#darkness is a lack of light but light is not a lack of darkness

[emcaco]

Completely yes! The downside of all those candles and incense and the occasional fire requires cleaning.

But it's also THE INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION and ...a modern lack of investment in maintenance. Our favorite modern villains.

Malcolm Miller, the tour guide of the Chartres cathedral had some comments:

The industrial revolution also did a nasty number on buildings.

Burning coal to power factories and heat houses or churches created so much air pollution. It was a problem and it made buildings noticably gray and dingy in the course of a generation. Victor Hugo wrote Hunchback of Notre Dame to showcase how beautiful the cathedral once was and shame France into maintaining its old buildings.

Also also, every new era likes to classify previous eras as filthy and ignorant. Never mind that people of today are essentially the same as people from five hundred years ago. We like clean.

And the same civilizations that built these buildings in the first place were capable of cleaning them. Michelangelo built scaffolding to paint the Sistene Chapel. Monks did so to clean their cathedrals. People expected to do regular building maintenance and churches had extremely cheap labor from all their monks.

So you might have the occasional fall but hey, lots of people were willing to join a monastic order for guaranteed food and drink and religious feelings.

Images of scaffolds are from wikipedia's articles on putlogs and scaffolding.

(BY THE WAY APPARENTLY THERE ARE POSSIBLE SCAFFOLD HOLES IN THE LASCAUX CAVES??)

Monks often took on trades like carpentry, masonry and brewing. Cleaning was a daily chore. If the cathedral - an accomplishment of engineering and construction over centuries and a literal physical tribute to their god built from stone and blood - if the cathedral got dirty, they wouldn't just accept that for the goth aesthetic.

If people could build scaffolds to replace their hay roofs, they would build them to clean the gorgeous painted walls.

I expect our dingy image of cathedrals comes more from the decline of monasteries and a steep drop in Catholic recruitment. Combine that with some deadly wars and labor safety, and labor to scrub church walls three stories up gets a lot more expensive.

Britain and France especially had also confiscated Catholic lands and buildings during Henry VIII's time and the French revolution, which would have caused some upheavals in maintenance. It would be interesting to compare cathedral maintenance in other countries.

ACTUALLY LET'S DO THAT

Hungary and the famous Cathedral in Cologne, Germany.

The article from the Independent, which I quoted above for the Chartres tour guide, also notes that it's mostly "British and American lovers of Gothic architecture" who are complaining about the Chartres restoration.

Quote:

The British designer and blogger Adam Nathaniel Furman wrote: “A restoration that eliminates the patina of history, and reinstates an illusory ideal moment in the past ... is an act of destruction dressed up in good intentions.”

And Stefan Evans, an American Gothic art specialist, commented: “Irresponsible restoration is erasing history from a Gothic masterpiece.” He then started an online petition to protest against the work.

Back to Mr Miller the Chartres tour guide, 81 years old, who has written books on Chartres:

Is Mr Miller on the side of light or on the side of darkness? “Just look here,” he said, bouncing angrily towards an uncleaned pillar. He ran his fingers through the grime. “Filth, pure filth,” he said. “Do these people like filth? Do they like cobwebs?

“They talk about the patina of the centuries. Nonsense. Rubbish. This is not the patina of the centuries. It is the rotting remains of a whitewash from the 18th century.”

In short, British and many French cathedrals haven't been maintained consistently, Americans and Brits now think cathedrals are *supposed* to be filthy. And get snippy at the people are doing the housekeeping.

Me: Did you know that medieval cathedrals weren't actually supposed to be dark and rundown places with only stained glass as color? They were bright places full of light... the reason they look like that now is because of the centuries of accumulated grime and dust, here look at this restoration of the Cathedral of Chartres in France:

It's based on actual paint from the times, and when you think about it, it makes a lot more sense, after all a church is supposed to be a bright place of hope. Yet when we think about the middle ages we think about grimy and dark cathedrals. I wonder how much of our conception of history is shaped by our current visions of historical buildings.

My Goth GF: listen, I don't think this thing between us is working,

[writeriguess]

Can you write a fic where Aizawa is in love with another teacher (reader) at the UA? It's kinda like a forbidden relationship because they're not supposed to but!

Behind Locked Doors

The click of the classroom door echoed louder than it should have. Aizawa didn’t flinch—he never did—but you could feel the tension hanging off him like the stray strands of his hair. He locked it behind you with a soft snick, then turned, eyes dark and unreadable.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to come here.”

“And yet here I am,” you said, stepping closer anyway.

There was a beat—two—where neither of you spoke. The only sound was the hum of the overhead lights and the quiet thump of your heart climbing into your throat. Aizawa looked like he wanted to say something practical. Sensible. But instead, his fingers curled around your wrist, pulled you in, and kissed you like he hadn’t seen you in days.

Your back hit the edge of his desk with a soft jolt, one hand braced behind you, the other tangled in his shirt as his mouth moved against yours with barely restrained urgency. His scarf brushed against your hip, half-loose from his shoulders, forgotten in the heat of it.

“Shouta—” you gasped between kisses, and his grip only tightened.

“Don’t,” he said, voice low and frayed. “Don’t say my name like that when we don’t have time. It makes me reckless.”

You pulled back, barely an inch. “Then maybe we should stop.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Your silence gave you away.

He exhaled, rested his forehead against yours. “This is stupid. We’re risking everything.”

“We’re teachers, not criminals.”

“Principal Nezu would disagree,” he said dryly. “Fraternization between staff. The whole ‘setting an example’ thing. You know how this place is.”

You did. Every corner of UA had eyes—students with sharp ears, heroes with sharper instincts. Rumors bloomed like wildfire in the right hallways. If anyone even suspected…

“I hate pretending,” you admitted. “I hate walking past you in the halls and not being able to look at you like I want to.”

His jaw clenched. “You think I don’t? Every day I sit in that damn staff room acting like I’m not counting the hours until I can be alone with you.”

The kiss that followed was messier—less restrained. Like he needed you to feel it. To know what he couldn’t say in the daylight.

When he pulled back, breath ragged, he looked tired. Tired, not from lack of sleep, but from holding back too long.

“We can’t keep sneaking around forever,” he said quietly. “Sooner or later, someone’s going to notice.”

“Then what do we do?” you asked. “Give it up? Pretend this never happened?”

A beat. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“I’m not that strong,” he admitted. “Not when it comes to you.”

You swallowed hard, fingers curling in the front of his capture weapon like a lifeline.

“Then we hide it. Just a little longer. Just until it’s safe.”

“It might never be safe.”

“Then we make it worth the risk.”

Another pause. Another kiss—slow, this time. Full of everything neither of you could say out loud in daylight.

He sighed against your lips. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“You’ll survive,” you whispered. “You always do.”

[honeybunnyale]

I'm Not In Love l B.B.

w.c.: 4k

t.w.: Dark Series, dub-con verging on non-con smut (Somnophilia, frottage), Slight Steve x Reader, Possessive Bucky, Obsessive Bucky, Stalker Bucky >:), Red Room/Hydra reader, unhealthy power dynamics, angst, I want both super soldiers pls :) 

a/n: Please read all warnings for all of my works before reading. 18+ only! I’m basing off of the titles from songs. This one’s I’m Not In Love by 10cc. ♥

Summary: Bucky is roaming New York. He watches and gets jealous. (Set after first part, Recognized)

New York

May, 9 2014

Your underwear is missing. Your window frame had also loosened. Somehow, you didn’t feel as anxious about it as any normal person should have. It brought you an odd sense of satisfaction. 

You were the first person he visited.

You leave leftovers in the fridge, some cash on the coffee table. Your Tupperware had a little less and your coffee table was cleaned, your two twenties gone. You’d scan the room as you entered, most of the time getting out of your apartment to give him time to explore your space. You’d admire a nearby park, sitting by the fountain as the breeze cooled your face. 

Judging by the way he left your laundry basket open, he may have explored for too long. 

He was like a ghost. A timid ghost that was too sheepish to make himself known. No scares, no malicious intentions, just a mediocre haunting. 

You haven’t told anyone about it yet, not even Steve. You’re sure he wouldn’t tell you if ‘Buck’ was visiting him every other day either. Given, he would have had the same amount of boxers in his drawers. 

He may not even notice. 

…

Brooklyn

July 4, 2014

Captain America liked nightclubs. The lively atmosphere and the beer, at the very least. Sam had gotten him a cake and with lack of coordination, Natasha had ordered one made too. It was a good thing that super soldiers could pack away a lot. Excess sugar could never hurt him. 

Sam was attempting to bribe the bar for free drinks and Nat was at the bakery nearby picking up a sheet cake and some candles. You were left alone with him, picking at the sprinkles from Sam’s cake and keeping Steve company. 

You sit next to him in a booth, sipping on your Tequila Sunrise. He was glancing at you every other moment, his ring finger tapping against the glass beer pint nervously. 

Your eyes glided over the crowd dancing, Daft Punk playing as drinks spilled and bodies rolled over each other. A dark figure walks through the crowd, moving through the synchrony of movement and parting it to reach the other end of the dancefloor.

Broad shoulders, large chest enveloped by leather, and shoulder length brown hair. Your breath hitches as you swear you saw glaring blues direct their stare in your direction. 

Steve notices you tense, throat bobbing as you take a large gulp out of your glass. Your eyes flicker between the table and your hands, He feels you stiffen beside him. 

He assumes you were uncomfortable with the loud noise and the awkward company he was. His shoulders square, he clears his throat as he directs a tight lipped smile at you. 

You raise your glass lightly, mimicking his gesture. You make yourself smaller into the cushion of the booth. You feel as if a wolf was staring at you, stalking and waiting. Your eyes widen as the figure appears again, much clearer now as disco lights illuminate his face. You swallow thickly as his eyes shift to Steve, now placing his hand on top of yours in worry.

Jame’s jaw tenses and his eyes narrow. As if he wanted to rip his hands off of you. 

You inhale sharply and grab Steve’s hand without warning. 

“Let’s dance, Steven.” 

It was uncomfortable, admittedly. He didn’t move from his spot in the booth as you stood, his cheeks turning a bright red as your hand gripped onto his forearm to pull him out. You almost forget about his super strength. He was as solid as a marble statue, but he didn’t make an effort to pull his hand away. He was gentle despite his clear refusal. 

A closer look, that was all you wanted. Maybe you were seeing things. You hoped so. You begged Steve with your eyes, smiling softly. 

You're almost surprised it worked. 

Steve’s hand grips onto yours firmly as you lead him into the crowd. His shoulders tense as bodies bump into him. He was the tallest one around, making him stand out. Your fingers tickle up his forearms, starting with a soft sway of your hips he could mimic. 

Your head sways side to side, arms moving to loosen him as Steve holds your hands tightly. Your eyes wander to your sides, searching to find him in the crowd, staring you down as you feel he is at that moment. 

Steve loosens, his hips start to find the beat as the song shifts into something a tad slower, the bass hitting a little deeper. People start to pair up, his fingers twitch as you pull him in closer, hands grazing over the muscles of his arms to meet his shoulders, then neck. 

He swallows thickly, he says your name, almost in a question. You couldn’t hear it from the loud music. 

“Relax,” you say softly, knowing his sensitive hearing could pick it up.

He was focused on you, the smell of your perfume, the way your hoop earrings glimmer from the lights. Your breasts press together as your wrists rest against the back of his neck. Your top was exposing, thin straps, and flowy and breezy fabric. 

His hands move to your hips, you bring yourself closer to him, pelvis meeting his. Your eyes scan behind Steve’s broad shoulders, eyes narrowing as you press your chest against his, bodies closer than ever. He wasn’t behind Steve. You sigh. 

You turn, facing away from him, your hips moving back and forth against his front. You guide him to the rhythm, he melts into the touch. 

He catches your eye again, moving from one side of the room to the other, at the edges of the crowd. He was a blur. You glance behind you, tilting your head up to catch Steve staring, lips parted in awe. 

He grinds against the swell of your ass, you feel him, thick and hard. His cock pulsing as it chubs up against the plush of your ass. His grip tightens and he has half a mind to start apologizing but you encourage it, pressing further against him and placing your hand on top of his. 

He groans lightly, feeling his stomach tighten and his heart quicken. You turn your head from side to side, in time with the slow tempo, pressing your back against his chest as you work him up further. 

He’s enjoying himself, you were too. You find him quickly, he was sitting at the bar now, nursing a beer as he stares with half lidded eyes at your display. You move erotically, staring back, licking your teeth as Steve leans down to your neck, your hand moving up to cup the back of his head. 

His metal fist clenches, covered in a leather glove. There’s your ghost. Not so shy and sheepish. He was staring daggers at you, at Steve. Finally, you see him. He keeps his head down as he takes his jacket roughly off the back of his seat and makes his exit through the crowded bar. 

…

He blows out his candles at a brooklyn pizza parlor, completely vacant at one in the morning. One cake had the number nine and the other six. It was very intimate. It was nice. 

You took a taxi home, looking out of the window. Maybe he was following closely behind. You think for a moment that he wouldn’t bother. He was upset, you might have gone too far. 

You think you were more desperate for a reaction from him than anything else. It was so unlike you. Cap couldn't even meet your eye the rest of the night. But you guess the departing hug meant it would be quickly forgotten. 

Dropping your keys and jacket onto the kitchen table, you start to take your shoes off. Your heart drops as you turn to lock your door and feel that something is off. 

You turn quickly to find the window open, just by a smidge. The curtains flail with the wind. You could smell the coming rain. 

Your breath stutters as you swallow thickly. It was nothing. 

Soft music hummed from your bedroom travelling all the way to your shower. You lathered your body in soap, rinsing it off gently. You relax. 

Then you hear a thunk, as if something had fallen to your carpeted floor outside the bathroom. You pause. 

You towel dry softly, reaching into the sink cabinet and blindly pawing at the corner to find your hidden pistol. 

You hum a tune as you dress. A song from the nightclub that would repeat every thirty minutes. Hanging your towel to dry and stepping up to turn the knob of the door, you inhale sharply. 

You step out with a gun in hand, you scan the room with your weapon raised. You pause. Your lips gloss had fallen off the vanity. 

You exhale. Placing the gun against your bedside table in irritation and stuffing your makeup in its bag. 

After a cup of tea, you start to fall asleep, feeling as if you were exhausted. Your eyes flutter closed, so unlike you. You didn't sleep well at all, it was a miracle your eyes closed for more than a minute at a time.

Wait. 

You wake up with the feel of his gaze from the corner of the room. You could hear his breathing. Soft and consistent. He shifts in his seat from the vanity table. You open your eyes slowly, groggy from whatever he had given you. 

Your eyes were blurry, you could barely move. His legs spread further, the small table lamp illuminating half of his face and the hand holding your gun against the table. You would scoff if you could, as if you could walk up and take it. 

You groan, willing your body to move from its side to lay on your back, your sheets shift as you attempt to sit up. You fail, slumping against the pillows in an awkward position. 

Your ghost just watches, face curious. You arch a brow as he leans forward with his elbows on his knees. He inhales slowly and deeply, eyes never leaving yours, hands squeezing as they interlace together. 

He groans. The whole room smelled of you, he closed his eyes for a moment to take it in. He just couldn’t get you out of his damn head. He has dreams, sometimes nightmares with you in them. His hand cupping yours as you hold a revolver, pressing your finger against the trigger with his own as you aimed it at a faceless woman. He’d hold you afterward, hands intertwined as his lips peppered kisses over your forehead, leading down your cheek, your jaw, making your skin tingle as he licked a path with his tongue down your throat. 

He’d stuff your cunt with his cock, holding you from behind, your legs spreading as you moan into him, your head burying itself into the crook of his neck. 

He remembers these moments in his sleep, as if encouraging him to search for something. Maybe search for you. He knows who he is, on paper. James Buchanan Barnes. He knows who you are too. All that he’s done to you, all you’ve done to him.

Then there’s Steven Grant Rogers. He knows that he was important to him. But, he doesn’t think he would understand him as well as you did. He was stuck. 

Bucky, James, The Winter Soldier, Comrade, Soldat. He rubs his temple as he stands, pacing near the end of your bed. Your eyes track him. You fight sleep, your eyes starting to close. What did he want? Every time you blinked it was getting harder and harder to open them up again. 

He was wearing a jacket, a grey shirt, dark washed jeans, and thick boots. They didn’t fit him quite well, who knows where he could have gotten them from. A donation bin, a safehouse nearby. You hoped he had a warm place to stay at night.

You make a noise, a mumble tumbling from your lips, sounding like a moan. You close your eyes, they stay closed for ten seconds before lazily opening again. He’s made his way across the bedroom, sitting next to you. He cups your cheek, your eyes flutter. His hands were cold.  

You blink and you can't open your eyes anymore. 

…

Colmar, France

1986

He sits on the edge of the bed and watches. Your lungs burn with every breath. Tears drag down your cheeks, gathering near the back of your neck. Monitors beep, your fingers twitch from the sedative. 

He scared you to no end. It was one of the last training sessions of the week. The Red Room had come up with this idea. They could train widows, such as yourself, to become more efficient with the help of the deadliest assassin alive. 

