#∷『 PHOTOGRAPHS 』— grace v. ∷

[petrichorpngs]

• identity v x e-diner [flower party] •

[akuma-tenshi]

apparently i completely forgot to post this?? which is insane because it's one of my favourite edits i've made

well, it's here now. essence of the year imho

song is honey i'm home by ghost and pals w/ dex

[graceburnsupdates]

Grace Burns interview for V Magazine.

[staff]

We Asked an Expert...in Herpetology!

People on Tumblr come from all walks of life and all areas of expertise to grace our dashboards with paragraphs and photographs of the things they want to share with the world. Whether it's an artist uploading their speed art, a fanfic writer posting their WIPs, a language expert expounding on the origin of a specific word, or a historian ready to lay down the secrets of Ea-nasir, the hallways of Tumblr are filled with specialists sharing their knowledge with the world. We Asked an Expert is a deep dive into those expert brains on tumblr dot com. Today, we’re talking to Dr. Mark D. Scherz (@markscherz), an expert in Herpetology. Read on for some ribbeting frog facts, including what kind of frog the viral frog bread may be based on.

Reptiles v Amphibians. You have to choose one.

In a battle for my heart, I think amphibians beat out the reptiles. There is just something incredibly good about beholding a nice plump frog.

In a battle to the death, I have to give it to the reptiles—the number of reptiles that eat amphibians far, far outstrips the number of amphibians that eat reptiles.

In terms of ecological importance, I would give it to the amphibians again, though. Okay, reptiles may keep some insects and rodents in check, but many amphibians live a dual life, starting as herbivores and graduating to carnivory after metamorphosis, and as adults they are critical for keeping mosquitos and other pest insects in check.

What is the most recent exciting fact you discovered about herps?

This doesn’t really answer your question, but did you know that tadpole arms usually develop inside the body and later burst through the body wall fully formed? I learned about this as a Master’s student many years ago, but it still blows my mind. What’s curious is that this apparently does not happen in some of the species of frogs that don’t have tadpoles—oh yeah, like a third of all frogs or something don’t have free-living tadpoles; crazy, right? They just develop forelimbs on the outside of the body like all other four-legged beasties. But this has only really been examined in a couple species, so there is just so much we don’t know about development, especially in direct-developing frogs. Like, how the hell does it just… swap from chest-burster to ‘normal’ limb development? Is that the recovery of the ancestral programming, or is it newly generated? When in frog evolution did the chest-burster mode even evolve?

How can people contribute to conservation efforts for their local herps?

You can get involved with your local herpetological societies if they exist—and they probably do, as herpetologists are everywhere. You can upload observations of animals to iNaturalist, where you can get them identified while also contributing to datasets on species distribution and annual activity used by research scientists.

You can see if there are local conservation organizations that are doing any work locally, and if you find they are not, then you can get involved to try to get them started. For example, if you notice areas of particularly frequent roadkill, talking to your local council or national or local conservation organizations can get things like rescue programs or road protectors set up. You should also make sure you travel carefully and responsibly. Carefully wash and disinfect your hiking boots, especially between locations, as you do not want to be carrying chytrid or other nasty infectious diseases across the world, where they can cause population collapses and extinctions.

Here are some recent headlines. Quick question, what the frog is going on in the frog world? 

Click through for Mark’s response to these absolutely wild headlines, more about his day-to-day job, his opinion on frog bread, and his favorite Tumblr.

✨D I S C O V E R Y✨

There are more people on Earth than ever before, with the most incredible technology that advances daily at their disposal, and they disperse that knowledge instantly. That means more eyes and ears observing, recording, and sharing than ever before. And so we are making big new discoveries all the time, and are able to document them and reach huge audiences with them.

That being said, these headlines also showcase how bad some media reporting has gotten. The frogs that scream actually scream mostly in the audible range—they just have harmonics that stretch up into ultrasound. So, we can hear them scream, we just can’t hear all of it. Because the harmonics are just multiples of the fundamental, they would anyway only add to the overall ‘quality’ of the sound, not anything different. The mushroom was sprouting from the flank of the frog, and scientists are not really worried about it because this is not how parasitic fungi work, and this is probably a very weird fluke. And finally, the Cuban tree frogs (Osteocephalus septentrionalis) are not really cannibals per se; they are just generalist predators who will just as happily eat a frog as they will a grasshopper, but the frogs they are eating are usually other species. People seem to forget that cannibalism is, by definition, within a species. The fact that they are generalist predators makes them a much bigger problem than if they were cannibals—a cannibal would actually kind of keep itself in check, which would be useful. The press just uses this to get people’s hackles up because Westerners are often equal parts disgusted and fascinated by cannibalism. 

What does an average day look like for the curator of herpetology at the Natural History Museum of Denmark?

No two days are the same, and that is one of the joys of the job. I could spend a whole day in meetings, where we might be discussing anything from which budget is going to pay for 1000 magnets to how we could attract big research funding, to what a label is going to say in our new museum exhibits (we are in the process of building a new museum). Equally, I might spend a day accompanying or facilitating a visitor dissecting a crocodile or photographing a hundred snakes. Or it might be divided into one-hour segments that cover a full spectrum: working with one of my students on a project, training volunteers in the collection, hunting down a lizard that someone wants to borrow from the museum, working on one of a dozen research projects of my own, writing funding proposals, or teaching classes. It is a job with a great deal of freedom, which really suits my work style and brain.

Oh yeah, and then every now and then, I get to go to the field and spend anywhere from a couple of weeks to several months tracking down reptiles and amphibians, usually in the rainforest. These are also work days—with work conditions you couldn’t sell to anyone: 18-hour work days, no weekends, no real rest, uncomfortable living conditions, sometimes dangerous locations or working conditions, field kitchen with limited options, and more leeches and other biting beasties than most health and welfare officers would tolerate—but the reward is the opportunity to make new discoveries and observations, collect critical data, and the privilege of getting to be in some of the most beautiful and biodiverse places left on the planet. So, I am humbled by the fact that I have the privilege and opportunity to undertake such expeditions, and grateful for the incredible teams I collaborate with that make all of this work—from the museum to the field—possible.

The Tibetan Blackbird is also known as Turdus maximus. What’s your favorite chortle-inducing scientific name in the world of herpetology?

Among reptiles and amphibians, there aren’t actually that many to choose from, but I must give great credit to my friend Oliver Hawlitschek and his team, who named the snake Lycodryas cococola, which actually means ‘Coco dweller’ in Latin, referring to its occurrence in coconut trees. When we were naming Mini mum, Mini scule, and Mini ature, I was inspired by the incredible list that Mark Isaac has compiled of punning species names, particularly by the extinct parrot Vini vidivici, and the beetles Gelae baen, Gelae belae, Gelae donut, Gelae fish, and Gelae rol. I have known about these since high school, and it has always been my ambition to get a species on this list.

If you were a frog, what frog would you be and why?

I think I would be a Phasmahyla because they’re weird and awkward, long-limbed, and look like they’re wearing glasses. As a 186 cm (6’3) glasses-wearing human with no coordination, they quite resonate with me.

Please rate this frog bread from 1/10. Can you tell us what frog it represents?

With the arms inside the body cavity like that, it can basically only be a brevicipitid rain frog. The roundness of the body fits, too. I’d say probably Breviceps macrops (or should I say Breadviceps?) based on those big eyes. 7/10, a little on the bumpy side and missing a finger and at least one toe.

Please follow Dr. Mark Scherz at @markscherz for even more incredibly educational, entertaining, and meaningful resources in the world of reptiles and amphibians.

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

anathema

part V

Pairing: Dean x Fem!Reader, Sam x Fem!Reader (a hint of Michael!Dean x Fem!Reader)

Summary: A fall unmade. A throne surrendered. The softest resurrection stitched together in blood, breath, and grace. You bring them both home—one from the heavens, one from the pit—and lay yourself between them like scripture. This is the ache after worship. The redemption after ruin. The girl, the vessel, the brother. Nothing left but love. Nothing left but them.

Warnings: 18+!, language, angst, biblical references, religious metaphors, reference to smut (p in v, dp), heartbreak, pining, moderate fluff, I may have missed some.

Word Count: 6,915

A/N: A resolution, if you will. I was wrestling with whether or not to add another instalment to this series, and all it took was one ask to have me folding like a deckchair. Thank you to whoever it was that submitted the ask, ha! <3 This has been a trip. I am still really proud of this series as a whole. Felt like reclaiming some of my religious trauma, super cathartic. I hope this ties things together a little better for everyone. I know it's not exactly a happy ending... but when is it ever with these men? Dean's gonna retreat inward in his guilt, like he always does. And our dear Sammy is gonna be more emotionally open but he'll still be fighting to reconcile what he did while Lucifer was playing host. Yap over. If you wanna give me feedback, please do. I liiiive for it. All the love.

Without further ado: ANATHEMA

"Both she and I, I hold her by the hips On heaven's stairs, her eyes wanted a kiss No cause for shame, beloved saint

Another night, a different time There's no cause for shame I'm paralysed, a glowing life Our beloved saint Ebony eye Swing your arms in the October air Both you and I

A hole in heaven, you're my dearest dove We watch the flowers bloom in the house of fools These passing shadows in photographs of you Your burning embrace, it's as warm as rain

I can't describe this glowing light There's no other way than the pearly gates I found my holy place"

Ebony Eye - Yves Tumor

You stayed in his lap long after the movements had stopped.

The room had fallen quiet, save for the brittle sound of your breath threading through the silence like incense through a ruined cathedral. Your body trembled, not from cold or fear, but from the aftermath of something too vast to hold. You felt stretched thin, like skin over glass, every nerve raw and flickering with the weight of what had just passed through you.

Michael—still wearing Dean's face, still inside Dean's body—held you like something sacred. His cock remained buried inside you, softening, warm. The pressure of it made you ache, but you didn't move. Neither of you did. His hands rested lightly on your hips, reverent, as though he thought even now, even after all this, he might break you.

"The righteous fall seven times," he murmured again, his lips brushing your temple.

His voice had changed. No longer the cold, perfect command of Heaven's sword, but something quieter. Almost human. Something like surrender.

"But I do not plan on rising."

You didn't respond. Your lips parted, but no sound came. You couldn't speak. Couldn't move. The grief was building again, this strange and impossible ache that made your chest feel tight, like your ribs had been laced together with barbed wire.

