#Alvin Smiles

[alvinsmilesdentistry]

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[kindheart525]

I love when a cartoon character has a certain trademark accessory that is so integral to their design that they’re always wearing a version of it for every possible occasion. Like yes look at my blorbo who’s always wearing a hat you go little guy

[aldoodles]

I can’t believe I forgot to post these here Omg. Anyways have an Alvin the treacherous at the time of book 2, a young Alvin, Termagant, aND TERMAGANT W A STEEL CHAIR bc she deserves to hit him

[artmustdraw]

Hey all!! Im doing Cashapp commissions because i really really need the money right now, If your interested please pm me. So im just gonna post a bunch of my art (posted already or not) and hope this gets to where people will see and want to buy things

Prices tho:

2$ simple sketch

10$ lineart

20$ a ref sheet

30$ a full peice

If a piece exceeds 10 hours its another 5$

[clapfilmdavis]

WEEKLY RECAP !!

(for the last three weeks…)

THIS POST CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR ::

Jennifer’s Body (2009) No Exit (2022) Luck (2022) The Hunger Games (2012) Journey 2: The Mysterious Island (2012) Get Out (2017) Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009) Smile 2 (2024) V/H/S (2012) Come Play (2020) Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Road Chip (2015) Dinner in America (2020) x2 But I’m a Cheerleader (1999) Pearl (2022) Juno (2007) Mufasa: The Lion King (2024) V/H/S/2 (2013)

EXTRA WARNINGS ::

lightly gore-y descriptions

JENNIFER’S BODY

watched 1/2/25 4/5 STARS ! there’s so much happening constantly and im lowkey so sad colin died :( i want chip so bad and also needy’s so pretty :3c the concept is actually super cool but i wish needy used her brain sometimes like girl please…

NO EXIT

watched 1/3/25 5/5 STARS ! PLOT TWIST AFTER PLOT TWIST AFTER PLOT TWIST WHAT IN THE WORLD

LUCK

watched 1/5/25 3.5/5 STARS ! everytime sam sings it sucks so bad im sorry 😭 hazel is super cute though. the human animation looks weird to me sometimes, but at the same time it’s pretty cute AND THE CAT ANIMATIONS ARE SO ADORABLE :((( i love bob’s behavior so much he’s so silliness :3 got a huge attitude for a little guy the pig animations remind me a LOT of sing and i cant tell if i love or hate it. the concept overall is pretty interesting, the way they incorporated bad luck was kind of cool - the plot twist with bob was very intriguing to me, i love the idea of the “good luck” character helping the entire time having no good luck at all.

THE HUNGER GAMES

rewatched in december - reviewed on 1/8/24 5/5 STARS ! one of my favorites from the batch, i ADORE the way they do the audio in this movie especially the scene when katniss gets into the cornucopia AUAGGGHHH <333 the tracker jacker scene is also super interesting to me but the part where her mom is talking but it’s peeta’s voice makes me giggle a lot

JOURNEY 2: THE MYSTERIOUS ISLAND

rewatched 1/9/25 5/5 STARS ! the movie is so stupidly endearing. sean gives me heavy second-hand embarrassment sometimes but the motorcycle scene is so sick 🙏 the way they portrayed the island was so pretty and in my opinion the animal animations were pretty good. gabato is so stupid i love him. i liked watching the bond between sean and hank develop, aswell as hank and gabato (theyre so dumb i love them) also the beef between hank and alexander makes me giggle so bad. if i had a penny for how many times dwayne “the rock” johnson jiggled his boobs and saved an island through a storm i’d have two pennies. why does he keep doing this.

GET OUT

watched 1/9/25 5/5 STARS ! this movie is so interesting wtf. i think this is the first time ive seen the main character in a horror movie be ACTUALLY realistic. also i love rod so much…. he’s so silly the scene where rod’s on the phone with rose - her actor was SO good at sounding emotional without looking it. i genuinely dont know what else to say about this movie aside from just. wow.

FANTASTIC MR. FOX

watched 1/10/25 5/5 STARS ! auagaghh ash fox you are so me :((((……. i dont even know how to describe the movie itself but the art-style is my favorite thing ever (the running looks so goofy i love it)

SMILE 2

watched 1/11/25 4.5/5 STARS ! in the horror aspect, not the best. it was more bloody than scary, however it was still a very good movie. i loved gemma’s character (even if it wasnt actually her), she ate so hard. i liked joshua a lot aswell. i honestly really liked the way they made skye handle the “infection”(?), because yes it wasnt productive in the sense of solving the problem but it felt more realistic. i honestly ADORED the ending. i love when horror movies end with a death instead of solving the issues or being a “tune in next time”. also the monster? AUAAGGHH it looked kind of stupid but the CONCEPT WAS SO COOL!!!!!!!!!!

V/H/S

watched 1/11/25 3.5/5 STARS ! at the beginning i wasnt a huge fan (the scene where the guy’s dick got ripped off made me giggle so bad im sorry) but like as the movie went on i ended up getting super invested… i honestly wish more movies were filmed like this because it’s super cool to me… sometimes lesser quality just makes things look cooler. at first i wasnt a fan because there was so much going on back to back but like i ended up really preferring that. like you basically knew (almost) everyone was going to die but it was still interesting. i dunno i guess this movie just kinda grew on me throughout watching it :3

COME PLAY

watched 1/11/25 4.5/5 STARS ! the concept of larry is so fucking cool what ???? the scene where he’s crawling out of the electronics HEELLLLOOOO SAILOR 🤤🤤🤤 oliver is one of the few autistic representations ive seen that isnt so intensely stereotyped and babied, at least in my opinion. i love watching the friendship between oliver and byron grow :(( the sillies :::((((((( the scene at the end was so cute…… this movie is so awesome

ALVIN AND THE CHIPMUNKS: THE ROAD CHIP

watched 1/13/25 4.5/5 STARS ! i dont trust anyone who doesnt like alvin and the chipmunks

DINNER IN AMERICA

watched 1/13/25 5/5 STARS ! i really like the way they did the intro credits, the music was so banger ^_^ also patty is so pretty and me coded…. there’s so much going on in the first few minutes but i got to see the kittens :3 simon is actually so hot im sorry - he’s such an asshole and lies all the time and i NEED HIM. HIS SMILE IS SO CUTE IM LITERALLY IN LOVE. i actually love this story so bad i got so invested. get that boy outta jail he need to see his music girlfriend 🩷🩷

BUT I’M A CHEERLEADER

watched 1/14/25 4.5/5 STARS ! IM SORRY THE “STRAIGHT IS GREAT” SHIRT IS SO FUNNY IVE BEEN GIGGLING FOR LIKE TEN MINUTES 😭 SHUT UP MEGAN AND GRAHAM ARE SO CUTE IM GONNA CRY :(((( WHEN THEY WENT TO THE CLUB TOGETHER AND AJAAHWHEHDHDDJD I LOVE THEM THE SILLIES

PEARL

watched 1/14/25 3.5/5 STARS ! i dont quite know how to describe this movie, it was very good dont get me wrong but i dont know if i’d watch it again. i love the way pearl’s actor does the screaming rage like AUAGAGAGHH I LVOE IT!!!!! i think i just had high expectations for this movie based on what ive seen, it’s an amazing movie just not personally my type of movie ^_^

DINNER IN AMERICA

rewatched 1/18/25 5/5 STARS ! MY WIIFIEEEEEE I LOVE YOU SIMON COME HOME THE KIDS MISS YOU

JUNO

watched 1/18/25 4.5/5 STARS ! SHUT. UP. THIS MOVIE IS THE CUTEST EVER JUNO ILY. mark gave me weird feelings ,, esp in the dance scene like erm……. ANYWAYS PAULIE ILY YOURE ME YOU ARE ME PAULIE. “he’s the cheese to my macaroni” SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP :(((( also the fact juno still gave vanessa the baby at the end :< ily juno

MUFASA: THE LION KING

watched 1/20/25 4/5 STARS ! i loved the animation (or cgi?? i dunno the proper term for this) they did for this movie! i wish keith david got more screen time i love him </33 also every-time beyonce spoke i giggled because i keep forgetting she’s an actor,, other than that this movie was pretty good ^_^ i dont have much to say about it but i wasnt a huge fan of the songs - though the “bye bye” one was fun :3 i like that they incorporated taka’s scar by him saving mufasa one last time!!

V/H/S/2

watched 1/21/25 4/5 STARS ! AAAAHHHHHHHH WHY DID THE DEMON CRAWL OUT OF HER STOMACH WHAT IS GOING ONNNNN 😭😭😭😭😭 i think tape three is the more gore-y between v/h/s 1 and 2 like oh my god but the alien scenes are actually so sick ALSO HOW DID WE GO FROM GHOSTS, TO ZOMBIES, TO CULTS/DEMONS, TO ALIENS????? IN ONE MOVIE??????? NOOOOOOOOO THE PUPPPYYYYYY ::::((((( THE ENDING OH MY GOD??? I GENUINELY LOVE THESE MOVIES THEYRE GROWING ON ME SO MUCH

[bogos-bint3d]

My mum recently commented on how Dave from the Alvin and the Chipmunks reboot looks exactly like Miguel O'hara, and...

Fuck why can't I unsee it

[kuiperror]

tbh the last two chipmunk albums (the chipmunks see doctor dolittle and the chipmunks go to the movies) are so fun because theyre the 1960s rich guy version of listening to music and imagining amvs with your ocs. ross badgasarian saw doctor dolittle and chitty chitty bang bang in theatres and was like "woa this would be perfect for my chipmunks :)"

[confetti-critter]

Once I learn how to record video clips and upload them here it's over for you all

[lynxgriffin]

Mightier Than The Sword

Gerson had one regret, but now Alvin has many. A fancomic about my thoughts and theories and who -and what- the Knight is!

While not directly connected, I'd say this one is in the same vein as the Deal With The Devil series! Hope you enjoy!

Alt text for this comic under the read more:

Page 1

Panel 1 - Wide shot of the interior of the Boom household. Several monsters are gathered in a clean-looking hall, dressed in somber clothing and talking quietly in small groups. The monsters include QC, Cat Mom, Toriel, Asgore and Mayor Holiday. Father Alvin stands waiting at a door in the hall as his sister, a red-headed turtle monster in a pink dress, exits through the door and speaks to him. “Alvin…he’s ready for you.”

Panel 2 - Mid shot as Alvin prepares to enter the room. Ms. Boom steps out of the way, and puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Both of them look somber. 

Panel 3 - Alvin enters the room, mostly dark and lit by a few candles on a nearby desk. Gerson Boom is lying on a bed ahead of him, watching him enter. Alvin closes the door behind him and says, “Father, I’m here.”

Panel 4 - Alvin approaches his father, lying in bed. The bedroom has a few amenities, including a footstool set off to the side, a large rug bearing the delta rune, and a massive bookcase filling the entire back wall. A few books and papers litter the ground. Alvin bows his head, and says, “The hammer is ready for…for afterwards.”

Gerson just smiles, and responds, “Wa ha, is it? Well, it’ll do fine, I suppose.”

Panel 5 - Closer shot of Gerson extending his right hand towards Alvin. He’s smiling still, content with where he is. “Come here, son.”

Page 2

Panel 1 - Closeup as Alvin takes his father’s hand in his own, and clasps it tight. “Whatever you need…I’m here,” he says from offscreen.

Panel 2 - Alvin kneels by his father’s bedside, still clasping his hands. Gerson says, “Of course you are. Wa ha…you’re such a good and kind man, Alvin.”

Panel 3 - Closeup on Alvin as he just holds on to his father’s hand. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes. 

Panel 4 - Focus on Gerson as he holds up a hand to conspiratorially whisper to Alvin. “And I know I can trust you with a secret, right?”

Panel 5 - Closeup on Alvin as he looks back up, face earnest. “...Of course.”

Panel 6 - Gerson holds up one finger as he speaks to Alvin. “I told your sister I had no regrets, but that was a BIT of a fib! I’m afraid I have one regret…”

Panel 7 - Side view of Alvin as he learns closer, his face now worried. “Father?...”

Page 3

Panel 1 - Focus on Gerson as he leans back on his pillow, looking up at the ceiling. “I wish I had started earlier. Writing stories, I mean. Seein’ you an’ your sister’s eyes light up whenever I read you a new chapter…and then seeing all that joy from so many young folks after those stories were published!” he says, looking wistful.

Panel 2 - Alvin watches on sadly as Gerson continues, “It was the greatest feeling in the world, Alvin. It’s what life’s all about, y’know. Helping the young folks grow.”

Panel 3 - Gerson closes his eyes and looks back towards the ceiling again, still wistful. “So, I wish I’d started writing stories sooner.”

Panel 4 - Closeup on Alvin as he bows his head, still holding Gerson’s hand. “I truly do cherish those times you read to us, father…” he says.

Panel 5 - Closeup on Gerson as he closes his mind with happy memories. “Me too, Alvin. It’s a shame…I’ve still got so many tales to tell! But–”

Panel 6 - Gerson is interrupted by a round of hacking coughs. His time is fast approaching.

Panel 7 - Gerson settles back in to his bed and says, “The Angel’s given me SO many good, happy years. Doesn’t seem fair to ask for more.”

Panel 8 - Closeup on Alvin as he continues to hold his father’s hand tight. “This doesn’t seem fair, either…” he says, tears still pricking at his eyes.

Page 4

Panel 1 -  Insert closeup of Gerson as he smiles at his son. “That’s life, Alvin!” He doesn’t seem bothered by his imminent passing.

Panel 2 - Side view as Gerson leans in closer to Alvin again, hand raised, back to sharing his secrets. “But, knowin’ my secret…there’s something I’d like to ask of you.”

