#is nothing but an oc with the original name slapped on him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kimsmuse · 1 year ago

Text

yandere detective !!

(oc's name is detective sae)

this is the first time i'm naming an oc !! and there's not a lot of yandere elements here because this is just a backstory, okay !! you have to trust me when i say i'll do it more.

gender neutral!reader. 2.4k words. warnings for domestic abuse (the reader's father hits her) and warnings for murder, blood, hiding the body, and the likes of it. yandere behavior but very less ? and um yeah that's about it.

so it begins like this; a slap to your face when you were 13, and no matter what anyone says that’s not an age to run after grades. but your father doesn't understand.

and it ends like this, even after all these years, even when you're not 13 anymore you were passed out from all the beating, it wasn’t a lot but the fear was enough to make you exhausted. you wholeheartedly believed that this man could and would kill you if the time came and so pretending to faint or actually fainting helped, he stopped, maybe hoping internally that your breathing stopped entirely.

when you wake up, breaths still shaky and legs still wobbly, he's most probably asleep on the sofa, the tv still obnoxiously loud. and there's a point of impulsion. where every sense of rationality leaves your body, and there is nothing in that moment except the things he did to you, and rest in peace, your dead mother.

and one thing led to another and the steel vase was emptied and in your hands, originally meant to be only if the man suddenly wakes up and decides that today is your last day. his words echo in your mind, "i've brought you in this world, i can take you away," and all of the times you wished he did. just kill and be over with it, but he liked to drag it out.

and it just, happened, like a cherry blossom that falls from the tree right on the ground unceremoniously, the contact of the skull to the steel made a sound, and his eyes shot open. but it was too late to go back now.

2 hard hits and the blood gushed all over the sofa and his chest stopped motion.

the way silence around the neighbourhood stands still used to be your biggest fear that nobody could hear if he ultimately decided to beat you to death, but today you were thankfully and the sound of steel if anything isn't unconventional. you wonder why no neighbours did anything despite the walls being paper thin, were they on his side? are they going to notice that he's gone?

there was no regret inside you for what you’d done, if anything there was regret for all the times that you should have just picked up the vase sooner, it was just on the shoe stand in the doorway, why not sooner?

but there was no time to think about any of it right now, before the morning came, you had to move quickly.

even if it wasn’t uncommon for your father to lie there on the sofa for days and days, the first few hours of when his office normally started, the phone would ring in intervals but then he just shut it off. and you would be inside your room, silently praying for him to just leave.

you tried to compose yourself, you couldn’t afford any mistakes here, your life depended on it. and the plan became as follows, the body in a suitcase, the apartment cleaned.

there was no actual argument about if the plan would work or not, it just had to, it was the only thing that came to your mind right now.

and so over the next hour, you turned over the sofa’s mattress, with it being black, the bloodstains weren’t even visible. thank god.

then came the painful process of finding the suitcase and you found it, in your father’s room and it was filled. it hadn’t been long since it had been filled your mother committed- no, was killed by your father almost an year ago now, she was taking the same bag and fleeing with you, when he had to come back and catch you red-handed leaving. and he’d been so, so silent, but your mother knew better, she took advantage of his dormancy.

back to the present, you took one last glance at home and scrolled the bag behind you, it had been a hassle but it finally fit.

everything was going right to plan, you just had to keep your head down, please nobody be awake right now, please no-

just as you were about to reach the car, a door opened behind you.

and you didn’t dare look back.

“hey, neighbour,” you slowly turn back, you’ve seen this guy around, the new guy who just moved here, the one that your father hated because he once came up to complain about the shouting that he did, something which nobody had ever done before because they didn’t care enough apparently, so this guy must really value his peace and quiet and which only appealed him to you more but at this moment you wanted nothing more to just fling the suitcase right into his face. but um, a slight fact check, he also is kinda a detective.

he is standing in his doorway, playing with a lollipop in his hands and slowly licking it as if the time on the clock was 3 pm instead of the exact opposite and it was really normal to spot your neighbour dragging a suspicious case at this time.

“uh, do you mind? i’m kinda busy,”

and you turn and start walking again.

“not to rain on your parade but there’s blood coming out of there, you kill a pig or something?”

the blood, you could feel in your face, had run cold. you didn’t dare look back as you heard his footsteps closing in slowly, and the sound he made when he sucked in the lollipop.

“or,” he drags the ‘r,’ “did you finally end him?” he looks up at the vacant window of your apartment.

“shut up,” you hiss.

he lets out an amused laugh.

“so it is that,” he sucks in his lollipop again and inches close to you while you’re still frozen because his unpredictability scares you.

“who knew you had it in you, little dove,”

he walks back to his house then, grabs his key and walks over to you again, you try to figure out the look in his eyes as he unlocks his car, his cop car and as if assuming you’ll follow automatically, he looks at you questioningly. and leaves the door ajar to come close.

“come on,”

“where?” you ask weakly.

“i may be a cop, but i heard you getting beaten up.” he takes the suitcase from you, “come with me, i know a place. and switch off your phone please,”

“i don’t even know your name,” you’re in the car now but still in shock, you never expected help and much less from the cop downstairs.

“detective sae,” he replies, his eyes on the road.

“sae..”

“i’m..”

“i already know,”

“how?” you interrogate. “well, let’s just say your father has a loud voice,”

“makes sense,”

he keeps on driving for what seems like an hour and you’ve long since lost track of the way you were heading towards, it was a highway of some sorts, the headlights of the detective’s car is the only source of light. and he seems to be deep in thought, his brows focused and his jaw clenched. after a little bit more, he takes the exit on the left and to an even steeper path but thankfully enough, the car slows down and stops, there’s not much relief for you until the body is taken care of enough and you still don’t trust the detective to help you even if that’s clearly what he’s doing.

“you turned off your phone right?” you nod, “good, i didn’t even bring mine so we should be good,”

detective sae looks like he’s going through a mental list of things to take care of when you murder someone. do they teach things like these at the police academy? was it normal? or was it not his first time doing it?

but you had no choice but to trust him, you had come so far, there was no looking back now.

“this,” he points beyond the fence and the gate that he’s parked the car in front of, “is my property. and i’ll bury the body here,”

he takes a deep breath looking out the window, “what about the apartment? do you own the place or is it on rent?”

you try to remember, there was no landlord per se, but you weren’t clear about it. what does it even matter though?

“i think we own it,”

“are you positive? because if the landlord decides to check up on you or something it’ll be suspicious,”

“but i’ll still live there so that-“

“you won’t be able to live there, baby. the best way to cover all of this,” he makes a twirling motion with his hands. “is to make up a story of how you both got kidnapped by some guy your dad took money from, he killed the dad but he found a better use for you,”

as much as disgusting you found the story, it was plausible, money lenders in your area were notoriously famous for crimes like these.

and sadly, you thought as he told you to wait in the car, nobody would notice any of you gone. your dad wasn’t a very sociable man, and even if he had a couple of acquaintances, they were people who knew not to be bothered when he didn’t pick up his calls (and that is if and when those people would come above the drinking anyway) and you had long since stopped trying to make friends, it was way too much of exhaustion even if they wanted to be friends with you.

when he comes back almost an hour later, you’re fiddling with the radio, some station is narrating a horror story, a station is advising people on their relationships, and some other plays songs from the 60s maybe.

he’s covered in sweat and dirt alike and is quiet as he slips into the backseat.

“you should have taken me, i could have helped,”

he shakes his head, “it’s alright.” and he turns to face you, his expressions grim, “but now you’ll need to do as i say if you want to avoid trouble, okay?”

you nod your head, you had no other option. maybe you should have just turned yourself in, it would have been less hassle.

“no, no, are you kidding?” he rejects the idea entirely, “you have a whole life ahead of you and that bastard had it coming,”

he was right.

but you couldn't shake the feeling, that you should have taken the right path instead, maybe they would have spared you a shorter sentence, dismissing it as self defense? you had enough proof for it and detective sae could have helped you too…

it wasn’t happening now though, you thought as the car sped down the similar dark path down to your apartment complex. now if you went down, so did the detective and if he took such a big risk, he would go to any lengths to prevent you from snapping.

and you wondered lowly, if it had been someone else instead of him, would they have done something like this? sure, his occupation gives him an upper hand but you weren't quite sure of why this guy would do so much for you when you were practically strangers.

detective sae is a simple man, he'd just been transferred to this boring, little town with a hell of a crime rate but all of them menial - a drunk brawl, a property dispute, an attempted burglary and all sort of that stuff but what he was interested in, was a things a little dark.

he became a cop for that you know, to get access to that little darkness and even if being on the other side defeated that purpose he knew that it also gave him an upper hand. he could abuse it in controlled ways.

but he never really had the opportunity.

and then when he moved into your apartment complex, he saw you, it wasn’t like a crush or anything, but he saw you desperately covering bruises and at first he thought you had a drunk husband, but asking around he found that it was your father.

the worst character of them all.

he was used to that sound and no matter how much he wanted the man to stop, he didn’t have a plan nor anything solid, why didn't you file a complaint? he could've helped you.

it didn’t help that you were so hard to spot outside, not that the detective followed you or anything.

he became painfully aware of the fact that strangely he wasn’t angry with the man for disturbing his peace, but he imagined strangling him to death. how could he do this?

but anybody would have the same reaction if they saw something like that right? wrong, the people in the neighbourhood were so embroiled in their own problems that nobody wanted to intervene.

and he was, you know preparing for it, when he just had an intuition and then someone walking outside at 3 am.

"sir, what do we do about the case, the one with my neighbor?"

"do you really think anybody cares about it now, and its so common…." his boss looks around the room and finds his coat behind it. "there are no relatives to file a missing person's case, right?"

"not really, but.."

"i love your righteousness, but we're dealing with the murder of the mayor's son and the problem of those fucking gamblers and i-"

as if on cue, the phone rings and he hurries to answer it. "ah yes, sir, i'm on my way,"

"close that case, okay?"

try not to squeal. try not to squeal. try not to-

it took him effort, but the mayor's son had it coming anyway.

on one of his inquiry drives, he'd seen the mildly famous person at a bar and gambling at that, what would his father think?

he talked to him afterwards, to talk him out of it. but he did not budge.

anyway, but the story going on was that some drunk guy got into a fight with the mayor's son at the bar and it ended up being fatal for rhe katter.

and somehow the perpetrator was forgotten, the more pressing problem seemed to be gambling and drug dealing rings because the mayor had an image to save.

but sae was just glad that your case was finally closed today. it had been 3 months since you were living at his apartment and since he'd fed lies to his department and them being negligent had accepted the story and sae's clean reputation helped. after all, what could he get from covering a case like that, right?

when he returns home that day, and you ask him again, as you have been for 2 n

months, he shakes his head

“no, they haven’t closed the case yet…”

196 notes · View notes

dalekofchaos · 8 months ago

Text

Okay, I watched the DE livestream and even with my justified complaints before, I am most definitely not playing this game.

it feels like they killed any chance of Chloe, Warren or anyone from Arcadia Bay of appearing.

There was a dialogue option of Din- I mean Safi asking about "the girl with the blue hair"

And a dialogue choice appears between "We were just friends" "We were high school sweethearts"

"WERE" Are you fucking kidding? They said they'd respect both endings, but How the fuck is it "were" when they said they will respect both endings.

Sacrificing an entire town, killing nearly all of your friends and your love's mother is not "high school sweetheart" WHO FUCKING WROTE THIS SHIT?

Now this could've just been someone who chose the "save the Bay ending" in the livestream, but Max would not leave Chloe if that were the case...

