#Last job was a contract position that was supposed to last a year

[loracarol]

another week without any luck job hunting.

[kittttycakes]

I'll take Dreamling with #8 in secrecy because i'm curious of where that could go 👀

Please enjoy this vaguely heist-y AU!

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” Hob said with a smile, aiming for charming and casual and only succeeding on one count. He leaned against the bar next to Dream, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket, if only for something to do with his hands. Something about the other man made him nervous, threw his decades of professional experience out the nearest window so that it lay, writhing, on the sidewalk, far from him.

Dream, as stunning as ever in a sleek black-on-black suit, took a drink of his wine before setting the near full glass down. He thought he saw the hint of a smile, hiding at the edges of his lips. “Have we met before?” he asked instead, that all too familiar, somnolent voice too close to Hob’s ear to be strictly polite.

If that was the game he wanted to play, Hob could go along with him. “Only in my dreams,” he replied with a wink. That earned him something that might have been a laugh, if Dream had let it develop. As it was, Hob recognized an amused huff of air when he heard one, especially when it came from Dream.

He startled slightly when Dream took his elbow, steering him away from the open bar and back towards the floor of the exhibit hall. It had taken more than a few strings pulled for Hob’s name to be added to the guest list; the museum had increased security since the last time he had set foot in it, and it had taken rather more of Johanna’s skills than it had before, but she had pulled it off: Hob’s name appeared on the guest list as one of the highest tier donors of the year. It was only natural that he should be invited. In three hours, all records of his chosen pseudonym for the evening would disappear. He would never have existed. For the moment, however—

Dream was pulling him through the hall, walking at a pace that would not arouse any kind of suspicion: two men, having a friendly walk through the exhibit, the light refracting through an inconceivable amount of gemstones and gold, platinum, and silver. He took a sharp turn, taking Hob with him, disappearing behind a column and then down a corridor that Hob had mentally designated as a possible exit route if his first four choices failed.

It was only when they were out of earshot of anyone else, and decidedly out of range of any cameras, firmly hidden in a dead spot that Johanna had specifically noted for him, that Dream spoke to him again.

“I’m afraid you and I are after the same target,” he said in that same steady, even tone. “I would advise you to pick a new one.”

Hob nearly laughed. As if it were that simple. He had a buyer lined up for specific pieces, which Dream undoubtedly knew. He was in the same position, although Hob could never be sure of just how much their particular circumstances overlapped.

“And what target would that be?” he asked lightly, watching Dream’s face in the dim light of the service hallway.

“I do not care what else you spirit away, but that ruby is mine.”

He hadn’t thought he’d been that obvious, and he nearly said as much before thinking better of it.

“Ask me for anything else and it’s yours, love, but that’s the one thing I cannot do,” Hob replied, not without genuine regret. His job was regrettably lonely, his only real point of contact Johanna, and whoever pulled her strings was a complete mystery to him. Being a contract for hire specialist had its advantages and disadvantages, and the solitary nature of the work was both at once. It was a miracle that he had ever even met Dream, let alone run into him on more than one occasion. It should not have happened at all, and yet they kept colliding, showing up where the other least expected it. He didn’t even know if Dream was, like himself, working for someone else, or if this was all for his own gain. He could picture him, surrounded by beautiful things like a dragon in its hoard.

When Dream did not respond, Hob continued, recklessly, “This is it for me. I’m out of the game after this, getting too old for it. Can’t botch the last run, can I?”

“You’re retiring?” Dream asked, amusement coloring his voice.

“Something like that. Need to lay low for awhile, might go on holiday. I’d invite you to join me, but—”

“Men like you do not simply give up, Hob Gadling,” Dream said, and Hob froze. He had never, not once, told the other man his actual name, not even during the very memorable weekend they had spent in a penthouse suite in Paris after having independently taken more than €1 million worth of art from a well established and taste making gallery. A relatively low take for both of them, but it had been rather fun. Johanna didn’t even know his name, and certainly not his nickname.

“Seems a little unfair that you have my name and I don’t have yours.” He had little doubt that Dream was an alias, and had never minded that he didn’t know what he might be called otherwise, until that very moment.

Dream smiled slightly. “Perhaps I might give it to you in exchange for your assurance that you will not attempt to take what is mine.”

“It isn’t quite yours yet, though, is it? Really, Dream, I would love to, but the buyer that’s lined up for it is rather keen on it and nothing else, if you take my meaning.”

“I am afraid your buyer must prepare to be disappointed.”

“We’ll see,” Hob said lightly, smoothing one hand down the front of Dream’s lapel. “Lovely seeing you again. I’m sure we’ll do this again soon?”

“Sooner than you might imagine.” As quickly as he had led Hob away, Dream disappeared, slipping further down the hall into the less lit shadows. He thought briefly of going after him before dismissing it; he had his own concerns, and the clock was starting very soon.

-

Hob did not see Dream when he stepped quietly out into the now empty exhibit hall. He had a finite window in which the entire camera system would be run on a loop: Johanna had promised him three minutes, and he was confident he could manage it in two and a half. She had assured him that the alarm system would be temporarily disabled during this window, but Hob never took such things for granted. He had mapped out no less than seven potential exit routes, should he be interrupted, and had timed each to ensure he knew which would be fastest.

His secondary targets could wait. Best to start with the biggest and work his way down. The ruby sat in its own case, nestled in a bed of black velvet. It was uncut, the dull color of dried blood, and as large as his fist. When he carefully picked it up, it flashed with a hidden fire: it could be stunning, in the hands of the right jeweler, crafted to exquisite perfection. Hob dropped it in one of many silk lined pockets, and moved on.

He had added two paired sapphires and a pigeon egg sized opal to his take when he saw the first hint of movement out of the corner of his eye. Hob turned, alert, only to see Dream, still dressed in his suit from the gala, leaning against the empty display case and watching him intently.

His voice echoed in the empty hall. “You’re certain I cannot convince you to part with that ruby?”

Hob had one minute and forty-five seconds left. “I’m sure you’re very convincing, love. But I’m afraid not.”

“A pity,” Dream said, standing up. “I would very much have liked to try. And I don’t imagine I’ll see you again?”

One minute and thirty-two seconds. Hob smiled, a little sadly. He would have rather liked to see him again. “I don’t imagine you will.”

“In that case,” Dream began, crossing the little space between them with a speed and grace that Hob should have expected, but somehow never did.

One minute and twenty-seven seconds. This was somehow both the most exposed and the most private place that they had ever kissed. Hob could mentally catalogue them all: pressed against the wall on a darkened side street in Madrid, laying back against the ridiculous sheets of the king size bed in the Paris penthouse, in the back room of a club in Monte Carlo—this was different. It felt different; it felt like the most important thing in the world, a moment just for the two of them, in secret, in the middle of the museum floor.

Hob had lost count of the time by the time Dream’s mouth left his. For a moment, that had been all that mattered. He would be sad to see him go.

Abruptly, three very important things happened in quick succession: there was a faint shuffling, the sound of feet in non-slip shoes walking down a tiled hallway and the distant thud of a door swinging closed on its own; Dream nearly disappeared, passing through the room like a shadow in a direction that Hob had never considered and idly wondered how exactly he planned to leave by it; and a soft red light began flashing in the case nearest to him as the system armed itself once again. It was past time to go.

Hob was, he could admit, very, very good at his job. He exited the museum entirely without incident, making it back to the flat he was currently using as his home base without being seen or followed. After ensuring that the rooms were still secure, he at last allowed himself to relax, only slightly. He sat at the table, and began to empty his pockets. The opal had survived in perfect condition; he had been concerned that it could be damaged, as relatively soft as it was, but it caught the low light of the flat in its smooth surface, perfectly whole. The sapphires, unsurprisingly, were also intact; he knew he would see them dangling from the earlobes of some minor princess or billionaire’s wife within a month, but couldn’t bring himself to care.

He had deliberately left the ruby for last; everything else, even missing the yellow diamond he was meant to have taken, was infinitesimally small compared to it. He withdrew it, and nearly laughed.

In his palm sat a paperweight of the approximate size and shape of the ruby, along with a small, folded piece of paper. He hadn’t even noticed Dream’s hand move, hadn’t felt a thing as he had, clearly, made the exchange. He set the paperweight down, and unfolded the note.

Hob had not been expecting an apology. What he received was a command: Burn after reading. What followed, in sharp, spidery handwriting, was an address in, of all places, Wales. The note was signed with a capital M. It wasn’t quite a name, but it would do.

He stood, leaving the gemstones on the table. He had so much to do: a bag to pack, travel plans to make, a note to burn. Hob had wanted to go on holiday. He was certain Wales would be lovely.

Send me a kiss prompt!

[punkshort]

Chapter One

Pairing: Joel x F!Reader, pre-outbreak and post outbreak

AU (the only thing I kept was the outbreak, Joel, and Tommy's characters. Joel's backstory is different, and the way he finds Jackson is different. I may include Ellie one day, I just haven't planned that far)

Fic Summary: You worked for Joel and Tommy a few months before the outbreak. The outbreak happens, and you and Joel get stuck traveling the country and keeping each other safe. Neither of you spoke about the feelings you had for one another pre-outbreak, and in a post-apocalyptic world, it seems like survival should be your only focus. But feelings can't be ignored forever.

Fic tags: Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI), Smut, Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Alcohol Use, Age Difference (Reader is 10 years younger than Joel), slow burn, mutual pining, angst, trauma, SA referencing later but I will put a big warning on those chapters

April 2003

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, as the subway lurched forward, catching you off guard.

Today was the first day of your new job at a big-time construction company in downtown Manhattan. You had just moved to NYC a couple months ago, and this job was the first place that made you a reasonable offer. You were beginning to work through the last of your savings and getting sick of bumming it on your old college dormmate’s couch, so you eagerly accepted the position. The last thing you wanted to do was ask your parents for money – they were already so worried about you living in New York and working in Manhattan.

You thought back to when you called your mom and dad to tell them you finally got a job offer, so excited to tell them you could get your very own place if it all worked out.

“But Baby, don’t you think it’s a little dangerous working down there after what happened?” your mom had begged on the phone.

"Mom, please don’t worry, this building is nowhere near as big, this one only has 10 floors, I promise I will be ok,” you pleaded, hoping she won’t guilt trip you into moving back to the suburbs of Chicago.

You had always been a quiet, shy, studious type. Your parents always joked you would live with them til you were 40, never one to party or do anything bad. Needless to say, when you announced after graduation you wanted to move to New York, your whole family was stunned. You were pretty sure they expected you to chicken out, or move back home after a month, but you had a dream and you were determined.

Suddenly, the tinny voice over the subway speaker broke into your reverie, announcing your stop. You filed out of the packed car with loads of others who look like they were all going to similar corporate jobs. You tugged anxiously on the sleeve of your blazer as you made your way up the stairs and out onto the street. The crisp spring air that hit your face was a welcome change to the stuffy, overpacked subway car you had just left.

Lucky for you, Miller & Miller Contracting, Inc. was a mere 3 blocks from the subway. Your heels clicked loudly in your ears as you approached the building with ten minutes to spare. Relief began to wash over you a bit when you realized you planned the commute perfectly. You hated being late.

You pushed the door open into the lobby, approaching a large desk with two receptionists. Both were talking animatedly on their headsets and transferring calls. Patiently waiting for one of them to be available, you casually glanced around the lobby to avoid looking as nervous as you felt. The lobby itself was beautiful: it was completely open all the way to the top floor, with the glass elevator shaft behind the reception desk. The front of the building also was all glass, so that it afforded a beautiful view as the elevator took you up to your destination.

“Can I help you?” one of the receptionists called out. She had curly, short blonde hair, thin, and was impeccably dressed.

"Yes! I’m sorry, yes, it’s my first day in accounting. I am supposed to be meeting Heather, my name is –“ the receptionist cut you off, guessing your name before you could even finish your sentence. You confirmed who you were, and she got up to come around the desk.

"I’m taking the newbie upstairs to accounting, I’ll be right back, need anything?” she called back over her shoulder to her long haired, brunette cohort.

The slightly older receptionist shook her head in acknowledgment, still listening to whoever was on the other end of the phone call.

The receptionist who greeted you smiled and stuck out her hand.

"I’m Maggie, it’s nice to meet you. Come around to the elevator, I’ll take you up to Heather.”

She led you around the back of her desk to the elevator bank, her curly hair bobbed as her heels clicked on the dark tile floor. She began rattling off questions and information, no doubt a side effect of her job, and possibly caffeine, as you waited next to her for the elevator to arrive.

"How old are you? Are you from New York? Do you know anyone who works here? I’m always so excited when someone new joins, sorry if I’m making you nervous!  It’s a fun place to work, it really is, there’s a lot of great people here. I know your position can be a tough one, so please give it a chance, I swear it’s worth it.” She paused for a minute, realizing she might be scaring you off, as the elevator dinged and the doors opened.

“Uhhh,” you stammered, trying to absorb the last bit of information without looking concerned, and stepped into the empty car. Maggie stabbed the button for the 6th floor as you replied.

"I’m 25, it’s my first ‘real’ job out of college, I just mainly had internships before now, and they hardly paid much. I’m glad I can finally stop couch surfing. I am from a small town outside Chicago, I went to school there and I’ve always wanted to live in New York. My old college roommate already lived here, so I decided to give it a shot,” you paused for a moment as Maggie nodded along eagerly with your story. You frowned slightly.

"I’m sorry, what did you mean when you said-" Right then, the elevator doors pinged to floor 6, opening up to an empty hallway.

“OK we’re here! Follow me!” Maggie cut you off, and whisked you down the hallway, which took you to an open floorplan filled with cubes upon cubes of bustling employees. Some were chatting between their desks, others were hurriedly talking on the phone, and some mindlessly scrolling on their computers.

Maggie led you to the back wall, which consisted mostly of offices, and what looked to be conference rooms in one end. She turned left as you rushed to keep up while trying to absorb your surroundings. You nearly smacked into her when she came to an abrupt stop in front of a partially open office door. She knocked gently, smiling at the person inside.

