#but if anyone is inspired by this post have at it

[kaelidascope]

On one hand, I'm relieved to see that it isn't just me suffering in the engagement department whereas I used to get flooded with comments and the like every time I dropped something. It isn't the only reason why I've moved from fanfic work to original work, but it is part of it. The last round of engagement on the latest MM chapter was abysmal, and while I know it's not a reflection of my quality in writing, I kept beating myself up over the possibility that I took too long to update it and people gave up on it/forgot/fell out of love with my work because I as a creator was not performing good enough. It drove me into a bit of a depression for a while.

On the other hand, this is making me rethink my stance on never telling my favorite authors how much they have inspired me to take off with my writing career. This is going to get a little lengthy but I want to talk about it so bear with me here.

Closed circles know how much of an insane, unhinged fan I am of certain writers, yet I have never actually said a word to them. I think I left one comment on maybe two fics that went unanswered (which is fine. They're not active in the fandoms I'm in anymore and I'm just some guy out of probably hundreds all saying the same thing. They're not gonna reply to me) but apart from that, you wouldn't catch me dead actually admitting how much the works mean to me. But why?

I guess I was far too proud and too terrified of being let down if I exposed myself like that. Despite the fact that these authors were literal catalysts for borderline impossible feats I have done within the last year, WELL RECEIVED FEATS at that, I swore I'd never tell anyone how inspiring they were for me. (Unless a casual friendship has been established. I have had the tremendous honor to able to talk to some of my inspirations one on one but under incredibly lucky circumstances)

I had a scenario in my head that these were the cool kids, and if you ever got picked on at all for admiring anything, you know damn well you never tell the cool kids about your admiration. I was afraid that they'd take one look at the work that was inspired by theirs and laugh at it in their enclosed circles. I wasn't going to risk having my confidence crushed and lose the motivation to continue working on my projects by being a fan.

I know not all authors do this. Every time someone comes to me and tells me I've inspired them to be a better writer, I literally frame it in a collection of screenshots I have saved on a hard drive. Every. Single. Time. And I know anyone else would tell me that if the person I admire would actually be cruel enough to mock an up and coming writer, then they're not worth admiring. Which I agree with! But try telling that to sensitive little Kaeli that safeguards their interests with the fiery defensiveness of a feral bear on cocaine.

But then I see posts like this, and I put myself in their shoes. I don't know them. They could be a jackass but they could also be like me - someone who bases a lot of motivation for project completion based off of whether or not people even care to see it completed.

This is all a very long, round about away to say that who cares if the author you build a mini-shrine for in your brain thinks your cringe for liking their work? Odds are they probably need to hear that you liked it so much, it inspired you to do something with that feeling. We all need to hear it. They inspired you and now you're making something that will inspire someone else. To be a creator is to share that passion everywhere you go. There's nothing cringe about it.

A writer friend told me something that broke my heart a little bit today; they're going to quit publishing their fanfic.

My instant thought was that they had been trolled or attacked or that something terrible had happened in their life because this person is so passionate about their writing. It wasn't any of that. Engagement with their works has been going down, as it has for many of us. Comments are like gold dust a lot of the time, and just looking through the historical comment counts on old fics on ao3 demonstrates this trend very clearly. It was not simply the comments dropping off which caused them to decide to stop posting, however.

My friend came across a discord server for their fandom (I should point out here that their fandom interest and mine diverged a couple of years ago, we stay in touch but don't currently read each other's posts because I'm not into their fandom and they would rather gouge their eyes out with a wooden spoon than read anything Star Wars) and specifically to share fic in that fandom. They joined, because we all love a good fic rec, only to discover that their latest multichapter fic, which has almost no comments and very few kudos, is being hotly discussed in this server as one of the best stories ever. Not one of these people has bothered to say this to them on the fic. When they asked, none of participants could see the point in telling the author of the fic they apparently loved so much that they love it.

This discovery has absolutely destroyed my friend's love of sharing fic. They share because they love seeing other people's enjoyment, and fic writers do that through comments and kudos/reblogs/likes because we don't get paid. There is no literary critic writing a blog post/article about how amazing the story is for us to copy and keep/frame. There is no money from royalties. All we have are the words of the people reading our works.

Those people on that server could have taken five minutes of the time they spent gushing about how amazing my friend's story was to other people and used it to tell the one person guaranteed to want to hear that praise how much they loved it. They could have taken a moment to express their opinion to the person who spent hours upon hours plotting, writing, editing, and posting those chapters. Instead, they deprived my friend of thing that keeps them sharing their writing, and in the process have killed their love of it. My friend now feels used and unmotivated.

I won't be sharing a link to their fic, they said I could share their experience but not their identity. I know they plan to post one final chapter. I know they intend to express their hurt at being excluded from the praise for the thing they created, and I know they intend to announce that as a consequence they will not be posting for a long while, if at all.

So please, I beg you, don't hide your love of a story from the writer. It's just about the only thing we have.

[vaniloqu3nce]

Enid, sitting in the forest clearing with a little blanket and a picnic basket, perking up when she hears a sound: Wednesday!

Wednesday, walking into the nevermore forest with a sword and being very confused: Enid?

Enid, noticing the sword: Wednesday?

Wednesday, eyes narrowing: …

Enid, confused: Why do you have a sword? Are Addams’ dates different? I asked your mom and she said to give you thorny stems but I’m pretty sure your favorite flower is Black Dahlia.

Wednesday, realizing she made a severe lapse in judgement and cannot let Enid down: To…fight off anyone who bothers you.

Enid, literally shot through the heart: You’re so sweet! Come on, I made sandwiches cut into skulls!

Sometime later…

Eugene: I told you not to bring a sword, Wednesday!

Wednesday: Who goes into a forest unarmed to meet someone, Eugene? When someone says, ‘Don’t bring any weapons’ it means bring at least one.

Eugene, sighing hard: Well, did the date go well at least?

Wednesday, crossing her arms: That is none of your business.

Eugene: But I set it up!

Enid, popping in the room: Willa, baby! I’ll be out with Yoko, but I’ll be back later for my kiss! You promised!

Wednesday, glaring hard at Eugene’s shit-eating grin: Okay, Enid. Tell me when you’ll return, I have to skin someone alive.

Enid, shrugging and popping back out: Okay! Don’t get it on the rug!

Eugene, grin disappearing, backing up slowly: Wait—Wait Enid don’t leave me alone!

Post inspired by @sinsdaycorp

[purseowner4thequalityanimation]

SMT Boardgame Kickstarter Smells Like Suspicious Fish

There's an SMT boardgame. Curb your enthusiasm, you shouldn't back it. And if you did, lower your pledge to like a buck until they clear things up, because as it stands it seems like an incredibly suspect product.

Checking through the Kickstarter comments and Japanese Tweets about the boardgame makes the entire thing seem poorly planned at best. I'll summarize as best I can;

The designer is incredibly infamous in the boardgame community

Naoki Matsunaga, a self-described "board game sommelier", is the designer. You'll find tweets lamenting that "the board game sommelier is involved". Why is he so hated? This thread goes into detail: co_boze on twitter. Part of it is they bashed Werewolf over one game they saw of it, another is they took on a kind of public-face role for boardgames appearing on late night TV shows to talk about them in ways that annoyed boardgamers. They seem to have designed a boardgame based on "The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People" which ripped off Sid Sackson's 'I'm the Boss". But it's what co_boze talks about next that's really bizarre. The game was apparently banned from most board game cafes and playing spaces. Seminars where people could play the game were hosted, but the venues that hosted these seminars all closed down.

If you keep looking through comments, you start finding claims that his company does multi-level marketing (ie pyramid schemes). To be honest, I don't know if this is true. But even if it isn't, it is really not hard to find people who know of this guy and would really really really REALLY prefer he was not involved.

"Oh fuck, it's THIS guy" is not a reaction that inspires confidence

2. Questionable development and presentation issues.

A regular collaborator with Atlus recently tweeted "The use of AI in Atlus works or derivative works is stictly prohibited." He responded to a reply asking if this was about a board game.

The staff running the SMT BG Kickstarter later clarified the actual -game- wouldn't use AI graphics... but from the looks of it, the promotional materials do.

Dig that... generic metal pipe aesthetic. Nothing screams MegaTen like black plumbing to nowhere.

In totally unrelated news, a board game manufacturer recently tweeted that a Kickstarter used their name without permission, and they're not sure why.

Quote tweets on the post would suggest it was the SMT board game. The comment they are loosely referring to is this:

In a follow-up post, they do specify "The product figures will be made of PVC." and "We will be manufacturing the games in partnership with a factory in China that has a proven track record... " "Figure director Kimura Yuzuru has over 10 years of experience..." and other boring development stuff that I have no issue with. What I do have issue with is how they can say things like they're "considering" which manufacturer to use and namedropping other companies that they're unrelated with. (While I was typing this post, they posted an update that clarified the CMON issue and literally nothing else: here.)

The boardgame is being presented with machine translated English printed on the same cards as the Japanese. But the actual game will have a translator check everything.

they hire translators to localize all game content

Additionally, there was a week long radio silence on the Kickstarter. For reference, Kickstarters are normally very active with the project planners dropping updates, responding to feedback and clearing up any concerns.

Some of the concerns were "How does the game actually play?", a question that would be best answered by dropping a rulebook for people to look at, or better yet showing them an entire run of the game. The SMT BG Kickstarter has boldly chosen neither. Devs have commented the game is on Version 11 and plays well, which makes it strange that they can't share any of it with anyone else.

Actually, when you compare this to how most Kickstarters are run, it becomes very clear the SMT BG Kickstarter is, uh, kinda failing in all possible regards. The first Backer Goal is "Jack Frost Dice" at 2000 backers (not funds raised, BACKERS). Despite getting 300%(!!!) of the initial pledge needed, there are no bonuses or unlocks.

Mind, this lack of information comes after they already delayed the start to supposedly improve Backer Goals and other aspects.

There aren't a shortage of issues - it's ICREA's first boardgame (but not their first tango with SMT; they made the SMT30th Logo, for instance.) The timeline seems totally wack. The staff have been incredibly slow to respond. Cards with tiny font and two languages printed on them. Etc, etc. Maybe individually these issues wouldn't be too concerning. But all of them combined make the product seem incompetently run at best, and at worst an actual scam.

I'm hardly a big influencer in the SMT scene (my biggest contribution is when that fucking succubus gif gets 36k likes on Twitter every 5 months) but I haven't seen any English speaking sources discuss this in detail, when there really should be at least some noise about all of this. Still. if just one of you end up saving 600 bucks on what ends up being a trashfire carcrash project because of this post, then that'll have made the past 30 minutes of typing this shit worth it.

[selfshipyellowpages]

Let's Get This Party Started!

Hello all, I've been chatting with a few friends in the selfship community and I was heavily inspired by @selfshippersfromthissource, as well as @selfshippingpolls. and @have-an-fo-who. I'd like to make a carrd that functions as a database for selfshippers to find other selfshippers in the same fandoms!

If you'd like to be part of the list, then please interact with this post: I'm going to include all fandoms that have at least two selfshippers that have them as a source, OR if anyone asks about them in my inbox and they're on someone's list.

