#canon is low key none of my business | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

artemiseamoon · 2 years

Text

Flirting with Danger

Chapter one: A family business

Words: 2,372

F reader x Ramón

A Narcos MX| A 4 chapter fic | Timeline: S3 events

* to the Anon who asked about this, here’s a taste!

GIF credit to owners 💕

Next | fic info

AN: Y’all want a preview of what’s happening? I have three WIPs about undercover agents, all different stories and outcomes. I’m not rushing them, letting them form organically. As I sat to write one today, this one took over. So just rolling with it! I’m still undecided if I’ll only post a preview here and the full thing on A03 only. I’m on the fence. Anyway, this is looking like a 4 parter. 5 max. I’m working on it. 😁

⚠️ overall Warnings: canon show warnings, if you know those, you know what to expect. Adult 18+ mature content. Violence drugs, sexual themes, deaths, etc. Dont read what you dont like. Don’t read what upsets you. You have the free will to keep scrolling. Expect some angst, some conflict, some grey morality, some mutual pining, some angst. | Content disclaimer: You know my usual narcos disclaimer, this is fan fic, not an effort to glamarize the horrific acts of real persons. I do not support what these people have done. Thanks!

Everyone who worked closely with the Arellano Felix family was blood, grew up with them, or underwent a serious vetting process before being let in. It was like a special club that barely admitted new members.

Your job sounded simple on paper but was indeed very complex. Get close to the family and acquire as much intel as you could. You remember the day you got the assignment. They were desperate to get something on the family, in response, this job was created.

You can visualize that first meeting like it was yesterday. You sat in your boss's office and stared down at the file, then the blank look on his face. You were pushing for a challenge since being sent down here. Desk duty, answering phones, and listening to audio recordings weren't really what you signed up for. But you assumed, rightfully so, that being a woman was the very reason they gave you a 'safe' job.

The first day you heard about the undercover gig, they intended it to go to one of the guys. You made a comment about how much harder it would be for a guy to gain their trust, next thing you knew, you were sitting in that intimidating office.

Though the job sounded impossible and you weren't sure if you could do it, you said yes. You said yes to test yourself, to test your long list of skills developed over the years, and you said yes as a big fuck you to the men who snickered upon hearing you were taking the job. Not the pretty girl who organized their files, surly, you couldn't handle such a thing.

Feeling emboldened, you took the job while swallowing the massive lump in your throat and pushing your fears deep down inside. Back in the states, you’ve done plenty of undercover jobs, you could do this - just, none held as much danger and risk as this one.

…

In preparation, you made an extensive list of ways to get near the family. After going through each option for what felt like 100 times, you settled on Roxanne.

It wasn’t aggressive, like showing up out of nowhere in their lives, and plenty of people needed a job. Besides, you knew the brothers, except very loyal and very married Benjamin, had a thing for pretty faces. So getting a job as a bartender or cocktail waitress would be easy.

It helped that your 4 months in Mexico so far were extremely low-key. If you weren't at that godforsaken desk, you were at home, in the very bland apartment the embassy provided for you.

Your social life was pretty much non-existent, so you could be anyone, it gave you a blank slate to work with. They even provided another apartment in a different part of town for you to use, everything now under your new identity. Once the paper trail of this new you was created, you went in for an interview.

The interview went well, but inside you were nervous as hell. They had a hiring manager, but it seemed like a front anyway. You knew the final word had to go through the family.

Seeing how busy they were, they couldn't be on hand to handle things like this. But the hiring manager seemed to like you enough, and he wasn't exactly hiding his flirting. He was very impressed with the fact you spoke 3 languages fluidly.

You knew, the moment you walked out of here, you would be investigated through and through, and you hoped the team who created identities didn't make any errors.

You don’t know if it was good luck or bad, but during the end of your interview, as you left the office, Ramon and his crew rolled in early, just before the club would open for business. Catching each other eyes, you keep your composure as you stroll past him and flash a small smile.

Ramón smiles back. You break eye contact and head for the door. Time slows down. Feeling his eyes burning into you, you glance over your shoulder and see he’s still watching you.

Even with everything you know about him, his smile is almost childlike. Big, bright, beaming. It was hard to believe such a chaotic violent man had such a smile. You feel your heart thump in your chest as your body temperature rises.

Regaining your composure, you grab the handle of the door and walk out. The moment the door closes behind you, you realize you were holding your breath. Taking a deep exhale, you touch your stomach and try to ground yourself.

Holy shit.

You just saw Ramón , the Ramón Arellano Félix up close and he was - gorgeous? No, no you can’t think such things. You had a job to do and no matter how devilishly attractive he is, you cannot, will not get distracted.

As you walk away from the club, past the forming line, you feel ashamed. You did notice how cute he was before. Yeah, you shouldn’t but you did. Still, the many photographs you’ve looked at over the months didn’t compare to seeing him in the flesh.

As you walked by him, taking in the tall drink of water he is, you also imagined yourself running your fingers through those luscious waves. He was cute before, but the longer hair - there was just something about it.

By the time you reach the end of the block, someone runs up behind you. You notice it’s the hiring manager and he’s out of breath. When you turned to fully face him, he asks how soon you can start working, and if tonight was an option.

I’m in. You could barely believe your luck, or, lack thereof…it was too soon to tell. You nod, smile, and reply, “I could start tonight.”

The manager escorts you back into the building and shows you the rooms where the staff put their things, he also shows you the uniforms. It was a simple outfit, black, short, and cute.

After you get changed, the manager pairs you with a more seasoned bottle girl on the main floor, someone to show you the ins and outs of working in Roxanne.

You had some experience in your younger years, serving was a side job as you got through college. This kind of thing was like a muscle, you never really forgot how to do it. So you weren't too worried about fucking up.

As expected, though the place is busier than any other place you've ever worked, you start to get the hang of it. You were aware getting intel wasn’t going to happen right away, but as one week turns to two, you observe the family when you can. Working the first floor meant you weren't close enough to hear any of their conversations, so you knew, you had to get the second-floor gig.

As the days pass by, you notice Ramón watching you from the balcony. He was always looking, always watching, but yet he didn’t approach or speak to you. Being under his gaze made your skin hot, your cheeks warm, it awakened parts of you that needed to remain silent to do your job properly. You were here to watch the family, and Ramón was watching you.

As you meet your one month mark, you work on your first report for headquarters, you saw a lot working that floor, even if it wasn't directly tied to the family with concrete evidence, yet. The people who came in, their associates, who they gave VIP treatment, all it was important, even if it couldn't be used yet.

You focused your report on these elements and then turn it in. One month down meant you had 5 months left to get the real dirt. 5 months could either be a long time, or a short time, it depends on many factors.

When you arrive for your shift, on the first Friday of a new month, you receive news that you’ve been promoted. You would solely work bottle service for VIPs. Upon hearing the news, you play it cool and chill, but inside you were freaking out.

If you could do this and succeed there would be no more shitty desk jobs. And finally, those assholes in the office would take you seriously. You could make a real name for yourself - if this goes right.

That first night your adrenaline pumps so intensily through your body that it feels like you’re vibrating. You’ve seen the woman they paired you with plenty of times, she was one of the main girls up here. You follow her lead, smile, and do your job.

For the first few hours of this shift, some of the family are seated at their VIP, just behind the Roxanne sign, but Ramón is nowhere in sight. When you finally do serve their table, it takes everything in you to stay cool.

It was so much easier with the others. Sure, they were important people but being this close to the Arellano Felix family was jarring. Even, exciting, if you let yourself admit it.

Going from shoveling papers around while men in the office ogle your figure and call you sweetheart to serving drinks to the most powerful drug cartel family in Mexico? Talk about extremes. Danger could be encountered anywhere, hell, just crossing the street or leaving your front door. But, this puts you on the doorstep of real danger.

As you drop off a bottle of champagne at a neighboring table, you can hear a rowdy group coming up the stairs. You know from the sounds alone, it's Ramón and the Narcos Juniors. Casually glancing over your shoulder, you watch as they walk by. There’s a girl on Ramón’s arm, which is not surprising, but the moment he notices you, he loosens his grip around her waist, his eyes locking on your own.

Does the hot-heated and very dangerous Ramón have a thing for you? You were pretty convinced at this point. What confused you was his lack of contact. He seemed like an overly confident guy and watching the way he was with other women, it seemed more normal he would have hit on you on the spot, that first day. It was surprising, how could a guy like this be coy?

You were honestly torn about Ramón's interest in you. On one hand, it was flattering. On another, you knew enough about the man to know he was dangerous, like a walking hazard sign.

Your investigation could really hit a peak if you got close to him, but at the same time, it's like laying across train tracks, you’d willingly be putting yourself in a level of danger were not interesting in being in. Maybe, he should admire you from afar, you decide, it would be safer.

As the night goes on, you go about your business and focus on your job, while never really escaping the heat of his gaze. When you stopped at their table to bring a fresh batch of drinks, his brown eyes watch your every movement.

You’ve never felt as seen, as studied as you do under his gaze. When you look up at him from under your lashes, he flashes that heart-warming smile and you almost, almost make your first mistake of the night. You nearly drop the empty beer bottle in your hand, you add it to the tray of empty bottles.

The little slip-up gains a chuckle from him. You feel your face grow hot as embarrassment rushes you. Ramón digs in his pocket, pulls out a wad of cash, and drop two 100 bills on your tray.

“Thank you,” you smile at him and back away from the table, your eyes locked on his. Before you turn away, the sound of your name on his lips captures your attention. Balancing the tray, you turn back and meet his waiting gaze.

“Have a drink with us later.”

You can barely believe your hearing. Did he just invite you to his table?

“You know what,” Ramón stands up and motions for the other server to come over, “your shift ends now.” He points at the tray, the other girl makes eye contact with you, then takes it.

Ramón wasn’t known for his patience. He was a make-it-happen yesterday kind of guy.

“Oh, okay “ you grab your huge tip from the tray and shove it in your bra. Much to his pleasure, as Ramón watches with a grin. Not knowing what to do with your hands, you keep them at your sides.

Ramón tells the girl next to him to get up. She shoots you a death stare and leaves the spot next to him. Ramon sits back down and pats the cushion with his hand. "Come, sit with me.”

The handsome criminal continues to grin at you as you sit next to him. The space provided is small, your thigh touches his as you sit. You admired his outfit from afar, but this close, you can really see the details in the nice gold and white top, the first buttons open, teasing his chest and his fitted black pants leave little to the imagination. Everything about this outfit, including the shoes, screams rich. He even smells good, really good.

Ramón sits with his hands in his lap, a stark contrast to the relaxed arm he had around the other girl. Was Ramón still acting shy?

He motions to the table. "Anything you want, it’s yours.”

He’s cute, really cute like this. With you, his cockiness seems to be gone, like a shy boy with a crush. You smile at him and look over the drinks you just delivered to them.

In the middle of the table is a bottle of champagne with a price tag that makes you do a triple take. You weren't really a champagne person, but shit, you had to taste it. You had to know why it cost that much.

Almost as if he can read your mind, Ramón leans over and pours you a glass. As he hands it to you, your fingers touch. The brief contact earns another smile from him, and your heart skips a beat.

Oh fuck. You were in trouble.

More soon 💕

Tags? Just ask. I’ll tag ya.

Pt about 60% done. If you want a tag let me know. It will be out either later today or tomorrow.

#Ramon narcos #narcos mexico #narcos Mexico fic #your content consumption is your responsibility not mine #read warnings #stay away if any of this bothers or upsets you #ramon arellano felix #not the real guy #just the show actor #fic: flirting with danger #narcos mexico fanfiction

195 notes · View notes

theredwallrecorder · 10 months

Text

outcast: opening thoughts

i think i may have mentioned in tags or briefly in other posts that outcast of redwall is very special to me. i am unceasingly grateful to mister jacques for writing this book, not only because it is a vital fictional case study in family dynamics, child behavior, and the influence of environment on human development, but because of mister jacques’ fundamentally honest approach to narrative.

if there is anything you can be convinced of in regards to all of redwall, it is that you can always trust that mister jacques will never attempt to sell you a “falsehood” in order to bring his story in the direction he intends. what do i mean by “falsehood”? for the sake of avoiding spoilers from a show i in full transparency have actually never seen (game of thrones), i would instead like to use an example from a similar recent adaptation of the works of one of mister jacques’ contemporaries: amazon’s rings of power.

again, to be fully transparent, i abhor rings of power, and not for its misguided multi-ethnic pandering that at times borders on insensitivity. in robust confidence and unfailing ego a pair of men undertook the writing of this show, and the shallowness of the narrative they have birthed betrays their lack of experience and their emotional immaturity. rings of power alone is the biggest reason i am low-key relieved that netflix’s planned redwall movie and tv show have effectively been shelved for the time being. i cannot quantify the amount of grief that would fall over me if we were given a version of mister jacques’ world that had been mindlessly adapted in such a way as to make it a brutal mockery of mossflower. far more eloquent critics and devout middle earth scholars have broken down the aspects of amazon’s rings of power that have fallen far short of tolkien’s vision, and i encourage you to peruse their think pieces, but i will simplify my point by picking out the treatment of the character of galadriel. the narrative rings of power attempts to sell you is based entirely on an interpretation of galadriel that has nothing to do with the infinitely wise, long-suffering figure of galadriel that tolkien wrote. tolkien’s galadriel is soft and powerful, containing the narrative depth of living through thousands upon thousands of years of the cultural height and decline of middle earth, and every word she speaks is laden with conscious discernment and meaning. true, galadriel at the time of rings of power is much younger than the galadriel tolkien presents in the lord of the rings, but it is canon that she had already been married and had had a daughter by the time rings of power is meant to take place. in comparison, the galadriel of rings of power is a petulant, rude, self-serving, overbearing child, carrying none of the life experience of the equivalent canon galadriel of this time. i believe the choice of the show’s writers to remove completely galadriel’s life partner celeborn and her daughter celebrían speaks volumes about their true intentions in regards to galadriel’s character within the narrative of rings of power.

to fashion their narrative into the shape they desired, the writers of rings of power eschewed canon and distorted the character of galadriel. i am sure you can easily think of other stories where character psychology was sacrificed on the altar of The Ending Or The Twist The Writers Wanted. to the best of your memory, your readings of outcast may have come across in a similar way--mister jacques mangled the characters of bryony, abbess meriam, bella, and even veil to, perhaps, smooth over the bitter sting of the abbeybeasts’ treatment of veil. i will be the first to admit that veil’s foul behavior is exaggerated almost to the point of comedy, as is the nature of stories intended for children, but mister jacques was never in the business of pursuing extremes in order to make a point. adolescent drama is as tumultuous as the myriad changes of puberty, and jacques has gone on the record stating that he writes from what he has observed. the naked fear or disgust brought on by a reading of outcast of redwall is based in the fact the characters are true: true to themselves, true to each other, and true to the beliefs under which they were raised. it is sobering to discover that a children’s book can prompt one to grapple with the reality that cruelty, albeit wholly unintended, can come from goodness.

