#like i wouldn't even know what to invoice

[fazcinatingblog]

There's no way I'm letting her near the positivity juice card I bought today

[jsprnt]

Americano PT. 11 | Jude Bellingham x Reader

What happens if two individuals who absolutely despise each other are forced to interact after unforeseen events occur?

A/N: Hi babes!!!! I’m so happy to be back, I missed writing and interacting with yall 😭 enjoy reading my loves <3

W/C: 3.447

part ten

Jude was everywhere.

Every-fucking-where.

At home, at work, sometimes even at the clubs or bars I visited..

Every corner I turned, every morning I woke up- he had to be standing or sitting closer to my vicinity than I would have ever wanted.

I rub my eyes roughly, trying to get some food into my system before we had to start packing for the Union Berlin game in Germany. The last to secure our spot in the last 16 of the Champions League.

"Can you pass the water?"

I look up, my grumpy state worsened after hearing the annoying pest's voice.

"No.." I reply, deciding to be petty, pushing the water bottle over anyway.

We don't speak for the rest of breakfast, tensions high after having to endure each other's presence for more than a week.

I had never missed my dad's presence this much before, and my patience was running so thin- if I snapped, I wouldn't even be surprised.

I get off my chair when the doorbell rings, getting up quickly to open the door, knowing it would be my package.

I smile at the delivery driver, signing his tablet quickly, before accepting the huge package.

I slam the door closed with my leg, not being able to see where I'm going while I carry the heavy machine inside.

"Let me help.." I hear Jude perk up. I hear the paddling of his house slippers come closer, a sudden warmth grazing against my fingers.

I almost drop the heavy package in surprise, hand slipping away from the cardboard box. Eyes wide when I realize Jude's holding the package with a stable grip and ease. His face hidden behind the box.

"On the counter?" He questions, already turning and walking towards the kitchen island before I can reply.

I hurry behind him, eyes shifting over his form. Muscles protruding due to the work he's putting into placing the box on the counter.

"Thank you.."

The words feel foreign falling from my lips, only because they are directed at someone I never thought I'd simply thank.

He only replies with a small grunt, motioning to the huge box with his head, his hands going up to roll his T-shirt sleeves up.

I avert my gaze from his arms, to the package, quickly grabbing a butter knife from the kitchen cabinet.

I slide the knife through the transparent tape, directing the knife away from myself.

Standing on my tiptoes, a small noise of irritation leaves my mouth when I pull the coffee machine out of its box.

"Really? A coffee machine?" I hear Jude say, his hand reaching over to pull out the folded invoice included in the package.

"A thousand euros?!" He exclaims, looking like his eyes are about to pop out of his head.

I grumble, snatching the papers out of his hands.

"I didn't pay, don't you worry.."

I wouldn't be the brightest to buy such an expensive machine with my own money, my salary wasn't exactly that much to splurge like this.

"Oh, daddy's money- got it.." He smirks, folding his arms on his chest. The white T-shirt pressing closer to his torso.

"Last night you came home with those ugly ass sneakers worth five thousand euros- don't even try it.."

I scoff, trying to glaze over the fact that I indirectly called my house, his home.

I grab the instructions of the machine, carrying it over to plug in the socket.

"Do you even know how that thing works?"

"Obviously, I'm not someone who buys seven euro lattes every damn day.."

I fill the water reservoir, inspecting the compartments carefully, then turn the machine on.

"Oh, you're so much better than me for making coffee at home.." He mocks, making me turn around, hand resting on the base of the machine absentmindedly as it warms up.

"How difficult is it for you to- fuck.."

I whip my head around, fingers stinging as hot water pours from the coffee machine. I gasp loudly, pulling my wet hand away from it rapidly.

"What did you do?" I hear Jude exclaim, he snatches my wrist, pulling me towards the sink with haste. He pulls my hand towards the faucet, allowing water to soothe my burning hand.

"Are you ever careful?!" He hisses, gripping my wrist tightly. I look up from the streaming water, confused by how frustrated he looks.

"It's fine, it wasn't that hot.." I mumble, feeling his hold tighten. I begin wiggling my hand out of his, giving him a quizzical look.

"Let go, Jude.." I add, finally getting my hand free from his iron grip.

I hear him sigh as he runs a hand down his face. He stares at me for a moment, then I watch him disappear for a moment, into the bathroom.

I take a deep breath, inspecting any changes in the skin of my fingers. Not noticing anything, I pull my hand away from the faucet. The stinging not as bad as earlier. I turn the water off, ready to walk away and grab a kitchen towel to dry my hand.

"Come here." I hear Jude say, I look up immediately, seeing him sitting at the dining table with a first aid kit. One he'd probably found while snooping around in the bathroom.

I walk over without protest, sitting next to him awkwardly. I hold my hand out, watching him treat my hand.

"It's literally not even that bad-"

"Stop talking." He deadpans, making me raise my brows. He coats my burnt skin with soothing cream, making me wince a couple times.

"Thank you.."

Again, I said it again.

I clear my throat, trying to ignore the heat creeping up to my cheeks, embarrassed by our proximity.

"We should get to packing. We have to leave in a couple hours.”

"Congratulations guys! You’ve all worked so hard.." I praise, hugging each individual player when they walk into the changing room. Patting them on the shoulder proudly.

"Rough game, wasn't it?" I ask Joselu, chuckling at his expression. The man had put his entire heart and soul into the game, giving us two goals- making his POTM title well-deserved.

"I'm so exhausted. You sure you want me for the interview?" He asks, pulling his jacket on.

I nod, motioning to Luis.

"We're ready, when you're ready.."

The interview doesn't take long, and before I knew it, we had all arrived back at our hotel. It had become a small tradition for some of the players and staff to chill in the hotel restaurant after matches, and this night was no exception.

Due to how close our team is, most of us didn't really get dressed up. We had some tea or coffee with small desserts or plates of cut-up fruit.

It was insanely cold in Berlin, obviously due to the season, and the rain wouldn't stop pouring from the sky. The heating was on in the restaurant, accompanied by the cosy fireplace right behind our table.

I check the time in the midst of listening to Federico's story about what he did during his last break. Seems like the rest of the table thinks it's hilarious, because they all burst out in laughter while I'm distracted by my phone.

My eyes water in exhaustion, and I clench my jaw in order to hold a yawn back, not trying to look annoyed or bored.

Waiting for the right timing, I get up, bidding farewell to the team, then I quickly walk into the elevator, pressing the button to my floor.

Arriving in my hotelroom, I jump onto the fluffy, soft bed, sighing in pleasure.

Though, my peace is short-lived when there is a harsh knock on my door.

I grumble, getting up annoyed- stupid enough to open the door without checking or verifying who it is.

It's no one else than Jude, a familiar-looking piece of jewelry in his palm.

"You dropped this earlier." He mutters, holding the gold bracelet out.

I hum, holding my hand out, so he can attach it back to my wrist.

I hear him scoff, smug look on his face as he looks at me, placing the bracelet on my wrist. I don't give him the satisfaction of having my attention- instead I scroll on my phone, refreshing the browser to see if my most recent test results will show up.

"No way!"

I scream, eyes going wide, as I realize I had passed all of my exams, even the one I cried about on the way home.

"What?" Jude asks, confused by the excitement in my eyes and form.

"I passed!" I shove the phone into his face, not even letting him see for a split-second until I pull my phone away and place it on the vanity.

"I passed, Jude!" I squeal again, unconsciously grabbing onto the puzzled guy’s hands. I squeeze his hand, soft skin caressing mine, while I beam with joy. Widest smile on my face as I jump up and down.

"You passed? Even though you were crying at the kitchen table all night long?"

I freeze, stopping myself from jumping again, looking up at him, surprised.

"You saw that?"

"You were making it a little too obvious.."

I scoff, looking down at our intertwined hands, immediately pulling my hand back in embarrassment. Confused about why I let my vulnerability slip so easily.

"Okay, well, you can leave if there is nothing else.." I mutter, unable to ignore the huge, smug smile on his face.

"Goodnight, y/n.." He speaks, stepping back, and I wish I could wipe that smirk off his face.

Maybe even a punch…

"Goodnight, or whatever.." I blurt, slamming the door closed in his face.

"No- don't come in.." y/n slurs, collecting her bag from the dashboard. Vision blurred and disoriented as she fidgets with the car door.

"Are you sure? You're absolutely hammered.." Luis asks, leaning over to open the door for the frazzled girl.

"Yup! All good." She replies, heels killing her feet when she steps out of the car.

"Bye!" She adds, slamming the door a little too hard, earning a yell from her best friend, before she stumbles to the front door of her house.

Nights like these are why she's happy there is a keypad on the door as well, fishing for her keys in this state would be a disaster.

She punches the numbers in quickly, hearing Luis's car drive away when she opens the door and stumbles inside.

It's not as dark inside as she'd imagined, instead, the living room lights are on. The TV blaring with a show she's unfamiliar with.

Throwing her heels off, she makes a beeline towards the couch, slumping against the soft cushions.

"y/n?" She hears a voice say, not bothering to open her eyes, she hums in response.

"You okay?" The Brum accent asks, and instantly a warm hand makes contact with her forehead.

"You're drunk." He says, stating it as a fact, rather than a question.

"I'm not drunk, let me sleep." She replies, shifting on the couch.

"You need to get cleaned up. You reek of alcohol." He urges, hand going to pull her arm up. 

"No!" She replies, gasping when she's lifted up from the couch. Opening her eyes, she clutches onto his shirt, confused by where he's bringing her.

"What are you doing?"

"You wanted to sleep, no?" He mutters cockily, slowly walking up the stairs, strong arms wrapped around her back and thighs.

She makes a small noise in exhaustion, unconsciously placing her head on his broad shoulder. Undeniably, her makeup smudges against the gray fabric of his shirt, but he doesn't seem to mind all that much, not even realizing the small grin on his own face as he places her in her bed.

He switches her bedside lamp on, happy he's not missed the bed when placing her on it in the dark.

Stepping back, he pulls the covers over her body, looking around for some specific thing. He steps closer to her vanity, looking for something similar to what his mother used to remove her own makeup.

Jude makes a small noise of satisfaction when he sees a pack of wipes, the English text on it enough to confirm it's the item he's looking for.

He turns around with the pack of wipes, stepping closer to the sleeping girl. He carefully sits on the empty side of her bed, careful not to touch her unnecessarily, grabbing a wipe, and clumsily rubbing the white towel along her face.

His face inches closer to her sleeping one, trying to remove the makeup enough so it won't stain her white pillows. He watches her eyelids and face twitch, causing a soft, fuzzy feeling to creep up into his chest.

His breath hitches when he realizes their proximity. He pulls the makeup-stained wipe away from her face, grabbing a clean one and caressing it on her soft cheek.

When her face is wiped clean, he pulls back, chest thumping with an unwelcome feeling. A soft sigh leaves his plump lips, he runs a hand down his face. Grabbing the edge of her warm blanket, placing it on her, causing her to shift a little in her slumber.

A familiar feeling of déjà vu passes through his senses, a soft grunt coming from the sleeping girl next to him. 

He pauses his movements, eyes roaming on her sleeping face, before he gets up from her bed. Leaving the lamp on as he hurriedly walks out of her room. Accidentally taking the pack of wipes with him, and forgetting to close her door in his sudden hurry.

December in Madrid was something Jude was slowly getting used to. Although nothing could compare to the weather in Birmingham and Dortmund he'd gotten familiar with over the years. 

It’s only hours later, past three in the morning, when he's awoken by pain in his shoulder. It had been bothering him for weeks now, but he was insisting on playing.

Even if it meant that he had to wear a personalized shoulder brace and had to take injections to combat the pain during important games. 

His move to Madrid was no doubt a big one, with the entirety of the football world looking at how the 100 million-euro transfer would start his first season at Real Madrid.

To Jude, even a dislocated shoulder could not hold him back from delivering his best performance. 

Sitting up from the bed he had been calling his own, for the past few weeks, he looks around the dark room. Rain trickling out of the dark clouds and harshly hitting the huge windows of his room. 

