete mental break and quitting my job without any sort of plan? this one is gonna have a smut spinoff oneshot sometime before the end of the month but no clear ETA yet due to school and job hunting. this boy needs more love and goddammit I may not be confident in my noya but I'M GONNA GIVE IT TO HIM

Summary: Nothing had changed since you left. Not him, a brilliant hurricane, and not you, a lost robot moving forward with no goals or dreams of your own. Opposites attract, after all.

Warnings: past minor character death, suggestive themes. reader is gender-neutral but for purposes of the deleted smut scene coming later is afab. reader basically has an anxiety disorder and it's implied they have not great parentage but no major detail is gone into.

Word count: ~8600

desolate

/dĕs′ə-lĭt, dĕz′-/

adjective

1. Devoid of inhabitants; deserted

2. Barren; lifeless

Yeah, maybe that was it. Desolate. In this hotel room—small, furnished but empty—you set aside your phone and its little dictionary definition of what’s wrong with you and the definition imprints itself on your brain all over again. Hardly the first time you’ve known the meaning of the word, but perhaps the first you’ve recognized it in your face.

In high school, you’d occupied your time with almost nothing but studying. There had been friends, one or two, and a blip towards the end in the form of a boyfriend, but you had potential and didn’t need to focus on things like going out to karaoke or making out with a guy when you had exams to study for.

You had so much potential.

You recall, dimly, having memorized the definition for desolate one day among all your vocabulary. More than that, reciting it for a hopeless light in your life who just didn’t get all this school stuff.

Your nose wrinkles at the memory. Best not get caught up in that spiral, yeah?

Against your better judgment, you flop onto the hotel room bed face-first and sigh. What the fuck are you even doing here? None of this was necessary. None of this was planned for.

There’s, of course, the simple textbook facts of the situation: you attended a work event, and halfway through, went to the bathroom and just stared at yourself in the mirror—much like the way you spent the past half an hour in a hotel bathroom—went home, got in your car, and drove to a hotel precariously close to your hometown. Sure, there’d been some kind of internal monologue going on, but you don’t remember any of it anymore. Nothing beyond what you’ve known for the past six years:

Something is fundamentally wrong with you.

“So, what, we get in our car and drive away and don’t show up to work and hope it all works out?”

The desolate room does not answer the desolate you.

Some species of sea turtle have been observed returning to the beach where they were born in order to nest, a phenomenon known as “natal homing”. There are many theories as to how they are able to return to their birthplace…

Like the sea turtle, you swim through endless water and find yourself, of all places, back in Miyagi, staring at a house you only vaguely remember and wondering if your instincts really led you here, or if you’re staring at a random stranger’s house you’ve never been to. Maybe there’s more than one family with his last name in the area.

It looks like all the others—a house in the countryside, standard and homely. You were here… what? Three times? Five?

Not even in the double digits—you know that much. You and Noya had spent more time together at school, or at your house. Your parents hadn’t wanted you to spend too much time alone with a guy at his house. In hindsight, you kind of get it. His grandfather hadn’t exactly been the type to make sure you two were being good kids, or whatever.

Still, you run your fingers over the nameplate, the kanji of Nishinoya’s last name, and try to figure out why this, of all places, is where you’ve drifted to.

“[name]?”

You startle, looking to the voice. Familiar, yet matured. Perhaps a bit lower. Perhaps carrying an emotion you don’t recognize. That, you know, must be him.

You note with a barely-stifled laugh that Noya has not changed his hair in the years since you’ve seen him. Still that stupid, adorable tuft of dyed blond hanging down in his face. Good.

Then, the feeling passes, and the panic sets in.

What the fuck are you doing at your ex-boyfriend’s house?

“Noya,” you breathe. You nod to him, stunned.

“Holy shit, that’s actually you!” He’s closed the distance in an instant, swept you off your feet in a hug that has you crying out in surprise. When he sets you down, you stumble, trying to catch your brain before it falls out your head. He studies you with bright, sharp eyes. “What are you doing here?”

Ah. “Uh, yeah. About that? I… I have no idea.”

He blinks slowly, and then he’s laughing. “That’s not like you at all! Come on, if you’ve got the time to sit down, I’m sure we’ve got something around here to feed you with.”

“Feed me…? Wait, I…”

But he’s already grabbed your wrist, pulled you across the forbidden threshold and right to the front door. Maybe you should have thought about literally anything before showing up at his house.

Too late for regrets, you guess. You’re in way too deep for him to let you slip away now.

In your mind, Nishinoya is steepling his hands together like a stern employer trying to figure out the best way to admonish a bad employee. The image doesn’t really suit him, and you do know that, but you still feel like cubicle fodder waiting to get chewed out.

In reality, he’s resting his chin in his hand, watching you carefully as you run your thumb over the glass of water he’s given you and try not to meet his eyes. (It had taken quite a bit of debating to keep him from actually feeding you. The water was a concession in a valiant fight.)

“So, you don’t know what you’re doing?”

A slow nod.

“You don’t know what you’re doing.” The statement, repeated, does little to hide how astounded he is at the concept.

You sigh. It is easy and so, so heavy as the air escapes you. Maybe you can drown your errant thoughts in water until you understand just what, exactly, you’re trying to do here. You try, but no matter how much you drink, you still don’t have an answer. “Pretty much, yeah. I just sort of ended up here.”

He has an easy smile on his lips, sharp eyes taking you in. “After what?”

“What do you mean, after what?”

“I mean, it’s not like you to just run off and end up anywhere. You’re, you know, thoughtful and stuff! I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of you just doing something without at least three plans ready to go in case something went wrong.”

“I mean, there was you,” you admit with a laugh.

Shit. That was the wrong thing to say, but here you are, panicking and thinking you’ll make things even more awkward than you already feel, and there he is, smiling like he’s looking at…

What?

It isn’t until he’s leaning in further like he’s about to say something dirty that you realize your real mistake in that response.

“You didn’t think before you did me, huh?”

Your cheeks flare, and you hurriedly down the rest of the glass of water while you try to think of a suitable redirect. “You know what I meant!”

“Sure do! You meant—“

“Oh, hush.”

He laughs, and you fall into silence, trying to commit the sound of his laugh to memory.

That’s what sucks about this, oddly enough: you sit at his dining room table, holding a now-empty cup, and it’s just as easy as it always was. He tells you what he’s been up to: how he doesn’t play volleyball anymore (tragic—you loved watching him play) and he’s been traveling a lot (infuriating—you love to travel) and he’s dated once or twice since you last spoke, but nothing really lasting.

(heartbreaking.)

(you love—)

(you loved him when you left.)

“So,” he says, ever enthusiastic to redirect the conversation onto you, “what have you been up to?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

“Oh, come on. You’ve always been amazing. I bet you’ve been doing something awesome with that brain of yours. You wanted to write, right? How’s that going?”

Hah. Amazing. He’s only saying that because you were useful when you tutored him. “No, really. Nothing. Sales, I guess. Convincing people to give up money for a product I don’t believe in for a company I hate. I guess I’m up for a promotion soon. Really though, I think I’ve probably just been dead for the last… what, six years?”

You’d picked the number because it was when you graduated high school. That had made sense to you—college, too, had felt like nothing. No parties, no partners, just studying, exams, and keeping your body moving forward until you had a neat little degree in a field you didn’t care about. But when you spare a glance away from the window, where your attention has been glued in hopes of avoiding letting the awkwardness and pain of this whole situation actually hit you, it’s the first time since he ran into you that Noya isn’t smiling at you.

Oh yeah. And right before you graduated, you’d broken up with him.

“You broke up with me, you know,” he says after a long moment. “Are you saying you’ve been a ghost this whole time?”

And ouch. He’s right, and you hate that. It hadn’t been his fault you’d left. It’d been your insecurities, your inability to handle the weight of your parents’ disapproval, your unwillingness to fight for something that seemed so correct, your stunning realization that Noya would always shine too brightly for you to be the one standing beside him. He always thought you were amazing, but you were nothing compared to his whirlwind personality, his passion, his sense of life.

Maybe this would have been easier if you’d ever told him that.

“I don’t know what I’m saying. Probably just that high school was the last time I felt like a real person, and that ever since, I’ve just been going through the motions and slowly losing my mind and trying not to panic about the fact that not only do I not have any direction in life, I don’t even know how to enjoy it if I did.” Your words come out calm and metered. You try not to betray the worst of it.

For a moment, talking to him, you’d been able to forget the person you’ve been since graduation. You were always moving forward a step at a time, but at some point, you stopped being a hiker on your predetermined life path and just let yourself be a robot. Mechanical step after mechanical step. Just keep moving forward and you’ll get to where you’re going. When you get to where you’re going, you’ll take another stupid, empty step towards where you’re going now. Some successful career, some boring partner that your parents like, kids, wake up, go to sleep, another day, another day, another day doing exactly what you’re expected to do. Just keep following that bright, clear line. That bright, clear line to nowhere at all.

And then you stumbled. And now you’re here, again. Dizzy, sitting at the same table with the same guy.

At some point, you’d trailed off, staring at the table and searching for scars of a life well-used on its surface. You hear the shuffle of him standing over you, and look up to find him reaching out a hand to you. “Alright. Come on.”

“Come… on?”

He leans forward a bit more to take your hand and pull you up. “I’m taking you out to dinner.”

“Huh? Wait, but where?”

“Don’t know yet!”

He drags you out, and you stumble after him in mind and body.

“It’s one o’clock!”

“So we’ll scout places that look good while we get lunch. You don’t have anything to do, right?”

“Well, no, but—“

“Then we’re going!”

He pulls you right past the entryway, nearly has you out the front door before you can protest. “I’m not wearing shoes, Noya! You’re not wearing shoes!”

He only laughs, only pauses, only gives you a moment. “Get them on, then.”

“And do you even have your wallet?”

He blinks and pats his pockets. “Guess not! You’ve got until I’m back with my wallet to get your shoes on and decide to let this happen!”

Decide… to let this happen?

He disappears around the corner, deeper into the house, and at last you sigh, sitting to put your shoes on properly. You doubt he’ll be quick finding his wallet—if he’s anything like you remember (and so far, he’s exactly like you remember) then he has absolutely no idea where he put it last. If you didn’t think he’d absolutely drag you out the door once it was found, you’d kick your shoes back off and help him look.

After getting your shoes on, setting his out in ideal kicking-feet-into-without-stopping position, and five minutes of listening to him rustle about the house, you glance at a table in the entryway and smile at the sight of a plain black wallet in the dish. You inspect it, just in case it’s not his—there’s been no sign of Noya’s grandfather around, but almost nothing’s changed, so he probably still lives here. Better to check.

You open it, just to see that it’s got his ID in there and not someone else’s, and nearly slam it closed again immediately.

Yeah, it’s his missing wallet. ID and everything. And, in the little photo slot, a six-year-old photo of him in his volleyball jersey, million-volt smile on his face as you push him away with your own brilliant smile. He’d just won a game, and you’d been busy trying to get him, gross and sweaty, to stop getting all that gross and sweaty on you even as you laughed the entire time. Tanaka took the picture, you think—there’s a bit of thumb in the bottom right corner.

Noya keeps a photo of the two of you in his wallet. After six years without talking.

A noise bangs from somewhere else in the house, and you close the wallet and force down the warmth welling in your chest and rushing to your face. “All good?” you call out.

“I can’t find my stupid wallet!” he shouts back a moment later. He sounds a bit frustrated. “This isn’t going to work if I spend the whole day trying to—“

“Nishinoya,” you cut him off, half sing-song, “you left it by the door.”

No reply except the thudding of feet as he runs right up to you and plucks it from your hand. “There it is! I found it!”

“Oh, really? You found it?”

“Yep! Are your shoes on? We gotta go now!”

“Go where? You’re in an awful rush. Do you have plans or something?”

He kicks his shoes on and grabs your wrist again. “Nope! You’re gonna love it!”

Really a type of plankton, jellyfish possess extremely limited swimming abilities, if any at all, and rely on the currents to control their horizontal movements through the sea.

It occurs to you, as you make the trek to the bus stop, that you didn’t have to say yes to this. Well, really, it’s not like you said yes so much as didn’t say otherwise, and Noya, ever the trail-blazer, pulled you along for the ride. What’s even the difference in what you’re doing now and what you’ve been doing these past six years?

You barely make the bus. Nishinoya pays the fare for both of you, before you can protest, and when there’s only one open seat, he takes it.

“You’re such a gentleman,” you snort.

He responds by tugging you down into his lap. “I am!”

You’re stronger than you were in high school. Really, you are. You don’t collapse into emotions like embarrassment. You don’t let the sensation of being flustered consume you. You do not.

…you bury your face in your hands. “What are we doing right now?”

Always laughing. Always lighthearted. “What do you mean? We’re taking the bus someplace we can find some restaurants.”

“You know exactly what I mean!”

The bus passes over a bump, and he wraps an arm around your waist to steady you. “You know, you’ve barely changed at all.”

