#ancient Security Issues

[windyengel]

WIP WEDNESDAY

Every bat has a cat.

There’s an old phrase in Gotham: every Bat has a Cat.

Like most things whispered through Gotham’s smog, it’s only mostly untrue. Technically, the only Bat who ever really had a Cat was Batman himself—and even that’s been more of a tug-of-war than a love story. Not for lack of effort on Catwoman’s part. She’s tried everything: seduction, threats, borderline kidnapping. At one point, she swore she’d adopt all of Batman’s kids just to spite him. She’s teamed up with the Birds of Prey—where a few of the Bat-daughters moonlight—and once even tried to snatch up Little Timothy Drake back when he was still Robin, dangling the offer of being her “pet stray.��� It didn’t take. Timmy was too invested in feathered spandex and daddy issues.

And then there was that… incident with Nightwing. But Gotham doesn’t talk about that. Gotham forgets. Gotham represses.

Still, the saying stuck around, mostly as a joke. A rite of passage, the locals would wink: “Once the birds become Bats, they’ll find their Cat.” Like puberty, but with more rooftop flirting and potential felony charges.

It was all fun and folklore—until it wasn’t.

No one really knows when the joke stopped being a joke. When the line between myth and prophecy started to blur. All anyone can remember is the night it finally got everyone’s attention.

It happened at the grand reopening of the Gotham Museum, debuting a new exhibit on Ancient Sumerian artifacts. Bruce Wayne showed up with two-thirds of his grim duckling trio—Tim and Damian in tuxedos, sulking appropriately (Jason, the other brooding duckling has refused to come, and everyone knew Duke and Dick to be too much of sunshine boys to be part of the brooding bunch). The opening night was invitation-only, with patrons shuffled between exhibits like a very wealthy cattle drive: first Sumerian, then Medieval, then an optional wine bar where the Chardonnay was too warm.

It was during one of these exhibit rotations that Tim saw it. A flicker. A whisper of motion at the corner of his eye. Something feline, something familiar, slipping back into the shadows of the Sumerian wing.

He didn’t hesitate. He turned to Bruce and Damian, voice clipped and sharp.

“Catwoman’s here.”

As soon as Tim muttered the alert, the Bat Family trio slipped into action with the kind of silent efficiency that only years of crimefighting, trauma bonding, and tactical group chats could provide.

Bruce gave a curt nod. “We’re changing. Now.”

It took them less than five minutes to disappear from the gala and reappear as the Bat, Red Robin, and the Robin—silent shadows in kevlar and purpose. They moved through back corridors, slipping past distracted security and tipsy patrons, until they reached the Sumerian exhibit once more.

Only this time, the lights were off.

Tim frowned behind his mask. “That's not ominous at all.”

“Should we announce ourselves?” Damian asked, already reaching for his sword.

“No,” Bruce answered curtly, gesturing for silence.

That’s when the voices drifted through the shadows. Muffled, conversational, and—oddly—playful.

“I dunno, Kitty,” a teen male voice said, exasperated but not particularly hurried. “Mama said not to overindulge, and we already got most of the artifacts we wanted.”

Tim blinked. Mama? Oh great. A new Cat-themed villain with actual parental boundaries.

“Sure,” replied a teen girl, voice bright with amusement. “But look at this diamond, Stray. Tell me it’s not gorgeous. Wouldn’t it look perfect in our collection?”

There was a dramatic sigh, the kind of sigh that implied someone had already lost this argument many times before.

“Mmhhmm... you know what? Fine. What’s one more diamond in the bag?”

That was their cue. The trio advanced, silent as breath, until they reached the edge of the display hall and got their first clear look at the culprits.

It… wasn’t Catwoman.

It was a girl, sure—dressed in what looked like a Catwoman suit, but styled after a tuxedo cat, complete with white accents at her gloves, boots and torso. Her partner, taller and broader, wore a sleeker suit—blacker than night and painted to his skin, save for white hands and feet—and had a calm posture that said yes, I do this a lot and no, I’m not impressed by any of you. Both wore green-tinted goggles that glowed faintly in the dark, and both had visible tufts of snow-white hair peeking from their hoods.

Tim stared. “Okay, so… not Catwoman.”

“No,” Bruce confirmed, grim.

Damian narrowed his eyes. “They are amateurs.”

“Amateurs who just stole a priceless diamond,” Tim muttered. “And called it ‘pretty.’”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “We move. Now.”

Batman dropped down in front of the display case like thunder in a cape, his shadow stretching long and ominous over the marble floor.

Red Robin and Robin flanked him a beat later, dramatic and ready—Tim in full tactical mode, Damian practically vibrating with the urge to stab something.

“Step away from the artifacts,” Batman growled.

The two teens froze mid-theft. The girl blinked behind her green goggles. The boy raised an unimpressed brow that none of them could see but everyone could feel.

“Oh no,” the girl deadpanned, dramatically clutching the diamond to her chest. “It’s the law.”

“Panic,” the boy muttered with a lazy smirk.

“You’re trespassing on federal property,” Batman continued, all gravel and menace. “Surrender. Now.”

“Hmm,” the girl—Kitty—tilted her head. “No thanks.”

“Yeah,” the boy—Stray, apparently—shrugged. “We’re kind of indoor ferals. Surrendering isn’t in the skill set.”

Tim lunged first. He was fast, calculated, and nearly caught her.

Nearly.

Kitty somersaulted backward over a Sumerian statue with all the grace of an Olympic gymnast raised by a jungle cat. She landed en pointe on the exhibit railing, wiggled her fingers in a “ta-ta” motion, and vanished into the shadows like smoke.

Damian growled and went after Stray. “I will neuter you.”

“Big words, Bird Boy,” Stray laughed, ducking and weaving as Damian’s staff sliced through empty air. “But you gotta catch me first.”

Batman threw a batarang—clean, perfect arc, museum-quality aim.

It bounced off the floor as Stray backflipped over it, landing in a low crouch. “Mama warned us about this. Rule number one: Don’t play fetch with the Bat, you aren't a dog, you are a cat and cats has stabdards.”

“Not that she has anything to talk about” answer Kitty, sitting over a display. “She is the first one who plays cat and mouse with him”

Tim leapt from above, a textbook ambush.

Kitty twisted in midair, caught his cape mid-descent, and used it to swing him into a wall.

“Ow,” Tim muttered from the floor, sprawled in an undignified tangle of limbs and regrets. “That’s—okay. That’s fair.”

“Gotta admit,” Kitty said, lightly jogging backward while juggling the diamond between her hands, “you guys are way more coordinated than the usual mall cops.”

“But you still can’t catch us,” Stray added cheerfully, cartwheeling away from Damian’s latest sword swipe and Batman batarang. “Seriously, has anyone ever told you three you try really hard?”

“They’re cute,” Kitty said with mock affection. “Like, ‘aw, they think they’re scary’ cute. Specially the little one, you think I can add him to my display? I always wanted a bird”

“I call dibs on the one who smells like coffee!!”

Batman’s eyes narrowed. “Who trained you?”

They shared a glance. Then, in perfect unison:

“Mama did.”

Robin skidded to a stop, scowling. “You mean Catwoman.”

Stay grinned, sharp and smug. “We call her Mama. You probably call her when you're lonely.”

“Ooooh,” Kitty winced. “He’s gonna stab you for that.”

“Let him try.”

Another dive. Another swipe. Another miss.

They danced around the trio like mischievous spirits in catsuits, leaping, tumbling, and disappearing behind columns and curtains, always just out of reach.

By the time security finally wandered in—late, confused, and holding tiny flashlights—the Sumerian wing looked like someone had hosted a parkour-themed wedding in it.

The only thing left of the mysterious teens?

A single calling card, perched atop the display case like a signature.

It was shaped like a white paw print.

Tim picked it up and read aloud, “From Mama’s kittens, with love.”

Damian scowled. “I hate cat rogues.”

Batman just stared at the shadows, his voice low. “She trained them.”

“Yeah,” Tim muttered, rubbing his sore shoulder. “And apparently, she trained them too well.”

[fibfoolingart]

the lords in black were summoned, but if the lakeside mall was a shorter walk than the high school

i was thinking ab how the lords’ “holding court in their form” seems influenced by being summoned in a high school, and what they might look like if they were summoned in the mall instead.

so instead of jocks and theatre nerds, we get: a mall goth, a food court employee, an unattended sticky child, a mall cop, and an ancient mall walker.

further explanation (semi pete’s pov) of what role they take and the kind of feelings they evoke below the cut:

pokey is a mall goth. but not the kind built on personal freedoms or anti-establishment grit. pokey feels like a mall goth curated by the algorithm, tiktok trends and a thousand-dollar amazon cart. his hair’s professionally dyed, his boots unscuffed. but that’s not really what you notice. it’s the presence he radiates, this quiet, sharpened confidence that only comes from belonging. you’ve never worn black lipstick, never cared for goth music, but still… something about him makes you wish you did. makes you wish you could walk beside him. his blue is familiar (not like richie’s warm teal, staining your fingers in a cramped bathroom) but in a painful way. it’s the blue of dart frogs and stovetop flames. of winter skies so empty and flat they feel like a threat. and when he looks at you, really looks, you’re not just alone. you’re individual. and it hurts.

nibbly is probably the happiest food court worker you’ve ever seen. or maybe he’s just grinning. a grin that stretches too wide, showing every tooth. too wide to be safe. nibbly’s the color of intestines, of pus-pocked acne, of grease shimmering over something bloody. his uniform might’ve started as the same highlighter pink behind every counter, but now it’s muted, aged by years (or eons) of absorbing grease. it almost looks like nibbly himself has been steeped in oil: hair clumped and sticky against his face, his shirt, your food. his visor is dull pink, his eyes cloaked in shadow. he holds a tray out to you. your hands twitch to take it. it feels like you’re supposed to relieve him of it. it’s your order. even if you didn’t place one. even if you don’t know what’s on it. you just… know. and somewhere deep in your stomach, you get the sinking feeling that it’s not the food he wants to eat.

wiggly is a paragon of snotty mall kids. sticky, unsupervised, and terrifyingly confident in the way only children who've never been punished can be. he’s also unmistakably green, crusted around his nose and mouth, fossilized under his fingernails, soaked into his shirt. and he hates you. not in the vague, bratty way. this is something deeper. something personal. every unattended kid in a mall dreams of crushing you like an ant. but when this kid looks at you, you understand that he can. he holds himself with more than reckless confidence. he’s not just sure no one will stop him. he’s sure you can’t.

blinky is a mall cop whose issues with authority transcend the stereotype. he doesn’t resent power, he needs it. he deserves it. He’s compensating for it, breathing down, your neck, keeping constant vigilance. you’ve seen him before. every mall has one. maybe it’s the flickering security cameras blinking orange in the corners. maybe it’s the static whisper of the walkie-talkie on his shoulder. maybe it’s just the way you feel watched before you’ve even walked inside. his sunglasses hide his eyes, but somehow you know. he’s looking at you. you haven’t done anything wrong. not really. but he knows. he knows what you would do. and he’s waiting for it.

tinky is still walking. he’s been walking since the fountain ran. maybe since the mall opened. maybe since before that. his tracksuit used to be tan. now it’s yellow, sickly, rusted, corroded by sweat and time. his skin, his hair, his eyes, everything about him is yellowing, wilting. creased with the dusty, moldy hue of things forgotten in the dark. his walk is slow. wheezing. bones grinding under paper-thin skin. but he doesn’t stop. he never stops. he laps the fountain, again and again. when he looks at you (eyes jaundiced yellow under the cloud of curdled milk cataracts) you feel it. not fear. not pity. recognition. you wonder if this is your future. if this is all that’s left for you. just the suit. the steps. the orbit.

but also their designs might still be the same bc the summoners are still high schoolers, and the lords are just mirroring them lol

[demon-at-peace]

DC + DP

Danny was supposed to be on the run from the GIW. Which he was, don't he didn't get him wrong, but he'd only had a few run ins with them, in Chicago, and NYC mainly. The foster care system was another issue. Somehow social workers were more competent than the GIW.

The first time he'd run in with them had been in Missuiri, accurate to the name it was miserable. He knew he had a baby face, he hadn't aged since he'd died after all. But was eighteen really such a stretch? he was sixteen after all!

Apparently it was, because they found the abandoned warehouse he was staying in and put him in foster care. He wasn't too happy about that. But he stayed, the Mathews were nice if a bit odd, but the GIW came to town and he ran.

They found him. So he ran again. Eventually he stopped staying stopped waiting for the ball to drop and just ran first chance he got. They started putting him in places for bad kids, places that had top notch security, still he ran. The foster system, infamously known as being terrible, kept finding him. They didn't put him in good homes, but they found him. He kept running.

Danny was done with it. Until he found Gotham, because their foster kid was practically nonexistent. It didn't really have other perks, but Danny didn't really have other options. So Gotham it was. The city was basically hell. Kinda, in reality it was just full of organized crime, violence, and death. A whole lot of death.

The dead roamed the streets, except they weren't ghosts. They were shades. Contrary to popular opinion they aren't the same.

Ghosts are their own being, an aspect of their past but not the full thing. Ghosts had moved on from their deaths. They were beings of the infinity realms. But shades are beings of the living realm. Because while they are dead, they linger, because they haven't accepted their deaths.

Danny knows he would have been a shade had he not been a halfa, he would have been watching waiting, for years. So he talks with them, to those who don't accept it, and they move on. Slowly losing the doubts from their life.

He talks and they help him in return. Shades after all understand humans, ghosts don't. They understand doubts and worries and pain. So they help him, they show him the cheapest stores. the crime free places. The best places to get free food, where to find shelter. The parts of the sewers where Grundy or Killer Croc don't roam.

So he learns, quick and fast, he knows Gotham in a way no one else does. The dead guide him. But the dead are not the only otherworldly inhabitants of Gotham. The city herself is ancient, a city spirit with so much power it's otherworldly. yet she smiles upon him.

He doesn't quite know why, he is young, weak in comparison, and yet when he asks she answers "You protect things, my city needs more defenders." He takes the duty with pride. He cannot be Phantom, but he's Danny. He's reckless perhaps, but he defends. He doesn't fail.

Ever.

Despite never failing, he gains attention. The protectors of Gotham notice him. The first time he meets them it's after a knife wound. He knows taking on the guy was dumb, but he wasn't about to let that girl get hurt. Or even worse r@ped,

He's taller, a red helmet and leather jacket. Just jazz's type. Danny meets his eyes evenly, he's dead. Partially, really it's been ages since he met someone who's contaminated. But he ignores it because they look at him with anger.

"What the fuck kid?" His tone is gruff, harsh grating, he clearly had a voice changer Danny notes. "Don't do that again, ever," the warning is ominous, Danny has no intention to listen.

so he vanishes, fleeing from Gotham's beloved knight and hiding. He feels guilty, that he's not listening. But he can't, because the shades are there. Begging him to help their home. So he does, he listens.

But he's not doing enough, he knows that. But he can't be phantom. he'll die. He doesn't want to die again. Not at the GIW's hands.

But Gotham needs him. So he fights harder. Night after night, he takes bullets, shuts down drug rings. He shuts down a trafficking ring and shows the meta kids how he can float. They giggle and laugh. It reminds him why it's worth it.

The second time he meets one of them it's a kid, Robin they call him, he's outnumbered, yet he's holding his own. Danny helps anyway. "Go away!" the kid demands, worry in his voice.

Danny doesn't care, he fights, and he takes them out. it's easy really, fighting. He's used to it, they don't even have guns tonight. The kid fights too, with worry in his eyes as he looks at Danny. Danny knows Robin doesn't want him in his city, but Danny can't leave. He won't.

Red Robin is next, blue eyes,and he moves like grace, Danny's hurt he knows, the shades muttering, scolding. He knows getting hurt makes stuff harder, he's such an idiot. And Red Robin reaches for him.

"Are you hurt?" he calls. He's judging him, Danny knows, telling him that he's weak. And he's right, so he runs. The shades guide him and he vanishes.

He meets Nightwing later that week, in the middle a taking down a drug ring, Danny fights, and he does too.

"Hey!" he calls. Danny runs, he's mad, Danny knows it's his fault for interfering, he didn't mean too. He did, he won't stop. He;s sorry.

Two days latter he is confronted by the bat, "Why are you here? Don't you have somewhere else?" he asks. Get out is what he's sayying, Danny can't there's no where else that's safe. Nowhere where he'll be okay.

So he runs.

---------

In case you didn't notice Danny's unreliable in this. So ha ha yeah the bats are trying to help and he's freaking out. So the bats perspective is coming up soon!

so kinda freaking out, so yesterday I felt bad, like puked and then just fainted, my roommate dragged me to bed, she thought I just fell asleep on the floor cause I've done that before. Am fine but thought I'd share?

also love ya'll! and I'm working on my Danny/Dick thing fingers crossed I'll be finished with part 4 soon!

