#but it is so amusing to me that just like. yeah we do have at least one acknowledgement of them being separate

[what-if-i-just-did]

I looked behind me at reflex, although I don't know what I was expecting, given the fact Disillusioned had said "invisible". Rather than some hideous creature, or nothing at all, I was met with the sight of Talon. I sighed. Right, of course.

I'd completely stopped thinking of Talon as a 'monster' over two decades ago, so he'd slipped my mind. Nobody else could see him, so I'd kind of forgotten that he'd look pretty scary to most others. Well, or sexy, depending on the person. Yuck. He had talons for fingers, like his name would suggest, with sharp claws rather than fingernails. He was 6'8 tall, give or take, with pitch black skin (or rather, short fur) that had red patterns on it like galaxies. Sharp teeth, somewhere between those of a shark and those of a vampire, and his eyes were as dark as his skin, with a silver iris in the middle of each of them.

Turning back to Disillusioned, I chuckled. "Oh. No, that's just Talon, he does whatever he wants. I guess I ask him for things sometimes but it's not my superpower. He's not even that helpful really."

I would've expected Talon to protest somehow, mock-offended, but he still seemed to be recovering from the surprise of someone else being able to see him. There was a slight smirk on his lips though, if you knew him well enough to be able to tell. His expressions were usually miniscule, but after living with him breathing down my neck for twenty-seven years, I'd learned to read them.

Disillusioned clearly wasn't expecting that. "Ah... so... why is he here?"

"Uh, complicated story.... he's kinda attached to me, so he just has to hang around until I die. We're friends though."

"Mmmm, I wouldn't go that far, little one. I'll help you out on occasion, for my amusement. Don't mistake that for friendship."

"Talon, I made you pancakes for breakfast yesterday and you put whipped cream on my nose. You have no ground to stand on."

Talon, wisely, kept his fanged mouth shut.

Disillusioned raised an eyebrow. "That's... certainly intriguing." He paused for a moment, before continuing. "I don't normally do this- I'm not supposed to, but.. if you're agreeable, I'm intrigued. Could we exchange number and arrange for a meet-up? I'd love to know more about Talon."

Talon howled with laughter as I fangirled, either uncaring or simply unused to the fact that Disillusioned could hear him. Disillusioned wanted to meet with me???! More than the meet-n-greet that I paid for???!

It took me much too long to finally stutter out a "yeah" that didn't sound nearly enthusiastic enough. Disillusioned chuckled, and wrote something on my arm. His number. Oh gods. When did he even get a pen?

"Uh, that's your fifteen minutes up, luv, but I'm looking forward to seeing you again... Casey, was it?"

"Ciji.", I said, dazed. A few minutes later, I realised I had not only just MET Disillusioned, but he wanted to meet ME. Granted, it was about Talon, but still.

!!!

(authors note- comment if you want a part two?)

“So what’s your power?” Said the all-seeing super-powered individual, “Telekinesis” you said “……….so it’s not the ability to order around the invisible monster that follows you around?” “The fucking what?”

[threeacttragedy]

Entry 11: The One About the Heart of the Ocean

My father is a big history buff. He fancies himself a bit of an expert about the U.S. Civil War, U.S. Presidents, and World War II. In fact, he’s gifted me with the Useless Knowledge of which four U.S. Presidents were assassinated while in office (Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, and Kennedy – you’re welcome for that little addition to your own Library of Useless Knowledge).

But, more importantly, my dad has instilled in me the importance of a timeline. The idea that, if you’re collecting information, it’s vital to keep it in chronological order, that way you can look at it, (try to) understand it, and theorize about what happened before and after an event. If the facts are out of order, the conclusion you reach may be in error.

My father and I also like to solve True Crime together. When he visits, we spend hours on the porch studying some random, usually cold, true crime event. We timeline the shit out of it, connect the puzzle pieces together, and exclaim in the end, “We’ve solved it!” I suppose that is part of what keeps me interested in Lukola – not that there is anything criminal in Lukola, except perhaps the “Single White Female” that pops up behind Nicola from time to time – I just enjoy the game of trying to put the pieces together.

Lukola has become a rather intriguing puzzle, don’t you think? It’s definitely one to which I do not have all the pieces. I do, however, enjoy collecting the information and chronologizing it, and now I find it enjoyable to scribble my thoughts out on Tumblr.

So, how did I get here?

Well, it started with boredom and ended with a timeline.

My first entry to the timeline?

July 20, 2024.

What happened on that date?

Well, nothing spectacular really, except JVN posted –

HOLD UP!

HOLD THE FUCK UP!!

OH SHIT!!

YES!

YES, you guessed it! After blowing JVN off for at least three, maybe four, posts in a row, I’m finally getting around to dedicating an entire entry to Their Royal Highness.

JVN is such a fascinating creature. I mean, you get beautiful, witty, and intelligent wrapped into one human being. Oh, and they are kind of a catty bitch, too, and who doesn’t love one of those? That’s why they're the Heart of the Ocean on the USS Lukola; they just give off this very rare blue diamond vibe. Well, that, and because something they did marks the focal point – the heart – from which the rest of my timeline branches.

*I will cut in here to note that I am referring to JVN as they/their in this entry as their Instagram bio indicates they accept “they/he/she.”

Okay, back to July 20.

On that date, JVN posted to TikTok their version of the Charli xcx “Apple” dance. You know that annoying TikTok trend that took over our summer? Yeah, that’s the one – the same one Antonia tried doing – she just couldn’t pull off the JVN version of it. Dear girl couldn’t come close to matching JVN’s “enthusiasm,” and JVN’s version was only made more enjoyable in that they were seemingly mocking Antonia!

But, all’s fair in love and war, right?

JVN’s bestie, Nicola, had already spent the entire summer subtlety combating Antonia over social media. The vibe in the fandom was that Antonia was always trying to one-up Nicola, with Nicola always coming out the victor. I’m sorry, Antonia, you just can’t beat some perfectly timed BTS drops.

So, why did JVN’s TikTok post intrigue me? It wasn’t because it was that amusing. It was because they’d done something I hadn’t noticed before – they’d taunted Antonia on a public forum.

Curious, that.

Now, I’m not saying it was the first time JVN mocked Antonia, but July 20 was the first time I noticed it. That date is the heart of my timeline, but it does not have to be the heart of yours. We can all start at different times but still reach the same conclusions, so long as we keep the information in order.

You would think one wouldn’t mess with the “girl friend” of your best friend’s “best friend,” at least not publicly. But, here was JVN shamelessly mocking Antonia on TikTok. And, just so we’re clear, the public opinion of what JVN was doing with this TikTok is available to view in the comments of their TikTok post. It wasn’t just me that came to this conclusion – and JVN has left these comments up for four months at this point.

JVN’s “Apple” dance was only made more interesting the following day – July 21 – when they included it in their Sunday Dump post on Instagram.

And, Nicola liked it.

Hmm, things were becoming curiouser and curiouser.

Let’s not even pretend that Nicola isn’t street savvy and didn’t understand the context of that video. And, let’s definitely not underestimate the length of her claws.

To be honest, I hadn’t paid too much attention to Lukola since mid-June. It was an “it is what it is” thing for me. Even though I believed the relationship between Luke and Nicola was complicated (see my first blog for that story), Luke had also apparently disappeared into the summertime sun with his friend group, which included Antonia.

Something about JVN openly making fun of Antonia, and Nicola, at the very least acknowledging it with an Instagram like, made me realize something in Luke’s situation must be shifting.

What have I said about little changes? That deviations in modus operandi are what make people start giving the side-eye to a situation.

And, side-eye I did!

I started paying attention to JVN and, on July 25, they posted a series of photos on TikTok and Instagram showcasing “What I would wear if you invited me to your…” We will fast-forward through all the slides until we get to the last one, which read, “…just got dumped and going to take 8 shots dinner at Lupe’s in SoHo.” Was it possible that JVN was hinting at a dumpster fire at the Soho Farmhouse?

If you don’t know what the Soho Farmhouse is, it’s the place where Luke and his friend group, including Antonia, frequented, probably on Luke’s dime (*insert wicked laugh – oh, and a disclaimer that this is all speculation).

Funny that Nicola liked this post on Instagram, too, and it wasn’t even buried in a Sunday Dump.

At this point, JVN had really sparked my damn interest. Like, dear one, what are you hinting at?

On July 29, Deux Moi creeped out from under its rock and reminded the fandom to hate Luke by rehashing Papsmear. Thank you, we needed that. I mean, half of us almost forgot how much we hated him! That’s me being a sarcastic tart, by the way. If we were to fast-forward to today, I’d argue that Luke was the most darling thing to come out of Bridgerton.

Any ways, again, thank you, Deux Moi, for those suspiciously timed Papsmear pictures because they aligned perfectly with the pap pictures People dropped the following day – July 30.

Yep, I am talking about those strangely awkward pap pictures of Luke hanging out in the murky waters of Sorrento with Antonia. Oh, and let’s not forget the video footage of that encounter, which I am sure still upsets and confuses people to this day. In fact, I know it does because, as I was researching this, I had a couple of people get annoyed after I asked them to view it. Funny thing is, that shit never bothered me (I didn’t say that it didn’t later confuse me!). The first time I saw them, I was like, “Luke is not into that girl at all,” and my next thought was, “I wonder how old these pictures are because I would have sworn JVN was hinting at something.”

Now, this story wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t address the rumor portion of it.

First rumor? That Antonia set up the entire Italy pap photo-op because she seemingly knew where to find the cameraman. So, let’s discuss that video everyone seems to hate to acknowledge exists. In the video, you can see Antonia maybe looking in the direction of the cameraman. She then leans into Luke, either to whisper something to him or to reach for something behind him. In my opinion – and this is strictly my opinion – it looks like she’s pretending to reach for something over his shoulder. Still shots of this interaction are the photos People published, presumably because Luke and Antonia looked like they were cheek to cheek.

Okay, notice I said, “first rumor,” because, yeah, there’s a second rumor, too! But, it fits snuggly into that first rumor. Almost immediately – because that’s how fast the Lukola Sleuths get to work around here – rumors began to circulate that Antonia was following on Instagram the photographer that took the Italy pap pictures. In fact, several people I’ve spoken to swear that they witnessed during a TikTok Live a host prove that Antonia was following this photographer. That’s a bit suspicious, isn’t it? Yeah, it fucking is.