I'm still working on my initial carrd design, but I'll release it once I have at least twenty selfshippers catalogued, and then I'll be keeping it up to date from there! I know we've got a big community and it's going to be a lot of work, but I love spreadsheets so I've got high hopes-- I love to collect data and I've done a ton of AO3 analysis in the past, and now I'd like to turn that attention to connecting people with each other!

[honey-bell-aint-well]

I keep seeing this Loveball being mentioned in regards to fresh, but I wasn't in the fandom back then and I don't know what the fuck Loveball is and how it created fresh's character? Asking you abt it bcus you seem knowledgeable abt fresh lol

I'll have you know that when I saw this ask I cackled and rubbed my hands together evilly, completely unironically.

Unfortunately I've already rambled about this before, so I'll copy and paste the rant here rather than ranting anew:

So, like seven years ago there was a fandom-wide event called the Loveball, where people gathered their OCs and had them all attend an UTMV dancing ball. Fresh went, of course. There, he met a Frisk called Pacifrisk. Even knowing who he really was [90's parasite], they still believed he could be good. Before this, he hadn't ever really felt a connection to anyone, or even positive emotions in general. But Pacifrisk's faith in him made him feel positively towards them. This freaked him out. [No Fr@ns though, don't worry. That wasn't the intention for this plot.]

As a result, not only did he try to kill them, but he also went through with his plans: the Fresh Takeover [I forget what it's actually called]. His true reason for attending the ball. OCs were either possessed by the parasites or tried to fight against them. Apparently, some people used alcohol to ward the virus off, as Fresh hates substances such as that.

Fresh wanted to take over the multiverse, with this Loveball being the first step for his total domination.

But then right in the middle of things, a Sans AU [which I totally forget the name of X,D] grabbed Fresh and basically yeeted him into an alternate state of being. One where he could see the creators, all staring at him. An audience.

The Sans revealed the nature of Fresh's existence: That he was simply a character in a story. And if the creators got bored of him, he could easily be written aside and forgotten. Erased. His conquest didn't matter, in the end.

Predictably, this gave him an existential crisis. I'm not sure what happened after, but he stopped invading and went somewhere to contemplate his existence in a depressed state.

Afterwards, he had a new goal: To entertain. To convince the creators that he was worth keeping around. Similar to his previous goal of survival, but now with more dire stakes."

Here are some links regarding the Loveball. I recommend checking them out if you want more info about it, because I didn't really talk about it very deeply here:

https://thebonezone66.tumblr.com/post/139210779428/muffets-love-ball-roleplay

https://www.tumblr.com/bestfresh90smess [This is CQ's RP sideblog]

https://loverofpiggies.tumblr.com/tagged/loveball/chrono

Hope this clears things up! :D

Edit: Oh, and Fresh wasn't created during the Loveball. He was originally an April Fool's shitpost doodle that CQ made, inspired by Dippy Fresh from Gravity Falls. Eventually he developed into the horrifying 90's abomination that we know today.

[synthetickitsune]

To Save The World ✧ h.js

Pairing: Joshua Hong x gn!reader Genre: angst Summary: Joshua made his choice. Now he has to commit to it. The world must go on. And for that, he has to make you go. Word count: 1.6k Warnings: blood, knives, reader dies A/N: inspired by @chugging-antiseptic-dye's post here bcs you can't say "joshua slitting your throat" and expect me to be normal, and also it's highly recommended to read this as well

The night falls. The stars twinkle above, yet the light seems dimmed. The world must be asleep. Perhaps it might be as kind as to close its eyes to what he’s about to do. If there’s one thing the world’s always been good at, afterall, it’s turning away from those who need its help the most. There's a duty to them that he always carried on his shoulders. He’s always tried to make up for what the universe couldn’t do. Now that he’s in need of help, however, who will save him? 

He never thought that burden would eventually end up being his own demise.

Joshua’s breath comes out as thin clouds that soon evaporate into nothingness. Just the same as him. Every breath is a thought, a memory, a part of him. He wills them to be. He needs to send them all off, so that he can at least hope to be saved one day. He hopes the wind can carry all of him far enough that he won’t be tainted. 

He spent what felt like hours standing under scalding water. As if filth can be washed ahead of time. 

Anyway. 

Washed as best as he could make it and free of all scent, he feels naked. A blank sheet. Now all that’s left is to cleanse himself of himself. Not a man, but a hero. A fragile puppet dancing however fate and duty pull its strings. Empty. To be filled again with a different substance. Transformed. A copy of himself only on the outside.

The cold makes him feel frozen in time. If it doesn’t start ticking again soon, he will surely lose his mind. But perhaps that’s an option he’d gladly take. There is little chance of that happening soon enough, though. No, it’s not going to happen until it’s too late.

He hears lone footsteps slowly approaching. Bile rises up his throat. He closes his eyes and takes a couple of long, deep breaths. He tries to keep them even. To keep the tremors out of his breathing at least. He can’t be heard. He has to keep standing but his knees can barely support him. If only the darkness of the alley could swallow him. If only the wall behind his back could turn into goo. Trap him like an insect in tree sap. Keep him trapped in amber so that everyone could witness his cowardice that even outweighs the sin he’s about to commit.

‘Hero’ is a funny world. A joke.

In the end, he couldn’t save everyone. Forget everyone. Just one person.

The sound gets closer. Have you always walked with a skip in your step when you were rushing home to him? The bile again. His stomach twists. He has to force himself to swallow. The street remains empty. Everything else aside, Joshua can’t let anyone see his face ever again. He won’t ever look at his face again. His hands feel clammy. He can’t breathe. He can’t—

The knife almost slips from his hand. He only sees your side profile for a split second. He can’t double over. Not now. He’s already a coward hiding in the shadows. So it feels like a cruel joke, the sight that his eyes let him see. It’s like the clouds part and you’re suddenly bathed in moonlight. Are the stars taking you before he can? He only has fractions of a second to pray it is so. To hope his hands will pass right through you. That the moon saves you and cradles you in its cold silver arms.

It’s with practiced ease that he reaches from his hiding spot. It’s with hard-earned skill and speed that he grabs you and pulls you back into the shadows, away from the light that exposes his weakness. He ensnares you in the darkness with him before you can make a sound or register what’s happening.

With tender strength he holds you against his chest. His arm wraps around your waist perfectly, pinning your arms to your sides. It should be like this. You belong with him. He should always hold you. What does heaven have that lying with you, your head above his heart and his arms around you doesn’t provide? Your body fits against his like you were made for him. And lately he believes you were, just to make your fate that much crueler. To start his punishment long before he knew he’s going to be punished.

You can’t make a sound with his hand covering your mouth. He wishes you could. Blame him. Hate him. (Love him.) Your struggling is useless. He’s always been stronger than you. Could always easily pin you down. Why can’t you pout about it now? (Please hit his chest. Please call him mean. Please laugh and pull him down for a kiss.)

Your efforts double when the glint of the blade catches your eye. He has already messed up. He shouldn’t have held you one last time. It comes so naturally to him, though. Instincts can’t be overridden. He had to. He tries to make his voice deeper, unrecognizable. To his own ears he doesn’t sound like himself when he shushes you. You sound every bit like yourself when you whimper. (Can’t he hold you tighter? Can’t he pull the blanket over you like he’s always done and shield you from the rest of the world?)

In his memories, it’s always your hair, your cheeks that he caresses. Your lip under his thumb. As he moves his hand lower though, he discovers that the skin on the vulnerable column of your throat is surprisingly soft too. (Did he not explore your body enough? Will this be one more regret to haunt him day and night?) Your breathing, your heartbeat, he can feel it all with his touch. It’s so fast. Like the little bunny’s that you promised to adopt with him. The one you won’t make a half-orphan because you never brought it home. Your eyes look like prey animal’s caught in a trap too.

His thumb strokes over your windpipe. You deserve that. You deserve something more intimate. You deserve something warmer than the cold steel of the knife. You deserve him. Not a stranger.

But he can’t. He’s a coward. His strength isn’t as tender now. It’s desperate. He doesn’t want to let go. You don’t make a sound.

(Please whine. Please tell him to let go. Please call him clingy. Please tell him to let you hug him too.)

His hand stops before it can dip under your shirt. His fingertips barely brush against your collarbone. How selfish he can be. You must be so scared - a stranger holding you, a stranger touching you. Joshua knows if it was him you saw holding a knife so close to your face, you wouldn’t be scared at all. 

(Smile at him. See him.)

As if sensing his hesitation, you move. Just one lone, weak attempt to break free. Just a jolt of an animal that doesn’t wish to be pet.

He leans his head against yours. (Hurt him. Do it. Please.) You stay still. For a blink of an eye that lasts an eternity, you settle and relax. Like he’s holding you while you cook dinner. Like he’s comforting you after a long day. Like you’re watching the storm outside from the warmth of your home. Like he’s saying goodbye.

Like you know what’s coming.

It’s with an order, an impulse to his nerves that doesn’t, that can’t have, come from his own brain and free will that the knife in his sweaty palm turns. Your breathing picks up more. The blade presses against the side of your throat and he—

Joshua!

The shriek pierces the silence of the night.

It rains. Crimson splatters on the ground.

But all he hears is your voice.

Did you recognize him and called his name in shock? Betrayal? Understanding?

Were you calling him for help?

Did you want his name to be your last word?

The knife clatters on the ground with echoes of his name, of your voice. Nothing else is real.

His hand clutches your throat and presses against it with force. He’s trying to pull the split tissue together but it won’t listen and the blood keeps pouring.

The warmth encompassing his hands must be your hands grabbing his. Slipping your fingers between his.

You’re just standing in the shower. It’s hot water rolling down your bodies. You’ll laugh. You’ll scold him for simply holding you instead of washing up.

What’s the point if his hands are forever dyed red.

No shower will ever be enough.

And your life keeps trickling down his fingers and pooling under his feet.

He collapses with you.

His head falls, forehead resting against yours.

(Look at him.)

He holds you like you’re dancing. Your silly wish to look at him after he twirls you. To lean back into his arms and look up at him.

So look at him. 

There’s nothing interesting to see at the back of your skull.

He sobs, but he only hears your voice. Only feels the claws of guilt and pain tearing at his throat from the inside.

Did you know? Could you tell he held you? Did you know you’re not alone? That you don’t have to be scared? 

Look at him. 

Tell him.

The world did not end with a bang. Nor with a whimper. The world did not end at all that night.

But there, in a dark alley where blood pools on the cobblestone, a life and a soul were crushed to save it. 

[posting-for-the-void]

Gotham Tumblr

🌃 gotham-narrows-official 🔁

👽 martianmanhuntersiiiiiiimp Follow

Honestly everyone wants to know who your favorite Robin is but the problem is some people don’t know there was a blonde girl Robin in between the bō staff one and the swords one and so there’s a lot of confusion when someone answers “the fourth Robin” to the question.

🙈 dickgraysonsleftelbow Follow

THERE WAS A GIRL ROBIN???

