#profit from mistakes

[postersbykeith]

[cerealforkart]

Me over the last couple months: “oh man I hope I didn’t over charge people for my manga people keep saying shipping is too expensive :(“

Me now looking at production costs: “oh I definitely under charged for this thing”

[unproduciblesmackdown]

fr if taylor and philip don't kiss then what's this all been about. (the entire series of billions) what is it all for

[jackmischief]

Where’s that meme with the buff Shiba Inu and the wimpy one and the buff one is Steve mentoring Wanda and the wimp is Tony mentoring Peter??? That shit’s the best

[jeanmoreaux]

Hi!!! Sorry for this question, I haven’t read SoC in a while™️ and I wanted to ask what makes Kaz and Wylan kind of similar in your POV? Cz I remember him looking up to Kaz in some sort of way but not that they were specifically alike 😂 pls help this aging fan, I’m just curious!

oh, i'm happy to share some of my thought on what i mentioned in this post about regarding wylan as somewhat of an alter to kaz! i'd love to give you some exact quotes and page numbers, but i sadly don't have the time to go back to the text and search for all the details. consequently, my claims will be rather broad and you might have to make up your own mind, on a re-read, if you (dis-)agree with my thoughts on the matter.

first, it's important to mention that, for me, wylan embodies many of the qualities of who we assume kaz rietveld was. he's honest, earnest, a little sheltered, has a firm moral compass and generally believes in kindness/goodness. he's then—quite violently—thrust into this new life, left all alone with no one to lean on. interestingly, both their "rebirths" are closely related to water (there is sure something to be said about the symbolism of water as something cleansing and its important role in baptisms.... also the implications of almost drowning but ultimately making it to shore. it's like a shared metaphor.)

They both then cleverly adopt personas to survive ketterdam's streets and distance themselves from their pasts. and here is were a lot of differences in their circumstance and environment come in. kaz's only option is to "toughen up" and turn into "the bastard of the barrel" & dirtyhands. wylan, on the other hand, continually makes himself out to be this naive ingénue in the criminal world (even way past beyond the point that's true) to fly under the radar. the thing is, since wylan falls in with the crows and has people like kaz around to do the "morally dirty" work, he gets to hold on to many of his qualities that kaz had to lay down to survive. kaz didn't have someone to do that for him.

((wylan occasionally makes some offhand remarks that hint a potential for violence, or at least an awareness of necessary violence, but he's never actually forced to act violently to save or protect others. there's not really a reason for him to suppress his empathy completely. it's clear, though, that if push came to shove he could stomach what the situation throws at him and deal with it. he's not a delicate flower, but compared to kaz he's lucky enough that he doesn't have to repress his natural tendency for kindness.))

Both characters are also intelligent and curious (they need so understand how things work) and they use that as a way to work around their individual weaknesses (kaz's issues with mobility & wylans dyslexia). for both of them, their intelligence is probably their greatest asset. they also both like a puzzle (mainly because they enjoy the process of solving it). generally i'd say their minds work much alike, which we see especially during the planning and execution of the plan to steal jan van eck's seal or when wylan deciphers kaz's cryptic infos that lead him to his mom—it's just that wylan usually doesn't use his faculties for crime. this also this is also somewhat hinted at by inej (and jesper) in ck when they're hatching out some plan and she goes like "wait, wylan, is that a scheming face?!" which is very much an expression for a look that has only ever been brought up in connection with kaz before that point. an interesting detail, that doesn't have to mean anything but is worth mentioning, is the fact that kaz often trusts wylan with more details than the other crows. whether that be to receive some input or just have a second person look for holes in his plan or out of necessity or some other reason is not always clear, but it definitely means that kaz values wylan's talents and mental faculties.

oh, and ofc wylan is probably just as cunning as kaz when he wants to be. they both can read people motives and intentions pretty well while being skilled in concealing their own (think: kaz in almost every situation ever, also think: wylan's kuwei stunt in soc or his spiel towards the end of ck). wylan's various tricks he uses to divert attention form his dyslexia fall in this cunning behaviour as well, i'd say. like, he knows exactly how to hide that he can't read but at the same time get people to help him without them even noticing (pretending he's too new to an area to understand written direction or claiming he can't read someone's handwriting, not knowing sufficient fjerdan to complete the writing on the map, etc.). if i remember correctly not even kaz figures it out, wylan has to tell him about it.

[justposting1]

How This eBay Seller Retired at 40 Reselling Pre-Owned Clothes — And His Warning About 2 Big Mistakes Every Beginner Makes

Master the Art of eBay Reselling: Tips from a Pro Who Retired at 40 by Selling Pre-Owned Clothes Retired at 40? Discover This eBay Seller’s Secrets (and Avoid These Mistakes!) In 2008, Alex T. took his first step into the world of eBay reselling. What began as a solution to offload a broken cellphone turned into a full-fledged business empire. Today, at 40 years old, he’s retired, thanks to the…

[djungleskogs]

you can’t advocate for putting “more humans” back on checkouts and then get unreasonably mad about those humans making mistakes every so often. i promise no cashier is intentionally overcharging you. we don’t get paid any extra. sometimes we make mistakes. sometimes we are on the registers for hours on end and are tired and our packing and scanning isn’t going to be perfect. we will refund you if you’ve been overcharged. it’s all going to be fine. you can’t ask for more humans on registers and get mad at them for not being machines.

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Prima Nocta

Marcus Acacius x Virgin!F!Reader oneshot

{ Main Masterlist }

Rating: E (18+ only)

Summary: Tomorrow, you will marry your husband-to-be. But tonight - it belongs to his father.

Word count: 6k

Warnings: DUB CON only due to nature of prima nocta, both parties enthusiastically consent, twist on prima nocta, unspecified age gap, loss of virginity, dirty talk, oral sex (F receiving), fingering, dry humping, unprotected sex, unrealistic descriptions of first sexual experience, all manners of historical inaccuracies and linguistic anachronisms sorry not sorry, ignores the events of the movie so you can consider this an AU, Marcus is widowed and has a son, shall we call this bfd: Ancient Rome version lmao

Notes: I'm a bit rusty for sure, but I had the absolute best time writing this oneshot. It's a departure from my usual themes to say the least, but once this idea took hold of me it never let go. I know prima nocta is meant to be invoked on the wedding night, but I like the idea of it being the night before so I made it so 🤷🏻‍♀️ Gorgeous dividers by @firefly-graphics as always.

He thought he had gotten away with it. Having lived more than fifty winters in the capital and outlasting eight emperors, he regrets to confess that he is still none the wiser. 

It would have been such a clever manoeuvre. Palming off a generous but very much unwanted gift from the emperors, and marrying off his son in one fell swoop. 

He should have been suspicious of their swift assent to his proposal. In his eagerness to bow out of their audience, it had been convenient to dismiss the flash of malice in their eyes.

And in the snake pits of Roman court, no misstep goes unexploited.

He is not proud that he is caught off guard by the emperor’s closest advisor who intercepts his walk home from the armoury, even less so of his ineloquent response to the missive handed to him.

‘What is this?’

‘Urgent word from the emperors, sir.’

Cold sweat prickles the back of his neck as he stares unseeingly at what is scrawled on the parchment.

‘I cannot,’ he blurts out, indignance rising fast and hot in his chest. ‘I will not.’

‘You think it wise to twice refuse the emperors’ generosity, general?’

General. To him, the culmination of a lifetime of service and sacrifice. To them, an instrument of bloodshed in war, a plaything in peacetime.

Desperate, he tries a different tact. ‘The right of the first night belongs to the emperors. I dare not commit sacrilege.’

‘It is not sacrilege if it is freely bequeathed upon you, general.’

There is no mistaking the warning lilt in the last word, and he has no answer.

‘The hour grows late. You had better not keep the bride waiting,’ says the advisor with an air of finality before retreating into the shadows.

Marcus shudders at the cold that settles into the empty space, fingers stained with ink from the now crumpled dispatch. 