Looks to me like they wanna split Max and Chloe even in the timeline where Chloe is alive. There probably will be just short mention of her or at best short cameo but that's it.

Like if they are no longer together/friends what would be even the point of Bae ending.

The idea that she'd leave her behind after destroying an entire town to save her doesn't really validate the ending. It just seems like a cop-out for a story that originally went with the Bay ending as canon.

As for the Bay ending. I doubt Warren will get a mention. Maybe a "There was this boy I liked, but it didn't work out because I just couldn't get over the loss of my friend and my own trauma, I didn't want to burden him, so I left. He deserved better than me." or worse, they'll demonize him and paint him how the fandom perceives him. I doubt Kate will get a mention. Maybe Max and Kate do stay in touch but they don't show Kate anymore, because god fucking forbid we get people we actually wanna see.

A lot of what made the first game so likeable is completely lost here, the art style, the ability to rewind freely, Max and Chloe's relationship/friendship. This feels more like a fanfic with a bunch of mediocre OCs shoved in than an actual sequel.

The majority of people who wanted Max back are those who also wanted Chloe back. It's going to be very surprising if they attempt to make it seem like Max and Chloe just lost touch or were just casual crushes in school. That isn't how the original game is at all.

Between this and the devs saying Max wants to forget and leave her past behind I’m taking this as confirmation that Chloe, Warren or anyone else from AB isn’t appearing at all which is pretty upsetting.

Zero interest in the game if they go this route. They should have just made a new character instead of completely shitting on Max' original story while using her for name recognition only…

Just remember. Deck Nine was outed for protecting a bigoted groomer and did nothing as a fucking Nazi put white supremacist imagery in their games and they so happen to release a game with "Max" in it. A Max without Chloe, Warren or Kate. A Max who learned nothing and fucked over reality over someone she just met. They got caught with their pants down and they slapped Max's name and voice on a completely new character because they panicked.

Anyways, I choose to believe MY Post LIS 1 headcanons or my Save Rachel game pitch, because that's how DONTNOD wanted it to be, a story we could choose after the game was complete.

I don't know who DONTNOD thinks this is, because that's not Max Caulfield #notmymax

#Life Is Strange #Life Is Strange Double Exposure #Max Caulfield #Pricefield #Chloe Price #Grahamfield #Warren Graham #Kate Marsh #notmymax #Not My Max

24 notes · View notes

fishnchip3011 · 9 months ago

Note

the oc's height post made me realize rowan and wren are two different characters and are in fact NOT the same guy using a nickname. OOPS!

LOL??!??!?! WELL WE LEARN SOMETHING NEW EVERY DAY

fun fact when i was still developing rowan he was initially going to have alex as a romantic interest (his name was originally cyrus and was Shorter than rowan is now) (this was before i made wren) but after fleshing out his personality more i was like Wait. him and sebastian work better together so i slapped them together and made them kiss like dolls

in the current/canon rowanverse alex has an itty bitty boycrush on rowan nothing too srs but enough to question his sexuality... so whenever haley gushes about rowan he's like *dreamy sigh* "yeah..." LOL and they are also workout buddies 💪

rowan evolution...

#ask #my art #farmer rowan #eon babbles

27 notes · View notes

bananadrinkxxx · 1 year ago

Text

𝐑𝐨𝐲𝐚𝓵 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐚𝓵 (5)

Give me your loyalty

[Aemond Targaryen x female original Targaryen • fem! oc!reader]

[warnings: sex content, fights, harassment, angst, smut, domination, violence, targcest (uncle/niece)]

Only for 18+

[description: War is going on between the Blacks and the Greens and Aemma Velaryon is brought to Aemond as a prisoner.]

Masterlist for all available parts (click here)

Aemond had not visited her for two days and Aemma was not angry about it.

Neither did she long for his presence nor did she want to be confronted with the fact that she was here at his mercy.

Aemma looked at the door as a woman with black hair entered. You could see that she was a little older, but that had done nothing to her beauty. She smiled as she put the food on the table.

"I'm not hungry," was all Aemma said, turning her head away.

"Refusing to eat is not wise, nor is it punishing the prince. It is, to be honest, the stupidest thing you can do."

Aemma turned around with a raised eyebrow. The strange woman looked at her challengingly, almost arrogantly. "And you are?"

"No one whose name you know. My name is Alys Rivers."

"A bastard?"

Each region of the Empire had its surnames for bastards. Snow for the North, in Crownlands they were called Waters, Sand for Dorne, and in the Riverlands they were called Rivers. And so on.

Alys nodded. "Yes, my father was Lord Lyonel Strong."

Aemma's mouth opened in surprise. If it was true, this rumor that had always haunted her and her brothers and that Aemma herself believed to be true, then Alys was her aunt. She had not known that her father had a bastard sister. Although it was not even a rarity, she had not expected it. A strange feeling, but also an irrelevant one. Just because they were possibly related meant nothing. The best example was Aemond and her.

"You can go Alys," Aemma commanded. "I'll decide when I eat."

Alys nodded. "Prince Aemond has already said you would say that. He also said should that be the case, then I am free to make you eat."

Aemma looked at Alys in irritation. She watched as she took a step backward and knocked on the closed door. Then two men entered. Aemma jumped to her feet.

"What's the meaning of this?"

"Grab her," Alys ordered and the men came up to her and grabbed her. Their hands closed around her arms and held her tight. Aemma cried out and tried to fight back, but they outnumbered her in size, strength and numbers.

"Are you insane?" spat Aemma. "I am Princess Aemma Velaryon, and I command you, release me this instant."

Alys stepped toward her, appraising her, before lunging and slapping Aemma, an unexpected slap. Aemma's face flew to the side and she felt her cheek begin to burn. Stunned, she widened her eyes and looked at Alys, who didn't make a face.

"You are no one here. You have no orders to give. You are a prisoner and that is how you will be treated. Only the kindness of your gracious uncle protects you from death by hanging."

Aemma snorted. She tasted blood in her blood. The cunt had hit her so hard she bit her tongue. "Gracious? Kindness?," Aemma asked mockingly. "Aemond's goodness is worth shit if I rip his head off and give him my dragon to-"

Before Aemma could speak further, Alys slapped her again. "You will address his Grace with respect. And don't you dare threaten him, or I will not spare you."

Aemma laughed in disbelief. Alys reared up in front of her, wanting to scare her, but didn't she know that Aemma was a dragon? She had the dragon's blood in her and also its wrath. Before Alys could react, Aemma gathered the blood in her mouth along with her saliva and spat in her face. Satisfied, she watched as Alys backed away, sullied by Aemma's blood on her face. She stroked it, stunned, and looked at Aemma. Her eyes grew abnormally large.

"You bitch," she screeched, coming at her with her hand raised, this time palm clenched into a fist and ready to have it smashed down into her face. Aemma stuck her face out at her, not afraid of the pain or of Alys but before Aemma felt any pain, Alys was pulled back.

"What is the meaning of this?" asked Ser Criston Cole, watching them all with a raised eyebrow, disgust on his face.

"Ser Criston," Alys said, humbled. "The prisoner has behaved disrespectfully."

"To you?" asked Cole with derision in his voice. "You're a servant, she's a princess. I hardly think you are in a position to reprimand her."

Alys looked uncertainly at Aemma and then back again. "But she is a prisoner, an enemy."

"Of royal blood. The prince decides how to deal with her. I can hardly imagine that he has given you permission to chastise her, can he?"

"She has offended the prince!"

"Then it is up to the prince to chastise her, not you, bastard." Ser Criston's voice was cold and thundered over their heads like a thunderstorm. Aemma had not seen him since her visit to King's Landing, since the dispute over Lord Velaryon's succession. He had grown older.

Alys winced and looked at the floor. She bit her lip. Aemma pulled up one corner of her mouth and snorted.

"I ask for your forgiveness," Alys said humbly.

"Rather, ask for my forgiveness," Aemma interjected, "because when I return on my dragon, you will be one of the first to burn."

Alys and Ser Criston looked to Aemma.

Die Männer, jeweils links und rechts von ihr, hielten sie noch fest, ließen ihr keinen Platz zur gegenwähr, doch sie ließ sich davon nicht unterkriegen.

She was Aemma Velaryon of House Targaryen. No matter how much fear she felt, she would never bend. She was not a weakling. She was a dragon.

Alys hateful, Criston without a clearly discernible expression on his face. He surveyed her. It was the same look he had given her as a child. Disdainful and dismissive.

"That's enough for today," Ser Criston ordered without responding to Aemma's words. "The prince is on his way to Harrenhal. Prepare his chambers and a meal."

Criston Cole gestured with his head toward the door. Alys and the men nodded and walked out of the room. Alys gave her one last hateful look, which Aemma gladly returned before disappearing from her sight.

"You should be more careful with your words," Ser Criston said suddenly. "They may be your last."

With that threat, the knight disappeared and Aemma watched him go, biting the door shut behind him. She looked to the food on her table, the steaming soup she was sure Alys had spat in. She would accept nothing from these traitors. She would rather die.

. . . . .

Aemma heard the click first, before she was blinded by light. The sound jolted her from her sleep, making her wince. She reached for the spoon to her unstirred soup and clasped it tightly. It was only a spoon but with a lot of force, it would be able to be used lethally in the right place. She would not let anyone touch her again. She would rather die.

"Princess Aemma, don't be afraid," she heard a feminine voice and an old woman approached her. She looked slightly frail and her face was full of wrinkles. Aemma looked at her suspiciously.

"Who are you?"

The woman smiled, revealing her toothless smile. "A friend."

"A friend?"

"Yes of Ser Harwin Strong," the mention of his name made Aemma's heart leap. The memory of him still hurt. "I was his nanny and always loyal to him. And he has always been loyal to you. To your honorable mother. He knew who the true ruler of this realm was."

Hope arose in Aemma.

"You must follow me, I will release you."

Aemma looked at her in irritation. "Where are the guards?" She looked toward the door.

"I mixed something into their food. They are sleeping for a while."

The woman grinned with satisfaction and winked at her. "Come, we don't have much time."

Aemma stood up. The woman tossed her dress to her and Aemma took off her nightgown. She had no problem with the woman seeing her naked. She was used to being seen naked by servants and there was nothing to be ashamed of.

"Can I really trust you?"

"I guess the only way you'll know is if you don't stand around here wondering, but just do it."

She was smart. Aemma smiled and the woman returned her smile. "You'll have to go that way. At the end of the hallway you will find a painting. Behind it is a door. Open it and go along the corridor. Then you'll come out at a wooded area. Keep walking straight ahead. Avoid the paths. The forest is big and dangerous animals are lurking there," she pressed a knife into her hand. "Don't hesitate. Whether human or animal. Dangerous ones lurk everywhere."

Aemma took the knife in her hand. She looked to the woman.

"I will never forget you. If my family wins this war, I will not have forgotten you. You will be rewarded."

The woman grinned and stroked her arm lovingly. Aemma saw in her eyes, her sincerity.

"Survive, that is reward enough for me, child. And now, go."

Aemma looked into her eyes one last time before nodding gratefully. Then she ran. This was her chance. She could not fail. Her mother was counting on her. Aemma ran as fast as she could until she arrived at the painting. A door, as the woman had promised. The hallway was dark and cold, which is why she reached for the torch next to the painting, which lit her way to the exit. When she reached the end of the hallway, she felt a door and opened it.

Moonlight and the cool air of the night. Aemma took a deep breath.

She looked left and right, but there was no one to be seen. She ran as fast as her legs could carry her toward the forest. Just before she arrived, she stopped, startled, as she was suddenly confronted by guards standing by the adjacent lake with beer and food.