Let’s keep moving.

That same day, we had that video drop of Luke watching fireworks, at night, with sunglasses. Speaking of sunglasses, I guess Luke found those motherfuckers because he sure as shit didn’t have them while floating around in that dirty ass water. Any ways, at the end of the video, Rory appears behind Luke, looking in the direction of the camera and smiling like a condescending, sneaky little shit. Now, who was the cameraman? Well, a possible suspect would be Antonia since she was not seen in the video. Go figure.

Alright, so that day finally ended and on July 31, JVN posted to TikTok a cutesy video of themself at the market titled, “When you catch someone trying to sneak a pic but you were born for these moments.” They prance around the market and randomly look at the cameraman (Mark) with a smile and a pose. The caption reads, “I welcome sneaky pics but I can’t guarantee I won’t sneak some back or put on a show for you.”

WAIT A MINUTE!

Did JVN just inexplicably confirm Luke was getting papped by his own friends?

Yeah, I kind of think JVN did.

And, Nicola liked this one as well when JVN posted it to Instagram on August 8.

Didn’t I tell you JVN was a fascinating creature? And, to be honest, JVN only gets better as this Lukola ship continues on its voyage.

Oh, strangely enough, a few days after the Italy pap crap, Luke returned to London alone. The friend group became unsettlingly silent, and Nicola started to get really, really loud – Chaos Week was incoming! And, so were some more JVN crumbs (and nicely timed clap backs).

[daryltwdixon]

hello dear!! i dont know if your are still taking requests or not, but if do you i would really love to see you write something fluff with a drunk daryl and reader, where he totally forgot that they are dating and just start acting shy and awkward around her, i know its cliche but i really love how you write daryl and think it would be so cute to see something like that written by you😭, but i totally understand if you are busy, i hope you are having a great day!��

A drunk Daryl grows uncharacteristically shy around you, forgetting for a moment that you're together.

author notes: I just want to say its not v common for people who are drinking to forget who their s/o's are, but anything for you lolol, enjoy!!! x

thank you for the love!!!

The Alexandria dinner party is louder than usual, laughter spilling out into the quiet night. Someone had insisted on opening the last few bottles of wine, and you watch with amusement as Daryl, leaning against the far wall, swirls the red liquid in his glass like it’s some kind of trap.

“Never took you for a wine guy,” you tease, stepping closer. His eyes dart to yours, and the flush on his face deepens. You figure the alcohol’s working its magic, though Daryl had always been shy about these kinds of things—especially in a crowd.

“Don’t even taste right,” he mutters, setting the glass on a nearby table like it might bite him.

You grin. “Then why drink it?”

He shrugs, glancing at you sideways. The usual ease between you feels a little... off. His gaze flicks to your face, then away again, like he’s avoiding something. You tilt your head, trying to figure out what’s wrong, when his voice breaks the quiet.

“You look real nice tonight.”

The words come out low and shy, almost like he hadn’t meant to say them. You blink, surprised, but before you can respond, he fumbles to add, “Not that ya don’t always, but... I mean, yeah.”

“Daryl,” you say, trying to catch his eye. He’s looking anywhere but at you now, cheeks burning. “Are you okay?”

“‘M fine,” he grumbles, crossing his arms. But the way he shifts on his feet, the nervous way he rubs the back of his neck—it’s not like him. You step closer, studying him, until something clicks.

“Oh my god.” You can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up. “You don’t remember, do you?”

His brows furrow, lips parting in confusion. “Remember what?”

You can’t believe it. “You’re acting like we just met or something.”

Daryl stares at you, his eyes swimming with haze, but he blinks hard, trying to piece it all together. His eyes widen slightly. “Wait... we’re—?”

“Yes, Daryl,” you say, trying to suppress another laugh. “We’re together, at least I thought so,”

The realization hits him like a brick wall. His mouth opens, then closes, and for a second he just stares at you, dumbfounded. “Shit,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. “I—uh... forgot.”

“Obviously,” you tease, stepping even closer until you’re standing right in front of him. “Should I be worried you’re forgetting about me already?”

“Nah,” he says quickly, his voice quiet but insistent. “Just... too much wine. ‘S all.”

You bite your lip, trying not to smile too wide at how bashful he looks. The Daryl you know is rarely this unguarded, and it’s endearing. But as you watch him glance down at you—his face still flushed and his nerves practically visible—you catch something softer in his expression. His hand drifts to the back of his neck again, but this time, a crooked grin follows.

“You’re... somethin’ else,” he murmurs under his breath, almost to himself. “Must be the luckiest som' bitch,”

The words catch you off guard, and warmth blooms in your chest. “Damn right you are,” you say softly, but there’s no teasing in your tone anymore.

His lips twitch, and he finally dares to meet your gaze. “Guess I don’t mind that.”

You smirk, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his cheek. The move makes him freeze for half a second before his face turns a deeper shade of red, but his hand brushes yours in a subtle, almost instinctive gesture. Even drunk, even shy, Daryl Dixon couldn’t hide how much he cared.

“C’mon,” you say, tugging lightly at his hand. “Let’s get you some water before you forget anything else."

[kitty-fighter]

Oh my God I'm stealing this 😹🤣

[I actually had this discussion with my brother, and I still laugh about my response to it. My response was just- {This is a real thing that happened, and I'm still amused by it}

Me: *Doing the dishes* "I'm not having kids!" B: "You say that now, but I know girls-" Me: *Cutting him off mid sentence and feigning shock, as he's been single for my entire life of knowing him* "You Know Girls?!?!" My Mom in the Living Room: *Laughing so hard we can hear her from the kitchen* "Please tell me that she didn't just say that with a straight face!" B: *Still shaking his head processing my response, calls back to our mother* "Yeah she did!". And I still laugh at how fast I snapped back to that. Though my current snapback is "I am more likely to be *married* to a *woman*, so kids are out of the question!"]

stop telling your teenage daughters who say they don't want kids that they'll change their mind

[save-the-villainous-cat]

“You’re awfully cheerful.” The villain leaned back on the hero’s couch and cocked their head. There was only a hint of a smirk but the hero didn’t need more than that to determine their nemesis’ mood.

It was all about the subtle movements.

A twitching eyebrow. A look at their own shoes. A breath taken in a little too quickly.

The hero knew the villain - knew every little detail about their behaviour, knew what they were feeling. Feelings were one thing, facts on the other hand…the hero didn’t know what their nemesis was planning, nor what their next move was. They could tell when the villain was angry, disappointed, amused. But why…?

Nevertheless, the hero smiled and lounged in their armchair, making themselves as comfortable as possible in their own home.

“I’m trying this new thing…having a positive mindset and all. You know, not taking everything so serious.”

“Someone blew up your car today,” the villain pointed out. They stared at the bottle of wine the hero had opened an hour ago. Half finished. “You must be quite upset.”

“I’m kind of grateful, actually.”

“Grateful?” The villain raised a brow and the hero tilted their head. It must have looked rather confident. Cocky, almost. Whether it was the little bit of alcohol or the situation in general - the hero did feel a bit cocky.

“Yeah, I mean. I’m glad I wasn’t in the car when it exploded. That’s a reason to celebrate.”

“Someone knows you’re involved with me,” the villain said.

“We don’t know that for sure,” the hero answered.

“Evidence suggests it, though.”

The hero whistled, impressed. Their eyes widened and something inside them wanted this to be their fault.

“What else is the evidence suggesting, Detective?” The hero let their eyebrows wiggle and took a sip of the wine. They liked to think that not only the villain was changing the hero but that the hero was also influencing their nemesis.

Detective. The villain was definitely smart enough to be one and, Lord, the hero would have loved to see that brilliant mind work on cases with them.

The hero smiled to themselves. Fantasising about the villain being their partner wasn’t new. But it was entertaining. Over and over again.

“That you’re not careful enough.”

“Hm?”

“You got into a fight again. Your knuckles are bruised. Someone blew up your car today. And all you do is sit here and drink,” the villain said. A twitching eyebrow. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

“Aww, are you worried about me?” The hero’s eyes narrowed. “Scared your favourite hero will end up dead?”

The villain’s face didn’t change and at first, they didn’t say anything.

So, the hero observed them carefully.

Their relationship was at a point that suggested they were either hooking up or just really good friends. For the neighbours, it was normal to let the villain in. And for the hero, it was normal to visit the villain in their lair.

Quite risky. Quite rewarding, too.

Exchanging information was crucial to the both of them.

Additionally, the hero kind of liked them.

“I would get you a bodyguard but as of right now, I can’t guarantee that whoever wanted to kill you today isn’t one of my men.” A look at the ground and the hero had to frown. “I’ll take care of that, obviously.”

“You want to hire a bodyguard? For me?” the hero asked. They chuckled into their wineglass.

“No, I won’t hire anyone. I’ll be your bodyguard.”

“Huh?!” The hero’s grip around the glass tightened.

“You’re irreplaceable as informant and in case you die, all your secrets which means all my secrets are very likely to see the light of day. The files on your computer won’t stay hidden forever. I’d like to avoid that.”

“I think I can take care of myself.” The hero looked at the wine. Did that mean the villain wanted to move into this apartment?

The hero blushed softly.

More reasons for the neighbours to gossip about a possible relationship. Jeez.

“I don’t think so,” the villain said. “I haven’t threatened you in weeks, so don’t make me do it. I won’t debate this. I need you alive and I don’t trust anyone enough to do this job right now. I’ll take the couch.”

“I don’t get a say in this?” the hero asked. They laughed at the absurdity.

“No.” The villain’s voice was stern now.

“Hm.” Slowly, the hero finished the glass and set it down on the little table between them and the villain. “Maybe it’ll be fun to watch you follow me around like a dog.”

A blush.

“Call it whatever you want.”

And that’s how the both of them became roommates.

[demonic0angel]

OWO, you take prompts? How about this?

