#president tut

[the-jam-to-the-unicorn]

"Two years. We are all here 🇺🇦"

[harrelltut]

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[goosita]

coriolanus snow is not a good man— he watches you from afar, eyes like a hawk and plush bottom lip pulled between his teeth. he doesn’t know if he’s being obvious and he doesn’t particularly care. he feels his teeth clench when you laugh and chat with other men, something hot and unpleasant stirring below his ribs. it should be him that makes you giggle like that, makes your nose scrunch like a little bunny rabbit at a joke. jealousy stings and he finds himself having cruel thoughts about things he wishes would happen to those other boys.

coriolanus snow is not a good man— but you speak to him so kindly, so softly. he’s never once mentioned anything about his home life, careful to keep up his facade. but you? you notice the way his cheeks are hollow, the way his belt has extra notches punched into it to tighten further. you wordlessly slide him a granola bar in class and pretend you don’t hear the way his stomach gasps the way he refuses to let his mouth do. you bring him a tin of cookies you “had leftover” the night before, filled with chocolate chips and butter that will bring his calorie count for the day up. he doesn’t say thank you, but the way the corners of his lips twitch upwards and his gaze softens when you pass him a pastry under the school desk is enough thanks for you.

coriolanus snow is not a good man— his hands shake sometimes, when he remembers the way sejanus had cried for him to help at the hanging tree. when he remembers the sound of his only friend’s neck snapping and echoing, the way it sent chills down his spine and he felt like vomiting. he did that. he killed sejanus. he is a murderer, and yet you still brush his hair back in the middle of the night. its starting to grow again, pale locks falling over his brow. he is a murderer, and you still kiss his temple. you still whisper that you love him, that he’ll be okay.

coriolanus snow is not a good man— the sore in his mouth aches, a necessary evil to ensure your safety. he’d had no other choice, that senator from 2 was eyeing you all evening at dinner. for fuck’s sake, he shouldn’t let it get to him. he’s a president now, not some unhinged teenage boy. but the way that man had touched you, let his fingers linger at your waist, that would simply not do. you are the first lady of panem, you were untouchable. to anyone but him, of course. as you pass by him where he sits, you tut softly and pause to brush the blood off his lip, licking the red fluid off your own fingertip and dropping a kiss to his head. you remind him to be careful.

but coryo is good to you— he touches you so carefully, hands so gentle. his fingertips are always cold, but it never bothers you. not when they brush against your hairline, his palms cradling your cheeks as he kisses you like a man starved. not when they graze the bare skin of your back, your chest flush with his as his lips make their way down your neck. not when they squeeze at your hips, your thighs splayed out around his own waist and trembling with the way he pushes his cock up into you. not when they caress your cheek in the morning, his soft whispers of “good morning, sweetheart,” echoing in your ears.

coriolanus snow is not a good man. but he is your man.

[bookofbonbon]

you keep him there - coriolanus snow.

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x Reader.

Warnings: Death. Dead Body. Toxic relationship. Toxic!Snow x Toxic!Reader.

Summary: Coriolanus is now President and you his First Lady. Perhaps you don't particularly like him but, you are protective of him.

Word Count: 1213.

You sit in calm silence, hand pressed to your temple - careful to avoid your meticulously styled hair as a cigarette burns between your fingers - the beginnings of a headache coming on as you knead the taut skin softly, waiting patiently for the arrival of your husband. 

You’d known Coriolanus your entire life. A common theme amongst most polite Capitol society. Of course, 15 years on and the divide between old money and new still existed; flimsy but very much still there. 

Were the two of you close growing up? No.

But, did you consider him friend? Also, no. 

At the very least however, did you like him? Not in the slightest. 

Of course, none of that mattered, not when each of you headed your respective families; families who made up half of the remaining four of the Old Guard of the Elite - Snow and Blizzard.

So, it was to no one’s surprise when your betrothal to Snow was announced at 20; the match arranged by your respective grandparents - although you suspected Coriolanus had more of a hand in it than his senile grandmother did - and cementing your union as husband and wife at 21.

So, despite your dislike of the newly minted, 23-year-old President of Panem, his role as husband in your life actually meant something to you - you’d always protect him.

It’s what got you into your current predicament. 

“How many times must I tell you to stop smoking inside?” his voice shatters the silence from where he stands on the other side of the Parlour.

His long legs carry him quickly over to you, a deep scowl etched into his features as he plucks the cigarette from between your fingers and crushes it in the ashtray. 

“The nicotine will stain the walls yellow. Not to mention the smell,” he stands over you, sharp nose turned up in disgust. 

“So, I’ll have an Avox clean the walls and replace the furniture,” you resolve, standing from the plush couch and leading him out of the Parlour and into the Drawing room. “Besides, that’s the least of our material problems, right now.”

“And what about when the nasty habit leads you to an early grave? Hm? What will an Avox do then?” 

You stop outside of the drawing rooms closed doors. Turning to face him, you lean against the frame and smile. 

“Come now, Coco, I thought we agreed never to lie to each other,” you tut. “Let’s not pretend the prospect of an early grave doesn’t secretly thrill you.” 

Coriolanus rolls his eyes at the nickname, he simultaneously hated and grew fond of it. 

“And yet, still you pretend you don’t like me,” he raises an eyebrow at you. “Whether you choose to believe me or not, I would like to grow old with you.”

“Or not,” you smile tightly, turning swiftly back toward the closed doors. 

A lie, you knew Coriolanus held affection for you, no matter how oddly he showed it. Although, the same could be said about you with him. However, it was just that affection - it wasn’t a lie that you didn’t like him. 

“As I was saying, yellow stained parlour walls are the least of our material problems right now,” you open the doors of the drawing room and reveal the dead body on the floor. “Not when Livia Cardew’s fiancé is bleeding out on my new rug.”

“I’m not sure what it is about me that seems to invite talks of treason.”

You find yourself leaning, once again, against the doors frame as Coriolanus steps further into the room.

“Must be all those outward displays of affection you show toward me,” he speaks sarcastically, crouching down. “I'll have a new rug made for you.”

You snort something of a laugh - a rare sound. 

“What did he say?”

“He came to deliver something of a warning to me.” 

You stand behind Coriolanus, placing a hand on his shoulder and peering down at the blue faced and bloody nose body. 

“Is that so?”

You make a noise of agreement, “something about power getting to your head and boasting that he himself was about to step into immense power in a few short weeks when Livia’s mother steps down; that he was doing me a favor by stopping by, if I had any sense I would leave you before it was too late.”

“Truly two pretty little idiots,” you scoff. “As if we’d allow the fool and that idiotic girl to take control of the Capitol’s largest bank. Although, I suppose we should thank them,” you wonder aloud. “They have made it significantly easier on us.”

“Thank you,” Coriolanus pats his cheek and stands.

Ushering the two of you out of the room, he guides you to the front doors with a hand on the small of your back.

You laugh, proper this time; the sound is nice, reminding Coriolanus of a songbird - without the temptation to shoot it dead - and it brings a genuine smile to his face. 

“What of Livia?” you ask, as he takes your coat from an Avox and helps you into it.

“We keep her alive, a small token of our mercy,” he decides. “But we strip her of the majority of her family’s assets on the grounds of treason, replace her with someone Capitol society trusts as heir to the Cardew Empire and leave her with only enough to keep her just above the line of poverty.” 

Turning you toward him, Coriolanus observes you quietly with a strange look in his eye as he tucks a stray hair back into place and fixes the imperfection.

“I supposed I should break the unfortunate news of her never-to-be husband’s passing to her, I’m already ten minutes late.”

You smooth out the front of your coat, stepping out of his reach and out the door but, not before pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

Before, you can clear the landing to descend the front steps however, Coriolanus calls to you. 

“Hm?” you turn back to him. 

“Would you…” he trails off, the strange look still in his eye - it’s insecurity.

You don’t point it out.  

“Would I?” you repeat, stepping back within his reach. 

“Leave me,” he finishes, recalling the earlier warning given to you. “I mean, after all, you say you don’t like me.”

His lips pull bitterly.

You almost laugh in his face, that after three years together and all you had done for him that he would still question your devotion to him. 

“I don’t,” you shrug, nonchalant. 

His jaw tenses, ears turning red with anger… or maybe humiliation but, you don’t give him time to dwell on it; crowding his space and gripping his jaw tightly between your fingers, you force him to look at you.

“But, I also don’t have to like you. I love you and that’s enough for me, I can only hope that someday that it’ll be enough for you too,” you loosen your grip. 

Coriolanus swallows thickly, eyes closing as he presses his forehead to yours.

“It’s enough for me,” he whispers. 

“Always remember,” you remind him, pushing him back slightly to look into his eyes “We’re a team. Snow lands on top and…”

“the Blizzard keeps it there,” he finishes.

You keep him there.

-

All fics are my own work - I have not posted my work anywhere else.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters/places mentioned above.

Do not copy. Do not translate. Do not repost.

bookofbonbon 2023. All rights reserved.

[sea-lanterns]

BE MY MUSE

synopsis: "paint me like one of your fontaine girls..."

featuring: navia, clorinde, furina, lynette

rating: 18+ smut (men and minors dni)

warnings: artist! reader, sub! afab fem reader (navia, clorinde, furina), dom! afab fem reader (lynette), voyeurism, mast.urbation, not full on smut but it is heavily implied, cunnilingus (reader giving), fing.ering, degradation (furina), praise, teasing, sensual touching, might be ooc.

art credits: blue period

NAVIA

Navia chuckles to herself as the last piece of clothing is discarded on the floor. Her slim, feminine, body perched elegantly against the satin sheets of the cushion, basking effortlessly in the dayglow of Fontaine’s sun like the Goddess she seemed to be. You swallowed your mouth dry. Taken aback with how ethereal she looked in the moment as her golden locks framed her face like a portrait hung in your gallery.

Navia purses her lips together, a curious, yet amused smirk causing a heart to form at her mouth. She chuckled, a prick of heat burning at your insides. 

“Never seen a woman naked before?” She smiles, nude body all on display with no shame whatsoever. She was the one who had asked you to paint her, after all, of course she wouldn’t be embarrassed. It was her request…

“I have.” You quickly retorted back, gripping the stem of your brush with a tighter hand. “…Just not as exquisite as you.” 

Her cheeks pinkened at your honesty, before she quickly covered it up with a smile. 

“You flatter me, Artist,” she giggles, leaning back in her seat to leave all her assets on display. “Tell me then, does my request to paint me nude, make you nervous?”

She hugs herself to squish her breasts together, a sight that has you clearing your throat and looking away nervously. “Of course not, I’ve done commissions of all bodies. Clothed, and nude.”

Navia smirks at this. 

“Then…is it normal for the Artist to get so flustered over her muse?” 

There’s an essence of mischief in her tone. It has you clutching your paintbrush with strength similar to that of a stress ball. “I am not…flustered.” You say in a gritty tone, avoiding her bright blue eyes as you start to mark out the lines of her figure. “Let’s just move on with the painting. Please, get in a position that pleases you, my lady.”

Another smirk. That didn’t seem good. 

“Like this?” Navia taunts with pleasure, lying back against her seat and leaving everything out for you to witness. You swallowed again, eyes wandering over her smooth, supple, chest. Areolas a pretty, puffy, pink color that stiffened the more she exposed them to the drafty air. 

“Ah…that’s good.” You say with a stiff mumble. “Are you alright with staying like that for an hour or so?”

“Hm, perhaps not.” Navia tuts with fake afterthought. “I think I’ll choose a different position.” 

She suddenly spreads her legs a bit wider, a gasp catching in the back of your throat as your eyes landed on the flower that sat between Navia’s legs. It was cleanly shaven —not waxed, but you could tell she had shaved before your appointment— and soft from the way she pressed against one of the folds. She flashed you a suggestive grin, before giggling at the sight of you all enamored by her pussy.

“Are you going to start painting soon?” Navia asks in a delighted tone. “Before you begin, let me just…” She suddenly dips one of her fingers into her cunt and sighs, a breathy moan leaving her lips. “There, all done…”

If you were blushing before, you were a lava cake by now. Navia could practically see the steam coming out from your face, and she chuckles before circling her clit with her thumb. “I guess a woman has never toyed with herself in front of you, hm?” She groans, slowly rubbing circles around her clit until she’s wet enough to appear glistening. “Are you embarrassed?”

You shook your head no. Clearly enamored by the sight of the Spina di arousal president masturbating in front of you. “Was this your goal the whole time? To…taunt me with your body?” 

Navia laughs at this and shakes her head no, “Of course not, mon amour.” She uses two fingers to spread her two walls apart. “I want you to touch me.”

Almost like a song, you were drawn to where she was seated, dropping your brush to the ground and forgetting about the painting entirely. Navia smiles tenderly at the way you follow her command, pushing you down until you are kneeled by her feet like a priestess worshiping her divinity. “I was thinking the portrait could be from a different point of view,” She mutters under her breath. “It’s important for the Artist to commit it to memory…”

Combing her fingers through your hair, she slowly pushes your face into her folds and gasps, head tilted back in ecstasy, while your tongue begins to taste what heaven feels like.

“Ah…”

CLORINDE

The intimidating, Champion Duelist of Fontaine was currently lying sprawled out against your couch with her muscular body out on display. Amongst the obvious parts of her body that caught your attention, her muscles were what drew you in, as the Champion Duelist had rough, toned scars lining her chest from years of dangerous battle. 