The Winter Soldier was not kind to you. They expected you to die within the month. But you were always different, you weren’t trained from birth. They wanted to stretch the limits of molding the perfect weapon. 

Experiments, mithridatism, training, graduation. You survived it all as a relatively unskilled early adult. You were supposed to be proof that building a broader network could work as efficiently as raising it. 

His hand lays over yours gently, the same one that had struck you so hard you thought you had gone blind for a second. You glare at him. He lifts it, minding the wires. He holds your hand softly, knowing that the doctors would come to check on you in about ten minutes. 

He was offering you comfort. 

The softness peturbs you. A sorry couldn't heal broken bones, or ripped flesh. You exhale softly, it burns. It wasn’t his fault. You feel his pulse, fingers tightening over his wrist. 

Your glare softens. You close your eyes and rest against the stiff pillow. It wasn’t his fault.

…

4:00 A.M. 

New York

July 5, 2014 

He lifts your hand and presses his lips to your knuckles as you sleep. The back of your hands were soft, he rubs his cheek against them. Your breath was even, your chest rising and falling in your unconscious state.

He adjusts you in a comfortable position, fluffing your pillows as he lifts your head to his chest lightly. He trails his nose over your hairline as he cups the back of your head. He groans. Both in satisfaction and annoyance. 

His body was out of sorts. He couldn’t control himself very well. It was like it was trying to stabilize itself. He gets hard at the mere thought of you now. 

He tugs his boots off neatly, placing them together beside your bed frame. Your body melded into his as he laid you against him. His heart pounds rapidly, his throat was threatening to close as your weight was supported against him. 

He was going to ask you questions. That was the plan he promised himself he would keep. He thinks he upped the dosage too much. Oh well. Now all he wanted was to hold you, his hands run back and forth over your back, your head buried in his neck. 

He can feel your breath on his throat.

Your legs were spread over his hips. His cock was aching, he felt his boxers wet with his pre cum. He licks his lips. Your ass was peeking from your sleep shorts. His hand smooths over the plump flesh, you’ve gained some weight, healthy weight. He liked it. 

His hand tightens, your skin was like bread dough, spreading over his fingers. His hips twitch upward as he instinctively presses yours down, the seam of your shorts press against the zipper of his jeans. He moans as he feels your mound grind against his bulge. 

Sweat collects along his brow, he licks his lips as he hesitates. It wouldn’t hurt anyone, he’ll be quick. 

He pushes his jeans down, leaving him in his boxers. His cock was pulsing in his grip, his jerks becoming uncontrolled and sporadic. He pushes your shorts to the side, his tip purple with pressure, he leans his head back as he presses his cockhead against the seam of your panty covered pussy. 

He imagines sinking in, his cock too big for him to get balls deep at first. He’d work you open, holding you up by your hips, allowing you to take him inch by inch until your cunt meets his pelvis. 

You make a noise from the back of your throat as he presses against your clit. Heavy, hot, and wet puffs meet his neck as he continues to grind against you. His hips thrust upward, his metal hand holding your hip in place as you start to moan and shake against him too. 

He was so close, he felt his stomach tighten, his cock pulse in need. Fuck. He lifts the fabric of your underwear and slides his cock in between your lips, he consistently bumps up onto your clit as he bear hugs your upper torso and thrusts upwards. 

You shake softly against him, a garbled moan coming from your throat as he feels your opening pulse and gush. He loses himself. His head was buried in your hair, taking a deep breath as he came inside of your panties, his cum making a mess of your cunt and mound. 

He could feel your heart beat like a hummingbird’s, your breaths coming out in puffs. And yet your eyes are still closed, your breath calms as he smooths his palm over your back soothingly. 

He cleans you with a soft towel and warm water. He positions you to lay comfortably in your sleep and puts his boots back on. 

He leaves quickly after. 

…

New York

November 27, 2014

You take your gloves off, placing them on the coffee table. Thanksgiving was pleasant. Natasha had managed to get you into Avengers tower. Tony Stark had made a show of a holiday. It was an event full of loners without families. It made you chuckle. 

Steve dropped you off on his motorcycle. It seemed as if he was waiting for you to invite him up to your apartment, or at least he was gathering the courage to tell you something by the way he leaned against his bike with his hands in his pockets. 

You gave him a hug and shooed him away quickly when you had noted the window slightly ajar in your apartment. You never open your windows. The smog, you’d argue.

You sigh as you take off your shoes. You stride to the window and close it shut aggressively.  

“Have you eaten yet?” 

You get no response, you tense. If it wasn’t him, it could be someone else. And you had a lot of enemies. You make your way to the kitchen calmly and pull a handle from the knife block Sam had gifted you a month ago, seeing as you didn’t have any proper cooking utensils.  

You turn and are met with a solid wall of chest, you swipe before you could fully process the situation but a hand stops you. Metal. You dropped your knife as he turned your wrist roughly. A shot of electricity shoots up your arm. 

His eyes are apologetic as he steps back, and watches as you clutch your hand in slight pain. 

Habit. 

“Jesus…” you mutter, your thumb rubbing along your wrist soothingly. You glare at him with a glance as you cross over to the living room. You turn on your lamp, it illuminates the small area in a shade of orange. It was cheap, you didn’t mind it. 

He takes in the small apartment you call home, finally able to see it in proper lighting. He’s been reading up on the files. Your report said you originated from California. Your close relatives have long gone. You barely had any personal items in the small living room. As if you were ready to leave at a moment's notice. 

He steps towards you, you step back. You look at him inquisitively. He hasn't frequented your apartment since the time he drugged you to sleep. It was a nice sleep, you had to give it to him. Really nice. 

“I’m leaving.”

You say nothing, just giving him a slow nod. He should have left weeks ago. The government was looking for him, Hydra must be too. You at least had connections to the Avengers, they couldn’t outright kill you on a random tuesday anymore. 

“Come with me,” he says confidently, his blue eyes piercing. 

You stare at him. He steps closer, his hands fidget nervously at your silence. Clearly he thought it would go smoothly.

He swallows thickly and his hand cups your cheek, looking into your eyes sincerely. 

“Out of the U.-”

“He’s looking for you, Bucky,” you interrupt harshly. 

Something ferocious flashes in his eyes as you call him Bucky. It didn’t sound exactly right. It was familiar. It was foreign to your tongue though. He wasn’t Bucky to you. Although sometimes you wish he was. This person in front of you, it felt as if he didn’t belong with you. 

Steve talks about this Bucky all of the time. The dancer, the flirt, the soldier with morals. He was pure and bright. He was happy. Happier. 

“I don’t even know who that is. Who the hell is Bucky? I don’t even remember who Steve Rogers is.” 

You shake your head, he grabs your chin. 

“I remember you.”

Your face falls. You wished he didn’t. Sometimes you wish you could forget him. Turns out you were both haunting each other. You clear your throat and look away, your face and voice neutral as you speak.

“Steve will help you remember. He’s your friend.” 

He sighs. His hand drops down to his side. He takes that as a no to his offer. He looks to you desperately, he’s lost. He needed someone familiar. 

You bite your lip and sigh in defeat. You move towards him, as if he were a feral dog, slow and soft. 

Your gentle hand on his chest was warm, you stood in front of him, looking him over, your eyes rounded in concern. 

“You eating good?” you mutter. You knew the answer. His shirts have filled in. Even if you weren’t willing to go on the run with him now, you still cared. 

He snorts. You look up in surprise as he smiles down at you. Hydra was definitely not a five star restaurant. Your lips betray you and tilt upwards at his sarcastic gaze. Of course he was eating well. 

Both of your hands cup his face now, exploring this new version of him. He hasn’t shaved in a while, his hair was up in a bun. He looked well enough. His hand meets your waist and pulls you closer. He leans down. 

“I missed you.” 

You were gone for two years. Two years he’s had to endure alone. He rests his forehead against yours. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper back. He smiles and shakes his head. You shouldn’t be sorry. You escaped. Now he did too. You were both free. He kisses your cheek and straightens up to pull you closer into a hug. 

You stay in place for a while, your hand wound tightly onto the back of his shirt, his pressing your head against his chest. Clinging to each other. 

You tilt your head up after a while. 

“I know a place you could go.” 

…

He opens the pack you had forced upon him. It included a pistol, a knife, some rope. Packs of old granola bars and plenty of cash.

The front pocket had something solid. He opens it up to find a burner phone. His hand turns the small brick phone as passengers board the train. 

The contact list included several names. Sam, Natasha, Barton, Steve. He makes it a point in his head to never call those numbers. 

He sees your name at the bottom, newly added. He smiles. He wonders how long you've been planning on giving him the bag.

Boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom. I louve et yiessss. Let me know what ya'll think! Sending love.

--------------------

-Alejandra 💋 🐇

Taglist 🫶:

@vxllys

[twilightofthesandwiches]

I'm thinking more about... how Deltarune Chapters 1 + 2 seemed to have set up certain... Patterns for the game, which a lot of the fandom kinda took for granted that they would apply for all of the following chapters as well.

Y'know, one Dark World for each Chapter, it's going to be based on a location we haven't explored before, each Dark World has it's own Ruler and it's own Super Secret Shadow Crystal Boss and we're gonna finish the game by sealing the Dark Fountain and then walk around Hometown a whole bunch.... Even stuff like the Darkners being motivated by some form of resentment or anxiety about being abandoned by the Lightners and the Super Secret Shadow Crystal Boss being 'fallen from grace' and driven mad by the influence of Someone...

And then Chapter 3 and 4 are both kinda set around slowly dissolving down this seemingly-established formula.

Chapter 3 doesn't have a real Light World Exploration segment at all, it ends before we properly seal the Fountain, and it's Super Secret Shadow Crystal Boss is actually the main route's Supposed-To-Lose-Fight with the Actual Main Villain the Roaring Knight. (Who... we simply don't know enough about to know if they have any narrative parallels with Jevil or Spamton.)

And then Chapter 4 has TONS of Light World content, including gameplay segments against SOUL-less Kris, we get to explore the Church just before the Dark Fountain opens, the Darkners don't seem to feel abandoned or neglected and we also have, like, MULTIPLE Dark Worlds, albeit ones based on the same Light World location. Gerson/the Hammer of Justice fills in both the 'leader' role like King, Queen and Tenna but also the Super Secret Shadow Crystal Boss Role (while also being clearly VERY narratively different than Jevil and Spamton).

And I think... I think that outside of Lore speculations, I think from a narrative perspective it relates to Susie's musing at the end of Chapter 4

of how she wishes things will stay the same forever, cause that'll mean she can keep being friends with Kris and Ralsei.

Like, the patterns, the formulas, they make things feel safe, because you know on some level that the next day (the next chapter) will be familiar on some level, because some things (like having a Weird Little Freak to fight, or the friendship between our main trio) will have to remain the same.

And when they start breaking apart, it's distressing. We know the changes are gonna herald more changes. And, since we are past the halfway point, we know things will end eventually.

Obviously Susie is probably not distraught about the lack of a proper Deranged Freak Shadow Crystal Holder. But these two Chapters have been a massive shift in the way she sees the Dark World and her adventures. She's starting to notice the darker undertones beneath the surface and the Actual Real Stakes involved, rather than this just being a fun magic adventure.

Since most of the audience has actually noticed these darker moments before and has been speculating about them for years, the departure from the formula is the thing that helps to put us in the mindset that Susie is in right now, that things are different than how they were in the first two chapters (days), and those times will probably never truly return.

[wosospacegirl]

I'm picturing Y/N and Kika have sex and it goes one of two ways

I can imagine they both are constantly after reassurance the other is having a good time, that it feels good, constantly apologising if they even so much as fumble a bit, bit noisy to cover up there insecurities and trying to convince the other they are actually enjoying themselves

Then on the other hand, I picture it just being this hot and intense thing where after all the awkwardness they both have a point to prove? Like its hot and heavy and just super intense after holding back all that time, like they've pulled the elastic band so far and now it's just snapped

And u are gonna make me cry at 7am omg that's literally them...

..

I see yn PRETENDING to be cool about it, trying to take the lead because she sees that Kika is nervous, but in the middle of it Kika just stops everything, cups her cheeks and kiss her lips very sweetly and innocently.

"Hey...it's okay, you don't need to pretend, I know you are nervous too," kika says.

She can barely see yn because they are in the dark, they turned off the light and yn's curtains were pulled together in a way that the moon can't even take a peak about what's happening inside the room.

Yn breathed once, then twice. "I am okay, not...nervous," she mumbled.

She had mastered that face, that voice tone, one that made her seem more sure of herself than she really was. She had learned it from Alexia years ago by watching her captain make speeches in the locker room about things she wasn't even sure of.

But Kika saw her through. She saw beneath the facade she so much tried to keep on.

Kika saw her and she still stayed.

"Okay..." yn said after a few seconds in silence.

Kika never rushed to make the silences between them go away, she knew that it made yn spill whatever she was feeling.

"Maybe I am a bit nervous," yn admitted.

"You are very nervous," kika said, a bit teasingly.

Yn took place of her fingertips on the top of Kika's lips. She was smirking, as Yn thought she was.

"You look very cocky for someone who had her hands trembling when I invented you to come to my room."

Yn felt the way Kika put more of her body weight into her, pressing their hips together.

She liked that very much. She realised she would die happily, crushed in between the mattress and Kika.

"I've never been invited into a pretty girl's room before," kika said, moving her lips against yn's fingers. "That's why."

Yn blushed, but she felt something ignite inside of her, something that made her legs part just so Kika's body could fit better.

The same probably happened with kika as well, because she– in what yn considered a very bold move– opened her mouth and took yn's fingers in, letting them rest on her tongue before sucking them.

Yn breath hitched.

Her fingers were wet with Kika’s saliva.

Yn watched, barely, because of the lack of light, how Kika sucked her fingers, so slowly it made her want to cry.

Next time, they were going to do it with the light on, curtais open.

They were going to welcome every single photon that could make it possible for them to see the other better.

That was why they needed for so long. They needed someone to see them for who they were. Someone to not look away when they saw the ugly. Someone who stayed.

..

Well, now I'm late for my internship now, and Im pretty sure there are lots of typos... but i don't have to fix them right now, haha

That's how i picture their first time!!

[kisskoushi]

— fever ༄.°

cw: suggestive

hallway encounter w/ koushi sugawara!

“hurry, in here!”

someone whispers out from the dark hallway, you can barely make out who it is when they grab your arms and pull you in at full force.

“what the he-” being cut short as they place a hand over your mouth, muffling the words fighting in protest. letting go of your arm, they look down at me, “angel, calm down it’s me.” you squint, trying to make out some of his features in the dim lights.

“koushi? oh my goodness you scared the living crap out of me!” you smack his hand off your mouth, glaring at him now. he looks back at your accusing eyes, shocked at first but then cracking a smile

“haha! i’m sorry lovebug, didn’t think you’d get scared like that.” your heart beats faster, not sure if it’s because of the fright your idiot of a boyfriend brought on you, or because he looked so…cute (for a lack of a better word) in this lighting. his small, cunning smile, seeing what he caused because of his little prank

“i’m going to kill him later,” a mental note, putting it aside in your mind as you smile at him, gaze softening. you get up on your tippy toes, wrapping your arms around his neck, kissing his jaw as a proper hello.

“i was just about to go see you all practice, did it end early?” you whisper, for some reason feeling as if this scene wasn’t meant to be seen, or heard, by anyone. your boyfriend picks you up off the floor so he could give me his proper hello, kissing your forehead, your nose, cheeks, then lips. this hello felt different though, his lips lingering on yours longer than usual, feeling a particular neediness to it.

“i left early. wanted to see you so we could spend a little more time together, just the two of us,” he sets me down cupping your face in his hand, “before the others start hogging my girlfriend at least.” you laugh, the team tends to flock to you for sanctuary when koushi is being a tad…headstrong to say the least, especially now that nationals were coming up.

letting out an exasperated sigh, he pulls you closer, his arm wrapping around your waist. the hand that was holding your face began creeping up reaching your hair, twirling a strand of it around his finger. he’s warm, a little too warm. sweat droplets began forming on his face, one by one falling down his face landing on your shoulder.

“kou, you okay?” worried, you wiggle out of his embrace to get a better look at his state of what seemed like exhaustion, “did carrying me tire you out that much? i didn’t think i weighed all that much.” you joke, an attempt at cheering him up, and maybe getting him to tell you what was going on.

“mm dunno, just miss you so much,” he mumbles, his breathing more labored, scrambling to bring you closer to him again. you could tell something was off, his neediness during the kiss, his sudden delicacy when holding you and now his breathing. “kou what’s going on, is some-”

hard. koushi’s hard.

your leg grazed his dick through his pants when he pulled you closer. he grabs your hand, guiding you closer and closer to his throbbing cock…

“that’s going on. lovebug please, help me won't you?”

yei! ( • ᴖ • ｡)

this has been sitting in my drafts for so long ;p

[itsgivingmami]

A Long Search Ended

Part Three- Burn and Extinguish

Part One— Part Two—

Rhea Ripley x sugarbaby!reader

Some things don’t need permission. Only the invitation.

The restaurant doesn’t have a sign. That’s the first thing you notice.

