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

[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.

[pineconepie]

This was an Octavian commission! It was meant to be only 500 words, but I got a little carried away ^^;

TW: Vampire feeding, blood, parental yandere

Usually, when Octavian would put you to bed, you didn't want to fight with him on it. After all, it seemed only respectful, given the fact he's so graciously welcomed you into his home without expecting any payment or favor in return. Sure, he can be a little odd at some times, but you figured that was simply part of his nature.

One night, however, you stare at the ceiling, unable to sleep. You're exhausted after a long day of work and moving about Octavian's large house as though it is your own, yet you cannot get your mind to settle down enough to rest.

You decide grabbing a quick snack from the kitchen couldn't hurt. Octavian had insisted that this house was yours to go wherever you please, as long as it isn't outside. So, it wouldn't matter too much if you were to eat something and head back to bed. You quietly open your bedroom door and walk down the stairs, careful not to trip.

The kitchen is dark and empty. You rummage through the cabinets, looking for some of the cookies Octavian had made for you not too long ago, when you hear a cry of pain.

It startles you. You jolt slightly, looking around. It didn't sound like Octavian, it sounded like someone outside...

Is someone hurt?

You leave the cookies on the counter and grab one of the nearby lanterns and a kitchen knife just in case, before quickly exiting the house. If someone's injured outside, it'd only be right to help them. Your heart hurts to think someone might be in a similar situation as you. And surely, with Octavian being such a kind person, would want you to help them too, right? You make your way through the dense brush behind the house, searching for any sign of movement or human life.

The wails become louder as you get deeper and deeper into the woods, eventually becoming clear enough for you to understand what they're saying.

"Please," cries a voice from somewhere far away. "Please... don't hurt me! I have money, take it! Just don't...!"

"Stop screaming already, you're giving me a headache..."

You freeze at hearing Octavian's familiarly calm tone.

In an opening between the trees, you see Octavian looming over someone. It takes you a second to process exactly what is going on. You first assume he's trying to help the man, that your eyes are surely just playing tricks on you.

Even if you've only known Octavian for a fairly small amount of time, you don't want to believe he'd ever hurt anyone.

Yet, his fangs sink further into the person's neck as the seconds pass. The two are completely unaware of your presence. Octavian's body completely hovers above them, drinking from their bleeding skin.

Their scream of pain dies in their throat.

Octavian pulls away a minute after they've stopped screaming, sighing deeply. "I forgot how much humans bleed..." he mumbles as he wipes at the blood now covering his face, only smearing it even more.

Without thinking, you take a step backwards, leaves crunching beneath your feet.

Octavian turns sharply. His eyes go wide at seeing you standing there with a horrified expression plastered across your features. For a split second, the two of you can do nothing except stare at each other silently. The chill air of night makes goosebumps rise up on your flesh.

"(Y/n)," he breathes out. He slowly stands, hands up in a display of peace. "Please, don't run. It's okay. There is no need to be afraid, I would never hurt you."

"You're a..." You feel a panic attack coming on. Your heart beats hard against your ribcage, lungs straining. "No. Stay back!"

"I know," Octavian says soothingly as he advances toward you. "I know it's all so much right now, but everything is alright." He wipes at his face again with his handkerchief, this time clearing off all traces of blood on his face. "I know you're scared, but think logically, love. If I wanted to hurt you, I've had several opportunities to do so, yes? Yet I never did. You are completely safe here. Safe and cared for..."

He opens his arms to invite you closer, beckoning you into a hug.

But you don't. You take slow steps back. You know you can't run; not only do you have nowhere to go, but even if you did escape, Octavian could catch you easily.

"How many?" you croak. "How many have you killed?"

Octavian hesitates. "Not many at all, I promise you. This... fellow, was a bad person. Harassing all the other townsfolk in the area, always getting drunk and causing trouble... And when I found him wandering too close to our home, well... I just couldn't stand the thought of him coming near you. I refuse another person to hurt anyone I love. Please understand."

Not really having many options, you mutter, "I'm... going back inside. Please don't talk to me." Your voice breaks halfway through.

Before he can reply, you spin around and rush back inside the house without looking back once.

...

As soon as you make it inside, you lock yourself in your room. With tears pricking at the corners of your eyes and adrenaline rushing through your veins, you throw yourself on your bed, burying your face in pillows and blankets as if they'll protect you from reality. You desperately try to steady your breathing while curling up into a ball.