Alvin faces his father with seriousness. “Anything,” he replies.

Panel 3 - Closeup on Gerson, as he looks hopefully at Alvin. “You have a good heart, Alvin. I want you to know this joy, too.”

Panel 4 - Gerson continues in the next panel: “Please try writin’ stories of your own, alright?” Closeup on Alvin as he looks shocked and a bit worried by the request.

Panel 5 - Mid shot as Alvin holds up a hand to Gerson in protest. He says, “Father, I…I have no talent for writing fiction. Not like YOU.”

Panel 6 - Closeup on Gerson as he refutes his son: “Hogwash! I know you can.”

Panel 7 - Wide shot as Alvin stands up, and looks around the room. “No, I…”

In the foreground, there’s Gerson’s desk, currently showing some lit candles, some paper, an inkwell, a notebook, and his favorite fountain pen.

Page 5

Panel 1 - Closeup as Alvin grabs two objects off of the desk: the small notebook and the fountain pen. Offscreen, he says, “If you just…”

Panel 2 - Back at Gerson’s bedside, Alvin pulls up the footstool and puts the pen and notebook in front of him, intending to use it. He faces his father, and says, “Tell me your ideas, I could write them down, and–”

Gerson interrupts him: “‘Fraid it doesn’t work that way, Alvin!”

Panel 3 - Gerson holds up both of his hands and smiles as he explains: “My tales are between my soul and the pen. You’ll need to make your own.”

Panel 4 - Gerson watches as Alvin, tears in his eyes, looks down at the notebook and pen in hand. “I–I cannot…” Alvin starts, looking despondent.

Panel 5 - Side view of Alvin as tears continue to stream from his eyes. He says, “Not without you!” In the background, in grayscale, there is a scene from Alvin’s memory: Gerson reading a book to his two children by the fire. Gerson looks happy, and both kids are enraptured, with Alvin clinging to a cat doll that looks like Seam.

Panel 6 - Closeup on Gerson, his face now more worried and pleading towards Alvin. Gerson says, “Y-you can… It’s all I ask…”

Panel 7 - Gerson turns away as he’s again interrupted by a round of terrible sounding coughs. Alvin stands holding the notebook and pen in the foreground.

Page 6

Panel 1 - Horror comes over Alvin’s face as his father continues to cough loudly, clutching his chest. He realizes that his father might be close to death now.

Panel 2 - Wider overhead shot as Alvin turns away from Gerson, looking frantically around the room. “No! Not yet!--” he says desperately. Gerson is still racked with coughs.

Panel 3 - Closeup as Alvin grabs the candles from the desk–

Panel 4 - And then pulls a book from the bookshelf, with the delta rune on the front –

Panel 5 - And then finally pulls out what appears to be a beaded rosary, with the delta rune made of beads at the end of it.

Panel 6 - Wider shot as Alvin places the objects in front of him, candles to the side, holy book in front of him. Gerson can only lay there as he does so, trying to catch his breath.

Panel 7 - Front view of Alvin as he clasps his hands together in front of his face, the rosary threaded between his fingers. He closes his eyes and bows his head in prayer. “Angel…Angel above! Please, heed your servant’s prayer!”

Page 7

Panel 1 - Closeup on Alvin as he continues to pray, the candles glowing around him. He keeps his eyes shut even as tears well in them. “I know you call back my father’s soul, but please! Please refrain!”

Panel 2 - Gerson desperately reaches a hand out towards his son, shaking, but unable to reach him. In the foreground, the fountain pen sits on the footstool between them. “A-Alvin…” Gerson’s voice is shaky now.

Panel 3 - Aerial shot as Alvin prays over the book, and Gerson is still confined to the bed, only able to watch. “This world still NEEDS his gifts!” Alvin says. “I pray to you, don’t take them from us now!” The shadows around Alvin start to grow strange, not matching the candlelight.

Panel 4 - Gerson continues to hold out a hand, now not looking well. “No…”

Panel 5 - Closeup on the candles as they spark to life, now glowing stronger.

Panel 6 - A strange bright glow begins to emanate from Gerson. Behind him, the books in the bookcase all rattle and shift as if in a localized earthquake. The colors of the room grow brighter and stranger.

Panel 7 - Still reaching out a desperate hand, Gerson lets out a soft breath. His soul, an upside-down white heart, comes up from his body. On the footstool in the foreground, the fountain pen also begins to levitate, as if by magic.

Page 8

Panel 1 - Front shot of Alvin as he continues to pray desperately, his head bowed and hands together. “Grant us the love shown between his soul and the pen!” Behind him, the colors have grown stark and bright, and a shadow resembling the angel looms behind Alvin.

Panel 2 - Alvin looks up to discover something amazing and terrible: Gerson’s soul has been drawn to the fountain pen, and begins to flow down into it.

Panel 3 - Closeup as Gerson’s soul is completely absorbed into the pen, hovering high over the bed.

Panel 4 - The candles turn strange blue and pink colors, and the books in the bookcase shake and rattle relentlessly.

Panel 5 - Extreme closeup on Alvin’s eyes as he sees this miracle; the light of his father’s soul reflected in his eyes.

Panel 6 - Closeup as the pen suddenly drops, and clatters back on to the footstool.

Panel 7 - Wide aerial shot as the room very suddenly goes completely dark and silent, the bright colors and lights now gone. Alvin stands up and backs away from the bed, still clutching the rosary, his face filled with horror. Gerson now lies unmoving in his bed, having passed away.

Page 9

Panel 1 - The same shot as the first panel of the first page, with the other monsters waiting in the hallway. No one says anything as Alvin emerges from the bedroom, leaning on the door for support, his head bowed. Everyone in the room knows that Gerson has just passed, although they don’t know the rest.

Panel 2 - An establishing shot of the forest and mountains surrounding Hometown…the skies are a dark, gloomy gray.

Panel 3 - Above shot of Gerson’s newly dug grave. At the bottom of a small pit lies Gerson’s hammer, covered in his dust. Politics Bear stands over the grave, holding a shovel. 

Panel 4 - Closeup as the shovel begins to dump dirt over the fresh grave.

Panel 5 - Another closeup of Gerson’s headstone, with bundles of fresh funerary flowers laid in front of it.

Panel 6 - Wide shot of Gerson’s funeral. Alvin stands over his father’s grave, reading last rites from one of his books. Lots of monsters are in attendance, including Alphys and Undyne, Napstablook, the Holiday and Dreemurr families, and more. A very young Kris, Noelle and Asriel are present, but Dess is not. Everyone is dressed in dark mourning attire.

Panel 7 - After the funeral, Toriel approaches Alvin and puts a hand on his shoulder. She says, “Beautifully said, Alvin. I know your father is watching proudly by the side of the Angel.” Alvin looks distant and mournful.

Panel 8 - A closeup of the fountain pen laying forgotten on the desk in Gerson’s room. Gerson is, perhaps, not actually with the Angel right now.

Panel 9 - Back at the funeral, Alvin bows his head, eyes closed. “You are too kind, Toriel,” he says.

Page 10

Panels 1-3 - We see the seasons pass through the changing of the trees…from the barren white trees of winter, to colorful pink blooms for spring, to the bright oranges and reds of fall.

Panel 4 - Sometime much later, Alvin again enters his father’s old room, alone.

Panel 5 - Much of Gerson’s room has remained untouched. The fountain pen still sits on his old writing desk in the foreground. Alvin steps inside, and carefully turns on the overhead light. “It’s been years,” he says.

Panel 6 - Alvin cautiously approaches the pen, which seems to loom large ahead of him. He hesitantly picks it up.

Panel 7 - Alvin places some blank pages on the writing desk. “Surely…”

Panel 8 - Alvin sits in front of the blank pages, still holding the pen cautiously. “Surely by now, I can do it.” He’s going to try writing.

Panel 9 - Closeup as Alvin dips the pen in the inkwell, and it comes away full of ink.

Panel 10 - Closeup as Alvin holds the pen over the blank page. The pen trembles slightly in his grip.

Panel 11 - Alvin tries to put pen to paper, but he’s still trembling. He looks down with great anxiety. “I…I…”

Panel 12 - Closeup on Alvin’s face as he looks more panicked, shaking and sweating. In the background, his memory of his father’s soul being absorbed into the pen plays back at him. This is still his fault.

Panel 13 - Closeup again as Alvin’s hand shakes uncontrollably, and the pen with it. Ink spots begin to dapple the blank page–

Page 11

Panel 1 - Alvin’s shaking hand accidentally knocks over the inkwell, and it spills black ink all over the blank page.

Panel 2 - Alvin picks up the ruined paper and folds it in half to try and stem the ink spillage. He quietly curses to himself. 

Panel 3 - Closeup as Alvin holds his head in his hand. It’s clear that this isn’t going to work. “I can’t…” 

Panel 4 - Closeup as Alvin puts the ink-stained paper back on the desk, and quickly grabs up the pen and inkwell.

Panel 5 - Taking the pen and inkwell, Alvin exits his father’s room again, head bowed and expression sad.

Panel 6 - Left behind, the folded paper slowly peels apart and unfolds…

Panel 7 - To reveal that the spilled ink has created a rorschach ink blot image of a titan. 

Page 12

Panel 1 - Wide shot as Alvin trudges down the streets of Hometown, alone. His head his bowed, and he’s still clutching the articles he took with him. It’s almost nighttime, and the sky is dark. “I cannot bear this kind of burden,” he says to himself.

Panel 2 - Shot from behind Alvin as he approaches the school building. It’s dark, and no students or teachers should be there. “Maybe you belong where you always have…”

Panel 3 - Now indoors, Alvin continues down the empty hallway towards a particular destination. “With the youth.”

Panel 4 - Alvin opens the door to the storage closet at the end of the hall. It opens with a soft creak. “Teaching. Telling stories,” Alvin continues to say to himself.

Panel 5 - Alvin places the fountain pen and inkwell on a small shelf in the storage closet. The closet is almost completely black. 

Panel 6 - The inkwell and pen are left on the shelf as Alvin closes the door behind him. His expression is mournful as he locks these reminders of his father away. “Inspiring someone better suited,” he says, hoping this is a suitable escape of his responsibility.

Page 13

Panel 1 - But in the storage closet, the objects are subject to something else already there: the grand Dark Fountain. The pen, ink and papers all fall into the darkness of the fountain–

Panel 2 - And start to change, the pen seemingly turning into liquid itself–

Panel 3 - As the pen falls deeper and deeper into the dark, the liquid begins to reshape into something new, something resembling a person–

Panel 4 - Until it lands on empty ground, now a person in knight’s armor, knelt over and holding his head in his hands.

Panel 5 - The Knight comes to, and starts to become more aware. He’s dressed in armor resembling the dark metallic sheen of the fountain pen, his mask resembling the pen tip. A bright deep red cape flows from his shoulders, and a single red-orange feather tops the helmet. “Where…am I?”

Panel 6 - The Knight again touches his helmet with both hands, as if not sure exactly what he is.

Panel 7 - Interior shot of the helmet, which reveals a figure much like Gerson…but much younger, more idealized-looking, with colors not matching his actual self. A Dark World interpretation. “WHY am I…?”

Panel 8 - A closeup of the Knight’s hand, slightly trembling.

Panel 9 - The Knight stares down at his own hands as realization begins to flood him, or at least something that looks like realization. “Wait. I see why. I KNOW.” he says.

 Page 14

Panel 1 - The Knight holds up his hand, and a sword appears in it in a flash of lights. The sword resembles the tip of a fountain pen, almost split neatly in two. “I serve the Lightners! That is my purpose!” Says the Knight. 

Panel 2 - The Knight draws the sword back with great fervor and determination. His thoughts echo around him in strong letters: “A purpose so bright, so clear…”

Panel 3 - In the final panel, the Knight drives the sword into the ground, causing an eruption of black ink-like material to spew from the ground…the creation of a new Dark Fountain. In the fountain itself, words reflect his purpose: “I EXIST TO GIVE THEM STORIES FOREVER.”

[deadsetobsessions]

Fae adjacent! Danny, pt. 3

Jason returns to consciousness with a scream trapped before it could come to life. He twisted his neck back and forth and back and forth.

It was the last thing he did before he died. When the Joker left and told him to say hello to the big guy, Jason could not muster up the energy to make a single sound.

But Bruce… Bruce was here this time, heavy head making the mattress by his leg dip.

The scars that ran over his face stretched as he blinked.

“…B?”

Bruce’s head shot up, eyes bloodshot and bags heavier than a Gotham socialite’s solid gold Dior purse.

“Jaylad.”

Jason- Jason was alive now. Bruce’s hug felt warm, the tear spot on his shoulder was damp as his dad cried while hugging him.

And Jason should be happy. He’s alive again. His dad loved him.

But all he could think about was the cold of the coffin, the squelch of mud and dirt, and the unerringly wrong feeling of knowing he came back but he came back wrong.

——

Tim had wandered Gotham in the weeks following Jason’s reawakening. He wasn’t avoiding Bruce Wayne. He wasn’t. But Tim knows he’ll have to answer questions soon. He just wasn’t ready.

Tim looked up at the den of pixies- pixies were real!- and squared his shoulders. He did his research. Tim Drake walks into the den with nothing but foolish hope and Gotham-brand audacity. He’ll get answers about Danny today. He will.

——

Soul-Plucker, they called him. Danny Fenton, the proprietor of Fenton Artifacts. The High King.

“I thought King Oberon was the High King?”

The pixies chittered at the little human that could have been kin. Their wings fluttered at their backs, muffled by cloth. It’s not often they find kindred. It really is too bad that Fenton had his mark on the child. How they would have loved to whisk him away. He would have made entertainment that would last a millennia! Or until the court decided to cut of his tongue, at least. How well he had tricked them!