Jude gets up from the comfort of the warm bed, pulling his shirt off to check his shoulder. He had been wearing his brace regularly, but sometimes it would be so uncomfortable that he had to take it off in the middle of the night. 

He unbuckles the belt that’s secure on his chest, expensive material soft to the touch as he slides the black brace off carefully. A soft grunt of pain leaves his mouth as he throws it to the other side of the bed. 

Pulling his slippers on and opening the door of his room, he can only see light emitting from y/n's room. Her bedroom door open since he had forgotten to close it earlier. 

He averts his gaze from her room, ready to go downstairs to grab a cup of water. Though, he stops dead in his tracks when he hears noise coming from her room. A soft whimper, accompanied by the rustle of her movements. 

Not another thought runs through his head before he makes a beeline into her room. He walks past her door, her body visibly restless underneath her blanket. He stands next to her bed awkwardly, moving his face closer to inspect the scrunch of her brows, displaying the distress on her face. 

"y/n.." He begins, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. He lifts his hand, moving his hand to her cheek, touching it tenderly with his thumb. Trying to rouse her from her sleep. Though, seems like it doesn’t work, especially since her face twitches again. 

"Hey! Wake up.." Jude whisper-shouts, not even realizing or asking himself what he is trying to accomplish. 

"Fucking hell. What am I even trying to do." He curses to himself, moving his hand to her shoulder again. She’s still dressed in her clubbing outfit from last night, causing his hand to make immediate contact with her bare shoulder. 

"Mom.." A sudden whisper leaves her lips, full of raw emotion and sadness. A ragged breath follows, the tremble of her lip visible in the dim light next to them. 

Jude immediately halts all of his movements, his breath hitches in surprise. He had never heard her or others around her utter a single word about her mother. It was always about her father or one of her aunts. 

Jude was never curious about it for some reason. He had many friends whose parents weren’t together or single. Her only having her father in her life, or to the extent he’d seen- wasn’t all that surprising until this very moment. 

"Don't go..." Another whimper, followed by an audible, strangled sob, tears glistening in the corners of her closed eyes. 

He had never felt this confused and helpless before. Feeling his chest tighten, he leans over her body, moving to sit next to her on the bed. With one last shake of her shoulders, he tries to wake her up from her horror-filled dream. 

"y/n!" He shouts this time, voice echoing along with the rainfall outside, his brows furrowed in worry. 

y/n's eyes snap open in shock, mouth falling open, only for her lips to tremble.

Tears fill her eyes, the only thing visible to her: Jude's concerned face. 

Picking up on her sudden shock, his arms snake around her back, allowing her to sit up and breathe. 

"You’re fine, it was just a dream.." He says softly, eyes focused on her face. Instead of his words soothing her, tears start falling down her cheeks, breath unsteady as sobs fall from her lips. 

His eyes widen, her state blind-siding him.

Yes, he had seen her cry once or twice before, but this- this was different. The girl's face was absolutely clad in pain and sadness.

It made his heart and soul shatter, blood running cold at the sight. 

"Hey.. Look at me.." He mutters, hand reaching up to her chin. His fingers graze her skin, gently but firmly lifting her head to make eye contact with her wet eyes. 

She faces him, cheeks and lashes wet from tears. Eyes bloodshot, as her lips tremble uncontrollably. Jude's eyes soften, brows scrunching in more concern. 

"y/n-" He tries to call out to her to further ground her, though a soft gasp leaves his mouth when she practically launches herself into his hold.

Her trembling body pressed against his naked chest, shaky arms wrapped around his back. 

Her forehead collides with his collarbone, to his luck, not against his injured shoulder. His arms fall against his side in bewilderment, mouth falling open for a moment. Only her soft sobs audible next to the raging storm outside. 

Her nails claw against his bare back, not realizing the slight pain she’s causing him through her sheer desperation of wanting to feel safe and grounded. 

Jude can feel his skin burning up. Of course, he had his fair share of subtle or intimate touches with other women. A hug, a kiss- whatever it had been- his body had never gone this rigid before.

He's pulled out of his thoughts by her nonstop sobbing. Getting his courage and shit together, and pushing his shock away- he lifts his hand from his side, sliding his arms around her back, pulling her body flush against his. 

"You're okay. You’re safe..." He mumbles, fingers rubbing her nape soothingly, other hand pressing her face closer against his chest. 

"I'm here, y/n.." The unfamiliar sentence leaves his mouth with a shaky breath, her sobbing continuing all through his sweet words. 

He's absolutely certain, that if she were fully conscious and not crying her heart out- she'd be able to hear the stupid thundering of his heart, maybe it would be even louder than the storm outside. 

He also knows that this feeling has been brewing in his chest like a damn F5 tornado for the past few weeks.

Causing incredible damage to his heartstrings and confusion to his feelings and thoughts...

[dinodanicus]

you can skip this wall of text its just about the scam this illustration was involved in.

This fairly ordinary illustration of two hands holding was involved in a very weird and convoluted scam. Last month I was commission to illustrate this image for invitations meant to go out for a supposed wedding anniversary coming up in March. The whole commission seemed odd to me I mainly draw dinosaurs and aliens. Not many people know I also draw people but the buyer who called himself Petterson Reid was offering to pay 300 up front and 200 after the work was finished. A nice offer for what was a very simple illustration. I took the job and sent him a very rough sketch of the hands to show him what the final image might look like. He liked the sketch and told me to finish the image after he sent the first payment I went ahead and finished the image that night. I held onto the picture to see if he would really send the 300 dollars first. The buyer wanted to send a check by mail which is weird but I thought he might have been a boomer who didn't understand how to use PayPal. His emails and text seemed like something my grandmother would write very proper and overly polite. I was fairly suspicious of him and waited to see if a check would actually be delivered. To my surprise a check did arrive a week later from Petterson Reid except it was for 2,790 dollars. knowing this was far too much money I asked him if it was a mistake. He said the extra money was for a PayPal invoice to the printers involved in the invitations. He wanted me to use the extra money on the check to pay the printers on his behalf. Again very weird but I chalked it up to an old person who didn't know how to pay online. I cashed the check the next day, since it was from an out of state bank they were putting it on hold for 3 days to see if the funds would clear. I told the buyer about the three day waiting period and asked for the invoice I was suppose to be paying and he went absolutely ape shit. He claimed I was trying to steal his money and was threatening to pursue legal action I was completely shocked by the change in attitude. I had to mute my phone because he kept sending wave after wave of threatening texts. At this point I was 90% sure this was some sort of scam but when I called the bank they said there was nothing to do until the hold expired. I was confident it wouldn't then to my surprise the check cleared and the money was in my account. At this point I had the finished artwork and the money so I wanted to get this crazy asshole on his way so I wouldn't have to deal with him anymore. I told him to send the invoice for the printer and I would pay it with the money on the check then I would send the picture and our business would be done. This prick sends some half assed looking invoice with a payable link on PayPal. When I try to pay, it says payment will be held till Feb 7th. Apparently this date is too late for the printers so now that processing payment has been canceled by the printer in favor of a new payment process through Zelle. I was trying to figure out what was going on, if its a scam what is the take the entirety of the check was still in my account it didn't even say it was pending. I go to pay on Zelle and discover the 2,790 dollars has been rescinded by the bank. I call and learn this ass hair had sent a forged check to the bank in an effort to have me pay these fake invoices with my own money. He guessed the bank would deposit the check without fully vetting it for the standard 10 days since I'm a long time member. He knew he had until about five a clock that day before the bank would catch the discrepancy. He was posing as the printer in order to scam 4,740 dollars from me through both attempted payment methods. luckily for me I'm broke as hell right now and didn't have the money in my own account to cover either payment with out the check. everything has been taken care of now I just thought I better share this story since I've never seen a scam like this before. It took an entire month for him to essentially get nothing I really don't know what to think of any of this its such a weird scheme.

[loveroftoomanyfandoms]

Sweet on You, Chapter 3

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Story Summary: HERE

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

Word Count: ~1850

A/N: I had entirely too much fun writing the terms of Matt and Reader's contract, lol.

As always, if you'd like to be tagged in this or any of my other stories, please let me know!

Divider by @theradioactivespidergwen

Tag List (struck-through blogs could not be tagged): @danzer8705 @capylore @shouldbestudying41 @atemydadforbreakfast @peachy-flxwr @sleepysleepymom @fishinsuits @milkbummm @lazyxsquirrel @beezusvreeland @caughtthefever @bohemianrhapsody86

Thank God it's almost time to go, you thought to yourself as you began to get ready to leave work on Monday afternoon. Wish they'd hurry up and replace Roxy and Tabitha soon.

You had been one of three admin assistants until two months ago when Roxy, the junior admin who had told you about Sugar and Spice, had moved across the country for a job that would actually utilize her college degree, and Tabitha, a glorified intern with no administrative skills who you suspected had only been hired because one or more of the partners had thought she was hot, had gotten fired for showing up to work still wasted after a night of partying. Now you were on your own and doing the work of three people with no relief in sight.

From the moment you arrived at the office at 8 AM that morning until right then when it was time to leave you had been going non-stop. You had fielded phone calls, made appointments, arranged travel, greeted clients, fetched water and coffee, filed for permits, picked up lunch for all three partners from three different restaurants, ordered flowers for your actual boss's girlfriend's birthday, made copies, and printed and mailed invoices -- all with a smile on your face and without a word of thanks from anyone. 

Needless to say, you were looking forward to a drink and a nice, pleasant dinner that you didn't have to prepare yourself and could actually sit down and eat rather than have to quickly inhale like you had had to do with the sandwich you had procured from the deli down the street for lunch.

At 5 PM on the dot you shut down your computer and unlocked your desk drawer to grab your purse.

You went to the bathroom to freshen up before poking your head into your boss's office. “Hi, Mr. DiStefano, I just wanted to let you know that I'm leaving for the day.”

“Okay,” Mr. DiStefano replied without looking up from the floor plans he was studying.

You waited for a moment to see if he was going to say ‘thank you, have a great evening ’ -- or anything else for that matter -- but he didn't. “Okay then, see you tomorrow.”

You stopped by the other two partners’ offices to let them know that you were leaving, receiving very much the same non-response from both.

You sighed as you left your office and headed towards Nelson, Murdock, and Page. You were feeling extremely unappreciated and underpaid, especially since you were now having to fill the admin assistant role for all 3 partners at once. Maybe it's time to start looking for another job…

You shook your head. You weren't going to even think about trying to find another job until after you got your mother's medical debt paid off. One thing at a time.

“--Yo, Matty, we hitting up Josie's tonight?”

Matt looked up and shook his head as Foggy stopped by his office. “Actually, I can't. I have plans after work.”

Foggy gasped. “Do you have a date ?”

He poked his head out of Matt's office. “ HEY KAREN, MATT HAS A DATE TONIGHT! ” he yelled down the hall.

Matt sighed. Here we go. He was glad that you and he had already come up with a cover story on how you had met so he wouldn't have to think of one on the spot.

“So, what's her name and how'd you meet her?” Foggy asked.

Matt said your name. “We met at The Brew Towers on Saturday.”

“Ooh, coffee shop meet-cute,” Karen gently teased as she joined him and Foggy in his office. “How romantic.”

“Yeah, tell us more,” Foggy added. “Did you spill your coffee on her? Accidentally grab each other's order? Brush hands across the condiment station?”

Matt chuckled. “Actually, we struck up a conversation while we both were waiting in line to order and since it was busy and tables were scarce we decided to sit together. We hit it off, so I asked her to have dinner with me tonight.”

“So where are you taking her?” 

“Okinawa.”

Foggy huffed out a laugh. “Ooh, fancy.” 

Matt shrugged. “It was close to the office.”

“What time are you meeting her there?” Karen asked.

Matt shook his head. “Actually, she's meeting me here in about 10 minutes and we're going to walk over together.” 

“Well, I'm really happy for you and I hope everything works out with her.”