You wish this is all a terrible nightmare. But then again, who could dream something this horrid?

Octavian had always been kind. At least, as far as you knew, he'd always acted as though he had your best interests in mind. To think he lied to you for so long...

The rest of the night, you're unable to fall asleep.

...

When you don't come out of your room the next day, Octavian is now beyond worried.

He knocks on your door. "(Y/n), dear, I brought you lunch... though I suppose it's technically dinner now." There's no response. It only causes his anxiety to grow further. "Love, if I could speak to you about yesterday, I'd like to clear things up..."

Still no answer.

"I'm coming in."

The door is locked, but he manages to unlock it himself. His powers have granted him with enough strength to open it despite the resistance, and though it causes some damage to the locking mechanism, that isn't what worries him most right now. Inside, you're sitting up on your bed, glaring out your window rather than at him.

Wordlessly, he sets down the plate of food on the bedside table for you. When he sees the dried tears on your cheeks, his heart breaks for you.

"What is that?" you ask suspiciously, towards the plate of food. Your voice is still hoarse.

"Just some sandwiches," Octavian replies softly.

"Are you gonna eat me?" you whisper.

Octavian shakes his head. "Oh, my love... my dearest sunshine, no. Of course not." He reaches out and gently places his hand upon yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Never in a million years. Never in eternity would I hurt you, understand? That will never change."

You reluctantly eat, and you have to admit, it's good. You feel tired after eating, but you suppose not having a day of sleep will also do that to you.

"You look exhausted," Octavian sighs. "You haven't slept a bit, have you?"

You shake your head, avoiding eye contact.

"Can I put you to bed?"

After a beat of hesitation, you give a small nod. He smiles gratefully, putting your plate back on the nightstand. With practiced ease, he tucks the blankets around you snugly. His fingers comb through your hair as he presses a kiss against your forehead.

And though you're still upset, the comfort makes you start to drift off regardless. A part of you feels safe. Even though Octavian had hurt someone, he hadn't hurt you. If he wanted to, he had more than enough opportunities to do so.

He hums a soft song. It's quiet, but soothing, coaxing your eyes shut. You nestle yourself closer to him.

"There's no need to be scared of anything, little one," Octavian coos. "I will not let harm come to you, as long as I live. Nothing could stop me from protecting you."

Exhaustion takes over, and you find yourself content in his embrace. For just a moment, you try not to think about everything that has happened. Just for this moment, you allow yourself to forget all the horrors you saw earlier, even if it means cuddling up to the vampire that caused them. You tell yourself you'll deal with everything tomorrow.

"Goodnight, sweetheart. Papa loves you so, so very much."

[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.

[failbettergames]

"It is the season for affection, is it not?" Mr Spices' voice is high and fluting. It waves a shawl-enshrouded hand airily in the direction of the Bazaar. "It is incumbent upon us to ensure that the city is a fertile bed for budding romance."

The Feast of the Rose is here! A festival bursting with affectionate activities, nuptial phantasies, burgeoning romance… and shot through with scorn. Tend to the business of your heart through 'Celebrate the Feast of the Exceptional Rose', available throughout London.

Join the Revels!

Take part in the festivities to gain Masquing, which can be later spent on rewards. Exchange gifts of love (or disdain, or mysterious yet enticing indifference) with other players. Keep your gifts – or trade them for Masquing!

As always, additional Masquing can be obtained with Fate, which unlocks further options.

A Task for Mr Spices

This year, Mr Spices has taken a direct interest in the festivities, and believes that true love might need a little helping hand in order to take proper root. Many things might act as catalysts – a rousing play, a touching story, a thoughtful gift. Even violence, when deployed properly, has its uses.

For the duration of the Feast, select activities in and around London have new options that pay out in a new quality – Burgeoning Romance – in addition to their usual rewards. Trade your Burgeoning Romance with Mr Spices to receive additional payment, in the form of items that can be used to send gifts to friends during Feast-time.

These activities are:

A new play at Court

A new plant in Vertiginous Horticulture

A new Theft of Particular Character in the Flit

A new laboratory experiment

A new duel when 'Getting into other fights' for the Black Ribbon'

A new expedition in the Forgotten Quarter

The Lady in Lilac

"You are desired," she says. "Give me the proof of it, and I'll make arrangements."