Bye!

p2

[kashverse]

reading in the bathtub is an art. a refined, luxurious experience that not everyone can afford—because first, you need a bathtub. 

nanami knew this when he was investing in real estate. a house? non-negotiable. a bathtub? even more so. so, naturally, his bathroom is a haven. a scientifically optimized oasis. the water is at the perfect temperature, bubble bath carefully selected for its all-natural ingredients and sophisticated scent. a wooden tray stretches across the tub, holding a single lit candle (subtle, not overwhelming), a perfectly arranged plate of snacks, and a glass of wine—because real men drink wine. and while he lounges, perfectly balanced between relaxation and intellectual stimulation, he reads the american economic review or whatever riveting financial analysis he’s stumbled upon that day. nanami does not work overtime. because this is what he comes home to.

meanwhile, on the other side of the city, gojo is living the same dream. sort of. he saw a tiktok about this once. self-care. candles. a book. it all seemed very aesthetic. so, naturally, he has a copy of true literary genius—diary of a wimpy kid—in his hands. but gojo is not a silent reader. he is an orator, and the rubber ducks in front of him are his enraptured audience. his narration is passionate, animated, occasionally breaking off into dramatic reenactments. eventually, he gets bored of the actual text, so the book is unceremoniously shoved to the side, where half of it immediately gets submerged. whatever. duck storytime has begun. one of them is an undercover agent. another is hiding from their tragic past. the smallest duck, whom he has named "gregory," is framed for tax evasion. it is a gripping tale.

geto, on the other hand, approaches bath time with absolute precision. self-care isn’t just a routine. it’s a philosophy. he enters the bathroom with purpose, hair already secured in a perfectly executed, no-nonsense bun. his book of choice? the latest issue of vogue, which is not just being read—it is being annotated. entire pages are flagged with sticky notes, margins scribbled with commentary on new product lines, runway looks, places to visit, people to admire, things to buy. he is invested. if someone walked in, they might mistake this for serious academic research. in a way, it is.

meanwhile, toji does not have a bathtub. neither has he asked for one, nor have you asked for one, so he does not see the point. but this does not mean he is not a man of literature. he reads—specifically, your ninth-grade diary. in the shower. out loud. your innermost thoughts during your peak one direction era echo against the tiles as he smirks, flipping the pages with all the arrogance of someone who now holds ultimate leverage over you. he will never let you live this down.

choso, bless his heart, does not understand why people read in the bath, but he is fully committed to the concept. he brings a book in with full enthusiasm, and he will read it. even as his fingers wrinkle into pruned, soggy raisins. even when the pages begin to warp from the moisture. he is determined.

sukuna does not read. not because he can't—he just refuses. he will soak, though, reclining in the bath like some ancient king surveying his kingdom. you will read to him. because that is how it was done ‘in his time.’ and he sees no reason to change tradition. if you attempt to stop, he will nudge you with his foot until you resume. "keep going," he grumbles, eyes shut, thoroughly enjoying this outdated, borderline royal treatment. whatever. 

[astrotruther]

Astro Observations

lust without loyalty, passion without protection

Disclaimer: These are based on heteronormative dynamics where patriarchal influences may create toxic patterns. Astrology shows potentials, not certainties - growth can change outcomes.

🚩 HIS MOON/VENUS/MARS/JUNO/LILITH:

🌑 Moon in Capricorn / 10th house – Emotionally repressed. Loves control. Deep guilt around going against family expectations. Internalized classism. Can obsess silently over you without ever expressing true vulnerability.

🦂 Moon in Scorpio / 8th House / hard aspects to Pluto – Obsesses over partners, intensely emotional but fears exposure.

🪓 Moon square Saturn – Classic “my emotions scare me so I bury them under work / self-control” man. Craves emotional intimacy but sabotages it. Control issues with women.

🌊 Moon in 12th house – Hidden emotions, secret longings. He won't bring you home. You’re his little secret. Might think he’s protecting you, but it’s also about shame.

⚔️ Moon square / opposite Venus – Conflict between what he wants and what he feels safe with.

💔 Venus in Scorpio / 8th house – He loves intensity. Confuses possession with love. Likes women who are “hard to get” or emotionally deep, but wants to control them.

🌫 Venus square Neptune – Idealizes love, fears reality. Falls for women from different backgrounds because it feels poetic. But loses interest once it gets real. Can be delusional about relationships.

🧊 Venus opposite / square Saturn – Feels unworthy of love unless it comes with struggle. The guy who doesn’t introduce you to his family because “they won’t understand us.”

🏛 Venus in Capricorn – Relationships must meet external approval (family, status).

🕯 Venus in 12th house – Hidden romances, shame around love, secret partners. May keep seeing you secretly while married to the “socially acceptable” woman.

🔥 Mars in Taurus / Leo – Possessive. Gets turned on when he’s the provider. Likes traditional gender dynamics. Wants to feel like he “owns” you in some primal, ancient-man way.

🐺 Mars-Pluto aspects – Intense sexuality. Might not be expressive emotionally but will go feral in bed. Gets high off making you submit. Might confuse dominance with affection.

💰 Mars in 2nd house – Connects sexual desire with material security. Thinks “if I give you money / protect you / fight for you, that’s love.”

💍 Juno in Virgo / 6th house – Wants a woman who is “obedient,” useful, nurturing in quiet ways. May want a woman who supports him from the sidelines.

⚡️ Juno square Uranus – Doesn’t know what he wants. Terrified of commitment.

🏡 Juno in Cancer + hard aspects to Moon/Saturn/Pluto – Wants a home, but it’s controlled by guilt, power dynamics, or mommy issues. Marriage must please his family otherwise he might lash out in passive-aggressive ways.

🌾 Juno in Taurus – Values stability, but only if it aligns with tradition.

🖤 Lilith in 8th house / Scorpio – He’s turned on by taboo. Gets off on dominating a “forbidden” woman – could be due to class, race, reputation. Loves when you’re “bad,” but secretly resents you for it.

🌹 Lilith hard aspects to Venus – Sexual desires combined with shame may manifest as obsessive tendencies. Such aspects in synastry can be toxic as well — He wants you but blames you for making him feel “out of control.”

🏷 2nd / 10th house emphasis – He’s deeply tied to family reputation. Thinks in terms of wealth & status.

🪐 Saturn in 4th house– Controlling, traditional family. He fears being disowned and judged.

🧊 IC in Capricorn / Saturn conjunct IC – Pressure to meet family expectations. Even when he “rebels”, he still lives inside their value system.

🚩 SYNASTRY:

🩸 Your Moon falling in his 8th / 12th house – This man feels you deeply but can’t process it healthily. Could obsess over you but still ghost you.

💥 Your Mars in his 8th / your Venus in his 2nd or 4th = he wants to own you emotionally or physically.

🔥 Venus opposite / square Mars may manifest as power games.

📌 Venus square Juno – You want commitment but he may not be able to give it. E.g. a Juno in Libra woman wants a committed partnership, but a Venus in Capricorn man prioritizes status.

🚩 COMPOSITE CHART:

Lilith & Juno in the same sign (even without an exact conjunction) – Can suggest a long-lasting affair or emotional entanglement that, despite its intensity, never quite leads to marriage.

A Yod with Venus at the apex can indicate fated, intense connections that remain unfulfilled or complicated. If the base involves Saturn & Neptune, it can point to longing, disillusionment, or karmic delay. Pluto or the Moon at the base may add emotional obsession or deep attachment without resolution. Pluto’s involvement can turn deadly. E.g. Madhumita Shukla & Amarmani Tripathi.

Moon in Pisces / 12th / Scorpio / 8th – Obsession, secrecy, emotional avoidance. Hidden relationship or at least hidden feelings. A Scorpio Moon in the Composite Chart thrives in secrecy.

Venus opposite / square Saturn – The infamous “why can’t this relationship go anywhere” energy. You love each other but there are many blockages.

Donate 💌

[wispstalk]

ok u know what? Objectively correct ranking of skyrim's cities is coming out of the drafts. Listed from best to worst.

1. SOLITUDE: no one should be surprised by this. this is a list for real city lovers, and solitude has all the shit a city is supposed to have.

2. WHITERUN: same deal as above. palace is pretty sick but it's not perched on an enormous rock arch over a harbor, so points deducted.

3. MARKARTH: now we're venturing into controversy. If you don't like Markarth, you're a wimp. "wehh there's a demon house wehhhh I saw someone get murdered and had to slaughter my way out of prison" skill issue. I'm gawking at waterfalls and feats of ancient civil engineering, I'm eating delicious mystery meat at a food cart, I'm buying a badass dog, I'm ingratiating myself to the local crime family, I'm breaking into the temple so a drunk can crank off to a statue, I'm secure in the best-fortified city in the province. I am having a GREAT time in Markarth. Get on my level and by "my level" I mean six flights of stairs.

4. RIFTEN: Extremely cool layout and great location. Would be ranked higher if guys stopped fighting guards and random citizens to the death over a stolen candlestick. I figure after a while you just get used to that and stop caring.

5. WINDHELM: none of you rubes can appreciate architecture. Also, do YOU live somewhere that you can beat a racist's ass without the cops getting mad at you? Do tell

6. FALKREATH: it's fine.

7. MORTHAL: this is where you see the integrity of my infallible judgments, because personally I think Bog Is Best, but I have taken its small size and shit economy into consideration.

8. WINTERHOLD: in shambles, and probably super boring if you're not a wizard, but I could have a decent time poking around in dangerous condemned buildings and failing to impress Faralda.

9. DAWNSTAR: Awful climate, broke-ass museum, unimpressive port, Jarl is a dick, host to a murder cult torture hole, nightmare plague, miserable mine with child labor. Only redeeming feature is one guy and the nightmare plague is kinda his fault.

I was right about daedra-fucking and I'm right about this. Disagree with me in the tags at your peril

[starcurtain]

More Phaidei Fics I Want to Read (Part 2)

1. The outsider POV one where the other members of the Kremnoan Detachment notice Phainon's... attention toward their prince much more than Mydei himself does. The absolute audacity of this so-called "Deliverer"! That's not just the Detachment's ruler, that's their pride and joy! If some upstart foreigner thinks he's going to be allowed to make eyes at their prince as if Mydeimos were a war prize to be won, Phainon's got another thing coming, prophecy be damned. If it means protecting Mydei's honor, the Kremnoan Detachment can be, and certainly will be, Amphoreus' most immovable wall. Unfortunately for them... Phainon is an unstoppable force. (Or: The one where Phainon gets cockblocked by an entire army, and no one thinks to ask Mydei his opinion on the matter until he finally has to settle the issue himself.)

2. The very silly comedy one where Mydei suffers a string of embarrassing accidental deaths in Okhema that wound his pride much more than they wound his body. In fact, the person most upset by the whole thing is (predictably) Phainon. Determined to put a stop to Mydei's streak of terrible luck, Phainon insists on forming the official "Mydeimos Protection Squad." Member Count: 1.33. (Trianne is helping.) In Nikador's damn name... It's going to be hard enough to recover his reputation after it gets out that Mydei actually managed to drown in one of the baths--does Phainon really need to act like this about it? And since when does being on a "Protection Squad" require Phainon to move in with him???

3. Beauty and Beast meets Mydei's Howl's Moving Castle AU: Okhema is a prospering magical city ruled by its beautiful and charming demigoddesses Aglaea and Tribios; however, their otherwise peaceful paradise has been haunted in recent years by a ghostly specter: a mysterious floating fortress that periodically darkens the skies, an unknown threat looming overhead. Rumors begin to spread of a terrifying "god of war" in the castle, one that devours beautiful maidens and lads without a hint of remorse. Curious and determined to solve the mystery of this castle in the air, Tribbie goes to investigate--and gets herself in terrible trouble when she discovers the rumors are seemingly true: the castle is ruled by a monstrous-looking beast calling himself the "soul of strife." Sealed away for trespassing, the only thing Tribbie can do is send out a desperate call for help through her other selves. Rallied to his leader's aid, Phainon, swordmaster of Okhema, steps up to help. There's no way he'll leave poor Tribbie to her fate--even if it means he has to exchange her freedom for his own. But there's more to this "beast" than meets the eye, and with both a powerful prophecy and the threat of a mad ancient god's legacy impending, it's up to Phainon to break a seemingly unbreakable curse--and secure his own happy ending.

4. The "in another life" one, but Phainon has all the memories--not just of the warm, golden days with Mydei in Okhema, but of everything that happened after, of the ultimate betrayal of trust, of the cold steel he plunged into Mydei's back... Their reunion in this new era was unintentional, unavoidable, and aching. The happy ending Phainon desperately desired all along is here, within his reach--and in danger of being ruined all over again. What horror will he bring to Mydei's life this time? Convinced that he doesn't deserve a second chance at happiness in their new life, Phainon does everything in his power to avoid Mydei. But even without all the memories of Amphoreus, Mydei has always been unstoppable when he sets his mind to something--and there's no way Mydei is going to let Phainon screw this up. (Not again.)

5. The canon divergent AU: Mydei's father King Eurypon avoids the trap of a self-fulfilling prophecy by refusing to throw his child into the sea, so Mydei is instead raised a beloved son of Kremnos by both his father and mother--but the kingdom's ultimate fate of destruction cannot be changed. Nikador still goes mad, and Eurypon and Gorgo's deadly duel still plays out when Gorgo rejects Eurypon's plan to use the mad god's power. But before a furious Mydei can avenge his mother, Nikador fully succumbs to the corruption of the dark tide and launches a brutal massacre against their own worshippers, claiming the lives of the king and half the castrum's populace. Forced to flee with the tattered survivors, grieving everything he knew and loved, Mydei is hurled into a role of leadership he is hardly prepared for and never truly wanted.

Only Kremnos's history has left them with no allies, and Okhema's Council turns away Mydei's every attempt at diplomacy. Desperate, with the weight of his entire people's safety on his shoulders, Mydei and the Kremnoan army lay siege to the holy city. If words alone cannot win them sanctuary, then it will be blood and blades that throw open the gates. But Okhema has a new champion, a swordmaster from afar who will stop at nothing to prove his worth to his new people, and it turns out this "Phainon of Aedes Elysiae" might be Mydei's only match--on the battefield and elsewhere.

(tl;dr: Enemies to lovers, meet-on-the-battlefield romance.)

[jscrawls]

Grave mistakes

Gotham City is full of a lot of characters, criminals, creepy clowns, man eating plants, eccentric billionaires. But all that rolled into one household?

Warning: contains mentions of blood, witches, general spooky stuff, it's an Addams reader they're gonna be freaky,

Part 7: call the nursing home, and maybe a priest…

🔹🔹🔹

“who knew an old woman could disappear from a lobby so quickly.”

The lady officer scratches the back of her head confusedly while looking through the security tapes over and over again, trying to figure out what happened to the ancient woman that was just here not even twenty minutes ago.

You, who's still covered in dried blood, lean against the counter interestedly as the lady switches cameras to watch the woman hurriedly hobble out of the parking lot onto the streets.

“Oh that's no surprise to me at all, it's how she's avoided being committed.” You sigh wistfully and pull a handkerchief out of your pocket to wipe at your brow as if that'll cleanse the long-dried scarlet mess of you.

“Committed to what? A retirement home?” Alfred grunts in offense at Bruce's remark, both men share a look when you sigh even louder and dramatically toss your handkerchief down.

“No, the sanitarium.” You turn away from the desk and start to head towards the glass double-doors leading in and out of the police station, marching like a soldier training for war. “I'll be needing to find the ol thing, who knows what that witch will get into in this city.”

Bruce rolls his eyes and follows after you rather quickly, your pace is surprisingly fast. “Witch? I take it you don't get on with her then?” He murmurs a bit hesitantly, unsure if family affairs are off limits with you. Then again he doesn't think anything is really considered off limits in your books.

Your shoes practically squeak as you spin around to face the man, eyes creepily wide as you shake your head quickly. “Oh no! Me and grandmama get along like a house and fire, or like maggots on a carcass, or like- you get the point. That's just simply what she is.”

Bruce feels like this entire day is setting up to already be awful, call it a gut feeling or intuition, he just knows he's going to regret getting out of bed this morning.

“…. She's a witch.” He doesn't even bother to act polite in the moment, he'd rather deal with aliens in Gotham than a magic user. Please don't be serious, please don't be serious-

“Mhmm! The best of the best! You should see the old purse get going when she's had a bit of Googie juice, she'll predict futures, look at your past lives, and contact the forgotten things in the cold dimension. She also likes magic mud wrestling.” You again turn on your heel and head for the door after dropping that on Bruce and Alfred, clearly not caring for the impact you've created.

“Oh my God…. Wait, wait a minute.” Bruce scrubs a hand down his face and quickly grabs at your arm before you get too far, what the hell is wrong with you?

Alfred steps in front of you as well, effectively cutting off your path. “Mx Addams, don't you think you should get yourself cleaned up right now? I'm certain it'll make looking for your grandmother…. Easier on the public.”

