#appraisal districts

[oconnor2023]

Appealing Property Taxes For Your Home: The Basics

Property taxes are a substantial expense for Texas homeowners, averaging about $3,600 annually. To reduce this expense, property owners should annually review and consider appealing property taxes. Visit https://www.poconnor.com/appealing-property-taxes-home-basics/

[acrosstexasappraisals21]

Appraisal Certification in Texas: Understanding the Importance for Appraisal Districts

Introduction:

Appraisal certification plays a crucial role in the field of property assessment and valuation. In Texas, appraisal districts rely on certified professionals to ensure accurate property assessments. This article explores the significance of appraisal certification in Texas and its impact on the functioning of appraisal districts.

The Role of Appraisal Certification:

Appraisal certification serves as a validation of an individual's expertise and knowledge in property appraisal. It signifies that an appraiser has met specific educational requirements, experience criteria, and has passed rigorous examinations. In Texas, the Texas Appraiser Licensing and Certification Board (TALCB) is responsible for regulating the certification process.

Importance for Appraisal Districts:

Appraisal districts are governmental entities responsible for assessing property values within their jurisdictions. These districts play a vital role in determining property taxes, which directly impact local communities and public services. Therefore, it is imperative for appraisal districts to have certified appraisers to ensure accurate and fair property valuations.

Ensuring Competence and Professionalism:

Appraisal certification sets a standard of competence and professionalism in the field. Certified appraisers possess the necessary skills to evaluate various types of properties, consider market trends, analyze comparable sales, and apply appropriate valuation methodologies. Their expertise ensures that property assessments are conducted fairly and consistently across the state.

Maintaining Public Trust:

Certification instills public confidence in the appraisal process. Property owners rely on appraisal districts to determine their tax obligations fairly. By employing certified appraisers, appraisal districts demonstrate their commitment to transparency, accountability, and providing accurate property valuations. This helps maintain public trust in the system.

Adapting to Changing Regulations:

Appraisal certification also ensures that appraisers stay updated with evolving regulations and industry practices. Texas has specific requirements for continuing education to maintain certification, which keeps appraisers informed about changing laws, market trends, and appraisal methodologies. This ongoing professional development enables them to deliver reliable property valuations.

Conclusion:

Appraisal certification is essential for the functioning of appraisal districts in Texas. Certified appraisers bring expertise, competence, and professionalism to the assessment process, ensuring accurate property valuations. By upholding the highest standards, appraisal districts can maintain public trust, provide fair taxation, and contribute to the overall economic stability of the state.

[p-oconnor]

A review of the key protests at Fort Bend Central Appraisal District

The Fort Bend Central Appraisal District highlights the significant role of property tax protests. Homeowners generally account for a substantial portion of these protests, although commercial properties are frequently reviewed and appealed. For commercial property owners, managing these appeals is crucial To read more Visit https://fortbendcountypropertytaxtrends.com/tax-protests-filed/

[cutmytaxes1]

Cook county | Appeal your property taxes - Cut my taxes

Each year, make use of your right to challenge both the market value and unequal appraisal in the Cook County Appraisal District, as the majority of such appeals prove successful. Visit https://www.cutmytaxes.com/illinois/cook-county-property-tax-reduction/

[sleekervae]

Wicked Games ❅ 1

Masterlist

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x socialite!fem!reader

Summary: At 22, Coriolanus Snow is rising in Panem’s authoritarian regime, using his fame and cunning to navigate Capitol politics. Sable Hanover, known for her strategic charm, sees potential in an alliance with him. Despite their different backgrounds, they share a hunger for power, and their partnership becomes a complex mix of ambition, deception, and desire as they maneuver through Capitol society, spinning manipulative narratives to strengthen their influence.

Warnings: politicians being politicians

Word Count: 3,912

The lights of the Capitol's grand debate hall glared down on the stage, reflecting off the pristine marble floors. The audience, a sea of expectant faces, watched with bated breath. Coriolanus Snow, at 22, stood tall and poised at his podium, his platinum hair slicked back, his eyes sharp and calculating. The applause from the crowd was polite but measured, a testament to his controversial rise.

Across from him, his opponents stood ready, their expressions a mix of determination and disdain. Lucky Flickerman, ever the showman, flashed a grin as wide as the gaudy tie looped around his neck, and his voice bounced with the familiar, dramatic flair the Capitol loved.

"Well, well, well! Good evening, beloved citizens of Panem! Oh, what a treat we have for you tonight! Our candidates, oh-so-brilliant and ambitious, will lay out their grand visions for this wonderful nation of ours!" He paused, eyes gleaming under the bright studio lights, before continuing, "And you, my dear friends, will be the ones to decide who’s fit to lead us into a dazzling future. Exciting, isn’t it?"

Lucky turned, his gesture theatrical, to Coriolanus, the glitter of his jacket reflecting in the camera lights. "Now, Mr. Snow, darling of the Capitol! You've got your critics—and your admirers—but some say your policies have a rather... shall we say... Capitol-centric lean. How would you respond to those who feel you're leaving our friends in the districts in the dust?"

He leaned in slightly, his trademark grin still plastered across his face, as if the whole spectacle was nothing more than a delightful game. "Let’s hear it, Coriolanus! Don’t leave us waiting too long—this is live!"

Coriolanus leaned forward, a confident smile playing on his lips. "Thank you for the question. Our nation thrives on unity and strength. My policies aim to create opportunities for all citizens, ensuring that we move forward together. The districts are the backbone of Panem, and their prosperity is our prosperity."

One of his opponents, Eldridge Barbery, a seasoned politician with a stern demeanor, countered. "Mr. Snow, your actions during the Hunger Games and your subsequent rise to the senatorship have left many questioning your integrity. Can you assure us that you are committed to the welfare of all citizens, not just your own advancement?"

Coriolanus's smile didn't falter. "My past has shaped me, yes, but it has also taught me the value of resilience and dedication. I am committed to serving Panem with integrity and transparency. My vision is for a unified nation, where every citizen has the chance to thrive."

A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd. Coriolanus could feel the energy shift slightly in his favor. What he wasn't aware of was a group of young women, society socialites crowded around a table, nearly all of them with dull, unimpressed expressions on their faces. All except for one, a slim, mousy woman with shiny doe eyes and a choppy pixie cut framing her pronounced cheekbones. She was adorned in a silk, long sleeve phtalo blue dress, her eyes fixed to the debate with a mixture of intrigue and appraisal. She found the whole world of politics absolutely fascinating.

"God, this is so boring," one of the girls, Poppy, murmured, her hand propping up her chin as her eyes drooped.

"Do you even know what they're talking about?" another girl, Lucretia, asked.

"Something that has no effect on us, I'm sure," Gamma replied as she pulled a nail file from her clutch, "Why my father insists on forcing me to these things, I'll never understand,"

"To find us husbands, of course," the last girl, Sable, finally spoke, her eyes never left the podiums.

Poppy scoffed in dismay, "Here? Please, the only thing we're liable to find here is tinned crab in the hors d'oeuvres," she picked glumly at the food on her plate.

"Such talk from a woman who's hailed from the fishing district," Lucretia said.

"My great grandfather did, so?" Poppy shrugged back, "I have good taste in seafood,"

Gamma rolled her eyes, "You wouldn't know a salmon from a flounder, and you know it,"

"Sh!" Sable hushed their bickering in a fell swoop, her focus continued to be fixed on the debate.

As the debate continued, Coriolanus deftly fielded questions and criticisms, his responses measured and eloquent. He felt a surge of adrenaline, the thrill of the challenge coursing through him. He could see his opponents' resolve wavering, their arguments losing momentum. They were much older, had fielded their time in office. Coriolanus was young, ambitious, and well-spoken. Being a handsome, now rich young man certainly helped his public image.

"At least this election will give us something nice to look at," Gamma sighed, watching Coriolanus more than she was listening to what he had to say.

Lucretia simpered, "Perhaps that's why Sable is so starry-eyed? Are you in love, dear?"

"Oh, please. There's no point in being in love with politicians," Sable replied, turning to her friends with a sympathetic smile, "They all lie, who's to say they don't lie to their wives and children as well?"

"Why would you ever want to marry anyone in government? I couldn't imagine," Poppy huffed.

Sable gave her a level stare. "For security, of course," she replied simply. "Do you think our current positions in society will protect us forever?"

Lucretia scoffed, "Sable, we're young and beautiful. We'll snag ourselves husbands by the time we're twenty-five," she said.

"Mothers by thirty," Gamma nodded.

Sable turned her sharp, piercing gaze to her ginger friend. "Gamma, your family came from District Six, did they not?" she asked.

"Yes," Gamma replied.

"And wasn't last year's tribute from District Six also young and beautiful?" Sable's gaze flitted over her other two friends. "I believe she was blown up by a land mine."

Gamma rolled her eyes. "What's your point, Sable?"

"We're not secure. No amount of money or status can protect us forever," she explained.

"Are you kidding me?" Poppy laughed with ridicule. "We're in the Capitol, we're safe from the games!"

Sable leaned in, her voice low and urgent, "The games aren't the only threat. Power shifts, alliances change. Marrying into the government isn't just about prestige—it's about ensuring we have the protection and influence we need to survive in an ever volatile world," she then pointed to the podiums on the stage, "That's what this is all about,"

Lucretia's face fell as she pondered Sable's words, the reality of their status settling in. Poppy meanwhile continued to laugh, both in disbelief and whatever audacious delusion Sable was put under.

"Sable, you've been reading too many books," Poppy decided.

Sable simply shrugged back. "And what's wrong with that?"

"Why don't you get up on those podiums and make a speech?" Poppy suggested, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Sable smiled faintly, "Maybe I will, one day?"

Lucretia sighed dramatically, "You always have to be so serious, Sable. Can't we just head on to the gala?"

"If you all care to go ahead, then please do," Sable replied, her expression calm and confident, "I'd like to see this play out,"

Gamma chuckled along, "Let's face it, girls -- if anyone here can trick a president into marrying her, it would be Sable,"

Sable's smile widened, a hint of mischief in her eyes, "Well, someone has to think ahead. And who knows? Maybe one day you'll be thanking me for it,"

Coriolanus adjusted his cufflinks for the third time, the heavy velvet curtains of the grand ballroom swishing softly as the entrance to the gala beckoned. His reflection in the polished marble columns showed a man dressed impeccably in a dark red suit, but the slight furrow in his brow betrayed his inner turmoil. Tonight had to go perfectly.

Garrison Romulus, his seasoned political advisor, walked beside him, a look of mild irritation creasing his weathered face, “Coriolanus, I can’t stress this enough. You’re lagging in the polls --"

"Really? I thought the debate was quite successful," he replied.