Danny was born a premature and with a heart defect. The Fenton's try to make a clone so they can get his heart transplanted without fear of organ rejection. But they end up making a full on baby and don't have it in them to kill another version of their son just to save their original boy. Danny ends up pulling through and the clone gets filed as a twin that no one noticed was still in when Maddie was in the hospital. So Maddie "had him at home" and went back so he could be medically examined. The new parents feel ashamed of what they initially were going to do and give the child to a cousin who couldn't conceive.

Tim Drake doesn't know he's adopted until a DNA test reveals that the 'Meta' running around Gotham is his 'twin brother'. And the babies he has, that he does babysitting gigs with, are his twin's 'children'.

(I don’t exactly take prompts, but I don’t mind if you send them. Also, I’m going to assume that the twin’s “children” are Dan and Dani, since that seems to be what people prefer.)

“… are you serious?” Tim asked through the phone.

“Yep,” Dick said, sounding like a mixture of amusement and concern, “How do you feel about it?”

Tim thought about it and then responded, “I guess it makes sense why my parents neglected me so much, since I’m adopted.”

“Awww, baby bird…”

“I’m fine, Dick,” Tim said. He picked Dante and set him on a baby chair. Said child stared at him with electric blue eyes, scowling with his pudgy cheeks as if he wanted to tear Tim apart with his nonexistent teeth. Tim rubbed his chubby cheek with a finger before moving away, still holding the phone to his ear as he picked up the other baby.

Dick continued, “Yeah… also, Bruce says that he’s sorry that he checked your blood without telling you.”

Tim snorted, “No, he didn’t.” Bruce was never sorry for that kind of stuff.

Dick sighed. “Yeah, I lied. Sorry. But he did look guilty! He didn’t want to tell you at first, but Jason convinced him so I’m the one telling you right now.”

Tim hummed, picking up little Ella, who was stubbornly holding onto a small cardboard box. Tim let her hold it and placed her onto the baby chair next to her brother, who immediately reached out for her. It was kinda funny seeing how clingy he was compared to his sister.

“We have more information too. We tracked down the new meta and we’ve been looking into his routes. We suspect that he’s living around here, in Bristol,” Dick said. “We think he’s living in an apartment, at XXX on XXXX street, possibly with a roommate named Jazz.”

Tim paused, suddenly hyper aware of the fact that he was in the same building, babysitting a bunch of kids on the same street, who also lived with another woman named Jazz. “Uhh. What else?”

“We think he lives on the third floor and possibly also works at a pizza delivery place? Or maybe a fast food restaurant? He’s been flying back and forth between two places besides the apartment.”

Tim began to sweat. “Uh… anything else?”

“There’s a high chance that his name is Danny Nightingale, and Jasmine Nightingale is in on the fact that he’s a meta.”

Fuck.

Tim looked at his niece and nephew with a new light, eyes wide. Ella beamed at him, giggling while Dante just glared.

Welp. At least Bruce would be happy to be a grandfather now. Even if it was to Tim’s secret meta twin brother.

[luvzshy]

Between Shadows

Word Count: ~530 words

Summary: After a mission gone wrong in Zaun, you’re left injured and cornered until Vi and Caitlyn come to your rescue. Tensions rise as Caitlyn confronts you about your reckless choices, while Vi keeps things light, showing that despite the danger, they care deeply for you.

Warnings: Injury, implied violence, arguments, mild language, and high-stress situations.

The night in Zaun was thick with smog and tension. You pressed your back to the damp wall of an alley, catching your breath as your heart hammered in your chest. The job had gone south—bad intel, too many enforcers, and now you were stuck in the lower city with the risk of being caught at every corner.

But they were coming. You’d sent the signal, a small mechanical flare that only Caitlyn would recognize. You could only hope she wasn’t too late.

“Do you ever not get yourself into trouble?”

The voice made you whip your head around, but it was Vi, stepping out of the shadows with her signature gauntlets glinting in the faint light. Her smirk was as sharp as ever, though her eyes scanned you for injuries. “You look like hell.”

“Feel like it too,” you muttered, slumping against the wall. “You alone?”

“Not a chance,” Caitlyn said, emerging from behind Vi with her rifle slung across her back, her expression far less amused. “You’re reckless. Do you realize how dangerous this was?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you argued, though you couldn’t meet her piercing gaze. “It wasn’t supposed to go this way.”

Vi snorted, crossing her arms. “It never is with you.”

Caitlyn shot her a look before stepping closer. She placed a gloved hand on your arm, her touch firm but not unkind. “We’ll talk about this later. For now, we need to move before someone notices us.”

You nodded, feeling the familiar tug of safety they brought, even in the chaos. “Lead the way.”

The three of you moved through Zaun like shadows, Caitlyn keeping an eye out for patrols while Vi stayed close, her movements deliberate and protective. The tension between you and Caitlyn was palpable—she was furious, but you could tell it came from worry more than anger.

It wasn’t until you reached a safe house that she let her emotions surface. As Vi secured the door, Caitlyn turned to you, her arms crossed. “What were you even thinking? Do you have any idea how dangerous this city is right now?”

“I was trying to help,” you replied, your voice softer than you intended. “I didn’t want to drag you into it.”

“That’s not how this works,” she snapped, her voice tight with frustration. “We’re a team, remember? You don’t have to do this alone.”

Vi, leaning against the wall, interjected, her tone less sharp but just as firm. “She’s right. You pull a stunt like that again, and we’re gonna have problems, got it?”

You looked between them, guilt settling in your chest. “I’m sorry. I… I just didn’t want you to get hurt because of me.”

Caitlyn’s expression softened, and she stepped closer, her hand brushing yours. “You don’t get it, do you? We’d rather be in the middle of the danger with you than safe without you.”

Vi grinned, pulling you into a light, one-armed hug. “Yeah, so stop being stupid. We like having you around.”

Despite everything, you couldn’t help but smile. “You two are insufferable.”

“Good,” Vi said with a wink. “Guess that makes us a perfect match.”

[nomie-11]

Liam Mairi x Reader - The Curse of Farsight

masterlist!

Migraines had become an integral part of Liam’s life since he developed his signet. His eyes hurt, his head hurt, and all the bright lights and small noises felt like knives twisting in his mind as he trudged down the hallway. 

Head throbbing, he just let his feet take him one step after another down the winding, narrow hallways of Fourth Wing First-Year dorms. He wanted to be in her arms, in her bed, as her cold hands ran over his back in soothing circles.

Liam’s vision blurred as he turned a corner, his breath shallow, each step an effort. The migraines were getting worse, more frequent as he trained his signet. The curse of farsight was something he hadn’t expected and hadn’t been able to fully escape. Yes, seeing far was a blessing in battle, but in everyday life it was a storm he couldn’t outrun. It was a constant, grinding pressure, leaving him dizzy and disoriented. 

But there was one place where the pain dulled. Over person who could ease the ache, even if just for a moment. 

He reached her door, the familiar weight of her presence pulling him in like a magnet. He knocked once, softly, and waited. A moment later, the door swung open, and there she stood—her eyes warm, her expression soft but worried when she saw him. 

“You’re here,” She sighed, stepping aside for him to come in. “You look terrible.” 

He grimaced a small smile, his hand squeezing hers as he shuffled in past her, shedding his layers of swords and leathers onto the floor quickly before flopping down onto her bed. “‘M sorry,” he said, words muffled by the covers. “Head’s killing me.” 

He sighed as, with a flick of her hand and a display of superior control of lesser magic, the blinds on the windows drew shut and the mage lights dimmed. 

He felt the mattress dip as she climbed in next to him, her cool hands from an ice wielding signet brushing the hairs from his forehead. 

“Didn’t we talk to Xaden about your head and maybe taking it easy in training for a little?” She murmured, fingernails dragging slow circles over his skin.

Liam let out a long, slow exhale, rolling onto his side to face her, his eyes bleary but full of gratitude. “Yeah, but I can’t. Need to keep up. Can’t just… stop.” He closed his eyes, wincing at the throb in his temple as he whispered, “But this—this helps.” He relaxed as her cool fingers traced gentle patterns along his jaw, down his neck, the chill of her touch dulling the sharp edge of his headache. 

After a few moments of silence, he rolled onto his back, then onto his stomach, pressing his face into her shoulder, his arm coming to drape around her waist. She stifled a laugh. “Liam, what are you doing?” she asked, voice laced with amusement. 

“Getting comfortable,” he murmured, voice muffled against her. “Hope you don’t mind if I just…” he shifted a little, laying completely on top of her with a satisfied sigh, his cheek resting against her shoulder. She could feel the warmth radiating from him as he nestled in, her own cold skin contrasting with his as if he were a living blanket. 

She smirked, giving a playful sigh of resignation. “Well, I guess I’m stuck here now,” she said, feigning exasperation as she brushed her fingers gently through his gorgeous blonde hair. She felt the chill of her hand sink deeper into his skin, soothing the heat pulsing at his temples, her touch melting him into a state of calm. 

Liam let out a small, contented groan, shifting slightly so that the flushed skin of his face rested on the cool skin of her exposed neck. “You’re like my own personal ice pack,” he murmured, pressing his forehead into the crook of her neck. “If I ever get a say in anything, I’m picking you to follow me everywhere.” 

She laughed softly, tracing her fingertips over his temples, gentle enough to quiet his ache. “I don’t think Xaden would approve of me being your portable headache remedy, but… I suppose he would have to make an exception.” 

“Good,” he replied with a faint, sleepy grin, his voice soft and warm. “Because I’m not going anywhere. You’re perfect just like this.” He shifted his weight just a little, wrapping himself around her even more tightly, his breathing slowing as the headache’s sharp pangs finally ebb away. 

As his breath evened out and his weight settled comfortably over her, she felt a smile tugging at her lips. The warmth he radiated felt like a gentle fire melting away her perpetual chill, and she knew—just as much as he needed her cold touch, she needed his warmth, here in the quiet safety of the darkness and silence of her room. 

-------

If you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!

Taglist: @awkardnerd , @hannraumari , @minjix , @glaciuswduo , @wolfbc97 , @heeseungthel0ml

[laswells-ashtray]

Your writings are so good that I’m entrusting you with this simple prompt: Dragon Hybrid Price and (Any Hybrid) Nikolai.

Do what you will dear wizard writer.