“Of course! Of course! King Oberon is our king, see?” A younger pixie swirled her drink, a shining red and blue thing. “But he’s the High King of another court!”

“The High King of the Infinite Realms, encompassing far more than King Oberon and Queen Tatianna could ever reach.”

Another pixie chimed in, on their fourth glass of amber colored nectar. “The Soul-Plucker!”

“The Beginning of the End.”

“Afterlife IRS department!”

“He who wanders.”

“Death-Caller.” Another one said, grave and serious.

“The Arbiter.”

“So, he’s like, the boss of bosses?” Tim asked. What kind of entity did he make a deal with? Why was he kind to Tim? What motives did Danny have?

“Uh huh!”

“Then what’s he’s doing here?”

“Who knows? The whims of the most powerful are unknown to us.” The pixies clustered around Tim. “Won’t you play another game with us, Alvin? You’re so good at it! Oh, how about a drink?”

“Can’t. I gotta get home. Also, I’m a minor.” Tim slipped passed their fluttering wings and manic smiles. They move to let him past, waving drinks at him in a tantalizing manner.

“And where is that, sweet one?”

“Somewhere, Liltri. Somewhere.”

Tim Drake was a child of pure will, pure hard headed foolishness, a mind sharper than any blade, and luck more terrifying than the creatures he now dealt with. And so, he stepped out of the Pixie Bar with more questions than answers but he stepped out unharmed.

——

“Who are you?” The shadows shift as Lady Gotham unveiled her knight.

Danny felt his eyes cool, glinting green and blue. Lady Gotham forgets who her liege is.

“Haven’t you done your research? You who walks along the edge of shadows, my shop is not a place to dismiss decorum.”

“You brought… you brought him back. How. Why?”

“You want answers? Then give me something in return.”

Danny gestured to the circle his clients have come to know as the deal-maker. Danny doesn’t ask for much in return. Just… something equal to the request.

“Ah,” Danny pointed up at the sign. “I am legally able to deny you my service, so don’t get any ideas.”

Batman was studied up on myths. But he was not a believer, and that both hindered and helped him. What was a god, in front of the faithless? What was the faithless in front of power?

The vigilante stepped into the circle, unable to see the subtle shimmering of magic but remained unbound by the virtue of his disbelief.

“What do you want for answers?”

“You do not often deal with the occult, do you?” Danny tapped the counter. Batman remained silent.

“I have a soft spot for vigilantes,” Danny continued. “And so I won’t ask for much. Just… your cape.”

“Not my hair? A body part?”

“If you were dealing with the fae, you’d probably would lose something of that value, yes.”

“You aren’t fae.”

Danny merely smiled. “Do we have a deal?”

“My cape in exchange for honest answers to my questions.”

Danny huffed, approval glinting in his eyes.

“Your cape for honest answers to three questions,” Danny pointed at the sign, still hanging above them. “Three questions or nothing.”

Batman grimaced. “Deal.”

“Ask your questions, protector.”

“Why did you bring Jason back to life?”

“I didn’t.” Danny grinned. The Bat should have stipulated that he must answer elaborately. He looked like he realized that. Oh well. His mistake. Well, not like there was actual magic binding Danny, so technically, Danny could lie off his ass.

“…Will Jason stay alive?” Danny had a heart and this man was a much better father than Jack ever was.

“Yes. Barring unnatural causes, his soul is firmly attached to his body and will not shuffle off the mortal coil without warning.”

The lines of Batman’s shoulders slumped. Relief. He paused.

“What are your intentions in this city?”

“To run my shop… and to enjoy retirement.”

Danny laughed at Batman’s stoic face. “Disappointed I am not up to nefarious deeds, little knight?”

“No.”

Danny tapped the table. “My payment?”

Batman shucked off his cape and handed it to Danny.

“Why my cape?”

Danny smiled a fanged little thing. “Because your costume looks stupid without it and I could use a laugh.”

Batman grumbled and turned to leave. Ha paused, eyes catching on the glint of camera lenses.

“How much for that?”

“For the little sparrow’s camera?” Danny sighed, eyes fixed on the form of a vigilante who was more kind than angry for once. “Two thousand dollars.”

“That’s a huge markup.”

“That’s how much it means to me, compared to the rest.” Danny slid beyond the counter, a ghostly air about him. He pinned his newly earned cape up. “My shop, my prices, little knight.”

Batman silently handed him two thousand dollars and left with the little sparrow’s camera.

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[clockwayswrites]

A Hill To Die On

This is most of Chapter 1, cutting before the smut. IT DOES GET SPICY THOUGH. 🌶️⚠️ Some of this has been posted before, but figured I'd give you all one nice big chunk of it!

Tim brush his hand idly through his damp hair as he stepped out of the shower.

It had gotten long.

He hadn’t planned to grow it out, it just sort of happened. He’d gotten it cut last summer before he started his sophomore year of college. The start of the semester had bled into midterms. Midterms had proceeded papers and projects. Projects had become final presentations and exams. Classes ended abruptly into a too short winter break of Tim visiting Cass and her team then dragging her home for Christmas. The New Year had been filled with Titans and teammates and fireworks.

He might cut it when it started getting to muggy. Spring had barely broken into the city. It was warm enough not to need heavy coat but cool enough Tim could still wear his favorite leather jacket he’d stolen from Jason. It was a good time of the year.

His hair really had gotten long.

As long as the wig Tim wore when he became Caroline. He tugged at the ends of the hair where, if he tilted his head down to look up under his lashes, the black strands brushed the top of his shoulders.

Tim hadn’t been Caroline Hill in a long time now.

Or Alvin Draper.

Or Timothy Drake— CEO to be.

He hadn’t been anyone, really. Instead he had been struggling to find out who Tim Wayne was beyond the expectations of dead parents, missions hidden behind masks, and under the weight everyone else’s needs.

He still really didn’t know.

It felt more like a game of finding out what he wasn’t than falling into what he was. Or what he liked to be.

He could be a ruthless businessman, but that was Timothy Drake, wasn’t it? That was his father’s Jack’s legacy and Janet’s cold, confident smile. He didn’t like being that.

He didn’t like being them.

He could be whatever the mission needed. He could do recon, hacking, infiltration, fighting—a replacement, like Jason said. The word didn’t have the same sting that it used to. Replacement. It was almost a word of respect now. It had taken a lot of talking (and a lot of alcohol) for Jason and Tim to get somewhere good, but they both got it now. Red Robin was whoever the team needed.

He was tired of having to fill in cracks.

He beyond tired of just existing for everyone else’s needs.

The weight of that had nearly broken him.

Had broken him.

Tim watched the black strands of hair slip over the spider web of scars on his left hand.

Bruce had assured him that there would always be a place with the Bats if Tim still wanted it. Tim didn’t know if he would. Tim refused to just fill in the space that was left open anymore. It took a lot of sessions with his Justice League approved therapist for Tim to even get to that line in the sand, but he understood how important it was now.

He had to stop being the replacement. The other Robin. The other son.

It was a problem.

Another problem was, he didn’t always think he was Tim Wayne, even with the pieces that he was slowly learning.

Tim dug around under his sink, coming up with the purple case he’d stolen from Steph to keep Caroline’s things in. The robin red lipstick was on the top. Slowly he uncapped it and smeared it almost recklessly across his lips.

Tim no longer stared back out from the mirror.

Maybe Caroline deserved a night out.

It had been a long time, after all.

-

Clothing was an issue.

Tim had grown. Not much mind, but enough that the shoulders were a little tight and bottoms a little short. Well, the bottoms weren’t a huge matter in that moment. Caroline wanted to go out to a club after all; they could work with a too short skirt. The top though… Caroline adjusted the black strap of the lacy bra. Even with the right padding in, it still didn’t look right.

She chewed on her lower lip, still messily smeared with bright red, as she held another top up against her chest. That wouldn’t do either. Caroline gave the box of old clothing a little kick. Hum. She should paint her toenails.

Focus, Caroline.

It was time to look outside of her box.

Fifteen minutes and a pair of scissors later and one of Alvin’s too large and nondescript red t-shirts had become a drop shoulder crop top. It wasn’t the most amazing fit, but as she dressed it up with the right necklace looped a few times around her throat, a splash of red and leather in the bracelets (cover the scars, they were identifying marks), she figured she could pull off the look—at least for getting sweaty in some dark club.

Ever grateful for quick drying polish, Caroline did a rush job of all her nails and waved them impatiently dry before she did her make up properly. Some contouring, false lashes, the right highlights, step by step Caroline felt herself come alive again until staring back from there mirror was no Tim or Timothy or Alvin—just her.

Just Caroline.

She let out the breath she had been holding.

-

Finding the right club took a little bit. Her old favorite had shut down, apparently. That wasn’t uncommon with the short lifespan of clubs and even less so in Gotham with the money laundering and drug rings that often went with the clubs, but it still sucked. Caroline wanted somewhere that if someone got very handsy on the dance floor there wouldn’t be issue with everything that was carefully and securely tucked away in her underwear. The person might not want all that, which was perfectly fine as long they parted ways amicably.

(And if not, well, one of her bracelets could be shockingly persuasive.)

She tucked her fake ID back away in the hidden pocket of her bra, not minding the bit of a show it gave. Tim would have to make her a new one; she didn’t needed the fake age anymore. Then, with a steadying breath, she entered the thudding music, bright lights, and throng of bodies of the club. It took a moment to adjust to it all. This wasn’t always Caroline’s favorite thing, but they needed to relax already. Any tenser and something was going to snap.

Besides, this is where the boys failed and Caroline thrived; slipping between bodies, flirting, giving enough to capture attention without actually giving anything away. Dealing with a mass of people was a complex game of chess and Caroline very much intended to be the conquering queen.

The bar was the first stop, ordering a fruity martini so that she could sip at the drink and people watch for a time. It was always good to get a feel for things before diving in. It also gave her time to get used to being her again as she fielded a few flirtatious advances which landed her another drink in turn for the first dance of the night with her. She didn’t linger long.

She wasn’t sure what she was in the mood for. Caroline flitted across the dance floor from partner to partner, just letting herself enjoy the thud of the beat and the press of bodies. She always moved on before people could get too invested (or too handsy).

Caroline was on the edge of the floor, slipping away from one dance and looking for the next when a laughing group at a close by table shoved one of their number her way. She took a tentative step back, but didn’t actually need to. The poor sacrificial lamb found his footing rather gracefully.

He ducked his head with a crooked smile that was actually somehow charming. “Sorry about them.”

“Stay on target, Danny!” someone called from the table to cheers and jeers.

Danny rolled his eyes. “Really sorry. Just, ah, I maybe have been talking about how pretty you are and how much I want to dance with you for, like, the last twenty minutes. Feel free to tell me to fuck off if this is rude, but would you like to dance?”

Caroline tilted her head and tried not to smile in too predatory a way. “You’ve been watching me?”

“It’s hard not to, with how you move.”

She laughed at that. This one was so earnest. That was odd for Gotham.

“Once dance,” Caroline said, holding out a hand. “Unless you have the moves and then maybe you’ll get more.”

Danny took the hand and brushed a kiss against it. “One dance, to start.”

-

Despite any doubts that Caroline might have had, Danny knew how to move. She’d lost count of the song they had danced to about the time that Danny’s hand had first slid up her shirt. She rolled her hips, grinding back against Danny’s tight jeans and growing arousal. Danny followed her lead beautifully.

His teeth scrapped lightly against her neck and she threw back her head for him, letting him suck a mark into her skin. She enjoyed the thought of Tim being stuck with a reminder of her night out. (Maybe it would convince him to have some fun of his own.)

Danny’s hand slid down from where it had been cupping a breast, traced over her stomach, and moved to her skirt. Caroline caught it before Danny could do more than slip a few fingertips past the band.

“Sorry,” he murmured into her ear.

“Not that,” Caroline said. She turned her head to press a kiss against the corner of Danny’s mouth, smearing robin red against his tan skin. “Just need to let you know there’s more down there than you might be expecting.”

She held her breath as tightly as she held Danny’s hand. It this went bad, she wanted to be able to act quickly.

Danny’s huff of air sounded amused.

She relaxed her grip slightly.

The hand slipped a little lower.

“To me, any combination of bits is a good combination. I’m up for all sorts of surprises,” Danny assured her. His fingers ran over just the top edge of her underwear, not really touching anything, but applying just enough pressure that she shuddered. “She’ okay to use?”

“Yes. She, her, Caroline.”

“Caroline.” Danny said her name like it was a prayer.

She guided his hand a little lower.

His touch stayed almost teasing and Caroline had to alternate between pressing forward into his hand and grinding backwards against him until Danny pulled them so close together that she could barely move. And fuck, it had been too long for any of them. She half thought that if she put in the effort, or Danny’s hand dipped any lower, that she could manage to come right there on the dance floor.

That was not how she wanted tonight to go.

She ran her hands through Danny’s hair and tilted his head where she wanted it. So that she could nip at his ear lobe. “Tell me you live close.”

“In walking distance.”

[artyandink]

𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞 𝐱𝐲𝐳 1

SUMMARY: You’re the first female president of the USA, having won the 2014 elections against Amara Shurley by a landslide. Now that you were a symbol of feminism, reform and a better country, it meant that there were a lot more assassination attempts bound to be on your head. For that, you needed a personal bodyguard, so you had to pick right. And you picked right in convicted ex-hitman Dean Winchester. Right?

TW: assassination attempts, ex-hitman!Dean, POTUS!reader, politics!au, politics, murder, gunfire, boss reader, angst, major sexual tension between reader and Dean but also romantic tension cause we love that, slow/quick burn, y’all will have to figure that out

A/N: In honour of our queen Kamala Harris, who didn’t win the 2024 elections, so I give you what could’ve been

NOW PLAYING: Power by Little Mix

office fever

God, the wait was killing you.