"You can debate all you like. But you'll forgive the public of being skeptical of a twenty-two-year-old running for president,” Garrison continued, "Be that and your -- scandal with the Hunger Games of 10 ATT--"

Coriolanus sighed, cutting him off with a swift glare, “I know, Garrison. I’ve heard it all before,”

“Yes, but have you absorbed it?” Garrison’s tone was sharp, “You talk like your father, but you are still seen as a liability to the public. You need to prove your maturity and stability tonight,”

Coriolanus nodded, forcing his features into a mask of confidence, “And what better opportunity than making an appearance at the Reed's Aid Ball? I trust your assistant sent my contribution ahead?”

Garrison’s eyes softened slightly, but his voice remained firm, “Of course, sir,”

"Than tonight should be a success," he assured the older man, "I'll shake a few hands, take some pictures, look like the hero Panem needs,"

Garrison continued to ramble on, however, the words barely registered as Coriolanus’s gaze drifted past the advisor’s shoulder, drawn by a dazzling shimmer. There, across the room, stood a woman who seemed to command the very air around her. Her gown, a shimmering cascade of icy blue fabric, clung to her form with an elegance that was both arresting and subtle. Her hair, a slicked back pixie cut, framed a face that was contrastingly sharp angles and soft allure.

“Coriolanus, are you even listening to me?” Garrison’s voice broke through his reverie, but it was distant, an echo in the periphery of his mind.

He blinked, trying to pull his thoughts back to the conversation. “Yes, of course. Make connections. Show them stability,”

Garrison frowned, following Coriolanus’s line of sight, “Are you seriously gawking at women at a time like this? This is serious!”

“Your chirping is irritating,” Coriolanus murmured, "I know that woman, I've seen her in the papers,"

"Yes, yes, that is Sable Hanover. Of the district three Hanovers," Garrison huffed.

"Hanover?" the name rolled off his tongue with a strange sense of familiarity.

"They made their money in pharmaceuticals, I believe. Their daughter is on the front cover of every rag mag in the city," Garrison muttered with little interest. Coriolanus watched as she conversed with her group with the grace of a dancer, her laughter like the delicate chime of crystal. She was a vision, a shimmery beacon in a sea of monotonous suits.

“Coriolanus!” Garrison’s tone was more urgent now, but Coriolanus couldn’t tear his eyes away from Sable, “Focus. Remember what we discussed,”

“I am focused. Why don't you fetch yourself some champagne?” he replied, though his mind was already drifting, lost in the magnetic pull of the woman across the room. Every step she took seemed to draw him in further, making it impossible to concentrate on anything else. Garrison scoffed with dismay and went off to find the refreshments.

The music swirled around the room, creating a backdrop of elegance and sophistication. Coriolanus stood rooted to the spot, his eyes still locked on Sable Hanover as she moved gracefully through the crowd. The way she commanded attention with every step, the subtle tilt of her head as she listened intently to those around her—everything about her was magnetic.

“Mr. Snow!” a voice interrupted his thoughts, pulling him back to the present.

Coriolanus turned to find himself face-to-face with Senator Allister Reed, one of the most influential figures in Panem's political landscape. The senator was a tall, imposing man with a silver mane of hair and piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through him.

“Senator Reed,” Coriolanus greeted, extending his hand with a practiced smile. “It’s an honor to see you here tonight. Lovely party,”

“The honor is mine,” Senator Reed replied, his grip firm and confident. “I’ve been hearing a lot about you lately, Mr. Snow. Your campaign has certainly made waves.”

Coriolanus nodded, the smile never leaving his face. “I’m doing my best to bring about positive change for Panem.”

Reed chuckled, a deep, resonant sound. “Ambitious words, young man. But ambition without action is merely a dream. Tell me, what makes you think you’re the right person to lead us?”

Garrison’s words echoed in his mind: Prove your maturity and stability. Coriolanus straightened, meeting the senator’s gaze with unwavering determination. “I understand the challenges our society faces, Senator. My experiences have shaped me, taught me resilience and strategic thinking. I’m committed to leveraging those experiences to build a stronger, more unified Panem,”

The senator studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Interesting. You speak with conviction, but actions speak louder than words. How do you plan to address the concerns of the people?”

Before Coriolanus could respond, a cacophony of laughter caught his attention. His eyes flickered back to Sable, who was now engaged in a lively conversation with a group of high-ranking officials and her female cohorts.

“Mr. Snow?” Senator Reed’s voice sharpened, pulling Coriolanus back.

“Apologies, Senator,” Coriolanus said, forcing his attention back to the conversation. “I plan to implement policies that promote economic stability and social reform. We need to rebuild trust in our government and ensure that every citizen feels heard and valued.”

Reed nodded slowly, a hint of approval in his eyes. “A noble goal. But remember, the path to power is fraught with obstacles. Stay vigilant and true to your ideals.”

“I will, Senator. Thank you for the advice.” he grinned, "I trust I can count on your vote in the election?"

Reed tutted, "Slow down, there. You have six more months of campaigning to do, and it's not just me you have to impress,"

"Of course," Coriolanus nodded, "I'm hoping to touch base with many of your colleagues tonight,"

Reed's expression lifted, a withered but warm smile pulling at his lips, "Why don't I save you some steps? Come!" he motioned for the boy to follow him, and Coriolanus did without question.

They weaved through the crowd of Panem's who's-who, finally coming to the group that had been drawing Coriolanus's attention since he'd arrived. Reed was the first to speak, his booming voice cutting through the hum of conversation.

"Gentlemen! And ladies, of course," he smiled briefly at one of the women, "I'd like to introduce you to Coriolanus Snow: our potential new president!"

The cluster of senators turned as one, their expressions ranging from curious to skeptical. Coriolanus felt the weight of their scrutiny but maintained his confident smile.

Senator Agnes Caldwell, a formidable woman with strawberry blonde hair styled in an elegant hive, was the first to approach. Her eyes were sharp, assessing. "Mr. Snow," she said, extending a hand. "I've heard much about you. Tell me, what is your stance on economic reform for the districts?"

Coriolanus took her hand firmly, looking her directly in the eyes. "Senator Caldwell, I believe economic stability is the foundation of a strong Panem. My plan includes investing in infrastructure and creating jobs within the districts to ensure a more balanced distribution of wealth and resources."

Her eyes flickered with interest as she nodded thoughtfully. "Ambitious. We need leaders who think beyond the Capitol."

Before he could respond, Senator Julius Park stepped forward. His demeanor was less severe, a twinkle of curiosity in his eyes. "And what measures will you take to strengthen our military and ensure our security?"

Coriolanus shifted smoothly, adapting his tone to match the senator's lighter approach. "Senator Park, I myself spent some time as a peace keeper, I've picked out our weaknesses during my service. I propose increasing our military training programs and investing in advanced technology to ensure our security while also maintaining peace within our borders,"

Park's smile widened. "A practical approach. Your experience will surely come in handy, I trust,"

As Coriolanus navigated the questions, he felt the eyes of the room on him. He answered with precision and poise, each response calculated to impress and persuade. But as he turned to face the next senator, his gaze was irresistibly drawn to a figure standing just outside the circle—Sable Hanover.

She stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with a mix of mischief and curiosity. The soft, knowing smile on her lips hinted at a challenge. "Mr. Snow," she began, her voice smooth and captivating, "I'm curious. Given your... unique experiences, do you truly believe the Hunger Games are necessary for maintaining control over the districts?"

The question hung in the air, catching Coriolanus off guard; he hadn't expected such a loaded question to come from a socialite. He felt a slight tightening in his chest, his practiced composure momentarily faltering. He knew the room was watching, waiting for his response.

He took a breath, his mind racing, "Ms. Hanover," he began, meeting her gaze, "the Hunger Games have long been a tool for maintaining order and reminding the districts of the Capitol's authority. However, I believe we must also explore other means of fostering unity and understanding. The Games serve a purpose, but they should not be our only method of governance. Letting the districts believe in their own worth will be the key to Panem's thriving,"

Sable's smile deepened, and she tilted her head slightly, her eyes never leaving his as another senator cut in, "An interesting perspective, Mr. Snow. It seems you aim to balance strength with perceivable empathy,"

"Well, what more can we offer the people of Panem if not empathy?" he replied.

Senator Reed clapped a hand on his shoulder, the booming voice breaking the tension. "Well said, Coriolanus! Well said!"

The group murmured their agreement, some nodding thoughtfully. Coriolanus felt a rush of relief mingled with the lingering impact of Sable's stare. He was intrigued by her perfection, an expertly poised and packaged doll here for mere entertainment. Or perhaps, something even more worth his time?

"I wouldn't have expected to see a woman like you here tonight, Ms. Hanover," he commented.

Sable's giggle was melodic, like the jingle of Christmas bells tinkling sweetly, "A woman like me? Tell me, what does that mean?" she asked.

"He means because you're tabloid fodder," Senator Park cut in, taking a sip from his champagne glass.

Senator Reed gaped at him, "Julius! Is that any way to speak to my guest?"

"Oh, calm yourself Allister, it's alright," Sable assured him, her smile never faltering as she turned back to Coriolanus, "Every girl needs a hobby, mine just happens to be... national affairs,"

Her speaking voice was a captivating blend of soft allure and confident assertion. It was breathy, with a melodic lilt that seemed to wrap around each word, drawing listeners in with a hypnotic charm. Her tone was sultry, yet delicate, with an undercurrent of playful mischief that hinted at deeper complexities. Each sentence flowed effortlessly, her voice caressing the air with a warm, velvety smoothness that left an indelible impression on everyone who heard her speak.

Coriolanus wondered for how long she worked on that voice.

"A complex, but exciting topic, Ms. Hanover," he nodded.

"I find life would be boring without complexities, Mr. Snow," she agreed, "Twenty-two and running for president must be quite complex,"

"Very. But all exciting, never the less," he grinned back at her.

The gala’s lights dimmed slightly as the music changed, signalling the beginning of the evening’s events. Several couples made their way to the dance floor as a waltz began to play, a beautiful and luscious tune that shifted the mood from business to something more inviting.

Some of the senators dispersed from the group, seeking out either their partners or another drink. Nevertheless, Coriolanus suddenly found himself standing side-by-side with Sable, the opportunity presenting itself to him on fine china, practically. Despite her position in the tabloids, Sable Hanover was here for a reason. Certainly, she could win him some societal points.

"Would you care to dance, Ms. Hanover?" Coriolanus asked, his voice steady but laced with an undertone of intrigue.

Sable's eyes sparkled with a hint of amusement as she regarded him, "Certainly,"

She placed her hand in his, her touch light but firm. As they made their way to the center of the ballroom, the music shifted to a slow, elegant waltz. Coriolanus felt the weight of countless eyes on them, the collective gaze of the Capitol's elite assessing their every move.