As an Artist, you were infatuated. Using the tip of your brush to stroke each line on her abs and highlight every curve of her legs. Which, mind you, we’re chiseled to perfection under the lamp side lighting of your room. 

“…Thank you for taking the time to…paint me.” Clorinde whispers under a husky breath. “Especially considering the…circumstances…”

She blushes slightly at her position. Rough, calloused body proving a beautiful muse for you to work on as you’ve had the honor of painting Clorinde’s body nude. (Courtesy of her request)

“It’s no problem, Captain Clorinde.” You say in a professional tone, trying to ignore the ache between your legs when you see her thigh flex its toned structure. “I have done this countless times. You are in the hands of an expert.” 

The Duelist smiles softly at your reassurance, deciding to sit up from the sofa.

“Miss Clorinde, I’m not done yet—”

“Could you come over for a moment?” She speaks in a low tone, catching you off guard with how smooth she was being. “Just for a moment. I want to see your hands.” 

“…My hands?” You chewed your lip for a moment before getting up from your seat and walking over to the couch. Clorinde leaning back and letting all her muscles move with precision. “Yes, your hands,” she murmurs ever so huskily, reaching over to cup your wrist. “I want to look at them…”

You felt the rough, battle-worn calluses of her fingertips wrap around your hand and pull you closer. An intimate, quiet moment falling between you two, as Clorinde bites her lip and examines the calluses of your own battles.

“Such soft hands, yet they hold their own roughness from your artwork,” the Captain murmurs, almost as if she were enamored by just the sight of you. (She was) 

“Captain Clorinde, please…” you laugh shyly. “You speak of me like I’m the art. I’m merely just the artist.” 

She growls a little at that statement and shakes her head no. “I may be your muse at the moment, but I can’t help but wish to see you nude in my place.”

In that moment, you find yourself seated on the lap of the very naked Champion Duelist, who has helped herself with teasing you under the leggings of your clothes. You can’t help but agree to every little thing she does, as she begins nibbling against your neck to leave her own works of art.

“I’d like to try a hand at painting myself,” she murmurs hotly into your ear, “Care to be my canvas, Artist?”

You can’t find it in yourself to say no. Shakily nodding your head as she begins to rub circles against your clit with her strong, calloused, fingers.

“That’s a good girl.”

FURINA

Furina chuckles amusingly at the sight of Fontaine’s world renown artist currently hiding behind her easel. The archon herself was used to people kneeling before her, but she found entertainment in the way the cute, bashful artist she hired to commission was too nervous to look her in the eye. “What’s wrong, young artist…” Furina chuckles wickedly, “Are you really that shocked at your archon’s pure beauty?”

She crosses one leg over the other, her nude figure perched confidently by a table as she takes a sip of tea like usual. The way she was acting around you made you think she was doing this on purpose.

“I…you are beautiful indeed, my archon,” you respond to her nervously. “I just didn’t expect for you to disrobe so quickly.”

Furina sneers at the way you fidget so anxiously, tipping her teacup down to the point you worried it might spill. “Aren’t you an artist?” She chuckles behind her hand, “An artist who specializes in nude paintings as well. Tell me, does the sight of your beloved archon all skimmed down to her nudity really bother you that much?” 

“No, of course not!” You quickly retort defensively. “It’s just quite a shocker to have your archon disrobe in front of you so…quickly.” 

You bite your lip and look away. “You got out of your clothes quicker than I could get out my paints…”

Furina laughs hysterically at your quiet little stammer before running a hand over the smoothness of her thighs. “Oh…you’re just too cute…” she sputters under her laughs. “I definitely made the right choice in choosing you…”

She leans back against the chair and bites one of her manicured nails. That stuck up, haughty smile prickling you with annoyance as your archon seemed to treat this as a game. “You should be grateful I even asked you to paint me at all,” she snickers before uncrossing her legs. “You have the blessing of seeing Focalors’ body in the flesh.”

Your throat tightened at the sight of her legs now spread wide for you to see just how wet she was beneath her clothes. According to what you saw, she had been dripping for a while, but hid it well due to how she crossed her legs while seated right in front of you.

“M-Miss Furina…I…” your cheeks burned and you couldn’t look away. 

“I…I…what?” She smirked mockingly at your stutter and teases you even more by pinching one of her nipples. The sight alone causes a burning ache between your legs, and you couldn’t help but stare entranced at the way she squeezed her own breast. “Go on, spit it out. If you say the right thing, I might just let you touch me yourself.”

“Pardon!?” 

“Oh, don’t be so modest,” she snaps her finger and beckons you over. “You think I don’t notice the way you look at me so hungrily? What a pervert you are, dear Artist…”

The way she wags her finger at you almost has you on your hands and knees, crawling towards her like you were being pulled on a leash. Furina is delighted at the sight, looking joyous as she gives you a proper show of spreading her pussy lips even wider. Her slick, dripping essence cascading down the milky white thighs of your archon, and looking like the perfect muse for you to commit to memory.

“I want to see just how lithe an Artist’s fingers are,” Furina tuts, degradingly tapping your nose before propping you up to become face to face with her cunt. “Impress me, then perhaps I can give you an extra tip for a job well done.”

“But Miss Furina, your painting…”

“Silence.” She pulls you up by the hair and sneers. “This is a much better use for your hands, hm?” 

LYNETTE

Lynette was definitely on the shyer side when she asked to become your muse. She had always admired your artwork, silently wishing that one day, she could take the place of one of your nude paintings, basking in an ethereal afterglow of your brushstrokes, as she wanted to be the center of your attention. (And only your attention)

You were surprised, needless to say, when the quiet magician’s assistant asked you after her show to become your muse. Even more surprised when she silently requested for it to be a nude drawing. Though you masked your surprise quite well, a small part of you was curious to see the beautiful body of the mysterious magician’s assistant, as she was very secretive with her personal life to the point not a lot of people knew about her.

You took up the commission, currently setting up your easel and waiting for Lynette to disrobe from her clothing. A comfortable silence falling between you two, before the sound of fabric hitting the floor caught your attention.

“…I’m ready.” Lynette spoke quietly, causing you to peek out from behind your canvas. 

The cat woman was currently perched atop your couch in her full, nude, glory. Chest perky from the way the cold air hit her nipples, along with the smooth, supple skin of her back arched beautiful against the satin cushions. Her ears flattened in slight embarrassment from being in such a provocative situation, yet you couldn’t take her eyes off her as she was just so breathtakingly beautiful.  

“Oh, how sweet…” you murmur with a smile, caught in awe with how stunning Lynette is. “Get in a comfortable position for me, will you? You’ll have to stay like that for an hour or two.”

Her ears flattened even more and she nodded, stiffly moving so that her body was sitting upright in a rather erect position. She looked quite firm and…not relaxed at all, placing her hands on her knees and sitting as if she were waiting for her appointment at the doctor’s office.

“…Oh dear,” you chuckled a bit at the way she was sitting. “That position is a bit too stiff for my liking. Here, let me help you.”

Setting your paint sets down, you walked over closer to where Lynette sat and saw her visibly tense up. You frowned a little at her discomfort and raised your hands in the air. “Don’t worry, I won’t touch you anywhere you don’t want me to. I’m just going to lightly guide your body to a more comfortable position.”

You smiled warmly at her and saw her ears twitch with acceptance. Slowly, she lets you guide her body down to lie on the couch, your eyes locked on hers and causing a small blush to adorn the cat woman’s pale cheeks. 

“…Thank you,” Lynette whispers, her voice soft as she gazes up at you with longing. “I am a bit…embarrassed, however.”

“There is no need to be embarrassed,” you chuckle comfortingly, patting her head like you would with a cat. “The human body is beautiful, and yours is just as exquisite as any of the other muses I’ve had the pleasure of painting.”

She blushes softly at the way you call her body beautiful, and Lynette lets out a soft little purr of pleasure under your pets. “Can you…help me relax a little?” She asks in a quieter voice, almost embarrassed with her request. “My body is too tense. I need my muscles to…relax…”

You smile softly at the way she paws at your hand and slowly drags it downwards. Your fingers lightly stroking down her neck, her chest, her stomach, before finally reaching the twitching ache of her walls beneath you.

“Here?” You ask with a certain tenderness, lightly pushing against her clit like a button.

“Yes…!” Lynette whimpers, grasping onto your back with her nails. “Right there…”

[artyandink]

𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞 𝐱𝐲𝐳 1

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

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

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

NOW PLAYING: Power by Little Mix

office fever

God, the wait was killing you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t do that.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Steph, no—”

“Yes—”

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

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

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

2014 PRESIDENTIAL ELECTIONS, FINAL POLL RESULTS

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

AMARA SHURLEY — 36%

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Madam President,

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

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

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

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

Sincerely, Dean Winchester

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

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

The next step was trickier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean frowned. “Who?”

“Didn’t say. Get up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s me in a nutshell.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean Winchester.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His ass felt like it was in heaven right now.

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

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

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

Then he swallowed. Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But this answer was simple.

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

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

“You’re hired.”

You’re. Hired. He could die.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jerk.”

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

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

“Austin!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

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

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

“I hope so,” you said quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused, glancing over his shoulder.

“You really do look good in that suit.”

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

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

It was going to be an interesting partnership.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “What? He didn’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uncle Dean!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam blinked. “A newspaper?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Different how?”

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

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

“I do,” Dean admitted.

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

Dean nearly choked on his beer. “Sam!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NEXT UP:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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©️ 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐤 / 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲’𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐨

𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐝/𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝

[nebulablakemurphy]

Moves & Countermoves (Prologue)

Haymitch x Fem!Reader

Summary: No one ever wins the games, even fourteen years later, Y/N is still playing.

The Sixtieth Hunger Games will begin in five, four, three, two, one.

“Mom.” The boy at his mother’s bedside whispers, “Mom.” He shakes her shoulder lightly. She’s dreaming again and now, at the age of nine, he understands why he must be careful when waking her.

Y/N gasps, springing from the mattress, prepared to fight. But then she sees him. Everest, her sweet boy, forged in his father’s image. There is no denying, he’s her husband’s child through and through. “Sorry, sweetheart.” She sighs, letting both hands drop to her sides.

“S’ok.” He shrugs, stuffing worried hands into his pockets. “Dad’s with Arista, she’s pretty upset…doesn’t want you to go.” I don’t want you to go.

“Well,” Y/N forces a smile. “We don’t want to go without you either.” It was just like President Snow to demand they have children and then drag them away each year to mentor the games. Everest and Arista have only been required to join them in the Capitol for fanfare. The games are not about them anymore.

With Y/N aged twenty-nine and Haymitch forty, the novelty of their winnings has worn off. The most fascinating thing about them now is this, their love story and the family created from it. The anomaly that is Y/N Abernathy, Mayor Undersee’s eldest daughter, plucked from the reaping bowl at age fifteen. The girl who once hated her drunk of a mentor and grew to love him as the years passed.

The Capitol adores her, she is their darling. People hang off the edge of their seats, feasting on crumbs, anticipating her next move. What will she be wearing? Which victors sit within her inner circle?

Haymitch allows this, encourages it even. Because it keeps her safe. There is no cost too great. Y/N is everything Haymitch conditioned himself not to want. Snow knows exactly how deep his hooks are in. Killed Haymitch’s family because he didn’t appreciate the way he won the games; with an axe to the force field. Gave him a new family to dangle over his head years later.

Unfortunately for Haymitch, the cost of these theatrics means allowing Y/N’s former stylist to preen over her on reaping day.

Y/N can hear Vanity being ‘warmly’ welcomed by Haymitch on the first floor.

“Come on,” Y/N pats her son’s cheek. “Let’s go.”

Everest grins, racing toward the stairs. They do love their mother’s stylist and they only get to see her twice a year, if they’re lucky.

“You sure that headpiece is getting through the door, V?” Haymitch remarks, watching as the chandelier like dome attached to her skull pushes its way into their home.

Vanity scoffs, “good to see you too, Haymitch. What did you do to my darling?” The blue haired woman gasps at the sight of his five year old daughter, all but hysterical.

“I’m leaving her,” Haymitch sighs, shifting the little girl lightly in his arms.

“Tut, tut, my love.” Vanity coos, “Daddy will be back soon.”

“I want my Mommy to stay.” Arista sniffles, “you can’t take both.”

Everest reaches the bottom stair, saving Vanity from having to respond when he launches himself at the Capitol woman.

“Now this is a welcome,” Vanity ruffles his hair. “Look how big you are, my goodness.”

“I’ll be ten soon.”

“How the time flies.” Vanity catches sight of her victor. The first and only. “Y/N.”

“Hi.” Y/N smiles, wrapping both arms around herself. She is wearing a long sleep shirt with mismatched bottoms. The other woman is surely appalled at the sight.

“Let us…” Vanity’s eyes, unnaturally colored by contacts, flit about her, “get to work.”

————————————————————————

This year there is a bit of excitement at the reaping. Their female tribute actually volunteered, not something people really do in twelve. But it was for her sister and when it comes down to it, if Y/N was put in a position to choose between her little sister, Madge and herself facing the games, she would’ve done the same.

Y/N’s family will tend the children until they return, same as they have every year since the kids were born. Leaving them never gets any easier, especially if one or both is crying when they go. Y/N steps onto the train to the Capitol, still in her ridiculous mirror ball of a gown. Waving their children goodbye.