Him and Bruce share a relieved look over your shoulder when you glance down at yourself and frown, surely you're going to agree- “I see no issue here, I'm sure the blood of the wicked will attract her to me, like catnip!”

“Can you please do this one thing? Make my life just the tiniest bit easier today?” Does Bruce feel pathetic begging? Yes, yes he does. He doesn't like things deviating away from his ideals, even in his public persona he doesn't plead outside of something playful with non-acquaintance's. He's just glad Alfred doesn't look at him.

“i don’t usually make a habit of making things easy for people, but i suppose i could do this for my very good friend!” you don’t get what the big deal everyone is so focused on, but you’ll play ball. you wanna see if your roomies made it home all right anyways.

alfred and bruce both share a sigh of relief and start pulling you away from the main lobby to try and get you out a side door so you’re less likely to scare the general public. “wonderful, i’m sure your grandmother is fine….and the police will be keeping an eye out for her besides.”

you hum uncertainly as alfred speaks, yet still let the men guide you outside and towards their car. “i believe you my good friend, but i’m not sure they’ll want to find her. grandmama doesn’t like the authorities all that much.”

both men look at you questioningly as they usher you into their vehicle, bruce is the one to question you once you’re all seated. “is it a…witch thing?”

“hmm? oh, no. grandmama was arrested at stonewall.” at that bruce actually chuckles quietly in relief while alfred starts up the car.

“that sounds better than what i was imagining honestly…”

“really? now you’ve got me curious! she was casting fireballs at the police and nearly managed to catch one for a sacrifice but now i want to know what you were imagining, i want ideas!”

🔹🔹🔹

after the awkward car ride back to your neighborhood you’re quick to say goodbye to the men and trot up the long driveway to your own manor, dodging around snapping carnivorous plants and aggressive vines, you don’t have time to be slowly eaten right now after all!

your hearse is parked in the driveway so clearly the dames made it home last night most likely in one piece, that man wasn’t very good with his knife after all, poor ladies. the angry screaming you can barely hear from in the manor confuses you though, it’s past tea time isn’t it? you check your pocket watch just to make sure you’re not mistaken.

“get out you big freak! get out of our house!” that sounds like pamela? surely the swamp rats didn’t get in again! when you open the front door you see what’s going on.

“you heard the redhead! get lost before we smash ya head open zombie!”

harley’s hanging off the moose head waving around one of your swords while pamela has plants wrapped around her arms and legs defensively, both women yelling at the top of their lungs at the statuesque figure standing stock still in your front room….

“(Name)? Watch out there's a big freak here-” Harley starts to yell but the words die out as you quickly shut the front door and dart in the room.

“lurch? oh is that really you my friend? i’m so happy to see you!” you quickly run over to the giant of a man and throw yourself at him while the two women fall silent at your sudden appearance, their expressions twisted in horrified confusion while the giant turns and wraps you in a bone-crushing hug, his face still as expressionless as when he first entered the home. “hello, master addams.”

the strange mans extremely deep voice makes the two confused women flinch, but you just laugh heartily while he squeezes the life out of you.

“you sneaky devil! did you come down with grandmama just to see me incarcerated? oh you should’ve told me! i would’ve thrown extra itching powder in a couple of the guest rooms!”

pamela sighs loudly and walks over to you, interrupting your reunion while her plants retreat to her arms like little green kittens. “hang on, hang on a second. this is one of your relatives?”

you glance over at her, still being held off the ground by the giant. “well, he has the heart of an addams so yes!”

harley quickly scrambles off the moose head and trots over to push pamela aside to question you. “forget about all that! how’re you home? i thought you was in the slammer?”

“i got bailed out!” lurch drops you like a potato sack and you land on your face, causing both women to wince before you leap back to your feet to continue on like nothing happened.

pamela looks confused though and quickly pushes harley out of her way to properly scowl at you with crossed arms. “i’m pretty sure you need to go through court and have a judge set your bail before you can-” “that’s not important right now, cousin venom! i’m home and i need to get cleaned up so i can go find grandmama…..she’s not here right?”

you quickly turn on your heel to stare up at lurch questioningly, he slowly shakes his head in response. “grandmama is in the city, master addams.”

you quickly whirl back around to face the two women again while dramatically gesturing at yourself. “so then i need to find her! i’m getting cleaned up and ready to go back out on the town before grandmama does something crazy, i’d like to watch it happen after all!”

“well have fun with that i guess, i’m laying low for a while…” pamela turns around and strolls off towards the direction of the library, leaving you with harley and lurch.

“welp, looks like it’s just us three then!”

“nuh-uh, nope. i’m staying here with my woman today…sorry kooky spooky.” harley shrugs and then quickly darts away before you can start lamenting at her or something. undeterred, you just grin up at the giant butler and turn towards the door. “looks like it’s just us two! come along mr lurch!”

he grabs the back of your coat and firmly stops you in your tracks before you can even take three steps. “master addams, aren’t you forgetting something.”

“um….i didn’t forget grandmama? she ran away so it’s a technicality my good friend.”

“master addams, you were saying you wished to bathe first?”

startled, you look down at your blood-covered self as if you’d completely forgotten why you went home in the first place.

“oh right!”

🔹🔹🔹

This has to be a meta, there's no other explanation in Jason's mind when he's looking up at an elderly woman on top of a three story building that doesn't have any ladders or fire escapes on it, maybe it's a cruel, cruel prank someone's pulling on the old bat. For her part she looks rather comfortable nestled in between air conditioning vents and old satellite stands, a falling-apart shawl covers her moth chewed dress and slippers, and…..a lantern sits in the crook of her elbow? Jason doesn't wanna ask. and the poor things bone white hair is a total birds nest around her shoulders. Jason's certain this is a woman who needs a caretaker. Hopefully she's not hurt…

“uh, miss?…. Ma'am can you hear me up there?”

she doesn't so much as twitch at Jason's voice, she's just staring straight ahead with a vacant expression on her wrinkled face like she hasn't a care in the whole world. either she's hard of hearing or she's having a medical event, the thought is enough to spur Jason into action and he quickly starts looking for a way up there.

He circles the building and sees that the only doors in are securely locked and there's no windows on the first floor for him to climb on or break through, so he goes to the neighboring building and climbs the fire escape.

It's an easy jump, though he really doubts the elder managed something like that herself judging by the look of her. She's still sitting when Jason lands with a thump and carefully walks over to her, she could be startled and slip after all.

“Ma'am?….I mean you no harm, I'm just here to check on you…” he speaks slowly and loudly, trying to approach her from the side with raised hands so she might see him without getting scared or something.

She blinks and looks over at him unconcerned, barely even sparing him a glance before looking back over the narrows like it's the most interesting place to be. “Hmm, there you are boy. I was starting to wander when you'd show up, help your grandmama up now.”

She holds her unoccupied arm up expectantly, so Jason carefully pulls her to her feet and steadies her while pulling her away from the buildings ledge, this must be a dementia situation or something, the thought makes his chest ache just a bit but he pushes it down to focus on the woman. “I'm here, let's get you down and get you some help…”

The old lady scoffs and gestures at him with her lantern while he leads her. “don't rush me! I'm still listening!”

She tugs on his arm while gesturing at her ears, which Jason is certain don't work properly, he has a feeling she's maybe stuck in a memory or something since Gothams rather quiet at the moment, unless she's listening to the traffic? He has doubts.

“…oh yeah? Can you sit on this vent and listen? I should make a call real quick…” he's not quite sure how to get her down without doing something that'll jostle and possibly hurt her. So he's got no choice but to call in some backup. Maybe someone with a pole truck with a built in wheel chair?

“Shhh, they're talking about you…” she loudly shushes him, fingers pressed against her thin lips while her unfocused eyes seem to stare through him rather than at him. Jason tries not to shiver.

“all good things I hope, now just sit tight-” he's interrupted by her again shushing him, it's a bit of a struggle to not roll his eyes at her antics now, Jason has to remind himself that she's probably unwell at the moment.

“Shhh….ahh, I see. I see…I'll tell him. Boy, it's not your fault.” The old lady huffs out while dropping down on the vent with a soft thump, her thinning white brows pinch together while her lips pull down into a grimace and she keeps tilting her head around like she's listening to something. It's creeping Jason out, but he ignores it to pull his phone out.

“What's not my fault.” he mutters gruffer than he intended while unlocking his phone, god he needs to get a lid on things.

“Your death.”

Her simple spoken words knock all the thoughts right out of his head though, the tiny thing is just gaping up at him unblinkingly like she's waiting for him to react. Is this a joke? Surely it's not fuck with Jason week just yet. “I-excuse me?”

What the fuck is he supposed to say to that?

She continues on with the same tone of voice like it's nothing. “It's not your fault you died, you weren't ever the bad one out of the bunch, boy. No matter what the living said about it after the fact. The voices know for a fact and they never lie, except when they want to of course.”

She nods her head with some finality before again looking away from him and starting to leer at some pigeons flying above them.

It feels like someone just dumped cold water on his head and slapped the shit out of him, Jason nearly drops his cellphone in what can only be described as animalistic panic, he can feel every hair on his body standing on edge, every breath feels like he's pulling it through a tube, his eyes and mouth feel as dry as sand. He doesn't know what to do for a moment as he hears his heartbeat pounding up in his ears.

“…. What are you-” she again shushes him and points around the empty rooftop. “Don't question it, you'll never be able to decipher their words if you don't listen to them first.”

“What the fuck.”

The old lady cackles at his vulgar words and she honest to God sounds like a stereotypical witch, Jason doesn't know what to do with himself besides backing away from her slowly, what has he walked himself into here!??

“You younguns and your swearing, back in my day we used proper curses when we had the need. Now no one even learns Latin.” She cackles again and slowly pushes herself onto unsteady feet, and then promptly runs away from Jason.

“Wait-oh shit.” Jason follows after her albeit reluctantly, she's probably a mind reader or maybe a magic user? But some part of him is still kinda worried about her popping a hip or something…

“Damn it…come back here ma'am!” He didn't even get her name so he can check if a home is missing some Eldritch horror granny from their care.

🔹🔹🔹

Was Alfred pleased to see the Addams blood free and not smelling like pennies? Yes, but he doesn't appreciate being jump-scared by their very tall friend…

He was just opening the door to the excessive loud knocking when a very large hand landed roughly on his shoulder and nearly knocked him over, he thought he was being attacked before he heard that familiar chipper voice. “Alfred! I've done as asked and look who i brought to meet you!”

He reels back in alarm while you throw both your hands at the tall man, like a celebrity showing off their date to the cameras. The blank stare and dull eyes creep him out far more than he'd care to admit.

“….I see, hello there mister…?” Alfred reluctantly sticks a hand out for a handshake, trying not to grimace at the pair on the front stoop. He's quite relieved when the large man doesn't squeeze him too much.

“Lurch.”

“ah…. Hello master lurch.”

“it's just lurch.”

Alfred just nods mutely before turning away to go find Bruce, preferably quickly. He's not going to argue over titles with the man.

Assuming the open door is an invitation, you stroll right in and follow after Alfred while lurch trails after you dutifully, the place is much too clean and bright for your taste but hey, as Harley says you shan't yuck someone else's yum.

“Ahem, You keep a very…. Nice place here, Alfred.” You say politely while dragging a finger along the underside of a random display table, checking for grime or maybe cobwebs, but alas there isn't even any spiders in here! Lurch steadies a vase you nearly bump over and pulls you away from the table.

To his credit Alfred looks completely composed again despite how you and your companion startled him earlier, he manages to chuckle weakly at the obviously forced compliment as he walks further down the halls, you're like a gothic little duckling that quickly follows after his step. “Thank you, I take great pride in my work for the Wayne's.”

You grin broadly and quickly move up beside him so you can walk backwards to chat with the man. “So does our sweet lurch! You two have so much in common already I think you'd make the best of friends!”

With a quick glance over his shoulder Alfred watches as the stone faced man follows the both of you with a scowl frozen on his odd face, Alfred quickly looks ahead before they make eye contact.

“…. That's lovely, master Addams…” he mutters dryly.

“Alfred, is that the new freak across the hill?” Damian peeks his head around a doorframe with a frown on his face, glaring at the two guests like he already hates them, Alfred doesn't even have time to scold the boy before dick's already on it. The man popping around the same doorframe to frown at the preteen.

“Damian be nice, that's not how you talk to Bruce's neighbor.” he smiles awkwardly at you while eyeing lurch warily, tugging on his gym shirt half self-consciously before he casually steps around Damian to greet you.

“sorry about him, you know how kids are…”

“What, honest? I am the freak across the hill so I don't see an issue, what's your name young gentleman?”

Damian steps around dick, who was trying to subtly signal him to back off, to stand in front of you with that scowl still firmly in place. He refuses your offered handshake and instead looks you up and down judgingly.

“Damian Wayne, why are you in my house, freak?”

You just grin wider at the boys attitude. “Oh you're delightful, my niece Wednesday would love you….Actually, why am I in here?” you glance at Alfred real quick while the older man let's out a long suffering sigh.

“I was going to go fetch master Bruce so we could discuss your grandmother's disappearance.”

Dick looks over at you with a raised eyebrow in question. “Your Granny's missing?”

“Mhmm, she's somewhere in Gotham allegedly. Though she could've finally keeled over somewhere so I can't say for sure.”

The three Wayne's stare at you in silence before lurch leans down to speak to you. “Mistress frump would've started haunting you by now if she were deceased.”

You hum considerably and stroke your chin as you consider your cousins butler's words. “Hmm, good point lurch. Well since she's probably still alive I plan to go find her before she gets into trouble.”

Dick manages to snap back first and tries to force a casual air when he speaks. “You're worried about her, huh. I'm sure she's be going to be okay.”

You blink confusedly and slowly shake your head at that, what an odd question! “No, not at all. I'd like to watch grandmama get into some kind of perilous situation, it's practically an Addams tradition!”

Damian's scowl deepens as he follows after you, his tone even more venomous than before. “Father was right, you really are a horrible creature.”

“Damian!” Both Alfred and dick say scoldingly, Alfred shaking his head exasperatedly while dick tries to keep a polite smile on his face as he looks at you, it looks painful at this point.

You spin around and slap a hand over your heart dramatically. “He said that about me?….”

“I'm sure it was a joke-” dick tries to comfort you but you quickly cut him off with an odd giggle. “…I didn't realize Mr Wade was so sweet! I've not been called a creature in so long…”

Dick drags a palm down his face while muttering a “I should've expected that…” to himself, turning away from you to stroll down the hallway, Alfred and Damian follow after him so of course so do you and lurch. You're curious if the Wayne manor has any interesting rooms in it or if everything is just clean marble.

Unfortunately everything's clean and not at all disgusting or odd, there's not even a play room from what you've seen! No torture racks or even any poison set out for guests, the place honestly feels a bit unwelcoming.

“so why’d you stab that guy, freak? do you think you can do what you want in this city just because you’re rich?” damian glares back at you as you follow him, the kids eyes full of distrust and caution, he watches you like you’re a fox in the coop, it’s so endearing! “not at all! I would've stabbed the man if I didn't have a penny to my name, in fact a was surprised I was bailed out, I was under the impression I was going to prison or perhaps that lovely little institution in town.”

Dick gives you a confused look. “Institution? You mean Arkham asylum?”

Just as you nod Bruce rounds a doorway and pauses upon seeing the group in front of him, his brows furrowing while you excitedly wave at him. “…. Is something wrong with Arkham?

Alfred and dick both quickly shake their heads. “No, just a little…. Conversation with your neighbor here.”

Dick jabs his thumb over his shoulder in your direction, Bruce tries not to stare at lurch as you again wave enthusiastically at him.

“I see….. Well Addams I was just going to call you, it's about your grandmother…”

“really!?” You immediately perk up and dart closer to Bruce, Damian jumps in front of the man though and points at you aggressively. “watch it! No sudden moves in our home, freak.”

Bruce is quick to correct Damian before anything can escalate, he gently grabs his shoulder while gesturing at you. “Damian, mind your manners. Sorry about him, now your granny is…”

He trails off with pursed lips, his face tense in such a way that you and everyone else start to think the worst, or best depending on who you ask. Bruce sighs and releases Damian to grab his phone to show you something.

“…is this her?” The man already sounds resigned before he even presses play, you watch a news reel of an elderly woman wrestling with a…. Scary monster? It's huge, scaly skinned with long curled dark claws and yellowed worn fangs to match, the crocodilian tail lashes wildly as it tries in vain to wrestle off the elderly woman in the shawl. You replay the short clip a few times just to try and get a better look at everything…

“that's definitely grandmama…. Who is that….. That Handsome crocodile man?”

When you look up you see four separate looks of disappointment directed at you, clearly the Wayne's have no taste.