You were sitting in a bar, hoping that when the results of the final poll came you were drunk enough that you’d cheer and scream like a madwoman to counteract the inevitable news that you’d lose the 2014 presidential elections to your only eligible opponent, Amara Shurley. Either way, you both had incredibly good future legislations and laws, and whoever was elected there’d be a woman as the President for the first time, which was good. Really good.

“Come on, babes, cheer up!” Stephanie, one of your two best friends, drawled, checking her manicured nails while absent-mindedly sipping on a Long Island Iced Tea like it was merely water, but that was Steph O’Donnell for you, plain and simple. Eh, she was a bit nails-obsessed, but you loved her anyway for it, she did always look immaculate.

Bella, your other, redhead best friend, sighed and smacked Steph upside her blonde head, earning a gasp at the potentially ruined heatless curls (no, they weren’t ruined, she’s just being dramatic). “Maybe you just need to get less alcohol in your system.” She said pointedly, plucking the vodka shot out of your fingers.

“Bels, if anything, she needs more.” Steph pointed out after checking if her hair wasn’t frizzed up in a pocket mirror. “If she wins, it just means she’s capable of partying harder.”

Bella sighed and rolled her eyes, shaking her head with a small laugh, tsking internally at the notion. “She needs to remain sober for when she gets the results, and she’s going to win.” Bella turned to you with a sparkling smile and took your hand, squeezing it. “We’re here for you, girl. Sure, it’s totally possible that the Amara Shurley woman could win the election — she’s older — but if the country’s not stupid, then you’ll be the next POTUS.”

“I’m not sure whether to feel better or worse.” You playfully rolled your eyes, but let the vodka shot go and gestured to the bartender with a resigned sigh. Yeah, you could go without alcohol for tonight. “But ok. One mocktail, and surprise me with it. Cheers.” You looked to Bella with raised eyebrows, tipping your head slightly. “So, what if I lose the election?”

Bella tutted, and Steph looked up from her nails in shock— damn, that’s how you knew you were in deep shit. “Baby girl, you better get that thinking out of your head right now.” Steph gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in shock. “You are an icon for a feminist nation— a non-toxic feminist nation. If people don’t vote for you, I’m gonna kill those who didn’t, those who did can live.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Steph, no—”

“Yes—”

A loud squeal from Bella distracted both of you and almost made Steph spill the Cosmo that matched her nails and also made her shoot a you bitch look that she really didn’t mean, but then Bella started flapping her hands and making squealing and unintelligible, Brittany from Alvin and the Chipmunk-esque sounds that made you and Steph share a look. “You ok, Bels?” You asked in severe mild concern, while Steph just looked either repulsed or amused.

“Are you having a stroke?” Steph continued, checking for any signs of maybe a heart attack or an ice cube lodged down her throat so her speech becomes little whistles.

“Do you smell toast?” You waved a hand in front of your nose, but then her phone was shoved in front of your face so the screen and everything went blurry, not to mention the sting of the light on your eyes— shit, that burned until your retinas. Grabbing the phone from her, you held it at a distance and squinted (“grandma”, said Steph) but then saw the headline.

2014 PRESIDENTIAL ELECTIONS, FINAL POLL RESULTS

Then you scrolled down, with bated breath and clutching Bella’s hand like you wanted to rip it off, and you took a shaky look at the numbers.

AMARA SHURLEY — 36%

That means you got… 64% of the vote, now that you did the math. Holy shit. “Holy shit!” You gasped, letting out a Bella-reminiscent squeal just as Steph did, and you were smothered by two heavily-perfumed hugs, the wind knocked out of you, but did that matter? No.

You were the President. The first female President. POTUS. The youngest ever elected too, at 35.

Holy fuck, holy shit, holy crap. This was the most beautiful day of your life, beside the day you met Bella and Steph, that day was important. “You’re POTUS.” Steph grinned, waving for, like, six whiskeys for all of you to down.

“You’re POTUS, baby girl.” Bella giggled, squeezing your shoulders and then spinning around on her bar stool, pointing obviously to you and yelling “POTUS!”, earning a round of cheers and applause from the patrons that made you bury your face in your hands.

But you did it with a grin. You were the President.

Honestly, being the President was exhilarating, cause that meant you got to make real change, it was incredible. Your new security team had fended off the paparazzi from smothering you Bella and Steph style except more annoying as you were escorted into the White House, a woman only a little younger than you waiting with an eager grin and a clipboard hugged to her chest.

“Welcome to the White House, Madam President.” She grinned, holding out her hand nervously then retracting it— she didn’t know what new bosses wanted, alright? “I’m Becky Rosen, I’ll be your assistant. Anything you need, I’ll handle it. Do you want anything? Tea, coffee, water, a martini— if you want a martini I’ll have the barman get one ready and waiting for you in the Oval Office…”

During that time she’d been rambling you’d examined Becky, getting a feel for what she was like. Thank God your assistant was a woman also and she seemed like good fun, lively spirit, definitely someone who won’t make your schedule sound boring. But she looked overworked and tired, maybe from the last president— that’d be Raphael Easton, right? Yeah.

“Two things,” you started as you were walking through the halls to the Oval Office, “do you have the files for personal bodyguard applicants that I can cycle through before making official speeches?”

“They’re all on your desk, ma’am.” Becky answered almost immediately— damn, she was rather eager, and happy with her job, clearly, but also had dark circles and eye bags that made something twinge in you. It didn’t sit right.

You nodded, then gave her a warm smile, gently taking the clipboard. “How ‘bout you take the day off, yeah? It’s only my first day, I don’t need anything yet, and I can get the applicants from…” You looked through the labels on the file: FBI, CIA, private agencies, ADX Supermax— ADX Supermax?

“What’s wrong, ma’am?” Becky asked, seeing the way your words trailed off upon seeing the file amid all the other incredibly professional outlets for protection, an applicant from the ADX. Well, you did say unorthodox applicants can apply if they wanted to, you just didn’t expect a dude in prison to put his file through.

Oh. Upon opening it, it was just a letter.

You looked up to Becky, biting your lip in thought, cause if this guy’s in the Supermax, he’s prolific.

“Do I have a direct line to the director of the FBI?”

ADX Florence was a fortress, a high-tech prison designed to keep America’s most dangerous criminals sealed away from the world. It wasn’t a place where hope grew. Dean Winchester, prisoner 11347-7, wasn’t the kind of guy to expect hope anyway. A hitman with a list of bodies long enough to fill a small town cemetery, he had resigned himself to spending the rest of his days in this tomb of concrete and steel.

It wasn’t regret that gnawed at him in the sterile silence of his cell. Regret wasn’t his style. He’d made his choices, taken his hits, and lived by the only code he knew: survival. But that didn’t mean he liked being locked away. Dean had always been a man who thrived on freedom—the smell of asphalt under the Impala’s tires, the weight of a weapon he knew as intimately as his own heartbeat, the thrill of a job well done.

Now, his days were measured in three meals delivered through a slot and the endless monotony of isolation. Until that morning in 2008 when the guard, a surly guy Dean called Mustache, slid a newspaper into his cell along with the breakfast tray.

Dean didn’t read newspapers often. What was the point? The world moved on without him. But that day, boredom got the better of him. He skimmed headlines about wars, scandals, and the economy’s nosedive. Nothing he hadn’t expected. Then his eyes landed on something that made him sit up straighter on the cot.

“Wanted: Elite Personal Security for First Female President. Apply Now.”

The ad stood out like a neon sign in a desert. Beneath the bold letters was a glossy image of the President standing in front of the White House, flanked by Secret Service agents. The text outlined the need for a personal bodyguard—someone with impeccable skills, discretion, and a willingness to take a bullet if necessary. Experience required. Unorthodox candidates welcome.

Dean read it twice, then a third time, the words stirring something he hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t quite hope, but it was close.

ADX Supermax wasn’t the kind of place where people left easily. But this ad…this ad was a door, cracked open just wide enough for someone like him to slip through.

“Unorthodox candidates,” he muttered, smirking. “Guess I qualify.”

By lunchtime, Dean had a plan. It wasn’t perfect—nothing he did ever was—but it was a shot, and that was more than he usually got in this place.

He spent hours staring at the blank sheet of paper he’d salvaged from a previous legal memo. Writing wasn’t his strong suit. Hell, if he’d been good at words, maybe he wouldn’t have ended up in the killing business in the first place. But this wasn’t about flowery language. It was about convincing someone that a convicted hitman could be trusted with the life of the most powerful person in the country.

Dean leaned over the small desk bolted to the wall of his cell, chewing the end of his pen as he started to scribble.

To Madam President,

I am writing to express my interest in the position of personal security for the President. I realize my application may raise questions, given my current circumstances, but I ask for your consideration based on my unique qualifications.

Before my incarceration, I was highly skilled in tactical operations, surveillance, and neutralising high-level targets. My ability to assess danger and act decisively has been tested in some of the most dangerous environments.

Though I am serving time for my past actions, I believe in redemption. This position represents an opportunity for me to use my skills for a greater purpose. I have spent my years here reflecting on my choices, and I am prepared to dedicate my life to protecting someone who stands for hope and progress in this country.

Thank you for your time and consideration. I am available for an interview at your convenience.

Sincerely, Dean Winchester

He read over the letter a dozen times, making minor adjustments. It was rough, sure, but it was honest. And honesty was something he didn’t traffic in often, neither were fancy words, and he used a lot of them.

By the time he was done, his hand ached, and the paper was smudged from his grip. He folded it carefully and tucked it into the pocket of his jumpsuit.

The next step was trickier.

Dean’s lawyer, a wiry man named Feldman who’d been paid off by some shadowy client years ago to keep an eye on him, didn’t usually show up unless Dean demanded it. This time, Dean played the card of “urgent legal matter.” When Feldman arrived, looking mildly annoyed but curious, Dean slid the letter across the table during their monitored meeting.

“You want me to…submit this?” Feldman asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dean nodded. “Straight to the President’s office. No detours, no ‘I’ll get to it later.’ This is priority one.”

Feldman stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “You realize this is insane, right? You’re in here for life. They’re not going to let you out just because you can write a heartfelt letter.”

“They might if they’re desperate enough,” Dean countered. “And that ad says they’re looking for someone who can do the job, not someone who looks good on paper. I can do the job.”

Feldman sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “And if I say no?”

Dean’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You won’t. You owe me.”

Feldman muttered something under his breath but pocketed the letter. “You’re lucky I like long shots.”

Weeks passed. Dean didn’t hear anything, and for a while, he wondered if Feldman had tossed the letter in the nearest trash can. But then, one morning, Mustache appeared at his cell with an unreadable expression.

“You’ve got a visitor,” he said gruffly.

Dean frowned. “Who?”

“Didn’t say. Get up.”

Visitors were rare, especially unannounced ones. Dean followed Mustache down the cold, narrow corridors, his curiosity growing. When he reached the visitor room, his breath caught.

The woman sitting on the other side of the plexiglass partition was dressed in a crisp suit, her posture radiating authority. She wasn’t Feldman, and she definitely wasn’t a typical visitor.

Dean picked up the phone on his side of the glass.

“Mr. Winchester,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “I’m here on behalf of the President.”

He leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Guess you got my letter.”

Her expression didn’t change. “We did. It was…unconventional.”

“That’s me in a nutshell.”

She glanced at a folder on the table in front of her. “Your record is extensive. Multiple charges of murder-for-hire, conspiracy, weapons trafficking…” She looked up, her sharp eyes locking onto his. “Why should we trust you?”

Dean leaned forward, his tone serious. “Because I know what I’m doing. You want someone who’ll lay down their life for the President? Someone who’ll see the threats before anyone else does? That’s me. I’ve been on both sides of this game. I know how killers think because I’ve been one. And if you give me this chance, I’ll prove that I’m more than what’s in that file.”

The woman studied him for a long moment before standing. “We’ll be in touch.”

Dean hung up the phone, watching her leave with a mixture of hope and disbelief. For the first time in years, it felt like the world outside ADX Supermax wasn’t as far away as it seemed.

You’d been running interviews for a bodyguard for about a week now, and you’d only started them once Becky had gotten a good rest, as well as the rest of the staff at the White House so they could spend good time with their families. First few weeks of presidency were busy ones, so you wanted your employees to have some time for themselves before anything happened.

Nobody seemed suitable to you, even though you’d been presented with the best FBI, CIA and private outlet’s security detail they had, they’d each and all failed your every attempt to make them seem credible, you didn’t want anyone like that. Tabloids had already gotten to smearing your name regarding this, but you were more concerned with your final applicant.

Dean Winchester.

You’d asked the FBI to send over every file they had on him, and the list was — you hated to say it — extensive. Many assassinations of high and low-level targets, and he was credited with over 100 assassinations in the past two years— you had your doubts about this guy, the director of the FBI had said he was in there for a reason.

You’d find out if he was unhinged, or just a normal man.

Well, Dean had been escorted as covertly as possible with a bunch of military and secret service agents, which didn’t make sense as his hands were shackled to his feet. The only way he’d be getting out of these chains was if he was a magician, and he wasn’t, just incredibly good at marksmanship and fighting, thank John for that.

“Alright, alright.” He scoffed, almost tripping out of the car as he was practically shoved up the steps by the agents by his head. “I’m moving, I’m moving, Jesus fuck, you ladies are uptight.” He got to the door of the White House, and holy shit, he was really here. He got let in, hearing a Secret Service agent blabbing in his ear.