“Neither have you,” you fire back. You meant it as an accusation, but the words come out tender. “You’re still a complete hurricane.”

He laughs, his own tenderness bleeding through. “And you’re still not letting yourself have anything you want.”

“When have I ever—“

“I think you know.” His other arm comes around your waist, holding you in a loose hug, chin resting against your arm.

You try not to stiffen at all the contact. This, too, is something you haven’t felt in ages—simple, casual touch. He had always been that way, resting a hand on your shoulder, your back, running fingers through the ends of your hair, like if he stopped touching you, you’d run away.

Maybe he was right. Maybe he is right.

“You didn’t answer me before. Are you still writing? I’ve been keeping an eye out for your name on the shelves, you know.”

You rest a hand on his arm, half considering pushing his arm off. The bus stops, but apparently not at a stop Noya is interested in dragging you off at—he steadies you as the bus jolts, and as a few passengers file off, you consider admitting the answer.

“Poetry these days, mostly. It’s not like I’d ever get published if I went for it, so I just scribble out a few half-assed lines and—“

“See, stop that. That’s half your problem right there, you know!”

“Another seat just opened up, you know,” you mumble. If you try to fight him on this, he’ll end up talking you into these grand ideas that you’ll never be able to accomplish, and by the end of the day he’ll probably have you in love with him all over again, even though you know it would never work, even though you know you’d never really be anything—as an employee, as a person, as his. “We don’t have to do this… couple-y thing.”

“I want to, though. It’s nice, isn’t it?”

…it is. It really is.

“…I still like to write, but I never have time anymore. It’s work, recovering from work, getting ready for work, waiting to come home from work so I can prep lunches and wash my clothes so I have something to eat and wear at work. I don’t have energy for anything except meetings, emails, and phone calls where no one means anything they say.”

“Damn. No wonder you seem so lost. Why don’t you quit?”

“And do what? It’s not like I have a dream job. I just want to get by and survive—“

“Why? You’re not happy. Don’t you want to do something more than survive?”

“I don’t even know what that would look like, Noya.”

He says everything so simply. Just quit. Just move on. Just move forward. He’s lucky, you think. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have parents planning out your entire life for you.

…okay, that was mean. Add that to the list of things that are wrong with you.

He sighs, shaking you gently in his hold. “It’s worse than I thought. Hey, [name], why’d you come here?”

“I told you already. I have no idea.”

“Alright. Adding it to the list. Today, you’re experiencing adventure for the first time in six years, and you’re gonna figure out what you were doing standing outside my house at noon on a Saturday. If I have my way, you’re also going to be quitting your job and starting a promising career as the greatest writer Japan’s ever seen, renowned the world over, but we can get to that some other time if you want!”

“Noya, I’m not—“ Your words die in your throat as his fingers slide between yours. You hadn’t realized your hand was sliding up his arm, but here he is, holding hands with you like it’s nothing.

God. How old are you, again?

Lunch ends up being crepes. Never mind the fact that crepes are not a meal, not even when Noya suggests buying two each—he proudly declares it lunch, and so lunch it must be. You’re lucky that he graciously allowed you to get a table, though he’d insisted on grabbing one outside even as the sky above has started to loom with rainclouds.

“And what’ll we do if it rains?” you retort drily as he sits across from you.

“We’ll figure it out,” he grins, sliding you a menu. “Dry off after we get rained on, not before.”

You snort. “How about we just try not to get rained on?”

“Then we would be sitting inside, and you wouldn’t get to look up at the clouds while we eat! You always liked the way the sky looked before it rained, right?”

A soft huff leaves you, a small smile unbidden. “You actually remember that? I think I said that to you, like, one time.”

He nods. “Only had to say it once! Besides, I caught you staring up at the sky in the rain more than once.”

“And yet, I had to repeat the same information for you so many times, only for you to still get it wrong on test day…”

“Hey! I was distracted!”

“You weren’t supposed to be,” you tease.

“What was I supposed to do? There was this gorgeous person sitting across from me telling me all these complicated things in a nice voice. I’m a simple man!”

Though your cheeks heat at the declaration, you can’t help but laugh. “Clearly.”

“Yeah. Clearly.” For just a moment, he’s soft, unbearably soft, and you fear looking at him. Quick, change the subject before you have to acknowledge whatever’s going on here!

“S-so!” Smooth! You’re doing great, sweetie! “Any idea what you’re going to get?”

He slaps a finger down on the menu without looking. “A… monte… monte…”

You sigh and peer over to look at the fanciful English he’s pointing to. “A Monte Cristo crepe?”

“Yeah!”

“Did you read the part where it’s got onions as a main ingredient? Don’t you hate onions?”

He wrinkles his nose, but stands firm. “I’m sure!”

You huff softly. “Alright. Far be it from me to stop you.”

“What about you? Make a pros and cons list for each menu item yet?” he teases.

“For your information, I don’t have to do that when ordering in restaurants. That’s for big decisions. But…” You sigh. “I haven’t eaten out in a while. It stresses me out.”

“Why?”

“So let’s say I pick something that looks good, and it sucks. I won’t eat it because it sucks, but then I feel like I’ve insulted the chef and wasted my time and money.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “If you don’t like it, you don’t like it. But at least you’ll know! When’s the last time you actually ate out like this?”

You bite your lip thoughtfully. When was it?

“I… think I did a celebration dinner with my parents when I graduated?”

“College?”

“No, high school. We didn’t celebrate when I graduated college.”

Once again, he’s staring at you in blank disbelief. “[name], that was six years ago.”

You flush. “Yeah, so?”

“That’s so sad. What have you been doing? I’m about to take you on a food tour just so you can catch up on all the restaurants you’ve been missing.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Please, no. I can’t eat that much.”

“Then we’ll spread it out!”

“Noya…”

The waiter drops in at exactly the wrong time. Flustered, you stumble your way into lemonade for you, apple cider for him, and then, as he’s confidently mispronouncing “Monte Cristo” to the waiter, you panic and end up ordering some curry crepe, a concept which intrigues and horrifies you.

“How’d you even find this place? Seems weird for there to be some half-French, half-English upscale crepe restaurant out in Miyagi.”

“What do you mean, how did I find it? We found it together. I’ve never eaten here.”

Right. He’s completely winging everything. “Amazing.”

“Right?”

Drinks come, and you sigh into a masterful lemonade and try to think of things to say to fill the space between you and your ex. (You have to try not to forget that bit—that this isn’t natural, that this can’t lead anywhere. For your sake and his.) “So, how’s your grandfather been?”

The easy smile on Noya’s lips drops. “Oh. He died late last year. Age caught up to him, I guess.”

Oh. Fuck. “Noya, I’m so…”

He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. Crazy bastard had a hell of a time of it. He’d hate for me to sit around feeling bad about it, anyway.”

He wouldn’t want you to pity him. Doesn’t want you to pity him. You know that. But…

Did Noya ever talk about any other family members when you knew him? You know he lived in that house with his grandfather. No siblings. Never mentioned any cousins. You know he didn’t grow up around his parents, either…

Has he been alone this whole time?

You reach across the table. Place a hand on his. “Maybe I’ll visit more often.”

In silence, the two of you sit and wait for your crepes.

The crepes come out, and with them, new points of conversation that carry you both to finishing—all the way until Noya manages to argue you into letting him pay. He pulls you along, a bit slower than before, a bit easier. You can’t help but let him take your hand and bring you wherever the wind is leading him, half-pitying him and half from the complete lack of will to fight him all day.

“I told you you weren’t gonna like what you ended up ordering.”

“You liked it though, right?”

Predictably, he’d taken one bite of the crepe and instantly realized his mistake. Far too much onions for his tastes. Your curry crepe had been… well…

Let’s just say that you weren’t especially upset when Noya asked you to swap.

“It was really good, if you like onions.”

“I know what I like! Onions aren’t it!”

It’s easy like this, and the day really is nice. There’s rain on the breeze and in the clouds, a pleasant scent and a comforting gloom over the day. You tease and joke back and forth, hand in hand like it’s natural, and it is. It’s easy, being around him. It was easy back then, too. So easy it scares you.

You’re just waiting for the bottom to fall out.

You’re waiting for the bottom to fall out, and it does—with a shriek and loud laughter, rain chases the both of you underneath a tree and within sight of the nearest bus stop, soaking you both through to the bone.

“See?” Noya says, grinning as he pulls you a little closer underneath the tree. “Now we can worry about getting dry.”

“You’re unbelievable,” said with a smile. “What is all this meant to prove again?”

“Well, why’d you come here?”

“Here? You dragged me out here.”

“Yeah, but why’d you come back to Miyagi? I’m just saying, my doorstep is not the first place I expected you to turn up on when the inevitable nervous breakdown hit.”

You fall silent, shiver in the rain. It’s peaceful. You try to focus on watching for a bus, anything except the question you were asked.

“[name].”

You glance at him, yelp a little to find how close the two of you have gotten. This close, in this kind of situation, it’d be only natural for you to lean in, for you to brush your lips against his.

God, have you even kissed anyone since you burned everything down?

You’re not doing this. You’re not falling into a hurricane like him again. You won’t be able to come back if you do that. (Especially with such a fucking cliché.)

You turn away. “You already asked me that. I told you before, I don’t know.”

He hums thoughtfully. Drapes his jacket over both of your heads in an attempt to keep you both from looking any more rained out than you already do.

“I’m just saying, if you want my opinion, you’re going to have to do a lot more adventuring and a lot less sales for a company you hate if you want to remember what ‘happy’ is supposed to feel like.”

“Not sure I ever knew what that was like to begin with.”

“Never?”

“When I was a kid, maybe.”

He tilts his head. “Not even when we dated? Is that why you broke up with me?” He sounds genuinely curious. Would it feel better, you wonder, if he sounded hurt?

You wince. “I didn’t mean… I just…” A sigh. “It’s more like, I was too afraid to let myself be happy when I was with you.” In the close proximity, you find it easier to let your head rest against him a little. “Please don’t misunderstand. I like you. I probably would have been really happy with you if there weren’t something fundamentally wrong with me as a person.” Shit. You definitely misspoke there.

“I don’t really know how to teach you to relax a little, but it’s gotta be easier now that you’re out of your parents’ house. Maybe you need to go somewhere completely new. Get a fresh outlook.”

You arch a brow his way. At least he’s not commenting on your slip of the tongue. “What are you suggesting, Nishinoya?”

“I’m leaving for Italy. Six weeks. That’s enough time for you to plan your little heart out, right?”

“Italy.”

He nods, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Italy.”

“And if I came back after six years to kill you or something?”

He barks a laugh, stark against the pouring rain. His eyes linger on you. The part of you that’s charitable to yourself thinks he might be mentally undressing the clothes sticking to your skin, though you know it’s more of a challenging look. “I’d like to see you try.”

One soaking wet bus ride back to Noya’s house doesn’t save you from this little adventure plan of his. Instead, you’re given a towel or two to dry off with and a change of clothes from his closet, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. The way he acts, everything is.

So now here you are, wearing a shirt far too large for you that you’ve wrestled into looking somewhat nice with Nishinoya’s jeans. It slides off your shoulder a bit no matter how many times you fix it. You admit, you do manage to pull it off, but the whirlwind of the day still has your head spinning with just how wrong this situation is.

You’re supposed to be at work right now. You should be in office clothes, sitting at a desk in a too-cold cubicle that you never got around to decorating, perfect and polished while you tap out yet another perfectly-balanced email, three-quarters professional, one-quarter gentle familiarity to lure your clients into a false sense of security. Not standing in your ex’s bathroom, tying one of his t-shirts at the waist, adjusting your hair to look closer to “decent” than “drowned rat”. This, this day, this situation, was never supposed to happen.

Is this whole day going to be a stumble? How long will it be until you catch yourself and get back to moving forward? When you do, will you still have a place at your desk?

Do you even want one?

A knock at the bathroom door. “If you give me your clothes, I’ll get them started drying,” his voice filters through the door.

All of these actions have been so easy. Your wet clothes, picked up from where they hung shower-side. Easy to wring them out a bit more to keep from making the floor worse. Easy to open the door. Easy to hand them to him.

Nothing had ever been particularly hard before him, but falling in love with him had been just like this: easy.

Maybe the first easy thing you ever remember.

So you go along with it. Another bus ride, this one less crowded than before. This time with umbrella in hand—just one, because of course Noya didn’t even think about it on the way out the door—and a determination to figure out what the hell you’re doing here to begin with.

Everything is as everything was, you think. Shops lining the street, one familiar sight in particular, one of two things you had never had the strength to deny yourself back in school. At the sight of the bookshop, you tug Nishinoya to a stop. You’re a little surprised when he actually does stop.

“Sorry, can we head in? I used to love this place back in school.” You nod to the bookshop. He smiles and lets you lead the way.

“I think that’s the first time you’ve done something selfish today,” he comments as you lead him in.

You refuse to meet that one with a reply.