🔹🔹🔹

M.list | prev | next

A/n: wow this is a long chapter 😐 I didn't even get to Grandmama yet but this was getting out of hand! Anyways I hope y'all are having a lovely day/night and remember to take care of yourselves! 😚🖤💜🖤

Taglist: @lunarapple @ladykamos @itsberrydreemurstuff @redkarmakai @qardasngan @ibelyss

[vivwritescrappythings]

meum cor

marcus acacius x fem!reader

part 2

Your father had raised you for one purpose: to be a very rich man's wife someday. As it turns out, that man is Marcus Acacius, the renowned general himself.

a/n: Thank you for this lovely request! Instead of a princess I made reader the daughter of a rich merchant in Rome, but I hope you like it! I am on the fence about a part 2 right now.

tw: fem reader, afab reader, reader is shorter than Marcus, reader has long hair, social norms of ancient rome, vague description of a chariot crash, your imaginary dad is a misogynist, not proofread, Marcus may be poorly written.

word count: 5.1k

masterlist

--

Being born a woman in Rome was being born shackled. Your life depended on being a mother, a wife. The servitude of others would be your shining opus, the symbol of a life well-lived. It was hard to imagine, your mother passed away when you were just a babe. 

In the privacy of your mind, you imagined growing up to become a soldier or a scholar like your brothers. The desire for independence itched beneath your skin. But that would not be your fate. You were committed to your loom and learning to run a household and being a good wife someday. 

After years agonizing over who to marry you off to, your father had finally found a man suitable enough: General Marcus Acacius. 

His decision was twofold: help your brothers get better positions in the Roman army and increase his influence by tying you to one of the most powerful generals in the empire. 

It was no matter that he was nearly twenty years your senior–your father assured you it was a common match. There was nothing for you to worry about, it would be a great honor for your family for you to marry General Acacius. No use in arguing, or pouting, or fighting against it.

Your father’s word was law.

You ruminated over the mysterious General Acacius for weeks. All you could consider was what your future husband was like, agonizing about any scrap of information you could learn about him. He had spent most of the past few years fighting in battles: the conquest of Armenia, of Parthia, of Germania. A man obsessed with legacy. You could only imagine the amount of blood on his hands–how many people had he killed to aid the sprawling Roman Empire? 

At his age he had never been married before. You had expected to be his second wife, men his age looking to marry were widowers more often than not. Perhaps he had been too dedicated to his military career to consider marriage… or you had heard stories of men who preferred the company of other men. 

If anything, that could make him an amicable husband. Simply marrying you for your dowry and allegiance to a merchant, but otherwise left you to your own devices?

You could live a life that way.

The walk to Palatine Hill did not take you and your father long, the fall weather just starting to cool after a long summer. In truth, you had never even spoken to anyone that lived on Palatine Hill, let alone visited a domus there. Each one was more elegant than the last, elegant homes that exuded affluence with beautiful entryways and manicured grounds. 

The amount your father was offering for your dowry must have been staggering. 

Being a merchant had its benefits. You were sure your father offered access to the best imports and potential to take over a few ships if he wished to step down from his post as general. 

Marcus’s domus was mixed in with the rest, your father nodding to the guards and stating his business. They let you pass without issue. Marcus had invited you and your father to visit his home and they would attend the chariot race that afternoon. It was the final step to securing his agreement to your marriage, ensuring that he deemed you suitable enough to take as his wife.

Your father had been frantically preparing you, training you in proper topics of discussion and how to answer any questions Marcus had. The strategy simply turned into allowing your father to answer any and all questions and smiling demurely in the background. Better seen, not heard.

The autumnal sun slanted into the atrium, shining off the impluvium and illuminating the space. It was sparsely decorated: reception benches positioned strategically around the space, a few tapestries hung on the walls. The most intriguing part of the room was the mosaic in the impluvium, an intricate scene of a gold octopus and colorful fish embedded in the tile. You stared at it for a long time while a servant ran to fetch Marcus from deeper within the household.

Before you realized, he stood before you.

You were surprised to see him dressed so simply—he did not look like the decorated general you had expected. The only indication of his status was the deep burgundy cape clasped over his chest, the clasp and embroidery shining gold. He was broad and tall, his head full of dark curls that were starting to go gray at the temples. His beard was going gray at the jowls. But his gaze was focused on you and your father, his deep umber eyes taking you in. There were a few scars on the tanned skin you could see, the permanent furrows of a scowl above his curved nose.

But he was handsome. 

The thought caught you so off-guard that you nearly tripped on air, heeding your father’s beckoning hand to stand near him. You did not realize that you could find a man twice your age to be handsome, or even pleasing to the eye.

“Justus Acacius,” your father began, his voice booming through the atrium as he put on a show of joviality that he did not feel, “I am pleased to see you once more, and for you to finally meet my daughter.”

Your father gestured to you with a sweeping hand. You inclined your head politely, eyes downcast. “I am honored, Justus Acacius,” you murmured, keeping your gaze on the polished stone. The name felt unfamiliar on your tongue: it was the first time you spoke it aloud.

The weight of his appraising stare was palpable, you did all you could to stay still beneath it. The last thing you wanted was for Marcus to think you weak-willed. You forced yourself to stay calm, your breaths slow and even.

Then came approval in the form of a slight nod–nothing more than a partial lift of his chin. You glanced up, finding his expression unreadable. “Welcome to my domus, I trust the way here was not too taxing,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone. You understood how soldiers could fall into line at his shout—it commanded attention.

Marcus turned to your father, clasping his shoulder in a firm grip that spoke of their familiarity. “Your daughter is a beautiful maiden, Tiberius. You did not over exaggerate.” You glanced at your father, eyebrows ticking up in question. You did not realize that he had bragged about your appearance–in your list of accomplishments he tended to leave it off. 

“Come, let us retire to the triclinium. I have refreshments waiting.”

You followed dutifully, taking in the extravagance of his home. The build of it spoke of opulence, prim white stone forming the walls and meticulously carved columns. For all its grandeur it lacked the details, there were a few busts placed in alcoves and the odd tapestry on the wall. They looked old, the fibers slightly frayed–passed down from mother to son, most likely.

“It requires a feminine touch,” Marcus said, noticing how you were looking around. “Something I am certain my future wife will be able to supplement.”

Your father bristled at the way his statement was open-ended, no guarantee in sight that you would be that future wife in question. It seemed that your supposed beauty was not enough to secure a betrothal.

The triclinium was furnished with three low couches around a dark table, your father claiming the couch in the center and forcing you and Marcus to sit apart from one another. The table was littered with fruits, cured meats, and pastries, but you did not have the stomach for any of it. You took a fig to be polite, taking miniscule bites of it.

Your father and Marcus ate seemingly without concern, grazing as they spoke idly of politics and distant lands the Emperors wished to conquer. It all sounded frivolous to you, the impending doom of your marriage looming over your head like an executioner’s axe. You were so preoccupied in your thoughts that you did not realize Marcus had spoken to you until your father had cleared his throat.

“Tell me,” Marcus said, turning to face you as he handed your father a goblet of wine before pouring one for himself, “what are your interests? Your skills? I would like to know more about the woman I am to wed.”

He leaned against the cushions, the embodiment of relaxation as he drank. His arms crossed over his broad chest, the muscle moving beneath his tanned skin like snakes. 

You took a breath, opening your mouth to answer before your father interrupted you.

“She is excellent with a loom,” your father proudly offered, the metal cup hanging from his fingers as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “She took over the duties of my late wife when she was just a girl, and, dare I say, the fabrics she weaves are even more fine than her mother’s.”

Your father did not even allow Marcus time to respond, launching into his next point with gusto. “She also is proficient with the flute and knows how to dance. My wife and I had wanted her to become a Vestal, but the goddess did not call upon her.”

“I assure you, Justus Acacius, she is well prepared to run a household in your absence,” he promised, wetting his lips with the wine to hide the anxious set of your mouth.

Marcus listened intently to your father’s praise of your skills, one eyebrow slightly arched. He took a sip of his own wine, the ruby liquid leaving a faint stain on his full lower lip. 

“Raised modestly as well,” Marcus remarked, glancing at you with a hint of a smirk. The touch of humor surprised you, your cheeks warming as you hid your smile. You took a larger bite of the fig so you did not have to school your expression, the ripe fruit sweet on your tongue.

He set his metal cup down on the wooden table with a soft clink. There was a moment of pensive silence before Marcus cleared his throat, fixing your father beneath his penetrating stare. “I am pleased to hear of your daughter’s talents. They will serve her well as a Roman matron.” He paused, the weight of his words sinking in. “However, I would like to hear it from her. Tell me, how would you intend to manage a household in your husband’s absence?”

His cool gaze drifted back to you, dark eyes glinting with curiosity and a hint of a challenge. The pregnant silence held the expectation of your response.

It was unusual. Most men were comfortable to allow your father to speak for you, preferring women seen rather than heard. It was the first time a man had asked you for your own words. You found the image of him that you created in your mind rewriting itself. 

“As for running a household–I am literate,” that simple fact already put you a step ahead of many women you knew, “my father went through the additional effort of hiring tutors to teach me grammar and how to use an abacus. Now that I am of age I have handled my father’s affairs a few times when he left on trading expeditions–both of my brothers are serving in the army so it fell upon me to manage the responsibilities.”

You paused for a moment, taking a breath as you looked up at Marcus. He was watching intently, holding a terrifyingly neutral expression. “As for running your household, I would study your previous ledgers and discuss your strategy of managing your assets before you were to leave.”

The silence of the room was deafening–you could hardly stand it. “If anything, I rather enjoy calculations with the abacus,” you said, babbling to fill the dead air. You could feel your father’s glare without needing to look at it. “At times I have done them simply to pass the time, seeing how much I can challenge myself.”

Marcus nodded slowly, dark eyes glinting with amusement as the corner of his lip threatened to turn up. He downed the rest of his cup of wine, clasping his hands together in front of him for a moment as his gaze dragged over your form.

“I find your honesty refreshing. It is clear you are well-equipped to be a devoted wife and manage a household of this size,” he said as he stood, towering over you and your father. You were holding your breath, waiting for the verdict as though you would receive your death sentence. “I believe this match will be beneficial for all of us.”

And you could breathe once more. 

You looked up at Marcus, trying to reconcile that the man would be your husband. It had not felt real until he acknowledged the match. Part of you had assumed that he would change his mind upon meeting you, opting to marry some Senator’s daughter instead of the daughter of a merchant.

But he would have you as his bride. His wife. 

Marcus turned to your father, broad shoulders squared. “Tiberius, have you ever sat trackside at the chariot races? I was planning for us to use my seats,” he said, taking a step back to leave the room. You knew your father would be pleased by his offer, sitting with Senators and dignitaries had always been his aspiration.

The sun was shining in through the arches leading to the courtyard, high in the clear sky. The races would surely start soon.

Your father accepted readily, the two of you standing quickly. He arranged for your cousin to meet you at Circus Maximus to escort you home–it was inappropriate for a woman of your social class to walk by herself through the streets of Rome. 

“Tell me, my lady, would you care to join us? I have found that a touch of excitement and spectacle can be invigorating for the soul,” Marcus said, his words an open invitation.

You could not help but glance at your father for his approval–he had always considered the races too aggressive for the fairer sex. They had always intrigued you, the sheer size of Circus Maximus always caught your gaze when you were near. Sometimes you could hear the crowds cheering.

After a moment of deliberation your father nodded, albeit less enthusiastically than he could have. “It will be good for the two of you to spend time together in public, it will serve to announce the union prior to the ceremony.”

“Excellent,” Marcus murmured, holding his hand out palm up for you to take. There were callouses on his palm and fingers that spoke of training long hours with a sword and shield. The spread between his fingers was wide, your hand disappearing in his hold as he pulled you up to your feet. “Let us be off.”

–

Circus Maximus was a buzz as you took your seats, your breath stolen by the enormity of the track and the stadium surrounding it. 

You had never seen so many people in one place, the stands roaring. Marcus’s seats were in the first row. Senators filled in the space around you, your gaze drawn to the broad purple stripes on their tunics. If you had known you would be meeting Senators you would have dressed differently. 

It had already taken you far too long to weave the palla you were wearing over your crisp ivory tunic–a band of yellow following the hemline of the rich crimson fabric. Your father had insisted you wear the jewelry your mother had passed down to you, gold bracelets adorning both wrists and a matching choker clasped at your throat. But you still felt underdressed–you would have braided your hair more intricately or added a band over your bicep. 

“My lady, are you alright?” Marcus asked, pulling you from your thoughts as you blinked at him for a moment. You could feel your cheeks warming, sheepish that you were caught in your reverie.

“Yes, General Acacius,” you breathed, a self-conscious smile twisting the corners of your lips. You did not want him to worry about your comfort. “I was simply gathering my surroundings–this is my first time inside Circus Maximus.I hope you do not take offense to my naivety.”

His surprise was palpable, dark eyebrows lifting toward his hairline and eyes rounding. Then his expression melted into a smirk, his head bending toward yours. “Well, I will find great enjoyment explaining the sport to you if you are willing to listen,” he said, just loud enough for you to hear him.

He was close enough that it felt like a secret between the two of you, a chill running up your spine despite the warm autumnal sun. You found yourself enjoying it.

“Of course, if it is not too much trouble.” Your entire life was dedicated to taking up as little space as possible, your father’s devastation over having a daughter known to you as soon as you were old enough to understand what his rebukes meant.

Marcus’s brow furrowed, his gaze tracking to where your father was speaking with some Senator before coming back to you. “My lady,” he murmured, voice a tick lower as his fingers brushed a loose piece of hair from your face, “you will soon be my wife. I intend to bring you to these events, and they will be more enjoyable if you understand the rules.” His hand cupped the side of your neck, warm against your skin.

You tried not to shy away from his touch, his skin rough against yours. A man had never touched you so intimately before. The frantic beat of your heart filled your ears for a moment, you were sure he could feel the hammer of your pulse against his hand.  

“Alright, explain it to me,” you murmured, biting the inside of your cheek for a moment as you folded your hands in your lap. You twisted the fabric of your palla over your fingers, not sure if he expected you to return the touch or simply accept it. Perhaps you were thinking about it too hard–too worried about misstepping and causing Marcus to change his mind.

But he seemed pleased, releasing you to turn and face the track fully. “Those gates down there are where the chariots start,” you followed the sweep of his arm with your eyes, “they run around the center barrier, the spina, to reach seven laps around the track first.”

You listened intently, bracing one hand on the carved stone rail as you leaned forward. The spina surprised you with its intricacy, obelisks and statues decorating the center of it. There were water features mixed in with the artwork, gilded columns on each end of the barrier indicating turning points.

“Are there teams?” you asked, glancing at Marcus before looking at the track again. 

He nodded, eyes seemingly lighting up at your questions. “Yes, today the Red and White teams will race,” he said, resting his elbows on his knees as his gaze drifted to your palla. “You are dressed aptly, for I support the Reds.”

“It must have been the goddess Fortuna guiding me this morning,” you said with a grin, almost looking smug. 

Your father pulled Marcus’s attention from you, asking questions about which team he supported and if he had placed any wagers. It was hard to hear his reply, their voices getting lost in the din of the stadium. 

Solitude amongst a crowd was something you were taught to be used to, your mind occupying itself with silly games. You counted the number of obelisks in the spina, the number of stadium sections you could see, the number of people in the lowest section across from you. 

The thoughts of your upcoming wedding ceremony drifted into your mind–would your aunt take the place of your mother? Would she dress you the morning of the ceremony? Tie the Herculean knot at your waist in wool? You could hardly imagine Marcus taking you from her arms during the wedding procession–you and your aunt were little more than strangers. But she was the only woman in your family, the responsibility would fall to her. 

“My lady?” You felt a nudge to your side. Marcus and your father were looking at you, you noticed a vendor standing in the aisle. 

“Yes? My apologies, I was lost in thought,” you said amiably, crossing your legs at the knee.

Marcus cleared his throat. “Would you like something to eat?” he asked, so conscientious of you that it was almost frightening. You were thankful it was loud enough that the sound of your stomach growling was audible. 

Despite your hunger you shook your head, waving off his concern with a polite smile. “No, I am alright.” you said softly. You could see your father’s satisfied expression and nod over Marcus’s shoulder. Refusing was the right answer. “Thank you, General Acacius.”

“Nonsense, you hardly touched the food before we left,” Marcus said, turning to the vendor and shouting a few orders. He had a keen eye… you were not used to scrutiny. He took two clay pots from the vendor, handing you one of marinated green olives so he could pay the vendor. “Eat, and do not be afraid to ask for anything you see that entices you.”

“You are far too generous, Justus,” your father said, squinting in the sunlight as he looked at you. His disappointment was clear. But Marcus did not seem to notice or mind, simply placing both bowls into your hands. The other bowl had toasted hazelnuts and walnuts, the clay pot pleasantly warm in your hands. You placed both bowls on the carved stone step between yourself and Marcus, picking from them idly.  

It was enough to satiate your stomach, staving off the dregs of your hunger until you made it home.

Then your gaze was drawn by a magistrate walking onto the track, a white flag held aloft and shining in the sun. Marcus caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, sitting up straighter. “Once he drops the flag, the race will begin,” he said to you with a glance to make sure you were paying attention.