They began to dance, moving in perfect synchrony. Sable's gown swirled around her like liquid silk, the icy blue fabric catching the light and contrasting beautifully with his dark red suit. Her presence was magnetic, drawing him in with every step.

"I watched your debate earlier tonight," she started off.

"Oh?" Coriolanus raised a brow, "And what did you think?"

"You navigate your affairs quite well, Mr. Snow," Sable said, her voice a soft, alluring murmur. "But I'm curious—how do you handle the more personal challenges of leadership?"

Coriolanus looked into her eyes, finding himself momentarily captivated by their depth. "Leadership, like dancing, requires a delicate balance. One must be firm yet adaptable, always anticipating the next move while staying grounded in the present."

Sable tilted her head slightly, her smile both knowing and enigmatic. "And do you find it difficult to maintain that balance?"

"At times," he admitted, surprised by his own honesty. "But it's a challenge I welcome."

They continued to dance, the world around them fading into the background. For a moment, it felt as if they were the only two people in the room. The music, the chatter, the political machinations—all of it seemed distant and inconsequential.

Sable's voice broke through his thoughts, soft and intimate. "You've captured the attention of many tonight, Coriolanus. But attention can be fleeting. What do you truly seek?"

He hesitated, the weight of her question settling over him. "I seek to build a legacy, of course. A society where the Games are not the only means of control."

Her eyes searched his, and he felt a connection forming, a subtle but undeniable bond, "You're quite ambitious, Mr. Snow. And very well spoken. But even you must admit: being willing to face the truth, even when it is uncomfortable, is the ultimate skill of leadership,"

"You speak as though you have experience with such things," he noted.

"Well, you know who my father is, do you not?" she asked.

"Phillip Hanover, the commanding officer and owner of Panem Pharmaceuticals. Your family supplies the districts with all the medications they need," he replied matter-of-factly.

"Yes," she nodded, "And being heir to such an empire places... expectations on a person that they may not find fair..."

"Expectations? Like what?"

Before she could answer, the dance ended, though Sable did not immediately step away. They stood close, their hands still intertwined, the electric tension between them palpable. Coriolanus felt a surge of determination, a resolve to prove himself not just to the Capitol, but to this enigmatic woman who had challenged him in ways he hadn't anticipated.

"Thank you for the dance, Mr. Snow," she said, her eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and something deeper, "I look forward to our next conversation,"

Coriolanus' smile was enigmatic, his voice low, "As do I, Ms. Hanover,"

As she walked away, Coriolanus watched her go, a newfound sense of purpose coursing through him. He knew that the road ahead would be fraught with challenges, but he felt ready to face them. And in the back of his mind, he couldn't help but wonder what other secrets and insights Sable Hanover held, and how their paths would continue to intertwine.

[deimos-awaits]

Dreams of the Chaptermaster

My first little writing from Artificer Sider��nia Teleiótita

Artificer Siderénia Teleiótita did not know where he was. This deeply concerned the Chaptermaster of the Ironsong, in a way the few other things did. He almost always knew at the very least where he was or what made his surroundings. To be so unprepared and unknowing of either was troubling. He was not wearing his armor that much he was sure of. The comfortable feeling of tons of ceramite was gone from his chest. It made them feel rather light and airy. The area around them was light and fragrant. Though covered in such a deep smoke or mist that it was hard to tell where anything was really. It reminded him of one of the poetdens on his homeworld of Astraea, at least on the side that devoted itself to the arts.

It took less than a minute for him to take stock of himself. He seemed to be wearing the robes and tunics common on the more wealthy parts of Astraea. He would rather have been in one of the old jumpsuits he had long grown accustomed to wearing. Further he wished that he had a mechandrite harness or any of his armor. Artificer Siderénia felt naked without it, especially without any knowledge exactly of where they were. The last thing that he could remember was celebrating a successful campaign against an eldar craftworld force with the Knightly House of Phobos and the First Deimos Explorator Fleet. The celebration was a subbed event, the heads of the three organizations, themself representing the Ironsong Chapter of Astartes, though he did indulge in specially acquired Fenrisian Ale. Maybe that was the mistake, and the ale imbibed by the sons of Russ. Warpcraft was his second supposition as to what was occurring though he was hoping that wasn't the case. The third most likely situation was he was dreaming.

Artificer Siderénia took one more moment to examine the air around him. It resembled the smoke clouds more often found on the poetdens of Astraea though unlike there, where a simple wave of the hand would result in more clear air with the incense brushing away and the ability to see whatever poet was crooning against the sound of brasswind instruments. He strode forward, though they were unable to out which direction they had initially started facing. Siderénia was confident enough though that the ground beneath was made of marble or some other similar stone. He bent down to feel it and it was as smooth and cold as they would otherwise expect. The smooth surface indicated some form of polishing and the as of yet unidentified light source seemed to confirm it was white stone with gold veining. Artificer Siderénia could Even see his own well kept beard and violet eyes in the reflection from the stone.It felt truly like he was in one of the more gaudy Emperor forsaken poetden. Upon recalling the simple fact about his homeworld’s musical traditions, a soft melody began to play in the air.

It sounded wrong, as if there was a faint hint of static with what was normally a live performance. The melody itself was strange and Artificer Siderénia did his best to try to appraise it before approaching. It seemed to be a strange melange of the work songs of his youth and the more restful ballads of a poetden though he could not make out any district words that either might have. He was put on high alert no matter where he was it was trying to put him at ease and failing.

If only he had his Omnissian power axe.

He was not often given to strong emotions, moderation and balance was after all key to his chapter's survival and thriving but he yearned for it now in this strange place. If this was the result of any of the Magi of Deimos they would learn why to never do this again. With little emotion visible he began to move towards whatever source of the music he could find. Damn Magos Aleph-Gimmel Bellerov-2.0 and her Fenrisian ale for addling their head enough they could not remember where they were. With a simple breath he moved forward, less a man moving forward but a rumbling mountain of steel, flesh, and ceramite moving forward in thundering footsteps. He never was one for subtly though there was an itching in the back of his head that wished that was more the case.

Artificer Siderénia kept walking until the smoke began to clear and his surroundings seemed to take a more solid form. The room they found themselves in was a similar amalgamation of all the poetdens he had ever been in. There was a stage at the edge of his vision where there was a youth of indeterminate gender - not uncommon on Astraea - crooning into a microphone hanging from the ceiling, tables spread out with small arrangements of flowers on them, gilded seats and incense burning everywhere. The song that youth with light hair and even paler skin was crooning was strangely difficult to focus on. There was also no band visible behind them to give the backing music. Dream or warpcraft Siderénia decided. Perhaps both. He was leaning towards dream given how most of the seats and tables present seemed suited to accommodate a man of his size and build and although that was not uncommon on Astraea due to it being his chapters homeworld but all of them being his size or larger? Strange.

He began to walk towards the youth on the stage. The fact that the youth either did not notice him despite seemingly being the only other person in the room or did not care that a nine foot tall transhuman was approaching was troubling. It was further troubling that the youth only had one breast whose swell was visible under their tunic. Warpcraft of what flavor was quickly becoming obvious to him.

Could he use any of the chairs here as a welcome? Were the chairs also similarly tainted? What would he have to do in order to escape this place? His thoughts began to march through his head in ordered fashion trying to discern exactly how to leave this warp spawned nightmare. The Ruinous Powers would not have him.

Siderénia was so focused on that he didn't notice at first the clapping congratulating the Youth's latest unintelligible song. The Youth took a bow before returning to croon in some language that was definitely no form of Gothic Siderénia had ever heard. He turned to see the source and perhaps find any other person here to find a giant of a man even by the standards of the Astartes. He has the same white hair as Siderénia, like the marbled floor and matching violet eyes. Siderénia’s hearts felt as if they had just stopped.

He yearned once more that he had his power axe.

It was impossible to deny who was sitting in front of him and Siderénia would not even begin to attempt to. The other man laughed. The laugh was far similar to the music playing. It was a thousand desires and dreams fulfilled all at once, and ten thousand desires left aching.

A few moments passed between them again with the smell of incense and the crooning threatening to overtake all of the senses. Siderénia simply stared, a gaze that in most cases would have caused any member of the Ironsong Chapter to shrink. The other person simply laughed again. “Hello darling. Are you enjoying the performance?”

Artificer Siderénia simply stared over more at the man begging the Emperor to be wrong about who this was.

“Well. Aren't you going to say something?” The other figure asked as if the few seconds, maybe even a minute, if that at most, of silence had begun already to bore him. The voice was similar enough to the laughing that it made him want to talk and respond. It was oozing with joy.

“No.”

The other man's broad smile seemed to twitch for a second. “Oh come on, Siderénia, you know you brought yourself here, won't you as least ask who I am? This is modeled after your homeworld after all.”

Siderénia glanced at the crooning Youth. Their performance though still entirely musical had begun to verge into a style that would have never been accepted on Astraea, Even given their relatively progressive standards. He looked back at the figure lounging in front of him. The tunic the other was wearing seemed to be made out of snake skin. “What would you have me say Fulgrim, snake, Gorgonbane?”

The Primarch of the Third Legion's face, Artificer Siderénia Teleiótita own Primarch, laughed again though there was no mirth this time. “First Rylanor, now you. Oh darling, darling. " Fulgrim tuted at him as if he was a child. "When I heard the little whispers the Imperium had decided to make a new chapter with my geneseed I just had to watch you know. It was so fascinating to watch you all grow.”

Artificer Siderénia Teleiótita stood as impassively and emotionless as any proud son of Ferrus Manus would. His chapter claimed their descent from the Gorgon. Now would be no different. “I hope you are disappointed.”

“Disappointed? Oh my dear son, Siderénia, I'm far from it. Your precious Ironsong has been an exemplary finishing force! And while the art you make tends to be more subdued, that can be fixed in time! I'm sure I can find a place for all mechanists.”

“No.” the world around Siderénia began to shudder and shake. It was like a hololith losing connection.

“No? Again that's really quite Dornian or even rather like… you haven't even heard my offer.”

“Snake, I want nothing of what you offer me.” Siderénia Teleiótita count feel the tug within him to submit to his primarch and do whatever the demon and but the chaptermaster held firm.

“I am your father,” Fulgrim stood now white hair cascading down in an impossibly beautiful wave. “I know what you have gotten up to with those Magi-”

Siderénia Teleiótita, against his better judgment, stepped forward and grabbed a chair as he did so. It was no Omnissian axe but it would have to do. “You are not my father. He is buried in Astraea’s soil, and though you are my primarch my allegiance is to the Emperor and Ferrus Manus.”

