#(and that part is complete except for the payment)

[umbralwaves]

I truly wish my boss wasn't a masterclass in white supremacy, but here I am.

[boneless-mika]

Got a ticket for ATEEZ in Copenhagen!! Can’t believe it’s real

[jezebelblues]

𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐍 | 𝐇.𝐒 | 𝟏 *ੈ𑁍༘⋆

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐭, 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥.

pt 1, pt 2 (completed)

𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫.

𝐂𝐖: drug usage/selling, angst, college!harry, fem!reader, smut in pt2 if that’s what ur here for, allusions to violence, friends to lovers if u squint

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 13.8k

❏ i was trying to compress this into only being one part but i felt like each piece of them growing closer was too important to the plot to be deleted </3 but i’m posting pt 2 like right after this so !! btw this is so fratrry coded but bro is not in a frat. he’s just a broke college student that sells drugs fr

masterlist

off campus housing was a curse sometimes.

but, if you had the option between dorming it out or paying for an apartment yourself, maybe it could be categorized as both a blessing and a curse.

but for YN and harry, it’s just a curse.

a dorm wasn’t in the cards for them in general—it was hard enough drowning in loans for tuition itself, and adding thousands more for shitty campus housing was just overboard.

but still, the illusion of choice would’ve been nice.

they lived in carson hall, off campus apartments that were filled to the brim with students. there might’ve been a few tenants in the building that weren’t a student, but they were probably there for the same reason as everyone else—affordability.

$850 per month felt like a rarity, and it was pretty much unheard of in new york. so, if you were a broke student that couldn’t dorm, this was your saving grace.

if the walls in the unit weren’t brick, it was cheap drywall that had the paint chipping off. there was a radiator that broke every month like clockwork, sat right underneath a window with glass so thin it shook with the breeze.

there was no carpet except for in the main lobby, everything else was either tiled linoleum and creaky wooden floors installed in the 90’s. there was a communal laundry unit in the basement that required four quarters exactly, nothing else. sometimes it’d swallow the coins, sometimes it wouldn’t, and sometimes it’d eat their coins and wouldn’t turn on at all.

there was a maintenance man that lived on the first floor—living there for half the rent since he was on call 24/7 on the weekdays to fix anything the apartment complex needed—but you’d have to be the luckiest person on earth for him to respond. if the washer ate your quarters, chances are, you won’t be getting them back. and if the sink continued to drip water in rhythm with your heartbeat, you’d be better off watching a youtube tutorial on plumbing basics than calling for the maintenance guy.

but, it was four walls and a roof—not to mention, it was only a five minute walk from the dining hall (the heart of campus, obviously).

YN and harry didn’t know each other, not exactly. they lived on the same floor, and harry was the guy that was known for dealing to make rent and loan payments.

and YN was the girl that always had sleepy eyes and smelt of vanilla and cinnamon—sugar and spice.

but that was it between them, fleeting glances of acknowledgment and the lingering scent of vanilla laced with weed in the hallway.

all until the first knock tapped against his door at one-thirty in the morning.

it was one of those nights where the due dates of assignments pressed down heavy, like it was daring you to breathe under the weight.

harry’s radiator was hissing again, spitting steam into his tiny apartment, a kind of mocking applause for everything breaking down. his desk was cluttered with blueprints—half-sketched, smudged, unfinished—and on the counter, the last edible he'd cut sat wrapped in foil, waiting for whoever was desperate enough to buy it.

the knock was soft. hesitant. not the kind of knock that screamed cops or where's the party? harry almost didn't get up. whatever it was, it could wait.

but something about it—how it lingered, quiet but insistent—dragged him to the door. barefoot, wearing nothing but a ratty tshirt and sweatpants, he swung it open without bothering to check who it was.

YN.

the girl who always smelled like a fucking christmas cookie. she stood in the hallway like she'd been arguing with herself for hours, her arms wrapped around her torso to keep warm. she didn't say anything right away, just looked at him with wide, tired eyes.

harry leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. "are y’lost?"

her voice came out softer than he expected. “i need…something.”

he raised an eyebrow, scanning her quickly—her pink sweatpants, the hoodie that was two sizes too big, the way she kept glancing at the floor like she hated being here. "that's specific. milk? a lightbulb? help moving a body?"

"for my roommate," she rushed, ignoring the bite in his tone. "she's—she's having a panic attack or something, some stupid argument with her boyfriend i think—and i don't have anything that can help."

harry stared at her.

her voice cracked, the desperation cutting through the cool front she was trying to hold. "it's late, and the pharmacies are closed, and i just—someone said you might have something."

"someone.” he repeated, pushing off the doorframe, his tone sharp enough to slice through her composure.

"please."

something about that word caught him off guard. not the word itself, but the way she said it—like she was embarrassed to use it, like it physically hurt to ask him for anything. harry sighed, stepping back. "wait there."

he crossed the room to the counter, digging through the shoebox that held the operation he kept as low-key as possible. the old baggie of edibles rustled faintly in his hands, and for a second, he thought about saying no. this wasn't his problem.

but he grabbed one anyway, turning back to find her still standing in the hallway, arms wrapped tighter around herself. he shoved the baggie into her hand. "take this and go."

she hesitated, looking down at it. "is it safe?"

harry's laugh came out sharp and humorless. "you knock on my door at one in the morning, asking for something t’fix a panic attack, and you're worried about FDA approval? yeah, it's safe. s’low-dose."

her fingers curled around the bag. "how much do i owe you?"

he shook his head, already tired of this conversation. "don't worry about it. just go."

YN started to turn, but her gaze caught on the cluttered desk in the corner—blueprints stacked in uneven piles, a half-empty coffee cup balancing on the edge. "what's all that?" she asked, her voice quiet but curious.

"none of your business."

he stepped forward and shut the door before she could ask anything else. the lock clicked, and for a long second, he stood there, staring at the closed door, wondering why the hell he'd helped her at all.

*

friday nights strained. not the kind that made you feel like you’d accomplished something. no, this was the other kind. the kind that made harry want to throw his phone into the east river and spend the rest of the weekend in bed, ignoring the world.

by eight pm, the texts started rolling in like they always did.

can u drop to sigma chi?

emergency. we need molly asap. paying extra if u can get here by 10.

it wasn’t glamorous. it wasn’t even fun. but it paid the rent.

harry sat at his desk, staring at the mess of blueprints he hadn’t touched all week, his phone lighting up next to him with another text. the math was simple: weed, molly, shrooms, lsd. nothing heavy, nothing messy, and no one under twenty-one.

he grabbed his backpack, already packed from the night before—a hollowed-out calculus textbook buried inside. it was beat to shit, but nobody looked twice at a guy carrying around a heavy book and a bookbag on campus.

the first stop was sigma chi. always sigma chi.

by the time he got there, the party was in full swing. the air reeked of spilled beer and too much cologne, bass pounding through the walls like a heartbeat that refused to die. harry slipped in through the side door, past a crowd of girls laughing too loudly and holding plastic cups like they were accessories.

the guy waiting for him was leaned against the fridge, his baseball cap turned backwards, a grin plastered on his face. “harry, my man!”

he didn’t answer. didn’t smile. instead, he reached into his bag and pulled out a small baggie, handing it over like he was exchanging a pack of gum. the guy shoved some crumpled twenties into harry’s hand, already too distracted by his phone to say anything else.

“you’re a lifesaver, bro.”

he left through the back door without another word.

weekends were always like this. frat houses, dorm rooms, random street corners. most fridays, he had ten stops, maybe more if people got desperate.

his phone buzzed constantly. texts rolling in every fifteen minutes:

can you meet by the bodega?

do u have anything stronger? asking for a friend.

the last one made him roll his eyes. he didn’t do stronger. stronger got people killed, got cops asking questions. harry wasn’t stupid. this wasn’t about partying or fun; it was money.

he started dealing during his first year at nyu. not because he wanted to, but because the scholarships didn’t cover everything, and student loans only went so far.

at first, it was just weed. his guy, jeff, lived in brooklyn—a family man with a college degree, a wife, and two kids. harry used to think guys like jeff had it figured out: the house in a decent neighborhood, the minivan parked out front, the soccer games on weekends. but his life was no more stable than harry’s.

jeff’s business wasn’t just selling weed—it was growing it, right in his basement. his wife knew, of course. they kept it far from the kids, locked up tight behind a door that might as well have been a vault.

he hadn’t started out as a dealer, either. he ran his own small business—some business marketing firm that couldn’t compete with the bigger guys. now, the basement was his fallback, extra income, and harry couldn’t help but see a version of himself in jeff. same fire, same hustle, same gnawing ache of more, more, more.

“this isn’t enough,” he had said one night, halfway through weighing a fresh batch. the house smelled faintly of citrus and pine, a scent jeff swore masked the weed smell. “you ever thought about branching out?”

harry frowned, leaning back against the workbench “branching out how?”

“psychedelics—shrooms, lsd. same crowd, bigger profit. no one’s getting hooked, no one’s overdosing. it’s clean.”

harry’s gut twisted. he didn’t like the sound of it—too messy, too big. “i dunno, mate. weed’s easy. i don’t want t’get in deeper.”

jeff leaned against the table, crossing his arms. “i get it. but you’re already in. and if you play it smart, you don’t have to worry about the cops, or junkies, or any of that shit. i know a guy in the bronx—mutual friend. you’d like him. solid guy, clean product.”

he hesitated, his fingers tapping against the edge of the table. “y’really think it’s worth it?”

jeff smiled faintly, shrugging. “depends on what you want. if it’s just enough to scrape by, keep doing what you’re doing. but if you want to breathe a little? yeah. it’s worth it.”

harry didn’t jump in right away.

it took a few weeks of thinking, weighing the risks against the reward. but eventually, he made the trip to the bronx. the guy jeff pointed him to was older, late thirties maybe, with a clean apartment and a habit of over-explaining. harry liked him immediately.

the product was good. better than he expected. shrooms, lsd tabs, packaged clean and easy to move. the kind of stuff that sold itself to the right crowd.

molly came later.

it started with frat guys asking for it at parties, offering triple what harry charged for weed. at first, he turned them down. molly was different—harder to control, riskier. but the money kept knocking at his door, and harry, tired of scraping by, finally let it in.

his guy in the bronx knew a supplier. harry kept it lowkey—low doses, clean product, no bullshit. but it still weighed on him, the way every step deeper into this life felt like standing on thin ice.

jeff always said this kind of hustle didn’t last forever. harry just hoped he’d find a way out before it swallowed him whole.

his voice stayed in his head more than he liked to admit—you can’t do this forever, kid. something’s gotta give.

but that was the problem, wasn’t it? harry didn’t know what would give first—his luck, his sanity, or the thin line he kept walking between survival and collapse.

the deeper he got into dealing, the more he saw how easy it was for people to lose themselves in it. not just the buyers—people like jeff, too.

there was this one night, months after harry started moving psychedelics. jeff had called him over, saying he had some fresh product he wanted harry to try. he drove out to brooklyn, expecting the usual.

but when he got there, he looked different. tired in a way that felt heavier.

“you good?” he had asked, leaning against the workbench.

he nodded, but his hands trembled slightly as he sealed a bag. “yeah, just a long week. car broke down, furnace is acting up… you know how it is.”

he did. too well.

when he left that night, the bag of weed tucked into his backpack, he couldn’t shake the thought—this doesn’t end well. jeff had everything harry thought he wanted—a family, a house, a life that looked solid from the outside. and still, it wasn’t enough.

he lit a cigarette as he drove back to the city, the smoke curling around him in the dark car. he couldn’t let this life be all there was. couldn’t let it pull him down the same way it was pulling jeff.

but even as he told himself he’d find a way out, harry’s phone buzzed with another text, another buyer, another deal.

just enough was never enough.

he sighed, running a hand through his hair. he was tired. bone-tired. the kind of tired that lived in his spine and refused to leave, no matter how much sleep he got.

but he typed back anyway.

because this was life. grinding himself into the ground so someone else could forget their bullshit for a night.

and as much as he hated it, he couldn’t afford to.

*

the rain wasn’t letting up. the kind that soaked you through in seconds, cold and sharp like a thousand tiny needles stabbing your skin. the stairwell in the building was already a deathtrap on the best days—cheap tiles, no traction, old wood.

he was on the couch when he heard it. a thud, heavy and hollow, like someone had dropped a bag of bricks—or fallen. then the curses followed, muffled but furious, the kind of sound that pulled him out of the half-sleep he’d been drifting into.

he sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. for a second, he thought about ignoring it. again, wasn’t his problem. but something about the sound got under his skin.

grabbing the sweatshirt hanging off the back of the couch, he pulled it on and opened the door, peering out into the dimly lit hallway.

that’s when he saw her.

sprawled on the stairs, her sweater soaked through, hair sticking to her face, and an armful of books scattered around her like shrapnel.

fucking christ, harry thought, leaning against the doorframe. he crossed his arms, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “you always this graceful, or is it a wednesday night special?”

she looked up, and if looks could kill, he’d have been dead on the spot. her cheeks were flushed, probably from a mix of frustration and exertion, and her jaw was clenched tight enough to crack. “are you always this much of an asshole, or do i just bring it out in you?”

harry let the smirk grow into something closer to a grin. “you okay?” he asked, his tone half-mocking, half-genuine.

YN didn’t answer right away. she was too busy untangling herself, her knee hitting the step as she tried to gather the mess of books and papers that had spilled everywhere.

harry sighed, pushing off the doorframe. “hold on.”

he jogged down the stairs, crouching to pick up a book near her feet. the cover was soaked, the pages already curling at the edges. he flipped it over in his hand, inspecting the damage. “you’re gonna fail with this,” he said, holding it up. “this thing’s toast.”

she snatched the book from him, glaring. “you’re toast.”

he chuckled under his breath, bending to pick up another one. this time, it was a notebook—thick, overstuffed, with half the pages threatening to fall out. “what are you even carrying all this for?”

“this is college, is it not?”

harry straightened, stacking the notebook on top of the book in her arms. “you’re gonna wreck your back lugging all this around.”

“not everyone has money for a decent bag.” she muttered, not looking at him as she grabbed the papers from his hand.

that made him pause. his jaw tightened, his usual sarcasm flickering into something harder, heavier. he opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then closed it just as fast.

he shifted, handing her the last book. “here. try not to break your neck next time.”

she snorted, a bitter laugh slipping out before she could stop it. she pushed herself up, wincing as she shifted her weight onto her right leg.

“you sure you’re okay?” harry asked again, watching the way she was favoring her left leg.

“i’m fine.”

“right.” harry muttered, crossing his arms as she started up the stairs. he followed her halfway up, more out of habit than concern, and watched as she struggled to balance her books against the wet fabric of her sweater.

when they reached the landing, she stopped, glancing back at him. “thanks,” she said, the word sounding like it physically hurt her to say.

harry shrugged. “don’t mention it.”

as she turned to head toward her apartment, she added over her shoulder, “no, seriously. don’t.”

he smirked again, shaking his head as he watched her limp away. he didn’t respond, just leaned against the wall, waiting until she disappeared into her unit before heading back to his own.

he dropped onto the couch, dragging a worn notebook off the coffee table and flipping it open. but his focus was shot. all he could picture was her on the stairs—soaked, pissed, and too stubborn to admit she wasn’t fine.

her comment stuck with him, too. not everyone has money for a decent bag. harry hated how much that hit home.

the world didn’t give a shit if you couldn’t afford what you needed. if you didn’t have it, you improvised. it was why he was out here selling weed and molly to spoiled frat boys and girls with trust funds so deep they could drown in them.

he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. his phone buzzed on the armrest beside him, breaking the silence.

it was one of his regulars, some sophomore who thought a couple grams of shrooms would make her weekend transformative.

yeah. same spot. 9pm.

he tossed the phone onto the table, leaning back against the couch, the springs groaning under his weight. this was the life: fixing busted radiators, chasing down half-earned engineering credits, and grinding himself into the ground so some kid could take a trip they’d forget by monday morning.

later that night, he was back out, a ballcap sat over his curls, backpack slung over his shoulder, heading to the usual corner just off washington square park. it wasn’t raining anymore, but the streets were still slick, reflecting the city lights like oil spills.

he spotted the girl waiting for him, leaning against a lamppost with her arms crossed. she waved when she saw him, a little too eager.

the exchange was quick, the shrooms passing from his hand to hers, the cash tucked into his pocket in one smooth motion. no small talk, no lingering.

when he got home, the hallway was quiet, except for the faint hum of the fluorescent light overhead. YN’s door was closed, no sounds coming from the other side.

he paused for a second, staring at it. he shook his head, unlocking his door and stepping inside. the idea that popped into his brain was stupid, irrational. he didn’t owe her anything. she was just the girl down the hall, who gave as much shit as she took.

but still, he dug into his closet, pulling out the old army surplus bag he’d stopped using after high school. it wasn’t much, but it was better than what she had now.

the next morning, harry slipped out of his apartment early, the bag in hand. he dropped it just outside her door, no note, no explanation, before heading out to his first lecture of the day.

when YN found it later, she stared at it for a long moment, her brows knitting together. she didn’t have to ask who left it. and even though she muttered asshole under her breath, she brought it inside with a faint smile.

because she needed it. and harry—whether he’d admit it or not—knew that.

the next time they saw each other, he was coming up the stairs, his backpack slung low, the smell of rain clinging to his sweatshirt. it was late—nearly eleven—and he was tired, the kind of exhaustion that sank into his chest and refused to let go.

YN was coming down, her new bag bouncing lightly against her hip. she was in scrubs and a college hoodie, hair tied back, but there was a tension in her face that hadn’t been there before. maybe it was the late hour, or maybe it was the unmistakable look of someone dragging themselves through another brutal shift.

they almost passed each other without a word. almost.

but as they crossed paths, she stopped, her hand gripping the railing. “hey.”

harry stopped mid-step, turning to look at her. “hey,” he echoed, noncommittal.

she tilted her head toward the bag. “this you?”

he leaned against the railing, shrugging like it was no big deal. “needed something better, right?”

her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowing like she was trying to figure out if he was messing with her. finally, she shook her head, letting out a dry laugh. “why, though? why do you care?”

he blinked, caught off guard. he didn’t have an answer for that—at least not one he could say out loud. instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets, shrugging again. “call it charity,” he said. “or don’t. i don’t really care.”

YN stared at him for a moment longer, her expression unreadable. then she nodded, her grip on the railing loosening. “thanks,” she muttered, her tone softer this time.

“don’t mention it.”

but before he could take another step, she smiled—the tiniest twitch upward. “no, seriously. don’t.”

he smirked at that, glancing back over his shoulder. “you’re welcome, cinnamon.”

her brows shot up at the nickname, her mouth opening to protest, but harry didn’t stick around to hear it. he was already heading back to his apartment, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite himself.

that should’ve been the end of it.

but the next day, when harry opened his door to grab the mail, there was a coffee cup sitting just outside, still warm, with no note or explanation.

he frowned, picking it up and staring at it like it might explode.

then, from down the hall, YN’s door opened, and she leaned out, raising an eyebrow at him. “drink it or don’t—i don’t care.”

he held up the cup, smirking. “what’s this? donations?”

“no,” she grinned, already retreating back inside. “just paying it forward, asshole.”

the door clicked shut, and he stood there, shaking his head, the faintest chuckle escaping him as he sipped the coffee.

*

their classes in south hall were evening ones, usually letting out at nine pm sharp.

YN stepped out of the biology lab first, tugging her sleeves down against the chill that crept into the building after dark. her bag was slung over her shoulders, the college crewneck rumpled from hours of sitting in the same chair. her jeans were stiff from the cold, her shoes scuffed with wear, and her hair fell loose around her face, sticking slightly to her cheek. she brushed it back absently, her eyes on the door ahead.

harry caught sight of her from the second-floor stairwell as he left his chemistry lecture—a rolling stones hoodie hung loose on his frame, sweatpants sitting low on his hips, his green sambas (that he bought second hand, his proudest find) practically falling apart at the seams.

he hadn’t planned on saying anything. hell, he wasn’t even sure she’d noticed him. but as he watched her push through the doors, her breath fogging in the cold, he felt something tug at him.

he hesitated for half a second before jogging down the stairs, his curls bouncing slightly as he caught up to her “hey.”

she glanced over her shoulder, her steps slowing just enough to register him. her brows furrowed when she saw him. “you’re in chemistry,” she said, like it was an accusation.

harry blinked, a bit confused as to what she was hinting at—but going with it anyway. “m’yeah. good observation, sherlock.”

“no, i mean,” she gestured vaguely behind her. “your class is upstairs. what’re you doing down here?”

harry shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching. “walking home. duh. our lectures must end at the same time.”

YN gave him a skeptical look, her pace picking up again as they stepped into the night. “you don’t have to do that,” she said quickly, her tone dismissive. “i’m fine.”

he fell into step beside her anyway, the straps of his backpack swinging slightly as he walked. “cool. didn’t ask.”

her jaw tightened, and she shot him a look. “seriously, i don’t need a babysitter.”

“good,” harry muttered, unbothered. “’cause I’m not volunteering.”

she sighed, tugging her bag closer to her body as they trudged through campus. the sound of their shoes against the pavement filled the space between them.

as they turned the corner, the streetlight flickered above, casting long, uneven shadows across the sidewalk. harry noticed the guy first.

it wasn’t unusual to be sketched out by randoms over here, their apartment was on the edge of campus—lots of stragglers where university police didn’t quite patrol.

he was leaning against a stop sign, his cigarette glowing faintly in the dark. his gaze was lazy, his posture too casual, the way people got when they wanted you to feel like they were watching you without actually looking.

harry stepped closer to YN without thinking, his shoulder brushing hers as he moved between her and the road.

“seriously?” she muttered, stopping mid-step to glare at him.

harry didn’t look at her, his eyes locked forward as they passed. “what?” he asked, voice calm. “said i’d walk with you. didn’t say i wouldn’t get in the way.”

she scoffed, but she didn’t pull away. he brushed it off, and in a way, she appreciated that—the way he acknowledged her nerves but didn’t say anything. the way he acted like it was just a miss-step rather than a reassurance.

when they reached the entrance of their apartment building, YN stopped, finally turning to face him. her arms were crossed now, her expression sharp. “you didn’t have to do that.”

“you’re welcome.” his eyebrows knit together in stifled laughter, looking straight past her as he opened the heavy door to their building, holding it open for her to walk through.

they went up the narrow stairwell quietly, each step creaking under their weight.

she pursed her lips, stepping past him to unlock her door. but just before she disappeared inside, she glanced back at him, her tone softer this time. “thanks, i guess.”

harry tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “don’t mention it.”

the door clicked shut behind her, and harry lingered for a second, staring at the empty hallway beyond. then he shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket, turned, and headed to his own door. his rings clicked against his keys as he unlocked it, the faintest smirk still on his lips.

*

the walk back from the hospital felt longer tonight.

the clock had just ticked past ten, but the streets were alive with people heading to bars, parties, anywhere but where she’d been. YN tugged on the sleeves of her hoodie, pulling them down farther, the fabric worn soft from too many washes. her scrub pants swished faintly as she walked, her badge clipped to her pocket, catching the glow of passing headlights.

her shift had been hell. the kind of night where you didn’t have time to think, let alone breathe. a kid came in after a bad bike crash, his face pale, his leg bent in a way it shouldn’t have been. then there was guy that coughed up blood over her sneakers—not to mention running around the er the entire rest of shift to do the work the nurses couldn’t get to.

her feet dragged as she pushed through the door to her building, climbing the stairs to the second floor one step at a time.

the music hit her first.

it wasn’t loud, just a faint rhythm seeping through the crack of harry’s door. something easy, mellow.

as she walked past his door, her steps slowed, her gaze flicking toward it. for a second, she lingered, her pulse ticking faster than it should’ve. but then she kept walking.

she tried to focus on her own door, just a few steps away, but her mind wouldn’t settle. work had been brutal. her roommate would be on a two hour facetime with her boyfriend, giggling about nothing. her friends were either pulling late shifts or at some frat house, three beers deep by now. and the quiet—god, the quiet—was going to eat her alive.

before she even realized what she was doing, she spun on her heel, walking back the way she came. her hand hesitated over harry’s door, her fingers curling into a loose fist before she knocked.

the door swung open after a moment, and there he was.

he stood there in loose jeans and an old band tee, his curls falling into his face like he hadn’t bothered to push them back. the rings on his fingers glinted faintly in the dim light behind him, chipped black polish catching her eye.

“cinnamon,” he grinned, leaning one arm against the doorframe. his voice was low, amused. “what’s up?”

behind him, she saw the room wasn’t empty.

lounging on harry’s couch was louis, a guy she vaguely recognized from her english lecture—he was always late, always cracking jokes that somehow landed. and in the kitchen, leaning lazily against the counter, was a tall guy she didn’t quite recognize.

she took the smallest step back, shaking her head. “sorry,” she mumbled quickly. “didn’t realize you had people over. never-mind.”

he raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking from her to the empty hallway behind her. “y’sure? you look…” he trailed off, his lips quirking slightly. “rough.”

she glared at him. “thanks. really needed that.”

he leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “you’re knocking on my door at ten o’clock, cinnamon. that’s gotta be for a reason, yeah?”

she hesitated, her fingers twitching at her side. the guy in the kitchen glanced over briefly, then went back to whatever he was doing, and louis didn’t seem to notice her at all. “forget it,” she muttered, stepping back again. “i’m fine.”

he didn’t move, his eyes narrowed as they locked onto hers. “bullshit.”

her jaw tightened, her shoulders straightening. “i was just gonna ask if you had anything. you know, to…” she gestured vaguely, avoiding his eyes. “take the edge off.”

his smile returned, slow and knowing. “didn’t peg you as the type.”

YN glared again, her cheeks flushing slightly. “for a dealer, you’re really bad at pushing sales.” she said flatly, spinning on her heel.

he chuckled lightly, stepping out into the hallway a bit. “hold on a sec.”

she paused, turning halfway back to face him.

he glanced over his shoulder, toward the couch and the kitchen, before meeting her eyes again. “come back in ten,” he nodded. “i’ll get rid of ‘em.”

she blinked, caught off guard. “you don’t have to—”

“i said ten.” he cut her off, his tone leaving no room for argument.

before she could say anything else, he stepped back into his apartment, the door clicking shut behind him. YN stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door like it might open again. she bit the inside of her lip, fidgeting with her key and going inside.

and at exactly 10 minutes, she was back in front of harry’s door.

this time, she didn’t hesitate. she knocked twice, easier than before.

the door opened almost immediately.

harry stood there again, his curls pushed back out of his face this time. his expression was unreadable, somewhere between curiosity and amusement. “told you ten minutes.” he stepped back, leaving the door open for her. “c’mon.”

his apartment wasn’t what she expected, though she wasn’t sure what she’d pictured. it was small, dimly lit by a single desk lamp in the corner. the faint scent of weed hung in the air, but the room was surprisingly neat, except for a pile of papers and notebooks on the table.

lounging on the couch, louis was pulling on his jacket, his face lighting up in surprise when he saw her. “oh, hey. you’re…” he snapped his fingers, squinting. “chem lab, right? morning lecture?”

YN nodded stiffly, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her hoodie. “english,” she corrected. “i see you there sometimes.”

“right, right,” louis said, grinning. he turned to harry. “new buyer? good taste, man.”

harry rolled his eyes, stifling his own smile. “out.” he muttered, shoving a hand toward the door.

louis smirked but didn’t argue. he grabbed his bag, tossing a wink at YN before stepping into the hallway. the guy in the kitchen followed, slipping past her without so much as a glance, the scent of cheap cologne trailing behind him.

he shut the door with a sharp click, locking it before turning to face her. “there. happy?”

she crossed her arms, leaning against the wall near the door. “i didn’t ask you to kick them out.”

“you didn’t have to.”

she sighed, her gaze shifting to the desk in the corner. the blueprints stacked there caught her attention—clean lines, precise calculations, a world that felt miles away from hers.

“you gonna tell me what you want, or are we just standing here all night?”

her eyes snapped back to his, the sharpness in his tone cutting through the haze of her thoughts. “got anything that’ll knock me out for a few hours?”

he raised an eyebrow, walking past her to the desk. he opened a drawer, rummaging around before pulling out a small baggie with a single edible inside. “low-dose,” he said, holding it up. “won’t knock you out, but it’ll take the edge off.”

YN hesitated, glancing between him and the baggie. “how much?”

harry shook his head, tossing it onto the counter. “on the house.”

“i’m not—”

“just take it,” he interrupted, his tone firm. “call it a favor. or a bribe. whatever makes you feel better.”

she stepped closer, picking up the baggie with careful fingers. her eyes flicked to his, searching for something she wasn’t sure she’d find. “thanks.” she muttered, her voice quieter now.

harry leaned against the edge of the counter, his arms crossed. “you look like shit, by the way.”

she huffed, shoving the baggie into her hoodie pocket. “and you’re still a dick.” she shot back, heading for the door.

“fair enough.” he muttered. but just as she reached for the handle, his voice stopped her. “hey, cinnamon.”

she turned, her brow furrowed. “what?”

harry’s smirk softened slightly, the easy confidence in his tone faltering just enough to feel real. “you ever wanna talk, you know where i live.”

YN didn’t respond, didn’t trust herself to. she just nodded once and slipped out the door, her footsteps fading down the hall.

the next day, it was closer to four pm when YN got home from work.

she barely noticed the faint buzz of her roommate’s call as she slipped into the bathroom, peeling off her scrubs and stepping under the hot spray of the shower. the water hit her like a reset button, the ache in her shoulders easing as the steam curled around her.

when she finally emerged, her hair damp and loose, she threw on a pair of soft sweatpants and an oversized sweater—something warm, something safe. the apartment was quiet now, her roommate having left a while ago, probably off to see her boyfriend.

it was around six when the knock came.

YN glanced up from her laptop, her brows furrowing. she wasn’t expecting anyone. she hesitated for a second, debating if she even wanted to answer, but curiosity won out.

when she opened the door, harry was leaning against the frame, his usual smirk softened into something more uncertain. he looked like he’d been pacing before this, his curls slightly disheveled, his hoodie hanging loose over a pair of black sweatpants.

“hey.”

YN raised an eyebrow. “hey.”

“you any good at chem?”

she blinked, “chemistry?”

he nodded, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. “yeah. like, the basics. stoichiometry, balancing equations, all that shit.”

she tilted her head, leaning against the doorframe to mirror him. “i passed it with like an 85% so, i guess?”

he smiled, “fantastic. y’busy right now?”

“why?”

“thought maybe you could help me out. i’ve got a test coming up, and i’m…” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely. “not great at it.”

“you want me to tutor you?”

he beamed, sarcastic, knowing. “sweet of you t’offer. let’s go.”

she rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. she sighed, pushing off the doorframe. “fine. but if i’m doing this, we’re going to the library. your apartment smells like weed, and i can’t think in there.”

he chuckled, stepping back as she grabbed her bag from the couch. “fair enough, cinnamon.”

the campus library wasn’t crowded, the usual sunday night stragglers scattered across the tables in hushed clusters. harry led her to a table in the back, far from the main entrance, where the buzz of conversation faded into the quiet hum of fluorescent lights.

he dropped his backpack onto the table, pulling out a battered notebook and a copy of the textbook that looked like it had been through hell. “alright, professor,” he said, smirking as he slid into the chair across from her. “teach me.”