“Any funny business, 353, and we’re sending you straight back. You’re gonna address Madam President with respect, no cheek—” Ugh, the sound of his voice was grating, but all Dean could do was let out a terse nod as he was led to the door of the Oval Office and led inside. He stepped in, glaring at the service agent who had been yapping about decorum. Then, suddenly—

“Oi! Hey, hey!” A woman’s voice snapped, and he looked up from his shackles to see you, and boy, were you young for a president. You had to be his age, right? Yeah, and you were surprisingly gorgeous for a POTUS, but the way you’d stood up with a loud chair screech from your desk, snapped your fingers and pointing at Dean’s shackles with a livid expression, he knew the agents were in deep shit.

“The fuck is this?” You gestured to the heavy shackles on Dean’s wrists and ankles— they were quite heavy and uncomfortable, now that he paid attention to it, but he was more focused on how much of a little Spitfire you were. Young, but you were snapping at these middle-aged men as if they were 5 year old children. “You might as well put a chain around his neck, for God’s sake— whichever of you has the key, take those things off and leave my office, if he kills me, fine, just have Amara take my place, she’ll do a damn good job as well.”

The service agents stood there, stunned, and then a stern look from you — “Damn,” Dean muttered — got the agent next to Dean to shove the key in the lock to his wrists and ankles, letting the chains fall free, and they were promptly carried out. You sighed, returning to your desk, running a hand through your hair.

“I am so sorry about that, Mr Winchester, I’ve just always found those chains really inhumane.” You rushed the sentence, gesturing to your desk in front of you and sipping your coffee to calm down. Honestly, not your best option, it probably made you more jittery.

Dean didn’t argue, he didn’t want to get scolded, just made his way to the desk, grey jumpsuit — he was in protective custody in prison — rustling with every step until he sat down on the irresistibly comfy chair, cause wow, prison chairs were hard and low standard.

His ass felt like it was in heaven right now.

“No problem, ma’am, I see the point. Not exactly the cleanest slate.” He didn’t think it was wise to make a joke of how he’d assassinated people for hire, but it made you laugh, so maybe that was good going. Who knows? “And call me Dean.”

“I see that.” You smiled, then gestured to Dean with a warm smile, not something he was used to unless it was the smiles of his mom that he barely remembered. Otherwise it was either hungry, lustful smiles of desperate women and cunning smiles of ruthless businessmen and mafia bosses. “So, Dean, before we get started, would you like anything? Tea, coffee, water, beer, whiskey— one candidate asked for straight vodka. He’s not getting the job.” Damn. The new POTUS was cool.

“Water would be great.” Dean would have a drop of whiskey, but he wanted to make a good impression and hydrate himself with something other than low-quality prison water. So, when you passed him the water, he downed the tall glass in three gulps, but then paused when he saw you watching.

Then he swallowed. Shit.

But you weren’t judging him, you seemed understanding, that yes, prison water probably tasted like rat piss, so he finished the rest of the glass and wiped his hand with the back of his mouth. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologise. Prison must be really rough, treat yourself.” You waved him off, shaking your head, then peered through his file. Rather interesting family background, how did he turn out that way? “Says here that your father’s a Marine Corporal veteran, thanks for his service, and your brother’s a prosecution lawyer that graduated from Stanford Law. Impressive.” You looked up at him, thumb playing with the ring on your middle finger, eyes focused on the paper.

Dean couldn’t help but note that you were beautiful. Not objectively, just factually beautiful. He’s not being a perv.

“My brother’s a nerd.” Dean stated with a smile as you talked about his family, he didn’t blame them, he wasn’t a bookworm, he wasn’t as smart as his little brother in that aspect, Sam was all about studying and being the good kid.

"Yeah, my brother used to say I was a nerd, now look at me." You chuckled, then nodded in acknowledgement. "You, however, you graduated just on the mark, no honours, didn't go to college and transactions show you started as a hitman when you were 20." You paused for a second, cause that was what you couldn’t put your finger on. "But the equal amounts of money went to Stanford in deposits. Why?"

Dean knew he was gonna be interrogated by the new President, that’s a given, and he made sure to prepare himself for the whole psychological evaluation of himself. His expression remained unreadable, only slightly surprised by how quickly you put together that he’d been paying for his brother’s college.

“He’s family. Sammy’s a good kid, he deserves to get away from this life.” Dean answered, it was a simple answer. It didn’t really dig deep into his past or his true relationships with his family.

Well, all you had to know was that his dad was paranoid after returning from deployment and taught him how to shoot like James fucking Bond and Sammy too, but Sam had left for college while Dean had nothing he could do for himself.

"Mhm." You hummed, looking through the rest of it. "Now my guys are finding that in the years since your brother left college, money you've earned from assassinations ordered by high level clients — that are now behind bars — has been wired to a rehab centre down in Delaware. I looked into it, and I found out your father's staying there. None of that money's going to you." Your voice wasn't judging. You instead sounded understanding.

The only reason why Dean wasn’t surprised or shocked by the fact that you knew this was the fact that you were the President. He should’ve guessed. He smiled slightly as you remained understanding about the whole situation though, most other politicians would’ve seen this as a chance to blackmail and threaten him.

“Yeah, my dad’s got severe PTSD. It’s the only good one nearby.” He explained as he crossed his arms. It would be hard to find a rehab centre that accepted his dad given the whole violent record he had.

You couldn’t help but feel sympathy at that. Dean’s juvenile record wasn’t the cleanest, so no shops would’ve hired him so he could make that money, only black ops would. It was strange, and you’d be under fire by the media if you voiced it, but you saw his struggle. “You did it for your family.” You were surprised at how softly you said that.

“Family don’t end in blood, ma’am.” Dean replied, honestly, and you were hit where it hurt by that statement. You were expecting a cold-hearted killer, not a man trying to do right by his post-traumatic father and little brother. “Not if I’m still breathin’. Sammy’s got a good life, a wife, by what I’ve heard. Don’t wanna burden him with all that shit, a-and I haven’t talked to him in a few years. My boy.” He cleared his throat to not get too emotional.

You had to do that too, just to be clear.

“I’m sorry.” But that wouldn’t just fix everything, so you took a moment to let that hang in order to give him some time. “Only important question I’m gonna ask. Hypothetically, we’re under fire at one of my events. You’ve gotten me to safety, and I give you the order to do the same for civilians. Do you do it?”

Dean took in the question, eyebrow raised slightly as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table as he studied you. That was a odd but interesting question. This was a job interview for real, it seems.

But this answer was simple.

“Civilians. I’d get the innocents out first.” He said, there wasn’t even a hint of hesitation in his voice. Civilians, innocent people will always come first before anything and anyone. He’d made sure when performing hits that no civilians, women, fathers, men, mothers, children— were safely out of the way before taking a shot. If they weren’t, he refused. He wasn’t risking it.

He was expecting you to refuse him on the spot, but instead two words came out that almost made him go “holy shit”.

“You’re hired.”

You’re. Hired. He could die.

“I-I’m sorry, Madam President, I’m what?” He practically gasped, hands clutching the arms of his seat, watching you take out some already prepared parole papers and walking to the door in your heels, handing the file to one of the service agents.

“Hired.” You said simply, a shrug and a smile offered as you walked to the desk. Fucking hell, Dean had never seen a stranger president in his life. “Your parole is being passed effective immediately, and I wanna get you in touch with my stylist and wardrobe guy so we can get you some new and frankly more comfortable clothes. You’ll be staying here, at the White House, you’ll have full access to my staff for anything you might need, but most importantly, you need to call your family.” You tapped your landline that you had prepared on the desk with a small, encouraging smile. “I have Sam’s number and the rehab centre’s number both in your directory file, I’ll give you some time to talk rather than waiting like a creep.”

As you walked out, Dean couldn’t believe his ears. He was now the President’s bodyguard, he got to live in luxury, no doubt there was a large paycheck and he got to call Sammy again. His Sammy, oh, holy shit.

His hand shook as he reached for the landline, opening the file and there it was, Sam’s number, and it’d changed since he got put in prison a good six months ago. His fingers fumbled, clumsily dialling the number and waiting a moment as the dial tone stopped and the ringing shook his eardrum. Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up, please pick up—

“Hello?” Dean’s heart broke upon hearing Sam’s voice again, and he took a shaky breath. Get a grip, Winchester, it’s only your little brother, the man you raised your while life.

“Bitch.” His voice sounded like he’d smoked cigarettes, and he’d quit that habit after high school, but all he could hear was the dead silence of realisation on the other side.

“Jerk.”

The motorcade pulled up to the white-brick colonial house just as the late afternoon sun began to dip behind the row of oaks lining the driveway. You leaned back in your seat, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. For months now, your life had been a whirlwind of campaign rallies, debates, and sleepless nights in cramped hotels. It all felt surreal. You were the President of the United States. Yet, somehow, coming home to this house—the one you’d grown up in—was what made it all feel real.

Secret Service agents stepped out first, scanning the quiet suburban neighborhood for threats. You glanced out the tinted window, catching a glimpse of the familiar front porch where your father had painted the railing a deep blue years ago. The door creaked open, and a small figure darted out onto the lawn before anyone could stop him.

“Austin!”

The call came from Eden, your sister-in-law, who appeared a moment later, balancing baby Wyatt on her hip. She looked harried but happy, waving at you from the porch. Austin, however, was already halfway to the car, his untied sneakers slapping against the pavement.

You smiled despite yourself. Rolling down the window, you called out, “Hold on, buddy, let them do their job.”

The boy skidded to a stop as one of the agents gently but firmly intercepted him, patting him on the shoulder and guiding him back toward the porch. Austin complied, but his excitement was evident in every bouncing step.

By the time you exited the car, your father, Mark, was standing on the porch steps, arms crossed but with a wide grin splitting his face. “There she is,” he said, his voice booming with pride. “Madame President.”

You felt your cheeks flush as you climbed the steps. “Dad, don’t start.”

“Oh, I’ll start, alright,” he said, pulling you into a tight hug. “My daughter, the leader of the free world! They’re gonna need to expand that Oval Office just to fit my pride.”

“Mark, give her some room to breathe,” your mother, Odette, chided as she stepped outside. She was smaller than you remembered, her hair streaked with more gray than the last time you’d seen her. But her smile was as warm as ever. She held her arms open, and you leaned into her familiar embrace, the scent of lavender and vanilla washing over you.

“It’s good to see you, Mom,” you murmured.

“We’re so proud of you,” she said softly, pulling back to study your face. “But I bet you’re exhausted.”

You nodded, glancing over her shoulder to see your older brother Ryan descending the stairs, a grin on his face. “Well, well, look who decided to come back down to earth,” he teased, reaching out to clap you on the shoulder.

“Someone’s gotta keep you grounded,” you shot back, the familiar rhythm of sibling banter falling into place as though no time had passed.

Eden appeared beside him, Wyatt still on her hip. She offered you a smile, and you leaned in to kiss her cheek. “How’s this little guy doing?” you asked, reaching out to tickle Wyatt’s chin. The baby let out a squeal of laughter, his chubby arms flailing.

“He’s teething,” Eden said with a weary smile. “So, you know…living the dream.”

Austin, who had been hovering impatiently at the edge of the group, finally couldn’t contain himself. “Auntie!” he shouted, throwing his arms around your waist.

“Hey, kiddo,” you said, ruffling his hair. “What’s new?”

“I got an A on my science project!” he said, looking up at you with bright eyes.

“That’s great!” you said. “What was the project?”

“Volcanoes,” he said, puffing out his chest. “Dad helped me with the lava.”

Ryan coughed. “Helped is a strong word. He mostly just told me what to do.”

“That’s because you were doing it wrong!” Austin protested, and the group dissolved into laughter.

Inside, the house was exactly as you remembered it. The worn hardwood floors creaked under your feet, and the faint scent of your mother’s cooking lingered in the air. The walls were covered with family photos—some old, some new—including one of you on election night, surrounded by your team, your face frozen in an expression of shock and joy.

Dinner was already laid out on the long wooden table in the dining room. A roast chicken sat in the center, surrounded by bowls of mashed potatoes, green beans, and your mother’s famous macaroni casserole. It was a far cry from the catered meals you’d been eating on the campaign trail, and your stomach growled in anticipation.

“Let’s eat before it gets cold,” Odette said, ushering everyone to their seats.

You took your usual spot, sandwiched between Austin and your father, while Ryan carved the chicken. Plates were passed around, and soon the room was filled with the clatter of silverware and the hum of conversation.

Mark raised his glass of water. “A toast,” he said, his voice cutting through the din. “To my daughter. The first woman to sit in the Oval Office. You’ve made us all so proud.”

“Here, here!” Ryan chimed in, lifting his own glass.

You felt a lump rise in your throat as you clinked glasses with everyone around the table. For a moment, the weight of your responsibilities seemed to lift, replaced by the simple joy of being surrounded by the people who had always believed in you.

After dinner, you helped your mother clear the table, despite her protests. “You’re the President now,” she said, swatting your hands away from the plates. “You don’t need to be doing dishes.”

“Maybe not,” you said, grinning. “But I don’t think I’ve outgrown being your daughter.”

She relented, shaking her head with a fond smile, and the two of you worked side by side in comfortable silence. When the last dish was put away, you found yourself drawn to the living room, where the rest of the family had gathered.

Ryan was sprawled on the couch, flipping through a photo album with Austin perched beside him. Eden sat in the armchair, rocking Wyatt to sleep, while Mark stood by the fireplace, nursing a cup of coffee.

You sank into the armchair opposite Eden, your eyes drawn to the flickering flames in the hearth. “It feels good to be home,” you said softly.

Mark looked over at you, his expression thoughtful. “You’ve got a hell of a road ahead of you, kid,” he said. “But don’t forget—you’ve got us. We’re here for you, no matter what.”

You nodded, feeling the truth of his words settle in your chest. “I know,” you said. “And I’m going to need that. All of it.”