#thems a lot of words but we gettin ready to set sail mateys #i know in life mister jacques preferred to not have redwall compared to the lord of the rings #but all stories share commonalities #rings of power is recent enough that some may be able to catch my meaning #though similar character assassination occurred in game of thrones #may the property of redwall always remain in hands willing to respect its spirit #outcast of redwall #text #redwall #veil #bryony #it is well-intentioned harm that inflicts the most trauma

14 notes · View notes

lutethebodies · 1 day

Text

LTB Tav Tuesdays: Zafraia Zital, the Banished Bandit

My second Tav is, canonically, the accidental nemesis of my first. Her name is a loose/googly translation of the Basque "azafraia zital" or "vile saffron," a hat-tip to Malcolm Reynolds' nemesis from "Firefly." Her nickname "Zaf" is also an acronym for "zen as fuck", which is how she coolly goes through life and conducts her smuggly-swashbuckly business. It's also another hat-tip, this time to a favorite phrase my one-time IRL business partner used often. Zaf's quickie bio reads like a mashup of Mol, Nine-Fingers Keene, and Captain Grisly—though I swear I came up with it on my own years before I heard of BG3. Regardless it goes like this (again with my homebrew place-names):

"Zafraia is a cynical and calculating criminal smuggler with a suppressed thrill-seeking streak. Born 29 years ago in the Naransi city of Enancia to poor immigrants from further south, she grew up a streetwise urchin on the deadly docksides of Blackwharf. Zaf sharpened her senses to survive, soon leading a gang of semi-feral adolescents who stole and fenced anything valuable, doing that so effectively that adult criminals and authorities teamed up to stop them. As her comrades and relatives were arrested or killed one by one, Zaf stole a smuggler's skiff and escaped north to Caranacia. There she balanced smuggling with intrigue, joining the Equiposium for lucrative and dangerous espionage work."

"Zaf evaded laws, gangs, and guilds by liaising with powerful nobles, but after one such affair with a lord's daughter exploded in a public duel against a fellow Equiposian, she was banished from the City of Fortune. Going straight to lie low, Zaf became a freelance navigator in Orangeport, striking deals with local merchants as an envoy to all points East: towns, tribes, and trading posts along the arid Marakeen shore. Zaf has made three voyages in six years (sponsored by a former paramour), but lack of supplies kept her from going far. She’s recruiting a new crew for her fourth and latest voyage as captain of the ship Leverage, seeking great riches beyond the southeastern horizon, dangers be damned."

I first played Zaf in 5e as a swashbuckler rogue for an 8th-level one-shot (that became a four-shot) in 2020 for my brother's homebrew world, and then brought her to Faerun in 2023 for a 3rd-level heist via "Keys from the Golden Vault." In my own homebrew campaign, she's a potential rival or ally in an as-yet unplayed setting—but placing her there was wildly inspiring for many, many chapters of worldbuilding [sidenote: "Worldbuilding Wednesdays" will be a thing here; check back tomorrow!].

In BG3, I played her solo run as a Thief, always in muddy-red-dyed gear. Hers was my second run (and first "neutral/evil" run after Cannor's "neutral/good" run) littered with selfish actions and regrettable mistakes (staking vampires, abandoning wizards, beheading tieflings, sacrificing warlocks, humiliating paladins, and seducing cambions). To her, love is a trap for suckers and sex is a useful tool. She toyed with her companions' feelings but committed to none of them, and sneered at Withers when he tried to mock her for it. She relished toppling the Zhents, intimidating the Guild, and outwitting both Chosen to rule the Gate from the shadows.

A much less ruthless Zaf was one of Cannor's hirelings in his 4th run, and is in my current multiplayer run, where she's romancing Karlach after being rejected by Astarion, but she's always been sort of the anti-Cannor—saying and doing what he won't—and I love her for that.

#ltb tav tuesdays #bg3 #bg3 oc #bg3 ocs #zafraia the bandit #bg3 rogue #bg3 tav #my ocs #my bg3 #my bg3 character #my bg3 ocs #tav tuesday

2 notes · View notes

skyhopedango · 11 months

Text

WHAT WHAT WHAT

So like... like...

Here I am, just minding my own business, being in a somewhat better place mentally in these past couple months (despite my world getting increasingly worse ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ), considering slowly getting back to fandoms and reactivating my social media and stuff*... especially after having an AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH moment over Loulou*di's Dying Matter**

...and then I open Twitter, and the HanaDoll* account comes at me like

....WHAT

I'm so worried! I really really don't want this franchise to get one of those really cheaply made idol animes, like the TsukiPro show... but I don't think they have the funds of even UtaPri, let alone Idolish7 or something... Also this franchise has such an amazingly well thought-out visual design, it would really really suck to see it not being done justice in an anime, but I can't imagine it having the sort of money to make it happen... Oh well, we'll see.

Anyway, though, it says the anime will be adapting Season 1, which is I guess a safe way to go? It's a good introduction to the HanaDoll* world. Honestly, though, I would have preferred more manga over an anime. S2 would make a great manga, especially with Loulou*di and the sheer intensity of their... *gestures wildly* their everything. Maybe, if the anime makes any decent business, they'll restart the manga.

...

....

So anyway, I guess I'm back? :D

I thought I'd just sit down and write a post like "the world still sucks, and it sucks more and more with each moment, and I'm still feeling low-key anxious, but I guess I'm doing better, enough to have been able to sob my heart out over Think Of Me: Mono anyway,*** so let's just slowly ease back... also maybe write something about Mono because yeah that should totally be written about..."

Instead it's

"OH MY GOD HanaDoll* is getting an anime WHAT"

I guess that's how my life rolls! :D;;

orz

*If anyone happened to have read this far - I apologize to anyone who have written to me or messaged me! I turned off app notifications on all my social media, but left email notifications on Tumblr, and got none, so I was like okay, so it's peace and quiet... except as I found out a week ago, my email client at one point decided to deliver all my Tumblr notification emails right into my junk folder. 😩And since that folder is set to be emptied in every five days... yeah, I basically missed everything. So I'm very sorry if you wrote to me and I didn't reply!

**I haven't had the opportunity to listen to the Think Of Me: Ark drama yet, but of course I did listen to the songs, and look,

1. I don't need to have listened to the drama to assume that Dying Matter is a Rui song, and

2. I guess this is basically canon confirmation that Rui is in love with Ageha? not that it hadn't been obvious so far but here they just flat out say it, not even in English or whatever like in Butterfly Knife, just flat out 愛してる、愛してる、愛してる/"I love you, I love you, I love you";

3. anyway that aside, tell me this is not going where the song implies it's going dear god Ageha, Rui, no, never mind poor Toki, also

4. 葬列の果てまで/"till end of your funeral procession" is just an absolutely amazing line, just... chef's kiss. This is Loulou*di, guys, they're not satisfied with the cheap dramatics of "until the end" or "beyond the grave" or whatever, no, it's "till the end of your funeral procession" because why be OK with a mere ten if you can turn it up to eleven. (Also, the visuals and implications it evokes are amazing. Hama Takeshi keeps doing it with this band, damn that man.)

***Dear god, Toki and Kaoru, My poor, poor Toki and Kaoru. Just... damn. That whole scene of them together. Oh god. Poor Toki. Poor Kaoru. Someone please help these boys.

#i'm back i guess #hanadoll #hanadoll*#still don't know how to tag this franchise #louloudi #loulou*di #anthos #think of me #this world man

13 notes · View notes

serenailith · 1 year

Text

the silent sounds of loneliness (best of my love)

for the @dreamlingbingo

Square: c5 - turn over a new leaf (combined with march monthly prompt haunted by regrets) Word Count: 11454 Ship(s): dream of the endless/hob gadling, johanna constantine/rachel moodie Warnings: none Additional Tags: alternate universe - human, age gap, age difference, hob gadling loves dream of the endless | morpheus, dream of the endless | morpheus loves hob gadling, though he doesn’t want to admit it, canonical child death (though in a different manner than canon), recluse!dream of the endless | morpheus, uni student/errand boy!hob gadling, anal sex, rimming Summary:

When Hob lands a job with Helping Hands, it's a dream come true for a poor uni student. He loves what he does, and he likes to think he's good at it. The only thing he isn't so sure about? The client. He hasn't seen nor spoken to the mysterious Morpheus, a reclusive man only doctors have seen over the last seven years. But between a sudden surge of courage and a lot of luck, everything changes.

In only six months, he learns more about life and love than he ever thought was possible.

Link: on ao3 masterlist

Hob stares up at the enormous house stretching before him. Mansion, really. He wraps a hand around an iron picket and lets out a low whistle. Early morning sunlight glints off massive windows, white brick surrounding the glass a sharp contrast to the dark grey masonry of the exterior. Large slabs of stone make up the walkway to the covered veranda. With a slow breath to steady his nerves, Hob walks to the gate and digs the keys from his pocket.

Unity Kincaid had warned him that the client is, for lack of better terminology, a recluse. No one besides his doctors had seen hide nor hair of him in seven years. Hob has no idea why–he hadn’t bothered to ask. What business is it of his? All he needs to worry about is doing a good job and getting paid. And damn, he can almost taste the influx of money from the job. It’s more than he’ll ever have made in one cheque.

It takes three different attempts before he locates the correct key for the front door, but find it he does. Twisting the key in the lock, he glances over his shoulder then pushes open the door. Dimness spreads before him. He inhales deeply before stepping inside.

A shiver races down his spine. A heavy silence lingers in the air, oppressive and suffocating. Hob can smell nothing but the faint hint of a cleanser and disuse. He takes another step, pushing the door closed behind him, and comes to a stop in the centre of the grand foyer.

On either side of the foyer are massive sets of ornate doors. He wonders where they lead, but he knows better than to go exploring. Unity said there would be a tablet waiting for him, and there it is, resting on top of the end newel of the sweeping staircase. Twin banisters curve outward as they stretch up the sides of the stairs until they reach a landing that overlooks the foyer. He gazes up into the darkness for a long moment then decides it isn’t worth trying to figure out what’s upstairs.

He digs out his phone to check the onboarding email Unity had sent, finds the six-digit passcode, and types it in. The only four apps on the device are the calendar, the camera, a photo gallery, and a to-do checklist. The calendar holds a schedule–doctor appointments in red squares, medication pick-ups in blue, his days off in sunshine yellow. The checklist has a list of tasks that need doing and which Hob is expected to do: Shop for groceries and essential items, pick up medications when needed, let the doctors in and show them out whenever the client has appointments. (Here, Hob snorts. What privilege must this man have that he can afford in-home doctor visits?). He’s also to clean the house but never go into two specific rooms: The one at the far end of the upstairs corridor and the one across the hall from it.

Hob’s curiosity grows instantly. What lies beyond those doors, then, that needs to be kept a secret? An urge to find out nearly overtakes him, but he manages to shake it off. Unfortunately, he already has one foot on the third step and is poised to continue up the stairs.

No, you bloody idiot. Keep to the rules. He needs this job too damn much to break the rules already–or ever. Sighing, he straightens his spine and goes back to the email. It says to check the gallery, so he does. The only photo is of a blueprint of the manor, each room except the forbidden ones marked and labelled in squared letters. The forbidden rooms have large Xes overlaid.

He studies the map for a moment longer then points himself in the direction of the kitchen. He might as well explore what he can, while he can.

It takes longer than he expected, but Hob finally feels like he’s memorised the layout of the manor rather well. At least, enough that he doesn’t think he’ll get lost in five seconds flat. The solarium, as notated on the map, had been his favourite room of all. Warm and full of sunshine, it made him want to sit down and never leave.

He makes his way back to the kitchen and plucks a piece of paper off the refrigerator door. He’d seen it on his walkthrough but decided to wait until he was finished to read it. Spidery letters spell out a list, this one of groceries. Hob wonders why this client doesn’t just order delivery. It’s a lot cheaper and faster.

But then again, if they’re as reclusive as Unity claims, of course they wouldn’t want delivery. The delivery people usually want to hand off directly to the recipient. Whoever this client is, Hob is rather jealous. They have wealth, and they have privilege. Too bad his twenty-year-old self doesn’t have the same.

Hob tucks the list into his pocket and heads to the front door. He might as well get a jump on his list of tasks. Whistling quietly, he locks up the house and ambles down the walkway to his car. The beat-up vehicle struggles to start before coming to life with a roar; Hob winces. This is a nice-with-a-capital-N neighbourhood. His lemon of a car doesn’t belong here, and there is no reason to draw attention to himself.

Shopping goes as well as it could. The email had stressed the importance of getting exactly what was on the list, down to the brand name and quantity, so Hob spent an inordinate amount of time comparing product to list. Three workers asked if he needed help, but he’d waved them off politely. How could he have explained his new boss is apparently the most particular person he has ever even heard of?

By the time he leaves five hours later, Hob has done fuck all. He’d gotten the groceries, sure, but there wasn’t much to clean and no medications to pick up. Easy money, he thinks, as he drives home, the wind slipping in through the open window. A bead of sweat drips down his back, pools at the base of his spine, and he squirms a bit in his seat. He really needs a new car, one with air-con. Thankfully, this job will make saving up easy.

Johanna and Rachel are already waiting at the New Inn by the time Hob arrives, freshly showered and ready to relax. Rachel waves him over, knowing full well he’s already seen them in their usual booth, and gestures to Alan for a new round of drinks. It’s a testament to how often the trio drinks here that there are no questions asked as to what they want to drink. Hob slides into the bench across from the women and swipes the pickle from Johanna’s plate. She scowls but doesn’t bother punishing him.

They all know she wasn’t planning on eating it.

“How was your first day?” Rachel asks, all but bouncing in her seat.

She’s been more excited about Hob’s new job than he has, and he’s been damn excited. Mostly about the prospect of money. Maybe now he can pay for nights out with his friends instead of Jo always paying the tab. She never complains, not really. Despite the gruff, acerbic facade, she’s quite a lovely woman, especially when Rachel is involved.

Hob still wonders how the two met in the first place. Rachel is vibrant, open and kind and always quick with a smile. Johanna is the complete opposite towards everyone who isn’t her girlfriend. They’ve never told Hob the story of their meeting, and he’s long stopped asking. Doesn’t stop him from imagining different scenarios, each more unlikely than the last.

Accepting the glass of whisky from Alan, Hob tells Rachel the truth: The day was uneventful, and he hasn’t yet met the client. “Ms Kincaid told me I probably never would, to be honest.”

“How the fuck does that even work?” Johanna asks. “Did he just ring in one day and go ‘Yeah, I need an errand boy to come ’round for a few hours and do what I refuse to do with my own two hands’?”

“I have no idea,” Hob replies with a laugh.

And he doesn’t. He’s new to this; he’d only applied at Helping Hands on a whim. A lark, truly. Hob couldn’t say where he even heard of the agency, but he had decided to throw in an application along with the seventy others he’d filled out. It’s a sad state of affairs when even retail won’t hire a willing applicant.

But Unity had taken a chance on a twenty-year-old with only handyman work on his CV. She’d warned him she was unwillingly, reluctantly throwing him to the wolves: “Everyone else I have has been dismissed by this particular client.”

Hob was–is–confident in his abilities to keep this job. He doesn’t scare easily, and he’s been told he is quite the charmer.

By the time the pub closes down for the night, Hob has spent four hours drinking and chatting with Johanna and Rachel. He goes with a woman named Claudia to her flat and doesn’t leave until half-six, when she kicks him out so she can get ready to go to class. They don’t bother exchanging numbers; they both know what the tryst was. It was merely a way to pass the time and satisfy needs, and nothing more.