Fulgrim’s languid and easy attitude had swung towards anger and frustration. The entire poetden seemed to flicker into static. “I do not know by what Warpcraft you think you can escape but you will see,” and the human form he was talking fell away to reveal the demon prince beneath. Writhing scales and four arms reaching towards the all too human history master. “You are my children, you are not his!” one of Fulgrim's claws scratched his chin.

The Youth began to scramble and run off of the stage as the dream world was shaking.

Siderénia Teleiótita had no idea what Warpcraft was happening either. As far as he was aware no one even remotely close to them had access to warpcraft. He swung the chair at the daemon primarch ready to fight to his last here.

Then his eyes shot open.

Siderénia Teleiótita’s hearts were pounding and he was covered in sweat.

A familiar, though a tad forgettable Magos of Deimos, loomed over him. “Artificer Siderénia Teleiótita! Are you alright? Your heart beats were elevated, I was simply coming to ask for your presence at a meeting with the local planetary governor.”

Artificer Siderénia Teleiótita simply looked up at the Magos Tsephor-10.54 and attributed the headache to hangover as that dream faded almost instantly from memory. The rather fat techpriest had the strange ability to be almost forgettable while also unnerving. “I am fine. Aid me in putting on my armor and I will be there promptly.”

Siderénia Teleiótita did not notice the new scar on his chin.

[truth-has-a-liberal-bias]

A venture fund and a real estate startup – both with links to far-right organizations – are promoting a residential development in rural Kentucky as a haven for fellow rightwingers.

The promoters have presented the planned development as an “aligned community” for right wingers who want to “disappear from the cultural insanity of the broader country” and “spearhead the revival of the region”.

...

The development was announced on X, formerly known as Twitter, and in a special edition of the New Founding by Joshua Abbotoy, who is managing director of venture fund New Founding and principal of real estate developer Kentucky Ridge Runner LLC according to company records.

...

Kentucky Ridgerunner, meanwhile, is an LLC founded in 2022 with Abbotoy at its head according to Kentucky company records. It is the main vehicle for HRP, and owns the bulk of the land which is up for sale to buyers with rightwing sympathies.

Abbotoy’s father, Mark, a real estate appraiser based in Hartsville, Tennessee, is named as managing partner on the Ridgerunner website, and Lazar Lazarovski, a Nashville-based tech entrepreneur and realtor, is marketing director.

The website currently advertises two developments in the vicinity of Burkesville, a town in the so-called Eastern Pennyroyal district of southern Kentucky, around 20 miles north of the Tennessee border.

One of the developments, christened “Longhollow Acres”, is described as “a rolling 550-acre farm situated six miles northeast of Burkesville, and about half a mile to the river”. [...]

[oconnor2023]

Appealing Property Taxes for Your Home: Preparing for the Hearing

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[acrosstexasappraisals21]

Navigating Property Valuations: Unveiling the Role of Midland Appraisal District and Texas Appraisal District

Introduction

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Property valuation is a multifaceted process that considers various factors, including property type, location, market trends, and more. The Midland Appraisal District and other Texas Appraisal Districts employ a combination of data analysis, market research, and assessment models to arrive at accurate property valuations.

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For property owners in Midland and across Texas, understanding the valuation process can empower informed decision-making. By partnering with the Midland Appraisal District and utilizing the resources of Texas Appraisal Districts, property owners can gain clarity on their property's worth, property taxes, and contribute to the overall integrity of the local tax system.

Conclusion

The Midland Appraisal District and Texas Appraisal Districts stand as integral components of property valuation in Texas. Their role goes beyond tax assessments; they contribute to the foundation of real estate transactions and the equitable distribution of resources. Engaging with these districts, understanding property valuations, and requesting appraisals are strategic moves that empower property owners to make informed decisions in the dynamic real estate landscape.

Explore Valuation Insights To gain valuable insights into property valuations and make informed decisions, property owners can explore the resources offered by the Midland Appraisal District and the wider network of Texas Appraisal Districts. Discover more about this process by visiting www.acrosstexasappraisals.com and tapping into a wealth of property valuation knowledge.

[p-oconnor]

The Williamson Central Appraisal District's Property Insights

The Williamson Central Appraisal District plays a crucial role in assessing real estate and personal property in Williamson County. Their valuations are the starting point for property tax calculations, which are then reviewed by property owners and consultants to address any discrepancies To read more Visit https://williamsoncountypropertytaxtrends.com/

[cutmytaxes1]

Protest both market value and unequal appraisal annually in Cook County appraisal District. It is your right to appeal for property tax and most appeals are successful. Visit to find more in detail https://www.cutmytaxes.com/illinois/cook-county-property-tax-reduction/

[oconnorassociate]

Dallas County Appraisal District | O'Connor

We know the processes and appropriate contracts at Dallas County Appraisal District.Our experience has allowed us to compile sales and unequal appraisal data. To Know more visit https://www.poconnor.com/dallas-county/

[ptersparkers]

I'd love to see Aaron visiting his pre-school teacher girlfriend. I've got a kiddo at work hat literally melts in my arms when mom drops her off with me. Would love to see his response to such a thing. If I could request her being plus size! 🥺💖

hi hi - currently thinking about aaron with a daughter and my heart is melting. also i feel like i write my fics with little to no physical body descriptions (except shorter than aaron bc im short as hell and im kinda into the height difference) -- and i didn’t know exactly how you wanted me to write so i didn’t really lean into anyone’s insecurities, as some fics do, just bc i want to be inclusive since all bodies types are very beautiful. 

HOWEVER! may this blurb and all my future writing be something you can relate to.

fem!reader for those wondering <3

***

It’s one in the afternoon on a sunny Friday when Aaron picks you up from work.

It’s a half day, meaning you get off of work earlier and the kiddos in your class are more energetic than the rest of the week because they know they’re going home early. Your classroom is as colorful as ever, the walls lined with number and alphabet charts, science posters framing the doorway, and art projects from your students hang above their cubbies where their backpacks are stores.

You walk around the room with your hands clasped behind your back and observe as the children tidy their desks, four of which face each other. A few students have to be told to slow down when they start to run because they’re holding colored pencils. Others follow your instructions while a few choose to talk amongst themselves instead of cleaning up.

It’s when they’re reminded their parents are likely waiting outside do the students hurry to clean their spaces. You walk around, one by one, giving each student a high-five when they’ve tucked their papers in their desk’s storage and when their notebooks and other materials are neat and organized. Each student automatically begins to grab their belongings and file in a single line against the wall by the door when you’ve dismissed them from their desk with appraisal for their neatness.

When your students are lined and eager to leave with their hands gripping the straps of their backpacks, you can’t help but smile at the group of children. You swing the door open and remind everyone to walk at an orderly fashion and watch as they exit the front doors into the front area of the building where other teaching aids are waiting.

The kids disperse when they see their parents and you watch from behind as their parents check in with the teaching aids before they go. It’s always amusing to you to witness their little legs climb into their booster seats.

Mary, your longest friend at this school who teaches the third grade, stands next to you.

“Up to anything fun this weekend?” she asks, bumping your cardigan-clad shoulders.

“I’m having a quiet weekend in with my boyfriend and his son,” you say with a grin.

“Ah, the mysterious boyfriend,” Mary says with a laugh.

Aaron’s been a bit of a mystery to your friends at work—always aloof and has never been to teacher-student functions because of his work schedule. You see him quite often given the circumstances but some people think you might be making him up for an excuse to stay at home. Mary’s the only person who’s met Aaron before, but she likes to pretend that your boyfriend is just a figment of your imagination to watch you squirm.

“You’ve met him before, dummy,” you say with a laugh. “Although I’m sure Laura probably thinks I’m making him up.”

“Or she thinks he’s an absolute troll of a guy,” Mary snorts. “It’s no secret that she’s pissed at you for receiving the ‘Teacher of the Year’ award this quarter.”

“She should bring it up with the district, not me,” you say, dusting off your shoulders for dramatic effect. “It feels like she’s had it out for me since day one.”

“Laura has a stick up her ass,” Mary whispers into your ear, which causes you to burst out into a fit of giggles. “Uh oh, the Wicked Witch is here.”

Laura’s on the other end of the pick-up area and you angle yourself so that you’re not facing her. You get a text from Aaron at the same time saying that he’s parked and walking towards the school. You grin at your phone and Mary snickers.

“Shush,” you mutter, knowing you have a lovesick grin on your face.

You spot Aaron across the street, donned in a dark grey suit and expensive shoes and tie to match. His hair flows perfectly in the cool breeze and his strides are long and confident as he crosses the road.

Aaron spots you easily and you keep yourself from sprinting into his arms. Careful to keep it professional at your place of work, Aaron presses a kiss to your cheek and embraces you for a short while, but it’s enough to inhale his cologne.

“Missed you,” Aaron says.

“Good day at work?” you ask.

“Actually yeah, everything went surprisingly well with no hiccups.” Aaron turns his attention to your friend. “Hi Mary, it’s nice to see you again.”

“Hey Aaron,” Mary greets with a wave. “Long time no see.”

Avery, one of your students, politely taps your hip to get your attention.

“What’s wrong, honey?” you asked.

“Can I wait with you?” Avery asks. “Mommy’s late today.”

“Of course, Avery.” You grab her hand when tears start to threaten to spill from her eyes—Avery’s mom works a bit farther than the rest of the parents and it isn’t unusual for her to be a few minutes late to pick her daughter up. But for a child, it feels like eternity.

“Did you like our lesson today?” you ask, bending down to her level while keeping your hands together.

“I really liked learning about dinosaurs!” Avery exclaims as if her worries were never there to begin with.

Aaron’s watching you from beside Mary, an adorning look plastered across his face. He’s too caught up in his fantasies about creating a family with you; Jack’s warmed up to you in the few years you’ve been dating Aaron, but he can’t help but wonder what you’d be like as a mother of your own.

You’re able to get Avery to talk about her interests to keep her from thinking about anything else. She obliges and you squat with a grin as she becomes animated with her storytelling. He makes small talk with Mary, who can clearly see how smitten he is with you, but he doesn’t think he cares too much.

“You guys would make cute kids,” Mary says to Aaron with a nudge.

“Mary,” he warns playfully.

“What good is a friend if not to meddle?” she chides before excusing herself to assist other students.

Avery’s mom arrives a few short minutes after Mary leaves and Aaron watches you greet her mother and send the girl on her way home. He watches with his hands in his pocket and accompanies you back to the classroom once your students have left the school grounds.

Aaron knows he wants kids with you. He just needs to ask you to be his wife first.

