by far the best match i had the fortune to witness

Bad Girls Do It Well, Part 2 (Jughead x Reader)

Part 1

Imagine: You were once a Southside Serpent assigned to train Jughead Jones III in the Serpent way of life. After being shot by a comrade, you decide it’s time to take some time off and focus on your education by transferring to Riverdale High. However, it looks like trouble will follow you wherever you go.

The moment you walked into Riverdale High School, everyone turned to stare.

You were an unrecognizable girl with slightly disheveled hair and a death stare for anyone who made eye contact. Somewhat laughably, you had traded out your comfortable leather jacket with the snake on the back for a pink cardigan and skirt, and you looked as out of place as you felt. You recognized who Jughead had described to be Archie, Betty, Veronica, and another boy their age. Upon seeing you, they whispered at each other and made wild hand gestures. You rolled your eyes, continuing to the locker the secretary had assigned to you.

Fidgeting with the combination lock while trying to read the scrawled out code she had written for you, a familiar figure strode up next to you and leaned on the wall.

“New look, huh?“ Jughead asked. He, too, had left his jacket at home. Surprisingly, he left the beanie too.

Transferring to Riverdale High after having dropped out for a few months and being an emancipated minor was no easy feat. With Jughead’s help, you pulled a sob story about how you realized how awful the real world was and needed a good ole’ public education to set yourself straight, which elicited elitist approval from the school board. Jughead’s foster family was fortunately very sensitive to Jughead’s needs and desires, and signed the transfer forms as soon as he brought up that he missed his old friends (which he didn’t).

You snapped your gum at him. “Some of my mom’s old clothes. Wanted to look inconspicuous.“ You laughed. “Does it look as hideous as it feels?“

Jughead shook his head earnestly. “You look kind of cute, to be honest.”

Rolling your eyes again, you eyed him up and down. “And you? Where’s the hat, kid?”

He grinned. “I dunno, it seemed like you liked me better with it off.” He ran his hands through his hair.

Your face reddened and you shoved him playfully. “I’m still your superior, you know. Just ‘cause I got shot doesn’t mean I can’t kick your ass.“

As the two of you laughed and you finally were able to start sorting your books in your locker, Jughead’s friends approached him.

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The curse of kings and queens- Teen wolf AU

Originally posted by killtheinsidegifs

A/N: it’s been a while… but I started to write this and figured I may as well share it. There’s a long introduction and backstory so bear with me XD
Words: 1294

When you were only a baby, your mother, Melissa and father, peter were kings and queens of a small country. Even though they didn’t possess a lot of land, the people stay fed, there was a rich supply of trading goods and a battle was never lost. You attributed this to the skill of the warriors in your mother’s famous army. One she had put her heart and soul into. They protected the lands and the people. Their job was more than just being a weapon, they were guardians. Other wealthy families tended to look down on your family, because of your untraditional way of ruling. Women normally held only a small amount of power, yet your mother was one of the most powerful members of royalty across the whole continent. This sadly made her a target for jealous leaders.

You had heard stories growing up about what had happened to your family, each one giving more of an insight to the truth, as you pieced together parts of information from different sources who had worked closely alongside your family. Allies you could trust.

Your mother wasn’t just one of the most feared leaders, she was also a healer, being skilled in crafting potions to heal the sick. Your father was a formidable king, he had a secret selection of spies, dispersed in every country. He handpicked these people himself and he was said to have given them the skills required to hide in forests and track, by being given just an item of their clothing, royals.

The secret to your parents luck and fortune lay in an old mountain to the west of your home. It was a place where nobody went, as rumours of the danger there spread fear throughout the country. Occasionally a foolish man would stumble to the mountain, only to return disappointed. To show courage to others they would make up stories of monstrous trolls who hid in the sides of the mountain, or dragons made of stone with diamond hearts and most of the time their tales involved an echoing howl that haunted their dreams.

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My Fair Warrior: Part 7

Setting: Washington, D.C.; McLean, Virginia, 2021

Summary: Feyre’s Independence Day wedding to Tamlin does not go as planned.

Ship: Feylin (technically)

Rating: T

Word Count: 2,635

A/N: Part 7 of my Modern ACOTAR/ACOMAF AU. As before, some lines come directly from ACOMAF and belong to Sarah J. Maas.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter 

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Ann Rule, friend of Ted Bundy and author of “The Stranger Beside Me”, dies at 83

Ann Rule was best known for her friendship and insight into Ted Bundy. She met Ted in the seventies when they worked at a Suicide Prevention Hotline together. Their friendship continued for years, and she ended up writing a novel about Ted Bundy titled, “The Stranger Beside Me”. Below is a great article from the Washington Post about Ann Rule and Ted Bundy.

Washington Post Article by Justin Wm. Moyer (original here)
The Twisted Friendship of Crime Writer Ann Rule and Serial Killer Ted Bundy

Few journalists are lucky enough to stumble into stories that grab the national consciousness for decades. And when they do, even fewer are lucky enough to know their subjects intimately enough before the news breaks to offer readers not just a scoop, but a kind of dual biography.