It was quick. As soon as the flag dropped the gates opened, each chariot being pulled by four horses. The thunder of their hooves almost rivaled the cheers of the crowd as all twelve chariots flew down the track.

You watched with rapt attention, studying the way the charioteers had the reigns of the horses tied around their waists. The first two laps seemed to only be used for gaining speed, the chariots staying in their designated lanes before chaos broke loose.

The gasp that pulled from your throat when you watched a charioteer whip another one that got too close caught Marcus’s attention, making him bark out a deep laugh. You had lurched to your feet with the rest of the crowd, the adrenaline getting to you. “They will try to make one another crash as they vie for a position closest to the spina,” he said to you, a hand gently placed on the small of your back. The press of his palm on your spine brought you a step closer to him.

You watched with wide eyes, the red and white robed charioteers careening around the track without abandon. The horses kicked up clods of dirt with every hoofbeat, spraying anyone that dared be behind them. You understood why they had been spraying so much water over the track–an attempt to keep down the dust. 

The first crash was brutal, two sets of horses tangling with one another. One charioteer cut himself free of the reins with a curved knife, jumping from the chariot and into the greenery that adorned the spina. The other one was not so lucky, the sound of wood splintering and cracking reaching your ears as you clapped a hand over your mouth. The other racers had to dodge the mess, narrow misses of the pileup making you wince.

“It is alright, the charioteers are alright, my lady,” Marcus said, his nose brushing against your hair as he spoke into your ear. You looked up, seeing the other man pull himself from the wreckage to safety. It helped you breathe easier, a nod coming from you.

There was one more crash during the race, a chariot clipped one of the columns and spun out of control. Marcus had pulled you to his side as the laps went on, you could feel his excitement through the way his fist clenched in the loose, draping fabric of your palla. You pressed your fingertips to your lips, brow furrowed as you watched the final stretch. 

The teams were neck and neck, the entire stadium tense until the Reds pulled forward at the last moment. You let out a sigh of relief, your eyes slipping closed for a beat. Then you could hear Marcus laugh, loud and raucous. “Why I believe you must be a priestess of Fortuna herself, my lady, for the Reds have not come out victorious in the past fifteen races,” he said to you, crushing you to his side in a way that made you chuckle. 

You had not expected ease at his side, and certainly not praise. Warmth covered your cheeks and neck as a genuine smile found its way to your face, your gaze casting up through your lashes to meet his. He released you after a moment, clapping your father on the back as they animatedly discussed the race.

There were a few more races that day, each one as chaotic as the last–but they were all Red wins.

–

Marcus had insisted on escorting you and your father back to your father’s domus as the sun began to set on the horizon. Your father’s property was grand in comparison to that of your neighbors, but with respect to Marcus’s estate it was a simple home. 

Your favorite part were the orange and lemon trees growing on the property, filling the air with the scent of citrus as the sky turned pink. Marcus had accompanied you up to the atrium, a soft smile on his face as he looked down at you. Your father had sent a servant to fetch wine, anxious to continue impressing Marcus.

“I must bring you with me to all the chariot races, my lady,” Marcus said, his dark eyes raking from your head to your toes. “It seems that your presence bodes well for my luck.”

You shook your head, flattered as you covered your smile with your fingertips. “I believe you are too kind to me, General Acacius,” you murmured, unable to hide your grin from your voice. 

You felt giddy, your father and Marcus had spent the entire journey to your father’s domus discussing dates for the ceremony. It was set for three weeks from that day, it would give you just enough time to alter your mother’s wedding gown to your tastes and to set a menu for the feast.

“Tiberius,” Marcus started, deep voice booming throughout the atrium, “would it be alright if I had a moment of privacy with your daughter? I would like to give her a gift so she does not forget me within the next three weeks.”

He hesitated for a moment before obliging, saying he would be just down the hall if you needed anything. You knew he would be standing just beyond the door.

“You have pleasantly surprised me,” he said, a hand running down the bare skin of your left arm until he held your wrist. Goosebumps lifted on your flesh, a shiver running down your spine as your breath caught in your throat. “I had expected this to be a marriage of necessity, but it seems to me that it has the potential to be much more.”

He pulled something from the folds of his tunic, the gold catching the light of the setting sun as he brought your left hand toward him. You realized that it was a ring–an engagement ring. 

“I wanted to see before I gave this to you, just to be sure,” he murmured, his dark eyes focused on your hand as he threaded the ring onto the third finger on your left hand. “Ah, perfect fit. I should not have expected any less from my priestess of Fortuna.” 

You rolled your eyes, still smiling as you looked down at the ring. It was not as heavy as you had expected, sitting snug on your finger. It was believed that a vein connected your heart to the ring finger–but for some reason you had never imagined a ring occupying that space. It was simple, a design of two hands clasping on the center of the band. But the gold alone must have cost far too much.

“It is beautiful,” you breathed, a bit mystified.

Marcus’s hand clasped your chin, tilting your head up toward his. “It suits you,” he mumbled, dark eyes partially-lidded as he looked over your face.

His hand shifted, clasping the back of your neck. You were stretched onto your toes, leaning toward him with such fervor that you would fall forward if he stepped away. The air between you was warm, smelling of wine and roasted hazelnuts.

The first brush of his lips against yours was tentative, so cautious. It seemed like he was just testing, treating you like glass. 

You should have pulled away, bashful and flustered and told him that you would have time to continue on your wedding day. That three weeks was not a long time to wait–a mere twenty four days away. 

But you did not, hesitantly placing a hand upon his chest for stability as you stretched further into the kiss. Marcus let out a soft groan, the kiss deepening as his mouth slanted against yours. His beard and mustache tickled your delicate skin, but you found yourself enjoying the sensation. The broad stretch of his hands cradled your jaw, guiding you through the clumsiness of naivety into the kiss.

Your hand fisted in his tunic, pulling him toward you with some urgency. He let out a muffled grunt, a hand finding the curve of your hip. 

He then pulled away, his cheeks flushed and his lips parted as he took in air. You could feel his chest move beneath your hand with each heavy breath. A smile curved his lips, genuine in a way you already found yourself cherishing.

“I will see you soon,” he murmured, pressing another chaste kiss to your lips before untangling himself from you. “But I believe if I keep you any longer, your father will be suspicious.”

You let go of his tunic, nodding as you let go of him. He cupped your cheek in his hand, thumb running over your cheekbone before he bid you farewell, stamping another kiss upon your brow before leaving your father’s domus altogether.

The girlish giggle came from you before you could stop it, your hand covering your mouth as you looked down at the ring on your finger. 

Bless the goddess Fortuna for your fate that day.

[m-robinavitch]

the interrogation.

Pairing: Sammy Bryant x Reader, SLIGHT Ben Sherman x Reader (blink and you miss it) Summary: Pulled out of bed in the middle of the night, you find yourself in an interrogation room with two cops. Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, role play, sex as negotiation, drug mentions, general cop meanness

It was late, you were tired, and you were so fucking annoyed because you were pulled out of bed for this? Two fucking cops staring over at you in the poorly lit, freezing interrogation room asking you about something they knew you had nothing to do with. 

“You don’t mind if we record this conversation, do you?” The younger of the two asked, Officer Sherman, you think. You just shrug, not meeting his eyes because they’re going to do what they want regardless of what you say. The officer presses record and the ancient fucking device whirs to life- the reels start to spin and where the fuck did they even find that relic?

“Now, we appreciate you coming down here so late.” The older of the two speaks- sitting back in the chair that’s slightly too small for him and throws his elbow over the backrest. They were both fucking attractive and knew it, but this one seems like he’s used to his charm getting him to where he needs. 

“It didn’t seem like I had a choice, Officer Bryant.” You crossed your arms, titling your head while you answered his question because you were woken up abruptly for this. You were literally only clad in your nightgown that was too thin and a cardigan that barely provided any warmth. 

“It’s Detective.” He spit back, rank was important to him, “and we like to give people the benefit of the doubt here. At first anyway.” You could feel the way his eyes trailed over you, the neckline of your nightgown was way too fucking low and he let his gaze wander over the skin that was uncovered and bare for him.

“What’s this about?” You asked, looking over to Officer Sherman now- maybe he’d like to get to the fucking point.

“Uh- um Wednesday night. Hospital pharmacy inventory shows that two vials of fentanyl were missing. Now those are high security clearance drugs- that were logged under your access code.” Sherman never handled interrogations before, but Bryant decided what better way to learn than diving in head first when the precinct was practically empty- he was here if the kid needed help.

“I never touched them.” You quickly said- too quickly. Fuck, you had to relax.

“You were the only nurse on that floor with that security clearance. And the pharmacy was suspiciously empty around that time- not even the cameras caught anyone.” Bryant spoke now, taking the papers from Sherman so he could look and make sure he was on the right track here. 

“Someone must have used my code,” you shrugged again, not backing down now. “I’ve been there for 5 years- never had an issue before.”

“Codes just don’t go floating around on their own, sweetheart,” Oh? Sweetheart were you? Detective Bryant tosses the folder in front of you now, lets it slide across the cold metal table while he leans forward and lets his forearms rest along with them, “now of course my partner and I looked into you- last month your supervisor had you under review for some discrepancies in your medication counts.” You tensed, eyes darting between the men because they had you pinned now. 

“Those discrepancies were corrected. Clerical error.” Your voice wavered slightly, but you held your head up as you anxiously bit your lip to help the nerves. 

“Clerical errors don’t walk out the door in vials that are worth $2,000 on the street.” Detective Bryant cut off your words, the lies he could see forming behind those pretty little eyes- hidden behind thick lashes that he’d probably have a problem saying no to. Officer Sherman watched his superior work, watched how he took the lead now- how he had you awkwardly adjusting in your chair and trying to cover yourself up with that cardigan that did nothing to hide your figure. 

“You think I’m fucking selling?” 

“You tell me sweetheart,” the detective shrugged, picking up the folder again, thumbing through the papers and- “you’ve got the access, knowledge of the protocol, and the debt.” Your eyes widened. Fuck.

“E-everyone has debts.” You swallowed heavily. 

“Not everyone lies about their whereabouts during a 15 minute blank period.” He was cold. Stone cold and harsh and the only thing you can focus on was the way his hazel eyes trailed over you again. 

“I was in the break room. No cameras to see me.” Focus. Don’t let him get to you. 

“Convenient.” Sherman speaks again, wetting his lips lightly with his tongue, stopping at the way you anxiously toyed at the necklace that dipped between your breasts, wedding ring catching the only overhead light of the now seemingly stuffy interrogation room.

“If I wanted to fucking steal, Detective Bryant, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to use my own login.” Frustrated- frustrated and nervous so you lash out like you usually do and-

“You know what’s interesting, we pulled the access codes from the staff entrance and- well you said you were in the break room but your badge was scanned at the east stairwell door around that time. Not the break room like you say.” Bryant’s eyes never left yours, titling his head only slightly but he leaned back again and nodding along with his own words like he’s made his mind up about you already.

“The door sticks, everyone knows that and the scanner catches wrong sometimes.” You were not going down for this. 

“Except, we crossed checked that sweetheart,” Bryant stands now, “with the elevator scans?” He’s walking around the table to come in front of you- to sit on the table and block the light from you and- “no one else was on the floor when it happened. Just you. And we found some latex gloves in the stairwell trash, no prints but some traces of fentanyl residue.” You didn’t want to look up at him, you kept your eyes focused on that folder in front of him- trying to will whatever damning evidence they had against you to disappear. 

“That doesn’t prove that it was mine.” You needed to stay calm. You needed to breathe. In. Out. They had nothing. Circumstantial at best. 

“No- but it was your locker that had a box of gloves that don’t match the ones the hospital orders, the same brand and size from the stairwell trash.” Less circumstantial.

“I- I don’t know what you want me to say.” You were visibly tense, it was getting hotter in the room now and you shrugged off your cardigan to get some ventilation on your body. 

“I want the truth sweetheart,” Detective Bryant came off the table now, kneeling in front of you so you’re almost eye level and you look behind him at Officer Sherman who had leaned in to watch his partner work. “You’re not a hardened criminal.” He shakes his head, almost condescendingly and his voice changes from gritted and angry to- soft and pleading. “You’re married, never been arrested, not even so much as a speeding ticket- maybe, maybe you made a choice. Maybe you were helping someone? Frankly I don’t care why you did it- I care about the kid that OD’d last night- who toxicology said had hospital grade fentanyl in his system- same brand that was missing from your hospital.” One of his large hands comes to rest on your thigh, thumb stroking along your skin while his words come out- almost rehearsed. “Officer Sherman- give me a minute with our friend here. She might be a bit nervous about having two cops in here.” Ben pauses, swallowing a bit but nods and stands to comply with his superior. Detective Bryant waits until the door shuts but he knows Ben is watching behind the glass. A few moments pass, his eyes don’t leave yours, thumb still stroking and his other hand rests on the edge of the table next to you- effectively caging you in.

“It’s not on me, I didn’t- I didn’t give anything to anyone.” Your lip quivered, shaking your head and looking down at the ring along your finger, running your thumb along the smooth metal to calm yourself and- he takes your hand.

“We’re past denial now sweetheart,” shaking his head, stooping his head down to make sure your eyes meet his, “what comes next is cooperation. Help us. And the DA might listen, but if you don’t tell me the truth then- you’re looking at felony charges. Theft, possession, intent to distribute, murder-” Wait- no. You didn’t- you didn’t murder anyone. You absolutely didn’t- no. 

“I didn’t kill anyone,” you panic, standing and ripping away from him as you start to pace the small room. They can’t pin this on you. They can’t. This wasn’t even your idea and you just went along with what you were told and- “I want a lawyer.” You say- watching as Detective Bryant stands and nods, considering what you say. He hears Ben knock on the glass. Lawyered up? Get out of the room. But- Sammy has never been one to follow the rules anyway.

“That’s fine sweetheart, you get a lawyer but-” he comes around the table again, stopping in front of you- hand resting on the table and making you look up at him. “I can’t help you if you hide behind your lawyer. If I walk out that door then we’re done here.” Sammy didn’t move, Ben wants to knock again because if Sammy doesn’t leave then they’re fucked. Lawyer? Leave. That’s the way it goes. But you were biting your lip and look up at him and- 

“Help me. Please detective I- I don’t want to go to jail.” You begged, putting your hands on his chest and looking up at him like he would be your savior. “I’ll do anything. Please I can’t- I’ll lose my job if this gets out. My husband will find out and- my reputation. I can’t have this happen to me.” You could convince him. You could convince the detective to let you off if you just gave them all the information they asked and even the next drop off location and time. But you couldn’t go down for this. 

“You have to talk to the DA, there will most likely be a trial and-”

“No!” You cut him off, pushing forward and your faces are inches apart, “please- no I’ll- I’ll tell you everything. I’ll do anything Detective Bryant- anything if you make this go away.” He swallows- hard. From this angle he can see down your nightgown and- fuck. You see the way he looks at you, the way he flushes when his eyes drop down your neck and maybe you could- maybe there’s a way out of this? Your hands slowly drag themselves down his chest, not breaking eye contact and see his face flush again.

“I- I can’t promise that-” his focus breaks, his mouth waters because you’re fucking gorgeous and your hands stop at his belt now, “I can’t promise that it’ll go away for you. Th-there’s, um, a process and- and-” Fuck. Sammy stops, eyes closing as you lean up to kiss his jaw. He- he can’t do this. He can’t let you off because you’re kissing him, sighing against his skin with little nips and your small hands work at his belt. Fuck- was Ben seeing this? He knew he was, he can feel his partner’s gaze from behind the glass and-

“It’ll feel good Detective Bryant,” you whisper, dragging his zipper down and smiling to yourself when you feel how hard he is. “I’ll make you feel so good.” Sammy had to close his eyes, bite his fucking lip from moaning out loud because your hands are pulling his shirt from it’s tucked in position and slipping into the waistband of his boxers and- fuck your hands are soft. He lets out a choked off breath- hand coming down the grip the edge of the table because it feels so fucking good. The way your fingers haven’t even done much other than swipe your thumb along the slit, collecting the bit of dripping pre-cum there and- he remembers where he is. Remembers who he is and steps back- grabbing your wrist now and you’re fucking smirking at him. 

“I can’t- that’s not, this isn’t-” he’s a good cop, he can’t let himself get lost in a pretty girl with a wicked smile who’s fucking licking her lips now and dropping to her knees in front of him. He takes a few steps back, coming to bump into the table and you’re fucking crawling to him now with a devilish smile- fucking hell he can’t breathe. You pull his pants down to his knees and-

“Do you want me to stop Detective Bryant?” You whisper again, looking up at him through thick lashes as you toy with the fabric at his thigh. No. No he didn’t want you to fucking stop. Your mouth looked fucking heavenly and you were all but begging and- he shakes his head, no. You drag his boxers down his thigh, moaning at the way his cock springs up to slap against his stomach and- oh he was big. His cock was big and thick and leaking already and you could tell he needed a warm mouth to cum in. Well- might as well serve him while he protects. You shuffle a bit closer, knees coming to rest alongside his feet and you push his buttoned shirt up, giving you view and access to his cock and you give it a slow, soft lick- starting from the base and coming to the tip. 