[helloescapist]

In Another Life | Sanemi Shinazugawa

Word Count: 5272

Setting: Shinazugawa Sanemi x fem!reader (oiran reader), pining, short

Content Warnings: mentions of gore, abuse, and oiran/redlight district, and language

Summary: After hearing about Tengens success in the redlight district, Sanemi has decided to investigate one himself. His analysis leading him buried memories of the girl he had loved, and that faith had abandoned.

A/N: I am admittedly new to Tumblr, and very unfamiliar with how to interact. Until I figure it out, I just want to express how happy I am to see my work being read, and shared. I really do appreciate each and every one of you.

[Art work is not mine, credit goes to the artist!]

Lights glowed across the district; waves of visitors jostled amongst the path. Lanterns glowed in the growing night, bright enough to daze and confuse the senses. Human instincts humming whispers of slumber, and beckoned sleep snubbed out by the intense atmosphere.

Human instincts humming whispers, and beckoned sleep snubbed out by the intense atmosphere. The night delayed as it masqueraded as the day, masked in the glow of lanterns across the district. Incense and perfumes that dulled the senses, claimed the thoughts of men and women alike drawn by the intimate glow. Lanterns danced in the night air, as waves of visitors jostled along the paths that had been abandoned in the daylight. Buildings that loomed in the sky, grandiose in nature, dripping of the wealth of proprietors.  Owners exhibiting their prosperity in embellished fabrics, banners hung intentionally to draw the eye. Windows alit with the readily available oirans. Hair meticulously styled for the run of the mill customer; adorning hairpins and fabrics no longer favored by higher ups. Their very being mere constructions of the tayu classes’ secondhand rejections. Either discarded due to outdated appearance, or simply deemed unfavorable for valued customer classes. Only the luckiest of them having adorned castoff rouge. Farmers and vendors alike appraising them through warped vision; having tossed away thoughts of their wives, partners, and family for the night, willing to overlook the product’s pitiful origins in favor of lust and personal benefits. The merchandize only dared to smile, eyes trained to the ground with the occasional fan pressed against lips. The customers only momentarily distracted from the coos and teases of women on the balcony, hoping to earn a night’s work. Dizzying waves of women who had taken to the streets to beckon passersby to their brothel. Kamuros dashing across the way, bending to the whims of their oiran’s command as they fetched every need one might possess.

                It was enough to piss him off. The overbearing scents to mask the leftover musk of various customers. Perfumes intended to disguise the common prostitute as something angelic despite the usual fierce temperament. The smells burned his nostrils, and left his stomach nauseated. Far too many fragrances intermingling, none willing to compromise to the other. The lights were just as guilty, determined to set an intimate scene despite the obvious façade. The fabrics were bright, far too lavish, and often times revealing to provide a quick slip of clothes before delving into the job’s demands. Just as quick to conceal marks, and set off for their next target. Little more than assassins looking for their next meal ticket, enough to make his skin crawl. Not that he could blame them, their upbringing had been mangled as his own. Sold off by impoverish family members, they had been left to survive, much like the day he had taken to the mountain and left his own family behind. In the very same way, he had wielded various weapons snatched to his back in the dead of night, only daring to rest in the sunlight all those years ago, these women were just as lethal desperate to survive as himself. Parading as gentle, insightful women who tended to their proprietors willing to turn a favor to any coin, very few of them were in fact as kind as they claimed to be. Even less were compromising to their lesser attendants. Only a few baring gifts from their ward, more of them brandishing bruises and scratches. Smacked for the smallest of inconvenience, and baring the ravish of a scorned women confined to the life of servitude. Kamuros and shinzou alike, innocence robbed each night, bearing witness to the realities of the red-light district. He could feel the rage bubbling. He had always feared the chance of his own father coining his sisters off when he was a child, one of the many reasons Genya and he had worked so earnestly to care for their families. Their relief only realized in their father’s death. In his youth he had witnessed so many hardships, but being here. The familiar sear of incense, the telling whelps and bruises that formed at the corner of mouths of little girls, working to the bone despite the tears that threatened the corner of their eyes. Forced smiles, and facades of dreams, only reminded him of the girl he had left behind so many years ago. When his childhood had convinced him that he would experience happiness, a bride to call his own, and the hopes of a family on the way.

You were lovely in all the ways no one could compare. A demure smile that could captivate the heart of any man. Unusual hair color as pale as the sunlight, and as warm as the days of summer. Eyes that dared to captivate the sky, wide and furnished with long, thick eyelashes. Reticent despite such a young age. A gaze that danced across the lavish doll caught between your fingertips as you studied its features, so contrast to your own. Hair long and intricately weaved and pin with lavish hair pins, multiple kanzashi placed, an unusual sight for him at the time. Frozen in his tracks mid-delivery as he studied your delicate features, captivated by the sunlight under a Japanese maple whose leaves had already descended into waves of oranges and vivid reds. Such as the touch of rouge and blush that settled across your cheeks and lips, delicately painted. Brows drawn as you studied the doll, its black hair folded over your fingers. As well as the black painted eyes that deliberated your own. The heavy embellishments weaved into your intricate hairstyle were lavish, but nothing that compared to the many layers your small frame bore. Nearly wore down across the fabric. Vibrant folds and luxurious prints adorned over the fold of an attention drawing obi. He found himself leaning forward, his eyes tracing the stilt of your shoes, giving you height pass your natural frame. The enchanting length of your sleeves, a young Kamuro, he would later come to understand. For someone so beautiful, and obviously well cared for, the undeniable sorrow was visible.  Stained upon your light make up, depicting a hidden hurt that he could not understand. Drawn to touch the surface, it was as though you were as beautiful as an untouched pond amidst this hidden garden.  Only rippling at the boy whose fell forward, rolled off of steps and landed in a heap into your hidden world.

                Your eyes, large and imploring, the startle gasp as you dropped your doll. Your surprise having drawn you backwards as, eyes tracing his silhouette. His clothing, far humbler than your own. The dirty covered samue covered with the day’s filth, and unassuming, a stark contrast to the intricate garments before him.  The working class that derived from sweat and hard labor. The realization stilling his blood as his eyes met the ground, embarrassed to be caught in admiration of you. Especially given the circumstances. His intrusion into your seclusion far louder than he had expected, met with the growing realization that he very well could be beaten for having wandered into such an illustrious place. The growing commotion that grew from within the grand building, the raised voices of inquiring men, and that of shrills of surprised women. Your eyes having fallen to the doors of the veranda before falling back to him, your small steps rushed across the garden. Small, delicate fingers that clasped his own, pulling him from the ground. Tugging him behind you as you sought suffrage within the small grove of flourishing trees. Pressed against him, the shock radiating from his body as your small hand reached up to cover his mouth. Pressing a finger against your lips.

                “[LN]? Are you alright?” a male had called. The clack of shoes again the stone work. The pounding in Sanemi’s heart becoming panicked and nervous, smacking your hand from himself. “[LN]?” the man called, pressing forward. Only to cause you to further lean on Sanemi. As though in some way your small frame could ever hope to conceal his own. Your eyes caught on the advancing man, an attendant he had surmised.

                “Sato, I sent [FN] on an errand.”

                The distinct shift in atmosphere was evident. As though the entire garden had fallen under a spell of a different kind. A sultry voice that commanded attention, grace in her languid movements. Sanemi dared to peek over his shoulder, meeting black eyes that could only be compared to the night sky, and hair detailing’s that mirrored your own unique style despite the obvious difference in color. The hue of the woman before him reflective of the most extravagant ink blocks only afforded by the higher-ups. Elegance tinged on the older woman’s features, carefully painted as she met the attendant’s gaze. A hidden venom that coiled in extravagant fabrics, more than those you adorned. As she tilted her head, peering down at the man before her. “M-Madam,” he had sputtered, quick to bow his head. “I-I had heard a noise, and I thought perhaps [LN] had fallen.”

                “Sato, I will not repeat myself.”

                “Y-Yes madam.”

                The momentary glimpse his way that chilled his bones. Her gaze had softened, especially in comparison to the man who escaped to chores, desperate to evade her piercing gaze. The small smile she quipped before clasping her fan. Her movements fluid as a Tiger Keelback, relaxed in the grass. Evidence of her deadly behavior that had been briefly expressed now stripped from her features. Recoiled under the foundation of a tender smile, and slight nod at the package he had been intending to delivered, dropped where he had fallen through the gardens. The press of your body having slipped from his as the woman disappeared into the grand building, a knowing smile tucked on her delicately painted face.

                Your mother, you had shared to him between stolen ohagi bites. A grand tayu, one of the highest rankings in the area at that. Your smile as wide and delighted to meet him as he had been to witness you. As beautiful as the leaves above you; he had understood your duty. Listened to you explain that you were a kamuro as you accepted his package in exchange for another. For him, you had pressed into his care. Extra ohagi intended for his siblings, a rarity they would enjoy, you had insisted. Promised that the house would not notice their missing.  Ignoring his obvious discomfort and the annoyance his bashful nature had forced upon the both of you. Over redden cheeks, and unable to ignore the way that you had once again boldly pressed into him as you forced the lavish fabric into his hands before separated from him. Dismissed his insistence that he could not afford to replace such delicacies. After all, no one would notice that they had gone, not to worry. Pulling his delivery into your hands, and allowing your shoe to slip from your sock as you pressed onto the veranda. Earnest eyes that captivated the sunset, bored into him. The small, undeniable sorrow that he had witnessed before was beginning to show as you waved to him. “Please, visit me again,” whispered in secret.

                A vow he had not broken tucked shyly to his heart.