Hob has to admit, as he’s walking back to his own rundown studio, he kind of misses the structure of a class schedule. He’d failed due to lack of attendance. Working two jobs made it impossible to have any time for something so trivial as schooling. There’s a small part of him that regrets not trying harder, not asking his parents for any sort of assistance. They would have helped without hesitation, but his pride had gotten in the way.

He wanted to be self-made, to make them proud of how hard he worked to reach the top.

He’ll never make it. He’s not naïve enough to actually think he will. But it’s a pleasant enough dream.

The manor is silent as it was the day before when Hob arrives. He locks the door behind him, just like the list of rules told him to, and checks his email for the day’s tasks. First up is sorting the post that waits in the box at the end of the walkway. He isn’t entirely sure what’s ‘important’, but he sets aside anything that looks like it may be junk. He leaves the legitimate post in the basket by the front door then turns to his next task: Cleaning.

Hob isn’t necessarily an untidy man. He keeps a clean enough home, he thinks. But here in this mansion, he feels as if he is the most unkempt human being on the planet. The only dust that lingers is the barest coating that he hadn’t wiped away yesterday. Everything has its place and is in said place. He can see no signs of life. Might as well be a mausoleum. He wonders if the client is even still alive, or if they’re actually dead and their estate is merely paying for the upkeep.

“Don’t be daft,” he chides himself as he gathers up the supplies. “Of course they’re still alive. The estate wouldn’t pay for groceries just for them to go to waste.”

Would they?

Hob quickly falls into a routine. He wakes in the morning and showers, feeds the neighbour’s cat while fighting to avoid the claws that swipe at him (one would think Shakespeare would warm up to Hob after five months of this, but no. The feeling is mutual, if Hob’s honest), then heads off to the mansion. It’s easy work, really, and he finds himself bored more often than not.

Two weeks in finds him saying “Fuck it” and baking a—quite frankly—absurd amount of brownies in the kitchen. He’s almost surprised that the client has so much cookware; then he remembers—recluse. He doesn’t get delivery. Wondering what the client makes for themself, Hob washes the dishes he uses and puts them away where he found them.

He leaves half of them in the refrigerator and takes the other half home. Johanna appreciates them, eating six in one sitting. Rachel refuses them, but Hob sees her sneaking a few into her bag before she exits his flat.

The brownies are gone from the refrigerator when he shows up for work the next day. All of them.

The job is as he thought—simple and straightforward. Unity emails on Friday evenings for a recap of his week, and his replies seem to assure her that there are no problems. And why would there be? He never sees the client, so there is no clash of personalities. There have been no complaints about how he cleans or his singing as he goes from room to room tidying up what doesn’t need tidied.

By the end of the first month, Hob can afford to get a new car on lease. He’s almost sad to say goodbye to the hunk of junk he’s called a vehicle for twelve years, but the new one more than makes up for it. It has air-con and heated front seats and windows that actually roll up and down as they’re meant to. He feels like a lottery winner as he drives back to his flat in the powder-blue sedan.

Hob finally learns the client’s name a week into the second month. Morpheus. There is no surname given, and Johanna doesn’t seem bothered by that. Hob doesn’t ask how she found out who his employer is, though he desperately wants to. There’s something about the way she can ferret out information that enthralls him; she always refuses to tell, so he’s learnt to stop asking. Rachel has promised to tell him one day, but Hob has no hope of that actually happening. She’s too loyal to her girlfriend of four years.

Hob should feel weird, uncomfortable, about the fact his two best friends are seven years older than he is. Neither Jo nor Rachel seem to mind that he’s only twenty, though. They treat him like the adult he is, though he can live without all the teasing Johanna does. He loves her as if she were his sister, and it’s all done in love, but damn, she can get mean without intending to. Product of her upbringing, he figures. He’s met her parents once. They weren’t exactly the loving, nurturing type.

It’s a wonder she came out as personable as she is.

He leaves the pub that night with a man named John and is unceremoniously shown the door immediately after. Hob doesn’t mind; the sex wasn’t that great anyway. The September night air steals his breath away as he waits for the ride-share to arrive. He shivers slightly at the cool breeze, tugging his jumper more tightly around him, and curses himself for not wearing his leather jacket like he planned. But Jo always takes the piss out of him for it, says it looks like he’s trying too hard to be a badass. Hob only cares that it’s warm.

Finally, he arrives home at half-three. He makes sure to rate the driver for not getting into an accident on the way or chatting the entire time. Hob’s head hurts now, and incessant conversation would have made it worse. He tosses his keys into the bowl on the table by the door, toes off his trainers, and stumbles toward the couch. Making it to his bed isn’t on the agenda for the night.

He falls asleep almost instantly.

Unfortunately, he only has ten minutes the next morning before he has to leave for work. Not showering is not an option, so he does so in icy water. The water’s just begun warming up by the time he steps out of the shower stall. Cursing under his breath, he speeds through getting dressed and brushing out the tangles in his hair. He’s meant to get it cut for the last two months, but something always stops him. He frowns at his reflection and tells himself to set an appointment as soon as possible.

Hob taps in the tablet’s PIN a mere minute before the hour changes over. Unity had made a big deal about him being on time. He hadn’t known in the beginning that the tablet keeps record of when he unlocks it, but he’d found out quick when she called him up to ask why he was late:

“We try to not make our clients wait.”

In his defence, Hob has never even met this Morpheus fellow. He is honestly beginning to doubt he ever will.

The mansion feels more like a mausoleum with every passing day. There is hardly ever anything to really do: An hour every couple of days is spent cleaning, dusting, and generally tidying rooms that don’t appear to have ever been stepped into. More often than not, though, he wastes away the time by lounging on a couch in the most exquisite study he’s ever seen, reading books he never would have gotten his hands on otherwise. Being a poor uni student doesn’t exactly lend itself to a lavish lifestyle. Hob finds himself jealous of this man he’ll never see.

Wealth, privilege, and access to such fantastic reading material… Hob wonders if Morpheus knows just how damn lucky he is. If Hob had this life, he would never take it for granted.

He certainly wouldn’t have to juggle his studies and his job. He’d be able to forgo one or the other, anyway. Perhaps he wouldn’t. He does like gaining knowledge, and he does enjoy working. At the very least, he likes making money.

Thankfully, Unity assures him that the client knows of his schedule and is willing to work around it, except for days on which there are appointments. Those days, Hob is expected to skip class long enough to do as his job requires. It isn’t much of a sacrifice, really, Hob thinks. It’s only one measly class, and he can easily make up for the time lost.

So it goes. August has faded into September which melts into October. Three months without a single sighting of his boss, and a balance in his bank account that he can actually be proud of. Hob decides to take his parents and siblings out for dinner—and doesn’t even sweat when his dad orders a whisky and his mum two glasses of wine. Hob even splurges on dessert for everyone. They have to share, but it’s an extra expense nonetheless.

He makes a mistake at work. It’s a simple one, inconsequential, though he still must fix it: He does the shopping as he’s meant to, but he forgets to pick up the medication refills on his way back to the mansion. He doesn’t realise it until he finishes putting the eggs in the refrigerator and reaches for the pill-keeper.

The bag with the bottles isn’t on the counter like it should be, so Hob bustles out of the house. The quicker he retrieves the medications, the less likely it is that Unity will find out about his lapse in memory. He doesn’t think she or Morpheus would fire him, especially not since he’s rectifying the mistake, but Hob doesn’t want to take chances.

He makes it to the pharmacy and back in less than an hour. It’s a record, he thinks, considering the massive queue he’d had to wait in. But it’s over now. He can fill the pill-keeper then go home to… do nothing, really. Hob is pathetic enough to have no plans on a Friday. Even Johanna has plans, and she’s the type to stay home because she dislikes people so much.

He opens the little box for Tuesday and reaches for the anti-anxiety pills. The hair on the back of his neck rises, skin prickling, and Hob freezes. Is he going to die? Has someone broken into the manor and he just hadn’t heard? It wouldn’t be that much of a surprise, not with how cavernous the house is.

He fists the orange bottle—he could probably use the pills as a diversion by throwing them in the intruder’s face before rushing them, if it comes to it—before turning around. There in the doorway stands a pale-skinned figure. Wide grey-blue eyes stare back at Hob from under a shock of raven hair. The man’s lips part on a quiet, shuddering gasp, then he’s gone from view. Hob listens to the pattering thud of footsteps on the steps before a door upstairs slams.

Hob isn’t entirely sure, but he thinks he just got his first look at the elusive Morpheus.

He takes his time organising the tablets and putting them in the pill-keeper. If he moves any quicker, he will make a mistake. Morpheus may be a grown adult who can double-check his medications before taking them, but that doesn’t mean Hob should be careless. It would be just his luck that he’ll lose his job over it and never get a better look at the client.

Don't be stupid. He warns himself that it’s a poor reason to want to do his job properly. He should want to do it for the sake of doing it. That has to be good enough.

Once he’s finished, Hob puts the keeper away and unlocks the electronic tablet. He taps the square on the to-do list, waits until the checkmark fills the box, then sets the device aside. There is nothing else to do, so he heads toward the door. He’s just grabbed his keys from the hook when he glances up the stairs.

He wonders what Morpheus does all day, why he hides himself away so much. Surely whatever the reason is can’t be that bad, can it?

Shaking his head, Hob steps out onto the covered veranda and locks the door behind him. There’s no point in speculating on something he will never learn. It’s best to just forget his ruminations and that he’s ever seen Morpheus.

Unfortunately for him, Hob can’t let it go. The memory haunts him for weeks. He dreams about seeing Morpheus for those few seconds. He can’t stop wondering if it’ll happen again. Hob is… He’s almost desperate for another look. He likes what he saw. It wasn’t much—even he can admit that—but it was enough to catch his attention. The eyes… It’s the startling grey-blue of Morpheus’s eyes that Hob sees most in his dreams. They held such depth, and Hob wants to drown in them.

He sighs and reminds himself he’s never talked to the bloke. Hell, he’s barely even seen him. It’s absurd to be so hung up on someone he will never know.

I’m sorry for startling you a few weeks ago.

There. Simple, to the point, and professional. Hob sticks the note to the fridge with a handprint magnet before heading off to hide in the study. He’s made it through the entire collected works of Poe and started on Lovecraft. He has studiously avoided Shakespeare (he still has nightmares of having to perform Romeo and Juliet in year nine, and he really detests his neighbour’s cat), but his to-read pile is growing steadily larger the more he spends time in Morpheus’s study.

Thankfully, he hasn’t been found out, judging by the fact he hasn’t been reprimanded by Morpheus or Unity. So Hob continues to push his luck by rushing through his tasks then slipping through the doors of the study, sitting behind the mahogany desk, and sloughing through the stack of books he’d set aside.

He stops by the shops on his way home to purchase a small square notebook and a pack of pens.

Over the next two weeks, Hob leaves notes pinned to the refrigerator door: wishes for Morpheus to have a good day, ramblings about the weather and the latest news (he isn’t sure if Morpheus even watches the news; Hob hates doing so. It’s always so disheartening). He writes about his days. Once, he even apologises for the enormous aloe plant dying. He thought he’d been taking care of it, but evidently not.

He’s putting away groceries on the second day of the third week of leaving the notes, when he hears footsteps behind him. He tenses, hesitates, then turns. No one is there, but on the counter is a folded piece of paper. His head tilts, and Hob frowns. Had it been there before now, or did Morpheus leave it within the last minute?

Hob shrugs and crosses the kitchen to pluck up the paper. In the same spidery letters as on the grocery lists are the words Thank you for your hard work. At the bottom, Morpheus has written Do not worry about the aloe plant. It was an unwelcome gift from a sibling. I should thank you for killing it.

It’s so stupid that Hob beams and tucks the paper into his pocket. He knows the note means nothing, but it’s something.

Hob goes home with a stronger desire to actually meet this Morpheus, to see his face once more.

He writes even more notes. These are more personal, having been struck with the urge to let this elusive man know about him. It makes no sense—Hob doesn’t know this man, but maybe that’s the problem. Maybe Hob can’t handle the unknown. No, he can’t. He knows that. He likes figuring out everything that life has to offer. His may not be glamorous, but it’s his, and that’s all that really matters. Why shouldn’t he know all there is to know about it?

Dream tells him little in return, though it doesn’t discourage Hob at all. He merely continues writing notes; if he’s become a perfectionist about his handwriting over the last month and a half, no one needs to know. No one needs to know that he spends over an hour rewriting the notes until the words are perfect, letters evenly spaced and legible.

Before Hob knows it, Christmas is on the horizon. He can hardly believe it’s been almost four months since he first began working for Helping Hands and, by association, Morpheus. As he sits in the study a week before Christmas, he finds himself unable to focus on the book in front of him. Does Morpheus have someone coming to visit, or will he spend the holidays alone?

The very idea that Morpheus would be by himself on Christmas is absolutely depressing.

But there’s really nothing Hob can do. It isn’t like he could spend the holidays with Morpheus, though the thought is enticing.

I hope you have a wonderful Christmas. See you in the new year. Hob pins the note to the refrigerator before leaving the house two days before Christmas. Snow swirls around him as he steps out onto the veranda, and he tugs his coat more closely around him before starting the trek to his car. The heating system kicks on as soon as he starts the engine, though it blows icy air for a few minutes. He grimaces and shivers until the air turns warm.

For some inexplicable reason, he glances through the windscreen toward the house. The upstairs window, more specifically. A figure stands there, peering around the curtains. The man’s skin is pale, and the black his hair blends into the shadows behind him. Even through the distance, Hob can see the way his eyes are narrowed.

He raises a hand and waves at Morpheus. Morpheus lets the curtains drop into place.

He spends Christmas at his parents’ and New Year’s with Johanna, Rachel, and a few of Rachel’s artsy friends. Hob knows he doesn’t belong amongst these people—they’re all older, more sophisticated, more educated—but Jo wouldn’t let him leave even if he tried. So he grits his teeth and tolerates the silent judgement.

He also gets very, very intoxicated.

Thankfully, the new year brings a sense of calm. Hob goes to his classes once they start up again, and he goes to work. He falls into the routine easily and rather enjoys it. Unity compliments his work ethic—and the fact he’s gone four months without a single complaint from ‘the client’. Hob is only thankful it’s a phone call and not an in-person meeting; having his boss watch him preen at the praise would be devastatingly mortifying.

The new year also brings an enormous rise in his courage. Hob leaves another note on the refrigerator: May I see you? If Morpheus says no, then it isn’t surprising, nor would it be disappointing. If he says yes… Oh, but then it’ll be a dream come true for Hob. He wonders if it would be anything like his fantasies, where Morpheus would realise Hob is a decent bloke if a bit young, and they’d strike up an unlikely friendship. Maybe Hob would find out why Morpheus stays locked away.

It’s two weeks into the year when the doctor comes. Hob lets her in and sits in the plush chair in the foyer to wait for her to finish. The hour ticks by slowly; he wishes he’d brought a book, but it’s too late to sneak into the study now. He should have paid better attention to the time, since he knew this appointment had been scheduled for today. Thankfully, before he decides to start counting the wavy lines in the marble floor, the doctor descends the stairs and heads for the door. Her trainers squeak on the floor with each step.