Just a narrow black door tucked between a boutique and a florist, framed in thin gold trim and flanked by a single antique lantern. The kind of door you could walk by a hundred times and never notice — unless you knew. It glows with quiet intent. No name. No neon. No menu taped to the window. Just a small circle of light and a very clear message: this is not for everyone.

It doesn’t need to be.

This place wasn’t made to be found. It was whispered into existence. For those who are told. For those who are chosen.

Your driver doesn’t get out. He doesn’t need to.

One glance in the rearview — a quiet, knowing nod — and you step out with a soft thank you, letting the door close behind you with the hush of inevitability. The city is cooling around its edges. Dusk tipping into night. The hem of your black silk dress brushes your thighs like it knows something you don’t.

You breathe in: perfume drifting from a nearby flower shop. Distant exhaust. Warm pavement. And something metallic in the air, like the hum before a storm.

You don’t knock.

You don’t pause.

You walk through the door like you’ve done this before — because tonight, you’ve been told you may.

Inside, everything shifts.

The temperature drops a degree — enough to make the silk feel colder against your skin. Your breath feels louder. The quiet here is curated: a hum of low conversation, the faint clink of cutlery, the distant shuffle of something poured and passed. The scent is rich and layered — fig, tobacco, expensive wine, wax, time.

Velvet banquettes curve in dark corners. Tables are tucked with enough space to feel alone, but close enough to feel watched.

And then you see her.

Rhea.

She’s draped in black — not like mourning, but like the concept of control had been tailored. Her shirt is open just slightly at the collar, sleeves rolled to her forearms. Collarbone exposed. Wrist loose across the curve of the booth. One finger tapping the edge of her wineglass in a rhythm that stops when her eyes meet yours.

She doesn’t move at first.

She just watches.

And the look isn’t one of hunger. It’s one of recognition. Like you’ve finally stepped into frame.

The hostess glides toward you. There’s no check-in. No name given. She nods toward the table. You follow. Not because you’re led. Because you’re ready.

Rhea stands.

Not quickly. Not ceremonially. She rises like gravity doesn’t quite apply to her. Like the no amount of money she spends on you warrants a lack of manners. Something you repress as warmth when it flutters.

She doesn’t kiss your cheek. Doesn’t reach for your hand. She just looks at you like she’s trying not to.

“You clean up,” she murmurs, voice low and warm, “like you were born in that dress.”

You smile — not shy, grateful. Sure.

Then you sit. Let the slit of your dress part as you settle into the booth, silk pooling around your thigh like it was poured there.

Rhea doesn’t wait for a signal. She picks up the wine and pours without asking.

“You’ll like this,” she says, meeting your eyes as she pours. “Trust me.”

You do.

You swirl it like you actually care about how it looks in the glass and you’re pretty sure the only legs Rhea’s thinking about are yours. She watches the way you catch a drop at the corner of your mouth. Watches the tip of your tongue. You let her.

The candle between you flickers. The wine settles. The tension doesn’t.

A waiter appears. No menus. No questions.

Just a glance at Rhea. She nods once.

“You already ordered?” you ask.

“Just the good stuff.”

“And if I’m picky?”

“Cross that bridge when you get to it,” Rhea grins, “plus someone already complimented my good taste tonight,”

You let your eyes drift over her. The open collar. The rolled sleeves. The way her shirt tugs across her chest when she lifts her glass. You wonder if she picked this table because it lets her see every angle. Or because it lets you feel watched.

“So,” you say, tilting your glass slightly, “what’s tonight for?”

Rhea’s smile is small. Like she’s indulging herself. “You looked too good not to share.”

You smirk. “Not usually into being paraded.”

“You’re not,” she says. “You’re art.”

And then — without turning her head — her eyes flick across the room. A waiter two tables over is staring. Has been since you walked in. Rhea doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. Her presence is simple, look but don’t you dare touch.

“This is my gallery.”

You laugh softly. “Should I expect certificates of authenticity?”

“No.” Her eyes trail down. “It’s already on your ankle.”

And suddenly the anklet feels heavier than a ball and chain— you don’t hate that.

Dinner arrives in waves. Beautifully plated small dishes that feel more like brushstrokes than meals. The kind of food you taste slowly — because anything quicker would be uncivilized.

She chose well.

You eat in sync. Not rushed. Not polite. Just present.

And she doesn’t make small talk but chortles when you comment that everything on the table equates proportionally to one bowl of pasta.

“Not that I’m complaining,” you add in suddenly realising you’d cracked just a little. Rhea gently adjusts the napkin on your lap and places another god knows what but tastes delicious onto your serving plate.

“No,” she agrees quietly, “you’re not.”

She asks questions like she’s reading a manual she already half-wrote.

“How do you spend your Sundays?”

“Couch, Netflix and about a hundred house plants. Maybe the top drawer of my nightstand if I’m bored.”

Your immediate answer makes her grin and a warmth flicker in her eyes that’s more than the tea lights. Almost like she appreciates that you didn’t even hesitate to come up with anything else.

“What haven’t you been spoiled with yet, but still want?”

“Still waiting for my pretty woman moment, boutique, sales associates you know the whole nine but I haven’t had any sugar parents drop Richard Grier money on me,”

You answer. Not fully. Not dishonestly. Just enough.

She doesn’t push. Doesn’t pry.

But she listens like she might sketch you from memory later.

And when you go quiet, she lets the silence stretch. Not to fill it — to honor it.

That, more than anything, keeps you leaning in. You lift your wineglass again. Let the last swallow burn just a little.

“Will there be another package?”

She watches your mouth. That smile. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Will there be another photo?”

You hum, feigning consideration. “Maybe.” Obviously.

Her smile widens — slow, deliberate.

“Sweetheart, I’ve already got a vault started.”

And just like that, you grin. The real one. The one that doesn’t get invited out often.

You know exactly what she’s doing.

She’s testing you.

“Me too,” you nod, eyes softening as you looked up from your glass, “it’s in my camera roll,”

The sound from her is low, almost a growl that she’s stomped down.

You know what this game is, reading and measuring eachother to see how far the elastic stretches.

And you love her for it.

The night air is cooler when you step outside. Not cold. Just enough to bring your awareness back to your skin.

She walks beside you — a little closer than she had when you entered. The city is quiet on this stretch, like it’s giving you space.

You’re halfway to your car when she pauses.

Reaches into her coat. No box. No buildup.

Just her hand, extended, palm up. Gold, fine, delicate — a bracelet, glinting under the amber light.

“For next time,” she says.

You glance down. “That soon?”

“I like habits.”

There’s a long beat. Your wrist already halfway toward her hand before you’ve consciously decided to offer it. She takes it. Clasps the bracelet without a word.

The metal is cool against your skin. Her fingers, warm.

“You wear it well,” she murmurs. “Of course.”

And then, with that same calm finality she orders dinner or redirects stares:

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

She doesn’t wait for a reply other than the look in your eyes. She nods to the driver of the car she sent for you, you’re not sure the silent conversation they’re having but there’s a burning to find out.

She turns, walks away, and leaves the air buzzing behind her like the echo of a struck match.

—

It’s been a couple hours since you walked through the door and spent fifteen minutes leaning against it just… processing. By the time you push off the door and head to the bedroom to change it’s nearly one in the morning. You should sleep, but there’s an energy in your body that won’t leave.

You grab your phone from beside and open Rhea’s text thread. Then you’re in front of the mirror—you send a photo.

No caption as you’ve adopted as your signature.

Just the flicker of candlelight. The silk robe, barely fastened. A bare thigh, half-lit. a glint of gold on your ankle you still snort at the thought of it being her name on the bottom of the painting she’d made tonight. You..

The message reads like an inhale.

A few minutes pass.

Then your phone buzzes.

Rhea: That’s the second time today I’ve almost canceled everything for you.

Keep playing. I like you testing the waters.

Your thumbs hover.

You: So… what would’ve happened if you had canceled everything?

Rhea: I’d be at the foot of your bed.

Watching you try on every fucking thing I bought.

You: Would you help me pick?

Rhea: No.

Your heart skips quickly on the moments it takes for the next message to come through

Rhea: I’d make you guess.

And if you picked wrong, I’d start over.

You stare at the screen for a second too long before you curl your mouth into a small smile. The words settle like hands on your thighs.

You fall asleep smiling and softly giggling to yourself, the excitement you’d contained all evening finally spilling.

“Finally someone who gets me,”

—

You wake slowly.

There’s warmth in the sheets, a quiet hum beneath your skin that hasn’t burned off from the night before.

Your robe’s still wrapped around you. Loose. Familiar. The kind of fabric that remembers where hands have been.

You stretch. Pad barefoot into the kitchen.

There’s a kind of silence here you’ve come to love — the unspoken permission of morning. No voice but your own. No timeline. Just steam rising from the kettle and the plants tilting their leaves toward the light.

You fill a glass for them. Water slowly. Carefully. And when you reach to adjust the curtain, the gold bracelet catches in the sun. You hadn’t taken it off. You hadn’t even thought to.

You take a photo. Nothing posed. Just filtered sunlight, your hand mid-motion, the metal soft and certain on your wrist.

—

Rhea’s phone buzzes in the middle of sparring.

She doesn’t reach for it right away. But when she does — and sees what you’ve sent — everything stills.

The robe. The light. That fucking bracelet. She stares at the screen for a full five seconds before locking it. Not fast enough.

Her sparring partner smirks. “Bad time?”

Rhea doesn’t answer.

Just wipes sweat from her jaw and says:

“Reschedule me.”

—

Rhea: Be ready at 7.

Dress light. We’re going out.

You: Out where?

Rhea: Somewhere I can spend obscene amounts of money

You: How obscene… prolific or really offensive?

Rhea: Really offensive

You: I like you so much

—

She picks you up at exactly 7.

You hear her before you see her — the low purr of the SUV idling at the curb, and then there she is, leaning against the matte black door like a sponsored hallucination. Jeans. Boots. Rolled cuffs again. Her hair still damp from a shower she clearly took just to smell like cedar and control.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you approach. Her eyes move down your body — slow, deliberate — like she’s already imagining the removal.

You slide into the passenger seat without a word.

She glances at your outfit — soft, simple, loose enough to strip without a second thought — and lets out a quiet sound of approval.

“Smart girl.”

You buckle your seatbelt. “This isn’t amateur hour.”

Fifteen minutes later, she pulls into a storefront you’ve never noticed before. The windows glow with diffused gold light. There’s no name. Just elegance pressed behind glass.

Before she knocks, the door opens. A stylist steps out. Looks you over once.

“She’s the one?” they ask.

Rhea, without looking at you, replies “She’s the one.”

Inside, it smells like jasmine and money. The silence feels curated — not awkward, but expectant. The racks are spaced like sculptures. Fabrics flow instead of hang.

You’re not often stopped by luxury, or even so you had a decent poker face but Rhea watched as your steps slowed, the way your mouth parted with the softest gasp and a sparkle in your eye she hadn’t seen before.

God she wants to see it again.

Rhea steps forward until she’s right behind you, the heat radiating from her body warms your back. Her tattooed hand slides to the side of your hip, her lips barely ghosting your ear.

“Let’s have some fun pretty woman,”

You don’t speak much. You don’t need to and there’s something cathartic about the way Rhea communicates with you simply through eye contact.

You try on piece after piece — silk, leather, sheer, sharp — and she watches.

Each time you emerge, her eyes do a full sweep. Rarely words. Sometimes a smirk. Occasionally, a low hum of approval that feels like gravity finding a new anchor.

The third outfit in — a dress so tight it borders indecent — you test her.

Step into the light. Tilt your head.

“Too much?”

She doesn’t blink. “Not enough.”

Later, when you step out in a halter dress, you don’t even ask.

She crosses the room slowly.

Reaches behind you.

Her hands adjust the straps — slow, efficient — but her fingers brush your ribs. Her breath grazes the back of your neck.

You don’t speak. Neither does she.

But when she ties the knot, it’s tighter than it needs to be.

Intentional.

Possessive.

—

Two hours pass like fog.

Six bags later — and one private moment in the dressing room that started as a joke and ended in a very quiet, very loaded silence — you head toward the car.

You pause just before stepping inside.

“You’re going to need to buy me a new closet.”

She holds the door open. “You’ll need a walk-in by the time I’m done with you.”

You tilt your head. “Is that a threat?”

She smiles, small. “That’s a promise.”

And then, just as you’re about to slide in, you glance over your shoulder.

“Why all this?” you ask. “Really.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Just leans a hand on the roof of the car and says, low:

“Because I like watching you try on things I already know one day you’re going to let me take off,”

You carry that home with you and you unpack your bags. Thighs pressed tighter together on the couch than they should be dealing with tissue paper.

—

In a penthouse somewhere further in the city, Rhea stands by the window, one hand curled loosely around a glass she hasn’t touched.

The city stretches below her, glittering and detached. It doesn’t ask questions. It doesn’t care what she wants. That’s the comfort of it. She watches headlights braid through the streets, slow and predictable, like ritual.

The kind she used to find comforting.

Her apartment is quiet. Still dressed in the clothes she wore to see you, she doesn’t move much — just shifts her weight against the glass, one boot toe barely brushing the rug beneath her.

Behind her, the couch catches her eye.

Wide. Low-backed. Built for company but hasn’t seen it for a while other than the dogs.

Her jaw tics. Almost imperceptibly.

She’d almost told you to come over. The words had formed — casually, carelessly — at the edge of her throat when you said goodnight and she wasn’t sure she was ready to watch you go. Wasn’t ready to stop feeling the lightness of opportunity every time you stepped out in something new. And then she’d swallowed them whole.

Not again.

Not like that.

Too involved.

Her eyes stay on the couch a beat too long. Like memory pressed against muscle. Then she turns away from it — sharp, efficient — and walks to the kitchen.

Sets the glass down without drinking.

She doesn’t sit. She just leans against the counter, arms folded, watching the dark stretch past the edge of the city.

The silence is starting to get louder than she’d like and she pulls her phone towards her, unlocking it and with a couple taps music fills the space.

Pretty woman walkin' down the street

Pretty woman, the kind I'd like to meet

Pretty woman, I don't believe you, you're not the truth

No one could look as good as you

—

Fucking finally am I right?😂

Hope you enjoyed part 3! Per usual— likes,comments, follows and reblogs are always appreciated. I really like hearing your feedback. if you’d like to be added to the tag list just ask in the comments!

(If you’ve asked to be tagged and don’t see your name— I’m sorry! Because the taglist requests are weaved into the comments of the story it’s easy to miss one- just lemme know and I’ll fix it!)

Taglist:

@possessedmagpie

@oldmanluvr13

@wwefan2002

@sincerestlove

@redrobot84

@wesbean66

@justagirl-420

@chaoticuserm

@starrycherie

@happelu970

@superstar-lover

@fastermosherzkillkill

@fruitylittlewriter

@ctrlamira

@artemisqueen

@redrobot84

@thebadwriterspost

@blondeyas

@eepyslut

@amessbian

@fanofchips

@jizzuo308

[elexuscal]

Scholomance: A Series In Conversation With Harry Potter

(and often, that conversation is 'fuck you') So I've seen posts (and made some myself), talking about how Scholomance is a response to Harry Potter, perhaps the most recent being this addition to a reblog chain of alternatives to the HP-series in light of Rowling's raging bigotry. For folks who aren't familiar about the series, I think it's very possible you'll go "oh yeah because they're both in magic schools, sure". Or even "yeah all YA-adjacent fantasy in the last 20 years is influenced by Harry Potter, duh".

But no. I mean, specifically, the author Naomi Novik is a known fanfic writer who has spent years emersed in fandom, and I think she wrote the series in part as a response to critiques of the HP series. Some of this is more tongue-in-cheek playing with fandom specific tropes and ideas, but others I think are very insightful responses to how Rowling ended up creating a world based on British hegemony and replication of the status quo. Which isn't to say that the Scholomance series don't stand on their own-- I think they do!-- but if you were someone who grew up playing in that space, it'll have a whole other layer for you. So, whether you've read the series, or are curious and want a spoiler-minimal break down, here's my thesis, starting with:

Harry X Draco

The two leads, El and Orion, are designed to parallel and reflect common tropes given to Harry and Draco in the HP fandom, though not necessarily in a one to one. Beyond the rivals-to-lovers romantic pairing, we have… El: The protagonist, struggling against the perceptions of a prophecy, the social outcast, Angry and Scowly (Harry) Takes on the roll of the apparently-evil nascent dark wizard who secretly has a heart of gold (Draco) Orion: the golden boy, the hero (Harry) Latin name, Comes from a powerful and established family, parent is a major villain, silvery-blonde (Draco) Their relationship arc requires El to unpack that Orion's upbringing was not necessarily happy for all it was privileged, while Orion needs to recognise he had privilege in the first place, and other people had to struggle where he didn't-- which are common arcs in Draco/Harry fics.

HP Adults Are Useless

A constant (sometimes joking, sometimes serious) complaint of HP, was how the adults were functionally useless, requiring the kids to constantly save the day. Honestly, I think this is just one of the fundamental elements of the genre: YA fiction will have Young Adults do the plot stuff.