Seizing the opportunity to visit you any time his deliveries took him to the pleasure district. Secret rendezvous tucked under Japanese Maple trees, split over tea and ohagi you had snuck from the kitchens. Each encounter growing warmer and more familiar. At times, he would bring Genya along, and others, he would sneak away at the first opportunity. Unwilling to admit that at times, he felt envious of the way his brother could captivate your attention. Your over willingness to lean into him often earning a series of curses, rough in speech and manners, and Sanemi only to receive the softest of giggles. Having thrived at his attention, and company, there were times you would insist on assisting in his deliveries to other brothels. Familiar with the landscape, you had insisted, and unwilling to admit that he didn’t want to depart from you just yet, he would often fold. Determined to preserve his pride. When you had dared to adorn a lesser kamuro’s old tattered kimono and covered your hair in the soot remains of a snubbed lantern of the night, daring to leave the confines of your employment, your fingers tugged at the hem of his samue… he had begrudgingly allowed you to follow after him. A secret just between the two of you. Spitting out a demand you release him before shyly grasping your hand and leading you through the town, muttering that you were far too much like a child. On these rare days out, you would whisper to Koto, and Sumi would assist you in securing him to your back despite Sanemi’s obvious fretting. Concern that his family had asked to much of you, or that such labor would be far too exhaust. Your whispered wishes of a life such as this hushing such worries. Days left to Shuya, Teiko, and Hiroshi’s teasing. The time his siblings would dare to reveal such matters to you. Such as the way he held your hand in a crowd, the way he rerouted his travels around move to avoid mucking your borrowed kimono, or that day at the river. When you had longed to dare to skim across the surface. How shyly you had peered into the water, in awe of him having dared to walk in to its shallows without a second thought. How he had watched you fumble over your kimono, determined to follow after him, but unfamiliar with the workings of fishermen, or how to tie back your clothing. How he had uttered curses, accusing you of being a child. How his knees had met the stones submerged in the river. Without hesitation, his white hair soft and bright, as puffy as the clouds above you. How your heart had hammered in your chest as his calloused fingers, unfamiliar to you as they grazed across your calf. His words as usual had been harsh, yet just like all the other times, his touch was gentle. Calloused from a lifetime of work, yet gentle in the way they regarded you regardless if it was protecting you from a snake that had wandered into a garden, or a patron who had become too casual, he always regarded you with such care despite his tongue. How his eyes had met yours, shy and sputtering a curse as your fingers threaded through his hair, because just one time… just one time, you had wanted to run your fingers through the snow touched strands. Naïve and oblivious to the way the blush crawled down his collar. Although, the truth was, Sanemi had realized that he had been the one naïve. From the blemishes that would be liter your cheeks when your mother was not looking to the day, he had found you cornered in the district.

The rocks that had pattered against your hands as you struggled to shield yourself. Words such as hafu, konketsuji, ainoko, and mutt littered the air. Having been caught in the rain, the soot was washed from your hair. Revealing you to the general public, and how they had scorned you. Rocks thrown from peers, random ones hitting their marks, revealing the depth of malice others outside of the pleasure district had regarded you, why you had insisted on staining your hair at each visit to the outside world. He had never considered, and without a second thought, he had pinned your assailant to the ground. Sanemi’s fists met with his cheek. Forced him to the ground, and berated him with every insult he could think of. Bitter and full of rage and ignorant to the shrill of the neighborhood kids fleeing his fury. The boy who was under him, now snotty and bloodied was still not enough to cool his temper. It wasn’t enough—he would never forgive them. Practically boiling over until he felt the all too familiar tug of fingers on the hem of his sleeve. Biting back the rage that threatened to spew, did his best to conceal his temper. His wide eyes met your own. The sorrow inevitable, that same sadness that he had witnessed so long ago under maple leaves. Your chin dipped to your chest, avoiding his gaze as you quietly requested your assailant’s release. And how he hadn’t wanted to. How he had swallowed his temper, met with your dejection. Your eyes unwilling to meet his own even as his fingers swept across your face. Grazed against the blossoming bruise at your cheek, and caught the tears that tinged the corner of your eyes. His gaze soft and mournful. How naïve he had been not to realize you had been suffering. Not to have realized the implications foreign born imparted on your life as the daughter of a courtesan. How artless he had been not to realized his growing feelings, or to understand the depths of his desires. Nor the nativity he had born as the words left his lips without a thought, a vow. A promise. To stop crying dam nit. Because one day, one day it wouldn’t be like this. One day, one day you would be home with him. That no one would ever hurt you again.

Fucking naïve.

The distant memories plagued him as he sat crisscross on a tatami mat adorned with cushions. His eyes trained on his drink and snacks. Ribbons hung throughout the brothel, lined in a variety of perfumes and incenses that burned his nose, and left him with the aching memory of a life he had longed for, and had abandoned after the loss of his mother. He had hoped, in some small way that perhaps, Genya had taken you for a bride. Although the little shit having made an appearance at the demon corps made it clear that certainly happened. The thought pissing him off as much as the overbearing scents that clung to detailed décor. Hints of gold and lacquered woods, rich in finery and portraying the wealth of the cliental the brothel owners captivated. Tucked into an inner room, his uniform having caught one of the courtesan’s attentions—mistakenly assumed him of a higher rank of the Imperial Japanese Army. Securing him a seat in the inner areas from prying eyes, an opportunity he wouldn’t waste. He had never had the opportunity to dive into the inner world of the district, not like Tengen had—not that the Wind Hashira had even considered bring tag along on his investigation. The underhanded method of dragging his wives into his business was one that had secured weeding the upper moon out, but was a technique he would not employ. In part because his rash decisions had simply taken hold of him, and he had left without much thought. The remainder of this route unavailability to him was that he neither wanted to include others in his analysis, and even less were willing to volunteer to work alongside him. So, this opportunity presented was a valuable one at that, one he would not waste.

                Tucked beind sheer screens, the distinct pluck of a koto beginning to play. Another goddamn memory threatening to surface. You had spent hours practicing—Nope. Not fucking doing it. He bit back a bite of his snack, threatening the memory to remain buried from his presence as his large violet eyes surveyed his surroundings. Ribbons that hung decoratively from a variety of angles, intended to immulate the oiran’s kimonos if he had to guess their reason. Stupid at that, men clearly drowning in saki and desperate to escape their lives, and their wallets were veiled behind their own screens. From what he had gathered, one had in fact been a higher up—likely the reason the oiran who had guided him to this place had assumed he had been seeking a night off. Another, a rice man from a noble family that was bored of his second wife, although from the way he spoke, Sanemi had wondered how he had secured the first one. Brash, and demanding, and certainly not shy about grabbing at the waitresses. Their forced giggles revealing their annoyance as they gently reminded him that they were merely servants, not entertainers. Nothing worth pursuing in either of the occupants. Two places, he had discovered were empty, and available to incoming customers. Perhaps having too quickly busied themselves before big performance the oiran had promised him before ushering him in. Something about the Lady Kazaori’s impending betrothal allowing her only one more night of presentation, he had barbed at the name. Sending the oiran into a nervous fit, eager to be rid of the scarred customer. Fair enough. He had to remind himself that for courtesans, names meant little, and simply because the name bared familiarity didn’t mean… goddamn it this was pissing him off, he bit back another drink. His ears catching the koto and the murmured whispers of courtesans who had been invited to the booths next to him. One of the occupants having bathed in the attention offered, his sighs and teases evident as the drink on his breath and how heavy he sauntered. His words becoming nothing more than incoherent babbling, while the other resident had merely ignored the oiran’s interference. His eyes trained on the sheer screen before him. The courtesians desperate to draw his attention, having accepted that Sanemi was not willing to entertain them, or perhaps they were too afraid to inquiry. Not that he could give a shit, but something about the other man was different. Through delicate plucks on the koto, the enchanting melody that felt familiar to Sanemi’s ears, and warmed his heart. Goddamn it, his ears had managed to catch a snippet of the women’s conversation. “No one is paying attention to me.” A drawn-out pout intended to catch the man at her side’s attention, but fell on deaf ears. The man practically possessed by the performer before him.

                “You should have known they wouldn’t,” one scolded. “He has always been Kazaori’s biggest fan. Besides, it’s Kazaori’s last night, you should wish her well.”

                The indignant snort that retorted. “Why should I wish her well? Fate has done so itself.”

                Pitter back and forth between the two, one clearly reserved and adjusted to her job, and the other ebbed in jealousy at the mere mention of the higher courtesan title the one Kazaori had earned. Bitter spats back and forth as the one woman had demanded the other remember her place, while the other could only lament that the Kazaori had secured a husband to be from a noble family. A second born of some beaucrat, born with a silver spoon his mouth. Apparently so enthralled by the tayu he had sputtered off some poem, and met with the keeper of the brothel without hesitation. Smacked double the woman’s amount without a second thought, even an additional fee for ensuring she would be ready in the days to follow. The woman obviously enamored by the idea of the other being spirited away, and perhaps wishing it for herself, the idea nauseated the wind hashira. The snip of bitter, “a hafu getting married like thaaa”. Hafu, the word barely processing before the woman’s voice had become mangled. The scream of her companion ringing in his ears and silencing the performance. Terror screeched across her features as she pushed pass the screens, desperate to flee the scene.  The toss and clatter of her scatter leaving remnants of the once beautiful performance amuck. The toss of ornate furniture, women screaming and dashing. The imperial officer brandishing his weapon to no avail. Blood that spattered amongst the crowd. The glimpse of familiar sun-kissed hair, ushered by small kamuros before Sanemi had forced his way through the crowd. The demon who had masqueraded as a man having torn after the object of his affections. Leaving the woman whos throat he had crushed in ruins. Not even bothered to reveal in her flesh, discarded as though she were nothing more than mere garbage in his gaze.

                Hand on his nichirin blade as he bolted down the halls, navigating the large building through the fury of screams and crying women who sought to escape. Blood quick to decorate—he was fast, but his trail leading Sanemi to the small form of a child, whose sobs were unmatched. Shrill, and screaming violently as the blood and snot marred her features. Her hair ornaments disarrayed, the hair on her scalp oozing, torn from their placement. The furniture she had smashed into severed beneath her light weight, glass littering her cheeks. He crouched down, his fingers grazing against her throat. Inspecting the bruising that had formed, but no clear abrasion. Nothing that had broken the skin. The bastard having merely tossed her in his wake, eyes too trained on the prize. Goddamn it. “L-Laadddy K-Kaa,” the little girl began to hick up in choked sobs. Her eyes meeting Sanemi’s. Fear marked into her skin, small… a child. She was just a child. “M-M-oonssste-“.

                His found her hair. Gently twining his fingers across her scalp, gently patting her hair with care. “Did he take your lady?” Her tremble confirmed his question as he did his best to sooth her tears. “Where?” Her finger as his guide he offered one last soothing pat, “You did a good job, stay here.”

He was fucking livid. An internal storm that threatened to spew, a volcano that threated to erupt. The demon itself felt like a fucking waste of time, but goddamn it if he didn’t feel like the past was determined to fucking haunt him. The curse that he had spewed at the sight of you. From what he could gather, the demon had attempted to force itself upon you, promising eternity together. An offer you had refuted with a hair pin, jabbed with all of your might. Plunged into the side of his head, buried deep into his flesh, and irretrievable. Making the demon an easy target for Sanemi to slay, but goddamn he was pissed. From the way the bastard had dared to touch you, to taint your features with its very being. To the fact it dared to attempt to drag you into filth, to the fact that the very sight of you. Tears tinged at the corner of your eyes, your pride not allowing them to fall. Kimono torn open, hair unraveled and aslant. It was the fact that he hadn’t hesitated to captivate you in his arms. To trace calloused fingers of smeared rouge, inspecting your familiar face. The years had changed you, you had certainly grown. Merely the ghost of a child he had known before, to the very woman he had given his heart to so long ago. The shiver of recognition, your sky blessed eyes widening as you uttered his name. It pissed him off how he longed to hear you call his name once more, desiring to hear it between broken shudders. Your fingers clasped onto hem of his uniform like you had so many years ago. “Sanemi,” you whispered, begged him to look at you. Gritted his teeth as he attempted to turn from you. What pissed him off more than the fact that he had forgotten himself and embraced you as though you were still children longing for a fate that would never come—was that after all these years, here you were… waiting. Having risen through the ranks, claiming your mother’s title as your own, endured hardships he dared not think of, and yet, yet you looked at him with such adoration. As though you were still that little girl, faithfully waiting her fate… waiting. After all these years, you were still fucking waiting.