The shop is exactly as you remember. High stacks of books, books, books everywhere. The scent of old books and a slight spice in the air, scents blending and mixing until, for just a moment, you’re in high school again, marveling at rare finds coming through the used books section and finding some new world to escape into.

You sigh into the scent and disappear into the stacks. Noya is kind enough to humor you as you pick through, find a title or two to take up to the register. If you really do come back to visit from time to time, you’ll have to make sure to stop in here when you do. The old woman at the register hasn’t aged a day. She smiles when she sees you the same way you’re smiling as you approach her.

“Is that little [name]?” she asks, though you both know she already knows the answer. “Why, I haven’t seen you around here in ages! You’ve grown so well!”

“It’s wonderful to see you again, ma’am.”

“Just as polite as you always were. Find everything you were looking for?”

She’s got a poster on the counter by the register. You steal a glance, then meet her eyes with a smile. “Sure did! I’m glad to see you guys are still here.”

Her smile turns bitter. “I’m not sure how much longer, I’m afraid.”

Ah. There’s the heartbreak, panic, fear. “What?”

“It can’t be helped. It’s getting difficult to watch this place in my age, and my Taka’s not been doing so well lately. The kids are all off worrying about their own lives now…”

Your chest twists at the thought. “Can’t you find help?”

“We’ve been looking, but…”

It cannot possibly be this easy.

There’s no way.

“But…”

Noya slides a few bills over the counter while you’re busy fighting a war in your head.

“Oh, and who’s this? You’ve got to introduce your boyfriend, dear.”

“Oh, he’s not—“

“It’s nice to meet you, Granny! I’m Nishinoya.”

Already, they’re spiraling off into some side conversation, too fast for you to make the obvious correction as the old lady makes your—Noya’s—change. She tucks a little bookmark into the front of the stack, and you slide your new books into your bag in resignation. It becomes his space as easily as it was yours, and somehow, it doesn’t feel wrong.

After you’ve left, you consider clearing the air, bringing up… whatever that was.

…it’s not worth the argument.

Another few shops, another few stops. Another few steps forward, another few hours, and yet again you’re sitting across from him, fretting over being underdressed at the restaurant you’ve both happened across and settled on.

“Are you sure we’re dressed alright?” you mutter.

“They let us in the door, didn’t they?”

…yeah, you don’t know what you expected him to say.

“Besides, you look great,” he adds. His eyes dance over you, over the bare skin on your shoulder where you’ve finally given up on pulling the neck of his shirt back up. “I think you wear that better than I ever have.”

You ignore him in favor of another menu, another decision to make that feels earth-shattering. At least you’re aware you’re being ridiculous when it comes to ordering. Really, what’s going to change if you get the fun-looking drink you might not like over the safe one? How bad would it really be if you didn’t like your meal that much?

Drinking too much. Discovering a new allergy. Food poisoning—

“You’re overthinking again,” he teases.

“I’m always overthinking,” you grumble.

“Maybe you need to take the edge off.”

He’s right, and you know that in theory. But in the practice and the day-to-day, you stare at the drinks menu and feel your chest constrict with that itch of anxiety all over again.

“You’ve just got to jump in before you can talk yourself out of it. Come on, [name], let me distract you a little.”

…you don’t think he’s trying to flirt, but your face feels hot all the same. And, well, shit, Noya is a great distraction. He’s a bit less keyed-up than he was back then, but he’s still endlessly charming, endlessly easy to get wrapped up in if you lower your guard even a moment.

“…fine. So what’s this you were saying earlier about Italy?”

His eyes light up. You rest your chin in your palm, glance over the menu again as he tells you about his dreams of traveling the world, how he wants to seek new thrills and see all these new things. You can see every potential disaster of the situation—for one, he has a house back home that someone’s going to need to care for while he’s away, and he doesn’t seem to have thought of that. For another, he’s got an inheritance and no passive income to work with. His grandfather’s leftover money may be substantial enough for this to work in the short term, but longer-term…

Well, one day, he’s going to run headfirst into a hole he can’t climb out of himself.

The thought scares you. Who’s going to be there for him when that happens?

The waiter stops by. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you pick out something alcoholic and fruity and try not to preen under Noya’s delighted approval.

“I’ve never seen you drunk before. Looking forward to it,” he grins. This time, you’re sure he means it flirtatiously, given the wicked gleam in his eyes.

You reach across the table to bat at his arm. “Keep looking, then. I don’t plan on getting drunk tonight. Just buzzed enough to put up with you.”

“Well, that’s no fun. I wanted to know what you’re like when you finally let loose.”

“Excuse you, I can be plenty fun without getting drunk off my ass.”

“Then let’s see it.”

Drinks come out, food orders are placed. You get your margarita halfway down before the buzz starts really setting in, a pleasant warmth blossoming through you. At least now when Noya makes your face hot with some offhanded comment, you can blame it on something other than your own weak heart.

“You know, this is the most adventurous thing I’ve done since I dated you,” you admit once you’re both walking back to the bus stop. Fully sober you would never have this conversation. You recognize that, but there’s enough pleasant fuzz in your head that for once you do not give nearly enough of a fuck to stop yourself. The night is warm, maybe even romantic. “This whole… running around, stopping at random restaurants, getting drenched in the rain without an umbrella. All that.”

He’s got this soft look in his eyes as he regards you. “Really? I can’t say I’m surprised. You were always worrying about everything.”

You snort. “Someone had to.”

“We were kids, though. You probably could have left at least some of that worrying to your parents.”

“Believe it or not, they gave nearly all of that worry to me. On purpose, I think.” You sigh, lean against him just a touch. Your balance never was all that great sober. “I had to be perfect. You were that one little blip.”

“Hey, it felt perfect to me.”

“Did I make a mistake, do you think?”

He looks a little wounded at that. To your credit, he’s definitely misinterpreting. “Dating me?”

“No. Leaving you.”

He pauses, an awkward motion that has you both stumbling just a bit. He’d drank over dinner, too—you’re both buzzed, and the bubbly, floaty feeling ebbs out as you stare at each other. “Why do you say that?”

“I just… I thought about it a lot,” you mumble. “What it would have been like. If I’d just stayed, instead of letting the thought of my parents scare me into running away.”

He huffs a soft laugh and winds his arm around your shoulder. “I thought about it, too. Come on. You don’t need to make it back to the hotel alone; I’ve got a guest bedroom you can use tonight. That, and I’ve still got your clothes.”

Oh. Right.

You nod and let him walk you back to his home.

“Have you figured anything out yet?” he asks as he finds another oversized t-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts for you to sleep in. “Gotten even a little closer to figuring out how to do something you actually feel like doing?”

“I had fun,” you mumble in reply. “I know that much, at least.”

“Good. That was mostly the point.” He hands the clothes over to you. They’re more neatly folded than you would have given him credit for.

“Mostly?”

“Well,” he grins, “I also wanted to spend the day with you. Didn’t figure you’d ever agree if I didn’t drag you out before you could think about it too hard.”

“It was nice,” you admit. “Thank you. For all of it. I… I still don’t know what I’m going to do tomorrow, though.”

“Is it so bad listening to what you feel like doing every once in a while, though?”

“If I knew what I felt like doing, maybe.” You linger awkwardly in his doorway, bounce your shoulder rhythmically against the frame. “You’ve got your work cut out for you if you think one day is gonna get me that in tune with my brain.”

“That’s why I asked you to come to Italy with me.” He tilts his head, some question lingering unspoken. “Try it now, though. What does [name] feel like doing right now?”

He’s close to you. Too close. He’s close, and pretty, and magnetic, and—

“[name] feels like doing something stupid.”

His grin widens. “Nice to meet you. My name’s Nishinoya Yuu, and I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I am pretty damn stupid.”

—fuck it. You grab him by the collar of his shirt and kiss him before you can talk yourself out of it.

He reciprocates in kind, an eager hand coming to settle on your waist like it’s been waiting to rest there all night. You kiss him hot, heavy, open-mouthed; let your hands slide from gripping his collar to locking loosely behind his neck. When you’re both out of breath, he pulls back and leans in to whisper into your neck:

“Why did you come here, [name]?”

It’s hard to think with his breath on your neck, his hands on your body leaving your skin on fire where he touches, but you are great at thinking and finally off the deep end enough to admit it.

“I wanted to remember what it was like to feel alive,” you breathe out into his ear. His lips brush your throat, and you let out a breathy whine. “You’re the only person who ever—who ever seemed to know how to do that.”

“Let me show you how to let go, then.”

There’s no illusions about what he means. Not this time, not with his lips dancing down your neck to your exposed shoulder. Not with his hips pressing into yours, not with his fingertips toying with the edge of his shirt you’re wearing, and not with his fingertips brushing the bare skin at your waist.

You nod and hope you won’t regret it.

If there’s regret to be had, you expect you’ll see it in the light of morning. As it is, Noya returns from the bathroom and collapses right onto you, a lithe arm pulling you into his chest.

“I’m glad you came back,” he mumbles into your hair. You’re both tired—it’s late, and that might have been the best workout you’ve gotten in a while.

“Because you missed me, or because you got to fuck me?” you tease, sliding a hand over his.

“I missed you,” he replies without missing a beat. “Not too late to come travel the world with me. Quit your job and feel peace for once in your life.”

“Peace? With you around? Not likely. Besides, I’m renting a place in Tokyo. I can’t meet rent if I quit my job.”

He laughs and pulls you in a little closer. “Then just Italy, and you can go back to the way you felt before you turned up on my doorstep looking more lost than I’ve ever seen anyone in my life.”

You sigh. “When you’re traveling the world, who’s gonna take care of your house? It doesn’t seem like you’re selling it, are you?”

“Italy, come home, we’ll break in the place, and then I’ll come home to you between trips while you work on writing an international bestseller.”

Your heart flutters at the thought. Admittedly… it’d solve a lot of the problems you have with his little “plan”.

“And how do you suppose I pay for being alive aside from not having rent?”

“Ask that old lady at the bookshop if you can help at the store.”

“Why do you have an answer for everything?”

“It’s okay if things fall into place once in a while, you know.”

You sigh into him. There’s too many unknowns. How is he going to keep paying for traveling? What if the book never works out? If there’s no space for you at the bookshop? If—

He nuzzles into your neck. “I’m waiting on an answer, baby…”

“It’s late, Noya. I’ll think about it.”

“Do me a favor and think yourself into something for once, instead of out of it. I might die if you leave again.”

He presses one last kiss into the back of your neck before you both draft off, sore and exhausted.

There’s one thing, at least, you can be sure of, at least for tonight: you’re glad you came here.

Epilogue

“You’re looking much better,” your coworker nods to you as you settle back into your desk. “Get some much-needed rest?”

You nod your reply. “I did, thanks. Sorry for disappearing so suddenly. That cold was killer. Think I slept about fourteen hours straight.”

She snorts. “Man, no wonder you weren’t answering your phone. Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

She wanders off to her own desk. You take a long sip of your drink, stretch a bit, and get right to your stupid little emails.

You tap away, pausing between sentences to consider, to answer the phone, to sip your drink. Occasionally, to tab over to some other draft when you worry a passing coworker might see exactly what you’re writing. At one or two points, over to your web browser, either to the wikiHow article you’re referencing, or to one of the many other tabs: your online banking, to confirm that this isn’t going to completely kill you (it won’t—all work and no play gives Jack a hefty savings account), or to any number of other wonderful things on the Internet that you suddenly feel comfortable accessing with the letter you’re drafting in the background.

It takes an hour to settle. The letter is drafted, all the right people are copied. You’ve triple checked everything, gotten all your things already slid into your bag or in a box to carry out with you. Made sure everything you need to leave behind is in clear view on your desk. You’ve even prepped an auto-response on your email client so people know who to bother, if not you. It’d take three, maybe four clicks to blow up your life.

You can’t do it.

You reach for your cell and dial.

Noya, despite all that worries you about him, has always been an early riser. He picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Distract me,” you order in lieu of a greeting.

You hear laughter, a slight shuffle. “From what?”

“Doesn’t matter. Just distract me.”

“Ah, you’re doing something you don’t want to talk yourself out of. I’m proud of you!” You hear the smile in his voice, close your eyes to try to visualize it. “Am I allowed to ask what you’re up to? Where you are?”

“No and no. If I tell you, I’ll back out by the time I finish saying it.”

“I get it. Hey, do you still have that mark on your neck from when I—“

Your cheeks burn, fingers dancing along the bruise in question. It had been a bitch to cover with makeup this morning. You’re still not convinced you did so successfully, but no one’s commented on it yet, at least. “No thanks to a certain someone. I still can’t believe you did that.”

“Hey, you said you felt like doing something stupid. Who was I to deny you?”

“Cheeky bastard.” You smile, lean back in your chair a little bit. Click ‘send’. “Oh god. I did it.”

“Am I allowed to ask what you did now?”

“I might throw up. Not sure yet. Hey, how do you feel about renting bikes?”

“Bikes?”