“Good morning, Heather! I have your new hire here,” she gestured towards you and waved you over. There sat Heather, your new boss, who you had only met when you interviewed with her and HR. Her mid length dirty blonde hair was perfectly in place, bangs framing her face, just like the day you met. She was probably about 15 years older than you, but she looked like she could pass for around your age. She was very trim, wearing a form fitting black dress with strappy sandals, and her makeup looked impeccable. If it wasn’t for the old fashioned hair style, she could pass for around 30.

You stepped into Heather’s office, which you hadn’t seen when you interviewed with her a couple weeks back. It was small, but it had a decent view, which was to Heather’s back as she stood from her desk to greet you warmly by your name and thank you for being so punctual. She glanced behind you at Maggie and thanked her for showing you up, effectively dismissing her. You turned back to wave your thanks to Maggie, but she was already gone, heels echoing down the hallway back towards the elevator.

“Alright! Follow me, I will take you to the rest of the department and introduce you to everyone,” she motioned for you to follow her out of her office. Being the Controller, she had her own personal space away from the rest of the group, which you found was not too far away from her office. Heather led you back the way you came but kept going straight along the wall of offices, talking to you over her shoulder as she walked.

"I hope you made it in OK, I’m so glad the sun is out this morning! I was getting sick of all that rain, this weekend was such a drag with all the dreary weather.” You hummed your agreement and assured her you made it in just fine, not letting it be known you were overanalyzing your commute all weekend long.

Heather stopped at the corner of the floor, punched a personalized code into a keypad next to a door and opened it. You had initially thought it could be a conference room, but in fact it turned out to be a decently sized room filled with cubes, some filing cabinets, and a small safe. You glanced around at the room of about ten employees hard at work, heads mostly down or on the phone. Two girls around your age who were seated next to each other in the corner of the room quickly quieted down their chatter, and looked in your direction when you walked in. You gave a shy smile towards them as Heather addressed the department.

“Good morning gang, this is our new Accounts Receivables Specialist,” she turned towards you, announcing your name to the group. “Please make her feel welcome, if you don’t mind showing her around where the bathrooms and coffee are, I would appreciate it. I have a meeting this morning with the big guy I need to get ready for, I’m sorry I couldn’t do it myself.” She turned back to you apologetically.

"We have a great, tightknit team here, they'll show you the ropes. This is your desk,” she led you over near the corner of the room where the two girls had been chatting. “I already stocked it with some paper and pens, but we do have a supply closet on this floor if you need anything else, and Colleen is going to be your trainer.”

She motioned over to one of the two chatty girls, who bounced over with a smile and an outstretched hand. You shook it, reintroducing yourself warmly as Heather made her exit.

"Again, sorry guys, I have a meeting with Joel, and you know how he is.” She rolled her eyes, and she was met with some chuckles and a couple looks of sympathy. Heather gave you a final wave and a promise to return around lunchtime to check in, and left through the same door you came in, with it locking shut behind her.

Colleen must have been around your age, her blonde hair was pulled back into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, and she had curious, bright blue eyes. She was wearing a business casual, knee length, light pink dress that was perfect for the beautiful spring day. You felt a bit out of place in your navy blazer and matching navy dress pants, but you wanted to look your most professional on your first day.

Colleen began to explain you will be shadowing her for the morning, getting you used to the software system they used, how to look up accounts, and where important files are stored. You learned Colleen was working in Accounts Payables, opposite your job. You realized the two of you will be working closely together, and connected the dots on why Heather chose her to train you, vaguely wondering who had your position prior.

As you pulled your rolling chair up to her desk to observe, notepad and pen in hand, you coolly questioned who Joel was, and what the reaction was all about. Colleen seemed the type that liked to gossip more than work, and she excitedly settled in to explain all the office politics to you.

“OK, so, Joel and Tommy run the company, they are brothers – Miller & Miller, get it?” she began, smiling brightly at you. “Tommy is SO much nicer than Joel, he is the one who schmoozes all of the new clients and signs all the new business. Joel is, well…” she trailed off, hands flailing gently, searching for an appropriate word to describe the head of the company without scaring off a new hire. “He can be challenging to work with sometimes, but don’t worry, you won’t have to work with him one-on-one. We have monthly meetings with him as a department, it’s a lot easier to handle him as a group, most of the time.”

“How do you mean, ‘challenging’?” you pressed, leaning forward, hoping to learn more about what you were getting into, not that you had much of a choice if you wanted to continue to live in the city. “Do you mean he just asks a lot of questions, or…?” Colleen picked up where you left off.

He’s mean,” she stated bluntly, smile faltering slightly. “He has made employees cry before, and he has caused people to quit on the spot during his meetings. He’s tough, but he’s the guy who goes to the job sites and makes sure everything is running smoothly. Unfortunately, that type of personality, especially from a man, on those construction sites is exactly what they need to make sure nobody is slacking off and cutting corners. They are too scared of him to screw up!” she laughed, trying to ease any nervousness she caused you.

You leaned back in your chair, gaze drifting aimlessly around her desk as you absorb what she told you. Before you could add anything further, the other girl Colleen had been chatting with earlier piped up from the adjoining cube.

“He’s an asshole. If he ever does say anything hurtful towards you, you have to just let it roll off your shoulders. That’s why Heather is so good in her position, she has to be one-on-one with him a lot, and she can handle his shit much better than most,” the redhead, whose name you saw on the outside of her cube was Debbie, gruffly interrupted. You could tell she was the opposite of Colleen – while Colleen is bubbly and sweet, Debbie seemed tougher and had an edge, although she still seemed just as friendly as she continued to help paint the picture of the mysterious Joel Miller.

“At the end of the day, you have to keep in mind we are not out here saving lives. We are working in accounting at a construction company. He gets so heated and spouts off at the mouth like this company is saving the world," Debbie finished explaining with a huff. She rolled her green eyes, crossed her arms over her chest and glared off at a fixed point on the wall beside her.

“Debbie is right, but she is just extra emotional about it because the girl in your position before had a run in with Joel, and she quit. Cheryl was Debbie’s best friend here, so she is just a little sore over it still.” Colleen tried to explain gently, without upsetting Debbie more.

Debbie nodded in agreement, sighing, she leaned forward with her elbows resting on her knees, she dragged her eyes away from the wall to look at the two of you.

"She’s right. Cheryl didn’t deserve that from him, but she did what was best for her when she quit. It happens a lot, I just thought Cheryl was used to it. She had been here 8 years!” Debbie exclaimed, throwing up her hands with frustration. 

You gulped and began to get nervous, not really sure what to say. All you could hope was that maybe you didn’t have to have one-on-one time with Joel. You just knew you needed to keep this job, or else you were packing your bags and moving back home. Your hands started fidgeting on your lap, and you chewed your bottom lip slightly as you took in the information.

“Well, thanks for the warning, girls, I will do my best to keep my head down and stay below the radar,” you chuckled quietly, hoping to ease some of the tension and change the topic.

Debbie smiled at you, a little sadly.

"That's a good plan, but since you are in receivables, Joel may put you on the spot in some of our meetings and want to know what the payment status is on specific clients of his. Heather will typically field those questions if she knows the information beforehand, but if he catches you off guard like he did with Cheryl…” she drifted off, allowing you to connect the dots on your own. “Just keep your guard up, and go into those meetings with TONS of notes on all his clients, that is the best advice I can give you. And let Heather do all the talking.” With that, Debbie scooted her chair back to her computer to get back to work.

Your eyes probably gave away your nervousness when you turned back to Colleen. She smiled warmly at you and patted you gently on the knee. “Don’t worry about it, I promise it's not as bad as it seems. Like Debbie said, Heather fields most of Joel’s questions directly. Plus, we just had our monthly meeting with him last week. You won’t have to cross paths with him for another month.” Colleen turned back to her computer and started explaining the accounting software to you.

You were really only half listening as your panic was bubbling just below the surface, replaying Debbie’s words in your head while you tried to focus on what Colleen was teaching you. You were beginning to understand why this place offered you the job so quickly, you just hoped you could be tough enough to get through those monthly meetings.

Chapter Two

[its-time-to-write]

bored

Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been posting less. Life’s been busy and I’ve been tired. Here’s some angst. It’s very long.

bored

It’s not falling out of love if you still love him, right? It’s more…slipping away. You feel like you’re falling off a cliff, scrambling for a handhold and coming up empty.

You hate this part in a relationship. The slide away. The boredom that creeps in. It happened with your last relationship, too. His name was Joseph, and you were together a year and a half when he started pulling away from you. It was little things at first, not talking as much and kissing you less. Then it was missing date nights and only kissing you on the forehead and silent dinners. He buried himself in books and barely looked at you and you knew the breakup was coming, but you could’t bring yourself to be the one to leave. So you didn’t. You just waited until he dropped the news at dinner and pretended like you were ok with it, and not that you had been secretly packing up your things for weeks.

It broke you a little bit. The slow pull. The obvious boredom that he had. The dissatisfaction with you. 

The waiting was torture, the aftermath was worse. Your dad was worried as you continued to dwindle into a shell of yourself. Skin pallid, eyes hallow, never smiling.

Your aunt Eileen said you needed to get out of the country and into a change of scenery, which is why you’re on a plane on your way to live with her in England. 

You’re fortunate that your job in graphic design allows for remote work and an asynchronous schedule.

It’s fun to live with Aunt Eileen. She’s very loud and very Irish. She only lives in London to be near her sister, who married and Englishman (much to the chagrin of the rest of your family). Your dad, their brother, married an American which was better-received. You have your mom’s accent, which is mostly due to the fact that you grew up in America. You think maybe if you grew up over here it would be different. 

Eileen does not let you be sad. And, it’s easier to forget about Joseph when there are no reminders of him around. It’s a completely new place with completely new faces. 

Eileen takes you all over Richmond. You meet her friends and the locals, and begin to feel things again. Not happiness per se, but some positive neutral.

Eileen kicks you out of the house every Thursday evening. She says it’s so you can explore and have time to yourself, but it’s really when all her yoga friends come over for rosé and awful reality shows. You don’t really mind, you caught a minute of one and couldn’t handle the absurdity of it. You suppose that’s the appeal, it just isn’t for you.

So instead, you get out. You brings a small sketchpad and a pencil, and create.

You haven’t done analog drawing in forever, and it’s refreshing to be away from a screen. You draw whatever you want, whether it’s your mood or a sketch of your surroundings. Little by little, you find yourself again.

—

Richmond is a big football town. Everyone loses their mind when there’s a match, and the streets become a sea of red and blue. Aunt Eileen doesn’t watch football, and neither do you. Like reality tv, you just can’t get into it. Apparently the coach (or gaffer) frequents a pub that Eileen takes you too, and he’s American like you. He heard you talking once and came over to introduce himself.

“I’m Ted and this is Coach Beard,” he had said. “Nice to hear a familiar accent around here. What’s been the biggest culture shock for you? Mine has been the fact that the cars all drive on the wrong side of the road.”

You like Ted and Beard. They remind you of home, the good parts of home. You see them pretty regularly and they talk about coaching and football, and listen to you tell them about your designs and family.

“You takin’ new work?” Ted asks one day. “Could find you some projects around Nelson Road.”

So now you’re contracted by a woman named Rebecca to keep things up to date around AFC Richmond’s headquarters.

Rebecca is something else. She’s everything you want to be, confident and fearless. She charges ahead and takes what she wants, but does it with kindness and grace. 

You suppose the kindness is what gets you the most here. Eileen thinks it’s good for you to get out and work with actual people instead of remote on a screen, and you privately agree with her. There isn’t always a lot of work to do, but Rebecca set you up with an office and allows you to work on projects for your other companies. Her friend Keeley pops in from time to time, to chat and tell you that your designs need more pink.

“It’s objectively the best color, babe,” she says. “Makes everything else pop!”

Keeley starts becoming your friend, too. 

Rebecca takes it upon herself to become your mentor of sorts, and she sits you for a meeting after your first week.

“What sort of work do you really want to do?” she asks. 

You tell her you love everything. You love murals and sketches and passion projects and surrealism. You love pencils and paint and digital art, but hate watercolor and charcoal. You love artsy interior designs and posters and tiny stickers and large paintings. You love making things expressive and beautiful, in whatever capacity you can. 

A week and a half later, you’re redecorating Keeley’s office.

“You know what I like, babe,” she says affectionately. 

And you do. You’ve known her two weeks, but she’s made an effort to get to know you and to make herself known. You’re trusting people again.

—

Keeley bursts into your office in a flurry of sequins and fringe two days after you did her office, dragging someone by the hand. 

“Babe,” she says, breathless from her obvious run to you, “tell Jamie he fucking cannot wear socks and sandals.”

You look at this Jamie and see he is indeed committing a terrible fashion faux pas.

And… looking good while doing it?

You look back at Keeley. “Keels, why are you asking me?”

She looks at you like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Because you’re Richmond’s art person! You know what looks good and what doesn’t! And this one-” she pauses to pinch Jamie’s cheek affectionately, “won’t fucking listen to me.”

Jamie shrugs, looking embarrassed. “Sorry to bug you,” he says. “Know you’ve got other shit to do.”

This is interesting. This Jamie is looking sheepish, blush tingeing the tips of his ears. You don’t know him, but what you’ve seen of all the footballers, they have egos for miles. They’re all incredibly kind, but definitely confident. Embarrassment doesn’t even seem like something any of them are capable of, but here’s Jamie in front of you, all apologetic and shooting glances at Keeley with the clear message let’s go.

Keeley isn’t paying attention, just bouncing on her toes and waiting for your response. 

You assess Jamie and say, “Actually, he’s pulling it off.” You give him your name and he smiles a little, sticks out his hand, and says, “I’m Jamie.”

Keeley frowns at you (not a real one) then grabs Jamie’s hand and marches out the door in a similar fashion that she entered. Jamie throws you one last apologetic glance before he’s dragged out the door.

You sit back in your chair, processing what just happened. This is the first time you’ve actually met someone on the team, and it was not at all what you expected. 

—

You’re working through lunch on a side project the next day, when there’s a knock on your doorframe. 

“Jamie!” you say, looking up in surprise, “What can I help you with?”

He fidgets for a moment then replies, “Keeley sent me to make sure you weren’t working through lunch.”