The men did not see her, but they stood directly between her and the only way to the forest. There was no other way. The men were laughing and joking as if the world was not collapsing around them. Idiots.

Aemma looked at the food. Then back to the men. They had left their food and were standing by the lake, joking and enjoying themselves as they carelessly bawled out their jokes. She would not get past them. They would see her, which was why there was only one way. Aemma stepped to her things and reached for the bottle of alcohol. Wine. Perfect. She poured some over the guards' things. Her swords she added as quietly as possible. Those fools didn't even hear how she gradually put everything in a pile. These were the Green's men? How pathetic.

Then she poured the alcohol everywhere she could. She poured the alcohol so that it was like a wall between them. Like a circle that confined her and gave her the opportunity to escape.

"Question," she began and the men turned to her in surprise. They looked at her with wide eyes and Aemma felt a satisfaction at what was about to follow.

"Aren't you cold?"

They saw irritated looks among themselves, but no one said anything. They were all shocked to see her standing there.

"You are lucky," Aemma began sweetly, almost girlishly. "I am a friend of fire. Let me warm you."

Then the sweet smile on her lips disappeared.

"Dracarys."

Her fingers released the torch, the fire landed on the alcohol trail, and in just a breath everything was in flames. The fire glittered in Aemma's eyes as it grabbed the men's belongings and they ran screaming towards her, only to be sent away by the flames.

Due to the alcohol, the fire spread furiously and everything was ablaze. The men tried to get their things, but they had no chance.

She briefly watched how the men tried to fight the flames, how they took water from the lake into their hands, but it was similar to fighting a wolf against a dragon. Useless.

Then Aemma ran.

As fast as she could.

Harrenhal was burning again. Aemma Velaryon had made it burn again, though she doubted the fire was dangerous in any way. It would only occupy her enemies for a few moments before they would come after her.

Aemma ran as fast as she could. She had no idea where she was running. She just tried to put as much space as possible between her and her enemies. They called after her, but she did not even turn around. Whoever hesitated died.

Aemma stopped hearing their voices and the hope that she had hung them out rose. But she was not stupid enough to stop. She couldn't let herself get caught. This was probably her only chance.

Then she saw the corner of her eye a shadow above her. The bare treetops, which had lost leaves through the winter, gave her a good view of the dark sky above her. And then she saw it again. The clouds parted in two and a roar echoed through the forest.

"Aemmaaaaa....," shouted a male voice she would have recognized among hundreds.

"Shit," Aemma cursed.

"You owe a debt, Aemma," roared Aemond as he flew over her head with Vhagar. She looked up. He was directly above her. Only the trees prevented him from looking down at her.

She ran while Aemond flew above her.

Aemond did came for her.

"Riñeeee....," Aemond's voice chanted above her, "you can't escape me."

Aemma kept looking up in panic.

"You are mine."

While she took what felt like a thousand steps, Vhagar had not even made the next wing beat. The fire must have attracted Aemond. But she had no other option.

He chased her like his prey, which he was about to eat at any moment.

"Aōha kepa jāhor va moriot ao." Your uncle will always find you.

Taglist

@dc-marvel-girl96 @marvelescvpe @ammo23 @toodlesxcuddles @shygardengalaxy-blog @crazymusicgirl104 @malfoytargaryen

83 notes · View notes

aheckinmess · 6 months ago

Text

Elysium [Hawks] (Angst)

(One-shot 22/? in a collection of My Hero Academia one-shots posted regularly on Saturdays - and sometimes Sundays.)

Read on AO3.

Tags: Keigo Takami, Tamaki Keigo, Hawks, Original Female Character(s), Ichijiku Aoki, Tigress, Angst, Well I Say Angst But it Ended Up Fluffier Than Expected, Protective Hawks, Hawks Saves the Day, Soft Hawks, OC Falls from the Sky, I Know it Sounds Weird, But You'll Understand in Time, Hawks Has to Save Her, Also There's a Coffee Shop Involved, A Bookstore is Mentioned, Hawks Needs a Hug, OC Needs a Jacket, Hawks is a Casual Flirt, And This Surprises No One

Word Count: 1,611 words

Summary: When Ichijiku goes from reading her favorite book to falling off a building, it's obvious her day is a little topsy turvy. After being saved by Hawks, she can't get the winged wonder out of her mind. A chance encounter in a coffee shop tells her that he can't stop thinking about her, either.

Ichijiku (Tigress)

There is no doubt about how the sun felt dripping liquid serenity into my veins. Nor is there any doubt about the way I’d dove into my book to taste the delectable tale on the pages.

So it is only natural that when I open my eyes and see the bustling streets below me that I’m a little confused. Why is my body so heavy? Why am I at the top of a skyscraper?

The questions send me into a sort of vertigo. When I lift my head from the sights below, my equilibrium swirls out of balance. One moment I’m sitting up on the ledge and the next my body tilts forward, my heart left behind as I fall over the edge.

Time seems to stall as the world whips past my line of sight. Nothing stops the twisted feeling of sludge crawling through my mind as I watch the pavement coming closer and closer, not fully comprehending the gravity of its approach.

When a familiar red feather whips past me, the first threads of hope ripple through my limbs until Hawks' figure comes into view. This foreign yet familiar man is a sight for sore eyes as the certainty of my death abruptly slaps me in the face.

My arms already instinctively reach for him as he stretches for me, capturing me into his arms and then smiling with such a sweet smile. A smile that often captivated the hearts of women and journalist cameras alike. His eyes hide behind a visor as I drink him in, likening him to a heavenly protector as he pulls me against his chest and banks a hard right while he redirects my fatal projection.

Whenever it's clear my life will not end - at least not today - I focus on soothing my heart rate.

"I've got you! Just hold on tight and I'll get you to safety!" He promises, the vow sinking deep into my bones and offering me respite. "Focus on breathing for me, alright? You're going to be okay!"

His voice somehow still holds its honey-like quality even as he fights to be heard over the wind. My eyes fight against the desire to be closed again, rolling around in my head as a pair of gloved hands keeps my head steady when it’s obvious I can’t.

We’re on the ground for a minute-long eternity before I realize it.

“Hey, come back to me, cutie pie. Focus here.” His voice and those golden-brown eyes keep my attention, and it’s obvious he clocks the moment I’m responsive again. “Good. There you are. Talk to me; does anything hurt? What’s your name?”

A soft whimper makes it past my lips. My limbs still fight to move through their slimy slumber, and dammit, I just want him to keep talking to me.

“Keep…talk…” I plead, head flopping back until he readjusts me and his other question registers. “Ichijiku.”

He chuckles and it feels like we’re in the air again, his laughter elevating me right up into the clouds.

“I can keep talking, but you try loosening this death grip you’ve got on me in the meantime, okay?” He teases, a smirk pulling at the edges of his lips.

I blink and look at his chest, where a pair of hands clutch his aviator jacket. No, not just hands, my hands. While he calls the paramedics and coaxes me with soothing words, I work on regaining control of my fingers and extracting them from my hero’s jacket.

“Sorry.” I finally mutter, interrupting his reassurances. “I don’t know what’s wrong. My…my head.”

“What’s wrong with your head, honey?”

“Everything feels fuzzy.” I start, opening and closing my hands agonizingly slowly. “My body is moving through sludge, it feels like.”

“Sounds like she might have been drugged.” A new voice enters the fray, and it’s not nearly as pleasant.

A tall woman approaches in a EMT uniform and shines a light in my eyes, making me wince. Electricity crackles through my skull until I’m leaning closer to Hawks again.

“I found her falling off of the Honshii building. She was barely able to hold her head up by herself when we landed.” Hawks reports, before giving a little smile and a wave to me. “I’ll leave you in these fine peoples’ capable hands, cutie. Got more people to rescue. See you on the flip side!”

“Don’t go…”

But he’s gone before the words finish leaving my mouth.

. . . . .

My physical recovery doesn’t take long, but sleeping becomes nearly impossible. I’m reassured that it’ll pass, but that seems a little silly considering the circumstances. One moment I’m reading and falling asleep, the next I’m falling off a 20-story building.

So, the next morning I head to the coffee shop down the street.

The blast of warmth as I step inside helps soothe my tired bones. Bustling bodies clamber together in a line as order after order is placed at the counter.

When I accidentally step back into a familiar, golden-haired angel, I think I’m dreaming.

“Fancy running into you here, honey. Glad to see you’re not falling out of the sky again.” Hawks winks at my bewildered expression before his gaze softens. “How have you been?”

I’d thought that my delirious state might have accounted for the amount of comfort I felt from his voice, but even now his dulcet tones warm me more than any cup of coffee could.

“It’s been hard to sleep, but I’m alive and well.” I chuckle, stepping forward and looking up at the menu. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable that day.”

“Uncomfortable? I had a cute girl clinging to me the whole time. Can’t be more comfortable than that.” He smiles, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “If anything, I should be making sure I didn’t make you uncomfortable. Casual flirting isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but it’s a habit of mine.”

“Oh, haha, no. If anything it helps my self-esteem coming from someone resembling an actual angel.” I rub the back of my neck and step forward to order my drink. “Can I get a large caramel frappuccino?”

“Sure thing!” The cashier replies, eyes locked on Hawks as she waves me down. “We’ll let you know when it’s ready. Hi, Hawks!”

“Hey, hey! How’s it going?” Hawks grins at the fangirling barista.

I smile and head down to the end to wait for my drink, wondering how it must feel to be recognized everywhere you go. I wonder if he ever gets tired or feels like taking a break from it all. He seems fine, but it has to be draining.

“So, do you have any plans for the day?” He asks as he waits for his order with me.

“I’m not sure. It’s been hard to focus on much since I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m lucky my job is so fulfilling to me or I’d never get through the day.” I admit, chewing on my lip.

“I see. Where do you work?”

“I work at a local bookstore in town.”

“Ah, bookworm, I presume?”

“Guilty as charged.” I grab my drink as the barista hands it over. “I love reading and writing.”

“Think you’d like going to the pond with me? It’s the perfect reading nook.” Hawks leans against the counter on his elbow, eyes captivating behind his sunglasses.

“With…with you?” My eyes widen. “I’m not sure I’m worth the time, especially on your day off.”

“On the contrary, you’re a breath of fresh air.” He takes a sip of his coffee once it’s handed to him and tilts his head. “So, what do you say?”

“I could use some company.”

. . . . .

We’re both quiet as we crunch the autumn leaves on our way to the pond. Ducks greet us with noisy quacks as their companions loop around the pond with them.

Between the windy breeze and my cold drink, goosebumps raise on my arms and I shiver. A moment later, the soft lining of Hawks’ aviator jacket envelops my shoulders.

“Oh, you don’t have to–”

“I insist.” Hawks says, guiding us to the edge of the dock spanning the circumference of the pond. “You seemed rather intent on stealing it when I saved you, anyway.”

I laugh at that.

“Okay, but to be fair, I wasn’t in my right mind at the time.”

“That only proves to me that you must have really wanted it. Without your inhibitions you were so eager to have me close.” He continues his taunting before he pauses at the wooden railing overlooking the lily pads. He glances at me and then over the water. “I can’t stop thinking about you, ya know? I’ve saved hundreds of people, but I’ve never had such a hard time getting someone off my mind as you.”

Blood rushes up my neck and into my cheeks, now burning from his attention.

“I, um, I’m flattered. I don’t know why you’d be so interested, but it feels good.” I manage to say, wringing my hands together as I try not to freak out. Am I still not sure I’m hallucinating because of sleep deprivation? “I’m sure you’re not surprised to know that I’ve been thinking about you, too. But honestly, it’s been more so because I cringe every time I think about how I must have looked at you when you saved me.”