For the sheer sake of you never implied how silly I could get with this, I'm sillying it up:

Bear hybrid Nikolai [because it's too fucking good] and dragon hybrid Price standing about one day, the two sergeants and the lieutenant are training together while the older two men watch. They're on someone else's base, a hybrid-less base but they're making do with what the have.

John's leaning back against the wall, wings pressed up against the brick in a way that has to be uncomfortable or at least that's what everyone assumes. He's rubbing at the base of one of his horns as if trying to soothe a headache and he looks quite frankly exhausted when another Captain appraoches.

John decides that in comparison to this man, he looks like Marilyn fucking Monroe.

"Captain Givens, you look about as good as I feel." John is at least trying to keep a good relationship with the other team even if they have a habit of pissing off each of them.

"Too fuckin' right. Just got off the phone with the Missus and had to help her convince my little boy not to shove his Batman figure up his nose. It's exhausting." The man complains, running a hand over his face tiredly.

John makes a sympathetic noise but doesn't hide his amused look. "Oh, I'm all too familiar with that feeling." The other day he'd had to convince a group of rookies that Soap is indeed a liar and that oil paint is in fact not edible just because it has oil in the name.

"You have kids?"

"Yes." John should've been smarter than to think that Nikolai's silence was a good thing, he doesn't get a chance to correct the bear hybrid before the other Captain asks:

"How many?"

"Three." Nikolai tells him while watching the boys train in the distance.

For a brief moment, John wants to tug on one of his fluffy ears and tell him to quit it. On the other hand, fuck it, why not?

"Yeah, three over there are mine. Different mums but I was a bit of a tart back in the day." He's reliant on the fact the human knows nothing about hybrids, specifically dragon hybrids for it to work. It's no secret that dragon hybrids can live a lot longer than the average human if they're careful about it but to those types of hybrids, John is still a toddler, horns still in one piece with wings that are still vibrant and healthy.

He can see the amusement in Nik's big brown eyes, he likes it when John sinks down to his level of teasing humans. The only one exempt was Kate, they respected her too much and she wasn't an idiot, she'd never believe half of the stupid shit they've all told people throughout the years. Besides, Kate is family. She has five hybrids protecting her back and the average CIA agent is still more scared of her.

"Riley, MacTavish and Garrick? They're yours?" The human asks in disbelief. Simon was going to kill him for this later, Kyle and Johnny would inevitably laugh themselves hoarse.

"Aye. Didn't find out about Riley until he was a teenager and his Mum got in contact. Looks fuck all like me but he's certainly mine. Lad certainly wasn't a chipper wee thing but I managed to win him over, SAS was his choice, I just put him on the task force because I owed it to his Mum to keep an eye out." He's talking out of his arse now and he knows it but the captain seems to be hanging on his every word. Nikolai is making the conscious decision to look away from him but he can see the faint shaking of the bastard's shoulders, he's laughing.

"MacTavish was from an eventful night up in Glasgow one evening, we didn't know if he was mine or Nik's until we saw the little blighter's eyes."

Good on Nik for how quickly he sorts himself, turning around and nodding approvingly. "Ah, but young MacTavish has always favoured me. Would've been a good bear cub, very grizzly."

The captain looks over to the three men training with wide eyes, tilting his head as he stares at them all, surveying them before he looks back to John.

"And Garrick is yours too?"

Kyle had been ripping on him for being old earlier so maybe he plays it up just that little bit more.

He nods, looking over at Gaz with the most proud look he can muster, it's real but he can pretend it isn't just for the bit. "He was an angel when he was a tot, good sleeper and learned to talk quick. Was always a little grumpy that he didn't have horns too but he got over it eventually. Got him a blanket with a dragon on it when he was two and he didn't get rid of the thing until he was fifteen. Big Mumma's boy though, spitting image of his mother and more than proud of it."

It almost saddens him that the interaction ends when a sergeant whose name he can't remember calls over the captain about something but the sound of Nik's deep, gruff laughter is anything to soothe his short-lived annoyance.

Truthfully, he forgets about the entire interaction within a few hours until Soap barges into his temporary room on the base with a positively gleeful look.

"Price, I don't know what the fuck you did but Gaz is due to kick yer heed in."

"Excuse me?"

"Givens won't stop asking him about his dragon blankie."

Shit.

"And what's this about you and Nik playing who's the daddy when I was born?"

Shit.

[artyandink]

𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞 𝐱𝐲𝐳 1

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

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

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

NOW PLAYING: Power by Little Mix

office fever

God, the wait was killing you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t do that.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Steph, no—”

“Yes—”

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

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

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

2014 PRESIDENTIAL ELECTIONS, FINAL POLL RESULTS

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

AMARA SHURLEY — 36%

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Madam President,

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

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

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

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

Sincerely, Dean Winchester

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

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

The next step was trickier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean frowned. “Who?”

“Didn’t say. Get up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s me in a nutshell.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean Winchester.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His ass felt like it was in heaven right now.

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

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

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

Then he swallowed. Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But this answer was simple.

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

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

“You’re hired.”

You’re. Hired. He could die.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jerk.”

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

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

“Austin!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

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

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

“I hope so,” you said quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused, glancing over his shoulder.

“You really do look good in that suit.”

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

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

It was going to be an interesting partnership.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “What? He didn’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uncle Dean!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam blinked. “A newspaper?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Different how?”

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

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

“I do,” Dean admitted.

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

Dean nearly choked on his beer. “Sam!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NEXT UP:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TAGLIST: @goldngguk @sweetpeachbombshell @slut-for-stiles @staple-your-mouth @daddyscrimsstuff

@dob-4-life @marcis-mixtapez @nonoreas0n @gabrielasilva1510

@lucyholmes13 @pandadork-blog1 @nicolstancu @malusinhaaaa @dybalabandolero

@a-cup-of-nightshade @tomatoessoup @sh0rtcakee @fall-06 @mckaykay-fandoms

@b3th13

@demonxangelomegaverse @deanwinchestersgirl87 @capailluiscedove @i723l-interrupted2323 @niyomiii

@all-the-fan-fic @eviekinevie8 @sunflowerlover57

@1-800-dean-winchester

@darichvep @idk-usernme @supernaturalmarvel3000 @ega2025 @deanbrainrotwritings

@targaryenluvs @bucky-hydra-hoe-barnes @leigh70 @aintnowayboi @ripoffsteveharrington

@gleefulleve @sacrosankta

@riteofpassage77 @eevvvaa @thedevilortheangel @thorsballhair @barbienotdoll

@4e1h3r @wolfieblue03 @kianaleani @vicky199625 @sassyslut2003

@impyrz

@didisull @miwp @lastcallatrockysbar @rizlowwritessortof

@zepskies @angelbabyyy99

@autisticgothic

@yourgoldengirls @deansobsessedgirl @mrsjenniferwinchester

@aylacavebear @lailawinchesterr @brightlilith @arcanaa @hobby27

@lyarr24 @ximm19

@a-girl-who-loves-disney @jeneelsworld @deans-spinster-witch @deanspinsterwitchs-readinglist @kayleighwinchester

@cheynovak @bitchykittenconnoisseur @underground-secret @heartiella

@bollzinurmouth @globetrotter28

©️ 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐤 / 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲’𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐨

𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐝/𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝

[bumblesimagines]

i'm going to scream.

did you two have a nice chat?

are we really doing this now?

Kiara Carrera

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

CW/TW: None!

Tell a friend to tell a friend... I'm backkkkkk

"I'm going to scream."

Sarah huffed out a chuckle, brown eyes peeking over the magazine in hand to eye her friend as Kiara made her way over to the counter. The scowl on her face spoke volumes and Sarah only had to peer at the dock to locate the source of Kiara's irritation. There, standing on the dock by one of the boats, stood (Y/N) and a vaguely familiar girl. Everything about the girl's body language screamed flirtatious but (Y/N) either remained oblivious or ignored it in favor of continuing the conversation. 

"You know her?" Sarah asked, leaning back in her chair and resting the magazine on her chest to focus her full attention on Kiara as the brunette aggressively tidied up the area around their register. Kiara gave a hearty scoff, her eyes rolling so hard Sarah wondered if it hurt before she rounded the counter to stand beside her. 

"Of course, I do." Kiara groaned. "Back when (Y/N) and I still worked together, she'd come in almost every day just to talk to him. Mom thought it was so cute and romantic but it was just a pain in the ass! And now she's popping over here too? She doesn't even fish! Nobody in her family fishes! Her dad owns a convenience store!" 

Sarah snorted and quickly clamped her teeth into her lip to avoid the snickers from flowing out. Kiara shook her head, her brows tightly knitted and her lips pulled taut into a frown. It'd been amusing for the pogues (borderline became entertainment at one point) to watch the fierce rivalry between Kiara and (Y/N) take an abrupt turn into obvious feelings. Sarah lost count of the number of times she teased Kiara over it, cooing in her ear until Kiara swatted at her with burning cheeks while JJ and John B egged (Y/N) on. It'd only taken a devious plan from Cleo to finally push Kiara into confessing. 

The wooden floorboards creaked beneath new weight, drawing their attention onto (Y/N) as he stepped into their little shop, his smile immediately greeting them only to falter when he took in his girlfriend's expression. Sarah rose from her chair, carefully and slowly closing the magazine as Kiara folded her arms over her chest and arched a challenging brow.

"Did you two have a nice chat?" Straight to the point with a sharp tone, typical Kie. Kiara had never been one to sugarcoat things, much less beat around the bush when something bothered her. It'd been one of the many traits they all loved about her. "It's crazy how she came in here asking about so much and then left with- how much exactly, Sarah?" 

"Uh," Sarah cleared her throat and lifted her chin. "Nothing."

"Yeah, nothing."

(Y/N) stared at them, the confusion on his face melting away into a bemused quirk of his lips. "Are we really doing this now? Like, right now, in front of Sarah and whoever else stops by?" His brows lifted, only offering a soft scoff when Kiara jutted her hip out and placed her hand over it. "You're unbelievable, Kiara. Don't you ever get tired of being annoying?"

"Don't you ever get tired of pissing me off?"

"It's part of my charm, babe. It's why you love me." 

In an instant, all the fiery emotions that accumulated vanished, leaving behind a flustered smile and a half-hearted eye-roll. "Yeah, well," She cleared her throat. "You can use that charm and help me tend to the register where I can keep an eye on you."

