#'oh just send me an invoice'

[calandrinon]

Me: Did you receive our invoice?

Them: I received the hard copy yesterday.

Me: Have you been getting our emails?

Them: Eh, they're probably in the spam folder.

Me: You must be aware that you are three months in arrears.

Them: Well I can't pay the invoices if I'm not receiving them.

Me: It is a regularly occurring event with a fixed charge.

Them: If I accept this, I would have to stop rubbing your face in that one mistake you made last year.

Me: We can invoice in advance...

Them: No.

Me: You could set up an ongoing transfer...

Them: No.

Me: Do you at least intend to pay this one?

Them: Yeah, over the weekend, I guess.

Them: Was that everything?

[fazcinatingblog]

Good night Tumblr xx

[luwha]

LMAO so, recently someone tried to SCAM me, so i'll show you what happened and the telltales of it being a scam.

This one is quite obvious but i know people who are just starting their artist careers and might not have experiece.

Follow the thread:

🚩#1: They pick your most famous/Popular art as reference. They don't know what you actually sell.

🚩#2: They will pick a random popular character. They're not roleplayers or anything. They're not here for the art in any level

You ask me, what are the odds they really like Goku? Oh, well, you'll see. At this point i check their profile for anythign that might indicate it, but as you'll see you won't have to.

🚩#3: They say they saw my ToS. On it i state i only work with paypal and google forms.

🚩#4: Random issue with payment method. They might have a real problem with it, but see; they'll never ever accept any other payment method, such as Zelle, CashApp, Payoneer, Ko-fi, etc.

I already knew this drill so, let's continue.

🚩#5: I love playing dumb lmao. Anyway, this scam revolves on them either sending you "too much money" and asking it back or something like it. I won't be following through because i know it'll be annoying.

BE ADAMANT WITH YOUR METHODS. Do NOT EVER bend them for randos.

🚩#6: They're so ready with the info on how the payment works it's fucking funny.

The reason I PERSONALLY use PayPal INVOICES (no any other payment within paypal) is that they're safe for both me and my client. My rules are stated clearly.

MAKE A ToS I BEG YOU YOUNG ARTIST

🚩#7: They're not even a good scammer lmao they REFUSE to go on my PROFILE to get a link or read anything.

I use Forms because it collects the client requests and it's easier for me to read it all in one place. It ALSO makes scammers bored.

🚩#8: They're so disinterested on the art they don't care for posing, vibes, colors, nothing. Again, they're NOT here for art. That's hilarious.

🚩#8: Same as above. They don't care for posing or anything.

On my art they link me, i have a vampire almost staking himself in a state of euphoria.

IMAGINE VAMPIRE GOKU STAKING HIMSELF THAT'S SO FUCKIGN FUNNY MY BRO, THINK YOUR SCAM THROUGH MAYBE

🚩#9: They will price your own work for you. And they'll overshot what we, smaller artists, charge for it.

They'll overshot by a lot.

They want you to be impressed and showing "generosity" usually gets people who need monay into risky situations. That's just plain cruel.

🚩#9: Same as above. Over generosity and eagerness to pay.

They're not even with the sketch, this haven't been an hour, they don't have any work form me but OH GOD they're SO READY to pay you NEED TO KNOW they WANTS TO PAY YOU SO BAD

Lmao yeah it's working out ❤️

THIS ONE IS JUST HILARIOUS BRO I CAN'T EVEN.

ANYWAY let's continue

🚩#10: They don't know me. They don't follow me. They broke every rule on my ToS. They're making me go through a payment method i am unfamiliar and don't use.

They don't care for my process. They're not interested on my sketch.

BE. ADAMANT. ABOUT. YOUR. RULES. AND. PROCESS.

Now, for the beautiful closure of this:

Have a ToS. Don't bend the rules for randos.

Use Invoices. Be sure you're safe.

Use forms if you'd like. Requests through DM and Discord ARE COMMON FOR OTHER ARTISTS. I personally don't like it, i have ADHD.

Being an artist on an online space is dangerous. If you need help, poke an artist you know, see how they operate and if it fits you. Most of them would help you.

🚩#11: goku isn't even on their icon 😭

This is the account that tried to scam me.

#art is life ❤️

[luveline]

hii hope youre doing well! could i request coworker!james where r comes in to work sick and he gets worried?

fem!reader, 1.3k

It’s getting old, the whole charade. James didn’t like you and now he does. You used to piss him off, now you don’t. Somehow, someway, he’s seen parts of you he couldn’t help but love, in your voice, how you talk; in your hands, your touch; in your emails worst of all. Who ever thought that James could fall in love on Outlook? 

Dearest desk mate,

Where are you? It’s 9.45 and you aren’t here. You realise work starts at 8.30? Besides my worry, I need the invoice for Lang and Co. and Remus doesn’t have them either.

You’re my only hope, 

James

You email back a stringy fifteen minutes later. 

James, 

I’ll be there soon. I can’t attach the file from my phone but I will send it to you the second second I get there, I know you asked meyesterday. I’m sorry for holding you up .

James reads your email with a frown. Your typos are unlike you. He wonders if perhaps you’re texting and driving, which is abhorrent, but you walk into the office a minute later, so you must’ve been responding to him as you walked. 

You duck straight into the manager’s office. James can hear you say sorry before the door is fully closed, craning his neck for a good look at you. 

Remus laughs shamelessly. “Worried about her?” 

“About who?” he asks, even as his chair creaks and threatens to snap under his weight, leaning back to see you through the frosted glass. 

“She’s not going anywhere now she’s here, James. Nobody stops by for social visits.” 

James relents when he realises you may be in there for a little while. The rain today is aggressive against the window, condensation dripping down the windows to pool atop the radiators. You hate it; you love the radiators when they’re working in the winter, but sad summer days with rubbish weather bog you down. Either way, the condensation wets your elbows or gathers on your desk —it’s not nice. James grabs a wad of tissues from the box on his desk and begins his quick mission. 

“Oh, my god. Jamie, you can’t be serious.” 

“I'm avoiding electrocution.” 

“You’re cleaning up for her,” Remus says, putting his face in his hand to watch him with a softer smile, “it’s nice of you, really, but you can’t expect me to pretend I believe you when you say you don’t like her for much longer if you’re going to do stuff like this.” 

“Now say that five times fast.” 

His heart drops when you clear your throat, caught, sodden tissue in hand. You don’t eyeball him, there’s no scorn, you clear your throat again and all but collapse into your seat. 

“Hey,” James says. 

You tip your head back. “Hi, James.” Your eyes are bloodshot, and, to James’ surprise, you aren’t wearing a lick of makeup. You look very pretty but very tired, too. 

“You okay?” 

Remus bends around the desktop. “Yeah, are you okay? 

“I’m fine,” you drop your head back with some vertigo, and press your hands to your eyes. “I’m not very well, is all.” 

“What’s wrong?” Remus asks. 

“Just poorly. Um, I have a bad headache, and my ears are ringing, but it’s not unmanageable. I’m full of sudafed.” 

“Can’t you go home? We can manage without you until you’re better,” Remus says.

“I had all that time off a few weeks ago,” you say. You’d been ill not so long ago. 

“You can have some of my sick days,” James says immediately. 

You rub your eyes hard enough to make James’ ache in sympathy. “Doesn’t work like that.” 

“You really shouldn’t be here if you’re sick,” James says. 

“I won’t get you sick, I promise. I brought hand sanitizer, I’m not sneezing or coughing, I’m just aching.” Your movements are lethargic as you lean back in your chair, the slow roll of your shoulders and the limp cross of your arms over your stomach hard to ignore. 

James rounds the desk to chuck his tissues in the little bin beneath it. “I don’t think either of us are worried about you getting us sick, lovely.” 

Your face crumples quickly and neatens up again just as fast. “My head just hurts,” you say, rubbing your forehead. You manage to summon a wobbly smile despite your pinched brows. “I’m fine, don’t worry.” 

If it were Sirius, James would thrust a bottle of water and a pack of ibuprofen at him and tell him to chill out. It it were Remus, the expression would turn his heart, and he’d give his friend a good pat on the back. You aren’t Sirius nor Remus, you’re not so close to him that James knows what to do, but what use is he if he doesn’t try?

“Can I make you a cup of tea?” James asks. 

“That’s cruel,” Remus says, “your tea is like milky disappointment.” He stands with a smile James hates, some playful conniving mixture with good intentions deep, deep down. “I’ll make it. James, why don’t you turn the radiator?” 

“Is that okay?” James asks. 

“What?” 

“Do you think that’ll make you feel better, the radiator?” James asks. 

“I can do it.”

“No, it’s okay, it hurts your hand. I’ll turn it up.” He weaves back in between your chair and the radiator. Your desk is close enough to be faced with your thighs, but James doesn’t get half as distracted by them as he does your twitchy face. 

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks. 

“You and Remus worry too much.” You give him the side eye. “Why do you care?” 

“I think we’re a little bit past pretending we don’t like each other, aren’t we?” 

He turns the radiator on with less struggle than he’s anticipating and holds his hand to the bottom until he feels the metal warming. “Tell me if that gets too hot for you,” he says, standing. 

“Thank you.” 

“It’s no problem.” 

“No, really,” you say, rubbing the bridge of your nose, “thanks for worrying about me. I’ll feel better in an hour.” 

“Did you eat breakfast?” He brings his hand up to wipe a stray fibre from your cheek, “Why were you late?” 

“I…” Your eyes follow his hand as he lowers it. Emboldened, James raises it again, wiping at a phantom fibre. “What is it?” 

“Little hair on your cheek.” 

“I slept late, and I felt strange in the car so I parked for a bit, and… I don’t know. I should’ve stayed home, but you know what he’s like about sick days.” 

“You feel alright now, other than the headache?” 

“Just heavy.” 

James spots Remus coming back and steps away. “You’ll be alright, okay? Don’t worry too much. Do some of the top spreadsheets and we can manage the rest.” 

“You don’t have to do that for me.” 

James does, really. Remus gives you your mug of tea and one of the plastic wrapped muffins from the kitchen, both boys keeping watch over you like a vigil. If you were well enough to notice you’d complain, but you spend the next few hours sipping at your tea as it turns cold, and nibbling at little bits of muffin, clearly tired. 

You email James the Lang and Co. invoices four hours after he’s asked for them with a sorry and a frowny face emoticon. James wants to kiss you on the forehead, feels it so strongly it becomes a different kind of wanting, to look after you and for you to want him to do that. He’s in way too deep. There’s not much he can do. 

“You want some more tea?” he asks, leaning over to grab your discarded mug.

“Yeah, please, Jamie.” 

James’ fingers wobble around the mug. 

Remus glances up from his phone. 

“Of course,” James says, smiling, “coming right up.” 

Jamie, he thinks. Friends call him Jamie. He can be your friend, he’d love to be your friend, but Jamie. Even sick, you say it sweetly. He trips over himself trying to get what you asked. 

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 22

part 1 | part 21 | ao3

“…Go ahead,” he relents with a heavy sigh.

He turns the radio back on for background noise, and Robin launches herself into a breathless recap of every minute detail she’s ever learned about Eddie Munson. Genuinely impressive how quickly the words come out; Steve thinks that if her dream of becoming a linguistics researcher ever falls through, she’s got a bright future ahead of her as one of those speedreaders who rattle off the fine print at the end of pharmaceutical ads.

Warning: Discussion of Eddie Munson may cause nausea, heartburn, palpitations, sweaty armpits, and an inconveniently timed half-chub any time you use a pocket knife. Talk to your doctor to see if Discussion of Eddie Munson is right for you!

“Which brings us to tonight,” she’s saying when he zones back in. “Let’s examine the facts, shall we?”

“Must we?”

“Yes, we must.”

She makes a loose fist, lifting her pointer finger with an aggressive flourish to kick off her ‘list of reasons Eddie has a big, fat crush on you.’ “Fact number one: he was conveniently wearing a super nice outfit.”

“He said he ran out of laundry.”

“And we’re buying that?” she scoffs. Her middle finger springs up to join the first one. “Two: he was so disgustingly up in your personal space. Like, you really should have seen it; it was—”

Mwah. Mwah mwah mwah. “Yeah, I don’t need another demonstration.”

“Three” —there goes her ring finger— “he came to a movie rental store that you just so happen to work at and then left without renting a movie.”

“Because you did something to spook him!”

“Which brings me to my fourth and final point.” Her pinky lifts up to join the team, fingers spread wide like a paper fan, and she telescopes her arm to shove them back and forth under his nose until he goes a little cross-eyed and bitches about her distracting the driver.

“Cut it out! You want me to drive us into someone’s trash cans?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Yeah, well I’m sending you the invoice when it scratches up the paint.”

She retreats to her side of the car, curling her back against the door and repeating, “My fourth and final point: I think he thinks we’re dating.”

“And? Everyone thinks we’re dating.”

“No, everyone wants us to be secretly dating,” she corrects. “But I’m pretty sure Eddie actually thinks I’m your girlfriend. You remember last week when you dropped me off at school?”

He does. Eddie had actually been there early for once; had been sitting on a bench out by the soccer fields, looking surly and half-asleep while he sucked down a cigarette. Hair all messed up by the wind. Looked kind of dangerous. Wild.

