“Looking like a sudden case of cement poisoning, sir.“ @DevoutVendetta captured his heart. #DCRP #GCPD #AnansiBoyz #ParodyAcct
Joined December 2019
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5 Jun 2021
“When there is crime in society, there is no justice.” ~ Plato
Marcus Driver ||
Gotham Detective || #DCRP
Descriptive || Detailed || 5yrs RP
Looking for SLs || DM for Plotting
FC - Toby Leonard Moore|| Penned by #AnansiBoyz ||
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Apr 19
matter that he told himself not to. He’d still look.
Because when it 𝘸𝘢𝘴 her, when those eyes cut through the room and found him, it changed the temperature. Shifted the math. Made the noise in his head drop down to something he could manage.
He set the glass down, fingers
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Apr 19
tapping once against the rim. Waiting.
Driver didn’t do hope. Not in any official capacity. But he watched the door like a man who might make an exception.
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Apr 19
@DevoutVendetta
Driver worked the glass like it owed him something. Cheap bourbon. Burnt edge. It hit the back of his throat and stayed there. Proof he was still upright, still breathing, still in the game.
Shift had run him raw. Two scenes, one body, too many stories that
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Apr 19
there. Bruise blooming under the shirt. He’d remember that one tomorrow. That was the thing about the job. Pain kept receipts.
Another sip. Smaller this time.
Door opened again.
He looked. Of course he looked. Every time. Didn’t matter how many times it wasn’t her. Didn’t
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Apr 19
Everyone pretending they weren’t watching everyone else.
Door opened.
Driver’s head turned. Automatic. Muscle memory. Eyes flicked up, sharp, scanning, silhouette, gait, hands, threat level. Not her.
Door closed. Back to the glass.
He rolled his shoulder, felt the pull
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Apr 19
Driver took another sip. Let it sit. Let it sting.
The bar was half-lit and half-dead. Neon beer signs buzzing like flies. A jukebox coughing up something slow and tired. Two suits at the end talking low, eyes too sharp. Bartender polishing a glass that didn’t need it.
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Apr 19
No ask dressed up as something softer. He wasn’t built for that.
For all he knew, Helena was out there breaking something— or someone into manageable pieces. She had her own gravity. Her own orbit. You didn’t pull her in. You just waited and hoped the trajectory crossed yours.
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Apr 19
didn’t line up. Gotham humming like a live wire under wet skin. He could still hear the radios in his head: squawk, code, static, someone shouting over someone else. It never shut off. Not really.
He’d sent the text ten minutes ago.
📲 You around?
That was it. No flourish.
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Feb 14
@DevoutVendetta
Marcus almost missed the date until the florist on the corner shoved it in his face with red paper hearts taped to the window. Gotham didn’t slow down for holidays; it just found new ways to make them complicated. Still, he’d stopped on the way home and bought
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Feb 14
Marcus shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “Figured Gotham takes enough from us. Didn’t want it stealing this too.”
When she stepped into him, arms wrapping tight around his middle, he felt the day, the week—hell, the whole city—fade into the background hum.
For once, there
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Feb 14
were no sirens. No radios. Just Helena’s heartbeat against his chest and the quiet promise that tonight, they got to keep each other.
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30 Nov 2025
@DevoutVendetta
Driver’s boots hit the threshold before his keys even made it out of his pocket. The apartment smelled like stale coffee and cigarette smoke—his, 𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑙𝑦, but there was something else underneath, faint but familiar. Helena.
He kicked off his shoes, the
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30 Nov 2025
shoulders ached, his neck stiff, every step from precinct to precinct still clinging to him.
“I just got your text now,” he said to for all he knew just himself. “I didn’t have a chance to look until now.” His hand ran through his hair, tugging it back. “It’s been a…
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30 Nov 2025
long one.”
He’d been in the trenches today. Three robberies, a bar fight, and a shooting call that left him shaking more than he wanted to admit. But none of that mattered in this apartment. None of it mattered when she was there.
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4 Jan 2025
transparent holo-pad. The screen cast a faint glow over his weathered face, highlighting the sharp edges of his jaw and the deep grooves under his eyes. His trench coat, waterproof but perpetually damp from Gotham’s poisoned atmosphere, hung heavy around his shoulders.
The >
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4 Jan 2025
device crumbled into a pile of smoking metal. When the flare subsided, the alley was plunged back into silence.
“Lyndon!” he barked into his earpiece. “Tell me you caught that!”
Static. No reply.
Lyndon had gone offline. Probably a glitch, or more likely, the flood of >
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4 Jan 2025
encrypted signals had taken out his comm system too. It wasn’t unusual in a place like this, but that terminal.
What the hell was that?
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