Quirking a brow, Sarah glanced between the two of them. "You guys have a weird way of flirting."

[bitethedevil]

The True Meaning of Fear

Warnings: NSFW, Arachnophobia, Choking, Very Violent Oral, Abusive behaviour, Fear Play, Non-Con, Devils Who Are Deviling.

AN: I'm having fun writing more angsty and loving stuff for other characters like I mentioned in my update post, but sometimes you just got to write some fucked up Raphael stuff to clear your palate a bit. Seriously: mind the warnings. It’s…yeah…pretty fucked. I will be seeking professional help and saying some Hail Mary's to repent for my sins🚶‍♀️‍➡️Enjoy! 🫶

”Pleeease, Raphael,” she sobbed. ”It won’t happen again. I promise.”

“Please what?” he asked with a smile and a soft tone that made him seem like the perfect image of innocence. “We are only having a conversation …”

She was not buying this attempt at lulling her into a false sense of security. She knew him. He had brought her to a cell in the bowels of the House of Hope. Had he simply wanted to talk, he would now have done it here.

“I will ask you again,” he said, still in that soft tone. “What did you see?”

She gave a small sob and shook her head. His yellow eyes narrowed slightly at her, but the smile stayed on his lips. He was in the cell with her too, on a chair in front of her sobbing form on the floor.

“What was it that frightened my little bird so much that she neglected all of her duties? I do so hate to repeat myself…”

Her bottom lip quivered as she tried to hold in more tears.

He had come home to find his house in complete disarray. Multiple dead debtors had laid scattered across the floor, as they had tried to defend the house against intruders. He had found her shaking in the corner of his office. A powerful fear spell had made her hide instead of dealing with the intruders or alarming Raphael.

He had been furious when he found her. He had lost a small fortune in gold and an invaluable staff that dated back to the early days of the Netheril Empire. He had yelled at her, but due to her fearful state, he did not receive the reaction he wanted. She had been too out of it to properly react to his words, so he took her here instead.

She could see from the way his tail flicked and the way he drummed his claws on the arm of the chair that he was running out of patience. She had to give him an answer.

“Death,” she lied and dried her tears with her sleeve. “I saw my own death.”

The corners of his mouth turned upwards in an amused smile and gave a huff of laughter.

“Death, hm?” he repeated. “Are you truly such a simple creature? I find that difficult to believe. If death was what you feared the most, you would not dare lying to my face in such a manner. Try again. The truth this time, if you would be so kind.”

She started shaking again and she could feel her skin become clammy. She had a good idea what would happen if she told him. She also knew what he would do to her if she did not. It was hard to decide which was worse.

“Come now,” he said, his tone softer again. “You will receive no judgment from me. Is it something embarrassing? Something completely irrational? Those do tend to be my favorites…”

She remained quiet.

“Or,” he said and looked at her with a bored expression. “I could bring the Omuan dreamcatcher in here, present you to every fear known to man, and I can deduce what it is from there. I’m certain that Hope would not mind if we borrowed it for the day.”

“No,” she said quickly. “No-no. Please don’t.”

She had seen how Hope had been after her time with the dreamcatcher. She was an empty shell of a person after those sessions.

She swallowed hard and looked at the floor in front of her.

“Spiders,” she admitted quietly. “I’ve never liked spiders…”

“Ah,” Raphael said with a satisfied smile. “A classic.”

She looked around. Her skin was tingling at the thought. She was already becoming paranoid.

“When did you acquire this fear? Were you always afraid of them?”

Her hand shot to the back of her neck where she felt a tingle. Nothing. It had only been her hair touching her. Her skin was becoming increasingly sensitive.

“As a child,” she said.

“Do elaborate,” he purred with a smile.

Her breath hitched at the memory a bit.

“I was in my bed,” she explained. “I turned to lay on my back and looked at the ceiling. I saw it just before it fell down into my face.”

“Mm,” he hummed. “That does sound rather unpleasant.”

His eyes slowly turned upwards to look at the ceiling above her. She flinched and looked up. Nothing. Raphael chuckled at her movement.

“I can almost hear your heartbeat from over here,” he purred. “Such a pretty sound…”

“I beg you, Raphael,” she pleaded. “I’ll do anything. Just please don’t—”

“Shh-sh-sh,” he hushed gently. “We are only talking.”

He leaned forward slightly in his chair.

“I am a jealous man, my dear. It’s one of my less attractive qualities, I’m afraid, but it is so. So, you must understand how it irks me to find that your fear of me is only second to that of the eight-legged vermin you seem to hate so much.”

Her hand darted up to her hair where she scratched her scalp. She swore that she could feel them everywhere, even though she knew that it was only her fear that made her feel things. For now, anyway.

She felt something hit her shoulder from above and squealed. She brushed her shoulder in a panic and swore that she felt something furry touch her hand as she did. She quickly moved her body away from the wall she had been sitting against, closer to Raphael and let out a whine. Her eyes searched where she had just sat but once again: nothing.

“Tell me,” Raphael said in an amused tone. “What do you think causes this fear of yours?”

She was practically sitting between his legs now. He ran his claws slowly over her scalp and it made her shiver in her overstimulated state. She wrapped both her arms over her head like a stubborn child refusing to let their parents comb their hair. She knew that she was pathetic, but she could not control it at this point.

Raphael brushed two claws against the back of her neck in a featherlight touch, making her flinch again. He still wanted an answer, and maybe as long as she spoke, he would not do anything. She quickly tried to construct a sentence in her scattered mind.

“I—I don’t know,” she said. “Too many limbs maybe. I don’t know.”

“Well,” he said with a mocking laugh. “I am one limb short of eight in this form. That doesn’t make you fear me any more than your eight-legged friends, evidently. It must be something else, mustn’t it?”

His claws tapped her arm in a way that mimicked a spider’s legs, and she flinched away from him. She moved back to where she was sitting before. She could see on his face that he was enjoying every second of this.

His smile widened as he unstretched one hand and snapped his fingers with the other. A fat, long-legged spider hovered over his hand, and she started crying again. She did not want to look at it, but on the other hand, if she did not, she could not know where it was. She watched in horror as the small creature clumsily and frantically tried to move in the air but could not.

Raphael studied it with a bored gaze while she pleaded for him to stop.

“Have you ever noticed how the creatures humans fear irrationally are rarely mammalian?” he mused over her sobbing. “Spiders, insects, snakes, birds…I do suppose rats and mice are an exception, but there is a theme, isn’t there?”

She had backed herself into the corner of the room. She could not get further away, and she was still uncontrollably crying.

“Cats, dogs, horses…Feeble-minded creatures, but the human need to anthropomorphize makes you believe that they are perhaps not so different from yourself. A spider, on the other hand…”

She let out a long whine as he pinned the spider to one position in the air and made it hover slowly towards her face. She screamed when it came to a stop in front of her. Its legs were still moving, but it was facing her. She could not breathe.

“It’s scared,” Raphael cooed mockingly. “Terrified, like you. Yet you cannot sympathize with it. Your brain will not let you. So much for human compassion, hm?”

He got up from his chair. He snapped his fingers, and the spider disappeared. He leaned down slightly and loosely put his hand around her neck. The claw on his thumb dug into her as he tilted her head back to look at him.

“Look at me.”

She whimpered and looked up at his face.

“Tell me, my sweet,” he purred. “What is it like to stare into the eyes of a creature and realizing that they do not work like you? That they do not have feelings in any way that you understand them? That there is nothing human in there…”

She looked into those yellow eyes of his and felt the same way as he just described.

“Terrifying…” she muttered.

“Good,” he said in a low growl, smiling at her. “Terrifying, yes.”

He snapped his fingers, and she felt something on her shoulder. She frantically tried to move away, but Raphael’s grip around her neck tightened. He pushed her head back against the wall.

“Don’t. Move,” he said firmly. “You are not leaving this cell before you realize that the only thing in this world you will ever need to fear, is me. Serve me well, and you will never have to fear at all…”

She felt the spiders furry legs move slowly over her skin. She gasped for breath as her tears started rolling down her cheeks again. She knew that Raphael would not stop this before she did as he said. His grip loosened when he saw her freeze instead of continuing her attempt to flee.

He let go of her and stood up tall to admire her pathetic state on the floor. He began unbuttoning his doublet while he watched. She felt the spiders legs on her collarbone, slowly making its way across her chest. She sobbed quietly and did everything in her power not to move.

“I think it likes you,” Raphael purred in an amused tone.

He hung his doublet over the chair. He was only in his white shirt and pants, and she could now see just how excited the whole situation was making him. His erection strained against his pants. He walked closer to her so that he was now towering above her.

He slowly tipped her head back with a claw under her chin.

She screamed but the fear had now paralyzed her so much that she could not move even if she wanted to. There were hundreds of them above them on the ceiling, and they were all the size of a palm. The scream turned into a sob as she stared upwards.

He was smiling in an almost fond way as he feasted on her terrified expression. She felt his hand cup her cheek. He wiped the tears on her cheeks with his palm, before moving his hand to his now freed member. He gave it a few lazy strokes, using her tears to lubricate his length while he watched her with a heavy-lidded gaze. He gave a content sigh.

He put his thumb and index finger on each side of her jaw with his free hand, forcing her to open her mouth.

“If I feel teeth, I will show you the true meaning of fear,” he warned.

He ran the tip of his cock over her bottom lip, smearing his precum on her trembling mouth. He pressed his cock inside and her mouth closed around it. A deep groan escaped his mouth.

“Such a good girl,” he purred with a smile.

He began slowly moving in and out of her mouth with languid thrusts. His hand moved to where the spider had nestled in her cleavage to pick it up. He gently placed it on her head, making her sob around his cock. She choked as she forced herself not to bite him. He growled in pleasure.

“We are making such wonderful progress, my dear,” he said. His voice was slightly breathier and huskier now. “I believe that you are beginning to understand… Fear does not excuse negligence.”

Her eyes closed shut as she could feel the spider’s legs on her face. She whimpered, but the sound came to an abrupt end when he shoved his cock further down her throat. He gently shushed her and caressed her tear-stained cheek with his thumb. She could not breathe.