He remembers nothing of the remainder of his short journey to his quarters. As the front door swings open, he realises there is something in the night air that is out of place.

Sea salt.

You are here. 

Would you be demure? Frightened? You are of royal lineage, a lady of the small but proud coastal kingdom strong-armed by Rome into an unequal treaty for its profitable trading posts, in return for the mercy of not being razed to its fertile grounds.

And now, you are lowered to marry a general’s son. 

Worse, lowered to have your virginity taken by his father.

Candlelight spills from the crack underneath the door to his bedchamber. Marcus takes a deep breath, and pushes it open.

You hear him. The swish of fabric, the slide of leather soles on marble.

The general is here.

Your hand in marriage is part of the terms of the treaty, and the missive that sent for you announced your match as the widowed hero general. You had him cast on the wretched journey from your home as one of the domineering, brutish soldiers now garrisoned at your family’s kingdom - only to be told on your arrival that you will be marrying his son instead.

Relief at the news that your future husband would not be decades older than you is instantly snatched away by furtive whispers of prima nocta.

Your future father-in-law will take you first.

The humiliation is bitter on your tongue. You are Rome’s to marry off, hers to give to whomever she pleases -

But she won’t break you.

The door creaks. You stand tall and hold your ground.

He sweeps into the room with an air of well-worn authority, the cloak on his back dark as the shadows that nip at his heels.

The candles flicker when he sheds the heavy robes with a smooth sweep of his arm.

You stare, in a manner that would have had your lady-in-waiting tutting. But you are alone, very much so, with this man not ten paces from you.

General Marcus Acacius. 

He is older, certainly old enough to have a son your age. But you had not imagined him so - strong, for the lack of a more imaginative word. His shoulders are broad under his wine red tunic, and you can see the muscles in his arms flex as he clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides. From where you stand, you can hardly see any silver in his dark curls.

Marcus unflinchingly assesses you right back. 

No, you are decidedly not demure. Or frightened. Far from it. 

You are defiant, even as you observe him with evident curiosity. Your head held high, a telltale sign of your noble breeding, mouth set in a stern line while your eyes burn bright with a proud fire. 

Judging the silence has gone on long enough, he breaks it with a formal, ‘My lady.’

‘General,’ you answer steadily.

The door slams shut belatedly behind him, and you flinch - the first glimpse of weakness you concede. 

Marcus breathes in, delivering his next sentence with as much composure as he can muster. ‘I expect you have been informed of the - formalities that we are to perform tonight.’

You grind your teeth so hard you are astonished that your jaw doesn’t crack.

Your virtue is just a formality.

Refusing to dignify his question with an answer, you nod once. 

He watches you wordlessly, and you meet his gaze. You thought you would find something else there, not the regret that you see.

Turning away from you, he reaches for the amphora on the table. 

‘Wine?’

‘Yes, please.’

The wine is drunk in silence and moderation. Him at his desk, you perched on the end of the bed.

As you sip, pacing yourself, you observe the general discreetly from across the small distance between you. 

To say that you are disconcerted by his behaviour would be an understatement.

You assumed that he asked for this - for the perverse pursuit of deflowering his son’s bride-to-be while eschewing the unwanted responsibility of a wife. 

Yet, watching him stare pensively into his goblet, lips pursed in a pout that is almost sullen, you are not so certain anymore. 

When you bring your drink to your mouth to find it empty, you clear your throat. ‘I have to wake up early tomorrow morning - for the wedding.’

The general starts before collecting himself, drawing himself up to his full height as he sets down his cup with a heavy clunk. ‘Understandably, my lady.’

Then he moves, charting a course across the room, licking his thumb and index finger to douse the candles dotted around the space.

The thought comes to you unbidden - he has thick fingers. And big hands. 

Your cheeks tingle with heat.

Soon the chamber is cloaked in darkness, save for the candles next to the bed, the warm light pooling in the most inviting manner on the soft surface despite your trepidation. You long to rest your aching feet. 

He comes to a standstill on the other side of the bed, as if waiting for you to take the lead. You cannot decide whether you are thankful for him not imposing on you, or frustrated at him for not taking the lead in what is very much unfamiliar territory.

In the end, the desire to get off your feet wins out, and you gesture at the bed. ‘Shall we…?’

‘Certainly.’ He bends down, you assume to take off his sandals. You do the same, toeing off the soft leather slides the maids had you change into when they dressed you.

Once barefoot, you climb in with as much grace as you can summon, acutely aware that you have an audience. Your knees sink into the mattress, and you’re relieved that it is stuffed with feathers, luxuriously giving under your weight. Shifting primly, you find your back against the headboard, cushioned by equally soft pillows.

The general follows suit, the frame creaking as he eases onto the suddenly too small bed, strong shoulders brushing yours as he settles next to you.

You stare hard at the back of your hands, the only way to stop your gaze from wandering to the span of his fingers splayed wide on sturdy thighs, or lower to the bony ridge of his knees - gods, you must be unwell, since when have you been drawn to knees?

You are still questioning the state of your sanity when the general, who has been nothing but unperturbed and composed since he stepped into the room, stumbles over his words in a manner that is neither, as if he had held the question behind his teeth for too long.

‘Are you - are you absolutely certain - in no doubt - that you are… untouched?’

His question stings like salt in a festering wound. Indignant doesn’t even begin to describe the retort you spit at him. ‘Yes, I am. Are you?’

Peering at you sideways, his eyes widen at your outburst, and fear briefly flits across your heart that you have overstepped.

 But then, he surprises you with a smile. ‘You bite, don’t you?’ 

You let your shoulders sag, too far gone to hold onto your facade. 

‘It’s been a long day, sir,’ you admit. ‘To be frank, I just want to get this over with and forget it ever happened.’

He pauses at your confession, as if weighing his options. Then he shifts, and says, ‘The reason I ask if you were untouched is because, if you were not - we could have just pretended we did this.’

You frown. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I did not invoke prima nocta, it was imposed upon me. The emperors are displeased that I turned down the betrothal, this is their way of punishing me for my ungratefulness.’ 

Oh.

As much as you didn’t want this either, your pride suffers to hear him describe it as a punishment.

‘I know…’ you stumble, halting to steel yourself. ‘I know I am nothing like the women here in Rome. I spend too much time in the sun, and my hands are rough from working with horses -’

‘Why do you say that?’ he interrupts you.

You look away. ‘That is why you do not wish to marry me, is it not? And why you do not want this - why you do not want me.’

The general sits up, palms on the mattress to support his weight, the lines on his forehead deepening with a frown. ‘No, that is not the reason. You are young, you deserve a husband who can build a life with you in the years to come. Not a washed-up widower.’

The bitterness in his voice turns your head. 

‘You’re not washed up, from what I hear.’ Somehow, you find the courage to add boldly, ‘Or from what I see.’

Letting your eyes trail unabashedly over his broad frame, a thrill chases through your blood when you notice his Adam’s apple bob with a tight swallow. He’s so close that you know you’re not imagining the heat seeping into your bones.

Silence stretches between you, charged with a consciousness that creeps in and spreads. Two souls from different worlds and stations put in a situation in which neither of you had a hand. This may not be how you imagined giving away your virtue - far from it - yet your stomach twists in anticipation.

You glance upwards, only to find him already watching you.

Something has shifted when you so bravely reached out and tipped the balance with your words. He can tell that you are not one for flippant flattery, and it takes him a moment to collect himself, harder said than done with the blood roaring in his ears.

When he speaks, it comes out in a much lower register than he intends, so much so it sounds like a secret. 

‘You say you just want to get this over with. But I can - I can make it good for you. It doesn’t have to be something you want to forget.’

Your eyes widen and your lips part, and heat blooms almost uncomfortably in his chest. ‘You would do that for me?’

‘I will serve you in whatever way you ask of me tonight, my lady.’

Never have mere words, albeit delivered in such a delicious baritone, moved you so. You came in expecting to have your virtue stripped from you, the same way Rome callously stole you away. Where you thought humiliation and dishonour awaited, this man is offering deliverance and devotion - if only for one night.