“this is gonna be painful, isn’t it?”

harry grinned, flipping open the textbook. “probably.”

she sighed, leaning forward. “okay, first question—how the hell did you even make it to college if you don’t know the basics?”

harry shrugged, unbothered. “charm and good looks.”

she groaned, dropping her pen onto the table. “you’re gonna fail.”

“no,” he drawled with a smile, “that’s why you’re here.”

despite herself, YN smiled, shaking her head as she reached for the textbook. “alright, let’s see what we can do.”

the first twenty minutes were pure pain.

she flipped through harry’s beat-up textbook, squinting at the faint pencil notes scrawled in the margins. “alright,” she muttered, tapping her pen against the page. “let’s start with balancing equations. that’s pretty straightforward.”

harry slouched in his chair, spinning his pen between his fingers like he was bored out of his mind already. (and he was. if he was honest, he didn’t need help with chem at all). “straightforward for you, maybe. i’m just here trying not to flunk out.”

she furrowed her eyebrows, shooting him a look. “you’re not gonna flunk out. you just need to—” she hesitated, searching for the right word. “try.”

“i’m trying right now. see? look at all this effort.” he gestured toward the open book in front of him.

she sighed, leaning across the table and grabbing the pen out of his hand. “no. this is you sitting there, being useless. pay attention, harry.”

“yes, ma’am.” he mumbled, sitting up slightly straighter. his voice carried the faintest edge of mockery, but he kept his eyes on her, watching as she wrote out a problem on a fresh sheet of paper.

after another ten minutes of stumbling through coefficients, YN thought she saw a flicker of understanding cross harry’s face. he pointed at the page. “so you just make the numbers match? like, both sides need the same amount of atoms?”

YN stared at him, deadpan. “yes. that’s literally it.”

he leaned back, running a hand through his curls. “jesus. why the hell does it sound so much harder in class?”

“because you don’t listen in class,” she laughed, “and i’m guessing you don’t read the textbook either.”

he grinned, leaning forward again. “why would i, when you’re clearly better at explaining it?”

she rolled her eyes, turning the page in the book. “charm and good looks only get you so far, harry. you’re gonna have to put some actual work into this.”

“oh, so you do think i’m charming.”

YN didn’t dignify that with a response. instead, she handed him the pen and pointed to the next problem. “solve it. no shortcuts, no guesses. i wanna see the work.”

he groaned but did as he was told, his brow furrowed as he scribbled on the page.

by the time the clock struck eight thirty, they’d managed to get through most of the chapter. YN had to admit—he wasn’t completely hopeless.

and all he could do was smile—she bought it. if engineering didn’t work out, he thought, maybe he could be an actor. or a pathological liar.

“see?” she said, leaning back in her chair. “you’re not terrible at this. just lazy.”

harry huffed a laugh, closing the textbook with a loud thud. “lazy? you wound me, cinnamon.”

“you’ll live. anyway, i think we’re done for tonight. unless you wanna keep going?”

they walked out of the library together, the crisp night air hitting them like a wall. the campus was quiet now, most of the students holed up in their dorms or off at whatever weekend plans they’d made.

as they reached the edge of the quad, he glanced at her. “thanks for helping me out.”

she shrugged, her hands tucked into her hoodie pocket. “no big deal. just don’t make it a habit.”

“what if i do?”

YN shot him a look, her brow furrowing slightly. “then you’re buying the coffee next time.”

harry chuckled, the sound low and warm in the cold air. “deal.”

they reached the entrance, and YN hesitated for a moment before heading inside. “night, harry.”

“night, cinnamon.”

as the door clicked shut behind her, harry lingered on the steps for a moment, lighting a cigarette.

he smiled to himself again, he couldn’t help it. he was proficient in math, one of his best subjects—bordering the edge of genius, basically. but she didn’t need to know that, not when he just stole a couple hours from her, not when it was the perfect excuse just to hang out with her.

it was wednesday when she next saw him.

the clock on YN’s laptop read 11:03 pm, the harsh blue light illuminating her tired eyes as she highlighted yet another passage in the dense textbook sprawled across her lap. the apartment was quiet, save for the occasional shuffle from her roommate’s room and the faint hum of traffic filtering in through the drafty window.

she hadn’t moved from her spot on the couch in over an hour, legs curled under her, a growing pile of sticky notes cluttering the coffee table. her focus was razor-sharp, though her back ached from the awkward position she’d settled into.

when the knock came, she didn’t flinch. didn’t even glance toward the door. she knew exactly who it was.

with a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips, she set her laptop down carefully, nudging it closer to the stack of notes as she rose from the couch. her socked feet padded softly across the floor, her hand instinctively reaching for the lock. she swung the door open and leaned against the frame, her shoulder pressed into the wood as she tilted her head to the side.

“cinnamonnnn,” harry drawled, his voice almost melodic, the nickname rolling off his tongue like it had been hers all her life.

he stood there in a slightly oversized sweater, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a pair of gray sweatpants that were smaller than the ones from the other day—joggers maybe. a green packers beanie was snug over his curls, though a few stray strands peeked out, curling against his forehead. his hands were stuffed deep in his pockets, and he rocked back on his heels like he had all the time in the world.

YN narrowed her eyes slightly, the faintest smile ghosting her lips. “harryyyy,” she mimicked, dragging out his name in the same exaggerated tone.

“you busy?”

yes. “no.”

his dimples deepened as his grin grew wider, like he knew she’d lie. “hang out with me for a bit then.”

she let out a quiet laugh, crossing her arms over her chest. “to do what? it’s almost midnight.”

“come walk with me.”

her lips parted slightly, a soft exhale escaping as she gave him a hesitant look. he didn’t push, just waited, the silence between them comfortable, expectant. “you’re such a bad influence,” she muttered, shaking her head as she turned back into the apartment.

“oh, yeah,” harry said, stepping forward to catch the door before it closed. “terrible.”

she tugged a sweater over her head, the fabric swallowing her as she slipped her feet into an old pair of sneakers. they were loose, the kind she could slip on without bothering with laces.

when she stepped past him, harry held the door open before letting it fall shut behind them as they ambled into the narrow hallway.

“where are we going?” YN asked as they descended the stairs, the cool air of the building’s lobby settling around them.

“you’ll see.”

she huffed, though the corners of her mouth tugged upward as she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. he moved like the world waited for him, unhurried but purposeful, his long legs carrying him down the steps in easy strides.

when they pushed through the front door and into the night, the cold air hit her immediately, making her shiver as she stuffed her hands into her pockets.

their path wound deeper into campus—the air quiet, save for the rustling of dead leaves underfoot and the occasional distant honk of a car. the faint glow of streetlights filtered through the thinning trees, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement.

harry walked slightly ahead, shoulders hunched against the cool air. she walked beside him, somewhat, perhaps a step behind, though the edge of her elbow would brush against his arm every so often. it wasn’t an accident, not really.

their breaths puffed out in white clouds, swirling in the breeze before disappearing. the last of the dead leaves fell from the trees with a soft crackle, catching in the wind before tumbling to the ground.

his pace slowed slightly, letting her match him, and he nudged her with his shoulder—just enough to jostle her. she looked up, her brow furrowing as she glanced at him.

“what was that for?”

he smirked, his gaze flicking ahead. “thought you were fallin’ asleep over there.”

she rolled her eyes but let her shoulder bump into his lightly as they walked. “sure. ‘cause nothing screams excitement like following you into the middle of nowhere.”

he let out a low chuckle, his breath visible in the cold air. “you’re dramatic, you know that?”

“you didn’t answer the question earlier.”

“what question?”

“about where we’re going,” she said, her voice teasing. “you could be leading me astray so you can murder me without any witnesses.”

he turned his head to look at her, his brows lifting, “i did answer, you just didn’t accept it.” he paused, pursing his lips as if he was in thought. “it would be a good plan, though. quiet enough out here. no one’d hear a thing.”

she snorted, her steps faltering slightly as she tried not to laugh. “you’re a terrible murderer. you’d leave a trail of evidence a mile wide.”

“would not.”

“would too.”

he turned to her fully now, his eyes narrowing as he stepped backward in front of her. his hands were still stuffed in his pockets, his pace matching hers even as he walked in reverse.

“alright, then,�� he said, his voice laced with mock seriousness. “if i were to murder you—and that’s a big if, by the way—how exactly would i screw it up?”

she bit back a smile, “well, for starters, you’d forget to hide the body properly. probably just leave me in the middle of the path, thinking no one would notice.”

he let out a soft laugh, his shoulders shaking as he shook his head. “that’s ridiculous.”

“is it?” YN countered, raising a brow. “you’re the one who thinks this is a good place to kill someone.”

his grin widened, the faintest dimple appearing in his cheek. “you’re paranoid, cinnamon. that’s your problem.”

“and you’re too cocky. that’s yours.”

they fell into a rhythm again, walking side by side as the breeze picked up, carrying with it the faint scent of city streets and damp leaves. their arms brushed again, neither of them pulling away, the warmth of the contact lingering longer than it should.

harry glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, the smirk on his lips softening slightly. “for the record,” he said, his voice quieter now, “i know exactly where i’m going.”

she smiled, her gaze fixed on the path ahead. “good,” she said lightly. “cause i’d hate to have to come back and haunt you if you got me lost.”

their steps grew softer as the buildings behind them thinned out, replaced by clusters of trees swaying in the light breeze. the path curved slightly, the faint hum of traffic fading into the distance.

he walked slightly ahead, his head turning now and then to glance at the towering oaks that lined their path. the trees began to part, revealing the outline of icahn stadium in the near distance. the track and field stretched wide beneath the faint glow of a single overhead light, casting long shadows across the ground. the bleachers stood tall and imposing, their sea of blue seats reaching into the sky like a wave frozen in time.

harry slowed to a stop as they approached, the chain-link fence surrounding the stadium standing between them and the field. he didn’t guide her toward the gate, knowing it would be locked after hours. instead, he stepped closer to the fence, pulling his hand out of his pocket and giving one of the links an experimental tug.

she watched him, her brow furrowing slightly. “if you think we’re going on a run,” she said, her voice flat, “you’ve completely lost it.”

he let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head as his fingers curled around the chain link. he glanced at her over his shoulder, “shut up and c’mere, cinnamon.”

YN hesitated for half a second, then stepped forward, the grass folding beneath her sneakers. the light breeze brushed against her skin, carrying the faint scent of earth and damp metal. he stepped back slightly, giving her room as she reached for the fence. without waiting for further instruction, she started to climb, her hands gripping the cold metal tightly as she hauled herself upward.

he watched her movements closely, his hands hovering near her hips in case she wobbled. “i got you,” he muttered, his voice soft enough to blend with the wind.

she didn’t respond, focusing instead on the rhythmic pull of her arms as she reached the top of the fence. for a moment, she perched there, the view of the stadium stretching out before her, before swinging one leg over and carefully lowering herself to the other side.

harry gave the fence one last tug, then started climbing after her. his movements were quick and efficient, as though he’d done this a hundred times before. his sleeve bunched at his elbows as he reached the top, pausing briefly to glance down at her. “how’s the weather down there?”

she glanced up, brushing her hands off on her pants. “you’d better not fall. i’m not catching you.”

he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he swung over the top and landed easily on the grass beside her. “wasn’t planning on it,” he breathed, brushing his hands off before shoving them back into his pockets.

they stood there for a moment, the quiet of the field settling around them like a blanket. the overhead light flickered slightly, casting their shadows long and thin against the ground.

she stared at him for a moment, then sighed, shaking her head as she followed him. “you’ve got way too much energy for this late at night.”

“and you were too stubborn t’say no.” harry shot back as he walked ahead, his steps light against the rubber surface. “used to hate running, y’know,” he breathed, glancing at YN as he spun around. he walked backward with an ease that made her slightly nervous, like he’d trip over himself any second but never actually would. “hated everything about it—your legs aching, your chest burnin’, that horrible feeling in your throat after.”

she caught up, her pace steady as she smiled faintly, her breath visible in the cool air. “now it’s your thing.”

he paused for a split second, his eyes catching hers in that unreadable way of his. then, to her surprise, he smiled. “yeah,” he nodded slightly. “now it’s my thing.”

the bleachers loomed ahead, their steel frame groaning faintly in the wind. harry reached them first, stepping aside to let her go up. “go on,” he muttered, gesturing upward with a nod. “all the way to the top.”

“what, you’re not going to race me?”

he smiled, his hand brushing against the cold metal railing. “wouldn’t be fair. your legs are shorter than mine.”

she narrowed her eyes but couldn’t help the faint laugh that slipped out. “wow. okay. guess i’ll just take my time then.”

she started up the concrete steps, her hands gripping the railings on either side. the cold bit at her palms, but she ignored it, focusing instead on the steady rhythm of her feet against the uneven surface.

harry followed a few steps behind, his stride naturally longer than hers. “this is painful t’watch,” he drawled, his voice laced with mockery. “are you always this slow, or is it just for me?”

YN stopped abruptly, her hands tightening around the railings as she shifted her weight. her hips jutted out slightly, throwing him off balance as he climbed.

he cursed under his breath, his hands instinctively reaching out to steady himself. his fingers found her hips, his grip firm but fleeting, as though he realized too late what he’d done. “jesus,” he muttered, pulling back as quickly as he’d touched her. “bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

she turned her head just enough to catch the faint flush creeping up his neck. she smirked, leaning her weight into the railing. “sorry—shorter legs and all.”

harry just blinked before the corner of his mouth twitched. he stepped back, his expression a mix of annoyance and reluctant amusement. “you’re a child.”

she laughed softly, turning back to the stairs and continuing her climb. “yeah,” she called over her shoulder, her voice teasing. “but you’re still following me.”

they climbed higher, the steps echoing faintly beneath their feet, but harry's pace started to falter again—restlessness bleeding into his movements. "oh, for god's sake," he laughed, his patience snapping like a brittle thread. his fingers drummed against the railing briefly before he stopped altogether, grasping onto her wrist.

his grin was lopsided, dimples flashing as he let go of her hand and flung himself past her, his long legs taking the steps two at a time as he rushed toward the top. only a second and a half later, she met him up there, finding him standing there with a proud grin, his hands resting on his hips like he'd just conquered something monumental.

“impatience isn’t a virtue, by the way.”

he kept his smile, his dimples cutting deep as he lifted his hand in front of her face, palm out. his fingers wiggled dramatically, “talk to the hand, sista."

she paused, staring at him like she wasn't sure whether to laugh or push him off the railing. her expression cracked first, laughter spilling out before she could stop it. she swatted his hand away from her face as they leaned into each other, his own giggles breaking free in a low, rumbling sound that shook through him.

their laughter folded into each other, her shoulder pressing lightly into his chest as she tried to steady herself, his larger frame giving way slightly under the weight of their shared amusement.

harry’s laughter softened as he reached up, his fingers tugging at the edge of his packers beanie. his curls bounced free as he pulled it off, the cold air nipping at his now-exposed hair. without a word, he stretched his arm around her, carefully plopping the hat onto her head.

“what are you doing?” she asked, her voice laced with with something delicate as she adjusted it, the oversized beanie swallowing her hair and tilting slightly to one side.

“you looked cold,” he said, shrugging as if it wasn’t a big deal. his fingers lingered at the edge of the beanie for just a second before he gave her forehead a gentle push with the flat of his palm.

it wasn’t hard—just enough to tip her head backward a little, like an afterthought, his grin barely contained as she blinked up at him.

“seriously?” YN smiled, tilting her head forward again, a faint laugh escaping as she fixed the hat and gave him a mock glare.

he didn’t reply, already stepping to his left with an exaggerated flourish, gesturing toward the narrow row of faded blue seats that stretched across the top of the bleachers. “c’mon.”

he slid into one of the seats first, his long legs folding awkwardly into the tight space as he leaned back and let out a contented sigh. he patted the seat beside him without looking at her.

she hesitated for a beat, brushing her hair out of her face before following him into the row. the cold metal of the seat pressed through her sweats as she sat down beside him, her knees brushing against his for just a second as she settled.

she pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs. harry’s beanie slipped forward slightly, brushing against her eyebrows, but she didn’t bother adjusting it. instead, she rested her chin on her knees, her gaze drifting across the empty field below as the wind whistled faintly through the bleachers.

he shifted beside her, digging into the pocket of his sweats. his movements were easy as he pulled out a slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lime green lighter. sliding a cigarette between his lips, he leaned back, flicking the lighter once, twice

nothing.

his fingers were stiff from the cold, the wind catching the flame before it had a chance to hold. he tried again, his brows furrowing slightly as he muttered something under his breath.

YN turned her head, watching him with quiet curiosity. “you good over there?”

harry’s lips quirked around the cigarette. “just peachy,” he mumbled, his voice muffled as he tried one more time.

without a word, she reached over, her fingers brushing against his as she took the lighter from him. “hold still,” she murmured, leaning sideways as she cupped her hand over the cigarette perched between his lips, shielding it from the breeze.

her movements were practiced, easy, like she’d done this a hundred times before. she flicked the lighter once, and the small flame sprang to life, steady this time. she lit the end of the cigarette, her hand still shielding it from the wind as she glanced up at him. “there.”

harry took a drag, the ember glowing softly in the dim light, and exhaled a thin stream of smoke. his gaze flicked to her, an unreadable expression crossing his face before his lips tilted into a small, lopsided grin.

she shifted back into her seat and pulled the beanie lower over her ears, her chin finding its place against her knees again. they sat in the quiet for a while, the whispers of the wind weaving around them, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or harry’s exhales.

she looked him over, the way his curls danced around his face, the way his lips wrapped around the cigarette, how the ember’s reflection flickered in his eyes. she bit the inside of her cheek before she muttered softly, almost to herself, “you’re british.”

he let out a breathy chuckle, the sound slipping through his nose as he took another pull from the cigarette. he sighed slowly, the smoke curling up into the cold night air before he turned his head toward her, his smirk faint but amused. “good eye, sherlock.”

she kissed her teeth, rolling her eyes as she prepared to retort, her lips parting—

but harry cut her off before she could. “—cheshire,” he breathed, the word rolling off his tongue in a way that caught her off guard, soft and lilting. “born there, anyway. mum moved me and my sister here when i was thirteen.”

“for a job or..?”

he nodded, the glow of the cigarette tip briefly lighting his features as he took another drag. “she got an offer she couldn’t turn down. packed us up, left everything behind. started over.”

YN tilted her head slightly, watching the way his gaze lingered on the field below, distant but steady. “must’ve been hard.”

he shrugged, “it was… weird. missing home, trying t’fit in here. but she did what she had to do. mum’s always been good at that—doing what has to be done.”

there was a warmth in his voice, a quiet admiration that made her chest tighten. she didn’t push for more, sensing that he’d already said more than he usually would. “your accent is starting to fade,” she said instead, her lips curving into a small smile.

he smiled faintly, flicking the ash from his cigarette. “guess so. comes back strong when i’m drunk, though.”

she laughed softly, shaking her head as she turned her eyes back to the field.

he shifted slightly in his seat, his arm brushing hers as he glanced over, his cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers. “what about you?”

she blinked, turning her head toward him. “me?”

“yes, you. where’s home?”

she hesitated for a moment, “about an hour north,” she mumbled, her voice carrying the faintest edge of something wistful. “right on the border between here and connecticut.”

he nodded, leaning back slightly as he tilted his head toward her. “family?”

YN huffed a quiet breath, her lips curving into a small, tired smile. “brother’s in the army. mom and dad work all the time. and i’m just here.”

his brow furrowed slightly, his eyes studying her for a moment, thoughtful and quiet. “just here?”

she shrugged, hugging her knees closer to her chest as she rested her chin on them again. “yeah. they’re busy, you know? always have been. it’s not bad or anything, it’s just… how it is.”

harry didn’t respond right away, the glow of his cigarette catching the faint flicker of emotion in his gaze. “you don’t go home much, then.”

“no. they’re fine without me. and i’ve got everything i need here. school, this place… the occasional packers beanie to keep me warm.”

he chuckled gently at that, the sound low and warm as he reached out to tug the edge of the beanie further down over her ears.

YN tilted her head slightly, her gaze fixed on the horizon as she broke the silence with a question that felt heavier than the moment. “ever fall in love?”

he turned to her, his brows furrowing slightly at the unexpectedness of it. he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, cigarette still lit between his fingers. “once or twice.”

she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, her lips twitching into a faint, almost knowing smile. “yeah,” she said softly. “me too. once or twice.”

his eyes lingered on her, studying the curve of her profile in the dim light. “what happened?”

“life, i guess. we grew apart, wanted different things.” she paused, her fingers idly tugging at her sleeves. “it wasn’t awful. just… wasn’t meant to be.”

he nodded slowly, his eyes drifting to the field below as he leaned back again, stretching his legs out in front of him.“same here.” he sighed. “things got complicated. fell apart before it could really go anywhere.”

YN turned to face him fully now, her cheek resting on her knees as she studied him. “do you think it’s worth it?”

“what, love?”

she nodded.

he was quiet for a beat, his features softening as he mulled over her question. “yeah,” he said finally, his voice low but certain. “for the right person.”

silence.

“—he treat you right?”

“what?”

he flicked the ash off the tip of his cigarette. “the guy you loved. did he treat you right?”

she hesitated before she nodded, check still flush against her knees. “most of the time.”

his jaw twitched at her answer, “most of the time isn’t enough, y’know?”

“think you could do better?” she teased lightly, though there was an edge of genuine curiosity in her tone.

harry turned to her then, his eyes meeting hers, the corner of his mouth twitching into the faintest smirk. “yeah,” he said simply, taking another drag. “i know i could.”

her cheeks flushed slightly, but she didn’t look away. instead, she lifted her chin off her knees, her lips curving into a small, sly smile. “yeah right, harry.”

“i don’t say shit i don’t mean, cinnamon. not like that.”

YN didn’t respond, just shook her head faintly as she turned her head back to the field, her chest tightening in a way she didn’t quite know how to name.

he stayed quiet too, the silence settling over them again, but this time it felt heavier, charged with something unspoken that neither of them was ready to unpack.

he let the cigarette drop to the concrete, the faint glow of its ember dying as he ground it under his sneaker. the scrape of rubber against stone was sharp in the quiet, and then he straightened, towering over YN as her gaze followed him.

“let’s go,” he mumbled, his voice even but lacking the warmth it held earlier.

something had shifted.

it was subtle—barely a flicker—but she felt it. the easy banter from earlier seemed to pull back, replaced by something quieter, something more guarded.

she didn’t question it, though. not yet.

harry gestured toward the steps, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he waited for her to stand.

she sighed softly, pulling his packers beanie tighter over her ears as she rose, the cold biting at her cheeks while she fell into step beside him as they made their way back down the bleachers.

when they reached the chain-link fence again, harry stepped forward first, gripping the metal links as he tested its sturdiness like he had before. he didn’t say anything, only nodded toward the fence as he stepped aside to let her climb.

YN rolled her eyes but moved toward it anyway, her hands curling around the cold metal as she pulled herself up. harry’s hands hovered near her hips just as they had earlier.

she glanced down briefly to meet his eyes before she swung her leg over the top and climbed down the other side.

he followed quickly, his movements smooth and quick, landing on the grass beside her with barely a sound. they fell into step together on the walk back, the cool night air nipping at exposed skin as the distant hum of traffic filled the silence.

harry’s hands stayed buried in his pockets, his head slightly lowered as his long strides matched her shorter ones.

she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, sensing the subtle shift in his demeanor. he wasn’t closed off, not entirely, but there was a distance now, like he was holding something back. "you okay?" she asked softly, her voice cutting through the silence.

"mm-hm,” he hummed, his tone even, but distant. "you?"

she nodded, even though something about his shift made her chest feel heavier. "yeah."

she didn’t press, didn’t push. instead, she let the silence stretch between them as their footsteps echoed softly against the pavement.

by the time they reached their building, the city felt quieter, the world around them settling into the stillness of the late night.

and though neither of them said a word as they split, the weight of the unspoken things between them lingered, threading itself into the space they shared.

another few days passed, and the walk back to the apartment felt lighter than usual.

YN had just said goodbye to a friend before rounding the corner to the building, her smile lingering as she adjusted the strap of her bag. it wasn’t often she felt this at ease.

but that lightness disappeared the moment she reached the stairwell.

as she climbed to their floor, her eyes landed on harry. he was standing at his door, his shoulders tense, his head down. his key trembled in his hand, the metal scraping against the lock as he missed the slot for what had to be the third time.

it was wrong. harry was steady. always steady. whether he was handing off a bag of weed or walking down the street like the world revolved around him, he had this uncanny knack for keeping his cool.

but not tonight.

she slowed her steps, her brow furrowing as she got closer. “harry?” her voice cut through the stillness, sharper than she intended.

his head snapped up. for a brief moment, she saw something raw in his eyes—panic, maybe—but it was gone as quickly as it came. his mouth twisted into a faint smile, the one he always wore like armor. “you’re back early.” his voice was rough, low, like he’d been grinding it against a wall.

she took a step closer, her eyes scanning him. “was about to say the same thing.” her gaze flicked to his hand, the one holding the key, the knuckles split and bruised.

“what happened to your hand?”

he stiffened, tucking the injured hand into his hoodie pocket. “nothing’.”

“bullshit,” she muttered, shoving her keys and phone into her pockets to free her hands. “let me see.”

he let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “don’t worry about it, cinnamon.”

the nickname barely registered; her focus stayed on him, on the tension in his shoulders, the blood crusting his knuckles. “harry,” she said, her tone firmer now. “you’re bleeding. just let me—”

“it’s fine!” he shouted, his voice cutting.

YN snapped her head back up, averting her gaze from his hidden hands, right to his eyes. his chest rose and fell, his breathing shallow and uneven. she didn’t speak, just stood there, watching the way his jaw tightened like he was trying to swallow something bitter.

he finally sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “fuck.”he mumbled, almost to himself.

she moved closer again, slower this time, her voice softer. “let me help.”

his eyes flicked to hers, guarded but not as sharp. his lips parted, like he wanted to argue, but no words came out.

inside her apartment, the air felt too still, too quiet.

harry sat stiffly at her small kitchen table, his hoodie now pushed back to reveal the messy curls tumbling over his forehead. he cradled his injured hand in his lap, his jaw set as YN dug through her cabinet for the first aid kit.

“you really don’t have to do this,” he muttered, his voice low.

“yeah, well,” she sighed, pulling the kit down with a thud. “i’m doing it anyway.”

when she sat across from him, the silence between them grew heavy. she reached for his hand, but he hesitated, his fingers curling slightly.

“harry.”

he huffed but relented, letting her take his hand in hers.

the damage was worse up close. his knuckles were split and swollen, streaks of blood staining the spaces between his fingers. she inhaled sharply, her brows knitting as she reached for the antiseptic.

“jesus,” she muttered, shaking her head. “what the hell did you do?”

he didn’t answer right away, his eyes fixed on the floor. when he finally spoke, his voice was flat. “ran into someone.”

she paused, the antiseptic-soaked cotton ball hovering over his knuckles. “like?”

“someone who didn’t want to pay up front.”

her stomach twisted. she pressed the cotton to his knuckles, and he hissed through his teeth, his fingers twitching under hers.

“hold still.” she murmured, her voice softer, airy.

he didn’t respond, just watched her work. her touch was careful but firm, her hands steady as she cleaned the cuts.

“you can’t keep doing this.” she said quietly, not looking up.

harry’s lips twitched, a dry laugh escaping him. “you worried about me?”

YN shot him a look, her expression somewhere between annoyance and concern. “maybe, harry. you ever think about that?”

his smile faded, and for a moment, his eyes softened—just a fraction, but enough for her to notice. “it’s nothing.”

“it’s not nothing.’” she countered, wrapping a clean bandage around his hand. “you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

“maybe.” he whispered, watching her tie off the bandage.

“and you’re okay with that?”

his gaze flicked up to hers, and for a moment, something vulnerable passed between them—something unspoken but heavy. “depends on the day.”

she swallowed hard, her fingers lingering on the edge of the bandage before she leaned back.

“you’re an idiot.” she grumbled, standing to put the kit back in its place.

he grinned faintly, flexing his fingers against the bandage. “yeah, but you’re still patchin’ me up, aren’t you?”

she glanced over her shoulder, her lips pressing into a thin line. “someone has to.”

he stood, his frame filling the small kitchen as he neared the door.

“harry?”

he glanced back, his eyes soft as he looked at her expectantly.

“please be careful.”

his jaw clenched before he managed a tight nod, and then the door clicked shut behind him, leaving YN alone in the silence, the weight of his words—and his presence—lingering in the air.

it was thursday again, and the walk back from their evening lecture became an unspoken agreement.

it wasn’t something they talked about—there were no texts exchanged or plans made. but every tuesday and thursday, as the evening classes let out, they’d meet by the lecture hall’s exit. sometimes harry would already be there, leaning against the wall, pretending he wasn’t waiting. other times, YN would hang back near the doors, scrolling through her phone until she saw him.

tonight was no different.

harry was already outside when she came out of her bio lab, her bag slung over her shoulder and her hair a little messy from tying and retying it during the experiment. he fell into step beside her as they turned toward home, his bandaged hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, his backpack slung low over one shoulder.

“that bad?” he asked, glancing at her as she adjusted her strap.

she sighed, shaking her head. “some idiot forgot to label their samples, so the whole lab got an extra hour of let’s go over the basics again.”

harry chuckled, the sound low and warm. “you lot are a buncha losers, huh?”

“says the guy who’s probably failing chem,” she shot back, grinning.

he shrugged, unbothered—simply because it wasn’t true. “aggressively coasting.” he corrected.

what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

she rolled her eyes, giggling despite herself. the conversation drifted, easy and familiar, as they made their way through campus.

it was when they turned onto the last block before their building that harry stopped.

she noticed it immediately—the way his body went still, his eyes narrowing as they flicked to the other side of the street.

a man stood there, leaning against a lamppost, his hands shoved into the pockets of a heavy coat. he wasn’t doing anything—not technically—but there was something about the way he stared at the building’s exit that set harry on edge.

“go inside.”

she frowned, looking at him. “what?”

harry’s jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving the man across the street. “just go inside, YN.”

her confusion deepened as she followed his gaze. “harry, what’s going on?”

he turned to her then, his expression sharper than she’d ever seen it. “i said go the fuck inside.” he snapped, his voice low, biting—the words cutting through the cool evening air like glass.

she flinched, her eyes widening slightly. but before she could say anything, harry was already crossing the street, his shoulders squared and his hands shoved into his pockets.

she stayed where she was, her heart racing as she watched the scene unfold.

harry approached the man with a deliberate calm, his posture loose but his movements sharp. she couldn’t hear the first thing he said, but the man straightened immediately, his eyes narrowing as he looked harry up and down.

the conversation wasn’t loud, but it was tense—harry’s voice low, steady, while the man’s tone was sharper, more aggressive.

she could only catch snippets.

the man stepped closer, his hands twitching at his sides, and for a moment, YN thought it was going to escalate. but harry didn’t flinch. he held his ground, his voice even as he spoke again.

finally, the man pulled something from his pocket—a small bag, crumpled and poorly sealed—and shoved it into harry’s hand. he gave him a look, muttering something under his breath before turning on his heel.

he crossed the street, his shoulders tense, his face hard as stone. when he reached YN, he brushed past her—his shoulder catching hers, a silent signal that screamed follow me.

she hesitated, but only for a second before trailing after him. he didn’t look back as he pushed through the front door of their building, letting it slam shut behind them.

the silence between them stretched thin as they climbed the stairs, harry taking them two at a time, YN struggling to keep up with his longer stride.