She gagged but he did not seem to care. The sounds she made, the way her crying and trembling was making her throat feel, the way she looked so utterly pathetic: it was pure bliss for him. He suddenly snapped his fingers. She felt the spider on her face disappear. Her eyes opened and she looked at the ceiling: nothing.

She did not get to revel in her relief before Raphael started fucking her face with hard, violent thrusts. His hand clasped around her throat again in a hard grip. She could not breathe at all, and she started squirming and panicking. Her limbs flailed as she tried to get away, but her back was up against the wall. There was nowhere to move.

She tried pushing him away, hitting his legs, but he was unmovable. She looked up at him with panicked and pleading eyes, and it only seemed to excite him further. He did not cease his violent assault on her face.

“I lost a small fortune,” he growled. “All because of a frightened, stupid, little girl.”

She tried everything to move, but his grip on her only tightened when she did. Soon, she would not have the energy to fight anymore. Her throat was hurting so much. The grim thought that this might be how she died flashed into her mind, making her panic even worse.

“Nothing would excite me more than watching the life leave your eyes,” he growled as if having read her thoughts. “Instead, I think I will let this be a reminder to you, dear girl: the next time you feel tempted to let your fear control you, remember what it gets you… Nothing.”

She stopped moving and she could feel herself slowly beginning to lose consciousness. He shoved his cock as far down her throat as it would go. Her nose was brushing against his pelvis. It was painful and she felt like throwing up. He gave a deep groan as he came down her throat.

She gasped for breath when he pulled out. She coughed hard. She spat a mix of blood, cum, and saliva onto the floor in front of her as she wheezed for breath. She felt like throwing up, but she couldn’t.

When she finally looked up, Raphael was watching her with a small smile as he began buttoning his doublet.

“I trust you have learned your lesson?”

She nodded quickly. She could not stop coughing, and every cough felt swallowing knives.

“Good,” he purred. “You did well…”

He turned and opened the door to the cell with a snap. She tried to scramble to her feet to follow him out. Just as she had gotten up off the floor, he stepped outside the cell and closed the door in her face.

He smirked as he looked at her for a long moment. Then his eyes slowly drifted to the ceiling above her. Her lips began trembling again as she kept looking at him.

“Korrilla will come get you in the morning,” he said in a cold, even tone. “If I have decided to forgive you by then…”

There was the softest thud as she felt something land on her shoulder. Then another on the floor. Then another as she felt something fall off her head. Then another.

There were no more tears in her, and no screams came out of her ruined throat. Just a quiet, broken wheeze came out of her mouth as she looked upwards.

[gaywineauntsstuff]

Listen the ‘Bruce brought dick in to stop him killing Zucco” is fun

You know what’s more fun

The fact that Dick Grayson is the fundamental opposite of Jokers one bad day

Because he was 9 and insane

Jokers “all it takes is one bad day” meet Dick Grayson also terminally insane but in the opposite direction.

(“I had a bad day not a fan, it’s illegal now”

“Chum murder is already illegal”

“Yeah in the eyes of the law, but who follows that! I’ve decided it’s illegal for people to have bad days”

“You have to follow laws Dick. You have to”

“Says the man getting shot at by the cops bc he dresses as a giant bat monster and fights crime using ancient martial arts”

“Hnnng”

“Anyway it’s illegal now, people suffering I have decided and I’m adorable so what I say goes!”

Bruce pinching bridge of nose “Dick you can’t save everyone and change every person you meets life”

“How about! No!”

“Di-“

“Great talk Bruce! Bye bye now!”)

Like when I say Dick Grayson was the crazy Robin I don’t mean he was aggressive or cruel

No I mean this man would not be out of place in Lewis Carol’s Alice in wonderland.

He’d see all the insane shit in Gotham and go ‘that makes perfect sense’ and continue on his merry way

Like he’s the type of kid who when he’s mad at Bruce for sidelining him on a fight against the joker (and making him fight Harley)

Will pull out a chessboard, grab Harley Quinn and go “I win, you get arkhamed you win we fight”

“Kid-“

“I have a gymnastics competition coming up and I wanna show up this douche in my class- you are not breaking my legs before then. Sit down. Play chess”

“Shit kid why didncha say so”

Why does he wanna fight the Joker who will objectively injure him far more throughly

“Well it’s simple math, I grew up in a circus, I like clowns, he is the biggest disgrace to clownery I’ve ever seen bet he didn’t even go to clown college. Doesn’t even have any iconic makeup, he just has toxic waste skin?? Like not even eye makeup or a red nose?? If you wanna do thematic crime do it right? Anyway it’s my legal obligation to try at any given moment to reck the embarrassment to all things goofy and funs shit.”

—————

Bruce looking for his 9 year old ward who was kidnapped as Robin

Dick hanging upside down on semi sentient vine gesturing wildly at poison Ivy who is nodding empathically

“And the water here is not normal!! Like how do you grow plants! I used to have to take care of plants all the time and now if I water them they rot! Like right in front of me!!? And I feel so bad but?? It’s water?? Please drink it?? Mr plant”

“Oh yeah it’s because of all the toxic ace chemicals in the water, you have to triple filter it. Honestly Robin I’m disappointed, your plants should be drinking the same water as you”

“ they do tho!”

“You…drink… Gotham tap water? Batman lets you drink Gotham tap water?”

“Well no… he always tells me to use the filter but I like the tap water!! Sometimes it’s fun colors and spicy”

“oh… oh that explains so much about you..”

“No he just came like that.”

“Oh HI B I was asking miss Dr.ivy why my plants keep dying”

“Robin don’t consort with villains”

“Miss Dr. Ivy you’re a doctor right”

Poison Ivy who is violently amused “PHD not MD but yeah I am”

“So you’re smart”

“Yeasss”

“Cool!…. What does consort mean?”

————-

Annoys the riddler by going with the most out of pocket technically true answer

Think “a sparrow with a shotgun”

———-

Makes the Jokers goons laugh, louder than the joker. Even while under threats of death by sufficiently wacky murder plot

———-

[gothamite-rambler]

Anime Talk

Context: Red Robin and Signal were on a stakeout mission with Arsenal (Roy Harper). The night was slow, so Duke and Tim began chatting about an anime. Duke was a huge anime fan, and he made it clear that slander against anime would not be tolerated.

Signal and Robin had been discussing an anime called Fullmetal Alchemist for the past twenty minutes after an hour of tedious surveillance, watching a building from a distance and waiting for the signal to strike. Arsenal sat on the ground, contemplating whether he should have informed the sitter about Lian wanting a glass of water before bed.

Signal: I'm telling you, Edward should've killed the man. What he did to his daughter and his dog was messed up. The man did this twice, mind you. Edward should've shoved that medal down his throat. Why did Scar get the kill?

Red Robin: Because Elric knew it would be wrong.

Signal (incensed): He turned his daughter into a Chimera! He did the same to his wife! None of them deserved that, but the father deserved to choke on that medal!

Red Robin (shrugging): That doesn't mean he can react with murder. Elric knew he would regret it.

Signal (dismissive): See, if that was me—without the Signal persona—I would!

As the two heroes continued to debate this anime, Arsenal, who sat to the side with his bow resting on his lap, turned his attention to the conversation.

Arsenal (confused): What are you guys yapping about?

Signal (enthusiastic): Fullmetal Alchemist. Roy, weigh in on this. I think Edward should've killed Alexander. This dummy thinks Scar was the one who had the right to do it. What's your opinion?

Red Robin (insulted): Why am I the dummy here?

Signal (pointing): You're only saying Edward shouldn't kill him because he's the token good guy character. And mind you, I like Edward.

Arsenal (sighing, pinching the bridge of his nose): Arsenal. Call me Arsenal.

Signal glanced at Red Robin, who nodded with a shrug. Signal rolled his eyes but respected the man's request.

Signal (addressing Arsenal): Arsenal, my bad. Who do you think should've had the kill?

Arsenal (confused): Is this from a show?

Signal: Yeah, “anime” is the better word to call it.

Arsenal (in a condescending tone): You guys are talking about a cartoon, and that's what you want me to weigh in on?

Signal (exasperated): Yeah, it's a slow night. It’s not just a cartoon either, but I’ll give you a pass; it’s a common mistake. Fullmetal Alchemist is the best anime ever. I'm surprised you haven't watched it.

Arsenal rolled his eyes.

Red Robin: Fullmetal being the best is debatable. JoJo is top tier.

Signal (sneering): That's such a basic take.

Red Robin (crossing his arms with a smirk): A well-written and fun anime being top tier? Can’t get more basic than that.

Signal (defensive): Why do you have to pick the weirdest animes you think are better than Fullmetal?

Red Robin (smiling): I like variety; anime gives me that.

Arsenal groaned, snapping his fingers to pause the conversation.

Arsenal (frustrated): Hey, guys, this is an… enthralling conversation, but we are in the middle of a stakeout! And you're talking about cartoons!

Signal (insulted): Anime! Why are you saying that like it's a bad thing?

Arsenal (rolling his eyes): Correction: "Japanese cartoons." I swear I regret agreeing to team up with you. I thought you'd be normal, but I should've picked Orphan.

Signal (fake eager tone): Oh, okay, we got a non-anime fan. All right, I'll play along.

Red Robin (amused and not wanting to intervene): Be cool; don't go there.

Signal (tight smile): I'm good. I simply want to hear this man's reasoning for being a critique of a fantastic medium.

Arsenal (indifferent): It's just something I could never get into. High school girls dressed weirdly and strange cartoons with tentacles never interested me, and this was before I got into drugs, so that's saying a lot.

Signal (disgusted): What kind of anime were you watching? We are cultured anime fans—well, I am. Robin is a bit too welcoming of weird animes.

Red Robin (mumbling): Stuff like JoJo, Konosuba, and Devil is a Part-Timer are what I like. Again, variety.

Arsenal: This is the most inane situation I've been in. All anime is stupid, boring, or weird—in my opinion—and people who watch it are weird—

Arsenal's rant was interrupted when suddenly he was punched by Signal, knocking him to the ground. Red Robin covered his mouth in shock as Signal stared at his fist, equally surprised he did that, but not regretting it.

Arsenal (shocked): What the hell?!