Ryan looked up from the photo album, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Think we’ll get to visit the White House? Austin’s dying to see the bowling alley.”

Austin’s head snapped up. “There’s a bowling alley?”

You laughed. “There is. And yeah, you’ll all come visit. But I can’t promise I’ll have much time for bowling.”

“Why not?” Austin asked, his brow furrowing. “You’re the President. Can’t you just…make time?”

The simplicity of his question made you smile. “It’s a little more complicated than that, buddy,” you said. “But I’ll do my best.”

Later that night, after the house had quieted and everyone had gone to bed, you found yourself standing in the backyard. The air was crisp and cool, and the stars above were brighter than you remembered. You wrapped your arms around yourself, feeling the enormity of your new role settle over you like a heavy cloak.

The back door creaked open, and Mark stepped outside, a blanket draped over his shoulders. He joined you on the porch, handing you a steaming mug of tea.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Too much on my mind.”

Mark nodded, staring out at the dark yard. “It’s a big job,” he said. “But if anyone can handle it, it’s you.”

“I hope so,” you said quietly.

He placed a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. “You’ve got what it takes,” he said. “And you’ve got us. Don’t forget that.”

You looked up at him, your heart swelling with gratitude. “Thanks, Dad.”

He smiled, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “Come on,” he said, gesturing toward the house. “You’ve got a long day ahead of you tomorrow. Let’s get some sleep.”

As you followed him inside, you felt a sense of peace you hadn’t felt in months. No matter how hard the road ahead might be, you knew you wouldn’t be walking it alone.

The Oval Office was as grand as you’d imagined—perhaps even more so. Its high, curved ceilings and rich, historic decor exuded authority, yet the warmth of the afternoon sunlight filtering through the tall windows softened the edges, giving the room an almost serene quality.

You sat at the Resolute Desk, a stack of documents waiting for your signature. Each one bore the weight of history. Education reforms. Trade agreements. Environmental policies. Every flick of your pen carried consequences that rippled far beyond the iconic walls of this room.

Across the room, Becky, your ever-efficient assistant, was perched on the edge of one of the armchairs, tablet in hand. “After this meeting with the education committee, you’ve got a fifteen-minute break before the press briefing,” she said, scrolling rapidly through the day’s schedule. “Then at three, there’s the Cabinet discussion on infrastructure. And don’t forget the call with the German Chancellor at four.”

“Got it,” you replied, signing your name with a practiced flourish. “Anything else?”

Becky hesitated, glancing at her screen. “Oh, and your new personal bodyguard will be arriving shortly. Dean Winchester.”

You kept your expression neutral, though you’d been briefed extensively on this particular appointment. A former hitman, Dean’s resume wasn’t exactly typical for someone tasked with protecting the President. But his unconventional background—and the skillset that came with it—was exactly why he’d been chosen.

“Right,” you said, setting your pen down. “I’ve read his file. Has he been through security clearance?”

“Thoroughly vetted,” Becky assured you. “And cleared. He should be here any moment.”

You nodded, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Let’s hope he lives up to the hype.”

Just as Becky opened her mouth to reply, the door opened.

You looked up, and the words you were about to say caught in your throat.

Dean Winchester strode into the room with the kind of presence that made people stop and take notice. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried himself with a casual confidence that hinted at years of facing danger head-on. He wore a dark gray suit that was tailored just enough to highlight his powerful frame but not so tight as to make him look polished or delicate. The crisp white shirt underneath contrasted against his tanned skin, and his black tie was slightly loosened, as if he’d deliberately left it that way.

Despite the formal attire, there was an undeniable ruggedness about him. His short, tousled hair was just slightly too messy to be regulation, and the shadow of stubble along his jaw added an edge that no amount of tailoring could hide. His green eyes, sharp and assessing, swept the room before landing on you.

You found yourself momentarily distracted by the way the suit accentuated his broad chest and tapered waist. It was a rare thing for someone to wear something so formal yet exude the kind of raw, unrefined masculinity that Dean seemed to embody.

“Madame President,” he said, his voice low and gravelly as he stopped a respectful distance from your desk.

You forced yourself to refocus, clearing your throat as you rose from your seat. “Mr. Winchester.” You allowed yourself a small smile, noting the way his gaze remained steady but professional. “You clean up well.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “Thanks. I aim to please.”

Becky glanced between the two of you before standing. “I’ll step out and make sure everything’s ready for the committee meeting,” she said, gathering her tablet.

“Thanks, Becky,” you said, watching her leave before turning back to Dean.

For a moment, the room felt smaller. His presence was magnetic, and you couldn’t help but take him in once more, your gaze lingering on the way his shoulders filled out the suit jacket, the way his long fingers rested casually at his sides, the way they gripped his chair as he sat down. You snapped your attention back to his face before he could notice.

Dean leaned back slightly in the chair, taking in the sight of you as you scanned your schedule on the tablet in front of you. The soft lighting of the Oval Office seemed to highlight the sharp lines of your features, and the way you carried yourself—confident, composed, entirely in command—struck him in a way he hadn’t expected.

He’d done his research, of course. He knew your career milestones, your policies, even a few of your personal quirks. But seeing you in person was different. The photographs didn’t do you justice.

As you spoke, your voice clear and firm, Dean found himself watching the curve of your lips, the subtle tilt of your head when you emphasized a point. You had a presence that filled the room, a quiet strength that made it impossible to look away.

“Your main job,” you were saying, “is to ensure my safety, both here and when I travel. You’ll coordinate with the Secret Service, but your focus will be on close-range protection. You’ll accompany me to all public appearances, meetings, and events.”

Dean nodded, forcing himself to focus on your words rather than the way your blouse fit perfectly beneath your blazer. “Understood. Anything specific I should know about your routine?”

You looked up, meeting his gaze. “It varies. I keep a tight schedule, but unexpected situations come up all the time. You’ll need to be adaptable.”

“I’m good at that,” Dean said, his tone confident but not cocky.

“Good.” You swiped at the tablet, then set it down on the desk. “I’ve read your file. Your skillset is…impressive.”

He tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “That’s one way to put it.”

You arched an eyebrow, your lips curving into a wry smile. “I’d call it unconventional, but that seems to be exactly what I need.”

Dean’s gaze flicked over you again, this time lingering on the curve of your jawline, the way your fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the desk. He’d worked with plenty of high-profile people before, but you were in a league of your own.

“Anything else I should be aware of?” he asked, his voice low.

You tilted your head, considering him for a moment. “You’re going to see me at my best and my worst,” you said plainly. “Long hours, high stress, bad days, good days. It comes with the territory.”

Dean nodded. “I’m here to do my job, ma’am. Whatever it takes.”

Something in his tone made you pause, your gaze sharpening as you studied him. “You’ve been in worse situations, haven’t you?”

“Let’s just say I’m no stranger to high stakes,” he replied, his smirk returning.

You leaned back in your chair, satisfied. “Good. I’ll need someone who can keep a cool head under pressure. And someone who doesn’t mind telling me the hard truth when I need to hear it.”

Dean’s smirk widened slightly. “I can handle that.”

The conversation shifted to logistics—your upcoming travel schedule, security protocols, and daily routines. Dean asked a few questions, his tone professional, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was studying you as much as he was listening.

If you noticed the way his eyes dipped to your collarbone when you leaned forward to make a point, or how his gaze lingered on the curve of your wrist as you gestured, you didn’t let on. You were focused, deliberate, every bit the commander-in-chief he’d expected.

When the meeting wrapped up, you stood and extended a hand again. “Welcome aboard, Dean. I look forward to working with you.”

Dean rose, his hand engulfing yours once more. “The pleasure’s mine, ma’am.”

As he turned to leave, you called after him, “And Dean?”

He paused, glancing over his shoulder.

“You really do look good in that suit.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

Alone again, you returned to your desk, your mind already shifting to the next task. But for a moment, you allowed yourself a small smile.

It was going to be an interesting partnership.

“Ok, excuse me?” Bella had practically squealed when the door to your bedroom behind you, her and Steph had been shut by Dean, who was now waiting outside to give you some privacy, and thank God those walls were thick enough to hide this conversation. “You didn’t tell us your bodyguard was a Ben Affleck and Brad Pitt combo.”

Steph scoffed, shaking her head. “Girl, no. He’s better than that, he puts Adonis to shame— where’s he been hiding?” They both turned to you expectantly, clearly not aware that your Adonis-transcendent bodyguard was fresh out of the United States Penitentiary, Administrative Maximum Facility. Oh, that’s gonna be a hard pill to swallow, right?

“Prison.” You swallowed, clearing your throat awkwardly upon saying it, cause you weren’t often the bringer of news that a guy like Dean used to be a prolific criminal who kills for money. “ADX Florence. An ex-hitman, to be clear, with over 100 kills in the past two years.”

“So he’s a bad boy.” Bella giggled, clearly not phased, which kind of concerned you with which brain they both were thinking from, and hopefully not the downstairs one. “Even better, oh my god, I was getting worried he’s a goodie.”

Steph raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a sly grin. “Right? Like, you can’t just drop ‘ex-hitman with over 100 kills’ and not expect us to have questions. Or fantasies.”

“Steph!” you choked, glancing toward the door as if Dean could hear through the thick walls.

“What? I’m just saying!” She crossed her arms, leaning back against the bedpost. “Honestly, though? He’s got that whole ‘dark past but reformed bad boy’ thing going for him. You’re living every romance novel heroine’s dream.”

Bella, not to be outdone, clutched at her chest dramatically. “Forget romance novels—I’d climb him like a tree. That man looks like he could bench press me and not even break a sweat.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Can we not?”

“We absolutely can,” Bella countered, her voice rising with glee. “Seriously, you’ve got the hottest bodyguard in the country, and you didn’t think we needed to know this? Girl, where’s your sense of sisterhood?”

Steph was nodding in agreement. “Yeah, you’re withholding important information. Like, what’s he like in person? Is he all business, or does he have that smoldering, ‘I could kill you, but I won’t’ energy?”

Your cheeks burned, both from their shameless gushing and the mental image Steph’s words conjured. “He’s…fine. Professional.”

“‘Professional,’ she says,” Bella snorted. “Professional at looking fine as hell, maybe.” She leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “Come on. What’s he like? Does he flirt? Does he give you those ‘I’m secretly in love with you’ stares when you’re not looking?”

You glared at her. “No. Absolutely not. He’s just doing his job.”

“Sure he is,” Steph said with a smirk, clearly not buying it. “But don’t think we didn’t notice the way he looked at you when he shut the door earlier.”

You blinked. “What? He didn’t—”

“Oh, honey,” Bella interrupted, waving her hand dramatically. “He totally did. That man looked at you like you were the last piece of chocolate cake at a birthday party. And don’t even get me started on how he stood. You know, all broody and protective, like some kind of…” She trailed off, searching for the right words.

“Alpha wolf guarding his mate,” Steph supplied helpfully.

“Exactly!” Bella snapped her fingers. “Thank you, Steph. That’s exactly the vibe.”

You groaned again, resisting the urge to bang your head against the nearest wall. “You two need help.”

“What we need,” Steph said, grinning wickedly, “is for you to admit that you’ve at least thought about it. Because if you haven’t, you’re lying.”

“I haven’t!” you protested, a little too quickly.

Bella’s eyes lit up like she’d just won the lottery. “Oh my God, you totally have! Look at you—your ears are turning red.”

“Leave me alone,” you muttered, glaring at the floor.

But they weren’t about to let you off the hook.

“Okay, okay,” Steph said, holding up a hand as if to calm the chaos. “Let’s be serious for a second. He’s obviously gorgeous, and clearly there’s some…tension. But what’s the story? Like, how did you even end up with him as your bodyguard? I feel like there’s a Netflix series waiting to happen here.”

You hesitated, weighing how much to tell them. “It’s…complicated. He was recommended through some very high-level channels. Apparently, he’s the best at what he does.”

“And what he does is kill people,” Bella said, her voice dripping with mock solemnity.

You shot her a look. “Not anymore. He’s reformed. He went through a rigorous vetting process before he was even considered for the position.”

Steph tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. “So, he’s done bad things, but now he’s protecting the President of the United States. That’s a redemption arc if I’ve ever heard one.”

Bella sighed wistfully. “And he’s doing it all while looking like a Calvin Klein model who got lost on his way to the shoot.”

“Can we not turn this into a thirst-fest?” you pleaded, though you knew it was a losing battle.

Bella leaned closer, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Oh, sweetie. It’s already a thirst-fest. You’re just in denial.”

The conversation spiraled from there, with Bella and Steph taking turns crafting increasingly absurd fantasies about Dean’s hypothetical love life.

“He probably has a tragic backstory,” Bella said dreamily, lying back on the bed. “Like, maybe he lost the love of his life in some tragic accident, and now he’s sworn to protect others to atone for his past.”

“Or,” Steph countered, “he’s secretly a billionaire who does this for the adrenaline rush. Like, by day he’s your bodyguard, but by night he’s funding orphanages and saving puppies.”

Bella clapped her hands. “Yes! And in his free time, he restores classic cars and writes poetry.”

You stared at them, equal parts amused and horrified. “You two have officially lost it.”

“Or,” Steph said, ignoring you entirely, “he’s secretly in love with you, and this whole bodyguard thing is just an excuse to be close to you.”

Bella gasped, sitting up suddenly. “Steph, that’s it! That’s the one!”

You buried your face in your hands. “I regret ever letting you meet him.”

“Don’t be like that,” Bella said, patting your shoulder. “We’re just saying—you’re sitting on a goldmine of romantic potential here. If you don’t at least consider it, we will.”

“Noted,” you said dryly, standing up and heading for the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have actual work to do. Unlike you two.”