“Ha! Why would you cringe about that?”

“Because when I saw you, I thought you were sent straight from heaven.” I shake my head, taking another slurp of my drink. “I must have looked so dumb.”

“No. You looked like you’d reached Elysium. And honestly?” Hawks tilts my face towards him. “I thought I had, too.”

Want More Hawks? Try: Hide & Seek Pt. 1

9 notes · View notes

fdrsamericanflagduckfloaty · 2 years ago

Note

Drop the Miku Binder TJ rant bestie

okay so like

i was just thinking about it, and, like, i think it's fucking nuts but also really weird how the hamilton fandom (which i'm in but i swear i'm not an uwu lams turtles shipper please) somehow took this CRUSTY, TERF-BANGED, UGLY, OLD, REDHEADED, RAPIST ASS MOTHERFUCKER,

and turned his ugly ass into this.

like damn what the hell- what- how???? okay like yeah, they're using daveed diggs as a base for this bullshit, which, okay, fine, but YOU DID NOT NEED TO ADD THE INFO. The idea itself is funny but also a bit weird, however im 99% sure Diggs himself wore that shirt. However, all of the extra info??? come on. Where'd the fandom get this istg y'all-

Also, also, they did something similar by making John Laurens (gay blonde dumbass) into an UWU turtles boy. ....why. Bi trash coffee gremlin tumblr over-worked sleep-deprived alexander hamilton. like yeah relatable but. why. small bean big sweater uwu innocent boy blushy short james madison. ...why. bro was stubborn and would pick a fight and was the 'fuck you' type of shy.

I just find it wild the fandom made this and it is the entirety of the fandom into one. There's the good sides, there's the bad, and there's this. Which encompasses the ENTIRE. FUCKING. FANDOM.

The fandom has its headcanons, it has its perks, but then you reach the side where everyone is just a wild fucking original character. They don't model the historical figures anymore- they're just OCs with the name 'Philip Hamilton' or 'John Laurens' or god forbid our third U.S president 'Thomas Jefferson' slapped onto it.

I'm also so confused as to how this is what the fandom is known for. We have some good fics, we have hella good art, we have a M U S I C A L , and then the first thought people have of the Ham fandom is Miku Binder Third President Founding Fucker Slaveowner Thomas Jefferson.

I also find it kind of offensive (almost put insluting oh my ufckjg-) that they made a founder become this but like he'd probably be really pissed so please keep fucking up his memory lmao he deserves it

But like... also why. What made them think of this.

Like yeah I write 20k word TR smut but you don't see me drawing it.

You don't see me making him an UWU e-boy.

...Eh I probably would for shits and giggles tbh

But like this is founding father Thomas Jefferson. Third Pres. Second VP. First Sec. of State. And he is a furry, ex-cocaine addict. Also btw do they mean John Laurens or John Adams as the former drug dealer part because neither are better but it'd really help

Also bro literally raped his 14 year old slave and had like 6 kids with her. He had her room DIRECTLY NEXT TO HIS. He RAPED HIS DEAD WIFE'S HALF-SISTER. AND HE'S A SAD UWU MAN WHO DID NOTHING WRONG?

Let's not forget this same person made a post saying Lizzie (the Queen) would be reincarnated as a horse when she died. I'm serious. Deadass.

However, it's also funny as fuck because this entire thing is a tarnish to Jefferson and I fucking HATE that bastard so like good job lol

At the same time though it's still super weird??? But insane??? Because how did this become one of the Tumblr exclusives??? like it's Tumblr history at this point. Twitter history. You cannot express any like for the Hamilton musical before you get the 'have you seen miku binder thomas jefferson' and it's like 'well shit'.

But also remember: THIS IS NOT AN OC TO FUCK AROUND WITH. Hamilton the Musical specifically gave you and presented you the founder. Thomas Jefferson. Played by Daveed Diggs. Just because it is played by a POC, but also modernized, and vastly different from the actual founder and President, does not mean that at its core it is NOT STILL THE SAME PERSON.

If you name it Thomas Jefferson, if you use the presentation of him given by Daveed Diggs, you are still using that white fucking slave-owning racist motherfucker, and that's the point of it all.

I find it stupid but funny but also insane, and I wouldn't care, unless I KNEW IT WAS SERIOUS. The artist made it seriously. They made John Laurens. They made Philip Hamilton. They did this seriously.

but like also look at this lmao

This meme of Thomas Jefferson in a Hatsune Miku binder really got trending on Twitter at one point

It's an infamous, hellish, classic meme of both Tumblr and the Hamilton fandom, and it deserves what attention it's got, but Jesus please never unironically make shit like this again, Hamilfans, we're stained by this we don't need another😭🔫

EDIT:

i have more

So like, I just remembered: it kinda romanticizes these guys??? The musical??? so like don't get me wrong i love the music but... it puts them into this light. This pink light. It paints Hamilton as an abolitionist who was outspoken about it. When, in reality, dude traded and sold slaves for his in-laws + wasn't all that outspoken about it + was against immigrants or migrants, WHEN DUDE WAS FROM THE ISLANDS. HE HAD SCOTTISH BLOOD. AND HE'S AGAINST IT? Hypocrisy at its finest.

Washington also owned slaves and ran his own plantation too, so he's not off the hook. Madison, the 'uwu small bean' of the fandom, also owned slaves and ran a plantation. So the main people of this entire fiasco are slave-owners. Perfect. But also I've heard Ron Chernow's book on Hamilton, the entire start of the musical, is a bit biased to Ham himself, so...

You could be saying 'but FDRsduckfloaty, Sally is mentioned!' yes. But however, not enough. Not more. It's not even implied more than potentially ONCE what he did, and I'm not sure it ever was! Cabinet battle 3 states it flat-out but it was cut. For your info, Ben Franklin and John Adams are the only two you can really like in the slavery aspect. Ben bought them but let them go for their freedom, and John detested slavery and was against it. Never owned one.

Jefferson did add a slavery clause to the declaration but it was discarded, and he didn't fight half as much as he could have. Maybe he did and since it was the 1700s he didn't have a lot of support, but surely he could've done something like, I don't know, call it out after his terms? Once you're done gaining your second term and out of office, they can't do shit to it or your presidency, since it's over.

So the musical itself has its own problem and the fandom is even worse. It blatantly disregards that a LOT. A hella lot of the amrev fandom + a small part of the ham fandom has called TJeffs out for it but I mean can we please not make shit like Miku Binder Jefferson and act like he wasn't an actual child rapist???

This video does pretty well at it. I will admit the tagline 'America then, told by America now' almost sends shivers down my spine for what it really means. But then again I find men not knowing they'd make it down into the history books for starting the world's global power and the world's economic powerhouse pretty interesting. Doing something big and knowing it's historical, but not that it's going to form a very, VERY large country, where you'll be honored down the road and called a Founding Father of an entire nation? Signing papers and not knowing they're the founding stones of a country and still looked up to today? Intriguing.

But like still fuck Thomas Jefferson lmao

youtube

there's a lot more videos on it that dig deep, but the point is, that Hamilton is a good musical with good songs but it's also very... complex, and a bit problematic, Thomas Jefferson is a little bitch, and you should stan 1776 before you ever stan Hamilton. 1776 does not do this. It is much more realistic. 1776 has Benjamin Franklin and that's an immediate win. Be more like a 1776, be less like a Hamilton.

#miku binder thomas jefferson #thomas jefferson #this is the rant that woulda stayed in drafts #rant post #hamilton fandom #not just hamilton no no the fandom itself

90 notes · View notes

musashden · 9 months ago

Text

Oliver's Option

Okay so... still in X-men brainrot. I'm sorry if you followed me for some other fandom - at the moment this is all I can think about. I imagine it'll go away once X-men '97s season ends in May. But in the mean time I'm back reading X-men comics and thinking about my long time OC Oliver Croix. Back in 2017 I rewrote his story and it's super long and detailed and if you want to read it it's over here

So what is this? Well this is just something that's been rolling around in my head for a bit now. When I talk about Oliver's origin's I alway cite that he used to be a girl named Drake that looked like a panther but somewhere along the way I made him a boy that resembles a Siamese cat (for some reason). And I looked it up and it turns out that's not true. He doesn't have the coloring of a Siamese cat AT ALL! The only thing I got sort of right were his eyes. Siamese cat's actually have dark faces and ash blond bodies - so I tried the correct color palette on him... I'm not crazy about it. Which is probably what happened 20 years ago when I picked his 'basic' palette.

Next we have what he would've looked like if he kept 'Drake's' colors. Trying to find anything about who she was on my drives was... a task. Her story is disjointed to say the least. I wrote it when I was 18 and was surprised to find it was an 'enemies to lovers' plot. Drake and Nightcrawler did not like each other at all when they first met. They nearly come to blows several times over basically nothing burgers and I could slap 18 year old me for ever thinking Kurt would fight a woman over petty shit. In the comics he never actively fights a woman - just disarms them and evades, occasionally he'll find away to knock them out but I don't think I ever seen a panel of Kurt just straight up decking a woman in the face. If you find one let me know. ANYWAY Drake was a pain in the ass, just like her dad and no one ever gave her boundaries except Nightcrawler and that's why she fell for him. She proceeds to make his life more difficult until they have a heart-to-heart blah blah blah - it's all very stupid. My best guess as to why she looks like a panther, because her father is Sabertooth. I wanted to keep in the animal scheme and or some reason didn't pick a lynx or lion. Drake's color were legit black hair and black skin. That's it. Oh and she could shoot fire from her hands for some reason. Current Oliver uses magic to do that so I guess I did keep something from her.

The combo is just me goofing off BUT I really like it! Looking at regular Oliver the word 'basic' is perfect for it. It's very blah isn't it? I'm seriously considering making 'combo' his new look. Well his 'newer' look. I just finished a comic featuring his basic look - it's not too late to go in and give him an update. The dark ears really pop and I actually like having his forehead and eye area being dark like the Siamese version. Not sure about the green eyes (his third eye is green so I think I'll keep his blue on blue eyes) For a cat-boy he doesn't really have any stripes or markings so he might get dark hands and feet or light hair on his chest. The lips are a winner.

What do you think?

#drawing #digital art #my art #fanart #fan character #xmen #x men 97 #musashden #art #nightcrawler

7 notes · View notes

knightsofsomethingorother · 10 months ago

Note

😤

😤 - Your Most Specific Nitpick About Your Fave

Yay! Complaining! My favorite!

Okay, so my favorite is Bedivere (if I haven't made that so painfully obvious by now) and it is such slim pickings for him even appearing much less appearing and being used well. The biggest one is people just up and forgetting he's disabled. The guy has one hand, goddamn it! That's literally his defining feature! The singular thing that makes him unique, seeing as there's a cavalcade of 'handsomest guys who are good at fighting'.

Another issue I have (and this goes back as far as original Welsh texts) is him just being an attachment to Kay when Kay's around and nothing else. I haaate when two characters are put in a relationship (platonic or otherwise) and one half of that relationship is sundered into the vague imprint of a person that exists solely to be an accessory to the other. Give him personality! Opinions! Relationships with other characters! He is OOZING with the potential to be interesting! I'm a ride or die for Bedikay (again, platonic or otherwise) but I want both of them to be people!

More to that point. I really, really, really hate it when modern authors just slap his name on another character or otherwise use him to fill a role arbitrarily. I am on my hands and knees begging everyone to just use the original knight for that role or at the very least an OC instead of stretching my guy's skin over a random dude. That isn't my boy! That's a wholly different person who committed identity fraud!