"I have warred for my Father's name," he said softly, the words falling like scripture into the hollow between you. "I have drowned cities. Silenced prophets. I have watched stars die for less than the disobedience I showed you."

His fingers traced up your spine, slow and deliberate, not to tease or possess, but as if committing your form to memory.

"And yet," he whispered, "I have never seen anything more holy than you."

Your throat closed. A sound cracked in your chest—half sob, half gasp—but you swallowed it down. You didn't know why you were crying. You didn't even know if it was for him, or for Dean, or for yourself.

"I wasn't made to want," he continued, almost tender now. "But I did. I wanted your voice. Your ruin. The way you broke for me. The way you looked at me and hated me and still... still gave yourself. Not out of love, but faith."

He cupped your jaw, tilting your face toward him. You looked into Dean's eyes—but they weren't Dean's, not yet. Still too bright. Still too far away from Earth.

"He will not remember me," Michael said. "But he will remember this. He will dream of it. Of the way you trembled when he touched you. The way you begged. The way you fell."

His thumb brushed your bottom lip. Gentle. Unbearable.

"I have carved you into his bones. Etched your name into the chambers of his heart. So that even when I sleep, he will feel me there. And through him, I will remain."

You shook your head slowly, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. "Don't," you whispered. "Please don't say goodbye like this."

His smile was small. Wistful. Not mocking.

"You wanted him," he said. "And I... I wanted you."

There was no cruelty left in him. No power. Only something vast and breaking. You felt it beneath your skin, the moment he began to unravel. It wasn't violent. It wasn't sudden. It was soft, like silk unspooling from a frayed edge. Like surrender.

"This is all I know to give," he said. "So I give it."

You reached for him—without thinking. Just a touch, just the edge of your fingers curling into his shoulders, like maybe if you held him close enough, he wouldn't go. You didn't know why you did it. You didn't know what it meant. Only that some part of you was breaking open right alongside him.

"I will watch through him," Michael whispered. "I will remember. I will protect."

He kissed your temple like a benediction.

"Wake up, Dean."

There was a pause.

And then his body shuddered once beneath yours—his spine arching, hands twitching—and then a breath. A sharp, wet, human breath, gasped like it had been denied to him for a thousand years.

Dean's eyes snapped open. Green. Startled. Wild. Alive.

"What the hell," he rasped, blinking rapidly, chest heaving as he grabbed at your waist like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. "Where—what the fuck—where am I?"

You stared at him. At his face. At the way it shifted—his again now, no longer angelic. No longer terrifying. Just Dean. Just yours.

"Dean," you breathed. Your voice cracked like it had never held his name before.

He looked down. He saw the mess between your bodies. The way you were still wrapped around him. The bruises. The tremble in your hands.

His eyes widened. Horror bloomed across his face.

"Oh my God," he whispered. "What did he—what did he do to you?"

You shook your head through the tears, through the ache, through the strange and sudden relief blooming in your chest. "No," you said. "He gave you back to me."

Dean's grip faltered. He looked like he might come apart. Like he didn't know how to exist in this skin anymore.

"I remember," he choked out. "Pieces. Your voice. You were crying. I—fuck—I felt it. I felt everything."

You pressed your forehead to his, your fingers curling around the sides of his face.

"I have you," you said. "You're here. You're mine."

And then he broke.

He pulled you into him, arms wrapping around your back like a man clinging to the edge of the world. You buried yourself in his chest, still shaking, still full of grief, and something else now, too—peace. Small. Fragile. Real.

"I'm so fucking sorry," he whispered into your hair. "I'm so sorry. I should've—he used you. He used me—"

"I know," you said.

But even as you held Dean, even as you clung to the warmth and solidity of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, you couldn't stop thinking about the last thing Michael said.

How he would stay. How he would watch. How he had carved you into Dean's bones so he could remember what love felt like—even if he never rose again.

You closed your eyes. And somewhere, buried deep inside the man you loved, the archangel slept.

The silence was deafening.

Dean's arms stayed locked around you, tight but trembling. You could feel every fractured breath leave his lungs, hot against your shoulder. He didn't move. Didn't speak. He was still inside you, still anchored to your body like he was afraid that pulling away would erase him.

And maybe he was right. Maybe if he moved, this would all vanish. Maybe you'd wake up alone again. Empty again.

His hand slid up your spine—slow, unsure—then back down. A small, shaking pass, like he was trying to memorise you the way Michael had. But it wasn't ritual now. It wasn't sacred.

It was human. And it hurt more.

"I can't—" His voice cracked, barely a breath. "I can't believe he..."

You didn't answer.

Dean shifted just enough to glance down, to look at where you were still joined, his expression twisting like he might be sick. But even then, he didn't move. His jaw locked. His hand gripped your waist.

"I should pull out," he muttered.

You shook your head immediately. "Don't."

His eyes snapped back to yours, startled.

You swallowed, throat tight and dry. "Not yet."

He searched your face like he was waiting for you to change your mind. Like he didn't trust what he saw there. But when you didn't look away, when your hands clutched tighter at his shoulders, he nodded—just once—and stayed.

You didn't know how long you sat like that. Breathing each other in. Remembering the weight of silence after prayer. After war. After divinity left the room.

Then Dean whispered, "Why are you crying?"

Your chest stuttered. You hadn't even noticed the tears had started again, but they were slipping down your cheeks, warm and constant.

"Because," you rasped. "It's not him anymore."

Dean flinched like you'd hit him. You saw it—the pain flash across his face. But you didn't take it back.

"He gave you back to me," you said, softer this time. "He chose to leave."

Dean's brow furrowed, a deep crease between his eyes. "Why the hell would he do that?"

You exhaled slowly, lowering your forehead to his. Your voice was smaller than you meant for it to be. "Because he loved me."

Dean didn't move. He didn't breathe. You felt the way his entire body went rigid beneath you, and still—you didn't stop.

"He never said the words. But he didn't have to. He... he let himself fall. For me."

The words barely made it past your lips, each one more broken than the last. It sounded like betrayal when you said it out loud. Like a confession you hadn't meant to speak. But it was the truth.

And Dean deserved the truth.

His hands twitched at your waist, then slid up, fingers threading through your hair with aching care. His voice was hoarse. "Do you love him back?"

You hesitated. Just long enough for his heart to skip a beat beneath you.

"I don't know," you whispered. "I think... I think I'm grieving him."

Dean made a sound in the back of his throat. Something torn. But he didn't push you away. He didn't accuse. He just wrapped his arms tighter around your waist, eyes closing like the weight of it all had finally landed.

"I'm sorry," you said. "I didn't ask for any of it. I just—I missed you so much I stopped knowing what was real."

"I know," he murmured. "It's not your fault. None of this is your fault."

You believed him. And it still hurt.

After a while, Dean took a deep breath, grounding himself against you, then glanced toward the bathroom door.

"Let me clean you off."

You stiffened.

"It's okay," he said quickly. "I just... I need to. Please."

You nodded.

When he lifted you from his lap, you winced. Your thighs ached. The soreness between your legs stung as he slid free from your body, and you whimpered at the loss of warmth.

Dean caught it. He cursed under his breath and kissed your forehead, holding you close before carrying you into the bathroom.

The light was too bright. You blinked against it as Dean set you down on the counter, moving with slow, deliberate care. He ran the water, tested the temperature. His back was tense. His hands, shaking.

When he turned to you, his eyes went dark at the sight of your thighs, your hips, the mess between your legs.

"God," he whispered. "I hate that it was me. My body. That he used me to—"

You reached out and took his hand.

"It wasn't you," you said. "It wasn't. But... it still felt like you. And that's what made it worse."

Dean swallowed hard. "Did he hurt you?"

"No," you said. Then, after a beat: "Not in the way you think."

He stepped forward, slipping his arms around your waist again, his forehead pressing to yours.

"I'm gonna carry this for the rest of my life," he said. "Knowing he touched you like that. Knowing I didn't stop it."

"You're here now."

"I wasn't supposed to come back."

You met his eyes. "He wasn't supposed to fall."

That stopped him.

You leaned into him, your hand splayed over his heart. "He gave me you. You gave me something to come back to. I don't know what that means yet. I just know I need to feel like I'm yours again."

He looked at you like you'd cracked the sky open. And then, without a word, he helped you into the shower.

The water was warm. Steam curled around your skin like absolution.

Dean washed you gently, reverently. He didn't speak much—just murmured small comforts under his breath as he dragged warm cloth over your thighs, between your legs, along the curve of your spine. He pressed kisses to your temple, your shoulder, your wrist. And when he was done, he just stood there, holding you against his chest under the water like he could baptise the grief out of both of you.

You felt it then. That ache in your throat. That memory of fire.

"Dean," you whispered. "Sam..."

He tensed.

You looked up at him. "We have to get him back."

He nodded slowly, eyes wet. "I know."

"He gave himself to Lucifer to save you. And now you're here. You're home. So now... now we bring him back too."

Dean cupped your face in both hands and kissed you, soft and aching. Like a man kissing someone alive for the first time after war. It wasn't desire. It was devotion.

"I've got you," he whispered. "And we'll get him. I swear to God, we'll get him."

You pressed your forehead to his and closed your eyes. You had found your holy place. Now it was time to save the rest of it.

Dean carried you back to your bedroom in silence.

He didn't ask if this was where you wanted to go—he just knew. This was where he used to find you curled beneath his flannels. This was where you used to curl into his chest and drink his whiskey and call him home without saying a word. This was where the haunting had started.

And now, maybe, this was where it would end.

The room smelled like you. Like worn cotton and soft skin and ghosted tears. But underneath it, Dean caught something else. Himself. Faded and stretched thin, but there. The memory of his clothes on your body. His glass at your lips. His seat still pulled back just how he used to leave it.

He paused in the doorway, chest rising and falling a little too fast.

You watched him hesitate. You felt it in his grip. He looked at the bed like it might bite him. Like it wasn't his place anymore.

So you reached up, touched his jaw, and whispered, "Come here."

That was all it took.

He crossed the threshold and laid you down with the same care you'd once begged Michael to mimic—like you were breakable, and he was already mourning the pieces. He followed you onto the mattress without letting go, settling beside you, your towels still clinging damp to your skin, your bodies curved into one another like parentheses around a prayer.