“In Italy. I was looking up, like, bucket lists and stuff, and there’s this road, the Appian way? You can rent bikes and bike it. Apparently, it’s pretty old, and there’s this café we could eat at, and—“

You hear the thunk of something falling in the background of the call. “You’re coming!?”

“Well, I just emailed my resignation letter to my boss and HR, and I can see him panicking in his office from here, so you better have meant it. Here in a minute or two, he’s probably going to call me in, or come yell at me at my desk—“

“When’s your resignation effective? Did you give a notice?”

“Effective as soon as he stops panicking.”

A bark of laughter sounds in your ear. “So if he comes to yell at you, just leave. You already quit, anyway. What’s he gonna do?”

“Good point. Leaving now.” You stand, scoop up your bag. “I have two months left on my lease. If you didn’t mean that thing about me housesitting while you’re off seeing the world, speak now before I call my landlord and let him know I’m canceling that, too.”

“All yours, but your rent is walking around without pants whenever I’m home.”

You roll your eyes. Pause to wave at your boss on your way out the door. If he shouts after you, you don’t hear it. You’ve got a trip to Italy to plan.

Tags: @deeplightgarden @idonthaveanameideayet @dusstory

If you'd like to be tagged, shoot me a message or an ask, or ask here in the replies, tags, or reblogs and let me know what you'd like to be tagged in (all works, all works specific to a character, all smut works, etc.). If your name appears on this list but is not underlined and you didn't get a notification, please check to make sure that your blog is NOT set to not appear in search results in your blog settings! If you've got that set that way for a particular reason, consider subscribing to the fic on ao3 for an equivalent update notification, as I always crosspost simultaneously! After three unsuccessful tagging attempts, you will be removed from the list.

As always, thanks for reading! <3

#nishinoya yuu x reader #yuu nishinoya x reader #noya x reader #noya/reader #nishinoya yuu/reader #my fics

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leoruby-draws · 11 months ago

Note

in your training wheels AU w rose, jay, and eddie … i think it’s clear that eddie has a crush on rose, but who would end up being the pairing between the two boys with rose considering jason and rose are a “couple” in main continuity? also, love the au and amazing art! :)

Yes, there does seem to be something going on with all three of them, doesn't it? Atm, everyone's just kids, so romance won't really pop up (unless like, for a gag or whatever). Maybe as they hit their teens, there might be crazy love triangle drama going on. Its ok if it does, they are superheroes, dumb drama is the name of the game in DC comics lol. Lemme see if I can get my thoughts in order for this..

Your 100% correct that Eddie has an enormous crush on Rose, just like in canon. Also like canon, it was pretty much a love at first sight kinda thing. As for why, well there's the fact that he thinks Rose is very pretty and cute. But also he loves how skilled she is as a fighter and how dedicated she is to her craft. She can do anything according to him! Even as they grow older, that infatuation never really goes away. If anything, it grows stronger.

It's also extremely obvious to just about everyone on the team (and off!), only question is if Rose knows and just ignores it. Or if she's genuinely oblivious, she's pretty focused on protecting her mom and training her martial art skills.

As for Rose, she's not interested in romance at the moment (she is a kid after all), that might change as she gets older and gains more control over her life. And while she may or may not be aware of Eddie's crush on her, she might have a minor thing for Jason. It's not nearly as overt at Eddie's thing, so only some of the more perceptive team members might know. It's kinda of embarrassing for her to be all 'girly' like that.

As for why Jason, well not only is it a reference to canon JayRose, there's also the fact that in this au Jason was willing to help her out when he didn't even know who she was. He's a dedicated fighter like her, smart, and she thinks he's cute (at least once he reveals his secret id).

This crush is something that develops very slowly over the years, it kinda catches her off guard almost. I don't know if she ever tries to ask him out or anything, once Jason hits his fifteenth birthday, she might just miss her chance perhaps...

As for Jason, well that's just a mystery! But seriously, whatever his own opinions on all this, he seems to be keeping his cards close to his chest. Does he gain a crush on Rose too? Is it Eddie he has a crush on? Is he jealous of how easily Rose steal's Eddie's attention? Or does he see Eddie as competition for Rose? Every member of the Outlaws has a different idea on what's happening on Jason's end, and none of those idea's overlap lol. Just like in the fandom, every member of the team seems to read Jason differently (and for some, just straight up don't understand him).

It seems for now, Jason would rather not think about stuff like that and just concentrate on having fun with friends! He's just a kid you know!

Anyways here's a funny doodle that's just perfect for this question:

Thanks for the question, that was interesting to think about! Have a good day!

#ask #Rose Wilson #Eddie Bloomberg #Jason Todd #my art #sorry my thoughts are all jumbled up #was kinda spitballing there for a bit #also I just realized i fucked up on Jason's arm in that pic #sigh...#I suppose I should've also added that in the comics #Jason doesn't seem to have in interest in dating at all #but it's hard to tell if thats due to innate nature #or due to his traumatic life #so i'm not sure how to incorporate that into this carefree au Jason

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bulbabutt · 7 months ago

Note

I haven’t watched TFP, but I was curious about your tag mentioning the TFP hated women so much that it drove you crazy on your Arcee design post, so may I ask what you mean?

(And like, yeah, Transformers being misogynistic isn’t a big surprise, but I’m asking for the specific problems TFP has, rather than say TFA, which I’m more familiar with)

((Still really fucking pissed at TFA Arcee’s treatment too, btw))

OOF OKAY WELL LETS SEE HOW LONG THIS GETS

number 1: agreed on the animated arcee treatment. that show suffered from the blackarachnia versus arcee dichotomy of women, the good and the bad, on top of the using a womans tragic backstory to push forward a mans character motivation. they did it TWO TIMES, with BOTH their female characters. their characters dont end up being their own because their backstories both feed in to their respective male counterparts motivations (optimus and ratchet) and like...... while i LOVE animated they didnt do a very good job at all with the women (sari is more so a child character as a whole than a woman character, but also something something all 3 women are like biologically weird plot devices? so thats. hrm. also the oversexualization of sari when shes forcibly aged. also shes south asian and so the oversexualizing hits harder etc etc) basically its a whole can of worms but a good scene setter to talk about prime with.

so animated is cancelled because "the hub" network is making its own transformers show, but this ones written by the live action movie writers. uh oh. those arent written very well at all. i believe their intention was "you can write a movie but way longer and do more stuff" which isnt really... how that should work. anyway the way both minorities and women are represented by those bad movies is really bad, theyre very pro military anti minority conservative garbage that i genuinely think has warped a lot of young minds at the time and its a problem now. human women being objectified and placed as reward in the narrative and all that. robot women WE CANT DO ROBOT WOMEN THATS TOO CONFUSING!!!! oh ok you get one. ok she died. are you happy women? now a show written by them.

now on its surface, here we finally have a girl transformer in the main lineup, thats good! on its surface, arcee is a main character, a badass warrior. if youve been on my blog ive talked before about this weird mid 2000s switch up to making girl characters becoming less girly and more like. idk tomboyish? more cool and into guy stuff, that kind of comes about from the ALL MALE writing teams going "well we dont know how to write a girl/we dont wanna be sexist" but they dont actually know how to write women. so arcee's characterization is like. oh shes cold and serious and has a tragic past. its like a dude character, how do we write tragic backstories for dude characters? we fridge their women. so we just do that in reverse. what they did with her was give her TWO tragic backstories, one being that her "partner" cliffjumper dies and shes mad and wants revenge. and the other is that her "partner" tailgate dies and she wants revenge. basically her motivations allllll revolve around men. its not about what she goes through, its all about that she's a "woman scorned". its not even that it implies romance, the show never gives you a clear picture of what "partner" actually means in either context. this is topped off by pairing her with a teenage boy. in fairness, three of the transformers get paired off with a kid, but oh boy do a lot of problems arise from this specific pairing.

so number one: women being objectified is a problem in general, but it comes across worse when the woman can turn into a literal object and you dont think about the repercussions of that. jack darby sees a cool motorcycle parked and he just... he sits his ass down on it. it violates her personal space, and then he continues to use her body to show off to teenage girls. this is the basis of their relationship, that she looked like a cool vehicle he wanted so he claimed her. yes, he didnt know she was a person, but narratively we do. this will continue to be a thing over the series, arcee is jacks object now, he owns her and thus can use her to show off. what does arcee think of being used this way? not important. outside of her relationships with jack cliffjumper and tailgate, we dont really know a damn thing about arcee. its all about her traumas over MEN. be it romantic or platonic, the show cant tell the difference, because jacks MOM enters the picture like "you seem to be out late with some GIRL who is she" and thus there is beef between the two. because... you know women.

speaking of jacks mom: she should have been in the show as a regular paired off with ratchet. shes a nurse and hes an ambulance. are the writers stupid? its so fucking obvious. but no, she exists to have beef with arcee on behalf of being jacks mom. which makes it more clear that they're trying to say..... SOMETHING weird about jack and arcee.... aaaaaand then as a romantic interest for fowler. shes here because of her son and romance partner.

arcee is this cool warrior whos done all this stuff and is trying to keep the world safe and her people a secret, BUT JACKS MOM THINKS SHES IN THE GARAGE! so she better get back there for his sake! also shes so cool and level headed and doesnt want to drag race a punk kid who's making fun of jack BUT THEN HE SAID SHE WAS FAT SO NOW SHE CANT HELP BUT BE MAD! thats basically her personality as it stands throughout the show. oh she also makes fun of bulkhead for showing emotion one time. cuz like.... girls! being! sexist! to! show! theyre! cool!!!!

anyway. theres an issue with the writing of all the kids, cuz their plot relevance is really weak and felt super forced to keep them all in the story, many other versions of tf have done this better, but they basically force a relationship between characters and say "yep thats it thats the set up every child has their own pet robot, done and done"

one of these kids is MIKO. oh miko. in a world in which this show was good they would have combined the child characters and just had it be miko, because this poor girl is so disrespected by the narrative. she's presented as a "wild child" and thus paired off with bulkhead, whos a big bruiser who now has to act as her handler. she gets into trouble with the transformers a lot, like sneaking on missions and not taking the disguise part seriously. cuz like....shes stupid or something! haha isnt that funny! shes an exchange student from japan, she offhandedly says things about getting detention and things about her home stay parents being afraid of her. we get NO ELABORATION. we meet jacks mom, we see raf's family, THIS PART NEVER COMES UP AGAIN. miko clearly has no support system outside of the transformers, and she is often disrespected and made fun of by jack specifically and the narrative never makes him feel bad about it. each kid feels ownership over their robot, and the most change she ever gets to go through is having bulkhead almost die and so she's sad about it (also this is the only time she has a heart to heart with arcee. ABOUT A MALE CHARACTER) like if we could combine all the kids traits into one kid and have it be miko, a wild child whos good with computers and make june darby her home stay mom who eventually notices she keeps being missing that would make it way stronger of a character. also shes suffering from that alt asian girl colour streak syndrome, cuz she wouldnt be characterful enough if she wasnt also alt. if she didnt like punk music and monster trucks who would she be? the writers dont care.

and then for our LAST girl character we have blackarachnia I MEAN AIRACHNID. totally new character. uh. okay so you know how blackarachnia in animated was just like.... a succubus? which felt bad there? its worse here. shes a very one dimensional villain, which is fine, but they couldnt even keep her as being arcee's arch nemesis without literally redoing the same backstory they had just given her with cliffjumper. first they write cliffjumper as her partner and he's killed by starscream. then okay, arcee has an old nemesis from cybertron and thats airachnid what did she do? kill her PREVIOUS partner tailgate.

o_____O

you just....... you did it again? are you serious? they could only think of ONE way a woman would have any motivation and they just. did it two times. and they made that the basis of the whole beef, so even though this story could be the one to give you some toxic yuri ass relationship between these two women, it literally ends up being about men. AND THEN it's "shes gonna kill jack, arcees NEW partner"

do you see what im getting at? every woman revolves around men. they cant have motivations outside of men. they cant have any traits that make them interesting on their own. and even then, they dont know what to do with airachnid when she joins the decepticons so they just have megatron try to get her killed and she fucks off for a while, coming back to be turned into a LITERAL. LIIIIITERAL SUCCUBUS at the end. im not joking, they make her suck the energon out of men and shes on moon somewhere just doing that and thats how her story ends. like you can tell they casted a lot of bigger voice actors and had to get rid of them somehow but JESUS. double down on the issue with animated blackarachnia here ffs

aaaand. im pretty sure thats all the women. but yeah. none of them are well characterized, none of them have much agency if any at all. and on top of that, they are NOT allowed to be girly. arcee isnt pink PURELY because it would be weird to have a boy ride a pink motorcycle. arcee actually HATES pink (even though she is partially pink) and the writers literally make her say that. like why. just to show off "see shes not a GIRLY girl. shes just a girl"

like prime is bad for many reasons, like its depiction of disabled characters, turning bumblebee into raf's pet robot (who raf can magically understand without ANY explanation) without a care in the world for what he thinks or feels until he can speak again. like theres smalllll amounts of times he gets some good characterization, but for the most part he has no agency (see speed metal, an episode where jack asks RAF's permission to use bumblebee in a race, not bumblebee cuz he cant talk how could he have a choice). theres also weird characterization of bulkhead, which didnt really hit me until seeing him in RID alongside that grimlock, its only 2 black voiced characters who are very violent and clumsy and not very smart. uh. thats not good! there's also levels of homophobia to its depictions of starscream and knockout, things we can look back on now like "haha its camp" but at the time like. no they were writing it that way cuz its funny that they're queer. starscream being a complete fop IS the joke. calling him a "stiletto heeled freak" IS the joke. its a really bigoted show on top of just being written SUPER poorly. so you can all around TELL its written by the writers of the movies.