Lastly, and this is completely and totally a taste thing, I don't like it when he's written to be too nice. I personally don't like it when he's the kind, warm, calm, has-his-shit-together voice-of-reason type. That is a perfectly fine way to write the character, and there's nothing wrong with it, I just have a very specific, very neurotic image of the guy. He's in a position of authority in a place full to the brim with violent weirdos where magic bullshit traipses through the front door every other day; I just feel like he should have some bite to him.

That said, him having the self-perception of being or needing to be this magnanimous, rational, dare I say perfect guy, and that just straight up not being the truth at all is something I personally lean into when writing him because it's fun as hell.

Okay, I'm stopping myself before this post gets too long and off-topic. I just really like talking about Bedivere.

#ask #ask game

7 notes · View notes

adhdnursegoat · 2 months ago

Text

Episode 2

Word Count: 9.2k

Content Warning: none right now

Pairing: Edward Nashton X OC Romy Winslow

Setting: Pre-Arkham Origins; 2013

Tuesday, December 18th, 2012

Something isn’t right.

Edward narrowed his eyes at the screen, the onyx and emerald glow casting hard shadows across his face, deepening the lines of ever-present ire. The dataset sprawled before him, tangled, disorganized, and inefficient—a perfect mirror of the Gotham City Police Department itself.

For years, the GCPD’s reputation for sloppy documentation had been almost impressive in its own way, as if this endless mess were some grand tradition they upheld out of sheer spite for change. Crime logs scrawled hastily, half-formed incident reports lost in the shuffle of physical files, a scattering of disjointed data without a semblance of order or care. And now, all of it had fallen to him.

The so-called “cybercrime division” was practically a joke before he arrived, a name slapped on an old, cluttered storage room. Its single, flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead like a dying insect; its lone, wheezing computer, so ancient it sounded like it was about to take off the first time he powered it on. It had taken him months to convince the precinct to let him install even basic equipment, months of tolerating the grinding fan and a monitor that crackled whenever he turned it on. He had even bought and collected his own equipment to help do their job for them.

But now, he had slowly, painstakingly transformed the place, pulling it from the brink of irrelevance.

He was the GCPD’s cybercrime division. And, if he were honest, he’d rather it be this way.

The first task had been nothing short of brutal, a punishment only someone as patient—or as obsessively thorough—as him could withstand. He had spent weeks, months even, combing through stacks of paper files that had yellowed with age, pulling arrest records, crime logs, and incident reports from years past, each entry a piece of Gotham’s history filed with indifference and half-hearted effort.

But that was just the beginning.

Once the data had been extracted and uploaded into a digital system, Edward moved to the next step: cleaning it. He combed through each entry, scrubbing it clean of mistakes, standardizing formats, deleting duplicates, and filling in the blanks left by years of neglect. It was an endless process, every correction a small battle against the chaos that had festered there long before his arrival. The work had been like sculpting—he chipped away at it, day by day, until the rough edges began to take shape.

With the groundwork set, he had turned his attention to the architecture itself. The system he was building would become Gotham’s digital skeleton, a structure capable of supporting and, eventually, predicting the city’s crimes. He designed SQL databases from the ground up, creating logical tables for every critical piece of data: incident types, time of day, locations, affiliations, every detail that could build a comprehensive picture of Gotham’s criminal underworld. Each table was linked, connected, and cross-referenced in ways that only he fully understood.

He wrote queries that could pull up crime histories, correlate locations, and flag patterns—all in the blink of an eye. Every inch of it had been optimized, refined, and customized, honed to be faster, sharper, and more intuitive than anything the department had ever seen. It was a framework only he knew how to navigate, the kind of code that would baffle even the most tech-savvy officer.

But this was Gotham.

Data alone wasn’t enough; the system needed security—a wall strong enough to withstand the city’s relentless forces. He had spent countless nights implementing layer upon layer of protection, configuring firewalls, building encryption protocols so complex that even he would struggle to undo them. Each file, each report, each encrypted string had become a piece of his fortress. He was transforming this forgotten room into a stronghold, its walls fortified against any threat that dared to infiltrate. Only he held the keys, and only he knew which locks he’d installed.

Then the real work had begun.

Once he had established a patent data flow in the system, he had started layering in more complex tools—predictive algorithms and crime prediction models that mapped Gotham’s streets like veins, arteries pulsing with the city’s crime. He had used regression analysis to find trends, drawing connections between crimes that no one else had even considered. He mapped crime incidents to temporal and spatial data, forming a pattern that gave him a lens into Gotham’s soul.

But the GCPD couldn’t understand raw numbers—not the way he did. They needed visuals, pretty pictures, something digestible for their mushy minds. So he had built dashboards and reports, simple yet elegant, that displayed his work in colorful heat maps, time-series analyses, and relational charts. Even Gotham’s least tech-savvy officers could click through the data now, though they hardly knew what they were looking at. But Edward did. He could track hotspots, watch the swell of crime ebbing and flowing unlike anyone else.

Each day, as the system grew, he had refined it further. He ran diagnostics, tweaked scripts, and checked logs to ensure there were no breaches, no unexpected bugs. Every piece of data was backed up, replicated on secure servers, ready to be restored at a moment’s notice if Gotham’s chaos took a swipe at his work. And if it did, he would be prepared. Because this was more than a job; this was his creation, his legacy.

With every keystroke, every security protocol, every predictive model, he built a machine that made Gotham’s chaos readable, its patterns decipherable, and its secrets… well, not so secret.

Until a few days ago, his work had seemed routine—a necessary but unglamorous role. But then something unusual had caught his attention: a pattern in the officer response logs.

Every month, he reviewed the logs. It was a habit, part of his meticulous nature. Until recently, there had been nothing unexpected. But now, a repeated anomaly had begun to emerge. Certain neighborhoods showed response times that were curiously high, particularly in cases involving specific types of violent crimes—kidnappings, assaults, even homicides. In other areas, responses to similar crimes were fast, efficient, predictable. Yet, in these particular zones, it was as if time slowed.

He had noticed response times of fifteen, even twenty minutes, where they would typically average around five.

It was subtle, barely noticeable at first. Most people would have brushed it off as a glitch or user error. But Edward Nashton was not most people—and “user error” was not in his personal vocabulary.

“What if…” he muttered, pulling up a fresh SQL query and setting filters for crimes tagged as high-priority in those specific neighborhoods. His fingers flew across the keyboard as he added parameters, refining the search.

SELECT Neighborhood, AVG(Response_Time) AS Avg_Response

FROM Incident_Reports

WHERE Crime_Type = 'High-Priority'

GROUP BY Neighborhood;

The query ran, and Edward leaned forward, his glasses catching the glow of the screen as rows of data populated in rapid succession. A comparison of average response times across all The data stared back at him, validating his suspicions. The averages for these neighborhoods were well outside the norm. Frowning, he created a quick bar chart to visualize the data, and there it was—a spike in response times, glaringly obvious, almost like a neon sign begging for someone to notice.

What’s more, the pattern seemed to correlate with the involvement of certain officers. He drilled down further, narrowing the logs to responses where these outlier times were recorded, and sure enough, the same handful of officers’ IDs kept appearing. At least three officers, in particular, showed up again and again, logged as the responding parties in incidents with suspiciously delayed responses:

Edison, James

Hartley, Jack

Murphy, Curtis

Edward leaned back, his lips twitching to the side in a faint sneer. Gotham’s filth didn’t just rest on its streets—it was deeply embedded within the very department meant to protect it. This pattern wasn’t accidental. The slow responses weren’t random errors; they were deliberate, selectively applied.

For the first time in months, Edward felt the rush of excitement he’d been craving since joining the GCPD. This wasn’t just data compilation or trend analysis anymore. He had uncovered something substantial, something buried, waiting to be unearthed. It wasn’t just about numbers; this was a deeper, darker game involving the very people entrusted with Gotham’s safety.

This wasn’t merely an inconsistency. It was corruption, plain and simple, hiding in the numbers. And if there was one thing Edward Nashton excelled at, it was peeling back layers to expose the truth lurking beneath.

The screen flickered faintly, his cursor hovering over rows of data as his mind picked apart the patterns, noticing every inconsistency, every shred of deception. This wasn’t an error or some accidental miscalculation. No, what he saw here was intentional—something deliberate and dark slipping under the radar, a clear thread of corruption woven into the fabric of Gotham’s police force.

If anyone could expose it, could tug at the threads until it unraveled into undeniable truth, it was him. The thought sent a thrill down his spine, a familiar surge of satisfaction that came with knowing he was on the verge of something significant.

Bing!

The sharp notification broke his concentration, dragging his attention to the corner of his monitor where an email preview appeared. Edward’s expression shifted, his lips pressing tight as he read the sender’s name: Commissioner Gillian B. Loeb. A scowl formed before he could stop it, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses.

“come 2 my office”

The words glared at him. No punctuation, no capitalization—shorthand, as if Loeb couldn’t be bothered with even a semblance of respect. The sheer laziness grated on Edward, adding another layer to his already simmering disdain. Commissioner Loeb might as well have stomped down to his desk and demanded his presence with the same lack of decorum, and Edward doubted he would have been as irked. His lip curled, the faintest twitch of irritation betraying his thoughts.

Edward didn’t have friends here—never had. He didn’t linger by the watercooler, didn’t care for small talk, and had no interest in the routine camaraderie his coworkers indulged in. Loeb, however, wasn’t just a minor irritant like the rest. No, Loeb sat proudly at the top of a list of people Edward preferred to avoid—a list with its own special level of contempt reserved just for him. Loeb’s greed, his smug superiority, the way he flaunted his power as though it were untouchable—it all disgusted Edward. But he wasn’t foolish enough to ignore him.

He drew in a slow breath, pushing back the annoyance as he removed his glasses, his thumb and forefinger pressing firmly against the bridge of his nose. The tightness settling behind his eyes was familiar, a strain born from hours spent at the monitor. He rubbed at it, hoping to ease the creeping fatigue. Forcing himself to release a sigh, he closed his eyes briefly, letting the weight of the task at hand wash over him, clearing his thoughts.

Edward’s eyes flicked back to the fresh data on his screen, teeming with unspoken implications. He could go now, take this to Loeb, drop the details in his lap, and watch the Commissioner squirm. But… no. Not yet. If there was anything he’d learned, it was that timing was everything, and he wanted this case to be “pretty” and clean—undeniable.

With a quiet sigh, he finally pushed back from the desk, his legs and back groaning in protest. The human body wasn’t built for this kind of work, not the endless hours hunched over monitors and squinting at screens. He stretched, lifting his arms until he felt the crack in his shoulders, then rolled his neck, savoring the sharp pop that released some of the tension.

After a final look around his cramped, shadow-filled corner of the storage room, he made his way to the door. The space was dark and dank, with stacks of old case files and barely-functioning equipment shoved into every corner. He’d been asking for more space since the day he arrived, but as long as he remained the sole member of the “cybercrime division,” there was no point—not according to the people holding the budget. He could already imagine their dismissive words, the laughter as they shrugged him off. Why upgrade the closet for one man?

When he opened the door, a different kind of darkness hit him. GCPD’s main floor was lit by the harsh hue of fluorescent lights, casting an unnatural pallor over everything. The grime felt omnipresent, tinging every surface with a layer of wear that no amount of scrubbing could erase. The entire precinct pulsed like a spastic nerve, alive with chaotic energy.

He stepped out, crossing to the bustling bullpen. The layout was predictable—three levels stacked atop one another like a fortress of bureaucracy. A sublevel housed the detained. The main level, where he stood now, held the bullpen at its center, filled with two rows of desks paired off in clusters. Corridors stretched out on the east and west sides of the building, leading to file and evidence rooms, interrogation suites, and break areas.