“He will have a new prescription to pick up tomorrow,” she says briskly as she passes Hob. “Do remember to collect it.”

“I always do.”

She gives a succinct nod then vanishes out into the freezing January air. Hob watches her get into her car then drive away, before locking the door. When he turns around, he runs a hand through his hair and gazes around the foyer. Something catches his attention, and he nearly shrieks. Thankfully, he clamps his teeth together in time, though he can’t stop the muffled shout.

There, at the top of the staircase, stands Morpheus. He blinks placidly down at Hob, but something in his expression doesn’t ring true. Hob recognises it, has felt it often enough: Morpheus is nervous about something.

“Oh. Hello.”

“Hello.”

Hob suppresses a shiver at the rich, low timbre of Morpheus’s voice. “I, er, wasn’t expecting to see you?”

“I suppose not.” Morpheus squares his shoulders, adjusts the front of his silken black robe. “I have… appreciated your work these past few months.”

“I’ve enjoyed doing it.”

“And your messages.”

“Ah. Those. They’re nothing, really.”

Morpheus frowns, gaze dropping to the floor. “I do not believe that,” he finally says. “They mean something to me.”

“Oh.”

And isn’t that something. Hob tucks his hands into his pockets and very nearly scuffs the toe of his trainer against the floor. He doesn’t, purely out of willpower, but he certainly feels like a child caught unawares.

“Have you enjoyed my study?”

At this, Hob’s head snaps up, and he stares at Morpheus with wide eyes. He knows? Of course he does, Hob’s brain whispers. It’s his house. Why wouldn’t he know what goes on in it? But then, why hasn’t he said anything?

“I—I’m sorry. I know I probably don’t have any right to go in there, I certainly don’t have permission, but—”

“I don’t mind, Mister…?”

“Gadling. Hob.”

Morpheus’s eyes narrow, and he slowly descends the staircase. “And how old are you, Hob Gadling?”

“Twenty, sir. Why?”

“There is no reason beyond curiosity, don’t worry.” Morpheus comes to a stop on the bottom step and scrutinises Hob more closely. Hob barely manages to not shiver beneath the intensity of the stare. “May I ask why you wished to see me?”

“Curiosity, really.”

Hob mentally curses at himself for the answer. Morpheus isn’t some specimen on display, meant only for people to gawk at as if he’s an oddity of some kind. No, he’s a human being with what Hob can only imagine is a good reason to stay away from humanity. Hob is such an idiot.

But… Morpheus is smiling. It’s barely an upward curve of his lips, but it’s a smile nonetheless. “Would you like a cup of tea, Hob Gadling?”

“Of—of course, sir.”

The man turns out to be nothing like Hob imagined but so much more. He carries himself as royalty would, though his fingers tremble as he holds his mug. His words falter on occasion, and he frowns more than Hob thinks is normal. His grey-blue eyes rarely meet Hob’s. He may seem unbothered, imperial, but there’s something beneath the surface that says otherwise.

The pair discusses books that Hob has read, his opinions and philosophies. They talk about Hob’s dislike for Shakespeare, both playwright and cat. Morpheus listens as Hob tells him stories of his childhood he never relayed before.

The hours slip away from them. By the time Hob realises what time it is, he was meant to go home nearly two hours ago. His tea has long gone cold, and he hurriedly swallows the dregs before rising to his feet. Morpheus’s lips turn down in the corners as he gazes at Hob. Hob gives an awkward shrug.

“Sorry, I just—I have to go. I have schoolwork I haven’t done yet.”

“Of course. Have a good night, Hob.”

“Thanks, sir. You, too. And… Thanks for talking to me.”

As Hob exits the kitchen, he thinks he hears, “Thank you for seeing me.” He wants to turn back, to confirm that Morpheus actually said it, but he wasn’t lying. He has too many essays to write and worksheets to fill out. So he clocks out on the tablet and heads to his car.

No one stands in the upstairs window to watch him leave.

Morpheus is waiting for Hob when he returns to the mansion with the medication the next day. Hob hides his surprise; he’d assumed it was a one-time thing, seeing Morpheus. Today’s conversation occurs while Hob puts the pills in the keeper. Hob thinks it should be awkward, doing his job with his boss at the island counter behind him, but it’s easy. It’s easy to let the words flow, more stories of his youth and his family.

Morpheus swallows up the tales eagerly. It’s almost as if he desires to hear about wild escapades and siblings and—

Does Morpheus even have siblings? Hob aches to ask, but it’s outside the realm of professional. Then again, so is chatting with Morpheus like they’re even friends.

Who cares about professionalism when you’ve finally got the chance to talk to the man? Hob cares, so he bites his tongue to stop the questions. He doesn’t ask after Morpheus’s family, he doesn’t ask about Morpheus’s life. He only tells Morpheus what he wants to hear and lets the enquiries fester in the back of his mind.

So it goes. Each day Morpheus is waiting, and each day, Hob has more memories to recall. He tells Morpheus of the time he and Johanna were arrested for public intoxication despite the fact they were only walking to the next street to get to Rachel’s SUV. Of course, the arrest probably had something to do with Jo getting into a physical altercation with a man who was pestering a woman just trying to go about her way. Hob was merely a victim of circumstance, and he paid the price for his best friend’s chivalry.

It isn’t until the week of Valentine’s Day, three weeks later, that Hob finally acknowledges what he’d been trying to deny since he first spoke with Morpheus: Hob is absolutely, undeniably falling for the enigmatic man. There is still so much he doesn’t know about Morpheus, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He yearns to spend more time with the man and to actually hear about Morpheus, though he knows it will never happen. Morpheus is too much a mystery, with too many closely-guarded secrets that Hob will never know. He wants to hear Morpheus’s laugh and know his hopes. Hob doesn’t even care if Morpheus ever tells him why he stays hidden away. He just… wants Morpheus.

He’s woken too often in the night, aching to phone Morpheus or to hold his hand as if they are sweethearts in primary. He dreams of what it might be like to kiss Morpheus, even with the knowledge that it would most likely not be like his dreams. It’s worth the loneliness, Hob thinks when he wakes after a night of imagining far more than filthy kisses with his boss. He at least has enough respect to not stroke himself to completion on the mornings after those dreams.

He only takes cold showers and wills his libido—and desires—to calm.

Everything comes to a head, as is wont to do. Morpheus and Hob sit in the study, both reading to themselves but occasionally reciting passages to share with one another. Hob rises to his feet and makes his way to the shelf that contains the collection he’d read a week ago, the poem that says what he wishes he could say in his own words.

“‘I crave your mouth’,” he begins, ignoring Morpheus’s sharp inhale, “‘your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day. I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps’.”

Morpheus closes his book and sits back in his chair. His voice is rough, low, when he says Hob’s name. Hob closes his eyes against the shiver racing down his spine and waits for Morpheus’s next words. Instead, he gets footsteps padding across the room, a soft, cool hand against his cheek.

“You know not what you say.”

“I know enough.” Hob finally meets Morpheus’s gaze. “I dream of you. Nearly every night, you haunt me. I… I don’t know how else to tell you that…”

“That what, Hob Gadling?”

“That you’re what I want.”

Morpheus’s fingers cradle Hob’s chin, then his grip tightens until Hob clumsily rises to his feet. They’re the same height, but Hob feels so much smaller. He shudders when he sees the heat in Morpheus’s eyes, the want in the bow of his mouth. Then that damned mouth is on Hob’s, and the world explodes around him.

With a low groan, Hob presses closer only to be forcibly turned to walk backwards toward the door. The two part only to stumble up the stairs together. Hob registers that they’re tumbling through the door to one of the forbidden rooms, but he gives less of a damn than he thought he would. He’s no longer curious about what lies inside—at least, not at the moment. That’s liable to change the instant Morpheus isn’t causing his blood to boil with nothing more than a tight grip and fervent kisses.

Morpheus wastes little time in steering Hob toward the bed; the two men fall to the mattress in a tangle of limbs. Hob whimpers into the kiss when Morpheus nips at his lower lip. HIs cock twitches in the confines of his jeans, and he wonders if this is how he will die—in the throes of desire and need while his boss (fuck, his boss) devours him whole.

“Are you sure?” he pants as soon as Morpheus pulls back for a breath.

“More than you could know” is the response given on a harsh rasp.

Hob shifts, slides his thigh between Morpheus’s, and drags the older man down for another kiss. This one is just as graceless and filthy and begging for so much. Promising even more. Hob will not leave this house until he’s given Morpheus all he will take. He has been called greedy dozens of times in his life, but this? This is one area he refuses to be selfish in.

So like a teenager, Morpheus ruts against Hob’s thigh, his hands locked in Hob’s hair, and he gasps when one of Hob’s hands slides along his back to dip under the band of his pyjama bottoms. There’s nothing underneath. Hob groans against Morpheus’s mouth and lays his hand flat against Morpheus’s arse, pulling him even closer.

“Fuck, love,” he nearly whines when Morpheus gives a rough tug of his hair.

Morpheus lifts his hips long enough for Hob to slip a hand between them; his cock is hard, leaking, by the time Hob wraps his fingers around the length. He rests his weight on his elbows, fucking into the circle of Hob’s fist as he buries his face against Hob’s throat. He lets out a long keening sound as his hips move faster, and Hob stretches his arm further to press a finger against Morpheus’s hole.

Morpheus comes without warning, with a cry of Hob’s name.

“I—I’m sorry,” he mutters moments later, though he doesn’t move from where he’s sprawled atop Hob. “I…”

“It’s okay. Not a problem at all. I’m taking it as a fucking compliment, thank you very much.”

Hob releases Morpheus’s softening cock and pulls his hand away. Morpheus lifts his head in time to see Hob licking his fingers clean. The whimper he lets out would force Hob into orgasm were he to have been focusing on himself at all. As it is, he wants nothing more than to continue pleasing Morpheus. His own pleasure can wait.

Except it can’t, judging by the fact that Morpheus is sliding gracefully along Hob’s body. He glances up through thick lashes as his hands make quick work of unbuttoning Hob’s jeans; Hob barely gets his hips lifted before Morpheus is tugging down his jeans and boxers. His hand presses to Hob’s stomach, fingernails scratching lightly, then he takes Hob into his mouth in one smooth move.

“Fuck!”

Morpheus hums around Hob’s cock, and Hob has to clap a hand over his mouth before he shouts again. There is no one else here, no one else around, but it feels taboo to bring attention to what he’s doing right now. With his boss, no less. Maybe that’s what makes it feel so right despite being so wrong. He moans when Morpheus slides a hand between his thighs. Presses against his hole before slipping just the tip of his finger inside.

Just before Hob can leap over the edge, Morpheus pulls away and stares through the dimness at Hob. “Roll over.”

And who is Hob to argue with that voice, the one that brooks no argument? He does as commanded, yelping when Morpheus's hands tug on his hips. Morpheus nips at the curve of his arse before whispering an order for Hob to place a pillow beneath him. The cool silk of the pillowcase feels wonderful against his overheated skin, and he melts into the chill. Of course that’s when he loses all sense of anything but the press of Morpheus’s tongue against his hole, thumbs holding Hob’s arsecheeks apart. The heat of his breath ghosting along Hob’s flesh, the sparks lighting up along his spine.

Hob has never, never, never been on the receiving end of this, though he’s given plenty of times before. He never imagined it could feel so great. Perhaps, he’d thought, his former lovers had been merely attempting to make him feel as if he was better in bed than reality. He whines and moans and clutches at the bedsheets as Morpheus’s tongue mercilessly fucks into him.

It takes two strokes of a cool hand on his cock before Hob is spilling a release all over Morpheus’s fist, the pillow, and the bedsheets beneath him.

He collapses to the mattress as Morpheus runs a soothing hand down his flank. “Shit, love, I think you’ve done it. I think you’ve killed me.”

“You exaggerate.”

“Well, I can guarantee you’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

“And I’ve not even fucked you properly yet.”

Hob’s cock gives a valiant twitch, and he groans at the words. That’s all he can think about now. How it would feel to have Morpheus fuck him as roughly as he had with his tongue. How amazing it would be to be filled with Morpheus’s cock for as long as he can. He aches for the stretch. He is, as an ex-boyfriend claimed, a slut for a good cock, and Morpheus? Well, he’s got the best one Hob has ever seen.

They lie there together for the next hour, silent and still save for Morpheus’s index finger running up and down Hob’s spine. Hob, for his part, is struggling to keep his hands to himself. He doesn’t want to push before Morpheus is ready; it’s taken months to get to this point in the first place. He’d hate to ruin it by being selfish and demanding.

In the end, it isn’t Hob who demands. It’s Morpheus who leaves burning kisses across Hob’s shoulders. It’s Morpheus who reaches toward the bedside table and extracts a tube of lubricant. He bites down where Hob’s neck meets his shoulder, grinning against the skin when Hob lets out a sharp cry. It hurts, and God, does Hob love it. He wants more. Probably more than Morpheus will give him. Definitely more than is appropriate.

Five minutes of meticulous prep later, Morpheus helps Hob roll onto his back before pushing into him with a tenderness that is at odds with the throbbing in the bite mark left behind. Morpheus gazes down at Hob steadily; the gentle glow of the moon casts stars in his blue eyes, and Hob reaches up with one hand to tug him down for a kiss. It’s softer now, more tame. They share breaths for a long moment before Hob nods once. He’s ready.

He needs it.

He yearns for it.

He craves it, and it hasn't even truly begun.

His legs tighten around Morpheus’s waist, pull him in with each thrust, and Morpheus exhales slowly—unsteadily—as he shoves his hips forward. With a soft sigh, Hob lets his head fall back to the mattress, and he closes his eyes. Morpheus’s cock drags along his prostate, and Hob knows he won’t last. Not with as much as he wants this.

Morpheus moves slowly, a tantalising pace that is just enough to keep Hob on the edge. Hob moans and scrabbles to cling to Morpheus. His fingernails find a hold in the pale skin, and Hob bites down on his bottom lip when Morpheus lets out a bitten-off gasp. His hips move faster, though still too slow, and Hob could cry with it.

Pleas spill from his lips—a litany of babbled desire that hardly makes sense even to himself—and Morpheus leans down to kiss away the words. Hob’s hands slide along the warm body until they press to sharp shoulderblades. One hand continues, cupping the back of Morpheus’s neck, and a burst of hot breath gusts along Hob’s cheek. The laugh goes ignored.

Hob was right, he thinks when Morpheus pulls back, straightens his spine, and fucks into him with a rough thrust. Hob will never find anyone to make him feel like this. Morpheus has ruined him. Sex is good and all, but it’s different with Morpheus. It could be everything, if Hob lets it.

He wants to let it.

He curses when Morpheus wraps fingers around his cock, stroking in time with each thrust that rocks his body; the crooked grin Morpheus sends him brings a boil to Hob’s blood. He groans and bears down on Morpheus’s dick; he’s never cared much one way or the other, but now… Now he wants to feel Morpheus filling him up.

He isn’t disappointed. Not even seconds after he comes across his own belly, he feels the hot spurts of Morpheus’s release. Another splatter of cum drips from the head of his cock at the sensation.