🛟 gotham-harbor-official Follow

okay breaking character as a gimmick blog here but even i knew there was a girl robin and i live in star city

🌃 gotham-narrows-official

fuck off you fake-gothamite pretender there’s a lot going on here and we can’t all keep up

#fuck off all of you and leave gotham alone

465 Notes 💬 🔁 ❤️

🌿 poison-ivy-defender

inspired by this post in which tumblr user martianmanhuntersiiiiiiimp mentions the question of:

#polls #robin #the robins #robin one #robin 2 #robin 3 #robin 4 #robin five #we are robin #gotham vigilantes #gotham #only in gotham

5,632 Notes 💬 🔁 ❤️

☃️ mrfreezeplsfixglobalwarming 🔁

🍔 batburger ☑️✅✔️

anyone else really craving some joker fries rn?

☃️ mrfreezeplsfixglobalwarming

so was anyone gonna tell me that batburger has an actual account on here and posted this in the middle of a mass arkham breakout or…

#literally wtf guys #none of you thought to tell me? #i LOVE batburger!!! #feeling betrayed

178 Notes 💬 🔁 ❤️

👝 the-goonion

We will be having a meeting at 12:00 PM, Saturday, 8/12/24, to discuss the continued work of the Union with the Maroni Family.

Chapter representatives required to attend. All else welcome.

#The Goonion #Gotham Goons #Goonion Meeting

89 Notes 💬 🔁 ❤️

🔥 Blazed Post

🦉 court-of-owls Follow

We’re Watching You.

0 Notes 💬 🔁 ❤️

🐦‍🔥 flamebird-and-nightwing 🔁

🦇 thebuttcheeksmatch Follow

Anyone else see that weird post from that owl account?

#UGH yes #literally it keeps popping up #they must have payed a fortune to blaze it

935 Notes 💬 🔁 ❤️

[angelsdean]

In the end, the descent into Hell is easy. 

The stairway to Heaven had crumbled. The pearly gates were closed. Sam’s fervent prayers fell on absent ears. 

He was fresh out of cosmic beings to leverage for favors. Well, except…. 

It was strange how easy it had become to traverse the realms of the afterlife. Before, a ticket to Hell would cost you your soul, or a nasty encounter with a Hellhound. Now, a simple spell would do. Day trip to Hell, who would’ve thought? 

Down, down, down he goes into the muggy depths of the Inferno. Into the first chamber. Then advancing through long, winding corridors. He encounters no one. Strange. Finally, he arrives at the heavy doors to the throne room. They open before him, a chest cavity expanding, and there in the center sits Rowena in red, the bloody heart of it all. 

“Samuel.” Her shrewd eyes rake over him. She doesn’t look at all surprised to see him. 

“I take it you were expecting me.” 

“I sensed you the moment you stepped through the portal. Being non-corporeal gives one a certain omniscience. Little happens within these walls that I don’ know about, my dear.” 

Sam internally shudders at the word omniscient, thinking of Chuck and the maddening uncertainty he brewed in them when he claimed such powers. 

“What brings you here?”

The question draws Sam back to the present. Right. Rowena may be able to see all within her tiny kingdom of Hell, she's in the dark about all that has transpired on Earth since Sam’s last visit. The truth of it, the words he must say next, stick in his throat. He can’t—He hasn’t said any of this out loud. Hasn’t spoken to anyone in the weeks since everything happened. These were the facts: 

They defeated Chuck. 

Jack then vanished. 

And then Sam had to burn Dean. 

And before any of that, Cas had sacrificed himself in a move that Sam still did not fully understand. Dean had been sparse on the details. And now he couldn’t ask him at all. Because Dean was—He—

“Dean died.” 

His voice warbles around the words. They don’t sit right in his mouth. He shouldn’t be saying them. 

“Oh, Samuel.” Rowena appears before him in a blink, a hand pressing to his cheek. 

“They’re all—they’re gone. Dean. Cas. Jack.” Tears spring forth. He hasn’t cried either. He hasn’t let himself. But now, with Rowena opening her arms to him, he sinks down, down, down till they are both on the stone floor, Sam cradled in Rowena’s embrace as he sobs. “They’re dead and I have no one left. Nothing. They’re just all gone!” 

Fingers comb through Sam’s hair in a soothing shush. “There, there. Shh. I’ve got you.” Then, more forcefully, tipping his chin up to lock eyes, “I’ve got you.”

Samwena ficlet be upon thee! inspired by ruminations on this post

[slash-me-please]

Hello! Nice day, afternoon or evening. :)

I wanted to see if you could and if you wanted to do a post where the Slashers have a S/o who is very calm, (not a very strawberry girl type, no!)I mean, more like calm, maybe curious and so, as if she were on drugs! And suddenly she has her most sadistic and/or wild side.

(I hope that I have been understood ;"( ) (Oh, you can add whoever, but if you can, especially Stu, from ghostface, Hannibal "The series" and Michael Myers :>)

Please :}

Warnings: Descriptions of murder, blood, sexual tension

A/N: I hope this is what you were hoping for, or at least something close to it. I decided to do a little blurb instead of headcanons, I hope this is okay with you :) I have not wrote for hannibal for a while- so i hope this isn't ooc. I feel like I kinda took on my own idea, I wasn't sure with how to make reader sadistic without going the whole "shes a slasher too" which is a trope I will continue to hate until my days end. I got my inspo from Secretary (2002)

Rebirth

Each day had been unexciting for you, unenjoyable. You had fun in erratic ways- ways erratic for you. Your coworkers saw you as anyone normal, you sipped your coffee quietly at your desk in the mornings- the New York Times crossword of the day clasped tightly in the other hand. You weren't sure you ever wrote any of the answers down as much as you pondered the words on the paper.

Before you met Hannibal, a psychiatrist that your friend Will introduced you to, you spent your nights with a wild look in your eyes. Nothing brought that spice to your life that you craved. None of the past boyfriends ever had the same ideas- they had all been boring. Your first love always teased you about it, laughing about how he must have changed you for the worst. You let him have it, he wasn't correct- you didn't bother wasting the time to correct him. In a way, you had changed. That edge, the sharp curve you had at the young age of nineteen, the one which ignited your fire had long since been extinguished. You searched for a serenity in men that people spoke of- a willing, open man. You'd like to hide what you need from the public eye- and you wonder if that makes you a genius or a coward while your first love bent you over the seat of his motorcycle.

Taking a swig of your coffee, you type away at your desk. Your employer had you entering different numbers and words into some type of document, boring work. Your eyes shift to your phone screen just as it lights up, a text from your newest cover-up boyfriend, Hannibal.

"Please arrive at precisely six p.m. for dinner,"

A simple text, one you could easily follow. Your eyes glanced at the clock, 2:43 p.m. You pressed the power button on your computer.

"Hannibal!" You knocked on the door, it fell open with a squeak. You took it as an invitation, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you. "Hannibal! I'm a little early but I thought maybe you would want help?" Still no reply. You walk through the hallway and into the kitchen. Standing still, you take a breath in and examine your surroundings. It's almost dead quiet, and then you hear a sound you cannot quite describe. Your chins shifts upwards towards a vent and goosebumps erupt on your skin.

A crack resounds, bouncing off the metal walls and ringing in your ears. Then a thump, a loud thump. You're suddenly inspired to make your way to Hannibal's bedroom, the door is shut and you wrap around the handle and breathe in an excited breath. The door swings open, and you gasp. Your boyfriend hovers over your first love, his hand is holding the wooden handle of- what looked like one of the emergency axes that you'd find nestled in the glass box of a professional building. His head is split, blood seeping into the cream colored carpet, also rolling in thick puddles over the hardwood floor.

"Hannibal?" "I told you, six."

Your eyes dilate and you take a few steps closer. He watches you, curious when you start to giggle. "Is this dinner?" He stays silent, you expect it almost, you don't care for his answer anyways. You step to the side, sliding your heels off and stepping forward into the puddle of blood. "There's no need to ruin a good pair of shoes." You gasp, falling onto your knees and setting your hands face down into the liquid soul. You feel it explore the creases of your hands, soaking your pantyhose and you cackle out something evil. "I fucking hated them all."

"When the detectives question you, you'll be heartbroken." He steps closer to you, avoiding the dirtied floor. Hannibal takes pleasure when you nod and lean forwards. "I'm heartbroken." He lifts his hand and brings it to your head, guiding it down to help you press your cheek onto the cold floor. "Go shower, I have to get started cooking."

[artyandink]

𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞 𝐱𝐲𝐳 2

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, daydreaming, talk of rape, sa, abortion, 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: The Man by Taylor Swift

new country

“Madam President!”

“Over here!”

“What are your plans to reform America?”

Paparazzi kept on yelling those questions even though you were perfectly capable of stating every one of your new legislations and ideas one by one. Lucky this was a closed conference, lowering the chance of an assassination, and Dean’s eyes were scanning the crowd anyway for any reporter who could suddenly yank out a .38.

You raised your hand, clearing your throat. “It’s only been about a week since I’ve been elected, but I can, with confidence, share with you my plans to reform legislations and laws in the States. As of tomorrow, after a majority vote, abortion has now become legal in all fifty states.”

The statement became an outcry, reporters and journalists yelling questions as to why, so you had to hold up your hand again with a strong urge to roll your eyes in disdain. Seriously, why can’t these guys ever shut up? “It’s a controversial decision.” You agreed, looking intently at the members of the audience. “I’m wholeheartedly aware, but we have to think of the people who would suffer. Victims of rape who end up pregnant would have to keep their child, and depending on the case, the mother could end up with severe post-natal depression which could affect both the child and their mother, which would do more harm than aborting the child. If a mother’s baby won’t make it to birth, she can’t do a thing to stop the baby’s suffering from happening in the first place. Abortion is a right that should be possessed by every woman in the country, and in addition to this, a psych evaluation will be conducted by licensed professionals to determine any external pressures or lingering doubts.”

You had felt your air running out, so you took a sip of your water before continuing on with your long list of tasks and responsibilities for the presidential serve. “I want to improve relations with our allies in NATO, and there will be foundations in order to support anyone in the States who is in need of education. And, by the end of my service as this country’s president, I want to have America make the switch to renewable sources of energy and be sure that the production of energy in factories is the minority.”

“Any questions?” Becky asked, waving her pen around a little as she looked inquisitively around the room, this fucking room with pretentious reporters who ask stupid questions.

One reporter raised their hand, so Becky nodded and pointed with her pen. “How does it feel, being the youngest elected and the first female to become president? You’re making history.”

“Well, as John F Kennedy said: it’s time for a new generation of leadership.” You smiled— that question wasn’t half bad, really. You knew you were breaking history’s records and taking America in a new direction, but it was for the best. “It’s an odd feeling, as I’ve been raised in a country with men as our presidents, but I’d say I owe a lot of my success to my family, my friends and my fellow candidate, Amara Shurley. She gave me a run for my money, and she’s an incredible woman that only inspired me to do better.”

Another reporter with his hand up. “A lot of women across the States see you as a symbol for feminism. What is your response to this statement?”