“Yeah, same,” Foggy added. “It's good to see you putting yourself out there again, buddy.”

Matt inwardly cringed. After everything he, Foggy, and Karen had been through he hated lying to them, especially when they seemed so genuinely happy for him. “Thanks.”

“Guess it's just us at Josie's then, Kare. Let's go before she gets here -- I’m sure Matt doesn't want to scare her away by introducing her to us too soon.” Foggy rapped his knuckles on Matt's desk. “I expect a full report on your date tomorrow morning, Matthew.”

Matt chuckled with a nod. “Will do. ‘Night, guys.”

He waited until Foggy and Karen had left before pulling up his and your contract and printing copies in both standard and Braille print.

A few minutes later he heard your footsteps approaching the office, so he walked out into the lobby to greet you. 

“Hi, Matt,” you said as you entered.

“Hi,” Matt replied. “How are you?”

“I'm good, and you?”

“I'm good too, thanks.” Matt gestured towards his office. “Let's go to my office.”

He led you down the hall to his private office. “Have a seat. Would you like something to drink? We have water, soda, tea, juice…”

“No, I'm okay,” you said as you sat. “Thank you though.”

Matt sat across from you. “Alright…”

He picked up the print copy of your contract and handed it to you. “Here’s the contract. I'll read through it, just let me know if you have any questions.”

“Okay.”

Matt cleared his throat and began to read. “Memorandum of Agreement. This memorandum of Agreement is made by and between Matthew M. Murdock and…”

He could hear your quiet, steady breathing as you followed along. He had tried to make the contract as simple and straightforward as possible in order to protect both himself and you.

“...Shall provide the following obligations,”  he continued. “Accompany Matthew to lunch and/or dinner at minimum twice weekly. Accompany Matthew to business-related events as requested with minimum 72 hours prior notice. Accompany Matthew to non-business events as requested, dependent on availability.”

“Wait, what does that last part mean?” you asked.

“Just that every once in a while I might ask you to do something with me that doesn't involve a sit-down meal,” Matt replied. “But also that I'm not going to make you drop everything just to have a cup of coffee or take a walk with me.”

“Oh, okay, that's fair.” You paused. “Sorry, go ahead.”

Matt nodded. “In exchange, Matthew shall provide the following obligations: Monthly stipend of $1,500 --”

“Wait, wait,” you interrupted again. “We only agreed on a thousand a month.”

Matt shrugged. “Yeah, but I thought about it and decided that fifteen hundred was a more fair amount for your time.” Especially since you're using it to help your mother.

You sucked in a soft breath. “Oh.”

Matt could tell you were torn between arguing with him and just accepting the higher amount and waited until you decided which path to take. 

Finally, you sighed. “Okay.”

“Okay. ‘Payment for all outings and events, including but not limited to meals, beverages, gratuities, tickets, souvenirs, and gifts. In the event of a professional obligation, arrangement and payment for appropriate garments for said obligation. Accompaniment to requested events with minimum 72 hours prior notice, dependent on availability.” Matt paused. “I figure it's only fair in case you have a work event or something else you'd need a plus-one for.”

You huffed out a mirthless laugh. “Even though I have to plan and set them up I never get invited to actually attend any of DiStefano, Williams, and Abbott’s events, but that's good in case I ever do.”

Matt's brow furrowed at your slightly bitter tone. He'd have to find out more about your job. “Anyway, ‘Confidentiality: Each party shall treat as strictly confidential the nature of said Agreement as a result of entering into or performing duties outlined in this Agreement’. ”

“Snitches get stitches,” you quipped. “Or in this case, sued.”

Matt chuckled. “Relation of the Parties: The relationship between both parties is that of a platonic nature and of partners in a business transaction. No other nature of relationship is obligatory herewith.”

He continued on with the rest of the contract -- termination of the agreement (that either he or you could terminate the contract for any reason at any time with 30 days prior notice), remedies on default (that if one or both of you failed to perform your duties or otherwise broke a clause in the contract, the contract as a whole would be rendered null and void) and finally, amendments (that the contract could be amended at any time with the express written agreement of both you and Matt.)

“Governance: This contract shall be governed by and construed in accordance with the laws of the State of New York,” Matt concluded. “Signed by both parties stated here within and effective as of date first written above.”

He tilted his head back up towards you. “Everything sound fair to you?”

You were silent for a moment. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it's fair.”

“Okay then.” Matt handed you a pen and the second printed copy of the contract. “Just so we both have signed print copies.”

“Okay, yeah, no problem.” You signed your name on both copies of the contract. “Am I signing the Braille one too then?”

Matt nodded and handed you the Braille copy, quickly feeling the text below where your signature would go. “Sign right above here.”

“Okay.” You quickly signed your name. “All done.”

Matt signed his name on all three copies of the contract and set both his Braille and print copies into his desk drawer before locking it, then he folded your copy and put it into an envelope. “Here you go. Now that business is settled, how about we celebrate our new arrangement with some dinner?”

He heard you tuck your copy of the contract into your purse. “That sounds wonderful,” you replied.

Matt stood. “Shall we, then?”

He retrieved his coat from the coat rack and took his cane out of the inside pocket, then you both headed back towards the lobby.

Matt turned the lights off and opened the door for you. “After you.”

You stepped outside. “Thank you.”

Matt followed you outside then locked the door behind the two of you. “This way.”

You headed down the sidewalk to what Matt hoped was the first of many get-togethers, a comfortable silence between you.

[sciderman]

im so happy for you that you have a possible reason/cause for your brain itch!!!! i hope the tumor removal goes superduper smoothly. Do they know how long its been present/growing???????? how did you find out??? <- you obviously do not have to answer these personal medical questions lmao im just!!!! so curious and excited for you.

from what i've discussed with the docs it's been there for a LONG time... they say this sort of thing might take up to a decade to develop - it doesn't happen overnight!

i think i started noticing symptoms about maybe... 7 years ago? literally as soon as i started working full-time, maybe. my first job stressed me out so much and i cried underneath the tables at 8pm because i couldn't leave the office, i still had so much to do. i was leading up an entire ass animation department at 20 years old. bad. awful. that's when i started depending on things to get me through the day. my body started feeling awful. i thought it was anxiety, or me just being weak, i guess. i don't know if stress created the tumor, or the tumor created the stress - (well, it's the latter now) i think it's probably both, but all the research i've done and what the doctors have said is that there's just - some people with a genetic predisposition for it.

it's funny - i never miss a deadline, and i'm really really good at my job, always. i never let anyone down, ever, at the cost of my own sanity, and i seem to always, always have it put-together when i'm dealing with people - i have the constant consensus from everybody around me that i'm the most cheerful person to work with on this here planet earth - but apparently, my body was falling apart underneath it all - which i failed to recognise, because outwardly i was holding it together so well, and figured it was just normal to cry all the time when nobody was looking.

i started really noticing it after taking on a lot of freelance work on top of my day job – i was really doing very hot, and did these amazing projects for some really amazing clients who sought me out for being amazing (i am amazing) - but naturally, had consecutive nights of no sleep, and quick deadlines - and INVOICING... screams. and just, realised - after taking those jobs that - my heart did not stop pumping afterwards. my heart was still racing a mile a minute, even after all those jobs were done and dusted and ever-so-loved and appreciated by very happy clients. my heart. wouldn't. stop.

i figured it was MAJOR anxiety, and sought out some counselling sessions, hoping they'd help. i relayed my woes. i said i'm worried i'm not resting enough. i'm not sleeping enough. my heart rate won't go down. they said "oh. not everybody needs 8 hours sleep, don't worry about it. everyone's different." - for some reason that reassured me. i thought it was okay. okay. i don't need rest. maybe my body's just different and doesn't need rest. maybe that's why i wake up at 6am every morning without fail. i just don't need sleep, i guess. (bad advice.)

so – everyone is telling me i'm okay. i should just get on. you're barely sleeping? that's fine, you probably don't need it. your heart is pumping? that's healthy. your heart SHOULD pump, idiot. get back to work.

i felt very unhappy at work - i felt like i was stagnating - so i moved job, last year. i moved job to one that was so, so much more fast-paced. i thought the excitement and change would do me good - but i've been facing maybe - 3 deadlines a day? vs my previous one-deadline-a-month arrangement. and i think it broke me. i needed to depend on so many unhealthy habits to get me through the day. i needed like 6 energy drinks, 3 coffees, i'd have the shakes, i'd have the jitters, i'd feel like i was going to fall apart every single day.

and then, one day, i did.

one week last year i doubled over - my body was in so much pain that i couldn't sleep, i couldn't eat, and worst off - i couldn't work. it was the first time i'd taken sick leave - i couldn't function. after being on antibiotics that didn't work, i eventually went into the emergency room because i just couldn't sleep. i couldn't do anything. i didn't care if they put me down, i wanted the pain to end.

she was a kidney stone. her name was sharon (sharon stone) - i suspect it was all the energy drinks that made her. i've dealt with her now. but during the process, the doc pulled me aside, and he said "dear. do you have any pain in your other kidney?"

i said... no............... why?

doc said "ah. problem for another time."

so, once sharon was dealt with, obviously i had to chase up on that doctor's ominous warning. i said "WHAT'S WRONG WITH MY OTHER KIDNEY!!"

you have a tumor, dear. his name is lamar. he's on your right adrenal gland, and we suspect he's messing up all your hormones.

i did my own research, and turns out all these crazy, mysterious symptoms i've been having all line up - so i chased, and chased, and chased.

the doctors didn't take me seriously at first. because i guess i'm not in pain, and i handle it so well. i'm still so strong. i'm a fighter, i guess. whatever. but, turns out...

it's worth it to chase. your life might depend on it. i'm so glad i did, because there's an end to my suffering (dear god, i hope) - but, guys, if your heart won't slow, and you chronically can't relax, and you feel like there are bees in your brain - that's the time to do some research. it isn't normal, actually. and sure - it might not be a tumor, but - kid, you need some support. you need some help. you need to ask some questions. it's not okay for that to be your baseline. your body needs to rest. it needs to rest. even if i have to force it to. it has to rest.

right now i'm in a major stressed way, and i broke down and cried. i'm in the middle of a freelance job, and in the middle of an interviewing process for a new full-time job, and still working my current full-time job with 3 deadlines a day, and my surgery is next week. and i feel like crying. all the time.

i can't wait for rest. i hate that i literally have to be hospitalised to get it. but, i'll get it. i'm going to rest so fucking hard.

[steadydreamsaladtoad]

Small business owners don't know what to do when they encounter someone they can't bully. It makes their brains glitch. Like, I just had this conversation with a client recently:

Them: where is <work they wanted>, it is due today

Me: well, as I explained two weeks ago, we will not be doing any additional work for you until you are current on your payments. You have an outstanding balance with us that is over 30 days past-due. And we never agreed to that deadline, because we said we wouldn't even consider new work until you were current.

Them: this is so disrespectful! A deadline is a deadline!

Me: unless it's on an invoice???

This guy has been in business for over 10 years. I can't imagine what his employees have to deal with.

[tellmeallaboutit]

knock knock (Raphael x F!Player)

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

AO3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“As you wish,” came his slow reply.

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

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

Five thousand felt somewhat stingy.

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

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

That seemed about right for the guy’s life.

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

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

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

That was a delicious thought.

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

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

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

"Yeah, gruesome," you grimaced.

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

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

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

There we go again. 

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, a Grimm one.

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

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

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

One that you haven't come up with yet.

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

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

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

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

In the meanwhile, you opened Google on your phone. 

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

Nothing good, for sure.

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

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

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

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

Oh, no…

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

Hmm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good.

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

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

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

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

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

The whole plot felt half-baked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mghgm," you offered. 

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

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

Why the hell not.

****

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

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

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

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

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

He must have liked The Godfather.

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

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

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

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

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

You could play golf here.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, you just had to have a look. 

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

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

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

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

GOOD EVENING CURIOUS LITTLE MOUSE

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

Then promptly closed it again.

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

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

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

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

You closed the box shut again.