Nonetheless, Scholomance has an elegant solution to the accidental byproduct of making the adults seem idiots and/or negligent—the adults can’t help, because there are none in the school. Even once they graduate, it’s not so much that adults are useless per say; some are in fact quite helpful! But many of the most powerful have been co-opted by corrupt corporate systems, and those who haven’t are struggling with intense trauma that makes them unwilling to rock the boat.

Man, The Way HP Treats Muggles-Born Is Kinda Whack

Sure is! Scholomance amps this up even more. Magical kids born of non-magical parents don’t last long. This is because young wizards are basically yummy mana snacks for monsters. The one “muggleborn” kid we hear about getting schlorped up by the Scholomance is said to have died painfully and messily due to any lack of knowledge, equipment, or allies. It encapsulates the failings of the current system.

Why Don’t Wizards Help Muggles?

As an extension of the last point, wizards in HP consistently treat non-magical people with disdain at best. At worst, they actively hurt them, as evidenced by stuff like innocent civilians suffering brain damage due to repeated memory wipes. They certainly don’t do anything like use their magic to help cure disease, duplicate and/or transport food, or provide clean energy, all of which seems easily within their power. The reasoning for this is pretty unexplored (bad blood from witch trials?) and seems kind of laughable given that the average witch or wizard should be able to easily overpower the average muggle. Again, Scholomance has an elegant solution here: magic just doesn’t work around non-magical folks.

Rather, magic is powered, deep down, on the belief that it’ll work. And deep, deep down, normal people don’t believe magic is real. Monsters become weak in their presence; spells fizzle out. Indeed, a smart strategy for survival as a wizard is to hide yourself deep among non-magical crowds. Otherwise, mana is expensive. Even if you could cast a cure-cancer spell in a mundane hospital with confidence it wouldn’t just fail, that would be prohibitively mana-hungry for all but the most secure Enclave wizards.

How Can There Be Any Material Poverty In The Wizarding World?

A lot of the HP books are obsessed with class. Like the Weasleys are poor. Really poor. They seem to struggle with basic expenses for food and clothes, let alone stuff like school supplies. How does that make any sense, when over the series, we see ability to near instantly repair items, replicate food, etc?

In Scholomance, poverty has nothing to do with material wealth over mundane things, like food and clothes. Indeed, it's explicitly said getting money is trivial. The currency is mana, which is what you need to cast any spells... Which is what you need to not get eaten by monsters.

HP’s Wizarding World Has So Few Jobs!

An oft-repeated critique of Rowling’s worldbuilding is that there were like, five jobs (teacher, cop, merchant, healer, and government official).

Scholomance’s worldbuilding focuses hugely on the wide variety of careers available in their world, with everyone very preoccupied with what job they’re going to take, since it actively impacts their survival both in and out of high school. We hear about maintenance workers, water sanitation, food scientists, doctors, artificers, gardeners, and more. That said, everyone who graduates ends up being a skilled martial combatant, cuz if you aren’t, monsters eat you. Ouch. … this probably has an impact on why wizard society, at large, is so combative and dog-eat-dog.

Why Are HP Spells Only In Latin?

All the spells the students learn in Hogwarts are Latin. IIRC, we might see some French and Nordic spells when other schools visit in book 4, but we get pretty much no world building an explanation. Why Latin? Out of universe, of course, it’s because it has associations with sophistication and academia and lost knowledge. By why in-universe? Do spells simply not work in English? What about other contemporary languages? Why would that matter at all? Do languages become magic if they're old enough? What's the logic here? Scholomance answers all of these questions. Different languages have different schools and philosophies around spell crafting. While all contemporary languages have their own spells, anyone who wants to be competitive needs to learn spells from other languages, both modern and archaic. “The Language Track”, which El is on, is necessary for those who want to become particularly flexible and skilled spell-crafters.

Actually, HP’s Global Worldbuilding In General Is Either Non-Existent Or Downright Shitty

Sure fucking was. As a refresher for those who never read the books or have just forgotten, the HP series is pretty disinterested in questions of what the so-called “wizarding world” looks like outside Europe, or even Britain. We get glimpses of French and Nordic wizards, as mentioned. We hear about dragons from a variety of countries; we know there’s “curse breaking” on Egyptian pyramids. That’s about it. On the official HP extended lore site “Pottermore”, Rowling began to write short stories and other material to fill in the gaps. These were bad. Really bad. Things like there being a single wizarding school for all of China. Or the Indigenous witches and wizards of the Americas apparently not being very good at magic, until European wizards came, taught them how to make wands, and set up the first school on the continent (which every kid, presumably including Indigenous ones, go to.) Wow. Again, Scholomance-- both the series and the titular school-- is designed to answer these critiques.

Why is there only one magical school? Because it was an incredibly complex and mana-hungry construction project. Why is it so British and American in its design? Because those were the main builders/funders, and they intended to keep it for themselves... Until they realised they needed to put more kids in there to up the chances for their own childrens' survival. But while Britain and America have an outsized impact on the school, they are not the only major players. International politics is a huge theme of the series, with Enclaves from all around the world fighting for power and influence. China in particular is becoming a rising star, and is pressuring for more seats in the school, or else they might break away and make one of their own. Everyone is bracing for an international wizard war that seems liable to start any moment. Our protagonist, El, is of both Welsh and Indian descent, notably both nations that were colonized by the British. As the series goes on, that colonization becomes a major theme, arguably the one that underpins the whole series. In order to counter this, El needs to cultivate friends and allies from all around the world. While I think it's telling that her first real friend ends up being a Desi-American girl, her core team ends up including folks from China, Germany, Malaysia, and more. All of these nations are shown to have their own cultural backgrounds and approaches to magic. Notably, the powerful ancient magical tome that holds the promise for potential peace, the Golden Sutras, are rooted in Indian culture, just like El.

Harry Potter Is Pretty Heteronormative, Huh?

Sure is. And while there were critiques of this even when the books were coming out, its failure there has become much more damning in hindsight given Rowling's descent into becoming perhaps the most politically active and powerful transphobe on the planet. Sadly, I don't believe Scholomance has any explicit trans representation (though let me know if I'm forgetting something). I will say, though, that on top of having some background queer rep, El is bisexual, who has an on-page sexual relationship with another young woman. (I adore that whole relationship so much frankly, but it's kinda out side the scope here, so I'll leave that aside for now).

Status Quo

And then, the crux of it. Harry Potter, for all the series presented itself as a counter-cultural rebellion against a fascist take over, ends right where it started. Voldemort is defeated, sure, but none of the systems that led to his creation and rise to power are dismantle. Harry grows up to become a wizard cop, marries his high school sweet heart, and has three kids. Without spoilers, Scholomance ends on a much more open note. There is no single villain to defeat. Fixing the system is a long, hard, slow process. The powers that be will try to block El and her allies at every turn. But she's still determined to try.

... PS

My Immortal

Galadriel Higgins is a goth who puts up her middle fingers at preps. The end.

[ftmsimonriley]

soap picks up fishing while on mandatory leave, allowed to borrow price's boat to take it out on the coast, never far enough to catch anything more than rockfish and other coastal dwellers, most of which he releases back anyway. he spends his days out there, drinking and letting the hours tick by as he waits for a bite.

one day, the water's calm and he doesn't have a care in the world. a little past tipsy, he's watching some gulls fly past when suddenly the line catches. the speed of the boat doesn't make up for the speed at which the reel rapidly unravels as whatever is at the other end takes off. he's left to scramble for the rod, and it's a fight to reel it back.

about halfway back, the line goes slack.

he's left feeling a little disappointed as he winds it the rest of the way, expecting nothing at the other end. but what he reels up is half of a catshark. obviously something else was trying to catch it, too.

when he looks up from the mangled corpse, he's startled to find something in the water staring back.

a human face, with just eyes out of the water, deep brown with seemingly no pupils, which he chalks up to the trick of the light reflecting off the water. what skin he can see is pale and freckled, and the short hair flattened to the person's head is deepened to a dark brown from how wet it is.

he knows mers exist. he never thought he'd meet one, much less almost accidentally catch it.

"this yers?" he calls out, undeterred by the lack of a response. only quiet staring, the mer never letting the waves push it closer to his boat. he's quick to pull the catshark off his hook, less careful than he'd be with a live one. with an underhand toss, it hits the water with a quiet splash before sinking.

the mer is diving after it in a split second, and soap assumes that's all he'll see of it.

he stays out for a bit longer after that, intent on catching something that's not already half eaten. but the mer seems to have scared off all the fish, and he's considering accepting that today wouldn't be his day before something heavy is landing on his deck.

there, is a whole northern pike, freshly killed. when he looks over the side of the boat, there in the water is those same two brown eyes.

"dinners on you, is it?" he's a bit in shock, not only with meeting a mer but having it seemingly hunt for him. but unless its somehow messed with the pike before throwing it on board, soap isn't going to question his intentions beyond interpreting this as some form of gratitude for giving him the rest of the catshark.

and after that, he sees the mer every day he's out on the water.

always keeping his distance, always just his eyes above the surface. he starts to call him ghost, what with his ability to disappear and reappear so easily, and his eerie silence. ("like a wee ghost swimming around my boat.")

he suspects ghost is also, intentionally or not, scaring away all the fish. but at this point, he's casting as an excuse. why fish when he has a mer to talk to (or to be apt, talk at, as ghost never speaks) all day?

[yourislandgirl]

⁺‧♱₊ DON’T TOUCH, DON’T DO IT ˚˖𓍢⋆ || 박성훈 x fem!reader || fic

ib: this prompt by @hoondrop

summary: light and darkness culminates in a single glance when you find yourself entranced by a handsome stranger, and with one touch he brings you closer to god than you could ever have imagined

genres: fallen angel!sunghoon x human!fem reader, romance, mature, suggestive, angelic/devilish powers au, religious imagery, strangers to ???

warnings: swearing/cursing, skinship, indirect allusions to sex but nothing explicit is written, some descriptive sentences on bodily harm (burns.. to sunghoon), desperate sunghoon, he’s lowkey going through a psychotic break and questioning his entire purpose, yn sees a handsome guy who questions religion like herself and runs with it, not an accurate rep of christian mythology — i’m not christian i just like researching and learning religious symbolism so i’m so sorry if i get smth wrong

w.c: 5.9k

[archive]

It had been at least ten or so hours since he’d lost it all. Or at least that was his assumption. Time worked differently in this realm. Everything felt tortuously long.

The field where he’d woken up had left charred grass blades beneath him, his skin stippled and smoking in two long stripes down his broad back. The smell made him want to heave and yet nothing came out. But the feeling… He’d never felt such a repulsive reaction in himself.

Angels didn’t feel nauseous, they didn’t feel hunger, rage, wrath, or at least they weren’t supposed to.

But now the feelings seemed to suffocate him. Yet the air was stale.

The world of the humans felt bleak — it lacked the opulence of pearlescent pillars and amber chandeliers and marble pathways. The trees seemed less alive, the flowers less fragrant, everything was less.

But it was better than the other option…

He refused to go there.

But that left him no other choice but to stay here. Among the humans. They were…different.

Some shone brightly, others had a festering wound coiling inside them, draining them with every breath and every sin. Those fighting for sanity were always teetering on the brink of giving up and pulling through. Those that gave in, fell into the poison of release that had Sunghoon looking away in disappointment.

But at least they had the chance to redeem themselves.

Sunghoon regarded every passing person with a semblance of prospect — they each had the opportunity to find salvation. Something that would forever remain out of his reach.

Turmoil riddled his mind, complicated emotions that had never touched the strings of his heart were now orchestrating his feelings. He’d become a marionette, a simpleton compared to humans who had grown into mastery of these emotional shortcomings.

This shame buried under anger was new. And it only grew with every passing hour.

He found himself walking into an empty chapel’s halls. Rows of pews and stone walls carved with intricacy, paintings and murals of the divinity that he’d once known — it wasn’t enough.

His steps echoed, heavy against oakwood polished floorboards. The urge to raise up into the air, suspended between gravity, it gnawed at him. But despite all the dust and musty candlewax, all Sunghoon could smell was the burning flesh on his back.

He chose a pew to the far corner, away from the entrance but far enough from the podium that he felt like he could stare without the guilt swallowing him whole. His back rested against the length of the bench, one arm bending back to cushion his head.

And for the first time since he fell, Sunghoon wept.

Hot tears slid down his unblemished cheeks — skin that had never felt anything more than the warmth of Heavens sun, the sweetness of its rain — he felt the rage pushing itself out, heating up his face, pulsing against his skull, twisting in his throat.

Feeling the sticky yet dry remains of his sadness was humbling.

Amongst the multitude of muddled emotions, one thing remained consistent — Sunghoon had divinity that did not hold power to those above, and was irrelevant to those below, he only mattered here, and yet here was the realm of freedom that promised salvation to everyone but him.

Sunghoon let his hand slide down his face, wiping his tears and with them, his self pity.

Alright Father, you want to punish me? Let me show you the liberty of your punishment.

⋆ ───── 𝜗𝜚 ───── ⋆

There wasn’t any goal with your walk. You just wanted to get out, clear your head, get your thoughts straight, something to pass the time. It wasn’t a planned route. There wasn’t an intended destination.

So when you found yourself on the steps of the old church in your town, it felt more pretentious than comforting.

What gave you, the girl who renounced religion as something that predetermined value, the right to step foot into such a place when you felt lost.

Regardless, you simply scoffed and entered the place anyway.

It was the better option compared to the town’s newer church. This one was all but abandoned, safe for the archive room being used as storage by the pastors after they all moved to the newer church across town.

You remember sneaking into these halls as a young teenager. Usually during a game of truth or dare, to see who’d be brave enough to enter the abandoned church at night and get a picture of the weeping angel statue out the back on the church grounds. Safe to say you’d finished the dare with only minimal nightmares for the rest of that weekend.

“Worth it,” you whispered to yourself as you slid past the slightly ajar doors.

The place hadn’t changed at all. In a way, that was comforting. After seeing all the new apartment complexes closer to the city or the reconstructed parks that got rid of the old equipment you’d grown up with, this was an oddly nice change of pace.

You pulled out the lighter in your back pocket and reached for one of the single candle holders. The sun was setting rapidly outside and the streetlights on this side of town were old and quite frankly unreliable.

The crackle of the aged wick filled the previous pin drop silence and you felt goosebumps rise along the length of your forearms. The slither of cold that slid down your spine made your shoulder shake slightly.

It was a delicious sort of drear, the kind that had you curious and pushed away thoughts of your day, your week, your life.

Tonight, in the halls of the church, with its enormously high ceilings that glittered with cobwebs and candelabras, all that mattered was your peace of mind. You didn’t care about tomorrow, or yesterday, or even the last hour.

You just wanted to get lost in the one place in town that had stood still through the progression of time.

You took tentative steps along the rows of seats, searching for the odd bible left behind, maybe some other momento, lost among moth eaten cushions. The amber flame in your hand cast eerie shadows, reflecting mirages from the multicoloured stained glass.

You had just reached the podium when the sight of a limp body along one of the pews had you frozen on the spot, a gasp strangled in your throat.

“What the— Hey.”

You placed the candleholder on top the podium, letting its light spread wider from the elevation, and you hesitantly walked closer to the man laying there in what appeared to be a satin shirt and pants that looked darker than obsidian. A grey coat was bunched up behind his neck for support and upon further inspection, his shoes seemed caked with mud and gravel, as if he’d been walking for hours.

You shuffled closer, breath held between your pursed lips. Except it didn’t stay back for long — your eyes had only just reached his face when you felt the air being pushed out of your lungs.

He was… Beautiful. There was simply no other word for it.

Fair skin mildly speckled with dark stars, lips that looked like they had a touch softer than rose petals, one hand tucked under his head, dark hair spread in different directions from his sleep. His other hand was adorned with silver rings, glistening despite the minimal lighting, as if they glowed but not quite.

Your hand reached forward before you could even control it. The desire to touch him was something so out of this world that it was as if you were viewing yourself through a screen, your body moving without any intention other than to feel the form of someone that screamed angelic.

As your fingers touched the soft fabric on his shoulder, you wondered if he was some wealthy runaway, some sort of political figure or celebrity, maybe even a model. No other explanation came to mind. He looked otherworldly and his clothes felt like they were meant to be worn by a prince.

And he radiated warmth. Not a feverish burn but a simmering heat. Like the sun in the early morning, the first rays of light.

Finally, taking a breath, after what felt like a millennia, you cleared your throat and gave him a gentle shake.

“Hey. Wake up. … Hello?”

He furrowed his eyebrows, lips creasing together before sitting up with a jolt, eyes wide, shoulders tense. You stumbled back a few steps, watching him observe his surroundings until his gaze landed on you. Before he squeezed his eyes shut.

“…So bright.” His voiced was slightly rasped from sleeping and yet the gravity of his tone had you lost for words.

All you managed to get out was a measly “Huh?”

“Bright.” He repeated himself.

Looking back at your single candlestick, you frowned a little. “That’s too bright for you?”

The man simply rubbed his eyes with his fingers, blinking a few times before shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

“Well, that’s one way of putting it.” Your hand clasped itself around your mouth hurriedly.