Well, that one wasn’t unheard of, you’d give it that. “I’m whoever the people want me to be.” You gave a light shrug, you didn’t really think of that question. You just said what felt natural. “If they need a feminist symbol, they can look to me. If people need reassurance and safety, they can look to me. The only thing I won’t be able to stand is that the good citizens of America can’t put their trust in me because of a contingency or the other.”

You glanced at Becky, who nodded toward the man. He was middle-aged, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a self-assured smirk that screamed, I’ve got something to prove. The logo of his network—one notoriously critical of your policies—was emblazoned on his press badge.

“Madam President,” he began, his voice carrying an edge of condescension that set your teeth on edge. “You’ve outlined ambitious plans for reform, and your stance on women’s rights is certainly bold. But there’s one decision you’ve made that has raised quite a few eyebrows.” He leaned forward slightly, as if positioning himself for a dramatic reveal. “What do you say to critics who question the wisdom of hiring an ex-hitman—someone with a documented history of violence—to serve as your personal bodyguard? Isn’t it hypocritical to preach about progress and morality while employing someone like him?”

For a moment, silence blanketed the room. The question hung in the air, sharp and cutting, as the reporters collectively held their breath, waiting to see how you would respond. You felt the prickle of heat rise along your neck and shoulders, not from embarrassment, but from sheer frustration.

You glanced briefly at Dean, whose expression was impassive, though his jaw clenched ever so slightly. He stood still, his hands resting lightly at his sides, but you could tell the question had landed like a punch to the gut.

You took a deep breath, the crisp scent of polished wood and faint cologne grounding you. Then, with a calm but unmistakable authority, you leaned forward into the microphone.

“That’s an excellent question,” you began, though your tone suggested otherwise. Your eyes locked on the reporter, and your gaze was steady, unflinching. “And it gives me an opportunity to address an issue that’s long overdue for clarification. You see, I don’t make decisions lightly—especially not decisions that concern my safety and the safety of this nation. When I selected Mr. Winchester as my personal bodyguard, I did so with full knowledge of his history.”

The reporter opened his mouth, but you held up a hand, silencing him without a word.

“Let me finish,” you said, your voice firm. “Yes, Dean Winchester has a past. But let’s talk about what that past really means. This is a man who, for better or worse, was shaped by circumstances beyond his control. He didn’t choose a life of crime; he was born into it. And yet, despite everything, he possesses a set of skills and a depth of experience that make him uniquely qualified to protect me—and, by extension, the American people.”

You straightened, your tone sharpening. “Critics like you are quick to point fingers and make judgments from a position of privilege, ignoring the fact that people can change. Redemption isn’t just a talking point for me; it’s a belief I hold deeply. If we can’t offer second chances to those who’ve earned them, then what kind of country are we building?”

The murmurs in the room grew louder, but you pressed on, your words cutting through the noise.

“Dean Winchester has spent the last year proving himself. He passed the most rigorous background checks, psychological evaluations, and combat training our government has to offer. He’s saved lives, prevented threats, and put himself in harm’s way to protect others. And for that, I trust him with my life. So if you want to question my decision, you’re not just questioning his character—you’re questioning mine.”

The room fell silent again, your words hitting their mark. You could feel the eyes of every reporter on you, and out of the corner of your eye, you saw Becky nodding subtly, her expression one of quiet approval.

You leaned into the microphone one last time, your gaze boring into the reporter who had asked the question. “And let me be perfectly clear: I don’t answer to cynics like you. I answer to the American people. So, if you’d like to discuss this further, I suggest you start by addressing me with the respect this office demands.”

The tension in the room was electric, the kind of silence that felt loud in its weight. The reporter, clearly taken aback, sank slightly in his seat, his smirk replaced by a look of unease.

You straightened your posture, smoothing the front of your blazer as you surveyed the room. “Next question?”

A younger journalist, her notebook clutched tightly, hesitantly raised her hand. Becky nodded to her, and she stood, her voice steady but cautious. “Madam President, thank you for your response. Building on that, how do you see your administration addressing broader issues of criminal justice reform and rehabilitation?”

Finally, a question with substance. You allowed yourself a small, appreciative smile. “That’s an excellent question,” you said. “One of my top priorities is ensuring that our criminal justice system focuses not only on punishment but on rehabilitation. Too many people are trapped in a cycle of incarceration because they’re not given the tools or opportunities to reintegrate into society. We need to invest in education, job training, and mental health support—both inside and outside of our prison system.”

You glanced briefly at Dean again, finding a flicker of reassurance in his steady presence. “Because if we’re serious about building a better future, we need to recognize that people are more than their worst mistakes.”

The press conference continued, the reporters slowly shifting their focus back to policy questions and legislative plans. But the earlier exchange lingered in the back of your mind, a reminder of the battles yet to come.

As the session wrapped up and you stepped away from the podium, Dean was there, a quiet shadow at your side.

“Hell of a response,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You glanced at him, catching the faintest trace of a smirk on his lips. “They don’t pay me to hold back,” you replied, your tone wry.

“No,” he said, his eyes scanning the room one last time as he followed you toward the exit. “They pay you to lead.”

And as you stepped into the corridor, leaving the chaos of the press behind, you couldn’t help but feel that, for once, you were exactly where you were meant to be.

“No offence here, ma’am, but I think your fans are crazy.” Dean chuckled as he saw a post on Instagram that was now trending because he apparently was giving daddy.

Whatever the fuck ‘giving’ meant. He was a giver in the bedroom, if that’s what it was referring to. Below it were hundreds of comments, many of which seemed less than presidential.

You glanced at the phone, then back at him, trying—and failing—not to laugh. “Welcome to my world,” you replied dryly, setting your pen down and leaning back in your chair. “You’d be amazed how quickly people can spiral over a photo.”

Dean chuckled, shaking his head as he scrolled through the comments. “‘He could protect me any day’,” he read aloud, his tone mocking but amused. “‘Please, sir, ruin my life.’” He glanced at you with a raised eyebrow. “Do they know I’m literally hired to ruin other people’s lives if necessary?”

You shrugged, biting back a grin. “They probably think that’s part of the appeal.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t even know what half of this means,” he said, squinting at the screen. “Apparently I’m ‘giving daddy’? Whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.” He looked genuinely puzzled, and it only made the situation funnier.

You laughed outright at that, the sound warm and unrestrained. “Dean, it just means they think you’re hot.”

His smirk widened as he pocketed his phone. “So, basically, I’m a meme now.”

“Pretty much.”

Dean leaned against the edge of your desk, crossing his arms as he gave you an exaggeratedly thoughtful look. “You know,” he began, his tone teasing, “I’m starting to think you hired me purely for my looks.”

You rolled your eyes, though your smile didn’t falter. “Oh, please.”

“No, seriously,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself. “Be honest with me, ma’am. You saw the jawline, the broad shoulders, the smoldering intensity—”

“Smoldering intensity?” you interrupted, arching an eyebrow.

He gestured toward his face, grinning. “And you thought, This guy? Perfect for standing around looking menacing and driving Instagram wild.”

You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up, shaking your head as you looked at him. “Dean, I hired you because you’re qualified. Your record speaks for itself.”

He tilted his head, feigning skepticism. “But you did notice the jawline, right?”

“Stop fishing for compliments,” you said, swatting at his arm playfully.

He chuckled, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just saying, ma’am. I’ve been around long enough to know when someone appreciates the package.”

You sighed, folding your arms and giving him an exaggeratedly serious look. “Fine. You’re attractive, Dean. Happy?”

He grinned, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. “Very.”

“But,” you continued, holding up a finger, “that’s not why I hired you. I needed the best, and you are. Everything else is just a… bonus.”

He laughed, the sound rich and genuine, and for a moment, the usual weight of your responsibilities felt lighter.

The playful banter between you continued, a rare moment of levity in the otherwise intense environment of the Oval Office. Dean settled into the chair opposite your desk, leaning back with an easy confidence that only added to his inexplicable charm.

“So,” he said, his tone conspiratorial, “how does it feel knowing your bodyguard is officially the internet’s new crush?”

You smirked, leaning forward slightly. “Honestly? It’s hilarious.”

“Hilarious?”

“Yes,” you said firmly. “You’re all stoic and intimidating most of the time, and now half the country wants to climb you like a tree.”

Dean laughed, shaking his head. “Well, if you ever get tired of being President, you could have a solid career in stand-up comedy.”

You grinned, enjoying the back-and-forth more than you cared to admit. “I’ll keep that in mind.” A short pause, but it felt good, light. He didn’t seem like the typical bodyguard, you could actually have conversations with him.

“Well,” he said, standing and stretching slightly, “if you ever want to go viral again, just let me know. I’m apparently great at it.”

“Noted,” you replied with a grin.

As he made his way to the door, he glanced back over his shoulder, his smirk firmly in place. “And for the record, ma’am? If I ever need a second career, I’ll just put ‘hot bodyguard’ on my résumé.”

You laughed, shaking your head as he disappeared into the hallway. “Good luck with that, Winchester.”

And as you returned to your work, a small smile lingered on your lips. Dean might drive you crazy sometimes, but moments like this made it impossible not to appreciate the man behind the reputation.

The late afternoon sun cast a warm, golden glow over the Oval Office, filtering through the tall windows and highlighting the meticulously maintained room. Papers were spread across your desk in organized chaos, and the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air. You’d been working for hours, signing documents, reviewing proposals, and making notes in neat, precise handwriting. The quiet hum of the office was almost soothing—your assistant, Becky, had left to run errands, leaving you to your thoughts and tasks.

You leaned back in your chair for a moment, massaging the tension from your neck. The weight of the presidency wasn’t something you’d underestimated, but there were days, like today, when it pressed harder than usual. Still, the sense of purpose it gave you was unshakable. Every signature on these documents was a step toward the vision you had for the country.

As you reached for your coffee mug, the door opened quietly, and Dean stepped inside. You looked up, unsurprised—his ability to move without a sound still startled most people, but you’d grown accustomed to it.

He was out of his suit jacket now, the dark gray fabric slung over one arm. His white dress shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, revealed strong forearms, and the faint shadow of a day’s stubble added to his rugged appearance. Dean wasn’t one for idle conversation or intrusions without purpose, so you set your pen down and gave him your full attention.

“Madam President,” he began, his voice as steady and low as ever. But there was something in his tone—an edge of hesitancy, maybe even guilt—that caught your attention.

“Yes, Dean?” you prompted, tilting your head slightly.

He stepped closer, standing just in front of the desk, his hands resting on the back of one of the chairs. He seemed to consider his words carefully before speaking.

“I wanted to say… you didn’t have to do that. Back at the press conference.” His green eyes met yours, earnest and unguarded in a way they rarely were. “Defending me like that, in front of all those reporters. It wasn’t necessary.”

You blinked, surprised by his sincerity. You leaned forward slightly, resting your forearms on the desk. “Dean,” you said gently, “of course it was necessary.”

He shook his head, the movement quick and almost dismissive. “No, it wasn’t. My past is my burden to carry, not yours. You’re already under enough scrutiny as it is. I don’t need to add to it.”