Haymitch is there, tense hands resting at her shoulders. “They’ll be alright.”

“I know,” Y/N nods.

“We’ll be alright.”

“I know.”

Part 1

[giuliettagaltieri]

Cacophony No. 7 in C minor

Pairing: Fiancé!Coriolanus Snow x Fiancée!Reader

Chapter Synopsis: The Fiancée

Warning: doubts, superstitions, bad omens

Word Count: 1449

3 of 7

Coriolanus Snow can never fathom just how many things can go wrong in a span of twenty-four hours.

When he got the position as President, he knew that he was the most powerful man in all of Panem.  He felt indestructible.  He was omnipotent.

It is very humbling how planning a wedding could make him believe otherwise.

The clouds ahead promised an enormous storm.

It took everything on him not to squirm as Tigris made final adjustments to his suit.  Tigris was trying not to say anything despite her obvious discomfort.  In his youth, he remembered Tigris to be unable not to keep quiet about the clothing she designed.

They have fallen ever since he got back from District 12 but to his surprise, she offered to make his suit.  Just like old times, she said.  Gone was the Coriolanus Snow of the past and he has no intentions of looking back.  But he chose not to comment for the sake of an attempt to salvage the relationship that they had.  It was his wedding after all, and grandma’am wanted nothing more than to see the family together for this union.

Tigris was muttering as she pulled on the vest.  Coriolanus breathed deeply, biting his tongue lest he offended his cousin. 

“It fastened two weeks ago.”

He raised a brow.  “Are you suggesting I got fat?”  

Tigris shook her head, her eyes almost fearful until it got passive again.  “No, no.”  She was obviously trying to find words that least offended him.  “You just got…bulkier.”

Coriolanus hums and lets her adjust the clothing to fit him best.

“Do something about it.”

He ignores her sharp glance and the shake of her head as she made adjustments to make it work, just like how she always did.  Tigris might be difficult for him to see eye to eye on things but he cannot deny the talent her hands possessed.

The door to the dressing room flies open and an anxious call from Grandma'am makes him and Tigris halt to see what has happened.

“Coriolanus!”  Grandma’am rushed to them, her eyes filled with panic and in her hands, a long chain of pearl necklace.  “Oh, it is dreadful!”  

Tigris helped Coriolanus out of the vest as he meets Grandma’am halfway in the large dressing room.

“What is it, Grandma’am?”

She hands him the long pearl necklace and she collapses on the couch, the back of her hand pressed against her temple.  Coriolanus and Tigris share a quiet look before he steps closer to the older lady who looks most anguished.

“Grandma’am?”

“She was about to wear it!”  She exclaims.  “Your poor fiancée, she was about to wear pearls at your wedding.”  She stands and grabs the necklace from her grandson.  She walks over to Tigris and forcefully places it on her hands.  “Take that away, far from the two of them.”

Tigris nods just to appease her and crams the long piece of jewelry in the small pockets of her skirt.  “I will, Grandma’am.”

Grandma’am looks away from the necklace and takes a deep breath to compose herself.  “No pearls at your wedding!  I will not permit it!”  She raises a finger warningly at Coriolanus.  “They represent tears one will shed in their marriage!”  She exhales sharply, scandalized by the near misstep.

Coriolanus nods, trying to stop the smile from forming on his lips.  You were never a believer of such superstitions.  He knew how much you loved pearls, the subtlety and elegance of them, incomparable.  

“And one more thing.”  Grandma’am turns to Coriolanus who perks up and looks at her attentively.  She’s his Grandma’am after all.  “You cannot see Y/N before the wedding.”

His brows meet.  “But how am I supposed to-”  

Grandma’am tuts and places a wrinkly finger against his lips.  “No buts!”

Coriolanus nods, smiling at her dedication to have everything done right.  He appreciates it.  His mother is no longer able to fuss over him, he was glad that at least his Grandma’am was still there.

“Oh.”  She cups his cheek, her eyes becoming glassy.  “You look so much like your father.”

Coriolanus smiles proudly.  He worshiped his father, to be told of their likeness is the highest compliment there is.

Just then, a rumble of thunder echoes as the sky gets darker and darker.

Grandma’am looks like she might pass out.

After having his suit fitted just right, Coriolanus paced the halls with purpose, his associate trying to keep up with him in order to finish giving the most recent weather report.

It was not good.

The storm will last until tomorrow evening.  The wedding will be taking place tomorrow in the afternoon.

Coriolanus grits his teeth when another lightning strikes.  “We cannot have rain tomorrow.”

“Mr. President, we cannot decide on weather patterns-”

Coriolanus halts in his steps to glare at the man, who shrinks smaller as his eyes dart everywhere.

In a hushed tone, Coriolanus spoke between gritted teeth.  “I do not pay you to lecture me about meteorology.  I pay you to follow orders.”

The man nods frantically.  “Yes Mr. President!”  He yells before running away.

The loud noise startles a bird finding refuge in the window sill.  When Coriolanus turned to see what it was, he wished he did not.  It was a crow.

A tired groan leaves his throat, his hands coming up to massage his brows.

Could this day get any worse?

“OW!”

He was quick to recognize your voice and Coriolanus had a split second to hold you in his arms as you both fell backwards.

The sound of something breaking had you both still, almost too afraid to see what it was.

“Corio!”  You try to get up but he places a firm hand behind your head to keep you against his chest.  He willed his eyes to remain on the painted ceiling.

“Don’t look.”  He whispers, which you found odd as there was nobody in the hallway and there was no need for you to pretend to follow Grandma’am’s strict lectures.

“Why must you have to stand right at the edge of the curve!”  You say, obviously irritated.

“Why must you be in such a hurry?”  He responds with less bite.  His anger was quick to dissipate with you trapped inside his arms.

You are quiet for a moment and Coriolanus was almost tempted to sneak a peek at you but he chooses not to.  For some reason, he finds himself heeding the warnings that Grandma’am gave him.

He smiles when you get more comfortable atop him, your fingers pulling and playing with his chain brooch.

“Corio.”  You suddenly call, your voice now tamed and a lot smaller…doubting.  “Do you feel like every force of nature is trying to keep us apart?”

He was dreading it the entire day.

Coriolanus clears his throat to keep his voice firm.  “Yes.”

Heavy raindrops started coming down.  The noise was enough to seep out any light from the two of you. 

The rainfall speaks in a way that demands to be heard.

And you and Coriolanus choose to listen, there in the crisp carpet of the long hallway in the lonely Presidential mansion.

He blindly reaches for your hand and you silently hook your fingers together.

“I feel sorry for them.”  He mutters.

“Who?”  You ask quietly as you listen to his heartbeat. 

Coriolanus brushes his fingers through your hair and wonders how you will wear it tomorrow.

“The gods.”

He receives a chuckle in return.

“Indeed.”  You say before pushing yourself up.  Coriolanus follows suit and places a comforting hand on your back as you remain seated on his lap. 

Try as the gods above and below to keep you apart, you are dead set on getting married tomorrow, come what may.

You both look at each, absorbing each feature, before your eyes travel to the broken compact, the one you dropped after bumping into him.

“I will buy you a new one.”  He says and you nod.  “Wardrobe malfunctions, pearls, storms, crows, seeing the bride, and broken glass.”  Coriolanus lists off all the bad omen that happened just today and you sigh.

You offer a hand for him to shake and he looks at it before his intense gaze returns to your eyes.  “I’ll come meet you at the altar tomorrow.  In heels or in a wheelchair.” 

He winces.  “Hopefully in heels.”

“You better be there.”  You say as you lean closer to him, a mischievous smile on your lips, making his lip quirk up playfully.

“Certainly.  In dress shoes or in crutches.”  He grabs your hand to shake.

“Hopefully in dress shoes.”  You giggle and he places a kiss on your lips to further seal your agreement.

Quest for Happiness

Wedding Invitation

[six-eyed-samurai]

SUMMARY: At this point it's practically confirmed Ranpo hates the new intern, seeing as he runs off at the very sight of them...so of course Dazai just had to pair them up for the next mission! A/N:This took forever and honestly I feel like it's rushed...oh well... WARNINGS: Maybe Dazai and suicide (?)

Edogawa Ranpo: the ADA’s finest investigator; solver of crimes galore; consumer of way too many candies that could be considered healthy.

Sure, he couldn’t navigate through a train station if his life depended on it and there really was no point in trying to convincing him to crack a case if he decided it was too boring and he had a really weird hyper fixation on needing to wear his glasses even though his eyesight was fine but hey, surely he could handle showing the new intern at the agency around, right?

“Ranpo-kun! This is our newest member. Atsushi-kun was supposed to show them around but Dazai called him away and Kenji and Naomi are on a mission, so it’s up to you to show them the ropes!” Yosano leaned down with a sigh, swiftly swiping away Ranpo’s bag of potato chips and finally gaining his attention from the sudoku puzzle.

“Hey! Give it back!” Ranpo crossed his arms and pouted childishly.

“I’ll be back in an hour or two, so try not to make to make them feel like an idiot, alright?” Yosano snapped her fingers, tutting, but handed back the bag of chips. Ranpo snatched it eagerly with an indignant scowl. Best to keep him happy lest he crush the new intern’s soul with his usual arrogant teasing if he didn’t like them.

“Fine, fine, I’m the world’s greatest detective! I’m sure I can show them the ropes best!” If Ranpo were a bird he’d puff up his chest. Yosano rolled her eyes and moved aside to reveal the intern previously hiding behind her.

“Treat them nice, Ranpo, or you’ll be my next experiment!” With that she waved goodbye to Ranpo and smiled sadistically, pinching their cheek on their way out. “Don’t worry, he’s not all that bad.”

They stepped forward, a nervous yet cheerful grin bright enough to turn the sunlight seeping through the blinds into shadows. “Hi! So you’re the world’s greatest detective who can show me the ropes best?”

Ranpo gently set away his bag of chips, gaze never once wavering from theirs although his eyes were slowly widening. They waited, smile turning awkward as the rehearsed usual introductions of names and “I’m really glad to be working here, what should I start with?” in their heads began to spiral into “shit, I must have something on my face” and intense panic.

And the world’s greatest detective ran away.

***

”Yosano-sensei, I found Ranpo-san!”

“GOOD, BECAUSE I’M GOING TO CHOP OFF ALL HIS LIMBS AND HAVE THEM FOR LUNCH WASHED DOWN WITH WINE; DON’T LET HIM GO, ATSUSHI-KUN!!!”

“What - Yosano-san, it’s fine! It’s not that big of a deal!”

“Don’t worry, dear, he’ll be fine.”

“…I hope…Ranpo-san sure is in for it for leaving them to figure everything out themselves…”

***

“Dazai, stop slacking off. Ranpo won’t take this case so the President needs you on it,” Kunikida snapped, pushing up his glasses and throwing the stack of reports at the lounging suicidal detective. “There is no one else to take it, as much as it pains me to ask you.”

Dazai continued to sing aloud off-tune, rolling over on his side. “Go ask Atsushi-kun, I just finished a case not too long ago!”

“That case was a week ago!” Kunikida bellowed, then took a deep breath and straightened his tie. “The kid is too new. We need someone experienced to take the newbie out on the field.”

“Huh?” Dazai opened his eyes with a sly grin. “The newbie’s coming along? Ah…”

“Yes, and thank god for that. I wouldn’t trust you to handle this case on your own.”

“Kunikida-san! Are you really doubting my skills in negotiation?!”

“You are far too childish to be trusted with anything,” Kunikida grumbled. “And you would take any chance to provoke the Port Mafia. But with nobody else free it all falls to you, at least until Ranpo wakes up from whatever depression he’s wallowing in lately.”

“What depression? His refusal to speak to the newbie at all? His rejections to all cases the newbie is on? His inability to do anything else but sit on his chair and eat sweets?” Dazai’s eyes glinted as he feigned drama. “My, my, Kunikida, you really don’t know human emotions.”

“YOU BANDAGE SQUANDERING FOOL-” Kunikida exploded another pen, eyes twitching and positively vibrating from fury.

“Oh well, only someone as perceptive and expert as me would’ve noticed it anyway!” Dazai cackled, causing Kunikida to suddenly cool down due to surprise and confusion. “Forget it…but if I can convince Ranpo to take this case, will you left me off it? There’s a new suicide method I just read about and I was sooo looking forward to try it.”

“If you even can.”

“Trust me, Kunikida-san, I absolutely will! Now, where’s that newbie?”

Kunikida frowned, bewildered as Dazai leapt off the couch and pranced off to go perform whatever devilry he had cooking up his sleeves. Well, he thought grudgingly, if Dazai can rouse whatever funk Ranpo had been in since last week, he might not be completely useless. He glanced behind him, eyebrows knitting together, wondering whatever crap Dazai was boasting about to the newbie.

Better not be a request for double suicide.

***

“Hey, Dazai-san! Are you looking for a file or something? I’ve been sorting through these shelves all week that I’m pretty sure I could find anything you name, heh.”

“While that sounds absolutely delightful, I’m actually here about our case!”

“That? Right! I’m pretty nervous about it, so I’m sorry in advance if I mess anything up!”

“Oh, you shouldn’t be sorry to me~ You and Ranpo are going together~”

“Eh, what? I thought he refused the case?”