“He was, like, fully glaring at me when I walked into school that morning, and then he was super rude to me in band. Which, at the time, I was like, ‘oh, well I guess that’s just Eddie no one can ever tell what his mood’s gonna be like from day to day,’ but noo-o-ow…”

She starts squirming in her seat again, excitement overflowing as she finally cracks the case. “Now it all makes sense! Oh, my god! He totally hates me because he thinks we’re dating, and I’ll bet you anything he either didn’t know we work together or didn’t expect me to be there tonight and he totally, one hundred percent was there to flirt with you because he’s in lo—”

“Okay, Detective,” he cuts her off, because the tips of his ears are burning, and he doesn’t think he can handle her saying the L word out loud right now. “You’ve made your point, thank you.”

“Tell me I’m right.”

“Uh, no.”

“Come on.” She jabs at his side. “Tell me I’m right tell me I’m right tell me I’m—”

“—A fucking menace? Gladly.”

“Translation: I’m right and you’re mad about it,” she smirks, victorious.

Steve knocks his forehead against the wheel as he pulls up to her curb. “Why do I drive you places?”

“Because you love me." She flips her visor down to freshen up her lip balm, mumbling around the chapstick, "I’m adding Surly Best Friendlish to my list of fluencies; I think it'll really make my college applications pop."

"Yuh huh," Steve grumbles. The thought of Robin leaving for college always sits in his gut like raw bread dough — thick and heavy and gross, rising to form a swollen lump in his throat. "Didn't you already submit all of those?"

"Yes, I diiiid," she sings, shimmying her shoulders with pride. "Duke's gonna say yes, I just know it. Picture it with me: Robin L. Buckley," she gestures to an imagined marquee somewhere just beyond the windshield, "class of 1990."

Steve swallows the urge to be a sulky dick about it. "They'd be lucky to have you," he says quietly.

"Nope. No no, none of that. No moping." She tugs at his arm; links their elbows together. "You're not allowed to mope when we have a party to get ready for."

"No, you have a party to get ready for. I'm going home."

"Steeeve-uh!" Holy shit. He just had to be soulmates with the whiniest lesbian in a 500 mile radius, didn't he? "Come to the bonfire party with me!"

"Yeah, that's a no."

“It’ll be fun!"

It most certainly will not be. "You really want me to go freeze my ass off in the woods all night while a bunch of former classmates talk shit about me the second they think I'm out of earshot?" He's been to enough of his parents' 'networking events' over the years to know exactly how that'll go. A full night of subtly closed-off body language, smirking whispers and judgmental glances that dart away as soon as he meets them head on. Fuck that. "Thanks, but I'll pass."

He just wants to go home. Feels momentarily sick with the desire to drive himself to Loch Nora.

"What did I say about moping?" Robin asks. She shoves into his space, hugging his arm tighter and deploying her most lethal sad wet kitten face (and Steve doesn't even like cats; this shouldn't fucking work on him.) "Pleeeease," she begs. "Vickie's going to be there, and I could really use a friend."

"So ask a friend!"

"I am, dipshit!"

Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Goddamn this woman. Steve hangs his chin to his chest in defeat, notices the weird stain he got on his shirt during work. "I have some conditions," he concedes.

She throws her arms out wide. "Condition me, baby!"

"First— ew. Okay, I don't like that; don't call me baby." Yeesh, and furthermore, yuck. "First, I'm borrowing one of your shirts, and you're probably never getting it back."

"Understandable,” she nods as she gets out of the car. Steve follows her out, propping his elbows on the roof.

"Secondly,” he continues, “I'm getting very drunk at this stupid party, and you're figuring out how we get home."

She reaches out over the top of the car; gives his hand a quick squeeze when he puts it in hers. "That's three things," she says fondly, "but I can work with that."

—

part 23

tag list part 1 below the cut; comment if you'd like to be added tomorrow (not tagging ageless or under 21s unless we're mutuals or you let me know your age ✌️)

@a-little-unsteddie @ahsokatanoss @alyelf @anne-bennett-cosplayer @aol19 @awolfstudio @bambibiest @bananahoneycomb @bronwenmarie @cheonsazu @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @courtjestermunson @dauntlessdiva @dawners @dontwasteyourchances @eddie-munsons-missing-nipple @eriquin @estrellami-1 @fandomfix8 @griefabyss69 @grtwdsmwhr @hallucinatedjosten @hellion-child @hiimlevi @honoragreyskull @hotluncheddie @jackiemonroe5512 @kas-eddie-munson @littlebluejane @marvel-ous-m @melonmochi @messrs-weasley @milklechee @mrsjellymunson @mugloversonly @munsonslure @nburkhardt @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notsopersonalcharlie @novelnovella @nuggies4life @questionablequeeries @runninriot @silver-snaffles @singmeyoursimpsong @slowandsteddie @slutabed @slutforcoffein @solalasoforth @spookednsaucy

[goldenamaranthe-blog]

Apple Seed 11: Abuela

Vaggie: (helping Charlie walk around the hotel) Just a couple more weeks and this will be all over, babe.

Charlie: (waddling like a fat penguin and holding her back) Thank fuck!

Lucifer: ....I'm risking it. (rushes up behind Charlie, lifts her up, places her feet on his, and starts waddling forward while singing) WWWWWWaddle like a penguin, quack, quack! WWWaddle like a penguin, quack, quack!

Charlie: DAD!!! I'M NOT THREE ANYMORE!!! I'M JUST PREGNANT!!! (looks down at her recently dropped baby belly) Very.... VERY.... pregnant....

Lucifer: Sorry, duckie. I thought this might help bring a smile to your face.

KNOCK!!! KNOCK!!! KNOCK!!!

Vaggie: Who the fuck is here now?! We put it out that we're not taking anymore sinners until after the baby's born!

Charlie: (slowly easing herself onto a lowered bar stool) Vaggie, be nice.

Baby: (wiggles, sending Charlie's whole belly pulsing)

Charlie: Baby agrees.

Vaggie: Yes, dear.... (answers the door) What do you- .......

Carmilla: (standing in the doorway with an imposing stare)

Vaggie: Carmine!? What are you doing here?!

Carmilla: (places an envelope in Vaggie's hand and enters the hotel with Clara and Odette in tow - dragging mounds of baby goods) I am here to check in on the princess and child while dropping off some much needed baby items.

Charlie: Aww~ That's awfully nice of you, Ms. Carmine.

Baby: (flutters)

Vaggie: (opening the envelope) This better not be an invoice for all of that! (pulls out a thick packet of paper and reads) WHAT THE FUCK???? You're ADOPTING me?!?!?!

Charlie: (jaw drops as she's in the middle of holding up a white baby onesie that says "I Love My Mommies" in rainbow from the pile) What?!

Lucifer: (Angry puppy face) Oh, no! That is MY daughter-in-law!

Carmilla: I figured it was overdue, especially with a child on the way. The baby needs an abuela in its life.

Vaggie: (opens mouth to say something only for her to close it with a snap) You know what? Fuck it. This is fine. Someone, give me a pen.

Odette: (hands over a pen)

Vaggie: Thank you. (signs the paper) There. Carmine, now you're an abuelita.

Carmilla: (staring at Charlie and the baby belly) Abuela is just fine.

Vaggie: Abuelita or nothing.

Carmilla: (opens mouth to counter)

Baby: (flutters excitedly and little fist impressions press against Charlie's belly)

Charlie: Awww~ They want to say "Hi" to their abuelita~

Carmilla: (flushes red and closes her mouth before shuffling forward and holding her hand over Charlie's belly)

Charlie: (smiles and gently presses her hand on top of Carmilla's, bringing it to her belly)

Baby: (tiny hand presses against the taught belly to meet the hand outside)

Carmilla: ......... (internally crying from sheer emotions) Qué pequeño tan precioso.

Clara & Odette: Can we feel the baby?!

Carmilla: (walks back over to Vaggie to retrieve the paperwork)

Vaggie: (smirking) Don't think I didn't hear that.

Carmilla: I don't know what you're talking about.

[queenofhearts7378]

Tucker and Spud Appreciation: An essay by me apparently.

Tucker leaned back in his chair, “-and that's why we're no longer welcome at that gas station.”

Spud had a wide eyed look of wonder, “Woah man…….That takes some skill.”

“Thank you!” Tucker gestured wildly on his side of the screen. “Sam called me and Danny menaces but she's the one who brought the mace!”

Spud nodded. “It really was a team effort.” He flipped through his notebook, “Anyways how’s the progress on your side? I managed to crack into some uh, supplies and shipment invoices?”

Spud wrote down some notes, before clicking through a couple of the unlocked files on his computer, squinting at the screen.

Tucker groaned as his chair hit the ground, “Man I keep telling the guys hacking isn't like the movies make it out to be. Like yeah, if I got a back door planted I can get in and out no problem. But straight up hacking a new system?”

“The problems with being the smart ones on the team,” Spud said.

“I managed to get some payroll documents, and some employee work times I think?” Tucker blew a raspberry as he typed a few more lines of code, “All fake names. I doubt a place employs 23 different J. Doe's.”

“John, Jane, Janet, Jake, Joseph, Josie,” Spud recited.

Tucker snorted, “Yeah pretty much.”

Spud hummed before something dinged on his side, “Huh. That might be something.”

Tucker cracked his knuckles, “Share with me?”

Spud copied a few of the files before sending them over. “Hang on, I gotta check something.”

Tucker saw Spud disappear off the side of the screen, but could hear him rooting through some papers.

He looked over the information, scrolling through the various invoices. “Dude what are you seeing that I'm not? It's just the shipping invoices for a bunch of different places.”

Spud came back carrying five different notebooks, of varying sizes. “You may be better at hacking, but I'm better with the information man.”

He waved one of the notebooks, “I started helping Jake keep track of the various magic communities around, you know, to help with his duties when they kicked up.”

“Dude, that is so baller of you.”

“Heh, thanks.” He cracked open the notebook and pulled a highlighter out of a cup. He started marking the notebook as he scrolled through the files. “Anyways, I thought I recognized a couple of the areas some of the buildings were placed in annnnnnnd…..”

Spud furrowed his brow and grabbed another notebook, flipping it through it real quick. “What are some of those shipments carrying?”

Tucker started scrolling through his own files, “Uhhhh looks like…..lots of metal and rubber. Toilet paper, paper towels, napkins, and a frankly concerning amount of coffee. Office supplies, like so much office supplies and-”

Tucker winced. “Oh man, and a lot of chemicals I recognize from the Fenton's lab.”

“Yeah but see this?” Spud frowned as he tapped the screen, “These shipments are labeled as various different glass equipment shipments. And it's doubled every other month or so.”

“Could be they're using a lot of the equipment.” Tucker said, “We know they're testing facilities. But you wouldn't be singling those out if that were the case.”

“It's the fact it's double shipments of glass, so the handling of them would be different from most supplies to handle the fragile equipment. And the extra shipments have different weights to them as opposed to the originals they're copying.”

“That sounds super sus.”

“Yeah. What makes it more sus is the fact that the sketchy glass shipments originate from B.U.G.S facilities, rather than outside suppliers like the office supplies and the original glass shipments. Now it could be explained as them having the shipments sent to a warehouse, before dishing it out to other nearby facilities, but there's no record or paper trail that shows that. From what I can tell, the sketchy shipments just appear in the records, before being sent out to a different facility, where it immediately disappears.”

Tucker leaned back, suddenly aware that they were stumbling over something bad. “And considering what we know about them, after the guys stumbled across that one……”

Spud stared at the files on screen, “It could just be magical artifacts. But the more likely explanation is they're catching magical creatures.”

The two of them sat in a heavy silence for a moment.

“How sure of this are you?” Tucker asked. “I mean, the magical world would notice the disappearances right? They would have got a hold of Jake or Lao Shi or someone.”

Spud shook his head and held up his notebook. “All the facilities manage to fall near a cluster of magical communities, that's what I was checking. And like I said, the shipments originate in one facility and then get shipped to a completely different one. Never the same one consecutively, and it's spaced out over years. If a bunch of creatures goes missing, yeah someone's going to notice.”

“But if just one goes missing,” Tucker continued, “It's just an unrelated tragedy.”

Spud set down his highlighter and rubbed his eyes, “And it's not impossible. The Huntsclan has managed to kidnap several magical creatures at once for years for their hunting games.”

“Ugh!” Tucker shuddered. “I do not like the implications of that.”

“Yeah, Jake got caught once. There were about four or five others with him, and they were all misfits to their species, and not well liked so most of their neighbors and families just assumed they ran off or had unfortunate accidents.”

“That's……”

“Yeah.”

Tucker stared at his computer, something twisting in his stomach as he stared at all the locked files he still hadn't managed to get into.

“We can't tell them.”

Spud snapped his head up to look at Tucker incredulously, “What?!?! We have to!”

Tucker shook his head frantically, “We can't. You know the guys as well as I do, we tell them what we found and they're going to go tackle the places right away. This is so much bigger than we thought and in so many places. They barely got out last time and that was with the element of surprise and them not knowing about what they can do.”

“It's basically the same as the GIW! You guys deal with them all the time!”

“It's not the same! The GIW have a single base, with maybe 20 guys working there! I've been tracking them and their branch since they first showed up in Amity and they don't go anywhere else. This is the only branch of the GIW. They barely manage to capture the little blobs or ectopusses, and even then those ghosts escape on their own before I even get the alert about them!”

Tucker pushed away from the desk to start pacing across his floor. “These guys have buildings across the country! That one building had about 50 people working for it and that's not even going into all their bosses. They've been operating for years without anybody catching on! And we don't know what they're capable of! They had something that blocked Danny’s powers, and we still don't know what did it. This is so much bigger than what we usually deal with. We have to wait, get some more information, get some more help-”

“Yeah, like telling everybody!” Spud yelled, “This shouldn't even be an argument, Tucker!”