Signal (composed): I'm sorry. My reaction was overblown, but when people talk badly about anime, it becomes an automatic response. It's like my fists have a mind of their own. Didn’t even hurt—cool.

Red Robin (smirking): You kind of had that coming, Arsenal.

Arsenal (trying not to shout to blow their cover): He hit me in the jaw for an opinion!

Signal (scolding): No, an opinion doesn't mean I have to agree with it, but we could've agreed to disagree. When you start being a judgmental jerk about people who watch anime, nah—you get a sore jaw.

Red Robin (nodding in agreement): You're lucky that's all he did. The last guy got knocked unconscious.

Signal (shrugging): Don’t insult Sailor Moon; the creator of that show set out to portray magical girls fighting bad guys. Are the sailor suits weird? Yes, but it's not a show for creeps. He just didn't understand that.

Arsenal (rubbing his jaw): You watch Sailor Moon?

Red Robin: Arsenal, you should stop talking unless you want to fight him. Jason isn't here, and I will not protect you.

Signal nodded, raising his fist.

Signal: And I’m still learning my powers; anything can happen. You could end up dazed or limping. I might even put my whole fist down your throat if you talk shit about anime again. You don’t have to like it; we all have our differences, but be respectful. Because I don't play—I was raised in the Bronx before working for Batman.

Arsenal sighed, annoyed, but he decided to follow Robin's advice and be civil, staying out of the anime talk.

Arsenal: I seriously thought anime stopped being popular years ago, but whatever, dude—I'm sorry. You clearly like this stuff, so continue your conversation about Japan—anime. I'll continue being the lookout and rubbing my bruised jaw.

Arsenal stood up and walked a few feet away. Signal gave him a thumbs up, then resumed his anime discussion with Red Robin, switching over to Dragon Ball and debating who was actually the strongest fighter and if Krillin deserves more respect.

[trans-androgyne]

I'm a cis woman who just got screamed at for a long time by another cis woman for things that men said. Or, that she thinks men said, because the posts she was talking about (including one of yours) just said basically "don't treat all men like crap," whereas she saw them as "women are entirely responsible for any bad things men do." And one of the things she capslocked at me was to not blame women for men's actions. While blaming me for posts men made. I thought you might find this darkly amusing. I'm trying to, though mostly I'm still upset.

Yeah, that tracks, I'm really sorry you had to deal with that and I hope your day gets better :/ So many cis women in particular get incredibly defensive about this conversation, and I can understand a little.

Folks who have lived as women in general very often get taught that men are our oppressors, period, so we can say and do anything we want to them ("punching up") and it won't even hurt since they're so strong and powerful--or if it does they deserve it for being men (read: evil monsters). We are taught that our anger at men is righteous, it is justice for patriarchy, for all the harm done to us. We are not taught that sexism harms men as well. So when we are asked to be more gentle and mindful with the way we talk about men, it can come off as "so you're saying my anger at the patriarchy isn't justified? You're saying I have to coddle my oppressors?" when in reality, we are just asking them to remember that men are human beings who are not, in fact, personally individually for the structure of sexism existing. We do not like hearing that our punches can hurt, and that we ourselves are capable of upholding the system that hurts us, and that we are not its only victims. But if we ever want to take down this system, these are the lessons we need to learn and teach.

[camaro-and-smokes]

Get Out of My Dreams, Get into My Car

Chapter 9: Can't fight this feeling

Moodboard by the amazing @a-redharlequin 💜

No warnings for this chapter. Tags: Feelings realization (the other way around I guess)

Summary: Steve had been struggling the whole night with the words he should've said in the evening and in the morning he finally decides just to go for it. Unfortunately the universe seems to have everything against him on that day.

Read on AO3 >>

:::::::::::

Steve had kicked himself mentally through the entire night for not saying the words in the evening. Three small words that would’ve probably changed everything and he couldn’t get them out of his mouth.

And now that they were sitting at the breakfast table, it felt just stupid if he’d say them here in the middle of coffee and eggs. Pass me the sugar and I like you please don’t go to your ex’s art thing.

“So, you’re going to the opening, then?” he ventured as he stirred his coffee absentmindedly.

Billy nodded, keeping his eyes on the newspaper.

“Uh, about that…” Steve started his brave try, despite the awkwardness.

Billy looked up from the newspaper.

“At what time is it?” Steve asked.

“Six.”

“Right.” Just say it, you idiot, Steve scolded himself. “I was thinking, um…”

Suddenly there was a loud knock on the terrace door and both of them turned to look at who was pounding it at this hour.

“Hey, Malibu!” Argyle shouted through the door. “Weren’t we supposed to catch some waves this morning?”

“Oh, yeah, just a moment!” Billy shouted back and looked at Steve. “We agreed with Argyle that we’d go…” Billy started and motioned to the living room.

Steve wanted to strangle Argyle. “Yeah, you go ahead,” he said with a wave of his hand, managing to keep his tone light—but just barely.

Billy looked at him for a moment. “You sure?”

Steve nodded. “U-huh. It can wait.”

“Alright,” Billy said, nodding. He shouted to Argyle, “I’ll be there in five!” and left to get his gear.

Steve leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. He tried to assure himself that he could still talk about it with Billy when he came back from the beach. There was time.

So, to spend the time doing something productive, he finished his breakfast, read the newspaper from cover to cover—hardly remembering any of it, though—and washed the dishes.

He was drying the last plates when the phone rang. He dried his hands on the towel and unhooked the receiver. “Harrington.”

“Morning, Steve,” came a familiar female voice through the wire.

Steve leaned his head against the wall, groaning inwardly. “Hi, mom.”

“We just arrived in San Diego yesterday and I thought—”

“You’re here?” Steve interrupted her, confused. “Why didn’t you call earlier?”

“Well, your father wanted to spend a few days longer in Vegas than we planned and then we kind of forgot.”

Steve sighed. “You were coming this way and didn’t let me know?”

“Well, we thought we’d surprise you,” his mother said with the tone that told Steve that he shouldn’t be offended when his parents decided to grace him with their existence out of the blue.

Steve ran his hand over his face. He already knew where this was going and…he didn’t exactly have anything special to do except that talk with Billy and keep him from going to the gallery opening. He let out a deep sigh. “Okay. What did you have in mind?”

Mrs. Harrington wasn’t amused. “Don’t sound so eager about it, Steve.”

He set the receiver on his shoulder to a bit to squeeze his eyes closed. “Sorry. I just have…things to figure out.”

“Well, can you take a break from thinking and come for a brunch with your parents? Maybe you could recommend a restaurant and we could meet there?”

+ + +

When Billy came back from the beach, to his disappointment, Steve was gone. While in the zone on his board, he’d decided that they’d need to talk about last night—and maybe ask if Steve would want to join him at the opening. To keep Rob from getting any stupid ideas and…just to go out with Steve. Totally not for a date, but just…out.

But now he had no option but to wait for Steve to come back. So, he took a shower and then sat on the couch to watch TV.

Just as he was starting to relax, when the phone ringing in the kitchen shattered the quiet and jolted him back to reality.

Alice, the owner of the aerobic studio, was on the other end, her voice sounding like it came from the bottom of a barrel. “Hi, Billy! I’m sorry this comes on a such a short notice, but would you be able to do my aerobic classes today? I got some nasty bug, and I won’t be leaving the house today.”

Billy wasn’t entirely thrilled about the idea. “Uh, depends on what time,” Billy replied, rubbing his neck with his hand. He knew how much the studio meant to Alice, but he wouldn’t want to be the first she’d call next time…

“They’re from three to five. Please, Billy, everyone else has said no, and I don’t want to cancel.”

Billy looked at the clock on the opposite wall. It was already 2:20 pm, so in order to make it on time, he would have to leave now. “Well, you could’ve called a bit earlier, but sure, I can do that.”

“You are an angel! I’ll make this up to you! Just make sure to be on time,” she teased him, reminding him of the many times he’d been late for his own classes.

Billy laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ll leave right now.”

After hanging up, Billy went to put his aerobics gear together. While at it, he realized that there wouldn’t be time for him to come back home from the studio. He’d have to go to the gallery straight from there.

What a perfect reason to cancel going to the whole thing.

But if he did that, said that he was sick and couldn’t go, even if Rob wouldn’t know he lied, he himself would. And part in becoming himself was to be honest with himself and to everyone else…

Fuck.

He didn’t have to stay there more than just show up, have a flute of sparkling and come back home. He’d live through it.

Now all he needed to do was to go through his wardrobe quickly to find something to wear in the evening and change into at the studio.

+ + +

The brunch with his parents had lasted longer than Steve had expected. It had been nice to see them because he hadn’t seen them after he’d moved away from Hawkins. And since he knew he had time to talk with Billy before six pm, he hadn’t rushed back.

So, when he finally got back home, it was a surprise to find the house empty.

“Billy?” he called out.

No response.

He checked the living room, kitchen and even poked his head into Billy’s bedroom, but there was no sign of him. Not even a note on the kitchen table.

He looked at the aerobics class list on the fridge door, held up by a magnetic surfboard, and immediately he heard Billy’s voice in his head correcting him: It’s a longboard! There’s a difference! It made him smile—apparently he’d finally learned the lesson.

He concentrated on looking at the timetable: Billy’s classes were on Tuesday and Wednesday, and he was fairly certain Billy wouldn’t go for an extra lesson today. Or any day, really. He did his exercise on the waves and by lifting and aerobics was on his own exercise schedule only in the winter.

Steve’s shoulders slumped as he walked back to the living room and plopped down on the couch. He had no idea where Billy could be. The only option he really had was to wait and then go to the gallery and try to catch him at the opening before Rob would do any more damage.

At least he knew where the opening was because it was written on the calendar on the wall; The Brush Poets’ Gallery.

+ + +

Billy walked through the bustling art gallery, his stomach churning with a cocktail of nerves and morbid curiosity. It had been months since he’d last seen Rob, and the prospects of their reunion filled him with equal parts dread and anticipation.

Just breathe. You’ve got this. It’s not like you’re still hung up on the guy, right? He tried to reassure himself, but his sweaty palms and racing heart told a different story.

As he navigated the throng of well-dressed somebodies, Billy caught sight of one of Rob’s paintings hanging on the wall. Rob had painted it during one of their steamy nights, and it made Billy’s chest ache with a bittersweet pang of nostalgia.