“Oh fuck me-” He groans, gripping the table with both hands so he doesn’t get the urge to tug you by your hair and use it to hold you while he fucks your mouth. No. No he fucking needs to relax. But it’s so hard to relax when after a few experimental licks, you swirl your tongue around the tip and over the slit to taste what has collected, moaning at the act and smiling when his breathing gets harder. Again, taking the tip between your lips, swirling your tongue and just barely sucking the tip this time as you drag your nails down his shaking thighs. Deeper, just to mid shaft you suck, letting your tongue rest flat along the bottom of him while he’s in your mouth and his groans just make you more eager- that you’ve got him now. Sammy whines when you stop, when your mouth is no longer enveloping his cock but now it’s your hand- slowly dragging up and down his cock while you kiss and suck marks along his thighs. Your touch is so much better than his own, hands warm and small- gentle strokes of him while murmuring praise against his thigh about how big he is, how you’ve never had someone so big in your mouth, how good he tastes and that- you want him to cum in your mouth. That one gets him- makes him see stars and he can’t stop himself from thrusting into your fist because he feels an embarrassingly quick orgasm swelling in his gut. Fuck he can’t cum too fast- but your lips are around him again. You take him deeper into your mouth and your nose is against his stomach, hands coming to grab Sammy by the backs of his thighs to keep him there while you swallow around him and he lets out a string of moans and curses when he empties his load down your throat. He’s breathing hard, panting and slumped against the table but you’re smiling, wiping your mouth and he grabs you by your arm to pull you up into him, kissing you deeply- tongue shoved between your lips so he can taste himself mixed with you, nothing moaning into each other. 

Fuck- he needs to be inside you but he has to wait. Sammy picks you up to sit on the table, shoving himself to stand between your open legs and smiles when you gasp against his lips. He can feel how wet you are, you came to the fucking precinct with no panties on and he’s dying right now- praying he gets hard again soon so he can bury himself deep inside your wet pussy and fuck you into this table. But for now, he’ll settle for dragging his hands along your body, palming at your breasts that are fucking threatening to spill over out this damn nightgown that is practically sheer. He drags it down, lets your breast spill out and catches it with his mouth. Your chest heaves into his mouth, hand coming up to thread into his hair now and tug at his auburn curls so you can get him to suck or bite or something. Fuck he’s going to leave marks, marks you can’t hide and-

“You gonna let me fuck you?” He mumbles, grinding himself into your bare cunt- slowly feeling his cock start to stir again but not quite ready to shove inside you just yet. His fingers will do. His fingers that glint in the light from the wedding ring on his finger and slowly push inside you. Thick. So fucking thick and deliciously perfect- dragging across your walls to where you gasp in his ear, nodding because you’re definitely letting him fuck you. Even if you weren’t staring down the barrel of jail time you’d let him fuck you. He drags his fingers slowly inside you, letting you feel every ridge and his fucking ring while he pumps them slightly faster now as he takes your nipple into his mouth- feeling you clench around his fingers while his thumb starts to circle your clit and- “you get this wet from sucking me off sweetheart?” 

“Y-yes,” you nod weakly, grinding into his hand now because you feel that swell of ecstasy begin its way through your body- feel the heat dance along your nerves. You’re close. How are you so fucking close already?

“Can my partner watch, sweetheart?” Fuck you almost forgot he was behind the glass. You turn back, obviously not able to see him but you smirk, turning back to the detective in front of you who’s fingers are shoved so fucking far inside you and working fast now you gasp a choked off ‘yes’. Sammy smiles, looking in front of him to the mirror and he knows Ben wants to see your face- so he pulls his fingers from your dripping cunt and kisses your whining lips while he picks you up to move around the other side of the table now. Half hard, achingly so but he knows this will get him ready to fuck you- kneeling in front of you and dragging the other side of your nightgown down so you’re fully revealed to Ben. “Can I taste you?” Sammy is on his knees, kissing your ankle and nipping along the skin as he trails his lips up your leg. You whine a pathetic little ‘please’ to him as he sucks marks against your inner thighs- his curls tickling the sensitive skin there while shoving his shoulders under your knees and pushing the hem of your dress to bunch up around your waist. “So fucking eager- does your husband even fuck you enough?” He doesn’t wait for you to respond- just drags his tongue from your entrance to your clit, circling around once before dipping back down to start over. 

“Fuck!” You scream and clenching your thighs around his head while one hand grips the edge of the table, the other finding solace in the curls at the top of his head- trying to be gentle but his tongue feels so fucking good. And he moans when he tastes you- moans into your wet cunt and the vibrations have you pull him by his hair into you deeper so you can grind for more friction. It’s almost not enough. You want him inside you so bad, you want him to fuck you hard into this fucking table and want his partner to watch. But his tongue slowly circles your clit and he moans again before laving at your entrance and pushing between your folds to settle as deep as he could inside your walls. Oh. Oh fuck. The hand that wasn’t gripping his hair for dear life reaches to grab his that’s at your thigh- pulling it to settle on your breast and give some sensation to help your orgasm along. The cold metal of his ring soothes the sting of the marks he had left, this thumb toying with your nipple while he tongue fucks your orgasm from you. It’s wet, hot, and forceful when it slams into your body all at once like a train. You bite your lip, tasting blood to stop yourself from crying out his name when his tongue doesn’t stop but keeps slowly licking into you- helping you ride out your orgasm. 

“You okay?” He stands, kissing your neck and collarbone and he’s hard enough now that he can drag the tip of his now fully hard cock along your wet sensitive folds- smirking to himself because you can’t reply with a coherent response but you grab his hip to hold him still against your entrance to teasingly angle your hips back and forth so the tip can just notch at your entrance over and over again. 

“Fuck me Detective- now.” You’re breathless, but your hold on his hip doesn’t waver- you’re almost pulling him into you and your mouth falls open in a silent cry because his cock is thick and heavy and pushes into your pussy with resistance from just his fucking size no matter how wet you were. Fuck it was perfect, so deliciously perfect that you can’t even remember your fucking name- only know the feeling of him teasing back and forth into your heat with slow little thrusts. You need to enjoy this- it may be the last time you get to have sex in a while because he can’t promise you won’t actually do time but if the last orgasm was anything to go off of then you’ll be seeing stars soon enough. He’s fully seated in you, throbbing and pulsing inside you but he gives himself a moment to kiss your soft lips- licking his way into your mouth to swirl his tongue around yours while pulling out so unfairly slow. Slow- that you can feel every vein and even the ridge where the tip meets his shaft and he’s almost pulling out of you that when you go to protest he slam back inside you so forcefully it has the table drag an inch or two forward from it. 

“This what you needed? To be fucked hard?” He groans in your ear, burying his face in your neck and wills himself to not cum too fast again. “You would’ve confessed anyway huh? Didn’t need my cock to convince you?” The only sound inside the room was the soft drag of the table along the floor, the slap of Sammy’s hips into your own, and your breaths mixing together- panting and shaking moans because he’s fucking you withing an inch of your sanity and- the glass. The mirror where you watch how hard he’s pounding into your tight pussy- behind that mirror Officer Sherman is watching you. Watching you get split open by his partner's cock and- you know you can’t see him but you like to think you’re making eye contact with him, smiling so he can see how good this feels. Smiling at yourself really- dragging your nose along Sammy’s neck with your lips and tongue closely followed behind. With the remnants of your last orgasm still swimming along in your mind- you feel another start to claw its way back up your spine. 

“I’m- fuck, I’m gonna cum again,” you whine, silently begging him to give you another orgasm before you start thinking clearly about how bad this is. How bad fucking a detective in the interrogation room is- cutting yourself a deal and using sex as a leverage for your own survival. You try to tell yourself that this is bad, clinging onto him tighter and your ring stares at you- reminding you that your bed is shared. That you greet someone everyday- kiss them every morning and every night. This is so bad. But he hitches your leg higher above his hip, letting it rest in his arm while he shoves himself deeper. “D-don’t stop.” You were close- and a violent orgasm is exactly what you need to stop your mind from going through just how bad this was. 

“He definitely doesn’t fuck you enough,” Sammy spits out, eagerly hammering into you and loving the way each thrust has you gasping out while you clench around him. Oh yeah- you’re fucking close. “Been neglected sweetheart? That why you’re so happy to confess? Need rewarding?” He sounds almost condescending, gritting his teeth to concentrate on his words but not letting his pace falter. Each thrust shoves himself deeper- pushing up to force your lungs out the way to make room for his cock. He sounds so mean and rough but his kiss was loving- melting his lips with yours, letting his tongue trail into your mouth and you just let him. You’re too fucked out to do little more than moan and whimper. Your orgasm is fast approaching and you have just enough sense to pull away from the kiss to stare back into the mirror as you cum. Hard. Sickeningly hard that it’s almost devastating and if Sammy wasn’t in front of you then you’d slide off this fucking table and melt into the a puddle into the floor. Your pussy spasms and clenches around him, milking his cock for a few more thrusts before you give his curls a firm tug to crash your lips into his. That was it. That was the literal pull he needed before he pumps once more- cumming hard and emptying himself as deep as he can go inside you. Shared panting, mouths agape and not even able to remember how to kiss but you feel him throb inside you as he finishes cumming so hard he’s sure he had a stroke at that last moment. 

“Good?” Sammy asks, pressing his forehead into yours after mouthing mindlessly at your lips and jaw. He’s always concerned with making you feel good- even if he can feel how wet he’s made you or how hard you’ve dug your nails into him- Sammy needs to hear it. He doesn’t like when you just nod- no he wants words. 

“Mhm,” catching your breath, wincing when he sets your leg down on the cold table under you, “it’s always good.” You smile up at him, capturing his lips in yet another bruising kiss. You blush now- no longer too horny to care about your state as you adjust your nightgown back over your chest and push the fabric back over your legs once Sammy pulls himself out of you. Fuck- he’s going to be dripping out of your the entire way home. He doesn’t move to grab your forgotten cardigan from the chair- shrugging off his suit jacket to wrap around your shoulders so give you a moment of modesty. “Think Ben is still alive back there or?” You giggle after Sammy tucks his shirt back into his pants, looking back to the mirror when he walks over to the intercom and presses the speaker button. 

“You good man?” Sammy asks, smiling back at you when a weak ‘y-yeah’ follows heavy breaths from the speaker- poor Ben. Always dragged into whatever stupid idea Sammy had. But it was an idea that Sammy had tossed around a while ago and how can you deny your husband on his birthday? Because what man doesn’t like the way his wife is lusted after- watching the way Ben has trailed his eyes up and down your body a time or two gave him the idea. Now he didn’t want you to be touched by someone else- no Sammy would break their jaw. But knowing Ben had his hand wrapped around his own cock while watching Sammy fuck you? That was the best present ever. “He’ll be fine.” Sammy came back to you, cupping your face in his large hands while you whispered a soft ‘happy birthday’ to him. He was lucky most of the precinct had gone home already- a few night shift officers were at their desks but typing away on a report or two and the interrogation room was far enough away that he was sure no one would hear you or pay attention to you really. 

”Where the fuck did you even find that thing?” You laugh when Sammy reaches over you to turn off the recorder- taking the tape out of the deck and bopping you on the nose with it lightly before shoving it in his back pocket. Definitely one to listen to later. 

“Sherman found it in the basement,” Sammy says while you help him with his belt, fixing the metal police badge to clip on straight and adjusting his tie- giving it a yank to draw him in closer to you for another kiss.

“Give him the tape- I think he earned it.” You smile against Sammy's lips when you feel him pout. Maybe it was a sick ‘thank you’ from you- for watching your husband’s back all the time. Making sure he comes back home to you in one piece. You reach in Sammy’s back pocket to retrieve the tape and hold it up to the glass for Ben to see. 

“Come get it before I change my mind-” your husband grumbles against your kiss, hearing the door open as Ben rushes in to grab the tape from your hand while you toss him a wink. “Go get the car Sherman.” You smack Sammy for being mean- he gets a little possessive, he’s been sated and fucked and can think properly and doesn’t want his partner seeing his wife with barely anything on anymore. “Lemme get you a sweatshirt and I’ll take you back home okay baby?” There was no way he was walking you out this precinct covered in marks from his lips and your nightgown so low your tits threaten to spill out with every move you make- his favorite one that you wear to bed, the one that doesn’t ever stay on the entire night. The fucking things you do for your husband- but how do you say no to charming hazel eyes and a sweet dimple when he smiles like he knows he’s devilishly handsome?

Everyone thank Ty @velvetmel0n for listening to my random thoughts and sometimes idiot checking my fics for me

[hatsbuckets]

Horny asks or som'n som'n I saw earlier and just, my thoughts went sideways earlier.

So som'n som'n a) vampires when they yawn do it like snakes where their fangs come out and stuff

Som'n som'n b) vampires who need extra salt in the winter, cause good vamplings that don't hunt humans, can gorge on animals they find all they want and desperately need more salt intake. What better substitute then salt or cum. Their body would happily, and kinda really needs it anyways, absorb it from any possible source.

C) little fat gorged vamplings all too happy to be dicked/pussied down and suck off anyone the little bloody sluts.

D( no I don't know where I was going with this, just woke up from a nap but enjoy that idea. 🙂‍↕️

Reading this was like getting punched in a boxing match but in like a really good way. Like Wham. But also wham ! And it kept getting better. About to CoD and 141 ur idea hottie nonny 🙏 this was so fun to write up omg it just got longer and longer. I want more.

I wrote this for the entirety of the last basketball game. Quick and unedited.

18+ smut at the end.

Imagine like, a world where Vampires are integrated-ish, vampires make up about so about 3-5% of the pop. (250-300 million), more than enough that they become a regular part of society. (pretend all the legal/cultural stuff solves itself mostly womp womp)

In this world, attack dog vampires are favored. Vampires utilized for military, policing, PMCs, security. Vamps have other jobs in the world of course, the notable ones include being paid universal blood donors (this is an idea I've been obsessed with since I've discovered vampires as a kid but idk how to explain my reasoning. Like you only get turned vampy with bite and blood, but blood alone is good), sex workers who know their niche, dangerous/high risk jobs, and an all-vampire UFC type fighting ring where fights are crazy and so cool.

Important note, biting & the biting vampire's blood turns people. Not just a bite. It takes both.

Anyway, back to our boys. Price, who's as human as they come ("booooo Hat whyyy" shhhhhhh). He's been in long enough to have seen his fair share of Vamps. They get treated pretty rough in the military, blood lust can become an issue if they don't train 'em hard and keep 'em on a leash.

Vampire Ghost who got turned by Roba. (Roba didn't know what he created. Thought he killed Ghost, turns out he made a vampire. Something something Ghost as Roba's spawn eats at Ghost for years). Ghost comes out blood fuckin' thirsty and raging. Kills Roba and everyone. He gorges for days on the bodies in his wake before Price finds him. Price helps him fix it as best he can. But Ghost's days on fresh blood in his rage is near irreversible. He can live on animals, needs human blood to thrive. Price let's Ghost use what he needs. Ghost is near toxicly dependent on Price for emotional, physical, and sexual stability. It's a dangerous relationship. Price knows that. But no one's denying that Ghost, flaring his fangs like a damn demon, mask cut or modified so that when it happens it works, is a scary, terrifying fucking beast in the field.

Vampire Gaz who grew up a natural born vampire. His family is ancient. Well known family, renowned for their service and deeds to humanity, and vampires. He knows how to take care of himself. Knows what animals are his favorite. He's a balancing force on the 141. He has his moments, like any vamp, but Price knows that a good meal normally calms him down. Or a good fuck. Gaz'll take both. Flares his fangs when he's feeling threatened, but grew up with the vampire culture to know, when how, and what it means. (Unlike Ghost, who's just a scary, biting dog)

Human Soap (I'm sorry I couldn't help myself) who grew up around enough vamps to not be worried about it in the slightest. Joining the military only exposed him more. And as he understands it, it's only right to let your vampire brother in arms suck your cock to make sure he's okay in the winter. (*Cough* Whore.)

Then he gets the invitation from the Captain. And joining the 141, full of the most elite vampires in the world, is a crazy time. These bastards are fun. They snarl at the enemy when shit hits the fan. Gaz's lip twitches when Soap annoys him, exposing his left fang. They fight damn fuckin' good.

And at this point, Ghost has chilled tf out and leads his unit well. But Soap notices the tension after missions. Soap notices when Ghost disappears for a night or three with Price. Soap knows, eventually, what it means. (Price either hides the bites well, or Ghost isn't biting his neck. (thighbitesthighbitesthighbites).)

As time passes, the vamps do get protective of their humans on the 141. Gaz does not miss the opportunity to explain that it's an instinct: protect your humans because they're your source of life.