this got ramble-y but you activated my trap card, prime is the worst show because its presents itself as super cool and serious and dark while being written by bigoted idiots who couldnt write their way out of a wet paper back. "oh we ran out of money to pay this actor so we killed their character" THEN STOP MAKING BRAND NEW CHARACTERS MAKING YOUR TEAM DESIGN MODEL AND RIG THEM AND HIRING BRAND NEW PEOPLE TO PLAY THEM EVERY 2 EPISODES JUST TO HAVE THEM NARRATIVELY DO NOTHING AND THEN DIE!!! dumb. dumb show. dumb show so stupid. so stupid and it thinks its not stupid because its so so stupid. (doing the frankie from community bit cuz this is the way i calm myself down cuz the show makes me so mad because its so stupid lmfao)

#the tf binge thoughts #when i got this ask i said to the editor 'this is a worm on a hook and im a stupid little fish'#cuz i gen was like. hrm this could backfire on me but also. rambling on about shit like this is fuel to me and it was REQUESTED #so i gotta give the people what they want

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lunisfamily · 5 months ago

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Tbh, Ilana is someone who should've been fleshed out more. Thanks to CN dropping the ball, we may not known where her story goes from here. Like rewatching the series again and I do like her introduction and the way she carries herself. I need to finish watching the series again.

[ok so its been a bit since i watched the whole series front to bottom as i've been occasionally been watching it out of order so take this opinion atm with a grain of salt]

ok for real i was so ready for the bigger Ilana episodes because she has some heavy survivors guilt, homesickness, and some balancing to do with being a selfless princess and being mildly overbearing sometimes and frustrated with her endeavors falling short.

i absolutely love the way she carries herself too and sbt has such a strong sense of personality for the m.c's that she has very good dynamics and never loses her place in the trio. she is fun and fascinating to watch.

but while the series does well in unwinding lance from thinking that he's useless if he isn't fighting at least by 50%[ developed by his strong relationship to the other 2 to help him get out of his own head and TRULY think of whats best for them all and WHEN to fight] , and octus growing into his own personhood has reached the nice middle point by the final episode with his face being the center instead of his metal core [and fresh unique dynamics with kimmy and meat to show how he can be more than whatever he was meant for], a lot of Ilana's stuff feels like it is in the seed and growing phase still. like more than them.

she wants to be the leader she is but its harder to do in this high school so...? how will this affect her arc because she is going to go back at one point because she's a princess? what is the more positive arc she's having by being here vs being at home?

she misses home!...something that will be handled in the future... but its middle ground atm is the ball with a galaluna theme that has her finding the homecoming committee to help her capture some peace for the moment

and again she remains an absolute unit of a character because even if some of the bigger questions are up in the air because she has such a strong personality and presence and does get some smaller problems worked on via group development because the group dynamic is strong <3

she feels like all she ever does is try with lance but they still work out their relationship due to octus stepping in and saying yeah... both of you keep trying but not by snipping at each other about how much you DON'T understand each other! and there is like so many points where its clear she's lost in interacting with him that feel like her status as a princess as a complication might be brought to the forefront later [like lance bringing up that he does feel that people "like her" could never understand him and Ilana does have his reputation at the ready in the starting episodes vs them being closer but being reminded that his job is to protect her]

as the series proceeds they HAVE become closer [stuff like the chill hangout/doing the project together/ and lance dancing with her because yes the princess misses her home/and close enough that ilana can try to be supportive of his passions like in disenfranchised...key word try.] they even are united in their love for octus. they have slowly been overcoming that idea that they could never have anything in common.

and maybe as a princess the war tore that one boy she liked away [ and the whole episode is even her turning into a monster against her will] but as a student she can try to have something low stakes and sweet [and again how is that going to measure to up to her having to return? what change has happened that will be more challenged by the return to galaluna or even just by who she used to be]

and again octus not just being a tool her father gave her but a true friend she loves

the minor "some rules are ok to break" episode and little moments like maybe her being demanding of lance's nightmare and then apologetic when she hears it or her leadership skills with announcing the phone number coming in handy even if lance does ask her to tone it down, all the support that octus gives her as her fellow bottom of the barrel pal

so basically its not like NOTHING is being done with her its just that the payoff to these developments isn't as super clear as octus and lance's atm [imo]...and never will be WHY CN?

partically because its easier to pinpoint why being on earth is good for lance and octus [again imo]

CN really did drop the ball because i heard somewhere the next 10 episodes were already written??! i want to seeeeeeeeeeeee T.T

i really do have to properly rewatch the series again.

#asks #sym bionic titan #sbt thoughts #remember grain of salt

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monstroso · 1 year ago

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literally what makes the aristocats bad. its got nice songs. it has silly characters. it’s got really pretty backgrounds and the old hand-drawn disney animation. it’s inspired by a true story. what’s there to dislike.

(*cough* aside from the racism that permeates most if not all of the old Disney movies but since that’s present in so many of them no special case should to be made against the aristocats for it to be a worse movie because of that shared trait *cough*)

also I hope this didn’t come across as like. confrontational or anything bc it’s not supposed to be. legitimately want to hear your thoughts 👍

No, I love this! I appreciate being asked my thoughts, especially since the good people in the tags have told me loud and clear that I am in the minority on this one.

I will say, I did not expect the poll to have quite the legs it's got on it now. My polls usually only get about 60 votes. If I'd known 4,700 strangers and counting would have an opinion on this, I might have worded it differently. The real reason I didn't include The Aristocats is because I knew it would run away with the thing. Most people consider it a classic, regardless of what my opinions on it actually are. I thought throwing in a cheeky little line about it would be a fun gag for my followers who know I'm a true hater at heart.

Before I even got this ask - and because the overwhelming majority of the tags on the poll are telling me I have no taste - I actually did start rewatching it! Hundreds of strangers on the internet have never been wrong before, right? Part of the problem is I have next to no nostalgia for it. We didn't own the VHS when I was a child, so the only times I ever saw it were when I'd go to a friend's house or borrow it from the library. Maybe my judgement was clouded by not having seen it in a very long time.

First things first: The good stuff. There are parts of this film that rank alongside the best of the Disney classics, and I would be remiss in not mentioning them.

The music, for one, is pretty good. You'd have to be some kind of real Scrooge not to enjoy "Ev'rybody Wants to Be a Cat" of course, but on a rewatch I did find myself grinning through "Thomas O'Malley Cat" as well. This is an easy point in the film's favor though, as I'm an absolute sucker for both big band and jazz. This is great use of your Scatman Crothers and Phil Harris, top points awarded for these two numbers in particular.

The animation is also pretty good. Especially on Edgar and Thomas O'Malley. Your mileage may vary on the Xerox style, but the animation itself is relatively unimpeachable. This was still during the era of the Nine Old Men, so there's all kind of impressive work being done with the big sweeping things like character movement and expression as well as in the more subtle animations like expressions and mouth movement.

The cats are doing all the cat stuff you'd expect like licking their paws and poof'ing their tails, but there's less expected movements here too, like arching their backs when walking alongside things or rolling in the dirt to dry off from the river. This is good character work, but it's also pretty standard for guys like Milt Kahl and Eric Larson. If you're at all interested in animation, I highly encourage you to read more about the Nine Old Men and their history with the studio.

(A big thanks to the tumblr gif artists for gif'ing the parts of this movie that look good so I can spice this post up with some relevant visuals!)

Now, the bad. Like many movies from this era, The Aristocats has something of a pacing problem. While it is necessary to do the work of setting up the conflict in the beginning, you might be surprised to learn that it takes 25 minutes for Thomas O'Malley to show up, which is when the story actually starts.

A huge part of the problem is that this movie suffers from a sort of directionless vignetticism that seems to have been driven only by the idea that it would be cute to see the animals do X, Y, and Z. "Oh wouldn't it be sweet to see the kitten paint?" "Wouldn't it be so adorable if the cat played the piano?" "Ohh, what if the mouse ate a cracker dipped in milk, wouldn't that be darling?" I have a very high tolerance for schmaltz, but The Aristocats is where even I must draw the line.

When the movie isn't being tooth-rottingly sweet, it's frequently boring, and when it's not being either of those things it's showing you another chase scene with the dogs and the butler. It's erratic, tiring, and strains the limits of the modern attention span even at the movie's incredibly sparse runtime. It's a 79 minute film and you feel all 79 of those minutes.

Tonally, much of the movie smacks of the kind of rose-tinted sentimentalism Disney was known (and even criticized at the time) for, but without the guiding hand of the man himself, nearly 5 years gone by this point. The studio was floundering in the wake of Walt's death, and The Aristocats is quite close to the nadir of this particular creative valley - though the distinction arguably goes to Robin Hood, I'm much softer on that film for a number of reasons.

The Aristocats reminds me a lot of Lady & the Tramp, in that it's the same story (down to the aforementioned racist caricatures of Siamese cats), but with cats instead of dogs and with a much less focused sense of purpose, tone, and creative direction. If you like The Aristocats for the music and the beautiful scenery, but you haven't seen Lady & the Tramp, give that one a try instead. The animation is better, the music is about on-par, and it doesn't have as many stupid chase scenes. Or just watch 101 Dalmatians, which outstrips both films on sheer charm alone.

I think I had more I wanted to say, but it was mostly rambling that got away from the point. On rewatch, I don't think this movie is as bad as I remember it being, but I stand by my decision not to include it in the poll.

tl;dr - The Aristocats isn't the worst. If you grew up watching it I totally understand having a soft spot for the music and the atmosphere. In a vacuum, I can't say I think it holds up but ultimately I'm not going to judge anyone for enjoying it. Thanks for the ask!

#the aristocourse #asks #chaoswithcausation #the aristocats #midsneypocalypse

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lillyanne4writes · 6 months ago

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JJK/Gege Akutami appreciation post

Yeah, you read that title right. I get it that the entire fandom is upset with the latest leaks but I've seen so many angry/hateful comments toward Gege and it's making me sad. So here's a post to highlight some things I like about JJK. :)

This is in no way a complete list, so feel free to add on with your own takes too! Also, it's a long post, so I'm putting the meat of it under the cut.

The characters & their dynamics

Jjk has a huge cast, and yet every character is so unique and compelling. The reason I got into this anime (and later the manga) despite not really being into anime in general was how charming the main four characters were. Yuuji, Nobara, Megumi and Gojo immediately hooked me; I could probably watch 10 seasons of a slice of life show that's just them getting into shenanigans.

Fun interactions aside, my favourite thing about the characterisation is how everyone in this manga is allowed to have their own view on the world, especially on what it means to live a good life and die a good death. The narrative allows those views to clash without preaching about who is "correct". Characters disagree and learn from each other and their views develop organically (not necessarily in a positive direction, but always dynamically in a response to the situations they find themselves in - Yuuji's arc on how he views himself and his goals comes to mind). That stuff is really hard to write.

And it's not just the main cast either. The supporting characters are very memorable too; even minor ones have distinct personalities and clear motivations and often a backstory to explain why they are the way they are. My personal favourite background characters are Mai, Noritoshi and Tsumiki.

The worldbuilding

Can we talk about how creative the concept of curses and cursed energy is? Negative emotions accumulating into physical manifestations of things that people fear, hate, etc. is a hell of a cool idea. This is why the curse villains are my favourites in the series: from Mahito as a representation of the worst of humanity in his childish glee and sadism and cowardice to Jogo's philosophy of curses as "true beings" because they don't hide their nature and Hanami's almost sympathetic care for nature are all interesting explorations of how we view the world around us that would not be possible in a different kind of magic system. Add to that the array of creative techniques that sorcerers possess, the cursed objects, and the grade system that conveniently allows us to keep track of the danger levels of all this - you get an impressively complex magic system that still remains understandable (and fun to watch even if you don't want to keep track of the nitty-gritty and are just here for the spectacle).

Not to mention that jujutsu society is, well, a society. We get a sense of who the powerful and the oppressed are in this community, how their powers factor into that, how different characters feel about this, what they are doing to change it or on the contrary, to keep the traditions going... Every character exists in the web of a clear power structure which they interact with, influencing it and being influenced in turn. This results in a super interesting dynamic where certain characters can be enemies one moment (for example when the Kyoto students try to kill Yuuji during the exchange event on Gakuganji's, and by extension the higher-ups' orders) and allies the next (when it's time to pull together against a curse).