Tucker stared at the floor, pulling his hat down to where Spud couldn't see his eyes. He was silent for a moment.

“......If we tell them right now, they'll get in over their heads and they'll get hurt and I can't-” Tucker's voice broke.

He took a breath, rubbing his face before looking back at Spud. “I am not sending Danny into a place where they'd turn him into a lab rat.”

“Tucker-”

“All I'm saying is we have to wait.” Tucker interrupted. “We wait, we get more info, we try and get the magical communities more wary around those areas.”

“I don't want to lie to them.”

“I know. Ancients, I know.” Tucker crossed his arms, “But we gotta be smart about this. Are you with me Spud?”

Spud let out a sigh as he slumped in his chair. “... Yeah. Yeah I'm with ya. Let the record show I hate this though.”

“You and me both.” Tucker muttered, “Anyways, plans?”

“You keep hacking into the information.” Spud said. “Send me everything you get and I'll start cross-referencing with the known magical communities when I get them. In the meantime I'll talk to Fu Dawg. He's got a ton of connections and can start spreading the word.”

“What about Lao Shi?”

“I'll talk to him, but I want some more information first.”

“You don't think he'll believe you?”

“No he will. But he'll want to take it straight to the Dragon Council.” Spud scoffed, “It's them I'm worried about.”

The two of them sat there for a moment before Spud said, “This sucks.”

Tucker started giggling, “Understatement man. But we got this. Someone has to protect those losers.”

“Heck yeah man!” Spud held up a fist to the camera, and Tucker did the same as the two of them did their virtual secret handshake.

Someone had to have the heroes’ backs after all.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 7

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: This week is killing me.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Sunday sees your second day in your new position. As you send off your letter of resignation to the agency, you can't help the coil that winds tight in your stomach. There's no going back now.

You close out of the several templates you Googled in your efforts. It's the one thing you know how to do. Willa, the friendly librarian who checked out the PC for you, always said, if you can Google, you can figure it out. Still, you feel like there's so much you don't know that you're not sure a search engine can answer.

You close the laptop and take both your phones with you into the hallway. You have to go check out that gazebo and figure out if you need to make a call about it. Oh, and the fridge was beeping when you filled your bottle, you have to call the maintenance number that flashed up too.

That makes you even more anxious. You've never really been the sort for phone calls. You never had anyone to talk to and everything else was easier done in person. Well, you'll have to muddle through. Work isn't supposed to be fun or easy.

As you near the staircase, your flip chimes. You juggle to answer the right phone. The slim touchscreen is set only to buzz, an option not available on the clumsy burner. You answer the call as you stop on the top stair.

The woman on the other end asks for you by name. You confirm your identity as you hear familiar noises in the background. She's a nurse from the downtown hospital.

“I'm calling to confirm your father's discharge tomorrow at noon,” she says over the rustle of paper and clack of keys, “we'll need the bed so if there is any delay, another day would be added to the invoice.”

“I understand, I'll be there, erm… noon. Tomorrow,” you don't have your notebook so you key a reminder into the other phone. “Thank you for letting me know.”

“Of course, miss, we would recommend you arrive earlier. We have some resources and counseling available on what you can expect getting the patient settled at home,” she continues, “nine would be ideal. I'll be able to add a note for the doctor to check in as well.”

“Oh, yes, I can do that,” you squeak, “thank you.”

“Alright then, I have all that logged. You have a good day.”

“You too,” you utter before the line dies.

Phone calls weren't too bad. You think you did okay with that one. Then again, you didn't think! You're supposed to work tomorrow. Mr. Laufeyson said you could take Wednesday off, and tomorrow is only Monday.

You close the flip phone and stare at it. Oh boy. You really don't want to spoil this. Just the mention of the coming invoice underlines your desperation. You need the money. Your dad needs it.

“Are you finished?” Mr. Laufeyson's timbre drawls from down the hall. You glance over as he stands just in the doorway of his study. You gulp.

“Sorry, Mr. Laufeyson. I didn't mean to disturb–”

“Yet you did,” he insists.

“I was only going to check–”

“Not my concern so long as it's done,” he waves you off, “an important call, I assume, to make such a racket.”

“Mr. Laufeyson, um,” you shove the phones away, one in each of your pockets. “I… could I have the day tomorrow? Instead of Wednesday. My father is getting out of the hospital and–”

“The day? What time?” He snips as he approaches with decisive steps.

“Well, I'm supposed to go at nine,” you explain, “I'll come in Wednesday still.”

“You will come in tomorrow, after all that,” he says. “You can work later then.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson, but my father will need help getting settled–”

“Figure it out. You agreed to this schedule–”

“I did but–” you stop yourself as his eyes flare, “I will be here in the afternoon, Mr. Laufeyson.”

“You will be. In the appropriate attire, I expect,” he snarls and spins to strut back to his office, swinging the door shut sharply.

You waver at the hard slam. You didn't mean to anger him. You can't help that your father needs you. You thought Mr. Laufeyson would be more understanding, after all, he's the one who pointed out how much you needed the money.

🧹

Your father shoos you away as you try to help him sit. He lets go of the walker and flops back with a grunt, his oxygen tank clinking against the aid’s metal leg. He coughs and snatches around blindly on the cushion for the remote. You retrieve it from the folding table beside him and put it in his hand.

That agitates him further as he growls and jams down the button to turn on the television. You yawn and back away. You still have a full day left ahead of you, and what feels like one behind you. You spent the night doing some last minute tidying to make sure everything is read for your father.

“Smokes,” he snaps his fingers and hacks.

“Er,” you hesitate. You go to find the half-crushed pack you found with him on the floor. You knew better than to throw it out. You return to him, clutching the package nervously, “Dr. Shearer said–”

“Give it to me,” he demands.

You relent and obey. He’s been doubly miserable than before. You feel like an annoying gnat buzzing around his head as he tries to swat you away.

“I made you meals for the weak. They’re all labeled in the fridge–”

“I’m not a goddamn kid,” he scowls and takes the lighter from the folding table.

“I know, but–”

“But I’m home. You probably hate that,” he sneers, “you’d be happy if I died in that hospital.”

You’re taken aback by the accusation. You gasp and shake your head, “of course not, I’m happy you’re here. That you’re alive–”

“Painfully,” he snorts darkly, “the fuck you keep me here for?”

You take a breath and frown. Your eyes tinge and your cheeks pinch, “because you're my dad… and I love you,” you croak.

He doesn’t reply as he pulls out a cigarette and moves the tube from below his nose. You watch him, waiting. He lights the smoke and sucks on it eagerly. You drop your head and give a shrug.

“I gotta go to work,” you say, “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Don’t be slamming around when you come in,” he dusts ash over the freshly vacuumed carpet, “doctor said I needa sleep.”

“I won’t,” you promise and back away.

As you leave the room, your chest plummets in dread. You think of coming home, of finding him like you did before, laying on the floor, lifeless. You sniff and swipe away the speckling of tears. More than you want him to love you, you want him to love himself. You don’t just want him to want you around, you want him to be around.

🧹

You hurry up to Mr. Laufeyson’s gate with your kit and water bottle jostling. You fumble around until you find the smartphone and bring up the digits to punch into the code box. You buzz through and shuffle inside. You set off on your usual path around the back.

You stop at the rear door and try to untangle the strap of the water bottle from your kit. Your hand lingers on the front of the ballooning shirt. You still haven’t gone to look for clothes so you did your best with what you had. One of your father’s forgotten button-ups and a pair of pants that could pass in an office. It’s ill-fitting and scratch but better than jeans.

You get inside and leave your kit in the closet. Today’s a cleaning day but you have a few things to check off the schedule first. With your water bottle bouncing on your hip, you go upstairs and scurry down to the library.

As you enter, you’re surprised to discover the space less than empty. You apologise aloud and choke on the word, ‘mister’. It isn’t the house’s single resident as you expect, no, this figure could not be more different than Mr. Laufeyson. You recognise them, from the dinner.

The blond man faces you as he stands by the window, the drapes open to add the peculiarity of the situation. Like the man, the space is golden with sunlight. You lean back on your heel as you clutch the door handle.

“Hello,” he grins as he greets you in a playful demeanour. You can’t answer. You don’t know if you should. 

Is it rule one; don’t speak unless permitted; or the other rule, do not disturb my guests. You can’t figure out the riddle so you languish in perplexity.

“Aren’t you a sweet little lamb,” he muses as he steps away from the window, placing his hands on the back of the dimpled leather chair. His large hands. If you thought Mr. Laufeyson was tall, this man is even taller and twice as wide. “I remember you. The sweet maid.”

You blink. Where is Mr. Laufeyson? You can’t speak. You’re too terrified; not just of the strange man but of the one you know by name. Your employer would be unhappy to know you spoke out of turn.

“Have you seen my brother at all?” He prompts disregarding your stagnant silence. “Has he spoken of me? His brother? I'm Thor.”

You look down at your hand on the door handle.

“And what is your name?” He asks.

You don’t answer. You know it’s not right but you have no other choice. You pull the door shut and close the man in. You retreat in a half-sprint and barrel back down the stairs. You trip at the bottom and barely save yourself from stumbling to your knees.

You latch onto the banister post to keep your balance and catch your breath. You hear the door above. Oh no, would he follow you? Another door clicks and you look up to find a shadow on the other side of the frosted glass framed in the front entrance.

Mr. Laufeyson steps inside coolly, unbothered as swings the door shut and tugs on the lapel of his suit jacket. His eyes fall on you and he scuffs on his sole, tilting his head in curiosity. You didn’t realise he hadn’t even been there. You look at the ceiling with wide eyes; so how was the other man inside?

“Well, there you are,” he says matter-of-factly, “this place is sore in need of a dusting–”

Laufeyson is interrupted by a clamour of footsteps above. You let go of the banister and sidle away as his green eyes flick to the top to the staircase. You shy away and listen as the man descends in a series of thunder thumps. You turn to peek down the hall, wanting to hide in your chores.

“Stay,” Laufeyson commands. You turn back to him as he points at your feet. You stop in place and sway. He faces his visitor as he comes to the bottom stair, “brother, what is the meaning of this intrusion?”

“Can I not come see my baby brother?” The other man; the stranger; his brother, called Thor, booms.

“You may, when you warn me of it,” Laufeyson rebuffs.

“Ah, don’t be so grim,” Thor claps his shoulders and is swiftly shrugged off, “this place is always so dark. I hope you don’t mind, I opened a few windows.”

“I do mind,” Laufeyson says, “you do always presume.”

“And you are always offer such a warm welcome,” he tries to tap Laufeyson’s cheek but is batted away. The dark of the brothers backs up with a scoff. “Ah, and there she is. I was only just coming to find the little maid. She rushed off so suddenly–”

“You don’t need to bother with her,” Laufeyson dismissed with a slice of his hand through the air, “maid,” he points at you again, “back to work.”

You lean back on your heel, ready to disappear.

“Ah, don’t be so rude, brother. She is sweet. You get more bees with honey–”

“Do not tell me how to run my house,” Laufeyson growls, an edge in his voice you’ve never heard before. Dangerous and dark.

“Is she not doing you a service? A please would be appropriate–”

“You are not mother. I don’t need you to mind my manners,” Laufeyson girds and nears his brother, unflinching even as he comes up a few inches short of chest to chest, “nor do you need to worry for my staff. She does not take orders from you.”

“And I suppose that’s all she gets from you,” Thor chuckles.

You furrow your brow, stunned by their spat. You’re not quite sure what that last bit meant. You work for Mr. Laufeyson so of course he would tell you what to do. And why are they so volatile? They’re brothers. You don’t have any siblings but you always wanted one. So that you had a friend. So you weren’t alone. 

“Maid, go,” Laufeyson repeats, “now.”

Your eyes widen and you nod. You quickly turn and rush down the hall to the closet. You’re shaking as you try to sort out one phone from the other and find the old list of tasks. You can hardly steady your hands to get a pair of gloves on.

You take your time in the back of the house as you hear the men’s footfalls climb the staircase. You let your nerves settle just a little. You’re alone, for now, and your mission is simple. Clean and stay unseen.

[suzukiblu]

Ko-fi thank-you sentences for @qwertynerd97; the wet nurse omegaverse.

That doesn’t make him feel better about either the mistake or the unintentional insult to the kid’s situation, though. 

“Ah,” Bruce says, sparing a moment to mentally kick himself before moving on. He doesn’t have time to dwell on minor missteps; they’ve got priorities here. Clark needs time to collect himself and Carl needs time to settle in, and Alfred needs time to add an extra plate at dinner and an extra mouth who’ll be eating enough to help feed a Kryptonian pup to the grocery list, and he needs to make sure Gotham doesn’t burn down while he’s distracted. Everything else is negotiable. “Well, I hope you won’t mind the clutter. Clark, if you don’t mind, let me show Beta Travers out and then we can go over the paperwork one last time in my office?” 

“Right,” Clark says, exhaling slowly. “Of course.” 

Alfred spares a brief glance for Clark, then leads Carl off with Lor in his arms and a little parade made up of Jon and Damian and an oddly disgruntled-seeming Tim. Bruce reminds himself that he still needs to make sure Tim's not coming down with something later, then goes to showing Travers out. She seems a little stressed, still, but overall relieved to have gotten them to sign the contract, and only obliquely insults Clark another two times on the way to the door. 

She also manages to insult Carl and just about every other omega on the planet, but Bruce will take what he can get. 