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

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

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

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

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

The same box you had left upstairs, still with 

GOOD EVENING DISOBEDIENT LITTLE MOUSE 

on it. 

You blinked and took two large steps back. 

The box seemed to crawl forward in response.

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

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

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

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

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

who the fuck who the fuck who the fuck

Alexa. 

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

I put a spell on you

Because you're mine

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

You know I cannot stand it

You running around

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

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

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

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

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

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

But there was one more item left in the box.

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

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

You didn't stick around much longer after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn, this is so dirty. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door swung open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He seemed to relish the sensation and so did you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

fuck does he feel good

rough or tender it just feels so good

his cock his tongue his breath on your neck

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

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

do whatever whatever you want whatever you want with me

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

hurt me

fuck me fuck me harder

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

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

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

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

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

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

You eagerly and quickly nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

Would he have?..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he beat you to it before you could decide.

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

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

****

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

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

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

You listened closer, thinking you had dreamed it first.

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

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

Hope, please, you begged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He should direct this request to his prisoner. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, definitely more of a creature.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What did she mean? 

The collar. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, only once.

***

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

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

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

Another cabinet creaked open under your touch. 

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

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

He was dead asleep last time you checked!

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

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

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

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

"What happened to Isabelle?" you asked. 

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

You nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I believe you," came your shaky reply. 

You desperately wanted to. 

Raphael’s eyes flickered.

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

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

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

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

[the-bjd-community-confess]

TW: discussion of finances, difficult/abusive friendships and relationships, ideation and attempts, mental health, physical health

(Mod: anon, my sympathies as this sounds like a very difficult/intense situation)

Mod, you might want to throw this under a cut. I got a bit rambly and off topic, and some content might be uncomfortable for some blog readers. People will want to skip this one.

I almost offered to buy a bjd from a friend and I'm so glad I didn't. Context- she's in a rough spot financially and was selling off what she could. I considered offering my best guess at market price, with the understanding that she'd be able to buy the doll back unmodified, maybe with a faceup with permission, probably with some new clothes for the naked boy, whenever she wished. Basically loan with collateral and some doll clothes.  She does nothing with him normally, so it would just be a graceful way give her some help. He's in pieces, so I'd even restring him for her. Straight loan isn't an option since she borrowed a substantial amount from me for rent, claimed she'd pay me back, then continued to complain she couldn't while buying random playline dolls. I forgave the loan in an attempt to keep the friendship (and I now regret it- that was some of my savings and more than a month of my low income. I will be fine and it'll make minimal difference longterm, but it hurts emotionally). I should have wasted it on more dolls or something less dishonest. At least a snappy joint doesn't hide that it turns red when it makes you bleed in a restringing...

Due to a variety of factors, I'm debating cutting contact with her. I don't want to lose her, since she can be an amazing friend when she wants to be, but this friendship is destroying me. She's willing to lie to, use, and manipulate me even when I express discomfort with what she's doing. She's guilt tripped me into a situation where I was concerned for my safety.  The next time she wanted me to be around that person, she just didn't tell me he was involved and invited me with no disclosure. She couldn't drive due to surgery, violently abusive ex wouldn't be around her without a witness to agree he didn't do anything, and I was the only one that might put up with their stupidity, so she pretended she was inviting me because she wanted me there. I had to leave my car behind so I had no way to get away for hours. This happened repeatedly, minus the car, and she would have blown up on me if I hadn't done it. I should have sent an invoice for my involuntary adult babysitting sidegig. That would have been a lot of doll money. She'll get on my case for being "prickly"- never mind that she lashed out at me for months at everything before I finally snapped. A chunk of it is in her own head. Text doesn't convey tone and she lashes out when she jumped to the worse conclusion possible, then gets mad when I'm confused and point out she jumped on me. I can be a jerk and lash out once in a while, but the real stuff she's mad about only started after MONTHS of being her emotional punching bag, the turning point being when I developed probable PTSD because of her. She flips out over the smallest things too- I once got yelled at for picking up a clump of dog fur off her floor. My therapist can't legally diagnose me, but we agree I meet minimum DSM-V PTSD criteria (and then some) as a direct result of her actions (I can't tell her- I saved her life when she attempted. She'd feel guilty and never ask for help the inevitable next time. I know I shouldn't blame her for attempting, but I can't tell if she even did it or faked it to guilt trip her ex back to her and out of anger at me. She did NOT care who it hurt if it had a chance of getting him back. She's never once apologized for what she yelled at me that night or how she's treated/used me since he left her.) I don't know if I can end the friendship without her trying again or trying to get back at me. She's the needs to be needed type and so knows a lot about me that could seriously impact my life if it got out. We met three years ago when she was in her mid thirties and I was a very anxious, lonely teenager (minor at the time) desperate for someone to understand me. She's got an alphabet soup mental health record, so it feels wrong to blame her for anything. Especially since she'll excuse any action anyone does to me if they have a diagnosis. Hypocrite. There's a chance she's got a terminal illness, but that's still up for determination and who knows if she's lying again. I don't want it to be true, but I can't help realizing that's my peaceful way out. 

I'm so sick of it. If I had tried to help her vy+ that stupid doll, I'd be trapped by a promise. I couldn't have even gotten rid of the thing without breaking my word. I'd have to go near her to dump it on her doorstep and I'd lose the money. I've met online doll people now. We're not friends and I'll likely never go to a meetup, but the void of squealing over a shared interest together feels filled. I'm for sure an outsider, but I've finally got a bit of a hobby community (and one sane long distance friend- the other local one wants occasional emotional support and ghosts most of the rest of the time. LD stays friends the whole time and appreciates my dolls even if he's not interested personally). Some of y'all can get crazy, but most of the people I've met are genuinely nice. Very opinonated on certain topics, sure, but chill if I don't rock the boats. 

Sorry for the rant. I'm exhausted and losing my filter. Plus you guys like drama, so eat some popcorn and please don't repeat my mistakes or do this to someone. 

~Anonymous

[m0r1bund]

I want to step aside and say I'm grateful for everyone who has shared my adoptables, bought 'em, enjoyed them with your eyeballs, or just hung around in general. I don't like to mix money with art, but these past two months I've been in a tight position where I needed to to make ends meet. I didn't want to lead with this because we're all broke motherfuckers out here, and you know how it is. being poor can be the most shameful and humiliating thing in the world, even when you know in your forebrain that it's not something you can necessarily control.

Thankfully, this is a transition period. I'm lucky to have the support of really cool people who have made it possible for me to secure some work doing what I love. 🤞 with any luck, we will be out of the woods soon.

As much as I hem and haw about making money off of my art, this has been an encouraging experience. I've enjoyed being able to act on design ideas that wouldn't fit into my own stories, but are really fun in someone else's hands. I also learned a lot during this brief return to the adoptable market, which I will share below, in hopes that maybe it can help others who find themselves in the same position.

I've been strict with pricing my work hourly, rather than just slapping on a price that "feels right" for the perceived complexity/finish/originality of the design. It's like pulling teeth, because I'm always slower than I think I am. I try to hold onto a piece of advice that I heard somewhere, which I will paraphrase poorly. Basically, even though your instinct might be to make a lot of small, affordable things, so you're not putting all your eggs in one basket or setting yourself up for disappointment if there's no bites, it's sometimes more "efficient" to do expensive jobs that are few and far in-between. there is... obvious... tension between this and my feelings about accessibility. one thing wins over the other when you're in survival mode, for better or worse. but i feel fortunate to be able to eat today so that i can pay it forward tomorrow.

i've tried to be conscientious of overhead, platform fees, and invisible labor. I probably would have made more money if I had conducted sales as auctions and exchanged money through direct invoices, but I chose to use ko-fi and fixed prices because that meant there was less friction between sharing my work, conducting a sale, exchanging money, and distributing the files. This might seem like a deranged tradeoff (surely it would be more worthwhile to just exchange a few emails) but it reflects the state of mind I was in before I received the news about my new job. If I wanted to keep doing this for what seemed like an indefinite amount of time, I needed to make it as simple as possible.

in line with the above, I chose to make adoptables rather than open commissions because the risk of losing time without any financial return was acceptable to me. time and technical effort was not my limiting resource, haha... I really respect commission work, but it's challenging for me to do. maybe you can guess from my desire to use ko-fi that it takes more effort for me to translate a client's vision into visual art than it takes for me to spitball an idea and hope someone will like it enough to take it home. I already prioritize this more "intensive" work as part of my (current) dayjob, so it's better for me to pick the path of least resistance in this case.

all of this rides on having a following. honestly, i wasn't sure things would work out here on tumblr. i have traditionally sold adoptables over on deviantart, where I have a larger following. dA recently enshittified (again) so this blog became an impromptu experiment in critter sales. I'm happy that I haven't had to touch dA, in the end, and I really owe that to you guys. thank you! (again!!)

[kaisacobra]

I’ll be sending you the invoice for the therapy session I’ll be needing after reading “Second Best”, I should’ve stayed curious😔. KIDDING, I fucking loved it and can’t wait for the emotional turmoil you’ll be putting all of us through in part two!

I vote on R being alive, you said you weren’t sure if you’d kill her off for the angst but I think having to grieve somebody who’s still alive in this particular story would be very interesting. If she dies, no doubt in my mind that R would forever infest Tara’s every waking moment but I don’t want her to die sad. It’s not even that I want a happy ending for Tara, I want a happy ending for R, whether or not that’s with Tara(if it’s with Tara she has A LOT of groveling to do).

When it comes to situations like this, one of the things I think that levels the playing field is if R says something hurtful (maybe more hurtful cause what I wrote down below, R is just spitting FACTS). I already know nothing she can say would ever be as hurtful as what Tara said but something along the lines of.

Tara: Alright my bad, can we just forget it ever happened?

R: Why should we? So you can do it again next week?

Tara: Y/N please… -

R: No I’m sick of this! You know what your fucking problem is? I’m the only person who’s never left you, who’s always been there for you! But you’re the most selfish and self-serving person I know and you’re so fucking used to being abandoned that you actually think I’m obsessed! I mean you care more about your dead ex who tried to murder us- more than you care about me, and it’s made me realize that just means you don’t care about me. You never have. You’re more trouble then you’re worth Tara, I think-… I know I’d be a lot happier if I never hear from you again.

You said you weren’t sure if you’d follow the plot of the Scream movies, whether or not you do. I think Quinn getting close to R would hurt Tara. After the first chapter I do believe R wouldn’t really be around the group much, because subconsciously she’ll still value Tara’s comfort over her own and want them to be there for Tara instead of her. So that would leave R in a vulnerable position and make it incredibly easy for Quinn to befriend R, all it would take is R seeing her do things for her that Tara wouldn’t do. Since Quinn is Tara’s roommate and they hangout in the same friend group I think having to see that in person would not only make Tara jealous but really magnify her neglectful and harsh treatment of R. ESPECIALLY if Quinn is still a murderer in the next chapter because then Tara would undoubtedly blame herself for R’s death near experience, because she’d be the reason that all it took was someone doing the bare minimum (I’d want Quinn to do more than just the bare minimum for revenge jealousy but that’s just me) to get R to trust them.

Your writing is really good so at the end of the day I’ll be happy with anything! Thank you for sharing your work with us and I hope you have a wonderful day, you deserve it babe.

First of all, I really appreciate the words and i absolutely LOVE your thoughts on it. Seriously, you wrote them so well, i honestly think you could also write some great stories someday if that's something you would want to do. (If you do, please tell me because I'll be eagerly reading it🤭)

I'm trying my best to keep things mysterious so the stuff you read on part 2 can still be surprising BUT you make some great points and I wouldn't be shocked if some of those things actually end up happening, but who knows🤫

Thank U so much for sharing your thoughts and i also hope you have a wonderful day (or night, yk, timezones)

[twentydaysofdrabbles]

The Concierge Is Confronted (Part 39)

The presence of a Harbinger in the City rightfully puts the Manager on edge. The call for a Global Meeting is put on ice temporarily, even though the news coming from New York begins to worsen.