Don’t go down that road again , he chided himself firmly. Rob’s ancient history. You’re here just for …Though he wasn’t really sure why he was there. He knew he should’ve left Rob behind, for good, ages ago, but hearing his voice on the phone had breathed life into the embers of the love Billy once had felt.

Fucking feelings. Nothing but trouble.

He found his way to the other end of the space and…there stood Rob next to a podium, looking infuriatingly handsome in a tailored suit that hugged his lean frame in all the right places.

Billy snorted and pondered for a moment who Rob had coaxed into giving him the money for it, since sure as hell wouldn’t have money for having tailored anything himself.

Probably someone from this crowd. Though Billy was sure most of them were here just to show themselves and get tipsy before heading out to the blinding lights of the city.

As if on cue, Rob turned to look in Billy’s direction, and the way his eyes lit up when their gazes met made butterflies take flight in Billy’s stomach.

Though Billy wasn’t sure if it was a flutter of cute small butterflies or just a few big, ugly moths reminding him of the pain Rob had caused.

+ + +

The dusk had started to settle when Steve parked his car around the corner from the gallery. He gripped the steering wheel for a while after turning off the engine. He wasn’t entirely sure if this still was a good idea. But he also knew it needed to be done. He needed it done.

So, he got out of the car and walked back to the gallery, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. When he got there, he stopped to look inside through the windows. Surprisingly sizable crowd of people seemed to be inside. He recognized some faces—sure as hell, everyone who’s anyone, and so on. He tried to look for Billy, but there were too many people for him to tell.

Doubt crept in as he gazed inside. He wasn’t sure if he should be here. If it would make any difference. But going in was his only possibility to tell Billy how he felt before Rob did something that would ruin his chances.

The vibrant atmosphere of the gallery enveloped him as he stepped through the doors. The bright track lights illuminated the colorful abstract paintings that lined the white walls, and soft instrumental music mingled with the lively chatter of the crowd holding wine glasses.

But there was only one thing Steve’s eyes were on the lookout for; the long blond curls.

“A glass of Chardonnay, sir?” a waiter materialized at Steve’s elbow.

Steve jumped at the sudden words coming from right next to him. “Oh, um, no thank you,” Steve stammered.

Get it together, Harrington.

To calm himself, he took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of expensive perfume that lingered all over. He meandered along the perimeter, taking in the colorful, emotive artworks while surreptitiously keeping an eye out for Billy in the crowd.

With each passing moment, his nerves raised closer to the surface. What would he even say if he bumped into Billy? Hey buddy, fancy seeing you here! Looking damn fine in that…whatever he would be wearing.

Steve shook his head. Great, only cheesy pickup lines in store.

As Steve found his way further into the space, he finally stopped. There, on the side of a small podium, was Billy.

Steve smiled. Billy had his hair up in a messy bun and strands were hanging loose, framing his face. He was wearing a simple white silk shirt that hung on his broad shoulders and—if it was any consolation to Steve—his normal blue jeans and not the tighter than tight black jeans he usually wore when he went out. Not that the blue ones were any less tight, mind you.

+ + +

Just before Billy reached Rob, the artist stepped up to the small podium and raised his hand to silence the crowd. His voice rose above the chatter as he began his thank you speech, and Billy found himself drawn into the orbit of his presence despite the nagging discomfort.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” his snobby voice rang out, silencing the room. “I want to thank you all for coming tonight to celebrate the unveiling of my latest collection.”

+ + +

So, this was the infamous Rob, Steve thought as the tall, dark-haired man started talking. A lot better looking than he had imagined, and, he had to admit, he could vaguely understand what Billy must’ve seen in the guy.

Rob continued his speech, his tone dripping with self-importance. “This exhibition would not have been possible without the support of you, my patrons and my friends, and most importantly, my muse.” Then he turned to look down at Billy with a wide smile, his hand reaching out.

+ + +

Billy’s heart stopped as Rob’s gaze locked with his. Oh, no. Please don’t. Not here, not now...

But it was too late. Rob was already reaching out, his eyes never leaving Billy’s. Once again, Rob did what he did best; put Billy in the spotlight so that he couldn’t say no.

Billy allowed himself to be pulled onto the podium, standing next to Rob.

Rob took his hand in his. “This man, this incredible, beautiful man, has been the inspiration behind every brush stroke, every color choice. My boyfriend, Billy Hargrove.”

Billy felt the color drain from his face as every head in the room swiveled to stare at him. Boyfriend? What the hell? We broke up months ago!

+ + +

Steve’s stomach twisted, his mind reeling. Boyfriend? Was this guy serious?

Rob had hurt Billy and Billy wouldn’t go back with him unless…

Unless…they’d made up.

Billy had been gone when Steve got home, and that was a few hours before this event was to start. What if they’d been talking things through and…

+ + +

Before Billy could protest, in a swift, fluid motion, Rob leaned in and captured Billy’s lips in a passionate kiss. His mind reeled as Rob’s lips moved against his, the familiar taste and scent of him flooding his senses with memories he’d tried so hard to forget.

+ + +

Steve watched, frozen, as Billy melted into Rob’s embrace, their bodies fitting together like perfectly sculpted puzzle pieces—and his heart shattered, the pieces scattering like shards of glass on the floor.

His eyes were stinging. Conflicting emotions washed over him, each one more painful than the last. The realization that he had lost his chance with Billy, that he had been too late, too cautious, too afraid, hit him like a wrecking ball.

You waited too long, and now look where it’s gotten you, he berated himself silently.

The bitter taste of regret lingered on his tongue, the weight of what could have been pressing down on his shoulders. He had missed his chance, and now he had to live with the knowledge that Billy’s heart belonged to someone else.

With a heavy heart, Steve made the swift decision to leave the gallery. He quickly slipped through the crowd, his steps laden with disappointment and regret.

+ + +

When Rob finally pulled away, Billy was breathless and shaking, a storm of emotions raging inside him. Shock, anger, confusion, and worst of all…a traitorous flicker of desire that he couldn’t seem to quench no matter how hard he tried.

With a shaky breath, Billy pulled away from Rob’s embrace, his insides blazing with a mix of hurt and determination. “I…I can’t…Rob, you can’t just waltz back into my life and pretend nothing’s changed,” he said, his voice low but firm. “You made it pretty clear that we’re over when you walked out of my life.”

Rob’s confident smile faltered, and he glanced at the crowd that was looking at them, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “Come on, babe. We’re meant to be together. Why else would fate bring us here tonight?”

Billy shook his head, a mirthless chuckle escaping his lips. “Fate? No! You asked me to come, and I was stupid enough to do that. You’re just trying to mess with my head again. It’s not going to work this time.” He took a step back, putting some much-needed distance between them. “I’ve moved on. I’ve found someone who actually cares about me, who’s there for me when I need him. Someone who doesn’t just use me as a prop in his little art world dramas.” He said the last sentence louder than the rest, ensuring that at least the front row heard it.

Rob’s face darkened, his jaw clenching. “Oh, please. You expect me to believe you’ve found someone better than me? Who is this mystery man, huh?”

Billy turned away from Rob, determined to step down from the podium when his eyes spotted a familiar figure by the large windows of the gallery, quickly retreating towards the door.

Steve.

His heart seized in his chest as he watched Steve go out the door, his shoulders hunched and his head bowed.

And in that moment, everything clicked into place.

Steve had come after him. He wouldn’t be here, unless…Unless he had feelings—for him.

Without another word to Rob, Billy stepped down from the podium and pushed his way through the crowd, his eyes fixed on the door Steve had just disappeared through.

+ + +

The cool night air enveloped Steve as he stepped out of the gallery, a welcome change from the suffocating atmosphere inside. As he walked back to his car, he inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the crisp, clean air, hoping it would somehow cleanse the pain that had settled in his chest.

+ + +

Billy burst through the gallery door, his heart pounding in his chest as he scanned the crowded street for any sign of Steve. The cool evening air hit his skin, a stark contrast to the stuffy atmosphere inside the gallery, but he barely noticed. All he could think about was finding Steve as he scanned the street with his gaze.

Come on, Steve. Where are you?

Just as he was losing hope, he caught a glimpse of the familiar dark hair turning the corner up ahead. His heart leaped in his chest, and he took off to follow it, dodging around a group of tourists who were blocking his path.

+ + +

Steve fished the keys out of his pocket, his fingers trembling slightly as he unlocked the door and slid into the driver’s seat. The familiar scent of leather and the soft purr of the engine as he turned the key provided a small measure of comfort, a reminder that at least some things were constant in his life that would remain unchanged.

As he pulled out of the parking spot and onto the street, he let his mind wander, replaying the events of the evening in his head.

The image of Billy and Rob, locked in a passionate embrace, seemed to be seared into his memory, a painful reminder of what he had lost before he even had a chance to truly have it.

+ + +

Billy rounded the corner, his breath coming in quick gasps as he searched the street ahead. There was no sign of Steve. He’d probably had his car parked near here and had just pulled off.

“Fuck!” Billy growled, startling an elderly couple who was just passing him. They mumbled something about manners as they continued on their way.

Billy turned on his heel and headed back towards the gallery, his mind already mapping out the quickest route back home.

He burst back into the gallery, his heart pounding and his mind reeling. Barely registering the curious stares and whispered comments from the other attendees, he made a beeline to the chair next to the podium, where he’d left his jacket.

As he shrugged it on, he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Babe, where are you going?” Rob asked, his voice laced with concern and a hint of annoyance.

Billy turned to face him, his jaw set and his eyes blazing. “I’m going after Steve,” he said firmly.

Rob’s eyes widened in surprise. “Steve? Who is Steve?”

“He’s the one.”

Rob rolled his eyes. “You’re going to run off after some other guy when you have me?”

Billy shook his head, a rueful smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Rob, what we had was special, but it’s over. Steve is the one I want to be with. Don’t call me again. Ever.”

With that, Billy turned and walked away.

As he pushed through the gallery doors and out into the cool night air and towards the Camaro, he felt a sense of lightness for finally doing what he should’ve done a long time ago. Stopped hanging on to a guy who couldn’t commit and open his eyes to the one who had been there all this time—Steve.