“My card, Alpha Wayne,” Travers says at the door as she pulls out an embossed ivory business card and offers it to him, and Bruce extricates himself from thoughts of just what he’s going to do to this agency to smile pleasantly and accept it. “If you have any concerns, please call the agency immediately, any time. We’re at your service.” 

“You’re too kind, Beta Travers,” Bruce lies breezily, tucking the card away before getting the door for her. “Thanks so much for coming out so suddenly, we really appreciate you making the time. Carl seems like a good kid, I’m sure he’ll do great.” 

“Oh, yes,” Travers replies with a rictus imitation of a smile and about negative one thousand faith in that statement. Bruce really wonders why the agency even agreed to send Carl here at all, if she’s so concerned about him being a “concern”. Someone must’ve overruled her somewhere. “We’re so pleased to hear you’re satisfied, Alpha Wayne. Thank you for your business. One of our secretaries will send the invoices over first thing in the morning.” 

“Great, thanks so much!” Bruce says cheerfully, then shuts the door in her face. 

God, what an unbearable woman. 

He’s used to unbearable people, obviously, but there’s unbearable and there’s “unbearable, and also annoying”. Travers’s manners were impeccably rude, and honestly Bruce would’ve thrown her out if they hadn’t needed Carl’s assistance so desperately. He'd considered it even with needing Carl’s assistance. They probably could’ve convinced him to freelance, if they’d offered him a tempting-enough contract. 

Probably not worth the risk, he reminds himself as he heads back across the foyer and towards the back of the house. 

. . . probably. 

Clark is waiting just outside the parlor, looking relieved and stressed and hurt all at once. Bruce gives him a neutral look, and Clark gives him a weak smile in return. 

“How far out is Lois?” Bruce asks, since it’s politer than accessing the tracker he put on her car. Also, faster. 

“Another forty minutes, if the traffic doesn’t get any worse,” Clark sighs. “So a ways, still.” 

“Office, then?” Bruce suggests. 

“We don’t actually need to go over the paperwork again, Bruce,” Clark says, the corner of his mouth ticking up wryly. 

“We do not, no,” Bruce agrees. “But that’s the place the kids are least likely to interrupt us while you work through how you’re feeling about this right now. Also, better scentproofed and soundproofed than anywhere else in the manor.” 

“I’m fine,” Clark says with an attempt at another smile. “Really.” 

Bruce doesn’t even humor him with a dubious look. 

“Then you’re fine to come wait in the office with me,” he replies easily, slipping back into the parlor to pick up their copies of the paperwork. 

[tellmeallaboutit]

knock knock (Raphael x F!Player)

Chapter 6, In Which You Try To Look Away (It's Harder Than You Thought)

AO3

by the way, I saw today an art on twitter which is extremely Raul-coded

I am not a murderer, you thought as you ordered the ATM to give you another two hundred euros.

Even if I am, that guy deserved it, you thought as you re-inserted the card to give you two hundred more (damn those limits per withdrawal).

Even if he didn’t (and he did), nobody is going to miss him, and his fiancee will move on to the next lawyer in Oliver Peoples glasses soon enough, and besides, people die in freak accidents all the time. 

Even if they don’t, well, if every death wish resulted in an actual death, humanity would be long extinct and that wouldn't be your fault, would it now?

With that comforting thought, you pocketed the last of your ten thousand euro goal, tired from having to repeat the same task for almost an entire hour. Anything can happen, Raphael could cut off access to his account on a whim, but cold hard cash was something you could hold onto even if you fell from his grace.

"Ms. Berger," came a voice on your phone with a strong French accent the moment you picked up. It was Raphael’s banker, Francois-something, who gave you the PIN in the first place. “Would it be easier if we delivered cash directly to you? Your withdrawals keep triggering our petty theft alerts."

"Oh no, thank you," you replied, trying your best not to sound like a petty thief. "I have enough for now... I think."

“As you wish,” came his slow reply.

"But uh... could you help me make two bank transfers?" You asked after a pause. "One to my mother, Franziska Berger… (how much how much how much?) ten thousand euro, I’ll send you the details… and one for the stray cats shelter... (how much how much how much?)… five thousand euro?"

Too much? How do you quantify the cost of accidentally-on-purpose getting some useless yuppie run over by a bus in terms of absolving your sins? 

Five thousand felt somewhat stingy.

“The stray cats?” The banker repeated back at you as though questioning whether this was some sort of coded drug deal.

“Yes,” You replied firmly. “They do incredible work. Ah! The kids cancer foundation, too. Five thousand. No, ten".

That seemed about right for the guy’s life.

"Ah, you meant charity. Of course," Francois replied, relief and amusement in his tone. "Lovely, great for the ESG rating. Make sure to get an invoice for the tax refund."

It didn’t quite sit well with you to use stray cats and kids for tax refunds, but you still said yes and stashed the money deep down the rucksack. You got a bit of cash for now (soon you will go for more, because who knows), but it’s still not an income source. 

What could be? Should you ask Raphael to buy an apartment in your name, or two? You could rent it. Or a company? Tenebris, for instance. Just imagine their gobsmacked faces - especially after they gave you the boot without even a severance package.

That was a delicious thought.

You let it simmer as you sat down in an tourist-trappy Italian restaurant in the city centre, just about to order an Aperol Spritz when your phone began to ring again. You are in high demand these days.

"Anya!" Your mum gasped on the other end of the line. “I saw you on TV!"

Sure, the accident was all over the news channels. Some blurred out the dead body better than others did. You would bet your last cent that the unedited version got more views.

"Yeah, gruesome," you grimaced.

"Gruesome? Why? Ah, you mean the guy. Well, that happens all the time; they really give driving licences to anyone these days. I do hope the driver rots in prison for what he did to this poor young man. Anyway, no. I called to say, I saw you and Raul on the news”.

She managed to infuse an uncanny amount of innuendo into the last sentence.

“Raul is such a handsome man, Anya”, she sighed wistfully. “Quite the catch you got there, huh?”

There we go again. 

“What, way out of my league?”, you joked dryly. “I’ve been told that”.

“Oh, no, what nonsense! You are such a pretty girl!” Your mother protested. “More importantly, a good-hearted girl raised right; I am glad there still are decent men who still appreciate that. Did you meet Raul for a lunch?”

“Oh no,” You replied nonchalantly. "We actually… ah, we actually went to a church. He introduced me to his pastor."

Your mother sucked in an audible gasp like she'd won some kind of maternal lottery.

“His pastor, already? I am so happy for you, sweetie.”, she finally managed to say. “This is like a fairy tale come true”.

Yeah, a Grimm one.

“Sort of”, you chuckled. '“By the way, you will receive a bank transfer soon, ten thousand euro, don’t be afraid. It’s… well, take care of your health, okay? Get a decent dentist this time, a private one”.

“Where do you have the money from? Is it his?”, your mum suddenly sobered up. “Anya, what on earth is he paying you money for? I hope you are not doing anything… anything…”

"No," you cut her off and licked your lips, recalling the last thing that passed between them. “Mom, please! It's not his money, it's my company’s – long story.”

One that you haven't come up with yet.

Besides, if Raphael was giving you ten thousand dollars (thirty-five thousand in total with your other expenses for the day) for one blowjob, then you definitely had a successful career, just not in the field you had planned on.

“Okay,” your mum replied. “But still...you don’t need to...why don’t you buy some nice dresses instead? What on earth was that t-shirt you were wearing to a church?"

“I am hanging up”, You threatened half-heartedly.

You didn’t. You listened in the background to the story of how your mum’s school friend called her to say she saw “her Anya” with a very handsome man on the TV, nonplussed by the fact there was a scattered corpse in the background. 

In the meanwhile, you opened Google on your phone. 

You didn’t fancy doing that before - annoyed by that fake persona Raphael had created. But since he obviously put that much effort in it, it’s worth looking up what he had been up to and for how long.

Nothing good, for sure.

"…Raul D'Avergni, managing partner of an international law firm, inherited the private equity conglomerate, Avernus Capital. This transition was precipitated by the unexpected and tragic passing of his father..."

"…By December 2024, D'Avergni's high-profile liaison with Isabelle Arnaud, actress and socialite, had unceremoniously ended..."

No. Who? No. You didn’t need any ex-girlfriends.

"…Ms. Arnaud levied abuse accusations against Mr. D'Avergni…”

Oh, no…

“…she retracted her claims within a mere twenty hours and ensued a public apology for any harm inflicted upon D’Avergni’s reputation..."

Hmm.

"…her psychiatrist intervened on her behalf. Evidently, Arnaud was grappling with severe mental health issues that led her to make unfounded allegations..."

Raul likes them crazy, they said? Or makes them crazy?

"…Ms. Arnaud now resides in a high-end medical institution in Monaco, focusing on her mental health issues..."

What did Isabelle look like, you wondered, as your mum finished her talk and wished you a good day. You typed her name into the search bar, holding your breath in anticipation as you half-expected to see Hope's face staring back at you.

The woman clinging to Raphael's arm at some fancy film premiere bore no resemblance.

Your stomach sank as if it had plunged into the depths of hell.

She was exactly the type of woman Raphael should have on his elbow; a timeless beauty, but something more Renaissance like, the kind of faces humankind seemed to have stopped producing. She was in her mid-twenties, as well, but… hell, you could not hold a candle to that. Few could. 

Not even the Tavs. She resembled her namesake, Isabelle Adjani, in her youth, maybe even better.

The pictures showed her laughing and looking deeply in love while gazing up at Raphael, while he offered only a very formal smile to the camera. So not Hope then. Nothing like their story. She was in love, he wasn’t. 

Good.

Later snaps by paparazzi painted a different picture: a gaunt woman hidden behind oversized sunglasses and swallowed up by her hoodie, clutching to her coffee cup. 

With a swift click, you banished Isabelle from your screen and plunged further into Raphael's (Raul’s) life story.

You found a photo of Raphael in his twenties (yes, just like the Tumblr post you hated, and no, you wouldn't have fucked him at that age), caught up in a minor scandal in Sankt Moritz (apparently his fraternity brother had pissed on the Swiss flag), more gossip, his philanthropic affairs for local theatres and art galleries, numerous articles praising his professional achievements, and interviews with Lawyer and WSJ and the like. There was mention of a brief marriage and divorce in his early thirties, but when you tried to Google the woman's name, nothing came up.

The whole thing left a sour taste in your mouth. This was someone's real life story, not a fictional character. Raphael wasn't just some wealthy corporate jerk; he was a half-devil from Avernus, which was infinitely better and more sympathetic.

You were well aware that Raphael wasn't exactly a good guy. But he had his rules; he had to have his rules. As for the whole thing with Hope though... What exactly was she? An idea? A person? The fandom barely discussed her, and what little they did, you didn't like; all horrible takes, every single one.

The whole plot felt half-baked.

Anyway, what seeing Isabelle did motivate you to do was to take a real stroll down the city's most expensive boutique street.

Now, the first thing you bought was not because you wanted or needed anything, but because Raphael expected you to. You were not much of a materialist anyway; you were ideologically opposed to consumerism. These things were overpriced, generally not worth it and, on a larger scale, represented everything that was wrong with society.

You decided to enter a Valentino store out of curiosity, as you had never been inside one before. The saleswoman's disdainful look at your T-shirt motivates you to buy a black dress with a white collar, not necessarily because you liked it, but because you want to prove that you can afford it, despite the price tag of two thousand euros. 

Well, you liked it a little. The wool and silk blend was great to touch.

The details of the rest of the shopping trip became a bit hazy. You had your reasons; the consort of an Archdevil Supreme had to look really nice. If you couldn't be as pretty as Isabelle, you could at least dress as well as she did. So you started with some nice blouses and trousers, and a (just one) jacket. With that, you needed shoes. With shoes, of course, you needed a bag. Now that you had a bag (you closed your eyes as the price flashed at the till), you needed some jewellery (you needed to see what all the fuss about Tiffany's was about). And, of course, you needed make-up. 

At each shop, the sales assistants smiled wider and wider as you piled more and more bags onto your arms. By the seventh stop, it felt like their smiles were entering uncanny valley territory. 

Eventually, the banker would call you, right? But when exactly would that be? You tried to find out, but failed. It had to be over forty thousand.

The thought made you dizzy. In one day you had spent your entire year's salary. Now all you could do was hope that Raphael wouldn't make you work off the debt somehow. Unless it was the kind of work your mother suspected you were already doing for him.

You came out of the last shop with five bags and the feeling that you were a very shitty socialist. Since you couldn't carry any more, the shopping concierge (apparently it's a real job) offered to store the bags until your driver picked you up, and just as you were about to say which bloody driver, whom do you take me for, you remembered that you actually had one.

"Mrs Berger," the receptionist said cheerfully the moment she saw you in the door. "Nice to see you again! How can I help you? Oh, yes. The driver, of course. Yes, of course, let me put you through to Mr D'Avergni's personal assistant".

Oh, it's Mrs Berger and my pleasure? They were wondering if the rumours about you wanting the guy to be run over by a bus were already out there. The personal assistant's name was Camilla, her voice was the embodiment of professionalism, and she was the one who could take you to the driver, who was there in no time.

His name was Yuri and he was more talkative than you would have liked. Gruff, huge, way too big for the car he was driving (any vehicle known to man would be too small for him), with a deep booming voice and the face of someone who had spent half his life behind bars.

"Have you seen that poor bastard? All over the main road," he remarked as he passed the street cleaners. "Probably too busy fiddling with his phone to keep an eye out."

"Mghgm," you offered. 

"So, are we stopping by your place first, Miss Berger? Boss said you wanted to get some things first. Are you moving in?"