John Wick - missing. The Bowery King - dethroned and presumably dead. And Winston Scott and the Hotel - in the High Table's crosshairs for daring to stand against them.

It seems Casablanca has not been spared either, though the High Table has not come for Sofia Al-azwar's head yet.

"We must be careful not to draw their attention," the Manager whispers to you one morning as you prepare the missives to be sent out. "But we can only wait so long."

You look at the missives, penned in your hand and looking like ordinary accounts and invoices. Forged, of course, to look nothing like a call for a Global Meeting. You have become very good at that, despite how long it takes you to make each one, despite the pain in your hands afterwards that makes it hard to even twitch your fingers.

"Is a distraction needed?" you ask her, still folding the letters into their envelopes.

She looks at you. At first with curiosity, then with a knowing smile. "The Monster Family."

You press aching fingers to the lip of the envelope, sealing it. "The Carta have made themselves a very tempting target." You're sure neither Toriel nor her former husband have forgotten them, least of all Sans.

"So they have," the Manager purrs, leaning close to gather the missives that you've already folded and sealed. "I think you'll find a convenient messenger to pass that message on, yes?"

A pause. You look at her dead in the eyes as you hand the last envelope to her. "If you're referring to Sans--"

She titters behind the missives, waving them to fan her face. "Why! That your mind turns immediately to him is rather interesting, my Heart~"

Oh, the urge to throw your hands in the air is great.

"But no." She spares you the indignity of such a gesture. "I think that's Mister Papyrus coming up the stairs."

What. You step away from her desk to peer out the window, reflexively standing so you wouldn't be seen from outside. Indeed, that's the Great and Terrible Papyrus taking the front steps in long, easy strides, his car being driven away by a valet. The scowl fixed upon his face doesn't look any different than usual, but there's just something in the way that he's moving that seems...out of place.

"Shall I go greet him, ma'am?"

She smiles at you. You don't like that smile. Like she knows something you don't. "You definitely should," she purrs, neatening the envelopes in her hand. "Leave these to me, my Heart. Go enjoy yourself."

What.

You narrow your eyes at her, only to have her smile innocently at you. Fine. With an incline of your head, you stride out of her office and make it down to the lobby. You'll find out soon enough.

At your counter, a receptionist is busy conversing with a scowling Papyrus.

"I'm looking for the Concierge," he growls down at your relief receptionist, who does a good job of remaining stalwart in the face of his fanged scowl.

"The Concierge is currently away, sir. If you would make yourself comfortable, I will alert the Concierge to your presence."

"No need," you say evenly as you round the corner. Papyrus seems to brighten up a little as you come into view, or as far as he can anyway, considering the way his face is permanently fixed into a glower. "Mister Papyrus, how can I help?"

Your relief receptionist slinks away the moment you give them the go ahead. You imagine dealing with an ornery Papyrus wouldn't be a fun experience.

The towering skeleton monster glares down at you, his hands folded behind his back. "I wish to speak to you."

You blink up at him.

"Alone."

You look around. For the time of day, the lobby is practically empty save for a bellboy carting some luggage around.

Papyrus sighs in aggravation. "In private," he bites out.

Well, isn't that odd. You tilt your head as best you can, considering that you're looking up at the tall man. "Certainly." The Lounge would be a good place. "If you would follow me."

The Lounge hasn't changed from the last time you led a skeleton monster here. It hasn't been that long, perhaps a few months, but it seems little in the grand scheme of things. Particularly for you, when the days seem to meld into one another.

Papyrus drifts to the other side of the room as you close the doors behind you to ensure no sound escapes. By habit alone, you move behind the counter of the little bar, hands clasped in front of your belly. "Would you like a drink, Mister Papyrus?"

The towering skeleton stops. Spins around on his heel. And bites out, "I SAW WHAT YOU DID WITH MY LAZY, GOOD FOR NOTHING BROTHER."

A blink. A slow tilt of your head. "Oh?" The memory of that night springs to mind. The smell of damp asphalt along with cherry smoke and mustard, the heavy taste of magic. A red glow bouncing off a brick wall marred by claw marks. Soft moans and a loud caterwaul, a baritone voice begging you.

Papyrus pauses for a moment. Waiting for something.

You don't give it to him.

He grits his teeth and paces like a caged tiger. "SAY SOMETHING."

Hmm. "And I saw you."

The bright crimson glow of magic engulfs Papyrus' entire angular face. In perhaps a very uncharacteristic display of emotion, Papyrus sputters and throws his head back in shock at your words. "YOU--HOW DID YOU--"

Did he not notice you looking at him at the very end? You distinctly recall turning your head to facilitate that. "Your blush was very...bright." Something else was very bright, too.

Papyrus staggers back into the wall, clutching at his chest like it were pearls. "THAT IS--" Then he coughs, clears his throat, and rallies himself. Or tries to. The blush on his face is still bright as ever. "IT IS COMPLETELY...COMPLETELY..." Oh, the blush seems to grow brighter, his eye lights going slightly fuzzy around the edges. "SALACIOUS. PERVERTED. VULGAR. UTTERLY SHAMELESS--IN A DIRTY, FILTHY ALLEY OF ALL PLACES--"

A smug smile tugs at the corner of your lips and sheer will keeps them down to a polite one instead. But the warming of your dead, even eyes cannot be missed. "And yet, you were watching for quite a while. Weren't you, Mister Papyrus?"

The little 'eep' that comes out from him shouldn't be as adorable as it is. Tall, built, menacing Papyrus turned into this outraged, scandalised man who has to lean against the wall to stop himself from...you don't really know what. But he does have his back pressed against the wall, his skeletal hand clutching at his vest.

You tilt your head to the side. "Was it not you?"

Now you've got him backed into a corner. As far as you know, Papyrus isn't the sort of man to lie. Or enjoy lying.

So he just sputters and waves his hands around. Eventually, he growls and clenches his fists, snarling, "FINE. IT WAS ME. THERE, IS THAT WHAT YOU WANTED?!"

Hmm, that's a battle won.

"I want to know why you stayed," you say evenly, taking a bottle of Papyrus's favourite drink from the shelf and pouring him a glass. "Why you watched."

Oh, there goes a supernova of a blush on his face again. You let forth a little chuckle and slide the glass forward, motioning with a gloved hand to the seat before you. "Mister Papyrus. Have a seat."

Like a dejected puppy, the skeleton monster pushes off the wall and stomps over to the barstool in front of you. He sits as petulantly as one could, slamming his fists on either side of the offered drink. The glower on his face is only eclipsed by the furious blush turning his skull into a red light bulb. And is that--ah, he sits too quickly for you to verify that it is indeed the beginnings of a tent in his trousers.

"Have a sip," you start, waving to the glass.

Though he glares at you, Papyrus nevertheless takes the glass in his hand and raises it to his fanged maw.

Oh, this is going to be interesting. Very interesting indeed.

[pepsi-maxwell]

Can I please request a criminal au + flirting under fire for cmjf?

you certainly can!!

punk and max are feuding crimelords who've taken out pretty much all the competition except each other, which leaves them often ending up in three-way shootouts with the police trying to get rid of the other. not that they're trying particularly hard...

-

“Come on, Max, how many of your guys are behind bars now? You know my offer's always open to join my crew,” Punk calls out as Max fires a shot off in his direction.

“What, so I can be bored out of my mind and keep my nose clean like one of your guys?” he shouts back, lowering his handgun. “Do you remember what fun is, Punk, or did you forget during the war?”

“Oh? Are we not having fun right now, Maxwell?”

A sudden volley of gunfire hits the wall behind him, spraying him with chips of plaster and brick.

“Oh, I'm having a blast, Punk!” He drops to his knees, crawling his way towards Punk’s voice. His trousers are going to be ruined after this, but his tailor has Punk's financials. He'll bill him for a new pair. “Gonna be even better once I take over your little fanclub and show them some real leadership—”

“Aww, my fanclub is right here, Max,” Punk laughs, sounding more distant this time. Max fires the entire chamber into the wall Punk's way in response, listening intently in the echoing silence to see if he can hear any sounds of pain or distress.

Nothing. Just ringing silence, and then—

Sirens.

“Shit,” he mutters, reloading his gun. “Somebody called the fucking cops,” he adds incredulously, louder this time, because he's not having Punk get caught by them. That's his job. He's the only one allowed to take Punk out.

“You that scared of the beating I'm gonna give you that you're willing to call the pigs on me?” Punk shouts across the warehouse, breaking into a low sprint along the back wall.

Max takes a couple potshots at him, making him flinch and stumble, but not enough to slow him down. He curses, holstering his gun and chasing after him. “You think I'd ruin my evening too, you stupid old fuck?!”

Punk slams open the fire escape, darting out into the darkness, Max in hot pursuit. Just in time, too, as the screech of car tires echoes around the buildings surrounding them.

Punk makes a left down one alley, and Max follows, catching up with him and slamming him into the wall. Punk's chest heaves and he throws Max a grin that has his stomach swooping, before he flips them around, pressing his hands to Max's shoulders. The brick scratches at his jacket, and he changes his mental invoice to bill him the cost of a full suit.

“Same time next week?” Punk murmurs, pitching his voice low.

Max shoves at him, fighting down the blush. “Get the fuck off me. The new Italian place, Wednesday night. I'm not schlubbing around a dirty fucking warehouse again.”

Punk leans in, pressing a quick kiss to Max's forehead. “Try not to get yourself arrested before then.”

“Like you wouldn't bail me out,” Max scoffs, shoving Punk again. He takes the hint this time, shooting off into the darkness.

Max watches him go. Grabs his phone. Sends a message to Wardlow and tells him to make sure his schedule is clear that night.

It's a date.

[seiya-starsniper]

Wake Up & Smell The Flower

For @dreamlingbingo 2023: Square B5 - Shmoop

Title: Wake Up & Smell The Flowers

Rating: T

Word Count: 5337 

Ship(s): Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob GadlingDream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

Warnings:  Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Language of Flowers, Courting with Flowers, Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, But only the smallest amount of angst, Mutual Pining, Miscommunication, And when I say miscommunication I mean Dream has TERRIBLE communication skills, He's lucky Hob loves him so much, Dreamling Bingo

Summary:  Hob runs a flower shop and has been helping Morpheus woo every one of his potential love interests with stunning bouquets, to great success (even if the relationships weren't). This time around though, Morpheus's request is a little bit different.

AO3 Link [Here] or you can read below the cut!

The shop has been barely open for fifteen minutes when Hob hears the bell ding. He smiles. He’s pretty sure he knows who has just walked in the door. 

Hob looks up from his invoicing stack and he's greeted by the sight of Morpheus Ender, the current COO of Endless Industries.

“Morning, Morph,” Hob greets, because after seven years, two divorces, and a hell of a lot of failed relationships, Hob has earned the right to that nickname. It took a lot of needling and one-sided conversations, but Morpheus had finally, over time, opened up to the idea of a friendship with his neighborhood florist. 

Morpheus’s lips quirk just the slightest bit, and to anyone else it looks like a grimace, but Hob recognizes it for the blinding smile it is.

“Good morning, Hob,” Morpheus replies. "I hope I am not troubling you."

"You know my favorite customer is never any trouble for me," Hob says easily. It's true too. Morpheus is by far his favorite customer, and not just because the man has deep pockets. 

No, Morpheus is special to Hob because the man is the definition of tenacity and endurance, even in the face of hopeless odds. Hob's had the privilege of not only witnessing that fierce personality, but getting to experience parts of the man's life firsthand. He even got an invite to Morpheus’s second wedding. They're more to each other than just a patron and businessman at this point. 

That's not to say Morpheus isn't good business though. Over the years, Morpheus has taken to using Hob's shop for more than just apology flowers for scorned lovers. Hob's pretty sure he could easily retire with the income he makes on Mropheus's purchases alone.

Hob sets aside the invoices on the counter and motions to the stool on the other side, indicating for Morpheus to sit. He does.