For a long while, you didn't speak.

Dean's hand rested on your waist, his thumb moving slowly back and forth. You could feel the tension in his jaw, the storm still gathering behind his eyes. He was here. He was real. But his silence said everything—he was holding himself together with threads.

You turned your face toward his and pressed your lips to his collarbone. "I thought I'd never get you back."

Dean's breath caught.

"I missed you," you said. "So much I started thinking maybe I made you up."

He didn't speak right away. When he did, his voice was so low it barely made it out of his chest.

"I saw you."

You blinked. "What?"

"Through him. Through Michael. When he first came back to the bunker. I—I didn't have control, but I was still there. And I saw you."

You swallowed, throat burning.

"You were walking around in my flannels," he said, eyes distant, voice rough. "Nothing else. Just skin and cotton and grief. And I remember thinking, God, she's still mine. Look at her—she's still mine."

You felt the ache in his words. The guilt. The love.

"You drank from my glass," he went on, more broken now. "Sat in my chair. Took all the pieces of me and tried to build something that felt like home. And he—Michael—he didn't get it. But I did. I felt it."

You buried your face into his shoulder.

"And then..." He exhaled hard. "Then you told him to pretend to be me."

Your heart clenched.

"I heard you," he said. "Your voice. Soft. Begging. Needing. You said you couldn't take it anymore. That you needed him to pretend—to hold you like I would. Fuck you like I would. You said you didn't care if it was fake. You just wanted to feel like I was there."

You started crying again.

Dean turned fully onto his side, cupped your face in both hands, and kissed the salt from your cheeks.

"I wanted to die," he whispered. "Right then, I swear to God—I wanted to claw my way out of my own body and come back to you."

You touched his wrists, grounding him.

"He used my voice," Dean said, shaking his head. "My tone. My commands. Everything I ever gave you—he twisted it. He made you kneel. He made you pray."

You nodded. "He made me say the Lord's Prayer while he was inside me."

Dean flinched like you'd shot him.

"But I need you to know," you said softly, "that I never stopped seeing you. Even when I was begging him. Even when I let him use your face to hurt me... I was begging for you to come back."

Dean kissed you then.

Not possessive. Not desperate. Just slow. Like a man unlearning absence.

His lips brushed yours, again and again, like punctuation marks. Full stops. Pauses. Small gasps of thank God and I'm here and you're mine.

His hand slid beneath your towel, resting warm and wide over your bare hip.

Not pulling. Just touching.

You arched into him gently, letting the contact say what you couldn't. That you were here. That this was real. That you were still his.

He kissed your knuckles. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

"I've got you," he whispered. "And I'm never letting anything take me from you again."

You let yourself melt into him. For the first time in what felt like eternity, your bed felt safe again. Like your bed. Like his bed. Like something worth reclaiming.

Dean's fingers brushed through your damp hair, his voice lower now. "We'll get Sam."

You nodded.

"He gave himself up to save me," Dean said. "And now it's our turn."

You met his eyes. "We're bringing him home."

Dean leaned forward and kissed you again, long and sure, and when he pulled back, his voice was stronger.

"We save him." You rested your forehead against his, tears still clinging to your lashes. "And this time," you said, "none of us fall alone."

A week passed.

It didn't move like time. It moved like a wound. Every day stretched out wide and soundless, too long, too quiet, like the house itself had forgotten how to hold the weight of breath.

Sam was still gone. At least, the part of him that mattered.

Lucifer didn't rage or seethe like he had before. He didn't boast or posture. He was worse now. Quieter. More comfortable. He moved through the bunker with Sam's walk, Sam's voice, Sam's memories, but none of the hesitation. None of the pain. He looked at you with eyes that remembered how Sam used to love you—and twisted that memory into something clinical, almost tender.

It made your skin crawl.

And Dean—

Dean had barely touched you since the shower. At first, you told yourself it was just time. That he was processing. Healing. That the weight of everything—Michael, Sam, the way he'd come back into the world inside you—was still sinking in.

But time passed. And the distance grew.

He stopped sleeping beside you. Stopped eating meals in the same room. He drifted through the bunker like a ghost of himself, never cruel, never unkind—just... gone.

You'd find him in the garage, shirtless and silent, fake-fixing the same part of the Impala he'd already rebuilt twice. You'd catch him in the kitchen at 3am, standing in the dark, pouring whiskey like it was medicine. You'd pass each other in the hallway and he'd give you that tight, broken half-smile like he wanted to say something but couldn't. Like the words were stuck somewhere behind his teeth, choking him.

And every time you reached for him—every time your fingers brushed his arm, or you said his name—he pulled away.

Like your touch burned.

Tonight, you found him in his room. The door was cracked just enough to let the light bleed through, but not enough to invite anyone in. You stood there for a moment, hand resting on the frame, listening to the clink of glass. The slow pour of liquid. The kind of silence that only exists when someone's trying not to cry.

You pushed the door open.

Dean didn't look up. He sat on the edge of his bed, hunched forward, elbows braced on his knees, his glass of whiskey cradled like something sacred. He was still dressed—jeans, grey t-shirt, boots unlaced. His shoulders were taut, tense, like he'd been carrying the same breath in his lungs for days and didn't know how to let it go.

"I've been calling you," you said softly.

He didn't answer. Just took a sip, eyes on the floor.

You stepped in and closed the door behind you. "I'm not playing this game with you anymore."

Dean's voice, when it came, was quiet. Tired. "What game is that?"

"The one where you disappear. Where you keep hiding from me like I did something wrong."

That got his eyes, just for a second. Sharp, green, glassy.

"You didn't do anything," he said. "That's the problem."

You crossed the room and stopped in front of him. "Then look at me."

Dean didn't move.

"Dean," you said again, more firmly this time. "Look at me."

Slowly, like it hurt, he lifted his eyes to yours. And what you saw there—

It wasn't anger. It wasn't blame. It was grief. Pure, bottomless grief. The kind that eats a man from the inside out. And under it—shame. So much shame it made your heart ache.

"I see it," he said, voice barely audible. "Every time I close my eyes. Every time you speak. I see it."

"See what?"

He exhaled shakily. Looked down at the floor, then back at you. And then, in the softest, most broken voice you'd ever heard from him:

"You. Crying. Begging. Praying while my body used you like some kind of fucking experiment."

The words hit like a whip. You didn't move. Didn't speak.

"I see your lips around my fingers," he continued, his voice unraveling by the word. "You on your knees. The way you whispered my name like it still meant something. Like I was still in there. And I just—"

He swallowed. His throat worked like he was trying not to throw up.

"I couldn't move. I couldn't scream. I couldn't stop it. I was in there, and I watched him take every part of me you loved and twist it into something he could own."

You dropped to your knees in front of him, hands rising to cup his face.

"Dean—"

"I can't hold you without thinking about it," he whispered. "Can't touch you without wondering if it's me you want, or just the part of me he let you keep." His voice cracked. "I feel like he carved his name into you using my fucking hands."

You didn't let go. You held his jaw steady, your thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

"I need you to hear me," you said. "Right now. Right here."

Dean's breath caught.

"I need you. You. Not him. Not the memory of him. Not the angel who used your face to keep me from losing my mind. You."

He closed his eyes like he couldn't bear it.

"You don't get to disappear," you said, quieter now, but no less firm. "I need you. Sam needs you. You don't get to hide in your guilt while the rest of us try to hold this place together."

"I'm trying," he said, brokenly. "I'm trying to figure out how to breathe again, and every time I look at you I feel like I'm back in the dark. Watching. Helpless."

"You're not helpless now."

"I should've fought harder."

"He locked you in your own body."

"I should've been stronger."

"You didn't do this, Dean."

"I felt every fucking second," he said. "I felt you break. And I couldn't do a thing."

You pressed your forehead to his.

"I chose to let him in," you whispered. "I begged him to pretend to be you. I wore your shirts and sat in your chair and drank your whiskey because I missed you so bad I wanted to bleed. I knew what I was doing."

Dean's hands gripped your thighs. His breath shook against your skin.

"He let me be close to you. Even if it was wrong. Even if it wasn't really you, it felt like you. And that was the only thing that kept me from burning this whole fucking world down."

He didn't speak. Didn't move.

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.

"You don't get to hate yourself for something I wanted."

His eyes were red now, glassy. But he was listening.

"We need to go after Sam," you said. "We are losing him. He is slipping every single day. Lucifer is comfortable. You know what that means."

Dean nodded slowly.

"So we fight," you said. "We save him. We bring him home."

He looked at you like he was trying to find himself in your face again.

"I'm doing this," you said. "With or without you."

And then you kissed him.

Not sweet. Not delicate. But true.

Your mouth met his like a promise, like a final prayer, like you're still mine and I am still yours and we are not done yet. And when you pulled back, you were both breathless. But Dean's hands hadn't left your skin. His grip was firmer now. Present. Alive.

You stood.

"I'm going to find him."

And before Dean could speak, before he could gather the broken pieces of his voice, you turned and walked out into the hall—leaving the door open behind you. Because he had a choice now.

To follow. Or to fall behind.

The hallway stretched long and silent ahead of you, every step toward Sam's door pounding through the soles of your feet like the earth itself was trying to warn you. The air tasted metallic. War-heavy. Like something ancient holding its breath.

You were halfway there when you felt the shift.

Not a sound. Not a warning. Just the air moving differently—quicker, hungrier—right before a rough hand caught the nape of your neck. You barely had time to gasp before you were spun, fast and breathless, your back crashing into the wall hard enough to knock the wind from your lungs.

Dean's mouth was on yours before you could speak—hot, bruising, desperate. Your gasp left your chest and he swallowed it, groaning like it hurt to breathe without you. His hands fisted in the oversized t-shirt you wore, dragging your hips flush to his like he was trying to fuse the space between you shut.

You whimpered into him as his body pressed harder, grinding against you in a rhythm that wasn't even trying to be subtle. You were aching, soaked and pulsing, and the rough drag of denim against the heat between your thighs made your knees buckle. Dean caught you, pinned you higher against the wall with one hand, the other bracing beside your head.

"Fuck," he groaned, lips sliding messily down your jaw. "Fuck, I'm so sorry, baby. I just needed—I just needed a second. To hate myself. To remember what it felt like before you looked at me like I was something good."