Oh. That’s interesting.

You frown, though not at him. “Don’t worry, I’m not.”

Jamie squints at you. “You fucking lying?”

He says it so sincerely that you laugh, and put down your pen. “Yes I am, but if Keeley asks then no. I’m taking my required mental break and not working.”

Jamie moves from the doorway and plops down on the chair across from your desk.

“Whatcha working on?”

You spend the better part of thirty minutes telling Jamie about a redesign for a children’s center logo and the details of keeping the essence while modernizing it and revamping the color scheme, all while he nods and asks questions in all the right places. It’s not until your alarm goes off on your phone that you both jump and say, “Shit,” in unison.

“I’m late. Roy’s gonna fucking kill me,” Jamie groans.

You feel terrible. “I’m so sorry,” you respond sincerely. “Shit, I’m sorry. Tell Roy it was my fault.”

Jamie shakes his head. “Nah, weren’t yours. Should’ve kept a better eye on the time.” 

He’s halfway out the door when he turns back and smiles at you. “I’ll tell Keeley you took a real break.” He winks and and disappears around the corner.

You make a mental note to ask Keeley about this whole thing later.

—

“Oh he’s into you, babe.” Keeley says, hours later when you’re at her house for drinks and dinner. 

“WHAT, no!” you protest, “He’s not! He was just- just-”

Keeley nods and smirks. “Can’t finish that sentence, can you? Y’know, I just told him to check on you. I didn’t say anything about eating lunch with you.”

Rebecca nods in agreement. “I also overheard him telling Ted that he didn’t think you were attractive at all.”

You and Keeley turn to her with matching quizzical expressions.

“He was clearly not telling the truth. I didn’t even have to see his face, I could hear it in his voice,” Rebecca explains.

“Ooh, right, yeah, Jamie’s a shit liar!” Keeley exclaims. “Oh my god babe, I literally can’t believe it. You’d be so fucking adorable together.”

Rebecca tilts her head and gives you an appraising look. “I can see it,” she says.

Your face is on fire but you’re laughing and shaking your head. “If Eileen didn’t have her yoga group over for drinks, I would be totally out of here.”

—

Rebecca was right. Jamie does like you and he asks you out the next week. 

He says, “I think you’re fucking amazing. Do you want to get dinner?”

He’s radiating so much confidence that despite yourself, you laugh and say yes. Eileen is beside herself, so happy that you are going out with “such a nice young man.” Keeley and Rebecca feel a similar way. Keeley’s boyfriend Roy just grunts. You like Roy. He’d never admit it, but he’s very kind. You know he threatened Jamie within an inch of his life when he heard you two had started dating, and the sentiment almost made you tear up. Almost.

—

You slip in to a pattern. Living with Eileen, spending nights with Jamie. Dinner with Keeley and Roy, drinks with Keeley and Rebecca. Walks in the park, early morning breakfasts, family picnics. Jamie is present for everything except girl’s night. (He makes a pretty convincing argument for why he should be included, if you’re being honest). 

It’s… scary. You’re still hurting from Joseph, but Jamie does his best to erase any trace of him. He tells you he’s going to kiss every inch of your skin, so that his lips are the only ones you think of. He brings you flowers and makes sure to tell you how much he loves you.

Eileen pretends not to notice that your bed is empty more nights than not, and you do your best to return that courtesy by keeping her in the loop of your comings and goings, so she knows if she should save you dinner. 

You and Jamie are together like this for four and a half months. It’s wonderful and terrifying and perfect.

You’ve almost forgotten Joseph ever existed.

Until one morning, Jamie has returned from morning training with Roy.

He walks in the door and you say, “Hi babe!” from your position by the coffeemaker. Jamie doesn’t respond, just absentmindedly kisses you on the cheek and grabs a cup. He doesn’t even smile at you. You look at him for a minute as he moves around the kitchen, waiting for him to acknowledge your presence. He doesn’t. He’s out the door again in a minute, barely even saying goodbye.

You chalk it up to the upcoming match. He always gets a little more focused than usual when it’s against Man City. You tell yourself he’ll be better by Sunday.

—

He’s not.

—

Jamie’s pulling away from you. 

It’s Joseph all over again.

You start to do little things to get his attention. You put on his favorite lingerie set under a “Tartt” jersey and greet him with it when he gets home. He kisses you on the fucking forehead and goes to grab dinner. He goes straight to the bed to sleep right after. 

You make his favorite dinner and set the table all fancy, candles and everything. Jamie says an absent thanks. You eat in silence.

He brushes off any attempt you make to kiss him, and you can count the amount of words he’s said to you on one hand. You feel like a child, the way he’s treating you and all of the sudden, in between bites of chicken, you know. 

Jamie’s bored.

This is ending.

You spend the night because it would be weird not to, but you lay in bed, awake the whole time. You’re under every single blanket Jamie owns, yet your blood is running cold. It’s the only thing you can feel, really, other than your heart beating furiously in your chest. The rest of you is just… numb. You pretend to be asleep when Jamie gets up at 3:30am for training, but the moment you hear the door shut you leap out of bed and collect your things. You successfully sneak back into Aunt Eileen’s house and sit on the floor of the bathroom until sunrise, knees pulled to your chest as you stare at the floor

There’s been a constant rushing in your ears since dinner with Jamie, one that accompanies you as you mechanically dress and head to Nelson Road. Your body is on autopilot as you head to your desk, past Ted and Beard, past Dani, past Sam, Nate, and Will. You know Jamie’s there, although you don’t see him. You spend most of the day glancing at your door, waiting for him to appear with lunch and an explanation.

He doesn’t.

—

It’s late, not too late but late enough that the boys are all gone, and you’re in the locker room making aesthetic assessments for Rebecca when you see it.

Jamie’s locker. 

The voice in your head screams don’t do it! but your legs are moving on their own accord, drawn by some strange impulse. You stop in front of his locker and look inside. 

Your picture is gone. 

It’s your favorite one. Eileen took it at dinner one night. You’re in the kitchen stirring something on the stove, laughing at something Jamie said. He’s grinning at you and looking at you with stars in his eyes. The love is palpable.

And it’s gone. 

Autopilot gives way to shock and your knees buckle. You’re on the floor and you’re not sure how you got there or how long you’re crying, but the door is opening and Nate is kneeling next to you and asking if you’re alright in a soft voice. You don’t respond, just keep crying, and next thing you know Keeley’s arms are around you as you panic on the floor of the Richmond locker room.

—

She drives you to Eileen’s, and you burst in through the front door. 

“Eileen!” you gasp, “It’s happening again, he doesn’t love me and I don’t know what I did-” you ram into something solid not he threshold.

“Fuck,” says Roy, although that’s not surprising because that’s roughly 80% of his vocabulary.

“Hi babe,” says Keeley in a small voice, hot on your heels, “Forgot this was yoga night.”

“What?” you ask, Jamie temporarily forgotten.

Roy just sighs and says, “Come on. Eileen’s got rosé in the kitchen. But you already fucking knew that, didn’t you.”

—

Turns out Roy is part of Eileen’s yoga group. You swear never to tell anyone.

He, in turn, succinctly grills you on Jamie.

“What the fuck did the little prick do?” he asks in his most growly voice yet.

You’re in the kitchen with him, Keeley, and Eileen. Aunt Eileen has let the yoga group know there’s been a change of plans, and they take it all in stride. Maureen herds them all to G-A-Y and they’re gone in a moment.

So now you’re here, eyes dry but red, explaining how Jamie is bored of you.

Roy says, “Fuck.” Aunt Eileen looks like she’s ready to murder someone. Keeley just looks sad. 

“You’re coming to mine,” Keeley says, in a voice that leaves no room for arguments. “We’ll put on pajamas and do face masks and Roy will make that fancy little cheese platter he’s so good at.”

Roy doesn’t even protest, just nods and slips his hand around Keeley’s waist. She settles back against him in a way that makes your heart squeeze, because it’s the exact same way you would settle against Jamie.

Eileen says, “I’ll go pack you a bag,” and then she’s bustling upstairs to your room.

—

You and Keeley have matching cucumber-mango face masks, and you’re in her bed watching Look Both Ways. You can hear Roy downstairs in the kitchen putting cheese, grapes, and whatever the fuck else on a tray. He brings it up and places it on the bed, kissing Keeley with an amicable grunt. 

“I’m headed the fuck to sleep,” he says. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

You smile at him as best you can, which is really just turning your mouth into a straight line, and Keeley says “Bye, babe.”

Roy smiles (as big as he ever does) and leaves.

You reach for an olive and settle back on to the pillows.

—

You don’t sleep much, but you do sleep. Keeley is wrapped around you like a spider monkey so you finally drift off around 3am. It’s not lost on you that Jamie will be awake in thirty minutes, and that it should be his arms wrapped around you. 

—

You’re in your office for a grand total of fifteen minutes when Rebecca comes marching in.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asks.

“My job..?” you respond tentatively.

She shakes her head. “You’re getting the day off. As a matter of fact, you can take Monday as well. You do good work, and you’ve never missed a deadline. You can take a goddamn break.”

Oh. Keeley must have told her.

You nod slowly then get up to grab your bag.

Rebecca pauses for a moment, then pulls you into a hug. It’s incredibly calming.

Rebecca asks, “Do you need anything?”

You shake your head. “I think I’m just going to get my things from Jamie’s while he’s at training. I don’t want to make a scene. I’ll call him tonight and let him know we��re done, just so it isn’t prolonged anymore.”

Tears appear in your eyes and Rebecca hugs you again.

“Well,” she says, “just give me call. You know how to reach me.”

—

There’s a lot of things at Jamie’s, but fortunately you keep a box in the back of your car. You’ve cleaned out your tea from his cupboards, toiletries from his bathroom, and are now kneeling on the floor, emptying out your drawer. Your hands linger a little too long over the Tartt 9 jersey Jamie gave you when a voice says, “What the fuck are you doing?”

You jump. “Jesus, Jamie. Aren’t you supposed to be at training?”

“Coach said I had to go home. What the fuck are you doing?”

You skip over the fact that he didn’t elaborate on which coach sent him home and remind yourself to kill Roy.

You blow out a long, slow breath. Fuck. This was not how this was supposed to go.

“I um, I’m cleaning out my things.” You can’t look him in the eyes. You’re still on the floor, Jamie’s in the doorframe.

Jamie is silent so you continue.

“I just wanted to make things easier,” you tell the jersey in your hands. “I… know what’s happening. And it’s fine, really. I’m not…entitled to your love, you know? So… it’s ok. I just-” you sigh, body feeling so heavy all of a sudden, “I just wanna know one thing.”

You look at Jamie for the first time. “What is it about me that’s boring?”

Jamie opens his mouth to say something, but you barrel on. “You don’t have to lie, we’re probably never going to speak again, so just tell me. Because I’ve been over it a million times in my head and I can’t figure it out. I tried to figure it out with Joseph too. I get it if I were too clingy or too talkative or something, but what is it that makes me boring?” Tears have started streaming down your face at some point. God, this has been such a shit week. All this crying is making your eyes hurt.

There are tears in Jamie’s eyes, too.

“I- you- you aren’t boring,” Jamie croaks.

He could’ve fooled you.

“Then why have you been pulling away from?” you ask, voice small. “You kissed me on the forehead, Jamie. Like I was, I don’t know, your great aunt or something.”

Jamie rubs his face with his hand. “Shit, I- shit. I’m so fucking sorry. God, babe, I’m so, so fucking sorry. Roy told me to come here, said something about fucking shit up again, so I came here and found you like that on the floor and- shit, I just fucked up.”

He’s made his way over to you, slowly, like you’re a wild animal about to spook. He crouches down on the floor next to you and reaches out a hand to your cheek.

“It’s my dad,” he says finally. “He came ‘round, asking questions and shit, and he asked about you. And I fucking hated that. He knew your name and shit. Made some threats. I didn’t- I wanted to protect you. And I thought once you knew about him you wouldn’t want shit to do with me. I was fucking waiting for you to break up with me once you found out.”

Jamie’s voice is far too raw for this to story to be made up. The only thing you know about his dad is that he exists, and Jamie never talks about him. This… makes sense. It’s fucking stupid, but it makes sense. So you tell him.

“Jamie,” you say, “that is fucking stupid. It makes sense, but it’s fucking stupid.”

He hangs his head. “God, I know. He comes ‘round and I forget how to fuckin act.”

“Hey,” you say softly, tilting his chin up to meet his eyes. “This was shitty. But we’re learning. We’ll work on communicating, I promise. I’ll get better at it too. And as far as your dad goes, we’ll figure that out.”

Jamie laughs wetly and you bring his head close for a kiss.

You two will figure it out.

[no-higher-thought]

said you wanted to talk about 2bhank on your last post... well i'm all ears.

oo Wait fr ??

Oh my goodness gracious youve no idea what you just released anon FUCK you for making me write all this down /lh

Very unorganised thoughts cause i had like 12 pages worth of ramblings in my notes and had to cut it down. It was borderline just nonsense, man. Im losing it. Sorry if words don't make sense.

First off, they can and have hurt eachother. Hard not to, in a world as fucked up as theirs. Hank is someone who only knows violence, and doc is far too used to manipulating people and circumstances to gain the upper hand. In combat, in business deals, sieges, all that jazz.

But honestly, considering everything ? Their relationship is definitely among the healthiest, most stable in all of Nevada. Mostly cause the bar is all the way in The Nowhere but. y'know.

Both see it as VERY transactional, which, i mean. It is, first and foremost, a business deal so like. Fair i suppose. Hank is very good at their job of killing, and doc is very good at pointing them at nice targets. A sort of  "ah shit they didn't slam the door this time guess i gotta be extra careful pulling all the shrapnel out of their abdominal cavity."

There was never any moment one could consider "feelings realization" or whatever. They're simply incredibly close as a result of just how LONG they've worked together. Neither is particularly keen on asking somethn like "what are we to eachother?" Because it just. Doesn't. Matter to them.

That and like. I am very aroace. Hank is canon aroace. Saw doc fanart with ace ring once and have been rotating it in my brain since. Big fan of non-traditional relationships, man.