“Not if you ask!”

***

Dazai had almost immediately abandoned them both at their destination, quick enough to be suspicious. Very suspicious.

They scuffed at the ground with their shoe, awkwardly sticking their hands into their pockets. This section of Yokohama comprised of mostly warehouses of boxes and objects long forgotten and half-finished roads, dark and dingy with no sign of life anywhere save the occasional cry of the crow. Very Port Mafia like.

Checking their watch, they wondered when the supposed informant, the key to the latest smuggling affair, would be showing up. They were a little early, but it was fast approaching the meeting time and if there was anyone around they must be invisible.

Wait, invisible?

“So, uh, Ranpo-san, didn’t Kunikida say the informant had an invisibility ability?” They pulled out the file, flipping through the pages and began reading out. “Kosuke Kindaichi, captain of the ship that was suspected to be carrying the Port Mafia’s latest illegal cargo. Ability, the Inugami Curse, which allows the user to be invisible in light but not in dark areas - well, that explains why he chose to show up at this time of the afternoon. He’s agreed to give us information on their next smuggling if we help protect - Ranpo-san, are you even listening?”

Ranpo abruptly turned away, intensifying the loudness of his chewing. Those chips must really be spicy for his face to turn so red like that.

“Okay, never mind, you probably know all this already,” they said sheepishly, embarrassed at his lack of response. This was who he’d been treating them the whole time they’d been here…they really must have done something to piss him off. “Um, anyways, how do we know if he’s here?”

“Mmmph.” Ranpo cleared his throat and wiped his mouth, glancing back as if to reply. His expression twitched and he quickly turned away again.

“Okay, you don’t have to talk to me,” they sighed. “We’ll just get this over with. I’ll go look over there, you can take here.” With that they began to walk off.

“Wai-wait!” Ranpo? Speaking to them? The surprise of it all was what made them spin around, really. He inhaled sharply and pulled out his glasses, slipping them onto his face. “He’s there. Beside the green container to the left.”

“Woah, Ranpo-san, you’re right.” They beamed at him excitedly, running off. “You’re really observant! How’d you even see him?”

“I didn’t. Just because he’s invisible though doesn’t mean his shadow isn’t.”

“Genius! Come on, let’s go meet this informant!”

“…I suppose I am?”

From in front of the monitor Dazai was sprawled in front of, his jaw fell open and he adjusted the quality of the sounds being transmitted from the secret bug he had dropped into their pocket during the train. He had suspected something was going on and had taken the opportunity to prove it, even through unscrupulous means.

What a good idea: because when has Ranpo ever sounded unsure about receiving praise?!

***

“Kunikida-a-a! Come listen to this!”

“No.”

“Tanizaki, get over here!”

“Sorry, Dazai, Naomi’s calling me!”

“Is no one interested in what’s going on between Ranpo and the newbie? Once again I am alone in my perceptive endeavors - Yosano-sensei, over here!”

“What is it this time, Dazai?! Ow, hey, don’t slam your headphones on my head like that!”

“Ouch, you didn’t have to hit me so hard! Just listen!”

***

Ranpo was about to explode and it wasn’t going to be from sugar rush like Yosano had always said.

No, it was going to be from simply being near them.

They’d never stood so close to him before and it was making him terribly nervous - no, his palms were just sweaty from the summer heat. Same thing for his red ears. He was also digging his nails so hard into his coat because he was…well, something. Definitely not because he was so infatuated with them that it was taking every ounce of self control to not shout it to them and the world and the Port Mafia member waiting for them over there.

He had gotten his wish after all, wanting to show them just how amazingly smart and observant he was, but Ranpo never got a chance to before. Which, he admitted to himself, was mostly due to his complete inability to even exchange more than a few words with them without having to run away or freeze embarrassingly. Now he could show off to them why he was the world’s best detective without having to say much or mess up!

It wasn’t too much to ask that cocoons too would hatch in their stomach and have those pesky butterflies energetically flutter around, right? It was only fair, after all, they made him feel that way all the time!

Ranpo hunched his shoulders. Yeah, probably too much to hope for. They hadn’t said much to him at all when Dazai had dumped them here, and when the other ADA member had been there they had spoken so much, so happily with him! Of course Ranpo delighted in learning a little more about them and they looked so cute with that bright smile that came with talking about their hobbies and friends, but did it really only have to happen with Dazai?

…considering his behavior to them in the past it was a small wonder, honestly. And the odds of them reciprocating after just one display of impressive detective work were really low.

Okay, okay! He’d just have to work harder to impress them!

What had Dazai said about wooing ladies again? For once that suicidal idiot had actually proven himself useful with his blabber. Be her knight in shining armour. Yeah, that’s right.

“I - I -”

“Hmm?” Their head tilted towards him and he nearly died. “You were saying something, Ranpo-san?”

“I’ll go first! Then if anything happens you can watch my back - we don’t know if this is really genuine or a trap,” Ranpo announced with a sudden burst of confidence and a self-satisfied smile. Well, he had done it! Well done him!

“That’s a good idea! I won’t let anyone hurt you, that’s for sure,” they laughed.

Even Kindaichi quirked an eyebrow at Ranpo’s pink face.

***

“You promise you won’t arrest my crew? None of them know what’s actually going on, that Port Mafia man only entrusted me. I don’t want them getting into trouble because of my stupidity in signing the deal, even though I didn’t know it at that time.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged as long as you cooperate. However we were told that you had information on what the Port Mafia are smuggling, so I don’t understand why you specifically asked for a detective to solve a case…?”

“They’re connected! I’m sure of it. You see, the last shipment was of weapons. Guns and the like -”

“You’re lying. All of this is a hoax to get our attention. You’re a captain like I’m a Port Mafia member! We have to get out of here.”

“I don’t think so.”

***

Ranpo watched helplessly as they pounded and kicked at the door of the dingy, dark container uselessly. Stupid, he cursed himself. If he hadn’t been so distracted he would’ve smelled a rat long ago, not when they were both caught off guard and defenseless, especially not when they were going to wind up in trouble too.

But what could he do? Ranpo had never wished to be someone else before, but maybe if he were Kunikida he’d figure out a way to disarm that hat-wearing ginger Port Mafia member and his gun. Hell, even Atsushi could’ve kicked it out of his hand with tiger jutsu or something.

He sighed. There would be time to sulk later - now he had to get them out.

Nakahara had triumphantly revealed that the Port Mafia would be holding the both of them hostage in return for the ADA turning a blind eye to their smuggling affairs. The “detective” Kindaichi had requested for could’ve been any ADA member, but based off Nakahara’s complaints he had been hoping to kidnap Dazai.

Alright, they’d just have to be gone before the both of them returned.

He approached the doors and motioned for them to step aside (of course now of all times he’d lose the ability to speak to them, dammit; at least it was too dim for them to see his scarlet face at how close he come to brushing against their hand). Ranpo bent down and examined the slit between the container doors.

“How’d you know it was a trap, by the way?”

They’d need something thin enough to slip into the hole and yet strong enough to push up the bar outside like a lever. He glanced around the container, determinedly not looking at them.

“Ranpo-san?”

Just get them out, just get them out, he chanted to himself. Pretending he didn’t hear the hurt in their voice he went on constructing possible plans for an escape. Once they escaped he’d gain their admiration for his ingenuity for sure!

“…um, okay, this is really quiet…and awkward…I’m sorry if I’ve done something to offend you but I really need to know. Every time I come close to you you run away, you won’t look at me; actually I doubt you’ve ever even said more than fifty words to me the entire time. I feel like you hate me or something. Have I done anything wrong? Or am I not smart enough to be talking to you?”

What? No, no, no, that wasn’t how it was at all!

“You could never do anything wrong! The only thing wrong is that I can’t look at you for more than ten seconds without turning into a tomato because you’re too pretty and I really want to listen to you talk but I can’t because I can’t concentrate and there’s no way I can tell you this-”

Ranpo slapped a hand over his mouth, flustered by his sudden blurt. He really was such a lovesick schoolboy, huh? He even had the cheesy accidental confession going for him.

“Well…I wasn’t expecting - why are you hiding your face?”

Two hands suddenly lifted his own away from his face and Ranpo found himself staring into their surprised but pleased grin, a little confused but relieved.

“I’m happy to know you didn’t hate me all this time and that you think I’m pretty.” Their lips twitched.

He sprang on that like an overeager puppy. “Can we get married and have about ten thousand kids and will you bake for me every day like those cookies you made the other day and I promise I’ll take on all the cases so we’ve got money and I can buy you whatever you want-”

“Woah, woah, slow down there, Ranpo-san.” Mortified, Ranpo’s face burned as they doubled over in awkward laughter. “Maybe a dessert date after we get out of here, yeah?”

“Sure! I already figured out a way!”

This was his territory now - he could finally show off. He pointed at the slit between the doors and explained his thinking. Thankfully the container was littered with bits of metal and junk, abandoned construction tools and similar items. It wouldn’t be hard to find something that could help them, right?

Usually Ranpo was the one who ate up praised but he’d be the first to admit he did go a little overboard with his compliments when all they did was find the somewhat perfect tool to use in order to break themselves out. With a little maneuvering they managed to push half the thick rusted stick under the bar and the both of them began to struggle to push the bar up.

“Hey, Ranpo-san.” He looked up, breathless from the exertion but brightening at the sound of his name flowing from their mouth. “You never did answer my question though. How’d you figure out it was a trap?”

“There were the initials “S.Y.” embroidered on that handkerchief he took out to wipe his forehead with. If his name was Kosuke Kindaichi, it should’ve been “K.K.”. Coincidentally the Port Mafia had recently gotten a new recruit who had made it to the news not too long ago: Seishi Yokomizo, who was the appointed leader of their smuggling ring.”

“You figured everything out just from a handkerchief?” They stopped their work to stare at him in disbelief and - aha! - admiration. “I never would’ve noticed something like that; no wonder you’re the world’s greatest detective, huh?”

“I think the bar is moving,” Ranpo said as casually as he could in a feeble attempt to change the subject. They chuckled but began to heave harder.

“One, two, three!”

The doors flew open with a bang and revealed a stunned Yosano wielding her giant knife and Dazai dragging an unconscious Yokomizo by his feet.

“How did you get here?” The words slipped out simultaneously from theirs and Ranpo’s mouth.

“Dazai here -” Yosano smacked the man in question with the flat of her blade, displeased “-stuck a bug onto one of you to eavesdrop for gods only know why, but it turned out to be a good idea seeing as this was all a sneaky trap. Then again the two of you have already broken out. I’m off to find Nakahara; he ruined my new shoes.”

“That’s Chuuya for you,” Dazia hummed, throwing aside Yokomizo’s feet to lean exaggeratedly too close to them both. “Well? Any tea to spill?”

They snort and shake their head. “I love Yosano-sensei, but she’s very scary sometimes.”

“She’s scariest when you go shopping with her.”

“Or drunk. Drunk Yosano-sensei is quite a bloodthirsty person.”

“Hah-”

“You said we could go on a date once we broke out,” Ranpo interrupted abruptly, then sheepishly turned away. He hadn’t imagined that, had he?

“Eh?” Their eyes widened, then crinkled up into a smile. “Of course! I know a place.”

“WAIT, I MISSED OUT ON THE CONFESSION?!” Dazai screeched.

***

“To think I was the one who set them up and go through all that effort with the bug and end up missing the best part! Argh!”

“I’m just happy Ranpo is happy now - pining Ranpo was quite the drag. You, on the other hand…”

“Yosanooooo, can you feel bad for me for even a moment?!”

[cinnnamongrl]

sorority secrets- ellie williams (part 4)

pairing: college!ellie williams x fem!reader

summary: part 4 to this fic. you can find part 3 here.

warnings: [18+ MDNI] explicit language, mentions of alcohol, sexual themes, kissing, ✨tension✨

author’s note: part 4/5 !! have fun gays

“you really didn’t have to do that.” you spoke through a pained smile. “i did! and you have to go because i already told campus news that you are chad are a hot new item” she winked. a hot new item? “you did what?” ellie interjected, sitting up. “why-“ you closed your eyes and took in a breath, “-why would you do that?” you spoke calmly despite the irritation bubbling at your chest. emilia tutted like you were asking a stupid question “because i did some digging and turns out someone has famous sorority blood. daughter of an ex kappa upsilon sigma president dating the current kappa upsilon sigma president… that’s the news people really care about!” she explained. “… is it?” “yep!” she beamed.

~~~~~~

“campus fucking news” you said in disbelief. ellie snorted and held her hand above her eyes to shield the sun beaming down on her as she walked you to your class. “it’s not funny! look at the fucking text i just got from my dad” you handed her your phone.

“jesus” ellie handed your phone back to you. “yeah..” you mumbled. “he’s ‘proud that you’re respecting and upholding family values’… this is all because he thinks you’re dating a frat boy?” you scoffed, “when you put it like that it sounds insane. i think it’s because chad’s the kappa pres and kappa means a lot to my dad. he still gets involved with the fraternity even now. and my parents… they’re traditional. and they have these ideals of me being exactly like them. and they think it’ll get me to where i want to be.” “in a dull marriage where you have 4 kids and 0 orgasms?” you hit her lightly “i’m serious!” she hugged your side into hers and kissed your forehead “i know. i’m sorry angel. that’s a lot of pressure and it must be tough on you.” “what am i gonna do about tonight?” you huffed. she looked at you, “you’re gonna go.” you blinked up at her. “and you’re gonna humour emilia and the others until we figure out how to get you out of this little situation.” you nodded your head a few times, then a small smile appeared as you looked up at her “you not gonna be too jealous watching me on a date with someone else?” you teased. she poked her tongue at her cheek lightly and a little smirk played against her lips “why would i be jealous when he’s not a threat?”. you raised your eyebrows “such confidence, williams.” “well, am i wrong?” she tilted her head towards you and you shook your head with a laugh.