“You, love, are a dream come true,” Hob murmurs shakily before dragging Morpheus down for a kiss, disregarding the mess between them as Morpheus rests over him.

“You are more than I imagined,” Morpheus whispers against his lips.

Hob huffs out a laugh at that. If anyone is more, it’s Morpheus. Morpheus has proven himself better than Hob’s fantasies. He’s starred in many a dream, but none of them have come close to reality. This… This is something Hob will remember for the rest of his life.

He remembers to clock out on time, but then Morpheus drags him back up to the bedroom.

Hob doesn’t leave Morpheus’s bed until near dawn the next morning. He drives home in the grey dark of early morning, aching and devastatingly satisfied. His mind replays the night, the hours spent in Morpheus’s bed, the touches and kisses that lit his nerves anew. He gets home, locks the door behind him, and falls facefirst onto his couch.

He falls asleep to the memory of being full of both cock and love.

A woman stands just outside Morpheus’s front door when Hob climbs out of his car only hours later. She takes a step forward into the weak February sunlight, and he eyes the envelope in her hands. Her wire-rimmed glasses glint golden in the sun; on her face is a severe yet unreadable expression. Hob feels much like a chastised child with no clue what he’s done.

“Mister Gadling, I presume?”

Hob nods then clears his throat. “Yeah. What’s, er, what’s going on?

“Mister Emrys no longer requires your services. Consider this your severance. If you would please return to your vehicle and leave, it would be appreciated.”

Hob gapes but doesn’t take the envelope she holds out. What? Morpheus… Morpheus doesn’t want Hob around? Hob can’t make heads nor tails of the situation. Everything had been fine—had been great—when he’d left. He can still feel the aftermath of everything they had done. But now he’s being unceremoniously evicted from the property for a reason he can’t find.

“Sir?”

He finally pinches the edge of the envelope with two shaking fingers and turns away from the woman. There is no point in arguing, he knows it. She looks like the type of woman to phone the police if the situation calls for it, and Hob refusing to leave Morpheus’s home is definitely a situation that warrants a police presence.

He’d had plans for today, damn it. He wanted to read more with Morpheus, he wanted to—let’s face it, he thinks. He wanted to make love with Morpheus, be the one to push into him so carefully and make sure Morpheus could feel the depths of Hob’s feelings. A month of constant talking, months of notes passed back and forth, and one perfect night is all Hob gets from this ordeal.

He glances through the windscreen. Morpheus stands at the upstairs window. Hob wants to get out of his car. He wants to storm inside and shake Morpheus until he gives answers, until he explains what the fuck is going through his head.

Morpheus lets the curtains drop into place, and Hob feels his heart stutter. Collapse into nothingness.

He manages to drive home and get inside before the tears win the fight. Hob throws the envelope onto the counter before stumbling to his bedroom. He sits on the edge of his bed, head in hands, and lets himself feel all the pain he’d hoped to never feel again. He thought it was bad when he broke it off with Eleanor because he knew he couldn’t handle a long-distance relationship, but this… This might actually be worse.

Jo finds him later that night in the New Inn, already six beers and two shots of whisky in. She takes one look at his face, orders another round, and drops onto the stool beside him. They drink in silence; she doesn’t want to hear his problems, and he doesn’t want to talk about them.

The next morning, he doesn’t remember how he got home.

He phones the Helping Hands office and quits.

He spends the next week looking for a new job during the day and his nights at the New Inn, drinking until he forgets even his own name. Unity sends one final email congratulating him on such hard work, promising a recommendation should he need it for his next job, and apologising for how abruptly his employment with the agency ended: You were such a wonderful employee, and I know the client appreciated all you did for him. Yeah, Hob thinks, Morpheus appreciated it so much, he fucked me and ditched me. The pain starts all over again.

His mum is less than pleased that he lost his employment at Helping Hands—“You worked so hard and did so well, what happened?” His dad only tells him to keep his chin up—“You’ll find something, lad.” Nothing will compare to the job he had. He loved working as what amounted to little more than an errand boy. Even before he ever started writing notes to Morpheus, Hob enjoyed what he did. It was easy work, and it was nice to not have anyone pestering him to work harder. What happened with Morpheus was only a bonus, even though it turned out to be one helluva beautiful mistake.

It takes another two weeks (and asking his parents for rent money), but Hob finally manages to get a job as a courier for a solicitor’s office. He still drinks every night, but Johanna only joins him less than half the time. After the fifth night in a row of destroying their livers, she’d snapped at him without remorse.

“You’re a grown man, Gadling. Either deal with the shit that happened, whatever it is, or keep drinking yourself into a hole. But don’t expect to drag me down with you.”

Rachel perches on the stool next to him one evening, nearly two months after his night with Morpheus. She asks for a martini then crosses her arms on the bar-top. He ignores her and finishes his beer, gesturing for another.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” she starts, rolling her eyes when Hob interrupts her with a derisive snort. She continues without acknowledging the interruption further, “I don’t know what happened, but I’m here if you need to talk.”

“Nothing to talk about,” he snaps.

“Yes, because that was so believable.” Rachel sighs and accepts her drink with a smile at the bartender. When he moves on to the next patron, she takes a sip before setting the glass down. “Have you not noticed that nobody wants to be around you when you’re like this?”

The words hit Hob like a punch to the gut. He squeezes his eyes closed, but the tear slips free anyway. Rachel murmurs low in her throat and tugs on his hand. He stumbles after her to the corridor leading to the toilets. Her arms wrap around his neck, and he lets her pull him into a tight embrace. She doesn’t shush him, doesn’t say a word except ‘That’s it, sweets, let it out’ as he cries. He should feel pathetic, sobbing like this in his best friend’s arms so long after he got his heart broken, but he knows Rachel would never judge him.

Not even Johanna would.

Hob finally manages to blubber out the story of what happened, of how he stupidly fell in love with his boss, slept with said boss, and was pushed aside as if none of it mattered at all. Rachel’s grip tightens, and her voice shakes as she tells him everything will be okay.

“You just need some time, and I need to find this prick and—”

“And nothing, Rache.” Hob pulls back and wipes at his eyes with his palms. “He showed me what I meant to him, and… I can’t change it. I can only accept it. You kicking his arse won’t do a damn bit of good.”

“It’ll make me feel better. And it might even cheer you up.”

“Doubt it, but thanks.”

Rachel sighs and brushes away a stray tear with her fingertips. “Look, Hobsie. No matter what he made you believe with this shit, you deserve better. Okay? So forget him. Stop drinking so much, focus on your schooling and job, and everything will work out. I promise.” Hob only nods in response. She smiles and laces their fingers together. “Good, now let’s go finish our drinks and go home. Jo won’t mind if you stay at ours tonight.”

Jo doesn’t mind at all. However, she makes Hob swear that he’ll make pancakes and waffles in the morning. He does so willingly.

His studio flat is a mess when Hob walks in the next day. Dishes clutter up the countertops, and mugs and empty beer bottles spread across the coffee table. He sighs and heads to the kitchen. He might as well follow Rachel’s advice to get his life in order, starting with this bullshit.

By the time he finishes clearing out the rubbish, scrubbing filth from plates and forks, and washing three loads of laundry, the sun has begun to set, and he actually feels better. Less like he’s on the verge of falling apart, as if one wrong move will shatter him. He finds himself thinking of Morpheus without the agony from before. It’s a dull ache, the ghost of want that has plagued him since After. He finishes sorting through all the post he’s let collect in a pile on the counter, frowning when he sees an envelope with a blank face.

Hob tosses the junk mail into the bin before sliding his finger under the flap. Inside is a cheque and a folded sheet of paper. He doesn’t recognise the handwriting on the cheque, but he remembers now. He recalls the woman handing him this very envelope: Consider this your severance. Hob sets the envelope and cheque on the counter, clenches one hand into a fist, and squeezes his eyes closed at the wave crashing over him. He’d somehow forgotten, in all his drunken hours and time spent working and in school, exactly how that morning had gone. After a moment, he pulls out the folded paper.

The spidery handwriting forces open the rift in Hob’s chest, and he chokes on a broken sob even as he reads Morpheus’s words.

Hob, I am truly sorry for this. You do not deserve what I am about to do. You have been a tremendous help in more ways than you shall ever know. Your kindness has helped heal a wound that has been festering inside of me, eating away at the very heart of who I am. I will never be able to find the words to show my appreciation for all that you are, all that you have done for me and will do for this world. My sincerest apologies for hurting you the way that I am. Forgive me, though I have no hope of ever deserving that forgiveness.

I hope you have stopped dreaming of me. Much like your forgiveness, I am not worthy of it.

Yours, Morpheus

“What a load of shite,” Hob snarls though he can’t drag his gaze away from Yours. “Mine, are you? Mine? Then you better fucking prove it, you prick.”

Deciding that action is better than standing around shrieking curses at the unresponsive air, Hob storms out of the flat and down to his car. Yours. Yours. Yours. God, does he hope it’s true. He hopes it isn’t too late.

He hopes that Morpheus will forgive him should he be compelled to actually punch the man in the face.

A beat-up two-door sits in front of the house when Hob pulls up. He parks behind the compact, turning off the engine with a vicious twist of the key. Praying no one notices him, he stomps up to the front door and reaches for a key he no longer has. It’s an attempt borne of desperation, but he tries the knob anyway.

The door is unlocked.

Someone is going to get fired, he thinks even as he quietly slips inside. The foyer looks the same. Nothing has changed, and that alone hurts Hob’s heart. He’d hoped, before everything went to shit, that things would be different for Morpheus. That he’d make different decisions and do what he could to make himself happy.

Hob had hoped it would be him to make Morpheus happy.

He sneaks up the stairs on near-silent footsteps and stops just at the top. He remembers clearly which door is the one he seeks; he just needs to find the courage. Now that he’s here, confronted with his own stupid idea, Hob isn’t so sure he can follow through. What if Morpheus turns him away again?

“How did you get in here?”

Hob turns to see a young Black woman with a rainbow in her hair. She frowns and walks closer, closing the door to one of the guest rooms behind her. Hob swallows thickly and glances back at Morpheus’s door.

“You can’t be here, sir.”

“I’m not leaving without talking to Mor—Mister Emrys.”

“Leave, or I’ll phone the police.”

Hob closes his eyes at the quiet squeak of hinges. Rose’s gaze cuts to the space behind him, and he stifles a broken sob at the achingly familiar voice.

“It’s quite alright, Rose. I will handle this.”

Rose’s frown grows, but she takes a step back. “Of course, Mister Emrys. I’ll be in the study if you need me.”

As soon as she’s disappeared with one last dark look at Hob, he turns to Morpheus’s door. It’s still open, but the man has retreated further into the room. Hob glances at the staircase, though Rose doesn’t reappear, before slipping inside the bedroom. He closes the door behind him and blinks in the sunlight that pours in through the window.

“That was a shit thing you did.”

Morpheus’s shoulders tense; he stares out at the garden as he says, “I did what I thought best.”

“Your thoughts fucking suck, then.”

“You do not understand,” Morpheus replies, though it comes out a plea.

“How could I?” Hob scoffs, throwing his hands into the air. “You’ve told me nothing. I don’t know whether you have siblings, what your dream job is, anything. Hell, I barely know your name! I literally just learnt your surname the morning after you fired me.”

“And that’s the way it should be. We should never have…”

“Yeah, well, it’s a bit late to take it back, isn’t it?”

Morpheus sighs, raises a hand to press his fingertips to the glass, and keeps his gaze on the world outside. “Would you, if you could?”

“No. Never.”

“You are young.”

Hob snorts, crosses his arms over his chest. “As if you’re some ancient being. You’re only a few years older than I am.”

“A few?” From where he stands, Hob can see the curve to Morpheus’s lips, though he knows it isn’t a kind smile. It’s wry, sharp. Cold. “Hob, I am fourteen years older than you are. There is a wealth of experience I have that you do not.”

Hob gapes for a second. Fourteen years? Shaking himself from his disbelief, Hob approaches slowly and comes to a stop at Morpheus’s side. Neither man looks at each other.

“I don’t care,” Hob finally says. “I enjoyed spending time with you. Being with you. Quite a lot, actually.”

“Though you know so little of me?”

“I like a mystery. Tell me, don’t tell me. It’s your choice. I won’t push. But no matter what, it won’t change my mind about you.”

Morpheus turns his head away, hand falling to his side once more. The drag of his fingertips on the glass causes a squeaking sound to break the silence. After a moment, Morpheus speaks.

“Then sit, Hob Gadling. Let me tell you a tale.”

Hob frowns but takes a seat on the edge of the bed. Morpheus still won’t turn around, and Hob aches to force the man to look at him. To see him, to know that Hob is here and not going anywhere. But he doesn’t. He only listens as Dream talks about growing up in a family with loveless parents who had no time for their seven children. The third oldest ran away at seventeen, and no one has heard from him since. They don’t even know if the brother is still alive after all this time.

“I haven’t spoken to my once-favourite sibling in nearly a decade. We had a massive fight. I hardly remember the cause now, but it is too late.”

“It’s never too late, love. You can—”

Morpheus continues, speaking over Hob with ease, “I met a woman eight years ago, beautiful and kind. Intelligent. We married within the year, and our son was born only ten months into our marriage. Our struggles only grew worse. The distance between us widened.”

Then, Morpheus says, tragedy struck. Their little boy, only four years old, died in a car accident in which Morpheus was driving. Morpheus and his wife could hardly stand the sight of each other after that. Their fighting grew harsher, more frequent. They spoke words they will never be able to take back. She left him three months after the funeral with an empty house and a heart full of blame.

“She has blamed me since. If I am being honest… I have blamed myself.”

“This whole time?”

“Losing a child is devastating enough. To be the cause of that loss, it is unforgivable.”

“It was an accident.”

“I was scolding him, Hob. My attention was no longer on the road, and the last thing I ever said to him were words of anger.” At this, Morpheus finally turns to Hob. His eyes are filled with tears, and some spill over. “Tell me, how does one move past that?”

And that’s a question too difficult to answer. Hob has no words. For once, he is utterly speechless. He can do nothing, say nothing, to assuage the guilt that still wracks Morpheus. He rises to his feet and moves to embrace Morpheus, but the man takes a large step back.

“It is my fault that my son died. It is my fault my marriage dissolved—no, imploded. There is nothing of me to care for.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Hob pleads. “Let me make my own damn choices.”

Morpheus grins that same cold grin. “And when we end in disaster? What then, Hob, would you feel? Would it be resentment towards me for taking so much of your time, your affections? Would it be the same hatred and blame that Calliope has carried in her heart for seven years?”

“Oh, Morpheus… It will always be love.”

Morpheus flinches bodily, shoulders coming up around his shoulders as if to guard himself against Hob’s words. His expression turns from defiant to wounded, to frightened.

“Leave.”

“You said you were mine,” Hob counters. “In that letter. You said you were mine, Morpheus. So fucking prove it.”

“I wish—”

“I know, I know. You wish me gone. But I wish you to know that I don’t give up on what’s mine. Now prove that you are mine as I am yours.”

“I know of no way to do so,” whispers Morpheus; his voice shatters in the glow of the sunlight spilling across his pale face.

Hob lets out a slow breath. “I do.” He cups Morpheus’s cheek and presses their foreheads together. They share breaths for a heartbeat, two, three. “Let me love you the way you deserve.”