It's mostly convenience, methinks. Hank may not need doc to bring them back to life, but it sure does make the process a lot shorter and less painful. Doc doesn't need hank, he has plenty of money and access to many of Nevada's most feared mercenaries. He could find someone else to do his dirty work, if need be.

And yet.

Every moment they spend together is a moment of putting their life in the other's hands. Hank trusts him not to staple their legs on backwards, and doc trusts them to not dome him the moment he turns around. Don't get me wrong, it's not trust in the other, no. It's trusting that the other isn't dumb enough to get rid of a valuable asset.

But frankly, to someone used to nothing but pain and violence, a simple lack of it might as well be a loving embrace.

Theirs is a relationship built off of many years of contracts, of shared goals, of depending on eachother, expecting the other to catch them when they fall. When they crawl back battered and bloodied. When they pass out from overworking in front of their computer for the upteenth time this week.

They'd share a bed simply because both have horrific waking nightmares and huddling together on a shitty moldy mattress helps. A net positive, mutualism. They might seek some affection from the other, but its always self-serving.

Still. Neither of them are sentimental. If the machine took them on different paths, or hell, if they had to kill the other (for one reason or another), i don't think either of them would mourn.

Simply fill their time with the next mission at hand.

Doc could kill hank. They've been under his knife often enough. It wouldn't stick, sure, but he's very much capable of sending them back to the Other place, at least once.

Hank could absolutely kill doc. There's very little stopping them. All it would take is a single hand around his neck and one good squeeze.

But they don't.

They don't, and neither does he. Because at the end of the day, both of them benefit more when the other is alive.

Mutualism.

... Anyways uh hank is a cuddler. With how fucked up their nerves must be, i bet most of their sense of touch is straight up just pain. Which would be be a bigger deal, except. Doc has access to heavy-duty painkillers. How can you not, in some odd way, love the guy that makes the pain go away, even for a bit ?

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

𓅨 Just One Sip: Chapter One

Just One Sip: You take a job as a security guard at an old manor to pay off your crippling student debt. You did not expect to be guarding a mysterious man trapped in a glass cage or to fall under his starry eyes. You were going to break him out, but becoming his snack was not part of the plan.

Warnings: Blood, Gore, Vampire Shit (Obv.), Accidental Wounds, Explicit Language, Kidnapping, Territorial Morpheus, Coworker Harassment (Welcome to the Steven hate Club, He’s a Sexist Twat), NOT EDITED (CAUSE I’M LAZY).

To Note: Vampire!Dream x Female!Reader, It’s a little dark but Reader doesn’t complain.

Word Count: ~7.0k

Masterlist | Next

Why did you ever think that taking this job was a good idea? Oh right, you were broke, the pay was stupidly high, and your desperation was at it’s last straw. Your student debt was looming over your head like a rock threatening to tip over and crush you. When you saw seen the listing for this job in the paper, your eyes had just about bugged out of your skull. They were paying how much to be a security guard!? You hadn’t even bothered to read the details of what the job entailed, you just figured that you would apply and hope that your luck hadn’t run out.

It hadn’t, but upon arriving at Fawny Rig, you knew that something wasn’t quite right about the place.

So you’d been directed through the manner where you had to sign a bunch of non disclosure contracts and a whole bunch of other paperwork, then given a rundown of the place. You were allowed almost everywhere, a cook would be fixing meals for the skeleton service crew three times a day, and your room and board were given to you. There was just one little fact that you had to get used to: you were on the night shift. You weren’t alone of course, no guard was supposed to be on duty without back up… but the change in your sleeping schedule had put you on grounds duty until you were fully adapted to sleeping during the day.

One of your main clauses in your contract was absolutely no sleeping or dozing off while on duty. It was absolutely forbidden. Hence why you had been slowly eased into your new position. You found that making sure you had copious amounts of caffeine on hand helped, and had little difficulty staying awake and alert all night by your second week in. That’s when the bomb shell of your job had been dropped on you, and you found out why you were being paid so much, and why you had signed a million papers.

You were guarding a hauntingly beautiful man trapped within a glass bubble within the bowels of the grand manor.

That wasn’t right. He wasn’t a man, as you had been told, but something else. And very dangerous.  So dangerous that it was forbidden to fall asleep in the same room as he, there were multiple occult drawings on the floor below the cage, and the glass cage itself was welded shut. How did he breathe? Was he even fed? No, despite your disbelief in what you had been told, the man was never given water, was never given food. He was never given anything. His cage was untouched, proof being the thick layer of dust clinging to the heavy chains holding the glass ball in the air.

Apparently, the man with pearlescent skin, starry eyes, and midnight hair had been trapped in the basement of Fawny Rig for over 106 years. You spent your mornings, tired and red eyed, pondering how he had become trapped and how inhumane it was, while trying to fall asleep overhead the trapped man. You wanted to do the right thing, you really did. But you couldn’t exactly go to the local police and tell them about him, and explain that he wasn’t human and had been trapped for over a century. They’d laugh in your face. You had also basically signed your life away in taking this job. If you spoke to anyone about what you saw, you’d never see the light of day again.

When had he last seen light? When had he last stretched his legs? Walked, ran, had basic decencies? He was so pale, so devoid of warmth, how could he just sit there with an emotionless expression and not go crazy?

“Evenin’,” Jarred from your inner thoughts, you looked to your left where you saw Ernie stifling a yawn.

“Good evening,” You echoed as the day shift guard rubbed her eyes and reached for the coffee pot on the table you were standing in front of. How could she drink coffee when she had already been up all day and was clearly tired?

“Just checked in with Mr. Burgess, says he wants to start you on basement full time this night,” Ernie continued, refilling her mug and sniffing the coffee. She began drinking it straight black.

“Full time?” You repeated nervously, uneasy at the idea of spending a full twelve hours down in that basement with someone who wasn’t human, and made you feel like a prey animal. “But I—”

“Ah it’s easy,” Ernie cut off your protest. “Just sittin’ there for twelve, boring as hell but you don’t gotta do nothin’. He doesn’t move save for occasional arm shifts. Sides’,” Ernie yawned again and gestured to you with her coffee cup. “You won’t be alone, you’ve got Steve with you, he’s been on the job for three years now, he has. You’ll do alright.”

You made a sound of regretful agreement in your throat and filled a thermos full of coffee to keep with you in the basement. Breaks were allowed, but only in five minute increments. Not nearly enough time to sit down and have a full meal… so you grabbed a banana and a granola bar, stuffing them into the pocket of your work pants. The long periods in-between meals was sometimes difficult for you, but occasionally one of the staff would bring down more snacks for you and your fellow guard to eat. They never even blinked at the trapped man. Everyone was just so normal about having a man trapped in a basement. You hated it so much and at times thought to leave. But then you remembered that you needed the money to pay off your loans and weren’t financially able to be without a job.

You were stuck being a monster.

Ernie nudged your shoulder as she trundled passed you.

“See you tomorrow, kid,” She said over her shoulder, disappearing from the service workers dining room. Right, your job. You needed to head on down to the cold basement before you were yelled at for loitering around on the clock. So clutching your thermos full of coffee, you walked out of the dining room and headed for the basement door.

You were back.

Not much had changed in the 106 years Morpheus had been tapped within the glass prison and circle of magic. Guards came and went. Stone faced. Apathetic. Bored. It was just another job, they weren’t paid to care what he was or why he was trapped. Just to make sure he didn’t leave.

But then you had come along.

You weren’t like the previous guards. You were younger. You still had life burning within your eyes. You had empathy, and it was clear that this job bothered you greatly. If it wasn’t the looks you occasionally snuck at him when the other guard wasn’t looking, it was the way you sat in the stiff plastic chair. Tense and on edge. But what was most different from the others, was the haunting scent that the Endless could occasionally smell wafting from your skin.

It was like the richest of ambrosia’s, sweet yet light, beckoning in a haunting way. In all his eons of living no creature had ever smelled like you. Almost sinful. Mouthwatering. Morpheus could feel his incisors threatening to descend every time he caught a precious whiff of you. But that wasn’t the worst of it, no, he could hear each and every beat of your heart. Hear how your ambrosia pulsed through your arteries and veins. Your blood was almost singing to be drunk, to touch his lips in crimson waves, pour down his throat and fill the Endless with absolute pleasure. What Morpheus would do just to try even a drop of your vitality.

The blood thirsty monster within Morpheus wanted to rip every mortal in this manor to pieces for knowingly abetting Burgess in his endeavor to keep him trapped… but you. You, he wanted to bury his face in your neck, fill his senses with your bewitching scent.Yes, if you were still working for Burgess when he got out, Morpheus would leave you be, but not before sating his burning desire to find out if you were indeed as mouthwatering as you smelled. He only needed to press his nose to your flesh to ascertain the answer to that desire.

In the corner of Morpheus’s eye, he saw that Steven was giving you a run down of the full schedule for the guard shift. It appeared you had finally been upgraded to the 12 hour night shift. Rather than being almost tortured by your scent for merely a few hours, Morpheus was going to have your scent filling his mind for hours on end. A blessing or a boon, he did not know.

“But really, Y/N, you can bring a book with you,” Steven spoke to you, his focusing on your face. The mortal was appreciating what he saw. Morpheus didn’t need to hear the way his heart beat increased sitting next to you, or hear the way his tone shifted when speaking to know that he was attracted. You wouldn’t even look him in the eyes though, a peculiar response. It appeared that you weren’t comfortable with his overly friendly actions, or occasionally touches. That pleased the Endless for it only set you apart from the others.

“I’m being paid to watch,” You softly replied, trying not to physically jerk away from Steven. He was nice enough, maybe a little too nice and a touch flirty, but you were there to do your job. “Not to read.” Steven snorted and raised his eyes to give the trapped being an unimpressed look.

“Nothing ever changes and he doesn’t move,” Steven said smugly. “At this point in time you’re just being paid to sit there and look pretty, love.” You tried not to be insulted by his words, because it felt like he had reduced you to a pretty face and not someone competent at their job, but failed to hide the micro expressions flickering across your face.

Morpheus saw them all. Your disgust. Your admonishment. Your desire to be anywhere else.

This time his incisors were descending from anger.

You really didn’t like Steven. Niceness aside, he was pushy towards you. Always sought out a reason to touch you, or talk to you, or hold your attention. This was the first time you had received this kind of attention from someone and you found that you didn’t like it. You just wanted to do your job and go to bed, not go out with the older man for a morning cup of decaf, or shared breakfast. In complete honesty, you wanted to tell him that you weren’t interested and were simply there to make a paycheck… but you felt like that might jeopardize your job!

Not only were you stuck watching a mysterious man who was tearing your mind apart with moral dilemma but you had no financial way out of your situation. You had to grin and bear this job until you had earned enough to pay a decent amount of your student debt and could pick yourself up again. Even if you had just darted out on him after he had cornered you in a servant hallway to once again ask you out for breakfast.

You had tried refusing, saying that you weren’t hungry, but he hadn’t taken that answer. No, the larger man had grabbed your wrist and pulled you back, insisting that you go and get coffee instead. It was by pure luck that Ernie had popped by to ask you to watch mystery man for a few minutes for her while she and the other guard finished up some work from Mr. Burgess. You couldn’t run fast enough for the basement, your wrist throbbing from Steven’s grip.

Stumbling across the miniature drawbridge, you held your hurting wrist to your chest while looking over your shoulder in paranoia, worried that the insistent man had followed you. He had not. Letting out a shaky breath, you turned back around and stepped further into the open space. Then you stopped short when you realized that he was staring right at you, his head tilted ever so slightly. You’d never seen him move before. You blinked and looked down at your wrist, your fingers delicately massing your aching flesh.

“I’m just covering for Ernie for a few minutes.” You spoke, not knowing why you felt the need to explain your presence to him. “I— you wouldn’t happen to know how to inform someone that you are entirely not interested, do you?” His stare remained unchanged for a few moments, then his eyes dropped lower.

Morpheus could hear the way your blood crackled and popped, surged and swelled around your wrist. Burst. Something had caused trauma to your delicate wrist, breaking blood vessels and causing your bewitching scent to be touched by a note of pain. It added a bitter note to your smell, one he disliked. Something had hurt you. No, not something, someone. The endless could hear the spindles of broken blood vessels wrapped around your wrist, surging in places where it did not belong and spreading that bitter scent of pain up your arm. He could almost picture large fingers wrapped around your wrist, squeezing it until pain bloomed and blood vessels broke.

You let out a drawn sigh.

“I don’t know what I am doing here, or why you are stuck there.” You mindlessly whispered, glancing at the trapped man once more. “It’s not right and I— I don’t know what to do.” You looked lost, Morpheus could see that. You also did not belong, but he had little time left to contemplate what you were thinking, or further examine the spindles of what would soon become bruises… for Ernie finally came walking back in.

“Thank’s for coverin’ for me, Y/N,” Ernie spoke, walking over to her seat and sitting down. “You look like you’re gunna fall asleep on yer feet. Head to bed, I’ll see you when it’s time for shift change.” You nodded at her and gave mystery man one last look. He was still staring at you. Still gripping your arching wrist, you strode from the basement, eager to get to bed.

There had been a problem in the manor. What, you didn’t know… but it required an extra pair of hands and Steven had been called away from the basement. You were almost happy that he was gone and you were alone in the basement, but at the same time, you were alone with him. It wasn’t a big deal to you, nothing ever happened save for the sparse few times your eyes had connected with him. The man simply spent hours on end either sitting cross legged or stretched out on his side. You could only imagine how bored he was… and yet, he never spoke or asked for freedom.

You were both bored, that you knew.

For the last hour you had been reading a book from the library upstairs, but it was getting tedious and you were no longer processing the words on the pages. Closing the book, you dropped it to the tabletop in front of you with a heavy sigh. You massaged your temple and slouched back in your seat. What were you going to do now? Your eyes flickered to the man in the cage. He was still stretched out on his side, staring off at the corner opposite from you.

If this had been any other situation, you would have marveled at the complete and utter beauty he held. All of his muscles were beautifully defined (though you didn’t know if that was because he was dehydrate… did he get dehydrated?), his skin was a beautiful pearlescent white, and his ragged black hair onyx black. He looked like the male version of Snow White. You’d kill to have eyelashes like his.