And Gaz is protective at worst. A little defensive, but he knows how to control it, what it is. Knows that when he exposes his fangs at Alejandro (and Ale does it back) there's no hard feelings, it's just posturing, just making sure Ale knows that Price and Soap are his.

Price lets it go. Soap adores and teases the affection from Gaz.

Ghost, on the other hand, doesn't know better, well logically he knows, but damn if logic isn't stronger than his blood instinct. Damn if it isn't Price who keeps him fucking alive so any threat to Price is a direct threat to himself. (But also hnnnggg ghostprice)

And then, eventually of course, Johnny happens. In this universe, after an event like Alone in Las Almas, Soap and Ghost are exhausted. Ghost hasn't seen Price in at least 2 weeks, maybe more, he's itching for blood, for something. Soap's bleeding wound doesn't help at all. Ghost can smell him the entire truck ride. Hear his heart hammering to keep up. Can see how much calmer and dazed Soap is and something in him screams prey.

He can't, he won't. But Soap knows, and Soap might not understand it but he'll be damned if his lieutenant is suffering and holding on by a thread. He lets Ghost patch up his arm. Lets him lead and lead and take back the Vaqueros (or something) (haha slowburn). And when it's over. When they get someplace truly safe. When Ghost begins to retreat but Price has shit to take care of and paperwork to do before they meet with Kate later...

So Soap follows, and pesters. He's rough on Ghost, scolding for not taking care of himself.

Ghost is quiet, half flaring fangs just to warn Soap to fuck off.

But Soap won't. Of course not. But Ghost isn't going to drink Soap's blood. He won't. Refuses.

That's how John "Soap (whore)" MacTavish ends up braced against a wall getting his cocked milked for all it's worth.

He's come three times already, just Ghost's mouth around him, wet and hot. He's shaking, crying, whining, begging Ghost just to fuck him. To fill him. To finish this.

Ghost's only reply is lick from the base of Soap's cock to swirl at the tip. He knows his fourth orgasm is on its way, one thigh lifted on Ghosts shoulder. And when he shatters, not an ounce left to give, balls sucked dry, Ghost lets him collapse into his arms.

Ghost carries him to his own quarters. Lays him in bed. And holds the quivering, shaking, crying Scotsman in his arms. He can't offer much warmth, doesn't know how, doesn't know that Soap wants to hear they're both okay. That he's better. That Soap is an angel and more than Ghost deserves. How could he?

...

Soap wakes to an empty bed. But the nightstand holds a note from Price, just a "thank you" scribbled quick, and his favorite alcohol, the expensive kind.

...

note: this absolutely takes some inspiration from @/bluegiragi 's Monster AU. If you haven't read it FUCKIN GO READ IT. >Tumblr link< It's my favorite fan comic rn ngl

[tawked]

I'm being kind of glib about Barbara Gordon's choice of secret hiddeouts in relation to her disability, but tbh it's always been funny to me in an "ableds writing disableds" way that her choices for secret bases are, in order:

the second floor of an ancient tower that only seems to have stairs and an elevator, so when she's doxxed by the bad men and her power is cut, or the whole city is ravaged by an earthquake and again the power is cut, she's like, uh. Like what's the plan babe

a converted freight ship, which is so wheelchair inaccessible that when she's doxxed here she has to belt up her legs and scuttle around on the ceilings like a horror movie monster. Which is badass, yes, but like...

notice the water-sealing rise at the base? These doors exist to say "fuck you" to water and wheelchair users in equal measure. C'mon Babs, you can hide in a rental storage joint just as easily.

a luxury plane. This one's a little more involved so let me explain! The second they hit hard turbulence or Lady Blackhawk needs to dodge a missile or something (a reasonable concern for superheroes in planes), Barbara is in unnecessary danger lol. Either that or she'd be in a secured position, either locked in (see below), or she'd likely move from her chair to one of the stationary seats in the jet. And that kinda defeats the purpose, right? This is a secret base she's even less likely to be able to move around in than her Clock Tower apartment.

I think all of this could be really cool if it were used as a commentary on mobility in any meaningful way. Barring a few handholds around her bed and a bar in her bathroom, Barbara's environments aren't really adapted for her. But it's kinda just done thoughtlessly tbh.

idk what anything with Barbara after the New 52 is like because I just haven't read it. I don't even know if she's currently a wheelchair user or not, so maybe this is a null issue right now, but I will never resist the opportunity to complain about Chuck Dixon so

[reality-detective]

Bees and Honey 👇

🐝Some interesting facts about bees 🐝

Here are 20 interesting facts about the importance of honey and bees:

1. Did you know that honey never spoils? Archaeologists have found pots of honey in ancient Egyptian tombs that are over 3,000 years old and still perfectly edible!

2. Did you know bees are essential for growing many of our foods? They pollinate about one-third of the food we eat, including fruits, vegetables, and nuts.

3. Did you know honey has natural healing properties? It can help soothe sore throats and even speed up the healing of wounds and burns due to its antibacterial qualities.

4. Did you know bees produce a tiny amount of honey in their lifetime? A single worker bee produces only about 1/12th of a teaspoon of honey in her entire life, but together they make a lot!

5. Did you know bees communicate through dancing? They perform a "waggle dance" to tell other bees where to find the best flowers.

6. Did you know honey can help your brain? It contains antioxidants that may support brain health and improve memory.

7. Did you know beeswax, made by bees, is used in many everyday products?** It's found in things like candles, lip balm, and even some types of food packaging.

8. Did you know honey can be a natural energy booster? It provides a quick source of energy because it's packed with natural sugars.

9. Did you know there are over 300 types of honey in the United States alone? The flavor, color, and aroma depend on the flowers that bees visit.

10. Did you know that beekeeping helps many communities around the world? It provides income, supports agriculture, and helps improve food security in many regions.

11. Did you know honey can be used as a natural preservative? Because of its antibacterial properties, honey has been used to preserve fruits and other foods for centuries.

12. Did you know that some bees can recognize human faces? Studies have shown that honeybees can remember and recognize human faces, much like they remember different flowers.

13. Did you know honey can improve your sleep? A spoonful of honey before bed can promote relaxation and better sleep by raising insulin slightly and allowing tryptophan to enter the brain.

14. Did you know bees are colorblind to red? Bees can see ultraviolet light, which humans can't, but they can't see the color red. Instead, they see it as black.

15. Did you know honey can help with seasonal allergies? Consuming local honey is believed by some to help build immunity to local pollen and reduce allergy symptoms.

16. Did you know that royal jelly, produced by worker bees, is fed to all bee larvae? However, only those destined to become queens are fed royal jelly throughout their development.

17. Did you know honey has different medicinal uses in various cultures? For example, in Ayurvedic medicine, honey is used to treat digestive issues, and in ancient Egypt, it was used to treat wounds.

18. Did you know bees have a built-in GPS? They use the position of the sun, the earth's magnetic field, and their own memories of landmarks to navigate and find their way back to the hive.

19. Did you know honeybees are the only insects that produce food eaten by humans? They are unique in their production of honey, which has been a staple in human diets for thousands of years.

20. Did you know that honey can vary greatly in taste and texture? The type of flowers the bees pollinate affects the flavor, color, and texture of the honey. Some honey can even be creamy or spicy!

[blueiscoool]

Greece Returns 1,055 Ancient Coins to Turkey

Greece on Thursday returned a hoard of over 1,000 stolen ancient coins to Turkey in the first repatriation of its kind between the historic rivals and neighbors, Agence France-Presse reported.

The move came a few months after Turkey publicly supported Greece in its long quest to reclaim the Parthenon Marbles from the British Museum in London.

Greek Culture Minister Lina Mendoni said the hoard of 1,055 silver coins had been seized by Greek customs guards on the border with Turkey in 2019.

“These coins had been illegally imported,” Mendoni said at a ceremony at the Numismatic Museum, which specializes in currency and medal collections, in Athens.

Greeks are “particularly sensitive” to repatriation issues, she said.

“All illegally exported antiquities from whichever country should return to their country of origin,” Mendoni added.

Turkish Culture Minister Mehmet Nuri Ersoy said the operation was the first repatriation from Greece.

Greek and Turkish experts determined that the coins were part of a stock hidden in Asia Minor between the late 5th and early 4th century BCE, she added.

While research is ongoing, it is possible the hoard was secreted in modern-day Turkey during the Persian Wars expeditions of Athenian general Cimon, a veteran of the 480 BCE Battle of Salamis, she added.

Broadly used

Most of the cache were tetradrachms — ancient large silver coins — originally minted in Athens and used broadly in the eastern Mediterranean, said Museum Numismatologist Vassiliki Stefanaki, a coinage expert.

Stamped with the image of an owl, the Athenian relics were also used locally to pay tribute to the Persian Empire, and Persian governors used them to reward their troops, she said.

Other coins came from Cyprus, the islands of Aegina and Milos, from Asia Minor cities founded by Greek settlers, the Iron Age kingdom of Lydia, and Phoenicia in modern-day Lebanon, officials said.

Mendoni on Thursday also thanked Turkey for supporting Greece’s campaign to secure the return of the Parthenon Marbles from London.

The British Museum has long maintained that the Marbles were removed from the Acropolis in Athens by royal decree granted to Lord Elgin, the British ambassador to the Ottoman Empire.

But in June, Zeynep Boz, the head of the Turkish Culture Ministry’s anti-smuggling committee, told a UNESCO meeting in Paris that no such document had been found in Ottoman archives.

Her statement was “decisive” in favor of Greece’s position, Mendoni said Thursday.

Ersoy through a translator said Turkey wanted “with all its heart” to see the Marbles return to Athens.

“The Greek people should have them, they belong to them,” he said.

Boz, who attended Thursday’s ceremony in Athens, told Agence France-Presse that the timing of the coins’ return by Greece was not related to her report in June.

The five-year delay was caused by the time required by the Greek justice system to authorize the coins’ repatriation, she said.

[lazyneonrabbitt]

Snowed in

Adar x reader

A meeting with Adar took a quite pleasant turn thanks to bad weather.

Winter was in full swing. Most of Middle Earth's lands already covered in a thick layer of snow.

Mordor was next on the list, the reports of a storm closing in quickly spreading from one uruk town to the other. Some had found their settlements already with a light dusting of powdered snow overnight.

Your new home, once Tirharad and now the main uruk settlement where Adar resided, expected a storm soon.

Everyone was expected to either stay in their homes or at their workplace as to not get caught in the freezing snowfall.

And yet here you sat, patiently waiting for Adar to finish up his task before he'd discuss your needed things as advisor of all things mortal.

"Lord Father, Adar.." You stepped up beside him at the table. "You have been at this for days now, at least let me try to assist to we can discuss our planned items."

You wanted nothing more than to put your hands on his shoulders and squeeze. Undo some of the tension built up over days of not leaving his desk to work through winter plans. But you knew better than to touch him without permission, and you were not in the mood to lose a hand over something as small as this.

"Winter will be harsh. Wirh our current ways we will not have enough food to make it to spring." Adar's head hung low, hands in his hair as he let out a frustrated growl. He was the leader here, their Lord Father who had saved them and now couldn't even manage to get them through one winter after finally settling down..

"Adar, if I may.." With a slight tremble you reached for the papers that weren's stuck under his elbows and looked them over. The amount of details that were thought of, calculated and are being actively monitored were some of the most well done you had ever seen.

"Wait, what if we.." You dlid one of the papers back under Adar's nose, getting his attention once more and started laying down ideas. With each one you could see Adar's ears perk up, no longer drooping in a tired manner.

The ancient uruk was impressed, seeing a positive in this mess now. "So, I take you would have men take care of this? As it is their field of expertise. My uruk know nothing of this, so I also hope you will find someone who is willing to teach them."

Scribbling along, you both crossed issue after issue off the list, solving multiple at once with something as simple as what you suggested. You got so into the task it just kept going and going until a harsh gust of wind broke the door lock, making it slam against brick and have you both rush to close and secure it.

Adar watched you shiver and sulk. It looked like you stared at the storm outside through the wood paneling of the door.

With the door secured, Adar led you to the fireplace. It only downed on him now that mortals handled cold way worse than the uruk, and when your shivering wouldn't stop he offered you a large fur blanket.

Adar gave you time to get back to temperature, but quickly noticed you were too tired to continue your previous task.

All the while, you sat with your gaze on the fire. Your mind racing at how physically close you had been just now with your body between him and the door as he held it closed while you secured the lock. Oh you wanted to endlessly daydream about ways that could have escalated if you just weren't such a coward and confessed how you felt for your leader.

Adar had put your combined works aside for now and stared from a distance. Your tired frame, hunched over near the fire was a view he enjoyed. You fit well in his home, and once more he felt like a part of his mind cleared. He always saw mortals as lower creatures. Perhaps it was a remnant of his elven days that never left as he compared them now to the strength and endurance his uruk had.

But the mortals had smarts, techniques and ways of survival he had never in his long lifetime needed. And somehow he had never filed you together with the others. Not with how you presented yourself and willed to help both halves of this community Adar had built.

No, Adar saw you higher than the mortals, and now started to see a positive in having you as his equal.

There, in the safety of Adar's home, two minds raced. Silence took over the place, only the crackle of the fireplace sounding in the corner.

A contrast lay in the room.

On one end, close to the door and far into the shadow where small tabletop candles had burned out. Where the cold creeped through the cracks in the doorframe stood Adar, who's mind fought wether the human would even care for the ancient monstrosity rhat had captured her and forced her to live in his wretched lands.

Words of his children floated by. Words of his affection towards the mortal advisor. He had always dismissed them, for he knew he respected her for her openness towards the uruk, and her clear vision of how the two kinds would live alongside. But his uruk felt it was affection. Some even dared to call it love and it had Adar almost act on their teasing multiple times, but always shut it down just in time for her not to notice.

And on the other, covered in firelight and warmth sat you. Head unable to stop screaming to pull him towards you into the comfort of the blankets you sat on.

Voices of the many female uruk you spend time with spoke all at once. The eldest ones who joked about your longing stares. And the ones who you assumed shared your age, who made every suggestion under the hidden sun to get his attention. To go talk to him and charm him. To wear that pretty dress and seduce him. Surely Adar would be excited to lay with a pretty lady in a pretty dress, as they said.

But why would a being with such skill and life experience, with such knowledge and power be interested in a mere mortal? It was your last thought before your body gave in to sleep.

Adar didn't need sleep as much as you did, so he sat and watched you, read once again over your scribbled notes until he heard something.

You were shivering. The fire had gone down to smoldering coals and he had barely noticed the change in temperature. Yet you suffered in the cold.

With a new plan in mind Adar moved to the bedtoom, where he rid himself of his armor and left him in just his trousers and undershirt. Bare feet padded along the wooden floorboards on his way to pick you up. His bed was warmer, and if he took the furs you had already laid on and warmed with yoir body heat he could make sure you stayed warm.

You hadn't stirred awake during his process which eased his mind, but still you would not stop regain warmth. He had stayed inthe room with you, watching to calm his own mind that cursed at him for failing you so badly.

He thought of his children. Hoe would they respond if they knew their Lord Father was failing at the simple task of keeping the mortal from freezing.

His children.

The youngest ones who'd all pile up together and huddle up for warmth, sharing body heat.

Lords, he was an idiot.

What? No. There was no way you'd be okay with it. You'd wake up and demand to leave, unable to be that close to a foul creature like himself.

He had to. He knew it would work, so pushing every burning curse from his mind he removed his shirt, laid it over the furs you slept underneath and used all he had left of his elven self to be as light on his feet as he could, crawling into bed with you.

You stirred. You woke up and Adar mentally tore himself to shreds for ruining your sleep.

"Adar?" You didn't dare to turn and look, and a confirmed hum made it so you didn't need to.

"You were cold. I hoped to keep you warm." In his anger he disconnected himself from you and earned a sad almost whine, feeling you press your back against his chest once more and grabbing to find his arm and pull it against you.

Adar's arm. The one you had never seen uncovered, always hidden underneath long sleeves and that large gauntlet.

"Thank you." A quiet mumble was all you managed, Adar's warmth already affecting you. Not that he had heard you. Not with his full focus on your fingers tracing his twisted, scarred arm with the most gentle touch he had ever felt.

So there it was. The one action that disspelled his demons shouting he would never be loved by another. You cared for him like he cared for you.

With a soft, shaky breath he pressed his lips against the back of your head. "Sleep well." He uttered against your scalp, pulling you tighter against him and nuzzling into you.

It was overwhelming, how you were being handled so gently and with such love. So your differences never truly mattered after all.

You both slept better than ever. So much that you slept long past the storm outside, much yo the worry of Adar's children.

Glûg was the one tasked with checking on him whenever he did not show up and dared not to wake you both.

Once the two of you had gotten ready to leave the house, the whole town was in celebration of their Lord Father finally having taken home the fair mortal lady.

And the women happily informed you of uruk breeding habits, leaving you red-faced and fleeing the scene.