Starting on February 13th, the mysterious 'Lady in Lilac' card will appear, allowing you to exchange your Feast gifts for Masquing.

Meet New Faces

Every year, the Feast brings new companions to Fallen London. Starting next week, on February 13th, you will be able to spend your Masquing to attract companions from Feasts past, as well as four new companions:

Break up a brawl with Old Resurrection

Explore the flexibilities of the human condition with the Analgesic Rhetorician

Face off to the pain with the Whispering Duellist

Consider the manifold delights of the Koloman Republic with the Sun-Kissed Polymath

Those last two can be unlocked with Fate.

Matrimony!

This year we've added upgrades to several more spouses: A Bewildering Procession of Companions, Suitors, Lovers and Paramours, and the Cultural Attaché and Attachee, as well as the Devout, Conspiratorial and Academic Intriguers. Support the Procession as they seek to deepen their connection in honeyed dreams, or lend your skills to your spouses from Wilmot's End in order to make your spouses more powerful.

The upgrade for the Procession costs 20 Fate, and can be found in Your Lodgings once you are married.

The Attaché, Attachee and Intriguers can all be upgraded for free from their unique opportunity cards.

Skin-bound Memories and Nuptial Phantasies!

How better to prove your devotion than through permanent ink? High time for a visit to Clathermont’s Tattoo Parlour! Make your way to Ladybones Road to complete the story of the Clathermont family, as long as you have reached level 4 or higher in A Name in Seven Secret Alphabets. Tattoos will become available from the 13th of February.

Also available during the Feast of the Exceptional Rose: Nuptial phantasies! Obtain custom-tailored dreams of nuptial bliss (or marital discord) with some of your favourite Fallen London characters. Find these by visiting the Shopkeeper in Viric, in Veilgarden.

Meet your Destiny!

You can obtain a Destiny or alter your existing one during the Feast. Destinies offer unique insights into the deeper mysteries of the Neath, and once acquired, confer a mechanical bonus too. 

Find the way to the Perfumer-Semiotician's shop through the card 'The Feast of the Rose', which can be drawn in London.

Those who know the way there could also zail to Irem, where destinies are grown, altered, and consumed.

A Continuing Mystery

Just what is the Exceptional Rose? Rumours abound. Some say that it's a vicious, fanged flower. Others that it's a cherub sent to watch over star-crossed lovers. Yet more tut, calling it an elaborate ruse cooked up by Mr Inch. Whatever it is, nobody has seen the real Exceptional Rose in years. But perhaps this Feast is different? But, the Exceptional Rose, like love, is a changeable thing, and does not always look the same...

Newcomers may start this story in 'The Exceptional Rose', available anywhere in London. If you were here last year, you already know the way; seek the Rose out once more when Millicent's Parlour opens on the 13th.

Key Dates for the Festival

The Feast of the Exceptional Rose starts today, February 6th.

February 13th: 'An Encounter at the Feast' and 'The Lady in Lilac' become available. Trade gifts for Masquing, and obtain new companions. Tattoos will also be available in the Forgotten Quarter.

February 20th: Gift exchanging and obtaining Masquing closes. You will still have a week to exchange Masquing for companions and to Experience Feast seasonal stories.

February 27th: All remaining Feast storylets close.

[wake-me-up-inside-imagines]

I’m so very madly in love with Charlie rn.

Could you pretty please do Charlie with a dancer reader who’s very passionate about dance. When they’re first kidnapped obviously they’re scared but are quick to get used to it, except for when they find out they can’t dance anymore and they completely shut down. What would Charlie do?

Sure thing! I hope you enjoy!

Yandere Mafia Boss With A Dancer Darling

Gn! reader

Warnings: Kidnapping, break downs, unhealthy relationships, yandere character, surveillance

Divider credit goes to @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

-When Charlie first kidnapped you, he expected you to be afraid at first. He was fully prepared for your fearful reaction, and he did his best to accommodate your needs in hopes you would calm down sooner, hopefully becoming more receptive of his love over time. But as the weeks passed and you began calm down, Charlie allowed to let his guard slip a little, believing the worst of your struggles adjusting were behind you now.

-So imagine his surprise when he finds you hunched over yourself one day, curled up in your bed while tears streamed down your face. Your sobs were breaking his heart, what could possibly be wrong?