Bella and Steph exchanged knowing looks as you opened the door to find Dean standing just outside, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.

He straightened slightly when you stepped into the hallway, his eyes meeting yours. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” you said quickly, avoiding his gaze as you brushed past him.

But as you walked away, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Steph and Bella might have been onto something.

The drive to Sam’s place was smooth, the kind of easy journey Dean Winchester hadn’t experienced in years. Maybe ever. The hum of the Impala’s engine, a comforting growl beneath him, was as close to peace as Dean could imagine. His day off had finally rolled around, and he hadn’t hesitated to decide how he’d spend it.

Sam had settled in a quiet neighborhood outside Washington, D.C., where tree-lined streets and neat, white-picket fences painted a picture of suburban serenity. It was a far cry from the lives they’d led growing up, but Dean couldn’t deny it suited his little brother.

Pulling up to the house, Dean killed the engine and climbed out, adjusting his leather jacket as he took in the sight. The two-story home was modest but inviting, with a tidy lawn and a swing set in the backyard visible through the side gate. He could hear faint laughter—probably from Dean Jr., Sam and Jess’s kid, who, much to Dean’s delight, was his namesake.

Dean’s boots crunched against the gravel path as he approached the front door. Before he could knock, it swung open, and Sam stood there, looking every bit the family man.

“Dean,” Sam greeted, his face lighting up in a grin. “Right on time.”

“Of course,” Dean said, stepping inside. “I’m punctual now. Didn’t you hear? I’ve got a government job.”

Sam chuckled, clapping Dean on the shoulder as he shut the door behind him. “I’m still getting used to the idea.”

Inside, the house was warm and lived-in. Pictures adorned the walls—Jess and Sam on their wedding day, little Dean Jr. blowing out candles on a birthday cake, snapshots of family trips to the beach. The scent of something delicious wafted from the kitchen, and Dean’s stomach growled in response.

“Jess is cooking?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.

“She insists,” Sam replied with a shrug. “Says you need a proper meal after all that ‘White House food.’”

Dean smirked. “Tell her I’m not gonna argue with that.”

Jess appeared moments later, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. She was glowing, as she always seemed to be, her blonde hair pulled into a loose ponytail and her smile bright enough to light up the room.

“Dean!” she exclaimed, pulling him into a quick hug. “It’s been too long.”

“Too long,” Dean agreed, glancing over her shoulder. “Where’s the rugrat?”

As if on cue, the sound of small feet thudding down the stairs filled the house. Dean Jr. appeared, his face lighting up when he saw his uncle. The kid was a spitting image of Sam, with floppy brown hair and wide hazel eyes, but he had Dean’s mischievous grin.

“Uncle Dean!”

“Dean-o!” Dean crouched, catching the boy as he barreled into him. “What’s up, kiddo? You keeping your old man in line?”

Dean Jr. nodded enthusiastically. “Dad says you work for the President now. Is that true?”

Dean ruffled the boy’s hair. “Sure is. Cool, huh?”

“Super cool,” Dean Jr. said, his eyes wide with awe.

“Alright, enough hero worship,” Sam teased, though his smile betrayed how much he enjoyed seeing his son and brother bond. “Come on, dinner’s almost ready.”

The meal was hearty—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and vegetables—and filled with easy conversation. Dean filled them in on the basics of his new job, skirting around the grittier details of his past. Sam and Jess shared stories about their life, from Jess’s latest work project to Dean Jr.’s adventures in Little League.

It was only after the dishes were cleared and Jess had taken Dean Jr. upstairs to bed that the conversation turned serious.

The brothers sat in the living room, each nursing a beer. The light from the fireplace cast a warm glow, and the house was quiet except for the occasional creak of the floorboards above.

“So,” Sam began, leaning back on the couch, “you gonna tell me how this happened?”

Dean took a long swig of his beer, then set the bottle down on the coffee table. “What, me working for the President? Thought you already knew.”

“I know the headlines,” Sam said, his brow furrowing. “But what I don’t know is how you went from ADX Florence to the White House.”

Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Figured you’d ask eventually.”

“Of course I’d ask.” Sam’s voice was gentle but firm. “You were in prison, Dean. The kind of prison people don’t just walk out of.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It started with a newspaper.”

Sam blinked. “A newspaper?”

Dean nodded. “I was in my cell, flipping through this paper someone left behind. Saw an ad for a private security position with the President. They were looking for someone who could think outside the box, someone with…unconventional skills.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “And you thought, ‘Hey, that sounds like me’?”

“Something like that.” Dean’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. “Figured I didn’t have much to lose, so I wrote up a resume. Handed it off to my lawyer, told him to file it.”

Sam stared at him, his disbelief evident. “And they just…hired you?”

“No,” Dean said with a chuckle. “They didn’t even call me at first. Took weeks before I heard anything. When they finally did, they put me through the wringer—interviews, background checks, psych evaluations. The works.”

“And they still hired you?” Sam asked, shaking his head in amazement.

“Guess they figured my track record spoke for itself,” Dean said, his tone turning more serious. “I’ve done things, Sam. Bad things. But I’ve also done what needed to be done when no one else could. They saw that.”

Sam was quiet for a moment, processing his brother’s words. “And now you’re protecting the most powerful person in the world.”

Dean nodded. “Guess you could say I’m making up for lost time.”

Sam studied his brother, his expression thoughtful. “You know, Jess and I were talking about you the other night. About how far you’ve come. We’re proud of you, Dean.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably, not used to hearing such straightforward praise. “Don’t get all mushy on me, Sammy.”

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m serious. You’ve been through hell and back, and somehow you’re still standing.”

Dean took another sip of his beer, his gaze distant. “Yeah, well. Standing’s about all I’m good at.”

“That’s not true,” Sam said firmly. “You’ve got a purpose now. A second chance. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Dean glanced at his brother, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks, Sammy.”

Sam returned the smile, then leaned back with a sigh. “So, what’s she like? The President.”

Dean hesitated, caught off guard by the question. “She’s…different.”

“Different how?”

“She’s smart. Sharp as hell. Tough, but not in a fake way. And she actually listens, which is more than I can say for most people in her position.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you respect her.”

“I do,” Dean admitted.

“And for your type…” Sam smirked, his voice taking on a teasing tone. “She’s pretty hot.”

Dean nearly choked on his beer. “Sam!”

“What?” Sam asked, feigning innocence. “I’m just saying. You’ve got a thing for strong women, and she sounds like she fits the bill.”

Dean shook his head, trying to suppress a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“Hey, I’m just calling it like I see it,” Sam said with a grin. “Besides, you deserve someone who can keep up with you.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t deny the warmth that spread through him at his brother’s words.

The rest of the evening passed in easy conversation, the kind that only happened between brothers who’d been through it all together. When Dean finally stood to leave, Sam walked him to the door, clapping him on the shoulder as he stepped outside.

“Take care of yourself, Dean,” Sam said, his voice quiet but steady.

“You too, Sammy,” Dean replied, his gaze lingering on his brother’s home—the warmth, the love, the life Sam had built.

As Dean climbed into the Impala and drove away, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of hope. Maybe, just maybe, there was a place for him in this world after all.

NEXT UP:

“Dean,” you said, a touch of surprise in your voice. “I thought you were on your break.”

He didn’t reply right away. Instead, his gaze locked with yours, and the air seemed to thicken. There was something different about him—an intensity in his expression, a flicker of something unspoken.

Without a word, he reached up and tugged at his tie, loosening it further before slipping it over his head and tossing it onto one of the chairs.

Your eyebrows shot up. “What are you doing?”

Dean didn’t answer. He shrugged out of his suit jacket next, draping it over the back of a chair with deliberate ease. His movements were slow, calculated, and impossibly confident.

“Dean?” you repeated, your voice catching slightly.

His shirt followed. Button by button, he undid it with maddening patience, his green eyes never leaving yours. Your breath hitched as he peeled it off, revealing the broad, chiseled planes of his chest and the faint scars that crisscrossed his skin—a testament to a dangerous past.

By the time his hands went to his belt, your pulse was racing.

“What are you—” you began, but the words died in your throat as he stepped forward.

In one smooth motion, Dean swept the documents off your desk, scattering them across the floor. He leaned down, his hands bracketing you on either side as he effortlessly lifted you onto the polished wood surface.

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©️ 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐤 / 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲’𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐨

𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐝/𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝

[creepypasta65]

The Creepypasta's Halloween Costumes 2024 Edition

Images are NOT MINE!!

Slenderman: Jack Skellington

Masky/Tim: Firefighter

Hoodie/Brian: Construction Worker

Toby: Tinky Winky

X-virus/Cody: Laa-Laa

Kate: Shadow the Hedgehog

Clockwork: Mangle

Jane: Scarah Screams

Nina: Cherry Hatsume Miku

Liu: Minecraft Villager

Jeff: Gerrard Way

EJ: Ryuk

Sally: Mimikyu

Ben: Alvin

Lost Silver: Simon

Glitchy Red: Theodore

Laughing Jack: Scary creature

Laughing Jill: Edward Scissorhands

Jason the Toymaker: Whatever this is

Bloody Painter/Helen: Ninja

Puppeteer: Cactus

Kageko: Beer

Judge Angels: Hello Kitty

Smile Dog: Bell from Beauty and the Beast

Have a nice day/night :)

Be safe!!

[novamariestark]

Give Your Heart A Break [Part 2]

Summary: You've been dating Spencer for almost a year and you are yet to tell your big brother, Aaron

Warnings: bad writing 🤣 the ending did not come out the way it plays in my head, fluff, some angst, hurt, abusive ex, kidnapping, threats, death, lmk if i missed any

Word count: 2113

Fandom: Chicago P.D

Pairing: Hank Voight x Reader

You should have told him. You should have told Hank about the envelopes, the pictures, the threatening phone calls. But you didn’t, and that’s why you’re chained to a pipe in some mangy old warehouse.

Erin told you to tell Hank, and you were going to, but you had other things on your mind, and you kinda... forgot.

It’s been 4 months since your blind date, and you and Hank continued your relationship whilst still keeping it professional at work. Well... as well as you could. I mean, working side by side with the man you loved was a little tricky sometimes. There were times when you thought you would combust if you didn’t touch him, hold him, kiss him. But you didn’t.

Maybe you should have listened to the threats. Maybe you should have done as you were told and broken up with Hank. You should’ve known that any shred of happiness you had would be taken from you. Why did you even bother trying to be happy. He was never going to let you. You were stupid to even try.

By now, everyone knew about you and Hank despite the fact that you two didn’t act like a couple at work. The first giveaway was the fact that he spent more time with the team and occasionally joined them at Molly’s.

Alvin was the first one to figure it out, followed shortly by Trudy. Adam was the last one to find out, and he didn’t believe it when he did. He received the deadliest death glare when he remarked that you were way out of Hank’s league.

And if they didn’t know before, they would now. Hank was even more out of control than usual. Anyone who had anything to do with your ex was in his sight, even someone who just passed him in the street.

Everyone now had pretty much found out your entire history, something you really didn’t want to happen. You didn’t want them to look at you with pity or worse, like you were weak. You especially didn’t want Hank to know, despite Erin telling you over and over that he wouldn’t look at you differently than he does. But you didn’t want to risk it. You also didn’t want to taint the relationship by even mentioning that prick.

Well, so much for that.

“Wakey wakey princess,” a sick, cold voice chuckles from beside you. A hand comes its way through your hair, gathering up a fistful and yanks your head backwards. You’re met with him. His face. His twisted, psychotic face. The only time you saw him smile was when he was hurting you, “Look at me when I’m talking to you,”

“I warned you,”

“What part of ‘We’re over’ don’t you understand?”

“You don’t get to decide that, Bitch,” he snapped, throwing your head back against the stone wall. You couldn’t see your head but you could feel something dripping from your skull.

“You think you can whore around and there wouldn’t he consequences?” He growled. Pain shoots around your body like a ball in a pinball machine as he stamps, kicks and slaps you anywhere and everywhere.

You bring your knees to your chest, doing you best to shield yourself. Shield your stomach. Another thing you hadn’t told Hank.

But he was about to find out anyway. He and Erin were on their way to your apartment to look for all the messages and things you’d received from your ex.

He found the texts, the voicemails, the photos of you two together going back to when you first started seeing each other but his face was crossed out of every single one. With something red. Lipstick. The same shade he insisted you wear for pleasing him.

As he moved to Investigate further, something caught his eye. A pregnancy test. His hand slowly reached for it, his fingers wrapping around it as he lifted it up to read it.

Positive.

“Did you know about this?” He asked turning around, the test coming into Erin’s view.

She looked at it and shook her head, “No. I didn’t know,” she sighed, “if I knew, I would have told you the second we knew she was missing,”

From then on, his temper was even more uncontrollable. Not only was the woman he loved in danger, but now his unborn child. And he’d stop at nothing to save them.

---

The room was cold, dark and dirty. Splatters of your blood adorned the floor and the wall. A chair in the middle of the room where he sat and watched you suffer. You have no idea how long you’ve been there and you’re starting lose hope slightly.

Your ex was completely crazy. More so than you thought. He somehow knew things. Things you hadn’t even had chance to tell Hank.

“Now we’re just waiting for another guest before we get onto the main event,” he told you, his tone dripping with something twisted that made you sick to your stomach.

You almost didn’t ask; you were scared to. But you had to know. It would have driven you mad, “What’s the main event?”

“Now, now sweetheart. I don’t want to spoil it for you,” he replied, stroking your hair. Like he did when you were his. His pet. You closed your eyes, your body shivering as you tried to stop yourself from crying. You didn’t want to go back. You couldn’t do it again. But with the threats and the letters, did you ever actually escape him. Or was it just some stupid fairytale you told yourself.