Your throat tight with emotion, you nod in lieu of a spoken answer.

Marcus is deliberately slow in his movements, wanting you to feel safe in his presence. ‘How much do you know? So I know what I need to teach you.’

Despite yourself, shyness rears its head and you mumble, ‘I’ve - I’ve heard stories. I know what… happens… between a man and a woman in the bed chamber.’

He nods reassuringly, making you feel less of a fool for the juvenile answer you gave. ‘And has anyone touched you before?’

There’s no mistaking the lurch in your stomach as your heart hammers violently. ‘No. No one. Never.’

The protector in him stirs, summoned to duty, warring with the desire that seethes under his skin like the unholy flames of Vesuvius. He fears it is a quickly losing battle. 

Reading the desire in your endearingly open face, Marcus reaches over you to settle one hand on your hip as he leans close, his breath warm on your cheek.

‘Have you ever kissed a man?’ he rasps. 

You shake your head, eyes fixated on his mouth, framed by a tidy moustache. He is so close that you can see his beard is flecked with silver.

You swear the general is leaning into you, and every inch of you is on tenterhooks, enraptured by his proximity -

‘You should save it for your husband.’

You barely forestall the whine of protest that teeters on the tip of your tongue, pinching your lips together, but his lopsided smile tells you that he knows. 

‘I can kiss you elsewhere though.’

‘Oh,’ you inhale shakily when he dips to mouth at the side of your neck, landing on your pulse point in a suckle. Your whole body arches off the bed, hands gripping the sheets, head spinning at all the sensations that are new to you - the burn of his stubble, the cool trail his lips leave behind -

Then the palm on your hip pulls you into him, sprawling you against the wide cage of his body, your breasts pressed against his broad chest. The dress they put you in is thin, and the fabric rubs against your pebbling nipples as his kisses travel daringly low.

‘Am I going too fast?’ he pauses, voice strained.

Breathlessly, you shake your head.

‘If you want me to stop, or wait, you say the word. Understood?’

‘Yes, general.’

Two words he hears daily from his men, and yet from your lips, they unleash a dangerously feral side of him.

More. Is the only coherent thought that remains. 

Impatient hands reposition you so that you are astride him, and he groans when you slot flush in his lap. He watches your eyes widen at what you feel between your legs. Your dress rides up, and his blood rushes south at the bare expanse of your inner thighs on his skin. 

‘I want to see you,’ he speaks plainly, palms squeezing the dip of your waist. ‘May I undress you? Please?’

All decorum flees you, and you might have chanted yes, yes, yes to his question.

Dropping your chin, you watch his thick fingers nimbly undo the knot holding the front of your dress together. The silk capitulates like water, tumbling down in delicate drapes around your waist, baring you to his heated gaze.

‘You are beautiful,’ he declares with a solemnity that steals your breath.

And it is easy to believe him, the way his dazed eyes trail over your breasts, before his hands follow. Calloused palms, which you are sure have held many a sword in triumph, now cup your tender flesh in reverence. 

Your head lolls to the side as he teases you, but when he rolls his hips upwards, your eyes snap to the pained expression on his face. You’ve heard ladies in court whispering over wine about length and girth, but nothing could prepare you for the thrill of feeling a man’s undeniable desire for you.

Instinct guides you, moving your hips so that you are grinding against his length, seeking relief from what is building deep within you.

‘Do what feels good,’ the general murmurs encouragingly, palms on the small of your back to let you take control.

And just like that, you are thrown back to one summer’s day in your youth. You were bathing in a rock pool, under the spray of a waterfall in perfect solitude when you accidentally slipped forwards on the smooth stone surface. The unexpected sensation between your legs ripped through you like lightning on a clear day. And you chased that feeling, hips undulating until you shuddered and cried out. Knees trembling in the aftermath, you never dared to seek it out again, but neither did you forget.

And now, years later, you finally know what had transpired. Pleasure. And this time, under the general’s hooded gaze, you pursue it with single-minded determination.

Marcus wishes you knew how beautiful you are in this very moment. Breasts swaying in tandem while you rock back and forth on his clothed length, eyes glazed, every whimper from your swollen lips making him throb harder for you.

‘Good girl,’ he rasps, throat tight. ‘Take your pleasure. Take what you need.’

And when he sucks your nipple into his mouth, you wail, tipping forward at an angle that unexpectedly takes you apart.

The waves that wash over you are more intense than you remember, and you are sure that has to do with the man holding your hips to his as you buck, and the warm swirl of his tongue against your breasts, sucking and nipping as you come down from your high.

‘That was not your first time,’ he states as a matter of fact when the white noise in your ears finally fades.

‘It happened once, a long time ago, and I didn’t understand then -’

‘And now you do.’

‘Yes, general.’

This time, he lets loose a moan at your words. ‘I can feel your wetness through your dress.’

Confused, you look down, and your cheeks burn when you spot the dark patch on the delicate fabric. ‘Oh, I -’

‘It’s natural,’ he assures you. ‘The wetness makes it easier for -’

It dawns on you when you feel his hardness twitch under you. Oh. 

‘It - you feel -’ you stutter, struggling to comprehend how the girth of what you are sitting on could possibly fit inside you.

Taking your hand, Marcus presses a chaste kiss to your palm, eyes warm and open. 

‘We will take it slow. I will use my fingers first, to prepare you for me,’ he explains patiently. ‘I promised I would make it good for you, did I not?’

‘You did.’ 

And you have complete faith in him.

Your knees knock into each other hopelessly when he slides you off his lap, and he has to bodily prop you up against the pillows. Sinking into the soft feathers, you watch him kneel between your parted legs, and you feel so safe even as he towers over you. 

‘May I disrobe you?’

You bite your bottom lip, and nod. 

Except it’s not a disrobing, it’s nothing near as civil as that. The general rips the rest of your dress clean down the middle, rendering you completely bare beneath him.

Marcus knows should be ashamed of his brash behaviour. But how could he when you react so viscerally, jaw slack as your chest heaves in unmitigated desire? 

His gaze shamelessly trail over every curve and dimple, from the breasts he has tasted to where your knees are demurely closed, and knowing that he is the first - the only - to have laid eyes on you makes him impossibly hard. 

It matters not that you are not his to keep. This will always be his. 

‘You are exquisite,’ he professes, voice tight. 

You duck your head, more shy of his compliments than being nude before him. ‘You don’t have to.’

Sliding a finger under your chin and tilting your head until you meet his gaze, he assures you, ‘I mean every word.’

Then he moves down the bed until he can rest his weight on his elbows, and you startle when rough palms glide over the outside of your thighs, stopping at your knees. 

He pauses to give you time. ‘Are you certain you wish to continue?’

Your answer is a confident yes.

Then, as if opening the shell of Venus, he delicately pries your knees apart, and his breath hitches as you are revealed to him.

He is aware that he’s staring like an imbecile, words failing him. As the silence stretches on, you become self-conscious.

‘General,’ you demur, moving to cover yourself.

Shaking his head, he finally says, ‘Forgive me, but you are perfect.’

Then he looks up at you with such intensity that has you struggling to catch your breath, and without breaking eye contact, he bows his head - 

And closes his lips over you there. 

You are wholly unprepared - no one has ever gossiped about this in court. Your hips buck violently off the bed, but Marcus holds you down with reassuring hands, suckling on the pearl between your thighs with gentle laps of his tongue.

‘Oh, oh, oh,’ you stuttter, torn between watching the man wreak the most devastating pleasure on you and averting your gaze.

You’ve only ever known worship to be pious, and yet, this most vulgar adulation is the closest you’ve been to the gods.

His beautiful curls brush the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, catching the candle light as he moves, and the crook of his nose - so proud even with the scar on its bridge - draws patterns on your skin as he stakes his claim where no one has ever touched you. 