“And if I cannot?”

“Then I’ll love you anyway until you can. I’ll love you enough for the both of us.”

Lacing their fingers together, Hob pulls Morpheus toward the bed. Morpheus goes willingly, lying down under Hob’s insistent hands, and Hob sighs in relief when Mropheus curls into the comfort of his arms once they’re both stretched across the mattress. Morpheus lets out a shuddering breath, and Hob stifles tears of his own as the man he loves falls apart. Sobs shake his entire body; Hob imagines he has nearly a decade of tears to shed, of remorse and agony to work through.

Eventually, long after Hob has stopped keeping track of time, Morpheus calms. His breathing evens out as he drifts off to sleep, his head on Hob’s chest. Hob presses a kiss to the crown of Morpheus’s head and makes a vow to always be there, every step of the way. Fourteen-year age difference be damned.

Hob can be what Morpheus needs.

#the sandman #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dream of the endless x hob gadling #dream x hob #dreamling #human!au #my writing #dreamling bingo

10 notes · View notes

myhotel-year · 9 months

Text

Tonights Movie- The Bear contd

this is a new genre of sitcom where instead of being comedy we put the characters in situations and watch them grow and be better people

like they just go through life and become BETTER PEOPLE GOD

Ted Lasso, Shrinking, now the Bear, i need more

and each character is so NUANCED but they LOVE each other

deep examining of social relationships using comedy and SADNESS through SITUATIONS

carmy's DRAWINGS

family catchphrase

ritchie has weaponized his ocd for good??

they really have gone from swigging beer and cigarettes to pepto-bismol and it reflects their passion and belief in the restaurant

uncle j really does care, he knows they want him for his money but he can't figure out how to show affection any other way so it works

NEIL FAK, RITCHIE, everyone underestimates them because of their anger and jerk-ness but actually they care SO MUCH IT HURTS

everything does come down to small moments of good! every time you try it matters!!! yeah you count toward the big moment but you also BUILD to it

wow this family is haunted my fire

i feel bad for all the the safety officers that were loved or hated for simply being the messenger bearer of bad news

i don't CARE what people think i really like the canon couples Carmy and Claire, and Syd and Marcus

if you have a home and a girlfriend i don't know how you'd ever leave. it would be too beautiful to leave even for a moment

why can't we put everything that we have into everything that we can?

WOW the cycles of parents and children

and how the PAST haunts the PRESENT through FOOD

also my boss was mean to me today and this feels like the breakup music of having an off day with your coworkers

Sug is such an interesting nickname for a nickname

god i love a good nickname for a nickname though

it shows LAYERS of history

welp, i guess in order to start my new restaurant on good terms i have to process all my trauma that i've never addressed. it wouldn't be up to code if i didn't

wow syd really dodges mom conversations and deflects SO WELL

like wow, carmy is so self centered. he really is, and i just believe syd could do better

the whole being dead thing!

aww they read books now

and wear suits

tina: chef 😌 check? 🥺🥱😜 check.

ok so fun fact my name is mikey, and this show does low key feel like a guilt trip of what my family would have been like if i did kms

i fucking hate hulu it would have been better to pirate this ffs

my dad doesn't pay to remove ads which is annoying, but it is interesting to see who sponsors what kind of show and analyze what that says about our society

ads: H&M, Lady Gaga with some kind of headache pill

HIV/AIDS medication?? with super weird side effects, idk if they're calling me gay or homophobic

the CYCLE of PARENTS and their CHILDREN

they specifically picked a color of wall for their restaurant to match Carmy's eyes. which is magnificent because Jeremy Allen White has amazing eyes

LET ME MAKE YOU SOMETHING what an expression of LOVE

EBRA

ok maybe fuck Claire

i love learning about all the best of the best of every field!! devil wears prada, um other movies

MARCUS 😭

ok lizards

HE FUCKIN SAID STREETS AHEAD WTF

ok brb i gotta google some shit

ok none of the same directors, but some same characters as nbc community interesting

also shameless vibes from jeremy allen white, you don't do a show for like 10 years without bringing some of it to your other shows, but it works! i like

i really need to know if my boss ever did anything like this when starting his restaurant

everything is so pretty

i don't think that man has ever used a screw driver

oh fuck

god i love sydney, she is so smart and kind

fuck why do her initials have to be SA tho man

HOW does carmen make a chef's apron hot

TINA AND HER KNIFE

since when were they religious

also how is sydney a partner of she's never a part of the weird family business meetings?? no shade but ritchie is also not a member of the family

there is no way this whole thing fit where that one tiny counter was before

also i have no mental concept of 3D space

i understand the chain of command much better but not the family tree at all

LMAO i also have a coworker named josh, love him but sometimes he is absentminded

MARCUS DESERVES BETTER

treatment in this moment, it's complicated

also who are the people just standing on the side?? thought they were waiters but doesn't seem like it?

FUCK CARMY WHAT HAPPENED TO THERAPY

but also, being trapped there and have everyone you've ever love say terrible things about you, stuff of nightmares man. my actual literal nightmares, stress dreams, and anxiety spirals.

cut to a Fox cop show ad

i didn't know you could advertise for alcohol on a streaming platform 🤨

love how they had a nice little sweet fulfilling arc for ever character and then just absolutely ripped the main character to shreds.

fuck now i' m so sad

this has been my live rambles of the bear

#the bear #the bear spoilers #suicide tw #mine #tonight's movie

2 notes · View notes

thickness-protection-program · 2 years

Note

Naruto head canons other than Naruto and Sasuke

As I've stated before, Gaara and Lee my beloveds

Hashirama and Madara, but they're the couple you don't hang out with for more than an hour bc they're both annoying and the relationship is low key toxic but it's none of your business

Kankuro and ino, bc I would love for them to create like sentient puppets that can fight and heal on their own

Choji, shikamaru, and temari in a throuple

Guy and kakashi, but everyone thinks that

OR Guy and Tsunade, both being obsessed with youthfulness so they'd go on wild adventures

Konan doesn't want a relationship she just wants to finger pop the women of every village and perfect her clitjutsu and I stan her for that

14 notes · View notes

caroldantops · 1 year

Note

If the Bellas are always low key fucking than that’s none of my business

no they fr canonically all fucked imo there’s some line in pp3 that convinced me of this and idr it I’ll have to go look later

4 notes · View notes

spottednoink · 1 year

Text

* SPOTTEDNOINK. are your tryin' to scare me or somethin' ?? cause you REALLY suck at it.

disclaimer : this is simply a writing blog for fun -- none of the characters from blade kitten belong to me !! But do show love and support to the creator , Space Capt. Steve

introduction : my name is moe ( she / her ) twenty - three. minors / personals do not interact, you will blocked. this blog ( selective / mutuals only / mid to low activity due to my ADHD ) features dark && mature themes : genocide, political corruption, assassination, guns, death, fire, suggestive themes, strong language, violence, etc.

fandom crossovers : I'm incredibly crossover friendly, especially when engaging with sonic the hedgehog and marvel fandoms. All other fandoms are also welcome to interact with me !!

portrayal : I will be sticking to the main canon of the skiffyverse while also inputting some of my own headcanons to fill in the blanks or expand upon canon material. If you want read the comics for yourself or even play the game, please refer to the links down below.

resources credit : pinned template credit. | icon border |

captain steve : patreon | youtube | comics | game website | steam collection

information : breaker key. K-55-95-58. BAL

A twenty-four year old Felion bounty hunter from the planet Midsun. Kit Ballard is one of the few survivors of her people’s near genocide at the hands of an ancient alien race known as the Darques. Having fled the ruins of her homeworld, Kit has wandered the systems and made a name for herself as one of the best Breakers (Bounty Hunter) in the business.

#blade kitten roleplay #blade kitten rp #sega rp #sonic 2022 rp #sonic the hedgehog rp #sonic roleplay #mcu roleplay #indie mcu rp #indie roleplay #marvel rp #cartoon network rp #adult swim rp #rick and morty rp

2 notes · View notes

paracosmspring · 8 months

Text

How to Make Your Own Author Being

You can create an author being or you can ask me to create it for you. If you are joining my patreon at the Paracosm Spring tier, then you can get an author being design for yourself as a reward. For those who want to create their own, here’s a step-by-step guide to create one that is “canon”.

What is your creative talent? The easiest author being types are writers and artists, but any creative talent can result in an author being. This is a requirement if you are specifically making an author being, but you can be creative. (For example, a person able to make creative solutions in a business is just as much an author being as a writer, even if they don’t have a paracosm)

You can give your talent a cool name too! Ell is considered a wordsmith.

Caveat: those with no creative talents are considered personas. Go to the “What’s your alias” section for more.

Examples: Bex: artist (Illustrator) and writer Ell: writer, poet, and storyteller

What’s your author power? From your talent, determine your power or powers. These are directly connected to your talent but they can be just as creative. A painter can brush landscapes or objects into life, a writer can speak something into existence, but perhaps an actor can become any persona they want just by acting it out?

They key is “creative” talents. Author being powers are most commonly used to bring things to life or alter things that exist. However, there’s nothing against an author who has to erase things before they can create.

Examples: Bex: drawing things into existence Ell: speaking things into existence An origami maker brings their creations to life

What’s your “world”? A lot of authors have original worlds, but a lot don’t. You don’t have to have your own dedicated world to be an author being. You can also have an alternate universe or a fan world. You can even just really like an already established one.

Out of character advice: If you decide to choose a world of another creator, keep in mind that your author being will not have absolute control over the world. They may not even be able to change things in that world at all. This can be used to create some really cool disadvantages to work around, like only being able to create things and not alter, or only able to alter the world within a bubble. This is why a lot of creators like having AUs.

Another option is to have no dedicated world. These authors travel junction and pop in and out of domains at their leisure. They are usually more aloof, but can be freer with their powers. Travelers can use some really wild styles of powers because of the sheer power of imagination. They may have a world and also like to travel as well.

Examples: Bex: Methy, Grior Ell: Rajin, Luumbelir

What’s your alias? Most author beings already have an original character or fan character they use. Creating an alias is the same as creating a self-insert persona. An alias allows an author being to go “undercover” in a domain.

Original Worlds: Most authors needn’t worry about an alias while in their own worlds, but it can be fun. You have total control over your world while in it, so you can use a high-profile alias or a low-profile one, or none at all!

Other Creator’s World: If you’re in another creator’s world, especially a famous one, creating a fan character is necessary. There are many ways to go about this and it depends on the domain and the author being’s tastes. Just keep in mind, this is YOU taking on a ROLE. Your author being is the superhero and the alias is the mild-mannered ego.

Some questions to think about:

How does your backstory fit into the plot without breaking it?

Are you an NPC? Or do you interact with the main cast?

If you interact with main characters, how is your alias involved?

Does your alias change canon? Does your alias exist in an AU only?

Does your alias belong to one “episode”? Or do they stay or an arc?

You don’t have to create a whole story behind your fan alias, unless you want to. If you already have a story, it’s pretty easy to establish where the alias ends and the author begins.

Travelers: If a traveler spends all his time in junction, they don’t need an alias. Most of the time they’ll only interact with other authors or characters who already know about author beings. However, if they travel to multiple domains, they’ll need multiple aliases. Thus, being a traveler is not for those who can’t keep track of them.

What is your alias’s form? This goes along with creating a character. If it’s a self-insert, what parts of yourself are you keeping? What parts are you changing?

Most of the time an alias will be humanoid. An author’s powers allow them to change their appearance to suit where they are (if they know how to). They can use this to alter their form to personal preferences or change aliases.

In worlds where only animals are characters, the world usually forces an author into an animal form. This usually follows the author’s personal preferences as well--they aren’t going to be turned into something they despise or are deathly afraid of. For example, if an author goes to a place where snakes are the only characters, and they are deathly afraid of snakes, they might be turned into a plausible animal or just back into their author form.

Examples: Bex stays in her alias form most of the time, but has other aliases (human in Legend of Zelda or Mass Effect, or winged unicorn for My Little Pony) Ell: changes depending on domain

What’s your alias’s powers? This is usually decided when you create a persona. Here are some questions to think about:

Do the author being powers present themselves in the alias? How do or do you not keep them secret?

How do your alias’s powers fit within the world?

Are your alias’s powers canon? Do they follow the rules?

How powerful is your alias?

It’s really anything goes, but the point is NOT to make a mary-sue. Powers can be one of the hardest things to come up with in a world. If you’re working with a fan-character, think of what is already present in the story and work within those confines. Creating a powerful character doesn’t have to be overpowerful—maybe they excel in one thing and it gives them an advantage.

Remember that all powers have their weaknesses or that they don’t always apply to every situation. If your character insists on using powers in every situation, it could cause problems. They might have to accept being a villain if they fireball everything in sight.

Examples: Bex: solar ririni magic, battle magic; weaknesses: no healing, Ell: Light ririni magic, healing

What’s your Author Being form? Here’s the fun part.

First off, decide if your author being form is different, similar, or the same as your alias. Then decide where the alias stops and the Author Being starts.

Do they use author powers and alias powers separately? Do they only use Author Being powers in private? What circumstances would break that rule for them?

Does a symbol appear on them as an author being? Or do they change their form completely?

Do they have a dedicated Author outfit?

Do they change personality traits? Use a different demeanor?

Are they animal or human in Author Being form? Both? Neither?

Hack: Think about their talents and powers and how that can be shown in their author form.

Example: Bex: her ririni form is her author form, but her human form wears a bandana and white duster

What’s your author weapon? Author weapons are specific to the type of Author Being they are. There is a dormant form and an awakened form.

In dormant form they take on an appearance of a tool or as a piece of jewelry. The weapon stays in dormant form if they are in their alias form, unless the author is actively using it.

The awakened form is an actual weapon. It is extremely personal to the author who uses it. It can be any weapon

Example: Bex: Bex has a shapeshifting rapier/sidesword Ell: Ell has a whip

Extras Transportation: Your author being doesn’t have to walk everywhere. Do they have a form of transportation? A trusty steed or cool vehicle? It can be world specific too—maybe they have a motorcycle for modern worlds, and a horse for premodern.

Items: Just like a roleplay character, they might have many tools that help them. Bags of holding are very common in fantasy worlds, and author beings love them! Fill them up!

Party/character companions: Do they have a pet or are they alone all the time? Do they change friend groups or have a dedicated party to adventure with?

#author being #authorbeing #how to #tutorial

1 note · View note

raphotograph33 · 1 year

Text

The Most Professional And Best Cameras For Interior Photography

I am sure you have seen some incredible pictures of beautiful interiors on different platforms and websites. What does it all take? A professional camera with all the desired settings.

Yes, a camera that suits your requirements is the best support for your business and if you are a practicing interior photography. And, being the best interior photographer, I feel it is my responsibility to help you by providing a list of my favorite cameras.

Note: Pricing is not the factor, but your skills surely are!

So, let's kick start our reading.

Why Do You Need The Best Cameras?

One of the oldest artistic disciplines is interior design, but it was exceedingly challenging to record these designs and subsequently display them to the public. However,Interior design photographers in Tampa also experienced a huge surge in popularity among consumers after the invention of the camera.

Everyone finds it simpler to record and display their works.