Officers strolled by with coffee in hand, their conversations blending into the background noise. Detectives leaned against desks, swapping stories and laughing loud enough to be heard across the room. Secretaries rushed from one end of the bullpen to the other, arms stacked with paperwork or balancing phones against their shoulders. Above, the second and third levels housed offices for secretaries and various divisions, their windows glowing faintly in the overhead light.

And above it all, perched on the second-level landing like a throne, was the Commissioner’s office. It loomed over the precinct, a constant reminder of who held power there.

Edward shoved his hands into his pockets, his stride unfaltering, gaze fixed straight ahead. As he wove through the bustling bullpen, the familiar hum of GCPD’s endless chatter faded into a low buzz, a background noise he had long since learned to ignore. He didn’t belong here—not with these people, not with their idle gossip and endless banter. He was here to work, nothing more. And most of the time, they respected that, leaving him alone, unnoticed in the corners of the precinct.

“Dracula has risen!”

Most of the time.

Edward gritted his teeth, his jaw tightening as he caught the grating laughter ringing from behind him. He didn’t break stride, didn’t turn—just kept moving, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched slightly as if to shield himself from the attention. Just keep moving. He had mastered the art of appearing unbothered, of letting these low-effort taunts roll off him. But Hartley’s voice, dripping with smug familiarity, broke through, just loud enough to draw the attention of a few nearby officers who exchanged knowing looks.

“Naaaashton!” the voice called, drawing out the syllables with exaggerated cheer, as if addressing an old friend. Edward could practically feel the man’s self-satisfied smirk boring into the back of his head. “I’m always surprised to see you out in the sun. More surprised when you don’t burn.”

It was the kind of comment he had grown used to, the small digs Hartley loved to throw his way whenever he passed by. Hartley, with his false bravado and ignorance parading as wit, never missed a chance to turn Edward into the precinct’s punchline.

Officer Jack Hartley—the poster boy of stereotypical “All-American” masculinity, with cobalt eyes and sandy hair, tall and built like he was carved out of an idealized gym catalog, complete with a bulky torso that fanned out into broad shoulders and arms that tapered down in a ‘V’ like an oversized Dorito. A man who would be lost without his badge to wave around and his flexed biceps, displaying that questionable tribal tattoo spiraling down one arm.

Edward kept moving, eyes trained straight ahead, but he allowed himself a sidelong glance, just enough to see Hartley’s smirk and the dumb faces around him. He could feel the heat of their attention, their eyes eagerly watching for his reaction. This time, he didn’t stay silent.

“Hartley,” he replied, his voice sharp and controlled. “I’m always surprised to see you haven’t been fired for your incompetence.”

There was a beat of silence. Edward didn’t stop to savor it, but he caught the reaction—the flicker of embarrassment in Hartley’s expression, the slight widening of his eyes before the scowl settled in. A few snickers rippled through the nearby officers, a sound that only deepened Hartley’s frown. His cheeks flushed slightly, the kind of reaction that Hartley, a man who considered himself untouchable, never expected to feel.

“Oh, you’re a real comedian, aren’t you, Nashton?” Hartley muttered, his voice barely audible now, laced with a gruff edge, the forced comeback of someone unprepared for a response.

Edward didn’t dignify it with another verbal reply. But, to answer the question—no. He wasn’t a comedian. He hated jokes. He only spoke truth. The words, the tiny prick of retaliation, had already done their work, striking just the right note to unsettle Hartley without so much as breaking his stride. He allowed himself to savor it for only a second, a brief and private victory that curled ever so slightly at the corner of his mouth. He knew it was minor, a passing exchange that no one would remember by the end of the day—but that small reminder, that assertion of his own superiority, was more than enough. For Edward, it wasn’t about showing off; it was about reminding himself, and everyone around him, that he was sharper, quicker, and not someone who could be so easily dismissed.

As he steadied his pace toward Loeb’s office, his thoughts drifted to the people around him, each one of them blending into the other like dumb lumps of flesh. Idiots—all of them. The entire precinct was an echo chamber of mediocrity, swollen with officers who took pride in their badges but lacked even a shred of real intellect. They sat at their desks, shuffling papers, swapping jokes, indulging in the hollow camaraderie of shared ignorance. They had no ambition, no hunger for knowledge, no desire to see past the routines they repeated day after day. They were just bodies filling space, a backdrop against which his mind and his skills blazed brighter by contrast.

Each step up the stairs only solidified his distaste. Every click of his shoes against the metal felt like a declaration, a rhythm that reminded him he was alone in a sea of self-satisfied drones. None of them measured up. None of them could measure up. Hartley’s lazy jeers, the way he flexed as if it made him someone important, the way he reveled in the pointless antics of the bullpen—these were the people tasked with keeping Gotham safe. It would have been laughable if it weren’t so tragic.

His eyes stayed fixed ahead, not sparing a single glance back at the bullpen. He had no reason to look, no interest in indulging the officers’ empty stares or their shared smirks. They were beneath him, irrelevant to his purpose, and the thought only strengthened his resolve as he approached Loeb’s office.

When he reached the landing, Edward straightened, pulling himself up to his full height, his fingers brushing over the door handle. He spared no glances to the bullpen below as he entered the Commissioner’s office and shut the door behind him with a soft click.

The room was a display of power—ornate but garish, every detail chosen for intimidation rather than taste. Heavy mahogany furniture dominated the space, the Commissioner’s oversized desk an imposing centerpiece cluttered with papers and a gleaming nameplate. The walls were lined with plaques and framed commendations, their polished surfaces reflecting the faint light from a brass floor lamp in the corner. A thick, dark green carpet muffled Edward’s steps as he moved further inside, the smell of old leather and cigar smoke lingering in the air like a stain. Behind Loeb, floor-to-ceiling windows framed the grimy skyline of Gotham, their blinds half-drawn, letting in just enough gray light to make the space feel oppressive rather than bright. The office was a monument to its occupant’s ego—a fortress designed to remind anyone who entered exactly who held the power here.

The old man, standing at the windows, barely glanced over his shoulder to see Edward enter. “Sit.”

Edward frowned but did as he was told. Then he waited. And waited. And waited some more. Loeb’s stance, hands clasped firmly behind his back, suggested authority—or, more precisely, a performance of it. Edward couldn’t tell if the Commissioner was actually observing anything down on the street or merely pretending to do so, basking in his own bloated sense of importance. The stance, the imperious tone, the refusal to even acknowledge him face-to-face—every detail screamed a carefully curated aura of authority. Loeb stood as if by habit, a fossil of bureaucratic pomposity, clinging to a legacy of hollow power.

The man himself was almost a caricature, the embodiment of the department’s rot. His body strained against his uniform, seams puckered and pulled tight around his frame. The cap on his head dug visibly into his pallid skin, leaving an indentation along his brow, a mark of fluid retention only emphasized by the puffiness of his jowls. Loeb was thick-necked, with sagging skin that folded around his face in a way that resembled a bulldog’s. The clubbed fingers clasped at his back gave away years of heart strain, his slow circulation, and unchecked lifestyle, further evident in the labored rise and fall of his shoulders. He was an uncomfortable-looking man, like a worn-out relic forced into a role it no longer fit.

Edward glanced at his watch.

Finally, the coot deigned to speak.

“Nashton,” the Commissioner quipped, “you’ll be getting a student.” His tone brooked no argument.

Gillian Loeb finally turned from the window, taking heavy, unhurried steps toward the desk, his movements sluggish, a body too tired to fully lift its feet from the floor. The scuffing of his shoes against the linoleum was maddeningly loud in the otherwise silent office, each step punctuated by his labored breath—a rasping sound that filled the room, making his presence that much harder to ignore. He reached his desk, his eyes narrowing just enough to convey irritation, perhaps at the exertion of moving across the room. With a relieved huff, he lowered himself into the worn red leather chair behind his desk, and it groaned under his weight, the sound of old leather and strained springs filling the air.

Edward resented being voluntold for anything, especially by a man who likely couldn’t navigate a basic search engine. But what choice did he have? Loeb’s words, dripping with condescension, only served to deepen Edward’s frown. He shifted in the stiff wooden chair opposite the Commissioner’s desk. He crossed his arms, fingers digging into his elbows as he suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. The impatience was barely masked—an edge to his expression that spoke volumes to anyone perceptive enough to notice. Loeb, of course, was not.

Then, the Commissioner began his speech, one that had likely been rehearsed, perhaps at his morning mirror. His voice rolled through the room, slow and full, each word dragging as he introduced the “exciting new work-study program.” Edward’s eyes flickered, resisting the urge to visibly wince as Loeb stressed the importance of “investing in someone’s future with the GCPD.” It was predictable, even painfully so, and Edward could practically see through Loeb’s words to the core of it: this so-called initiative was just a thinly veiled scheme, some tax break or budget cut disguised as a benefit to the community.

He was not naïve. He didn’t need the specifics to understand how the department operated. The GCPD’s funding, already stretched thin, had likely prompted this decision. The idea of a “program” that would cost them next to nothing while earning them goodwill with Gotham’s public was probably irresistible to the old bureaucrat. With students desperate for experience, the department could add another set of hands—hands they wouldn’t even have to pay. To Loeb, it was a flawless plan.

Edward’s leg bounced lightly as Loeb continued, the man oblivious to his impatience. Loeb droned on about the value of “real-world experience,” his words as empty as the promises they contained. Edward had read enough department memos and budget drafts to know the truth. This wasn’t about nurturing young talent or providing mentorship. It was about creating a self-serving “opportunity” that the GCPD could tout in press releases.

Loeb, meanwhile, was fully immersed in his monologue, clasping his hands as he expounded upon the program’s “benefits.” There was a look of smug satisfaction on his face, as if he were certain Edward should be grateful for the “honor” of mentoring this student. Edward could feel his jaw clenching, the tension in his arms building as he listened to the Commissioner pontificate about the duty of guiding someone who “could be the future of Gotham’s finest.”

Finally, Loeb paused, and Edward seized the chance to speak., his voice level, measured. “And this ‘student’ is supposed to assist me?”

“Yes, precisely.”

“I highly doubt they would be of any assistance, Commissioner.” Edward had a difficult time barring the condescension in his voice.

“You should be thankful.” Loeb narrowed his beady brown eyes at him. “Think of it as… additional help. Someone who can shoulder some of the workload.”

The Commissioner said it as if he were doing him a favor. Pfft. Edward knew better. He wasn’t being given a protégé; he was being saddled with an amateur who would inevitably fumble through tasks, leaving him to clean up the mess. More work—that’s what this was. The idea of a student trying to “help” in his field felt like a bad joke. He had spent a year refining his division—every system, every dataset was his creation. The thought of letting some kid handle even a fraction of it filled him with a quiet dread, like watching someone try to operate a complex machine without understanding a single gear.

Loeb shifted in his chair, taking Edward’s silence as agreement. “The youth these days, Nashton. They’re the future, and we have a duty to mold them. The department sees this as an investment. Someone to eventually join your endeavors full time.”

Edward’s jaw tightened. Investment? He couldn’t help but smirk slightly at the absurdity. Loeb had no real idea what Edward did, no real grasp of the complexity his work required. In Loeb’s mind, a student could simply step in and soak up skills like a sponge. But Edward knew better. To him, this wasn’t an investment; it was a hindrance, a risk of inefficiency, and the last thing he needed.

But with Loeb’s expectant gaze bearing down on him, he understood the futility of voicing his concerns. The decision had been made, probably long before he was even called into this office. He wasn’t being given a choice—he was being told to fall in line.