You quickly realise that what you felt just now in the general’s lap was insignificant and thin in comparison. This pleasure is all-consuming, something divine that has you weak and trembling all over. All you hear are slick, wet sounds of tongues and lips, and your own whimpers between garbled groans.

Marcus feasts on you, unapologetically. Flattening his tongue, he tastes you in broad sweeps, moaning into your sweet cunt as you writhe above him, your needy mewls driving him to the edge of madness. You taste like fig - the earthiness of the purple peel, ripe sweetness of the pink flesh.

Then your hands wind into his hair, pulling him closer, ankles hooking over his shoulders. He groans harder, the sound rattling in his ribs as you soak his beard. Surrendering any last vestiges of shyness, you rock against his tongue, nails scratching his scalp as you whine louder into the night air. 

Moans that will echo long after you’re gone.

The thought alone hardens his resolve to mark you unequivocally. You’re close, your pliant body quivering and breaths coming in shallow gasps now. He peers up at you, but your eyes are sealed shut and upturned at the gods, your breasts heaving.

Gently, he eases one finger inside you, and he grunts at how easily he slides in. You barely react, and so he pushes back in with two, coaxing a cry from you. Your cunt clenches as he gently thrusts his digits in and out, stretching your tight walls. 

‘Oh gods. Oh gods,’ you pant violently.

You’re close, so close. He wants to warn you of what is to come, but it feels like sacrilege to tarnish the moment with words. When he feels you begin to quiver, he laves at your clit harder, burying his fingers inside you to the knuckle, until he feels you crest and break. 

‘Gods, oh gods - Marcus!’

The cry of his name catches him off guard. He nearly loses control right there and then, as you ride out your high on his fingers, but by some miracle he holds out through gritted teeth. He devotes his attention to kissing his way up your body, from the slick inside of your thighs, to the side of your hip, making you jump when he sucks on your sensitive breasts.

You stare at his mouth with wild, dark eyes, and him at yours, but he vowed to leave your first kiss to your husband. Girding his self-restraint, he asks, ‘Are you alright?’

‘Yes, Marcus.’

His cock twitches at the sound of his name on your lips. He wants to hear you say it in all manners of ways - whisper it, gasp it, scream it. And by the cheekiness in your smile, it’s clear that you know what he’s thinking.

Your eyes drop to where his hardness is pressed against you. ‘Will you teach me how to please you, general?’

He swallows a groan, the animal in him rattling the bars of its cage. He replies diplomatically, ‘I will teach you how to teach your husband.’

In one smooth tug, he shucks off his tunic, then his loincloth, and he tries not to be self-conscious under your watchful gaze. Pulling you against him, skin on naked skin, he smears kisses along the side of your neck, smiling at your answering shudder. In return, you run your lips and scrape your teeth over his collarbone. 

Taking your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm, he slides it all the way down his chest and wraps your fingers firmly around his throbbing cock, his pained moan in your ear.

Eyes wide, you marvel at the size of him in your grip. ‘You are so big.’

Marcus curses through clenched teeth. ‘You are an insolent girl.’

With a wicked glint in your eyes, you correct yourself, ‘You are so big, general.’

If he wasn’t so aroused, he would have chuckled at your cheek. Instead, he growls, ‘Such insubordination.’

Tilting your head to one side, you grin. ‘And how would you discipline me, sir?’

He lets the silence linger for a beat, allowing anticipation to build as one big hand splays over your ass, hot lips brushing the shell of your ear. ‘I would deny you my cock, my lady. Let your sweet cunt weep for me, empty, not knowing how good it would feel to have me deep inside you.’

You are unsure if you are more shocked at the explicitness of his words, or at the gush of wetness that has you pressing your thighs together. If you had to wager a guess, he is just as affected as you by the way his length pulses in your grasp.

Marcus smiles as he takes in the way your body reacts to him. ‘But how can I deny such a lovely, desperate creature such as yourself?’

A sob escapes you. ‘Please, Marcus - I’m yours to take.’

With that, all self-restraint abandons him, and his lips crash into yours. At the back of his mind, he knows you deserve a better first kiss, something gentle and sweet. But to your credit, you seem to take it in stride, winding your arms around his neck with a deep groan as he deepens the kiss. Opening up your mouth, he sweeps his tongue against yours, making sure you taste yourself and the pleasure that he had wrung from you.

When he reluctantly pulls back for air, you hum, ‘I thought you said I should save that for my husband.’

He all but snarls, ‘Damn your husband.’

The possessiveness in his tone sends you reeling, and his resolve wears even thinner when your cunt brushes against him, so wet and soft, begging for him. 

‘I cannot wait any longer,’ he declares.

You bite your lip beseechingly. ‘Please, Marcus, I cannot either.’

He braces himself above you on strong arms, until all you can see is him, backlit by the soft candlelight. Beholding his beauty - the wisps of gray at his temples, the scar lining his cheekbone - your breath catches at the tenderness in his eyes as he stares down at you.

Holding the base of his cock, Marcus notches himself at the entrance of your cunt, trembling as he holds himself back. 

‘I will go slow,’ he assures you. ‘If it hurts, you tell me to stop. Understood?’

Your mouth dry, you can only nod. 

Holding your gaze, Marcus rolls his hips ever so slowly, jaw slack when he breaches you, inch by tortuous inch.

He is barely inside you and you already feel so unfathomably full.

‘Marcus,’ you gasp when it gets impossibly tight, nails digging into his broad shoulders.

He stops, and whispers encouragingly, ‘You are doing so well for me, taking me so beautifully. Just breathe.’

In between his patient, languid kisses, you unfurl, and Marcus gently pulls back, before pushing into you, deeper this time.

When you cry out, he shushes you, brushing the wet corners of your eyes with his lips. ‘Does it hurt?’

You shake your head. ‘No, it’s just - so much.’ 

‘I know, I can feel how tight you are gripping me,’ he mumbles into your neck, throbbing inside you while he holds himself still as you adjust. ‘Brave, sweet girl.’

When you find your voice again, you give him cheek. ‘I am a woman now, general.’

He smiles at you - a warm curl that crinkles the corners of his eyes endearingly - and claims your lips again. Feeling the tension seep out of your body, he thrusts shallowly so you can learn the movement of his hips. When he hits a spot that makes your jaw drop and your hips buck, he pulls all the way back, and drives himself to the hilt in one smooth motion.

And with that, you become a part of his soul, and his yours. His chest swells with the fiercest possessiveness and the greatest honour all at once, despite knowing that the circumstances that brought you together will inevitably tear you asunder at the break of dawn.

‘Marcus!’ you choke on a sob, throwing your head back, your walls clutching his cock in a merciless grip.

‘There she is,’ he grunts, mouth scraping the shell of your ear. ‘Say my name like that.’

And you do, over and over again, as he fucks into you. His pants land harshly in the crook of your neck with every thrust, hands greedily squeezing all the skin he can find - the curve of your ass, the dimple in your waist, your thigh to hitch it over his hip.

Looking down at you, eyes drunk and unfocused as you stare back at him, each squeeze of your wet cunt around him, every breath from your lips feels sacred.

He is seized by a sudden need to know. ‘How does it feel?’

Your eyes soften, and he shudders when you cup the side of his face to bring his nose to yours. ‘Divine.’

Marcus loses himself in you, in the wet squelch of your cunt around his length, the way your tightness takes every thrust. Words of praise that he doesn’t even hear tumble from his lips and onto every inch of skin he can reach as you cling to him, scraping your nails down his back and digging into the meat of his ass.

Pitching forward to press a hard kiss to you, he says, ‘I want you to fall apart for me again.’

‘Please, Marcus, please.’

Pushing himself up to his knees, still buried deep inside you, he spreads your thighs obscenely wide over his hips, and he moans at the sight of your cunt so full of him. With hooded eyes, he sucks on two of his thick fingers and brings them between your legs, carefully drawing circles on your clit, knowing that you are already sensitive from cumming twice for him before.