"What are we looking for today, my friend?" Hob asks, already pulling out his catalogs of premade flower arrangements. "Another big client meeting? Flowers for Lucienne? I know her birthday is coming up." Hob's met Lucienne a handful of times. She's Morpheus's assistant and one of the most impressive women he'd ever met.

Morpheus shakes his head. "I will be taking Lucienne to dinner for her birthday. She has let me know that while she appreciates the flowers, they aggravate her seasonal allergies."

"Ah, that's a shame but I totally understand that," Hob says. "Being in here is terrible for my own allergies, I'm up to three Zyrtec a day now."

"I still do not understand how one can run a flower shop with allergies as bad as yours," Morpheus teases. Hob tries not to melt under the velvety voice. 

"Are you kidding? I love flowers! Wouldn't give up this gig for the world. Plus I get to see your grumpy face," Hob teases right back.

"Ah." A dusting of pink makes its way across Morpheus's face. Hob has to fight himself from reaching out to touch it. "I do appreciate all you've done for me over the years, Hob. Especially when I was…not at my best."

Hob nods. He saw the rise and fall of Morpheus's marriage to Calliope. Then Alianora a few years later. Most recently, Morpheus had pursued a disastrous relationship with Nada Reine, an executive at a rival company. The falling out had been so bad, so public, that it made the tabloids and Morpheus had hidden out in the back room of Hob's shop before and after work for almost four months after. 

"Water under the bridge, my friend,” Hob says. “I was glad for your business regardless,” he jokes. “But I am even more grateful for your friendship.”

“And I yours,” Morpheus replies. “Which is why I have come to you today. I…I believe I am ready.”

Hob nods. He’d expected this, and over the years it’s gotten easier and easier to ignore the little sting in his heart that comes with realizing Morpheus is in love again. 

“And who’s the lucky lady?” Hob asks.

Dream shakes his head. “I…cannot say. For now. I know this makes things difficult for you. But I trust your judgments. They have more than helped me in the past.” 

Hob laughs. "You got that right! Ok well, tell me about her then, if you can’t tell me who she is. But you know I wouldn’t go blabbing about your relationships to the press by now, don’t you?"

Morpheus nods. "I do. I just…it needs to be a secret. For now."

"Okay. I understand." Hob says. It may be better he not know who she is anyways. This way Hob can't look her up online in his free time and obsess about how suited she may or may not be for his friend. "So what’s she like?"

Morpheus purses his lips. "This person…has been very near and dear to my heart for some time now. I would say...they are a bright spot in my other chaotic life, and I have perhaps taken them for granted. I wish to remedy that, and perhaps, explore if there could be something more."

Hob nods, noting that Morpheus is steering very clear of gendered pronouns. Interesting. He asks a few more questions about the person’s temperament, (bright, bold, and friendly)  any hobbies Morpheus might know about (they love the outdoors and  also cooking), their favorite color (blue, also Hob’s favorite color, and not just because they’re the color of Morpheus’s eyes), as well as the nature of their relationship (Morpheus considers them quite friendly). 

“Okay, I think I’ve got enough to get started here,” Hob says, finishing off his notes. “Come back in a few days, yeah?” 

Morpheus nods. "Thank you, Hob."

When Morpheus leaves the shop, Hob sighs. He knew this day was coming eventually. Whoever had Morpheus's attention now sure was a lucky guy.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Based on the way Morpheus was guarded about the person’s pronouns, Hob can really only assume this person was male. Or at the very least, someone not female identifying. Morpheus had never come across to Hob as anything other than straight, so this was quite the development.

Hob feels both hopeful and devastated about the situation. He knows Morpheus is so far out of his league he's practically in the stratosphere. But he at least used to be able to tell himself that Morpheus was straight as an arrow so there was absolutely no hope anyways.

Now though? If Hob's intuition is right and Morpheus really has fallen for a man, Hob now has to contend with the fact that he has the potential to be the other man's type, but still knowing he's not good enough to be a real consideration as a romantic partner. 

Well, no use crying over things that he can't control. Morpheus is still a dear friend to him, and Hob's going to do his damnedest to make sure the man finally gets a happy ending. He deserves that much.

–

A few days later, Hob finds a bouquet of bright orange roses on his doorstep. They're clearly freshly cut which means some poor schmuck was up at the crack of dawn to get them to Hob's flat before he left for the shop.

Hob takes a moment to admire them before he sighs. It's not his first time getting roses outside his door, and he appreciates the gestures for sure. He’s even gone on a few dates because of them over the years, but nothing’s really ever worked out. He’d only recently admitted to himself that his raging crush on Morpheus is probably the root of the issue. 

It’s ironic though, that he would receive orange roses today, because he just finished putting together the bouquet he promised for Morpheus last night, and it just so happens that the bouquet also contains orange roses. It almost feels like a cruel joke, really. Still, these flowers are absolutely stunning, and he wants to at least call the flower shop who got roped into delivering these gorgeous blooms at such an ungodly hour to thank them for their trouble.

Except...there’s no card? There’s literally zero indication of who the roses are from, but they’re definitely high quality flowers, not anything from someone’s backyard garden.

Well that was strange. Usually Hob’s suitors left some sort of indication as to who they were. It was...kind of the whole point of courting someone with flowers. Hob looks around quickly, trying to determine if maybe his potential suitor is hiding, ready to surprise him. 

But the street is empty and if Hob lingers any longer, he’s going to be late for work. He quickly runs inside and sets the flowers in an empty vase on his kitchen table. He takes the time to inhale the fresh scent of them (they were definitely cut in the last 12 hours at most) before he dashes out of his home to catch the next train.

–

Morpheus strolls into the shop around lunch time, and Hob’s just wrapping up with another customer when he sees him. 

Morpheus has a hopeful look on his face, and it makes Hob’s heart sing, even though he knows it isn’t for him. Hob flashes him his most brilliant smile before he motions to the counter. 

“I’ve got something for you,” Hob says conspiratorially once Morpheus is seated. “Your new lover’s about to be knocked off their feet.”

Hob’s particularly proud of this arrangement. He thinks it makes the perfect confessional bouquet based on Morpheus's short description of his beloved, and also based on Morpheus's personality.

It's a stunning bouquet of orange roses, interspersed with pink lisianthuses and blue delphiniums. The rest of the bouquet contains a smattering of snapdragon and asters.Together they make an absolutely eye-catching combination, filled with meaning that is bold, yet also soft and gentle. He knows he's made a good choice by the look of awe on Morpheus's face.

"This is beautiful," Morpheus says, delicately taking the bouquet from Hob. "You've outdone yourself, Hob."

Hob grins. "I'm glad. You didn't give me too much to go on, so I just sort of imagined the kind of bouquet I'd love to receive from someone like you and boom, this was born."

Hob doesn't miss the sharp intake of breath that comes from Morpheus's mouth. The executive has always been amazed by Hob's personal investment into his bouquets. It is part of how their friendship blossomed in the first place after all. For a man like Morpheus, where control meant everything, leaving an aspect of his love life in Hob’s hands had been an exercise in trust.

Calliope had absolutely adored flowers and poor Morpheus had once gifted her yellow roses of all things early on in their courtship. He'd come to Hob's shop on whim desperately looking for red instead and Hob had tutted at him for being so woefully unaware about the hidden language of flowers. Morpheus had then demanded Hob teach him and had come into the shop almost every day after.

Morpheus has since grown to appreciate Hob's eye for detail, along with his fluency in the love language of flowers. It's the reason the man almost exclusively uses Hob's shop after all. What started out as courting and apology bouquets for lovers soon extended into business as well, from giant arrangements set up for client meetings to employee appreciation bouquets. All have been large successes in the executive's life.

Hob expects today's bouquet to be no different.

Morpheus delicately runs his hands along the petals of a lisianthus before he inhales the scent of the flowers. When he's had his fill, his gaze returns to Hob, soft and appreciative.

"Will you tell me what this bouquet symbolizes, Hob?" Morpheus asks.

Hob smiles. This is his favorite part of the job by far.

"Orange roses stand for enthusiasm and energy. You told me this person was a bright spot in your life," Hob opens, motioning to the eye-catching blooms. "Orange roses are a more modern invention, as you know, but they’re generally meant to fill that space between friendship and romance. You told me this person was at least someone you’re friendly with, so it only made sense that we pick a flower that straddles the line.” Morpheus nods and presses a petal between his thumb and forefinger.

“They could also be taken to mean that the giver is ready to take their relationship with the recipient to the next level,” Hob finishines, once Morpheus’s attention is back on him. 

Morpheus hums approvingly. “They’re perfect. And the lisianthuses?” 

Hob’s smile grows even wider. Morpheus has been a good student over the years and he’s developed quite the eye for flowers. Each time he demonstrates his knowledge, it makes something warm bloom in Hob’s heart.

“Lisianthus represents a true bond between two people. But you knew that already,” Hob teases. Hob’s provided many bouquets to Morpheus over the years with this specific flower in them. Alianora’s wedding bouquet had held white ones. “But the pink one in particular is for romance and affection. It’s more subtle than a rose, but not any less impactful.”

“I remember these,” Morpheus reminiscences, petting the bloom’s petals once again. “Alianora always kept some in our home.”

“I thought you might,"  Hob replies. “I know things didn’t end the way you wanted with her, but I know she still means a lot to you, as your friend,” he continues. “So I figured it couldn’t hurt to put these in the bouquet.”

Morpheus nods. “They have become a favorite of mine as well. I am glad you introduced them to me, Hob.”

Hob smiles then motions to the bright blue stems. 

“Delphinium symbolizes a desire to start a new romance. I picked blue because you said it was their favorite color, and well, I happen to love this shade of blue myself.” Hob just barely stops himself from admitting the flowers remind him of Morpheus’s eyes.

“I also added some asters and snapdragons, for a little flare to tie it all together,” Hob finishes. “Their meanings are pretty general, asters for faith and elegance, snapdragons for grace and strength.” 

Morpheus's entire face practically lights up with delight. It's a nice little secret expression meant only for the flowers, but Morpheus over the years has let him see that face too. It's one of the most beautiful things Hob's ever seen.

“Thank you, again Hob," Morpheus says. "These are magnificent. I will treasure them."

"You mean your new lover will," Hob laughs. "You can't just steal flowers meant for someone else just because you like them so much."

"Ah, right," Morpheus agrees, a pink flush of embarrassment now on his face. "I'm sure that person will love them just as much as I do."

"High praise, coming from you," Hob grins. "Let me know what they think next time you come in, all right?"

—

Hob finds another mystery bouquet on his doorstep two weeks later.

It's just as stunning as the first one. Bold, hot pink peonies. Hob’s always preferred these to the red ones. They’re also freshly cut like the roses were. Who is ordering overnight flowers like this? It’s the dead of winter and peonies are not exactly the easiest flower to come by. 

Hob decides he should probably start calling around to see which of the florists in the area is delivering these. He’d meant to when the first bouquet had come in, but had gotten busy and figured maybe they were a fluke, or a random act of kindness. This second bouquet tells him otherwise. 

Interestingly enough, his mysterious admirer is picking flowers in colors that could represent friendship or romance, or both, if one wanted to read into that deeply. He wonders if this is someone he’s friends with. But most of his friends are married off, so unless someone was looking to start an affair or a polyamorous relationship, he can probably safely rule out most of his close friends, but perhaps not all of his business associates. Florists were notorious gossips after all, surely someone would be able to give him a reliable lead.

Hob places the peonies in the same vase that once held the roses, snaps a picture, and then starts texting some of his fellow florist friends to see if any of them sent the flowers. 

—

Morpheus shows up to the shop a week after the second mystery bouquet makes its way to Hob's door.

“Hey Morph. How did the flower delivery go?” Hob asks. 

Morpheus furrows his eyebrows in confusion before his expression clears. “The flowers were well received,” he confirms. “However, I believe they have not yet fully realized my intentions.”

Hob nods. He remembers Calliope had been a tough nut to crack. Especially after the yellow roses. She had thought Morpheus was making fun of her by showing up later with a more romantic bouquet for her. It had taken at least three different and unique arrangements before she finally realized Morpheus was seriously in love with her.