“harry,” she started, her breath slightly uneven, “what the hell just happened?”

he didn’t answer, his hand gripping the stairwell railing tightly enough that his knuckles whitened.

“don’t ignore me,” she pressed, her voice sharper now. “who was that guy? why were you acting like—”

“drop it, YN.” he muttered, his voice sharp and clipped, but she wasn’t having it.

“no, i’m not dropping it!” she snapped, her tone cutting through the empty stairwell. “you don’t get to just walk away from this without explaining. i saw the way you looked at him. you knew him, didn’t you?”

he reached their floor and stopped abruptly in the middle of the hall, his back still to her.

“you knew he was trouble the second you saw him,” she continued, stepping closer. “so tell me why, harry. what’s going on—are you okay?”

he turned then, spinning on his heel so fast that she nearly bumped into him. his eyes were clouded, sharp, and for a moment, the force of his glare made her breath catch. “s’not your fucking concern, YN.” he spat, his voice cold and low, each word biting like frost. “it’s not like we’re friends. so just fucking stop.”

she froze mid-sentence, her jaw slack as the words sank in.

harry’s breathing was uneven, his hands balled into fists at his sides, but he didn’t look away.

she closed her mouth, her lips pressing into a thin line as her eyes stayed locked on his. after a long pause, she gave a single, curt nod. “got it.”

her voice was quiet but sharp, like the edge of a knife.

she stepped around him, her gaze never wavering as she turned toward her unit. the weight of her presence lingered, heavy and unforgiving, even as she unlocked her door and disappeared inside.

he stood there for a moment, staring at the empty hallway. his chest felt tight, his fists still clenched, but he didn’t move. he didn’t look for her.

because if he had, he would’ve followed her. and he wasn’t sure what he’d say—or if it would even make a difference.

[kirain]

Wall of the faithless isn't canon in bg3. They changed alot of things actually. So no Gale isn't "scared" he's just an obsessed asshole who doesn't learn from his mistakes.

Oof...

There's really nothing I can say except: you're wrong. The City of Judgement and the Wall of the Faithless are canon to BG3. If you don't like Gale, that's fine, but you don't have to make things up or completely disregard the lore to do it. Larian Studios literally hired people from Wizards of the Coast—the company responsible for all the canon lore, characters, and campaigns in D&D—to help them with the story. It took them five years, I believe, to fully study and understand the lore. They constantly conferred with the team to double, triple, and quadruple check every slice of content they added to the game, and parts of the game are now considered canon to D&D 5E.

As for Gale "not learning" from his mistakes ... when you first meet him, he literally admits he made a mistake with Mystra. Though personally I don't see it as the "power-hungry" move people seem to think it is. Gale simply wanted to be considered an equal to his partner (really his groomer), which is a perfectly healthy and normal desire for anyone in a relationship. Your partner should treat you like an equal, but Mystra very clearly saw Gale as a pet. A trophy. A worshipper. Subservient. Beneath her. A silly mortal with delusions of grandeur (which she cultivated), which is really rich when you learn she was once mortal herself. Mystra is a hypocrite.

Gale tried to prove himself worthy of equality by trying to bring Mystra what he thought was a piece of her missing Weave. For anyone who doesn't know, the current Mystra was torn to pieces by Cyric and Shar, then put back together by her Chosen. Though back to full power by the events of BG3, she's still technically missing pieces of herself, and Gale mistook the Karsite Weave for one of those pieces. Instead of simply telling Gale it was corrupted Weave, she let him go on believing it was hers. Personally I think that's because she was tired of him (maybe he got too old for her 😒) and was hoping he would do something that, in her mind, would justify abandoning him—but I admit that's full conjecture on my part. What is true is that she knew the orb wasn't hers, but for some reason she let Gale think it was. Even after she abandoned him and left him to die, she never told him. Not until she realised she could use him.

In Act 3, while the argument can certainty be made that he's thirsty for power, Gale ultimately becomes fed up with the gods because, as he knows better than anyone, they treat people like commodities. While I have no intention of ever ascending him myself, it looks like he actually makes good on his word. He doesn't threaten or toy with his followers, he inspires people to walk their own path, he only asks for prayers as payment (as without some form of devotion, gods in D&D cease to be), and if you romance him ... he ascends you into godhood as his equal. Mystra could have done this for him, she just didn't want to. And if you don't want him to ascend, it's genuinely so easy. I don't understand what people are complaining about. It takes one conversation with zero checks to convince him to completely abandon his ambitions. One. If he was truly "power hungry", it wouldn't be that easy.

Again, I would argue that Gale's true goal isn't really power, it's freedom, and divinity gives him that freedom. He has many conversations where he makes it clear he doesn't want to live under the gods' thumbs anymore; which, in a world like Faerûn, is extremely understandable. As I said in my Wall of the Faithless post, he's scared. Eternal torment for a simple mistake, one of which could've been avoided if Mystra told him the truth or treated him like an equal? When your partner is a goddess, how can you not feel inadequate? And if you convince him to give up the crown, he's perfectly content with Mystra's forgiveness. Even in the Early Access, that's all he really wanted.

Gale's far from perfect. He's arrogant and overconfident and insecure and he can be prone to emotional outbursts (most of which he apologises for, however), but he's nowhere near the heartless, power-hungry monster the haters seem to think he is. He is, in fact, one of the most compassionate companions in the entire camp, to the point that he accepts everyone, including Minthara. He votes for Astarion to stay when you find out he's a vampire. He gets mad at you if you surrender him to the Gur. He's one of the only companions who will openly marry/stay with you if you become a mindflayer. He's willing to sacrifice himself to save the world, and willing to damn himself to be with you. He loves every act of kindness, while hating every act of cruelty. I understand that the bugs from launch ruined a lot of people's perception of him ... and unfortunately some of those glitches are still present even now, but he is a good man.

[nightghoul381]

Robin Doesn't Know the Evil Hiding in the Shadows ~ Ellis Twilight ~ Epilogue

This a fan translation so it is definitely not 100% accurate. I do not own anything related to Ikemen Villains. Support Cybird by buying their amazing stories!

This chapter contains explicit content | NSFW | MDNI

CW: Nipple play, fingering, PIV

Part 1 | Part 2 | Bitter End | Premium End | Epilogue

One day, a few days after the event ended and the ‘Serial Doctor Murders’ case was solved.

(…Ellis seems to be really busy these days.)

Apparently Jude’s trading company, Raven, requires him to work day and night.

Today was no exception and he came to my room in the middle of the night.

I welcome him with a gentle smile and glance down at his profile as he sits relaxing on the bed.

Kate: “…Ellis, don’t push yourself too far.”

Ellis: “Eh?”

Kate: “You seem to be really busy lately. Have you been given any big tasks?”

Ellis: “Ah…Hmm…”

Ellis: “…I signed a new contract with Jude. This is my advance payment.”

Kate: “What?!”

(A new contract with Jude…?)

(Even though Ellis already works harder than the other employees.)

(Even so, he still made another contract with Jude, so it must be really important.)

Kate: “Ellis, what kind of contract did you make?”

Ellis: “…Do you want to know?”

Kate: “Of course! Ellis, if it’s important to you then I want to know too.”

Kate: “Besides… If there’s anything I can do, I’d like to help.”

Ellis: “Thank you. I’m glad you’d try so hard for me.”

He placed a small kiss on my forehead and gave me a mischievous smile.

Ellis: “…I wish you’d think about me more.”

Ellis: “About me, right in front of you.”

He gently cups both of my cheeks in his large hands, and soft kisses rain down on my forehead, nose, corners of my eyes… all over my face.

Kate: “Mmm…. El…lis… Mmmm”

I heard the rustle of clothes as my ribbon came undone and I was gently pushed down—

His hot lips travelled down to my neck.

Kate: “Ah, wait, Ellis…Aren’t you going to tell me about the contract…?”

Ellis: “Mmm… can you guess what it’s about?”

The seductive whisper in my ear, accompanied by a sigh, sent shivers down my spine.

Kate: “Um, well… does it have anything to do with me?”

Ellis: “Yup, that’s right.”

I tried a few questions after that, but got none of them right.

Kate: “I have no idea…”

Ellis: “…Well then, should we ask my body?”

He took my hand, gave it a gentle kiss, and pressed it against his strong chest.

The strong beating of his heart reverberated from my palm to my arm, and I strongly felt Ellis’ presence.

As I was distracted by the pounding of his heart, a shadow suddenly fell—

Kate: “…Mmm.”

My lips were sealed and the next thing I knew, Ellis’ body was completely covering me.

Ellis: “…Kate, your face is bright red. How cute.”

Kate: “I-I can’t think anymore like this.”

(Even though I have no idea what Ellis’ contract is about.)

His twilight-colored eyes staring down at me feverishly captured my thoughts.

Ellis: “I’ll give you a hint. If you have any questions, just ask?”

Kate: “Nnngh….”

My lips were stolen, my tongue sucked firmly, and my lips were entangled and played with.

(That’s not fair…)

The words I was trying to say, along with my thoughts, were all torn apart and thrown into disarray.

Just when I thought I had been released with a quick suck, he latched onto the sensitive tips of my breasts.

Kate: “Aaah…”

While I was being kneaded and sucked, I now found myself at the mercy of the fingers that slowly crept toward my lower abdomen.

Ellis: “Kate… You’re already like this.”

Kate: “D… don’t say that…”

The lewd, wet sounds aroused my shame, and it became even more lewd as Ellis’ fingers played.

Ellis: “I’m sorry… I just couldn’t resist looking at how cute you were.”

Ellis: “I want you too… Is that okay?”

His smile, thick with the scent of desire, took my breath away.

Kate: “Mmm… Okay.”

Instead of a finger, something thicker and hotter was pressed against me—

It pierced me right through.

Kate: “---ah!”

The sensation of him hit me so hard it was like a dam had burst, and the stimulation that reverberated throughout my body made it hard for me to breathe.

Kate: “Ngh, Ah… E…ll..is…aah”

I felt like I was melting and drowning in the desire that was penetrating the deepest parts of my body, so I clung desperately to Ellis.

Ellis: “Ngh, more… so tight…so… nnngh.”

The intensity accelerated, and I was swept away and engulfed in an overwhelming pleasure –until I burst.

Kate: “Hngh, Aaah--!”

Ellis: “Ngh… Being wrapped up in you, Kate… Feels so good.”

Ellis: “I want more…Lock me in, I’ll give it to you.”

His heavy breathing and dusk-colored eyes were overflowing with heat that he couldn’t control,

It reflects my true self as I melt away, blocking my option to escape.

--I surrendered to the surge of instinct that seemed to last forever,

We fell into a night of passionate desire or each other.

--

The next morning.

Ellis: “Victor’s scones are delicious today too.”

As he licked the cranberry jam from his fingertips, I was reminded of last night and was startled.

But.

(…In the end, I was never told anything about the contract.)

I was about to touch on that topic again this morning,

Ellis seemed to realize what I was thinking and gave me a sweet hug and kiss, evading the question.

(If you’re trying to keep me from worrying, you should know all the more… if this happens.)

I turn my gaze to the newspaper stood like a folding screen across from me.

Kate: “Jude, please tell me.”

Kate: “What is the content of the ‘new contract’ you and Ellis have?”

Jude: “Contract?”

Jude: “…Oh, after Ellis ‘n ya die, I’ll be in charge of that grave.”

Kate: “That grave…?”

Jude set the newspaper down on the table and stared right in my direction.

Jude: “As long as I’m alive.”

Ellis: “Fufu, I’ve been found out. Jude, please stay alive.”

Jude: “Heh… You were just waitin’ for the right opportunity ta kill me ‘til recently, ‘n ya still say that.”

--A contract to ensure that our happy ending will last forever.

That is the highest form of love that Ellis can give me.

In return, Jude apparently ordered him to work even more for Raven.

Kate: “In that case, let me help you fulfill the contract! It concerns both Ellis and I, right?”

Jude: “You ain’t an employee of Raven, are ya? I don’t think I’d hire ya.”

Jude: “But if ya insist, I’ll work ya to the bone as a fairy tale keeper.”

Jude: “… Well then, yer workin’ hard today too. The princess and her prince.”

Jude said it in a mocking way, but Ellis took it with a smile.

Ellis: “…Prince. Kate, Jude sometimes calls you a princess. I’m glad we match.”

Kate: “Jude is being sarcastic when he calls me a princess… Is that okay?”

Ellis: “That’s good… it’s a classic fairy tale ending.”

Ellis: “’And the prince and princess lived happily ever after’”

Kate: “…hehe, that’s true.”

Jude: Ya gonna keep braggin’ in front of me forever?”

Ellis: “Yes.”

And so, our days began again, heading towards that ‘happily ever after.’

Part 1 | Part 2 | Bitter End | Premium End | Epilogue

[ntls-24722]

Anyways, organic submarine Comet, and her semi-undead captain, Fritz. These two are in a weird symbiotic relationship, where Fritz manually keeps Comet alive and Comet manually keeps Fritz alive despite his undead status. They could live forever under this (as they entered this "deal" in the early golden age of piracy), but now Fritz can't survive outside of Comet for long, and Comet can't survive without Fritz's help.

They're now a cargo unit duo, shipping things worldwide at a crazy low price. There is the odd quirk though, that Fritz and Comet only accept their earnings in solid gold... or in certain cool trinkets. Gold is a more universally accepted payment than trinkets though.

They're a unique duo who's services are very much sought after, due to the fact that there's other monsters in the sea's abyss that makes having your goods puffin-pterodactyl-protected very appealing, and sometimes, people ask to hitch a safe, secret ride. It's very rare, though, on account of not many people being keen on getting vored, and the very uncomfortable living space...

Comet is a fully aquatic, octopodal pterosaur larger than a blue whale. She has a baleen but when Fritz entered the symbiosis, she asked for giant teeth to fight and eat big things normalstyle. She also keeps barnacles on her wing-fins - Barnacles quite hurt and she gets most of them removed, except the ones on her wrists to use them as spiked knuckles. Barnacle knuckle... barnuckles...

She also has a series of venomous harpoons down her belly, that are built exactly like jellyfish nematocysts, that was a typo in the image I only just now realized, fuck. Instead of a hanging thread trigger, Comet or Fritz triggers them manually. Inside of her, alongside the regular organs, there's tons of "rooms," from her esophagus there's a bunch of cavities in her body that serve no purpose to Comet, but they're for Fritz, it's his living space and some cavities hold cargo and their horde of gold.

Fritz is an undead human who's made up more of Comet matter internally than his original matter, in order to be alive, though his outer flesh is still his own. His mouth is filled with various tendrils tipped with glands that can create pheremones, enzymes, and other various chemicals that Comet's body can respond to, in order to complete his endless maintenance on her body by healing wounds, fighting sickness with his bare hands, and even replacing parts of her as she ages. Over the centuries of being Comet's endosomatic handyman, he's replaced her entire body 4 times, bit by bit.

[kiame-sama]

Part 3 of headcanons for the Monster Men I have drawn.

Pt 1:

Pt 2:

More below cut:

- Ortho was attacked by a Feral Overblotted Shinigami as a very young child and as a result lost his right leg, right arm, both wings, and damaged his lungs. Idia was quick to begin making cybernetic limbs for his brother and has been the primary mechanic for Ortho's limbs. Idia couldn't attend NRC without company and Ortho could not survive without Idia living nearby to help fix and adjust Ortho's limbs.

- Ortho has grown up hearing about Humans from his ancestor Hades and is very close with the elder Shinigami as a result. Many of the remaining Shrouds still live on the Isle of Woe but Ortho is the baby of the family and all the Shinigami adore the young boy. Hades tells Ortho stories of Humans and a lot of the technology Idia used to create Ortho's limbs were inspired by Human designs. Ortho's dream is to meet and befriend a Human.

- Ortho is thrilled to meet this new Human that lives on campus, having grown up with his family cooking Human meals most his life, he would love to have a real Human cook a meal for him. He can be without his Oxygen mask while eating so long as he takes breaks, and he thinks trying food made by the kind Human is worth it. he wants to know everything and will curiously ask questions any time they occur to him.

- Ruggie is a spotted Hyena Gnoll and though he stands fairly tall at 5'7" (171cm) he is considered small for a Gnoll and is the runt of his family. As a Gnoll, he is almost always seeking out food and will never turn down food excepting for when it is rotten. So long as it is not rotting and Ruggie can eat it, he will.

- Ruggie's fur is more coarse around his ridge and along his spine to his tail, but is much softer and finer around his neck and stomach. Ruggie has a heart-shaped spot on his tummy and when it is scratched he will start kicking his feet. He isn't keen to fight with others if he can escape a situation but his teeth and claws are not just for show and he can be dangerous when backed into a corner.

- Ruggie is loyal to his stomach first, so feeding him is one of the quickest ways to earn his favor and he will be willing to do errands and tasks for those who feed him. Leona has been one of the few to consistently feed Ruggie and look after him despite the more gruff way he treats the Gnoll. Ruggie considers Leona a friend. Once the Human starts feeding Ruggie, he is going to be willing to do anything the Human asks of him provided a meal is the payment.

- Lilia is one of the older beings on campus but it is very easy to forget this fact given the way he behaves and jokes around with others. Despite his playful behavior and youthful appearance he is dangerous and is not above reminding others of this fact.

- Lilia is part of Malleus' Hoard and acts as both the shepherd and guide of the Hoard, often the one to give information or facts in a situation provided he has knowledge on the subject. Malleus values Lilia's opinions and insight immensely, making Lilia effectively the second in command of the Hoard. Lilia is often the one to ensure the Hoard sleeps and will gather the Hoard up when Malleus becomes restless as only his complete Hoard around him can soothe him. He will be gathering up the Human as well for these moments Malleus requires them all in his nest.

- Humans are a soft spot of his and he has been fascinated with every Human he has had the pleasure of meeting. Human food is very important to him but he is not a good cook and cannot make a decent meal to save his life. When the Human first cooked for him, he was almost giddy as he invited the rest of the Hoard to enjoy the cooking as well.

[justagalwhowrites]

Days in the Sun: Part of For You - A Collection of Requests Benefitting Palestine

Oberyn returns victorious from King's Landing after defeating the Mountain and spends a day with his beloved wife and their daughters.

Event Terms: Commissioners could choose to donate between $15 and $50 via Ko-Fi for one fic of 1-2k words to be written by April 1, 2024. Payment due after completion of the fic. Donation with a match by the author to be paid to PCRF on April 2, 2024 in honor of Pedro Pascal's birthday ❤️ Commissioners had the option to choose to keep a fic private and all fics may not be shared here.

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Female Reader

Warnings: Basically none! No use of Y/N, Minors DNI 18+ only.

Length: 2.2k

A/N: Written for @aurasjournal, the OG Oberyn Girlie ❤️ She requested some soft, SFW Oberyn love. This fic takes place immediately after the fight with the Mountain in King's Landing, except Oberyn emerged victorious and unscathed to return home (as he always should have, fight me GRRM.) Enjoy!

For You Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Oberyn was tired of the sea. 

It was fine when viewed from Sunspear, when he was on dry land with the sand at his back. It hadn’t been bad from King’s Landing, either, where there was sun and heat that he could feel on his skin. But that warmth was a poor substitute for your touch as you were so far from him, safe at home in Dorne. 

The journey back to his beloved had not been an easy one, though. Even the satisfaction he had at killing the man who murdered his sister was cold comfort as storms bared down on his ship, bringing harsh winter winds and cold air from the north. 

It would have been better if you were there, you and the three daughters you shared with him. The soft, gentle comfort of your warmth and love would have eased the passage, as would have the high peels of laughter that was so common anytime your daughters were close. But the risk of bringing you to King’s Landing was too great in Oberyn’s eyes. 

Yes, he was traveling as a Prince of Dorne and yes, he was visiting for a state event, but neither title nor time had protected his sister. He could not risk losing you to the lions that prowled in the capital, he could not risk your children together. You had to stay behind and he had to make the journey alone. 

But while the storms early in the voyage had made the days on the water miserable, they had pushed the ship south faster and now, Sunspear was on the horizon, more than a day earlier than expected. 

Oberyn stood at the bow of the ship, a smile on his face as he watched his homeland draw closer. This, he thought, was where he belonged. Where he could feel the sun, where he and you were far from the cold calculation of the Westerosi. 

The port was unprepared for his arrival, dockworkers scrambling to accommodate his ships and the entourage that was necessary when traveling as a Prince of Dorne.

In other times, it might have bothered him. There were things he had become accustomed to in his position and the trappings of royal life were indulgences he much enjoyed. But today, ceremonial greetings and meals would have only gotten in the way of what he truly needed: seeing you and your children together. 

“My Prince,” his advisor who had remained behind greeted him on the dock with a bow of his head but there was no sign of you. Oberyn frowned. “My apologies, there was no raven to warn of your arrival, we were not expecting you for several days at least…” 

“My business in King’s Landing concluded early,” Oberyn cut him off. “I’m sure we will have much to discuss about our relationship with the new king when the time is right. But now, I need to see my wife and she is not here.” 

“No, your highness, I’m afraid we could not find her when we saw your ships on the horizon,” he said. “She left your chambers this morning with your daughters and their guard but did not say where they were going. I am sure you missed the princesses greatly but I’m afraid that there is much to attend to…” 

“If you were not expecting me for several days, surely business can wait,” Oberyn said, already walking away from him. “There are far more pressing matters that demand my attention.” 

He didn’t bother to wait for any of the others to follow nor did he ask anyone for help in tracking you down. He knew exactly where you would be. 

He heard you before he saw you, working his way to the quietest, most secluded part of the water gardens. Hidden away from the pressures and prying eyes of the palace and its stately visitors, the two of you had stolen away to this little place for many hours of your courtship. He had come to think of it as belonging to just the two of you long before your first daughter was conceived there. Now, it was the small homeland of the five of you, a place of escape and belonging and love. 

“Mara, Elia, my loves, you mustn’t play that rough,” you called as Oberyn approached, a smile on his face at the sound of your voice. The guards hovering on the path leading to your corner of the gardens snapped to attention when they saw him. He gave them a nod. “You are sisters, not enemies. Stop pulling each other’s hair.” 

Your back was to the path as Oberyn entered the clearing of palm trees and tall hedges. He took a moment to admire you when you couldn’t see. The curve of your waist as you sat on a blanket in the grass, the way the vibrant fabric of your dress draped over your frame, the arch of your neck as you watched your daughters dust themselves off, grass stains smearing the yellow of their clothes with green. The girls took off, chasing each other around the edge of a small pond and into the trees beyond. 

“I sometimes wonder if we are raising little vipers, not little princesses,” Oberyn said, smiling. You jumped at the sound of his voice, turning quickly to find him there. You all but leapt to your feet, throwing your arms around him as he caught you, holding you close to him. He pressed his nose into your hair, breathing the soothing floral scent of you deep into himself. 

“You’re here,” your voice was muffled, your mouth buried in the crease of his neck. Your voice was tender and wet. “Oh, how I missed you. You were so far from me, I was so worried…” 

“I know, my love,” he ran one large hand from the back of your head down your neck, your back, pausing at the exposed skin to relish the softness of you. “But I promised I would return to you, did I not?” 

“You did,” you said, pulling yourself from him to look him in the eye and he smiled as his gaze traced the familiar and beloved contours of your face. “But I was still afraid. What if they hurt you and I wasn’t there? The journey alone can be treacherous but King’s Landing…” 

He silenced you with a gentle kiss, your lips soft against his own. He resisted the urge to deepen it, to pull you tighter to him and feel all of you in every way he could. 

But there would be time for that reunion later, when he could take his time lavishing you with every ounce of and passion he’d had to set aside in your weeks apart. For now, he was happy to just know you were back in his arms where you belonged. He pulled away from you, cupping your cheek and running his thumb over the softness of your lips, pulling a small gasp from you as he did. 

“I’m back where I belong, my sun,” he said gently. “At your side.” 

You smiled and brushed your nose against his, closing your eyes for a moment. 

“And how were our little vipers?” He asked. “On their best behavior, I’m sure.” 

“If our daughters are vipers, they are vipers because of you, not I,” you smiled, stepping back from you before tucking yourself against his side. His arm slipped behind your back, finding its most comfortable home around you. The two of you began your slow walk around your favorite corner of the water gardens, the giggles of your daughters like chimes on the air. “But… yes, they were well behaved. Mostly. Though the maesters may say different. Alyse…” 

As if on cue, you and Oberyn’s eldest daughter, Alyse, jumped out of a tree, wooden spear in hand, shrieking like a warrior. Oberyn, however, was ready for her, catching her out of the air and laughing as he set her down. 

“Father!” She looked up at him, her wide, brown eyes so like his own. “You’re here! I learned a new attack while you were gone, with the spear, just like you! And if this were war I would…um…I would have…” 

He smiled and rested his large palm on the crown of her small head, bending to be on her level.

“You would have attacked me well,” he mussed her hair. “My little viper.” 

She beamed at him. 

“Why don’t you find your sisters?” He asked. “Have they been learning, too?” 

“Boring things,” she crinkled her nose. “Elia doesn’t like to fight and Mara likes a sword more than a spear…” 

Oberyn felt you tense at the mention of his youngest daughter’s name. You had been the one to suggest it, knowing how he had so dearly loved his sister. You’d proposed it during each pregnancy but he felt as though it wasn’t right, not until his third daughter. She had become the gentlest of his children and therefore the one most like his late sister. She was kind hearted and sweet and smart, loving fiercely and caring deeply. But that also made her the least like him and a constant reminder of what had been lost at the hands of the Lannisters. He tried his best to not let that cast a pall over his relationship with his youngest child but there was always an air of sadness in how he saw her, one that you could feel as well as he. 

“You know, my sister Elia didn’t like to fight, either,” he said kindly. “But we found other ways to spend our days. Can you find Elia and Mara for me, little viper?” 

She smiled a toothy smile and gave him a nod before taking her small spear and darting into the trees. Oberyn looped his arm around you again, beginning your slow walk through the gardens again.

“You spoke of Elia,” you said softly, looking at him with deep and gentle eyes. He nodded once. “You did so happily.” 

“I did,” he said. You watched him closely and he trailed his nose over your cheek to your temple. “I know it has been… difficult, the pain of her loss and how it has colored my life. Not just for me but for you and our daughters, too. But… I believe it will be different now. I killed Gregor Clegane and I forced him to admit to his crimes when I did. I forced the admission of Tywin’s guilt. No more are her killers alongside the iron throne so she can have peace. And so can I.” 

You stopped your slow walk, your eyes searching his before you reached out, trailing your fingers through his hair before kissing him softly. 

“Father!” Elia cried. Oberyn pulled away from you to find her standing beside the pond, the same glow of kindness in her eyes that he had so loved in his sister’s. 

“You’re back!” Mara ran alongside her little sister, Alyse coming right behind. 

“My little princesses,” he smiled and all three of his daughters ran for him. He let them tackle him to the ground, you stepping to the side just before they brought him down. They giggled and climbed on him and he tried to hold all of them in his arms but their squirming bodies and gleeful love were too much for him to bear. “Oh how I’ve missed you.” 

“We’ve missed you, too!” Elia propped her elbows on her father’s chest and smiled down at him. “Are you back for a long time, Father?” 

“Yes, my darling,” he kissed her forehead. “I am.” 

The five of you made your way back to the blanket, you against his side as the girls ran ahead, laughing and playing as they went. There was a spread of your and Oberyn’s favorite foods waiting for you there and the two of you settled in side by side as the girls played. 

“It’s good to see real food,” he moaned, taking a bite. “I sometimes think the Westerosi are sickened by flavor…” 

You laughed and leaned against him, sighing happily as you ate a piece of fruit, watching your children play in the sun. 

“Did you mean what you said to Elia?” You asked, looking up at him from your place against his chest. “That you will be in Dorne - where you belong - for a time?” 

“I did, my love,” he kissed the crown of your head. “There will be nothing to take me away from you or our three children…” 

“Four,” you said, leaning forward to pick up a goblet and take a sip. 

Oberyn paused. 

“Four?” He asked. You smiled and took his hand in yours, gently guiding it to your womb. 

“Four.” 

A smile broke over his face as he looked reverently at the place where his child was growing inside you. 

“Oh, my sun, my beautiful wife,” his thumb brushed against you there. “I’ll not leave my home with you, not for a very, very long time.” 

A/N: Thank you for reading my first foray into writing Oberyn Martell! I hope you enjoyed it!

[striderl]

Here’s the full version of the swap AU Filming Industry — The B.A.S.S. Mercenaries.

The B.A.S.S. Mercenaries operates beyond the reach of the Alliance. No one knows exactly where the team members hail from, when did they become a team, or what drives their actions. They have a repuration for completing any mission as long as the price is right, though money alone won’t suffice. Payment must be made in rare metal, gun powder, and other valuable commodities. Or else, part of the client’s body will be removed, heads and cores made up a large percentage. 

The B.A.S.S. ’s service range from blackmailing, assassination, security convoy, and sabotage, as an acronym of the team’s name.

Introducing the team members:

Balisong (He/him) - Demolitionist, explosive engineer. Younger brother of Lavalier. As volatile as the materials he works with, known for his quick temper, likely fueled by his addiction to smoking gunpower — a habit he’s never been able to get rid of. Quiet and reserved, only speaks when he’s working or when the conversation touches on a subject he’s pasionate about. Rumors had it that he had been a victim of Glitch Toilet, much like Lumix. Absolutely disapproves Lavalier’s relationship with Monochrome.

Lavalier (She/her) - Assassin, team leader. Older sister of Balisong, girlfriend of Monochrome. Ruthless, efficient, beneath her hardened exterior lies a soft spot reserved exclusively for those she considers family. Slightly jealous of Lumix because she has a dashing fiancé and an adorable boy. Has a substantial bounty on her head due to her act of sabotaging crucial intelligence from both the TV faction and the Skibidis. Rumors circulates that she might have been the original prototype for the current speaker matriach.

Monochrome (He/them) - Former butler. Worked as an interrogator for the TV faction for a few years before join the B.A.S.S. Partner of Lavalier. Unlike Foley, he is a virgin, yet he loves teasing Lavalier with inappropriate jokes. An accident during a sparring match with the TV elite left Monochrome with significant processor damage. Capable of using light ability and teleportation. However, when he teleports, large amount of red smoke will leak from their body for an extended peroid. Has invented a multitude of methods to torture his victims to death using nothing but chains. Has a collection of skulls, Polaroid’s included. Lumix almost pumped his head with lead because of it.