You pulled him back to your mouth with both hands tangled in his hair, kissing him like the week apart had carved a hollow in your chest that only he could fill.

"Don't care," you gasped between kisses. "Don't wanna hear it. Just—don't stop—Dean—please—"

His mouth slammed back into yours like he couldn't get close enough, couldn't get in deep enough, like if he could just breathe you in far enough, it might cleanse something that rotted inside him.

He ground against you again, the thick press of his cock dragging over your soaked core through the t-shirt and his jeans. You moaned into him, hips bucking shamelessly.

"You're everything," you whispered into his mouth. "You hear me? Everything."

Dean's lips moved down your throat, teeth grazing your skin, a breathless fuck pressed to your collarbone before he came back up, kissed you again, harder, sloppier.

You nipped at his lower lip, sucked it between your teeth, and he groaned, hips jerking.

"You've always been it," you said, voice cracking. "Even when it wasn't you—I was looking for you. I only wanted you."

Dean let out a high, broken noise, barely restrained, almost a sob, almost a growl. "I know," he rasped. "God, I know, I just—fuck, I don't deserve you—"

You kissed him so hard he staggered. Pulled at the back of his neck, tongue slipping past his lips to taste the whiskey and desperation on his breath. You were soaked. You were shaking. You were seconds from grabbing his belt and pulling him inside you right here, all be damned, consequences be damned, Lucifer be damned—

But then, you remembered.

Sam.

The plan. The promise.

You tore your mouth away from his, chest heaving, your hand flattening over his heart like it might still the pounding there.

"Dean," you said, voice ragged. "We can't. Not yet."

He leaned his forehead against yours, panting, nodding even as his hips still rolled against you once, slow and sinful.

"I know," he whispered. "I know."

You swallowed, blinked hard, felt your lip trembling. "I love you."

The sound Dean made wasn't human. A sharp, breathless whine, high in his throat, like your words had struck something holy in him. He kissed you again, softer now, slower, and when he pulled back, his hand slid from the wall to cradle your face.

"I'm with you," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

You nodded, breath still shaky, heart slamming against your ribs.

"We get him back," you said.

Dean's jaw clenched. He leaned in and kissed your forehead. "Let's go save my brother."

The door to Sam's room was open.

That should've been the first warning. He never left it that way. Not before. And certainly not now—not since the day Lucifer took up residence behind his eyes and began wearing your family like a second skin.

But the room yawned open like a mouth tonight, dark and still and waiting.

You stood just outside the threshold, Dean beside you, both of you silent. His breath was still uneven from the hallway, chest lifting and falling beneath his shirt like something in him hadn't fully settled—like something in him had only just begun to stir.

You didn't speak. You didn't need to. You stepped inside.

The air was heavy, warm. Thicker than it should've been, like the walls were holding something they couldn't quite bear.

And there—sitting cross-legged on the bed, barefoot, elbows on his knees—was Sam. Or at least, what was left of him. He tilted his head when he saw you, smiling. Not with Sam's softness, but something else entirely. A smile that curved like a knife and promised to cut.

"Look what the dog dragged in," Lucifer said, voice bright and theatrical, like a line he'd been rehearsing for days. His eyes flicked lazily from you to Dean, then back again, amused. Relaxed. The predator pretending to be the host.

You didn't answer.

Dean took a slow step beside you, jaw tight, eyes locked on the thing wearing his brother's face.

Lucifer sighed and leaned back against the wall, stretching like a cat in a patch of sun. "And here I thought we'd made peace," he went on. "You got your boy back, I got the vessel of my dreams. But no. You just can't leave well enough alone, can you, little thing?"

He turned his head, studying you. His gaze was sharp, knowing. Disgustingly intimate.

"You've got a thing for archangels, don't you?" He asked, tone lilting. "First Michael, now me. And you say I'm the pervert."

Still, you said nothing.

Lucifer's smile widened. "Oh, don't be shy. It's not like you were modest before. Should I describe it again? That night in your room—the way you begged. Please, you said."

You took a slow, steady step forward. Dean followed.

Lucifer's voice dropped, mocking reverence. "Cried in his lap. Prayed with our cocks inside you. Said Dean's name while Michael marked you like a sacrament. You wanted that. Don't forget that."

The words sliced clean—but you didn't flinch. Not this time. You stepped forward again, closer, slow and deliberate.

"Thought so," Lucifer murmured. "You want to save Sam now? Sorry. Too late. He gave himself to me. Willingly. That's what consent looks like, sweetheart. I own this temple."

Dean's voice came low and quiet behind you. "You don't own shit."

Lucifer blinked. Turned his gaze on him.

"You always were the dull one," he said with a smirk. "Little brother gets the brains, and you... you get to be the walking trauma response. A blunt instrument. Honestly, I'm surprised she picked you."

Dean didn't move. Didn't blink. But something shimmered beneath the surface—heat rising under his skin. A pressure building in the air. Something divine, ancient, and aching to be used.

"You think Sam's not still in there," Dean said, voice quiet but steady. "You think he's not fighting you. But I can feel it."

Lucifer smiled, but it faltered at the edges. Just slightly. Just enough.

"Sammy's not screaming anymore, is he?" Dean asked. "Because he's pulling. Right now. I know it."

Lucifer's jaw twitched.

Another step.

You were close now. At the foot of the bed. Lucifer's posture shifted, almost imperceptibly—like he felt it too. The tension in the air. The slow gathering of light around Dean that hadn't been there a moment ago.

"Still trying to play hero?" Lucifer asked him. "You think you're holy now? Because Michael gave you back? You think grace is some kind of redemption, Dean?"

Dean's breath was tight. "No. I think it's fuel."

Lucifer's expression cracked—barely—but enough.

Dean stepped closer, and the air shimmered again. His shoulder brushed yours, heat blooming beneath his skin like fire-banked ash.

You looked at Sam. Really looked. And what you saw, beneath the smirk and the cruelty, was a flicker. A tremble. Something not quite right in his eyes.

He was still in there.

You moved, slowly, until you were at the edge of the bed. Lucifer didn't stop you. Didn't blink. Just watched.

You sat beside him. Soft. Steady. Your hand rose. And when your palm cupped Sam's cheek, the skin beneath your touch was shaking.

"I need you," you whispered. Your thumb brushed the hollow beneath his eye.

Lucifer exhaled slowly. "He can't hear you."

"I love you."

Lucifer's face pinched.

"Come back," you said. "Please, Sam. Come back to us."

Dean dropped to his knees beside the bed, one hand on the mattress, the other gripping Sam's shoulder like a tether.

"You hear her?" He whispered. "You know who we are. You know."

Sam's eyes closed. His jaw trembled. Not Lucifer's smirk. Not control.

Pain.

"You're not alone," you said again, leaning forward, pressing your forehead to his.

The air pulsed.

Dean's breath hitched. His body arched—just slightly—as something ignited inside of him. A light under his sternum. A holy thing, half-buried and not quite his, but present.

Michael. You saw it in his eyes as they went glassy, then clear. A spark of gold. A flare of grace.

Dean's voice broke. "Sammy," he whispered. "Come home."

And then—

Lucifer screamed. Not rage. Not performance. Terror. His hands lashed out, clutching at the air, at you, at anything. But it was too late. The consent was gone. The lock had broken. Sam had let go.

Light cracked across the room like lightning through stained glass. Lucifer's mouth opened in a howl that didn't sound human. And then he was gone. Just like that. A flash. A gasp. And Sam collapsed into your arms, boneless and trembling.

You didn't know how long the light had been gone. Maybe minutes. Maybe more. But when you looked up, when the silence finally settled around you like dust, Sam was still in your arms. Breathing. Shaking. Alive.

Dean was crouched on the other side of the bed, one hand still pressed to Sam's shoulder, like he hadn't dared let go until the room stopped glowing. His face was pale, slack with disbelief. His mouth opened once—twice—but nothing came out.

Sam exhaled, ragged, like the first breath after drowning. His eyes were wet. His lips were bitten red. He blinked slowly, and when he looked at Dean, something broke.

"You came back."

Dean didn't say anything. He just nodded—once—and crawled onto the bed like a man moving through holy ground. He reached for Sam like he didn't trust his hands to hold anything that wasn't grief, and when his palm found the back of Sam's neck, his head bowed.

"Yeah," Dean whispered, voice thick. "Yeah, I did."

Sam's arms trembled. You felt it. And then suddenly, he was leaning forward, gripping Dean's shoulder, pressing his forehead to his brother's like he was trying to confirm it—trying to feel that he was real.

You didn't speak. You didn't interrupt. You just curled between them, one hand on Sam's arm, the other on Dean's thigh, your cheek resting against Sam's chest, eyes wide and wet and locked on Dean.

And for the first time since you lost them—you had them both.

One breath. One bed. One bruised, breathing, battered miracle.

Dean's hand slipped down to your side, tugging you closer, and you let him pull. Sam's fingers found yours. No one spoke for a while. There was nothing that could be said.

But your mouth moved anyway. You kissed Dean's chest—soft, reverent. His collarbone. His jaw. Then Sam's arm. His shoulder. The corner of his mouth. Small, aching things. Little devotions. They didn't stop you. They didn't even react—just watched you through heavy lashes, like they couldn't believe they got to be touched again.

Eventually, Sam cleared his throat. "The night Dean said yes..."

Your breath caught.

He glanced at Dean, who gave a short nod. Guilt flared behind his eyes, but he didn't speak.

Sam looked at you.

"You weren't there," he said. "You were here. Cas and I—we'd just come back from a lead that went nowhere. Dean hadn't said a word to us in hours."

Your lips grazed the edge of Dean's arm.

"We found him in the woods," Sam said quietly. "He was kneeling. Alone. Like he was already halfway gone."

Dean's jaw twitched.

"I tried to stop him. I said—I said I wasn't ready to lose him. That there had to be another way." Sam's voice cracked. "But he looked at me like he was already dead."

You looked up. Dean's eyes were fixed on the far wall, jaw clenched so tight you thought his teeth might break.

Sam continued. "He told Michael yes. And then he was gone."

You kissed Dean's shoulder, slow and soft, and whispered, "I'm so sorry."

He didn't look at you. Just muttered, "Don't."

"I mean it," you said. "I should've been there."