                Soft fingers tracing the mar of his flesh, traced alongside the scars he had gathered through the years as you fell through broken sobs. He had told himself to leave, but the purr of your lips, the cries of disbelief that after all these years, he had come for you. You had money, you had sworn. Hidden away from sight, offered to him. Begged him to spirit you away, kidnap a bride before her day, to claim you as his own as he had sworn so many years ago. The press of your forehead against him, breathing in what you could only note as traces of spring that dared to escape your grasp. His heart settled against his ribcage for only a moment, whole and wishing for the day he had longed desperately for, but it was not to be.

                “L-Lady, Kazaori!” a small voice cracked.

                As though the chill of shifting winds had slid down his collar, your fingers still clutched to the hem of his uniform. His violet iridescent eyes found the little girl who charged through the entryway. Her hair still disheveled, the blood of her features only wiped half-assed as she wrapped around your waste. Her sobs staining the folds of your extravagant kimono. The Kamuro he had patted now stared up at him with wide yes, praising him between hick ups and attempting to catch her breath, and in the same fluid motion, she had brought him back to reality.

                Wordlessly, his calloused fingers met your own, delicately unweaving their clutch on his clothing. Detaching himself from you, as though severing an invisible bond that you dared to reach for. Your shattered reality falling into your lap. The tears now falling, and out of grasp. He had separated from you, and in your heart, you knew what this moment was. What you had dreaded, and feared for all of these years. “S-Sanemi.”

                The gentlest gaze, delicate. Fragile. The shatter of the wind of a cold night, distant and only enough to elicit shivers. Danced across snow flurries, and greeted the Japanese maple leaves. His smile curved and warm with all of the love he had held for you throughout the years. “Your husband is waiting.” Before slipping out the door, knowing all too well that he dared not look back. Dared not meet your broken gaze. Nor acknowledge the sound of knees meeting the wood floors, a collapse of distress, and the little kamuro  far too innocent to the world of the pleasure district tired to console a broken woman. No, he did not dare. Because if he did, he would break, and in another life. He wouldn’t have to hesitate. Would not have to bid you farewell. Nor meet the cold air outside, this reality would not be his own.

                No, in another life. His heart would be reeling from the yuinou. He would have been the one to present your mother with konbu, hemp, and dreams, with whatever money he had scrapped together from his jobs, with the hopes of growing old in one another’s embrace. In another life, it would be him beaming into the night air; him to protect you from your inheritance. Him to etch the memory of a furisode into his mind. Him to swear himself to you. Him to embrace you in the night, and his name you would bare, and the children to come. His name you would cry out, his touch you would lust for, and your body he would worship in adoration. It would be him. But in this life, he could only sever the bond of the girl who held his heart, and turn his back on the woman that faith had abandoned.

[breakfastteatime]

Comfortember Day 2: Sweater Weather

“It’s no good. I can’t do it.” Greez slams his empty mug down on the bench. “Not a second longer.”

Cal looks over at him. The droid too. “Something wrong?” Cal asks.

“Something wrong. Is something wrong?!” Greez can’t believe him. The kid is shivering. He is huddled in his not-thick-enough poncho, hands clutching the finest mug of cocoa this side of Alderaan. Two days they’ve been on this wintry, rain-soaked planet. Two days of Cal insisting ‘I had it worse on Bracca, Greez, relax.’

No. More. They’re going to be here for a few more days while Cere checks in on a lead, the Mantis undergoes a system upgrade, and Cal… “Finish your drink. You’re coming with me.”

Cal and BD-1 share a look. BD says something, Cal replies with a ‘I don’t have a clue’ and does as he’s told. Greez leads him through the town to the clothing district. He finds a massive store, one promising clothing to suit all bodies of all species and genders, and drags Cal inside.

“Greez, why are we – ”

“Shh!” He looks at the store map, sees a section for two-armed Humanoids, and leads Cal to it. Neon signs proclaim there’s 25% off everything. Even better. Kid can’t complain about spending money that way. “Alright, find something warm to wear.”

Cal takes a breath.

“Ah! Nothing outta you about not needing it, or we can’t afford it or any of your usual nonsense. You’re getting something warm to wear, and you are doing it right this instant, young man!”

“Ooh, he ‘young man’d’ me,” Cal tells BD, who cackles in binary glee.

“Hey, either you can choose, or I will, and you and I have pretty different tastes in fashion.” Greez looks Cal up and down. Scrapper chic really ain’t his style.

To his relief, Cal disappears. He comes back quickly, holding a hooded sweater, the blue and orange matching his poncho. He holds it out as though awaiting judgement. Greez grabs it, appraises it (wouldn’t hurt the kid to be on the receiving end of these little games now and then), and nods. “That’ll do, Cal. That’ll do.”

Cal practically deflates with relief.

Greez buys it, throws it back at Cal, and insists he puts it on under the poncho. Cal does as he’s told and now when they’re out and about he doesn’t look like he’s minutes away from freezing to death.

(Also, the sweater becomes one of Cal’s prized possessions and he is never without it on a lazy day. It’s also the first thing he puts on after Ilum. Greez decides to buy him a few more as soon as he can. And maybe some cozy sweatpants too…)

[lizdonnelly]

Second Circle, Ch. 1

Pairing: Elizabeth Donnelly x f!reader, shades of Alex Cabot x Olivia Benson Warnings: Smut, violence, references to alcoholism Summary: “We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.” Based on a request for Liz/f!reader's first time, and my own desire to write a series about Liz navigating romance amidst chaos. Loosely inspired by the events of 2x21 'Scourge' and a few details from 10x8 'Persona'.

---

Although the wind rattled against the windows of the banquet hall and the pinprick lighting of the chandeliers overhead flickered, the murmur of the gala continued on.

The air vibrated, alive with the weight of the tension that had wracked the city in the past few weeks and no doubt fueled by the media machine cranking out headline after headline, each more sordid and gruesome than the last.

Melinda's grip tightened on your elbow as another group approached. Your heart quickened at the sight of short, gelled back blonde hair and the heady perfume that wafted over. Anxiety tore at your stomach with molten claws.

"Doc Warner, glad to see you've made it," a bloodhound of a man said, leading the pack. He gestured towards you with his whiskey glass. "Elliot and Olivia give you enough time to make friends outside the morgue? I must not be pushing them hard enough."

Melinda patted your back. Heavily lined brown eyes scoured you from behind the bloodhound, appraising the manner in which Melinda had touched you. A cold bead of sweat slid down the back of your neck.

"Always glad to see you on the right side of the concrete, Captain," The medical examiner teased. "Especially these days. But yes, believe it or not, I do have time to run in other circles." A man with a voice as calm as the creek that ran beside your childhood home piped up. "Pleased to finally get the chance to meet you," he said with an easy smile and a tip of the head. This man carried himself with a centeredness that was hard to come by, even across the crowd of New York City's top professionals that had congregated that evening. "I've heard about your efforts at Mercy General. I can't imagine what you've had to deal with as of late." It was a line you'd heard plenty of variations of recently, but his sincerity seemed completely genuine. Although his eyes were warm, inviting pools of black ink, you couldn't shake the feeling that somehow he knew. Melinda turned to you with a smile, oblivious. "As you can probably tell, Dr. Huang is our resident psychiatrist," she said. "And a fed, at that," came that harsh, staccato voice you had become attuned to. You bit at the inside of your cheek. The psychiatrist-fed's gentle smirk grew. Thankfully, a pasty, bird boned blonde intruded, reaching out past Huang. "Alexandra Cabot, assistant district attorney," she said, wasting no time.

You shook her hand, surprised at the strength of her grip. Studying her gaze, you got the sense that events like this were easier for her to navigate than they were for other members of the party. She sipped at her champagne lightly and looked around, her stare lingering on the elevators as if she either wanted to leave or wished for someone else to arrive.

"Can't forget her royal highness," the bloodhound Captain joked, gesturing to the woman you'd been struggling not to address.

Dr. Huang spoke again in earthen tones and an air of alacrity. "There's no need to bother, Melinda. The only reason the Bureau Chief wouldn't have led the introductions," he paused, "is if this isn't a stranger to her." Liz rolled her eyes. You subconsciously tugged at the sleeve of the sweater that hung a little past your fingertips. "If you're so perceptive, Agent, then why did a sixth girl show up gutted like a fish at Grand Central this morning?"

---

Liz Donnelly hated courtroom restrooms. She had since the 70's, in fact.

On this occasion, though, she tolerated the lavender soap and the lukewarm water as she used the mirror to study the other woman.

The younger woman next to her scrubbed underneath her nails with a precision so adroit it had to be practiced. "If you're trying to scrub away evidence," the Bureau Chief piped up, "do me a favor and be less obvious." The woman's eyes widened, eyebrows rising. Liz leaned over and tugged playfully at the name tag dangling from the pocket on the woman's scrubs. The woman paused. "If you're trying to flirt with me," she finally whispered, "do me a favor and be more obvious."

The bathroom door swung on its hinges and in strode Olivia Benson, the SVU detective clearly in a tizzy and blind to the way the Bureau Chief and her conversation partner jumped apart like two opposing magnets. The strands on the back of her glossy brown pixie cut stuck up. As the detective ran a nervous hand through them again, Liz understood why.

"Got tired of listening to Cabot try to grill a child? Don't tell me she needs me back in there." Benson shook her head, slumping against the paper towel dispenser. "He got another one."

The detective muttered a quick apology, shifting aside to let the woman in scrubs dry her hands. Liz swallowed thickly.

"Sexually assaulted as well, I take it?" Benson eyed the prosecutor. The detective nodded exasperatedly. "She was an architect. Single, wasn't a user, friends are all model citizens." Benson sucked in her bottom lip and bit at it. "No vengeful ex-boyfriend, at that. Seems she had a gambling habit, but I've know plenty of girls who play the ponies, and all of them are still very much alive."

"However disparate these murders seem, there has to be a connection. Better make good use of that overtime, or you'll have more blood on your hands," Liz jabbed, gesturing towards the sink. The detective's brow furrowed.