“Stop it,” You muttered to yourself, turning to the left and reaching for the letter opener. Part of your job was to handle the ‘fan mail’ that Fawny Rig still received since the days that Mr. Burgess’ father, Roderick Burgess, was in his prime. Apparently he had started a secret occult society and there were still followers in the world. You only knew this because you happened upon a strange book in the library that was essentially a guide book to the society. Information you probably weren’t supposed to learn, but no one had said anything when you carried the book out of the library to read.

Getting back to the fan mail, your only job was to open the mail, give it a scan, and throw it away. No one expected anything from it, you were just supposed to make sure there weren’t any threats to the manor or to Mr Burgess or Mr. McGuire. Handling the letter opener, you tucked the tip of it into a thick envelope and pushed the blade across the brown paper. Setting the knife to the side, you dumped the package upside down and let the contents fall onto the table with a thump. You carefully pushed the contents of the envelope around, looking at them. More words that you didn’t understand, several occult ’spell’ questions.

A branch of lavender that actually smelled nice.

Nothing dangerous, just a bunch of occult material that you didn’t want to read… so you gathered the papers up and dropped it into the bin labeled ‘fire’. You were half convinced that Mr. Burgess was paranoid that the town of Wych Cross would find out that the manor still received mail regarding such topics, so all occult related letters and print, were burned. You mindlessly moved onto the next letter, cutting it open, giving it a quick scan, and dumping it into the fire bin. You were half way through wrangling a box open with the letter knife, it was taped rather impressively, when a loud bang from upstairs startled you and the letter opener slipped.

The wicked sharp blade easily sliced through the meaty part of your palm and a resounding yelp slipped from your lips. You jerked from your seat to a standing position, letter opener clattering onto the table while you grabbed your wrist. Bloody hell, you’d cut your hand right open!

“Shit,” You uttered, eyes rapidly scanning the table for something to stop the bleeding with. It was sparely decorated and there wasn’t anything you could use. Ignoring the mess you made with your blood, you grabbed the letter opener again while reaching for your undershirt. You cut a strip from the bottom of your undershirt and hurried to wrap your hand. Then you realized you couldn’t tie the fabric. “Damn it!”

So you scrunched your face while squeezing your hand as tight as you could, and tried not to cry from the sharp pain. How could one cut bleed so much? In your panic, you hadn’t been paying attention to the man you were supposed to be watching. So when you finally noticed that something had changed in the glass cage, your head snapped up. Holy shit. He had moved.

Eyes locked with those that now looked completely black, you quivered in place in realization that he hadn’t just shifted an arm, or from one position to another, but was now standing up and staring at you. You weren’t even affected by his naked state, just blasting you with all his greek glory, no, you were frozen in place by the look in his eyes. In the rare instances that resulted in eye contact, his eyes had always been a captivating bright blue. Not this dark, soul sucking black that felt predatory. He almost looked inhumane. And entirely focused on the blood dripping down your hand.

Your smell was incredible and desirous. But the fresh scent of your blood dripping from your hand had taken control of the Endless’ body and mind. After 106 six years of having no blood to drink, to parch the dryness in this throat, to indulge on the thick and sweet liquid that was the life of humans, his thirst for you was insatiable and there was nothing more he wished than to sink his teeth into your flesh and taste what surely would be better than ambrosia.

But the way your blood was dripping from your hand, the way that the letter opener has sliced through your flesh. Morpheus greatly disliked it, especially when he could smell the unpleasant tang of your pain permeating the air. And yet the smell turned his focus back to his intimate desire. Rich and crimson, your blood continued to flow through the makeshift rag, staining your skin and running down your wrist. Oh how Morpheus wished he could lap up those trails, guide his tongue along your weeping vitality until his mouth reached your wound. He would seal his mouth there, run his tongue along the broken skin, numb you to your pain while indulging himself on the taste of you.

And oh how you’d moan for him, he was sure of it. Morpheus could only imagine the sounds you’d make as he drank from you, your precious vitality flowing down his throat. Hot. Viscous. Sweet. Everything he needed, everything he wanted. Someone untouched by the scourge of man.But while Morpheus was staring at the dripping blood and focusing on the pulses of your heart pushing more and more blood from your body, Steven had returned… and he let out a loud exclamation at the sight of you trying to stem the bloody mess that was your hand.

“Bloody hell!” Steven shouted, rushing forwards and grabbing your hand. You winced at his manhandling and the way he squeezed your already sharply pulsating hand. From behind glass, Morpheus’s gaze turned from desire and want, to possessiveness and anger. How dare he touch you. How dare he cause you further pain! “What did you do, Y/N?” Steven chided you, pulling you away from the desk and towards the iron gates.

“I— I was just opening post, accidentally cut myself on the letter opener,” You meekly replied, glancing over your shoulder to see the man still staring, but his gaze now darkened with animosity. He clearly didn’t like Steven. Steven further scolded you for being so careless, and unraveled your sloppy and hastily tied knot, before tightening the cloth around the wound to the point where you jerked your hand back with a sharp yelp. Your irate coworker tutted your reaction.

“You need to be more careful,” He continued to berate you while all around treating you like you were a child. You just pressed your lips together and held your tongue. “This will need Medical attention, head upstairs and see Lynn.”

“I’m on duty,” You tried protesting, looking back at your ‘charge’ so to speak. If it were possible, those blackened eyes would have vaporized Steven by now with how hard he was glaring at the man. Steven snorted.

“You can’t work like this, go,” He ordered like you weren’t technically equals. Any fight you had left about performing your job left, you felt belittled, like he had insinuated you did this on purpose, or were just too clumsy to be left alone. God, could the man make you hate him any more? So with your hand clutched to your blood stained shirt, you left the basement with your tail tucked firmly between your legs. The moment you disappeared, Steven rounded on the prisoner.

Fucking hell he was standing up and glaring at him in all his odd, strange glory! Did this creature have no shame? Displaying himself to you with such blatant want. As if you’d want a freak like him.

Steven sneered at the trapped being and stalked up to the outer edge of the binding circle.

“You can want her as much as you’d like, demon,” Steven spat out, his eyes glittering with disgust. “But she will never want you.” The human snickered as black eyes darkened and muscles bulged. “You think she’ll ever want a freak like you? She needs a real man to take care of her, to show her what to do. So you can stare at her all you want, you’ll never have her like I will.”

Morpheus liked to think he wasn’t a savage and cruel being. Not when he held the entire collective consciousness of the universe, not when he felt it all… but this human made him wish for violent things, vicious actions. Steven sneered one last time and finished his words.

“I’ll tell you all about what it’s like to fuck her like a real man. Shit, I’ll even put a ring on her finger and claim her as mine. How’d you like that? You can just sit there, alone and miserable, with the bluest balls knowing that pussy of hers is mine, and it’ll be my cock that fills her up with babies and keeps her home were she belongs.”

Morpheus was going to ensure that when he was free, and he would be soon, that this mortal regretted ever speaking about you in such a crude and disrespectful way.

Your hand had needed stitches. It was a bad place to have a cut, in an area where the skin moved and shifted. The stitches constantly ached and every time to used your hand, the stitches pulled. Steven chastised you, saying that if it hurt, you needed to stop doing what made it hurt… but how were you to do your job one handed? Your eye was twitching from Steven’s sexist remarks, but by some miracle, Steven was needed for Paul’s ground crew during the day, so he was off the night shift and you were alone on the night shift.

So you were walking down the basement steps to switch out with Ernie and Fred. Walking across the small bridge to the cold room where the the guards station was, you greeted the pair and watched as they packed up their things for the night.

“Moved an arm, shifted positions, that’s about it,” Fred told you as he got up from his seat and adjusted his belt. You gave him a chin nod and rubbed your wrist.

“Steve not on this night?” Ernie questioned while collecting her book and coffee cup.

“He ended up doing something for the grounds team today so no,” You sighed before giving the larger woman smile. “Have a good night Ernie.’

“You as well, lord knows nothing ever aspens round here.” The day guards bid their final farewell and left you alone in the basement. You let out a breath and lightly tapped your hands on your thighs, before glancing at your charge. He was staring at you, or more specifically, staring at your hand.  You looked down at it and flexed your fingers.

“It’s fine you know,” You told him. “Just needed a few stitches.” You didn’t know why you were explaining such a thing to him, it wasn’t like he was going to respond to you… but you felt like he had been concerned about your injury. Or at least disturbed by it. You wandered over the old magic circle drawn in the dirt floor, and held up your palm. “I’ve been banned from opening letters, too clumsy I guess.”

His head tilted to the side while his eyes scoured your stitched wound. It was red, still puffy, and clearly hurt. You looked down at the faded, hand drawn red symbols on the floor. You’d been told to never smear the lines. To never touch them, as they were vital in keeping the man trapped. You slowly lowered yourself into a crouch in front of him, your eyes glossing over the carefully inscribed symbols. The same ones you had seen in the book of occult in the library.

“What would happen if I break these lines?” You softly asked, your finger ever so gently brushing against the top of the old red paint. Pulling your hand away, you looked at your fingertip, red paint had transferred from the first to your skin. You rubbed it between for fingers, then saw a flash of white. Lifting your eyes, you saw that he was now standing up, staring at you with a look you couldn’t quite place. You rose to your feet and observed his eyes, they were back to that stardust blue, sparkling with cosmos hidden within. No hint of black or darkness.

He didn’t reply to your question, and you didn’t expect him to. Your eyes shifted to the glass and the steel structure holding him in. Even if you did break the circle, how was he supposed to get out? It looked like the structure was welded shut with him in it. You’d have to find a way to break the glass or loosen a seam. Running your fingers along one of the weld lines, you noticed that in some of the places, there was signs of wear and tear, rust. Rust indicated weak metal. If you found something sharp enough, like the letter opener, you might be able to pick and scratch at the metal enough to cause a hole. That was a good start.

You mulled over your options, and the repercussions that would ensue win you followed through with them. Surely you’d lose your job, the pay you were using to pay off your student debt… but he’d be free. You pressed your injured palm against the glass and let out a frustrated breath. Why did doing the right thing always have to screw you over? A pale hand pressed against the glass, opposite to yours. You could have sworn you felt a zap of electricity through the glass, or something that made your hand tingle.

“I’m gonna lose my job,” You told him honestly. “But I’ll do my best to get you out.” This time when his eyes started glowing bright silver, you didn’t shiver in place. You knew that he was acknowledging your words. Trusting. That made you feel relieved. You didn’t want him to view you as an enemy.

You were halfway through your shift, Steven was back with you, regretfully, and the letter opener you had grabbed before your shift started was a heavy weight in your jacket pocket. You had some hope that you’d have a chance to little away at the glass cage when you were alone, but Steven didn’t seem to want to take a break, or leave you alone. It was maddening, but surely Steven would want to go on a break at some point? It wasn’t like he was going to sit next to you for twelve hours… But as the hours slowly ticked by, and Steven didn’t budge from his seat… you decided to get creative.

“Steven?” You asked, forcing yourself to speak sweetly to the obnoxious man. The older man eagerly perked up and turned to you, a smile on his lips. “I’m feeling a bit hungry, but I don’t think I’ll be able to carry a food tray with one hand… do you mind fixing some tea and snacks for me?”  You words filled Steven with confidence. Finally, finally you were understanding that you needed to rely on him.

“Of course,” Steven told you, rising from his seat. He couldn’t help himself and gave the trapped being a smug look. “Someone has to take care of you.” You gave him a sweet smile and and resisted flinching when he brushed his fingers beneath your chin as he passed. Your hands were trembling as you kept them pressed into your lap, and it wasn’t until you heard the resounding echo of the reinforced door that you moved.

Slipping from your seat, you reached into your jacket and pulled out the letter opener. You are in front of the glass cage in seconds, digging the tip of the knife into the rusty part of the metal.

“I thought he’d never leave,” You muttered out, trying to jam the letter cutter into the metal. Bright blue eyes watched as you wiggled and jigged the tip of your blade into metal, chipping away at it. For the first time since Jessamy’s death, Morpheus felt like freedom was within his grasp. You, were within his grasp. His throat ached with your proximity. He could smell the blood rushing through your veins, sweet and calling. Your heart was beating at a heightened pace, you were clearly agitated, he could smell your nervousness. Even the disgust you felt towards the other mortal’s action.

He shifted where he sat, drawing near to the glass separating you and him. His thirst had been manageable these years, but now? Now his throat ached terribly, his incisors digging into his lower lip, and his hunger was overtaking all ration within his mind. You were oblivious to starry blue eyes shifting to pure black, only focused on the task at weakening the structure as fast as you could. The letter opener was just starting to make a descent crack when you heard the sound of the basement door and Steven’s foot steps. You cursed loudly, jerking back from the glass cage. Your hands managed to shove the sharp blade back into your jacket when Steven appeared.

“Y/N?” He asked, his eyes narrowing. You scrambled to come up with a reason for why you were not at the desk. “What are you doing up?”

“Oh, I thought—” You glanced back at the man, before looking at Steven once more. You didn’t want to take your eyes off him. “I thought I saw him move, wanted to get a closer look to check.”

Steven set the tray he had prepared just for you, on the desk and approached you, is gaze narrowed. You were too close to the creature for his comfort, and he didn’t like the way it was staring at you. He knew it wanted you. He knew it watched you with want, with desire, always. Well he would show it that it was Steven who was going to have the pleasure of having you. So he grabbed your wrist and sharply yanked you back towards the desk. You yelped from his tight grasp around your wrist and twisted your hand, trying to break loose. You were swung around and bent backward over the table, Steven looming over you with a wild look in his eyes.

“St-Steven? What are you doing?” You squeaked out, your hands pushing at his chest. The man grunted against your soft flails and held you tighter.

“Making sure that it knows you are mine,” He growled at you, his hands roughly tugging at your uniform. You slapped at his hands, ignoring the stinging stretch in your injured one to no avail. There was a thud to your right, and your eyes shifted to see the trapped man standing and braced against the glass cage, rage in his eyes. The rage you could see, at least he could see how wrong this was. Steven’s fingers brushed against the bare skin at your waist and you finally retaliated. Your left hand cracked across Steven’s cheek so hard that for a moment blinding pain erupted in your hand.