The vulnerability in his words tugged at something deep inside you. Dean Winchester was a fortress of a man—strong, guarded, and unflinching in his role as your protector. But in this moment, he was letting you see the cracks in that armor, the part of him that carried the weight of his past like a scar that wouldn’t heal.

You stood, pushing your chair back slightly as you rounded the desk. His eyes followed you as you came to stand beside him, your expression calm but firm.

“Dean,” you began, your voice softer now, “I knew exactly what I was signing up for when I chose you for this job. I knew your history. I knew how people might react. And I didn’t care.”

His jaw tightened, and he looked away for a moment, as though struggling to accept your words.

“Listen to me,” you continued, stepping closer. “I’m not just your employer. I’m your ally. And when someone questions my decisions —when they question you— it’s my responsibility to set the record straight.”

He let out a quiet breath, almost a sigh, and looked back at you. There was something in his expression that made your chest ache— a mix of gratitude and disbelief, as though he couldn’t quite fathom why you’d stand up for him so fiercely.

“You’ve earned your place here, Dean,” you said, your tone unwavering. “And if anyone has a problem with that, they can take it up with me.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable; it was contemplative, a shared moment of understanding. Dean nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.

“You’re stubborn,” he said after a moment, his lips quirking into the faintest of smiles.

You chuckled softly. “I’ve been called worse.”

His gaze lingered on you, and for a brief moment, you felt the intensity of it like a tangible weight. But then he straightened, rolling his shoulders back as if shrugging off the last remnants of doubt.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice quiet but resolute. “For believing in me.”

“Always,” you replied, meeting his gaze with a small, sincere smile.

The atmosphere shifted, the earlier tension giving way to a more relaxed ease. Dean glanced at the paperwork strewn across your desk, his brow furrowing slightly.

“You’ve been at this all day,” he said, nodding toward the stack of documents. “When’s the last time you took a break?”

You waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll take a break when I’m done.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with your answer. “That’s not how that works, Madam President. You can’t run a country if you run yourself into the ground.”

You sighed, knowing he had a point but unwilling to admit it outright. “I’ll take a break soon,” you conceded.

“Good,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “Because if you don’t, I’ll drag you out of here myself.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, the sound light and genuine. “I’d like to see you try.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, and for a moment, you saw the faintest hint of mischief in his eyes. “Don’t tempt me,” he said, and there was a warmth in his voice that made your chest feel lighter.

As he turned to leave, you called after him. “Dean.” He paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “For what it’s worth,” you said, your smile soft but full of meaning, “I think you’re doing a damn good job.”

He didn’t respond right away, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes. Finally, he gave a small nod, his lips curving into a quiet, appreciative smile.

“Thanks, boss,” he said, and with that, he left the room, his footsteps fading into the hallway beyond.

You returned to your desk, the papers waiting patiently for your attention. But for the first time that day, the weight of the work didn’t feel quite so heavy. You’d stood up for someone who deserved it, and in doing so, you’d strengthened a bond that went far beyond the professional.

As you picked up your pen, a thought crossed your mind—one that made you smile. Dean Winchester might not be perfect, but he was exactly the kind of person you wanted in your corner. And if the rest of the world couldn’t see that, well, that was their loss.

The day after the press conference, the Oval Office was already humming with its usual controlled chaos. You were deep in paperwork, focused on revising yet another draft of a new energy initiative, when your assistant, Becky, buzzed in to inform you that Bella and Steph had arrived.

You sighed fondly. Of course, they had. They’d been texting nonstop since the moment the press conference aired, full of commentary about your plans and, predictably, about Dean.

“They’re here to see you,” Becky said over the intercom, a hint of amusement in her tone.

“I’ll be out in a moment,” you replied, shaking your head with a small smile.

Bella and Steph didn’t wait long. As soon as they were cleared to approach the Oval Office, they strode down the hallway, chatting animatedly, their voices carrying just enough to alert Dean, who stood stationed just outside the office door.

He looked up from where he was scrolling through security updates on his phone, his sharp green eyes assessing the two women as they approached. His posture was relaxed but professional, and his expression shifted to one of slight curiosity as he took them in.

Bella was the first to notice him. She slowed her pace, her jaw slackening just slightly as her gaze took him in—head to toe and back up again. Steph, walking just behind her, barely contained a whistle as she caught sight of Dean standing there in his dark suit and tie, his sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms.

“Uh, excuse me?” Bella said, stopping directly in front of him with a hand on her hip. Her voice was playful, bordering on flirtatious. “You must be the Dean Winchester.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, tucking his phone into his pocket. “That’d be me,” he replied, his tone even but laced with caution.

Steph stepped up beside Bella, giving him a once-over with such blatant appreciation that Dean shifted slightly, his expression an amusing mix of bemusement and wariness. “Oh, wow,” Steph said, dragging out the words. “She wasn’t kidding. You’re even better-looking in person.”

Bella nodded enthusiastically. “I mean, we saw the pictures, but they didn’t do you justice. You’re—what’s the phrase?—‘giving everything.’”

Dean blinked, his lips quirking into an involuntary smirk despite himself. “Appreciate it,” he said dryly, “but I think you’re looking for the President. She’s inside.”

Bella waved a hand dismissively. “We’re her friends. She won’t mind if we take a moment to admire her excellent taste in bodyguards.”

Dean let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That’s not exactly how she put it.”

Steph leaned in slightly, her grin downright mischievous. “So, Dean, what’s the story here? Are you single? Because if you’re not, you really need to start considering the President. You two would be perfect together.”

Dean raised both eyebrows at that, his smirk turning incredulous. “That’s… bold,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Bella wasn’t deterred in the slightest. “Oh, come on. You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. She’s brilliant, gorgeous, and now she’s the President. And you? You’re a literal ex-hitman who looks like you walked off the cover of GQ. It’s a match made in tabloid heaven.”

Dean opened his mouth to respond, but whatever he might’ve said was interrupted as you stepped out of the office, arms crossed and eyebrows raised at the scene unfolding before you.

“Really, ladies?” you said, your tone dripping with mock exasperation.

Bella and Steph whirled around, both grinning guiltily but unapologetically. “We were just getting to know your bodyguard,” Bella said, batting her lashes innocently.

“And suggesting he hook up with you,” Steph added helpfully, earning her a sharp elbow from Bella.

You pressed a hand to your forehead, sighing. “I knew letting you two anywhere near Dean was a mistake.”

“Can you blame us?” Bella asked, gesturing toward Dean like he was an exhibit at a museum. “I mean, look at him.”

Dean, to his credit, remained perfectly composed, though there was a faint pink tinge to his ears that you didn’t miss.

“I am looking at him,” you said dryly, then turned to Dean with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about them. They don’t have a filter.”

Dean gave a half-smile, his voice carrying that familiar note of humor. “It’s fine, ma’am. I’ve heard worse.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have,” you replied, shooting Bella and Steph a pointed look. “But I’d rather they not embarrass themselves—or me—any further.”

Steph raised her hands in mock surrender. “We’re just stating the obvious. And for the record, you’re welcome.”

“For what?” you asked, exasperated.

“For giving you the perfect opportunity to admit he’s hot,” Bella said, winking.

You sighed, shaking your head as you stepped aside to usher them into the office. “Dean, can you make sure no one else tries to instigate a matchmaking session while I’m in there?”

He nodded, his smirk widening ever so slightly. “Consider it done.”

As Bella and Steph passed him, they both threw him one last playful look, Steph muttering, “Call us if you ever get tired of babysitting.”

Dean chuckled softly, shaking his head as the door closed behind them.

Inside, you turned to your friends with your hands on your hips. “Seriously? You couldn’t even wait until you got inside to start embarrassing me?”

Bella flopped onto one of the chairs, grinning. “Hey, we’re just looking out for you. And honestly, if you don’t lock that man down, someone else will.”

Steph nodded, leaning back against the desk. “He’s got that whole brooding, dangerous vibe going on. And those arms?” She mimed fanning herself, grinning wickedly.

You groaned, running a hand through your hair. “You do realize he’s standing right outside, don’t you?”

Bella shrugged. “Maybe he’ll take it as a compliment.”

You shot them both a look, your annoyance tempered by the amusement you couldn’t quite hide. “You’re impossible.”

As the three of you settled in to talk about why they’d actually come to visit, your thoughts briefly wandered to Dean outside the door. His composure, his humor, and the way he’d handled your friends’ antics—it all reminded you why you trusted him so much.

And, fine, you’d admit it. They weren’t wrong about the jawline.

The Oval Office was unnervingly quiet, save for the scratch of your pen against paper and the occasional shuffle of documents. You had spent hours entrenched in policy revisions, draft reviews, and enough bureaucracy to numb your senses entirely. A dull ache had started to build behind your eyes, but you powered through. It wasn’t like the President of the United States could take a sick day.

You leaned back in your chair, letting out a long sigh as you pushed your current stack of papers aside. The late afternoon sunlight poured through the tall windows, bathing the room in a warm golden hue. For a moment, your mind wandered, your focus slipping as you stared at the faint pattern of light on the ceiling.

Then, the door to your office creaked open.

Your attention snapped back, your heart skipping at the sight of Dean stepping inside. He was dressed sharply as always, his dark suit tailored to perfection, though his tie was slightly loosened, and his sleeves were pushed up just enough to reveal his strong forearms.

“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.

Your breath came in short, shallow bursts as he pressed closer, his lips a hair’s breadth from yours. “You’ve been working too hard,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that sent a shiver down your spine.

Before you could respond, his mouth crashed into yours, claiming you in a kiss so heated and consuming that it left no room for thought. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer as your fingers found their way to his hair, tangling in the soft strands.

It was overwhelming—the warmth of his body, the taste of his kiss, the way his fingers dug into your waist with a possessive edge that sent sparks shooting through you.

And then—

“Madam President?” Becky’s voice crackled over the intercom, pulling you violently back to reality.

You blinked, your surroundings snapping into sharp focus. You were still in your chair, your desk untouched, your papers neatly stacked where you’d left them. Dean wasn’t in the room—wasn’t shirtless, wasn’t lifting you onto your desk, wasn’t kissing you like the world was ending.

Heat flooded your face as you sat up straight, your heart pounding in your chest for entirely different reasons now.

“Yes, Becky?” you managed, your voice slightly hoarse.

“You’ve got a visitor—Director Landry from the FBI. He’s here for the meeting regarding Agent Winchester’s appointment.”

Your stomach dropped, the implications of the daydream compounding the embarrassment that already burned hot in your chest. “Send him in,” you replied, clearing your throat to steady your voice.

Moments later, the door opened, and Director Landry entered, his crisp suit and severe demeanor a stark contrast to the imagined chaos of moments ago.

“Madam President,” he greeted with a nod.

“Director,” you replied, standing to shake his hand. “Please, have a seat.”

The two of you settled across from one another, and Landry wasted no time getting to the point. “I understand Agent Winchester’s appointment as your personal bodyguard was an unconventional decision.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” you replied, your tone neutral but firm.

Landry leaned forward slightly, his hands folded on his lap. “While Agent Winchester’s skill set is undeniable, I have to express my concerns. His past… affiliations and actions make him a controversial figure. Are you certain this is the image you want associated with your administration?”