“We’ve got some candidates lined up. You narrow it down, and we’ll finalize it.”

Loeb pushed a stack of russet-colored folders toward him, and Edward suppressed a sigh as he unfurled his arms, grabbed the stack, and flipped open the first file. The pages were full of redacted lines—names, ages, and even genders all neatly blacked out. He rolled his eyes. There were pages of transcripts, an accompanying essay (which he was not going to read), academic achievements, extracurriculars, and sanitized letters of recommendation, none of which told him anything interesting.

Edward felt the familiar dull boredom creep in.

He eyed the first profile, scanning each line with a growing sense of irritation. Harvard, it read in bold letters, as if the word alone signified worth. Straight As, a laundry list of commendations from professors who probably barely knew this student beyond the name printed on their assignments. It was the kind of profile built from legacy admissions, expensive prep schools, and connections more valuable than skill. Every accolade, every honor felt manufactured, the result of privilege rather than grit or true intelligence. This was the sort of person whose future had been paid for, gift-wrapped, and delivered to them on a silver platter. A pawn that had been moved through life’s chessboard with no actual understanding of the game.

Edward flipped to the next file, another profile reeking of the same glossy, untarnished perfection: a prestigious background, impeccable grades, extracurriculars that spoke more to showmanship than substance. His lip curled, an almost imperceptible twist of disdain. What use was someone like this to him? He didn’t need another pre-packaged prodigy, the type who had been endlessly praised but never challenged, the kind who breezed through academia without ever truly understanding what it meant to think, to analyze, to push limits. He needed someone who had actually had to work for something, who had seen struggle, who understood what it meant to build something from scratch—someone with the kind of determination that couldn’t be bought.

These files in front of him represented everything he despised about the world: the hollow merit of titles, the pretense of excellence. It was the kind of privilege that relied on appearances rather than substance, and it left a sour taste in his mouth. He flipped through each one with growing impatience, each page a carbon copy of the last, all polished to an empty sheen that hid any real substance.

His gaze sharpened as he closed another file. What he wanted, if he was to have an assistant, was someone with actual mettle. Someone with grit, someone who hadn’t had everything handed to them. The kind of candidate who could be taught something beyond the regurgitated lessons of privilege. Edward’s jaw tightened as he tossed the files back onto the desk before grabbing another file near the bottom of the stack.

When he opened this one, he cocked a brow. Something caught his eye.

There was an entry—a two-month juvenile record attached to a high school transcript from their junior year. Edward’s interest piqued immediately. He leaned back in the chair, letting the file rest in his fingers as he read the details. The record noted a hacking incident: unauthorized access to school servers to alter grades. He almost chuckled, finding this much more intriguing than the immaculate résumés of Ivy League candidates.

The report stated they had felt their grades were given unfairly and decided to take matters into their own hands. It was an act of rebellion, yes, but also one of precision and calculation. They hadn’t sabotaged the system—they had simply revised their grades without damaging any other records or erasing traces of the hack. There was a comment from a principal decrying the act as undermining the school’s “integrity” and a record of a lengthy expulsion hearing. Yet, despite this incident, there were a handful of letters from teachers who seemed reluctant to give up on them.

He read further, finding notes on their turnaround at their senior year and at Gotham City Community College. After high school, it seemed no other institution had wanted to take a chance on them, except for this one. But instead of coasting through, they had thrived—joining the debate team, earning honors, and eventually transferring to Gotham University. Now they were a college senior majoring in computer science with a minor in criminal justice.

As he skimmed through the final notes, Edward smirked. This work-study tied directly into their capstone project—a predictive AI programmed to determine when and where crimes were more likely to occur. It was a smart move, one that showed ambition and resilience. They were not another cookie-cutter success story from an Ivy League—they were someone who had clawed their way out of a mess, took risks, and kept climbing. Whoever they were, they were far more intriguing than the other candidates. He didn’t need some entitled, bougie fraternity brat who would think they were smarter than him.

He closed the file with a soft pat, already deciding. He flicked it onto the desk with an air of indifference and slid to a stop in front of Loeb. “This one,” he said flatly.

The Commissioner picked up the folder, his thick fingers fumbling with the dry edges as he peeled it open. His brow furrowed deeper as he read, and he shot Edward a wary look over the papers. “This one? The one with the juvie record? Are you sure?”

Edward’s expression remained cool, detached. “It’s either this one or none at all,” he replied without missing a beat.

Loeb stared at him for a moment, rubbing his jaw, clearly weighing his options. After a long pause, he sighed and tossed the file back on the desk with a resigned grunt. “Fine,” he muttered. “They’ll be here after the holidays.”

Wednesday, January 9th, 2013

In under a month’s time, Edward Nashton found himself caught off guard.

It was not often he was caught off guard, and he did not like it.

He was hunched over his workstation, eyes narrowed as he sifted through lines of encrypted data. It was after lunch, during which he had remained in his space, still working, forgoing eating as he normally did. His office, if one could call it that, was a windowless space in a back corner of the GCPD headquarters, dimly lit and reeking of stale coffee and burnt-out ambition. It was crammed with outdated computers and stacks of scattered papers, the sort of place where Edward thrived in isolation. He was so absorbed in his task that when the door opened and a knock sounded on the doorframe, he muttered, “Yes?” without looking up, already bracing himself for another mundane IT request—misguided souls thinking that the "computer guy" could fix the printer.

But then an unfamiliar voice responded.

“Excuse me? Are you Mr. Edward Nashton?”

It was not the tone he expected—there was no hint of impatience or condescension, which he had grown accustomed to when people sought him out. The voice was feminine, with an even pitch, its calm, smokey cadence infiltrating the monotony of his work. It was an unobtrusive sound, yet so unusual to his ears that he was compelled to see who it belonged to. He looked up. He froze.

A girl was standing at the doorway, her fingers resting lightly on the doorframe as if unsure whether to fully step inside. He had not even heard the door open.

Edward frowned.

His first impression of her was one of dissonance—a sharp, almost unsettling contrast between her and the office she had just entered. The grimy, worn-down precinct felt even darker with her in it, as if the dingy fluorescent lights themselves were suddenly more aware of their inadequacy.

She was beautiful—irritatingly so. Her long, sleek dark hair fell like silk curtains, parted perfectly down the middle, framing her face with an effortless elegance that didn’t belong anywhere near the GCPD. Her eyes, lined meticulously with dark, precise wings, were fixed on him with a hint of amusement. There was a different energy to her, one that felt deliberate, almost as though she knew exactly how out of place she looked and was inviting him to react. He barely realized how long he held her gaze.

With a faint scowl, he forced himself to look away, taking in the rest of her with a detached, analytical eye. Her lavender blazer dress caught what little light there was, gold buttons glinting as they drew a subtle line down her figure. The hem stopped just short of professional modesty, skirting the edge of propriety with a cut that was as tailored as it was daring. She had a designer bag slung over her shoulder, a fuzzy purple notebook and a gray-and-pink plaid winter coat clutched in the same hand, and she was only one chihuahua short of being GCPD’s own Elle Woods.

This office hadn’t seen anything like her, and by the looks of it, she was fully aware of that fact. For a moment, he wondered if she was mocking the precinct in her own way, challenging the drab confines of the facility with something so polished, so perfectly styled.

His thoughts were cut short by the sound of her clearing her throat, and his eyes snapped back to hers. He realized with sudden embarrassment that she had caught him staring. Worse, she was smirking—her lips shiny and curved in an almost mocking acknowledgment of his mistake.

“Yes,” he said stiffly, clearing his own throat in a failed attempt to reestablish control. “And who might you be?”

“I’m your student, Romy. Romy Winslow.” Her half-lidded eyes seemed to smolder in the low lighting.

“Student?” Edward repeated, the word coming out more as a question than he intended.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Like, they told you, right?”

“Of course,” Edward grumbled, scrambling to regain some semblance of authority. He wasn’t used to feeling unprepared, especially not in his own domain.

He did not like when Romy pursed her shiny lips and narrowed her eyes. “You forgot, didn’t you?” she pressed, a teasing lilt to her voice.

Edward’s back straightened, jaw tightening. “You will soon find that I forget nothing, girl,” he quipped. “I’m merely intrigued by your—” he gestured vaguely at her—“appearance. Are you sure your silly little head didn’t get confused? Got lost on your way to a sorority luncheon?”

Romy blinked. She checked her smartwatch, then looked back at him and tilted her head, the innocent confusion in her eyes seeming a little too thoughtful to be genuine. “No… The Greek Meet isn’t until Saturday.”

He frowned.

Oh, she was definitely fucking with him.

Soon, her pink lips pursed in a slight pout, and she glanced down at herself. “Is it too much?”

As she turned to the side, Romy casually modeled her silhouette, the lavender fabric clinging to her form in a way that was both tasteful and tantalizing. The movement drew Edward’s attention, his gaze instinctively tracing her figure. He couldn’t help but follow the curve of her form, from her shoulders that tapered elegantly down to the delicate arch of her spine, and finally to her shapely backside, perfectly showcased by the tailored fit of the dress. He resented that his gaze followed the lines of her legs, made even longer by the gray knee-high, heeled boots she had chosen. Each line was accentuated with precision.

She caught his eye again, her expression playful yet somehow earnest. “I thought it was just the right amount of business meets pleasure.”

Edward cleared his throat. “Not quite what I was talking about,” he muttered, his gaze darting away in an attempt to collect his thoughts.

“What did you mean then?” Romy asked as she stepped further into the room. She glanced around, her nose wrinkling slightly at the sight of the meticulously stacked boxes of files, outdated monitors, and blinking fluorescent lights. “This is the GCPD Cybercrime Division?” she asked in an offhand manner. “This looks very—” she wriggled her fingers at the general space “—humble.” Though she smiled, it was clear she was struggling to be polite.

“I mean that I did not expect someone so—soft.” He glanced around the area, grimacing at the— as she called it—‘humble’ surroundings. “It is what it is.”

“You mean you didn’t expect a girl?”

“Yes,” he admitted, refusing to dance around it.

“Well,” she said with a shrug, “guess we both had false expectations of the situation, Mr. Nashton.”

Edward felt the frustration building, both at himself and at Romy’s unsettling confidence. “And what exactly did you expect?” he retorted, his eyebrow cocking. “Quantico?”

She smirked, but the movement was subtle, a brief twitch at the corner of her lips. “No.” Her fingers traced over the edge of a dusty computer monitor, her almond-shaped nails—a soft mint green—making the action seem delicate. “But, like, maybe I expected something a little more contemporary than this, I suppose.”

He bristled at the unintentional insult to his sanctuary of cobbled-together tech that he had spent the better part of a year collecting to upgrade this dump. He found himself oddly off-balance, grappling with the realization that he had expected someone completely different. Someone less refined, more—unpolished. But here she was, her demeanor perfectly maintained in a lavender blazer dress, with the confidence of someone used to catching others off guard.

He did not like it. He did not like how she acted. He did not like how she talked. He did not like what she said. He did not like how she looked. He did not like her.

Edward sat behind his uncluttered desk, arms folded as he leaned back in his creaky chair, eyes narrowing at her. “The GCPD still does not see the full benefit of a cybercrime division,” he said, his voice laced with a bitterness that hinted at more than just professional frustration. He was used to his work being sidelined, his expertise disregarded by those who should know better. Her arrival was yet another inconvenience in a long line of offenses. “These bald apes are content to remain in the twentieth century.”

Trailing closer, she soon sat in a nearby chair, setting her belongings on a table crowded with equipment. “Quite the shame,” she replied, crossing one leg over the other as she settled into the seat he did not offer her to sit in. “I was hoping to gain some valuable expertise before graduating. I wanted to work here in fact.” There’s a glimmer of amusement in her eyes and her voice holds a polite, measured tone. “My professors said you are brilliant.”