Dean finally turned. His eyes were glassy. "You needed to be here. I didn't want you to see it."

You pressed a kiss to the edge of his throat. "You didn't get to make that call."

Sam's hand came up, caught your wrist, and for a moment, you weren't sure what he was going to say. But then he brought your hand to his chest, held it there, and said:

"I knew you'd get me back."

You looked at him, breath hitching. His face was solemn, eyes warm. You nodded. "I promised I'd stop at nothing."

He nodded back.

And then you were moving—settling between them, one leg over Dean's thigh, your hand still resting over Sam's heartbeat. Your body folded between theirs like a prayer.

There was no way to make this moment neat. No clean way to fold three broken hearts into one another and pretend the cracks didn't show. But they were here. And so were you. And for now, for tonight—that was enough.

Later, when the shaking had stopped, when Sam's breathing had evened, when the light had bled out of Dean's bones and you were all just skin and blood again—you lay tangled between them in the aftermath.

No one spoke for a while.

There was only the weight of breath. The subtle rhythm of recovery. Your head on Dean's shoulder. Sam's palm resting flat against your thigh. Dean's fingers brushing idly against your hip like he couldn't stop touching just to make sure you were still here.

It wasn't silence. It was sacred stillness.

But eventually, you broke it.

"We need to call Cas."

Dean shifted, his arm curling tighter around you.

"He needs to see that you're both... okay," you added. "That you're back."

Sam nodded, slow, head against the pillow.

You hesitated, then winced—just slightly. "He's probably still freaking out."

Dean noticed. "What?"

"I, uh..." You pressed your lips together. "He... might've seen something. That he wasn't supposed to."

Both brothers stilled.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Define something."

You squirmed a little deeper into the mattress. "The aftermath of... that night. You know. The... threesome."

Dean groaned, dragging a hand over his face. "Oh, come on."

Sam's voice was flat. "He walked in?"

You nodded. "Yeah. I was still in Michael's lap. His grace was still buried in me. Lucifer was being smug. And Cas—he looked like he wanted to scrub his eyes with bleach."

Dean turned his head, wincing. "Christ."

"He told Michael that you two wouldn't take it lightly," you added softly. "Said I belonged to you."

That silenced the room again. But not painfully. Just weightfully. Like truth laid bare on a table.

You sighed. Then softly, reverently, you whispered, "Cas?"

The air shifted. A breath caught in the fabric of the world. And a moment later, he was there. Standing in the doorway. Looking at all three of you like he wasn't sure if this was real.

His eyes landed on Dean first. "Dean," he said quietly.

Dean blinked. "Hey, sunshine."

You could feel the way Sam huffed beside you, amusement soft and stunned. Castiel's expression didn't change, but something about his shoulders relaxed.

You gestured to the foot of the bed. "Come sit down."

He did. It was awkward, but gentle. Like watching someone return to a dream they thought they'd lost. Castiel looked at Dean, then Sam, then down at you between them.

"I'm glad you're both back," he said. "You were gone a long time."

Sam gave him a look full of apology and reverence. "Thank you. For not giving up on us."

Castiel nodded once. Then he turned to you. "And you?" He asked. "Are you okay?"

You looked at him. Then at Dean. Then at Sam. You leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to Sam's lips—chaste, but intimate. Grateful. Then turned, cupped Dean's jaw, and kissed him too. Warm. Anchoring. Home. And when you looked back at Castiel, your voice trembled, but your smile didn't.

"I'm home again," you said. "Finally."

He said nothing. Just nodded. And then the quiet settled once more.

Not grief. Not fear. Not waiting.

Just stillness.

You curled tighter between the boys, your body a seam between everything you'd lost and everything you'd survived. And somewhere in the back of your mind—deep beneath your skin—you felt the echo of a voice that wasn't yours. That wasn't Michael's. That wasn't Lucifer's.

Just something ancient. Something sacred.

And on the seventh day… the storm ceased.

And there was ruin. And there was blood. And there was resurrection.

And the girl who bore the weight of heaven and hell… was no longer kneeling.

@mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @cevansbaby-dove @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl <3

[kvysvdilla]

𝑩𝑬𝒀𝑶𝑵𝑫 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑷𝑶𝑻𝑳𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻

idol/Jk x supermodel/reader -Aria Jeong-

GENRE: Romance | Fluff | Celebrity life

Chapter 01

The faint hum of a hairdryer filled the spacious dressing room, mingling with soft chatter and the clinking of makeup brushes against palettes. Aria Jeong sat poised in front of the mirror, her long legs crossed elegantly as the hairstylist put the final touches on her glossy, voluminous waves. Dressed in a silk robe with the initials “AJ” embroidered in gold, she exuded effortless grace—a true image of a supermodel at the height of her career.

Aria Jeong. Born in Seoul in 1998, she had taken the world by storm with her ethereal beauty, striking runway presence, and magnetic personality. She wasn’t just a model; she was a global sensation. With campaigns for Calvin Klein, Gucci, and Chanel under her belt and regular appearances at events like the Met Gala, Victoria Secrets, and even Paris Fashion Week, she had become one of the most recognizable faces in fashion. And now, here she was, preparing for her latest photoshoot for the cover of Vogue.

Aria’s skin, smooth and flawless, glistened under the studio lights as she was pampered by a team of professionals. Her long, dark hair cascaded in soft waves down her back, ready for the dramatic styling that would complete the look. She had been through this routine hundreds of times, but today felt different—there was something electric in the air, something that made her heart race just a little bit faster.

“Aria, you’re going to look amazing for this cover,” Mia, her hairstylist, said with a smile. “We’re going for a bold, confident look today, something that screams high fashion.”

Aria smiled softly, her lips curling into a graceful expression as Mia continued to work. “I trust you, Mia. You always know what’s best,” she replied, her voice steady and calm.

The photographer, Alex, moved around the room with his camera, adjusting the lighting and checking the angles. “How’s the hair, Mia?” he called out, looking over his shoulder.

“Almost done. Just a few more minutes,” Mia answered, finishing the final touches.

Meanwhile, Aria’s assistant, Claire, entered the room with her tablet in hand. “Aria, the fitting for the Victoria’s Secret show is set for tomorrow morning, and the team from Calvin Klien wants to meet you later this afternoon to discuss the upcoming campaign. They’re expecting us at 2 PM. Oh, and don't forget the L'Oréal photoshoot after the meeting.”

Aria nodded in acknowledgment, her focus still on the mirror. “Got it. We’ll be there. Thanks, Claire.”

Claire smiled and quickly left the room, while Aria closed her eyes for a moment, silently preparing herself for the busy day ahead. This was her life now—packed schedules, back-to-back photoshoots, meetings, fittings, and the constant push to stay at the top of the fashion world.

But she had worked hard to get here. Years of dedication, countless hours spent perfecting her craft, and a determination to succeed had brought her to the pinnacle of the modeling industry. Aria Jeong had become a name known around the world, but to her, it was all just the beginning.

“Alright, Aria,” Alex called, snapping her out of her thoughts. “It’s time. Let’s get you into the first outfit.”

Claire returned with a clothing rack filled with various options, including sleek dresses, bold prints, and intricate designs. The first outfit for the photoshoot was a stunning black velvet dress with a deep V-neckline and a dramatic slit that revealed her long, toned legs. It was a classic, elegant look, just the kind of thing that would make the cover of Vogue unforgettable.

Mia and other staffs helped Aria slip into the dress, adjusting the fit around her waist as Aria stood tall and composed. “You look stunning,” Mia said, stepping back to admire her work.

Aria smiled in the mirror, her sharp eyes meeting her reflection. “Thank you Mia.”

As Aria stepped onto the set, the photographer and lighting crew were ready, their eyes focused on her every move. The studio was filled with soft light, creating the perfect ambiance for the photoshoot. Aria stood still for a moment, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline. She had done this countless times, but there was always something exciting about being in front of the camera, especially for such a prestigious magazine.

The session began, with Aria effortlessly striking pose after pose. Each movement was fluid, graceful, and deliberate, her body an instrument of perfection as the camera snapped away. She had mastered the art of photography—how to look natural while maintaining an air of elegance, how to convey emotion with just a tilt of the head or a slight shift in posture.

“Beautiful, Aria,” Alex called, his voice full of admiration. “You’re absolutely nailing it. Let’s switch to the next look.”

Mia quickly ushered in the next outfit—a shimmering silver gown that hugged Aria’s figure in all the right places. As Aria changed, she glanced at her phone, checking the time. The day was moving quickly, and she had a tight schedule ahead of her. Between the photoshoot, meetings with various brands, and a rehearsal for the upcoming American Music Awards, she knew it was going to be a long day.

But that was the life of an international supermodel, and Aria had long ago accepted that.

As the photoshoot continued, the minutes turned into hours. Aria remained focused, switching from outfit to outfit, posing with poise and confidence, never once breaking her professional demeanor. There were moments when the intensity of the work started to take its toll, but Aria pushed through—this was her dream, her career, and nothing would stop her.

After wrapping up the Vogue photoshoot, Aria was led into a private space where she could take a breather. The sound of the bustling studio faded as she collapsed onto the plush sofa with her casual outfit that she had changed. It was black button up crop top, pair it with a dark blue tight jeans and a black high heels boots. The weight of a full day’s work already starting to settle in. She checked her phone—Claire’s message about the meeting with Calvin Klein at 2 PM echoed in her mind. It was already 2:30.

The minutes had slipped by quicker than expected, and now it was time for the next task at hand. She had barely time to catch her breath before her assistant appeared at the door. “Aria, your car is waiting. We’re heading to the Calvin Klein office for the meeting,” Claire said, a soft smile on her face, knowing how little time Aria had to rest between her appointments.

Aria nodded, running a hand through her hair and standing up. “Let’s go.”

They walked out into the bustling lobby, where the driver opened the car door for her, and they headed to the Calvin Klein headquarters. As Aria sat back in the plush seat, her thoughts wandered briefly to her upcoming meeting. Calvin Klein had always been a major name in her modeling career. This was more than just a meeting—it was a chance to solidify her place in the industry as one of the most sought-after supermodels.

The car ride was a blur of thoughts, and soon they arrived at the sleek, modern Calvin Klein building. Aria’s high heel boots clicked against the polished marble floors as she entered the building, greeted by a receptionist who led her to the private meeting room. Claire went ahead to ensure everything was ready for the meeting, leaving Aria alone for a moment to gather herself.