"Am I?" You ask, surprised by the news yourself, and then think to yourself: "Why not?”

Why the hell not.

****

You didn't waste any time. With a tidy suitcase in tow, you were out the door of your apartment before Yuri could get too bored. You packed the essentials - toothbrush, laptop, documents - and a few other things that suddenly felt crucial to your life.

Out the car window you watched the cityscape change from urban jungle to manicured suburbia and finally to a small gated community. The driver talked politics (he had exactly the kind of convictions you'd expect), then about how amazing Raul was (and how extremely open-minded he was to give an ex-con a job), before returning to politics. 

You didn't ask what crime Yuri did his time for. 

You knew it was Raphael's house the moment you saw it through the car window. Who else would live in such a place? Not a house, that's too boring a term; a villa, all intricate stonework, marble and terracotta, such a flamboyant display of wealth that it should have been taxed just to exist. 

Only a devil or a mafia don would call such grandeur home. So much, too much, theatrical to the point of grotesqueness; no real person could possibly live like this. You couldn't help but wonder if Raphael had been influenced by the films he had seen - perhaps he had developed a taste for modern cinema.

He must have liked The Godfather.

This place. The fountains, the statues (classical, Roman, as if sculpted by the ghost of Michelangelo), the gardens. You wondered how many souls it took to keep this whole thing running.

The gates opened and the car drove you into an underground car park that was already very busy and very Italian: Ferraris, Maseratis, Lamborghinis. You counted; eight. Who needed eight cars? Not even one for each day of the week. 

The lift took you up; Yuri left your shopping bags and suitcase in the foyer and said goodbye.

You'd never set foot in such a house before; the closest you'd ever come was drooling over Sotheby's property listings.

Why would anyone need all this space? For just one person? It was at least six hundred square metres; and the guest and service house looked like another two hundred. The kitchen and dining area was three times the size of your apartment.

You could play golf here.

For what it's worth, the villa didn't remind you of the House of Hope. Firstly, it was completely empty; the servants, if they were in there, managed to make themselves invisible. Second, it lacked the baroque, replaced by the dolce vita and flair of a Lake Como residence. Thirdly, there were no self-portraits, not even pictures, nothing to suggest that the man who lived here had a face, a history, let alone a family.

The first floor was devoted to entertaining guests: the kitchen, the dining room, the library, the ballroom (you guessed this kind of rooms used to be called ballrooms, he even had a piano in it). The second floor was half-locked, except for the master bedroom (the bed easily could accommodate two orthons and a cambion sandwiched between them) and the dressing room. 

There was also a basement - the entrance blocked by a number lock. You considered trying the PIN combination, but decided you didn't want to snoop down there... well, you wanted to snoop very badly, but you didn't want to face the possible consequences. Unless they resembled those in his private club.

So you roamed both floors twice before staking claim to your new sleeping quarters in the master bedroom by putting your suitcase down there. You checked everything else in the room: Raphael's bedside glasses, his choice of books (predictably, Machiavelli, but not The Prince, another book you had never heard of called Mandragola), even his dark silk pyjamas, which lay on the chaise awaiting their owner's return. You open his drawer: hand lotion, velvet sleeping mask, lubricant, two opera tickets (Götterdammerung) from about a month ago... 

Then curiosity led you to look under his bed, where he indeed had something stored: a large black storage box.

Oh, you just had to have a look. 

Just to get an idea of what’s on the evening programme.

Handcuffs, the real kind, the police kind, metal ones. The thought of all the women (and men) who might have been bound with them, as jealous as it made you feel, was titillating. A whip and a crop. Yes, that works for you. And what's this? Butt plugs? Only if they were still sealed in their original packaging (you were not into that kind of hand-me-downs) and way smaller. A chastity belt? Well, that's... intriguing, but probably not in your first month together. A hook? That can stay where it is.

At least nothing too extreme like needles or enemas or any of the other disgusting things you sometimes saw on weird porn sites.

Underneath all that, toys and accessories, lay another plain black box. Oh, a box in a box. Something was written on it.. 

GOOD EVENING CURIOUS LITTLE MOUSE

"Good evening," you said as you opened the lid.

Then promptly closed it again.

"No," you said. "No, no, no. It was just a fic I read and liked, I was very horny, but it's not really my thing. No, thank you. Just because I didn't have a father doesn't mean I have daddy issues. I don't care about the guy, he never cared about me, end of story".

You took a deep breath before opening the box again, hoping that the items inside had disappeared. 

But to your dismay, they were still there: a velvet collar adorned with "Daddy's Little Mouse" in shimmering gold thread, a headband with mouse ears, red lace cobweb-thin lingerie and a tail-butt plug (thankfully still in its original packaging and on the smaller side). The tail was furry and tipped with white, so you must have been a dormouse.

All of the toys were top quality, handmade, and incredibly vulgar. Well, no surprise, having seen what Haarlep was wearing in his house.

You closed the box shut again.

"I'd rather cook us something to eat," you suggested, getting up. "Some pasta. I bet you like pasta?"

You definitely liked pasta and hoped that Raul (Raphael, Raphael) would not have you hanged on the hooks and tortured for your very non-Italian interpretation. You hoped in vain, because he chimed in and tried to stop you from committing a crime:

"Working late. Don't bother with dinner. Take some time to relax and enjoy yourself. R".

As you descended the stairs, ignoring his text, you wondered - did he ever cook? Or was his kitchen just for show, with the real work done in the servants' quarters (do they still call them quarters?).

You forgot that question the moment you saw what was lying on the marble kitchen counter.

The same box you had left upstairs, still with 

GOOD EVENING DISOBEDIENT LITTLE MOUSE 

on it. 

You blinked and took two large steps back. 

The box seemed to crawl forward in response.

You shrieked; this was a bit too much. Raphael's presence, the supernaturality of it, had been subtle before; now it was becoming a bit performative.

"I got your hint," you said, your voice a shaky laugh. "Don't scare me, please. Please."

The box stayed where it was, but it radiated an energy of impatience, as if it might jump at you if you neglected it any longer.

“Fine,” you conceded, coming a bit closer. “A little romance would’ve been nice but…”

"Setting romantic atmosphere," a cheerful female voice said.

who the fuck who the fuck who the fuck

Alexa. 

Fucking smart home systems. The lights dimmed to a soft orange glow, the heavy curtains closed with a soft whoosh and a familiar tune echoed off the walls, the ballroom piano playing in the distance:

I put a spell on you

Because you're mine

The melody was familiar and so was the voice behind it - smooth, silky and oh so captivating (the adjectives you would use to describe it could fill many romance novels). A deep, rich baritone. You chuckled - had Raphael discovered blues? It suited him. 

You know I cannot stand it

You running around

You loved his interpretation of the song. It felt so intimate, him singing to you, so... very, very special. Your fear vanished in an instant; you poured yourself a glass of wine and took a luxurious sip.

"I'll put these on for you," you laughed, putting all the flirt you ever had in this laugh. "But don't expect me to call you 'Daddy'."

There was no protest; Raphael was too busy singing, pouring his entire soul into it. You made yourself busy too; stripping. You weren't very skilled (any skilled), but the thrill of being watched by him awakened something in you. You caught your reflection in the mirror and damn, you were hot. 

Shrugging off your shirt and sliding down your plain black briefs, you swayed your hips at your reflection as the wine worked its magic on your mind. For once in your life, you felt genuinely attractive; he made you feel genuinely attractive. The sexiest you'd ever been. 

Slipping into the silky red lace lingerie he had chosen for you (splurged on, because it was a La Perla) - you fastened the collar around your neck. A long golden chain dangled from it, wrapped twice around the hook and cascaded down your back. Then you put the mouse ears - not cartoonish, not Minnie Mouse ones, but real fur and incredibly lifelike - on your head like a headband. 

You looked like...well, precisely what your mother suspected you were doing to pay the bills. But at least high-end. Very high-end. The only thing worse than being an escort is being a cheap one.

But there was one more item left in the box.

"Ehh," you said at the sight of the mouse tail, especially the part that was meant to be inserted. "I'm going to need... I'm going to the bedroom."

It had been ages since your last foray into such play; back when you were with that boyfriend who constantly pestered you about anal and found it somehow arousing to "accidentally" (sure, mate) poke you and mumble an insincere "oops, wrong hole". 

You didn't stick around much longer after that.

Stretched out on Raphael's sumptuous bed, you slicked up everything - the plug, your pussy, your arse - with copious amounts of lube. First, some warming. So you began to rub yourself, two fingers finding their familiar way to your clit. You couldn't shake the crawling feeling of being watched, every inch of your body scrutinised by unseen eyes.

"Raphael," you called out into the empty room, desperate for some form of interaction or response. "I would love it if you would join me... or say something pleasant”.

Now would be the perfect time to call me a good girl.

But there was no response, just an eerie silence in the room. Feeling too naked and too slutty, you pulled the blanket over you, a makeshift barrier between you and his eyes. Under the fortification, tucking the tail in seemed less daunting.

Before you could get down to business, there was a jerk at the blanket, which fell to the cold floor, leaving you bare again. Then another tug on the chain attached to your collar, pulling you closer to the bedpost.

"I'm sorry," you gasped breathlessly, both hands instinctively reaching for your collar. "I won't hide."

The chain didn’t let go, making a point out of a slight pressure around your neck. Taking a deep breath, you focused on the task at hand, stroking your clit as you guided the plug inside you. 

You told yourself to relax and take it slow; just imagine it's Haarlep. How many times had you dreamed of being squeezed and stretched between the two of them? It was always Haarlep who took you from behind; it just seemed more their style.

The plug slid in deeper. It didn't hurt, and the little discomfort it caused added to the excitement. 

Damn, this is so dirty. 

"It's in," you said as the plug settled inside you. "All the way in. What's next?"

The words were barely out of your mouth when the golden chain, suddenly a snake-like lasso, wrapped tightly around your wrists.

Pulled them towards the bedpost, stretched out and bound tightly to either side. Fear gripped you and you clenched around the plug, pulling your knees tight together.

Tightly. Very tight. A little too tight. You tried to wriggle, the metal biting your skin; you could move your hips a little, but no more. 

You couldn't get out yourself, which was not good news when you were alone (well, almost) in a very big house. Your mind immediately thought of that girl in Gerald's Game.

"Raphael?" you asked. “It’s not that kind of game, is it? It’s a nice game? Can we play a nice game?”

He did not answer, but you heard footsteps. Footsteps coming down the long corridor. Confident, quick and very purposeful.

Stay calm, stay calm, it's him, it's him, who else could it be? Haarlep? The orthon? The driver? 

The door swung open.

It was Raphael, and he was visibly surprised to see you in this state, which was absolute bullshit considering he was responsible for tying you to this very bed. 

"Well, I'll be damned," he said, covering the distance to the bed in two strides. "What a welcome home surprise, piccola." 

Raphael gave you a lecherous, wet-lipped smile and knelt on the bed between your legs. There was something boyish about it, an expression you'd never seen in the game, as if he'd just found his first bike under the Christmas tree.

You searched for “piccola” earlier today: “baby” or “little girl” in Italian. 

"I'm not going to call you Daddy," you repeated, and Raphael shook his head and laughed, not seeming at all horrified at the thought (and he should be).

"I have some compelling evidence to the contrary, Daddy's little mouse," he teased, his fingers playing with your collar. 

"Anything but Daddy," you pleaded. "That's just... demeaning."

Weirdly incestual, too. You haven’t even seen the guy, not a photo, not a… (don’t think of him why the fuck would you think of the old bastard now).

“This is the whole appeal of it, is it not?”, he said. “How would you prefer to address me then?"

Raphael? Something told you that telling him that would make him very angry, and you weren't exactly in a position to want an angry man on top of you. Raul? No, that name just felt completely wrong and made you feel like you were in a Spanish soap opera. 

Raphael began to unbutton his shirt one button at a time, revealing a white undershirt, which he then took off. 

His physique was impressive for a man of his age; not those bodybuilder abs from bg3 but a well-toned body shaped by workouts and diets, which seemed to be very much at odds with his indulgent ways. Rough brown hair spread across his chest and lower abdomen against honey-tanned skin. Every inch of him seemed so put together, so perfectly groomed.

"Master," you finally decided (there was this one fanfic…) as you spread your legs wider in an invitation. 

"Master?" Raphael seemed amused, his fingers tracing the lace of your bra, teasing your hardened nipples through the fabric. "Such flattery. So this makes you my slave girl? Tied up and ready for me to use as I please?"

Reading Raphael say such things was one thing, but hearing him actually say them in real life made you feel embarrassed. It was a bit, ugh... 

“You get flustered easily for someone who waited for me dressed like this, little mouse,” Raphael raised an eyebrow at your see-through lace. “Topolina." 

He wrinkled his nose and laughed, as if the word was funnier in Italian, and poked the tips of your mouse ears. You wanted him so badly that your lips caught his as he came closer and you pushed your tongue into his mouth. He kissed your back, his hands moving up and down your body. 

"How the hell did you manage..." he mused aloud as he studied your bound wrists.

His fingers ventured between your legs, and the moment he stumbled upon your tail, his whole body twitched with excitement, his breath catching in his throat as he traced the soft fur to reach the base of the plug. 

The playful gleam in his eyes was replaced by an intense, wild desire.

"Merda," he breathed out. "Look at that. Aren't you a dirty little girl?"

You cringed at how pornographic the line sounded (his suddenly much thicker Italian accent didn't help), but Raphael seemed to find it excruciatingly erotic.