-It's hard to make out your words through your hiccups and gasps for air, but Charlie gets the gist. You miss dance. You miss your studio, you miss preforming. Apparently you had been so focused on acclimating to your new environment that you hadn't had time to focus on dance, but one of Charlie's flippant reminders of your confinement finally reminded you of what you had lost. What you needed, yet could no longer have.

-Now, Charlie knew about your love from dance from the minute he began looking into you. He'd have been a fool not to, with how high you regarded the sport. But he figured that once he “transferred” you, you would be so wrapped up in your new relationship with him that you wouldn’t care about such a trivial sport! I mean, isn’t he enough?

-He doesn’t get it. He’s never really been able to engage in hobbies, so he doesn’t understand why something like dance is so important to you. You aren’t getting paid for it, nor are you gaining any power, so what’s the point? Couldn’t you just replace it with a hobby you could do around the house?

-Charlie will wait a couple of days for your grief to die down, certain it’s a fickle, passing feeling, but to his dismay, it never does. You fall into a depression before his very eyes, worsening the longer you’re unable to engage in your favorite hobby, and nothing Charlie does makes you feel better. Why? What’s so important about this sport that he can’t see?

-As little as Charlie understands, he knows he needs to find some sort of middle ground between you two, before you get significantly worse. He doesn't want you to hate him for stealing your joy away, but he also doesn't want to let you back into the cruel world he's sheltering you from, so he'll offer to set up a semi-functional dance studio in one of the spare rooms of his house, purchasing all the material needed to make it look just like a regular studio's practice room. It's expensive, but he has money, and he'll do anything to bring you back to your normal, chipper self.

-It'll probably take a while for the room to get fully set up and it kills Charlie to see how depressed you are in the room's absence, but eventually the room is fully set up, and he couldn't be prouder. He's no dancer, but he thinks the room looks pretty good, all things considered. He's quite excited to show you his little surprise, hoping you'll finally perk up now that you have space to dance.

-Charlie thinks that might be the end of your depression, and for a while, it is. You have a space to move around and dance as you please, creating your own choreography and practicing to your hearts desire. And the best part is, you don't even have to pay to use the space! Charlie's house is your house, and the dance studio was built with you in mind. No payments, no time limits, no limitations. You have everything you want, so you should be happy now, right?

-...Unfortunately, there's more to the joy of dancing than just movement. A big part of dance is learning and sharing the experience with peers and audiences, which is hard to do when your confined to the house. So after a while of having the studio room, you feel as if you're stuck in a rut, talented enough to create your own dances, yet unable to teach others or learn any new dancing skills. You've tried youtube videos and dance websites, but it's just not the same as dancing with others, nor as effective.

-When you bring this up to Charlie, he's frustrated, angry even. Why? Why isn't the studio he spent so much money to build you not enough? No normal person would have the funds to do such a thing, and he did it without hesitation! Can't you appreciate all he's done for you? Can't you be content with your own studio, solely for you to use? Isn't having a studio to yourself a good thing? He doesn't understand, why are you so stubborn?

-You can try to explain your longing all you like, but it'll take a little while for Charlie to process and understand. Slowly his anger will fade, especially when he remembers that he did take you away from your normal life unexpectedly. He'll never understand why you need anybody but him in your life, but... if you plead enough, he'll consider letting you go back to your old studio.

-This agreement comes with some stipulations. For starters, you're always gonna need bodyguards with you, if not Charlie himself. You'll also need to let Charlie know every time you go to the studio so he doesn't rip the city apart looking for you. He'll also have a word about your safety with the owner of the studio, which goes his way almost immediately. He's extremely hesitant to let you out of his sight and the house, but if it means you'll be happy, he'll begrudgingly do it. Rest assured, you will be monitored every second you're away. He'll get used to the new schedule eventually, however upset he is about it.

-Once you get into a decent routine, Charlie calms down. When he isn't working, he loves to watch you dance. Whether in your studio at home or the public one. He thinks it's so cool that you can move your body in such mysterious ways, he's absolutely enthralled. He'll go to all your concerts and recitals if you do them, anything to support his baby (and keep you safe of course). He'll buy whatever you need to keep dancing, outfits, shoes, lessons, whatever you need, he'll get. He wants to support you in the hobby that means so much to you, even if he doesn't completely get the appeal.