“Let’s try something a little more bold then,”  Hob says. “Valentine’s Day is coming up in a few weeks so I’m going to be slammed soon, do you happen to have any free time now?

Morpheus nods. “Lucienne has arranged for me to have a little over an hour for lunch. We will not be disturbed.”

“Great, I’ll order takeout too. Chinese, okay?” 

“That sounds good,” Morpheus confirms.

Roughly 45 minutes later, Hob thinks he’s got an idea for the second bouquet. Morpheus is still being rather scant on the details of his new potential lover, but Hob hasn’t been a successful florist for years without being able to read between the lines.

Naturally, with the holiday coming up, roses are a very popular selection for bouquets, but Hob knows Morpheus. He knows the man likes to stand out from the crowd and not go with traditional displays. So Hob ends up pulling out catalogs with multiple displays of non-rose bouquets to show to his friend. Morpheus eventually ends up selecting a bouquet of tulips set on a backdrop of blue irises. 

“I know I said bold, but you went really bold this time huh, Morph?” Hob jokes.

“Is it not a good choice?” Morpheus asks, uncertain.

“I never said that! Tulips are a big favorite of mine actually,” Hob confesses. “And the iris just makes their color really pop. Tulips are also just great confession flowers, you know?”

“Are they?” 

“Yep! The Victorians loved them just as much as roses, if not more so, for courting,” Hob confirms. “Obviously pink and red are the romantic kind of confession, and then if you add the irises hidden meaning of faith and hope, you’ve got a bouquet that basically says ‘I love you, I hope you love me back’.”

“I see,” Morpheus says. “Then this will be most appropriate then. How long will this take to put together?”

“Give me 2-3 weeks?” Hob estimates. “Everyone is ordering flowers so I have a feeling they’ll arrive just in time for the holiday. They’ll be totally fresh too, I promise.”

“That should suffice,” Morpheus says. 

“Great. I'll call you when it’s ready.”

–

Valentine’s Day, as expected, is hell. About a third of the flowers Hob ordered were delivered far later than he expected them to be, and he ended up putting together more than 50 orders in the days leading up to the holiday. Morpheus had come in just the day before, looking like he’d had a miserable day. He’d brightened significantly when Hob had shown him the finished bouquet, a memory which Hob is embarrassed to admit is keeping him going throughout the day. Well, that and a copious amount of coffee and chocolates. 

Despite all the orders completed ahead of time, Hob still has to contend with plenty of last minute flower buyers, who are more than a little snippy with him when they try to insist on purchasing arrangements already reserved for people who actually planned ahead of time. Others are upset he ran out of roses around noon, and Hob barely keeps himself from snapping that they should just head down the street to Tesco’s.

When Hob finally  gets home that night, he’s shocked to find a bouquet of red tulips at his door. It’s such an unexpected and sweet gesture, he actually tears up and buries his face in the blooms before he steps inside.

Still no card though. He’s called a few shops in the area but to no avail. He’ll really need to step up his game. He doesn’t want to keep his mysterious person on the hook for sending him flowers. Especially since Hob is realizing his feelings for Morpheus are not going away despite the man acting absolutely besotted with another person. 

A part of Hob wants to give this person a chance. Especially with the timing of these flowers. He wonders if this person knows he’s a florist, or if they just thought it’d be something romantic to send for Valentine’s Day. 

Morpheus is bound to come into the shop one day with his success story of finally managing to convince this new love interest of his to be his new beloved. Hob handled all the others pretty well, but he just knows he’s dreading the big identity reveal of this new person. He knows he shouldn’t take it so personally, but he just can’t help it.

Hob falls asleep with the tulips still clutched in his arms and wakes up with petals strewn across his bed.

–

Morpheus comes into the shop in mid-March with a desperate look on his face.

“I require another bouquet,” the raven haired man says, practically collapsing into the stool next to the counter.  “I fear I have not been clear enough in my communication.”

Hob laughs. “Well tell me about how this person received the last bouquet. I know the first one was a lot more subtle, but red tulips on Valentine’s Day should be a pretty obvious communication of intent.”

“I…” Morpheus pauses, unsure. “I actually do not know how either bouquet was received.”

Hob stares blankly at his friend. “What do you mean you don’t know? Did you not hand them over yourself?” Hob asks, confused.

Morpheus shakes his head. “I know you may find this cowardly of me, but I left the bouquets where I knew that person would find them and did not stay to see their reaction.” 

Oh goodness. Morpheus looks completely embarrassed by the admission and it’s the most adorable expression Hob has ever seen on him. His friend must have it bad.

“Did you…at least leave a note?”

Morpheus’s miserable expression tells him that’s a no. 

“Morpheus,” Hob chides. “You can’t just leave flowers lying around and expect someone to infer your meaning! Good God, are you that afraid to talk to this person about how you feel?”

“They are…different from Calliope or Alianora or Nada so I have taken a much more indirect route. It does not seem to be working,” Morpheus admits. 

Before Hob can scold his friend any further for being absolutely ridiculous, the phone in the back of the shop rings, interrupting his train of thought.

“Hold that thought,” Hob says quickly and dashes to the backroom to answer.

“Hello, Gadling’s Florist,” Hob answers. 

“Hey there, just returning a call asking about a flower delivery?”

“Ah yes, about that.” Hob explains the situation with his mysterious flower benefactor, hoping that this time he’ll get some sort of lead. 

“Sorry mate, I wish I could help you out, but those flowers didn’t come from us. Best of luck finding your secret admirer!”

Hob groans as he hangs up the receiver a little too forcefully. That had been the last shop in the area that he knew would deliver to his home. Hob had even tried calling the awful online delivery services to see if anyone had his address on file, and had come up empty.

“Is something the matter?” Morpheus asks when Hob returns to the front.

“No, it’s nothing.” Hob tries to wave the topic off, then changes his mind. It’s actually quite relevant to their current discussion “Well, it’s not nothing, but I think maybe I’ve got a stalker?”

“What? Do you need me to help?” Morpheus asks, alarmed.

“No, no, I’m not in any danger, it’s just, someone’s been leaving me flowers and I have no bloody idea who!” Hob exclaims. Maybe bringing up the mystery flowers isn’t the best idea, but Hob’s truly at the end of his rope here.

“Oh? So you have a secret admirer then?” Morpheus sounds curious enough, and Hob’s owed more than his share of personal life rants so he decides to talk and start pulling together flowers for Morpheus’s new bouquet at the same time. It’ll hopefully settle his nerves to talk through the situation out loud.

“Yeah, I started getting flowers back in January I think. It hasn’t been anything crazy frequent, and I do appreciate the flowers, they're gorgeous but I have no idea where they’re coming from!” He points a carnation in Morpheus’s direction. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten our earlier conversation, this is exactly why you need to leave cards on flowers!”

Morpheus shrugs, a little smirk crossing his face. “Perhaps they’re simply hoping you’ll be able to determine the sender on your own.”

“Yeah, that may sound romantic to you, in your situation, but it’s been driving me mad, Morph! I swear if you don’t hand deliver this next arrangement I’m making, I’m going to tell this person you’re in love with them myself.”

“Will you now? You don’t even know who they are,” Morpheus says mildly.

“I have my ways. The flowers will tell me,” Hob insists, gesturing to the rapidly growing pile on his counter.

“They haven’t told you who your mysterious admirer is yet,” Morpheus notes.  

“Well it’s not for a lack of trying, I can tell you that much. I’ve called almost every shop local to my home, and not one of them has delivered to my address in the last three months!”

“Perhaps there is some sort of clue you’ve missed?”

“Honestly, I’ve tried everything, I don’t know what else to do.” Hob sighs, and starts worrying a stem between his fingers. “I’m starting to feel bad about the whole thing too. I feel like I’m leading them on.”

“Leading them on?” Morpheus furrows his brow. “You intend to turn this person down even not knowing who they are?”

“Well, yes! I mean, no. It’s just…” Hob sighs and decides he should probably be at least a little bit honest. “I’m already really hung up on someone else right now.” 

“You’re…in love with someone?” Morpheus asks, shocked.

“Yeah…it’s really pathetic," Hob tries to laugh it off but it’s hard when the object of his affections is right there in front of him, asking him to make a bouquet for someone else. "Totally one-sided on my part too so I really should give this mystery admirer a chance but I just feel like it wouldn’t be fair.”

Morpheus suddenly stands. “I have to go now,” he announces, voice tight.

“Wait, what? I thought we were working on putting together this bouquet for your confession!” Hob exclaims, confused. Was it something he said? Did Morpheus catch onto Hob’s feelings somehow? Oh god.  

“It no longer matters. Throw it out, there’s no point anymore,” Morpheus snaps. 

“Hold on, what?! Why would I throw it out? Did you suddenly just change your mind, what’s going on?” Hob feels like he’s missing half of the conversation. He’s just about ready to climb over the counter to stop Morpheus from leaving. 

“It seems my efforts were for naught,” Dream practically growls. “Because you already love someone else.”

Hold on. 

What?

“Morph, what the hell are you talking about?” Hob practically yells. “Are you saying this bouquet was supposed to be for me?” There’s absolutely no way he heard the other man correctly. 

“They were all for you!” Morpheus shouts back at him, as if this was something obvious. “Everything I’ve ordered from you and everything I've left at your door has been for you!” 

Hob —needs a moment. 

Perhaps many moments. His brain short circuits. Reboots. Rewinds the past few months back and inserts this new context into all of their interactions. 

This all started when Morpheus told Hob he had fallen in love again. That he would need flowers to woo his intended beloved. Who was, apparently, Hob himself. 

“You’ve been...secretly leaving flowers at my door, while also ordering flowers from my shop…because the person you’re in love with…is me?”

Morpheus crosses his arms and huffs. “It was not supposed to be this difficult for you to figure out.”

Hob loses it.

“Hold on, you can’t expect me to have just figured out that it was you leaving me all those bouquets at my door!” Hob exclaims. “Where were you getting all these flowers anyways? I literally just told you none of the flower shops in the area took those orders!”

“That’s because they came from my family’s private gardens.” Morpheus smirks, as if he’s just beaten Hob in a battle of wits and not turned his entire world completely sideways. 

“They’re from where now?” Hob nearly chokes. He can’t have heard that right. The Ender family estate is hundreds of acres. Sure, there were plenty of gardens there, and more than a couple of greenhouses for getting the out of season blooms, but the thought of Morpheus going through his own family’s gardens just to put together a bouquet for Hob is just…

Well, to be honest, it’s the sort of ridiculously insane romantic gesture only Morpheus would come up with. The prat. 

“I had Jessamy help me select the ideal flower the night before,” Morpheus continues, unaware of Hob’s internal turmoil. “I am not nearly as talented as you are in arranging, so I found it best to limit myself to a single bloom. And then I would have Matthew stop at your home so I could leave them at your doorstep before I would go to work. Did you truly not try to monitor your front door to see who was dropping them off?” 

Well, Hob had certainly intended to try to get up early to see who his mysterious admirer was but he never really managed it. It had never really felt all that important. Making the romantic bouquets for Morpheus to bring to his crush had taken priority over everything. Which reminds him… 

“Wait, so what have you been doing with all the other bouquets I've made for you?” Hob asks.

"I…" Morpheus hesitates. "I have taken them home and imagined they were from you to me."

Hob swears he feels his heart stop in his chest.

Morpheus Ender, his best customer, his best friend, if Hob is being totally honest, is in love with him. And he just went about confessing it in the most convoluted, confusing, and utterly exasperating manner.

Hob absolutely loves the fuck out of this man.

“You know,” Hob grins, stepping out from behind the counter and right into Morpheus’s personal space. Morpheus’s eyes widen, and he takes a small step back, but Hob grabs his wrist to stop him. 

“If you had actually just told me how you felt in the first place," Hob continues, bringing Morpheus's hand to his mouth and placing a kiss to each knuckle. "We could’ve avoided wasting a whole lot of flowers and skipped right to the part where I kissed you senseless months ago.” 