Right now, you thought the latter. You were stupid to believe that it was over and now you’d subjected your unborn child to it too.

It was night now, the small window at the end of the building completely filled with the black of night. The only light you had was the small light bulb dangling over your cage. Yeah cage. That was what it was. An actual visible cage similar to the one you’d been in since you moved in with him.

Like many, you didn’t see his true self until you were trapped. You moved far from your family and for years they had no idea where you were or if you were okay. The only person you had was Erin and it was just by chance that you met her and somehow she knew the situation you were in and if you ever wanted to leave, she gave you her card to call her for help.

Maybe you should have gone back home. Moved back in with your parents whilst you got back on your feet. But them you never would have met Hank... and that would have been a damn shame. The things that he made you feel you thought only existed in the books. You never thought you could feel so loved or that the simplest things he would do for you would bring you so much joy

The sound of screeching tires and slamming doors cut through your thoughts like a sharp ass blade. You blinked a couple of times, the hours you had spent in this shithole and the pain he’d put you through taking it’s toll. Were you hallucinating? Or were they really here?

Then you heard it. His voice. The sexy, gravelly tone completely unmistakable.

“CPD! Get on the ground!” he barked as soon as he barged through the door. No cover, just full on walked in and demanded he get on the floor. Your ex’s rough hands tangled in your hair, yanking you off the ground. You let out a strangled cry, your knees nearly giving out as you were forced upright and shoved in front of him like a shield. Hank growled, his gun still aiming at him, but also at you, “Don’t give me another reason to put you in the ground!”

His grip on you tightened, you could feel his breath wafting against your ear,  “You’re not taking her from me again!” he spat. Before you could even process what was happening, you felt the cold, sharp edge of a blade pressed against your stomach. Your breath hitched, your heart pounding so loudly in your ears you thought it drowned out everything else, “One wrong move and your kid is gone,”

Okay that you heard.

You felt the steel dig deeper into your skin as he pressed it harder against you.

Your chest tightened, you were scared and you felt helpless. All you could do was stand there and let him threaten you and your baby.

You could feel the life inside of you, so fragile, so vulnerable, and completely at the mercy of your asshole ex.

As his voice echoed in your ear, taunting Hank with the death of his unborn baby, something inside you shifted. Sure the fear was there, practically suffocating you, but something else was there too. A fierce, protective instinct that you hadn’t known could burn this hot.

You let him take so much from you and you sure as hell weren’t going to let him take your baby. Not now. Not ever.

You shifted just a fraction, leaning your body enough to shield your stomach from the blade. You didn’t want him to know what you were up to. You didn’t want to provoke him either. But the instinct to protect your child overpowered the fear that had paralysed you.

“I swear to God, if you touch her—if you hurt her—” Hank growled.

Your ex scoffed, tightening his grip on you once more, “You think you can protect her? You think you can take her from me again? You’ll watch her die before you even get close.”

In one sharp movement, you lunged backward, throwing your head back and cracking it against his jaw. You thought it might be enough to loosen his grip. He didn’t. But the shock of the hit made him stagger backwards and gave you enough wiggle room to get away from him, if only by a little. He still had a bruising grip on your wrist but now he was completely unguarded.

“You bitch!” he sneered lunging towards you, knife pointing directly at your stomach ready to make good of his threat. But he never got to you. The deafening sound of gunshots echoed around the room. One, two, three. And they were followed by a thud.

You thought you knew who fired the shots but if you put money on it, you would have just lost. Of course Hank was going to shoot him but someone beat him to it. Everyone turned, looking at the one who had killed him.

Erin.

She would have been your second guess. After all, she did threaten your ex the one time she met him.

Your breath caught in your throat as the reality of it settled in. Your ex was dead. He wasn’t going to come after you anymore. He couldn’t hurt you anymore. You could practically feel the relief washing over you.

Your legs were shaking but they were still moving towards him. You felt as though you were about to crash into the ground at any second, but you didn’t care, you needed him. You didn’t stop until you were in his arms. Safe and warm.

Hank’s arms wrapped around you instantly, pulling you close, pressing you against him as though he was you might disappear if he loosened his grip even for a second.

You couldn’t hold it anymore. The dam that had held your tears for the past few days finally came crashing down, every single drop following suit.

“Hey, hey,” his voice was low and gentle. His hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he gently stroked your scalp. “It’s over, you’re safe now. I got you.”

“I’m sorry,” you cried into his leather clad shoulder.

Hank moved back slightly, his hand untangling from your hair to cup your cheek, “There’s nothing to be sorry for.” He told you, his lips press a soft kiss to your forehead, “I’m so glad you’re okay,”

“I was going to tell you after work,” you said, one hand going to your stomach, “Are you mad?”

His brow furrowed as he stared at you, “Mad w–why would I be mad?”

You bit your lip, looking at your feet because you were afraid that if you look at him, you’d be right, "I—I thought maybe... you wouldn’t want this. I mean we never talked about it, and I—"

You were cut off by his lips pressing against yours, “Of course I want this,”

“I want everything with you”

[A/N] I'm sorry 😭 I had Erin kill him because we all know that if Hank's girl and baby were threatened and treated this way, he wouldn't just kill them, he'd hurt them first.

[frostara]

Challenges

Cregan Stark x Karstark!Female

Synopsis: It takes some time to get to know each other, and lots of words to understand.

Wordcount: 2k

Tags: characters miscommunicate at first, but overall fluff, Cregan is 17, Astrid is 15

Notes: Hi! This could be read as chapter 2 for this work, but does pretty well on its own. All thanks to one person who asked for a second part - I hope you'll like it </3 I wanted to describe Cregan and Astrid the way they are - youthful people, with their own beliefs that are sometimes wrong (Astrid is so silly I love her) and quick to change temper. I worked on this drabble a little harder and hopefully, it was worth it!

Winterfell was like a living being—always alert and ready, yet calm and composed. It thrived with the quiet bustle of its people, the rustle of dry bushes, and cold of its stone walls. A guarded place, where the only thing Astrid had to worry about was herself. At least for now.

One moon have passed since she was wed to the Lord of the Winterfell, and yet, she felt rather wary of him. Cregan, whom she called so yet in her mind, was always surrounded by either maister-at-arms or castellan, which left her seeking his attention that he could not give.

Though, Astrid would be forever ungrateful if said that she was entirely alone. She had grown quite fond of maester Alvin, an old grey-haired man, but skilled and cunning like no one. He often inquired after her well-being with genuine courtesy and shared his wise thoughts, for which she was forever grateful.

Yet the companionship of one old master could not fill the void of loneliness. Her handmaidens, taught to serve their lady quietly, rarely spoke unless adressed directly. To make them speak freely was a challenge, but one she welcomed.

"My Lady, Lord Cregan sent me to let it be known that he awaits you in Godswood, and I am to accompany You on Your way," said Ethel as she entered chambers after a gentle knock. She was a pretty girl, not much older than Astrid, and probably the one she was fond of.

"Right. Well then, let us not keep the Lord waiting," - Astrid replied, standing perhaps more quickly than intended, letting Ethel drape a warm cloak over her frame to shield her from wind in this chilly weather.

As they made their way, her nervousness spilled in questions she bothered Ethel with: "Was Lord in a good mood? Did he seem upset with anything? Was he alone?" She could swear on all Old Gods that Ethel was laughing at her, but skillfully maintained her composure. Though, Astrid was too nervous to pay attention to that, pressing on. Luckily, the walk was short, and soon they were able to see the red leaves that framed the massive tree. Ethel bowed and turned her back, leaving Astrid to herself.

She took a moment to steady herself before stepping closer to where Cregan stood. She felt cold seep through her body, making her shiver. Heart tree was there, proudly emracing everything with its branches as if hiding from the sky. He looked like a real Stark, in a place he was always supposed to be. And Astrid was just a huble guest, even if being his wife. Light wind was playing with his dark hair, moving leaves casting shadows on his stern face.

"My Lord wished to see me?"

He turned to face her, his black eyes softening slightly as a polite smile tugged at his lips. "I did. I wish to know how my Lady fares."

Cregan walked towards her, and it was only then that she noticed a crimson leaf he was holding in his hand. She returned his smile, though uncertain of what to say. He seemed to be unbothered by silence that layed between them, as he studied her appearance. During their wedding he barely payed attention to her. Perhaps, that was why he was observing her so carefully now.

"I am very happy to be here," - Astrid nodded to her words, as if to make sure he believed her. "Winterfell does not cease to amaze me."

Cregan hummed to himself, not really putting his mind to her words. He seemed lost in thoughts, and these thoughts were far away from here. Far from her. She felt subtle sting in her when she thought of it. Why did he call her, if he still did not care about her being?

He was still holding the leaf in his callused hands, twirling it with his fingers when he brought it to her, putting it in her braided hair.

"Red suits you well. Has anyone told you that before?"

He murmured, seeming to be pleased with his work, running his fingers along her braid, his lingering touch leaving Astrid speechless. Her eyes widened as she tried to hide her confusion. He was gentle, almost reverent, and it warmed her heart in a way she never felt before. Was this the first time he truly saw her as a wife?

"No, my Lord. I believe you are the first to notice."

Cregan took his hand away from her hair, offering his elbow for her to grab. "Very well. Let us walk, I would not wish for you to get cold while standing here," - as he put his hand on his sword.

Astrid hesitated a moment before wrapping her fingers around his clothed arm, feeling the soft fur and fabric of his cloack, contrasting with his cold and rough to touch sword, accepting the offer. It pleased her more than she cared to admit to spend time with him in the godswood, a sacred place. Though it was still a mystery to her, what made him be so attentive to her today?

It was very quiet there, only rare birds chirping and leaves rustle could be heard. Astrid took a deep breath, enjoying frosty and fresh air that smelled of wood and earth. She found this moment very peaceful, this walk was a sweet gesture and it was not nice of her to doubt her husbands kindness.

"I have been thinking about our marriage," Cregan began after a while. "It seems to me that I have not fulfilled my duties to you. For this, I ask your understanding, and, perhaps, your forgiveness."

Cregan turned his gaze to her, awaiting what she has to say. She was now taken aback by his words. A suspicious thought was starting to form in her head - his previous behaviour could not be judged, it fitted his position. But these gentle words now were not sounding like the ones he would actually say. An odd feeling took place in her, yet, she could only listen to him right now.

"It is no secret to me how tiring your position may be," she started carefully. "And I could never hold it against you."

She studied his face, searching for any sign of anger or discomfort. Yet a gnawing curiosity urged her to push further. Astrid evased any other words from him, now being curious to get an answer for her thoughts:

"My Lord, if I may ask, did someone suggest that you speak to me like that?" - she stopped, making her husband follow her action, now facing each other. He was confused, and he could not hide that, making it obvious he was not prepared for such confrontation. Astrid believed there was also a hint of irritation in his expression.

"In what way are you implying this?" he asked, his tone guarded but lacking the harshness she feared.

Cregan even forgot to adress her properly. It made Astrid smile ever so slightly, now making her scared that she could offend him with her words.

"Do not misunderstand me, my Lord, but your actions are...rather opposing your character, which makes me suggest that you might have sought an advice about our relationship from someone."

She tried her best to sound friendly and not too arrogant, but confused look on his face eased her worries - he probably could not be angry with her now, that he looked so amusing. Astrid awaited patiently, when he finally spoke up.

"First of all, do not jest with me in such a way," he replied, his voice firm but lacking true anger. "I may be your husband, but my behavior is none of yours to question."

He glanced away, looking in direction of a bird that landed on a low-hanging branch nearby. The pause gave Astrid a moment to collect herself, and she only smiled at her thoughts, now being more confident to continue.

"Forgive me," her tone sincere. "I only wanted to make sure I understood the situation well." She reached out, lightly tugging on his sleeve to draw his attention back to her. The gesture startled him, and instinctively, he caught her hand in his. For a moment, they stood frozen, her smaller hand caught in his. He did not let go, and his grip, though firm, was not harsh.

Wind sent another gust as couple of bright red leaves fell from tree, falling at their legs. Laying onthe ground, they could be mistaken for small pools of blood. It sent a shiver down Astrid's spine, the movement was visible for Cregan. It made him snap from frozen state as he let her hand hung in the air, bringing his own to his sword, slight embarrasment from an intimate moment made him cough, as if to shift their attention away.

But Astrid still was confused. Was she right then? Perhaps, her behaviour made it impossible for her Lord to seek her company? She felt nervousness fill her heart once again, making her clasp her hands together on stomach, as if trying to calm herself down.

"Maester Alvin is someone you could consider guilty," Cregan's voice cut through silence, breaking the formed pause.

"Though, I believe, his intentions were kind."

"Should I be grateful for it then?" she bit on her inner cheeck, fidgeting with cold fingers. Astrid felt emarrased: she probably looked so stupid right now; her concern made her act very rude, or atleast, that is what she believed.

"You could at least try to not to be mad at me."

He rubbed the back of his neck, as if looking for the right words. The situation they currently trapped themselves in was quite awkward. Astrid hummed softly at his words in an attemp to answer, but words would get stuck in her throat.

"I am not mad, my Lord" - it was all she could mutter, before quickly facing him away. She was definetly not acting like a modest lady right now. But who was to blame for that?

"Cregan."

Astrid blinked, turning her head back at her husband.

"Call me by my name. You are my wife, you have such right." He shrugged, an unsure smile tugging at his lips.

This time, he held out his hand to her.

"I believe we will have many days to continue this argument, if you wish that," she took his hand, now holding it gently, but with a firm grip, returning his favour as she unconsciously smiled herself.

"But we had spent more than we should have time here. Let us head back to castle, before anyone starts looking for us."

Their way back was more pleasant, as the silence that followed them was now a welcomed one, sometimes interrupted with quiet laughter.