-Just don't expect him to stop surveilling you anytime soon. he may trust you, but the world is a cruel, cruel place, one not suited to someone as amazing as you. One wrong step from the people around you, and he won't hesitate to pull you away from the studio.

You're his to protect, after all.

I hope you enjoyed!

[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.

[whowhatwhenwhereandwhynot]

Right-Wrong

Eddie never wanted to have to say it. He always knew—thought— Buck understood.

He thought Buck understood.

He thought Buck would understand. Would see the pain and the stress and the fear and the uncertainty and smooth it away like he always had.

Except, they’d been out of sync lately. For a while, if Eddie were honest with himself.

Eddie didn’t like being honest with himself.

And he needed Buck, his best friend, to be there for him.

But when he told Buck he was moving, when Buck stumbled upon the tablet that showed Eddie was moving, he wanted it to be a good thing. To be a comfort.

Instead it was a disaster. Four—four!—good potential renters and Buck scared away all of them. Well, three of them. The fourth Eddie managed to scare away all on his own. But they weren’t right for the place, we’re looking for its flaws instead of its beauty. Its warmth, this home where he and Christopher had finally found a family. It was so warm and they hadn’t seen that.

So when Freddie Fakeman’s application came through and it talked about his great job and close friendships, Eddie thought that could be the one.

Thought he’d be leaving the house in good hands. But then suddenly everyone from the firehouse was in his living room and he’d yelled at Buck and hadn’t had time to apologize and he knew Buck would understand but he still needed to apologize.

The hurt on Buck’s face, not at Eddie saying he’d choose Chris every time but at the fact that Eddie ever even thought Buck would expect to be chosen over Chris.

Also he just wanted everyone to breeze past the fact that he completely missed Freddie Fakeman as a bullshit name. He was under a lot of stress, okay? He was bound to miss things.

Buying a house, moving across the country, quitting his job, leaving his family—his real family, other than Chris—behind. It was stressful.

And he knew it was the right call, knew he had to be there for Chris. To be a parent. To be a part of his life.

But just because it was right didn’t mean it didn’t tear him up to make the call. Didn’t mean he didn’t look at Buck and wonder when they’d see each other again. Wonder if they would.

L.A. was his home, for so, so many reasons. And he didn’t want to count up how many of those reasons were also Buck.

And Buck tricked him, with the whole Freddie Fakeman ruse. Gave up his loft, just so Eddie could be with Christopher. To be where he belonged.

He knew Buck would get it. How could he ever have doubted. The only person who loved Chris half as much as Eddie was always Buck.

Buck who was always there to talk with Chris, when Eddie failed. Who could help them work anything out. The three of them could figure it out, always.

Except. He was moving. To live near his kid. Alone. And Buck was in LA. And there was no guarantee Chris would even want to move into the house Eddie had put a down payment on.

And Buck was gonna be here. In LA. And Eddie was going to be in Texas.

He knew these were facts but they were slippery ones. One’s his brain didn’t want to hold onto. They would shoot in out of nowhere and he’d ignore them, wipe them away, forget about them. Only for them to hit him, again, like a truck. He was moving to Texas. Buck was staying in LA. Friends, even best friends, don’t ask others to uproot their lives for each other.

Eddie had to remind himself of that fairly often. And now, Buck was here. Planning to move into their house. Without him. Without Chris. And it felt so wrong-right. So right-wrong. So predictable and yet so out of nowhere.

He couldn’t think.

So instead, he talked about the stupid dog. That he hadn’t been jealous of.

(Eddie didn’t like being honest with himself.)

“I’m sorry you had to give him back,” Eddie found himself saying. Half in the conversation, half of him still record scratching over Eddie in Texas, Buck in LA, Christopher in Texas. On repeat, in the back of his mind.

“Oh, no, hey,” Buck said, hands shaking in front of him. As if Eddie had gotten it all wrong. “I’m not.” And then he smiled. That idiotic, small, beautiful smile. A smile Eddie hadn’t seen since he’d told Buck he was moving. A genuine smile. A bittersweet smile. A beautiful, Buck smile.

“Listen,” Buck continued. “When Blaze jumped into her arms, I wasn’t sad. I was happy,” he said but he looked happy-sad. Sad-happy. Doing the right thing, the wrong way. Or the wrong thing, the right way?