“...Oh.” Morpheus has an awed expression on his face. “So your one-sided love…”

“Was you, you idiot.” Hob pulls Morpheus towards him and touches their foreheads together. “It’s always been you.”

Morpheus kisses him then. Presses Hob against the counter and crushes more than a few of the flowers, scattering petals everywhere. 

Hob doesn’t care. 

[mochibuni]

How to Support Your Favorite Creators!

This guide is largely based on my preferences as a freelance digital artist, but I think can be applicable to others. So let's chat about ways you can support your favorites, sometimes very free and very minimally with big results!

FREE WAYS TO SUPPORT

Like and/or comment - The easiest and free-ist way to help is simply to like or leave a comment on their work! Speaking personally, especially as someone who typically draws for others instead of myself, this is what keeps me drawing and sharing. Knowing that you're here liking what I make, finding happiness in it, or delightful shock and horror fuels me to keep creating, keep being inspired, and keep looking for ways to improve my skills. I just wouldn't be here drawing as much as I do without your likes and comments, and to me this is one of the most valuable avenues of support.

Watching Streams - If your creative also streams, just hanging out and lurking in their stream is super helpful. A lot of streaming platforms, especially Twitch, gate streamers based on their average viewership. For example, in order to be able to receive subs and bits on Twitch you need to be an Affiliate account, and in order to do that you need to reach a few different requirements, one of them being an average of 3 viewers over a 30 day period. You'd think 3 would be easy, but it isn't! If you can also interact in chat with the streamer, great! If not, lurking is absolutely helpful in helping your streamer reach the numbers they need for their next goal on the platform.

Reblogging and sharing links - This is perhaps one of the most impactful ways to support your faves without spending a cent, and that's because you're helping us reach new people who will hopefully like our work as much as you do, and will in turn also share our work to new people that will like our work and so on! As a small freelancer, growth is important to keep me going professionally as an artist, and reblogging and sharing my work absolutely contributes so much to that.

Referrals and Recommendations - A lot of my recent commission work is thanks to previous clients and supporters that recommend my work to others looking for art. Good reviews and word of mouth have helped me so much in my commission work and I'm so appreciative of this.

(A small aside to fellow artists, always try to be professional and friendly as it's your attitude and behavior that plays a part in others wanting to refer you, not just your art. Not advocating that you let anyone boundary stomp, but I know for a fact that my professionalism is what gives people the confidence to recommend me so strongly to their friends and fellow content creators. Use invoicing, stick to a schedule, be clear and consistent, and if there are issues be transparent and prompt in communicating them. If anyone would like me to go into more detail about how I handle commission work I can make a separate post.)

MONETARY WAYS OF SUPPORT

I just want to make it very clear that I do not expect anyone, especially in this economy, to give me money. However if you do have some extra cash and you'd like to give it to your favorite creator, here's how!

Tip them! - If they have a Ko-Fi or another platform for small tips and donations, use them! A few dollars may not seem like a lot and perhaps you feel bad or foolish to give so little, BUT DO NOT. With money being such a precious commodity, for me it means a lot when someone is willing to send a few my way. And if even a few are tipping a couple of dollars, that can easily add up. To put in perspective, even if just a portion of my supports decided one day to tip me or sub to my patreon one month, I could easily cover most if not all of our living expenses for a month. I'm not telling you guys to do this, but to understand that a few dollars can have a lot of power.

Sub to one of their platforms! - Since I use a few different platforms with this option, I want to discuss the pros and cons of each so you can decide which way you would like to support your favorite that may also have multiple platforms. Ultimately if your fave has a preferred platform I suggest using that one, but if not--

Ko-Fi - Has a 0% fee taken from donations received and do not charge supporters extra., and 5% from monthly memberships, shop sales, and commissions through the platform. The only downside to Ko-Fi is they immediately submit transactions to the creators payout method of choice which can sometimes be troublesome depending on said method. Patreon - A popular choice for creators as we can create multiple tiers of monthly rewards in exchange for your monetary support! The only drawback I think is largely for supporters as it requires a monthly subscription, but you could certainly go the route of a one time payment, catch up with what you missed since your last sub, and repeat. Patreon takes a 5%, 8%, or 12% fee depending on the creator's account. Twitch - For your favorite streamers, subbing to their Twitch is often the way to go as increased sub numbers directly benefit streamers in their growth on the platform. HOWEVER, Twitch has a pretty notoriously bad payout split of 50/50, so if your favorite streamer has a tipping platform or Patreon, it might be worth asking if they would prefer a sub or one of those other options.

Commission them! - If you have the funds and their commissions are open, request one! I know at least my commissions can be pricey so I never, ever expect anyone to request one, but I am so excited when someone fills out a commission request form and it lands in my email!

Some tips for commissioning art:

Read the artist's Terms of Service and fill out their request form, if they have one. If they don't then contact them privately, but if they have one please use it instead of DMs (especially on Twitter where DMs do not show up most of them time).

If you feel you can't afford their fees, just tell them you simply cannot afford them at that time. Do not tell them their skills cost too much or aren't worth their asking price. Custom art is a luxury, it isn't cheap.

If you want to use the final commission commercially, you need to purchase commercial rights from the artist. Artists retain copyright of their work, even fanart, and you are not permitted to sell it without permission or obtaining the copyright. Be upfront with your artist if you want to use the work commercially so they can price accordingly.

Provide references, especially for OC. If you have a certain pose in mind, even a poor doodle of it is helpful for your artist.

Be patient, give your artist some time to work and respond. Drawing takes time. That said, if your artist is taking weeks and months without communicating with you, absolutely follow up with them.

On the other hand, don't let your artist rush you either. I always tell my clients to take a few days to ruminate on questions and in progress updates. If I'm streaming your commission, I will never ask you to make confirmations during stream.

Understand that big changes, especially during certain parts of the drawing process, may incur additional fees based on how much work the artist will need to do to accommodate those changes.

Ask for a proper invoice, never do friends and family. An invoice is to protect you as much as it is to protect the artist because if you have an issue with the artist never delivering your commission you can use the invoice to assist in recouping your money. I personally use Paypal invoicing for this reason, despite all the issues with Paypal, because I want to make sure both myself and my clients are protected.

Pay on time! And if you feel your artist is underselling their work and they have tips turned on, tip them!

Those are the major free and monetary ways you can support your favorites! If other creatives would like to chime in with additional tips, please do so!

[sburbian-sage]

Sorry, bit of a long-ass vent post with little point ahead.

Knight of Time here. Session also includes a Heir of Space, Scout of Mind, Rogue of Heart, Mage of Life, and a player that I'm having some trouble with, our Seer of Light.

Me and the Seer are both very experienced. Everyone else is pretty new to replaying, and they all really look up to us. But me and the Seer don't really get along at all.

They tend to give a lot of advice that I think is really double edged, weird, or just plain wrong. Like, they once told the Heir that Space is "all about loneliness" so the Heir should avoid trying to become friends with anybody. Which like... Where do I even start, right?

Obviously there's a nugget of truth in there. I've heard SOME people say that Space CAN be associated with loneliness, but the end conclusion is a recipe for disaster.

But hey, I'm a Time player. What the fuck do I know about Space. Maybe I'm the idiot, sure. And maybe I'm wrong about a bunch of the stuff they've said that I thought was wrong. Who knows!

What I do know is that the Seer needs to STOP telling me how to play MY classpect, or I'm gonna blow a fuse.

They drone on and on about how Knights are "always using their aspect as a shield to hide something about themselves", which, like, is a theory I've heard before, and might even be right. But fucker, I DON'T KNOW WHAT I WOULD BE HIDING. I can't have the cathartic feelings jam they keep condescendingly angling for, but if I could, I wouldn't have it with THEM anyway.

Also, nearly every idea they have about Time sounds like a doomed timeline in potentia.

I keep telling them to leave me alone, I keep telling everyone to be careful taking their advice, I keep explaining and reexplaining how to avoid doomed timelines. But nobody gets it. Least of all the Seer themself, who often gives me a shitty little smirk and tells me "This is a game about maturing, you'll get it once you grow up a little more".

I don't want to like, go full-bore on turning everybody against them or anything. Hell, they ARE a Seer of Light, advising is much more their role than mine, it's possible that they really ARE right about a lot of what they say, and I've deluded myself into thinking they're an idiot.

But I don't understand how to handle it at this point. My mind keeps tossing out conspiracy theories like "what if they haven't been replaying as long as they say", "what if they're TRYING to kill us with bad advice", stuff like that.

I'm sorry, I don't even know what my question is. I guess "how do I put up with this", but I guess that it'll always come down to that, and the answer is usually to just try and go numb to it. At least typing all this out made me feel a little better.

I need you to send my an invoice for my medical bill, because I cringed so hard I may have damaged organs.

Okay, obviously there's some Dunning-Kruger going on here. This person matured a little bit, but now they think they're the master of maturity, own-zoning emotionally stunted sboobs with their sage advice (no relation), ass famine, etc. etc. But that bit about "Knights act like this and Space players do that" hurts me personally. It's rich to say this as someone who writes guides as a sort of vocation, but I think reading too many guides gives you brain damage. This is evident here, where not only is the Seer of Light engaging in some hardcore secondhand classpecting, but is also giving very by-the-books canned advice on the narrative arc of certain titles, with equally dubious advice to adhere to it as inauthentically artificially as possible. I need to stress how much I hate this, it's like I'm a well-respected biology professor at Clown University, and I'm watching this fresh new bio student completely jettison the worth of my degree by delivering a sermon on how correct phrenology is, I'm vomiting blood right now.

Sadly, I think you're right in that you just have to ignore them. They seem pretty set in being the Grand Master of SBURB, I don't think a conversation can help them out of it (outside of saying "if you tell me how to play my class I will dropkick you in the head"). And if their advice really is that bad, maybe let it blow up in their face a little bit. I don't doubt that the Heir of Space will eventually try contacting you or someone else when they realize how miserable and difficult being a loner is, and they'll see pretty quickly that they do indeed not have to be lonely to "fulfill their aspect" or whatever. If you're not too averse to seeing your own dead body, maybe try taking their advice on time travel, and then point towards the doomed timeclones and say "like that, right?". I think they'll fizzle out once people start realizing how bad the advice is, and will maybe calm down and be less imperious about it. Or they'll go nuts, take direct action because they know best (as Seers are wont to do, not that I as a Sage know anything about that), and watch as their advice literally blows up in their face. And then they'll probably chill out afterwards, because that's what happens when you fuck up and disappoint everyone during an ego-trip. Then things will go hunky-dory!

Alternatively, their advice does work, in which case the problem solves itself! Don't ever admit you were wrong though, otherwise you consign yourself to a hell most eternal. Just nod and say "yeah, look at that" or something.

[honnojis]

Hello, how are you doing? I'm an artist who wants to start selling commissions and I know you've been doing that for a while, so I would like to ask you something, if that's ok? How do you show your work's progress to a client without risking them "stealing" it (as in, taking the unfinished thing and ghosting you without paying)? That is one of my biggest worries to be honest. Have a wonderful day!

Slap a big fat watermark with your name over your works in progress (and include work in progress as well, make it as irregular as possible so it's not easy to erase) & make sure it's a small size screenshot, not a full resolution image.

ALWAYS ask for payment up front, even if it's just part of it, and make sure you're the one sending invoices to protect yourself (ESPECIALLY when using Paypal) from getting sudden chargebacks. Sometimes a client can't pay in one go so you can negotiate having payments in halves (though I'd really not recommend making this standard for low amounts i.e. anything below 150 like i do), so one half up front and one half once the sketch's been properly fleshed out and approved.

Finally, write up some rules! Having terms of service really does help with making sure that both you and the client know what rules they have to keep in mind, but it also keeps things transparent about the process. I have a fully fleshed out one you can take some reference from if you want.

i wouldn't worry too much about theft, I've personally yet to run into a case of someone trying to steal my work (and i really hope it stays that way ough), but if you're unsure you can always do those things to set some failsafes for yourself!