Steven’s head snapped to the side, a splotch of red on his cheek from your hand. Heart pounding within your chest, you dropped your eyes to your pained hand. It was bleeding again, crimson liquid quickly seeping from broken stitches and down your wrist.

“You bitch!” Steven growled at you, lunging at you once more. You yelped and dodged to the right, slipping free of him and throwing yourself towards the cage. Your hands scrambled to pluck the letter opener from your jacket, for what, you didn’t know, but the moment you neared the glass cage and the man standing behind it, helpless to your predicament, hands snagged your waist.

“Let me go!” You shouted, grappling the letter opener. Steven’s fingers scratched at your skin in the struggle, and it became clear that you were not going to break free of his grasp. So in desperation, you slashed the letter opener at Steven, and he howled. Then you charge forwards and body slammed yourself into glass, sinking the letter opener into the thick material. Cracks splintered outwards from the letter opener and your own wild and slightly fear filled eyes briefly met pitch blacks ones. You were dragged back by an enraged Steven.

Fighting against the bigger guard, you clawed at his face and writhed around, trying to get out of his grasp. You were getting blood everywhere, in a world of panic, your hands were sliding around in a bloody mess. Steven was pissed, as you had cut his chin and were not acting as you should. He manhandled you away from the glass cage while you shouted at him and cursed him out. He threw you at the desk and you crashed into it with a grunt, your forehead hitting the edge of the desk and momentarily stunning you.

You slipped to the dirt floor in a daze, only vaguely hearing the sounds of breaking glass, grunts, and Steven crying out and screaming. You didn’t care what was going on with the man, you were in too much pain, bleeding, and entirely done with this hellish job. No trapped life was worth the money. Grappling the desk, you clawed yourself into a slumped position against the desk with a whimper. Your hand hurt unbearably and your head ached sharply, but you couldn’t let your guard down, not around Steven. So you mustered up the strength to lurch in a half circle and stagger a few steps towards the cage, hoping to retrieve the letter opener to defend yourself with.

Jaw gaped open when you saw the massive whole in the glass, and no trapped man. That was good, right? From behind you came a snap. You wobbled in a circle in time to see Steven crumpling to the ground, his head at an odd angle and blood pouring from several wounds in his chest. Eyes wide, they flickered to the trapped man who was standing next to Steven, in all his naked glory, a thunderously dark and hungry look in his eyes. Oh god. You began backpedaling quickly, stumbling over your feet. One moment you were backing away and the next he had you pinned to the nearest stone wall. One of his hands held the wrist of your bleeding hand up and his starry black eyes were entirely focused on the warm blood slowly slipping down your warm.

“What do you want from me?” You asked, a tremble in your voice. He didn’t respond, instead, he pulled your bloody wrist to his mouth and licked at the slowly drying blood. A quiver went through him as the sweet scent of your blood finally made it to hit tongue and he could taste just how delicious you were. Paralyzed yet fascinated, you watched the inhumanely beautiful being drag his tongue everywhere blood had dripped down your flesh. You hand twitched in his hold and your breath hitched when he licked at the base of your palm. God, please don’t make it hurt anymore. Squeezing your eyes closed, you waited for a burst of fresh pain…

It never came.

Rather than another piercing lace of pain that would rattle all the way up to your elbow, your pain began to dissipate when his mouth pressed over your broken stitches. You gasped, feeling his lips and tongue hungrily laving at your bleeding wound. You didn’t want to believe what you were seeing, what you were feeling. Someone who’d been trapped for over a century, someone who didn’t age. He had to be— a moan slipped its way past your lips when his tongue dragged itself the length of your wound. Your noise surprised you and made a rather pleased sounding rumble come from the mans chest.

Your bleeding wound was licked until your skin was clean and there was no more crimson staining your skin, and there was no more of your delicious vitality slipping from your hand. He was still so hungry. He pulled back and looked in your eyes, and you gulped at seeing the blood smeared on his chin and lips. Your wrist was abandoned and he slipped his fingers along your neck, gripping the back of it while his pitch black eyes dropped to the spot on your neck where your pulse raced. So hungry. So hungry. So hungry. The moment your neck was pulled and subsequently bared, your hand snapped up to grab his wrist while you pressed your other against his chest. A shuddering whimper departed you as lips pressed against tender skin. Your fear skyrocketed, but you didn’t push him away, or try to rip free. He had to be hungry, so hungry, that it didn’t surprise when he did bite. You bit down on your lip, sniffling a whimper of pain.

It was a strange feeling, feeling him greedily drink from you. But not unpleasant. No, you were surprised that the pain disappeared quickly and was replaced with a feeling of euphoria. Your nails scraped at his skin, unconsciously trying to drag him closer to you. More noises came from the being pinning you in place, noises of relief, noises of pleasure, noises of desire. All those weeks of smelling you, scenting your bewitching fragrant blood, had culminated to this point and he was getting drunk on your taste.

Then you started feeling lightened and your grasp wilted. Your legs began to collapse beneath you, but his hold you easily supported your weight. Eyelashes fluttering, you tried to fight against the sleepy feeling quickly overtaking you, but your arms felt like dead weight. Limp as a rag doll, you could barely feel your heart struggling to beat. One more sigh slipped past your lips before you slipped under that blanket of darkness.

Date Published: 5/6/23

Last Edit: 5/6/23

Masterlist | Next

[seramilla]

So au idea Sera was a human like in overlord au but wasn't an arms dealer just a person who had crappy parents and a little sister who she loved and probably got custody of when she was early twenties and Emily probably somewhere in the 5 to 10 age range. Anyway life goes on and when Sera is in early to mid 30s dies in probably a car crash and so does Emily. Sera goes to hell but Emily heaven why I don't know maybe heaven is really strict with some of the religious rules and taking Emily from thier parents violates the fifth commandment or something or maybe her boring office job was with some evil company I don't know the point is Emily is heaven and Sera in hell. Emily basically gets to be fill mollys role in the story. Meanwhile Sera is in hell and has to get along because dispite being dead and in hell she still needs to get work and pay rent. (This really is hell.) She eventually gets a job in Carmine industries and rises quickly because she is good at managing stuff and Carmilla thinks she's beautiful. She eventually gets to high up position and has awkward will they won't they relationship with Carmilla that everyone around them think is both adorable and annoying. (The girls have bets on whose gonna ask out who first.)

Sera's not sure what made her enter into a contract with one overlord called Carmilla Carmine. Maybe it was waking up in Hell with no prospects, no idea where she was, and no idea how she was supposed to survive here. Some people had regular jobs. Turnover was really high, though, due to the annual Exterminations every year. There was no shortage of jobs. But they were low-paid, with toiling hours, and it was sheer luck if your boss wouldn't eat you for breathing wrong. You could surivive on your own here in Hell; but it wasn't likely.

Word of mouth had told her that the more secure jobs, the cushy corporate ones that meant you might actually last more than one Extermination down here, were with one of Hell's mysterious Overlords in the Pride ring. Some of them were (relatively) friendly. Some of them absolutely weren't. It all depended how much you wanted to succeed down here; how much of the benefits you'd like to reap, or if you'd be satisfied with a more mundane, normal existence. You could basically take your pick of how to spend eternity. Grandeur or mundanity; it all came at risk or reward.

The likes of Alastor and the Vees could guarantee influence and power, though the risks and costs may not be worth the price of one's soul in the end. Someone like Zestial or Carmilla, though, if you were willing to work and become a part of their collective, at least meant safety. You wouldn't make any big splashes under their roof, but really, the possibility of security, at the very least, had been appealing to Sera. She didn't need fame or fortune; she just wanted to live.

She chose Carmilla because of all the overlords, her cause seemed the most noble. Unlike a lot of them, however, she was rather picky with whom she entered contracts. Yes, your soul would be hers, but she didn't want to taint her reputation with the likes of serial killers, sexual assaulters, or people who had been otherwise vermine during their time on Earth. She was more interested in loyalty, no drama, and a dedication toward hard work. Her deals were tit for tat; work hard for her, and all your needs would be met, and then some. No frills or fancy perks.

One look at Sera, and the newly dead soul almost panicked. Carmilla almost...turned her nose up at her! She walked around here, in slow circles, "hmmming" and "hrrmmming" like she was studying the other woman intently. Sera felt like, for lack of a better comparison, a piece of meat, or some fancy piece of equipment on Carmilla's showroom floor. She wasn't sure which was worse.

"You're very lanky. Skinny. Not very strong," Carmilla said, and Sera almost blushed herself into outerspace. "But you're tall. With Excellent posture. You could have potential...Have you ever done a lick of work in your life?"

"I..." Sera tried to respond, but Carmilla cut her off again.

"Don't answer that. I already know the answer. Kind of a spoiled brat in your time, weren't you?" Carmilla moved behind Sera. Sera didn’t dare budge. Carmilla toed just the very bottom of Sera's skirt with her boot, exposing her lower leg and foot. "Weak ankles. Can you even lift more than 5 pounds?"

"Excuse me?! Fuck you! I'll have you know--!"

Carmilla interrupted her and cackled, extremely pleased she'd been able to get under Sera's skin. She came back around to Sera's front, looking up to stare her right in the eye. For a much shorter woman, Carmilla's gaze was intimidating as Hell.

"I like you," Carmilla said with a sly grin. "I don't know why, but I do. I'm willing to give you a chance. If you work hard. Maybe I'll even give you..." She looks Sera up and down before reiterating this next part, licking her lips in anticipation (that couldn't be good) "...special privileges, if you do well for me."

"What do you mean...special privileges?" Sera asks.

"That's for me to know and for you to find out. Now..." Carmilla holds out her clawed hand, wrist loose, waiting for Sera to put her much smaller hand in hers. To shake on it. Purple light begins to emit around the both of them, and Carmilla smiles warmly. "...Do we have a deal?"

"Do I at least get to read the fine print first?"

"No?"

"Then how do I know I'm making the best decision?"

"This is the best decision you could possibly make down here. I promise, I'll make it worth your while, Sera."

How did Carmilla know her name? Sera hadn't even told her yet.

There was something about those red eyes though...they drew her in, with some otherworldly magnetism she simply couldn't ignore. Everything inside Sera was screaming at her not to do this without understanding the actual cost of the deal. This wasn't normally how Carmilla did things, was it? She'd heard she was more straightforward than this.

"Promise me you won't hurt me," Sera said. "Please. I just want to work. No strings attached or extra conditions. I'll do whatever you say. Just...no funny business. If I wanted to go to Alastor, I would have."

Carmilla's eyes softened. Her smile changed to a forlorn look. The worry started to leave Sera's mind at that glance. Maybe she'd misread this.

"I won't hurt you," Carmilla said with convinction. "I protect my own. You have nothing to fear. I just like to let some people get closer to me, who I can trust. A companion or two, if you will. If you earn it. The employer-employed relationship can be oh-so boring."

"So, what, you want a....friend?" Sera asked. She wasn't sure if she was buying it.

"Something like that," Carmilla grinned. She held out her hand again. The purple light got stronger, and started swirling around the room. "I promise you no 'funny business.' Just a simple arrangement, if you do well for me. Now. Do we have a deal?"

Sera only had to think about it for a minute more. Carmilla was giving her the best possible chance to survive here, and then some. Who was she to refuse?

Sera took Carmilla's claw in hers. Her smaller hand was practically engulfed by the overlord's claw, but she gripped it tightly all the same.

"Deal."

What the fuck had Sera gotten into now?

I went a different direction with this. Sorry not sorry hahahahahaha!

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for complaining about a teacher?

context before i start: the class i'm in takes up 3 hours of the day, and was the only reason i came to this school in the first place. it's an art school and is supposed to be somewhat serious—like, you have to apply to get in. but the 2 years i've been here we've had like 4 teachers (+ there have been even more before that) and none of them have been qualified for the job whatsoever

our newest teacher just got out of college and doesn't know what she's doing. she doesn't assign work that's actually creatively challenging, 1 hour of class time is usually dedicated to a really bad prompt and the rest of the time is independent work, it's barely an actual art class. she also never talks to the class and doesn't really have a clue what's going on ever. supposedly she has a degree but she just seems so. confused. the reason i'm still at this school is because i know people here who live upwards of 40 minutes away who i'm very close with + along with that i'm also autistic so any kind of drastic change would be hell. unfortunately leaving, though it would be the best option for me, is just not an option at all

anyway, we're already a quarter of the way through the year and people are still saying to cut her some slack because she's... new. which is kind of exactly what the issue is? i went through something similar to this last year because one of our previous teachers gave me really bad vibes and just didn't really work, so i complained about her to my classmates, and then i went to the administration about some issues i was having and she ended up quitting a few weeks after. people thought i got her fired on purpose. i was a little bit overly angry looking back so idk i can't blame them

anyway, i recently went to the admin about this new teacher (unlike last time, i tried to "give her grace" and hope for improvement, even though... idk... i just don't see it happening) but haven't really held back in complaining about her to my classmates too. most of the time people will say i'm being overly negative, or they don't want her to get fired, and honestly it's just fucking wild to me. they've also made comments about how she's not a good teacher! like everyone agrees that she's just not ready for this position and they're really sick of not being able to learn things! when i do complain though it's like i'm messing up some kind of social contract there is to just not do anything about the problem we're having and it's really confusing and frustrating

but at the same time i do wonder if this is me being overly critical and nitpicky of a situation that i shouldn't be. to me, because of aforementioned autism, i have a really strong sense of justice. this kind of stuff seriously bothers me and it upsets me that nobody else is as affected by the unfairness as i am?? idk. i just want the class to actually be worthwhile because the academics are really good

so AITA?

What are these acronyms?

[covid-safer-hotties]

I loved my teaching career. COVID normalization stole it from me - Published Aug 23, 2024

It might not have been the most favourable, but one of the most memorable comments I ever received on a student evaluation was that I could be “a bit hard to follow, but that was more an example of [my] passion for this subject over anything.” That subject was creative writing. And yes, sometimes, I had difficulty tempering my excitement throughout a teaching career that has now been cut short.