The door opened shortly after, and two representatives from Calvin Klein walked in—one, a tall man in his early forties named Mr. Lawrence, who was the head of marketing, and the other, a young woman, Chloe, who had recently joined the team as a creative lead.

“Aria! Thank you for joining us today,” Mr. Lawrence greeted, his voice warm but professional. He gestured for her to sit at the conference table. “We’re really excited to have you on board for this new campaign. We’ve seen your recent work, and you’re exactly what we were looking for.”

Aria smiled politely and nodded, settling into her seat. “I’m honored to be a part of the team.” she said so elegantly.

Chloe, the creative lead, spoke up next, her voice filled with enthusiasm. “For this campaign, we want to capture the essence of modern luxury while maintaining an accessible, everyday feel. It’s all about sophistication but also comfort. The collection is inspired by urban landscapes, so we’re hoping to do something bold and edgy.”

Aria nodded, already visualizing the looks they were describing. The Calvin Klein aesthetic was always sleek and minimalist, but this concept sounded more daring—something that would challenge her versatility as a model. “I like the idea. Bold and edgy is something I’m always up for,” she said, her confidence shining through.

Mr. Lawrence glanced at Chloe before turning back to Aria. “We were hoping to get your thoughts on some of the outfits we’ve picked out. For this campaign, we’re focusing a lot on outerwear and layering, which is right up your alley, considering your experience in high fashion and your collaborations with brands like Gucci and Chanel.”

Chloe clicked through her tablet, bringing up the first few designs on the screen. “This is one of our favorite pieces,” she said, showing Aria an oversized trench coat with dramatic shoulders, paired with tailored trousers. “We’re thinking of using this for the cover image. It’s chic and timeless, but the exaggerated silhouette gives it a very fresh, contemporary look.”

Aria studied the design, picturing herself wearing it. “I love it. I can definitely see this working well with the overall theme.”

The meeting continued, with Mr. Lawrence and Chloe discussing details, such as the photography style, location for the shoot, and the timeline for the campaign. Aria’s mind was engaged, but there was a part of her that couldn’t help but drift away every now and then.

Aria quickly refocused as the conversation shifted to the logistics of the shoot. “We’re planning to do some behind-the-scenes footage for social media as well,” Chloe explained. “It’ll be part of a bigger campaign, so we’ll need to make sure we capture a bit of your personality—how you interact with the clothing, how you move in it. It’ll give the brand a more authentic feel.”

Aria nodded thoughtfully. “I’m excited to be part of that. I always enjoy showing the more relaxed side of things, especially in a campaign as dynamic as this one. It makes it more personal for the audience.”

Mr. Lawrence smiled. “That’s exactly the kind of energy we’re looking for. We want people to see that you’re not just a model, but someone who lives and breathes the essence of what Calvin Klein stands for.”

As the meeting wrapped up, Claire entered the room to let Aria know it was time to head to the next appointment. Aria stood up, shaking hands with both Mr. Lawrence and Chloe. “Thank you both for taking the time today. I’m looking forward to what we’ll create together,” she said, smiling warmly.

After the productive meeting with Calvin Klein, Aria’s day continued its whirlwind pace. She quickly slipped into the waiting car, her mind still buzzing with excitement from the campaign discussion. The next stop on her packed agenda was a photoshoot for L’Oréal, one of the most prestigious makeup brands in the world.

The ride to the L’Oréal studio was a short one, but enough to give her a few minutes of much-needed peace. As the car pulled into the parking lot, she straightened her posture and mentally prepared herself for what would undoubtedly be another busy, high-energy shoot. It had become second nature for Aria to slip into model mode, but there was still a level of excitement every time she worked with a brand she loved. L’Oréal, with its bold and timeless beauty, had always been a dream partnership.

Once inside the spacious studio, she was greeted by a team of hair and makeup artists who had already set up their stations, ready to transform her into the perfect L’Oréal muse. She made her way to the makeup chair, where a plate of fresh salad and an iced peach tea awaited her. She didn’t even need to ask for it anymore—it was always there.

“Yum, this looks perfect,” she said with a smile, grabbing her fork and taking a bite of the salad.

The makeup artist, a cheerful woman in her mid-thirties named Maria, chuckled as she began applying foundation. “You really know how to eat healthy, Aria,” she teased, carefully dabbing at her face with a brush. “But honestly, you’re always glowing, so I guess you have some magic tricks.”

Aria laughed, rolling her eyes. “Oh please, no magic tricks here. It’s all about water, veggies, and a bit of luck.”

As she continued eating, Aria casually flipped open the novel she had been reading during her downtime—The Night Circus, a fantasy story filled with mystery and enchantment. The plot was as gripping as ever, but her attention was soon distracted by the light chatter around her.

“I swear, every time I walk into a store, L’Oréal’s new collection is everywhere,” Maria mused, her hands expertly shaping Aria’s brows. “I love their packaging! It’s always so fresh and sleek.”

“I know, right?” Aria replied between bites of salad, nodding in agreement. “It’s why I love working with them. They’re a brand that understands the balance between timelessness and modernity. They really know what women want.”

“Speaking of women,” Maria continued, “did you hear that they’re planning a huge campaign for next spring? They’re supposed to release a new product that’s going to blow everyone away.”

“No way! That sounds amazing,” Aria said, putting the book down for a moment, genuinely intrigued. “What’s the product? Something new for the lips?”

Maria nodded excitedly. “Exactly! A new lipstick that changes color with your mood—like those mood rings, but for lips.”

“That’s so cool,” Aria said, amused. “I’d love to be part of that campaign.”

Before Maria could respond, the door to the dressing room swung open, and Claire, Aria’s assistant, rushed in. Her face was a mixture of excitement and disbelief, and she was holding her phone tightly in her hand, like she’d just gotten news she wasn’t entirely prepared for.

“Claire?” Aria asked, eyeing her assistant’s wide eyes. “What’s going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Claire didn’t waste time with pleasantries. She immediately walked over to Aria, a bit out of breath. “Aria… you’re not going to believe this,” she said, her voice almost shaky. “I just got off the phone with the AMA’s event manager… they want YOU as one of the announcers for this year’s show.”

For a moment, the entire room fell silent. The makeup artist paused, the brushes in mid-air, as the rest of the staff turned to look at Claire with wide-eyed expressions. Aria’s heart skipped a beat, the sudden surge of excitement making her momentarily forget to breathe.

“You’re joking, right?” Aria asked, half-laughing, half-stunned. Her hand flew up to her mouth as she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She felt like her world had just shifted.

“No,” Claire said, shaking her head in disbelief. “They’re serious! They want you to announce awards during the show. It’s huge, Aria. The biggest award show of the year—and you’re going to be there… on stage.”

The rest of the staff gasped in shock. “That’s incredible!” Maria exclaimed, her eyes widening. “You’re going to be on stage at the AMAs! With all those amazing artists—this is a huge deal!”

The words sank in slowly. Aria blinked a few times, her hand still covering her mouth in disbelief. She never thought her career would take her to this moment. The American Music Awards—one of the biggest and most prestigious events in the industry. And she had just been asked to be a part of it.

“Wait, wait. Are you sure?” Aria asked, her voice soft but filled with wonder. She needed to hear it again to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

“Positive,” Claire confirmed, a huge grin spreading across her face. “They said it’s all official. You’re one of the chosen announcers. They’ll send over the details in the next few days.”

Aria, still in a bit of shock, sat there for a moment, processing everything. A wave of emotion rushed over her—happiness, excitement, and disbelief all rolled into one. This was it. This was the next step in her career.

The room erupted in cheers, the staff exchanging high-fives and congratulations. Aria couldn’t help but laugh, a wide grin on her face. She was overwhelmed but thrilled at the same time.

“I can’t believe it,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper as she looked at Claire. “The AMAs. This is a huge opportunity.”

“You deserve it,” Claire said, her voice filled with pride. “All your hard work has paid off.”

Aria turned back to the staff, her smile never fading. “Thank you all,” she said, her voice a little shaky from the excitement. “This means so much to me.”

Maria, the makeup artist, was the first to offer her congratulations. “Well, I guess you’ll have to wear something extra special for that night, huh?”

“Oh, definitely,” Aria replied with a playful smile. “I’ve got the perfect outfit in mind.”

As she continued to prepare for her photoshoot with L’Oréal, Aria couldn’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment. But even more than that, she felt a growing sense of excitement about what the future held. The AMAs were just the beginning, and she was ready for whatever came next.

Chapter 02 --- Back to Series Masterlist

[warwickroyals]

Sunderland's Royal Jewel Vault (19/∞) ♛

↬ The Glencairn City of Warwick Fringe Tiara

Like their mainline cousins, the Glencairn branch of House Warwick has gathered quite the jewellery collection over the past seventy years. The City of Warwick Fringe Tiara is one of the oldest in their extensive collection. When Lady Esther Jungman (1926 - 1988) married the youngest son of King George II in 1954, the royal family did not skirt the costs, as it was the first royal wedding since the end of World War Two. Plus, Esther was no stranger to the royal lifestyle, she was a great-granddaughter of King George and Queen Alexandra. Esther's maternal grandmother was the ill-fated Grand Duchess Anastasia Georgiyevna (1873 – 1919), who was renowned for her irreplaceable jewel collection. This made Esther a great-niece of Tsar Nicholas II—and a second cousin of her husband-to-be. The twenty-eight-year-old bride was described as extremely beautiful, with quantities of dark hair, wide-set blue eyes, and a slightly retroussé nose. Wedding gifts were shipped in from across the world, each befitting for a quasi-Romanov princess. The most notable gift was from the City of Warwick itself: the tiara Esther used to secure her wedding veil. The tiara was modelled after a similar piece, the only tiara Esther's mother, Grand Duchess Natalia Georgiyevna (1902 - 1977), retained after the Russian Revolution forced her into exile. Like her mother's the fringe tiara featured rounded spikes set with diamonds. Esther was emotionally moved by the gift, thanking the city's mayor several times. Following the wedding, the new Duchess of Glencairn reached for the tiara frequently, sporting it at state visits, galas, and at the inauguration of her brother-in-law, King James II (1915 - 1970). Esther adjusted to royal life well, even after her husband was killed in a 1962 plane crash, she continued a wide variety of work. Thirty years after Esther's wedding, the tiara graced the head of another royal bride. Esther's middle daughter, Princess Frances, wore the tiara to marry Lee Wayne Grierson (1948 - 2024) in 1983. The televised wedding was attended by several prominent guests, including King Louis V, who walked the bride down the aisle. Unfortunately, Esther died before the 1998 wedding of her youngest daughter, Princess Valerie, who ended up inheriting the tiara. This wedding was more lowkey—greatly overshadowed by the wedding of her cousin James, Prince of Danforth to Lady Tatiana Farnsworth—but all the same, Valerie honoured her late mother by wearing the tiara to her wedding reception in New York City. The tiara stayed with Valerie and she wore it as much as circumstances would allow, including for several portraits taken in the '00s. To this day, the tiara continues to be one of the most recognizable tiaras from the Glencairn collection, reminiscent of an empire lost to history.