You straightened in your chair, your expression hardening. “Director, I appreciate your concerns, but Dean Winchester was vetted thoroughly before I made my decision. His record speaks for itself—he’s one of the most skilled operatives we’ve ever had.”

“His record also includes a stint in ADX Florence,” Landry countered, his tone measured but pointed.

You didn’t flinch. “I’m aware. And I also know he served his time and cooperated fully with authorities during his incarceration. Dean Winchester has earned his second chance, and I’m not in the business of denying people opportunities based on their past mistakes—especially when they’ve proven themselves more than capable.”

Landry’s gaze narrowed slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

You leaned forward, your voice steady and resolute. “Dean has already demonstrated his loyalty, his discretion, and his ability to protect me in ways no one else could. He’s not just a bodyguard, Director—he’s a deterrent. Anyone who knows his reputation would think twice before making a move.”

The director regarded you for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Very well. If you’re confident in your decision, I’ll respect it.”

“I am,” you replied firmly, meeting his gaze head-on.

As the meeting concluded and Landry left, you let out a long breath, sinking back into your chair. The tension from the conversation—and the residual heat from your earlier daydream—left you feeling drained and slightly disoriented.

You turned your chair toward the window, letting the fading sunlight warm your face as you tried to shake off the lingering embarrassment.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you could almost hear Dean’s gravelly voice teasing you: You’ve been working too hard.

Dean stood outside the East Wing of the White House, bathed in the faint golden light of the late afternoon. It was one of those rare moments when the world around him seemed to pause, granting him a sliver of peace amidst the relentless schedule of his new life. The crisp November air carried a sharp bite, and Dean savored the sensation as he leaned against a marble column, his hand loosely wrapped around his ever-present phone.

The quiet was interrupted by the buzz of an incoming call. The number wasn’t saved, but Dean knew it immediately—he recognized the area code, the unmistakable pang of familiarity twisting in his chest like a rusty knife.

For a moment, he considered letting it ring out. But he knew better than to ignore a call from them.

Dean swiped his thumb across the screen and brought the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”

“Winchester,” a deep, gravelly voice snarled on the other end of the line. The accent was unmistakable—Brooklyn through and through. “You’ve got some fuckin’ nerve.”

Dean let out a slow exhale, his gaze flicking to the horizon as he stepped further into the shadows of the colonnade. His voice was calm, measured. “What do you want, Frank?”

“What do I want?” Frank barked a harsh laugh. “How about an explanation, for starters? You think we wouldn’t see it? You strutting around on TV in a monkey suit, playing babysitter for the goddamn President of the United States?”

Dean didn’t flinch, though the venom in Frank’s tone was enough to make most men’s blood run cold. “I don’t work for you anymore,” he said simply, his voice low but firm. “I haven’t for a long time.”

“Bullshit!” Frank snapped. “You don’t just leave, Winchester. You don’t walk away from the family and decide to play hero. That ain’t how this works, and you know it.”

Dean’s jaw tightened, his knuckles white as he gripped the phone. The word “family” left a sour taste in his mouth—it was always their go-to excuse, a leash they used to drag their people back into the fold.

“I didn’t walk away,” Dean replied, his tone sharper now. “I was locked up, remember? ADX Florence. Solitary confinement. Twenty-three hours a day in a cell the size of a broom closet. You didn’t exactly come running to my rescue.”

“You think that gives you a free pass to spit on everything we built? On everyone who had your back?” Frank growled, his voice crackling with fury. “You don’t get it, do you? You didn’t just screw us, Winchester. You screwed the whole damn network. You’re a traitor.”

Dean’s pulse quickened, but he kept his voice steady. “I’m not a traitor. I’m just done. Done with the jobs, the lies, the blood on my hands. I’ve paid my dues, Frank. I’m not going back.”

“Not going back?” Frank repeated, his voice dripping with contempt. “You think you can just slap on a suit, play by their rules, and call it a clean slate? Newsflash, buddy: your past doesn’t just disappear because you want it to. The network doesn’t forget.”

The network. The tangled web of organized crime that had once defined Dean’s life. It was a world of favors and debts, alliances and betrayals, a world where loyalty was currency and betrayal was punishable by death. Dean had clawed his way out of that pit, but its shadows still clung to him, no matter how far he tried to run.

“I didn’t ask for a clean slate,” Dean said, his voice laced with quiet defiance. “I know who I am, and I know what I’ve done. But I’m not your guy anymore, Frank. I don’t take orders from you, and I sure as hell don’t owe you a damn thing.”

Frank was silent for a moment, but the static of his labored breathing was still audible. When he finally spoke, his voice was colder than ever. “You think you’re untouchable now, huh? That shiny badge of yours makes you bulletproof?”

Dean’s lips twitched into a grim smile. “I think you know better than to try me.”

There was another long pause, the weight of unspoken threats hanging heavy in the air.

“You’ve made your choice, Winchester,” Frank said finally, his voice low and dangerous. “But don’t think for a second that we’re just gonna let this slide. You’re walking a fine line, and sooner or later, you’re gonna fall.”

The call ended abruptly, the click of the disconnect echoing in Dean’s ear. He stood there for a moment, staring at the phone in his hand as the tension coiled in his chest like a spring wound too tight.

The air around him felt colder now, the shadows deeper. Dean slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned his gaze toward the distant horizon, the Washington Monument rising like a silent sentinel against the darkening sky.

The ghosts of his past were never far behind, and tonight, they’d made it clear they weren’t going anywhere.

Back inside, the warm lights of the White House felt almost alien after the cold, harsh conversation. Dean made his way to the security wing, nodding to a few Secret Service agents as he passed. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of Frank’s words pressing down on him.

You don’t just leave.

Dean knew that all too well. He’d spent years trying to carve out a life for himself that wasn’t defined by the blood and chaos of the criminal underworld. But no matter how far he ran, it always found a way to pull him back in.

As he reached his quarters, Dean leaned against the doorframe, letting out a long breath. His eyes drifted to the small desk in the corner, where a few case files and a polished Glock rested side by side.

He knew he had made the right choice—choosing a path that, while complicated, gave him a chance to do something good. To protect someone who genuinely wanted to make a difference.

But as he sat down, his mind lingered on Frank’s final words.

Sooner or later, you’re gonna fall.

Dean clenched his fists, his jaw tightening with resolve.

Not if he could help it.

Frank slammed the phone onto the mahogany desk in front of him, the sharp crack echoing through the dimly lit room. The ornate office—more of a lair, really—was as ostentatious as it was oppressive, with heavy red drapes and polished wood paneling that seemed to suck the life out of the air. A crystal tumbler of bourbon sat untouched on the desk, catching the faint golden glow of the single overhead light.

His face was twisted with anger, the veins in his neck bulging as he clenched his fists and let out a string of curses.

“That ungrateful son of a bitch!” he barked, his voice reverberating through the room. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

Across from him, Lou, his most trusted advisor, stood with his hands clasped in front of him, his expression carefully neutral. Lou had been with Frank for over two decades, a steady presence in the volatile storm that was the New York mafia. He knew better than to interrupt when Frank was in one of his moods.

“He’s got a death wish, that’s what,” Frank continued, pacing behind his desk now, his expensive Italian shoes thudding against the Persian rug. “Thinks he can just walk away, like the past doesn’t mean jack. Like we don’t mean jack.”

Lou cleared his throat delicately. “He’s always been a loose cannon, Frank. You knew that when you brought him in.”

Frank whirled on him, his face contorted with fury. “Yeah, well, I also knew he was the best. The best hitter I ever had. He cleaned up messes nobody else could, and he did it without batting an eye. I gave him everything, Lou. Everything! And this is how he repays me?”

Lou didn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch just long enough to diffuse some of Frank’s rage. Then he asked, carefully, “What’s the move, boss?”

Frank ran a hand through his thinning hair, exhaling sharply as he tried to collect himself. He reached for the bourbon, downing it in one gulp before slamming the glass back onto the desk.

“The move?” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less dangerous. “The move is reminding every last one of them what happens when you cross me.”

Lou raised an eyebrow. “You want us to go after him?”

Frank let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “No, no. That’s too small. Dean Winchester’s a nobody without that badge he’s wearing now. No, Lou—this is bigger than him.”

Lou tilted his head slightly, waiting for Frank to elaborate.

Frank leaned forward, planting his hands on the desk as he stared at his advisor with cold, calculating eyes. “You saw the news, didn’t you? The pictures? Him standing there, all smug, right next to her.”

“The President,” Lou said, his tone careful.

Frank nodded. “The goddamn President of the United States. He’s not just working for her—he’s protecting her. Like she’s some kind of queen, and he’s her loyal knight.”

Lou remained silent, his brow furrowing slightly as he began to piece together Frank’s train of thought.

Frank straightened up, pacing again as his mind raced. “You know what that makes us look like? Weak. Powerless. Like we let one of our own turn his back on us and walk away without so much as a scratch. It’s a slap in the face, Lou. A slap in the face to the entire goddamn network.”

Lou shifted his weight slightly. “So… what are you suggesting?”

Frank stopped pacing, turning to face him with a grim smile. “We send a message. Not just to him, but to everyone. To the entire world.”

Lou’s eyes narrowed. “You’re talking about—”

“I’m talking about taking her out,” Frank interrupted, his voice low but resolute. “The President. You want to send a message, Lou? There’s no message bigger than that. You kill the President of the United States, and suddenly, everybody remembers who the hell we are. They remember who I am.”

Lou’s expression remained unreadable, but the tension in the room thickened. “That’s… a bold move, Frank. High risk. High profile.”

“Yeah, and high reward,” Frank shot back. “Think about it. This isn’t just about revenge, Lou. This is about power. Control. We pull this off, and we’re untouchable. Nobody messes with us, not the feds, not the other families, not even that bastard Winchester.”

Lou hesitated, clearly weighing the implications of such a move. “It’s not gonna be easy. Security around her is tighter than anything we’ve ever dealt with. And Winchester’s no slouch. He’ll see us coming a mile away.”

Frank smirked, a glint of malice in his eyes. “Then we don’t let him see us coming. We hit her when she’s vulnerable, when nobody’s expecting it. And as for Winchester… well, let’s just say I’d love to see his face when he realizes he couldn’t protect her.”

Lou nodded slowly, though his expression remained guarded. “All right. I’ll put the word out, see who’s available for a job like this.”

Frank’s smile widened, but it was a smile devoid of warmth. “Good. And Lou?”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Make sure it’s someone we can trust. Someone who understands what’s at stake. This isn’t just another hit—this is history.”

Lou inclined his head, then turned and left the room, leaving Frank alone with his thoughts.

Frank sank into his chair, a satisfied smirk playing at his lips as he poured himself another glass of bourbon. He swirled the amber liquid thoughtfully, his mind already racing with plans and contingencies.

Dean Winchester thought he could walk away from the life. Thought he could play the hero, stand in the light, and leave the darkness behind. But Frank knew better. The darkness had a way of finding you, no matter where you ran.

And soon, Dean would learn that lesson the hard way.