In one swift motion, he lunged forward and forced your legs apart, his hands pulling your knees towards your chest, folding you in until your muscles screamed in protest at the stretch. 

Without warning, he thrust deep inside of you. You gasped in surprise; no preliminaries, no foreplay, no taking it slowly, just raging, explosive lust.

Fortunately, your own fingers had done their job earlier, so despite the brutal force of his first thrust, pleasure surged through you, along with a sharp twinge of friction as his cock rubbed against the toy lodged inside you.

He seemed to relish the sensation and so did you. 

Your eyes fluttered shut as your body arched beneath him; stretched and pinned by his weight, trapped, surrendering to the relentless pounding that followed - raw and invasive and yet so fulfilling.

You were so looking forward to coming again from his penetration alone. The mere thought made you pull harder on your restraints, craving the delicious pain of being bound. The furry tail must have tickled his balls because he tucked it under you so that it would tease you instead. 

"Cross your ankles behind my back," Raphael rasped into your shoulder as he grazed it with his stubbled chin. "Yes, just like that... now tilt your hips."

You responded with your most submissive “yes, master”, making his cock twitch inside you, and then sifted your hips to better accommodate his pleasure. Wrapped your legs tightly around him, pulling him in deeper, pain-pleasure soaring through you. You sniffed his hair. 

His cologne (worn leather, cherry liqueur, bitter almonds) smelled so good oh so good.

He slid his arms underneath your arse, lifting you towards him at every thrust. 

Raphael said few words after that, grunting and thrusting and thrusting. Something about him was different this time - something very human - from how his sweat-soaked hair stuck to his forehead to his expressions of sheer lust that bordered on comical at times. 

One thing remained the same - the pleasure his pounding brought you, the familiar hooks of approaching orgasm - not any orgasm, the orgasm of being with him, his sharp talons - sinking inches deep into your flesh again. 

fuck does he feel good

rough or tender it just feels so good

his cock his tongue his breath on your neck

You screamed "fuck me", then once again, louder, not caring how obscene you sounded, and bit his shoulder without a second thought. 

The scream that escaped you was higher pitched than you had intended.

do whatever whatever you want whatever you want with me

Raphael's face creased with annoyance as his strong finger pressed into your cheek. "Easy…easy… piccola... I appreciate…. a good performance… not …overacting," he scolded as he went at you harder, pushing you to the point of pain.

hurt me

fuck me fuck me harder

You would have protested at the implication that you were pretending, but you were too busy coming under him, his hand clamped over your mouth before your temporal insanity could drive you to actually call him ‘daddy’.

If he wanted you to why wouldn’t you he is so sweet to you oh so sweet to you

The scream was swallowed by his palm as an orgasm, brutal in its intensity and lightning-fast, ripped through you, whip-snaked it. You greeted your release with a wail, biting into his hand. Raphael paused mid-thrust, apprehensive of how your pussy convulsed around him and your leg spasmed uncontrollably - if this was a performance, you deserved an award.

"You weren't pretending," he panted, awe-struck. "My apologies. You were not".

The realisation frenzied him; he spilled within a minute after, rutting into you with intensity belying his age. Utterly spent, he collapsed on top of you, his breath, cherries and tobacco, warming your throat as his cock softened within you.

"I may have gotten a little carried away," he said, sounding embarrassed and slightly apologetic as he lay down beside you. "But it seems you're more than content."

You eagerly and quickly nodded.

"Are you that... passionate with every man?" He asked as he helped you free your wrists - jealousy creeping into his voice at the mention of that mysterious 'every man'.

You couldn't help but laugh at the question. "No," you replied. "Far from it. You are not just any man. You are anything but."

Raphael let out a sigh of relief and kissed you, making no effort to hide how much your compliment pleased him. 

When you parted, you hopped awkwardly off the bed - the odd gait one adopts when they have a plug in them (no way were you going to remove it in his presence, no way) and cum was trickling down your thighs. 

Shit, the condom. Now you forgot to ask him to wear it.

Would he have?..

Ah, screw it. Google says Plan B is effective for up to 72 hours after unprotected sex, so you'll take it tomorrow - for tonight and last night. You'd never been this careless before, but hell, you'd never murdered people with a mere thought or slept with an Archdevil of Hell.

Raphael was still lying there, basking in the afterglow, when you returned.

"I have to admit, Anya... I'm seriously thinking of proposing," he murmured with such tenderness as you snuggled against him that you wondered if Raphael really was incapable of love.

"That would be quick," you replied, but made it sound like you wouldn't mind at all.

"Quick?" he scoffed. "A man knows what he wants in a woman the moment he sets eyes on her. Unfortunately, there are very few left in your generation."

You smiled, already dreaming of being the Archduchess of Hell, and half-dreaming in general from sheer exhaustion and satisfaction. 

"They lied about you being bad in bed," you murmured as sleep began to take over. "I knew it was all bullshit."

"They?" He asked, his face contorting into a scowl at your sentence. "Who are they? Anya, for God's sake, stop reading those trashy tabloids."

You closed your eyes for a moment. When you half-opened them, you saw him on the balcony outside, in a black silk robe, AirPods in his ears and a cigarette in his mouth. Behind him you could see the smoke and fire of the Avernus mountain ridge, the fireballs cascading down from the sky. Beautiful. 

Raphael gestured with his free hand, aggressively, and you listened a little closer; fortunately he was more than loud.

"...we will bleed them dry if they dare to break our agreement..."

"...they knowingly and willingly accepted our terms, they will choke on the consequences..."

"...all must pay their dues, sooner or later..."

"...an army? We have our own army..."

A yawn escaped your lips as you snuggled deeper into the plush pillows of the massive bed. Everything, except the AirPods, fit perfectly into the image of Archdevil Supreme.

You felt so chosen, so alive, so gloriously alive, and your life had just begun.

"Are you coming soon?" you called out as you tried to think of an appropriate nickname for him - something intimate, but not too cheesy. Darling? Baby? Sweetheart? Love? My favourite devil?

But he beat you to it before you could decide.

"Soon, my love. Rest," he blew you a kiss. With a loud click, he shut the glass door and cut you off from hearing the rest of their conversation. You let out a contented sigh and rolled over onto your side, drifting into a peaceful slumber.

"My love," you said in your sleep. "Raphael called me his love”.

****

The urgent need to go to pee woke you. The time was a mystery, but it must have been late enough for Raphael to have gone to bed too.

He was pressed close to you, his hand cupping your breast. You looked over your shoulder; asleep, peaceful, in buttoned pyjamas, and it was the one moment when he did not look threatening at all; vulnerable, if anything. You kissed him on the cheek and he smiled in his sleep and held you close. 

When you came back from your short (not really, a good thirty metres to the toilet) trip to the bathroom, you snuggled closer to him, preparing to doze off again, and then you heard something.

You listened closer, thinking you had dreamed it first.

Soft, gentle whimpers. You recognised the voice. You didn't know how, but you did. Something childishly cheerful and slightly mad about it.

Oh, no. No. You were happy, spooning with Raphael, and you didn't need this shit right now, especially when things were finally going so well.

Hope, please, you begged.

You got all your happy endings, so many of them, wonderful endings where Raphael was killed by the player and you got to live and your revenge and whatnot. Can I have one too, please? Without you whining and making me feel guilty for something I didn't even do?

"My love," you asked Raphael softly, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his side. "Can you let her go?"

"Mmm," Raphael murmured in his sleep, "Sure, piccola. Whatever you wish for."

You waited for him to act, but he only tightened his grip on the blanket and shifted slightly.

"You have all the hells and the crown and everything (and me). You don't need her anymore," you tried again. 

"Anya, let me sleep," Raphael mumbled into his pillow, away from your voice. You tried to hide from her voice under your pillow as well, but you could still hear the soft, painful moans. 

Ugh. 

They were very, very far away, but still there.

"She's still wailing," you complained, taking him by the shoulder and shaking him a little. "Raphael? Raphael?"

 "Who is wailing?” he groaned in pure frustration, and then made a half-hearted attempt at listening. “Ah, merda, not that bloody bitch again! I swear, I will plug that hole myself!"

You tried to make sense of that sentence and couldn't, but what you did get was that it promised Hope nothing good and sounded vaguely vulgar, which was even worse. 

"Don't hurt Hope," you begged, appalled by his threat. "She doesn't deserve it!"

"I don't deserve it either," Raphael retorted before turning away from you. "Please be quiet."

He should direct this request to his prisoner. 

What had really happened between them? You didn't think his obsession with Hope was sexual because, well, because, for example, he fucked you and you both enjoyed it, so he was definitely into consent, and Hope was more like a metaphor, a concept, a point to be made, and some shitty fucking rushed Act 3 writing.

"You... you didn't hurt her like that, did you? There was some talk... With that boudoir line... It was misinterpreted... right?"

Right. He may be evil, but he is lawful evil. He believed in consent and seduction, not violence. 

"I haven't hurt anyone, what in damnation are you talking about?" he growled through gritted teeth, and you let out a small sigh of relief.  "But if I don't get some rest, I might."

He hadn't hurt Hope. He wouldn't lie. He cannot; devils can deceive, but not outright lie. You read it somewhere.

Okay, he's not going to let her go and he's not going to help you and Hope was certainly not going to shut up. You have to go to her. And say what? Say what? Sorry for your predicament and the centuries of torture, Hope, but could you please be a bit quieter, me and Raphael just had sex and are trying to sleep? 

Let her go? And lose his favour, his credit card and the place next to him in his bed?

Yes, come on. It would be the right thing to do and you would do it. 

Where was she anyway, you wondered as you walked down the stairs. In the cellar? Hanging from the ceiling? You still don't have the key to the cellar. When you reached the ground floor, the kitchen, you realised that the noises were not coming from the cellar - they were coming from outside.

Outside? Did he hang her on a tree on this cold April night? 

You put on his trench coat and slipped into your sneakers. This was so unnecessarily evil, you thought, suddenly feeling much less happy about everything, especially as the pained whimpering got closer. Hardly human, you thought, more like a creature trapped and desperately trying to free itself. 

Yes, definitely more of a creature.

In fact, it reminded you of a dog. You searched the darkness of the night, determined to find it, and there it was: a dachshund wedged between the ground and a large, weathered fence, whimpering into the still night. 

The poor thing must have thought it was quite the burglar, trying to burrow under a hole in the fence to pull through. But it only managed to get itself stuck.

"Oh, poor baby," you said as you approached the dog. "Let's see if we can get you out."

You pulled on the fence to widen the opening and the cub was free.

It licked your hand in gratitude. Dogs love you. All animals do, and it's quite mutual. You had a harder time with people.

There were distant, panicked cries for Steffie somewhere in the distance; the owner was out on a rescue mission. You took the dachshund in your lap and went to meet her.

The woman was in her sixties, dark brown hair, a very aged beauty, and she looked a bit funny in her fur coat and slippers. She had tears in her eyes. Steffie ran to her as soon as she saw her.

"You silly little girl," she scolded the whining, complaining dog in her arms. She had a thick American drawl. "Why do you keep going back to his house? What's so special about him? I told you he was bad news!"

"Is he?" You asked the question when you knew the answer.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she stammered, forcing a smile to her lips. "I didn't mean it like that. You're Raul's new girl, aren't you? Samantha. I live down the road. Sorry about Steffie, she's very... adventurous."

There were exactly three houses on the street, a mile apart each.

"You meant it like that," you said. "If it's about Isabelle, she's apologised and withdrawn her accusations".

There was a pause, and Samantha's perfectly friendly smile cracked a little.

"Well, in that case," she said, before adding with forced cheerfulness, "thank you for looking after Steffie, sweetheart! You take care now."

She tried to walk away, but turned back; she was as curious as her little dog.

"I was walking Steffie when that French girl ran out of his house," she said, unable to resist the urge to gossip. "She was naked and babbling like a lunatic. She had blood on her, too".

"Did she scream something about the devil?" you asked after a pause.

"Devil? No. Not that I speak French," said the woman, making a last attempt to walk away, but failing. "Listen, I have a daughter about your age. And if some guy - ANY guy - tried to put that kind of crap around her neck, I would chop his arms off".

What did she mean? 

The collar. 

She meant the "Daddy's little mouse" collar you still have around your neck. 

Oh, don't kink shame me, you were going to say, but that kind of talk sounds ridiculous in real life. She managed to shame you very badly, so you hid the collar under your trench coat and mumbled, "I put it on myself".

That actually made her look at you again. Steffie looked at you with the same expression. 

Everybody's out to guilt trip you - Hope, the dog (the dog you saved!), the neighbour, the guy who got thrown under the bus, and you've done nothing but enjoy some devil sex.

The woman finally decided it was time to go, muttering "You need Jesus, sweetheart" before she left.

That's your God who kept women in collars and on leashes for centuries, not the Devil, you thought bitterly, and unlike the Devil, he didn't even fuck them. 

Well, only once.

***

You were back in the en-suite bathroom, washing your face in the marble sink.

Who the fuck was this man, really? What the fuck was happening? 

Your hand shot out, yanking open a cabinet door. An array of men's grooming products stared back at you - cologne, razor, facial moisturiser and scrub, deodorant, shaving gel, sleek, expensive bottles. A man took care of his looks.

Another cabinet creaked open under your touch. 

Your eyes darted to the label on the bottle - Risperidon. You had no idea what it was, but you memorised it for a future Google search, repeating it under your breath like a mantra. 

"Are you rummaging through my belongings, nosy little mouse?”

He was dead asleep last time you checked!