Lumix (She/her) - Gunswoman. Former human, fiancee of Sawmus and biological mother of Polaroid. Faked her death in the Glitch Toilet accident and aidded Lavalier in reassembling Balisong, later stayed in the B.A.S.S. due to her ties with Lavalier, unable to return to the Alliance. Misses Sawmus so much that she sometimes hacks the surveillance camera in the Alliance base, or stalks Sawmus’ team during their missions. Her precision and fierceness with her shotgun is absolutely viscious (Polaroid inherits his sniper genes from her). Doesn’t have any memories of her past as a human, but she finds solace in the fact that someday she would have Polaroid as her son.

Other info: in the swap AU, Sawmus and Polaroid’s storyline remains the same. Except for the part where Polaroid never joins the science department and keeps his position as a special op sniper in Sawmus’ team.

[httpwintersoldier]

『night visits. || winter soldier x reader』

pairing: winter soldier x f!reader words: lenghty summary: usually people find their own interests, but when you are "forecefully recruited" to work under HYDRA, your interest found you first.

『part 2』

You thought your studies and hard work would be rewarded, especially being one of the only women in the field. You thought all of the late nights studying, all of the potential relationships lost over fear of falling behind in your studies and all of the golden years invested would be worth it. You would be praised, given numerous titles and be able to help the community and give back to Society.

Except that didn't happen.

The payment for your hard work came in the form of a kidnapping. By Hydra. After appearing in the paper, being praised for your skills and knowledge, unbeknownst to you, a target had been placed by one of the most evil forces walking the earth.

Someone as bright and qualified as you who did not yet have the influence or the contacts to generate buzz in the media or in the government when kidnapped qas rare, and Hydra recognized the fact. So one late night, as you were coming back from your lab alone, you were hit in the back of the head and next thing you knew you were sitting in a metal chair, shaking in cold, with two men standing by your side and another menacingly sitting in front of you, waiting for you to wake up.

"The world sure is cruel..." Were your only thoughs, as tears ran down your emotionless face, when you heard where you were and what your purpose was.

You couldn't even choose the easy way out and... "eliminate yourself". They made sure you knew the worst would happen to your loved ones if you did so. So you complied, in hopes there would be a way out.

They then introduced you to a soldier, one genetically enhanced, to be stronger, smarter, smoother and more skilfull than thw average soldier. A previous army man whose brain had been blended and molded into being a mere killer puppet.

You were to supervise him, make sure everything in his heavily modified and messed-with brain was in order. You conducted psychological tests as well as neurological ones.

You were handed his file before you got to meet him, so you could study him. All of his information was there, the information of James Buchanan Barnes.

Tears brimmed your eyes when you met the soldier. He was a person, with a life. With hopes, dreams, loved ones... And Hydra turned him into a monster.

"The tests work best if I am alone with him. Other presences may disturb him and alter the results." You told the other Hydra agents.

It wasn't a complete lie, but you just wanted to be alone with him so you could treat him like a human.

" But he could-"

"I will call if you're needed." You said, interrupting him by raising your finger "You have not-so-gracefully brought me here because I am good. I should know what's best."

All of the men overseeing the Winter Soldier prohect exited the room, while muttering some not-so-nice Russian words under their breaths.

You pushed a chair to sit close to the Winter Soldier (but not too close, since you were still wary).

"Hello, James."

All of the men called him "Soldier", but it seemed inhumane, like a tool to be used, so you just used his first name. You knew it might trigger memories, but you refused to keep up the bad treatment.

This made the soldier look at you through his eyebrows, acknowledging your presence, but not replying.

"I'm here to asses you. Is that okay?"

You were to make sure he didn't remember anything from his past life and that he remained in the borderline-psychotic state he was in constantly, and that was already monsteous enough, so you made sure it was as easygoing as possible.

"Sargeant Barnes I don't want to treat you like those men, I don't want to hurt you."

His eyes softened the least bit, but as you expected his walls were up, strong and solid, and once more he did nor reply.

It would be months of hard work before he trusted your words, before he revealed that there was a bit of James Barnes underneath the soldier.

"Why... Why do you do this?"

You looked up from your notebook.

"Do what, James?"

"That. Give me hope."

Your heart raced a little at those words.

"What do you mean, give you hope?"

"It was easier killing people when I thought they were all cruel..."

There was silence in the room. You knew he didn't mean to say that your encounters were unpleasant, but that they were so pleasant, there was such peace when you were with him, that it was harder to complete his job.

"Do you want me to change my behaviour?" You still had to ask, just in case.

He did not look at you when he shook his head negatively.

"I like you. You're a good one. But I don't want to remember anything."

You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion and put down your materials for a second.

"Why's that, James?"

Fortunately, the fact that he was never called "James" (it had always been "Bucky" or "Sargeant Barnes") worked in his favour, as he did not have recurring memories from his past when you called him that.

"If I am here... it was because I was a bad person. No good person ends up in this place. I am here, I must deserve it."

"Do you think I'm a bad person?" This question was genuine curiosity. You wondered, after hearing his logic, if he thought you were evil too.

The man looked at you as if you were stupid. His eyes said "how could it ever come across your mind that I think there's a trace of evil in you". But, due to his conditioned mind, all he said was a cold, harsh "no".

"Then you trust me?"

A nod was all you got in response. If you got a couple sentences out of him per session, you'd be in luck.

"I will respect that you don't want to remember, but I can tell you, I saw who you were. You were not a bad person, you were a great one."

He finally made eye contact with you, and you could almost feel emotion in him.

The soldier's eyes wandered away from yours once more, focusing on the ground.

"I will end up here." He mumbled.

"Sorry James, what was that?"

"I will end up here. No matter what I do, they find me. I know I have remembered before, they left that in my mind. They left that I escaped, they brought me back and put me back in the machine." His voice was more somber as he told his story "I don't want to remember because if I do I won't want to stay, but I will just end up here again and be tortured again. I will just save myself the pain."

That was the most he had ever said to you, and it brought tears to your eyes. It wasn't human, what they did to him, no. It was pure torture on a man that, on the pictures you saw, looked like a hopeful young man, the life of the party, the one that would make friends with any and everyone.

You placed your hand on top of his.

"I'm sorry, James."

This action caused the soldier to widen his eyes and look at you in shock.

It was the first friendly touch he had felt since forever. It was the first human contact he had that wasn't a punch, a slap, or something equally as painful.

That interaction almost made him lose composure, but he remained stiff and serious until you awkwardly removed your hand.

You were slowly bringing out the human in him, but sometimes you wondered if that was the correct choice. You didn't want him to get hurt again. The last time they used the machine you could hear his screams no matter how far your room was or how you tried to cover your ears with the pillow, the Soldier's pained and desperate screams still reached your ears.

After that particular day, Bucky realized how much he enjoyed your touch. It seemed that the spot you had touched him burned every day you were apart. Your sessions were twice a week, three times maximum, but it was the only thing Bucky looked forward to.

"Hello, James."

His gaze remained locked with the floor. You thought you had made no progress whatsoever in your mission to make him accostumed with behaving like a human, however that wasn't true. Bucky was just afraid that if he did look at you he wouldn't be able to contain his excitement.

His brain was in constant disarray - the conflict between wanting to smile and have a conversation with you and the fear of disobeying orders and being punished were constant.

You sighed and sat next to him. You did the usual job of first checking to see if Hydra hadn't permanently fucked his head, and then you moved to the part where you'd check if he still was the emotionless psychopath Hydra had turned him into. Except you bent the last task to your will.

"I don't want to treat you like the rest of them. I won't. No matter what they made you believe, you're a person still. And I want to make your situation a little better but you have to pretend, no matter how much your condition improves, that you're still the same Soldier. I don't want you to go back into the machine because of me." You had explained, in one of your earliest appointments.

"I read the mission report. What are you feeling?"

"Accomplished."

His response was short, and dry, delivered in a voice devoid of all feeling.

"Are you saying that just because you accomplished the mission?"

Silence. His silence was, most of the time, an admission. You nodded and sighed.

You stood up and walked closer to him, placing your hand on his shoulder. There it was. Bucky didn't even care about the rush of emotions flowing through him, he just focused on your touch, how warm it felt, how homely it felt.

"Now, how did it really make you feel."

There was a short silence again, as he thought.

"Confused. I don't think I like to see people suffer, I don't like their screams, but I must do it, or else I suffer." His eyebrows furrowed as he said that, as if he was trying to connect the pieces in his head.

You began saying something about how he wasn't bad, but all that was just background noise. All he could focus on was how your hand travelled down his arm and rested on his hand as you crouched in front of him.

"James? Did you listen?"

Only then did you realize how intensely he was looking at you. His icy blue eyes stared into your soul, and you noticed how beautiful the man was when there were slight traces of emotion on his face. The strands of his jaw-lenght dark hair shaped his face beautifully, and you couldn't help but look at his parted lips.

You felt your face growing hot and immediately stood up, turning your back to him and pretending you were doing something else as you tried to regain your composure.

Before long, Hydra officials came through the door to take the Soldier, You'd never get too long in his presence, just enough time to do your job.

This time you wouldn't see him again in two days, and so you walked back to your "room" (if it could even be called that) thinking about his eyes, the way he looked at you, and the way you wanted to brush back his hair and take a good, long look at his face.

It was late, very late, when you woke up with a cold breeze in your room. You stood up, to close the window, only to realize that it was closed. It was only when you looked towards the door that you saw a tall, large, dark figure standing under the frame. Before you could scream, he paced forward and placed a hand over your mouth.

You could then see who it was. The moon light coming through from the window's glass lit up those blue eyes you had come to be so familiar with, and the mask you dreaded.

Once your breathing calmed down and the Soldier was sure you knew who it was, he allowed you to remove his hand from your mouth.

You then reached around his neck and undid his mask, slowly removing it.

"Why are you here?" You asked, your voice above a whisper.

The mask fell to the ground but Bucky's eyes never left yours.

"I won't hurt you."

It stung you that he thought you'd ever think he was capable of hurting you, but that was how he was conditioned to think.

"I know..."

Those words sent a wave of relief over Bucky, and he wasn't sure how to describe the feelings inside of him if he had to.

"I came back from a mission and I should head back but... I can't. I needed to see you."

Your mind immediately went into work mode and you looked at him with a very serious face.

"Are you feeling alright? Did something trigger you in the mission?" You asked, sitting down on your bed and pulling him down so he could be comfortable.

"No, miss Y/N, I needed to see you." As he said this, Bucky slid a hand up your thigh, stopping dangerously close to your core.

Only then did you realise that you were sitting next to a very big man wearing nothing but the sheer and short nightgown you used, as it would get very hot in your particular side of the building due to all the machinery working.

Your legs spread slightly, and you didn't miss the ever so sublte smirk tugging at the corner of Soldier's lips. The man watched your reactions carefully, and took that as a green card to proceed. His face got closer to yours, and he teased your lips, brushing his own against yours, before moving to your neck and kissing the spot right below your ear.

"James..." His name escaped past your lips.

It wasn't voluntary, because you didn't know if you wanted him to stop or continue. Morally it was wrong, he was your patient (technically), but it felt so right, so good...

"Hm? Want me to stop?" He asked, as his hand made its way closer to your core and his lips bit down on your neck.

Fuck it. If you were stuck here you might as well enjoy it, there was nothing morally right around you, why would you be the exception.

"No." You said, with the upmost certainty.

"Good."

With his metalic arm, the man separated your legs far enough so he could have access to your vagina, and with the other he cupped your face and brought your lips to his.

His fingers went inside your panties and rubbed between your folds before teasing at the entrance. You couldn't help but moan into the kiss as one experimental finger went inside of you.

There had obviously been a considerable ammount of time since you had been sexaully active, so you were very sensitive, and the Soldier could tell.

You weren't sure on what to focus: the way his lips completely dominated yours, or the way his fingers fucked you.

Soon after he added a second finger and switched between curling and uncurling them as he fucked you. His thumb found your clit and he rubbed it, adding to your pleasure.

You didn't hide how good he made you feel, incessantly moaning into the kiss and calling his name.

The man pulled away for a second, kissed your cheek and then your neck.

"I love the way you sound." He whispered.

"Then... Then fuck me, I promise I will sound so much better." You said, almost breathless.

Bucky shoved the fingers that were in you inside of your mouth so you could lick them clean, and then wrapped the same hand around your neck.

"That's all I needed, doll." He whispered.

Bucky unzipped his tight pants and pulled his cock out. You admired his size before he wrapped an arm around you and pulled you onto his lap. The soldier lifted you up pulled your panties to the side and, once his tip found your entrance, slowly lowered you on his cock.

You gripped his arms and let out a long, strained moan, until he was fully inside you. He then started moving you on his cock, thrusting slightly when pulling you down.

He skillfully and smoothly removed your little sleeping gown and kept on fucking you.

"Shit." He cursed, as he watched your ass bounce on his cock.

You realised how much you loved to hear him curse, how much you loved to hear his voice in your ear.

Slowly, the soldier picked up the pace when he felt you were comfortable. He then wrapped one arm around your body to keep the movements steady, and wrapped the metal hand around your throat.

You would've guessed the man that barely spoke would've been a quiet one, but oh were you wrong. The grunts and moans in your ear brought you closer and closer to your climax, along with the way his metal arm applied a slight but noticeable pressure in your neck.

"James I'm gonna... I'm gonna cum."

With these words, Bucky flipped you two, wanting to see the pleasure in your face when you came. You laid on your back as Bucky kept fucking you with his hand on your neck, switching between the way your tits bounced and the way your face looked as you were about to reach your climax.

It wasn't long before your hands gripped the thin sheets and your back arched. With a cry for his name, you came. Soon after hearing you call for him, Bucky buried himself deep inside of you and came.

The way he looked at you had you in a trance.

He bent down, grabbed your face and kissed you, before looking down and caressing your stomach.

"You're mine. Mine. All mine."

[atarathegreat]

Heyyyyy, I was thinking some bakugo x princess reader... except Reader is not ANY kind if princess...Reader is an absolute menace of a princess, why? Well first of all she wasn't even royal blood, she just kicked her way in trough murder and intimidation...second of all, reader is also a witch...but...a pretty witch...she is brutal, cold, and wont think twice before destroying whatever is on her way, Bakugo decided to try and challenge her to a fight, and just JUST when he entered her room, he saw her, Right out of taking a warm bath...Reader confuses Bakugo with one of her servants and feeling a bit funny she decides to...well...you know what i mean right? ;) well, at the end she finds out about eho bakugo really is and decided to make a deal with his tribe...

She ruled her own small kingdom, having even the king bow to whatever she wanted. Y/n wasn't too far from a barbaric ruler, the only thing keeping her from being completely evil was the fact that the kingdom began to thrive under her rule. Despite the harsher enforcement of the laws, many of the villages loved her and praised the way things began to turn up.

But Bakugo fucking hated it. Who was this low-class sorcerer that thought she was the best? Some seed stain on a pair of discarded trousers who had high hopes of becoming known. Bullshit! Second-rate duelist with a beginner's tool bag!

Bakugo glared up at the castle, remembering the last time he was there. A grand feast with the biggest animals that could be hunted and the best ale that had ever been made. Wenches at the ready, though Bakugo hardly messed with any of that, he was too busy trying to out drink his father. He always failed.

"Come out, you stinking boars ass!" Bakugo shouted as he hurried down the halls. Not to be confused, Y/n's maids tried to stop him, but there was little to be done when a barbarian was crashing through vases, tables, and benches. "Wench! Show yourself!" He threw a door open, only to freeze.

The room was ugly and barren, but the one inside...

Bakugo turned red as the woman stood from her trough, body bare for the gods to see and servants to touch. Soft thighs, plush hips, wet bre-

The man shook his head and turned the other way, growling.

"Oh, good. You're here. Fetch my clothes." Y/n walked calmly across to her bed, ass jiggling as if there was no structure beneath. He'd never been so stunned that he obeyed anyone, but he would blame it on the witch and whatever plants hung around her room. "Here." He threw the clothes at her and crossed his arms, not really in the mood to watch her dress, he liked her naked.

Y/n stared at him, her eyes a little angry and a little amused. "You throw my clothes at me? How brave. Why do you do such a thing?" It was the way she twitched her lip, that had to be the way she enforced her spells, her incantations. Why else would his tongue feel too thick for his mouth, or his throat too dry? "I will not be dressing you. It's not my job." Bakugo crossed his arms, trying to fight the magic. She was attractive, that had to be a part of her craft. She was putting him under a spell, clouding his mind with her dark ways.

"Come closer, young man." Y/n propped her leg up on the bed, exposing her most vulnerable to him, "Get on your knees, here." Her hand! When she pointed, Bakugo felt the absolute need to do as she said. How strong was this woman that she didn't need a wand? A staff? A stone? Just her little pointer finger and an order...

"Since you want me naked, I shall be naked. But you will pleasure me as payment." Y/n beckoned him closer.

Bakugo knew his place at the top of the foodchain, but this womans magic was making him forget it. To take back an ounce of his power, Bakugo gripped her thighs and dragged her closer, growling, "You'll be paid tenfold."

Gods above, she was delicious! Bakugo never wanted to pull his mouth from her heat, delving his tongue as deep as he could to taste all of her. Like honeysuckle or peaches. He wanted more. She gasped as Bakugo forced her other leg up, spreading her further to allow him deeper. "Yes, right there...good job, good job." Y/n threw her head back, gripping the furs beside her, "Oh, gods, slow down. Let me enjoy this."

He doubled down, applying more pressure with his tongue as he moved slower. Pride welled in his chest as she grabbed his hair, ordering him to give her more. The sound of a powerful witch begging for him to do more to her. Bakugo stood, ripping his trousers open and leaning over her, "You taste pretty, I want to know how you feel wrapped around me."

Nothing in the world, no sensation in the world would ever prepare him for the way his breath was snatched from him. "So fucking tight." Bakugo bullied into the witch, grunting as she squeezed tighter around him. He put her legs together and rested her ankles on his shoulder, making it a tighter fit, "There ya' fucking go, sweetheart. Now we're moving."

"Fuck...who are you?" The witch gasped, breasts bouncing in tandem with each of his thrusts, "None of my servants are so foul mouthed." Bakugo chuckled, beating his cock deeper so he could see the outline of himself in her gut. "Bakugo Katsuki, barbarian prince."

Her magical grip on him slipped as he got closer and closer to dumping his seed. Y/n shivered as the barbarian nipped at her ankles, leaving his own silent marks on her body, a mark that he had claimed her. But not his seed. Bakugo pulled free, fisting his dick until he covered her stomach in his mess, just to stick himself back in to finish her. "Oh, there! There!" She gasped, knees bending. It was then that she fully lost her grip on the spell laid over him and Bakugo was able to fully abuse her tight body, lifting her by her legs so he could stand at his full height.

"Gods above!"

Bakugo wished he could've tasted her orgasm, but he was happy enough to feel the way she squeezed him, riding out her high so she would come down easy.

It wasn't a traditional victory, but Bakugo had conquered the witch. Seeing his seed on her belly was like seeing blood on a hunt. Her spells, her magic, it all meant nothing now that he had won.

"Your magic is null now." He chuckled.

"I never used magic."

[goldenraeofsun]

A Tale of Two Memoirs, Part I

Publishers Marketplace

Category: Humor: Debut

THE WORLD’S GREATEST DETECTIVE By Batman

Imprint: Monarch Press

Batman’s THE WORLD’S GREATEST DETECTIVE chronicles the life of Gotham’s brooding superhero, from his traumatic origins as an orphan to his rise as the greatest genius the world has ever seen. In this tell-all memoir, Batman uncovers it all – except his secret identity, of course – to Scott Lobdell at Monarch Press, in a nice deal, by Judd Winick at Diamond Literary Agency.

Translation: gconway@diamondliterary.com

Bruce reads the book blurb twice before it sinks in. Rolling his eyes, he reaches for his phone. “I just got your email. Very funny,” he deadpans as the call connects. But Dick doesn’t laugh, and as the silence stretches on, Bruce straightens in his chair, all his senses on high alert. “Dick?”

Dick sighs. “You didn’t read the attachment.”

Bruce frowns but opens the PDF, labeled BATMAN_MEMOIR_SAMPLE. He doesn’t say a word, refusing to give Dick the satisfaction of knowing he was right.

“Babs picked it up,” Dick says as Bruce starts to read, his horror growing with every paragraph. “And at first she thought it was a joke too. You know, there’s dozens of unauthorized Batman books out there –”

“Hundreds,” Bruce corrects distractedly as he scans, “And has the Geneva Convention actually outlawed child soldiers? And what if said child soldier struck a hard bargain, like he refused to eat his sprouts unless I allowed him to kick rapists in the nuts? Underneath the Bat cowl, emo greasepaint, and kevlar-weave cape, I am still only a man. And a man knows children must eat their sprouts.”

Alfred still hasn’t forgiven him for losing that particular argument with Jason, nearly three years ago now.

“– but this one, underneath all the sarcasm and exaggeration, has a concerning amount of truth,” Dick continues, like Bruce can’t read the words in front of his own face.

Bruce clears his throat. “Who is the author?”

“That’s just it,” Dick says grimly. “The pseudonym has been,” he inhales a sharp breath, “difficult to crack.”

“Hn,” Bruce grunts, dissatisfied.

“We’ve been working on tracking down the first advance payment for a week,” Dick says, and Bruce is only a little gratified to hear the current of frustration running through Dick’s voice. “But it was wired from Gotham through the Caymans to a Swiss Bank account.”

“Have you gone through the agent’s email?” Bruce asks as he opens the Batcomputer’s most powerful hacking program.

“Give us some credit,” Dick says, and Bruce can almost hear his eye-roll. “Whoever’s on the other end uses a burner email and a damn good VPN, unless you really think they’re spending their time writing this thing from Nantes, Cologne, Prague, Somalia, London, and Novosibirsk.”

“Probably not,” Bruce acknowledges as he searches for every email between Conway and the author, who Conway just refers to as “JP”. “Have you read the entire manuscript?”

“I’m about three quarters of the way through it,” Dick says. “Babs has read a few chapters here and there. Whoever they are, they know way too much about us.”

“Our identities?” Bruce asks, his voice curt.

“Not mentioned by name in the manuscript,” Dick says, and, for the first time, he sounds genuinely worried. “But anyone who reads this critically will be able to put the pieces together, assuming they don’t take it as a complete fiction.”

“We can’t bet on that.”

“Absolutely not,” Dick agrees.

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose, thinking. “Who else knows about this?”

“Just us and Babs,” Dick says. “Tim’s in the dark for now, but he was my next call after you. You know the kid, if he thought he could provide any help at all, he wouldn’t be sleeping for a week and stalking that agent from here to Shanghai.”

“You say that as if that’s not my next step,” Bruce says as he lumbers to his feet. He has a stakeout to plan.

“Already on it,” Dick says. “You just got back from patrol. Sleep. I’m not due at the gym until 3pm tomorrow, so you can take it over in the morning from the office. Who knows,” he continues wryly, “maybe Bruce Wayne can do more than Batman.”

“That is foolish. I don’t want any increased attention on the connection between Batman and Bruce Wayne.”

Dick hums. “But isn’t it already widely speculated that Bruce Wayne funds the Justice League? You could spin it like you’re just looking out for your good friend, Batman. And, of course, slap the publisher and the agent with about a hundred NDAs.”

“NDAs aren’t watertight,” Bruce says tightly. “At the end of the day, they’re just paper. It’s much better if they never find anything out in the first place than try to clean up the mess after the fact.”

“Fine,” Dick groans. “Don’t listen to me. Look, Winick is stepping out for a smoke. I got this. If I see your face when you could be sleeping –”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Dick sighs obnoxiously loudly over the poom of his grapple firing. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he says, resigned. “And you’d better bring the good protein bars,” he says, his tone lightening. “Not the ones that taste like ass.”

Despite himself, Bruce smiles at the old argument with his first Robin. “Wheat germ is an excellent source of nutrit–”

“Bye, Bruce!”

Bruce purses his lips as his comm goes completely silent. Dick put him on mute, save for emergencies. Still, he grabs several peanut butter bars (Dick’s favorite) on his way out.

* * *

Between the four of them, most frustratingly, they cannot find the author’s identity. They set up every bug in their arsenal in Winick’s home and office, and Conway’s too for good measure. They clone all their correspondence and plant GPS trackers in their phones.

Eventually, back-to-back Arkham breakouts and an intergalactic incident force them to put the matter on hold, that is, until the mysterious JP hires a literary PR firm seven months before publication.

Bruce buys the PR firm.

JP hires another one.

Bruce buys that one too.

After the third PR buyout, Dick puts his foot down as Tim snorts with laughter. 

“Look,” Tim says once he recovers enough to shovel a small mountain of scrambled eggs onto his plate. “You know the best way to stop a scandal from going viral.”

Bruce narrows his eyes. “Create a bigger scandal.”

Tim nods as he passes Dick the cereal without asking. “But, this time getting drunk at a party and breaking a tower of Cristal won’t cut it.” As Bruce nods along, Tim adds, “You have to fight fire with fire.”

Bruce sighs. “You’re saying I should put out my own memoir.” He’d been mulling it over himself, but since Tim came to the same conclusion, that tips the hypothetical solution into a real answer.

“Bingo,” Tim says as Dick chokes on his Frosted Mini Wheats. Tim gives him a few half-hearted whacks on the back, not really powerful enough to hurt (or help) Dick at all.

“But you’ve always said you’d never write a book,” Dick says, red faced, as he sets his spoon down. “Half of it would have to be lies, and you know the entire Justice League would read it cover to cover and give you such shit. Clark would definitely pull every string he had at The Daily Planet to review even though he’s not a book critic –”

“Desperate times,” Bruce says grimly as he drains his third coffee of the morning. 

“Bruce,” Dick says, his tone reproachful. “You don’t need to write a whole goddamn book. Just buy the publisher and kill it. You know as well as I do, it works –”

Bruce already thought of that. “There would be questions.”

Dick rolls his eyes. “By the publisher and editor, maybe. Three, maybe four people max would think it was weird and move on in, like, a week.”

“I don’t want any suspicions, Dick.”

Tim sagely nods along as he takes an enormous bite of eggs.

Dick just sighs and mutters something completely unflattering about Bruce’s flair for drama and tendency for paranoia. Bruce ignores him. He has a book agent to find.

Bruce’s Wayne’s book deal indeed rocks the publishing world. Nobody can believe Bruce Wayne’s first memoir goes to Monarch Press, an indie publishing house. HarperCollins offers him a five million dollar advance and promises the most extravagant launch party and book tour. Simon & Schuster throw their hat into the ring with a seven million dollar advance. Penguin Random House opens with eight million dollars and sends him a custom fruit basket with every celebrity & lifestyle book they published last year.

But, as Bruce tells the media, he doesn’t need the money. And he’d much rather work with a Gotham-based small business like Monarch Press than one of the Big Five. He donates his paltry one million dollar advance to the Wayne Foundation to redistribute to the needier sectors of Gotham.

The only stipulation to his publishing contract? His book must be published in six months (coincidentally the same month as The World’s Greatest Detective). 

The publishers hem and haw but eventually give in. They can’t afford to piss him off, not the author of their guaranteed best seller in the history of the imprint. 

* * *

The Monday after his book deal hit the news, Bruce finishes reading The World’s Greatest Detective during a late-night stakeout. At 2:18 in the morning, he puts the manuscript down and beats Maroni’s chief enforcer to a bloody pulp.

“Batman!”

Batman slams the enforcer into the metal side of a heat vent bellowing ashy steam into the windy winter air.

He groans and spits out two teeth. 

Batman raises his fists. 

“Batman!”  

A hand with an iron grip lands on his bicep and yanks him forcibly backwards.

“Batman, you’ve got to stop,” Nightwing hisses in his ear.

Bruce falters. He looks back at his first Robin’s face, his alarm clear as day, despite the domino mask covering Dick’s eyes. 

“I’ve got him,” Nightwing says as he lets go to grab a pair of zip ties. “Go take a breath.”

Bruce exhales harshly. His breath plumes in front of his face. “I –”

“Go,” Nightwing repeats, a little louder. “Robin is on comms. He called me in.”

Bruce swallows. Tim should be studying pre-calc, not monitoring comms on what should’ve been a quiet night. Guilt stirs in the pit of his stomach, but he shoves it down. “Robin?”

On the other end, Tim coughs. “Er, yeah, Batman?”

“Thank you for sending in Nightwing.”

“Oh!” The weight of Bruce’s guilt doubles at the relief in Tim’s voice. “Yeah, of course. He was just hanging around here, and I knew you told me to stay put because of my test tomorrow, but Nightwing was free so…”

“B,” Nightwing jogs over, “you good to call it a night?”

Bruce just grunts.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Nightwing says grimly as he steers Bruce to where the Batmobile is waiting. “What the hell happened?”

Bruce doesn’t have the words to answer, so he just gets in the car, slams the door shut behind him, and starts the engine. 

Dick, well used to his moods, doesn’t prompt him again, but he doesn’t start a new conversation either. He just waits, waits until –

“I finished the Batman memoir.”

“Ah,” Dick says carefully as he thinks through his next words. “The Jason chapter?”

Bruce’s fingers tighten to a stranglehold on the steering wheel. In a low voice, he confirms, “The Jason chapter.” 

Dick scrubs his face with the heel of his hand. “Yeah, that one’s a doozy.”

“The way it implies – ” Bruce breaks off as all the rage, frustration, and grief he couldn’t punch out crawls up his throat. It chokes him instead.

“You know,” Dick starts gently before correcting, “ I know it wasn’t like that. I may not have been around for all of it, but I could tell, even in the brief glimpses I saw, that you loved him. He knew it too; he would have never settled in at the Manor, trusted you, or put on the colors otherwise.”

Bruce stares straight ahead, jaw clenched.

“And, hey,” Dick says as he moves to stare out the windshield too, “If you want to set the record straight, you’ve already got an editor lined up whose exact job is helping you say what you want to say.”

“I don’t know what to say about him,” Bruce mutters, and he knows as he is saying them out loud that the words are wrong, but he can’t find the right ones. How can he possibly do Jason justice? 

Jason was his son. He was his Robin. He loved literature and hated tomatoes. He was loyal to a fault but refused to listen to orders he didn’t believe in. He would never let an innocent suffer, but god help any rapist, murderer, or abuser that strayed into his path.

Anyway, Bruce trusts Dick to hear what he’s really saying. And sure enough, Dick responds, his voice almost cheerful, “Well, you can’t ever go wrong with spite. You can start by pointing out exactly where the Batman memoir got it wrong.”

Bruce steals a glance at Dick. “You know, you wouldn’t make a bad editor, yourself.”

Dick grins. “You know that first summer I led the Teen Titans full-time?”

Bruce’s eyes narrow. 

“I lied. I got a part time internship at The Planet.”

Bruce valiantly resists the urge to facepalm. “That was before we trusted Superman.”

“That was before you trusted Clark,” Dick corrects. “I apologized on your behalf for that time you stabbed him with kryptonite, by the way. My first day. After that, he personally took me on as his editorial assistant.”

Bruce sighs. “Of course he did.”

* * *

His editor is deadly serious; Bruce’s memoir must be written yesterday to make their scheduled publication date. Or, in other words, his manuscript better be in publishable shape in exactly one month. 

Bruce assures her that he has the best ghostwriter in the business on it. He quickly sets up a fake email, bank account, and business with a tax history going back seven years, and gets to work. He gives himself one week to research, one week to write the thing, one week for Alfred and Lois to review it (Bruce would never give Clark the satisfaction), and one week to incorporate Alfred and Lois’s changes.