~~~~~~~

warm sticky heat pawed at your skin as you weaved your way through a crowded tipsy bison to reach the bar. you stood waiting to catch a bartenders eye when a hand you knew wasn’t ellie’s was placed on your lower back. “i’ll get the drinks” chad spoke.

despite how much you wanted to be away from this bar and this date, chad wasn’t… awful. sure he’s talked about himself a lot, and yes he’s gone through his camera roll and shown you highlight clips of his football games but he wasn’t the worst frat guy you’d ever come across. he was respectful at least and did seem to have a genuine interest in getting to know you. you nearly felt bad that he was on a date with someone who has absolutely no interest in him. nearly. he placed your two drinks on the little table for two that was conveniently in perfect viewing distance from the booth where your friends sat. you did a little scan; brittney was talking to one of chad’s friends, emilia seemed to be rejecting a kappa guy, madison was ranting to chloe, ellie was… sitting, her back against the booth, manspreading slightly with one hand against the back of the seat, the other holding her drink and she was staring right at you. you adjusted in your seat slightly and let your eyes run over her. she winked half-jokingly and a giggle escaped your throat. “don’t you think?” your brain suddenly processed the background noise you’d been hearing was a question directed at you. you turned your head to chad suddenly. “oh um… yeah.” he nodded thoughtfully and smiled “i knew you’d agree,” he reached his hand out and placed it on top of yours. oh god. “you know… you’re even cuter than emilia said you were.” you lifted your mouth in a hopefully not-too-obvious fake smile. “and you’re like, super smart and shit” you looked down to avoid his intense gaze and his hand reached out to brush a piece of hair behind your ear. you tried not to visibly cringe and instead looked up and change the subject “so tell me about that soccer game again”. he smiled, one eyebrow lifted in confusion “football.” “yeah, that.” he took in a breath and began rambling again about his sporting achievements.

ellie had never really considered herself a jealous person. that was until she was being forced to watch some douche put his stupid hands on your and touch your hair and get to put his dumb frat boy face near yours. the fact that she was having to sit metres away and pretend to everyone else she was rooting for this fake date was adding to the bitterness creeping through her body. she pictured herself striding over there, knocking chad off his chair and carrying you bridal-style out of the bar, knight in shining armour rescuing her princess. watching him lean forward to speak into your ear was her last straw, she couldn’t stride over to rescue you but she also couldn’t sit here and watch chad get to act like she did with you all because of some stupid lie at a party.

you stared blankly at chad as he rambled, practically spaced out and nodding at appropriate times. out of the corner of your eye you spotted ellie getting up and walking towards the restroom and a spark of excitement went through you at finally getting an opportunity to talk to her tonight. you looked back at chad “oh my god no way that’s so funny hahaha imgonnausetherestroomillbebackinabit” you blurted out as you were standing up from your seat, desperate to escape before he could stop you. you headed straight for the restroom, praying all of the girls were too engaged in their conversations to follow you. you swung the door open and were met with an empty room minus ellie who’s arms were stretched out to lean against a sink. her head turned to you as you walked in, door closing behind you and she smirked, “what is it with you always following me into toilets?”

you smiled at her “maybe i just needed to use the restroom.” she stepped towards you, “oh? so you didn’t come running in here so you could abandon your date and get me alone for a few minutes?” you looked away playfully “i don’t know what you’re talking about.” she reached you and placed her arms around your waist. “i don’t blame you. he seems like a boring motherfucker.” you gasped in faux shock “are you… jealous?” ellie rolled her eyes dramatically “yeah i’m crazy jealous,” voice dripping with sarcasm, “he’s out there sipping on his drink waiting for you,” her hands travelled to your lower back, “and i’ve got you in here, pressed up against me” her hands dropped down to squeeze your ass and the action made you fall into her closer. ellie’s words came out casually but her possessive actions were exposing her jealousy which made you want to reel that part out of her even more. “you know, he’s actually quite interesting.” ellie pulled her body from yours by an inch and looked at you. “he’s pretty funny too.”

ellie took her hands from you and placed one on her hip “‘mh. it’s just weird ‘cause i didn’t see you laughing much.” you looked up. “weird. i definitely was.” ellie crossed her arms. “you’re trying to make me jealous.” she told you. “‘m not. was just sayin’ he’s not that bad.” ellie chuckled and grabbed your hands to pull you back into her, face close to yours. “that’s cute. if you wanted me to get all possessive, you could’ve just said.” her tone slightly darker. you chewed on your lip, any response lost before it even reached you. she tilted her head to the side, “hm?”. a barely audible mm left your throat and she laughed. “don’t get all shy on me now, you were trying to rile me up a second ago.” she rested a hand on the back of your neck, thumb stroking your cheek and she brought her mouth inches close to yours “you want a kiss?”. you nodded enthusiastically “mhm”. she was dragging her other hand up and down your side, tickling the bare skin of your upper leg just before your skirt stopped. “then tell me what you really think about chad,” she spoke lowly, “who you’d rather be out with.” you sighed, “you already know. just kiss me.” “i want you to say it”. you huffed, “he’s boring. and not funny. or interesting. and i wish i was out with you instead.” she tutted in sympathy, near-mocking pout present. “me too, sweet girl.” she lowered her mouth to yours and kissed you. you released a little sigh of relief into her mouth. you were all-consumed by ellie; her body pressed to yours, her scent making your mind fuzzy, the taste of her earlier drinks on your tongue and head swarming with ellie ellie ellie. your body swelled with the urge to drag her into a toilet stall and-

the restroom door swung open and you ripped away from each other just in time to hide your activity, though probably not enough to hide your flustered appearance. three girls you didn’t know stumbled into the room and claimed the sinks. you looked at ellie and she looked at you. tension still high but now with no outlet. she slowly backed out of the bathroom and walked back to her booth. you debated following her for a second but you looked over and saw chad, head in his hands drumming his fingers on his beer bottle and you begrudgingly decided to go back over there before your friends pestered you about not trying hard enough on your date. you made your way over to him but before you got there brittney stopped you. “we’re going outside to vape. come with?” she spoke flatly, her question more of a demand. who knew brittney would be your saviour? you followed all of the girls, including ellie outside of the bar. the night’s harsh air was a welcomed by your overheated body. just as ellie made her way to you emilia approached you.

“having fun?” her tone hopeful. “sure!” you smiled. “he really likes you, i can tell. and you clearly like him. you guys should go exclusive!”. you scoffed, “i don’t know about that”. you noticed brittney was frowning at emilia from a distance, manicured fingers holding onto her blueberry ice elf bar. she pulled emilia over to stand with her which left you alone with ellie. “hi” you spoke and tapped her leg with your foot. she laughed “hi pretty” voice out earshot of the others. “um.. here’s an alley by the side of the bar. you think they’d notice?” you asked. she blinked at you with raised eyebrows, voice full of pretend shock “did you just invite me into a dark alley?” you furrowed your brows with a pout barely hiding your smile “not like that, perv. i meant so we could talk more privately.” “oh talking, i see” she laughed. she did a quick scan and grabbed your hand “c’mon”. she lead you to the side of the bar, away from the eyes of anyone except people passing by on the street. you leaned against the brick wall and ellie stood in front of you.