You jerked, closing the cupboard and stumbling back to the bathroom sink, gasping for breath. "No," you stammered, turning to find him standing in the doorway. "I mean... yes. I can't sleep. I thought you might have some pills."

His eyes were canny; he didn't swallow your lie and made no pretence of doing so. He bridged the gap and hugged you from behind - frighteningly strong and wanting every ounce of that power to seep into your bones. His strength made you realise just how much of a level 1 human NPC you were.

"You don't have to violate my privacy when I'm not around, Anya," he whispered against your skin as he began to trail soft kisses down your neck. "If there's anything that's bothering you, just ask me directly. I want us to be honest with each other."

What was in the cellar? What kind of work does he do for you? Did he rape Hope? Or was it Haarlep? Where is Haarlep, by the way? Why does Raphael want to play Raul? 

"What happened to Isabelle?" you asked. 

"Ah, I see. Is that why you asked me if I had hurt anyone?" he said. "Is that what the tabloids told you?"

You nodded.

"Isabelle had an addiction," he admitted, the crow’s feet showing themselves. "It spiralled out of control. She had… a bout of psychosis, a mental breakdown. Made false accusations to the press. She's now getting the help she needs, poor girl”.

"Why was she covered in blood?" you pressed, looking at his reflection in the mirror as an infernal light danced in his orange eyes.

For all the fire in them, they seemed icy, impossibly cold for a man who had called you my love less than an hour ago. "How did you come by this information? You seem to know more than one would expect of you, Anya. There are things about you that make me... wonder. I have been giving you the benefit of the doubt, perhaps foolishly."

Your breath caught in your throat. “The neighbour”, you said. “Your neighbour told me”.

The truth you’d spilled slaked him, but only a little. He looked at you, jaw hardened.

"Samantha? I’ll have a word with her. Very well, we were making love when Isabelle had a psychotic episode."

Making love? Really? He did not make love to you.

"She lashed out at me," he continued. "It was my blood, Anya. I would never hurt her or any other woman. Without their consent, that is."

But that couldn't be true, because there was Hope - and many others who owed him, and Raphael might have been many things, but not a liar, and yet here he was, lying right to your face.

He did hurt people. Whether they deserved it, whether they brought onto themselves, that was a different matter, but he did hurt them.

"If you need proof, you can take a look at the psychiatrist's report," he offered coldly. "The authorities got involved... unfortunately."

"I believe you," came your shaky reply. 

You desperately wanted to. 

Raphael’s eyes flickered.

"Trust goes both ways, Anya," he whispered in your ear, running a finger along your collar. "If you do not trust me, then I will be forced to ask some very unpleasant questions myself. Do we understand each other?"

Which questions? He knows everything there is to know about you. He knows your browser history.

“We do”, you said, still looking in the mirror. “Of course we do, my love”.

"Is that so?” he smiled. "I suggest we go to our bed and put that theory to the test."

[loveroftoomanyfandoms]

Sweet on You, Chapter 5

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Story Summary: HERE

Warnings/Tags: Sugar Daddy!Matt Murdock, Idiots to Lovers, No Age Gap, Alternating PoV, No Use of Y/N 

Word Count: ~2k

A/N: None for this chapter except enjoy!

(Divider by the superb @theradioactivespidergwen !)

Tag List: @danzer8705 @capylore @shouldbestudying41 @atemydadforbreakfast @peachy-flxwr @sleepysleepymom @fishinsuits @milkbummm @lazyxsquirrel @beezusvreeland @caughtthefever @bohemianrhapsody86 @yarrystyleeza @indestructeible @pepperthebi-spy @kezibear

How does Italian sound for tomorrow night? I was thinking Casa Italia over on 51st.

You couldn't help but smile as you noticed the text notification from Matt on your phone. 

He had apparently texted you several hours prior but you had been busy taking notes for Mr. DiStefano during a meeting with an important client most of the morning and had just gotten a second to breathe before having to go pick up lunch for the partners (because God forbid they be willing to pay a few extra bucks for delivery and tip instead of sending you to go fetch it). 

That sounds great, you replied. What time and where did you want to meet?

You put your phone back into your pants pocket and gathered your purse, then stopped by your boss's office. “Excuse me, Mr. DiStefano, I'm heading out to go pick up your lunch.”

Mr. DiStefano nodded. “As soon as you get back I need you to input the payments that came in this morning and bring the checks to the bank since you didn't do it earlier.”

Your eye twitched. The reason you hadn't done the deposit yet was because right after you had signed for the incoming checks and the courier had left you had been called into that 3-hour meeting. As it was, you'd barely had time to lock the envelopes in your top desk drawer and forward the main phone line to voicemail before Mr. DiStefano was exaggeratedly sighing while looking at his watch.

You plastered a fake smile on your face. On top of still needing to do the day's deposit you also had to transcribe the notes you had taken during the meeting while they were still semi-fresh in your mind, return phone calls, forward voicemails, schedule more meetings, and prepare and send the day’s invoices. “Of course, sir.”

You continued down the hall towards Mr. Williams’s office, passing the doorway without stopping when you heard him and Mr. Abbott laughing together in Mr. Abbott’s office.

“...So then she goes -- she goes, ‘oh, okay’ and drinks it anyway!” Mr. Abbott was saying. “Dumb as a box of rocks, but at least she had a nice rack.”

You rolled your eyes before stopping in front of his office. What a tool.  

You knocked on the doorframe. “Excuse me, Mr. Abbott?”

Mr. Abbott paused and looked past Mr. Williams to you. “Yes?”

You fought to keep your smile. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but I'm just letting you both know that I'm going to go pick up your lunches now.”

Mr. Williams, who had also turned towards you once he realized you were in the doorway, nodded. 

Mr. Abbott dug his wallet out of his pocket and handed you a laundry pickup ticket. “While you're out, pick up my dry cleaning for me. Thanks, dollface.”

What you wanted to say was ‘fuck you and your fucking dry cleaning’ but instead you forced yourself to remain calm. “Sure thing, Mr. Abbott. Mr. Williams, do you need anything else while I'm out?”

Mr. Williams glanced at Mr. Abbott briefly before looking back at you and shaking his head. “Not at the moment, no.”

You nodded. “Okay then, I'll be back soon.” 

Your smile dropped as soon as you turned away from the doorway. There goes any chance of me having a lunch break. At least by some miracle all three of the partners had ordered from the same restaurant today so you (probably) wouldn't be late getting back.

You took a deep breath. It'll be fine.You got this.

You made sure that the phone was still forwarding to voicemail then headed out.

You waited until you had gotten down the block a ways before you took your phone out of your pocket, pulled up your contacts, and pressed the dial button.

You put your phone up to your ear as it began to ring.

“Sky’s the Limit Tech Consulting, this is Roxanne,” said the voice on the other end.

You smiled at the sound of Roxy’s voice. She was the little sister you had never had -- despite your 11-year age difference the two of you had grown close over the three and a half years she had worked at DiStefano and Associates. “Hi, Rox.”

Roxy said your name. “Oh my gosh, hi!”

“Is this a bad time?”

“For you? Never. Just give me a second.”

You heard Roxy set the phone down and close her office door. 

She picked the receiver back up. “Okay, I'm back. What's up?”

“I just needed someone to vent to for a minute.”

“Still haven't replaced me and Tab yet, huh?”

You sighed deeply. “No, and it'd be one thing if they'd at least mention advertising your positions, but I haven't even heard a peep. I'm honestly starting to feel like they aren't even going to bother replacing you, because why go through the trouble of replacing the two people they lost when they can save money by just running me ragged instead?”

“I'm so sorry, I feel terrible leaving you by yourself. Maybe I should have stayed there instead of accepting my position here.”

You shook your head. “Nope. Not hearing that. You worked your ass off in order to earn your master's degree so you could get your dream job in Silicon Valley. You didn't know Tabitha was going to get fired 2 days after you left New York or that DiStefano was going to decide that 1 assistant was enough for all 3 of them.”

“Still, I feel bad leaving you to have to deal with all 3 partners by yourself.”

You rolled your eyes. Despite the fact that she had been absolutely useless, it had almost been worth having Tabitha around just to distract Abbott from hitting on and making gross, sexist comments towards you. “Ugh, yeah. Abbott just ordered me to pick up his dry cleaning while I'm out getting the partners lunch today and called me ‘dollface’.” 

“Eww.”

“And DiStefano pulled me into a 3-hour meeting this morning in order to take notes then made a passive-aggressive comment about me not having done the daily bank deposit yet.” You sighed. “At least Williams hasn't sexually harassed or made me feel incompetent yet today, but since the day’s only half over there's still a chance!”

Roxy groaned. “Girl, fuck them. Why don't you just quit?”

You shook your head. “You know I can't, not if I want to eat and keep a roof over my head while trying to help my mom with her hospital bills.”

Roxy hummed. “Speaking of that, how's your other job going? Found you a hot, rich ‘companion’ yet?”

You grinned as you thought about Matt. “Actually, yeah, I have.”

Roxy gasped. “Hey, that's great! So what's his name?”

You bit your lip. Roxy was the only person who knew about your S&S profile -- after all, she was the one who had gotten you to join -- but your contract made it clear that you wouldn't reveal the nature of your relationship with Matt to anyone. “I can't tell you. He wants to be discreet so he had me sign a contract saying that I won't tell anyone about him and me.”

“Ooh, is he a celebrity?”

You huffed out a laugh. “No, he's an attorney.”

“Married?”

“Nope. Or at least, he told me he was totally single.”

“And you believe him?”

You thought about how honest and genuine Matt seemed to be so far. “Yeah. Yeah, I actually do. He doesn't seem to be trying to hide me in particular, just how we really met and what our arrangement consists of.” You paused. “Anyway, it's really new. We met up for coffee on Saturday and had dinner together Monday night. He took me to Okinawa.”

Roxy whistled. “Okinawa? Wow, he must be loaded. When are you seeing him again?”

“Tomorrow night after work, actually. We're going to Casa Italia.” Which was again a very nice restaurant but thankfully wasn't nearl y as expensive as Okinawa.

“Ooh, nice. Fingers crossed that everything works out for you and that he doesn't turn out to be a creep.”

“Thanks. He seems really sweet so far.”

You slowed as you reached the restaurant from which you were picking up lunch. “I gotta run, but thanks for listening.”

“Hey, any time. Let's FaceTime soon, okay?”

“Okay. Bye, Rox.”

“Bye.”

You hung up and repocketed your phone, slightly disappointed when you didn't have another text from Matt waiting for you.

Even though your arrangement was strictly business, he made you feel like you mattered -- which was way more than you could say for DiStefano, Williams, and Abbott.

“Hey, how did the emergency hearing go?” Foggy asked as Matt walked into the office. 

“The judge granted the retrial,” Matt replied with a relieved sigh. “Now we just have to finish reviewing the rest of the evidence to find everything else we need to get Conrad's conviction overturned.”

He’d had to go to court first thing that morning for an emergency hearing -- a new client of theirs who had been wrongfully convicted of first-degree murder in the double shooting of his former fianceé and her then-husband (who had happened to be a U.S. senator) had been scheduled to be transferred from Rikers to a federal penitentiary in three days, but luckily while reviewing the case Matt had discovered a major discrepancy in what the responding officer had testified to on the stand versus what the police report had stated and managed to convince the judge not only to a retrial, but also to delay the transfer so Matt could have access to his client.

Foggy sighed. “You’d have thought that Sanders would've caught that, especially since his trial notes included what Officer Stanton had stated in his initial report.”

Matt shrugged. He had found in his and Foggy's years of law practice that most of the wrongful conviction cases they had taken on (and won) was because some harried public defender had botched their clients’ cases because of overlooked details (or in more than a few cases, just not caring since they weren't getting paid extra for it). “It happens. Either way I'm sure we'll be able to find what we need.”

“Yeah.” Foggy paused. “So hey, how was your date on Monday? Things were so crazy yesterday that I didn't even get to ask you about it.”

Matt smiled. Even though it hadn't actually been a date he had genuinely had a good time with you and was looking forward to your next evening out. “It was good.”

“And? I want details, man!”

“There really aren't many details to share -- she met me over here, we walked to the restaurant, had a nice dinner, then said goodbye and went our separate ways.”

“That’s it?” Foggy sounded disappointed. “Guess that means no second date then.”

Matt grinned and shook his head. “Actually, we made plans for tomorrow night before we left the restaurant.”

He took his phone out of his pocket and turned it back on. “Which reminds me…”

He waited for it to boot up and smiled when his phone announced that you had replied to his earlier text confirming your plans for dinner.

He tapped at his screen and waited as it read off your reply. “ That sounds great. What time and where would you like to meet?”

He tapped the ‘reply’ button. “ Is 7 PM at the restaurant okay with you?” With the retrial being granted, Matt knew that he would be staying late at the office since he needed to prepare.

“That sounds fine,” his phone dictated when you replied a few seconds later. “I'll see you then.”

“At least tell me about her if you're not going to give me specifics about your date,” Foggy said. “What does she do and is she hot?”

Matt chuckled. “She's an office assistant at an architectural firm not far from here and I really wouldn't know if she was hot, but what I do know is that she's nice and that we have a lot in common.”

“So when can we meet her?”

Matt shrugged. He wanted to make sure you were completely comfortable with his and your arrangement before he introduced you to his friends. “I don't know yet. Maybe in a few weeks? Depends on how things progress.”

He shook his head. “Anyway, let's get busy. We've got a trial to prepare for.”

[nattinatalia]

Jack Harlow x Reader : LATE NIGHT LIVES

After a long day of school meetings and running errands, the kids were showered and in bed. You and Jack had just finished watching a movie and now you were just in bed scrolling through your phone.