Your face twists in agony as he builds you towards another climax, patiently weaving the web of pleasure that wounds you tighter and tighter until your spine feels like it will snap in two. ‘Marcus, oh - don’t stop, don’t stop, oh gods -’

He bares his teeth as he feels you start to clench around him. ‘That’s it, that’s it. Cum on my cock, let me feel you, give it to me.’ 

Your peak crashes into you relentlessly, and as you are swept away, you can only wail and thrash, while Marcus curses and stutters unintelligibly above you as he spins out of control.

He had every intention to pull out, but it is as if some higher power is determined to foil his plans. With a guttural roar, his hips snap flush against yours, big palms grasp you so hard by the waist that you squeal, and he spills into you in hot gushes, once - twice - and again until he is spent.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

He doesn’t know if he said that aloud or if it was a trick of the mind. All he knows is that he eventually collapses bonelessly onto you, skin fused together with sweat and cum as your breaths become one in the crisp night air.

It is him who breaks the stillness, his old bones creaking when he stirs to relieve an ache in his back. His softened cock slides out of you, prompting you to whine in protest. He grunts when he looks down to see his cum dribble out of your cunt, leaving a pearly trail on the inside of your thighs.

When he meets your eyes, there is no awkwardness in the silence. ‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean to spill my seed inside you. That was reckless.’

Your heart skips a beat at his admission, and you can’t hide the pride in your voice. ‘Do I make you reckless, general?’

He tries and fails to be stern in his answer, the tenderness with which he brushes his nose on your cheek giving him away. ‘I know better than to encourage your insolence with an answer.’

You are far from discouraged though, quite the opposite. Knowing you have this man - who commands armies of thousands - at your mercy is a siren’s call.

Peering at him from under your eyelashes, you curl one leg around his waist. ‘Do you want to be reckless again?’

He huffs, but a smile breaks through. ‘Have you ever been told that you are a cocktease?’

You hum teasingly. ‘I have never heard that word before, but I like it.’

‘You do?’ he breathes against your lips. ‘You like being my cocktease?’

‘Yours, general.’

Marcus is astounded when he feels himself harden again, and he moans as you press open-mouthed kisses down his neck. ‘What spell have you cast on this old man, my little cocktease?’

You grin, letting him ease you onto your back so he can settle between your thighs again. ‘The kind that lasts until dawn.’

Eventually, morning must break, sure as the moon turns and the sun rises. In the golden rays of day, you will wed his son in ironic, virginal white, showered in rose petals. He will look on from the side in his finest ceremonial robes of red, as you walk away from him and into your new life as someone else’s wife.

But in the velvety folds of this night and many more to come, safely ensconced in the deepest corners of his memories, in lands far away, in war and in peace, there he keeps you - where you are not.

More notes: Thank you for reading! As usual, comments/reblogs/asks would be very much appreciated 🥰 I hope you enjoyed this fic as much as I loved writing it!

[catdemontraphouse]

N…no fucking way….

I am concerned

[techmarkethunter]

Mastering the Art of Trading: Overcoming Greed and Impatience

Title: Mastering the Art of Trading: Overcoming Greed and Impatience Introduction:In the fast-paced and dynamic world of financial markets, successful trading is not just about analyzing charts and interpreting data; it’s equally about mastering the psychological aspects that can make or break a trader’s success. Two formidable foes that every trader must conquer are greed and impatience. In…

[mellowwillowy]

𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝

Yan! Sugar Daddy who fell in love with you at first sight in the cafe he often visited for his daily to-go coffee. He had seen lots of beauties but you were the first to catch his breath.

Yan! Sugar Daddy who tried to woo you, he tried his best to not scare you and subtly flirt with you. It took him a huge courage to approach you and ask for your number.

Yan! Sugar Daddy who found out you were still just a college student who was most likely to be struggling with financial issues, or so he assumed from how most of the students there were.

Yan! Sugar Daddy who took his time bonding with you before subtly offering an arrangement with you, a mutual arrangement of a sugar relationship. Instead of sex, fancy dates, or a plus one to those higher-ups events, he wanted your company all the time if he could.

You were wary and hesitant but his silver-tongued nature convinced you that this would change your life for the better.

While you were inexperienced in most of it, Yulian made sure to make you feel comfortable about it and him. The weekly allowance and PPM were enough to make you never lift a single finger to work anymore.

The more you spent time with him, the less it felt like an arrangement. It felt like a man treating you with utmost respect while spoiling you with luxuries you would never imagine to have.

But with such great benefits came a great price. You noticed that you had been seeing your friends less because of the attention you had on him.

You noticed the higher-ups never stopped sneering at you for being a commoner or his pet whenever you attended the fancy events with him as his plus one.

You noticed how you had almost less to none freedom, always heavily guarded by what seemed to be his bodyguards. Who was he and why did you even need this sort of protection?

One day you decided to trick his bodyguards with your flat-out white lies so that they'd leave you alone. They did not expect someone like you to ever lie and put them at risk so they left you alone.

All you did was wander around in awe, checking the grand balcony to go to the washroom as normal people would.

Yan! Sugar Daddy who was seething in rage when the bodyguards came to him, tricked by your childish lie. But there was no way something bad would happen with this slight mistake right? You were not his spouse by any means.

But oh did everyone know you were someone he fancied for the first time in his whole life. Part of his brain just tried to look at this mistake in a bright light and it backfired.

Yan! Sugar Daddy who had to be endlessly teased by his great-for-nothing cartel friend. He had to endure the stress of losing you and the risk of not being able to take you back.

It's not like the Drug Lord couldn't help him, it was simply humiliating for him to endanger you by not keeping a close eye on you.

Yan! Sugar Daddy who could track you down in less than a week and ordered a mass slaughter on the faction that imprisoned you. You were not wounded terribly but a wound was still a wound.

Yan! Sugar Daddy was just a confidant to the Drug Lord and an infamous lawyer. You only knew he was a lawyer but never the lurking threat of his other occupation. No wonder he was always wary of his surroundings.

How could someone from such a cold underground world have the heart to fall in love with you? That was what you thought when you woke up to his concerned face.

Weeks passed and it didn't take him so long to propose to you, for you to become his spouse.

"I truly love you, dear. I have never even once seen our arrangement as something strictly business instead." He showed you a velvety box with a diamond ring in it. "I admit, it was not the best approach but I thought I could work my way into your heart while profiting you with all the benefits and luxuries you could have from me."

He swallowed the lump in his throat, "I wanted you to see how capable I am."

Something told you that nothing good would come out of your refusal. And instead, logic swarm into your brain. You had been in an arrangement with him for almost a year already and had never even once felt any hardships.

He was nice to you, downright kind and loving even. He cared for you deeply and wouldn't hurt you in any way. It was your fault that you broke free from the barrier of protection he granted you.

With great fame and luxuries, came all sorts of threats. He wasn't disloyal like those higher-ups. He didn't belittle you like others would. He loved you.

Even if you didn't love him, you knew how great it felt to be loved by him. There was not a single loss from this arrangement which was a marriage, right?

[carmelasopranono1defenseattorney]

literally impossible to even be associated with tony without having your life just be a mess, poor melfi

[catchastarorten]

—100 loaves of bread.

Pairing: the salesman/recruiter x bakeryowner!fem!reader

Summary: it started with a few visits from him buying 100 loaves of bread each time from your little bakery, but overtime the two of you started to get familiar, little did you know about his ‘work’ and how he should’ve given the card to you but didn't...

Content: fluff, aggressive stomping on bread, him having a soft spot for you, trying to convince himself that he doesn’t care about you (it doesn’t work lol), a bit of reader's backstory, self-conflict and a bit of change of heart from him, English isn’t my first language, mistakes should be present, not proofread, sorry!

Word count: ~ 2.1k

You were wiping down the counter when the familiar chime of the bell above the door jingled. It was late in the afternoon, and the bakery was quiet, except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the faint scent of freshly baked bread and sugar lingering in the air. You glanced up, already knowing who it was. He was here again—the man with the sharp suit and the briefcase who bought bread in quantities that always left you baffled.