I have – or had – been teaching as a contract or “sessional” creative-writing instructor. Given the competitiveness of the academic job market and my age (I was nearly 40 when I earned the requisite degree, though I had already published four books), I had come to accept that it was unlikely that I would ever have a faculty position. But I could live with that because I still had the rare privilege of making a (barely) livable wage doing something I was very passionate about.

The COVID-19 pandemic took that from me. Actually, that’s not quite right. It was the perceived “end” of the pandemic that really ruined my teaching career.

I am immunocompromised and rely on medication to manage an autoimmune disease. This means vaccine protection from the virus is probably less effective for me than for most people. Also, my particular illness – Crohn’s, an inflammatory bowel disease – has been shown to put me at significantly greater risk than most for long COVID: a potentially chronic condition that can be very debilitating. And despite how it may seem, COVID circulates widely much of the year: We are still in a pandemic.

When universities returned to in-person learning in early 2022, a brief letter from my specialist was all I needed – because of my medical condition – to continue teaching online. But all that changed about a year ago.

Ironically, it is now harder for me to receive accommodation to teach online even though there is less protection in the classroom against COVID. I cannot require masking, which is perhaps our best tool against transmission (particularly respirator-style masks such as N95s), in the classroom. Nor does one-way masking offer as much protection as universal masking. Also, current air filtration in classrooms is generally insufficient. In other words, classrooms are not safe and accessible workplaces for medically vulnerable people. But that’s certainly not how university administrators, and even those who were supposed to represent employees’ interests, perceive things these days.

Last year, trying to discourage me from requesting to teach online, a union rep told me that he “believed in in-person learning.” The most frustrating thing about this comment, and the widely held opinion it represents, is that I too very much miss teaching in person and would, if it were safe to do so. (That said, I believe I am every bit as effective a teacher online.)

On another occasion, a university administrator, after I had submitted my medical documentation, thought “the solution” was for me to co-teach the class so it could include an in-person component and, consequently, less pay for me. After a struggle that went on for months, I taught the class entirely online, but the accommodation agreement I had to sign stated I had “a medical condition that needs limited exposure to as many people as possible.” I nearly refused to put my name to this bizarre description of what is a prevalent disease, but it was too late to apply elsewhere.

It is clear it will only become increasingly difficult for me to teach online as time goes on. The back-and-forth with administrators, department heads and union reps, waiting to find out if I will or won’t be accommodated, and/or what new obstacles will be thrown at me – it has all caused me significant anxiety, which in turn has made it more difficult, ironically, to manage the symptoms of my illness.

I know that the people I have been sparring with are, for the most part, decent folks: They are just ill informed. But I can’t keep trying to do the job of a public-health official to ensure my own health. It’s quite literally making me sick. I’m done. I quit. I have to.

Disability activists have fought long and hard for workplace accessibility to be a right. But the culture has not caught up to understanding the particular accessibility needs of the immunocompromised.

I do not know how to go forward from here. Online courses, especially creative writing, are few and far between. I am looking for online work that utilizes my skills and education and/or that pays more than minimum wage. I have yet to find even an opening for anything like that. For now, I’m grieving: In many ways, it’s a full-time job.

The last time I taught in person was the year I graduated from my MFA program – just months before the pandemic began. After the semester had ended, a student asked if we could have a coffee together so that I could offer further guidance on revising a piece of writing that I had told him was of near-publishable quality. And I only say that to students when it’s true. He also, to my surprise, wanted to share a bit of his own constructive criticism for me – about how I could facilitate workshop discussion a little better. I chuckled at his audacity, though later, upon reflection, took his suggestion. But mostly we focused on his creative work.

As we were getting ready to go our separate ways, he mentioned, in passing, that he had a long drive home: 2½ hours. It has always stayed with me that a student was willing to spend five hours driving for a relatively brief chat over a coffee. Clearly, he thought I was a good teacher, but with more practice and experience, I could become – like a talented, but novice, student writer – an excellent one. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like I will get that chance.

[ballet-symphonie]

Diana Vishneva... She's always speaking about her love for Vaganova and about the importance of her teacher Ludmila Kovaleva (and she's also the only one to get a perfect score at vaganova). Do you think that D.Vishneva will eventually move to teaching at Vaganova, becoming a new Kovaleva? Or Maybe take Nikolai Tsiskaridze place and become Rector?

I dont know. I don't know if that's actually the life that Vishneva wants, she seems quite content with her current artistic merits and curating all the things related to Context Pro and her foundation. The bigger problem is whether the job will open and whether she can get it. With Valery Gergiev's incredible power at the head of both major theaters and knowing how pro-Putin he is, I can't imagine he will be quick to support any attempts by Vishneva to vie for that position, especially considering Vishenva's pro-Ukraine stance among other 'Western' views she has expressed.

Many people think Tsiskaridze will only leave VBA for the Bolshoi artistic or general director job. He and Gergiev, who is now 'acting general director of both BT and MT' have had a rocky relationship in the past, particularly when they were both working in Moscow. But nowadays, Tsiskaridze is quick to praise Gergiev at any opportunity in the press, calling him a genius in interviewers. Tsiskaridze is both cunning and ambitious, he knows being in Gergiev's good graces is absolutely essential to getting the job he wants. But there are other factors and other opposition to consider. Makhar Vaziev, still the Bolshoi's ballet artistic director is more cunning than Vladimir Urin (the former general BT director) who was tossed out several years before his contract expired. Vaziev managed to keep his post despite all the political pushing in the last few years, as long as he's there, there's no job opening for Tsiskaridze, because we all know Gergiev isn't going anywhere either. (I'd fire Vaziev for the current state of BT under his management, but that's an entirely separate topic).

But it's also not a guarantee that Tsiskardize would even theoretically get the job. Yes, he's powerful and famous...but he's got a lot of enemies as well. There is opposition, younger administrators who could desire the post as well. I'm thinking of people like the incredibly motivated Maxim Sevagin, who became director of MAMT at only 24 years old, Alexey Miroshnichenko currently ballet director at the Perm State Opera, and, Andrey Kuglin who is creating an absolute powerhouse company at Mikhailovsky in collaboration with Nacho Duato.

What's more intriguing to me, is the state of things at MT. Andrian Fadeyev was recently named Artistic Director of MT, and it appears that he's going to continue being the AD at Yakobson as well...which is WILD to me. This is not the same thing as Gergiev just managing both from afar, he is supposed to be on the ground, rehearsing and actively involved in the day-to-day operations of both groups. Yes, they're both in SPB, but just one of those jobs is a job and a half I don't know how he will manage both. Of course, it's possible that he just neglects Yakobson completely, but I wouldn't be surprised if this appointment doesn't last long. If the MT job opens up, does Tsiskaridze want it? Can he get it?

[neondiamond]

🎃 Recently Read Fics - October 2023 🎃

These are all the amazing fics I read over the past month (from shortest to longest). Don’t forget to leave kudos and comments to show the authors your appreciation if you read any of these! 🧡

🎃 Pumpkin Baby by @louisgayvodka (1k, G)

Louis paints Harry’s baby bump for their Halloween themed photoshoot

🎃 let the feeling last by @wecantalktomorrow (1k, G)

Louis had been waiting a long time for the euphoria of moments like these. To feel such pride radiating through the room for him. He spent far too long in the spotlight for an image that had been forced upon him, built to show him in a particular way. A way that was nowhere near an actual representation of himself. He worked as hard as possible to create a safe space for himself and his fans at his shows, one that represented his authentic self.

He knew that his fans heard him. They could hear him screaming at the top of his lungs in the only way he knew how while still tangled in the false sense of leniency that came with his current contracts. It still did not match the feelings that came with moments like tonight, the overwhelming sense of love and belonging.

🎃 us means more than me and you by @starryhaze28 (1k, NR)

the one where Harry is sick and Louis takes care of him.

🎃 Touch the Sky and Kiss the Sun by @londonfoginacup (2k, T)

Louis Tomlinson knows without a shadow of a doubt that Harry Styles is his soulmate.

Harry Styles, Louis is virtually certain, is completely unawares of this fact.

🎃 Lights Are So Bright by @becomeawendybird (2k, G)

Newly first-string quarterback Louis Tomlinson mentions enough times in interviews that he's a fan of mega-famous popstar Harry Styles that people start to notice. At least one person does...

🎃 There and Back Again by @dedtobeginwith (2k, T)

A Keep Driving timestamp, one year later.

🎃 for you, darlin’, for you by @wecantalktomorrow (2k, G)

“Got another tomorrow before I leave,” Harry said quietly, nuzzling Louis’s blanket once more as he got comfortable in their nest. His body was still trembling with the aftermath of his sobs, but the tears had stopped for the moment. “Thank you, you know,” he rubbed his face once more, sinking farther into the comforting scent of his alpha, “you always seem to know what I need before I do.”

That made Louis smile, eyes crinkling in the corners which, in turn, made Harry’s heart race with a fondness for the man before him. “Of course I do, you’re my baby, my mate, my omega. ‘S my job to take care of you. Kept seeing the pictures coming out, and you looked more and more worn out, my love. Could feel it,” Louis breathed out, his hand coming up to prod at his own bondmark absently. The touch to his bondmark makes Harry shiver, bringing his fingers up to rest them against his own mark.

🎃 the blue never-ending sky by @justanothershadeofblue (3k, T)

“What do you suppose it’s like?”

Harry’s voice was dreamy, barely audible from where Louis lay on his back on the off-white carpet of Harry’s bedroom.

“Arizona?” Louis asked, and Harry made an affirmative noise from his position on top of his twin bed. “Wouldn’t know, would I?” Louis jerked his head at the window, dripping with mid-February rain. It was a useless gesture - Harry was busy staring at the ceiling. “On account of being British and all.”

“I bet it’s beautiful,” Harry said, and his voice sounded like he was already gone.

🎃 Got Time (But We’re Only Human) by @galacticlarry (6k, T)

Louis and Harry have been dating for years, but have been keeping it a secret from the public, which is why when they decide to go on a trip with Liam, Niall, and Zayn to celebrate One Direction’s anniversary, they end up at a farm in the middle of nowhere.

What happens when a picture that shouldn’t have been taken starts circulating on the internet, threatening to mess everything up?

🎃 always had that heart of mine by @voulezloux (7k, M)

louis is nesting, though he won’t admit to it. between being ill, the stress of uni, and near drops, the only thing keeping him afloat is harry’s scent. the fact they don’t get along is neither here nor there

🎃 If We Have Each Other by @pocketsunshineharry (23k, M)

AU where Harry is a single father and a one-night stand is going to change his life forever.

🎃 2 a.m. texts by @sun-lt (30k, T)

Harry has just come out and, with his best friend Louis’ support, he might finally be brave enough to go on a date with the guy he’s been chatting with on a dating app. Meanwhile, there’s a cat that wants to murder Louis, a fast-approaching deadline for Harry to find a new place to live, and this minor situation wherein he and Louis can’t seem to stop making out. It’s not a big deal. Louis is just being supportive.

[rainofaugustsith]

So the Open Library decision came down, and there's already a lot of hand wringing about it. Before you start waving torches about how this is all moneygrubbing Big Publishing flexing its muscle, I'd beg you to actually read the facts of the case. From the decision:

This appeal presents the following question: is it "fair use" for a nonprofit organization to scan copyright-protected print books in their entirety, and distribute digital copies online in full, for free, subject to a one-to-one-loaned ratio between its print copies and the digital copies it makes available at any given time, all without authorization from the copyright-holding publishers or authors? Applying the relevant privisions of the Copyright Act as well as binding Supreme Court and Second Circuit precedent, we conclude the answer is no. We therefore AFFIRM. (the previous decision). 1. This has never been about the Wayback Machine, Archive.org's historical collections, or out of print books. NOTHING in the court decisions prevent them from continuing that work. 2. This has never been about "libraries being able to have and lend books." 3. Yes. libraries do have ebooks and lend them out. They pay for the ebooks. There are licensing terms. 4. Open Library did not pay licenses. They rebuffed publishers when they were approached about it. They therefore want to claim they are a library without acting like a library.

Oh, and they were marketing this as a positive to other libraries: "get books for free! Don't pay! 5. The issue specifically is about new books, not the out of print stuff.

Here's the thing about that. Unless it ends up being a new timeless classic, most books make most of their money in their first year or so. If sales aren't good, it can impact future book contracts.

Here's the other thing about that. Most authors earn four figures or less annually for their writing, even if they are publishing with a major house. They almost always have to have at least one other job, and often several. I know so many writers who have several jobs just to make rent every month. Often, the money they get for a advance is the only money they ever see from the book - if they even get an advance, which is increasingly rare these days.

Thus, if that license is not purchased, it does hurt them - directly.

"But it's one license at one library!" Cool cool, can we just take a week of your salary and tell you "it's just one week, you won't miss it?" 6. Big Publishing! Money Grubbing Fiends!

Yeah, the big publishers did mount this lawsuit. Do you honestly fucking think that independent midlist writers making four figures a year had the money to hire attorneys to do it? They had the money, they did what the authors alone could not. 7. But people couldn't get the book otherwise.

Okay. Some of those books are like $2 as ebooks or used paper copies. If you can't afford that, there's this wonderful thing called the public library, where you can get a free library card and access to books online for free. Books that have been paid for. If you don't have access to a library in another country - I'm sorry. But this isn't the answer. Maybe when it comes to media you don't always get everything you want all the time. You know, like in the real world with grownups. I'd also add that you can keep using Archive.org's other services that were not questioned here which give you access to lots of other media, with older out of print books, magazines, etc. There are other websites like Issu which offer publications online for free, LEGALLY. This decision isn't the Last Chance Saloon for media access.

I know that a lot of you think authors and other creatives apparently are not entitled to get paid for their work like everyone else, or at least don't translate pirating to "the writer's not getting paid for this." Apparently they're supposed to work for free "for the love of it!" don't need to pay for food, healthcare and housing, and should smile whenever their stuff is pirated. So maybe it truly doesn't matter to you that the big issue here is authors not getting paid, I don't know. That's what it's about, though.