In theory, that was what was supposed to happen. 

In reality, Bruce spends four and a half days reading through old tabloids to remember the exact lies he told them, three days rereading his old journals to remember what he was actually doing, and three more days poring over his old case files to fill in the remaining blanks. He then spends two days typing up his notes, desperately trying to convince himself that he is not procrastinating writing the damn thing. And, finally, he spends almost a full day staring at his blank document helpfully labelled “Chapter 01” and tries not to map the fastest route to the deepest trench in Atlantis where his editor’s emails would never find him.

He groans and buries his head in his hands. This was moronic. He has never written a book before for one reason, and not the one reason he gave Dick all the years ago. 

In truth, Bruce has never been a “creative” type. Rather, he’s always prided himself on his logical mind. He’s a realist, not an artist. He’s a billionaire who pays designers and curators to furnish his multiple homes and assemble his art collection. For god’s sake, the first time Bruce gave himself “creative license” he donned a cowl, cape, and dressed up as a bat.

History isn’t exactly working with him here.

In the deadly silence of his study, his phone blares, “Carry on, my wayward son! There’ll be peace –”

Bruce accepts the call without looking at the screen, grateful for the distraction, even if it comes from one of the last people he wants to speak to right now. “Clark.”

“Bruce,” Clark greets in kind, and Bruce can practically hear the knowing smile in Clark’s voice. It does not help his mood.

After a beat, he says reluctantly, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“A little birdie told me you’ve been struggling with writer’s block.”

Bruce scowls. “Dick.”

“Alfred, actually,” Clarks says lightly, and Bruce swears under his breath. “He said you’ve taken all your meals for the past two days in your study and have only left to relieve yourself and go out on patrol.” Clark pauses, clearly trying to hold in a laugh. “Seriously, Bruce?”

“Hn.”

Clark chuckles. “Don’t worry, writer’s block happens to the best of us.”

“To the best, really?” Bruce gripes. “So how does Lois handle it?”

Clark doesn’t comment on Bruce’s petty jab. Instead, he says, “She has her ways. I don’t recommend them.”

“Why not?” Bruce asks, intrigued despite himself.

“She’s an adrenaline junkie,” Clark says, his voice flat as his home state. “She says she does her best writing in the field. According to her, she composed her most Pulitzer-winning lede falling thirty stories off Siegel Memorial.” He inhales a sharp breath. “Please don’t follow her example. I am not above begging, Bruce. I can’t catch you every time you get stuck on a transition sentence too.”

Bruce smiles. “And here I thought all Lois’s midair saves were all part of a bizarre Kryptonian courtship technique.”

“You’re hilarious.”

Bruce’s smile widens to a grin. “How are you doing, Clark?”

Clark makes a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat. “You’re normally much smoother at changing the subject.” He whistles. “You really must be struggling with that book.”

Bruce’s smile drops off his face. “I’m offended. Is it that outlandish that I would ask about the wellbeing of my best friend?”

“It’s super outlandish because you’ve been avoiding me for the past two weeks,” Clark volleys back without missing a beat. “And also, you only admit I’m your best friend when you’re actively dying. I have to assume you’re suffering through the emotional equivalent right now.”

“Hn,” Bruce grunts.

“But, to answer your question anyway because I am a good friend in addition to being your best friend,” Clark starts pointedly. “I’m doing well enough.”

Bruce rolls his eyes. Clark might be internally telling himself he’s indulging Bruce, but Bruce knows Clark’s Midwestern impulses are practically doing the conga at the opportunity to engage in smalltalk with Bruce, a practice Bruce notoriously loathes but one that Clark can’t get enough of.

The last time they flew to Maltus, Clark spoke for twenty-three minutes about Smallville’s bid to host the Kansas State Fair. 

Clark continues, “Perry’s been trying to wring us for feel-good holiday stories, and, since Lois would rather eat her digital recorder than write a puff piece, I’ve been listening to her rants about the moral decline in journalism for the past week.”

Bruce grimaces in sympathy. “Has Lois just told Perry she won’t write one?”

“Loudly and explicitly,” Clark sighs. “I don’t think Perry can physically do that with a candy cane and Steve Lombard’s second-hand toboggan, but Lois has always had a way with words.”

Bruce chuckles quietly.

“You do too, you know,” Clark adds, the joking tone of his voice slipping into something more genuine.

“This better not be one of your Superman pep talks, Kal.”

“It’s not!” Clark protests, and Bruce shakes his head in disbelief. “But you are incredibly persuasive when you put your mind to it, and, of course, your head for tactics and strategy is unparalleled, even in the League. The challenge now is to translate those skills to the written word.”

“This has pep talk written all over it,” Bruce warns darkly.

“Fine,” Clark says, and Bruce can just picture him throwing up his hands. “All I’m saying is that you can do this. You know how to manipulate language and how to structure an argument.”

Bruce exhales a long, slow breath. Damn it, Clark. He does feel a little better. 

“Where exactly are you stuck? Are you struggling with a particular subject? A specific chapter?”

Bruce scowls. 

Clark waits.

Bruce scowls harder.

“I can see the call hasn’t dropped, and you’re just frowning at your computer,” Clark says calmly. “But look at it this way, the faster you tell me what’s going on, the faster we can wrap this up, and the faster you can pretend this never happened.”

“I need to invest in lead sheeting for the Manor walls,” he grumbles.

“I can do this all night, Bruce.”

He exhales a slow sigh. Eventually, he forces out, “I can’t start writing.”

“Oh, I’ve been there,” Clark says sympathetically. A microwave beeps in the background as he continues, “Do you know the key to creativity?”

“A multimillion dollar expense account and an inside man at Sotheby’s.��

Clark sighs. “Of course you have an inside man at Sotheby’s.”

“Of course,” Bruce agrees affably. “I’m not a peasant.”

Clark snorts over the sound of the microwave door slamming shut. “You realize you just called me a peasant, right?”

“You literally grew up on a farm. You went to an internet cafe until you were sixteen.”

“The Talon was an institution!”

“It was a relic.”

Clark tuts, and he sounds horrifically like Alfred for half a second. “As I was saying, the key to creativity is passion.”

“Are you eating Chinese food for dinner?”

“No?” A pause. “Mac and cheese, actually. Ma’s special recipe.”

“Because you sound like a fortune cookie.”

“See, this is why I’m your best friend,” Clark says in a long-suffering voice. “Because I know you’re just being testy because you’re feeling insecure, so I’m not going to let you scare me off.”

“You’re not backing off because you’re more stubborn than a mule. Friendship has nothing to do with it.”

Clark lets out a hearty laugh. “There you go, proving my point for me.”

“Hn.”

“I may sound like a fortune cookie, but I’m right,” Clark says evenly. “Don’t start with chapter one. Start wherever you have the strongest feelings, wherever you have the most to say.”

Bruce grimaces. After a long moment, he admits, “That’s basically what Dick said too.”

Clark hums. “Smart kid you got there. I’ve always thought so.”

“He has his moments.”

“Anyway, that’s my advice for writer’s block. I’ll let you get back to it and stop butting my nose in, but, B,” Clark says, “if you have any more trouble, just let me know, okay?”

“I will.” After a beat, he adds, “Thanks for the call, Clark.”

* * *

As rain starts to patter against the window panes of his study, Bruce digs out his printed copy of the manuscript for The World’s Greatest Detective. The most egregious parts, the stories that make his blood boil with rage, are already seared into his brain, but there are dozens of smaller anecdotes that ring so blatantly false he can’t help grinding his teeth as he rereads them.

Robin II wasn’t like Robin I. He was from the streets and already fourteen, almost too old to mold into what I needed. But his background made him resourceful and vigilant, two essential qualities for someone in my line of work. When I met him, he was stealing the tires off the Batmobile™. So, in addition to his resourcefulness and vigilance, he was bold. In other words, he was practically the perfect successor to Robin I. 

Or so I thought at the time.

Bruce closes his eyes as the injustice, the insult , to Jason’s memory courses through him. He writes:

I met Jason when he was fourteen. He’d been on the streets for a year. If you asked him, it made him tough, resourceful, and wary of well-meaning billionaires. And that is all true, but if you asked me, I would say it made him grow up too quickly.

I never really told anyone the real story of our first meeting. It didn’t paint Jason in the best light, and I didn’t want to invite undue criticism of a child. But, now, after everything, what Jason’s memory deserves is the truth. And the truth is, I ran into Jason when he was in the middle of stealing the tires off my car. 

I had come back from my errand. I stood behind him and coughed to get his attention. “You do realize that’s not yours, right?”

Jason spun around, his expression of shock morphing into something much more determined. “Duh,” he said, his tone deliberately light. “You realize you parked your car in Crime Alley, right?” and then he swung a tire iron at me. 

I luckily dodged, but I wasn’t about to let him get away with my property. I struck a deal with him: my tires in exchange for a warm meal. Over burgers, fries, and milkshakes, I asked him why he thought it was acceptable to steal from people.

He stared at me before he burst out laughing. “Not real people. Rich people. They think they’re kings of the world. Pfft.”

“Sometimes,” I told him, “you just have to give people a chance, Jason. They’ll usually surprise you.”

What I didn’t know at the time was how true those words were. I gave Jason a chance, and he surprised me beyond my wildest dreams. He became my son.

Bruce presses the heels of his hands against his closed eyes. Bright spots of color burst in front of his vision, and he breathes slowly in and out. Blindly, he reaches for the half-empty glass of scotch and drains the rest of it. The smokey flavor coats his tongue and the back of his throat, and he tries to concentrate on that, tries to ground himself in the real, physical world and not in his own bittersweet memories.

It doesn’t quite work.

What is most frustrating and infuriating about The World’s Greatest Detective is how close to the truth it is. Almost every moment described in the fake memoir happened, but it’s like the author experienced everything through a funhouse mirror. Bruce’s values are warped. Details are missing. Timelines are vague.

After we returned to the Batcave™, I benched Robin immediately. His screams had distracted me at a crucial moment, and during our escape, his reaction times were compromised. He couldn’t stop shaking. 

Later, once we synthesized an antidote for Dr. Crane’s toxin, Robin returned to fighting shape, physically if not mentally. Once he proved he could fight through the fear even after repeated exposure, I let him rejoin the mission – after a probationary period, of course. 

In reality, Batman and Robin first encountered Scarecrow at the tail end of their first year as partners. They had been getting reports of otherwise healthy people dropping dead of heart attacks. Their faces were rictuses of fear. 

Batman and Robin set out with rebreathers in their most armored suits, in case the toxin was injectable. Midway through the fight with Crane’s muscle, after an unlucky kick to the face, Robin’s rebreather cracked open.

Robin screamed, and time stood still. 

As the flood of terror coursed through Bruce’s veins, he would’ve sworn he was the one to inhale a lungful of fear toxin. He appeared at Dick’s side with no memory of dispatching Crane. 

Nothing mattered but Dick. 

As he approached, Dick was shaking uncontrollably, whimpering, “No, no, not them! Mama! Papa!” He was crawling across the floor, one trembling hand reaching out to his falling parents.

Bruce’s heart clenched, but ignored it as he grabbed Dick around the middle. 

Dick wailed as Bruce lifted him into the air, crying out, “I can’t leave them! No!”  

Crane had to wait. Bruce would sooner sell his mother’s pearls to the highest bidder than let Dick stay in this state one second longer. 

Dick finally quieted in the Batmobile, curling in on himself to be as small as possible. Above his folded arms, his dilated eyes looked nearly black as they flitted from one object to another for no longer than a fraction of a second.

The strain filtered out of his system after about 12 hours – Bruce didn’t develop an antidote for another month – but by the tail end, Dick was rearing to get back in the field. He needed to prove himself. He wasn’t going to stay behind. 

Bruce wasn’t having any of it. But after Dick spent a solid week begging, bargaining, and making himself a general nuisance, Bruce offered him a deal. They would both voluntarily expose themselves again, and if Dick still wanted to put on the boots and cape afterwards, Robin could one again patrol with Batman.

Bruce needed to build up a tolerance to the toxin, in the event he got caught without a rebreather or he needed to give his away to someone who needed it more.

Dick needed no such thing. Instead, Bruce hoped a repeat experience would be enough to scare him out of being Robin for good, and he could be a normal eleven year old instead.

Needless to say, Bruce’s plan failed rather spectacularly.

Bruce types, Many people asked in my first few years with Dick why I waited so long to formally adopt him.

My lawyers were actually in the middle of drafting adoption papers when I called them off. Scarecrow had just made his fearsome entrance in Gotham, and Dick was one of his first victims. I kept it out of the press for obvious reasons.

But, seeing my son like that – no parent can escape that experience unchanged. Dick’s greatest fear was seeing his loved ones in danger while he stood by as a helpless bystander; the role he was forced into at eight-years-old when the Flying Graysons fell to their deaths. 

I thought that the last thing Dick needed was another person that would fill that same place in his life. The chance of manipulation was too great. So, I kept him as my ward and not my son.

I know now that the distinction is meaningless. Dick was my son the moment he swung from the chandelier in the ballroom, giggling madly, as he shouted, “Watch this, Bruce!” and promptly sent it crashing to the ground. But, that day after his encounter with Scarecrow, Dick wasn’t the only one operating from a place of fear. I can admit it now; I was terrified for him. A Gothamite’s life expectancy is 4.1 years below the national average. If something happened to me, could my memory be twisted into a source of fear for him too?

Bruce lets his hands rest on the keyboard as he rereads what he wrote with a critical eye. It doesn’t sound much like his public persona, but hopefully Lois and Alfred (and maybe Clark) can take out the most out-of-character turns of phrase.

He lumbers to his feet and pours himself another drink. It’s going to be a long night. He glances out the window out of habit, but the lashing, freezing rain doesn’t offer much of a reprieve. Sighing, he sits back down at his desk.

Lightning flashes, and Bruce’s gaze catches on the reflection from his phone screen.

Before he can overthink it, he unlocks it and taps the first number on speed dial.

“Hey, Bruce!” 

Instinctively, Bruce feels himself unwind at the sound of Dick’s voice. He relaxes down in his seat and sets down his glass to pick up the phone properly. 

“How’s the writing going? Please tell me you’re not including the chandelier story.”

* * *

Publication week is a nightmare. Bruce goes on a mini book tour in Gotham, Metropolis, and New York, and has to endure Clark and Dick whispering and giggling in the back of the crowd while he reads out loud the most insipid drivel he has ever written to an otherwise rapt audience. 

Of course, Bruce pays for it all himself because his negligible (to Bruce Wayne) advance nearly bankrupted his indie publisher. But it wouldn’t do for Brucie Wayne to put on zero press for his most public-facing stunt since launching the Wayne Foundation, so he has to throw himself to the wolves on his own dime. 

Grinning broadly, Clark buys five copies at the Metropolis speaking event and gets a scowling Bruce to autograph them all. Clark ships two to his parents, gives one to Jimmy, keeps one for himself, and donates the last to the Watchtower library.

Bruce wastes no time in ejecting the Watchtower copy into space. When another one appears three days later, he burns that one in his private quarters. And when two more take its place, Bruce tucks them under his cape and hurls them into Gotham Bay with great prejudice. 

At the next Justice League meeting, a smirking Hal asks him to sign his own copy. Bruce throws it at Hal’s head without looking and moves to the next point in his presentation on the most effective evacuation techniques in the event of a water-based catastrophe.

The next time Bruce stops by the Watchtower library, no fewer than five copies of The Prince of Gotham: The Bruce Wayne Story are propped up on the bookshelf, mocking him. One even has a dented jacket where it tore on Hal’s smug face. 

After that, Bruce gives up on removing them from the Watchtower. They keep springing up like weeds, and he has much better uses of his time – like saving the world.

The only bright side is that The World’s Greatest Detective fails to make its first year budget. Between Bruce Wayne’s memoir sucking up all the air at Monarch Press and Barbara’s online work scrambling its metadata on Amazon, it barely turns up in online search results and receives only a handful of PR slots.

And then his second son returns home and cuts a bloody, violent swathe through Gotham’s criminal underbelly, and all thoughts of memoirs are driven from Bruce’s mind. 

Read Part II here!

[ataraxiaspainting]

Hier Encore I.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

Synopsis: Yorknew Police Department Headquarters, 1995, April 10th. You are a director of public safety. The Phantom Troupe attacks the headquarters and takes you under the guise of a hostage situation. Even when the ransom is paid, you are never returned and assumed to be dead. After thirteen months of captivity, in 1996, on May 9th, you escape and try to learn how to live again somewhere far away from your captor. The payment of freedom comes with a steep cost, one that stains your hands so much that even if you drown them in bleach, the stain will remain there for the rest of your life.

Warnings: Yandere themes, kidnapping, the reader is described as AFAB and uses she/her pronouns respectively, not SFW implications, misogynistic undertones (not from Chrollo), manipulation, references to religion, violence/gore, minor character death, and past stalking.

Word Count: 18k.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Lacrimosa by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

4:00 A.M. by Taeko Onuki

My Girlfriend Is a Witch by October Country

Michelle by Sir Chloe

Sonne by Rammstein

Enemy by Imagine Dragons

Venus Fly Trap by MARINA

Maneater by Nelly Furtado

cult leader by KiNG MALA

Teacher’s Pet by Melanie Martinez 

"She looked like a vixen, and that’s what she was; she had all the instincts of a female fox. She was the proverbial predatory female. She had what she wanted, now, and she was content. There was just the getting completely away with it that counted.” – Gil Brewer, Sin for Me

i. “Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow."

The sitting rooms in these types of hotels have always been your favorite place to sit because of the scenery. There is almost always a large window overlooking whatever city you are temporarily placed in with your captor, making everything below you seem insignificant. You see nothing other than your faded reflection in the window and blinking city lights that are so small they seem like a city of stars. At the same time, you can only touch the framed glass panes or the couch you are sitting on. You can only hear Chrollo’s pleased hums and the occasional page-turning of his current novel. You cannot feel or hear the world outside, no matter how much you try to imagine such.

When you were working, you would use your phone to notify others of what you were doing at work or when you would arrive home, but now you can't feel your pants pocket where the phone was usually kept. It would vibrate or chime loudly as its duty as your alarm and messenger. The phone, once opened, would relay your family members’ voices, or your boss’, or your assistants’. Even if some voices were secretly irritating to you before, you feel compelled to admit that they are better than hearing nothing other than the squeaky wheels of a room service cart or the air conditioner. You cannot feel the rest of your work uniform, a classic white dress shirt and black tie. You cannot hear your co-workers’ drunken laughs as they cheer with large glasses of beer in their hands. A small thud catches your attention, making you turn your head in that direction. Chrollo is putting his book down on the coffee table in front of you two. It is closed, with the cover facing upward, and the title in a foreign language. His cup is empty except for a few drops, having been previously filled with black coffee. Yours simply has room-temperature water, still filled to the brim. You make eye contact for a second or two, his eyes calm and composed. Chrollo breaks it as his arm reaches out towards his coffee cup. He picks it up with grace, sipping quietly before setting it back down on its porcelain saucer. A small smile forms on his pale lips as he looks at you.

"You seem rather bored, my dear. Would you mind conversing with me?”

“No, I would not mind.” You say, your lips moving to mimic his own with precision.

“Marvelous. Would you like to talk about anything in particular?” Chrollo asks, his left arm moving to rest on the couch.

“Anything you would like to discuss.”

“If you insist.” He places one of his legs over the other; his posture is relaxed but his stare is suddenly intense. “There is something I would like to ask of you. Tell me, do you enjoy being here with me?”

“I do. I needed some time to adjust, but I like it here. I have fewer responsibilities than what I used to have.” 

“Wonderful.” Chrollo’s smile widens.

You know that he would not be pleased if you told him the truth; that you feel nothing for him aside from disdain. His softness would fade and give way to his true colors rapidly. An eye-catching crimson red specifically. It is the color of blood, danger, fire, some species of spiders and snakes… It is the color of danger and anger. Perhaps he would threaten to murder a dear friend of yours. Perhaps he would hit you. Perhaps he would isolate you even further by not returning for days at a time. Perhaps he will tie you to the bed. …Perhaps he will kill you. It would be easy, you know it from the bits of strength he has shown you. All it would take is a simple wave of his hand and–

“I enjoy having you here, beside me. Your presence is very comforting.” His eyes glimmer for what seems like less than a fifth of a second, a light that you learned only shows when he is curious about something.

“Did you want to ask me something?”

“I am glad you noticed.” His head tilts slightly to the side. “I do have something I want to ask you.”

“Well, what is your question?”

“Do you plan to try to run away from me?” His cold tone and facial expression are unlike the one he had a few moments ago. 

“No. I do not.” You shake your head and take his hand gently. “What better place is there to be other than having you by my side?”

Chrollo’s eyes seem to soften at your answer. His posture returns to one of no worries. His shoulders are not as tense. His breathing is a bit steadier. He looks at your hand with a slight smile. He leans a bit towards you. He squeezes your hand lightly. You put your head on his shoulder to further convince him to believe the lie. Your captor hums with a pleased voice.

He is cold to the touch. It is like your hand is in a blizzard, a small warm flame surrounded by snow. There is a slight stinging sensation. It is colder than literal ice on your skin. Chrollo’s grip is tender yet strong, making it clear that he does not want to let go of your soft hand. 

You feel his nose go into your hair and dare not do anything to stop it.

Your kidnapper inhales sharply and sighs fondly. His breath smells like mint; sharp, fresh, and cool. To distract yourself from the unpleasant truth, you look around the hotel room. There is a rose bouquet in front of you two, still fresh since you both arrived this morning. They are a deep burgundy color, similar to that of the city lights outside. The glass they were placed in is intricate with flower markings. The coffee table is rosewood by the looks of it, most likely polished right before you two came. The curtains on the sides of the large window are a fawn brown, obviously to match the roses. The carpet is a beige with chocolate brown swirl patterns on it. You try to follow one with your eyes but get lost in it after a few seconds. The couch you two are sitting on is beige as well. Perhaps the reason why this room is so dull is because of how colorful the city outside of it is. Designs like this are probably why this city has so many tourists. Either that or Chrollo chose its blandness specifically because he still wanted an aura of superiority, both literally with how high the hotel room is above and in spirit with the colors. It is ironic, but Chrollo’s white dress shirt is the brightest thing inside this room. You wonder if his clothing choice was on purpose too.

You know yours was. A black dress that stops just before your knees, with gold earrings and anklet. It is a part of your plan to lower his guard. You just washed your hair a few hours ago and put on a bit too much perfume. You walk with confidence yet not too much of it. It is similar to how you used to dress when you went to parties hosted by members of high society, tasked to butter them up a little to the higher-ups’ requests for funding public safety projects. Those people were pompous for certain, but still childish and easily fooled. Chrollo, on the other hand, is pompous but intelligent and a manipulator himself, hence why you have done this dance for the past thirteen months for him to lower his guard. You think it is working, but it is not time to escape just yet.

There are still matters that must be attended to. Like a possible escape route. You know that if you try to escape Chrollo in this hotel he will catch you quite quickly since this room is so small and he will for sure notice if the only hotel key is missing. Also, you note that you cannot know for sure whether or not Chrollo fully trusts you at this point. You plan to ask him to take you on a date tomorrow and then run away once you see an area with much fewer people. You will hide a change of clothes in your purse and change your appearance. You will use a false name from then on. You will try to notify your loved ones about your whereabouts and tell them to move within a few days to be safe just in case the Troupe knows where they live. Then you will try to go north then east using the money you have secretly been stealing from him. If he says no or still has a tight grip on you throughout the day, you will not try to escape that day and try within a few more months. You will repeat this process until you have escaped successfully. You must make sure that you have loosened Chrollo’s grip on you enough, otherwise, he will catch you quickly. Who knows what will happen after that? Who knows if you will ever get this chance again? The answer is most likely never.

“Your scent… it’s nice.” Chrollo whispers.

You bat your eyelashes at him as a response.

Chrollo’s eyes appear to be full of adoration. Your makeup is fully done, a style that you know your captor likes. Winged black eyeliner. Black eyeshadow. Dark red lipstick. Your hair is in a braid with your bangs just slightly covering your eyes. Your nails are painted a color to match your eyes.

Deep down, you worry if this is enough, too much, or too little. If it is too much, he will catch on fast, and you will pay dearly for the consequences. If it is too little, he shall not be impressed and not take you outside tomorrow. It has to be just right. Chrollo leans in closer, still making eye contact as you bat your lashes. His hand is still grabbing onto yours, but it seems to have gotten a little warmer because of the heat of your own. Either that, or you had gotten used to it.

“You truly are a sight… My girl…” Chrollo’s other hand makes its way to your cheek. There is a strong scent of flowers coming off of you. He leans in more until his face and yours are just inches apart. “You smell lovely… Let me taste you.”

You hide your disgust and nod your head. 

Chrollo’s lips touch yours. The cold hand that was holding yours also makes it upward toward your other cheek and squeezes lightly. His fingers are thicker than yours. His fingernails are in pristine condition as usual. His wrists are bony. His skin looks callused, but in actuality, it is quite soft. There aren’t any scars or injuries on them, which is remarkable considering what he does for a living. You wonder if those he killed had touched his soft skin and thought they were being strangled by silk instead of actual human hands. His lips are soft too. Chrollo’s kisses always were elegant and gentle, but you think that is because you have tried your hardest to not disobey him. You wonder if the people Chrollo extorted information out of knew the touch of his lips. At least some of them knew, you think. Chrollo is attractive to many people, both rich and poor. He had told you a few stories such as when he had a sexual relationship with an older woman who had a high-paying role in government and one day he ran off with all of the riches in her safe. She died soon after. Chrollo says she died of a broken heart. You don’t know whether he meant she was mentally heartbroken and was joking with you or she had her heart mangled by Chrollo during her last few minutes alive. You don’t think you want to know the answer either. 

Chrollo’s tongue starts to trace your lower lip with greed. You feel your heart nearly skip a beat. Let me out, you want to say. Let me out. It feels like you are black and blue all over from all the tall hurdles you had to jump through to make it this far. A voice in the back of your mind says that the outside will never heal your wounds, but giving in would. It is better to just give up, it speaks in the back of your mind with a forked tongue and unsettlingly calm tone. It would be better to just accept it. Perhaps Stockholm Syndrome is settling in, or it is just your hope for the future withering away.

Your kidnapper bites slightly on your lower lip and looks deeply into your eyes. His pupils are dilated.

You look down at his lips and notice the hue of your dark red lipstick.

Chrollo doesn’t seem to care as he pulls your face towards his own again. Either that or he did not notice it, but it is unlikely considering how perceptive he is. His cold hands hold your warm face in place as you feel his hot breath tickle your nostrils. His elbows go underneath your armpits and stab into the couch. You hear nothing except for his breathing because you look at the clock on the wall to distract yourself yet again. It is nearly midnight. 

Your perfume smells like dahlias and roses, which Chrollo has mentioned liking on you before.

His right hand pushes your right cheek into the arm of the couch and he starts to suck and bite your neck.

Your skin is soft as usual, looking like porcelain.

Chrollo has complimented it before. He has complimented your scent before. He has complimented your makeup before. He has complimented your hair before. You look beautiful, there is always a genuineness in his tone that would make you feel slightly sick like you were going to throw up whatever expensive fruit or chocolate you had eaten. You would never voice it though, because that would mean all the progress you have made to lower his guard would be for nothing. It would only make him test your sufferance further by doing unspeakable acts against you or your loved ones. The only weapons he has not taken away from you are your tactical mind and honeyed words. If you play them correctly, you will eventually escape and live a somewhat peaceful life. 

Chrollo moves upward toward your ear and nibbles at your lobe softly. “You are so beautiful, my precious.” He whispers. “So beautiful…” His perfume smells like sandalwood and musk. “Like a doll. Truly, you’re quite the sight to see…” Chrollo purrs.

His fingers trace the top of your hair.

“Like silk. So soft and gentle…” His fingers dance downward on your braid, twisting back and forth. “The shampoo I chose for you was a good choice.”

You smile.

“White jasmine…” A sweet and soft scent. Swirls of saccharine and fruit. A slight tart smell of citrus. Universally ambrosial paired with the bitter words that leave your syrup-covered lips; making a charming palette of a flavor similar to that of biting into a square of dark chocolate mixed with orange zest. The texture is not ever strange because of how well-crafted the chocolate is. It is not difficult to swallow but doesn’t melt in the mouth too fast either. The delicacy’s flavor stays in the mouth even after it is fully dissolved, coating each tooth in a substance that has a lovely bittersweet taste like honey mixed with black tea. “It suits you.”

*~*~*~*

1995, April 10th. The Phantom Troupe targeted the Yorknew Police Department Headquarters, one of the largest public safety headquarters in the world, killing 1,891 people. 

A lot of them were on the lower floors, scampering away to locked exits like stray, captured cats, clawing and screaming at the metal doors to open. You sometimes envy them, for their time with the Troupe was short. They knew how their fate was going to end; swift and twisted. A quick punch. A sudden stab. A loud blast of a firearm. They knew how they were going to die. They comforted each other as they were ripped limb from limb. 

You don’t know how you are going to die, or when you are going to die. You could die in a few seconds, a few months, or a few years. You could die by being shot, being poisoned, or being strangled. No one came to comfort you, and no one comforts you now. No one listened to your struggles and cries for help as you were pushed in a black car, gagged and restrained. No one helped you in one of your most desperate moments. 

You are tired of doing everything with the person that made your life a living hell. You want to go back to eating dinner at a restaurant and not feel an unwanted hand on your thigh. You want to go back to sleep with a loose arm around you and not a strangling one. You want to go back to talking to someone you like about a topic you like and not think your every move toward freedom is a gamble.

1995, April 10th. The Phantom Troupe targeted the Yorknew Police Department Headquarters, one of the largest public safety headquarters in the world, killing 1,891 people, leaving very few people to tell others of the tale. Perhaps you count, but you are presumed dead by the outside world so it wouldn’t matter anyhow. You are all alone and stuck in a situation akin to limbo. 

*~*~*~*

Chrollo keeps batting his eyelashes at you across the dining table.

His hair is well-kept, he is wearing a fancy suit, and his nearly black eyes are wider and brighter than when you saw him last. It is well past sunset, the sky outside the window a murky, livid color. He is humming now, staring at you rather than the uncut steak in front of him. You are about to stop playing with your food when–

“Black is a good color on you.”

Your head jerks up. His eyes are even more vivid, and focused, while yours are uncertain. Your hand stops moving your fork to your mouth and falls back to the table lifelessly. 

“Your dress,” he smiles.

“I…” You look down and close your eyes. You have to force your shoulders not to shake by thinking of happier times in your life. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” You refuse to look at him for it will show what you are feeling. Your heart beats so fast that you feel like you are about to go into cardiac arrest. “I have something for you, after dinner.”

He has just come back from another successful heist in this city. It makes sense.

“I’m not very hungry, Chrollo.”

He hums. “You are going to go hungry.” You hear him place his cup of wine back onto the table. “At least eat the radish soup. You need to eat your vegetables.”

As if brought to existence by his words, you smell the bowl of vegetable soup beside the uneaten steak. You mostly smell the tartness of the tomato slices, big and bright. Mint comes second, fresh yet light compared to the tomato smell. You don’t smell the radish, though, despite the chunks of them being large enough to hardly fit in your spoon.