“Afternoon,” you said, watching as he walked in with the same calm, measured way as always. He almost looked too friendly for someone who carried himself so formally.

“Afternoon,” he replied, stepping up to the counter and resting his briefcase at his feet. “I’ll need the usual. A hundred loaves.”

A hundred loaves of bread. It was such a ridiculous request, and yet, he never failed to make it.

You’d asked him once, early on, what on earth he did with all that bread. Selling it somewhere else for a profit? Feeding a small army? Storing up for an apocalypse? He had only smiled at you then, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and said, “Something like that.”

It had been weeks since his first visit, and by now, the routine was familiar. You’d load loaf after loaf into paper bags while he stood patiently, sometimes asking about your day, sometimes quietly observing the modest little bakery. Today, though, you felt compelled to ask again.

“Are you sure you want all of it?” you asked, sliding the first bag across the counter. “That’s… a lot of bread.”

He smiled faintly, reaching for the bag and setting it beside him. “You ask me that every time.”

“Well, it’s not everyday someone comes in and buys out half my stock,” you said, tilting your head. “It makes me curious.”

His expression softened, and for a moment, he seemed like he might answer—really answer. But then he only shrugged slightly, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. “Let’s just say it goes to good use.”

You frowned, unsatisfied but unwilling to press further. He always paid in cash, crisp bills that he counted out with precision. You noticed, as you often did, that he never left without dropping a generous tip into the glass jar by the register. He offered you a warm look as he slipped a few bills into the tip jar again.

“Keep up the good work,” he said. “Your bread’s the best in the city.”

You weren’t sure whether to be flattered or suspicious. He seemed genuine, but there was something about him—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

Still, it wasn’t your place to pry. You handed him the last of the bags, and he left with the same polite nod as always.

The next time he came in, it wasn’t for a hundred loaves of bread.

You were behind the counter again, rearranging a tray of pastries, when you heard the door chime. Glancing up, you saw him standing there, his briefcase nowhere in sight.

“Not the usual today?” you asked, half-teasing.

He smiled slightly, stepping up to the counter. “Not today. I was thinking I’d try something different.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

He scanned the display case, his eyes lingering on a slice of strawberry shortcake near the center. “That,” he said, pointing.

You wrapped up the slice for him, and when you handed it over, he didn’t leave right away. Instead, he took a seat at one of the small tables by the window—a seat no one ever seemed to take—and unwrapped the cake with a kind of deliberate care. You watched, unable to help yourself, as he took a bite.

“It’s good,” he mumbled, almost to himself. “Really good.”

A flicker of amusement crossed your face as you watched him eat. He wasn’t as neat as you’d expected—a bit of whipped cream ended up on the corner of his mouth, and he licked it away absentmindedly, his gaze drifting to the shelves of decorative knick-knacks you’d lined the walls with.

“I never really noticed these before,” he said, gesturing toward a small ceramic cat perched on one of the shelves. “Did you make them?”

You shook your head. “No, those were my parents’. They used to run this place before me. They had a thing for collecting stuff like that.”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “It’s nice. Feels… homey.”

You didn’t know why, but his words left you oddly self-conscious. The bakery had always been your parents’ dream, not yours, and while you’d taken it over out of necessity, you’d never thought much about how it felt to anyone else. But hearing him say it was homey made you feel a faint sense of pride.

“Thanks,” you said softly.

He stayed longer than usual that day, finishing his cake and ordering a coffee to go with it.

You found yourself talking to him more than you normally would with a customer. He asked about the bakery, about your favorite thing to bake, about whether you’d ever considered expanding. You didn’t ask about him—not directly—but you couldn’t help but wonder what kind of man he was.

By the time he left, it was dark outside, and the bakery was empty except for you. As you locked up for the night, you found yourself thinking about his smile, the way it lingered even after he was gone.

One day, as he was paying for a loaf of sourdough, he looked at you, his head tilting slightly. “Do you ever think about getting out of here?” he asked.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… this place is great, but don’t you ever wonder what else is out there?”

You hesitated. It wasn’t that you hadn’t thought about it—leaving, starting fresh somewhere new—but the bakery was all you’d ever known. It was safe, familiar. And after your parents passed, it felt like the only thing that tethered you to them.

“Sometimes,” you admitted. “But I don’t know. This place… it’s home.”

He nodded, his expression unreadable.

For a moment, there was a silence between you. Then he smiled again, that warm, almost disarming smile, and slid an extra bill across the counter. “For the tip jar,” he said.

You watched as he walked out the door, his briefcase in hand, and wondered—for the hundredth time—what kind of life he led.

...

The bell above the bakery door chimed familiarly.

He stepped inside, brushing imaginary dust off his jacket, his polished demeanor there as always. But inside, his stomach churned. He had made a decision today—a decision that, for once, made him feel something like guilt.

He scanned the shop. You were at the counter, hands dusted with flour as you arranged freshly baked rolls on a tray. The soft glow of the afternoon light spilling through the window caught on your hair, and the faintest smile tugged at your lips when you saw him. That smile… It was a problem.

“Afternoon,” you said, just as you always did. Your voice was warm, even though he could see the slight tiredness beneath it. That smile didn’t reach your eyes as much these days, but you still tried, didn’t you?

He nodded, keeping his face neutral. “Afternoon.”

You weren’t supposed to matter to him. That was the rule. He had a job to do, a system to uphold, and people like you—drowning in debt—were just part of the equation. It shouldn't have mattered how good-hearted you were, how hardworking you were.

You weren’t special... at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

He first started coming to your bakery for convenience, but as time passed, the lines started to blur. The bread looked good, better than most places in this part of the city, and you didn’t ask too many questions.

The loaves weren’t for eating, of course. They were for a little ‘social experiment’.

“Bread or lottery?” That’s what he’d ask them—the desperate, homeless souls he scouted in the park. It was always the same. He’d hold out a loaf in one hand, a lottery scratcher in the other. The bread could fill their stomachs. But the lottery ticket? That promised a chance. A gamble. A way out.

They always chose the ticket. Every time.

He knew what came next. The moment they realized it wasn’t a winning ticket after all. They’d just stared at him, some cursed out loud, some were just disappointed, their hopes bleeding out onto the pavement.

And the bread? He destroyed it. Stomped it into the ground until it was unrecognizable, crumbs scattering across the concrete.

It was dramatic, yes, but it served its purpose. It showed them the choice that they had made, the food that they had thrown away and destroyed, not him. It was necessary. Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

But the bread came from you.

That detail had started to bother him more and more. You put your heart into every loaf, every pastry, every crumb that came out of your oven. He saw it in the way you worked, the way you carefully packed the loaves into paper bags for him, the way you smiled when he left a tip. He had started tipping more, as if that would excuse him of the guilt of what he was doing with your work—it didn’t.

He had been keeping tabs on you. He knew about your debts, the ones you and your brother had racked up trying to keep the bakery afloat after your parents passed. He knew how hard you worked to stay above water, how you barely made enough to cover the bills some months.

You were exactly the kind of person he was supposed to recruit.

He told himself that’s why he started coming more often. He needed to assess you, to figure out the right moment to offer you the card. But the truth was, he liked being in the bakery. He liked the smell of fresh bread and sugar, the hum of the old refrigerator, the quiet way you moved behind the counter. He liked your voice when you asked him how his day was going, even though he never answered honestly.

And he hated himself for liking any of it.

The card was in his pocket today. He had been carrying it around for a while now, waiting for the right moment.

Today, he had decided, would be the day. After all, you deserved it, right? The games were brutal, yes, but they were also fair. A chance for people like you to escape the crushing weight of debt.

That’s what he told himself as he walked into the bakery. But when you looked up at him, your flour-dusted hands resting on the counter, and said, “So, what are you getting today?”—he froze.

He could feel the card in his pocket, its edges pressing against his fingers. All he had to do was pull it out, slide it across the counter, and say the words. But he couldn’t do it. Not to you.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “I’ll take another slice of that cake,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt.