[werelektro]

Hmmmmmmmm

Context? You can read the following, or just like.... just stare at this picture of a depressed Excalibur. Both is fine!

That Excalibur has a job. That Excalibur hates his job. That Excalibur wrote a bunch of job applications. They got declined.

That Excalibur is me :p I bet nobody expected that.

Been doing that job since November last year now.

Work itsself? Shit ( most of the machines are broken in some way. Impossible to do quality work)

Co workers? Shit ( a.... old, choleric pos, another old, smartass pos, a 17 year old apprentice whom I am supposed to train - oh! 2 people I get along with really well, but I hardly ever run into them )

Payment? Shit ( it's close but I can afford life, yes, it's still pathetic )

Boss? Generally friendly man, but Shit regardless ( screwed me over. Made me agree to the contract, told me all the downsides only right after I signed )

Oh - and my workshop is located in the cellar.

All of this used to be fine at my previous job, where I was the apprentice. But I had to leave since they weren't able to employ more workers.

And here I am. I mean...

I am not unemployed. So... there's that I guess? But I am really looking to find something else.

Last week I had a promising job interview. Or so I thought. Yesterday I got the mail telling me that they found someone more suited for the position. Aaaaaaargh.

Oh well.. so... that's why this sad Excal is here. Getting that mail was like... getting knocked out. I really got my hopes up. A Mistake.

Anyway - I am feeling better today. I do have a job ... that is something, after all.

Tldr.: whining about being stuck with a lame ass job.

[kamyru]

My MCL:NG OCs

Zackarielle "Ella" Rivera

Name: Zackarielle Almendra Rivera

Love interest: Jason Mendal

Nickname: Ella

Age: 28

DOB: February 17 (Random Acts of Kindness Day)

Job: PR professional

Hobbies: Reading, dancing

Likes: Books, music, her siblings

Dislikes: Lack of empathy, jealousy

Story: Ella’s mom is a former circus gymnast. Ella was the only out of four siblings with interest in being in the circus. When Ella was 21, Giselle moved to her circus and they became rivals for the starring position. When she was 26, the circus signed a contract with Goldreamz and Ella was supposed to film an advertisement and participate in events alongside Goldreamz. However, on the day of filming, the circus sent Giselle instead of her and soon canceled the project entirely. Two years later, Zackarielle is working for Devenementiel as their PR manager and problem solver.

Giselle Dolga

Name: Giselle Marguerite Emma Dolga

Love interest: Thomas Rheault

Age: 25

DOB: April 2

Job: Designer

Hobbies: Singing, K-pop cover dancing

Likes: Music, dancing, gymnastics

Dislikes: Baseless confidence, revealing clothes

Story: Giselle moved to Sweden with her mom when a famous Swedish circus owner spotted her talent. Later, he married her mom. Sadly, her mom died when she was pregnant. During one of her work travels, Zahra Dolga met Giselle's adoptive father. They got married and Tasha was born. But then, they understood that they are too workaholics to have a normal happy family life and divorced. Zahra and Tasha moved back to France. After high school, Giselle decided to follow them and started working on another circus in France while studying design. At the circus, she had a rivalry relationship with Ella. After Ella left, she was the starring gymnast. However, it didn't last very long because Giselle fell in love with the son of the owner of the circus. Giselle found out that her lover was engaged with another woman and left the circus and gymnastics, starting living with Ella. One year, she was a couch potato in Ella’s apartment. Later, she was finally convinced to start working at Devenmentiel and moved back to her adoptive mother.

[draiad]

No Stranger to Fear

read on AO3

Rook.

It has a ring to it. One he likes more than he’s willing to admit. It lets him fall into the role he needs to play. The role Varric set him up for. Gives him the drive to do what he might not have done just as Silas.

Rook is sure footed, finds a path through any obstacle. Rook takes on the tasks those in power can’t or won’t. When words fail, actions take over. Rook is sharp barbs and words of encouragement. Rook is hiding just how fucking scared he really is.

Sure, freeing the prisoners from the Antaam was a choice he made on his own, a contract he made himself, a contract he’d take on again in a heart beat. But to take on a God, his Gods? Not just one, but two, potentially even three? Even he has to admit that’s a big ask. One he’s not sure he would have done just as Silas.

As a Crow he’s taken on plenty of interesting contracts. Followed through with all of them. As Silas de Riva he feels dangerous, like all Crows are. He’s a killer, has been a killer for years. He kills without guilt. Feels free racing over the rooftops of Treviso or wherever else his contracts take him. Feels most comfortable in the shadows. And while Crows like letting people know it was them that got the job done. He’s not used to being in the spotlight. Silas de Riva is a thorn in Viago’s side for certain. But until now he’s lived a life of relative anonymity.

As Rook he feels whole. As Rook he is more than just Silas, he is his team and he knows beyond a doubt he can take on the world. So long as they’re there with him he’s unstoppable. They’re unstoppable. As Rook he is seen, he is known and he cannot fail. He lets out an incredulous half laugh at that. Failure is not an option as a Crow either he supposes. So at least in that they align.

But there are moments, fleeting and few, where doubt peaks through and Silas allows himself a moment of fear. Hides himself away in his room unseen with shaking hands as the scope of what he- they took on sets in.  He is afraid, terrified, of failing, losing this team, this family they’ve built. He’ll give himself some time, to shake through the panic before he puts the mantle of Rook on once more.

He buries his hands in his hair, releasing a shaking sigh. He pulls in a deep breath and releases it slowly. He can hear Viago in his head. Stop and Think. They can do this, they have to do this.

Silas doesn’t know how they’re going to do this. Rook knows they’ll do whatever it takes.

Rook is startled out of his spiral by a knock on his door. A soft voice reaching through the blood rushing past his ears.

“Hey, Rook?” Bellara. He sighs, pulling in another deep breath before answering.

“Yeah – yes. What is it?” Rook stands, shaking the last of the tremors from his fingers as the door creeks open. Bellara walks in, smiling in that timid way she does, journal in hand.

“Is now a bad time?” She asks, and he wonders for a moment if she can see the uncertainty barely buried beneath the surface. “I was wondering- actually, wait no. Never mind. It’s stupid.” The last part comes out in a rush as all the bravado that brought her to his door leaves her.

“Bellara,” he says slowly, drawing out the last syllable of her name, fondness dripping from his tone. This is good, familiar. “You know it’s not. It’s neither stupid or a waste of my time. What’ve you got?”

Silas sits on the lounge chair and pats the seat beside him. He leaves himself open with her, relaxing his posture and leaning an arm on the back of the seat to rest his head on. It’s a tactic he learned as a Crow, not that he’d ever tell her that, how to disarm someone with body language. A useful tool for someone in his position. If Lucanis or Neve were in the room they might notice what he’s doing. But he doubts they’d mind when it’s being used to help.

She sits, back ramrod straight and bites her lip, looking at the journal in her hands. She opens and closes her mouth a few times as she considers what she’s going to say, how she wants to phrase her request. Little breaths escaping with each false start. He recognizes the journal she holds, has a good idea of what she wants. Even if it takes a bit of careful prodding before she lets herself ask.

“Oh, uhm, okay sure. Right,”  she says with a nod, body relaxing and offering him a tentative smile. “It’s about that story I’m writing, you know the one kinda… inspired by us. I’m caught on a part and I was hoping maybe you could… help?”

“Of course, let’s hear it then,” Rook nods towards the journal. She opens the journal to the bookmarked page and begins to read. Her bright voice warms something in him, easing away the last of the anxiety and he feels himself relax properly. He’s not sure he can properly articulate how at ease he feels when the others come to him. To just spend time with him outside of the struggles they face. He only hopes he can offer them a modicum of the comfort that they bring him.

“Sooo, what do you think? About the contracts bit I mean. Lucanis and I kind of talked about it before, but we never really got into detail about what exactly a contract means to a Crow,” she says. Her posture matches his now, she’s relaxed, facing him with another journal opened, ready to take notes.

“Hmm, well, simply put a contract is life or death, for you or your target. To forfeit your target is to forfeit your standing as a Crow, and your life. Though not all contracts are for killing. Some include spying, stealing.” He trails off. He can tell now she’s enraptured in gaining new knowledge. Eyes wide as she quickly takes notes.

“Hmm, you must be good at that part,” She says, quietly enough he’s not sure it was meant for him to hear. He hums and she startles, realizing she said it out loud. “Oh! The sneaking part! Spying and stealing. You’re so quiet. Well also the killing part, I’ve seen how good you are with your dagger. Anyways… back on topic. How do you accept or decline a contract?”  

“That,” he says slowly. “Depends entirely on your rank. High ranking crows, usually the Guild master or Talon accept the contracts for the house. If you rank high enough you might be able to refuse a contract and a house won’t take on a contract that would make them look bad. Beyond that I couldn’t really say, I wasn’t a proper Crow for very long before I pissed the right people off and was advised to leave Antiva for a time for tempers to cool.” 

He’s thankful she didn’t ask about training. Can think of no other way to describe it than Hell and he’s not sure that’s a road he wants to start on. He knows his training with the Crows wasn’t quite the gauntlet many others have followed. But his loyalty to House de Riva, to the Crows was never in question, not after they gave him a purpose. He might not always be on their best side, but the fact he’s still alive after that fuck up says everything he needs it to.

“Ahh,” She gives him a wry grin and he can tell by the gleam in her eye she wants to ask more. She’s heard the story from Harding of the events that lead them here, of their journey before the Gods got free. She makes a quick note to ask him more about that later. For now she has plenty to work with. She taps her pen against the journal and straightens. “This helps. Thanks Rook.”

He thinks, for a moment, to suggest talking to Varric about her writing but unwarranted the thought gets caught in his throat before it can come out.

“Any time, Bellara.”

[eaglesnick]

“The True measure of our wealth is how much we’d be worth if we lost all our money.” – J.H.Jowett

The Byline Times carried this headline on 18th January 2024

“Reform UK Limited: The Political Business Brought to You by Billionaires.”

I have always been somewhat surprised why so many of the British electorate vote for Nigel Farage. He is not a “man of the people”, he rarely speaks “common sense" and he breaks his political promises as often as Sir Keir Starmer. (We all remember the slogan, “We send the EU £350 million a week. Lets fund our NHS” that turned out to be either a "mistake" as Farage later described it, or a deliberate lie, depending on your point of view.)

There are two themes that run throughout Forages political career – accusations of racism and his love of money.

Lets take racism:

Farage’s infamous anti-immigration poster of 2016 was described by George Osbourne as both “vile" and reminiscent of “nazi propaganda”. Farage is a master at promoting feelings of “us” and “them”, the polarizing political rhetoric that pits one group of people against another.

Despite claiming to “hate” the EU, its institutions, its personnel and its policies, Nigel Farage was a member of the European Parliament for 21 years, raking in a small fortune while doing so. (More of this later) He very successfully used the language  of  “hatred” to persuade the British people to leave the EU but at the same time created a problem for himself as he also scuppered his earning potential. Having defeated the bullying EU he needed to create a new enemy to rail against – Muslims.

Sky News (27/05/24:

“Nigel Farage called out for 'blanket accusation' as he says 'growing number' of Muslims 'loathe' British values.

And LBC said:

“Farage defends Reform UK candidates after anti-Islam and far-right comments exposed." (13/06/24)

Farage’s anti-Muslim position had been known for many years. In 2013 Farage claimed Muslim migrants were  “coming here to take us over". But since leaving the EU it has taken on new significance, Muslims being  an easily identifiable group for the particular brand of "hatred" politics that Farage peddles in order to make money.

Let us suppose for arguments sake Farage actually believes what he says about Muslims trying to “take over Britain” and “loathing British values”. The question then arises as to why he has handed the Chairmanship of the Reform UK party to a Muslim millionaire.

Before the last election Reform UK accepted hundreds of thousands of pounds from very wealthy individuals, the largest donor being Muslim.

“The precise amount Zia Yusuf has given to the party has not been disclosed but Reform UK claims it is the biggest donation of their general election campaign so far." (BBC News: 19/06/24)

Two months later and Zia Yusaf has been made chairman of Reform UK. If Muslims are intent on “taking over" Britain what better way than becoming Chairman of Britons fastest growing political party? But why would Farage open the door to a “takeover” by the very people he claims loath British values?

The answer is of course money. When you “donate” millions to a political party you expect something in return. And for Farage money has always been of primary concern regardless of ethics.

Reform UK is backed by billionaires and millionaires because they feel it will protect their interests. Nigel Farage does not really care about the so-called “Muslim threat” anymore than he hated the EU.  Farage’s primary concern is funding his ever-growing bank account that being a controversial figure in the political limelight allows him to do.

The 21 years that Farage was a member of the despicable European Parliament he was paid approximately £2.2 million before tax (£1.7 million after tax). In 2018, Esquire magazine (21/08/18) revealed that Farage was living in a £4 million Chelsea town house, and was paid nearly £1million pounds for his broadcasting contracts on top of his job as an MEP. That isn’t all. As a retiring MEP Mr Farage was entitled to an extra payment of £152,000 before tax, and a massive pension of £73,000 per year. Strange that Mr  Farage had told the Daily Mail only months earlier that he was “skint” and that there was “no money in politics”.

It is money that drives Farage not political conviction. It is no wonder that the Financial Times (17/08/24) reported that:

“Nigel Farage is Britain’s highest earning MP, Common records reveal."

Farage has been absent from his Clacton constituency and not holding constituency surgeries on the pretext "the public will flow through the doors with knives in their pockets”. A more plausible explanation might be he has been too busy in America supporting Donald Trump and raking in huge sums of money for his speaking events.

The Independent (17/08/24) revealed Farage is pocketing £98,000 a month from his various political activities this year. Stoking political and social division pays very nicely it seems. His anti-EU, anti-immigrant, anti-Muslim, credentials have kept him firmly in the media spotlight, and this has provided him the opportunity to feather his own nest regardless of the economic cost to the nation regards Brexit, or the social cost regards his anti-immigration, anti-Muslim stance.  Where making money takes precedence over all things is it any wonder that Reform UK is the party of billionaires.