I'm reserving my judgement on the plot, themes and overall character arcs for now, because those things can only be really analysed once the story is complete. But even if I'll be unhappy with the ending, I'll still be very grateful for this unique world and its loveable inhabitants.

Of course, you might disagree with me on all this, and that's fine. Dropping the manga because you don't like the direction the story took is fine. Choosing to live in fanfiction delulu land is also fine. Gritting your teeth and sticking it out till the end despite disliking the plot because you're too invested to quit is also fine. Criticism and jokes are fine. The one thing that isn't fine is hating on the creator for the way they are choosing to tell their story.

Thank you for coming to my ted talk.

Tl;dr: If you're upset about the direction JJK is taking, please try to remember why you cared so much about it in the first place. And remember that Gege is just a person sharing a story with us, and disliking someone's story is not an acceptable reason to hate on them.

#i'm aware that probably no one will read all this but i had to get this off my chest #the fandom is getting so toxic it's such a shame #gege is out there writing a manga where dehumanisation and the pressure to be perfect and how damaging that is is a MAJOR theme #and people are getting mad because the story isn't perfect/up to their standards #am i the only one seeing the irony here #how can people be mad at someone for just... creating something?#even if jjk has the absolute worst terribly written dumpster fire ending imaginable i'll still be defending gege #they came up with an incredibly creative world and a huge cast of memorable loveable characters and i'll always be grateful for that #i was trying to keep this post positive but the ranting kind of slipped into the tags sorry #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk manga #jjk fandom #fandom culture #can we stop hating on creators for creating please #gege akutami #gege when i catch you gege #i'll say thank you for creating a story that impacted me even if it wasn't perfect

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starstruckkittensweets · 2 years ago

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“Snowdrop” Pt. II (Kenny x Reader)

Fandom: Attack on Titan Pairing: Kenny x Reader Words: 8.1k

A/N: It’s been...84 years since I last posted the first part. It stands on its own but it doesn’t dabble into *the good stuff*, and thankfully this one does! It’s strange returning to a fic after so much time has passed, especially with a character I don’t always write for! Nevertheless I hope you guys enjoy this one!

Warnings: 18+ only (minors please DNI), medieval setting, fallen kingdoms, heavy swearing, hunting and animal death, talk of killing and fighting, Reader practices archery and actively hunts, soulmate bonds, Reader realizing she may or may not be h-word for her soulmate, Reader is also a virgin, oral sex (f. and m. receiving), dirty talk, hair pulling

Part I | Part II | Part III

Through some unspoken arrangement, you start traveling with him officially. He no longer talks about leaving you, and you no longer berate him about the queen. Instead, the two of you spend your days traveling through the remains of the kingdom—the same one your parents loved so dearly—eager to get as far away as you possibly can. At night, you sleep beneath the canopy of the nearby forest, or right underneath the stars, if Kenny is in a particularly good mood. Those nights are few and far between, but they’re your favorites.

Slowly but surely, you realize life with Kenny Ackerman isn’t as bad as you thought it would be. Sure, he’s still rough around the edges, and his mouth seems to grow fouler every day, and there’s no changing his huntsman nature any time soon. But he talks to you a bit more than he used to. He actually shuts up and listens when you tell him the stories your father used to tell you—about the vast forests, the rushing rivers and crashing waterfalls, and everything along those lines. Once in a while, he’ll even ask you about your old life, back before Frieda took over the kingdom and became queen. Those seem to be his favorite stories to hear, although he’ll probably never admit it.

It’s the little things you grow to enjoy. The usual tossing of the scratchy brown blanket on colder nights. The exaggerated grumble in his voice as he pays for your meals along with his own. The way he tips his hat over his eyes, as if he thinks it’ll hide his face completely—and sometimes, if he’s really annoyed with you, he’s swipe his hat off and slap it right on your head, before walking off as though nothing had happened. That’s happened more than either of you care to admit, but every time it does, you always have a hard time wiping that damn smile off your face.

Maybe it’s the soulmate thing. Yeah, it has to be.

But life with him has been far from easy. There are still ruffians out there, secretly working for Frieda, searching every city and village for even the faintest trace of you. They’re all the same to you, whether they’re castle guards, off-duty knights, or just simple villagers looking for a reward from their beloved queen. Although you’ve traded your torn skirts for tunics and trousers (at Kenny’s suggestion), your face is still recognizable. You’re nowhere near safe, despite the lies you tell yourself at night. It’s a hard truth to accept, but one of these days, you know Kenny will no longer be here to protect you.

You have to be ready when that day comes.

“Teach me to fight.”

For the first time since you met him, Kenny looks genuinely shocked. He lowers his blade, the small cleaning cloth dangling from his fingertips. His eyes are wider than you’ve ever seen them; in this bright afternoon sun, in the heart of this forest’s clearing, you notice just how strong those flecks of blue are—and how…captivating they can actually be.

You expect him to laugh, like he always does whenever you say something he deems ridiculous. Or brush you off, or ignore you completely. But instead, he keeps staring at you, his mouth pressed into a thin, tight line.

“No.”

You blink. “Why not? Isn’t it better if I should know?”

He must know it, too. He can’t keep protecting you forever. Worst case scenario, if the two of you end up being separated, you have to be prepared to defend yourself. Besides, it would take some of the weight off his shoulders, if he knew you could handle yourself in a fight. So why is he against the idea in the first place?

He lowers his eyes, scraping the cloth along the blade once more. “You shouldn’t have to learn.”

“But why not?”

When he doesn’t answer you, you take a seat across from him on the forest floor, crossing your legs in front of you. His eyes flicker up to meet yours, but only for a split second. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he decides to give you an answer.

“It’s dirty business. A hole you can’t crawl out of. It’s hard to stop once you start. And I know you wanna learn and all,” he cuts you off, the moment you open your mouth, “but just listen to me. You shouldn’t have to do that to yourself.”

You keep your lips sealed, waiting for him to continue. He clears his throat, places his blade down, and leans in close to you. His knee brushes against your own, rustling the red-brown leaves below.

“Listen, kid. You think you’d be able to kill someone, if you had to?”

You want to say yes so badly, just to prove him wrong and insist you can take it. But as the words sink in, you realize the weight of what you’re asking of him—and what he’s asking you, right now.

You remember that fight in the tavern, just a few weeks ago. How you flinched away when Kenny brought his knife to the balding man’s throat. How you kept replaying the sound of his blood spilling onto the stone floor, over and over again in your head for nights on end. How the sound haunted you, every time you closed your eyes.

Could you really be able to do that to someone? End their life with a clean stroke, just like that? Even if they were totally deserving of it…would you be able to swing that blade?

Maybe taking a life had more weight to it than you’d originally thought. Maybe, just maybe, being a huntsman for most of his life had taken a toll on Kenny, in ways you couldn’t even begin to imagine.

Still, you’re persistent as ever. You shake your head and look him directly in the eye, hoping you’ll be enough to convince him.

“If it came down to it—if it’s my life or theirs—I think I could do it.”

He stares at you for a long time after that. Seconds blend into minutes, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ll spend the rest of the day here, staring at each other until the sun goes down.

Suddenly, Kenny shakes his head, tipping his hat over his eyes—and a breathless laugh leaves his lips. Not a mocking one, but a real one.

“Fine, have it your way, kid.” He pushes himself off the ground, and you’re quick to follow his lead. “You have any experience with weapons?”

A silly question to ask a princess, but you were lucky enough to have a father who had a passion for hunting and fighting in his spare time. “I used to practice with a bow.” You used to spend hours out in the meadows with your father, hitting that silly red target until your fingers ached from the cold.

“Tch, a coward’s weapon.”

Your skin prickles at his voice. “No it’s not!”

But Kenny seems so sure of himself—and judging by the smirk on his face, he’s having way too much fun riling you up. “Sure it is. You like to stand back and hit your target from a distance. Stay away from the actual fight. I’ve seen it before.” His fingers dance along the handle of his blade, the one he always seems to go for in the heat of battle. “Now this—this will win you fights. Not some shitty bow and a few arrows.”

You roll your eyes at his dismissive tone. He might be right, but you’re not about to give up. You have a special bond with shooting a bow. Even now, nearly a decade later, it still reminds you of your father.

“I don’t care. My father taught me how to use a bow. I’m not going to give up on it.”

For a moment, Kenny’s face softens, and you think you see something flash in those dark blue eyes of his. But then he’s turning away from you, heading over toward the pair of horses you’ve tied up a few yards away, right at the edge of the clearing. His black stallion snorts, and the silver mare blinks sleepily at you.

A spare gray blanket is draped across his stallion’s back, hiding the stash of weapons Kenny always likes to cart around. He’s picked up a few new blades over the last couple weeks, adding a new sword or two to his collection. But his favorites have always been the knives—especially the curved one he always polishes. It’s probably the only one he ever bothers to clean and keep nice.

“Stubborn little shit,” he grumbles, tossing the blanket off to the side. “No use in changing your mind, is there?”

You tilt your head, lips already parted to ask what he means by that—but then he turns around, and your throat tightens at the sight before you.

It’s an old bow, but still strong and sturdy. You’ve seen this kind before; in fact, it’s the same kind of longbow your father used to practice with. Made of yew with a strong bowstring, and a simple but elegant look to it. Beautiful in its own fierce way.

How long has he had this for? This is the first time you’ve seen it, and you definitely would’ve remembered him snatching up a bow as beautiful as this one from the knights and guards you’ve encountered. Has he been hiding this from you, for all this time?

He all but shoves the bow into your trembling hands. The yew is smooth, practically polished, and the grip made of firm leather. You trace your finger down the curve, savoring the gorgeous sight in absolute silence.

“Take it,” he grumbles, and his hand lifts up to touch the brim of his hat. “Don’t have much use for those kinds of weapons, anyway…”

A soft thank you dances along the tip of your tongue—but your mouth is too dry to get the words out. And when he reaches around to hand you a small quiver, your throat begins to burn.

“If you want, I can get you some more arrows. They’re always easy enough to find. So just deal with these for now.”

There are six arrows in the quiver—more than enough to practice with. Steel arrowheads, white feathers, and just as sturdy as the bow itself. Seeing them now makes you think of all those memories you have, of watching your father practice shooting his bow in the meadows behind the castle. Of the whistling sound each of the arrows made, and the slice of the bowstring in the warm summer air. And then, of the smile he would send your way, and the way you eagerly clapped for him, before begging him to teach you how to shoot. Even at a young age, you were desperate to be more like him.

Your chest feels tight. For the first time in almost a decade, you feel as though you have a piece of your father right beside you. As though he’s not completely gone—at least, not anymore.

“…Well?” You tilt your head up and blink at the huntsman, who stares at you expectantly. “Aren’t ya gonna thank me, or what?”

Heat crashes over your face. “Oh, yes! Thank you… It really means a lot to me, Kenny.”

It’s rare that you ever use his first name, just as he never really uses yours. But hearing it now seems to soften his face, and he pulls his hat even further down his face. A moment later, his hand is against the top of your head, fingers ruffling through your messy hair.

“Just don’t point that thing at me. Ain’t lookin’ to get killed just yet.”

So you practice. For hours and hours, until the sun starts to sink against the horizon. Leaves are tinted with orange, dark shadows coil around the forest floor. The bow feels natural in your hand—strong, dependable, and part of you.

But it’s also been so long since you’ve actually held a bow in your hands, much less shot an arrow and hit your target. Six years in the castle dungeons has taken its toll on you, and you’ve nearly forgotten how to reign in your strength and position your body in all the right ways. It’s strenuous work, but you’re more than happy to have a bow back in your hands.

You barely pay any attention to Kenny, who’s seated in the shade of a nearby tree, still polishing that stupid curved blade of his. Once in a while, you’ll catch him staring at you, before he scoffs, rolls his eyes, and turns back to his work. You only shrug your shoulders and continue practicing. He can make his comments all he likes—nothing can put a damper on your mood now.

You start out small, getting a feel for the bowstring and how it snaps against the yew. Then, you try it with an actual arrow. You’re not surprised when you completely miss your target. You just have a lot of catching up to do.

Arrow after arrow, you practice your aim and your stance. But you’re so engrossed in your training that you barely take note of your surroundings, or the footsteps that inch closer to your spot in the center of the clearing. You don’t even notice until something warm rests on your shoulder, and a shadow crosses your own on the orange-tinted grass.

“Don’t curl your shoulder,” Kenny grunts, setting your shoulder back. “And relax your arm. No wonder your aim is shit, with a stance like that.”

You have half a mind to snap at him, but you follow his advice. Rolling your shoulder, relaxing your arm—it all starts to feel natural. The lessons with your father come flooding back to you, one after another.

And suddenly, you’re back in the meadows behind the castle, with your father positioned behind you. His hands are over your own, directing the bow to the center of your target, whispering words of encouragement in your ear. Lessons with him used to make you feel so warm and safe—only on those days did you feel truly safe, that no one would dare try to hurt you. Now, you feel something a little similar, with Kenny helping you instead of your father. But his warmth is much different than your father’s, if you can even call it that to begin with.