You looked over to the display. “The strawberry one?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, his finger gently tapping the display glass that caged all the pastries. “It’s… good.”

You smiled faintly, wrapping up the slice and handing it to him. “Anything else?”

He hesitated, the card burning a hole in his pocket. But then your eyes met his, and something in them—something warm, something real—made his resolve crumble.

“No,” he said softly. “That’s all.”

As he ate the cake at the small table by the window again, he told himself that letting you go was the right thing to do. You didn’t belong in the games. You didn’t belong in his world. And yet, he felt something close to longing as he watched you work behind the counter, your movements quick and precise, your expression focused.

For the first time in a very, very long time, he felt human.

When he left the bakery that day, he slipped a few extra bills into the tip jar. He told himself it was just another gesture, another way to balance the scales. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough to make up for what he did—what he was.

And yet, he didn’t offer you the card. He didn’t bring it the next time he visited, or the time after that. He told himself he’d do it eventually, that it was inevitable. But the truth was, he didn’t have the heart to drag you into the darkness he inhabited every day.

You weren’t like him. And he wanted—no, needed—to keep it that way.

[captainadwen]

Damian Wayne vs the World

Sixteen year old Damian Wayne is on the hunt for a younger sibling. Being more discerning than Bruce 'child collector' Wayne, Damian's firm criteria for Batman's latest adoption problem includes but is not limited to: black haired, blue-eyed, tolerable humor, not evil, and most importantly - younger than Damian.

Lucky for him, fourteen year old newbie vigilante Danny Fenton is the perfect fit. Now, to fulfill his end of their deal, Damian must defeat the evil government organization hunting Danny in order to gain a baby brother.

Or, @livinghalfway your post made my brain go !! but in such a different way I figured it was better to make a separate post, hope you don't mind/enjoy still

~~

Damian Wayne re-entered Tim Drake's life like a gnat revealing itself in a closed bedroom space. Tim was in t-shirt and a boxers, maneuvering ramen into his mouth with one hand and scribbling out an epiphany on a murder case with another, when Damian's demonic dulcet voice echoed down from the ceiling. "Drake," said Damian, judgemental, "You live like this?"

Tim nearly choked on his ramen, because the day Damian doesn't attempt to murder him - however doubtfully accidental this incident might be - is the day Darkseid decides to be friends with the Justice League. "Fucking knock," Tim coughed out. "And get out. No one invited you in."

"Put better traps if you don't want me here," said Damian, dropping from the ceiling where he'd crawled in on wall-clamps.

"This is my apartment," said Tim. "It's called courtesy."

Damian sniffed. He padded around to Tim's desk and frowns at his cases, then said, with no further lead up, "I need your assistance."

"No," said Tim.

"You did not even listen to my request."

"Don't need to," said Tim. "Answer's still no. Door is that way. Bye."

"Father says mutually assisting each other is beneficial," said Damian.

"Father," said Tim sarcastically, "blamed me for you exploding a glitter bomb in the batcave two weeks ago."

"That is your fault for not being able to provide evidence to the contrary in an appropriately efficient manner," said Damian. He squinted down at Tim. "And he apologized. Eventually."

"I would not have glittered the batcomputer," said Tim. "Do you know how much of a pain in the ass it is to backup those servers? No, because you don't like tech work, you just profit off it."

"Blaming me for Father's mistake," said Damian, "Most mature of you. But we must put our differences aside. I have selected a new family member and I need you to dismantle a government organization."

That drew Tim up short. He blinked down at his ramen as though it might explain Damian's words to him, but the ramen remained disappointingly uninformative. "Repeat that," said Tim, gesturing with his chopsticks. "Slower, and with more detail."

Damian pulled out his phone and sent him an email. Silence surrounded them in the brief moment it took Tim to set aside his chopsticks and open the email. The subject line was titled 'New Baby Brother', which birthed all sorts of horrifying nightmares of Damian Part 2: Demon Child Boogaloo. The teen in the inserted picture, however, was reassuringly not in possession of Damian's bone structure.

He did have black hair and blue eyes. "Who am I looking at?" asked Tim.

"Daniel Fenton," said Damian. "He is fourteen years old, enjoys puns, and has recently awakened 'ghost powers' that allow him to transform into the vigilante Phantom to fight other ghosts."

"Is he also an orphan with a tragic backstory?"

"No," said Damian, and Tim relaxed. "But that will not be an issue. We can share custody if they cannot be removed from the picture."

"Jesus H, kid."

"I am joking, of course," said Damian blandly. "Murder is wrong."

"Ha ha," said Tim. "If he has parents already he's not joining our menagerie."

"He will," said Damian, with a smug upwards tilt of his lips. "He and I have a deal."

"So you're coercing him in addition to stalking him. Anything else you want to share with the class?"

Damian considered this query with a serious frown, which was how Tim knew this was not a flight of fancy or a very early midlife crisis (although with their lifestyle and Damian already having died before...).

"He has," said Damian after a moment, "a rogue that calls himself 'The Master of all Technology' and is a technopath." This was clearly meant to be of interest to Tim, and not to be a stereotype, but it kind of was.

"Great." Tim turned his attention back to the email the demon child sent him. He scanned through it quickly. There was apparently a secret and evil government organization dedicated to the investigation and extermination of 'ghosts' and other paranormal creatures in the world. Their latest efforts were focused on the town of Amity Park, Illinois, which was 'infested with ectoplasmic pests'. Their words, not Damian's. (It was specified in the email.)

"Okay," Tim drummed his fingers against his desk. "Before I help you defeat this secret evil government organization so that," he opened the email attachment with a contract on it and squinted at the legalese, "this poor newbie teen you've harassed into signing this joins the family in exchange."

"I did not harass him," Damian huffed. "It was a gentleman's agreement."

"Does he know that?"

"I am not a politician, Drake. I thoroughly explained the terms and legalities before presenting any contract. Now ask your question."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because," said Damian, tone implying 'you are stupid and haven't noticed something obvious, idiot'. "Father has begun saying he misses the noise around the manor and looking wistfully at old pictures."

"We still live there though?" said Tim. Damian looked flatly at him. "Sometimes."

"If you lived there frequently enough," said Damian, "you would already know Father is having...empty nest syndrome." Damian sounded disgusted. "I refuse to tolerate whatever inadequate and incompetent child he will find."

"So instead you found an incompetent and inadequate child for him?"

"Don't be stupid, Drake," said Damian. "I would not have chosen someone inadequate. Daniel is merely lacking formal training. Father can rectify this. It will keep him occupied for at least the next two to four years, which gives me enough time to find another black-haired, blue-eyed, tolerable child I approve of to be his successor and my second younger sibling." Damian paused. "Or until one of you procreates and gives him a grandchild."

"You're really serious about this," Tim whispered in horrified awe.

"I am serious about everything I do," said Damian. "Now, you will help me defeat this evil government organization so that our new sibling joins us."

"Okay," said Tim, but his mind snagged on a minor, throwaway detail, so utterly in odds with Damian 'Demonic Jealous Child' Al Ghul it surely came from another person - "Did you just call this kid your successor?"

[theveryworstthing]

7th Headless Haunting: The Invisible Woman

A ghost's appearance can change over time depending on the emotional connection to their former lives. This change is involuntary and inconsistent. For some, their form shifts to mirror the cause of their death, or emphasizes some other lasting trauma. Others shift into a metaphorical representation of how they view themselves. But most just look like their living forms until time makes the details slip away. Because if there's no one left to remember them properly, and they can't really remember themselves, that can trigger a disconnection from their physical past. This disconnect causes the "sheet ghost" effect, as the soul loses the shape of its previous container.

It's a sad thing, catching a glimpse of a soul losing their face. But that's part of the cycle of life and death. Everything changes. Everything fades.

Sometimes that fading is even done on purpose.

Morgan doesn't call herself Morgan anymore because she doesn't want to metaphysically dox herself.