Heat prickled the back of your neck as you watched the man in front of you start to stretch and stumble to his feet, standing taller as he straightened up.

He didn’t appear to have registered your words, thank god, but the embarrassment had already washed over you.

It was hard to stop staring, observing the way he scanned his surroundings, took a step forward before looking down and sighing in disappointment. It was as if he expected something to happen.

You were just about to work up the nerve to ask some sort of question when he turned around.

“Oh god…” You took a step backwards, hand reaching for your phone. “You— You’re hurt.”

He froze, his shoulders squaring as he looked back to you. “I’m not. I— It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not?” Your phone lit up as you unlocked it. “You need a doctor.”

He took a step closer, palms up placatingly. “I don’t! Just… Stop. Trust me. I’m fine.”

Your thumbs paused, hovering over the keypad. It was a little impossible to look away from him. His gaze had a depth that had you swimming just to stay present in the moment, fighting against the tide.

He must have taken your silence as an indication to keep going. “I, uh, already had it treated. It just needs to be aired out to heal now.”

That didn’t seem medically sound in the slightest. From your quick glance it looked like severe burns, not the kind you got from a kitchen stove. Two long stripes etched down his back, the marks burnt through his shirt, browning the once pale, moonlit-white of the satin.

“I don’t think that airing it out will help much…” Your eyes darted between his, gaze fixating on the small moles that dotted his face. You were so focused on counting them, you missed the way his lip quirked up.

With a shrug, he reached for his coat, grey and long, draping it over his shoulders. “I’m just doing what my doctor told me.”

Normally, this would be the perfect opportunity to form an ending to the conversation and make a quick exit.

Normally, you would do that just that, giving a curt smile and a quick nod and a simple ‘Have a good night’ before speed walking out the door.

Normally…

Nothing about this man was normal.

“What are you doing here?”

He sighed at your question, arms crossing over before he spoke, “Just sleeping. I’ve had a long day. You?”

“Uh… I was out for a walk. Kind of ended up here. Weird, right?”

His expression sobered a little, his mind seemingly drifting before he responded. “No. You probably came here for a reason. Like I did.”

“And what reason’s that?”

“Peace. Silence. Company.”

You felt the same tug on your limbs, where it was like you were a mere spectator while your feet took a few tentative steps forward. “Are you the company?”

The man’s eyes seemed to soften, a hypnotising contrast with the subtle strike of his smirk. “If you want me to be.”

⋆ ───── 𝜗𝜚 ───── ⋆

It wasn’t like Sunghoon knew what to do in such situations.

Stuck in a realm where redemption was futile had suddenly made every thought, every action, every inhibition seem enticing.

What could he do now that he had no limitations on his soul?

Did he even possess a conscience? Or was it always just an added bonus to divine existence?

What would it be like to give in and fall into that freedom?

He’d have to get used to not raising into flight after taking a single step — the lack of wings left a lightness to his shoulders. He felt uninhibited.

Usually in bouts of desperation, one does something that they will eventually regret. But Sunghoon couldn’t deny how exhilarating it was to dismiss regret. To feed into thoughts of impurity because he finally felt separate from the shackles of feather and bone that had once framed his structure.

He had the opportunity to let go of everything that had once defined him. He had the chance to reinvent himself in his own image, rather than what was handed to him upon birth. He just didn’t know where to begin.

Until he laid his eyes on you.

Through the brief interactions, it was clear why you shone so brightly. There was a genuine light inside of you — golden and glistening — ready to shine onto anyone in need or sear the space around you to protect yourself. There were a few people he’d seen with such brightness.

You were the first one he’d seen up close.

It should have concerned him. Usually he was supposed to have a sense of nurturing and a desire to help facilitate such brightness.

Now, all he wanted was to feel the tempting burn of your light under his fingertips.

This should have concerned him — this desire, so raw, and so new, and so unknown. Yet it was so natural.

Sunghoon let you have your space, blinking repeatedly every chance he got in order to get used to the way you shone in the dark space of the church hall.

The way you moved with a hesitant step, a slightly measured reaction, like you were aware of how much space you were occupying, it was so human of you.

You’d taken the candleholder back in your hands and were explaining briefly why you’d decided on going for a walk in the first place. And Sunghoon listened with raptured attention. Eventually the pair of you made your way past the long echoey hallways and into the archival room.

“This room’s got more comfy chairs anyway.” You gave him a little smile, setting the candleholder down on one of the empty tables before you went to light a few more.

With every little flame that flickered to life thanks to your lighter, the room glowed a little orange. Sunghoon sighed, your own light slightly dimming from the candles around the place.

“So,” you started, “Why are you sleeping at a church? Not that I’m judging… Or, maybe I am. I don’t know. I’m just curious.”

An amused smile etched on Sunghoon’s lips. Your flailing hands as you tried to explain yourself was endearing enough that he didn’t register his response until it happened.

“I can’t go back home.”

“Trouble with your folks?”

“Something like that. I just needed to rest until I can figure out what to do with myself.”

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the truth either. Sunghoon knew there was not much a fallen angel could do unless they got help from those in power in the Underworld.

But then he’d be indebted.

Dismissing the concern he simply relaxed at how you accepted his words. Your attention seemed taken by the volumes of tomes and books that lined the shelves.

Pulling one out, you flipped it over before frowning at the lack of text on the back. “Guess that doesn’t work. Only novels have blurbs,” you muttered.

Sunghoon walked a little closer, his shoulder just barely brushing yours as he carefully took the book from your hands. “Check the inside, last few pages.” He opened the back of the book and pointed out a tiny paragraph of text, looping in fancy script on the aged, yellowing paper.

His eyes followed the way your fingers traced each loop of ink, trying to read the words.

“It’s Latin,” he whispered. “Translates to something about ritual to revitalise a soul after they have sinned.”

You scoffed, closing the book and sliding it back into the shelf. “Sin itself is so bogus.” Halting for a moment, you stole a glance at Sunghoon. “I mean, not to offend you if you’re religious. Which I’m assuming you are if you choose to sleep at a church when you’ve got nowhere to go. I didn’t mean—”

“Relax.” Sunghoon, leaned against a table behind him, arms crossing over his torso as he spoke. “I don’t think sin has weight on me anyway. Not anymore.”

Again, not a lie. But not the truth.

Again, he should have been concerned with the ease at which he was crossing his old limitations. But he wasn’t.

Instead he was smiling at the way you relaxed. He was nodding at your explanation on the rejection of sin, entranced by the confidence in your autonomy. A little envious of what was blissful ignorance to the kinds of realms he’s seen. You truly were existing in the moment for no one but yourself.

“You should keep doing that.” His fingers played with the platinum ring that weighed heavy on his other hand. The last piece of the life he had once known.

You hadn’t quite understood his words. “Doing what?”

“Living for yourself.”

You smiled.

It should have been a sin to have a smile as ethereal as yours, but Sunghoon just smirked at the realisation that you’d renounce that sin as well.

“I don’t actually know what I’m doing.” You walked closer to where Sunghoon stood, back rested against the table. He watched you with a gaze so soft, it was impossible to notice how he was basically pulling you closer with a single look.

He remained situated in one location, eyes following your every movement, as if the dark brown irises that flickered gold from candlelight were some source of power, in control of every step you took.

“You…” The words died on your lips.

You’re different. You’re not normal. You’re doing something to me. And I’m letting you….

Sunghoon was indeed in control. A power he hadn’t ever used without intention until this very moment. He wasn’t moving a human being to the right position in order to facilitate some divine timing. That was no longer his purpose. He had no purpose for anyone other than himself.

Just like you.

He wanted to give into that. Feel what is was to be like you. Feel what it was to be with you.

Feel you.

⋆ ──── 𝜗𝜚 ──── ⋆

There was no logical explanation for how it happened. One minute you were standing a few meters away from the most handsome man you had ever laid your eyes on, and the next minute, you were inches away from him.

Less than inches.

He stood tall, gaze cast down, eyes half-lidded and filled with a darkness that only seemed to beckon you closer.

Your neck craned slightly as you held his gaze. You had no clue where you found the will to keep looking when every nerve in your body was pulsing with the urge to look away. But his pull was inexplicably demanding. And it had you wanting to fulfil what he asked, his desires becoming your own, his thoughts enveloping yours, a shadow encircling light.

With shaky hands, your fingers reached closer — little dark spots on his skin, porcelain smoothness, light rouge dusted across his cheekbones with the candlelight shadows making him seem like he was suspended between this world and a world just beyond the veil — you ached to touch him.

“Don’t.”

With a blink, you halted. Your eyes searched his for some explanation.

“You don’t want to touch me.” He spoke with a certainty, like he knew the power he held over you, like he knew you were questioning why you wanted this so bad.

But that want, that craving, it was all you could focus on. You could have pleaded in that moment, but you tried to bite back the desperation from seeping through your voice and nodded. “I do.”

A smirk struck his features with the magnetism of lightning. He was so alluring. And he was just standing before you. “Innocent girl…” The gravel of his voice left a thundering thump in your chest, in your soul, in the parts of yourself that you didn’t expect. “You don’t know what you want.”

“I do.”

“Really?”

You kept your eyes locked with his, nodding again.

Swallowing back the shivers that were working their way up your forearms, you waited as he straightened up a little more, growing taller than before. You didn’t think it was possible. His own hand started raising higher, mirroring yours, his fingers just a hairs width away from your own cheek.

“Then tell me,” he started, “What do you think you want?”

You bit your tongue. How could you tell a nameless stranger — a handsome stranger, but a stranger nonetheless — that all you really wanted was to feel his hands on you, feel his breath mixed with yours, with no clause or reason or regret for what would come or what it could mean.

Meaning only mattered when it was given that importance. Meaning only existed if one let it. You didn’t intend to.

“Hmm?” He hummed, awaiting a response.

Your response came with your gentle touch, fingertips softly tapping against one of his moles, eyes fixated on the slope of his nose, trailing down to the tantalising sight of his lips, parted ever so slightly. He stiffened from your touch, eyes fluttering closed. A low hiss, barely audible, filled the little space between your faces.

“I know what I want.” You didn’t think your voice had ever been so soft. “The question is, do you want the same?”

His eyes were still closed, his hand dropping down to clench around the fabric of your jacket. “I shouldn’t…”

His brows furrowed, eyes opening to finally meet yours and you felt a sweltering heat from his very gaze. He held a breath for an eternity longer than you thought was humanly possible. Your hand had only just lifted off his face when he grasped with a firm grip, sparks creeping along your palm from his touch.

“I shouldn’t want this.” His whisper seemed to be more for himself than for you. So you chose to remain silent. Entranced by the sight of someone fighting to remain logical in a space that seemed to defy logic, where the energy pulsed with desire, where intellectualising the tension was trivial when you could just give in and feel.

And when he took that single step closer, fingers lacing into yours, you closed your eyes in an immediate release of control. There was no time to question yourself, to try and understand why you were acting in a manner that didn’t feel normal. All that mattered was the warmth of his breath, ghosting lips that hovered over yours, and the gentle rub of his thumb on the back of your hand, grounding you in the moment.

“Forgive me.”

You felt your heartbeat in your throat. Unable to respond, you thanked every source of operant powers that you didn’t have to.

His lips seared with a fire that breathed another life into you. An indescribable feeling, like no other kiss, no back-of-a-party hook up or first date butterflies could compare from the way he claimed you in that very moment.

Nothing mattered when he moved his mouth against yours. Nothing became everything. The ground beneath your feet could have gave way and you would have remained in the spot, one hand pressed against his chest, the other sliding out of his grasp and pulling him closer with the collar of his shirt.

His hold was the only thing keeping your knees from buckling. His arm wrapped around you, fingers pressing into the material of your jacket, one hand already working on lowering the zipper just enough to slide his hand along the bare skin of your neck, cupping your jaw.

You pulled back, breathing deeply. His eyes held a lust that you hadn’t seen before, a thirst that didn’t seem explainable, yet it only drew you in. His thumb slightly pulled on your lower lip, like he was hypnotised, thoughts foggy, only one goal in mind. You could have chalked it up to the heat that bathed the room, but honestly, you had the same goal. And with the way he studied you while you unzipped your jacket and pulled it off, he seemed to understand.

“Are you sure you’re not an angel?” He asked, seeming a little dazed.

The line felt undoubtedly cliché and yet the way he looked at you — eyes glossed over, lips parted, ready to swallow yours again in an instant — he seemed to really mean it.

You giggled, tugging his grey coat off his shoulders. “I’m no more an angel than you are.” You pulled him back down by the collar, your grip so tight you thought you heard a button pop. “Besides,” you breathed against his lips, “I don’t think angels get up to shit like this. Do you?”

He exhaled low, nose nudging against yours, like the mere act of sharing oxygen with you was making his head spin. And maybe it was, because yours was doing the same.

The sound of his chuckle had you biting back the most embarrassing sounds. And it didn’t help when he held your waist, fingers pinching at the skin through the material of your shirt while he turned the two of you around, leaning you against the desk.

“I can tell you with the upmost certainty,” his hand reached down and hooked under one of you knees, lifting you up by the back of you thighs, seating you on the desk as he stepped closer, between you legs. “Angels don’t do anything like this.”

He seemed almost grateful…

For a split second, the confusion overtook the emotions and you wondered about the man before you. The one who’s hand was trailing up your clothed thigh, his other hand stroking the soft skin of your cheek, like he was trying to memorise the sensation, trying to embed your warmth into his soul.

You felt the urge to ask, but you were torn between the need to know and the need to feel.

“Are you okay?” He leaned closer, pressing a gentle kiss before pulling away to gauge your reaction.

You nodded. “Never better.”

His lips trailed down your jaw, the warmth drowning any doubts, teeth poking through to prick against the pulse of your neck. You clenched your hand around the width of his arm, tilting your head further to feel as much as possible.

When your fingers slid between the silk of his hair, you wondered if you’d ever felt anything so smooth. It curled between your fingers, practically begging to be tugged.

And who were you to deny that.

Each touch ignited a beating pulse in its wake. Each kiss melted together. Tongues clashing, teeth nipping, hands wandering to places that had your moans and whines melding together into a lewd symphony.

And yet you had never felt more content.

That’s what happens when desire takes the reigns. Time blurs together and before you realise it, you find yourself feeling like heaven is found in some dark corner of an archive room, in the arms of a handsome stranger who seems to be just as lost as you are.

a.n: this was supposed to be a drabble but i think i’m almost incapable of writing those bcs tell me why this ended up being so long T^T not complaining (that much) bcs i still had fun writing it !! hope i delivered xx

perm taglist: @oceanstide — @sheepsgf — @itsrinsdrs — @enjakey — @rynnest — @jaylaxies

2025 © yourislandgirl

[punkssavior]

in the interest of time.

| cm punk x fem!reader

a oneshot request for my babygirl, @h0ney-fiction. she’s short, sweet, n’ dirty ;)

this is barely proofread whoops. but i hope this makes up for my inactivity on here! i miss yall bad!!!!

content warnings: smut. duh. unprotected sex. semi-exhibitionism. pet names. dirty talk. just filthy shit, babe!

wordcount: ~4.1k

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

“Huh?”

Hanging out backstage before a wrestling show never failed to be the most slow moving, agonizing passage of time on the planet.

You were back here in this clammy backstage area with your boyfriend, Punk.

The two of you had started dating fairly recently, though you were roped in and incorporated into his world of pro-wrestling before he even officially asked you to be his girlfriend.

Of course, you ended up right where it all began. On a Saturday night. At the venue that was home to his wrestling promotion.

Punk was laying down flat on a workout bench, tossing a tennis ball up into the air while mindlessly staring at the ceiling. You were sitting cross legged on the floor beside him, twirling around your shoelaces as you asked him to repeat his question.

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? Like, ever.”

“I don’t think I understand what you’re asking,” you say, glancing up at the blond whose hair was fanned out and hanging above the floor.

“Have you ever like, stolen something? Or beaten someone up? Or cursed out your mom or whatever?”

You chuckle at your boyfriend’s meandering, “Why are you asking me this exactly?”

“I dunno— I’m curious. I wanna see if there’s a bad side to you.”

You roll your eyes, Punk glances at you with a smirk.

“A bad side? Really?”

“C’mon, there’s gotta be something. I know you’re not the perfect little angel that you claim to be.”

Punk sits up straight, catching the tennis ball out of the air one final time before he spins to face your seat on the floor. He rests his elbows onto his knees, cradling his chin in his hand with a pouty lip.

“Hm. Or how about this— what’s something you’ve always wanted to do, but never found anyone crazy enough to do it with you?”

“Punk, you have a match in like what, an hour? I don’t think going out and crossing shit off my bucket list is the best idea in the interest of time.”

“Damn, you’re no fun. What are you, my manager?” He sneers.

“Kind of, yeah.”

With a huff and a groan, Punk is up on his feet. He extends his hand to you, inviting you to stand up with him.

“I’m sorry this shit’s so boring when I’m not out there,” he says, pushing his lips to the side while helping you stand up, “Feels like I owe you one for putting you through this type of torture.”