Still, I would say one thing, none of the cameras can get the best interior design shots if you are not serious about what you do.

Does It Mean Only Costly Cameras Are Effective?

No, it can never be the case!

Both yes and no can be the answer to the question.

Any camera you use shouldn't matter when it comes to composition, experimenting with light, ideas, and subjects since it's all up to you. High-end cameras produce photographs of superior quality. In other words, they are better at handling challenging lighting situations. Like the autofocus is better, low light performance may be rich, and can store more raw files captured.

Let's say, for example, I have a Canon 700D, which is an older model, and a Nikon D850 which are comparatively far expensive than my third camera, 700 D. I still use the 700D for wide-angle or landscape photography as I feel it would go closer to my expectations than others.

So, making a wise decision is very important, and you must consider all factors, not only the price.

Advantages Of Using Professional Cameras:

Producing higher-quality image files is the primary benefit of professional camera equipment.

More effective dynamic range performance

Better ISO results

Larger and better sensors

Greater resolution and a bigger sensor

Additional priority areas

In my opinion, dynamic range, ISO performance, and better resolution are three of the key benefits for landscape photographers. A professional camera has significantly superior ISO performance, which is crucial for night photography.

My List Of Best 3 Cameras For Interior Photography

Canon 5D Mark IV

The camera body for this full-frame sensor offers a 30.4MP resolution and a 32,000 ISO range. Additionally, it can record 4K videos, enabling you to shoot videos that will wow your audience.

One of the most distinctive features is the ability to capture Dual Pixel Raw photos. It enables what Canon refers to as "micro-adjustments." This implies that you can slightly alter the focus point after taking the picture.

The effect is small and does depend on the lens you're using. However, it is still a remarkable characteristic.

Nikon D850

With 46MP, this full-frame camera provides photographs with a higher resolution. The sensor itself, though, is this model's most intriguing selling point. The Nikon D850's sensor utilises innovative technology that improves light sensitivity at the sensor's edges. The quality of the peripheral vision is improved.

This translates to excellent interior photography in dim lighting, which is helpful when dealing with dimly lit home interiors! It features Wi-Fi and can produce 4K video for real estate purposes. However, you can only use Wi-Fi with Nikon's Bluetooth-enabled app.

Sony a7III

A full-frame mirrorless camera that competes with conventional full-frame DSLR versions is the Sony a7III. I advise using the Sony a7III instead of the a7 IIIR. There is a sizeable price difference without a decrease in quality.

The resolution, with the a7III delivering 24MP and the a7 IIIR having 42MP, is where there is the most noticeable difference.

Interior design photography is the most challenging of all the professional genres of commercial photography. Every detail is critical. Every prop must be correct and in just the right location. Things must be cleaned up and simplified. Lighting can be challenging.

My Take!

I hope I am able to convince you that only getting a professional camera won't make you a great photographer immediately. It won't initially have any effect at all.

Better pictures will be taken if you have a better understanding of photography, which you can't learn in a day; it takes time and effort to become a master of these techniques.

#Interior design photography

0 notes

gxldenflower · 3 years

Text

Nothing I’ve Ever Known (Zemo x Reader)

The biggest issue you’d come across was Sam and Bucky. They were the closest thing you had to family (besides Helmut) and they made it very clear that they still hated his guts.

You were incredibly conflicted. On one hand, it felt wrong to not share with them that you were dating Helmut. On the other, you knew that they would never see you in the same light again.

But, life went on. You met up and went on missions with Sam and Bucky, drank wine with Helmut late into the night, and did your best to keep the two worlds separate.

Warnings: Mild angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, swearing, alcohol, very very brief and minor allusions to sex, me throwing canon out the window Because Fanfiction

Word Count: 1,203

A/N: Based off of this request. I kinda took it in a different direction, but I hope you like it! But if I'm being totally honest, this oneshot is kind of a mess. There's a lot going on, but I like it (kinda). Anyway, I hope y'all enjoy the Zemo fluff!

Gender Neutral Reader

“You smile in your sleep sometimes.”

“Hm?” You turn from your back onto your side to face Helmut, whose eyes are still heavy from sleep.

“I’ve noticed that you smile while asleep,” he repeats quietly. You hum, lips turning upward.

“So you watch me sleep, then,” you ask Helmut playfully, rolling over so you lay on top of him, chest pressing against chest. His hand immediately comes to rest on the small of your back. He chuckles, and you can feel his chest vibrate.

“Sometimes,” he admits. “You’re a beauty that I doubt I’ll ever get used to.” Helmut’s compliment makes your face heat up, and you smile involuntarily.

“You’re just sweet-talking me to get me to stay in bed, aren’t you?” You ask him, still grinning.

“Possibly.”

***

You didn’t mean to fall for Helmut. Truly. It was supposed to be a one-and-done deal. As soon as you, Sam, and Bucky finished your mission, you’d part ways, never to see each other again. Until you started to bond with Helmut.

While Sam and Bucky left him to deal with other issues (they kept an eye on him, of course) you stayed in consistent contact with him. It was wrong, to casually get drinks with the man who broke up the Avengers, but you couldn’t help yourself.

You weren’t quite sure when you and Helmut became more than allies or friends. Sure, you had spent that night together, but you figured that it was just a one-time thing. Until it turned into multiple nights spent together in your tiny apartment that Helmut was always critiquing.

It was nice; what you had with Helmut. When you spent your days and nights with him, it felt like you were the only people on Earth. He treated you like royalty, offering lavish clothing, jewelry, and trips around the world to places you never even dreamed of visiting.

The biggest issue you’d come across was Sam and Bucky. They were the closest thing you had to family (besides Helmut) and they made it very clear that they still hated his guts.

You were incredibly conflicted. On one hand, it felt wrong to not share with them that you were dating Helmut. On the other, you knew that they would never see you in the same light again.

But, life went on. You met up and went on missions with Sam and Bucky, drank wine with Helmut late into the night, and did your best to keep the two worlds separate.

You were managing it well until Helmut made the mistake of leaving that damn coat behind after he’d left your apartment.

The coat was incredibly recognizable. When you first met Helmut you made a snide comment about how it made him look like a pimp. You still teased him about it once in a blue moon, just to rile him up.

Sam had come over one day to drop off some old SHIELD files that could possibly help you track down some ex-HYDRA agents. Everything had gone as it always had. You made small talk with him and talked about plans for the next mission. Until he looked behind you at your worn, leather couch, where Helmut’s coat lay.

Sam recognized it immediately. “You have Zemo over recently?” He asked you, voice low. You turned around to see what he was staring at. When you realized what it was, you felt your heart drop to the pit of your stomach.

“Um.” You don’t know what to say. You’re a terrible liar, and Sam would see right through whatever thinly veiled lie you came up with.

“We were discussing a mission,” you say uncertainly, and you internally cringe at your half-assed lie.

“Right,” Sam replies, 100% unconvinced.

“Look, Sam. I know it looks b-” He cuts you off before you get the chance to try and explain.

“I don’t care who you’re sleeping with or seeing,” Sam tells you honestly. You refuse to look him in the eye. “It’s none of my business, so we’ll just leave it at that.” You hadn’t expected such a calm answer. You’d thought that he would storm off, calling you a traitor. Maybe that’s what he was currently thinking, but was just doing his best to hide his real thoughts.

You nod, finally looking up at him. “Yeah, I’ll see you and Buck next week,” you tell him slowly.

Sam nods back, squeezing your shoulder before heading out your apartment’s front door.

***

Helmut arrived at your home later that night, just as he’d planned. He didn’t need to knock; you’d given him a spare house key a while back. Helmut was the only person besides you to have a key. Sam and Bucky didn’t even have one.

“My love?” Helmut calls out to you. You hear his heavy footsteps as he makes his way through your living room.

“In the kitchen,” you reply. You’d taken a seat atop your counter as you waited for a pot of water to boil. You wanted to make chicken alfredo for you and Helmut. While it was nowhere near the kinds of food you ate when you went out on dates that Helmut always paid for, you figured it would be acceptable enough to eat.

You place your phone down next to you as Helmut walks into your kitchen. “I missed you,” he confesses as he goes to stand in front of where you sit. You immediately wrap your arms around his neck, leaning down slightly so you can bury your face in the crook of his neck.

Helmut reciprocates the hug, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tightly.

“Sam saw your coat you left here earlier today,” you mumble into his skin. Helmut hums in response.

“I’m assuming that means he knows we’re together?” He says softly.

“Yeah,” you whisper to him. Helmut pulls back so he can look at you properly. He gently cups your face with one hand.

“Are you alright?” Helmut asks you.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s none of his business anyway,” you try and reassure him. Helmut hums in response, not quite believing you, but not wanting to push you to talk about it just yet.

You bury your face back into the crook of Helmut’s neck, breathing in the scent of his expensive cologne. “I love you,” you mumble to him.

“And I you,” Helmut responds. You could stay that way in Helmut’s arm forever, but you suddenly remember the pot of water that you had on the stove.

You glance over at it just as it starts to boil over.

“Shit!” You exclaim, quickly pulling yourself away from Helmut. You hop down from the counter and gently push him out of the way. You reach to turn off the stove carefully and move the pot onto a cool stovetop as Helmut watches, confused.

You turn to face him once the immediate crisis is resolved. “The water boiled over,” you say simply, pointing to the pot. Helmut nods, and the two of you stand in awkward silence for a moment.

“Do you wanna go out to eat?” You suggest, hoping he’d say yes because you no longer had it in you to cook something.

“That sounds lovely, darling.”

Zemo Taglist: @tkachuk-dubois

All of Marvel Taglist: @9zoria9 @kawaiiusagichansan @hawkmoony @romanoffbby @therookie @fl0ating (forgot that i had a marvel taglist lmao sorry y’all)

Add yourself to my taglist(s) here

#baron zemo #zemo #helmut zemo #zemo x reader #helmut zemo x reader #tfatws #marvel #tfatws x reader #tfatws imagine #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #zemo imagine #it's 1 am i should be in bed. but no. i'm here posting a fic #anyway go listen to nothing i've ever known by bryan adams #it slaps

402 notes · View notes

palbabor-writes · 3 years

Note

Headcanons for the type of ppl who would attract or be of interest to Satoru Gojo and Kento Nanami???? WHATS THEIR (personality) TYPE

ooh, yes. there’s so much to love about these two & i like analyzing them from a personality standpoint

warnings: none really, i tried not to spoil too much since the anime is just getting going

Gojo

I see him as someone who’d be attracted to those who are self-assured

That doestn’t mean you need to be brash, or outgoing, not that you can’t be those things, but we do see that he’s often very attuned & drawn to others who are a little quieter in their mannerisms in the manga: Getō, Megumi, Nanami. However, he also really likes being around louder characters like Yuji. So, I think as long as you give off an air of confidence and reliance, he’s gonna respect that

He’s also gonna look for that in a partner - gotta have some kinda foundation for him to notice & I think having an inner spark, or even a separate passion, is a great start

With that being said, I could see him having a difficult time being with someone who is not a jujutsu sorcerer

Namely because his own life is constantly on the line & he’s often away or busy with his own work

Chances are, curses are gonna know that you’re a weak spot & we’ve seen how manipulative and downright dirty some of them can get to achieve their goals

He’s likely not looking for a partner that he has to keep an eye on all the time

In fact, I can see that getting old, fast

Plus, he’s canonically stated that he doesn’t like those who are weak

So, sorry if you’re in the normie crowd

With a sorcerer, obviously you’re gonna be lesser than him, talent wise, but I think he’d also like to see growth and effort from you

I don’t see him being attracted to someone who settles

So even if you’re doing a sparing match and he’s completely got you on the back foot, don’t stop getting back up

I can totally see that piquing his interest because it shows that inner spark & if he’s gonna take down the higherup’s he needs people with that forward thinking determination

We’ve also seen that he likes people that push back: see - Getō

So, I don’t think he’d be bothered if the two of you have different opinions

However, he’s gonna want you to be able to hold your own in a debate

Speak your mind

Don’t just go along to get along

I do think he likes people that can keep him on his toes

He wouldn’t mind if you were someone who’s spontaneous

Just one day you’re like: Hey! We’re gonna do this! Come on! & refuse to take no for an answer

I think that’s a good way to keep his interest & keep things fresh

He likes the non-traditional things: so don’t think dinner dates, he’s fucking gonna take you along on this wild mission, or hey, found out there’s this cursed carnival, let’s GO

If he likes for you to be cuff of the moment, then you need to be able to put up with his own bursts of spontaneity, too - you have to at least tolerate his antics

However, don’t be clingy - we haven’t seen him dealing much with others like that & he’s been around independent people for most of his life

You need to be confident enough to be able do your own thing

He’s a busy guy: he can’t be on the phone with you all the time

But, I think he would like to be thought of

Let him know that there’s a spot for him in your life

By that I mean, even though you’re busy and have your own missions, you still might see something and pick it up for him

People expect soooo much from him & he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders

So for you to just say: Oh, found this & know you like it! Here you go!

Be it candy, flowers, whatever - I think he’ll be so fucking touched by that

I can see him returning that favor to you - he likes to bring souvenirs back to those he cares about

It’s nice to know that you’re loved, even if your schedules don’t allow you much time together

Nanami

I think what’s going to catch his eye is someone who encapsulates a mature and rational state of mind

Practicality and effort are gonna speak volumes, especially in the beginning

We’ve seen how he reacts to those who are over the top (cough: Gojo) and it’s not in a very positive way

Now, if you’re someone who is on the exuberant side, don’t give up hope!