Smug satisfaction settles in his chest.

“I am.” Edward’s lip curls ever so slightly, and he straightens, giving her a half-lidded look.

Romy looked at him for a moment before speaking. “They said you were difficult too.”

“Who’s ‘they?’”

“Duncan and Hadley.”

Edward’s eyes narrowed at the mention of his old professors, the faint smugness that had crept into his expression now sharpening into something colder, more cutting. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepling as he studied her with a slow, deliberate gaze. This close, he can finally see her eyes—a moss-green

“Duncan and Hadley,” he repeated, his tone laced with disdain. “Duncan—let me guess—still regurgitating decades-old theories as if they’re groundbreaking revelations? And Hadley…” He sneered faintly, his lip curling. “Hadley’s what happens when tenure protects the incompetent. Is he still using Windows XP?”

“Unfortunately… They had strong opinions about you as well,” Romy remarked lightly, looking at her nails in an absent minded manner.

“I’m sure they did,” Edward replied smoothly, sitting forward now, his elbows resting on his desk as he leveled her with a pointed look. “Professors like them always do when confronted with someone who doesn’t just color outside their precious lines but redraws the entire picture. Of course, to them, that’s ‘difficult.’”

Her lips quirked at one side and she rested her chin on her hand, watching him with an amused air. “Then it seems I made the right decision to come to you.”

“While it would undoubtedly be an honor for you to work with someone of my genius firsthand,” Edward continued, his voice dripping with confidence as he narrowed his gaze at her, “you won’t stand a chance.”

Romy merely tilted her head, watching him with an expression of calm intrigue, seemingly unbothered by the sharp bite of his words. It unnerved him more than he cared to admit. He wasn’t used to this feeling, least of all in his own space.

“I’m used to people underestimating me, Mr. Nashton.”

“My estimations are always accurate,” he continued, his voice sharper now. He sighed giving her a bored look. “Let’s cut to it, I suppose.” He leaned back in the chair, letting one of his hands rest on the desk. “You will only get in my way. I don’t want to waste my time or my breath educating you on something that will likely go in one ear and out the other.” He tapped his fingers against the tabletop in a measured way, his voice cold. “You are to sit, stay, and not move. Don’t touch anything else. You can watch, and maybe, just maybe, you might be graced with a touch of my intellect... One would only be so lucky to have someone of my caliber rub off on them.”

Before Romy responded, there was a slight twitch of her perfectly plucked brow. “... Do you like to rub off on people, Mr. Nashton?”

He blinked, absorbing what she had just said. Rub off, he thought dryly. Clever, very clever. But what really stopped him wasn’t the phrasing; it was the look in her eyes—a knowing, steady gaze that held him longer than it should. There was a flicker of challenge there, of cool confidence, that made him shift in his seat, uncomfortable under the weight of that steady, unflinching stare.

“You know exactly what I mean, girl,” Edward snapped. He fixed Romy with a squint. “I can see you are going to be quite the pain in my ass, aren’t you?”

Romy’s lips twitched as she considered him with sharp eyes. “Oh, no, not at all,” she lilted. “I’m actually trying to make a good impression.”

He watched as she relaxed her slender hands on the arms of the chair, mint green nails clicking once on the wood. Then, when she crossed her legs, it was a slow movement. His attention flicked to her shapely thighs, noting how the lavender hem of her dress raised slightly with the movement. His frown deepened, brows knitting together, and then he looked back at her easy gaze.

“And how do you plan on doing that?” he asked.

Her eyes flicked across his face, and she hummed thoughtfully, obviously thinking about her answer. Then, a slow smirk stretched across her shiny, plush lips, and those young eyes of hers glittered with amusement. She clicked her tongue. “By being quiet, submissive, and obedient…”

Immediately, Edward felt the heat rise, an unbidden flush creeping up his neck and settling under his collar. He resented it, and his jaw tightened in frustration. She leaned back in the chair, her lips curling into that slow, deliberate smirk, and something glittered in her gaze. The subtle bite to her lip—did she even realize she was doing it?—and the way she settled back, so at ease, as if she were testing him, watching to see how he’d react. It was maddening. There was no reason to let a stranger, much less a student, get under his skin.

He kept his tone even, measured. “I have a hard time believing that,” he said with forced calm. “You are already disrupting my workflow by being here. I don’t have the time or interest to indulge anyone’s… antics.”

“Antics?” Romy repeated. “So, like, you assume I’m here to waste your time? That I won’t take this seriously?”

Edward smirked. “Well, if it looks like a duck and talks like a duck,” he chided, not at all masking the disdain in his voice.

Her smile sharpened. “Except when it’s a unicorn,” she simpered, lashes fluttering as she peered at him through half-lidded eyes. “Is that it, Mr. Nashton? Is it because I’m not some acne-riddled, snot-nose, basement incel?” She tilted her head to the side, her long black hair shifting with the movement, and she narrowed her gaze. “Is it because I’m pretty…?”

The question struck him off balance. He realized he’d been observing every inch of her carefully put-together appearance, struggling to reconcile it with the notion that Commissioner Loeb thought it fit to place her here with him. But Loeb had been unaware of the candidates as well. The disconnect irritated him, the softness of her expression and the sharpness of her words stirring something hot in his chest.

“Listen, little girl,” he sneered, mustering every ounce of cold detachment, “I don’t know what game you’re trying to play, but I’m not the one to challenge.”

Romy’s smile widened, the look in her eyes unmistakably daring. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said, letting her voice dip playfully. “You seem like exactly the kind of man to enjoy a good challenge.” She tapped a nail thoughtfully on the wooden chair arm. “Or am I wrong?”

“Challenges are acceptable,” Edward said, his lips twitching as though considering a smile, though his gaze remained guarded. “But only those that actually require intellect. Challenges that flex the mind… not distractions.”

“So, that’s what you see me as? A distraction?” Romy tilted her chin up, looking at him with that gaze that made her look so cool. It only grated on his nerves. “I’ll make sure to cover my shoulders and hide my bra straps then.”

Edward’s eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth to retort, but she was faster, leaning in with a look that was half-sweet, half-mischievous. “Unless, of course…” she purred, “a little distraction is exactly what you need. Maybe it would loosen you up.”

“Loosen up?” he echoed, his voice edged with forced calm. “I don’t need to loosen up. I need focus and productivity, two qualities I have a hard time believing you possess.”

“I have plenty of focus.” She settled back in her chair, unabashedly grinning at his obvious discomfort. “I’m sure we’ll make a… productive team, Mr. Nashton.”

He exhaled slowly, trying to maintain his composure. “You’re insufferably confident, aren’t you?”

“Pot meet kettle,” she replied breezily, gesturing in a casual manner, clearly unbothered by his barbs. “So… are you ready to be impressed, or are we going to keep up the foreplay?”

Edward rolled his eyes then shifted and spun back to his computer. “Fine,” he said tightly. “You want to prove yourself? Then start by doing exactly what I tell you, without the smart commentary, Ms. Winslow.” He made movements to bring up his work, his fingers tapping away at the keyboard.

She shifted to the side, her eyes gleaming with a playful challenge as she retrieved a sleek laptop from her purse. “Yes, Mr. Nashton, sir.”

His fingers stalled over the keyboard, his usual fluidity momentarily broken. A shiver ran down his spine, slithering low. It made him grit his teeth.

With a deep inhale and an exasperated sigh, he settled into his work, typing with the familiar, precise rhythm he was known for. While he maintained perfect focus, he couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling of having someone in his space. He worked alone. He had never had to precept anyone. He was not a teacher. He didn’t have the patience nor the desire for it. Professors had tried setting him up to tutor during his time in college—it hadn’t worked out as they thought it would. It had taken only one time to make someone cry for them to decide teamwork might not be something for him.

He felt it inevitable: Romy would say something completely idiotic; he would correct her; it would hurt her puny little feelings; she would cry; she would quit; and he would never have to hear from her again.

All he had to do was bide his time. He could be patient… when he wanted to be.

But, as much as it stung to admit, Romy surprised him. She was quiet—perfectly quiet, almost too quiet—and she seemed wholly absorbed in what he was doing. It was almost like she didn’t exist.

The minutes stretched, long and quiet, with nothing but the soft hum of computers and the steady beat of typing filling the air. Twenty minutes slipped into thirty, and then an hour, and still, she remained there, intently focused. The steadiness of her gaze as it flickered between her screen, his screen, and his hands—the unwavering attention she devoted to each click, each keystroke—was almost unnerving. There was something in the way she was present, so completely engaged, that felt oddly invasive. And yet, she wasn’t disruptive. She didn’t give any more snarky quips. She didn’t sigh in boredom. She didn’t ask questions or interrupt with idle conversation, simply watching, occasionally typing, the rhythm of her own keystrokes echoing his in a strange, synchronized cadence.

But it was the sound of her nails that really got to him. Each click of the keys under her fingers was punctuated by the sharper snap of those mint-colored acrylics atop them, a sound somehow distinct from the natural clack of a keyboard. It wasn’t irritating—not yet—but he sensed the potential. It was the kind of sound that, over time, could likely chip away at his concentration, like Chinese water torture, each click burrowing into his awareness with grating persistence.

Every now and then, Edward risked a glance at Romy, expecting to catch her on her phone or zoned out, ready to dismiss the task at hand. But she stayed. She was observant, her posture straight, fingers poised and ready, and she took in every word, every glance he spared her, without saying a thing—only a simple nod here and there in respectful acknowledgment.

The hours slipped by faster than usual, her silence still unbroken. Edward leaned back, cracking his knuckles and flexing his fingers, savoring the temporary reprieve. But as he shifted, his eyes caught movement—Romy, standing right in front of his desk.

He jolted, a sharp intake of breath betraying his surprise. He hadn’t even heard her move.

“What?” he snapped, his voice tight. “What do you want, girl?”

She blinked, glancing at her watch with maddening calm. “Time to go home.”

It was only then that he noticed the bag slung over her arm and the paper she was holding out. He scowled, snatching it briskly, his lips pulling into a tight, displeased line. A time log. Of course. With a resigned sigh, he grabbed his pen and scribbled his name and initials before shoving it back at her.

She glanced down at the sheet and grimaced. “You have terrible handwriting.”

“Get out,” he gritted, his flat look doing nothing to mask his irritation. He didn’t need her critique on top of everything else.

“See you tomorrow, Mr. Nashton,” she said, her tone airy, carrying that infuriating undercurrent of amusement, as though his opinion of her couldn’t matter less. Then she spun on her heel and tossed a languid wave over her shoulder, twiddling her mint-colored acrylics.

“Unfortunately.”

Then, the door clicked shut behind her, leaving the office mercifully quiet and empty. Edward leaned back in his chair. Finally, he had his silence. But it wasn’t the victory he’d hoped for.

His gaze flicked toward the empty chair she’d occupied, a faint scowl tugging at the corners of his mouth. This was only the beginning. She’d be back tomorrow, and the day after that, and every Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday after that until the semester ended.

Edward’s jaw tightened at the thought, the weight of it pressing down on him like a slowly closing trap. She wasn’t just a nuisance; she was a disruption, a thorn in his side he couldn’t pull out, no matter how much he wanted.

Fifteen weeks and two days of this. Of her.

With a sharp exhale, he turned back to his monitors, forcing his attention onto the scrolling lines of data. He didn’t have time to dwell on irritations. He had work to do, and she was gone for the day. That was enough.

It would have to be.

2 notes · View notes