“Eh, not really. I’d probably be at home on the couch watching Real Housewives if it weren’t for this. Saturday nights were never eventful until I met you”

You glanced up at Punk’s face; his eyes were slightly hazy, possibly due to the overall lack of sleep he’s been getting since he started getting booked for more matches. Through the darkness of his under eye bags, you could still see those pretty green irises, sparkling when they met yours. His pupils were blown, his face was slick with a light coating of sweat, his hair was somehow already soaked and pushed out of his face.

“God, what I wouldn’t do to be laid up on your couch watching Real Housewives with you right now.”

He takes that hand of yours and pulls you into his chest, planting a soft kiss on your cheek.

“Maybe that’s something to look forward to when you’re out there. Y’know, a bit of motivation.”

Your hand makes its way to his chest, barren of tattoos, but begging to be beneath a needle.

“Keep touching me like that and we’ll see if we even make it to your couch.”

Your eyebrow quirks up in intrigue, Punk’s moody face was a tell all. He was already dressed in his wrestling gear: shorts, boots, knee-pads and all. But there was nothing stopping you from being a bit of a tease, especially since you knew you’d be thoroughly satisfied by the time you stepped over the threshold of your front door later.

“Is that a threat?” you ask, egging him on to see if he’s really in the same headspace as you.

“Maybe. Could be a promise, if you’d like.”

“Hm.”

You continue on with the little game you were playing, running the hand that laid flat upon his chest towards the nape of his neck and up behind his ear. You held your hand there, keeping his face locked into yours as his eyes bounced in a triangle. Eyes, then lips.

“We’ve got a bit of time to kill,” Punk purrs as you let your nails gently drag against his scalp; similar to that of a loving cat.

“An hour and fifteen minutes.”

Your voice was smooth, dripping off your lips like honey. Naturally, Punk was there to catch those sweet nothings and collect you into a kiss. You gasp at the roughness of his actions, suddenly completely engulfed in his arms as his tongue begins to tangle with yours.

“Baby,” you chuckle into his lips, your teeth knocking into one another, “I’d rather not do this back here.”

He pulls away from you, keeping a steady hand at the small of your back, “Why not? Nobody’s gonna come looking for me for at least another hour.”

“Okay, but what if somebody does,” you roll your eyes, pushing back on his insisting; something that you rarely ever do, “What if someone busts the door down? Sees us fucking around. Gets extremely offended over it. One thing leads to another and then boom, you’re fired.”

“You may be overthinkin’ it now, sweet pea. But we could make the location change if it’s gonna bother you.”

Still tangled up in Punk’s arms, an idea blinks in your mind. Punk’s question from earlier enters the forefront of all of your logic.

Something you’ve always wanted to do, but never met anyone crazy enough to do it with you.

Your face lights up at your own internal monologue, but Punk looks at you with an eyebrow pinned to his forehead.

“You alright?” he asks, but you had already pulled away from him and grabbed him by his forearm. He jumps at the feeling of your nails digging into his skin, face twisted in confusion.

“Remember what you asked me earlier?”

“Yup.”

“Were you implying that you’re the one who's crazy enough?”

“I’m sorry—?”

You keep firing questions at him, your eyes narrowing with the challenge, “Are there still buses out back?”

“I— I think so?—”

“Are those buses hard to break into?”

“Uh, I doubt it.”

“Perfect.”

Without giving Punk a moment to process anything that had just occurred, you were off and running, leaving him trailing behind you as you bolted down the hall.

“You’re insane,” Punk huffs, catching up to your speed as you finally slid to a stop next to the door.

“Not insane. Just bored— and horny.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Thanks a lot for that last bit, by the way.”

You giggle innocently as you pull open the door, allowing Punk to catch it from behind you and hold it open for you to run out into the parking lot.

It was a race of thudding feet along the blacktop; you’d set your sights on one of the crew buses that was parked in the very back of the lot, only lit up by a single streetlamp from above.

“Hurry up, slowpoke!” You tease, already having made it to the three little steps that lead up to the bus door.

“Jesus Christ,” he huffs, finally making it beside you, “where’d you learn to run so fast?”

“I watch a lot of Animal Planet. Those gazelles are the shit.”

Punk rolls his eyes at your comment. The both of you collect your breath, and stand at the foot of the little steel steps.

“So, did you have a plan? Or was this just a test to see if I’ve been paying attention to you?”

“I was actually hoping you’d take it from here.”

“You want me to break into this fucking bus? Are you out of your mind?”

You shrug, tugging at the hem of your shirt, “Maybe a little.”

With another loud huff, Punk steps up to the door of the bus. It was clearly unoccupied, most likely one of the buses used to transport crew members and equipment whenever Punk’s promotion had a show that was far away.

Despite not being a wrestler yourself, you’d already known this place, and how it operates, like the back of your hand. So when Punk accidentally leaned on the door and it slid open without any actual force, you passed him a wicked smile.

“See?” he brushes off his shoulder, leaning onto the doorway with a cool and collected elbow, “Told you it’d be easy.”

You and Punk quickly scurry inside of the bus, feeling out its spacious interior and being led only by the light of that street lamp outside. There were couches, a table accompanied by a large circular booth, even a chest of drawers for storage.

Whoever’s bus this was had to have broken the bank.

“There’s gotta be a light switch in here,” Punk mumbles. You had already found a comfortable spot on one of the couches, perched on your knees.

“I’m sure there is. But I’d imagine a light switch would be more useful to us if the bus was actually running.”

You glance over at your beau, who was scratching his head in confusion. His toned body somehow glistened even more in the moonlight, making you chew on the inside of your cheek.

“It’s dark in here,” he grumbles, his arms crossed.

“Stop whining.”

He whips his head to face you, his hand cradling his cheek, “Excuse me?”

“I said, stop whining. We’re alone now, aren’t we? We’ve got about an hour to do whatever the hell we want and here you are, complaining about the lack of ambient lighting like a crabby old man.”

Punk’s confused, blasé face quirked up into a smile. He was now watching you like a predator stalking its prey, his eyes bouncing down to the frayed hem of your denim shorts.

“You’ve got a big fuckin’ mouth, honey,” he chuckles dryly, taking a large step towards you, “I oughta’ shut you up.”

“Shut me up?” you scoff, blush pink flooding your cheeks as you shift down to sit on your ass, “I’d like to see you try.”

A deep set laugh leaves Punk’s chest, shaking his head in dismay as he’s finally inches away from you. He towers over your sitting body, his hands on his hips in condescension.

He doesn’t say a word. He just glares down at you.

“What? What’s that face? Want me to admit that I’ve been a bad girl?”

“Watch that mouth,” he warns.

You giggle at his stern warning tone.

Punk was never hard to read; his eyes gave away everything you needed to know about what he was thinking at any given moment. He crouches down to be level with you, taking your chin in a fistful and swiping at your bottom lip with his thumb. The action alone makes your stomach turn.

“You’ve got a lot of balls for a girl who’s never done anything wrong in her life.”

“Well, I was hoping to change that tonight,” you swallow, your gaze drifting down to his pierced lip.

“Mmmh. You sneaky little thing. Maybe I am the one who’s crazy enough to help you cross this off your bucket list.”

Without warning, Punk is enveloping your lips into a rough and rigid kiss. The force of his body pushes you backwards, as he slides smoothly on top of you.

You hum into his mouth, letting your hands wander across his bare back and scratch faint lines across it with your manicured nails.

It was all happening so fast. His knee wedged between your legs while his hands caressed your torso and roamed to the hem of your cropped baby tee. You knew that the two of you had to be quick— there’s always a first time for everything.

“Do me a favor,” he murmurs, his words crashing into your lips, “Get this shirt off, would you?”

The two of you work in tandem in undressing yourselves. Though Punk hadn’t many articles of clothing to shed, you admired how he took just enough time to match your pace. His wrestling shorts were now pooled to his ankles and kicked to the floor, while your baby tee and denim shorts sat in a haphazard little pile beside you.

Your lover takes a moment to fully drink you in, eyeing your sternum where a dainty bow was sewn onto the center of your bra. He licks his lips, you laugh in turn.

“Want this off too?” You purr, suddenly forced to crane your neck as he dives in to attack it with open mouthed kisses.

“No. Keep it on. It’s pretty. You look damn good in pink.”

His clipped words make you smile, trying your hardest to choke back expletives when he starts to swirl his tongue around the tender love bites he was leaving.

“Punk,” you eventually choke out, “We’ve gotta be quick.”

He groans at your observation. Punk didn’t want this moment to fly by. He lived to worship you. He pleasured you like it was the air that kept him alive.

But Punk had yet to see the side of you that a tour bus rendezvous had you tapping into.

You could already feel the arousal that pooled in your panties; something about such a high stakes situation had you bothered enough to feel ready for him. To prove your dedication, you snatch up his wrist, shoving his hand down into your underwear and gasping innocently, like you weren’t expecting a thing.

Your jaw hangs open, Punk’s face mirrors yours.

“Jesus Christ, you’re this wet already?”

The only semblance of a thought you could muster was a wimpy moan. Especially since Punk had taken the liberty of rubbing slow circles around your clit.

“What am I to do with you, sweet pea? You’re already such a fuckin’ mess. I’ve barely even touched you.”

You bite your lip, stifling your moans as your fingertips claw at his back. Punk ducks down as if he’d read your mind, angling his ear close to your sputtering lips.

“Take care of me. Please?”

A wicked smile graces Punk’s cheeks. The desperation of your words set off a lightbulb in his mind. His attention is caught by the mirror that just so happened to be installed on the wall above the couch.

“Sit up. And turn around.”

You follow his command like an obedient dog, sliding out from under him and posing yourself on the couch. Your back was arched, your wrists were slightly trembling. It took you a moment longer to notice the mirror after he did— but the second you locked eyes with your own reflection, your dazed head popped back into place.

Punk stands behind your willing position, his silhouette backlit by moon beams. He runs his hands down his abdomen, taking a bit of a breather to size you up.

“Didn’t know it was a dream of yours to get fucked in a tour bus,” he comments, running a hand along your bare ass and gracing it with a smack. You jolt forward at the impact, your face melting in pure bliss as he rubs his hand along where he’d just bruised.

“It’s not. But you made me feel like a chump for not starting fights with my mom and stealing shit from the mall when I was a kid.”

You spoke, but Punk’s mind was far elsewhere. His body was almost perfectly aligned with yours, his hips jutting forward to graze his dick against your backside.

“Hey, if this is your idea of crazy shit, I think we should sit down and write ourselves another damn’ bucket list. No complaints here, sweet pea.”

He moves his hands down your back again, stopping at the dip in your spine. You were already gazing at him through the mirror like a lovesick puppy, just waiting on his next move.

“Got a condom?” You ask quietly, hating to sound like you were rushing things despite the obvious time crunch.

“Eh, I know what to do.”

It didn’t take long for Punk to give you what you were silently pleading for, as he pushed your lacy underwear to the side and ran two fingers up your dripping slit. He hisses at the semblance of you, his dick already imprinted against his briefs.

“God, baby. You’re picture fuckin’ perfect,” he compliments you through the mirror, his eyes bouncing down to your teeth that were sunken into your bottom lip.

“Save the compliments, Punk. Please. We don’t have time.”

“What?” he hums, “I can’t take a sec’ to stop and sniff the flowers?”

His hand was now on his own erection, stroking it above his underwear and taunting you with the slow snaps of his wrist.

“No, you can’t.”

Punk’s eyebrows shoot up, “Say that again?”

You shake your head in impatience, “No, you—”

Punk clips your words short by reaching out to cup your chin. He pulls your head back roughly, leaning down into your ear. Your jaw clenches at the feeling of his blistered palm, unable to control the desperate whimper that slipped out of you when his cock pressed against your heat once more.

“Don’t be smart,” he grumbles lowly, taking back the power that was, somehow, once yours, “I know you like it rough.”

A part of you couldn’t help but smile at his words, his condescending tone sparking immediate fireworks in your core. The two of you found your unspoken rhythm early on into your relationship, and right now was no exception. Your soft little whimpers and pleas muffled by the back of your wrist told Punk everything he needed to know.

He immediately dives into action, freeing his cock from his briefs and lending it a few warm up strokes. His eyebrows were knit into a steady, concentrated line. One that just proved he was scanning each and every single one of your features to remember exactly how you looked whilst bent over at his disposal.

‘Ready for me, baby?” he asks quietly, now examining the sight of your exposed pussy and hissing at the mere thought of you wrapped around him.

“Mhm.”

Punk plunges into you without much of a warning. A loud, collective sigh fills the walls of the bus and suddenly, you’re seeing stars after less than a minute. His thrusts start slow, taking his time to grab at your hips and leave bruises just above the bone. You were so caught up in the thrill of it all. The threat of anybody at all walking in here and seeing you completely engulfed in the rocking of your boyfriend’s hips. But just as you begin to drift away, your walls instinctively tighten when his speed begins to pick up.

“Holy fuck,” Punk stutters, “God, you’re fuckin’ tight. Could fuck you all night.”

Your moans were broken up like that of a worn down engine, the sounds you were attempting to make caught behind your throat and funnelling out in sad little puffs. Punk could tell from your unresponsiveness that you wanted more— for your big, slightly teary eyes in the mirror said it all.

“Wanna go faster baby?”

You spared him a pathetic nod, your fingernails now gripping onto the couch as he started to slam into you; over and over again.

The sounds of arousal and echoing skin replaced the expletives that tumbled from your lips, bouncing off the walls of the bus and sounding like pure music to Punk’s ears.

“Look at me,” he barks, his eyes steady set in the mirror.

His wish was your command, popping your eyes up through newly formed tears.

“Atta’ girl, look at that sweet face. Sweet like fuckin’ candy, baby.”

His cock continued to stretch your walls to the point where your back was starting to ache, your wrists were growing tired from the sheer force of holding up your own body weight. But Punk knew what to do with your quickly dwindling strength; he held you tightly, thumbs pressing into the small of your back as he continued to mumble and groan sweet nothings into your ear.

“Punk—” your hushed groans quickly turned into a cadence of whines, “Oh my God, please, I’m so fuckin’ close.”

“Yeah? You like that? You like gettin’ fucked in the mirror, slut?”

The rigid nickname only further ignited the fire burning in your abdomen. You were tempted to fall limp under his spell, but kept your neck craned just enough to see the sweat that rolled down his forehead as he looked at you like he was ready to eat you alive.

“Yes, yes. Fuck— yes!”

Punk’s hands moved across your back sharply and roughly, keeping you grounded as his cock continued to stretch you full and hit that spot with each and every thrust. The adrenaline had your heart racing, Punk was almost spent— you could tell by the way his dirty words came to a slowdown as he lost himself within you.

“Gonna’ cum baby, fuck me you’re perfect. Naughty fuckin’ girl—”

That wave of pleasure that once sat idly in your abdomen had become too much to bear, as your orgasm abruptly crashed over you and momentarily paralyzed your senses. A haze fogged your vision when he suddenly pulled out of you, leaving you catching your breath and trembling.

“Baby—” Punk murmurs, “Where do you want me?”

It was hard enough to gather the air back into your lungs, let alone a thought, but in your daze, you acted fast, and twisted around to lay your back onto the couch.

You reached out and pulled Punk’s hips towards you, gracing him with a sloppy kiss just above his belly button as he grunted in pleasure. His orgasm was imminent, with one hand wrapped around his throbbing cock and the other now laced in your hair.

“Mmmh—” you say, wordlessly, before sticking out your tongue.

Punk chuckles, shaking his head in condescending dismay, “You’re too fuckin’ good to me— y’know that?”

A few more strokes and Punk was finally fully spent, releasing himself all over your tongue and lips. Hot liquid spilled out of him and dripped onto your chin, leaving you painted in a mess that either of you would be more than willing to clean up.

“Fuck.”

One final groan had Punk dropping to his knees, finally level with your face. In your daze and flushed cheeks, he takes your face in his hand, scooping up your lips in his with a big, sloppy kiss.

“Mmh, made a mess,” you meander, your eyes still fluttering from being whipped through space and time.

“It’s alright, sweet pea. Y’took it like a champ.”

You couldn’t help but pull him back in for another kiss— one that was sweeter, and more tender. The sight of Punk on his knees made your stomach lurch, but that seemed to be an entirely different bridge that you were not yet willing to cross.

After a few more pecks to each other’s lips and plenty of giggles, the two of you sat beside one another, basking in the aftermath in a tour bus that belonged to neither of you. Punk’s hands mindlessly traced circles across your restless thighs, his face much more relaxed than it was in the locker room.

“You think anyone else has christened this bus?” He jokes.

“Not like we did,” you reply, turning your head to gaze into his tired, viridian eyes.

“Hm. Good to know. Makes me wonder what else— or, I guess, where else— is on that bucket list of yours.”

“You’ll find out eventually,” you smile, chest rattling with laughter, “Maybe the bucket list was the friends we made along the way.”

“Don’t gimme that bullshit,” Punk sits up, pulling you with him, his eyebrows knitting, “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of plans. And now, I’m determined to get them outta’ you.”

“Whatever floats your boat,” you shrug nonchalantly, before standing up and brushing yourself off, “Now hurry up and get dressed.”