"So this is the support we're going to get from our new Bureau Chief? How the hell are-"

Benson paused awkwardly as the woman in scrubs shuffled out the door, paying no mind to the quick finger waggling wave she threw at the prosecutor.

Liz managed a brief smile.

Benson looked towards the door, then back at the wiry woman before her in the starched black pantsuit.

Had there been a window in this particular courtroom restroom, Liz had half a mind to climb out it herself.

---

The bloodhound, whom you now knew as Cragen, thumbed the facets of his whiskey glass at the sound of the announcement.

A gentleman in a well-pressed suit and white gloves had called out across the banquet hall. The gala wouldn't be ending at its scheduled time, due to "inclement weather conditions", meaning the whole ordeal was to proceed for who knows how long. Fortunately, the waitstaff were headed back with fresh bottles and hor d'oeuvres as an apology for the inconvenience.

"I don't mean to pry, but does this have anything to do with-"

He cut you off with a somber shake of his head. He turned to face you, the capillaries webbing along the corners of his eyes swollen.

"This is news to me."

Cragen turned and headed back to the bar with a sniffle.

"They're doing a reasonable job of keeping everyone occupied, at least," came an even voice from behind you. Huang joined your side. Jet black pools still held a mirthful twinkle.

"Tell me something. How long have you and the prosecutor been involved with each other?" "This is the first time Ms. Cabot and I have met," you stammered. "You know that's not who I meant," he countered with a soothing grin. "Forgive my intrusion. You don't have to answer, if you don't want to."

The psychiatrist's musings were an unexpected relief to you. You felt the dam within your chest begin to burst, allowing you to finally speak on something you had kept locked up to yourself these past few weeks. "I'll forgive you, but only if you tell me how you knew," you laughed, tension evaporating from the edge of your voice. Huang nodded to himself.

"That's not your sweater."

You lowered your glass. "It's too long in the arms," he said, gesturing freely. Huang was one of the few who had not been drinking.

"It's not like I have much time to see a tailor," you tried to riposte. "True, but the odds that you and Donnelly wear the same perfume are not favorable," he said with an air of one revealing a royal flush. "My guess is that either she gave the sweater to you, or you're wearing it out of convenience. Alternatively, she could've asked you to wear it, knowing you'd cross paths tonight. She appears to be rather domineering, so that would not surprise me if it were the case."

It took everything in you to fight back the heat that rose in your cheeks at the bounce of his eyebrow.

"You make a hobby out of judging women's perfume?"

"I was a profiler in another life. It was more than a hobby to judge everything about a person." Huang's gaze followed Cragen as he made his way through the crowd across the room.

"Makes for a good party trick, I'll give you that."

Huang paused before turning back to you. His expression held an odd seriousness to it now. "I get the sense that I'm not the only one playing party tricks tonight."

---

Alex Cabot hadn't known Elizabeth for long, but she already didn't care to know the woman much longer.

The younger prosecutor checked her Cartier watch once more, eager for any distraction at this point. Somehow, neither clock hand had so much as budged. She squeezed her eyes shut amidst the bubbling conversation of the crowd in the godforsaken hall and thought of wide, chocolate brown puppy dog eyes and pixie cuts, of handcuffs and coffee cups.

"Alexandra, that look is not becoming on someone like you," an airy tone wafted over.

Lena Petrovsky, New York Supreme Court judge. Fuck. At this rate, she half expected Barry Moredock to round the corner and lecture her about some constitutional disservice she also happened to be encouraging this evening.

"Running all-nighters with the SVU shouldn't be taxing on someone from Harvard Law. But really, you look like hell, try to get some rest after this circus," Petrovsky said, gesturing around them. "You won't be of any use to the city if you keep burning the candle at both ends."

Alex opened her mouth to speak, but a harsh voice speared through her.

"From what I've seen so far, Ms. Cabot is no stranger to circuses," Donnelly jeered.

Alex was certain some snide joke about her courtroom performances was incoming, but she paused, shrieks cutting through the crowd behind them.

---

"This just in: at approximately 11:07 tonight, NYPD discovered the body of a young woman in Central Park. The cause of death? A large wound along the victim's neck, a similar M.O. to the recent string homicides that have shocked the city this past month. Although signs of sexual assault were present, no information is available yet as to the identity of the perpetrator. Investigators have identified the victim as local self-portraitist..."

Liz looped her arm around your shoulders, tugging you out of the bar and onto the street.

"I am not ruining one of the rare nights we both have to ourselves with more of that fear-mongering," she said. You shifted under the weight of the fur coat she shared with you, pressing yourself against her side. Although her voice was firm, you could tell she was rattled. She led you past throngs of men and women in pressed shirts and cocktail dresses, club promoters, and a man stumbling toward you with a box of pamphlets.

"They didn't call me in," you mused. Your brows knitted in confusion. Liz grabbed hold of your chin.

"And they won't," she seemed to command into reality through sheer force of will alone. She brushed her thumb across your lips. Rain gently began to fall overhead. The lights of the cabs clogging the street blurred.

You leaned forward, slipped her thumb into your mouth, and lightly sucked on it.

The prosecutor smirked. You were pleased with the fact that she appeared slightly taken aback by your boldness.

"Come on," she said with a gaze that told you she was a thousand miles away already.

You felt her breath hot against your ear as she tugged you into the back seat of a nearby town car.

"I have something else for you to suck on."

---

"Top her off," Cragen said to the bartender, tilting his glass across the counter.

Across the room, the band still played. The peeling notes of the saxophone reverberated across the inside of his skull. A dull throb continued to pound at the back of his eyes.

Looking down into the amber liquid, Cragen studied the panes of glass that stretched across the ceiling. More rain, more wind.

He couldn't kill in this.

Cragen took a swig.

Elliot and Olivia were still at the station, sifting through tips and folders full of supposed eyewitness accounts. Munch was no doubt trying his best to hold down the fort, but even his endurance, battle-tested over years in Baltimore homicide, was waning.

The brass thought maintaining appearances would comfort the public, although the Captain wondered how all of this pomp and circumstance could reassure anyone but those New York elites with the most fragile of egos.

He took another sip, turning back to watch ADA Cabot and Dr. Huang engaged in what appeared to be a heated argument. At least, heated on the blonde's end. Nearby, Doc Warner was caught in Judge Petrovsky's line of fire. He chuckled into his glass, thankful not to be in the good doctor's shoes.

Further off, Donnelly and the woman Melinda had introduced the group to were headed towards the restrooms. Cragen squinted. The Bureau Chief, with all five foot something's worth of bluster, was leading the other woman hand in hand. Something Arthur Branch had told him once made him chuckle.

Cragen went to take the final swig of his whiskey to finish off the glass, but noticed it was still full.

---

You stumbled through the doorway of Liz's brownstone, her hands quick to pull down your skirt. The door slammed shut. Her mouth pressed hot kisses up the side of your throat. Deceptively strong hands gripped at your ass.

"Upstairs," she husked.

Something fluttered in your stomach. Although you had gotten used to the feeling of the prosecutor's clever tongue in your mouth after a couple coffee dates, the two of you had yet to cross the threshold, so to speak.

Her hands guided you around the corner and up the flight of stairs, toying at the back of your bra. The sensation of her fingers trailing down your spine broke your brain. There could be no anxieties at this point, no thoughts for that matter, only Elizabeth Donnelly and her teeth at your throat and her pillows now pressed up against the back of your head.

The prosecutor leaned over you, nudging your legs aside. She began to drag her knuckle up and down the rapidly dampening fabric that clung to your slit. Heavily lidded brown eyes met yours.

"God Liz, I need you...I need it..."

You were embarrassed at the whine, embarrassed with how wet you already were for the woman.

"Need what?" her voice came coolly. She paused her ministrations to press a finger up against your hole. "This?"

You squeezed your eyes shut. "Please..."

Liz chuckled and hiked up the sleeve of her blazer.

"Since you beg so pretty," she said, "I guess I'll have to oblige."

You felt her tug your panties to the side, the sensation of her pressing a few quick kisses all across your mound and lips sending your heart into a spiral. Shortly afterwards, she helped you kick out of them, and her hands slid up to caress the insides of your thighs. Liz dragged her tongue up through your folds, praising how good you tasted. You moaned unabashedly now, desperation rising to a fever pitch.

"So impatient," she teased from between your legs as she lapped at you. You fought back another whine, the cry dying in your throat as you felt her climb up the bed and tug your body against her. She snaked a hand between your legs and slid a finger into you.

"Fuck, you're tight," her voice strained against a few strands of hair matted against your ear.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you tried to reply. "Speak up, sweetheart," she cooed, easing another finger into you.

"I want you to stretch me," you panted, clinging to lucidity.

She bit at your earlobe with a growl, a third finger slipping inside you now. Your head spun at as you felt yourself adjust to take even more of her. The air was now thick with the wet, wanton sounds of her pumping inside you. With each thrust, she stroked at a spot inside you that brought you closer and closer to your peak.

"I-I can't last much longer," you sputtered. You pressed back against her, hips rocking up into her palm. She sucked at a patch of skin underneath your jaw.

"Then cum for me," Liz said, beginning to stroke her thumb along your clit. She curled her fingers inside you and allowed you to roll your thighs against her hand.

The tension gripping your body snapped, your mind careening into the darkness as waves of pleasure rushed over you. Liz kept up her pace, pressing light kisses across your face. She talked you through your orgasm in crisp, honeyed tones in a manner you'd spend the next few days dwelling over.

When your heart finally calmed, she withdrew her hand, savoring the taste of you as she rose up off the bed. You watched her with a confused look, eyes straining against the shadows that cloaked the bedroom.

Her hand threaded into your hair, cupping the back of your scalp. Suddenly, she met you from the side of the bed.

You felt her pull you towards her, your face soon nuzzling up against the fabric of her slacks.

She tugged her zipper open with her free hand.

You wasted no time in starting to cover her panties in kisses, rewarded with a groan as she lolled her head back.

"That's a good girl," she said, voice straining. "Keep it up."

You reached up and tugged them down, lips wrapping around her clit. She laced both hands in your hair, pulling you closer. You leaned up, catching a glimpse of her through heavy lashes.

A thumb caressed your cheek.

"I can't wait to cum all over that pretty face."

You sucked harder.

---

Liz led you towards the restrooms, which were just outside the banquet hall in a hallway not so generously lit. The darkness served the mood well, though. Her mind wandered to thoughts of herself draped over your back, your legs parted wide enough for you to try taking her strap, her hips rutting into you with a ferocity that'd leave you with bruises she was proud to give you.

She wasn't sure if it was the booze or the fatigue calling the shots at this point, but neither prevented her from noticing your hand tugging free from her grasp.

The prosecutor turned in time to catch sight of a white glove cover your mouth.