The tips of his fingers press into your lower arms, calloused palms brushing along your skin. His breath falls over your shoulder, and for a brief moment, you almost forget to breathe. That’s when you feel the inside of your wrist begin to burn—right where those three damn words are written into your skin. You grip your bow tighter and take aim at the tree, but almost immediately, Kenny tugs your shoulder back.

“I said don’t curl it,” he grumbles, and you can almost see him rolling his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, kid. Listen for once.”

“I am,” you hiss between clenched teeth. But to your surprise, there’s no real malice in your tone. “Why are you even helping me? I thought you said this was a coward’s weapon.”

“Shut it. If you’re gonna insist on using it, you might as well learn to use it properly.”

You take aim again, purposely refusing to curl your shoulder (and rolling your eyes when you do), and point the arrow in the direction of the tree. The bowstring rests against your lips, the familiar tension sending a shiver down your spine. The huntsman’s hands trail down your arms, keeping them steady against the warm wind.

“Don’t forget to breathe.” You can feel your skin pebble at his voice, hot breath spilling down the back of your neck.

Breathe in, breathe out. You close your eyes and reopen them. The wind caresses the loose strands of your hair, pressing gentle kisses along your face.

The bowstring snaps forward, and there’s a thunk as the steel arrowhead lodges itself into the rough bark of the tree.

“Ha! I did it!” You beam up at Kenny, who watches you with a lopsided smile on his face. “I finally hit it!”

His palm covers the top of your head, mussing up your hair for the millionth time today. For some reason, though, you feel cold when he pulls himself away.

“Nice job, kid. Keep it up and you’ll be a sharpshooter in no time.”

Is that so? The thought makes you smile. If only your father could see you now…

But when Kenny starts to turn away from you, your heart drops to your stomach. Suddenly, your mouth moves before your mind can.

“Thank you, for helping me out. I really appreciate it. You know, even if it’s a coward’s weapon.”

The inside of your wrist itches when the words leave your lips. Kenny stares at you, eyes a dark shade of blue in the light of the dying sun. Perhaps it’s just the orange tint of the sunset—but you swear you can see a splash of pink dancing across his cheeks.

“…Whatever.” He turns away fully, tugging the brim of his hat down over his eyes. “Just keep practicing. And don’t get yourself killed.”

He doesn’t talk to you for the rest of the night, but you don’t mind. In fact, this is the first time you actually enjoy the silence between you. It actually feels natural.

For the first time in years, you fall asleep with a smile on your face, with your fingers curled around the yew bow, and Kenny’s stupid scratchy blanket draped over your shoulders.

The next few weeks are spent wandering the forests, practicing your aim and your stance. When you get tired of shooting at trees, Kenny suggests shooting at animals—the smaller ones, of course. At first, you’re appalled, but then you realize winter’s only a few months away. The two of you won’t be able to rely on tavern food forever.

Kenny helps you with picking out game. Squirrels, wild turkeys, rabbits—it’s all food, one way or another. Meat is meat, and as Kenny insists all the time, “It tastes much better if you kill it yourself.”

It makes you sick, the first time you bring down a rabbit. But once it’s skinned and cooked (and the urge to vomit has left your throat), your growling belly wins you over. The meat…isn’t as bad as you thought it would be. But maybe that just has to do with the way Kenny prepares it.

But once you get comfortable with the practice, Kenny leaves the hunting to you. He prefers to set snares around whatever campsite the two of you make for the week, instead of going after game himself. You can see his reasoning—one morning, the two of you woke up to see a belt of fat rabbits hanging from the snares he set a few days before. When you ask him about it, he simply shrugs his shoulders.

“Don’t really like to get my hands dirty out here. Snares are cleaner than knives, anyway.”

Yet, he doesn’t have a problem with killing people. But you keep your mouth shut. You don’t want to get on his bad side so early in the morning.

It takes about a month or so for you to realize the changes in your behavior—both professional and personal. You don’t stick your nose up to hunting for game anymore. You’ve gotten used to the nighttime chill that settles in your bones when the sun goes down. Kenny’s soft snores become a comfort, rather than an aggravation. In fact, when it comes to the huntsman—your soulmate, the voice in your head is quick to remind you—you’re starting to find yourself feeling more and more at ease with him. Dare you say it, you’re starting to trust the man.

You blame the marks on your wrists, the stupid promise of soulmates written on your skin. But something tells you there’s more than that. There’s more than the words that keeps drawing you toward him.

And as the summer months go on, you suspect he might be feeling the same way.

He ruffles your hair more often than not. He gives you gruff compliments every time you bring back game. On colder nights, you lean in close and drape half of the brown blanket over his lap. This particular practice quickly becomes a ritual, and even when it’s warm out, you rest your head on his shoulder and snuggle in close. He mutters under his breath about it, but he never shoves you away. Instead, he lets you stay and sleep with him, silently watching over you with his knife in his hand.

You’re starting to feel safe with him—but that’s what scares you the most.

Because these feelings of warmth and protection and security…aren’t that simple. You enjoy the way he feels against you at night, with his shoulder pressed against your cheek. You enjoy the constant head pats and scarce compliments—even if they are a little backhanded sometimes. The way he looks at you, the way he holds you, the way he pulls you close every time the two of you come across a new village or town—everything sends a shiver down your spine.

You enjoy his attention. You want more of it.

No, not attention.

You just want him.

In the dead of night, when Kenny is fast asleep beside you, you bury your face into his shoulder and breathe in his scent. Musk and pine, with a touch of smoke. Smoking used to be a hobby of his, in the earlier days of your traveling. He always used to laugh when you scrunched your face up in disgust. But he only smokes once or twice now, just to get on your nerves.

The scent clings to his clothes, his skin. The pine of the forest around you, the sweat of his brow, the scratchy blanket around you two—all of it just feels like home.

Your eyes burn with tears, but you press your face deeper into his shoulder before they get a chance to fall. The words etched on the inside of your wrist begin to itch.

Maybe this is what your mother always meant when she talked about soulmates. This overwhelming sensation, when your chest feels full, your mind can’t stop racing, and your fingers quiver uncontrollably. All you can think about is how much this man means to you, how much you want him to remain in your life.

Love.

The word tastes funny on your tongue, and you almost laugh, in spite of yourself. You’ve got to be kidding. The words Kenny Ackerman and love belong nowhere near each other.

But you can’t stop yourself from thinking about it. There’s a part of you that loves this man—this aging, foul-mouthed, murderous man.

You don’t get much sleep that night.

The summer breezes turn icy. Leaves sprinkled with red and brown and yellow begin fluttering to the ground. The air grows crisp and cool. The dirt of the forest floor is no longer soft, but hard and stiff. It crunches beneath your boots with every step you take.

Autumn is fast approaching. You need to find shelter, to wait out the upcoming winter months.

The nights are getting even more unbearable—apart from the shift in weather. It’s getting harder and harder to keep your distance from Kenny. Bumping into him on the road, giving him backhanded compliments more often, even stealing his hat right off his head to wear it. When the moon is high and the owls sing, you find yourself snuggling close for warmth. He allows you to stay, but there’s always that little voice in the back of your head, wondering how long it will last.

“I’ll set a few snares,” he says, his voice ripping you out of your thoughts, “try to see what I can find. You alright out here for a bit?”

You flash him a smile and tap your bow, hanging from your left shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Try not to get into any trouble out there, okay?”

He scoffs before reaching out to touch your hair. “Should be telling you the same thing, brat.” His fingers feel warm, brushing along the skin of your forehead. “We’ll head out tomorrow. Deal?”

“Deal.”

With that, the two of you split up, and you sling your bow off your shoulder and draw an arrow, eyes pried for any lingering game.

It’s becoming more difficult to find good animals out here. What with the colder months looming over you, game has been growing scarce. It’s not long before the animals become nothing but skin and bones. Of course, you always have a supply of dried meat that Kenny likes to keep around, but until you find some shelter and properly store it, it won’t do you much good.

There’s a river a few yards away—you can hear the water crashing all the way from here. A spark of hope comes to life in your chest. Water means animals. You’re bound to find something over there, if you’re patient enough.

As you head for the river, you think back to your conversation with Kenny, and the smile you gave him just before he left. A forced smile, one you practiced in the halls of your castle, before and after Frieda took over the kingdom. It kept you alive for nearly a decade, trapped under her rule and caged within your own home.

You haven’t smiled like that in months… So why are you starting to do it now? And with Kenny, no less?

The answer swirls around in the pit of your stomach: it’s the only way you can cope with these growing feelings inside of you.

The two of you are soulmates, and that’s something neither of you can escape. Your fates are intertwined, you’re destined to stay by each other’s sides. For any other pair, it would seem logical to enter a relationship. But with everything you’ve seen of him so far, you can’t see Kenny committing to something like that.

You can’t see him devoting himself to something as silly as soulmates, especially with the life he’s led.

It would be easier if you didn’t have to deal with these bothersome feelings. Why do you want to be near him so badly? To hold his hand and have his arm around your shoulders? To see that rare smile of his and be the only one who can make him laugh? And maybe, just maybe, to feel his mouth against your forehead, and perhaps even your lips—

The thought makes your skin crawl, but in the most pleasant way possible.

A rabbit leaps out of the bushes just as you make it to the river. In a flash, the bowstring snaps and the rabbit squeals. It lands in a heap of light brown fur, an arrow lodged in its neck.

A pool of red spills out onto the dark forest floor. You heave a sigh as you yank the arrow out and grab the animal by its hind legs.

At least you’ll be able to eat good tonight.

Nights with Kenny are always the same: meals eaten in silence, with the fire crackling between you, before splitting up to do your bedtime routines. Kenny’s mostly consist of cleaning his beloved blades and checking the snares one last time, and yours consisting of wrapping yourself in that old scratchy blanket and fighting to get at least a few hours’ worth of sleep. Recently, you’ve started waiting for Kenny to finally settle down, so the two of you can share the blanket before falling asleep.

But tonight, you crave something different. You don’t just want to sleep by his side anymore. You don’t just want to feel his warmth seeping into your left shoulder.

The writing on the inside of your wrist burns. It hasn’t stopped itching since the day you realized these feelings for him.

Something hot slides down your cheek. Your voice gets caught in your throat as you raise a hand to wipe it away.

There’s a groan from the man beside you, and immediately, you feel your heart drop to your stomach.

“Kid,” he mumbles, voice still groggy with sleep, “what’s wrong?”

There it is again—kid—that simple nickname you’ve grown to hate and love, all at the same time. Before you know it, the blanket falls off your lap and into the dirt below—and your hands are curled around the front of his shirt, mouth crushed against his own.

You pull away almost immediately. The taste of salt and smoke is splashed across your lips; dark blue eyes burn into your own in the darkness. Your fingers quiver against the collar of his shirt.

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean it.

All the words you want to say—all the words that you should say—are right at the tip of your tongue. But for some reason, not a single one leaves your lips. Your mouth trembles beneath his gaze, and for a moment, you want to kiss him again, and the thought simply terrifies you.

But then his hands are cradling the back of your head, pulling you in for another kiss.

You start to lose yourself in him: the faint scent of smoke, the sting of salt, the scrape of his teeth against your own. His fingers twist in your hair, bringing you closer to his chest. The skin of your inner wrist burns like nothing you’ve experienced before; and when you bump against Kenny’s arm to hold him close, he lets out a pleased groan.

Looks like he’s been feeling the exact same way about you as you have been about him.

Suddenly, kissing him isn’t enough. You want to feel him, in every way you possibly can. You want to give him something to show your gratitude—not just as a soulmate, but as a protector. As a shield from all the evil in this wretched world.

You lower your hands, fisting the threads at your waist—and that’s when he stops you, fingers clasped over your own.

“You don’t have to.” His voice is a bit raspy from the heated kiss, but firm all the same. “Not now. Not like this.”

“…Why not?”

He sputters for a moment, eyes dropping down to the forest floor. For a moment, in the dying embers of the campfire, you think you see a faint shade of red dusting his wrinkled cheeks.

“Are you serious?” he grumbles, still not meeting your eyes. “I’m not—you’re just…fuck, kid. Are you really gonna make me say it?”

You know exactly what he’s insinuating. You know exactly what you want to do with him, what you want to do to him. Six years under Frieda’s close eye hasn’t made you completely clueless to the human body, and what it can be used for.

Obviously, you were far too young when your mother was alive for her to explain the concept of love and sex to you. And your father was always too bashful to bring up the topic himself. But people talk, especially in the underground dungeons. You caught bits and pieces from stories, asked questions to the women trapped in the cells around you. You don’t know everything there is to know, but that doesn’t mean you can’t learn.

And right now, you’re confident enough in yourself to reach up and tug at the first few buttons of Kenny’s shirt.

He groans when you pull apart the fabric, exposing his collarbone to the cool night air. You lean in and kiss the soft skin below, subtly moving yourself into his lap. He doesn’t stop you; his hands remain in their place right against your hips.