Punk’s forehead raises, “What for?”

A small smile spreads across your face; little did Punk know, despite your desire to savor the moment, you’ve been keeping an eye on the clock this entire time.

“Oh Punk, you’re the cutest,” you hum, slipping back into your baby tee, “but cute will only get you so far. You’ve got a match in ten minutes.”

[sailingintothenight]

“Love now, forever.” Bob Reynolds Imagine.

Summary: On a peaceful night between calm breaths, and a kiss before you fall asleep, Bob dares to ask you the question that has been on his mind for a while.

A/N: Don't give me any time cause I could write thousands and thousands of words about this sweet baby until I bore you all, so instead I'm leaving you this short, cheesy imagine I wrote some weeks ago. Hope you like it and excuse my bad English, please. Thank you.

The main lights are off, replaced only by the lamp on one side of the bed shedding a dark red one. The room is dark red and the world quiet. His extended arm is your pillow, a nest for your head. Bob’s chin rests on your shoulder, the bluest of his eyes filming the profile of your face. The tip of your nose, the shape of your lips, the star twinkling in your eye as the two of you dive into the silence.

Love is gentle. Like his hand, drawing circles on your stomach, and under your loose sweatshirt, it’s warm, it tickles you, it makes you flex your muscles with intoxicating nerves.

Before, for Bob, there were endless nights wondering if it will ever get better? Life.

The emptiness in his uncomfortable mattress, laying in the same position, counting the non-existent cracks in the perfect ceiling in that facility. Insomnia, alert, waiting still for the screams from the other side of the door and everything that brought, even if the perpetrator of his pain became a ghost a long time ago. Memories of his desecrated childhood, turned into nightmares in his failed attempts to fall asleep, alone, until eventually boredom and tiredness forced Bob to close his eyes, only to then repeat the cycle in which he lived for many years.

But now, love exists, and is always gentle with him.

Like the way you look at him when you turn around, with eyes full of affection, of love, as if he were a real person after having been just another object in a laboratory with empty walls. Your hand flexed up, reaching his face to caress his rosy cheek. Bob smiles softly, with a tired gaze because it's past 1 in the morning, but always deep–and light at the same time, just happy–because Bob understands that love makes you feel lighter than a feather, and not as if he was made of lead while drowning into the sea.

Finally, his heart is at peace, because you are there, next to him, alive, a person destined to find him, for him not to be alone never again.

Only a slight incline separates you two, the perfect distance of a kiss away. You read that somewhere.

Then, you move forward, gentle, his lips pursing softly to welcome yours. Bob expects a kiss every time he sees you, he hopes for it every minute of the day: when he wakes up, when he goes to sleep, and all the hours in between. And like that child who hugs his stuffed animal to his chest, determined never to let it go, he holds you in his arms, his nose brushing yours, earning a tired laugh that vibrates in his chest as you close your eyes.

There's always a bedtime story from your childhood before you two fall sleep, endless stories he's collected in his memory, moments he'd like to see with his own eyes, but at the same time, Bob wants nothing but to able to stop time in this new, better present to remain by your side, all night or a lifetime.

Right there, and for a while now, Bob finds himself wishing that forever with you, craving it so desperately he could feel it in his bones and flesh.

Would you say yes?

Walker calls you Mrs. Reynolds, his voice thick with mockery. But hidden among the sarcasm, John does that to nudge Bob to stop him from being so afraid to ask.

He was not a visionary, lacking the strength to project a future when his past was too heavy and saying tomorrow felt uncertain, so Bob always lingered in the void, with the inclement air conditioning of that secret place where he was blowing cold, like a blizzard determined to freeze his empty body. But now, (although it’s still scary to lose you somehow, terrifying) it’s worse for him not to live by your side, a full life this time, like never before. Bob never thought about being someone’s something after hearing that he was nothing for so long, and now, he just wants to ask you if you want to marry him.

He wants to be your husband so badly, almost greedily.

Alone, the world seemed fractured, but with a glance from his person, a touch of your hand, a laugh, a word, a kiss, he rebuilt himself until he felt whole again. Bob is not perfect, he knows, half-healed and still with a long way to go, but now the desire to live in the present is latent, vibrant, and Bob wanted it so much that he managed to take that desired and transform it into peace, making his nightmares disappear when he went to bed with you.

Love worked like that, because love is peace, and you are that love.

“Darling?”

Bob pulls away slightly, just enough to see your peaceful expression—eyes closed, relaxed, a calm breath.

“Uh?”

The sound between your closed lips is low but kind of pitchy, affectionate. You are far away, yet, somehow, you always linger close, present, and that small act has him smiling. Bob wants it all: the ring on your finger, his last name being yours too, so that it finally takes value and means something to him–and because it sounds just perfect next to your beautiful name–the pride he will feel knowing you two are married.

"Will you marry me?"

Bob swallows his fear, which inevitably closes his throat, remaining in the same position, breathing slowly so as not to faint while waiting.

But the wait that seems like a lifetime only lasts one, two seconds.

"Of course."

Your lips barely part, but the words are clear and concise, an answer to his nightly, silent prayers.

His expression falters with the overwhelming emotions that come to him, all at once, but stronger than ever, Bob breathes a nervous smile as he cradles you in his arms and feels yours around him, knowing that eventually, faster than he thinks, his fears will go away until there is nothing left but love and happiness.

[m3chanical-s0ul]

TRIGGER WARNING MECHANICAL GORE!!!

@noti-mportant @lame-zany you two wanted to see the wip but...this is the full thing

Idk what to title it but yeah random fanfic based on my favorite mind headcanon

It was quiet. Too quiet. Soul narrowed his eyes as he paraded the halls, his boots thumping against the very stable wooden stairs. He was faced with three rooms. One to his left, untouched. The middle one was his, but he barely used it. The one on the right was plastered with stickers and signs, one he could make out reading "Hearts room! No Minds allowed!"

Soul shook his head. How childish, he scolded in his head. How unnecessary. He could hear a faint humming coming from Heart's room to his right. He wasn't surprised by this. What he was surprised by was the lack of fighting.

He gently knocked on Heart's door, careful not to knock any signs down. He knew Heart didn't like unexpected intruders. "Hold on-" he heard, muffled from inside the room.

He watched the door open to Heart's cozy room. He could barely see inside due to the dim lighting, the curtains blocking out the sun from outside and most of the lights turned off. "It's me," Soul announced, staring down at Heart. He watched a few emotions cross Hearts face- happiness (from the fact that it wasn't Mind), fear (from how scary Soul could be), before ending on a particularly blank face, not showing any emotion yet speaking a thousand words by masking.

"What do you want?" The bitterness in his voice didn't go unnoticed by Soul, who scoffed. "Just wanted to ask if you've seen Mind. It's quiet."

"No, I haven't seen him." Heart crossed his arms, looking to the side suspiciously. But Soul knew this was Heart's normal state. The suspicious tone of voice, the small guilt in his face. "He's probably in his room doing Harmonia-knows-what," He added, gesturing with his hands towards Mind's door...or at least the general direction of it.

"That's the place I was going to check next, yes," Soul murmured back, his head turning towards the eerily quiet hall. "Did he do anything before...presumably entering his room?"

"Why?"

"Just wanting to know what I'm dealing with here." Soul rolled his eyes at Heart's stubbornness. "Just a simple yes or no answer. I'm not going to punish you."

"Again," was muttered under the other's breath, but he sighed and gave in. "He seemed pretty...annoyed. Like any little thing could make him explode like a living bomb." He raised an eyebrow. "Can he explode? That would be nice."

How childish. "He's not gonna explode." Soul pushed himself off the doorframe, shaking his head. "Whatever. You can go back to whatever you were doing, I guess."

"Hmph."

I swear to Harmonia if it's this bullshit again...

He gently tapped his knuckles against Mind’s door. “Mind? Are you there?” There was no answer. He tried the pristine, golden colored handle- it was locked. It was only locked if Mind had something to hide, or if he was about to make a particularly dumb decision. “I know you’re in there, Apollo,” he scoffed. “Unlock the door.” Soul waited a few seconds before scoffing and digging out the barely touched keys in his pocket. Due to being, well, him...he had keys to every room in this house. Magically.

The keys were rusted and different colors. The three that stood out were gold, silver, and a dark metal he never identified. Each of them had unique engravings for the doors they unlocked. The first one had random perfectly straight lines that ran with a hint of blue across the shimmering surface, the second one had blotches of pure black that reflected his own eyes, and the third had carefully constructed curls that reminded him of vines, and shone a midnight purple. He plucked the golden one out, slowly jamming it into the keyhole in front of him and turning it quickly.

He had no patience left.

He pushed open the door with his foot, the black leather forcing it open once it was unlocked. The lights were blaringly light, the sun just outside the window parallel to the door. Mind’s room was neat, with a workshop desk pushed against the left wall, and his extravagant bed laid in the middle. Soul had no time to study his room as he noticed a lump of white and blue on the bed.

God damn it.

Soul let out a tired, long drawn out sigh as he approached the figure on the bed. He was met with leaden eyes staring back at him, the absence of pupils as chilling as ever. He was also met with quite the mess.

Mind was in a pool of oil, his chest piece ripped out forcefully. Screws and wires were all over the place, thrown about and mixed together. A lot of wires seemed to be hot red at the tip, as if somebody had tried melding them together, or melting them apart. The sheets underneath Mind were stained black by the oil. He glanced around for Mind’s chest piece, finding it on the floor a few feet away from the bed. He picked it up, inspecting a few of the dents.

He placed the sheet of metal down on the desk, walking up closer to Mind. Peering inside the open chest cavity, it was even more of a mess inside than outside. Wires were ripped apart from each other, in tangles or just outright missing. The faux heart that Mind had, the thing that kept him alive, had scratch marks and it looked as if someone was trying to rip it out forcefully.

He sat on the bed, careful to avoid the puddles of oil.

“Again, huh?”

Soul made a popping noise with his mouth to fill the silent response Mind gave him. That was all Mind could give right now. He messed with his gloves and sleeves, barely sparing the lump of a barely alive Mind a glance.

“I really thought you were better,” he added in a quiet murmur, shaking his head shamefully. “This has happened one too many times. Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?” He leaned over, pressing a pale finger to Mind’s nose and clicking his tongue. “Mister ‘My logic is the absolute’.” He let Mind sit- or lay- with his words for a minute or so before reaching over. He knew those words would get into Mind’s head. He was predictable, after all.

“Alright. Let’s get you up and fixed, big guy.”

He lifted Mind with relative ease, carrying him to the workbench and laying him on it.

“I’m not cleaning up that mess,” He pointedly gestured towards Mind’s bed as if he could respond. “Just so you know.” He pulled the tools out of the drawer, feeling the weight of the metallic tools in his hands before putting them down slowly and carefully. It was now quiet with Soul focusing on working.

He ripped out some of the already damaged wires, causing the automaton to jolt. A thought crossed Soul’s mind at the first reaction. Maybe I should turn off his nervous system. He thought for a second, before shrugging physically. Nah. Teach him a little lesson. He grabbed the replacement wires, carefully inserting them.

Next, he worked on the lost oil. It was basically the substitute of blood in this case. He grabbed the can on the side of the desk. It was almost empty- he’d have to bug Mind to get some more, or else he would have to stay like this next time, if he did this again.

When he did this again.

It took Soul a good few hours, working until the sun went down to at least get Mind working again. He sat back, content but annoyed to be wasting time, the same time Mind sat up. He flexed his fingers, one of his hands going to clutch his chest. “Don’t do that-” Soul interjected, swatting Mind’s hand away from the open cavity. “It’s not finished yet, you’ll make it worse.”

Mind glared at him. “I know what I’m doing,” his deep, mechanical voice rang out. “I’m not an idiot.”

“You are sometimes.”

“Fuck off.”

Soul crossed his arms. He was expecting a different set of two words, preferably of gratitude. Mind mimicked him, crossing his arms as well. They were staring at each other, waiting for the other to either give in or give up.

“Fine,” Mind scoffed. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

[lisalamona]

Average Midnight Water Break (Poseidon)

Notes: Just a thought that somehow spiraled into whatever the hell this is

Something for you all to munch on while laylom gets finished

You woke up with the unbearable dryness of your throat scratching like sandpaper. You opened and closed your mouth in a futile attempt to summon even the faintest hint of moisture, but it was useless.

Rolling onto your side, you weighed your options. Was it really worth dragging yourself out of bed and into the freezing air just for a sip of water?

Your eyes fluttered open reluctantly, and you rubbed the sleep from them. The other half of the bed was empty, sheets messily tangled and pushed aside. Nothing unusual, just the normal chaos of a shared space. You didn’t mind.

What did catch your attention was the lack of sunlight bleeding through the curtains. It was early. Too early.

Your eyes drifted shut again. Apparently, they hadn’t gotten the memo that your body was crying out for hydration. Not that you minded. A few more hours of sleep wouldn’t hurt.

But the dryness worsened, your mouth a desert, your tongue rough and heavy. Your lips felt cracked, your throat raw. You groaned softly and sat up, the blankets slipping from your body and pooling around your waist. You stared at the wall, expression blank, mind empty, waiting for your vision to adjust to the dark.

Then, the tranquility shattered—an engine revving violently outside, operated by someone with no concept of decency or volume. You flinched.

Muttering under your breath, you inhaled sharply and braced yourself. With a final burst of determination, you tossed the covers aside and let your feet meet the icy floor. You shivered instantly.

Navigating your room with the muscle memory of countless nights before, you shuffled through the dark without bumping into a single thing. You could’ve done it blindfolded.

Reaching the hallway, you paused.

Pitch black.

Except two small green dots hovered at eye level, glowing faintly. Watching you.

You stared back, too tired to flinch. Too tired to care. It felt like a one sided staring contest, and you weren’t in the mood to lose.

Your eyes began to blur again. You reached up and rubbed them, slow and sluggish.

When you opened them, the dots were gone.

A chill prickled at your skin—subtle, but enough to unnerve you. Like something had been studying you, taking notes.

Still, you carried on with your noble, sleep deprived quest for hydration.

In the kitchen, the fridge light nearly blinded you. You squinted and leaned down to grab the water pitcher when—

“What are you doing?”

A gravelly voice whispered right against your ear.

You yelped, jerking back so fast you almost dropped the pitcher. “Jesus!” You gasped, clutching your chest. “Don’t do that!”

Poseidon tilted his head, utterly unbothered. “I just asked a question.”

“Yeah, well—questions hit different when you’re lurking in the dark like a serial killer.”

“I’m not lurking.”

“Yes, you are!” You glared at him. “Look, I get it. You don’t need sleep. I let you stay here, do whatever you want. But do you really need to stand there in the shadows like some predator waiting to pounce? Scared the hell outta me!”

“I apologize.” His grin stretched ear to ear, there was zero remorse, pure mischief.

You sighed and rubbed your forehead. It was way too early for an argument. “Fine, whatever.” You closed the fridge. “Just give me a warning next time.”

“I did warn you.” As you fumbled around blindly for a glass, he took one from the counter and placed it gently in your hand.

You stared at him. “That wasn’t a warning.”

“It’s not my fault your mortal brain can’t comprehend when it’s in danger.”

You raised a brow. “Danger?”

You drank deeply, letting the cold water wash over your parched tongue, cooling every inch of your burning throat. Relief flooded you.

“You know what I mean.” He muttered, eyes flicking to the glass as it tilted with every sip.

You noticed. “You want some too?”

He nodded once. You poured another glass and handed it to him.

“You know,” You said, setting the pitcher on the counter. “you can always get water yourself. You don’t have to wait around for me to offer.”

He didn’t answer. Just drank quietly, then set the glass beside the pitcher. You’ll take care of it in the morning.

Then, with a dramatic stretch, you opened your arms and made grabby hands. “Take me. I don’t wanna walk all the way back… And I’m cold.”

He squinted, confused. “What… What is this?” He mimicked you. “What are you doing?”

“This…” You wiggled your fingers. “is the universal signal for ‘please carry me like a tired princess.’”

Poseidon sighed but stepped forward and scooped you up into his arms, holding you close against his warm chest.

You closed your eyes with a satisfied hum. “You’re so dramatic.” He muttered.

“And you’re my heater now.” You mumbled into his shoulder, already half asleep again.

[bodhiscurls]

the look of love. ( bodhi durran ) pt. 1

the day your brother liam died, a part of you died with him. you couldn't bare to look at the people you used to call family and that included letting go of bodhi durran. except now they're all back asking for your help to find a rune your late brother and mother may have known that could be the key to repairing the wards. its all business and after this you'll head back to the life of loneliness you live except that even after all this time, bodhi durran still looks at you with the look of love. (takes place after the battle of resson- may not be 100% factual or making sense soz love ya xoxo)

main pairing: bodhi durran x mairi reader (liam's older sister), xaden riorson x violet sorrengail

themes: angst, mentions of death, grieving, swearing

soft knuckles wrap against the door in gentle taps and then a groan- a shove you guess and the same tattering rocks the wooden door harder, more urgently.

the lack of sleep threatens to hang your eyelids close and you're tempted for a moment to just roll back under the covers and let the worries find you in the morning light. however, it's audibly apparent that the knocking will not stop.

a stomp of your bare feet fizzles anger into the earth and you fight the snarl edging at the corner of your mouth.