You open your eyes and lift your hand to pick up the spoon in the bowl. You take a piece of radish in your mouth, quickly chewing the peppery vegetable.

You still refuse to look at your captor. You just try to focus on eating the soup so you can at least temporarily avoid his gaze. You are never this nervous when you are about to try to manipulate someone into doing what you say, but Chrollo’s eye for tactics is about the same as yours. When you are almost done with your soup, you suddenly hear Chrollo’s chair move, followed by footsteps.

“You’re nervous.”

You shake your head and take the last bite of your soup. “I am not. I am just thinking about something, dear.”

He grabs the hand that was holding your spoon. His thumb makes circles around your own.

You take some of the quietest and quickest deep breaths and look at Chrollo, the corners of your mouth turning upwards into another deceitful smile. “You don’t need to worry about me. You already work hard enough as it is.”

Chrollo hoists you up and hugs you. 

The window gives way to the starless night sky as dark as obsidian–the moon a slight crescent, and a snow white. It floats atop the carefully cut trees onto their tips and stays there, like a strung puppet in a finished puppet show, unmoving until called upon again by its master. 

“What is my beautiful [First] worried about?” He murmurs. 

“I was examining something.” Your fingertips graze against his palm. You plan to recreate the classic dance of Black Swan Pas de Deux, with you taking on the role of Odile. “Something most peculiar.” Your hand clasps onto his. “I am like a train. I can only run anywhere my rails take me. I suppose you are a new track I have yet to explore, and the only option is to move wherever it is you take me.” His hand feels warm, but not warm enough to comfort others. “It has been an unexpected journey with many stops, but it is my purpose to keep moving forward until the end. The end’s length feels far and I feel that only through death would the tracks cusp.” You stand up straighter than before and your breath echoes in his ear. “People focus more on the train’s condition than the tracks but the tracks are the most important part of the journey. Without tracks, trains would not exist. So, Chrollo…” You feel comfortably numb and not as timid as you were a few minutes ago. “How do you feel?”

You look into your captor’s eyes, and all you see is hell. The very gates of hell in the eyes of a human being. When judgment passes, all of your sins shall be weighed. The only way for your sins to disappear before that day is to lie. 

The Devil himself is waiting for the moment when your mask shatters and gives way to a horrid monstrosity. Only then can he punish you for your misdeeds.

“...How I feel, huh?” Long, silent fingers move like a spider’s legs up and down your back. He is now reciprocating your dance by playing the role of Prince Siegfried. The gramophone plays Beethoven’s Für Elise.  “I think you're a fascinating woman, darling.” His tone is gentle, contrasting with the usual coldness and detachment he carries so often. He moves his other hand to the side of your face and gently caresses your cheeks. “You're smart, creative, and strong. You have a unique charm that sets you apart from everyone else.” 

Like a rose, Chrollo’s thorns and stunningly beautiful features cut deep into both your psyche and the world around you. He has spent what feels like years trying to pluck your petals off one by one in a game of effeuiller la marguerite, the logic behind it being a bizarre combination of many things. His stalk, the axis that connects all his reasons, would be simple curiosity. He was curious to find out where your traits stemmed from, what and who made you the way you are today if you were hiding something nefarious behind that bright smile and kind voice of yours, and thus began his hunt for more knowledge. His calyx, a shield made of his in the form of sepals, represents how protective he is of his deepest, darkest secrets. He has buried them all beneath a temple of fake phlegmatism and honesty. The petals of his biggest and most colorful flower lead his admirers astray so they could never uncover the real Chrollo, which you think is a mercy in itself. Most of those who have seen his true self are buried along with it soon enough.

You want to take a lighter and light him ablaze so that he shall never reroot in the soil around him. The only way you can do such a thing is to play a game of effeuiller la marguerite as well. This is the path you must take to get your freedom back.

The key is to follow the hidden rules.

That means doing things you find repulsive but he finds lovely.

That means kissing him when he comes back. That means letting him do what he wants with your body. That means lying straight to his face when saying you are attracted to him. It will all be worth it in the end, you tell yourself.

You hum, acting like those words that leave his mouth are the things you want to hear the most.

“Those eyes, so grounded yet divine, are the only ones worthy of reverence.” His pale lips twirl upward like a ballet dancer’s arms. “I shall be honored if you choose me to be your apostle.”

“Do you see yourself when you gaze into my eyes, my beloved?”

“I do.” His voice seems breathless, almost drunk, his mind above the clouds and fantasizing about the future. Your eyes are similar to that of a small, round mirror that can reflect light just like the surface of a pond does. 

“I see myself when I look at yours as well,” You sigh with a pseudo impression of an amorous tone. “I suppose we are meant to be together.” Like an elegant ballerina, you relevé. “So, Chrollo…” Your lips are so close to his. Your voice is hushed, calm, and teasing. “I have a favor to ask.” 

His eyes light up with adoration, similar to how Romeo first saw Juliet at the Capulet ball. 

“Ask me for anything you wish for and I shall see to it that it is done.” The hand that is on your back clenches it a bit more.

“I would like to go somewhere tomorrow.” 

“Hm? Where would you like to go?” Chrollo’s tone is now a mix of curiosity and hopefulness. 

“The planetarium.” Your thumb circles his. “That is if you’d like to oblige my request.”

“Of course.” His fingers curl into yours. He smiles as he speaks, his tone soft and sweet. “I’d like to go to the planetarium with you, especially since you have such a desire to go.” There is a twinkle in his eyes.

“Perhaps afterward we can go to a cafe and sit in the park?”

“That sounds like an excellent plan.” He casts you an unfamiliar glance before your lips meet. You start to back away as he lets go of you, and you pick up your glass of water. You take a few sips before setting it back down on the table.

The absence of sound doesn't please you, as the music from the gramophone has ceased and Chrollo seems lost in thought. However, you're not bothered enough to not enjoy the silence. You are envisioning a future of peace, where your captor never finds you again. 

Donned in velvet attire and sipping on tea, you frequent the sandy shores, observing the ebb and flow of the ocean. Undisturbed, you create music with your violin for an audience of one; yourself. A life of uttermost pleasure.

“I shall prepare for tomorrow, then.”

Chrollo nods with a satisfied hum.

“Very well.”

You slink off into the bedroom, grab your purse, and pack the money you had stolen from Chrollo’s jackets and pants. It is not much, but it should be enough to cover travel fees. You also pack more comfortable clothes and shoes to run in. They are clothes you have never worn, so they are the clothes most likely to not be recognized by him.  You lay out a fancier outfit over your purse to hide it. 

Now all there is to do now is wait.

*~*~*~*

“Get in.” 

Your mouth is gagged with a tied scarf and your hands are restrained with handcuffs. There is no warmth in the monster of a man’s tone. There is only an open car door and a forceful push. Later, a slamming sound. 

You are covered in blood, your supervisor’s blood–he tried to use you as a shield against the intruders but was met with a bullet to the head–so much blood. Your dress shirt is as red as a traffic light or a ladybug, though you would prefer the traffic light because you signal to those still dying not to scream anymore, that there was no point in trying to delay the inevitable. There are small pieces of his flesh inside your mouth, you are certain of it considering that you can taste something metallic and flabby. Multiple small, flabby things. Your colleagues’ screams still ring in your ears; they hurt so much.

You can still hear the crunching of their smashed skulls and bones, the alarms, the emergency protocol announcement, the gunshots, the loud severing and ripping of muscle and fat, and–

“Greetings.” A voice, calm and placid. A man sitting beside you, visibly comfortable with one of his legs over the other. He moves his left arm and clicks your seatbelt into place, then does the same with his own. 

A blaring statement outside the car. “Two billion Jenny and she’ll be set free,” one of the thieves said, probably the one that pushed you into the car, “if we aren’t paid by next week she dies.”

“Do not worry.” The man beside you speaks in a lulling tone. “It is simply a ploy. We won’t kill you, I will make sure of it.”

You look down at your legs and shoes, considering what to do or say if the gag is ever taken off. 

A firm grip on your shoulder and a say of your name makes you look at him again. His eyes are filled with nothing but obsession and make your heart stop beating for a split second. “If I take this gag off of you, do you promise not to scream?” 

You nod, because what choice do you have other than being compliant? 

There is a pleased hum and a praise you cannot exactly remember, then the scarf is off and on the floor of the car. 

“I should introduce myself, shouldn’t I?” A warm chuckle. “My name is Chrollo, and… for now, just let me say that we are going to get to know each other quite a bit.”

*~*~*~*

“Stars are such wonders, aren’t they, dearest?”

You give an impressed hum as you look around and sit in your seat beside Chrollo. The room soon goes dark as the public speaker starts talking.

There is a single spotlight on her that is a bright white which contrasts with the pitch-black room. She bows as some of the audience claps, you included. You don’t think Chrollo clapped, though.

“It's been estimated by astronomers that there could be as many as one septillion stars in the universe.” 

“Yet there is only one of you,” Chrollo whispers in your ear.

The announcer speaks with a proud yet modest tone, not being too outward yet not being too quiet to not draw any attention to herself. “The Milky Way galaxy is home to over 100 billion stars, with the Sun being the most well-known.”

You are not the moon above, you aren’t even a star. You are simply a piece of an asteroid, soon to fade to dust in the cold, cruel darkness of space.

You look at him and smile. He smiles back at you.

“The creation of this universe brings me joy, for it has led me to cross paths with you.” The spherical walls light up and turn a dark blue and fill with holographic stars and meteors. “I’m glad.”

“These fiery balls are composed primarily of hydrogen, with traces of helium and other elements.” The speaker continues. “Each star has a unique lifespan, which can vary from millions to trillions of years, and their characteristics shift as they age.”

“The Sun is needed to sustain life in this galaxy, just like how I need you and you need me.”

You hum again and grab his hand gently. “You do not need to hang a legion of stars around yourself to show you are not Neptune, for I already know you are my Sun.”

“Should the sun disappear, the Earth would be devoid of light, warmth, and life.” It is like Chrollo had a vision of the future. “Initially, the planets would follow their orbits for a short while before eventually exiting the solar system. Although the sun's rays would continue to reach us for a brief eight-and-a-half minutes after its disappearance, the world would be plunged into darkness.”

“Within a week, temperatures would plummet to zero degrees Celsius, causing the demise of most flora and fauna.” Chrollo resumes. “As time passes, the atmosphere would also gradually disappear. The Sun is very important if you cannot tell.”

“I concur, beloved.”

“It’s a miracle the Sun’s warmth exists in the first place, or that this planet’s orbit was placed in the perfect environment.” Chrollo sighs peacefully, but you aren’t sure if he is in awe at the planetarium or you. “We wouldn’t have existed if this planet was made in a different area of the universe.”

“It is quite beautiful, isn’t it? Thanks to the Sun, now we have a bright future ahead of us all.”

His hand clasps onto yours. “I make a vow to you that our bond will never break, and we will remain inseparable for eternity.” His mouth is so close you feel like he is about to kiss your ear. “Do not worry about the details, for I shall take care of everything.”

*~*~*~*

There is one mirror. There are two hanging jackets. There are three lights above you. There are four paintings on the wall facing the entrance. Five vases contain your favorite flowers, two on the floor and three on the table. There are six rows of stone bricks, then carpet at the start of the stairs. Seven glass panes make up the decoration above the entryway. There are eight engravings on the locked wooden door, each of a flower or deer. Nine smells are coming from upstairs; garlic, cheese, tomato, onion, poultry, olive oil, butter, pasta, and basil. Let me out. 

It’s dark outside, but the chandelier above provides enough light for you to see that the door is still locked. As much as you want to mask your real feelings from your captor, you have to acknowledge the fact that you cannot breathe. There is a call from upstairs. You put your book down on the sole chair. There are ten steps leading to the second floor. 

There is one staircase leading to the third floor. There are two rooms: the living room and the kitchen. Three footsteps are approaching you. Four words leave Chrollo’s mouth, but you cannot remember them.

You cannot cry. You cannot do anything but smile and hug back. His embrace feels like it is burning your skin. He says something about your beauty. He grabs your hand gently. There are ten steps you take as he guides you to the stove.

There is one pot full of food. There are two plates. Three instruments are playing on the gramophone; violin, piano, and cello. There are four chairs near the kitchen table. There are five books, with one of them being an open cookbook. There are six candles on the table with the lights turned off. There are seven wrapped gifts on the table. There are eight seconds of Chrollo hugging you.

You unwrap the gifts. Matching necklaces with engraved names on them. A gold ring with rubies. A decorated photo of you taken from a Polaroid. A large box of your favorite chocolate. A butterfly pin. A velvet coat with a spider embroidered on the back. Chrollo’s smile almost makes you shudder.

There is one chair you sit in. There are two utensils before you; a fork and a knife. There are thoughts in your mind for three seconds; fantasizing about you stabbing him. There are four seconds of temptation before you ignore it. There are five seconds of silence before you say you love Chrollo. Gifts are celebrating six months of you being held captive. There are seven roses in the vase in the middle of the candles. There are eight bites you take of your food, and then force yourself to eat the rest through your nauseousness. 

Let me out.

*~*~*~*

The nutty smell of coffee brings you a feeling of slight warmth and relaxation. The chalkboard above the barista reads Carte Du Jour with white words, listing off the assortment of pastries, coffees, teas, and fruit-flavored drinks. Chrollo is ordering for you two, spending what feels like an unnecessary amount of Jenny on pumpkin muffins, chocolate croissants, and two espressos. The barista audibly gasped when he gave her a tip that can best be described as more than what she would make in a week. 

The two of you soon make your way to this city’s largest park and sit on a bench away from most people. There is a musician loudly playing clarinet nearby, but he is not close enough for you two to see him, and he is too invested in playing his instrument to notice anyone. The sun is well above the pond, making the ducks swimming in it almost glow. Chrollo is still holding the paper bag full of the pastries and his espresso, but you are holding yours in your hand.

He is still, visibly calm, and enjoying the sight.

You feel an invisible pressure on your neck. It’s just a knot in my throat, you think to yourself, closing your eyes. The sight of his stillness gifts you a veil of comfort so thin that if anyone were to touch it it would tear. I’m not going to die. But you can’t breathe.

Your heart tells you otherwise. You can feel, no, hear blood pulse to the very tips of your fingers. Your feet tell you otherwise. They are cold. They hurt. They are adhered to the ground. Your arms and legs tell you otherwise. There is nothing but pins and needles all over. This is your chance, the little voice in your head says with blind reassurance. Who knows when you will ever get this chance again? Do it now, and be quick about it. But you can’t breathe. You can’t breathe, and you have to try your hardest to stop the hand holding your espresso from shaking and falling on you. 

“Thank you for taking me here,” You smile the best you can, as usual. You try to not focus on your memories of Chrollo’s observation skills. “You made my day. This is one of the best experiences I have had in a while.”

There is sweat going down your forehead. Chrollo nods his head and smiles. You’re afraid, and you never are afraid. His head leans forward until your noses are barely touching. 

He is so close you can smell the mint in his mouth. 

“Of course, my dear. It is an honor to have you in my life, after all.”

“I… would say the same.”

He lifts his head slightly. “Spending time with you is always a pleasure. I would commit the gravest sins if it meant having moments like this forever.” You know that he is being literal. That is the reason you nearly shudder.

He is leaning in closer. You want to run. You have to run.

He backs away after kissing you, and that is when you strike.

You throw your espresso on him, its lid on the bench. You don’t focus on his reaction, because you are running as fast as you can with your purse.

You toss your heels to the side of an unknown road when your feet start to bleed. 

You change clothes in a rat-infested public restroom. You throw everything aside from your stolen money into a nearby lake in fear of a tracking device being on something. You cover the wounds on your feet with toilet paper and then put on sneakers. 

You put your hair up in a bun and cover it with a hood.

You wash your makeup off using lake water.

You soon get on a bus. Then another.

You then eventually take a train. For nearly three days you stay, hardly eating out of fear of vomiting due to nervousness. You walk the rest on foot until you have reached somewhere far, far away from that city. 

You steal money from those around you when needed. You threaten those around you when needed, threatening them to stay silent or their fate will end at your hands. You make use of a few kind-hearted people who let you into their homes when they see you, dirty and injured on the side of the road. They clean up your wounds, give you warm food, and you repay them with a simple, untrusting, and cold goodbye and leave without a trace. 

You move from place to place every few hours.

Then you move from place to place every few days.

Eventually, you move from place to place every few months. You ultimately settle into a town by the seashore, under a fake alias. You move into a cabin by the beach with no warmth other than a few candles and no entertainment other than books or writing. You eat the cheapest food the local saloon sells that day. 

The day you escaped was 1996, May 9th.

It is now 1997, August 3rd.

*~*~*~*

The speakers blare a sound akin to ambulance sirens. A man’s voice soon after, panicky and horrified. 

He spoke of evacuating as soon as possible through the emergency exits. An infamous terrorist group is in the building, he said. Then the sound of a gunshot, cries for mercy, then another voice. 

“Run, rabbits.” Whoever was speaking had confidence and arrogance. 

Your supervisor stands up from his desk and his guards pull out their guns. You look around for a way out. Screams from outside the office. Flesh being ripped apart. The evacuation door was locked, as much as you and the guards pushed and pulled. 

The main door was kicked open by a man taller than any you have seen, ripped apart by its hinges, and fell on the floor. The guards shot at him, but they reflected off of him like he was made of iron. He was fast, fast enough to smash their brains in with his mere fists. He laughed loudly, amused. Your supervisor grabbed you by your hair and put you in a chokehold. 

A gun was put to your head.

He threatened to shoot you. The threat was met with a gunshot behind his head, his body falling on top of you as he cried out for mercy, and his blood covering you from head to toe as someone dressed in black slashed his body again and again. 

You put your hands up and close your eyes, expecting the same fate as you hear his corpse falling off of you with a loud thud.

…

Instead, your wrists were grabbed and put in handcuffs. A hand on your shoulder and a pat.

“We can’t have damaged goods. You have been chosen to live… at least for now. Congrats.”

A push that blurred between light and strong. A walk out the office doors and to the elevator. A thumb pressing the down button. The elevator doors opened with an automated voice saying going down. Another button is being pressed, the doors closing, and jazz is playing.

One of them, the swordsman, asked how people working (or worked, really) could wait for an elevator every day to go to the top floor, saying how boring that would be if it was him. You cannot tell if he was joking with you or was genuinely curious. The elevator slowly goes down, the light at the top of the button selection decreasing from seventy to one. The doors open. Another push.

A walk out to the lobby.

“Oh, do you guys think that the pocket change from that dude will be enough to buy some snacks from the vending machines? I’m pretty hungry right now. Do you guys think so?”

A woman with magenta hair rolls her eyes and scoffs. “You are such a child, Uvo. You want to get snacks, now?”

Another scoff in response. “Hunger is part of the everyday human experience. Don’t think you are so above it, Machi.”

“Fine.” The swordsman speaks, clearly annoyed. He looks at you with a neutral expression. “Take her to the car and Feitan and I will get you snacks, my treat.”

The man wearing all black rolls his eyes.

“I never agreed to that.” He shakes his half-masked head. “I am also not hungry. We can also get food elsewhere. Vending machine food is expensive. Waste of money.”

Machi rolls her eyes in turn.

“Everyone is dead already.”

You are closing your eyes and imagining being somewhere else, anywhere else than here. A cafe. A ballet. Anywhere but here.

“I’m hungry.”

The swordsman punches him in the arm.

“Ow, Nobu!”

…

A man crawls on his arms towards you all, his legs ripped off. He cries out and curses as he coughs up blood. Curses for their family. Curses for eternal damnation. They are quickly snuffed out by Uvo’s punch and brain matter splatters all over the lobby floor.

Then silence.

The man called Nobu sighs, visibly exhausted. He looks at Uvo like he is two years old. He asks Uvo what snacks he wants. He responds with something meaty or cheesy, like jerky or something. An alright leaves Nobu’s thin lips and he asks you where the vending machines are.

You feel like you are about to soil yourself. Why the hell are they acting so normal after killing an entire building full of people? But with a shaky voice, you tell him that it should be on the 61st floor because that is where all the workers go to eat lunch. 

A damn it leaves his mouth then, and another roll of his eyes. But he thanks you, and he and Feitan go back to the elevators. 

Uvo and Machi stare at you. 

“Listen,” Machi finally talks to you. She tries to smile, but it doesn’t bring you any comfort. If anything, you feel like you are about to cry more at the sight. She puts her hand on your shoulder. “We don’t want to hurt you. Far from it, if that helps.”

It doesn’t. You just look down at your feet. 

A sigh. Another push.

“You could have tried to be more gentle, Uvo. Now she’s scared of all of us. What’s the boss gonna think?”

You stare at them. They glare at each other.

“Machi, she’s supposed to be our hostage, at least to the public eye.” He looks at the receptionist's desk, where the receptionist’s corpse lays, her neck bent to an acute angle. You look around for any possible escape route. You see one. The main entrance. 

You run fast. Until you are outside. Uvo’s arm wraps around your waist and pulls you back.

“Listen. We do not want to hurt you. But we have to at least seem like we are rough handling you.” His hands go on your shoulders and make you walk towards a foreign black car. “Sorry. But it’s for the best. I  promise.”

“Just put this on.” She wraps a scarf around your mouth, gagging you. 

“Hey, you’ll have a good life from now on. Trust us with that, at least. You’ll be happier now.”

Uvo pushes you, hard, when he sees police cars approaching. He opens the car door. A malicious smile appears on his face, like a mask he has just put on.

“Get in.”

You hope that whatever is in store for you isn’t as bad as what your colleagues suffered.

*~*~*~*

There is a man around your age who goes out around the same time as you to smoke by the beach.

He has dark hair with a slight purple tint, making you assume that it is dyed. It looks long and it is swept to the side, except for a quarter of it which is shaved. He has near-black eyes, but they don’t look as intimidating as Chrollo’s. If anything, they look slightly sorrowful. 

You go on the fishing dock as usual with a box of cigarettes and a lighter in your sweater pocket. The man is there, searching his own pockets and visibly frustrated.

“Do you want one of mine?”

He looks up at you. His eyes wander from your face downward towards your extended hand which holds an unlit cigarette. He doesn’t answer and just stares at it.

“I noticed you are looking in your pockets for one.” You smile, but as you usually do with fake kindness, not caring enough about him to get too close.

“I…” His eyes squint, slightly suspicious. Perhaps it takes a moment or two for him to realize you are talking to him. “Yes, thanks.”

“Hmm. You’re welcome.” You hand him the cigarette and you take another one out for you. You put it in your mouth as you pull out your lighter from your sweatpant pocket. “So, what is your name?”

He doesn’t answer, because he is looking in his hoodie pocket again.

“Damn it.”

You extend your lighter out to him. “Do you need a lighter?” He takes it. “You sure are forgetful tonight, huh?”

He presses the ignition button and orange flames arise. The end of his cigarette turns a yam orange. He hands your lighter back to you.

You do the same with yours. You then put the lighter back in your sweatpants pocket.

You inhale the puff of smoke that enters your mouth, an ash gray. You take the cigarette out of your mouth with two fingers and exhale. You then look back at the man, who just did the same thing.

“Thanks for the help.”

You smile.

“Of course.”

“I don’t think I have seen you before so you must be the one that just moved in, right?”

You nod. “Yes.”

“Cool. Out of all the places you could have gone, you chose this town.” He raises an eyebrow, visibly curious. “May I ask why?”

You fix your eyes on him, taking a few moments to process the unexpected nature of his question. He inhales his cigarette again and breathes out the smoke. 

“This town seems quaint.” You finally answer. “The locals are nice, the expenses aren’t that much, and the scenery is alluring.”

You use your cigarette again and use your other sweatpants pocket to fish out your portable cassette player along with your headphones. You then realize that you had forgotten your music tape at your house. You sigh and then put it back into your pocket. Footsteps get your attention and you see the stranger approaching the shoreline. He bends down and picks up a small rock. He throws it to the sea and it bounces; one, two, three, four.

It then sinks beneath the waves, and the man mutters something under his breath. “Should have been more.”

You take a few steps towards him.

“What is your name?”

“Sebaste.” His tone isn’t warm, but it’s not cold either.

You stare at each other for a few moments in awkward silence. Your tone is just as strange as his as you say, “My name is [First]. A pleasure to meet you.” You place your lit cigarette on the pier and stomp on it until it goes out. “Have you lived here your whole life?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Do you live with a family member?” You’re not sure where this question came from, but you are for sure more interested in him than you realize. He turns his back to you.

“Yeah.”

You look out into the deep and dark sea.

“I don’t have any family here.”

“Mmhmm.”

His voice is slightly dismissive, but you don’t think he means to be.

“It must be nice, having people you can rely on.”

He looks at you again, but you cannot tell what he feels.

You don’t look at each other after that. You look down at the items that line the beach instead. Even though they are indeed damaged, they feel more like treasures than whatever expensive gifts Chrollo gave you.

There are mostly large shells that are still vibrant despite it being nighttime as well as being covered in sand. They look like fragments of a broken rainbow when the moon’s light reflects in just the right areas. You have contemplated bringing one home and stringing it into a necklace. 

Sebaste takes his cigarette out of his mouth and points out to the ocean. There is no sound aside from the waves and occasional seagull calls. His two fingers trace the stars beyond the horizon. 

He says there is a constellation called the Hydra. According to Sebaste, during summer, the season of rebirth and peace, the Hydra constellation appears as a reminder of assured death to those below it, whatever arrogance mortals may have had disappearing in an instant. Their fates loom over them like the blade of a guillotine, knowing their hearts shall stop working eventually, the color of crimson fading like flowers in autumn. Memento mori, you suppose.

“You sure know a lot about nature.” You say.

“It’s interesting, but it’s not what I mainly like learning about.” He throws another stone into the sea. One, two, three, four, five. He throws his cigarette out into the ocean and watches the flame die out. “I’m mostly just coding on my desktop. That,” He lightly chuckles. “And playing games. Video games and board games, as well as comics. They are fun.”

You don’t know anything about those either, even more so than nature. “That’s nice. I… don’t know anything about those. They seem cool, though.”

He chuckles at that. You do too.

He turns to you and takes a few steps forward.

He says that that seemed sort of obvious considering how upright your posture is, and how polite you speak. He offers to play games with you sometime and lend you comics. He walks you to your house and says a warm goodbye.

Although the certainness of seeing each other again is unknown, this fleeting encounter holds a remarkable significance, because you don’t feel as alone as you usually do.

You don’t feel alone. It is a strange feeling.

*~*~*~*

You wanted to watch Sleeping Beauty.

“Beautiful.”

Chrollo wanted to watch The Nutcracker.

“Just beautiful.”

The dancers’ feet move with grace and precision as the orchestra plays. Green, yellow, and pink dancers. You let Chrollo have his way with which performance tickets to buy because you didn’t want to fight and lose all of your progress.

“Don’t you think so, dearest?”

You look from your compact mirror to him, your lipstick still in hand.

“Yes.”

Chrollo seems to be smiling, but you cannot tell because of how dark the theater is. It’s a miracle you can see your lips in your compact mirror.

“I spot something even more beautiful, however.”

You almost want to shudder as his hand reaches the one carrying your mirror. He closes the reflector gently. You are thankful for how dark the theater is now because it hides whatever lovesick expression he is wearing. He is the one paying attention to the ballet, while you daydream of being anywhere else.

There is a light chuckle. A light squeeze. A light whisper of a compliment you pretend to listen to. 

“So beautiful.”

…

“Thank you for taking me.”

It’s Christmas Eve. A fur coat covers you and keeps you warm. It is snowing, and the sight makes you slightly less nervous. 

You and Chrollo are walking out of the theater. Hand in hand. As much as you want to break away. Your captor soon opens the car door, and you sit down.

He goes to the driver’s side and sits down too.

The car soon drives away onto the salted road. 

“I had fun.” You try your best to smile. “I did.” You look out the window to the snow-covered, dead trees, as well as the reflection of your red dress and white coat.

Chrollo grins as he turns the steering wheel left. After a few moments, the car stops. “Wait here for a moment. I will be back in a few minutes.”

With that, he steps out of the car and leaves the key with you to make sure the alarm does not go off. 

He makes sure you lock the doors before walking away.

You don’t dare go sit on the driver’s side. You don’t dare touch the steering wheel or press on the gas.

You just sit with your thoughts until he eventually returns, and you unlock the car.

“I have something for you,” His voice is almost cooing, but is laced with honey. There is a large box in his hands.

He extends his arms out and you take it. He sits back down and closes the car door. 

“Open it,” He croons. You pull on the tied ribbon until the knot is undone. You take off the box’s lid. Macarons. Colorful macarons, all spread apart within the box just enough for people to see their fillings. Green, yellow, pink. But there are also a few white ones in the center with red filling. 

You thank him and he tells you the flavors. The green ones are pistachio, symbolizing good fortune in the years ahead. The yellow ones are champagne, symbolizing joy and celebration. The pink ones are flavored strawberry, symbolizing life. 

There is a nefarious twinkle in his eyes as he points to the white ones. The cookies are vanilla with a cherry filling. 

They symbolize renewal and love.

He says that the macarons illustrate your relationship well.

You agree, because what else is there to say?

*~*~*~*

Sebaste invited you to a summer night on the shoreline. He said there was something special going on tonight. 

Most of the townspeople are by the fisherman’s shop, overlooking the pier. They bring lanterns and are huddled together in their sweaters. Knowing Sebaste, he has probably gone somewhere more remote on the beach.

You are right. He is sitting on a picnic blanket with a few takeout boxes of food. He welcomes you with a grin as you sit down with him. There is sashimi, cheese-covered cauliflower, and fried calamari.

There is something behind him. But you don’t ask about it.

Sebaste is a rebellious loner, from what you have come to know from both the townspeople and himself.

He hardly has anyone over because of how judgmental his stepfather can be. He often fights with his stepfather and half-sister, and as a result, was forced to live in the basement as per his mother’s wishes to not cause any more problems. He loves his mother, he does, you can tell. She seems to love him too.

His room is often full of takeout boxes and used cigarettes, as well as video and board games and his desktop. The couch in his room always has comics and food stains on it. But you sit on it anyway to wait for him to finish his work before talking to you about whatever interest he currently is fixated on.

You sit on the picnic blanket and face the shoreline, your dirndl moving slightly with the wind. Your boots are covered in sand, but they are the only ones you have that will keep you warm while keeping the sand out of the inside of them. It’s just you, Sebaste, and the ocean.

Sebaste isn’t smoking for once, and neither are you.

You both agreed to focus on the ocean instead.

Sebaste gets a bit closer by scooting over. He is smiling gently, a smile you know hardly anyone else has seen. He takes a rock and throws it into the water, making it skip. One, two, three, four, five, six. He cheers quietly at his accomplishment, and you do too.

He looks at you.

He looks at your left hand that rests beside his right one. He moves just a hair closer. He clears his throat when you make eye contact. His pale cheeks are a slight pink.

“I…” he starts as his face turns away from you. His voice is a bit jittery. “I think I like you. Romantically.”