“it seems like you’re always sneaking me off to hidden places” she said lightheartedly. “well id prefer not to have to sneak away to be able to kiss you but we’re in a bit of a situation.” ellie raised an eyebrow playfully, “and who’s fault is that?” she teased. “hey, i had my reasons.” you defended yourself. “yeah, you were so scared of being in love with me you had a make up a fake crush and he happened to actually exist.”, she laughed. you kicked her with little force “i was not in love with you. i met you a few days before then!” she was still laughing, “and yet i made such an impact you felt the need to deny your real feelings for me”. you crossed your arms, “you’re such an asshole” “hey i’m kidding. i had to pretend to myself that i hated you after that night so i wouldn’t cry” you burst out into affectionate laughter “els”. she smiled and wrapped her hands around your back to bring your body into hers to kiss you. it was sweet and gentle, and yet it still made your stomach flip. against all her body’s instincts she pulled away and took your hand, “let’s not have them wander round here and catch us kissing on your date with dreamy chad”. you giggled and let her lead you back to the bar.

~~~~~~~~~

the drinks ellie used to entertain herself last night while she couldn’t be with you were making themselves known as she woke with a fuzzy head, and the loud banging on her door was not helping. she checked her phone for the time and saw 3 missed calls from you and forced herself out of bed to open her door. you walked past her and threw yourself down onto her bed.

“have you seen it?”. she looked at you for a few moments, “seen what?” you huffed and shoved your phone into her hand. a campus news feature. taking up the screen was a photo of you and ellie kissing. it was dark, zoomed in and kind of blurry like it had been taken from a distance, and anyone who saw the photo wouldn’t be able to make out where you were but you knew it was from last night in the alley. ironically where you’d kissed for about 3 seconds max. under the photo was some writing, ‘chad’s new girl kisses random girl behind his back???’ ellie looked back up at you, “oh god”. you took your phone back and shoved it in your pocket. ellie frowned, “who the hell would ta-“ “we’re going to eta” you interrupted. you practically marched down to the eta house, ellie behind you trying to catch up with your fast pace. when you arrived, emilia, madison, chloe and katie were having breakfast in the dining room. as you stood at the head of the dining table, hands on your hips you realised you hadn’t planned what to say at all. you weren’t even sure what you marched down here to do. accuse someone? defend yourself? maybe they hadn’t even seen it.

“who runs campus news?” spluttered from your mouth. madison looked up at you, “i don’t know. but people can submit whatever they want and most of the time it’ll get published.” the harsh sound of a chair scraping against the floor reached your ears and suddenly emilia was walking towards you “you guys. we saw that feature,” she hugged you both individually. “how awful. and poor chad, he’s already text me asking what’s going on.” selfishly or not, chad’s feeling were at the bottom of your list of problems right now. “so are you two like.. a thing?” katie spoke. emilia spoke up, “no she likes chad! it was just one kiss right? maybe you should go over and talk to him. he’d probably forgive you if you explained it was just a silly mistake. don’t let a great guy like him get away.” you stared at her, failing to hide the confusion on your face. ellie stood beside you chewing on her lip. there were a few seconds of silence. “how do two girls have se-“ “katie.” madison cut her off. this conversation was proving to be even less helpful than you’d predicted. “listen- where can i get in contact with campus news to get the photo taken down?” you spoke calmly, only ellie noticing the frustration peaking through your tone. “you could try calling the number on the website?” chloe offered. “thank you.” you grabbed ellie’s hand and swiftly left the eta house.

back at ellie’s dorm you scrolled through campus news looking for some sort of contact number. ellie sat beside you in silence, a little intimidated by your frantic energy. “babe.” she tried. “mh” you replied, eyes still glued to your phone and fingers scrolling rapidly. “it’s gonna be fine.” she assured you. “‘s not. unless i get it removed from campus news quickly before my parents see it.” ellie took a deep breath, “don’t you think.. in a way it might be for the best?”. you looked up from your phone at her, irritation clear on your features. “how would this be for the best?” she leaned back, resting against the arm being held up by the bed “well you wanted to get out of the chad situation.” “yeah not like this!” you shuffled back a little, frustration building. “not with me?” ellie accused. you rolled your eyes “that’s not what i meant. i don’t want to have to explain this to my parents.” “what’s so awful about your parents finding out? you were gonna have to tell them you’re not dating chad at some point.” ellie said, letting her own frustration show. you picked your phone back up and huffed in anger, not wanting to have to justify why you wanted the feature taken down. “or were you?” ellie spoke. you looked at her again “what?” “were you ever even going to tell them? or am i just some college experiment for fun before you go off and actually start dating a real chad so you can live the life your parents want you to live?” bitterness and hurt ran through ellie’s words. “don’t be like that, ellie.” “well?” ellie waited. she wasn’t sure what for. maybe for you to reassure her, kiss her and tell her she’s being ridiculous and that obviously that wasn’t going to happen.

“i’m gonna go.” you stood up and left her dorm without another word.

part 5

a/n: this is my dramatic tv show outro: dun dun dunnnn! will ellie and reader make up? 😿who took the photo?🫢 and why?😳 find out soon on sorority secrets ! (a cinnnamongrl production) ;)

tag list @ximtiredx @gold-dustwomxn @nil-eena @alexpritch @robinismywifee @sc0ttstre3ted @ilovemoneymorethenmen @amberlynn28 @eyeluvangel @amitycat sorry some blogs won’t tag :(( (might be bc of ur visibility settings)

happy to add people to the taglist but i can’t tag you if you don’t have your age in your bio!! my blog is 18+ !!

[nvoirs]

okay but imagine re4remake switch!reader and dom!leon oneshot that takes place after the mission, in which you had to help leon (as his partner) from the chain mechanism he was held captive in. back home, you both get a little tipsy and you decide to unknowingly tie him up to your bed BECAUSE YOU COULDNT GET THE SCENE OUT OF YOUR MIND??!!!!?? just imagine teasing him, not letting him cum and getting him so fucking worked up that he literally BREAKS the thing you tied him with AND GOES LITERALLY FERAL????????????? HELPDASBJA (THE REST IS GIVEN)

Never would you have thought this would happen. Having your fellow agent in your home, and a bonus because he was a little tipsy. His normally pale cheeks flushed pink, warmth spread through them. Leon was a silent type of drunk and honestly you didn’t expect anymore, he had his priorities straight.

But really all you could think about was that little scene back in Spain..

You hadn't gotten any intel from Leon for almost half an hour, and honestly you were getting worried. What if Luis had betrayed him? You couldn't really trust the man, he hadn't really proven himself trustworthy yet and you still had to find Ashley Graham.

Trudging through the outside of the castle, the air smelling of dirt and gunpowder made your stomach churn in disgust. You began walking down one of the endless looking corridors into the castle, the ruby coloured carpet stained brown with collected dirt over the years.

Walking past a certain room but reversing your steps, as you caught sight of two bodies trapped in chains a large mechanic hovering above.

“Leon?” You made your way inside hurriedly, grabbing the chain but immediately let go because your intrusive thoughts had broken through.

He had been bickering with Luis, a dead ganando lay near your feet, something glistening in the left pocket.

You grabbed the key and began to make work of the lock on Leon's wrists.

“I bet you've been in situations like this before.” Luis plastered a big grin on his face staring at Leon.

You inaudibly gasped, the key slipping from your fingers. A rosy blush began creeping up your cheeks, as you kept your head down quickly picking the key back up.

“Fuck sorry.” You mumbled, pushing your hair behind your ears and eventually unlocking the lock on Leon's wrists.

“It's alright, are you good? You seemed a bit startled after Luis decided to open his big mouth.” He looked at you concerned, like you were injured like some wounded lamb.

“No honest to God I'm fine Leon, I'm just happy you didn't die on me.” You awkwardly laughed, as he patted your shoulder.

All the while Luis's eyes dragged back and forth between the two of you, wow this senorita totally knew what he meant when he commented on Leon's sex life but of course he was oblivious.

After your mission was a success, and you brought the president's daughter back home safely you invited Leon around to your place for a celebration.

It was the biggest accomplishment you guys had pulled off as agents, and people would look and whisper how did they manage that? Holy shit only two of them?

You knew Leon wasn’t a party person but you reassured him it’ll only be the two of you. When you said those words over the phone your heart soared but you momentarily smacked yourself.

So now here you and Leon were tipsy, even though he definitely said he was going to stay sober, edging his cock to release a cumload for you.

“How does that feel Leon?” You cooed, one hand on your trusty vibrator the other on Leon’s cheek squishing his flesh between your thumb and index finger.

“Wanna ha- cum you bitch.” His breathing intensified, and he whined leaning back into your plush cushions, back plastered against the wall, hands tied to the headboard with the plastic toy handcuffs that you finally got to use.

“No way, bad boys who aren’t good don’t get to cum.” You tutted as you watched in awe as more precum was spilled from his slit before pulling the vibrator completely away knowing he was on edge.

Leon was so pretty. Prettiest you’ve ever seen, and you’d boast it to him if you didn’t have alcohol swimming around in your system. His tip was a natural blushed pink, angry and drooling with precum. Lengthy and curved to the left a little, a throbbing vein ran along one side and a small freckle dotted at the top. His light hair trailed from under his belly button to the base of his cock. You wanted to feel his heavy cock on your tongue but restrained yourself because when will there be another time you see Leon Kennedy this submissive?

“Fine shit- if you won’t let me go then I will.” He began tugging on the cuffs harshly shaking the bed frame, ignoring him and slipping off your top so you were just in your bra advancing closer to Leon.

“If you're a good boy I’ll let you suck me.” Revealing your bare tits and pinching your delicate nipples yourself you moaned in front of Leon making him halt.

“C’mere.” And you listened leaning in closer so Leon could take in the full picture of your ethereal beauty.

His face was practically squished against your boobs now, sticking out his tongue and kitten-licked one of your nipples knocking the breath out of your lungs. That’s when Leon latched his wet, warm mouth straight onto your bud, tweaking and nipping the other. Lost in the loving pleasure Leon was giving your tits you hadn’t realised he’d broken his restraints as he pushed you down back pressed against the mattress.

“Mmph Leon don’t stop.” You watched him unclasping the cuffs flinging them to the side.

“Oh princess, you're in for it now” He surveyed your coy expression.

You should have been scared at those words, but the adrenaline just pumped through your veins making you excited and aroused at his curt words. He grabbed the hem of the short skirt you were wearing and pulled it up so he could take a look at your white cotton panties on full display for his eyes. So innocently cute, but he knew better that you were nothing but. He poked his nose against your clothed cunt breathing in like a pervert that had you whining feeling the pressure of him against your nose.

“You're such a filthy whore y’know that?” You just mewled in return to Leon’s chidings, as he peeled back your underwear watching your glistening cunt in awe.

“Fuck I knew you wanted me.” Placing a finger on your wetness he stroked up and down languidly, watching you for a reaction.

You jerked up when you felt his finger apply pressure to your clit, your moaning intensified “Please Leon, want you to fuck me.” You lazily mumbled drunk of your mind and just let him do as he pleased.

“Don’t think I need to prep you.” His slurred words turned your mind hazy. “You're already practically dripping.”

Inserting a finger inside your heat stretching you out, coming up to your fervent mouth and indulging the taste of you. The relish of booze permeated on both of your tongues tasting it off of each other.

“Shit Leon! Feels mmh good!” Leon liked to tease normally but not right now, he was too drunk of his mind and wanted to be inside of you as soon as possible. You cried when your orgasm washed over you grabbing your bed sheets as hard as possible twisting in Leon’s grasp. His cock was pressed against your folds as he carried on devouring you roughly lips connected like a puzzle piece, a glob of your saliva slipping down your chin and making a mess on your chest.

“M’gonna fuck you stupid I swear.” He said Pumping his cock a few times. “Get on all fours now.”

Obliging straight away, you stuck your ass in the air giving Leon a view. You heard him curse and slap your ass groping your cheeks. Letting out a squeak you turned to watch him slide into your cunt in one swift movement, the pleasure washed over the both of you as you moaned for him to go faster. Listening to your pleas he sped up the pace spreading your ass cheeks wider so he could slip inside deeper inch by inch.

“Shit your tight baby, not been fucked by someone as big as me I can see.” His smug grin said it all, but you didn’t reply you physically couldn’t trying to keep your eyes open as Leon fucked the majority of alcohol out of your system. Your tits smacking against the fabric of your duvet, as you collapsed lower from the delicious fucking happening from the other side of your body.

The smacking of the bed frame was evident in the background, definitely leaving a massive mark on your white wall but at this point you didn’t really care. Your landlord probably would but that was something you could worry about another time, because right now you were getting the best sex of your life by none other than your very hot agent partner. He was so deep in your guts, when you realised you gasped a little from the penetration.

His eager fucking had you tumbling over the edge and before you knew it you were cumming tight around his cock. Your little whines made him slow his pace groaning about your pussy being the best thing he’s fucked, before he pulled out and cummed on the small of your back.

“You did so good, the best pussy I’ve had in a while and I’m still drunk but I was wondering.. do you want to go get dinner with me?”

No response from you had Leon worried, did you believe this was a mistake? You were half drunk after all, but he crawled over to your collapsed posture and could hear your soft breathing, you’d fallen asleep. Relaxing his shoulders Leon smiled, maybe dinner could wait.

[harrelltut]

Their EXTREMELY OUTDATED 2023 U.S. CGI President(?)-BOT.com Just Sent Out This Artificial Max Headroom Message Today to the © SEE-Nineteen... American People [Test Subjects]... about The QUANTUMHARRELLUFO.tech Hearing

what happened to the fake tall nordic blond alien invasion [a.i.]?!?!?!

they still talking about the staged RoswellUFO.gov crash economy?!?!?!

you still waiting on the pentagon for alien disclosure?!?!?!

EYE ANCIENT 9 ETHER CYBER MILITARY ART [MA] of SCIENTIFIC WARCRAFTS CLOAKED ABOVE EARTH [Qi]

eye official scientific NIBIRUAN elite of the QUANTUMHARRELL.tech PENTAGON

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EYE 1999 Y2K 2000 9/11 SKYEVENT.gov of 2001

© 1968-2223 QUANTUM HARRELL TECH LLC All Pentagon DotCom defense.gov Department Domain Rights Reserved.

[fixfoxnox]

Hii gmorning/night/evening! Hope you are having a really nice day.

I don't quite know if you're doing a platonic request, but if you can. Can I request maybe a fic or maybe a scenario, Tf141 and younger reader (younger than gaz himself) whose father is makarov himself and on one mission when Tf141 were capturing makarov the reader were forced to do the interrogation on their own father (the reader did it with professionalism ofc), makarov.

How would the Tf141 react when they found out that makarov was the reader father maybe around a day after the mission ended, the reader been in a both deep thought and sour mood when the mission ended. (Poor reader was trying to not punch cry on spot when he see makarov)

Anyway! Just that I hope it's not that confusing 👉👈 have a nice day!

Fun fact, if we're using Makarov's age in the OG game reader could be like as old as like 27 or so depending on how old Makarov was when they were born (Makarov is 47 when he dies in the OG games so he's like 46-47 during the events of the game)

Task Force 141 With a Platonic! GN! Reader Who is Makarov's Child

Characters: Price, Ghost, Gaz, Soap, and Roach

Warnings: Brief injury to reader

"Vladimir Makarov," they made their way into the room carefully, catching the attention of the man currently tied to the chair in the center of the room. Makarov tilted his head at them, a smile quirking up his lips. "We have to talk. If you answer my questions, this will go easy for you. If you don't, I'll have to pass you over to someone with a lot more bloodlust than me."

Makarov paused for a moment before a chuckle left his lips. The sound of it echoed around the room. They grit their teeth as the almost taunting noise bounced around their head. "Makarov? Really? Is that how this is going to be?" Makarov's voice was low and careful and that grin remained on his lips.