Through the efforts of the most annoying woman she's ever met, she's become one of the most famous ghosts in the south. She did not ask for this, she does not want it, and every day she wonders how she could have possibly been charmed into a barely 3 week relationship by someone she had to politely ask to stop making tictoks in the crystal shop constantly. It was easy to blame grief and depression for the drastic lowering of standards but still. Good lord.

She realized her mistake pretty quickly, but then "Luna's" roommate supposedly kicked her out with no warning and a sick cat named Quartz. And past!Morgan, who vividly remembered how much being homeless sucked, didn't want her out on the street.

(Okay, mostly she didn't want Quartz out on the street. He was goofy and sweet and the knowledge that she liked him way more than her new girlfriend made her feel guilty.)

This was a mistake.

She opened her home to them. Payed for emergency cat surgery. Dealt with arguments over filming in the house and random strangers coming over for "guided group spiritual exploration" sessions that she wasn't allowed to be in the room for because Luna was "working". Scrubbed Luna's essential oil covered bare ass marks off of her kitchen counters. And in return, she got this woman inviting something into her home.

One night while Luna was out with friends, it came into Morgan's bedroom and left her head on the other side of the house.

She never figured out exactly what got her, but the dark twisted shape made sure to find her terrified spirit before it left, and she could feel its irritation as it inspected her. She wasn't the right target. Luna owed a dept that she probably didn't even comprehend to something very pissed off.

All this would have been bad enough, but none of it was really worth being a ghost about. She'd had worse relationships, and since grandma was gone, almost all of her loved ones were dead anyway, so she really should have left.

But what about Quartz?

 She was the one handling all of his post operative care, and after watching Luna forget time after time to feed him or give him his meds or even really pay attention to him when he wasn't serving as a cuddly toy to cry on or an aesthetic set piece for videos, she decided to hang around until he was either stable or dead.

Which is how she found out about the haunted house tours.

Luna had been doing this for a while. It seems that every place she had ever lived was "haunted" and she made sure that the internet knew about all the trials and tribulations of being so spiritually gifted in a world filled with such trauma laden souls. She'd been kicked out of her last place for having a pretend spectral affair with her former roommate's dead best friend, and when she moved it didn't take a day for her to "sense something..." and start secretly profiting off of made up shit about Morgan's grandmother.

But now that Morgan was dead she had a goldmine on her hands. The gory, violent, locked room mystery death of a fairly attractive woman wearing nothing but a low cut night gown was already pretty good, but add in the lesbian romance, Morgan's family history, and the fact that Luna's True Love had recently Saved her from an Abusive Environment and Certain Homelessness? Well, that's money baby.

Morgan's friends, bless 'em, had stopped Luna from livestreaming the funeral, and got as many pictures of her body taken down as they could.

Sadly, the fundraiser to purchase her family home for "spiritual conservation" was successful.

She had no idea that her following was that big.

She really should have checked.

Anyway.

Because of Luna she's spent the last 8 years being stalked by the living. Strangers pay to sleep in her bed and record the ambient noises of her room hoping she'll show up and talk to them. They buy books made of private poetry stolen from her journals. They demonize her dead family members and speculate on horrific abuse that didn't happen because "if you pay attention to how she dressed/read between the lines in her writing, there are clues she had serious daddy issues".

Recently, there was a shitty romance novel published based on her death, implying that whatever killed her was simply mad with lust and wanted to make her his dark bride in hell.

Yes "his". Her proxy was straight in that one.

And way slimmer.

That's a reoccurring thing that she tries not to think about too hard.

But the point is that all this mess keeps her from moving on. She just... can't. She spends all her time trying to sabotage Luna's grift as best she can. She exposes all the little tricks Luna uses during her seances to show she's not talking to anyone. She actively keeps other spirits away from the house just in case any of the ghost hunting gear people haul into her living room actually works (it doesn't but better safe that sorry). She never speaks just in case a recording picks something up and she's thrown away chunks of identifying features like her face and most of her tattoos so that if she is spotted, she's harder to identify.

She's spent years staging the most intensive anti-haunting she possibly can.

Quartz died 6 months ago and walked right past the entrance to the rainbow bridge to settle in her lap, just like old times. He tries to lead her away from the house a lot. Into the sunrise, towards her grandma's loud bright laughter and the bustling sounds of a family reunion in full swing.

She wants to follow him so badly.

She just.

Can't.

[ivesambrose]

PAC: 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟

1. 2. 3.

For those who are sleeping on their potential or are unaware of it.

To book a personal reading with me DM or email me at ivesambrose@gmail.com with your query.

Masterpost

Services Offered

Thanks for the tip!

PICTURE 1

Blessed with the gift of restoring or beautifying things beyond repair. This could be an object, a garment or you, yourself. There's not a single ending or grief that you've faced that you haven't bloomed out of. Perhaps some of you have found inspiration in it as well. You can find beauty in the mundane and the macabre. You'll always find or have access to some hidden resources. Be it esoteric knowledge, classified sources, intuition or people not really in the public eye.

You're sleeping on your gifts of acquiring wealth. Some of you may have limiting beliefs when it comes to money. You have the ability of being extremely influential with your words but you shy away or underestimate yourself. You'd do amazing in selling/promoting/teaching something but you might think you're not glamourous or confident enough. Both of them are a state of your mind. Some of you can be incredible cooks too, make something simple look appealing and taste exquisite regardless of whether you want to profit out of it or not. Some of you are excellent designers, can stitch fabrics together or put something together like a puzzle piece and make it fit even if they aren't supposed to. With enough awe and wonder you can make yourself happy, something you've been avoiding in the pursuit of keeping up with ever yone else and constant comparison or choosing things to pursue that you aren't supposed to but you end up doing so to prove a point that never gets assured.

PICTURE 2

Such caring and tranquil souls who don't realise that they create their opportunities as they go. You don't have to go looking for them, the more you do they'll elude you. Think of it as looking for your glasses while you were wearing them the whole time. Blessed with the capability of changing lives and circumstances through their thought, ideas and words alone. But you think of it as a power so simple and you seek out more complicated things then wonder why you feel stuck and devoid of curiousity and fun. You're sleeping on your potential to go and see what the world has to offer you and what you have to offer to the world. You might think it's too little but that's far from the truth. You've gathered your perceived mistakes and failures so much that they have piled up in your subconscious somehow. The moment you switch them to what you have gratitude towards, they too will add up and will keep multiplying. You'll either way be guided towards your destiny no matter what.

You have helped others release their burdens but it seems as though you still keep carrying yours with the addition of other's as well. Why? You think you can't execute an idea, you think too much time has or will pass you think you have no relevance. You think too much, so why can't you think in your favour more than once? You're stubborn, so why can't you be stubborn with allowing yourself too walk on your path?

There's an opportunity in everything. The moment you make everything ever in your favour as crazy as it sounds, is when you are prosper.

PICTURE 3

There is power in the unspeakable emotions that you feel but prefer not to. You have the ability to evoke the same emotions in others too. You're perhaps searching for examples or validation from others in regards to what you want to do, where you want to go and what you want to become. But the truth is that you're supposed to be your own validation.

You're meant to be your own example, be as eccentric and revolutionary and chaotic as you wish to be. Some of you are a cult classic in the making and don't even realize it yet. You're like a lightning strike, the poet and the muse. You have the gift to visualise/picture things into existence. You are someone's real life comfort character despite it all You're capable of becoming a healer, taking all the pain and turning into power, inspiring the same in others, you're capable of becoming a leader and an extremely influential person. Use your power well. You're meant to be expressive, you're meant to inspire, to create, to perform, to travel and likely be as many characters as you wish and live many lives, each that caters to your inner child. You can't really go step by step with this, there's hardly any method to it except bursts of energy and inspiration that leads you to where you seek to be. Deep down, you're aware that the only way to live up to this is being a bit strict with yourself, completely accepting your power and contradicting yourself less.

You can easily transmute energy, think of yourself as an alchemist, surround yourself with people and friends who share this vision as well, likey you already are. Stop holding yourself back.