"what," you hiss and rip the door open, standing face to face with the same riders you used to call family. until, well, protecting one of them tore your own real brother from you. that day on the battlefield, something had died along with him. love from the mairi bloodline had been locked away deep into your soul, guarded by soldiers of grief and wrath that moulded your new armour of loneliness.

"good to know you're still a bundle of sunshine when you wake," a deep voice rumbles from the back.

"oh fuck you tavis," you fight off the sleep with an eye roll and steel a stony glare to his brown eyes that recoil instantly. good to know you still had that effect on him, a small devious smile threatens to play on your lips.

"what do you want?" your voice lowers an octave and the air shifts around you. gone were the days you'd smile with these riders, dine with them, train with laughter till your muscles tired sore. gone were the days you felt anything but disdain for them.

they say people grieve in different ways yet it felt that when they all had moved on and forewards, it was only you that felt the screams in the still of the night, the deep blue of his eyes that softened with every last breath he took. that he died for the people he loved - the same fate as your mother took.

you carried that grief constantly in every minute and every breath you took. how could you laugh and carry on knowing he was meant to exist in the same moment as you if it weren't for the pair of idiots standing at the front of your door. forgiveness was something they'd asked for repeatedly and yet, it didn't feel right. they didn't feel deserving of anything from you, not when they had taken everything from you.

"can we come in?" the traitor's voice is gentle, so soft it almost wasn't there. except it was- like the stark silver that contrasted against the darkness of hair tied into a pretty little braid as always.

"you can certainly try," you take a step back, fighting the empty laughter when her head pulls back in whiplash at the warded door. "don't be so fucking ridiculous," you scoff. "you both have some nerve coming here," and you shift your stony glare onto the man beside violent sorrengail.

"believe me, wingleader mairi," he softens, "yn," he tries again and by the furrow in your brows its clearly the wrong appraoch "i wouldn't be here disrupting our peace if i didn't deem in necessary."

"peace," you spit, "i wouldn't mistake a forced recognition of a power position in need of mutual respect as peace wingleader riorson and neither should any of you," you go to turn (or rather slam) the door at the cadets interrupting your night when her voice calls out again.

"wait! please," she begs, "please." she tries again and you almost remember what it was like before liam's death- who you were before it all unraveled and the you before would have dropped everything for the girl infront of you. though now, you would not make the same mistake your younger brother fatefully had.

"you're out past curfew cadet," and she is met with the dark oak on the other side in finality.

you settle and rest your back against the door, breaths shallow and slow as you pace yourself. you haven't had to confront any of them in a long time and you forgot how ugly the loneliness could make you turn.

stormy one, you feel your dragon vaelith's silky tone sooth the worries folded in your mind. one more awaits at the door.

you know who it is already. the softness carried in his deathly stance is often missed by many. however, years of being his soulmate meant you had memorised every fibre etched into his being.

you open the door gently before his knuckles could meet the wood again with the first soft tap.

"hey," he whispers, slowly lowering his hand and meeting your somber gaze. you nod tightly in return, biting your lip down as you struggle to find the right words.

"hey," you settle for. the strain is evident in your voice and its clear that in holding a simple conversation with no malice and no spite. god, why was it so hard to not be a bitch.

as if testing the struggling waters, he reaches out. not a touch to your arm or a soft embrace but a steady hand holding the door open as if he was worried you'd let it slip and close it on him forever.

"look," he starts nervously, "i don't mean to crowd your space like this, i know things are different now-" your heart stops because you know he really means to say that you are different now. you've caused this imbalance, this awkwardness, this liam sized hole you'd never be able to fill.

"but what xaden said earlier," and at the mention of the wingleader who posed the protection order of your brother, sentencing him to death you still and bodhi immediately detects the shift, moving closer to you on instinct. "we wouldn't be here if we didn't desperately need your help on this."

"and what more could you possibly need from me?" your voice threatens with a crack and bodhi's heart lurches in two. liam's death had hardened you in ways that you hadn't imagined; given you an edge to rival xaden riorson's as you climbed to the ranks of wingleader within no time. you didn't let yourself stop and breathe his life; that would only slow you down. instead his death existed as a weighted blanket that covered you in the nights you spent alone wishing it had been you taken instead, wishing if only you had been as quicker and stronger as you are now that you couldve gotten to him in time.

quickly the blame of your brothers death shifted to xaden to violet to you, and there was nothing you could do to make this easier.

"please," he whispers. he takes a lock of your blonde hair and wraps it around his fingers before tucking it behind your ear. "if there's any part of you willing to move on from the past then meet me in the garden. i'll be waiting for fifteen minutes," he murmurs softly. "there's no way we could do this without you."

he disappears into the corridor, his form in tandem with the creeping shadows and you turn to face the clock. each tick haunted you and if only you could just close your eyes and dream a little longer of home. of blue eyes and carefree laughter, of tyrrish walls and your younger sister sloane.

sloane, you breathe.

it would be a lie if you didn't admit that in the midst of wallowing in your own grief you momentarily forgot about your baby sister- who like you would be mourning alone. you didn't have liam but you swore you would die protecting her- the same mistake could not occur again.

stupid sloane, you breathe again fourteen minutes later as you step foot onto the soft willows of grass ready to speak to the boy who once held your heart and promised you eternity.

. . .

i think it's the right move, vaelith lulls your mind into serenity. she's always been a mother hen, comforting you and not letting you face the darkness alone. but if you would like me to, i would scorch the earth where each of them stand and banish them into an eternity of misery.

a soft snort escapes your lips and you wave her off, tempting, you whisper back along the bond. though, i think tonight is a night where i'll just have to be brave enough to face them before i decide to do anything rash.

you've always been brave, it's why i chose you, she chastises and your warm regard is cut short when you recognise the three figures immediately.

"she's not coming," you recognise the deep timbers of xaden riorson's voice first.

"she will," his cousin returns with a confident finality and the conversation immediately stops when they spot you in line of sight.

bodhi speaks first hesitantly as garrick offers a smile of truce. "hey," he starts up an echo of earlier nerves. it makes you soften realising youre not the only one on unfamiliar territory.

"hey," you nod at garrick in greeting too, purposefully ignoring the wingleader at the end.

"you came," bodhi takes a step closer to you.

"you called," your brows furrowing in confusion. "what is so important you need my help?" and the three of them stare at each other.

"when liam passed," bodhi swallows. "there were some journals he kept about runes. knowledge your mother would have passed."

" i see," you stare upwards into his soft chocolate eyes. you will yourself to stay as still as possible, grateful for the height he has on you that way the tears would not be able to escape your glistening eyes.

"only you would be able to decipher the meaning of it and locate the missing protection rune," he finishes. but you don't focus on the last sentence. you focus on the fact that liam having journals was not uncommon knowledge to you, you kept a few of them in secret after having to clear out his room months ago. journals from your mother? that was not what you were expecting.

"and where are these journals?" you ask with a deathly stillness.

"i have them," xaden riorson finally speaks up. "and you may see them if you wish."

"if i wish," you seethe immediately, fire bursting within your veins. "that is mairi property and i will fucking kill you if you do not return them to my bloodline." a casual shrug of defiance from xaden is all it takes before you're lunging for him, hand and dagger wrapped around his throat.

as if expecting you, xaden lets his shadows wrap around you in turn and lifts you away from him and into the air. your dagger clatters to the ground and you hear a stern "no" errupt from bodhi.

"xaden, if you don't put your fucking shadows away then i will," his voice is menacingly quiet that xaden raises a brow at his cousin.

you use the element of surprise whilst the two cousins are engaged in a silent combat and use your signet of harvesting to grow vines from the ground and wrap around the elder riorsons throat. its caught him off guard for sure and a smirk settles its way onto your lips as his shadows scramble and you fall to the ground with a satisfactory thud. he wheezes and the tan of his golden kissed skin borders a terrible blue before your vines vanish entirely.

fucking bodhi, you grumble. you turn to him, arms crossed unimpressed with his countering. "you never let me have any fucking fun," you mumble but his gaze does not waver from his cousin.

"she is not to be touched," he swears and its eerie how with no words he is able to get his point across within seconds. xaden touches at his throat and nods, taking a step closer to you.

except bodhi is quicker and stands in the middle of you two- a year ago you would have never imagined being nemeses with one of your best friends yet fate has a funny way of showing its cards.

"please," he whispers and its so desperate- so unlike him. begging was beneath xaden riorson, surely.

"violet thinks that the runs are the key to strengthening the wards and liam may have been able to locate one of them," he looks up to meet your eyes. "please, i'm begging you to help us."

"she shouldn't be expecting anything more from him- she already took his life," you shove a finger at his chest, except it doesnt meet xaden but stabs at bodhi in the middle instead. if it hurts him in any way, hes as stoic as a brick and refuses to show it.

"you keep punishing us and if that's what it takes for you to grieve then fine," he grits his teeth. "i am asking you nicely before it becomes an order."

" you're talking to a wingleader fuckass," you almost spit in his face. "there is no order."

"as duke to the tyrrish throne, i order you to do your part in protecting your people," his voice is stern as it is low, as if he could be any louder it would be all of your lives on the line.

you stumble over your words, heart skipping its usual steady rhythm and something in you stirrs. an order from the tyrrish throne, an order you cannot refuse. you're stunned into silence, a gentle fuck slipping onto your mind.

"liam died with honour, the least you could do is try to live with some," xaden bitterly commands and you meet his eyes.

"living with honour is not granting you two the mercy of death," you heave through shaky breaths. "if this is to be done, it is done on my terms," the silence of the bagsiath air swallows the four of you whole. "but i want it to be a known fact, my help is not because of any of you or that treacherous bitch," and xaden's brow arches in retaliation, ready to strike again but bodhi places a hand across his chest, willing you the silence to finish. "it is for liam and whatever i find, it is up to me on how we proceed."

"this is violet's plan," xaden emphasises, stubborness radiating from him.

"those are my terms," you don't grant him the grace of meeting his eyes but settle on the man in the middle of you two. "accept or deny whatever the fuck you want, it's not me who needs any of you."

bodhi tenses at the last sentence but somberly nods. he shares a look with his cousin and best friend before settling on you again for a lot longer than the moment needed.

"we accept your terms."

"all of them?"

"all of them," he swears and you bid him a nod farewell before you disappear back to your safe haven of loneliness where the memories of your younger brother and sister carry you whole.

note: idk how many parts this will be im thinking maybe four ?????? but lowk was inspired by that clip from monkey man where kid and sita are both bloodied and she hands him something and just for a second their hands almost touch and THE YEARNING!!! the yearning my god anyways hope u enjoy 💘

[hey-itsdollie]

You're All I Wantˎˊ˗

‧₊˚ ┊ In which your best friend confesses his feelings for you.

જ⁀➴ Yoichi Isagi x fem! reader

⋮ ⌗ ┆cw ⪼ friends to lovers, female reader, use of pet names, fluff/smut, aged up!, minors dni

You walked besides Isagi through your college campus. The sun was setting, the night lights of the school were turning on. His hair was wet from his recent shower in the locker rooms, a smirk still light on his face from his recent winning match.

In addition to his winning score, seeing you wearing one of his jerseys made his ego larger.

"So are you going to the party tonight?" You ask drifting your gaze from the ground up to your friend. Normally the football team threw a party at their team house after every winning match. Isagi only went if someone made him go; if someone didn't then you would find him staying over at your place.

"Nope, so..." He nudged your shoulder giving him a knowing smile. You sighed nodding, "Yeah, yeah. What do you want to order for dinner?" You question, Isagi thought for a minute. “Something simple, want to order from that noodle place down the street from your place?”

“Yeah sounds good, I've been getting sick of pizza.” You sighed, rubbing your stomach.

The two of you shortly got back to your apartment after reaching your car at college. Luckily living on campus wasn’t mandatory, so you lived in an apartment off of campus free from school curfew and rules.

You sat down on the couch turning the tv on to a random channel before handing Isagi the remote. “Turn on whatever you want.” You offered; the both of you already knowing Isagi practically lived with you. The male having his own clothes folded away in the place, food and drinks he favored stored in the fridge and pantry.

Isagi turned on some music as you went through the updated stories on instagram. Grimacing at the many videos and clips of people partying, ranging from games, clips of people grinding on each other, and people just going crazy due to the alcohol.

Unbeknownst to you, your dark haired friend had his eyes permanently on you. The tv screen dimmed due to the lack of activity, Isagi’s hand gripping the remote tilting, his mouth shut tightly as his mind was wandering to inappropriate thoughts.

The sight of you in his jersey made it incredibly hard for him to act normal around you. The almost obvious feelings he had for you, in which you were too dense to notice them.

“Y/n…” Isagi began catching your attention, pulling your eyes from your device to his deep blue ones.

“Yeah? What’s up?” You question turning your phone off and placing it to the side. “You look really good in my jersey.” He spoke bluntly. You froze, “Oh thank you…” You replied not expecting his sudden compliment.

“Fuck… I mean–Y/n I want you to wear it more often…” Awkwardly, Isagi tried to hint at it more. “Uh, okay…”

“Damnit… I really like you… for so long I have liked you… Seeing you in my jersey does stuff to me–I’m sorry this is so weird.”

You watched Isagi embarrassedly place his head into his hands. Groaning at how pathetic he was acting. You moved to him, placing your hand on his. “You’re being really cute right now Yoichi.” You laughed softly making him look up at you.

“I think pathetic is a better word.”

“You’re being honest, that doesn’t make you pathetic.” You hummed. “I could tell something was going on…” He shot you a confused look from your added statement, “what did you mean?” he thought, filled with confusion. Was he being obvious?

“Well… you weren’t exactly hiding anything…” You explained with a blush, your eyes going down to the non-hidden tent in his pants.

Isagi’s face went red as he slowly looked down at his hard-on. “You’ve got to be kidding me…” He groaned covering his lap a little too late. “I’m sorry… Fuck…”

“It’s okay… but it must hurt huh?”

Isagi watched in shock as you moved down onto the ground, sitting on your knees in between his legs. Your head laid on his thigh, left hands grazing the waistband of his pants. 

With a gulp, the male met your doe eyes. He fully believed he was dreaming, only being knocked out from that delusion once you asked him a question. “Sorry, what was that?”

“I asked if I could help you…” You repeated your question sweetly. With a quick nod Isagi cleared his throat, “Are you sure? I mean… have you ever done anything like this before? I don’t want to hurt you…”

You pulled back your face covered in a red tint. “No, but I want to do this for you… It’s okay Yoichi… I promise.”

After a bit more reassurance Isagi’s pants were around his ankles. Your hands planted on his thighs as his hard-on was up against his abdomen. He watched you grab onto his cock, using two hands to jerk him slowly. Changing the pace the more you get used to it.

Soft gruffs and murmurs left his throat as his hands were buried in your hair. Holding the strands up for you as you helped him. “Yeah just like that…” Isagi murmured. His eyes never leave your movements.

You met his stare before sitting up and licking up his shaft. Feeling his body shiver underneath you. You slowly took him deeper into your mouth, inch by inch. Struggling the more you take. Isagi held back from taking over the situation, finding it endearing at the sight of you slowly learning how to take his length.

“Doing so good… such a good girl ‘f me…”

His praise made you go faster, you used one hand to jerk the inches that weren’t in your mouth as the other massaged his balls. “Fuck…” He cursed tugging your hair as you went down on him.

You slipped his cock out of your wet cavern. Spit covering his length, precum and spit evident on your chin. You gazed up at him, holding eye contact as you placed kisses down his cock and onto his balls. You sucked on his sacks gently making him moan.

Isagi was shocked that you got the hang of it already, with a few things you could work on as time went on.

Kissing back up his cock you licked his tip before placing a kiss on the slit. “Look at you go…” He murmured, his eyes filled with lust, his chest moving rapidly with his deep breaths.

You sent him a smile before taking him deep into your throat. The feeling made his hips snap up in response. “Shit!” He moaned as he thrusted into your mouth. The hold his hand had on your hair tightening in response to the pleasure.

“Fuck… ‘m sorry baby…”

Isagi muttered apologies, loosening his grip on you. He was worried it was too much for you, not wanting you to choke (yet).

The sound of the doorbell made the both of you freeze, realizing the food that you ordered was finally here.You pulled his cock out of your mouth, saliva connecting your lips to his length.

“What no baby…” He pleaded with you to continue and not get up. You looked at him softly laughing as you wiped your mouth and chin. Blushing at the sight of the substances that were on you.

“The food will get cold, plus we don’t want animals eating it before us.” You replied, already moving to the door, looking through the peephole before opening the door.

Isagi watched you bend over to pick up the food groaning at the fact he got blue balls due to the fucking delivery man.

You shut the door grinning at him. “Are you ready to eat?” You ask excitedly for the food since it smelled good.

“Baby.” He sighed, you gave him your attention placing the food on the kitchen counter. Waving his hand for you to come to him.

“We aren’t done.” He looked at you full of need and lust.

erm first time... hope this is good!

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