You usually don’t do live streams but tonight seemed like a good idea just to get you a little tired.

“Babe don’t say or do anything nasty. I’m going to go live on instagram.” You warn him, as you sit up against the headboard.

“But I wanted to get nasty with you.” He pouts.

You roll your eyes, “See, don’t say anything like that.” you start the live stream and wait for people to join.

“Hi guys, it’s been a while.” You say, looking at the chat. “Oh, I have a story for you guys about something that happened today. So let’s wait for more people to join.”

“What story? What happened today?” Jack asks you, placing his phone on the bedside table.

You smile, shaking your head. “Go back to texting your fans. Let me talk to mine.”

Jack scoffs,“Babe, tell me.”

“You’ll hear it when I tell them, just wait.” You read the chat real quick and laugh, nodding.

He groans, “Let me go get something to drink first.”

“Can you bring me something too please? And not Phocus, I want actual water.”

He turns around quickly gaping at you. “Wow, not you bashing my brand.”

You roll your eyes, “Stop being so dramatic.”

He heads towards the door. “Don’t start the story without me.”

“Then hurry up.” You warn and smirk seeing him run out.

“This is going to be funny you guys.” You turn to your phone and focus on the live and start reading comments.

“Yes he really is so dramatic and unserious.” You laugh. “But that’s my man, and I’m going to stick by him.”

“Okay, I’m back.” He announces and jumps on the bed. “Here.” He hands you a can of Phocus. “We ran out of your water.”

“I know what you’re doing.” You grab the can and pop it open, making sure to take a sip in camera view. “I’m sending Neelam the invoice for this”

“I’m not doing anything.” He smirks, leaning against the headboard.

“Mhmm.” You look down at your phone. “Okay guys, story time.” You smile. “Today I went to get waxed, you know, down there.”

“What kind of story is this?” Jack asks.

“It’s a funny one so don’t interrupt, I’m telling the girlies.”

“Not what I was expecting.” Jack lays down completely on the bed, pulls the covers over his body and grabs his phone.

You roll your eyes. “My usual waxer was out today, so I had to let someone else look down there and wax me. I was shy, but HE made me feel comfortable.”

“HE?!!!!” Jack quickly turns his head towards you, throwing the covers off of him.

“Yes he.” You roll your eyes. “Anyway, he was so gentle, he was so good. I honestly didn’t feel a thing. The way he put the wax, I felt kind of- I don't know, hot?”

“Are you kidding?” He sits up. “Is he gay?”

“Jack, why would I be kidding about getting my kitty waxed? And no, he’s not gay.”

“Y/N, you just said you got horny from it.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, I said I got hot.” You’re smirking.

“Same thing.”

You read a comment from the chat and nod, “Yes, I’m definitely going back with him. He actually gave me his personal number and he told me he even does housecalls.”

“What the fuck?”

You smile, “Okay guys, I think I’m going to let y’all go. I need to sleep.” You quickly end the live, plug your phone into the charge and place it on your side table.

You lay down and notice Jack is sitting, staring at you. “What?”

“Why didn’t you tell me a guy waxed you, a straight guy at that.”

“Babe, it doesn’t matter. He was doing his job.”

“Yeah but it’s something I would've liked to know.” He mumbled out.

“Baby, are you jealous?”

“It’s not about jealousy, it’s about making sure you’re safe and comfortable.”

“Aww baby.” You push him back so he can lay down and you straddle him. “Didn’t you hear? He was very respectful, and comforting. He rubbed me the right way.” You smirk.

“You’re fucking joking huh?” He looks up at you.

You start laughing “I am.”

Jack quickly takes a hold of your waist and flips you two over so he’s now hovering over you. “That wasn’t funny, I was ready to go on YouTube and learn how to wax so I could do it for you.”

You laugh at that. “No way they show that on YouTube babe.”

“Don’t play with me again, talking about you got hot and he rubbed you the right way, what does that even mean?”

You shrug, “I don’t know, I was just reading the comments and saying them.”

He pinches one of your nipples, “No more going live late at night.”

He kneels between your legs, “Now open these up, let me see if you need waxing or not.”

“Shut up.” You laugh, but do as he says.

“Mhmm, so pretty.” He runs his finger on your bud. “I can definitely wax this myself.”

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

TAG LIST

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[fazcinatingblog]

No YOU ran out of paper towel and then opened the fridge to see if there were any new rolls in there

[hairmetal666]

Steddie Notes Part 4 (Welcome to Steve's POV)

CW//small instance that could be viewed as internalized homophobia

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3)

In the bottom of Steve’s closet is a Nike shoe box. It’s full of a year’s worth of torn notebook pages, paper menus, receipts, envelopes, sticky notes, notepad sheets, invoice carbon copies, discarded things from dnd, and whatever else they could find to write on.

It's this box that contains every bit of Steve’s heart. 

✏️✏️✏️✏️

Steve’s at the school to pick up Dustin, Mike and Lucas, but they don’t appear at 9pm on the dot like they promised. Grumbling and annoyed, Steve heads down to the drama club room.

He hears Eddie’s voice even before he walks into the room. The low baritone, all husky and threatening, sends shivers down Steve’s spine. 

Steve strides into the room, ready to berate his kids for their tardiness, but he stops literally in his tracks when he sees Eddie. Eddie looming over the table, all that long curly hair framing his face; his expression uncharacteristically dangerous, his eyes flat and promising violence.

He can’t do anything but stare, mouth shocked wide. Eddie lifts his gaze, locks it on Steve. Eddie’s looking at him with such intense command, such focus, that Steve knows he’d drop to his knees for that look, give Eddie anything he asked, everything.

He wants. So hard and so fast it makes him a little nauseous. 

Eddie’s gaze flicks away, while Steve reels from the striking clarity of feeling that rewrites the year of their friendship frame-by-frame.

Steve hardly listens, still trying to come to terms with his sudden realization, with how right it is, with how obvious it’s been this whole time. He remembers, after Starcourt, the way Eddie made him feel safe, cared for. The way Eddie calling him baby echoed for hours, days, weeks after. 

Of course Eddie doesn’t miss Steve's distraction. He leans into Steve's space, murmuring softly, “You okay, sweetheart? Sorry we ran late. Lost track of time.”

“Just tired, I guess.," he says. And he is distinctly not okay, because Eddie is calling him sweetheart and how did it take him this long to realize how much he loves the pet names? 

He tries to tell Eddie. Can’t. Too afraid of losing his friend.  He keeps going out with girls; nice girls, pretty girls, but wishes that Eddie was the one sitting beside him in the movie theater, in the passenger side of his car, across from him at the restaurant. 

Eddie…I think I really like you

You’re my favorite person in the entire world

Some days you’re the only thing I can think about

I want to wake up in bed with you everyday

I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss you

Do you like me? Yes or No

✏️✏️✏️✏️

Steve’s in the Wheeler’s basement, leaning against Eddie's shoulder, waiting for the kids to finish up.

“What are they talking about?” He scribbles at the edge of Eddie’s campaign notes.

Eddie scowls at the note placement, responds anyway. 

“Halloween costumes.” 

“Wanna dress up together, Munson?”

“No way, Harrington, I’m not dressing up as Danny Zuko for you.”

“…obviously you’re Sandy.”

Eddie makes an offended noise. 

“I could do end of the movie Sandy. But face it, baby, you’re the pretty, fresh-faced innocent and I’m the bad boy.” 

Steve strangles back the sound he wants to make when his brain supplies him with an image of Eddie in those black, skin-tight pants.

“I could be a bad boy.”

Before Eddie can reply, the kids start shouting, and Eddie climbs on the wobbling card table, clapping his hands for attention. 

“Jesus, Eds." He grabs Eddie’s ankle to keep him stable. 

“I think a trip to the pumpkin patch is in order, what say you?”

There’s a blip where the whole room stills, every single one of them, aside from Eddie, remembering rotted fields and fetid tunnels filled with Upside Down spores and demo dogs. 

“Oh, yeah, we don’t go to the pumpkin patch anymore. You know, since the tunnels—”

Steve shoots Dustin the most intense silencing looks he’s ever given anyone, which is really saying something. 

They’d agreed, back in July that they would never tell Eddie what really happened at the mall. Eddie is too good, too gentle, brimming with too much pure kindness for Steve to want him anywhere near the Upside Down.

Eddie cackles. “Tunnels, Henderson?” 

Lucas laughs, says, “He means the maze. Don’t you remember? They set it up one time a few years ago.”

“We got really lost. Took us hours to find the exit,” Dustin adds. 

“Mike cried,” Lucas says. 

“Hey! I did not!” 

Mike’s anger at fake crying about a made-up crisis is enough to have them all in stitches, even Eddie who doesn’t know it’s a lie.  

“What about that apple orchard?” Steve suggests.

Eddie pokes him in the cheek, excited. “Ooh, yes, apple orchard!?”

✏️✏️✏️✏️

The orchard is a mad dash of fighting over wheelbarrows, shrieking sprints into the trees, Steve stressing at the kids throwing themselves across branches with zero regard for personal safety. 

Eddie nearly sends him into a coronary at the ripe old age of 19 by walking down a branch like he’s doing a tightrope. 

“Munson! Get your ass down from there!”

“I’m fine, Stevie! I’ve got reflexes like a cat.”

“The hell you do!” Steve shouts as Eddie wobbles. 

“Don’t worry, baby, I know you’ll always catch me,” Eddie yells back. He winks and Steve blushes about all of it. 

“You’ll just get us both hurt,” he says right as Eddie shimmies easily back to the ground. 

“You worry too much,” he scolds. “All this beautiful hair is going to go grey,” Eddie shuffles his fingers through the strands.

“You’re a menace,” he growls. Pushes Eddie playfully away. 

They pick apples and drink cider and it’s the best time Steve’s had in a while. He kids are spread out around him, Eddie and Robin on the quest for an apple that’s perfectly red, like you could poison Snow White with it, and he’s content. Happy. 

He lets himself bask in the moment, but it’s cut short by a familiar whooping yell and the crash of Eddie Munson clinging to his back.

He groans, almost loses his footing, but quickly hoists Eddie’s legs higher against his sides.

He runs and Eddie screams, giggling, and clutches his fists into the fabric of Steve’s sweater. 

“Can’t believe you caught me, sweetheart,” Eddie says once Steve slows to a walk.

“I’ll always catch you, Eds,” he promises.

Eddie makes a little noise, almost like a whimper, pressing his cheek against Steve’s.

And for just a second, the barest hint of a moment in time, Steve swears he feels Eddie’s lips pressed against the sensitive skin right beneath his ear. 

It’s right then that Steve knows he doesn’t just like Eddie. No, he’s positively, totally, and completely in love with him.

(Part 5)

Thank you all so much for your comments and reblogs and likes! I appreciate it more than I can say and am still so honored that so many people like this little series. Please let me know if I missed you in the tag list, and I'll make sure to get you added for future updates (I think we're looking at 3 more)!

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[pansylair]

feel free to ignore this question if it sounds insane but is local pickup (or some alternative for those based in City) an option for online orders?

Oh absolutely! I’m totally fine with one sending me an email regarding what they want so I can write up an invoice for e-transfer or the likes and swinging by my ceramics guild downtown when I’m there so I can just pop out with the order!

If we happen to live more close by we should be able to make that work too.

And if someone places an order online but realizes they can do pickup, I’m all good with refunding the shipping 👌

[its-sixxers]

Emergency Commissions (with bonus raffle!)

To make a very long story short, I was involved in a car accident one year ago and had my savings obliterated due to replacement parts for my vehicle taking 10 months to arrive and my work requiring me to drive. I thought a couple of months ago when my car was finally repaired I was in the clear, and then my car insurance bill came due and oh boy looks like I might not be making rent for October. I've taken everything but the minimum coverage off my car and am looking into selling my car and getting something older/cheaper but that takes time and bills are now.

So you, my beloved Tumblr, are getting a deal in hopes I can scratch up some scratch quickly here! I am offering the following commissions:

FAN ART GRAB BAG - $15 USD

Give me a character and I'll draw them. Suggestions for posing are welcome, the more options for me to pick from the merrier! Multiple characters multiply the price by # of characters.

CHARACTER ART - $35 USD

Do you have an OC you want drawn? I can do that! Give me references and an idea of what you'd like with them and hey presto I will give you an art.

BONUS RAFFLE

In appreciation every person who gets a commission will be entered into a raffle which will be drawn on November 5. The winner of the raffle will get a free commission of any type with a limit of 2 characters. Each commission counts as one entry, so if you get a couple done you get two entries!

Technical stuff:

Prices are in USD. Please contact me via email at spaceturra@gmail.com as it's much easier to keep track of everything that way than our beloved/beloathed tumblr messenger. I use PayPal invoicing - you don't need a paypal account, just an email I can send it to for you to choose your payment method of choice.

All commissions will be a colored sketch that are at least waist up - unless a preference for portrait (shoulders up) is specified. Unlike my usual commission method I will not be offering revisions or tweaks as time is of the essence (unless I miss something in the references given) - you will receive a final piece to do with as you please. Prices are based on time taken - fan art pieces will be rougher than character art pieces.

This deal will run until the end of October, but as I am also working my regular job getting all of the pieces done might run into November. I might end things earlier if I get enough commissions in to cover my shortfall so everyone can get some art in a timely fashion.

I will not draw:

Sexual content / waist down nudity

Overly detailed designs (mecha, complex tattoos - if curious ask!)

Thank you all, and stay safe out there!