Buck in Eddie and Chris’ house was so right. Eddie and Chris leaving Buck alone in their house was so wrong.

Eddie moving to be with Chris was so right. Buck moving into Eddie’s empty house was so wrong.

Buck belonged—

Well.

“‘Cause he was going back to where he belongs,” Buck said. And it was clear even in Eddie’s distracted brain he was only barely still talking about that dog. Eddie belonged with Chris. There was no doubt in any of their minds that was true.

But didn’t he also belong with Buck? Didn’t Buck belong with both him and Chris? Why were things so broken? How has Eddie let them break so horribly?

“And that’s why I’m happy for you.” Eddie didn’t want him to say it. It was true but he didn’t want Buck to say that he belonged anywhere other than next to him.

“‘Cause you’re going back to where you belong. With Christopher.”

Eddie felt—he didn’t know what he felt. Sad, relieved, thankful, devastated, proud, excited, mounful, confused. So many things all at once.

He didn’t know what to do.

Thankfully, Hen told him exactly what to do. “You two should just, hug this out.”

Eddie nodded, sniffed, and agreed. Buck’s arms wrapped around him. Too loose-tight. Too tight-loose. Too fast. Too slow. He wanted to hold on forever. He wished they hadn’t touched.

It was just. Too much. (Not enough.)

“Alright, wheels up,” Cap said. And Eddie remembered himself. Remembered their audience. “Eddie, don’t forget your wallet.”

And wait. What? Why? He repeated his thoughts aloud.

“‘Cause you’re buying,” Chim said as he left.

“My own goodbye dinner,” Eddie questioned.

“It’s a 118 tradition,” Hen said.

Bullshit tradition, if you ask him.

He went to get his jacket, still struggling to catch up with everything.

Trust Buck to say some bullshit that pulls him more into himself, more into now, than anything else.

Over his dead body was Buck knocking down any walls in their house.

It was perfect as it was and Buck would perfectly preserve it until him and Chris got back.

The night went exactly as a night out with the 118 tended to go. There was drinking, Chim trying to talk everyone into karaoke, Hen daring him into too many shots, Bobby rolling his eyes at their antics. Buck—well. Buck wasn’t playing his part.

Either too loud or too quiet in turns. Never right. Never normal. It was a good act, though. Everyone else seemed to buy it.

And Eddie wasn’t gonna call him on it, not when he himself was doing the same.

Arms thrown around shoulders just seconds too slow, as if Buck thought before doing so and then thought again and did it anyway. A tensing leg and then forced relaxation when they settled against each other in bar booths.

An immediate yes followed by a hesitant no when Bobby asked if Buck was gonna be staying at Eddie’s that night.

Buck heading to the loft, looking out the backseat window of Bobby’s car like a kicked dog.

Eddie feeling rather like the shoe that had kicked it.

It was all wrong.

But he knew he was doing the right thing. He needed to be with Christopher.

It was all right.

Right-wrong. Wrong-right.

[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!

[sibillascribbles08]

Finally updating my comm info preview for 2025 !

Please keep in mind my commissions are quote based! If you tell me what it is you’re looking for, I can give you a quote.

Commission prices START at: Busts: $10 Half Body: $13 Full Body: $18 Stain Glass: $30

Those prices listed are the minimum, all of which are only considered sketches with the exception of the stain glass drawings.

Add ons to the price: Inks: +$10 (this includes lineart as well as up to a 4 color palette or monochrome, additional colors would be extra)

Simple Shades: +$14 (Fast, single color shading, can be cell or soft shaded but will not include highlights)

Detailed Shading: +$17 (More in depth shading with more colors and will include highlights, can be cell or soft shading)

Additional Character costs is completely piece dependent. Here are some examples.    

Each extra full body character would be 75% on top of the base cost (the base cost being how much a single character of that commission would cost)

Halfbody extra characters would be 50% on top of the base cost. (i.e. the commission is for half body or the extra character is only leaning into the scene, behind a counter, etc.)

Far away characters or background characters that require less detail may only be 25% extra.

PLEASE inquire about additional costs for characters as it will always be a case by case basis

BG cost is always based on detail, some types of bgs take me much less time than others.

Stain glass pieces are very different, and the price is completely dependent on size, amount of characters and amount of symbols.