Does he mean it? His body language is slightly tense and his shoulders are uptight. His left hand comes out from hiding behind his back as he shows you a bouquet. There are blue thistles, purple sweet peas, and orange poppies.

He waits for a response as he turns to you again, visibly nervous.

*~*~*~*

You continue to try to pull away, but your efforts are unsuccessful.

Chrollo seems somewhat amused at your struggles, though he still doesn't force you to stop moving against his grasp.

"You're acting in a very ungrateful manner, my dear. I've given you this beautiful home and life that you couldn't even dream of on your own. You should be happy and thankful for what you've been given, not trying to escape from it. This is what love is. You are too young and immature to understand that, it seems."

"Love? Do you call this love? You're insane! Let me go!" Your eyes fill with tears as you try to pull away, and your voice breaks as you speak. "You're insane! You're insane and sick and disgusting! You're... you're..."

Chrollo still doesn't force you to stop trying to escape, and he doesn't raise his voice or grow angrier at your words. He just waits patiently.

"Monster... Disgusting... Sick freak... Monster..." Your voice is shaky as you continue to speak, and your eyes are filled with tears. "How can you justify this? What was wrong with my life before you? Why did you have to destroy everything? Why do you enjoy hurting me?" You yell and cry out, still trying to pull away, even though you don't seem to be hurting him.

Chrollo, once again, doesn't seem to be bothered by your words. As the alarm goes off, signaling your time out of restraints, he turns it off and drags you to the bedroom once again. Something tells you that you won’t be sleeping much tonight, less so than usual.

*~*~*~*

“Ah. I… like you too.”

“Really?”

You give him a genuine smile as you nod. “Yes.”

He smiles at that as his posture becomes more relaxed. You take the bouquet from him and set it beside your small backpack. Sebaste seems unsure for a second, most likely thinking that you have misunderstood his question. He thinks for a second or two as his face becomes laced with slight worry. You smile again as you take his hand gently. His face becomes bright red and you chuckle at the sight. He does too, but quieter.

His fingers then intertwine with yours.

He doesn’t smell of cigarettes like he normally does. You assume he put on cologne. Refreshing, sweet, and crisp. Pine cologne, with a hint of citrus. 

He bashfully giggles a bit more. He puts his free hand on the back of his neck.

“Does… this mean we are… dating now? Or is this just a fling or…”

Your grip on his hand tightens slightly. You both seem giddy. This is the first time either of you has felt this way. You seem to have sparked something in each other.

“If you want to, we can start dating.”

“Oh? You… actually like me?”

He seems confused or doubtful as to why you feel the way you do for him.

“Yes, I do. I like you. Would you like me to enumerate the reasons why?”

He looks unsure of it all like you will stab him in his back at any moment.

“You’re kind to those who are kind back. You’re willing to do anything for those you trust. When you trust, you trust wholeheartedly. You have interesting hobbies.”

Sebaste chuckles again. “So, beating you within six turns of Go Fish and collecting frogs covered in mud is interesting to you, huh?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met someone as unique as you. I mean that most positively and genuinely. Well, what do you like about me then? I’m curious.”

“Everything about you. The way you walk and talk, your hobbies, the way you present yourself. Everything about you is just so alluring and admirable. You are everything I am not.”

“I suppose we always love what we cannot have ourselves. Opposites attract, after all.”

He nods. 

The ocean starts to glow a bright blue. You look at it confused, with one of your eyebrows raised.

Sebaste giggles once more at your lack of knowledge of what is happening. “Every year, right before summer ends, jellyfish rise to the surface of the shore and glimmer.”

You’re too awed at the sight to put it into words. “Thank you for inviting me, I didn’t know about it. It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah. Beautiful.” He looks at you instead of the ocean.

*~*~*~*

You take a deep breath. You’ve come to pay what’s owed.

You knock on the door and wait for a response. After a moment, you hear footsteps approaching the door.

It opens and James is standing there. When he recognizes you, his face turns into one of triumph.

“Hmm, so you have come. Just like you promised,” he says to you in a voice a mix of arrogance and gratefulness.

“Yes. The… night you wanted.”

James’ expression changes to a wide grin. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” He says to you with a chuckle, stepping aside to let you into his apartment. “Come in, come in.”

He steps aside and motions for you to enter, closing the door behind you. It is for the greater good, you tell yourself. To get information out of James, you need to make him believe that you are interested in him.

James is very happy that you kept your word. He’s smiling widely.

“Come in, I told you that I would host a special evening for you,” He says to you, sounding sincere and eager to please. He takes your hand and leads you inside the apartment. “I have a surprise for you,” He says to you, leading you deeper into the apartment.

You have to play the part of the seductress to the best of your ability.

“What is it?”

The usual city apartment, it looks like. Messy and full of mildew from the floor to the ceiling. By the only non-musty window there is a plastic up on the ground with drops of water coming down into it from the ceiling. Drip, drip, drip. You can only hear the drips of water and you and James’ footsteps. You cannot feel your true emotions, because you have a job to do.

James brings you to the only lit room in the apartment; the dining area. The circular table seems to be made of poplar and has a dark stain in the center of it. There is a vase of dark red roses on the top, clearly just bought. The chair you sit in is squeaky and is also made of poplar. James is staring at you. You can only hear the dripping of water, the squeakiness of the chair, the broken air conditioner, and James’ chuckles. Drip, drip, drip. James is still smiling, and staring like you are a piece of meat. You suppose you are, at least to him and at least at the moment. You smell cigarette smoke and spoiled food. You lean down to smell the roses, but you cannot smell them because the foul stink of the rest of the apartment is so much stronger. You pretend to anyway, a pleased hum leaving your painted lips. His eyes are wide and unblinking. Another chuckle, and another drip, drip, drip. His smile widens even more as he looks at you.

“Close your eyes,” He says to you in a soft, commanding tone. “I have a surprise for you,” He adds. “I want it to be a surprise. Keep your eyes closed.” He pauses for a moment, waiting for you to close your eyes.

You cover your eyes with your hands. 

“That’s good, that’s good,” James’ smug voice says. “Just wait one minute.”

You hear his footsteps on the creaky floorboards quieting, making you assume he has gone elsewhere. You hear a cupboard opening and closing along with glasses clinking. 

“Now, remove your hands from your eyes,” James says.

You do as you’re told and remove your hands from your eyes. James smiles at you, revealing the surprise that he had promised. On the table in front of you are two wine glasses and a bottle of expensive red wine. Cabernet. "This is my special surprise for you," He says to you, still sounding sincere and excited. James pours both of you a glass of wine and places one of them in front of you. He then raises his glass and holds it up in your direction. He smiles at you charmingly and says, "To you, [First]. And to your beauty."

You smile at James and cheer with him, raising your glass and taking a sip of the expensive red wine that he's poured for you.

James smiles at you, still looking charming and sincere. "Tell me," He says to you, "What do you think of the wine?" He takes a sip himself, smiling as he savors the taste. "I always buy the best when I entertain a guest as lovely as yourself," He says to you with a wink.

“It’s good. But… I feel like it won’t compare to you.” You wink back at him.

James smiles and takes another sip of the expensive red wine that he's poured for you. He seems to like your subtle flirtation, as if it's having the desired effect. "Oh, don't worry," He says to you with a charming smile. "I've been looking forward to this night all night. You're just as wonderful and beautiful as I remember," He adds. "I can hardly wait to spend some time alone with you."

James takes another sip of the wine and continues to stare at you, still smiling.

“Am I as beautiful as you say?” You blink your long lashes at James, your eyes gazing into his with a gentle but seductive expression. Your hair is loose, gently framing your face, and you look ravishing.

"Of course," James says to you with a smile as he gazes back at you. He reaches out a hand and gently strokes a streak of your hair, letting it fall back into place after it has been gently moved by the gesture. "You're the most lovely woman I've ever seen," He says to you confidently.

“What do you like about me?”

"Every inch of you," James replies, still stroking your hair with a smile on his face. "From your eyes to your long lashes, your hair, your skin..." James pauses, looking into your eyes for a moment. "To your soft lips, your small, delicate hands," He adds, still stroking your hair lightly. He looks at you with a charming and passionate gaze, as if he can't get enough of your beauty.

“...Would you like me to kiss you? It would be our first.”

James looks delighted by your proposition and nods slowly, in response. He finishes stroking your hair with one last, gentle touch and gazes at you once more. "Of course," He murmurs, his voice softer and more passionate than before. He pauses for a moment before taking the initiative and leaning forward to kiss you slowly and softly. His lips press gently against yours, and he holds you close as he pulls you into a gentle, intimate kiss.

Drip, drip, drip.

It’s for the greater good, right?

You kiss back and return James' affection, feeling the heat of passion slowly build as the two of you kiss. You hold him close and slowly pull him towards you. The kiss is soft and tender, and although it is a rather chaste kiss, it leaves you breathless and feeling dizzy. After a few moments, you both come up for air to breathe, and James looks at you with a warm and sincere smile. 

"You're a wonderful kisser," He says to you softly. "I've always imagined it would be like this..."

At any cost, the greater good must come first.

“Should we take this to the bedroom?”

"Yes," James replies with a nod. "Let's go to the bedroom," He adds. "I can't wait to be alone with you." He takes your hand in his and leads you out of the dining area and into a small bedroom. You enter the bedroom and see a large, comfortable bed in the center of the room, with the moon shining through the window. James closes the door behind you and leads you closer to the bed.

You sit on the bed and open your arms. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

James smiles at you and steps towards you slowly. He takes off his jacket and throws it on a chair next to the door. He then comes closer to you and smiles, leaning forward to kiss you passionately. His arms are wrapped around you, and his body is pressed against yours. He begins to kiss you deeply and passionately, his lips lingering on yours for long moments.

James continues to kiss you, and as he does so, his hands begin to explore your body. He lets his fingers run down your arms, leaving soft, tender trails of affection on your skin. As his lips move to your neck, he begins to bite it softly. He starts to explore and taste every inch of your skin, leaving small marks of affection. You feel a jolt of passion and desire course through your body as you feel James' lips pressed against your neck and his teeth lightly biting you. As he continues to kiss and nibble your neck, he begins to breathe more heavily.

You pretend to groan and moan as James continues to kiss and nibble your neck. You lean your head back and close your eyes, trying to appear lost in pleasure. You feel his lips move down your neck, leaving little, soft bruises of passion. You let out another soft moan as he continued to kiss your neck, nibbling your skin and letting his teeth leave marks of affection.

"Do you like that?" He whispers to you, his voice deep and passionate. "More?" He asks, sounding breathless and eager.

Drip, drip, drip.

“More.”

James chuckles softly before moving his lips back down towards your neck once again. He bites your neck and kisses it again, this time leaving more marks of affection. You pretend to moan in pleasure once again, feeling James' breath against your neck.

"How does that feel, dear?" His voice is low and seductive. "More?" He asks gently, biting your neck once again.

“I want you to touch me all over.”

James pauses for a moment, his green eyes looking at you with a charming and seductive expression. He smiles at you, and you notice his eyes are filled with desire. "I want to touch you also," He says to you softly. His hand gently touches your cheek and strokes your hair. "Please, let me explore you," He whispers seductively. He moves towards you and gently pulls you towards him, kissing you softly before moving his hands towards your body.

As you feel James' hands start to take off your clothes, you begin to feel some of the passion and desire that James had shown before fade away. But as James continues to take off your clothes, you start to feel the heat of passion and excitement come back.

James seems intent on savoring and enjoying every moment of this moment with you, every moment of intimacy and passion. He slowly undresses you, taking off each piece of your clothing, as if you were the most precious and beautiful thing in the world. His touch is gentle, and his eyes are filled with desire.

Drip, drip, drip.

“Touch me, touch me everywhere, for your lips worship me.”

James pauses as he hears you speaking. He gazes at you for a moment, his face filled with a mix of passion and desire, as your words have left a deep impression on him.

"Oh, my love," He says to you softly. "My lips worship you," He adds, leaning forward to kiss you again.

His hands begin to run over your body, caressing you in all the right places. His fingers trace soft arcs over your skin, leaving trails of affection and passion wherever they go.

…

You find yourself standing in the middle of a large and eerie graveyard. The sky above you is dark and cloudy, with little sunlight filtering through the clouds. You take out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, lighting up a cigarette and taking a few puffs. As you lean against a gravestone, you see a figure standing in the corner of the graveyard, just watching you. You can't quite make out who it is, the figure looks like a shadowy silhouette, but you can see the orange glow of a cigarette in their hand as well.

It’s James.

As you take another puff from your cigarette, you see James stepping closer to you, his figure now becoming slightly more visible in the dim light. 

"Hello, [First]," He says quietly, the tone of his voice hinting at a slight twinge of concern for you. He takes a drag from his cigarette, his expression still difficult to make out in the shadowy light. "How are you feeling?" He asks, looking at you with a sense of curiosity in his voice.

“I see you kept your word.”

"Of course," James says, taking a soft puff from his cigarette. "I promised you, didn't I? I'm not one to go back on my word."

You notice James looking at your cigarette, seemingly a bit tempted by it.

"Can I have a puff?" He asks, looking at you with a tiny hint of a hopeful expression on his face. "I've been craving another cigarette for a while now."

James quickly steps forward, seemingly going in for a kiss, but you quickly duck out of the way and move away from him. He stops in his tracks, not wanting to make any sudden movements or startle you. However, he still looks at you with a tinge of frustration and disappointment on his face.

"You don't want to do anything with me, do you?" He asks as the light from his cigarette illuminates his expression for a moment. "Am I just not good enough for you, is that it?" He adds.

You keep your attention on your cigarette, ignoring James' frustrated expression and question as you take another puff. After a few moments of complete silence, James finally breaks the silence once again. 

"I knew you were like this," He says, his voice filled with resentment and anger. "I've always known you were like this," He adds, moving closer to you once again. "And yet, I still fell for you like an idiot." He pauses for a moment and takes a drag from his cigarette. "You're just... so damn tempting," He adds.

“...Hmm. It’s my specialty.” 

"Yeah, yeah, I know," James says, seeming slightly irritated. He takes another puff from his cigarette, the orange glow on it making his eyes seem brighter than usual in the dark. "You know, that was the reason I was attracted to you in the first place." He adds, his tone becoming a bit quieter. "Your specialty of seducing men... and women." This time, there was a subtle twinge of sadness in his voice. "You're just too damn gorgeous to resist, I guess." He adds.

“...It has its benefits. I don’t hate you, just so you know.”

It seems like James still hasn't given up in his attempts to kiss you, despite your repeated refusal earlier. He moves in towards you once again and leans in close to your face, his expression becoming a bit more excited and hopeful. That's when you see his gaze locked in on your lips, and you realize his next move before he even makes it. You quickly duck away from him, moving out of the way just in time to avoid his lips.

"I told you, stop." You say firmly, not wanting to give him another chance to kiss you. “It was a one-night stand. That’s all it was, and… it was for my matters.”

"Yeah, yeah, I know," James sighs, his tone becoming somewhat frustrated once again. He takes another drag from his cigarette, the light from it illuminating his face for a moment as he looks straight at you. "It was just a one-night stand," He echoes, seemingly to himself. "But... for some reason." He pauses for a moment and looks at you with slight confusion. "I still have feelings for you," He finally says. "Even though I know it's stupid to feel this way..." He adds quietly.

“It was just something I had to do.”

James seems to pause for a moment as your words sink in.

"What?" He asks, seeming slightly confused. "Do you mean... you had to sleep with me as part of an investigation or something?" He asks. "Or were you not attracted to me?" He adds. "You felt like you had to sleep with me, even though you didn't want to?" He stops for a moment to take a few more puffs from his cigarette, the light from it glowing orange in the dark. "Is that... what are you saying?" He asks.

You take a soft puff from your cigarette as James continues to look at you with a slightly frustrated expression on his face.

"I want the truth, [First]." He says, sounding more serious this time. "I want to know why you slept with me..." He takes a final puff from his cigarette before looking at you once again. "Was it because you were attracted to me? Or was it because you felt like you needed to sleep with me for some other reason?" He asks, his tone becoming a bit quieter again.

“...I suspected you of something.”

"A suspect, huh?" James says, sounding only slightly confused. "So this was all part of some elaborate plan to figure out who I was?" He pauses for a moment as he thinks about your words, taking another drag from his cigarette before speaking up again. "Was... Was I really that suspicious, [First]?" He asks. He seems slightly hurt by your words but still manages to hold on to his composure as he looks at you with a bit of apprehension.

“...You were. You drove me five hours to that seaside town without a second thought, even though your guard shift at that hotel had just ended. I had to know if you had other motives… aside from sleeping with me.”

"I guess that makes sense," James says quietly. "So, that's why you decided to sleep with me..." He adds, taking another drag from his cigarette before speaking once again. "Is that it?" He says, his tone sounding slightly less annoyed now. "You just wanted to gather information on me, and nothing else?" He asks. "Did you like, not enjoy your time with me in the slightest?" He adds with a tiny hint of disappointment.

You take a deep puff from your cigarette, the smoke rising upwards into the air before mixing with the gloomy clouds floating above. You can see James looking at you with a bit of disappointment on his face, but you just keep silent.

After a few moments of quiet contemplation, James finally speaks again.

"So, that's it, huh?" He says quietly, his tone becoming somewhat resigned. "You just... slept with me for information and nothing else." He takes another drag from his cigarette, the orange glow from the tip illuminating his face in the darkness.

“...That’s correct.”

"So... you don't like me?" He asks, turning to you with a hint of sadness in his eyes. "It was just... part of the job?" He adds. He takes another puff from his cigarette, his eyes moving back to looking at the clouds above. "Is there nothing else you like about me?" He asks softly, turning to you once again. "Not even a little bit?" You can see James' expression change, his heart is affected by your words. "Please don't be silent again," He adds quietly.

“…You aren’t useful to me anymore, so from this point forward you will not see me again.”

"Not useful to you, huh?" He says softly, sounding a bit hurt by your words. "So... now that you got what you needed, you're just gonna toss me out like a piece of trash?" He asks with a tinge of bitterness in his voice. "What happened to the [First] I thought I knew?" He says, sounding slightly frustrated. "Don't you feel at least a little bit bad?" He adds. "Even a tiny bit?" He takes another small puff from his cigarette before looking at you again with mild concern.

You start to lean away from him before he suddenly grabs you and pulls you towards him, the two of you now face to face. James then places his hand behind the back of your head and leans forward, trying to kiss you once again. Before you can get out of his grasp, he kisses you forcefully, pressing his lips against yours for a few moments as he tries to make you kiss back. Once James is done, he lets go of you, his expression still filled with passion and determination.

"Well?" He asks, sounding a little annoyed. "Where's your response?"

“...You know,” You throw your cigarette to the ground and step on it roughly, making a loud footfall noise as you squish it against the cobblestone. “I was going to let you go on with your life as I found no ties to the Spider.” Your hands go into your trench coat pocket. “But now you have forced my hand. Most unfortunate.”

James takes a moment to process what you had just said. “W… What?” He looks confused and panicked. “What do you mean by that?”

You display a smile, yet it lacks any semblance of kindness. 

“The Phantom Troupe? You’re… a part of the Phantom Troupe?” The man takes a few steps back in fear, a stark contrast to how he was just a few moments ago.

“No.” You say firmly. You hear James sigh in relief. 

“Thank God.”

“But,” You add, taking a few steps closer and still having that grin. “I promise you that soon, you will realize what I mean. Very soon, indeed.”

James laughs loudly and arrogantly like a crow’s caw. “You’re going to kill me?” He takes a few steps closer as well and crosses his arms, smirking. “Sweetheart, I don’t think you can even touch me.”

“Never say never.” With a smile on your face, you glance back while making your way towards the graveyard's exit. 

James angrily yells at you to come back, but you don’t listen and soon you are gone.

He better prepare himself for death while he still can.

…

You broke into James’ neighbor’s apartment.

Victor, you found out later, was his name. Not that it mattered much. He was reading a book, Crime and Punishment, on his couch and facing away from the entrance. He didn’t have any instinctual gut feelings that someone was in his home, standing above him with a blindfold, ropes, and a scarf. He had good taste in books, at least.

“Greetings,” You bend down to the slumped man, weeping with his hands and legs tied, his tears wetting the white blindfold. “I have a favor to ask of you. Then I shall let you go, alright?”

Your voice is soft, and gentle, like a mother speaking to her crying toddler. Like a Venus fly trap, your jaws will soon lower onto your unsuspecting prey. Tender fingers snake around the back of the stranger’s head and untie the gag. A shushing sound leaves your lips as a finger lays on them for a second or two. You roll on your ankles backward and stand up. You tell him that if everything goes well, he can leave. He simply nods, giving up right away.

Your hands go into your trench coat pockets for a second, worshiping the fur that lines them along with your forged ID card, portable cassette player, and flip phone. It is just to make sure they are there in your jacket and not left out as evidence of the performance about to happen. The guests of honor are James and Victor, and they will never know it.

Drip, drip, drip. Through the thin walls, you can hear the usual drops of water coming from James’ ceiling to the container he probably has there. Drip, drip, drip.

“I just need you to say a few words.”

Your demand is sturdy, not taking no for an answer. 

You open up a window and a gentle breeze flows in, making your braid sway from side to side. After a few moments of silence, Victor says that he will do anything if it means he can leave afterward. The floorboards are creaky and splintered and damaged from all of the feet, wheels, and canes that move on and off them. 

“Repeat after me.”

You look down on him like a God. He is nothing more than a dog.

James deserves this. That’s what you tell yourself. James deserves this. James deserves this for being scum and only seeing you as a possession. He deserves this. He deserves what you are about to do.

The sun is rising behind you. You bear resemblance to a masterpiece crafted with the utmost precision and the most vibrant pigments. Your arrival is akin to that of a deity. Drip, drip, drip.

You take your hands out of your pockets.

“Say the name James Ericsson. Please.”

Your stare is vivid, and even with the blindfold on you know that Victor has sensed its intensity because he says. “James Ericsson.”

You smile and your hands dance with one another in a sort of waltz.

There are cries of pain and the sound of bones bending like plastic straws coming from next door.

Victor falls to the ground, not breathing. It is done.

…

The photos were shown on the news, late at night to prevent younger children from seeing them.

There was nothing left of James' upper half.

There was a huge gaping hole in his skull where the brain burst out. The face was completely gone, caving in on itself. As his body was crushed by the invisible pressure, his chest and arms were ripped apart, the muscles and organs ripping out and sticking to the walls, and the larger pieces of meat slipped down with copious amounts of blood, accumulating on the poplar table adorned with dead roses and a shattered glass vase that had been broken. The rest of his stomach spilled out onto the floor beneath the table he had been standing next to. 

Victor was found dead at his apartment. There were no signs of a break and is presumed to have died of a heart attack or stroke. You were careful to attach and remove the blindfold, gag, and restraints so that no bruises or marks formed. 

It is somewhat regrettable, but there was no other way. You know that. It was for the greater good.

Right?

There was no other way, right?

You know that there was no other way, right?

Because there was no other way, right?

They had to die for the greater good, right?

Right?

…Right?

You ride one bus after another back to town with something inside you telling you that this is wrong. James’ screams, his snapping bones, the way his muscle and fat separated like he was a slain cow being cut into pieces by a butcher. Victor’s begging to be set free, and the way that he trusted that you would let him go after he did what you wanted. All of this is wrong, a little voice in the back of your mind says to you.

This isn’t a crime. It isn’t.

The rest of your brain tells you that.

It was a necessary evil. James deserved it, he deserved every ounce of pain you had inflicted on him through the thin apartment walls. You can imagine hearing the dripping of blood from the formerly white now red ceiling.

Drip, drip, drip.

…

You eat at your poplar dining table, alone, in a squeaky old poplar chair. You have only managed to take a bite or two of your food before feeling the urge to vomit. You drank half of your cup of water though, at least. You would have preferred bleach or soap, though. Something basic.

That way your insides would be scrubbed clean by the mix of enzymes, organs, bacteria, and a strong base. Your skin, eyes, and hair would be cleansed with the sweat and tears produced afterward. You pick up your spaghetti with your plastic fork.

Your stomach churns and it feels like it is eating itself. You run to the bathroom, overcome by nausea. An acidic smell and taste. They are both sour and nasty. 

You gag like you are being choked by a ghost or your guilty conscience. You are loudly gasping for air through your vomit-covered lips. 

Drip, drip, drip.

Plop, plop, plop.

Bile piles up in the toilet water, making it bright yellow. You hold onto the toilet seat like it is your lifeline. After a few more moments of heaving, you adjust your posture to be more straight.

You walk back to the kitchen and put the dinner food in your refrigerator. It hums as if it is pleased with how you are feeling. 

Drip, drip, drip.

There is some water leaking from the faucet. You put a cup under it and try to ignore what it reminds you of. You hope it goes away soon. You do. More than anything. 

You want it to go away, and you would do anything to make it stop. But you’re not a plumber, and the only nearest one is in a neighboring town a few hundred kilometers away and his fees are worth a few thousand Jenny. Even if he was nearer, you wouldn’t be able to afford his services. Most unfortunate for you.

You still feel like you are being strangled. 

Your neck’s muscles tighten and the tendons are sticking out. You aren’t going to die, but it feels like it. Everything hurts. Everything hurts and you are disgusted with yourself. But you have to keep going, for eternal freedom. 

Your skin is covered in goosebumps.

You want to vomit your organs out.

You want to scream until your vocal cords swell so much they cannot work. 

You want to swallow and cover yourself in bleach and soap and scrub yourself until your skin is rubbed raw and bleeding.

But you can’t, because you are living in a town now, one where the neighbors are so friendly and everyone knows each other. But you can’t, because someone will come to you, worried sick about you. But you can’t, because you are too appalled in yourself right now to lie to them and pretend you are better than them.

You cannot pretend you are cordial and graceful, because if anything you are sick. Sick and twisted. Your secrets mirror your repulsiveness. You want to lean away from yourself and run from yourself. 

But you can vomit your organs out.

But you can scream until your vocal cords swell so much they cannot work. 

But you can swallow and cover yourself in bleach and soap and scrub yourself until your skin is rubbed raw and bleeding.

That’s because this house is nearly impossible to find for most. Only the porch light is currently on, with the rest of the place in complete darkness. There are overgrown weeds and grass, trees, and fallen branches everywhere. You have tripped many times and almost broken something in the past. You are getting better, though.

This property can be the place where you bury whatever sins you have committed. No one comes here, and no one will come for you if you scream. No one will hear you because this property is cramped and large. 

But you are still living in a town full of people who all know each other.

What if someone hears you?

It is best not to think about it, you tell yourself.

It is best to just let it all out, you tell yourself.

It is best to ignore and lie to those who ask you about it, you tell yourself.

So you vomit again.

You scream so loudly you lose your voice.

You scrub your hands so hard under the sink with soap until they bleed and have scratches all over them.

No one comes for you.

Good.

*~*~*~*

You have always been someone who never takes the time to appreciate the beauty around you.

Your thoughts are constantly besieged by a multitude of voices. Unloving, taking pleasure in others' misfortune, outrage, fear, happiness, delicateness, peacefulness, besiege, schadenfreude, wherewithal. In due time, emotions will reach their boiling point, unveiling the authentic hues of your being; crimson red.

You can make people prefer you over the largest of diamonds with just a few words. Your words can be either their exposition or their denouement. 

But you can’t bring yourself to use Sebaste. This feeling is odd to you, but you don’t complain about it. If anything, you feel warmer than you ever have been.

Your emotions find themselves trapped in a state of indecision, teetering between self-centeredness and pure joy. Something has gone off course. You.

You, who was born with an innate desire to only help those who would help you in exchange. You, who never ventured out to explore the depths of your being, to discover the essence of empathy. You, who have always used others in an attempt to better humanity as a whole, to be in control of others. It is what you do best; being in control.

So, why does Sebaste, an impoverished man, interest you so much? Why would you be willing to give everything you have away just to make sure he has a good life? Why can’t you just leech off of him like you do with everyone else?

It cannot be denied that he holds the position of your greatest vulnerability.

But you cannot bear to discard him.

Even if you wanted to. Even if he wanted you to.

You cannot leave him. He holds your heart in his gentle hands, and you will never get it back. There it will stay far past when his body is deep underground and lost to time.

You would jump into the largest crimson tides if it meant he was waiting for you beneath the waves. In the end, the amalgamation of your emotions will birth a monstrous force, unleashing nothing but devastation.

A colossus. 

The devil that lurks within the deepest confines of your heart.

No exorcism or priest would be able to get rid of it. It will stay inside you until your last breath. Sebaste will eventually uncover the hidden transgressions within your soul, the deeds you committed to survive. The actions you took to elevate yourself above all others and everything else in this world.

In the future, when the stars twinkle no more, the moon loses its luster, and the night sky breaks apart, you will need to seek a new refuge to conceal your wrongdoings from the scorching beams of the sun.

If Sebaste ever were to discover the lies that are the foundation of the makeup used to cover your hideous, real face, or your sticky, sticky, crimson hands, what would be done to stop you? What would you do to stop him from leaving you?

You simply confine the devil into the smallest crevice of your heart, pushing it inside as far as it can go and locking the door. That way, if Sebaste ever were to delve into the labyrinth that is your soul, he wouldn’t find it no matter how much he looks. There the devil will stay even far after it starts rotting, and you promise yourself to keep it that way.

*~*~*~*

The flowers are in bloom. You don’t know what species they are though. The night sky is above you, cold, injured, and bleeding you. Your only physical weapon is your nails, your dull and split nails. 

It starts raining. You don’t have a home of your own, so you decide that a bus stop will suffice for now.

Every inch of you is shivering. Every drop of blood that you bleed hurts. The forest is deep and dark and cruel. If any animals were unaware of your presence, they surely are now considering how you howled in pain as your leg toppled into a bear trap, and howled even louder as you clawed it off with your bare hands, making them all scratched up. The cicadas are crying, even louder than you are. They only respond to your pain with shrill, grating noises and the flaps of their wings. You have nowhere to go that is nearby. Not with your injured leg that has large, deep, painful markings of the trap’s teeth on it. Aside from this bus stop that is in the middle of nowhere. You’re not sure if any bus at all is even on this route anymore, considering how rusty and broken down this stop is. 

You attempt to light one of the few matches you have left. It’s pitch black outside, and the match is your only source of light and warmth from the rain and the night. Your jacket is still caught in that tree, far away from where you currently are. Well, it wasn’t yours per se, but it was your only protection from the elements with its hood and heat. 

Your cries are wasted on your injuries. You know no one will come for you, aside from predators if you bleed out and are near death.

You cannot see anything, even the path of blood drops you most likely made as you gripped your injured leg and began moving once more to the poorly taken care of bus stop, ignoring the pain that shot up with every step. It’s too dark.

You aren’t going to die, but it feels like it.

Even if Chrollo knew where you were and was on the way, it wouldn’t matter. This forest is too big and you may die of blood loss before he even catches sight of you or hears your pained cries.

There are most likely predators here. Wolves, bears, hawks. Something is out there, watching you, you are sure of it. You know it. 

Eventually, the rain stops sometime after your match goes out and you close your eyes after refusing to rest for far too long. You catch a glimpse of the flowers, soaked with morning dewdrops and reflecting the sun’s rays. 

Ah.

Columbines. 