HRH Esther, Duchess of Glencairn wears the tiara in a 1957 portrait

HRH Princess Valerie of Glencairn wears the tiara in a personal photograph from 2005

[cate-eblanchett]

Now that we don't talk// Cate & Jessica

The new year was brimming with promises of change and the hope for only positive developments. The holiday season was traditionally a time for reflection and family, yet for Cate, it was also a period of relentless work. As the awards season approached, she found herself nominated for several awards, which was not a complain at all for the actress but a lot of extra work. That morning, Cate was expected at a luncheon hosted by the members of the Foreign Press Association, an event attended by both current nominees and past winners of the Golden Globes. Despite the festive spirit, she had to leave her children at the hotel, temporarily pausing their holiday cheer for the sake of professional engagements. These social events were not just about celebration but also about self-promotion, a strategic move in the competitive world of awards. Accompanied by her closest confidantes and her beauty team, Elizabeth and Mary, Cate prepared for the event. Her look was meticulously crafted: subtle makeup, her blonde hair styled in soft waves, and she wore a stunning white Balmain jumpsuit this piece was sleeveless with a deep V-neckline, accentuated by a large, ornate brooch that made a bold statement. Mary urged her to hurry, hinting at another celebrity client awaiting her services. When Cate inquired, Mary's reluctance to name names spoke volumes. "I know who it is," Cate remarked, her tone lacking its usual enthusiasm as she guessed it might be Jessica Chastain, another frequent client of Mary's. Their shared history was complex, having a tight bond over the years that becoming into something more intimate and with it, more complicated for several months leading an abrupt end. Although Cate made it look like everything was fine, something in that friendship seemed somehow broken.

Her arrival to the hotel where the reception was taking place, it was like watching a seasoned swimmer dive into familiar waters. She moved with a grace that belied the undercurrents of her emotions, engaging in light conversation, socializing, talking about her plans for the new year, her past holidays and of course rencountering with new and old friends and colleagues avoiding to all cost crossing looks with the red-haired that seemed so close but still too far from the australian actress, but cate couldn't avoid her forever, when a friend in common brought them together to take a photograph "Hello Jess, Nice to see you again, you look incredible" Cate said when they were left by themselves in the middle of the crowd, and when finally cate took a moment to really look at jessica, the australian with a drink in hand and no witnesses of what they have been hiding for weeks now about their complicated friendship. @jessicachastaain

[seeminglyranch87]

Taylor & Travis Timeline

November 2024 - Part 2

November 8 - Taylor is nominated for 6 Grammys:

Album of the year - TTPD

Record of the year - Fortnight feat. Post Malone

Song of the year - Fortnight feat. Post Malone

Best pop vocal album - TTPD

Best music video - Fortnight feat. Post Malone

Us - Gracie Abram’s feat. Taylor Swift

Taylor is seen out in NYC dining with Zoe Kravitz & friends at Chez Margaux.

November 10 - Chiefs v Broncos, Arrowhead Stadium, Kansas City, MO

Travis arrives ahead of game

Taylor arrives at Arrowhead with her parents.

Travis Kelce scored the first touchdown for The Chiefs. (x)

The Kansas City Chiefs defeat the Broncos 16 -14 with an Adrenalin filled ending, the Chiefs blocked a game deciding field goal to remain undefeated this season 9 - 0

Post game celebrations

November 13 - Travis Kelce attends Jelly Roll concert with Clyde.

November 14 - The Eras Tour, Rogers Centre, Toronto, ON N1

My Boy Only Breaks His Favourite Toys x This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things (guitar) & False God x tis the damn season (piano)

November 15 - The Eras Tour, Rogers Centre, Toronto, ON N2

I don’t wanna live forever x Mine (guitar) & evermore x Peter (piano) N2

Travis’ friends Ross Travis and Reggie King attend the Eras Tour and photographed with Austin Swift.

November 16 - Taylor posts her upcoming release: The Anthology on CD & Vinyl.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Taylor Swift (@taylorswift)

Taylor Swift's 'THE TORTURED POETS DEPARTMENT: THE ANTHOLOGY' will feature four bonus acoustic tracks:

Fortnight

Down Bad

But Daddy I Love Him

Guilty As Sin?

- The Eras Tour, Rogers Centre, Toronto, ON N3

Tammy Reid & Tavia Hunt (wives of Chiefs Coach & Chiefs Owner) attend The Eras Tour photographed with Andrea & Scott Swift

Taylor mimics Travis’ dance move during Midnight Rain

Us x Out Of The Woods with guest Gracie Abrams (guitar) & You’re On Your Own Kid x Long Story Short (piano)

Travis Kelce arrives in Buffalo ahead of game.

November 17 - Chiefs v Bills

Buffalo Bills defeat Chiefs 30-21. This is the first loss of the season for the KC Chiefs. Taylor did not attend.

Travis with Jelly Roll and Clyde

November 20 - Taylor at Jean-Georges private members’ club Chez Margaux with Faith Hill, Ashleigh Avignon & Este Haim

Taylor wins the ARIA for most popular artist (x)

November 21 - The Eras Tour, Rogers Centre, Toronto, ON N4

Mr Perfectly Fine x Better Than Revenge (guitar) & State of grace x Labyrinth (piano)

November 22 - The Eras Tour, Rogers Centre, Toronto, ON N5

Ours x The Last Great American Dynasty (guitar) & Cassandra x Mad Woman x I Did Something Bad (piano)

November 23 - The Eras Tour, Rogers Centre, Toronto, ON N6

Ed Kelce attends The Eras Tour - his first show. He is wearing a suit and trading friendship bracelets - adorable! (x)

Sparks Fly x Message In A Bottle (guitar) & You’re Losing Me x How Did It End (piano)

Taylor gets emotional during the Champaign Problems speech

Travis arrives in Charlotte, NC ahead of game.

Go to previous update - November 2024 part 1

Go to next update -> November 2024 part 3

Return to the timeline

[artfulfashion]

Sara Grace Wallerstedt photographed by Rob Rusling for V Magazine Fall 2023

[graceburnsupdates]

Grace Burns for V Magazine.

"#VGIRLS | When 20-year-old @graciebrns first told her mom she wanted to be a model a couple of years back, it didn’t go so well. “We were sleeping in the same bed the night before my dad got back from a work trip,” she recalls to V inside the pages of V145. “And right before we went to bed, I was like, ‘By the way, I want to model, okay goodnight!’ and turned to the other side. Her first words were, ‘So, you’re not going to school!?’”

While many parents would worry about their teenage daughter compromising her education to pursue a creative path, Burns’s mom has direct experience: she happens to be the iconic supermodel @cturlington, who bypassed college to model full-time as a teenager, before later going back to complete degrees at NYU and Columbia. Since reassuring both parents that she would attend school, Burns has been balancing her studies at NYU Gallatin with appearing on magazine covers, starring in campaigns for Carolina Herrera, and making her runway debut in a British Vogue x Luisa Via Roma show in Florence, and even becoming a zine editor and photographer—just to name a few moments. Head to the link in our bio to read the full story + order your copy of V145 at shop.vmagazine.com.

—

From V145 Winter 2023 Issue

Photography @brvceanderson (@1972.agency)

Fashion @xanderang

Makeup @mariel_barrera

Hair @wardhair4real (@homeagency)

Manicure @ritaremark (@bryanbantryagency)

Text @slurpette

Editor @savsob

Production @maraweinstein"

[sweetdreamsjeff]

From the Jeff Buckley website - The BRAND NEW Designed "BLUE JEFF BUCKLEY SPAGHETTI STRAP SHIRT". Printed on baby blue 100% cotton, spaghetti strap shirt with black and white photograph of Jeff on the front of shirt.

JEFF BUCKLEY BLACK HOODIE - FLAMING SKULL This exclusive design features Jeff Buckley's Flaming Skull hand-drawn artwork on a 100% cotton, Black Zip-up Hoodie. Artwork is featured on front of hoodie. Back of hoodie commemorates the release of Jeff Buckley’s DVD Grace Around The World. Hoodie is 100% cotton, in black. Made in America by American Apparel. 

JEFF BUCKLEY- GIFT SET!!!! Select a JEFF BUCKLEY SHIRT OF YOUR CHOICE BE THE BEST (Black) ADULT / BABYDOLLGRACE AROUND THE WORLD (Yellow) TSHIRT /BABYDOLL/SPAGHETTI STRAPPEYOTE RADIO (White) V-Neck Choice of: T-Shirt, Babydoll or Tank Top. Included in Gift Set is:(1) Your Shirt Choice (Include Style & Design Color)(1) Jeff Buckley Collector Guitar Pic, featuring Jeff's hand-drawn artwork(1) B & W Photo Postcard Suitable for framing (we choose for you)(1) Jeff Buckley Temp Tattoo, featuring Jeff's hand-drawn skull artwork (limited amount left & will not be offered again)(1) set of 2 Jeff Buckley Grace Around The World Collector Postcards T-shirts are 100% cotton Made in America by American Apparel. 

DISCLAIMER:

These images are from the archive. These items are no longer available for sale.