Similiarly to Gojo, I think he can learn to accept and respect those outbursts, we’ve seen this from him, especially with Yuji or his partner Haibara

He has been shown to like bright and energetic people, but it’ll take a little more time to crack into his trust

If you’re more excitable you might face a more uphill battle, but if you want him, and honestly who wouldn’t, you just need to show him that you can be relied upon

Once you’ve cleared that, I can even see him liking that his partner has a different world view and a little bit more pep in their step

After all, I think he places a very high value on independence

He’s not gonna be the partner who immediately wants to move in with you, no matter how long, or how much he cares for you

No, he strikes me as the sort of guy who likes to know that he can lean on you & can go to you when he needs to, but he’s likely going to be very protective of his own space, and yours as well

Unlike Gojo, I do see Nanami being interested in a civilian and not just a sorcerer

He’s so big on comfort and just being able to kick back, he mentions that often when he’s discussing his future retirement and if you’re a laid back person, and not someone fully entrenched in the sorcerer world, I can totally see him looking twice at that

I think he’d like the normaliacy

After all, he’s one of the few sorcerers who have been in the “real world,” even though he was bored with his office job, I think there are still parts of that life that he values - hence why he dresses like a business boy

I feel like he’d like someone who can talk about low key things

It might seem like a simple conversation but I think he’d love chatting about the freaking news, or that new shop that just opened

OMG

Wait, WAIT

You immediately pass GO & collect the full $200 if you’re a baker & you snag his attentions

Like, dropping everything and haunting your bakery every free moment he has until you notice him

Yo. He is a foodie

If you’re a chill person who likes to restaurant hop, damn, you’re ticking boxes bb

OK. SORRY. Had to get that off my chest. BACK AT IT

He’s a cynical, realist - so I think he’d like to see someone who is encouraging and optimistic

If you’re easy going and can see the glass half-full, it’s likely a win-win for Nanami

His schedule varies, even when he tries to get off at 6 on the dot

So if he has to bail on plans, or things get moved, you need to be someone who’s understanding & can roll with the punches

But he’d also want someone who can set a routine and who plans things out

He’s big on rules and, let’s face it, he’s surrounded by incompetence

If you’re reliable and predictable, I feel that he’d really like that combination

It means he can let his guard down around you & for a jujutsu sorcerer that is HUGE

Again, don’t expect normal dates: I don’t see him being big on PDA, or the: let’s get a table for two with the candles bs

I’d see him really like making a meal with you, even if he’s tired

Restaurant dates would be fine, but I could see it being a more relaxed kinda thing: like two people who are hashing out the days gossip, not these long, drawn out, lovey topics

You’d likely look more like friends, than lovers

He is focused on money

So while he may not take you to cheap places, he strikes me as a bit of a penny pincher

Don’t expect hella fine dining every night of the week - as long as it’s got interesting food, he’s not gonna care much about the rest

He strikes me as an acts of service kinda guy

So anything you can do to help, be it big or small, I think he’ll appreciate you thinking of him

He’s a busy guy and it’s nice to have even the tiny things taken off of his list

Besides, the less he has to do, the more time you get to spend with each other

#asks #answered ask #pal muses #on jjk #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #nanami kento #kento nanami #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk headcanons #headcannons #the relationship asks #personality #relationship

172 notes · View notes

vee-double-u · 3 years

Text

"want some whipped cream with that?”

pairing: kei tsukishima x baker!reader smut

summary: tsukki makes a trip to his local bakery with a craving for his favourite strawberry shortcakes in town. he finds something else that’s sweet to satisfy his craving

or i saw strawberry shortcakes was one of tsukki’s favourite food in canon so i ran with it

word count: 2700

The light, sweet twinkling sound of a metal wind chime disrupted the silence of the cosy bakery as the front door swung open. A tall blonde figure entered and immediately seemed to take up a huge amount of space in the tiny cafe as the smell of freshly baked goods wafted through the air. It lingered in his nose and seemed to permeate through the welcoming environment around him, settling around the floral centrepieces and squashy armchairs that the blonde figure was very tempted to sink into and nap after the day he just had.

The owner of the bakery’s head poked around the corner of the staff-only doorway behind the counter.

“Ohhh I always knew you were illiterate Tsukki-san,” Y/N teased, motioning towards the ‘CLOSED’ sign on the door he had just barged through.

“That’s funny coming from a little pipsqueak who’s only good for baking,” Tsukishima replied quickly and his eyes glittered with mirth as he walked over to get a better look at the counter.

“No point in looking. It was pretty busy today so I’m fresh out of pretty much everything, including your beloved shortcake.”

Y/N leaned onto the counter, head coming to rest on her hands so she could peer at Tsukishima clearly. She was surprised to see how tired he looked when he was normally immaculately presented.

“Busy day at the museum?” she pried, feeling a pang of sympathy for him.

“The worst,” Tsukishima sighed. His glasses moved up as he pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “There were three separate school groups today and our usual tour guide called in sick so guess who was showing those snivelling brats around?”

Y/N assessed him before deciding to take pity on him.

“You know I’m actually baking to replace some of the product for tomorrow right now. If you’re willing to wait I could get started on the strawberry shortcake and have some ready for you in no time.”

“Oh... that’s fine-,” Tsukishima said, surprised by her offer. “I mean- if you want to-”

She waved her hands, interrupting him.

“Tell you what. How about I bake extra and you can take some home free of charge.”

“Only for my most loyal customer,” she added when he still looked unsure.

There was a shadow of a genuine smile on Tsukishima’s face before he responded.

“That would be great actually.”

Y/N motioned for him to follow her into the kitchen and tried to shake the uneasy feeling that was settling in her stomach. It was definitely odd to see him be genuine with her. Since he had first wandered into her store a few months ago it wasn’t often that they weren’t exchanging quick banter.

Maybe she had been a bit too forward in her offer to cook shortcakes, especially just for him and off the clock. Truthfully, since he had started showing up regularly she’d developed a little bit of a crush on him. It was a minor thing really. It was harmless fun to flirt with him over the coffee machine or fantasise about him on nights she couldn’t sleep.

Being alone with him in her cafe after hours was a whole new ballgame. She was already attracted to him and her nerves were being manifested into an electricity that pulsed through her body, putting her on edge.

This is purely professional Y/N reminded herself. I’m just keeping one of my regular customers happy.

She gestured around the kitchen as they entered.

“And here is where the magic happens.”

Tsukishima made himself comfortable, leaning on a bench as he watched her. She was pulling out ingredients and utensils to get started on the vanilla sponge. Noticing him staring at her, Y/N pulled a large tupperware from the fridge and handed it to the blonde with a knife.

“Make yourself useful and prepare the strawberries please.”

“Here I was thinking you were treating me, not putting me to work as your slave,” Tsukishima said as he lifted the lid and peered in.

“Just cut the greens off and chop ‘em up into quarters so I can get you something sweet quicker,” she added, as if he hadn’t said anything.

Tsukishima hummed in response and turned to the strawberries. There was something about the tone of his voice that made Y/N wonder if they both picked up on the unintentional double entendre. She swallowed and continued to ignore the growing unease in her stomach.

They fell into silence as they worked, which wasn’t actually as awkward as she had feared. Her body did feel warm- too warm at the close proximity to the object of many fantasies she’d dreamt up. It was lucky that she had done this recipe enough that she could do it with her eyes closed because the way his cologne lingered around her made it hard to concentrate. It didn’t help that she could feel Tsukishima’s eyes constantly looking over at her.

“I could give you the recipe you know,” Y/N finally laughed as he looked over at her for what felt like the hundredth time. “It’s not a secret or anything.”

Tsukishima shook his head and looked very serious as he contemplated her offer.

“No, I’ve tried lots of shortcakes before. It’s never the same as having someone else cook. And none of them have ever tasted like yours.”

Y/N looked down into the bowl she was mixing to try and hide the blush at the genuine compliment.

Tsukki being genuine multiple times in only a few minutes? Y/N thought to herself. That can’t be a good sign.

Y/N peeked a glance over at him, her eyes immediately being drawn to his lips and the way they closed around a strawberry, savouring the taste before it disappeared into his mouth.

Well actually Y/N changed her mind as she got lost in what else those lips could do. It could be a very good sign.

Y/N worked quickly and it wasn’t long before she got started on whipping the cream. Adding powdered sugar and vanilla extract in small doses, she would periodically stick her finger into the mixture bringing it up to her mouth for a taste test.

She paused when she felt his eyes on her again.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself while I slave away for you,” Tsukki complained.

“Sorry, did you want some?” she grinned as she reached a finger into the cream she was whipping and swiped up a small amount. She reached out to him and wiped her finger against his cheek, smearing the cream there.

“What-?!” Tsukishima let out a strangled cry of disapproval. He looked at her disbelievingly for a moment before smirking as he closed the distance between them. At his tall height, he towered over her and his eyes flashed dangerously before he spoke again.

“You’re going to pay for that, pipsqueak.”

His voice was low and husky and it made her shiver. He was so close now she could feel the heat from his body, she could count his individual eyelashes, could even count the freckles around his mouth. Subconsciously she leaned in to meet him, her lips parting..

Like a quick flash, Tsukishima’s hands moved quickly and suddenly there was a coolness sliding down the side of her face. Y/N raised her hand to her cheek and withdrew it when she found a dollop of cream there, one that was significantly larger than the one she’d just wiped on him.

“Tsuuuki,” she whined, pouting.

“You’re right, that wasn’t fair,” Tsukishima cooed sarcastically. “Let me fix that for you.”

One of his hands reached around into Y/N’s hair to hold her in place before he leaned in and ran his tongue along her cheek in a single swipe, licking up most of the cream there.

Y/N breath hitched and looked up to find him staring at her intently, waiting for her reaction. She ignored the thoughts that crept up that told her sleeping with one of her customers in her workplace was not a smart idea and grinned up at him.

“I think you missed a spot,” she pointed out hopefully.

Tsukki’s lips descended onto her jawline again, dragging his tongue down lower to her neck, seeking any leftover cream.

Always eager to get the upper hand on him and while he was occupied, her hand blindly felt behind her searching for the whipped cream bowl. Picking up some cream with her hand she turned back to Tsukishima, ready to strike.

Quicker on the uptake though, he quickly grabbed her wrist in a tight hold.

“This is for me?” he asked, bringing her pointed finger up into his mouth so he could suck on the digit. His eyes stayed trained on her as he did so, something brimming in the depths of them that was entirely sinful.

“Here, want a taste?” He offered her his whipped cream covered finger.

Y/N nodded quickly and bridged the gap between them, her mouth closing around his finger. She eagerly ensured she sucked up all the cream, working her lips and tongue slowly while she relished in imagining his finger was a different part of his body. When she looked up at him with wide eyes, her mouth still around his finger, Tsukishima let out a groan.

“C’mere, you tease,” he murmured. He loomed over her as she backed up until she hit the counter behind her.

Y/N used her hands on the bench behind to help with leaning upwards to meet Tsukishima’s lips. Kissing him felt different than anything she’d ever imagined. It was so much better. He was calculated and deliberate in his movements. Moving slowly against her lips while Y/N’s movements were desperate as she frantically clung to the front of his shirt and responded to the kiss.

Barely pulling away, Tsukki’s strong hands moved down her body before picking her up and sitting her on the bench behind her. Y/N’s legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him even closer.

Eventually he pulled away from the kiss, earning a needy whine from Y/N which made him click his tongue at her.

“Impatient are we?” he admonished.

Y/N ignored him and continued to kiss every inch of his skin she could reach. She was pressing her mouth on the tiny freckles she could see on his neck now they were this close.

“Ahhh..” he hummed in pleasure and moved his head to allow her easier access. He leaned over and pulled the bowl closer towards them.

“I just can’t seem to get enough of your shortcakes, you know.” He stuck his finger in the bowl to get some whipped cream again.

“You really want to talk about shortcakes right now?” Y/N complained as he pulled away and his soft skin was no longer near her mouth.

He rubbed it along her neck and moved in to drag his tongue against her again. Any more complaints died in her mouth as she stifled a moan over his wet tongue drawing circles across her skin.

“It’s just too sweet to resist,” he breathed, mouth still against her throat.”I can’t help myself.”

Her hands came up and tangled through his hair as she pressed herself against him, finding him hard and just as ready as herself.

Tsukki continued rubbing cream onto Y/N’s body and licking it up with his mouth while moving lower down. If Y/N had thought she was aching with lust before, this was nothing compared to the desperation she felt as he continued to tease her, his tongue moving from her collarbone to her cleavage. Her chest was heaving as fingers came to untie the apron and unbutton the shirt she had underneath, leaving her in just her bra.

He smeared whipped cream across her cleavage and slowly cleaned it away, savouring the sweetness. He carefully moved the bra aside so his mouth could work it’s magic on her hard nipples. Y/N moaned out his name and rutted her hips against him longing for any kind of friction - anything to just ease the tension that was going on inside her body. It seemed that no matter how much she whined though, Tsukishima continued his slow and methodical descent down her body. When she would attempt to reach for his own clothes, he would just smack her hands away.

When Tsukki finally passed over her belly button and reached her pants, she was leaning back for easier access. She helped him wiggle her pants off her legs, along with her underwear. The steel of the bench felt startlingly cool against her body, which was probably giving off enough heat to power an oven. His eyes were taking her in and she could see his pupils were so dilated they looked almost black. She understood that maddening lust though, with him standing over her, fully clothed, and her lying open - so wet and so ready for him. It made her feel incredibly vulnerable in a most delicious way.

He forced her legs to open wider so he could stand between her and she saw his eyes flicker towards the cream.

“Don’t even think about it,” she warned. “ You’ve wasted enough.”

Tsukki just smirked at her but acquiesced her request as he knelt down, leaving open mouthed kisses along her inner thighs. Her body felt like it was on fire from his constant teasing and when his tongue finally found her wet pussy she wanted to sob out of desperation from lack of release.

“Please, Tsukki,” she gasped out.

“Please what?”

“Please- please just let me cum.”

His pace was still agonisingly slow but he did move his mouth until he found her clit, teasing it with deliberate and controlled strokes of his tongue. He reached up with one hand and gripped her hand while his other hand joined his mouth, easing a finger inside of her before pumping it in and out. It didn’t take long for her to orgasm and she finally came undone crying out his name. He let her ride out her orgasm against his fingers, decreasing the tempo, before getting up so he could take her in.

“Look at you,” he murmured almost affectionately and she melted under his praise. “You make a much prettier picture like this than I ever could have imagined.”

Tsukishima unbuttoned his shirt before continuing.

“And oh, how long I have been imagining this.”

He slid his shirt off, revealing his sculpted body.

“How long I’ve imagined making you cum on my fingers.”

His fingers worked on his zipper now, pulling his pants off.

“Making you cum on my tongue.”

He pulled his dick out and gave himself a few strokes.

“On my cock.”

He rubbed himself against her slit, still maddeningly slow and calculated in his movements. Her nerves were still on fire and she cried out whenever she felt his dick brush against her clit or whenever he teased her entrance.

“Tsukki..” she panted.

“You ready, little one?”

“Tsukishima,” Y/N groaned. “Just fuck me already.”

He swore under his breath as he guided himself into her. Y/N winced internally at the sting of herself stretching to accommodate him. But it was only a slight pain that felt so good. The stretch felt delicious and Y/N wanted to make sure she would be reminded of this ache for days.

“Harder,” she moaned.

Tsukishima hips moved faster in order to set a tone that was absolutely punishing. He was brutally efficient as they both chased a high. Y/N was mewling wantonly and completely unrestrained from the aching lust he had built up but whenever he made a noise of pleasure it would reverberate through her entire core. It was truly a sight to behold whenever the often silent and always calculated Tsukki would allow the mask to slip in his lust. His hands grasped at her hips, gripping so tightly she felt she might bruise. She hoped she would.

He looked down at her and she knew he must see an absolute hot mess, mouth agape in a constant moan, frantically clutching at whatever part of his body she could reach, probably even still covered in dried whipped cream.

“I want to see you cum, okay?” Tsukishima ordered in a voice that was heavy with lust as he brought a finger down to rub her still too-sensitive clit.

It was all just too much and all she could do was whimper something she hoped sounded like agreement. She reached her second orgasm when his mouth found her neck, biting down gently on a sensitive spot near her shoulder. Crying out his name, her walls tightened and spasmed against him and it was only a few moments after that Tsukishima came undone too, cursing.

He came to rest against her, both their bodies sticky with sweat and pressed against each other. They stayed like that for a few moments, trying to catch their breath. Eventually Tsukishima spoke, breaking the silence.

“Does this mean I’m not getting that shortcake anymore?” he asked.

Y/N slapped his chest.

#haikyuu imagines #haikyuu imagine #haikyuu x reader #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima imagine #tsukishima smut #kei tsukishima x reader #kei tsukishima x y/n #kei tsukishima smut #kei tsukishima imagine #tsukki x reader #tsukki smut #tsukki imagine

270 notes · View notes