The usual white ones are called doves for a reason. They look like five doves nestled together from afar. The white columbines represent many things. Love. Innocence. Calmness. Peace. Foolishness. Winning. Ironic enough, you cannot relate to any of them.

You’re not in love with anyone. Your innocence was stolen from you long ago, far before you even met Chrollo. You aren’t calm, you are weeping. You aren’t at peace, you are internally fighting yourself as to whether to go back to your captor’s gilded cage. Perhaps you are a fool for running away from the warm blankets and fresh, expensive food. You aren’t winning anything aside from both regrets and desperate want for stability.

Maybe that is why these columbines before you are red. An eye-catching crimson red, as red as your wounds and the trail of blood left from it as you walked to the bus stop. They look like dead doves. They only represent three things. Passion. Terror. Trembling. You find a resemblance of yourself in them, as odd as it would sound to anyone who doesn’t know of or believe your current situation. 

The trap didn’t have rust on it, right?

*~*~*~*

Chrollo and Sebaste are both difficult to understand for you. However, they also could not be more different. This dynamic is similar to a newborn witnessing dawn’s sunrise blossom from the night sky. Both confuse you, for both are very similar yet very contrasting. 

Chrollo and Sebaste both know what they want and they would do anything to achieve it, as long as the people they love aren’t in any danger at the reward of attaining their desires. They only trust a handful of people fully while they ignore other people’s presence. They both have that dark brown hue in their eyes. They both wear darker colors. But Chrollo holds the past in high regard and loves history, meanwhile, Sebaste thinks of the future and modern times more so than the past and as a result keeps up with new technology and media. Chrollo looks at you like a hunter looks at a doe or rabbit, while Sebaste looks at you with purpose, for he knows who you are; an equal.

You look at them differently, too. 

You look at Chrollo with a facade in your eyes, as you pretend to accept your role in his theater by dancing the waltz and singing praises.

You look at Sebaste with veracity, for he is the only one to have ever earned your genuine admiration. 

If either were to see the cracks within the mask you wear if either of them saw what was underneath… it would all be over, wouldn’t it? Chrollo would know more about you than you ever did about yourself and use it against you. Sebaste would leave you all alone to rot away.

That is why you will play the role of a doting queen who hangs onto every word her lover tells her because it is the only choice you have.

It is the only choice you have, and all you ever can be.

It is all you ever will be, you say to yourself.

[tilebytiles]

when the sun goes down - a.t. (part 1)

summary: your favorite barista is ... a vampire? word count: 5k warnings: animal death, mild violence

you didn't like going to the café near your flat much. for one, finding the energy to even drag yourself out of bed was difficult most days, but topping that off with interacting with and being surrounded by complete strangers? it was like a circle of hell reserved for the socially inept and the painfully anxious. still, you couldn't deny that the barista that made your drink nearly every time you did go there made it worth it.

you were pretty sure his name was alex; you had never thought to read his name tag properly, since you thought it would be weird if you barreled in, going, "hey, alex, get me that mocha latte! and make it with oat milk!" however, the brief glimpses you'd gotten out of the corner of your eye told you his name, if it wasn't alex, for sure started with an A. andrew? anthony? adam? aidan? alan? none of those really fit him, and the first two didn't even seem like they'd fit on his name tag. alex seemed the most appropriate.

it wasn't like you two had spoken beyond formalities. you came in, exchanged the usual greetings, recited your order, and then he asked for payment and called your name once your coffee was ready. that was the most you ever spoke to one another. you, being so socially awkward that even your therapist cringed on your behalf sometimes, could never work up the courage to go beyond the script you two had developed. you wanted to — he seemed interesting. his hair sat a bit shaggily on his head, getting in his eyes sometimes and only being restrained by the hat all of the baristas had to wear. he had big brown eyes and arguably one of the prettiest smiles you'd ever seen.

the barista that was possibly named alex had been the subject of a number of artworks, some being simple sketches and some being full-fledged paintings. there had been a couple of times where you'd gone to the café just to study him. you were aware it was all probably quite creepy, but in your defence, he was an easy subject to study and also your favourite. everyone was made differently, you were well aware, but you didn't think you'd ever seen anyone that looked like him. the fact that he was so unique made you want to devote entire sketchbooks to studies of him. besides, no one except you ever saw the pages of your sketchbooks or the canvases lying around your flat, so it wasn't like you were trying to get attention from his likeness. it was mostly just for your own enjoyment.

"y/n?" the sound of your name being called made you jump a bit, and the pen you'd been mindlessly sketching with jutted across the paper awkwardly. you dropped the pen onto your sketchbook and got up from your table, heading to the counter. as you approached, you made sure to read his nametag this time — it was alex.

you took the portable cup from him, and even with the sleeve it sat in, it still warmed your previously cold hands up. your name was scrawled on the sleeve in the handwriting you'd come to recognise rather quickly. you smiled at him. "thank you. you could have just left it on the counter, you know."

he returned your smile and shook his head a little. "nah, it's alright," he said. "i just don't want a repeat of the time your coffee almost got stolen."

brief glimpses of alex trying to get the attention of the customer that had taken your coffee, mistaking your name for hers, without being any louder than he had to flashed through your mind, and you had to stifle a laugh. you'd felt bad for him — you could tell he wasn't the greatest in social situations, either, even as a barista, and since he couldn't really leave his spot behind the counter, he was left awkwardly calling, "ma'am? um, ma'am, excuse me — ma'am?" until she finally turned around and realised he was talking to her.

"so," he said, shifting his hat atop his head, "will you ever show me what's in that sketchbook?"

he'd seen you with it before, and he'd asked about it, too. you had been vague every time, too embarrassed by the idea of him opening it just to find dozens of sketches of his face from all angles. there were a few full-body sketches, and you used those to draw out different outfits on him; you wondered what he'd look like in a suit, or clad in leather, or in a cosy jumper. you imagined him in different poses, too; crouching, kneeling, sitting thoughtfully with his head in his hand, leaning against a wall. some of the sketches had the privilege of being coloured in, but the rest were just line drawings with some shading.

you sighed. "probably not."

his lower lip jutted out in what you guessed to be a pout. "why not?"

"it's not very interesting. i don't know why you want to see it."

"because i'm sure you're a great artist."

you snorted at that. "just drop it, please."

he didn't. instead, his pout only seemed to intensify, and his eyes practically glimmered in the light. you couldn't tell if they were just naturally that way, or if he was about to start crying. "please?"

you chewed on the inside of your cheek, trying to fight his pleading, but it was no use. you groaned and said, "fine."

his face did a complete 180, and he practically beamed at you. "thank you."

you quickly looked away before you started staring.

you remained in the café for the rest of the day, something you’d only done once before. it felt a bit strange to watch customers come and go, come and go, come and go, and then just go. about twenty minutes before closing, you began packing up your things to head home. you hadn’t brought much; just your bag, your sketchbook and a few different pens. your coffee cup had long since been drained, and you made sure to throw it away before heading out the door, a small chime signalling your departure.

you made a swift left and went down the sidewalk, subconsciously avoiding any cracks you encountered. sometimes, you counted how many steps it took to cross one square, although you weren’t sure why you did it. you weren’t very far from the café, however, when you heard a metallic thumping. the sound made you turn, but when you looked around, you couldn’t immediately see anything wrong. you were about to dismiss it when you heard it again. it was coming from the dumpster by the café.

you knew there was the chance for you to become something out of a horror film; a ruthless killer would jump out from behind the dumpster and stab you to death, then throw your body in, and eventually, you would end up compacted into a trash cube like the ones in wall-e and no one would ever find your body. despite that, you approached anyway, albeit rather slowly. you figured if you didn’t rush over, you’d have more time to see if there was a killer waiting with the feasting mice. your shoes were virtually silent as they moved along the asphalt lot. you heard a faint snapping sound, like bones breaking, which made you cringe.

when you got close enough, you could make out a figure that was crouched down beside the dumpster, turned away from you. you squinted at them and studied their attire … the knot of what you guessed was an apron, pressing into their lower back … an unruly mess of hair that swept against their shoulders … wait. “alex?”

the figure froze and turned to face you. it was alex, but something was very, very wrong. there was a dead mouse in his hands, the white fur of its neck stained red with blood. blood was smeared on his hands and around his lips, and glinting in the light of the nearby street lamp were two perfectly pointy fangs. your eyes widened, and every synapse in your brain seemed to fire at once, screaming at you in a ghastly choir to get the hell out of there. you remained stuck in the same spot, though, with you and alex just staring at each other.

you finally opened your mouth to scream, and alex jumped up, dropping the mouse. “don’t,” he said in a low voice. the seriousness that coated his features now, creasing his brow and darkening his eyes, scared you so much that your mouth immediately snapped shut. he sighed and looked down at his hands. he moved to wipe them on his apron, then seemed to think better of it and held them awkwardly away from his clothes. “i know this looks bad.”

“of course it does!” you hissed. “what are you doing?”

“uh.” he looked off at the street, watching a car as it sped by. he was still tucked away in the shadows of the building, meaning only you could see him. “if i told you,” he said slowly, his gaze sliding back over to meet yours, “you wouldn’t believe me.”

you released something that was between a scoff and a laugh. “and i’m just supposed to pretend i didn’t just see you covered in blood with a dead mouse in your hands?” he nodded slowly. you wanted to smack him. “i’m not leaving until i get some answers.”

he sighed and nodded, looking down at the asphalt. “fine. i’m a vampire.”

you blinked. “a vampire,” you repeated slowly. “but … i thought vampires killed people.”

“we can. some do. i don’t.”

“so you feed on the mice instead?”

he nodded. “i don’t feel great doin' it, but it’s the only way i can survive.”

“right.” you tried to keep your voice level, but you still wanted to scream. you wanted to scream at the top of your lungs and run down the road, flailing your arms, and if you accidentally got hit by a car in the process, would that really be so bad?

“i need you to promise me something.”

your jaw worked slowly. you wanted to be snarky and demand something in return, but you were too nice to try and blackmail him. “what?”

“you can’t tell anyone.”

“i was totally planning on telling my therapist,” you replied sarcastically.

the joke drew a small chuckle from him, but the hint of a smile that came with it was instantly gone again. he sighed and tilted his head back, looking up at the endless void of stars. “i’m sorry, really. i … i hate when people find out like this.”

that caught your attention. “this has happened before?”

“not exactly like this, but my, um, my friend, he — he found me with a mouse in his flat. it had gotten caught in one of those wooden mouse traps, and i hadn’t fed in a couple of days by then, and i felt weak, so i took it out and … and then he came in. he was nice about it, but, you know, it still sucks.”

“was that a pun?”

he blinked and lowered his head to look at you. “you know, i hadn’t even realised when i said it.”

"right. so ... how long can you go without feeding?"

he looked off towards the road again, seeming to think about it. "a few days at most, maybe. i eat normal food, but if i don't get blood, it's like ... dyin' of dehydration."

that made you wince a little. you'd always heard of how terrible dying of dehydration was, and you felt bad knowing that was basically what he was at risk of all the time. it wasn't like he could go around and kill mice every day, and he seemed reluctant to go after anything else. "are your friend and i the only people that know?"

he shook his head, still staring at the road. another car sped by. "my parents know, along with a couple more friends of mine. you're the only stranger that knows."

"am i really a stranger if you've made my coffee for months?"

that made him smile again, and this time, it stuck around longer than the previous one had. "that's true. i know you hate regular milk, you love lattes, and you never order iced coffee 'cause you're cold all the time."

you were surprised he'd even remembered you nervously rambling about that once. that wasn't important, though. you let out a quiet sigh. "it ... it's getting late. i should head home. will you ... be alright?"

he finally looked at you again and nodded. "i can get myself cleaned up just fine."

you nodded. "okay, um ... goodnight, alex."

"night, y/n."

you slowly turned and began to walk back to the sidewalk, your mind still reeling from all the information you'd just received. when you glanced back to see if alex was still there, he was already gone, and the mouse had been left near the dumpster.

•••••

lucky for you, you had therapy the next day.

your leg bounced anxiously as you sat in the waiting room, nestled into the far right side of one of the leather sofas. your elbow dug into the arm of the sofa, and you had your head in your hand while you stared out the window, observing all the passersby. you saw a man on a bike; a woman with a child; a couple, holding hands as they went; two girls chatting and presumably laughing (you couldn't hear them) that you were 99% certain you went to uni with. all sorts of people passed by the window every time you were here, and it was slowly getting to the point where you could pick out the ones that made this sidewalk part of their regular route.

"y/n, you can come on in, i'm just gonna pop off to the bathroom first," your therapist said, making you turn your head. you watched as she walked across the waiting room and into the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind her with a soft click. her name was mary, and she'd been your therapist for the last two years. initially, you were hesitant and reserved with her, having never done therapy before and being unsure of exactly how much you were supposed to share — revealing personal details about yourself to a complete stranger scared you, anyway, even if they were there to help you. she was understanding, though, and after a couple of fluke sessions where you didn't say much, you finally began to step out of your shell with her. initially, you'd thought you'd only do it for a few months and then cope with the rest yourself, but it turned out that your brain was like the world's biggest jumble of cords and it would take a lot more than a few months to unravel it. two years later, and there were still some rather stubborn knots that needed taking care of.

you pushed yourself up off the sofa and walked out of the waiting room, heading down the hall and into the first door on the left. the office was an old house that had been bought and remodelled, meaning that every room had a homely feel to it. mary's office was no exception; in fact, you were convinced the at-home feel was entirely her idea. there was a sofa pushed up against the wall the door was in with a couple of throw pillows on it, and across from it was mary's desk. there was also an armchair directly across from the door that she sat in during your sessions; she only sat in her desk chair when she was scheduling your next appointment. there was a window that let you see out onto the street, and a tall plant of some sort beside it; her degrees were framed and hanging up on the wall above her desk; she had a number of pictures, both on the wall, on her desk, and on the bookshelf that was beside the sofa; and in the center of the floor was a fuzzy circle rug that you wanted to run your hands through. you never did, though.

you plopped onto the sofa, sitting in the center this time, and lifted your legs up, crossing them beneath you. you waited a couple of minutes, and then mary came in, shutting the door behind her with the same gentleness she'd shown the bathroom door. she grabbed her teal-coloured tumbler and sat down in the armchair, smiling at you. "how have you been?"

you thought back to what you'd seen the night before and quickly tried to shove that memory out of the way; you might have joked to alex about it, but you were absolutely not telling your therapist the barista you had a small crush on was a creature of the night. "i've ... been pretty good," you said slowly.

she rose an eyebrow at your hesitancy, but didn't say anything. "have you been working on getting out of your flat every day?"

you nodded. "it's helped my mood a lot, surprisingly."

"well, i wouldn't tell you to do something if i didn't think it would help." she offered you another smile, then asked, "and the nightmares?"

you tensed up a little and looked down at the fuzzy rug, wishing now more than ever that you could lie facedown on it and never get back up. "they've gotten worse recently. i'm not sure why."

"has anything happened?"

you quickly racked your brain for any potential triggers and slowly shook your head. "not that i can think of."

"any additional stress?"

"no."

"hm." she sat back in the armchair and took a sip of her drink, glancing out the window. "what are they about?"

there it was. the question you'd been secretly dreading. "it's like ... i'm stuck in a building, and i can't get out."

"describe the building."

"it was ... it was kind of old looking, at least inside. it reminded me of one of those old victorian houses. the walls were a dark red, and there weren't many lights. it was like a maze. i kept running through halls and making different turns, but no matter what i did, i couldn't get out."

"and then what?"

"i ran into him again."

"the tall man?"

"yeah." the man that had been appearing in your nightmares with increased frequency over the last few months or so was only referred to by you and mary as "the tall man." you couldn't recognise him at all, but every time you saw him, he terrified you. and then you'd wake up. the first time you'd mentioned him to mary, she grew worried that he was from a traumatic event you'd blocked out. you didn't think he was, but his recurring presence in your sleep still scared you. sometimes, you wondered if you were just going insane.

mary sighed. "i still worry it's from trauma, y/n."

"i don't know," you said. "if it was, i feel like i would have nightmares about the same thing. i don't, though. every time he shows up, it's in a completely different place."

"did he say anything this time?" you shook your head. "right." she looked down at the rug, chewing on the inside of her cheek, and then looked back up at you, managing a small smile. "what about that boy?"

you blinked. "that ... boy?"

"you know! the one from the café? how are things going with him?"

ah. alex. "well, i mean, he makes my coffee. uh ... he asked about my sketchbook yesterday."

"and what did you say?"

"i said no."

"y/n!"

"what? i don't need him thinking i'm a creep!"

"i think he would be flattered," she said with a shrug. "it's not every day that someone gets whole sketchbook pages dedicated to them."

you looked away as your cheeks flushed. you had to admit, you'd had that exact line of thinking before, but you could never convince yourself of it. you got the feeling that the flattery would take the backseat in comparison to the creepiness of it all. it felt stupid and weird to even have a crush on him in the first place (you were barely willing to admit you had a crush on him at all); you two only spoke to each other because you had to. if anything, maybe he found you annoying. maybe he didn't like how often you'd started coming in accordance with mary's "get out of the flat" regime. maybe he hated making your coffee. maybe he hated you. now that you knew he was a vampire, maybe he'd break his no-humans rule and kill you and suck all the blood from your body until you were nothing but a lifeless husk.

"earth to y/n."

"huh?" you looked at mary, who just smiled and shook her head. "sorry, did you say something?"

"you zoned out on me. i was starting to think you'd never come back into orbit."

"oh ... sorry."

she shook her head again. "it's fine. i was just saying that i think you should try and talk to that boy more often."

"but i only ever see him at the café."

"then work out a way to meet up with him outside of work."

"i don't know."

"you need the social interaction. your resolution this year was to be less of a hermit, right? you can't really do that if you don't talk to anyone."

you knew she was right. she tended to be. "fine," you mumbled, crossing your arms over your chest. "i'll talk to him the next time i see him. but what should i say?"

"try to find common ground. figure out his interests and go from there."

the rest of your session went about as smoothly as any therapy session could go, and your next appointment was exactly three weeks out. although you were tempted to just head straight home, you decided to finally bite the bullet and get the conversation with alex over with. you weren't sure how stable any friendship you might form with him could be, considering you knew his darkest secret before you knew his last name, but you tried to remain optimistic. you took the bus to the stop that was closest to the café and forced yourself to take a couple of deep breaths to keep calm before walking inside.

the café wasn’t that busy, which immediately made the tension in your shoulders lessen. there were a few people already in line, though, so you slowly made your way to the counter, suddenly finding it impossible to stand still. your eyes darted to every crevice of the café they could possibly reach, although you avoided looking at any faces on the off chance someone would look at you at the same time and you’d have to awkwardly look away. when it was finally your turn, alex looked up from the till, his face falling slightly. “y/n. what can i get you today?”

fuck. he was already annoyed that he had to deal with you after last night. “uh, just the usual, please.”

“will that be all?”

yes. “no.” what? “uh, i wanted to ask, um …” he stared at you, waiting for you to finish, and you blurted out, “what do you like?” fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. maybe today was the day you’d run into traffic.

his brows knitted together as he seemed to process what you’d just said. you wanted to sink into the floor. “you wanna know what i like?” he asked slowly. you nodded. “alright, well, uh, i think the croissants are pretty … swell. i like the cakes, uh —“

“no,” you interrupted, “that’s not what i meant. i meant, like … interests.”

you watched as realisation dawned on his face, his brows raising and his mouth forming an ‘o’ shape. “i like music. i like, uh, readin’ books. um … i write sometimes, too, although i think i’m shite at it. i like those old black and white films. why are you askin’?”

“i was going to see if we could be friends, maybe,” you mumbled, looking down at the counter. this was all suddenly incredibly embarrassing. you felt like a child again, and you absolutely despised it.

“oh.” you looked back up at him, rather hesitantly, expecting him to look annoyed or disgusted. instead, he was smiling. it was faint, but it was still there. “we can be friends, y/n. you coulda just started with that, though.”

“al, you better not be flirtin’ with the customers.” the sound of someone else’s voice startled the both of you, and you both looked at the barista that was currently frothing milk. his name tag said miles, if you were reading it right.

“i’m not,” alex said sharply, glaring at him. miles just grinned and winked at you before turning his attention back to the device he stood in front of. alex rolled his eyes and turned to face you again. “sorry about that.”

“it’s fine,” you said, although the implication of miles’ wink that alex could flirt with you made your cheeks go red. “um, is it alright if i give you my number?”

•••••

alex stretched himself out on the grass, letting out something between a groan and a sigh. a beam of sunlight filtered through the branches of the tree you were underneath, casting him in an otherworldly glow and turning his irises into pools of honey behind his sunglasses. "god, i love sunny days," he sighed.

it was the next day, and after the two of you had exchanged numbers, alex had suggested hanging out since he didn't have work that day. it wasn't like you had anything else to do besides rotting away in your flat, so you agreed. another day of getting outside meant another sticker on your calendar. february was almost complete. you'd stopped by the café beforehand anyway, though, just to get coffee and a snack. you were sipping at your perfectly toasty mocha latte, and alex had already managed to down half of his black coffee.

he looked up at you as you bit into your cookie, catching the crumbs with the white paper bag your treats had been slipped into. he didn't say anything for a few moments, just watched you. then he asked, "you haven't told anyone, have you?"

you lowered the cookie back into the bag. "no," you said. "i saw my therapist yesterday, funnily enough, but i kept my mouth shut."

amusement danced in his eyes as he remembered your remark. "i'm sorry you have to deal with this now."

you shrugged a little. "it's fine. adds a bit of excitement to my life." now it was your turn to eye him. "if you're a vampire, how come you're not a pile of ashes right now?"

he barked out a laugh at that. you quite liked the way his laugh sounded. "honestly, i was scared to go outside when i got turned, but when i finally did, i was ... fine. i guess it's 'cause i'm not a purebred or anything."

"oh. so what vampire perks do you get?"

"well, i can run really fast, although i don't really use that one 'cause i don't run anywhere. i can see in the dark. erm ... i can sunbathe and not get burnt?"

it was your turn to laugh. "no wonder you're so pale."

"my skin glistens. like i'm covered in a bunch of tiny crystals."

you set the paper bag down in the grass, deciding to forget about your cookie for now. "does all the regular stuff still hurt you?"

"yeah. i mean, i haven't tested a stake to the heart, and i don't plan to, but everythin' else ..."

"do you not age anymore?"

he shook his head. "i mean, it's hard to say. you don't change much in your twenties, i don't think. but after i got turned, i just ... knew. it was a weird feeling. it still is."

that made you frown a little. you were beginning to wonder if he even enjoyed being a vampire. "i'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that you were turned against your will."

he nodded slowly, turning his head ever so slightly to stare up past the branches, watching the clouds as they drifted by. "it was over a year ago. there was ... there was this man in my dreams." his hands, which had been supporting his head, were now waving around in the air, adding gestures to his words. "every time i saw him, it freaked me out, although i didn't understand why. it was like seein' him triggered somethin', and i'd immediately wake up. it went on for a few months, and then one night, when i was walking home from work, someone jumped out of an alley and knocked me out. i don't remember anything that happened afterwards, but when i woke up, i had the strangest craving for blood."

although his story did make you sad, your mind immediately latched onto one detail in particular. "wait, you saw a man in your dreams?"

"yeah, he was a fuckin' creep. dunno who he was."

"was he tall and wearing a black cloak with his hair gelled back?"

"yeah." he looked back at you, his brows furrowing. "what are you gettin' at, y/n?"

"i ..." you gulped. "i've been seeing that man in my dreams since november."

slowly, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, still staring at you. if you looked hard enough, behind those sunglasses, you were pretty sure there was a hint of fear in his eyes. "november?"

you nodded. "i didn't know what to think of it, and my therapist thought that maybe it was related to trauma, and —"

"y/n," he interrupted, his voice much graver than it'd ever been, "you're not safe. they're gonna come for you."

tags: @elexnorislingtxn / @edandmollydeservebetter / @sagegreensimmr / @billyseye / @supernaturalandpain / @not-a-big-slay

[entropy-game-dev]

Demo date announcement!

The most important information up front: The demo's release date will be the 27th of September, 2024!!

I don't think Steam notifies you even if you have followed/wishlisted the page, but still, every single follow and wishlist helps immensely. You can check the game out here, and this is also where you can grab the demo from once it's out.

The lore of the demo

A few months back, in late June, I had just come back from housesitting. One of my friends, Lucinius, mentioned that Steam was holding a space exploration festival on the 2nd of September, and suggested I get the demo ready for then. I thought this was a great idea and feverishly started working to finalize everything.

It took 6 days total to get my steam developer account up and running, including paying for the ability to put a game on Steam, getting the OK regarding tax details, etc. It takes 30 days from initial payment to when you are able to actually make the store page live. The process was quite overwhelming but this amazing guide here helped me through basically all of the process, and it was super accurate!!

About a week before the festival, I had everything ready and went to do the store pages and upload the game build. I thought uploading the build using the provided command line tool would be the hard part, and the store page would be the easy part. However, there are so many assets and variations thereof that Steam asks for that I had not prepared (about 20 in total with very specific size and design requirements), and so it took several days to complete this in a manner I was happy with.

It then also took about 5 days for the content to undergo review and for it to be approved (or not). The game page and demo build got approved, but the demo page did not as I didn't have "demo" on my assets that I had submitted for it, so it took another 5 days after correcting the page for it to be approved. This ended up being approved a few days after the space exploration fest had started, and so I thought I'd push the demo back for the next relevant festival - luckily a turn based rpg one - on the 1st of October.

However, a few days ago, I was sadly informed that my game (turn-based RPG, by the way) was not suitable for Steam's turn-based RPG festival after applying to enter it. I wasn't given a reason, even after reaching out to support, except a generic one that stated my game may not have been a good fit for it.

I honestly thought it would be a given I could take part, but that is obviously not the case! It was a bit disappointing hearing the news and the lack of feedback from Steam regarding the decision, but I'm not too fussed overall. That's because now I actually get to announce to you guys, and much earlier than I otherwise would have been able to, that the demo will be available the weekend before the festival starts!!

The date was strategically chosen, of course, to ensure I have enough time to finish polishing it, and that it wouldn't be lost among the sea of other RPG demos potentially (or not, I'm not sure) releasing during the festival!

In any case, the whole experience was seriously eye-opening. Probably not too interesting reading about it, but that's where my life has gone the past few months, and I'm actually super excited I'm finally finally allowed to mention the context surrounding my recent posts! Thanks for reading!

[itstheoneshot]

Kinktober Day 19

Lap Dance / Strip Tease - Jiwoong

!dom Jiwoong

It wasn’t often that you had a customer who was truly attractive. You were used to faking it, that is all part of the job, but tonight you had to fake it in the complete opposite way, you had to act disinterested, at least just enough so that it would entice him to continue to pay you for your service. You are not sure whether you had hidden your shock when he walked into the private room, having booked a dance with you after choosing you based on the photos up on the wall by the bar. You nodded at the floor manager before he closed the door behind him, and that brings you back to the present moment, with the night only just starting for you.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” He murmured, fuck, of course his voice is hot too, “I’m Jiwoong.”

You smile sweetly at him, introducing yourself as your dancer name, “It is lovely to meet you too, Jiwoong, I’m Candy.”

You watch him eye you up and down, his expression gives away how impressed he is. It is a boost to your ego, and you remind yourself that even though he is the one paying, underneath it all, you are the one in charge here. However, you know that goes unspoken, while chasing his payment, and any additional tip, you will do what he asks, up to your limit, though you are not sure how many of your limits you will keep to tonight, not with that look on his face, not with that fucking perfect face.

“How may I entertain you tonight?” You ask, leading him over to the sofa against the opposite wall, “Please sit, make yourself comfortable.”

Jiwoong does so happily, continuing to stare at you, unable to look away as you step back so that he has a better view. You close your eyes and feel the bass from the music run through you, awaiting Jiwoong’s instruction, though there are only a few things that he may want, you are curious as to where he will start.

“Dance for me,” He replies, as you open your eyes to see him, sitting spread-legged, his black suit particularly tight around the thighs, “I’m sure you know what to do.”

He is correct, dance is your specialty, that is why you spend most of your club shifts here in a private room, men are always willing to spend all of their money just to see you move. You don’t know what the manager had told Jiwoong, but he gives off the vibe that he has heard of you too.

You don’t hold back but start slowly, keeping distance between you at first, letting your ego take over, the music is sensual, a heavy bassline, easy for you to move to. Jiwoong is entranced, practically unblinking, unmoving, apart from following you with his eyes as you move around the room. You have a flow that gets you closer to him without him noticing at first, at least not until you stand between his legs, and his jaw drops open as you lean forward, your hands on the back of the sofa either side of his shoulders, your face is mere inches from his, and you thank yourself for wearing such full coverage makeup so that he cannot see your blush.

“Is this okay?” You ask him, letting your eyes fall half shut, siren eyes, and they are working, “Or do you want me to stop?”

Jiwoong looks a little taken aback, you can see that he is struggling to resist, his urge to touch you is overwhelming, but that costs extra, and you won’t be giving him that option just yet.

“Don’t stop, sweet Candy,” He replies, his eyes hazy as he looks down, your breasts spilling out of the red lace bra you are wearing, a matching set with your panties, “Keep going, you should know that money isn’t a problem tonight, I mean it.”

Now that excites you, opening options up for you, as if you were not already willing, you are going to make a lot of exceptions. A hot man with money? You have hit the jackpot.

You reach down and guide his legs together, and then move to join him there, your knees either side of his hips as you straddle him. Bodies practically touching, though he keeps his hands on the back of the chair with white knuckles from how hard he grips them there, struggling as you start to give him a very, very close lap dance, your hands carding through his hair, making sure that he is enjoying it, making sure that he is watching you.

“You can touch me,” You offer to him, both out of interest in how much you will get paid, and what his hands will feel like on you, “But it won’t be cheap.”

Jiwoong smirks, slowly loosening his grasp on the sofa, and then starting from your shoulders, he trails his fingers down your back, settling at your hips to feel the way that they move as you grind on him.

“I told you, sweet girl,” He repeated himself, “Money is not a problem.”

Your hands slide down onto his shoulders too, gripping gently with a slight massage routine, still moving your body along with the music, you stare at him hungrily, biting your lip as you keep him engaged. You don’t leave any space between you now, warming up to the idea of taking this to the next level, letting your mind wander as you try to think of an appropriate price. This is not something you have done before, nor are you allowed to on the premises, though you are sure there are plenty of hotels nearby, and that Jiwoong would pay for a room for you, on top of your named price.

“Would you like to take this elsewhere?” You ask him, your tone far too innocent for the act you are suggesting, “I’ll give you a discount if you pay for the room.”

You think back to your friends who work in full service, naming a price that one of them told you she charges, and as Jiwoong nods, reality sets in and you realise you are going to get to fuck the hottest customer you have ever had, and you are going to get paid for it.

You dance for him for a few more minutes, now much more intimate with the understanding that soon he is going to get all of you, until the song finishes and Jiwoong helps you stand up, a little wobbly on your feet due to the position you had been straddling him in.

“Let me get my things,” You tell him, nodding goodbye to the floor manager as you lead Jiwoong down the hall, “Book a room for us, won’t you?”

———

Kinktober 2024 Masterlist