I WILL NOT DRAW

Porn

Incest/Pedophilia

Fetish Art

Genitalia (Nudity is fine but those parts must be covered or not visible)

If a request feels out of my artistic range I will let you know.

If I give a quote for a piece I will NOT lower my price, but I am willing to work with you to change aspects to make it cheaper. (i.e. changing the background, hiding part of a character, doing a limited palette, etc.)

I reserve the right to turn down any commission that makes me uncomfortable for whatever reason.

If you want to purchase a commission or get a quote you can contact me on Tumblr (SibillaScribbles08) or email me at SibillaScribbles@gmail.com.

Payment is always done through paypal invoices.

Commissions generally will not take me more than a week to complete but life happens. I will always inform you if there are delays. Please inform me up front if you have a deadline.

If you want to see more of my work you can browse my art tag!

Thank you for reading!

[onlyancunin]

About Commissions

I offer comic-style drawings. I’ve been drawing since I can remember and doing art commissions since I was 17.

I'll be accepting only 1-3 commissions at once. I will edit my bio & add a post whenever the commissions will be closed/reopened.

I do not offer quick drawings or "just sketches" for lower prices. It will take me probably a few months to finish a single piece, reason for that being drawing is only my after-hours activity as I balance my two full-time job. One being a 9-5, another - depression.

Topics I can draw

Astarion - in general, AUs included (with off-limits exceptions listed below),

depictions of your original character - whether in the BG3 game, or other (DND, fanfics etc.),

any other comic drawing / portrait - whether for a gift of someone you know, a character from another franchise etc.,

suggestive / NSFW - as in focusing on the celebration of relationship instead of raw sexual act,

original ideas - including fan fiction scenes (I reserve the right to check beforehand on the source material though).

Topics that are off-limits for me

It’s hard to tell in black or white fashion, as most will depend on the context or general intent of the piece. But generally speaking:

NSFW - I don't do senseless porn and/or nudity for the sake of nudity when it comes to Astarion, as his whole plot revolves around him not being perceived solely through his body. This is an absolute non-negotiable for me.

Romanticized depictions of unhealthy / toxic / abusive relationships. So no pairings of abusers with their victims (e.g. Astarion with Cazador, Karlach/Wyll with Mizora, Gale with Mystra etc).

Things venturing from canon too far for my comfort. That includes things like dadstarion and "fairy tale prince" Astarion (e.g. ballroom dancing).

Ascended Astarion.

List above is informed by my own personal preference and what I find comfortable to draw.

Commissioning process

You send me a message about the commission you want. I accept messages in Tumblr DMs, bluesky DMs, or via email at onlyancunin@gmail.com. Please include in the message a brief description of what you'd like me to draw.

I respond to you within 3-5 days. I'll let you know if I have a slot available and/or if I'm interested in working with you. I reserve my right to refuse doing a commission I do not feel comfortable with drawing, for any reason.

We talk details - to get a better idea of what you need. If you have any references, please provide me with them at this point.

I send you my payment info via PayPal and wait for full payment. I don't start working until the payment is cleared. Any currency exchange rates should be covered on your end (USD -> PLN).

Within the first 3-5 weeks after payment, I send you a draft of the work. If you have any notes for me, now would be the moment for them. I will not accept major changes (total reworking of the concept, asking for however more "options to choose from", drastic change of pose / angle etc).

I continue my work, and contact you when in doubt of something. It's hard for me to tell how long it's gonna take me, could be anywhere from 3 to 6 months.

Once I finish, I send you HD picture of the drawing.

IMPORTANT NOTE REGARDING COPYRIGHT:

What I draw as a commission is for your personal use only.

Me handing over a HD picture of the drawing is NOT AN AGREEMENT FOR COMMERCIAL USE.

My art is NOT to be reproduced and sold on any media / products / online shops.

I reserve the right to post the preview (as in not the full HD picture) of the commissioned work as part of my portfolio. If there are any reasons as to why your commission shouldn't be public, we can discuss them.

Offer & pricing in USD

Comic style drawing - b&w or partially desaturated

digital drawing

subdued colors or completely b&w (depending on the piece)

1 or more characters

$350 / character

Comic style drawing - full color

digital drawing

full color

1 or more characters

$600 / character

Contact

through this tumblr, via DM or ask

bluesky

onlyancunin@gmail.com