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Weaponized | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Part Seven

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Words: ~3,600

Series Tags/Warnings: Violence, Trauma, No Hogwarts House, Post Hogwarts, Auror!Sebastian, Auror!MC, Modern AU, Female Reader Insert, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Forced Proximity, Ancient Magic, Mutual Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Betrayal, Reconciliation, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Divergent

Beta: @dreamy-gal-30 💚💚💚

Auror Division Headquarters, Staging Area – London

You strapped the last of your gear into place with practiced precision—thigh holster secured, spell-proof vest tightened, wiggenwelds clipped to your belt. Around you, the others in Sebastian’s squad moved through their own final checks, voices low, tension coiled under the surface.

It was the first time the full squad had been cleared for duty since the Southwark operation. You hadn’t been there for that mission, but you’d read the incident report—Combs and MacKinnon had suffered severe concussions, Townsend had nearly lost a leg, and Snow’s wand arm had only just been cleared by the Healers. But now, the squad was nine men strong. Or well, eight plus you.

Supposedly, today’s mission was a simple intercept. Intel indicated a smuggler drop near the old Norwood freight depot. Minimal resistance expected.

You didn’t buy a word of it.

Not after Knockturn. Not after you’d seen the tactical posture of the guards and the restricted British-issue wand holster clipped to one of their belts. 

Unfortunately, you still hadn’t heard back from your contacts in Canada.

Around you, boots thudded against concrete. Evans clipped his wand into place while Mercer and Higgins ran through dueling formations with Townsend. MacKinnon leaned against a potions crate, muttering darkly to Combs about spellfire. Snow paced near the Floo, stretching his wand arm.

And then there was Sebastian.

He was talking with Lieutenant Hale by the comms panel, arms crossed, his expression a shade more closed than usual. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Hale looked tense. About what, you weren’t sure.

Sebastian turned toward the team a moment later. “Final loadout check,” he called. “Gear up. We’re moving out.”

That snapped everyone into motion.

You tightened your grip on your wand and took your place in the staggered row forming near the Floo. Sebastian moved down the line, giving each officer a quick once-over. His gaze brushed past you briefly—no scowl, no suspicion, just a nod.

Progress.

In fact, things had been relatively peaceful for the past few days. Or, at least, as peaceful as they could be.

Since Sebastian had punished the Auror Officers for their hazing, there’d been no more ice hexes in the showers. No more missing kit from your locker. Multiple had even apologized—some awkwardly, some sincerely, most somewhere in between. You hadn’t expected that. You weren’t sure what to do with it, really.

And Sebastian had apologized too, something you still hadn’t quite wrapped your head around.

It didn’t erase the way he’d treated you before. The shit talking behind your back. The shouting after Whitechapel. The punishing drills that bordered on torturous. The cold silences.

But it counted for something, even if it did take him reading your file to start treating you like a human.

From the front of the room, Sebastian nodded, satisfied that everyone’s gear was in order.

“Alright,” he said crisply. “Depot approach is narrow. We’ll go through the Floo one by one. No movement until everyone’s through, clear?”

A chorus of acknowledgments followed—“Clear,” “Understood,” “Yes, sir”—cutting clean through the tension in the air.

He glanced toward the Floo. “Alright, let’s move.”

Norwood District  – London 

The green flare of the Floo spit you out one step behind Combs, boots hitting damp concrete in the shadow of an abandoned factory front. The rest of the squad emerged in sequence, wands already drawn, movements swift and practiced. Sebastian was last, stepping through with purpose, already scanning the surrounding buildings.

You were just under a mile out from the supposed drop site, an old freight depot that had been decommissioned years ago, now fenced off and left to rot. Prime real estate for smuggling activity.

“Two-by-two formation,” Sebastian said quietly. “Evans, with me. Higgins, you’re rear. Rest of you, you know the spread. Eyes open.”

You fell into step beside MacKinnon, boots clicking quietly against the slick pavement. Fog clung low to the street, smothering the edges of light cast by the intermittent streetlamps. 

The city felt dead tonight.

About three blocks in, Sebastian dropped back. Just enough to fall in beside you. You glanced at him sidelong.

“...You good?” he asked.

The question startled you more than it should have. You kept your eyes forward. 

“Fine.”

Sebastian nodded once. ““This is your first op with the full squad. Just wanted to make sure no one’s giving you grief.”

You gave him a look then. “...I think they’re more afraid of you than me now.”

That actually got a brief huff of a laugh from him. “Good.”

He fell quiet again. For a few steps, all you could hear was the squelch of your boots in a shallow puddle. You let the silence stretch. You didn’t owe him conversation. But still, when his voice returned, it caught you off guard.

“What’s your read on the intel?”

You didn’t mean to scoff, you really didn’t, but the sound left you anyway, short and sharp and entirely involuntary.

Sebastian glanced over, brow arching.

“Not exactly brimming with confidence, then,” he said.

You sighed through your nose. Shit. 

You hadn’t meant to tip your hand, not to him.

Sebastian might have apologized, he might even have softened a little, but that didn’t mean you could trust him.

He didn’t know what you’d seen in Knockturn nor the growing unease curling beneath your ribs every time a smuggling mission came up. And until you were sure he wasn’t part of whatever this was, you weren’t going to hand him the match to light the whole thing up.

So you pivoted.

“The source is unverified,” you said evenly, keeping your eyes forward. “And we’re being sent into an abandoned Muggle logistics site with no secondary unit on standby. That’s not standard, and you know it.”

Beside you, Sebastian’s mouth pulled into a tight line. “Hale’s justification was limited comms reach near the depot. Said backup wouldn’t be able to get through fast enough if something went sideways.”

You hummed noncommittally. “That’s still not how I’d run it.”

He glanced at you again. “So you don’t think it’s a trap. You just think it’s sloppy.”

You nodded once. “Sloppy gets people killed.”

Before Sebastian could respond, the depot loomed into view.

A rusted chain-link fence framed the lot, half-collapsed in places and barely pretending to hold anything out—or in. The building itself crouched low against the skyline, all broken windows and warped siding, an abandoned relic from another era.

Sebastian raised a hand, signaling the squad to split. “Perimeter check. Townsend, Combs, Higgins, Snow—you’re clockwise. Rest of us will go counter. Eyes open.”

You gave a sharp nod and peeled off with MacKinnon, Mercer, Sebastian, and Evans, boots crunching over gravel. The air was damp and stale, laced with the smell of mildew and old oil. A low breeze tugged at your collar.

You found nothing.

No guards. No crates. No signs of movement. Just rot and fog and silence.

When you regrouped ten minutes later, the other team had similar results.

Sebastian frowned. “Alright. Let’s head in. Stay sharp.”

The squad fanned out and entered the depot, wands raised. You were third in. The interior was pitch dark and smelled like rust and damp stone.

Your eyes swept the space instinctively, trained to pick up movement even in the shadows, but nothing stirred. MacKinnon broke right. Combs moved towards the catwalk.

Then you saw it.

A single table in the center of the room, and on it, a torn piece of parchment, curled at the edges like it had been there a while but not long enough to gather dust.

You moved toward it slowly. The others noticed and closed in.

“Clear,” Combs called from above.

“Same here,” MacKinnon echoed.

You reached the table and picked up the parchment. One sentence, written in a looping, slightly smudged hand:

“Better luck next time :)”

Evans let out a sharp breath behind you. “That’s it? That’s all that’s here?”

Sebastian took the parchment from your hand, reading the words silently. His jaw flexed. “This was never a drop.”

“No shit,” Higgins muttered, eyes still scanning the empty space like something might crawl out of the walls.

You didn’t say anything, but your mind was already racing. You’d been in the field long enough to recognize the signs. A cleared perimeter, no magical trace, nothing left behind. This place had been scrubbed clean, and whoever had left that note had known exactly when you’d arrive.

Sebastian folded the parchment and tucked it inside his jacket. “We pull back. Sweep the perimeter one last time, then return to HQ for debrief.”

You nodded slowly, jaw tight. The chill in your spine had nothing to do with the draft curling under the doorframes. 

Better luck next time. 

Auror Division Headquarters, Personal Quarters – London

Your room was quiet, dimly lit by the single lamp on your desk. The ventilation system was the only sound, save for the soft rustle of pages as you turned them. Moon was curled across your legs, her tail flicking with every shift of your ankle.

You were finally warm. Finally dry. The depot raid was behind you, the mandated health report submitted, the mission debrief finished. Your gear had been stowed and your holster scrubbed down with oil. You’d even gotten your hair properly washed for the first time in two days.

You were in your pajamas now—regulation-issue loungewear worn to softness from five years of use. The collar slipped constantly off your left shoulder, the sleeves were too long, and the waistband never sat quite right anymore. But it was comfortable. And technically still regulation.

You were halfway through the same paragraph for the third time—your thoughts stuck on the torn note at the depot—when a knock rattled the door.

You jumped like you’d been hexed. No one ever knocked on your door. Not once. Not in all the weeks you’d been stationed here.

Moon tensed too, ears flicking, and you instinctively leaned down to whisper, “Under. Now.”

She darted off your legs and slipped under the bed without protest, the way she always did when you used that tone. You stood quickly, trying your best not to look like someone who had just panicked about having a secret cat.

You opened the door cautiously bracing for a random officer or worse, Hale.

It was Sebastian.

You blinked. “Oh.”

He looked… slightly less put together than usual. Still in uniform, but his sleeves were pushed to his elbows, the fabric creased at the collar like he hadn’t changed since the depot. One hand rested against the frame, his posture casual, but his expression unreadable.

“Hey,” he said.

You gripped the edge of the door, suddenly very aware of the threadbare state of your shirt and the fact that one of your shoulders was still bare.

“…Hi.”

His eyes flicked over you briefly—face, collarbone, hair still a little damp at the ends—then back to your eyes. 

“I, uh—sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No. Just reading,” you said, shifting your weight. “Do you need something?”

Sebastian hesitated. “Not… exactly. I just…” He cleared his throat, lifting up an envelope. “You have mail.”

You blinked. “Mail?”

He held it out between two fingers. It was a plain envelope, unmarked except for your name across the front. No official Ministry seal. No return address.

“It was in the secure drop outside the office,” Sebastian said. “Hale had already gone for the night, so I figured…”

You reached for it slowly, quickly realizing what this must be: a response from the Canadian Ministry.

You kept your expression neutral.

“…Figured I’d bring it myself,” he finished, watching you a little too carefully.

“Thanks,” you said, fingers brushing his as you took it.

There was a beat. Long enough to become awkward.

Sebastian didn’t leave. He just… stood there. Straightened a little, like he’d just remembered how posture worked, and shoved a hand into his pocket. His gaze flicked from the envelope to your face and back again. You could practically hear the whir of unspoken thoughts grinding behind his eyes.

You tilted your head, just slightly. “Is there something else?”

At the same time, he said, “So—”

You both stopped. Both blinked.

You let out an involuntary, awkward little laugh. “Sorry, what?”

Sebastian cleared his throat. “Oh, uh, go ahead.”

You gestured with the envelope. “I was just going to say… thanks. For this. Again.”

He nodded. “Right. No problem.”

Another beat passed. He shifted his weight like he might finally be about to excuse himself, but then—

“So…” he said again. “what were you reading?”

It took you a second to find your footing. “Uh… Just a Defence text I’ve read a dozen times.”

Sebastian nodded like that made perfect sense. “Comfort rereads. Yeah.”

You shrugged. “More like… I can’t seem to find time to buy a new book.”

A flicker of something passed over Sebastian’s face then, just for a second. Something that looked too close to sympathy to be anything else.

Of course.

He’d read your file. He knew you didn’t have a life outside the confines of the Ministry’s leash. Knew there was no family nearby, no partner, no listed friendships or social affiliations outside your commanding contacts in Canada.

Not even your off-hours were really yours. 

“I’ve got a few books in my office,” he said. “If... you ever want something new to read.”

You blinked. “You do?”

“Yeah. A lot of Muggle fiction. Some magical theory stuff too, but most of it’s trash novels. Fun trash, though.”

You were just about to say that actually sounded kind of nice when—

Meow.

You froze.

Sebastian frowned. “What was that?”

You blinked, feigning confusion. “What was what?”

“That sound. Did you—did something just meow?”

“No?”

“That was definitely a meow.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m pretty sure I know what a cat sounds like.”

“Maybe it was the pipes?”

“It sounded like it came from under your bed.”

You opened your mouth to double down when Moon, utterly unbothered, sauntered out from under the bed like the little traitor she was and curled delicately around Sebastian’s boots, biting playfully at the buttons.

His eyebrows lifted. “Is that a—?”

Without thinking, you reached out, grabbed the front of his shirt, and yanked him inside, Moon and all.

“Whoa—!”

You shut the door behind him in one smooth motion, pressing your back against it like a human barricade.

Sebastian just stared at you. Then at Moon. Then back at you.

“…You have a cat.”

You didn’t answer right away, mostly because you were panicking.

Three weeks. You’d managed three full weeks without a single detection charm tripping. Without anyone noticing the extra food being requisitioned. Without a single sound escaping during dorm inspections. And now? Now your fucking lieutenant was standing in your room, looking down at Moon as she purred against his leg like she didn’t just blow your entire cover.

You were already running damage control in your head—lies, excuses, memory charms if it came to it. Moon, bless her oblivious heart, circled back to rub against your ankle like this wasn’t a full-blown violation of housing regulations.

“I can explain,” you said quickly.

Sebastian just blinked at you, still visibly floored. “You brought a cat into Ministry housing.”

“She’s well-behaved,” you blurted, “and clean, and I transfigure the litter, and she doesn’t shed much, and I’ve warded the door to mask any noise—”

“—How long?”

“Three weeks.”

“Three—?” He let out a sound that was somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “And no one else noticed?”

You crossed your arms. “I don’t exactly have many visitors.”

“...No, I guess not,” he said quietly. Then he glanced around again—at the dog-eared book still sitting on the blanket, at Moon now kneading it with her paws. He didn’t look angry. Or smug. Or even particularly judgmental. He just looked… surprised. Like he’d just found out you had a secret inner world.

Sebastian folded his arms slowly. “Does she have a name?”

“…Moon.”

He crouched slightly, careful not to startle her, and scratched gently behind one ear. She purred louder, traitorous little thing that she was. “Cute,” he murmured.

You watched, arms still crossed tightly over your chest, tension buzzing in your spine. “So what now?” you asked. “You going to report me?”

Sebastian held your gaze for a long moment, then he straightened slowly and gave a small shrug.

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

“I’m not reporting you,” he said simply. “I mean, would it really do any good? You’d just sneak her back in.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I would not—”

He cut you a look that said yes, you absolutely would.

You shut your mouth.

Sebastian huffed a quiet laugh. “Look, I’ve broken protocol more times than I can count. Half the things I’ve done would get me court-martialed if someone cared enough to look,” he shrugged. “So I'm not one to talk. Besides, if anyone’s earned the right to bend a rule or two, it’s you.”

Your throat tightened. You weren’t sure what you’d expected—sarcasm, a lecture, maybe even a warning—but not this.

“And…” He nodded toward Moon, now flopped on her side. “She seems mission-critical.”

You huffed, almost a laugh. Sebastian smirked. The air between you shifted. Still awkward, still strange, but warmer now.

“Right,” he said, stepping back toward the door. “Well... I’ll leave you two to it.”

You nodded, fingers still curled loosely around the envelope you hadn’t dared open yet. “Thanks. For the mail. And… for not turning me in.”

Sebastian paused with his hand on the doorframe. “Don’t thank me yet. Your biggest threat to getting discovered is probably her. She wasn’t exactly committed to hiding.”

You deadpanned, “She’s very well-trained.”

“She tried to eat a button off my boot.”

“She’s… enthusiastic.”

That earned you a quiet chuckle. “Get some sleep, Warden.”

He didn’t say your name, but the word didn’t sound like a jab this time. It sounded… nice.

Nice?!

You ran a hand down your face, trying to scrub the warmth from your expression before it fully registered.

What was wrong with you?

You sighed and sat back on the bed, shooting Moon a look before picking up the envelope Sebastian had delivered. Your pulse picked up.

Canada had finally answered.

You broke the seal with careful fingers, unfolding the letter tucked neatly inside. No crest. No header. Just plain paper and a line of handwriting you recognized immediately.

To: Warden 137 From: D.R. No flagged holsters reported stolen. Two quiet discharges in Artifact Control. One MIA. No formal inquiries opened. Artifact evidence logs partially corrupted. Internal audit halted by Oversight. Reason classified. Agree, fracture, not leak. Proceed with extreme caution. Communication restricted to burn notes. Will attempt parallel probe from our side. —DR

You read it twice. Then a third time.

Every line felt like confirmation of your hunches, your fears, and your worst suspicions. This wasn’t a few bad actors skimming off the top. This was systemic. Covered tracks. Altered logs. Someone, or multiple someones, inside the British Ministry were corrupting the system from the inside, and they were doing it without fear of consequence.

You folded the note in half, then again, and again, until it was the size of a knut. You didn’t burn it yet. You just sat there, staring at your hands.

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