“I don’t mind,” you murmur against his heated skin. “I want this. Do you?”

He swallows hard, before his voice comes out in a groan: “Of course I do. Just don’t push yourself.”

You have half a mind to ask him what he means by that—but then your hand brushes against his lower half, and you feel something pressing into your inner thigh. Something hard.

The dying embers illuminate his roguish grin. “You sure you can handle it, princess?”

Your whole body flushes with heat at the name. It’s supposed to be a title, spoken with respect and admiration from those around you. But when it comes from Kenny, you suddenly feel dangerous. This is all wrong, very wrong—princesses aren’t supposed to give themselves to huntsmen like this—and yet, it all feels so fucking right.

“I think so.” Your fingers fumble with the thread of his trousers, sliding them through one another as fast as you can. Then, as he lifts his hips, and you slide his pants down to his thighs, you gaze up at him with wide eyes and ask, “Can you teach me?”

His fingertips dig into your hips, so hard you start to think you’ll have bruises by tomorrow morning. Within moments, you’re lying flat on your stomach, elbows propped up against the dead leaves of the forest floor, and Kenny’s rough hand fisting itself in your hair. The slight pain sends a shiver down your spine. It scares you, but in the most pleasant way possible.

You’re far past the point of thinking Kenny will hurt you. You trust him with your life. You feel completely safe with him. And for that, you’re willing to let him do anything he wants with you, both your body and your soul.

“Start slow,” he growls as your hands brush the growing bulge in his boxers. “No need to rush.”

You smirk at the thought—you have no intention of doing so. You’re going to savor this moment for all it’s worth, every little bit.

The waistband of his boxers catches against your fingertips—and suddenly, his cock is in your hand, hard and red and leaking and simply massive. You almost choke at the sight. How is he this big?

His dark chuckle sends a chill down your arms. “Too much for you already, princess? You’re barely even touching it.”

You pout only for a moment, and then you’re dragging your fingers up and down, gently massaging his throbbing length. The bead of fluid that gathers at the tip catches your eye, so you smear it across the head with your thumb. He groans again, hand tightening against your scalp, heavy boots scuffing up the dirt and leaves from below.

It’s amazing, watching such a strong and seemingly fearless man writhe and moan like this. It gives you such a powerful feeling—and suddenly, you want more.

You lick your lips and lean down, sliding your mouth over his cock. Words spill from his mouth, but you don’t catch them. You’re too busy hearing your heartbeat echo in your ears, too focused on the taste of him in your mouth.

It’s strange at first, when your only instinct is to pull back and gasp for air. But you breathe through your nose, leaving your mouth free to pleasure him. Slowly, you start to move your head back and forth, relishing the soft moans that fill the darkness around you.

Leaves crunch under heavy boots. Calloused fingers lick at your scalp, your cheeks, your throat, before pulling back and wrapping themselves in your hair. The sound of your name between those ragged breaths of his make you shudder.

“Princess,” he hisses, barely managing to compose himself, “you alright?”

It’s hard to talk, so you pull away with a wet pop and smirk lazily up at him. “I’m okay. You sure it’s not too much for you, though?”

And then his hand is at your nape, pushing you even further down his body. “Fine—but you won’t be if you keep running that pretty little mouth of yours. Now suck.”

You take him into your mouth again, but this time, you bob your head even faster than before. He’s getting desperate, you can feel it in the way he grips your hair, moans your name, your title—as though you’re the most precious thing in the world to him.

You jerk your hand upwards, sucking on the tip of his cock, big eyes fluttering up to savor the sight of his face. Jaw clenched, teeth bared, eyes half-open—seeing such a powerful and dangerous man fall apart like this is simply beautiful.

Especially when you’re the one making him feel this way.

His nails dig into your scalp. His cock twitches violently against your tongue. A low moan slips from his mouth, in the form of your name, and suddenly, something hot and salty spurts onto your tongue. You pull away slightly—Kenny loosens his grip on your head but still keeps his hand steady—and you lap up the remains of his release.

When you’re finished, and his body sinks further against the tree he’s propped against, you press a soft kiss to the head of his cock and tug his pants back up. But you barely have time to buckle his belt before he’s pulling you into his chest, kissing you roughly, even though your lips are sticky with his cum.

“Fuck it,” he grumbles hoarsely, and suddenly you’re straddling his lap, as his fingers pull at the threads of your trousers. “Lay back. Fair is fair, right?”

His wolfish grin sends a shiver down your spine. Your trousers loosen around your waist, and he tugs them down to your knees before slipping them completely off your legs. Your cheeks burn when he presses you down on your back, using his overcoat as a barrier to protect your warm skin from the freezing forest floor.

“I’m gonna fuck you properly, once we find a place to stay,” he murmurs against your cheek, and a moan bubbles up in your throat. His fingertips hook beneath your panties, pulling away the last scrap of fabric that shields your body from him. “But for now… Spread those legs for me, princess.”

You obey him at once, and he settles himself between your bare thighs, your panties barely hanging on by your ankle. You’re needy, skin practically burning with desire—but now, having him so close to you, so close that you can feel his hot breath against your most intimate parts—oh gods, you can already feel how wet you are—it makes you blush and bury your face in your hands. Suddenly, those dark blue eyes are too much for you, as handsome as they are.

But his hand curls around your wrist and tugs it away from your face, and you’re forced to meet that roguish grin you’ve grown so accustomed to. “I don’t think so,” he remarks slyly, wetting his lips with his tongue. “I wanna see your face when I make you cum on my tongue.”

His words send a tremor down your spine; your thighs tremble against the palms of his hands. Never before have you heard something so foul, so filthy—and yet, with every word he speaks, you can feel yourself getting wetter. He seems to realize this, too, and he drags a long finger against your slick folds. You gasp when he gathers some of your wetness onto the tip, only to lap it up with his tongue.

“Just as I thought,” he growls, but to himself or you, you’re not sure. “Come on, princess. Don’t be shy, let me see.”

You shudder violently at the first swipe of his tongue, his hot breath clouding over your slickened skin. You reach down and twist your fingers into his hair, matching his movements from earlier. He starts out slow, licking from top to bottom, occasionally swirling his tongue over your clit. And for a moment, you start to relax—and you have to admit, it feels nice.

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

But then he slides a finger in, long and thick, and your toes curl in the dirt. You slap a palm over your mouth at the last second, muffling your moans as you writhe against his overcoat.

Kenny. You want to say his name, but you don’t have the strength to speak.

“Aww, come on now, princess.” There’s an edge to his voice, a dangerous glint in his eye as he glances up at you. Your face burns with shame as his tongue pokes out from between his lips, already glistening with your slick. “If you can’t take a couple fingers, how do you expect to take my cock?”

He starts moving his hand at a gentle pace, curling his finger in an upwards position. Your head falls back against the coat, thighs tightening around his wrist—only for him to push them away with his other hand and wrap his lips around your little clit. This time, you cry out his name into the darkness, arching your back as tears gather in your eyes.

“That’s my girl,” he growls against your clit. He sucks a bit harder, teeth scraping against your sensitive nub, and your head begins to spin.

“Kenny,” you choke out when he slips in a second finger, “Kenny, I-I…”

He leans up and smirks down at you, thrusting his fingers into you at a faster pace. His lips are shining in the moonlight, traces of your juices still glistening on his chin.

“Use your words, princess.” Your back arches again when he curls his fingers just right, hitting that special spot deep inside you. “Tell me what you want.”

Too many thoughts racing through your head, too many words buzzing on the tip of your tongue. It’s all just right there—just like the winding coil deep in the pit of your stomach. The pressure slowly building up inside of you, clenching your thighs and whining out when he forces them apart once more.

“C’mon, you can do it.” Another thrust of his fingers, another pitiful whimper of his name. “What do you want me to do to you, princess?”

Something hot and fierce claws its way from your chest—an animalistic urge, one that compels you to sink your nails in his hair and yank him closer, closer to your burning clit. Tears are slipping from your eyes, your voice scratching your throat when you finally find the strength to speak.

“You… I want you…to move your fingers… Give me more.”

His smirk only grows wider at your confession, his tongue tracing along the outline of his lips, and you’re quick to jolt away when he shamelessly presses his face against your clit. Flicking his tongue and curling his fingers and snickering when you moan out his name into the cool night air.

“That’s my good girl. That’s what I wanna hear…”

Your head twists against the fabric of his coat, fingers scraping through the dark roots of his hair, thighs clenching as that damn coil keeps winding inside your stomach. It’s getting so tight, too tight you almost can’t breathe—gasping for air with every brush of his tongue, every thrust of his fingers.

A tear slips down your face when you feel him add a third finger. The stretch is too much, it’s too tight, and you’re struggling to breathe as it is—

But you can’t deny it feels so fucking good.

“S-so close… Kenny, I’m…”

“Hm?” Through your tears you can see him glance up at you, lips still wrapped around your clit. “You say somethin’, princess?” But he’s still suckling in between his words; it’s almost impossible for you to answer him.

“…I-I wanna…”

“Y-you wanna what?” he mocks, tearing his face from your slick—and you nearly sob as he slides his fingers from your heat. “I told you to use your words, didn’t I? So use ’em. Go on, I’m listening.”

That primal urge bubbles in your chest once more—not unlike the adrenaline after a successful hunt or atop a racing horse in the fields. You can feel it under every inch of skin in your body, prickling with fire, searing with such heat it’s almost unbearable. And the sight of his smug face only makes it worse; it makes you bare your teeth and clench your fists and squeeze your thighs around his hand. Trapping him against your burning flesh.

You’re a princess—the true princess of this kingdom. A title granted to you at birth, passed down from generation to generation, royal blood and power coursing through your veins. And you will answer to no one, especially this rugged huntsman who’s hell-bent on driving you insane.

Even if he does have your words engraved on his wrist. You refuse to yield to anyone.

Including your soulmate.

“I didn’t tell you to stop.” Your voice trembles, but it’s enough to make his eyes widen and his jaw tighten. “I…I want you to use your fingers. And your mouth.”

“…Is that right?”

And suddenly he’s hovering over you once more, forehead pressed against your own, his hands unbearably hot against your thighs as he pulls them apart as wide as he can. Your heart leaps in your throat, hands quivering beneath those steely blue eyes, in the faint light of the campfire beside you.

“A bit greedy, but at least you’re learning to use that mouth of yours.” His fingers are teasing your entrance, his thumb swirling over your clit at a soft and gentle pace. “You really want that, sweetheart? You want my fingers deep inside your pussy? Want me to fuck you with ’em, lick your pretty little clit until you cum on my tongue? Is that what you want, sweetheart?”

You swallow hard, trembling arms resting around his shoulders. “Y-yes, I do…”

“Then I wanna hear you say it.”

A deep breath—and then you’re staring right into those steely eyes, your blood singing in your veins.

“…I want you to fuck me with your fingers. Make me cum on your tongue. Please, Kenny—I need you—”

The plea in your voice pushes him over the edge. He’s groaning into your mouth before moving down the length of your body, sliding two fingers into your slick heat, his lips finding purchase against your swollen clit. And suddenly your fingers are tangled in his hair once more, hips rolling against his mouth, that familiar coil winding up in the pit of your stomach.

Your whole body is throbbing, skin ablaze against his own, stomach rolling and tightening with every thrust of his fingers, thighs clenching around his head as your eyes burst open to meet his own and suddenly—

“Kenny!”

Your voice echoes in the air as your vision sparkles with stars. As the coil finally snaps and you’re tumbling over the edge, barely registering his tongue lapping up your release between your thighs. Moaning when he slides his fingers out of you and replaces them with his tongue, shivering when the scruff of his chin brushes along your inner thighs.

A minute or so passes before he pulls away, dipping his fingers into his mouth before caressing your face with his free hand. His palm, albeit rough and scarred, is comforting against your cheek, and you don’t hesitate to nuzzle into its warmth when he positions himself over your body for the third time tonight. Your eyelids are heavy, chest still heaving from the heights he’s taken you to. Heights you didn’t think were even possible until tonight.

You can only hope there will be more nights like this one in your future.

You find yourself dozing off as he cleans you as best he can, with a spare rag from one of the saddlebags and some water from his canteen. A soft smile stretching along your face as he wipes down your thighs and dries you off, before slipping your panties back over your legs. Reclining against the tree closest to the campfire and tugging you into his chest, before throwing the familiar scratchy blanket over your lap and tucking it around your body.

You’re too tired to speak—honestly, you have no idea what to say, even if you could talk right now. So instead you lean up and press a kiss against his cheek, right above the line of scruff on his chin. He grunts and shrugs his shoulders, mumbling something about getting too soft, but you can’t really focus on it now. You’ll ask him in the morning, after the two of you get some rest.

But you’re awake enough to hear him chuckle as you curl yourself into his chest, arms wrapped around his waist beneath the blanket, as he pulls you in close to press a kiss against your sweaty forehead.

“Sleep well, princess.”

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