The alley was dark, a maze of cobblestones and shadows that swallowed up the last traces of daylight. The smell of stale garbage and rain-soaked concrete hung in the air, thick and oppressive. It was the kind of place where deals were made in whispers, where the murky dealings of the underworld could be carried out without the watchful eyes of the world’s authorities.

Lou stood at the entrance to the alley, the tip of his polished shoes barely touching the edge of the grime-covered street. He had a hand in his coat pocket, fingers wrapped tightly around a wad of cash, his eyes scanning the alley with practiced indifference. He wasn’t here to make friends. He wasn’t even here to talk, not really.

He was here to ensure the job was done—no questions asked, no mistakes. Frank had given the order, and Lou was the one who would make sure it was carried out to the letter.

The shadows at the far end of the alley shifted, and Lou stiffened. The figure emerging from the darkness was tall, a silhouette whose face remained hidden in the dimness, a hood pulled up over their head to shield their identity. They moved with deliberate grace, footsteps silent against the damp ground, their presence unsettling, as if the shadows themselves had brought them to life.

Lou didn’t flinch. He had met people like this before. People who operated in the dark, who carried out their work with ruthless efficiency. People who didn’t need to be seen to make an impact.

“You got the money?” the figure rasped, their voice low and gravelly, as though it had been worn down by years of disuse.

Lou pulled the cash from his pocket, holding it up to the faint light spilling out from the windows above. He glanced at it for a moment before slipping it into a plain envelope. It was a sizable sum—enough to make even the most hardened hitman pause, but that wasn’t why Lou was here. Money was always the easy part. It was the message that had to be delivered, and that was worth more than any amount of cash.

“Everything you need is in there,” Lou said, his tone calm and measured. “But it’s not just about the money. It’s about making a statement. A clean job. No mess. It has to be perfect.”

The figure stepped closer, now within arm's reach. Their silhouette was more defined now, the curve of their shoulders broad under the dark fabric of their coat, but still, their face remained hidden.

“A statement?” The figure's voice was skeptical, but there was something in the way they asked the question that suggested they had heard it all before.

Lou didn’t hesitate. “The President. You’re going to take her out. Make it clean, make it quick. No mistakes. And when it’s done, it needs to be clear—this wasn’t just some random attack. It’s a message. A message to everyone who thought they could turn their backs on us. He turned his back on us, and now we pay him back.”

The figure’s face remained in shadow, but Lou could see the faint movement of their head as if they were considering the weight of the job.

“You’re talking about her, the new President?” the figure finally asked, the tone slightly amused. “I thought she was untouchable.”

“She’s not. No one is.” Lou’s voice hardened. “You do this, and everyone will know. You send a message to every fucking player in this game—no one walks away clean.”

There was a brief pause, then the figure took a step forward, the shadows lifting slightly as they approached. Lou’s eyes narrowed, scanning them closely. There was something familiar about their movements, the way they carried themselves. The way they moved like they owned the dark.

Lou took a step back, the envelope still clenched in his hand. “You understand what I’m asking?”

The figure nodded slowly, then pushed back the hood.

Lou’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening as the face emerged from the shadows.

It was him.

The man standing in front of him wasn’t just a hitman. It was Benny Lafitte, one of the most notorious operatives to ever work for VIPER. The same man who had helped Frank build his empire, the same man who had been second only to Dean Winchester in terms of skill and ruthlessness. Benny was a ghost, someone who had disappeared from the underworld years ago after a particularly bloody job, but now he was back. And he was standing in front of Lou, as calm and unbothered as ever.

“Benny,” Lou said, his voice betraying a mixture of surprise and respect. “I didn’t expect you to be the one on this job.”

Benny’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “You didn’t think I’d hear about Dean’s little betrayal? Of course I’m involved. You think I’ve been sitting around twiddling my thumbs for the last few years?”

Lou was still processing the fact that Benny Lafitte—the ghost of the criminal underworld—was standing before him, ready to take on one of the most dangerous assignments Frank had ever given. Benny had a reputation for being precise, deadly, and entirely unpredictable.

“You always did like to be the best,” Lou muttered, still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Benny was back.

Benny chuckled lowly, the sound dark and almost amused. “The best doesn’t retire, Lou. The best waits for the right time to come back. And it looks like the right time is now.”

Lou handed him the envelope. “The target’s the President. Make it look like a clean, political hit. We need the world to see it as a message. It’s not just about her—it’s about what Dean’s done. This is for him. For betraying the family.”

Benny took the envelope from Lou with a slow, deliberate motion, his fingers brushing against Lou’s briefly. Then he turned it over in his hands, examining it as if it were a piece of fine art rather than a job request.

“I’m clear on the details, Lou,” Benny said, his voice dropping lower, almost a growl. “But just so we’re clear… this is his punishment, not hers, right?”

Lou’s eyes darkened, his gaze cold. “This is for Dean. The President? She’s just in the way.”

Benny gave a nod, his eyes glinting with something darker now. “Then we’ll get this done. Clean. Quick. And unforgettable.”

Lou turned to leave, already hearing the faint sound of Benny’s footsteps receding into the shadows behind him.

One thing was for sure: If anyone could send a message like Frank wanted, it was Benny Lafitte. And once it was done, the underworld would know—no one walked away from VIPER. Not even Dean Winchester.

Benny stood still in the alley for a moment after Lou had walked away, his hand still wrapped tightly around the envelope. His eyes flickered up to the narrow slice of moonlight overhead, a reminder of just how far he’d fallen—and how far he was willing to go to make sure Dean Winchester didn’t come out on top.

The plan was simple: in and out, make the shot, leave no trace. Frank had asked for precision, but Benny had other ideas.

Why make it clean, when you could make it memorable?

After all, what was the point of sending a message if no one remembered it?

And so, as the chill of the night air wrapped itself around him, Benny’s mind began to race, already plotting the President’s downfall in the most spectacular way possible. He had no love for Dean, and he had no love for the President either. They were simply obstacles in a game much larger than any of them could comprehend.

And Benny Lafitte? Well, Benny was the one who would tip the scales.

This was going to be a hell of a show.

As Benny disappeared back into the shadows, Lou stepped into his car, the weight of the job heavy on his mind. Frank had given the order, and Benny would follow through. The message would be loud and clear.

The underworld would never forget what had happened tonight.

And neither would Dean.

NEXT UP:

Bella leaned in with a sly grin, her eyes practically sparkling with mischief. “We’ve been friends for how long now, huh? You’re telling us nothing happened last night? Nothing?”

You swallowed again, resisting the urge to shift uncomfortably in your seat. “What are you talking about?” you asked, trying to play it cool.

Steph didn’t let you off the hook. She put her coffee down and stared at you seriously, her eyes narrowing. “Come on, you were talking about him last night, and now you can’t even focus? You’ve been staring at that plate like it’s your first meal in months.”

Your heart pounded as the realization hit you—they knew. They were onto you.

You let out a shaky breath. You could feel your pulse racing, the thought of admitting what had happened last night making your stomach flip uncomfortably. “It’s just…” You trailed off, trying to find the words, your fingers nervously tapping the edge of your glass.

Bella’s smirk only widened. “Come on, tell us. What’s the deal with you and your very handsome bodyguard?”

Your breath caught. You hadn’t expected them to be so direct, and yet it was exactly what you needed. You let out a long breath, looking down at the table to avoid their eyes.

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[maybe-boys-do-love]

What are some possibly significant queer associations with St. Bartholomew for Ticket to Heaven?

I'm glad you asked!

For those who don’t know, Bartholomew’s considered one of Jesus’s twelve disciples, but barely mentioned in the Bible. It's generally agreed that he is referred to also as Nathanael in the gospel of John, and as someone with the name Nathaniel, which means gift of God in Hebrew, I can tell you that’s a gay-ass name and will also def make me cry if I think too hard about Gem's character having that parallel during the show).

Bart’s often depicted holding his flayed skin (ew gross!) from when he got martyred, most famously in queer Italian Renaissance artist Michelangelo’s "Last Judgment" painting in the Sistine chapel at the Vatican. The skin St. Bart’s holding there is actually a (skinned) self-portrait of the artist. Peek at Aof’s insta and you’ll see that he actually visited the work. It’s giving queer influence in (Catholic) Christianity and autobiographical reference, baby ✨

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Bartholomew and another disciple Philip, who was written to have introduced Bartie to the big JC party and to have traveled with him after JC’s post-post-mortem, are mentioned in a translation by Yale scholar John Boswell of a liturgy for an adelphopoeisis ceremony between two monks from the tenth century. Boswell argued that adelphopoeisis, or spiritual brotherhood unions in the pre-sodomy-law-era early church should be understood as same-sex unions. This, as most discussion of gay shit with the Church, has been controversial, although some of those controversies are issues with Boswell’s translation. There does seem to be some evidence that these spiritual brotherhoods were understood to have the potential to be sexual in nature. Either way, it seems likely Aof has come across Boswell’s ideas because it’s pretty prominent in discourse for anyone looking into gay Christian history.

THEN, although it might be unintentional, the Thai-ification of Bart is homophonic with Bath????!!!! If Bart can be short for Bartholomew, y'all are gonna have to let me stretch a little bit past Aof's official statement so Bath can be short for Bathsheba because...

Giving us another Biblical name reference but from the other gender who's THE example of coveting in the Bible/Torah is such a power move! King David sees Bathsheba bathing from his roof and has her over to sleep with him even though she's the wife of one of David's soldiers who's literally off fighting for his kingdom. Then he gets her pregnant. Then David has the poor guy over for dinner and doesn't admit to it, sends him back out and has him put in the front lines to get killed. He dies and Bathsheba mourns for a bit before becoming David's wife. It's heterosexual failure! It's the temptations of the flesh! It's one of the inspirations for Leonard Cohen's cold and broken Hallelujah! This connection reframes the queer temptations as something no less normal than heterosexual desire.

After all, David is the good guy. The celebrated little David who killed Goliath. It's essential to trace Jesus's lineage back to this most-celebrated king in the Bible for the messianic prophecies to be correct. So giving us a reference to this venerated and simultaneously deeply human figure really complicates the kind of Christianity that expects immaculate humans.

And, Bathsheba wasn't David's only paramour. Researching same-sex relationships in the Bible, David and Jonathan will be at the very top of the list. "The soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul...Then Jonathan made a covenant with David, because he loved him as his own soul. And Jonathan stripped himself of the robe that was upon him, and gave it to David, and his armor, and even his sword and his bow and his girdle." That's coming from the book of Samuel in the Revised Standard Version of the Bible, which was the first in 1946 to have any reference to word ‘homosexuality,’ using it to replace in the King James Version "abusers of themselves with mankind" and "effeminate” (which at that time did not have the common association with gay men the way it does today) on the list of sinners barred from heaven. Would David have been far enough on the Kinsey scale to qualify? Well, David had some other wives on top of Jonny and Bath, too. Whatever happened to family values!?

Of course, Bath also gives us images of washing and purifying alongside the sacrament of baptism!

The Bartholomew connection deserves more legit emphasis with Aof's statements and actual evidence for his visit to the Vatican, but how fun that the translation gave us another queer part of Christianity even if it wasn't intentional!