"Would you prefer it if I just referred to you as the fucking terrorist?" they shot back, trying to avoid the obvious tension in the room.

"You could call me father. That's what I am, aren't I? Your father."

"Not right now," they stood taller, but all of their body felt tense. This was not a situation they ever wanted to find themself in, but the team had all unanimously voted. They would try Makarov first. If only the team knew why that was such a bad idea. "Right now, you're Vladimir Makarov, head of the Ultranationalists. A Russian terrorist group."

Makarov shook his head, a low tutting noise escaping his lips, "Now, now, that isn't how this works. I'm always your father, whether you're on the," he eyed them disdainfully for a moment, "wrong side of things or not."

Their father was taunting them. He wanted to get a reaction out of them. They could tell with just the way he talked. They'd seen him do it to enough people over the years to know what to watch out for. As odd as it was and as much as they hated to admit it, it helped that Makarov was who he was to them. It helped them see what was happening. They decided to change the subject.

"The girl. Where is she?"

Makarov gave a low hum and leaned back in his seat casually, "You know you used to stand like that when you wanted a treat from a store. A bit of candy or something." They tensed a bit, quickly shifting their position to something different. It pulled a chuckle from Makarov and made their face burn an angry red, "I suppose all things change with time."

"The president's daughter," their voice was a bit harsher than they meant for it to be and they knew it was because of their father's taunting. They took a moment to calm themself, "Where is the president's daughter?"

"I miss the days when you were so little and starry-eyed," Makarov sighed wistfully, "You used to hang off of my arm."

"Answer the question."

"I wish that you would drop this act of rebellion," Makarov narrowed his eyes at them, "Finally come home. There is a welcome place for you right at my side. There is always a place for family."

"This isn't a rebellion!" Their hands clenched at their side. Despite the fact that their father was the one restrained, despite the fact that they were the one standing with supposedly all of the power in the room, they felt like a helpless child. There were warring feelings in their chest, anger toward their father, and an ache for the family that they loved and missed. This was the problem. Their father was a terrible person, they'd accepted that. It didn't mean that they didn't love him. It didn't mean that they didn't feel like a petulant child when their father scolded them like this. They hated it. "This is an interrogation and you are going to tell me what I want to know!"

They stepped closer to their father threateningly, but it only pulled a grin from Makarov. "Am I?"

"Yes!"

Makarov tilted his head at them and gave them a look of pity, "No, I don't think I am."

The sound of a loud pop met their ears and they quickly found themself surrounded by darkness. The only think they remembered after their vision went dark was a brief flash of their father standing over them and a hand briefly stroking over their forehead.

Price:

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"What?" Their head shot up from where they'd been furiously scribbling at their paperwork. Despite their hard scratches, they'd barely managed to get anything done with the reminders of their failed interrogation from the previous day. Their pounding headache and the cut along their face certainly weren't making it easy for them to forget.

Price stepped into the room slowly and closed the door behind hi.. There was a long moment where he just stood and watched them, unmoving. "You're Makarov's kid." They froze and their pen snapped in half in their hand. Price's eyes shot down to it before moving back up to watch their face. There was a long moment of tense quiet that fell over the room before, "The IT department was able to piece together a part of the footage from yesterday."

"Price," they started carefully, their voice quiet, "I don't-"

"Why didn't you tell us," Price asked again, stepping toward them carefully. His voice wasn't harsh. In fact, he sounded almost soft with the way that he spoke, "We wouldn't have sent you in if we knew."

"That's why I didn't tell you," they responded quietly. "I'm capable of doing the interrogations. I'm capable of doing the missions." Their voice steadily grew louder and louder, anger burning at them at the reminder of why they'd been so afraid to tell anyone in the first place. At the reminder of how their father's choices could impact their life so easily. "Just because he is my," they cut themself off with a growl before continuing, "my relationship with him doesn't change how well I can do my job! He's a terrorist, and no matter who they are, my job involves stopping terrorists."

Price settled for a moment, watching them closely. "You should have told us," he settled on after a moment. When they went to respond, they were met with a hand from Price, silencing them. "Not because I don't think you can do your job." Price moved around the table, settling next to them carefully, "Because if I had known, I never would have made you go into that room. Whether you can handle it or not, you shouldn't have to." He paused for another long moment, watching their reaction closely. "Are you alright?"

They had to think about the question for a long moment. Were they alright? After so many years, after hunting him with the rest of the team, after viewing him as nothing more than a dangerous and unhinged man, they'd come face to face with Makarov and were forced to acknowledge the relationship they had with him. Forced to acknowledge the fact that he was still their father and that, despite their best efforts, they still cared about him. They hated it. It had been tearing them up since the wall had been blown open and their father had escaped.

"I don't know," they finally settled on after a moment. They buried their face in their hands, shaking their head at themself. Their father was a terrorist. He didn't deserve their sympathy or love. They could hear Price shift and, a moment later, there was a hand rubbing against their back. "I should be fine. I should only be upset that he escaped but...I don't know. I haven't seen him in so long. Then...that."

Price was silent for several moments, just offering comfort with a hand on their back, rubbing soothing circles against their skin. They just sat like that for a moment and, despite the silence, it actually seemed to help. It was nice just to know that Price was there, to know that the other man cared enough to sit with them like this. "You know," Price started finally, "It's okay to care about him still. He's your family, whether you like it or not. You can care about someone and still know that they're a bad person. It doesn't make you a bad person."

"I don't know if that applies here," they snorted and looked up at Price with wet eyes, "he's a terrorist."

"And you recognize that," Price nodded to them, his face serious. "But you can't just expect all of the memories, all of the love, all of it to just disappear. It's okay." There was a short moment that passed before they were rushing up from their chair to wrap Price up in a hug, their face buried into his shoulder.

"Thank you," they managed to mumble out. They were still conflicted. they still felt guilty. They didn't think that would be going away any time soon. But it certainly helped to have someone like Price around to provide them with a bit of comfort in times like this.

Ghost:

"You know, hiding like this won't do anything for you."

They looked up from where they were moving boxes around, just glancing at where Ghost was leaning in the doorway, watching them as they moved around the room. "I'm not hiding," they called back, turning their attention once again to the boxes they were moving.

Niether themself or Ghost spoke for several moments. They continued moving boxes around the small record room, trying to avoid Ghost's gaze as he watched them. "So," Ghost started finally, "You aren't hiding you just...decided to reorganize the record room on your off time?"

"I'm not off," They responded, still trying to avoid the conversation that Ghost clearly wanted to have.

"You're on medical leave," Ghost responded easily.

"I'm trying to stay busy."

"Boring way to keep busy." They stopped suddenly, dropping the box they'd picked up back onto the table with a huff.

They turned to glare at Ghost, leaning against the box for support, "What do you want?" They threw their hands in the air, "If you're so certain that I'm hiding, why not leave me alone?"

"Because," Ghost pushed himself off of the wall and stepped fully into the room, casually walking toward them, "We need to talk about the fact that Vladimir Makarov is your father."

They tensed at the words, their face crumpling under the gaze of Ghost's unmoving mask. It was times like this that they hated Ghost's mask, times when they wanted to be able to read what their lieutenant was thinking but couldn't because of that stupid mask. They avoided his gaze, desperate to have something other than that blank mask staring at them.

"Look at me," Ghost ordered after a long moment of tense silence. They begrudgingly listened, turning their gaze to meet Ghost's eyes through the mask. "Why didn't you tell us?"

They didn't answer at first, they just clenched their jaw and resisted the urge to look away. "Does it matter?" They finally landed on, "I figure I'm fired anyway."

"Fired?" Ghost tilted his head at them, "Why would you be fired?"

They scoffed, "My dads a terrorist that we've been actively hunting and I never said anything. If that's not grounds for firing I don't know what is."

Ghost gave a low chuckle, "I will admit, it wasn't the best choice on your part, but you aren't fired." Their entire body seemed to deflate at the words and they were quick to lean against the table for support as relief flooded through them, "Is that why you've been hiding? Because you thought you were going to be fired?"

"Wouldn't you hide too?" They glanced at Ghost out of the corner of their eye, watching him carefully as he watched them. A moment passed before Ghost was moving forward to wrap a comforting arm around their shoulders.

They were frozen at the move. It wasn't often that Ghost did anything like this, so, in the moment, it was a surprise to them. After a long tense moment they relaxed into his arms, accepting the comfort that he was trying to offer them. "Our team," Ghost spoke quietly, "We're a family, you understand that? You're family, no matter where or who you came from."

They tucked closer to Ghost's chest at the words, trying to fight back the tears stinging at their eyes. It was nice to hear those words from Ghost, to be reassured that, just because the team knew the truth, didn't meant that anything would change.

"You know we're still going to have to talk about you keeping this a secret, right?"

"I know," they spoke quietly, "I know."

Ghost gave a short nod, but didn't say anything else. He just continued to press them tight to his chest in a comforting hug.

Gaz:

"Hey, are you in here?" Gaz slowly opened the door to their room. He'd been knocking for the past minute with no response, so he'd decided the best option would be to just open the door and see if they were inside or not.

Their bedroom was dark with all of the lights in the room turned off and any of the windows blocked by heavy blackout curtains. For a brief moment, he was sure that they weren't in the room and that he'd been told wrong by Price, that disappeared when he saw the crumpled lump on their bed.

He gave a deep sigh, a small bit of amusement running through him at the sight of what was clearly his friend tucked into a ball under their sheets. "Were you ignoring me?" he asked after a moment.

"Go away," They groaned from the bed, "I don't want to talk to anyone."

"You can't just sulk in here all day," Gaz moved toward the bed and carefully lowered himself to sit next to them. He didn't try to coax them out from under the blanket, not yet. "I know that the past few days have been hard, but-"

They snorted from under the blanket, "Hard? My dad, a terrorist, kidnapped the Russian presidents daughter, allowed himself to be captured as a distraction and to taunt me and managed to get away completely free. What did I get out of it? A concussion and a scolding from Laswell and Price for not telling them anything. Hard is too light of a descriptor."

Gaz winced a bit, "At least we found the president's daughter?" His word were met with a groan and a hand shooting out to grab a pillow and smack him with it. He gave a short chuckle before leaning back against the bed, purposefully laying over their legs. "You have to understand how we feel, though, right?"

"I know," Their voice was quiet and it sounded weak to Gaz's ears. "I understand if you guys hate me. I know I shouldn't have lied."

"We don't hate you," Gaz assured quickly, "It's just shocking is all. I mean, I personally was firmly on team Makarov is definitely a virgin," he was smacked with a pillow again. Gaz gave a laugh and, even though they tried to hide it, he could feel laughter shaking their body as well. "Also you two just," he shrugged, "don't seem very similar."

"You'd be surprised," they muttered from under the sheets, "I actually take after him in a lot of ways. It's just I'm not a terrorist."

"Well," Gaz grinned, "personally I'm glad to hear that." There was another long moment of silence that sat between the two. They stayed buried under their blankets as Gaz stared up at the ceiling, trying to decide what to say. "You know we don't hate you? Right? None of us do."

They shifted under the sheets and were quiet for a long moment before responding, "Why don't you? I lied. My dad's a fucking terrorist."

"Your dad is a terrorist," Gaz agreed, "You aren't. You can't choose who you were born to. I'm sure if you could, you'd have chosen some celebrity and be living a life of luxury right now." They gave another small laugh from under the covers at those words and Gaz considered it a success. "And, well, we understand why you lied. We might not like it, but we understand. Just, uh, please tell me that your uncle isn't like...a war criminal or something?"

They gave another laugh at the words, "Don't worry, my dad is the only fucked one in the family."

"That's a relief."

The two stayed like that for several more moments. Gaz didn't move, he planned to stay as long as he needed to. As long as it took to cheer them up. After a few minutes, they slowly poked their head out from under the covers, their eyes meeting Gaz's carefully. "Thank you, for this."

"It's what friends are for," Gaz gave them a soft smile. They returned it with one of their own.

Soap:

"You really shouldn't be here," Soap's voice was filled with concern, but they ignored it and continued doing their reps, sweat dripping down their face. "Didn't the doctor say you had a concussion? The last think you should be doing is lifting heavy shit right now."

They gave a deep sigh and racked the weights they were lifting to slowly push themselves into a sitting position on the weight lifting bench. they turned to glare lightly at Soap, a sigh leaving their lips. "I need a distraction."

"There are safe ways to be distracted," Soap responded, stepping closer to them. He was in his own workout gear, likely having come to the little gym on base for his daily session.

"You're right," They responded, standing up from the bench, "I'll go to the gun range instead."

Soap snorted, "Yeah, I'm sure that will be great for the concussion too." He gave a sigh and crossed his arms over his chest, watching them closely. "You know you don't have to do this, right?"

"What?" They responded, grabbing their water and towel. They had an idea of what Soap was talking about, but it really wasn't something they wanted to discuss at the moment. Really, they would probably prefer it if they never had to discuss it again.

"This," Soap motioned to them, "The training and the pushing yourself. I can see what you're doing. You should be resting." He sent them a stern look that really wasn't befitting of him.

"Alright, captain," they rolled their eyes, "I'm not doing anything. I'm just trying to find a distraction, something to pass the time. No need to look into it so much."

It was Soap's turn to roll his eyes at them, "You really think I'm going to buy that?" He gave a deep sigh and stepped forward to put his hands on their shoulders and guide them to sit back down on the weight bench, "Listen, I get that you're upset with yourself and you're blaming yourself."

"Soap-"

"But what happened wasn't your fault, okay?" Soap shook his head at him slowly, "It could have happened to any of us. And if it was any of us but you, I hate to say it but we'd probably be dead right now."

They clenched their jaw and looked away from him. "I should have known what he was doing," they tightened their fists into a ball, "I did know what he was doing and I still couldn't do anything to stop him." They looked up at Soap with harsh eyes, "What good am I to the team if I can't keep my head on straight when he's around?"

"Don't talk like that," Soap dropped into a squat in front of him, his eyes soft as he spoke, "You weren't prepared, none of us were. We all should have been paying more attention, we all should have known that something was going on." He shook his head and took one of their hands into his own, giving it a comforting squeeze, "You can't blame yourself."

"I'm," they hesitated for a moment, "I'm worried. What if he's able to get to me again? When it's more serious?" He shook his head at Soap, "I can't let that happen. I can't put you guys in danger because I can't get past my relationship with him."

"And you won't," Soap assured, "The next time we run into your father, we'll all be more prepared. You won't be alone. We'll be there to keep him from getting in your head." He gave another squeeze to their hand, "You just have to trust us."