[sera-fable]

Thought Provoking Books & Books That Have Important Voices! Pt. 23

221. How It All Blew Up by Arvin Ahmadi (YA/LGBT/Contemporary/Romance/Adventure in Rome/Identity/Family/Banned Book)

222. Blood Over Bright Haven by M.L. Wang (Fantasy Novel/Gender Injustice/Racism/Pursuit of Truth/Classism/Ambition/Legacy/Steampunk/Dark Academia/Heavy Topics/Mystery)

223. Laura Ingalls Wilder Country: The People and Places in Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Life and Books by William Anderson (Challenged Book/Biographical Book/History/American Frontier/Little House Books/Photographs)

224. Cursed Bunny by Bora Chung (Short Stories/Horror/Science Fiction/Fairytales/Speculative Fiction/Magical Realism/Patriarchy & Capitalism/Misogyny/Modernity)

225. Moonstruck volumes by Grace Ellis (Banned Books/Graphic Novels/LGBTQ+/Romance/Science Fiction/Fantasy/New Adult/Comic/Urban Fantasy)

226. A Certain Hunger by Chelsea G. Summers (Horror/Adult/Fiction/Contemporary/Feminism/Literary Fiction/Rich Satire/Slasher-Sexy/Toxic Masculinity)

227. One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez (Banned Book/Magical Realism Novel/Solitude/Cycle of Time/Family Dynamics/Latin American Identity)

228. Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead by Olga Tokarczuk (Whodunit Novel/Animal Rights/Nature/Human Impact on Enviornment/Magical Realism/Madness & Sanity/Justice & Tradition)

229. Quinceañera Means Sweet Fifteen by Veronica Chambers (Banned Book/YA/Family Dynamic/Financial Issues/Tradition/Afro-Latina Voice)

230. The Boys comics by Garth Ennis (Comics/Superhero Genre/Adult/Dark Topics/Gory/Brutal/Political/Justice v Vengeance/Power Dynamics/American/Drama)

[simlebrityblogger]

A N O T H E R E V E N T

The Sterling-Copour family recently gathered the community's goodwill and generosity at a grand charity event that raised an impressive 200,000 simoleons. Held to support local artists and creators, the event highlighted the family’s commitment to nurturing talent and creativity. Amidst the glitz of the red carpet, Collin Copour stood out, gracefully posing for cameras while honoring his late wife, Julia, by continuing to wear his wedding ring—a touching tribute to their enduring love.

Christian and Lincoln Sterling also graced the red carpet, radiant and seemingly more in love than ever. Their enduring partnership added a layer of warmth to the event's atmosphere, complementing their philanthropic efforts.

Inside the venue, leaked photographs revealed intimate moments of joy and togetherness among the family members. A particularly striking image captured the Sterling sisters, smiling side by side in their first public appearance together, looking stunning.

Another candid photo featured a fun ensemble of the Sterling and Copour cousins. In the snapshot, Nixon and Trixi—children of Collin and the late Julia—flashed bright smiles, embodying the spirit of the occasion. Alex and Rachel's daughter, Elaina, was also pictured, striking a pose on the far right. This picture marked a rare public appearance of all the young Sterling and Copour members together, symbolizing a new generation stepping forward in unity and camaraderie.

In the midst of the celebrations, whispers circulated about Sage possibly dating a woman, as the pair were seen cuddling and sharing intimate moments during the event. Although no photographs of them together have surfaced, their close interaction has sparked curiosity and support from fans and attendees alike.

[destructivisms]

VERÔNICA DAUMAS

The Boys OC / Human / Private eye / The Boys affiliated

If you ask Verônica Daumas, having an obsession can be weirdly therapeutic. Nights spent awake are moments of deep introspection. Piles and piles of documents, photographs, records are akin to a collection of something simple like, I don't know, bottle caps or pins. The sprawling out of the investigation through the walls of her tiny apartment is simply renewing the decor. Searching for something happening in the background, whatever that is, is having a greater purpose — and who doesn't want that? Who wouldn't miss that?

So when, five years after having abandoned her investigation, Verônica is called back to work by those she used to call a team — why would she say no?

“What did he call you?” “Enxerida do caralho.” “What does it mean?” “Nosy bitch.” “Eh. Can't say he's wrong on that one.”

Verônica Daumas is a Brazilian expat in New York, working under the radar as a private eye for the underworld of the city. Want some information you can't obtain through legal means, to take even less legal measures? Call V. DAUMAS, PRIVATE EYE — “I fuck around, you find out.”

After all, a woman has to make a living after losing everything, several times — whether the schemes in Rio she left behind, or her attempt to get a legit job in New York that burned to the ground (literally), or the team that was disbanded with a tragic conclusion.

Her investigative abilities are what made her a valuable asset; first to Grace Mallory — the promise of a visa, legit documents, and the erasure of her criminal record, led her to join her team to bring down Vought International —, and later to Billy Butcher — when putting the team back together, they couldn't forget their local nosy bitch, could they?

However, her utter lack of loyalty can make Verônica a liability — she won't hesitate to run away, which has been proven time and time again by the amount of things and people in her life she has left behind. Her uncanny ability to get away with things and save her own ass comes at the direct expense of the others' asses.

Of course, she has to reevaluate her loyalties (or lack thereof) when the operations of The Boys become more dangerous than ever, the stakes are higher, and the connections between them are stronger. Maybe she has to stay and face her fucking problems for once instead of running away. Maybe there are people worth staying for.

happy to be finally introducing my oc for the boys, verônica — she's the loml and i have been writing A LOT for her. ship stuff incoming btw hehe i ship her with frenchie and they have been living in my head rent free

[lifeofpriya]

Love Me Again - Davis Schneider imagine

[gif credit goes to @donttelltheelff]

song of the fic: Love Me Again by V

You met Davis one summer evening at a baseball game in Buffalo. As you watched the players on the field, your eyes were drawn to his athleticism and grace. He was the team's utility player, always ready to step in wherever he was needed. You couldn't help but be captivated by his charm and infectious smile.

Your paths crossed by chance at a post-game celebration. Davis approached you with a nervous yet genuine smile, introducing himself with a warm handshake. From that moment, a connection between you grew into something beautiful and unique.

Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. You spent countless hours together, sharing laughter, dreams, and secrets. Davis became your confidante, your rock, and your greatest supporter. The bond between you was unbreakable, or so you thought.

As the baseball season progressed, Davis's talent shone brightly, drawing the attention of the bigwigs in Toronto, who gave him an opportunity to show his talent among the crowds of thousands of fans at the Rogers Centre. The dreams he had nurtured since childhood were within his grasp, but it came with a heavy price.

With each passing game, Davis's dedication to his sport intensified. He spent less time by your side, and his absence weighed heavily on your heart. You understood the sacrifices required to pursue a career in professional sports, yet it didn't make it any easier.

The letters and phone calls became sporadic, filled with apologies and promises to make it up to you. But as the distance between you grew, so did the ache in your chest. You missed the late-night conversations, the stolen moments of tenderness, and the feeling of being truly understood.

The day came when Davis was called up to the major leagues. It was a bittersweet triumph, for while he achieved his lifelong dream, it meant a chasm separating the two of you. You stood at the airport, his bags packed, and tears streaming down your face. The weight of the impending goodbye pressed upon your chest, suffocating your hopes.

He held your trembling hands, his eyes filled with regret and longing. "I never wanted to hurt you," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. "But I can't let go of this opportunity. It's my chance to make something of myself."

You nodded, unable to find your voice. You understood Davis's desires, drive, and relentless pursuit of a career that consumed him. But it didn't make the impending emptiness any less painful. You wished for a different outcome, a future filled with shared moments, but life had its own plans.

Months passed, and you found yourself drowning in a sea of memories. The photographs on the walls and the echoes of laughter haunted every corner of your home. The ache in your heart grew with each passing day as if the absence of his presence had carved a void within you.

You followed Davis's career from a distance, watching his name become synonymous with success. He became a star, celebrated by fans and loved ones alike. But in your heart, he remained the person who had stolen a piece of you, leaving you adrift in melancholy.

Time couldn't heal the wounds inflicted by the separation. The pain lingered, a constant reminder of what could have been. The dreams you once shared became faded fragments of a distant past, and the thought of finding love again seemed impossible.

Years rolled by, and Davis's star continued to rise. The world celebrated his victories while you silently mourned the love that slipped through your fingers. You wondered if he ever thought of you, if regret ever danced across his mind during quiet moments of solitude.

One fateful evening, a familiar face caught your eye as you sat alone in a quiet café. It was Davis, albeit older, wearier, and weathered by the demands of fame. He stood at the entrance, hesitating momentarily before his gaze met yours.

He crossed the room, his footsteps heavy with unspoken words. As he reached your table, the silence between you was thick with the weight of what had been lost. He sat down, his eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and regret.

"I thought about you every day," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "I never stopped loving you, not for a single moment. But I couldn't bear to see the disappointment in your eyes if I failed. I'm sorry for breaking your heart.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you listened to his confession. The wounds he had unknowingly inflicted were laid bare, and the pain that had consumed you for so long threatened to overflow.

"I never stopped loving you either," you whispered, your voice trembling. "But the path we chose led us down separate roads, and we can't turn back time."

Davis nodded, his eyes filled with sorrow. "I understand," he said softly. "I have regrets, but I can't undo what's been done."

You both sat silently, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. As you looked into each other's eyes, you realized that even though the love you once shared was still alive, it had been battered and bruised by the passage of time.

With a heavy heart, you bid your final farewell to Davis, knowing it was time to let go of the dreams and memories that held you captive. It was a melancholic and somber ending to a love story that had burned brightly but ultimately fizzled out.

Life moved on, as it always does, and you found solace in the healing power of time. The ache in your heart gradually subsided, replaced by acceptance and a newfound strength. You began to rebuild your life, piece by piece, embracing the lessons learned from the bittersweet love affair with Davis.

And though the wounds of the past would always leave their mark, you discovered that the human spirit has an incredible capacity to heal. You opened your heart to new possibilities, knowing that love, in all its forms, could still find its way to you.

As you walked toward an uncertain future, you carried with you the memories of a love that once burned brightly, now a melancholic ember in the depths of your soul. And while the ending was tinged with sadness, you knew deep within that you were more robust for having loved and lost.

For you and Davis, your paths simply…diverged. It led to you both living separate lives. But the imprint of your love story remained, forever etched in the annals of both of your hearts. And perhaps, in the tapestry of your lives, you both would find solace in the knowledge that you and Davis had shared something extraordinary, even if it had been destined to end in melancholy...