Complicating all of this discussion further is Catholicism's very late switch away from Latin and its more emphatic focus on tradition, hagiography, and liturgy rather than the text of the Bible. My ex-Christian fixation is on issues in Reformed Christianities (and I still love me some iconophobia, a topic with which Aof loves to engage), so I know more about the books and interpretations. I'm looking forward to the Catholic and ex-Catholic contributions here as the show gets underway. Like, y'all have been doing the most for production values of a Sabbath!

And to all my ex-Christians who can get sucked into spirals about this stuff, just remember that the concept of God is chill and all if it's just the comforting sense of connection between things in the universe, but any concepts of Christology, sin, or puppet-master deities are literally the most whack things if they're being thought of as anything more than a kind of out-there overly-simplified metaphor for trying to live a life where you can be yourself and get along with other people.

*This info and a great deep dive into the induction of the language and discourse of homosexuality in the Bible and its progressive! roots and aftermath is Reforming Sodom: Protestants and the Rise of Gay Rights.

[bloggerspam]

Mechanic! Val AU Extras!

I decided to create a whole new post for the extras, apart from the main story. Sorry If the reblog confused anyone!

But hey, i finally got the inspiration to write this scene out!

It's really bad and rushed because I JUST finished it, but its done and i am not changing it. <3

Also on AO3 :)

===

Jason has a plan.

He fidgets with the box of chocolates in his hands, waiting for the door to open. Danny had said he understood, in his texts, had reacted positively to Jason asking to see him, to celebrate Danny's move.

But text can only go so far, and the subtext is actively trying to murder Jason via anxiety and guilt.

Jason's not 100% sure, basically, that Danny knows Jason likes him. The misunderstanding was cleared, but the uncertainty has not.

Jason had a plan, a big one. He was going to take Danny, just the two of them, to the Gotham Observatory to celebrate the move. He was going to lead Danny through the exhibits that he had researched thoroughly before hand, and then take him to dinner at this little hole in the wall Italian place, with the perfect mood lighting and atmosphere for a cozy little dish of spaghetti. Maybe joke about Lady and the Tramp, tell Danny he's pretty.

He was going to ask Danny to be his boyfriend, cuddled up together in the ambient candle lights in his best leather jacket and a little moon rock pendant, to the moon and back and all that. It was going to be perfect, it was going to be good.

And then, maybe, in the far off future Jason could…could let Danny in. Let him know he knows about Phantom, despite Steph's doubts. Slowly start teasing Danny about Red Hood and Jason Todd being on his Hall Pass list.

But then Talia had snitched on Timbers, taunted Jason about how his little replacement was so very hard to catch before throwing a knife at his head.

And then the misunderstanding happened, and Val with the Red Hood reveal, and—

And Jason had a plan, but the plan went to shit.

But Jason is a Bat, against all fucking odds, and so he pivoted, adjusted, re-calibrated the entire time he was working on that stupid Mazda.

The new plan is sound. The new plan is a little slapshot, but it works, and Jason has been practicing his heartfelt apology and subsequent love confession for the last two hours.

The door opens, Danny looking worse for wear. He looks sad, downtrodden, and hurt. Eye red-rimmed and skin a pallor that insomniacs love to don, lips chapped and bitten to all hell. His hair is all over the place, and his voice creaks and cracks when it asks who is it? before the door is even fully open, and Jason thinks he'll have to tell Danny not to do that in Gotham, to check before opening the door because it's not safe and—

And Danny is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, eyes widening upon seeing him, looking flustered and embarrassed to be seen in "such a state."

Jason practiced, he reminds himself, for two hours.

The door opens, and Jason opens his mouth before Danny can even greet him.

"I'm Red Hood!" His voice squeaks at a pitch it's never squeaked before, "I'm Red Hood, you're Phantom, and I'm desperately hoping you understand that I'm an idiot and I was being chased by three ninja assassins and had bloody gloves and couldn't text properly."

Danny is speechless, Jason can see this by the way his mouth flaps open and shut but no sound comes out. Jason is about to crawl out of his own fucking skin. He doesn't remember what his speech was before. He pivots.

"I know I should have waited," He continues, and despite all the training he's so panicked he possibly can't even see anymore, "But I don't like making you wait if I can help it because I'm kind of desperately in love with you?"

There's a long silence.

"Was that a question?" A different voice calls out from behind Danny. Tucker, he thinks.

"No!" Fuck, his face is burning. He looks Danny in the eyes, tries to convey confidence. "I am desperately in love with you."

He stands there, just for a moment, before remembering the chocolates and shoving them gentle into Danny's chest, who takes it with a startled blink. "I got you chocolates. To say sorry, and that I like you."

Danny looks down on at the box, a novelty thing. They're fancy, high quality, shaped into the different moons of Jupiter. Jason had them custom made for the Observatory date.

"I—" Danny pauses, still seeming to process things as he stares at the chocolates in his hand, using his other hand to try and pat down his hair. He's beautiful, and Jason hates that he made him feel any type of negative feelings at all.

"It's okay," Danny finally settles on, smiling softly at him. Jason's insides feel like molten lava. "It was just a misunderstanding."

"Yeah," Jason smiles helplessly back, "But it still hurt you."

Before Danny can say anything to that, he's yanked back into the apartment. Jason reaches out, instinctively, before catching himself.

Sam stands in the doorway with her arms crossed and a scowl that could curdle milk.

Jason swallows dry spit.

"You did hurt him." Sam's voice is so low Jason could scoop it off the floor, "And Danny might forgive you, and Val might have let you off easy, but I don't like it when people hurt my friends."

Behind her, Jason can see Danny being dragged away by Tucker, who gives him a two fingered salute and a wink.

Well. Fuck.

Jason's got a long time to grovel before he can see Danny again, he can tell.

Jason takes a deep breath. It'll be worth it.

Because when all is said and done, he's gonna ask Danny to be his boyfriend.

By the way Danny blows him an apologetic kiss, he's fairly confident they'll be fine.

He catches the kiss and puts it in his pocket, ignoring Sam's rolling eyes, and prepares himself.

Jason, after all, has a plan.

[dark-overlord-of-rainbows]

Drawn Nov 24/26 2024 Someone requested I post traditional drawings

While going through my sketchbook to find the very little I've done recently (which. Obviously didn't have much I wanted to post), I thought about drawing more in it again and trying to use my pens and markers Many were dead/dying but others would've never gotten used otherwise. I own a lot of art supplies that have seen little/no use because even when I did do traditional I used primarily pencil

Should've spent more time on every sketch here, but tbh I got annoyed immediately with sketching traditionally. Drawing with the markers and pens, while I didn't know what I was doing (and I wasn't really paying attention to what I was doing either), it was fun.

top row of characters are from Nomads by @captain-juuter middle row are my oc Suchai and my sona And the bottom one is Lance and Suchai together because nobody can stop me! Also the only on I touched up digitally, planned to do so from the beginning since it was small in my sketchbook so I knew it'd end up messy, and I enjoy drawing/painting over things for edits anyway.

Suchai's actually inspired by Lance, don't tell anyone though; that's our secret, ok?

[plsuredrnk05]

If anyone would be interested I also have DA account where I post longer stories that acually have a story not just a horny slop lol

so if you happened to be interested in that feel free to check it out ^^

[a-memory-a-distant-echo]

wip wednesday

yeah, one more time: still wednesday somewhere!

i've actually written…like a genuinely shocking amount this week, somehow? like 'i have six documents open and have added at least 500 words to each of them in the last 72 hours' amount?

anyhow, in honour of that, have a preview of something that will almost certainly please no one: some fic inspired by this post and the tags that my terrible wife has added to it.

He's looking at her, finally looking at her, and then Shan Gudao starts talking and ruins things. His words, nearly mocking, are too rude to ignore, but their relationship is too precarious for her to push back. Besides: she wants him to leave them. He can distract himself with his pointless plans. She has things to do. So she simpers, instead. It works on him the same way it works on every other man foolish enough to look at her and see only beauty. 'My lord fought the three of them alone,' she says, glancing at Di Feisheng. He's not looking at her anymore. He's going to look at her. He's going to look only at her. She explains about the poison on his lackey—an easily tricked fool, a king in nothing but name—and he closes his eyes and looks down. With his powers suppressed, he looks weaker and less proud, almost fragile. He hasn't looked at her again. It makes her restless and reckless both; she flexes her hand against her thigh, thinking about stroking his face. Slapping his face. 'My lord,' she says, and there, he looks up, finally, beautiful and bloody and half dazed. He doesn't look sorry, though, not the way he should, not even as she reminds him about what he did to her. What she is willing to graciously overlook out of love for him. His face is still wrong though; this is an expression she's seen before. It's disgust. Disdain. How dare he. Were he anyone other than who he is, she would execute him for this. He's just a man, and she is by rights the emperor. He has no room to look down on her, now or ever, not after she ran his alliance, not after she did everything to make him the name that he is now. He'll bow to her one way or the other.

[aryomengrande]

don't you need them like they need you now? want an art just like this with your f/o? then just meet me at the apt for this event! this is open to anyone aged 18 and above. read the rules below before joining ദ്ദി ( ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ )

you don't have to be following me to join. but you have to be off anon though. mutuals will be prioritized. only one (1) entry per person.

open to all fandoms! my strongest suits are jujutsu kaisen, tokyo revengers, one piece, and naruto.

the pink thunder background is the default background.

⚡︎ one, when you send your ask, please attach a photo of your f/o, preferably face front. tell me if u want the photo as is or if you want anything changed. please tell me what expression they'll be wearing, whether you want to add accessories or if you want me to copy bruno mars's fit with the ballcap backwards and the sunglasses (like i did with baji). the more specific you are with the details, the better!

⚡︎ two, attach a representation of your face—a picrew, a sim, or even a selfie. do tell me what type of facial expression you want as well. don't worry, i won't post the asks and will delete them right after! i usually use procreate's eyedropper to pick specific colors but if you think the lighting is off or the colors are inaccurate in your picrew/sim/selfie, you can send me hex codes of your skin color, hair color, eye color, and lip color. if there is anything else you want to add such as accessories, please let me know. again, the more specific you are with details, the better!

⚡︎ three, keep your asks/DMs open should i have any questions. if you have concerns, don't hesitate to drop by my ask box/DMs as well.

⚡︎ four, please be patient with me. i will do my best to grant everyone's wishes and just, enjoy doing this without pressure or anxiety lol. i thought of this event bc i finally finished my yearly to-draw list so i'm free besides my pending commissions. i also need to give back to this community that has been nothing but nice to me ♡

the inspiration for this theme was my upcoming birthday art for thee satoru gojo which was apt-inspired. the duration for sending entries is from november 30 until gojo’s birthday, december 7. i will start posting finished products on the days leading up to christmas and hopefully finish it all before christmas.

i will open 5 slots for now. once all slots are occupied, i'll decide how much more i'll add.

i will message you back to let you know whether you secured a slot or not. please check this post occassionally to know whether there are more slots available.

⚡︎ as of [ november 30 ] : 5/5 slots available

rara's favorite random game | © aryomengrande 2023