There was a moment of silence between the two for a few moments. Finally, they nodded. "I trust you guys," their words were quiet, but they pulled a grin from Soap. "Thanks, you know, for this."

Roach:

"Course, that's what I'm here for." Soap popped up to his feet and held a hand out to help them up, "Now, come on, I say we go get something sweet and see if we can talk Gaz into letting us bully him on Mario Kart."

There was a hesitant knock on their door and they wanted to groan. They knew that it had to be another member of the team come to try to talk to them. The other members of the 141 had been trying for hours to get them to come out of their room, but they'd turned them all away. They didn't want to talk to them. They didn't want to have to explain.

"Go away!" They called, frustration eating at them.

"It's me," they recognized the voice as Roach's immediately.

"I said go away," they huffed, "tell Price that I'll come out to talk when I'm ready."

There was a quiet moment before Roach was calling, "I'm not here to talk about that, not unless you want to. I brought you food."

That caught their attention. They hadn't left their room in hours, too afraid of being cornered by the team. While it had worked great at keeping the team away, it had left them feeling terribly hungry. So the idea of food, food made by Roach especially, sounded incredible at that moment.

"Promise that you actually have food and aren't just trying to get me to open the door?" They stood from their bed and hesitantly started over, waiting for a response from Roach before actually letting him in.

"I promise," Roach called back. "I even brought dessert and drinks."

With those words they were quick to open the door and tug Roach inside, closing and locking it behind him. "Thank god, I'm starving." They were quick to grab the little bag that Roach was carrying and take off toward the small table in their room, unloading the several containers of food, drinks, and plates that Roach had packed for them. "You're a life saver."

"Yeah," Roach chuckled nervously, "Well, I may have lied a bit."

They looked up at him, betrayal on their face, "You're here to talk about my dad, aren't you?" Roach nodded slowly, an apologetic look on his face. "Traitor," They gave a sigh and collapsed into a seat at the table, "I can't believe you would use food against me like this."

"I'm sorry," Roach moved to sit next to them, "it was the only way I could think to get inside. But, hey," he slid one of the containers of food toward them, "Won't it be easier to talk about with a baked potato and steak to eat while we do it?"

They groaned a bit and took the container from him to begin loading food onto their plate. Roach was right, at least if he had to talk about it he could have some good food to go with it.

"Alright," they didn't speak until they finally had all of their food laid out and could start digging in to the meal, "Go on, ask what you need to."

"Why didn't you tell us that Makarov is your dad?" Roach spoke through eating his own food, digging into his own steak casually, as though he wasn't asking them such a loaded question.

They sighed, taking a few bites before responding, "I was worried Price would take me off of the missions. That he wouldn't let me help." There was a moment of silence where the two just ate, letting the words sit between them. "I want to help take down my father."

Roach watched them closely as he took a drink, just observing their face to try and read if what they said was the truth or not. "That's a lot," he finally landed on, "I mean...no matter what, he's your dad, right?"

"He's a terrorist," they snapped quickly.

Roach held his hands up in surrender. "I know that and I know that you know that," he clarified, "it doesn't change the fact that he's still your father." He paused for a moment before adding, "You know it's okay for this to be hard for you, right? None of us are going to judge you struggling with this. We're not going to doubt your ability to do the job."

They seemed to deflate at those words, all of the fight gone from their system. "I don't want to let you guys down."

"You aren't going to let us down," Roach's tone was serious. "You're strong, I've got faith that you can handle this. I just want to make sure that you know that you don't have to handle it. You don't have to be strong."

"I know," their voice was quiet, it was clear that Roach's words had helped a bit with the worry that seemed to be plaguing them. They'd managed to calm down enough to continue talking through the issue with Roach, venting their frustrations as they ate.

At the end of it all, they felt a million times better about everything. Roach had reassured them and talked things over with them. "That was a lot," Roach clicked the lid back on to one of the food containers, packing everything up. "I'm proud of you for talking about it."

"Thanks," they gave him a slight smile, "I feel a lot better. Thanks for listening."

Roach gave them a bright grin, "Of course, I'm always willing to listen. Now," he pulled another container from the bag and pulled the lid off, holding it out to them, "How about some cookies to make you feel even better?"

[writer-of-fandoms-4321]

There's a difference between Furries, this one is my son, you are not, you're a grown ass woman. Grow the hell up.

(A continuation of this post)

Danny kept his kids close as he walked to the hotel, he had informed their science teacher that he would be joining later that night, and had even volunteered to watch the boy's dorm.

Both Adrien and Marinette were walking behind him, their kwami's safely tucked away in their bags, presumably munching on their preferred snacks.

"Did she try anything?"

Marinette hesitantly shook her head.

"No, just demanded that we giver the Miraculous up."

Adrien looked at the ground.

"Sorry Danny."

Danny glanced back at his kids before huffing.

"It's not your fault, but hey, at least we now have a narrower list of who Hawkmoth might be."

Both of them stalled.

"What! how?" Marinette whisper shouted.

"Well, only a few older men came on this trip, we just have to do an extensive background check."

Both of them grinned for a moment before they entered the hotels, Danny checked into the room, and bid the kids 'good night' before transforming and bee lining for the United Heroz headquarters.

Marinette had been on the verge of a panic attack, and Adrien was right there with her, and they had both been afraid, after all, the kwami's had become more like family to them than a mere partner in crime.

And they were his. His kids, his little apprentences, his family. And no one hurt his family.

Not even some supposed immortal.

Phasing into the building, he went invisible, and went to track down the offenders.

Understandably, the team was surrounding a table.

"He knew your identity?!" Victory demanded, and huh, who knew the President of the USA could have such an interesting pass-time.

There was some muttering as Knight Owl described him, all eye went to Uncanny Valley who shrugged.

"For whatever reason, I could not find his identity."

Danny decided to reveal himself.

"Well I'm not surprised, ghost tend to glitch out anything technological, unless your Technus."

All eyes snapped up to him, Knight Owl's hand went to her belt, and Danny shot off a warning Ecto-blast. Lightly tutting like he would if he were scolding Ellie and/or Dante.

Victory's eyes went wide.

"Phantom." she realized, bowing repsectfully. "I wasn't expecting the High King" Oh, she was cluing the others in. "if I were, I would've made a room for you."

Danny chuffed slightly, hovering a few inches above the ground he smirked.

"No biggie, I'm actually here to talk about what happened earlier."

Victory nodded.

"I was out of control."

"not your fault, blame Mothass." his gaze fixed of Knight Owl, who squirmed slightly at the impressive glare fixed on her. "I want to talk about her actions."

Barbara shifted slightly as all eyes flickered over to her.

She felt a lot like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

"Who are you to demand that my kids hand over their miraculous?" Danny hissed, a few smaller eyes opening around the corner of his eyes. All fixed on Barbara. "They do far too much for their city my city. For you to be demanding that they step down for your teams to take up a villain you know so little about."

barbara looked away comfortable. Danny couldn't help but nod slightly, good, let her feel ashamed. He felt a small shit eating grin grow on his face as he fished out his wallet.

"There's a difference between furries." All eyes went to him quizzically as he displayed a picture of Chat Noir and Ladybug smiling goofily with him pulling both of them in for a hug. "this one is my son. You are not. You're a grown ass woman. Grow the hell up.

[rottin6]

layla beloved your frat initiation bartylily chasing-in-the-woods concept is something that i think about…. so frequently. haunts me. i don’t even need you write it atp i just need more THOUGHTS 😭

stopppp it i'm giggling at the thought of them 'cause they're so nasty @sommerregenjuniluft is wholly partly to blame

like picture it, frat boy barty daddy issues barty n trust fund barty all in one, like my guy has issues on top of issues. he's made to go to uni by his dad and (idk how frats work i am british) he's in his third and final year of his degree, and he's the president of the frat obviously cause so was his dad and so was his dad and so on

lily, however, loathes him. she thinks the absolute worst of him but she's never even spoken to him. she just hates what he comes from and all that stuff. she's doing a journalism degree and writes for the college paper, like she's on her grind trying to get through uni

one day lily gets some inside scoop that barty's frat is hosting an initiation ritual that apparently happens every night but no one actually knows what goes down so she makes it her mission to get in so she can publish it in the paper and ruin his image and all that jazz

AND THEN she gets there the night of the ritual and barty sees her and he knows who she is cause she hates him that much and and the ritual basically

the existing frat boys are recruiting the new year boys and as part of the initiation they get chased in the woods and the older years wear masks n shit and it’s fucked up in every sense, like they get their chase and it’s perverted and just so…barty if that makes sense

but it’s just an initiation for the boys, no one else at all so lily has to sneak in and she thinks she’s all slick hiding behind trees n stuff but then

barty creeps up behind her, an ache in the pit of his stomach. even in the night, he hates how he can recognise her by her stupid red hair. there’s an animalistic urge to pull on it, to yank her back into him, but instead he snakes his arm around her throat, his bicep pressing on her pulse. his other hand covers her mouth and he can feel the way her body shakes, how it squirms against him, and he tuts, shaking his head.

now obviously lily fights back, she hits her head back into his face and his lip’s bleeding and all but my barty’s huge, like this guy is built so he’s stronger than her and he’s had enough—he tightens his hold on her, pinning her against the tree and he’s pissed as fuck. he’s pressing his body against hers so she can’t move, also holding her by her throat cause he likes the feel of her panicking and how she gulps. he’s grinning like a madman, wiping the blood off his lip with his thumb and he’s all like “you can’t come and not play the game, doll.” and she’s crying, shaking her head and she’s begging him to stop but but

he lifts a leg up, pushing his knee on her stomach and he begins to undo his belt with one hand, the other stroking the side of her face. it’d be romantic in any other situation if not for the fact that lily thinks she’s well and truly going to die. he spits on the ground to the side of them, his thick cock pulsing at the sight of her tears. he relishes in the view, at her lips quivering and the way she still begs him to stop. it’s cute, he thinks.

and then at some other point

“are you—are you getting off on this?” barty snickers, his fingers trailing across the dampness on her panties. he watches the way she closes her eyes tight, her lips parting slightly. “you’re a sick bitch, y’know that, doll? a pretty fuckin whore, coming out here, thinkin’—thinkin’ you can just do what you want, hm?”

but she still struggles against him, trying to fight cause that’s just lily evans but he’s licking his lips, shaking his head and the next thing she knows is he’s taking out a gun from the waistband of his jeans, he’s got it to the bottom of her chin, murmuring, “i really wish you wouldn’t do that,” but she doesn’t care, she tries to wriggle out of his hold and he tightens his grip on her, moving the gun to her forehead, “don’t fuckin move. you move and i’ll fuckin shoot you, okay? you got it?”

“barty, please...” lily pleads with him, as he yanks her by her hair.

“barty, please,” he mocks. “jesus, you're fucking pathetic. you’re lucky that i haven't put a bullet in that pretty fucking skull of yours yet.”

and at some point she’s running again, after kicking him in the groin obviously and he’s chasing after her, he’s in love with the chase, getting so high off it and then he’s tackling her to the ground, mud over the both of them. he’s on top of her, gripping her by both her dimples and pushing her face down into the ground

“i know the shit you say about me, what you write about me in that—in that little paper of yours.” he’s breathing heavily, pulling the zipper down on his jeans as he mounts over her. “i should kill you right now,” he whispers heavily against her ear. “but that's not what you want, is it? you want me to fuck you, right here on the dirty fucking ground, don’t you?” he smiles, demented. and he moves the gun down to her mouth. "just a dirty little whore that wants to get filled with dick, right?"

and then they have hot steamy sex in the middle of the woods 🏌🏽‍♀️

[lelengerine]

but i love you, teaser.

pairing | jaemin x reader

synopsis | for someone who prefers keeping to yourself, just how did you end up in the position of vice president for your class? not to mention, your partner is the sparkling golden boy of the school, na jaemin.

genre | class officers au, a lot of the grumpy x sunshine trope, fluff, angst, mutual pining, reader uses she/her pronouns, jaemin uses a nickname for reader (angel), cursing, more to be added in the full release

wc | 0.5k for the teaser, est. 3k+ for the entire fic!

notes | i'm back and happy birthday to our dearest nana <3 i originally wanted to finish everything so i could post it for his birthday but i think it's better i don't rush the writing for this one,, hence the teaser :D likes and rbs are highly appreciated!

m.list → send in an ask or reply to be added to the taglist!

your breathing turns ragged and heavy as you try keeping up with jaemin’s own feet — your only passing thought wondering how the boy in front of you hasn’t faltered a bit from his brisk jog amidst the empty school hallways.

the two of you were tasked to submit the class attendance folder to the teachers lounge at 7 in the morning, a daily hinderance to someone who’d rather laze around in the classroom to get a couple more minutes of sleep before the first bell would ring, someone in the likes of you.

“na jaemin! god, slow the fuck down.” you finally huff, falling behind in your steps to catch your breath.

your classmate turns around on his heel at the call of his name, “maybe you’re simply too slow, angel.” he flashes an award-winning grin while tightly holding the important folder to submit, his actions doing nothing to ease your exhaustion.

“my bad, this angel doesn’t have two feet in the air to fly whenever she wants.” your reply is enveloped in sarcasm, chest heaving at a calmer pace than a few moments prior.

“you gotta live a little, run a bit more. maybe then, you’ll take off.” the quote-esque words have you grimacing at the thought, believing it to be a sense of false, cringe worthy hope provided by the boy.

“the only thing about to fly is my fist to your face, na.” you grumble, an arm ready to hit the boy with full force as soon as your mind gives confirmation to do so.

jaemin brings a hand over your curled-up fist, halting your swing before it even happens. “nuh, uh. you wouldn’t want to risk that on your stellar school record, would you?” he tuts with a knowing look on his face, “how ironic for an angel, indeed.”

“you’re the only one that calls me that anyways.” you retract your hand back down slowly after being flustered by the mention of your student record, still eyeing the boy in front of you — the bright expression on his face remaining in tact.

“it’s because i think it suits you.” he simply puts it, turning his back on you to continue walking towards the teachers lounge.

“and how exactly does that make sense?” you inquire, trailing him from behind, and the boy knows he’s garnered your attention for the second time today.

“why should i trouble myself and explain it further?” he returns the query back in your hands, still looking ahead of him. “do i get something in return?”

“that’s just childish, na. we’re seniors.” you remind him with the roll of your eyes, somewhat glad he couldn’t see you from his position.

“hey, i don’t do things for free.”

“you do class president tasks for free.” you quickly point out, the familiar door that leads the the teachers lounge finally coming into view at the end of the hallway.

“that’s rather inevitable, isn’t it? being in this position just means its part of my responsibilities.” he shrugs, slowing down his movement now that he sees the destination ahead.

“you’re just being boring.” you groan in protest, detesting how the boy is trying to be difficult with you.

he turns around once more, albeit much more abrupt than the first instance, making you almost bump into his back side. “then how’s this? i’ll tell you the reason during the upcoming school festival.”

“fine.” you reply, straightening your clothes out after that brief moment of getting frazzled. “you can’t take that back now, na.”

“wouldn’t dream of it, angel.”