Ann Rule, who died Sunday at 83, was one of these. Though she would become a prolific writer — a woman who “reinvented the true crime genre and earned the trust of millions of readers who wanted a new and empathetic perspective on the tragic stories at the heart of her works,” as the president and chief executive officer of Simon and Schuster put it — Rule was just another anonymous writer in Seattle in 1971. A former police officer turned crime reporter on the wrong side of 40 with four children at home and a dissolving marriage, Rule volunteered at suicide crisis hotline one night a week.

There — fortunately and unfortunately — she befriended a young man who would commit dozens of horrific murders a few years later: Ted Bundy. This friendship between a great crime writer and her greatest subject was as unlikely as it was fated: the equivalent of Bob Woodward sharing a schoolyard see-saw with Richard Nixon.

“I liked him immediately,” Rule wrote in “The Stranger Beside Me,” the book about Bundy that brought her fame in 1980, ultimately selling more than 2 million copies. “It would have been hard not to. He brought me a cup of coffee and waved his arm over the awesome banks of phone lines.” Bundy’s first words to Rule: “You think we can handle all this?”

In an era when a mass killing seems to happen every week and David Duchovny stars in a TV series about Charles Manson, Bundy’s notoriety may have faded somewhat. But for a generation raised on true-crime pulp and TV movies about Bundy, he remains the face of serial murder in America — the killer of at least 30 women who was so terrifying because, unlike Manson and many of his ilk, he seemed like a stand-up guy.

”Ted Bundy was a complex man who somewhere along the line went wrong,” a prosecutor of one of his crimes said when Bundy was executed in 1989. ”He killed for the sheer thrill of the act and the challenge of escaping his pursuers. He probably could have done anything in life he set his mind to do, but something happened to him and we still don’t know what it was.”

If it’s rare to hear a district attorney pay a tribute of sorts to a man who beat women to death and sexually assaulted their corpses, it wasn’t for Bundy. People loved him. He volunteered for the Republican Party; with Rule beside him, he convinced people not to kill themselves over the phone; he dated; and he was kind of hot.

Rule, for one, thought he was smokin’.

“His physical attractiveness helped to make him a mythical character, an antihero who continues to intrigue readers, many of whom were not even born when he carried out his horrendous crimes,” Rule wrote in “The Stranger Beside Me.” Even further: “As far as his appeal to women, I can remember thinking that if I were younger and single or if my daughters were older, this would be almost the perfect man,” she wrote.

Yet, down the line, it became clear that Bundy fell far short of Mr. Right.

Beating the streets of the Pacific Northwest for stories, Rule, in 1974, followed the bloody path of a killer who preyed on young women. A witness reported hearing a suspect identify himself as “Ted” and police thought he drove a Volkswagen. Though Rule didn’t think Bundy owned a car, she was concerned that her old friend from the suicide hotline matched a description authorities were circulating, and tipped off an officer she knew.

The ensuing interaction went beyond tragedy into comedy.

“I don’t really think this is anything, but it’s bugging me,” Rule wrote she told police. “… His name is Ted Bundy. B-U-N-D-Y. Call me back. O.K.?”

The officer reported back: “Would you believe [he drives] a 1968 bronze Volkswagen Bug?”

Rule thought the officer was kidding. “Come on … What does he really drive?” she asked.

Officer: “Ann, I’m serious.”

Unfortunately, flooded with leads, police didn’t recognize Rule’s hot tip for what it was. Bundy continued to kill — and Rule continued to be his friend. Even after Bundy was initially arrested for kidnapping in 1975 in Salt Lake City, Rule had lunch with him in Seattle while he was out on bond and bought him a carafe of Chablis.


“When this is all over,” Bundy told Rule, “I’ll take you out to lunch.”

“I knew that he was a prime suspect but that was all I knew at the time,” Rule wrote. “I had no knowledge at all beyond the few innuendos I’d read in the papers.” She asked Bundy if he had read about the missing women — after all, she was writing a book about them. He shrugged the questions off. In early 1976, they hung out again and talked for “five hours,” Rule reported.

“I have to tell you this,” she told Bundy. “I cannot be completely convinced of your innocence.”

Bundy: “That’s O.K.”

It was the last time Rule would see Bundy “as a free man,” she wrote. Bundy was convicted of kidnapping in 1976 and began a prison sentence as authorities in other states tried to build murder cases against him.

Still, Rule corresponded with him. She visited him. She sent him $20 — he paid for a haircut with the money. Then, in 1977, Bundy escaped, was arrested and escaped again. After the second escape, he killed three more women before he was arrested in Florida.

The jig was up. And even as she was being courted by Hollywood, Rule was trying to facilitate Bundy’s confession.

“I tried, literally, to save his life,” Rule wrote. “I began to phone Washington state agencies to try to arrange something that would allow Ted to confess to me, and, through plea bargaining, to be returned to Washington for confinement in a mental hospital.”

It wouldn’t work. Bundy was found guilty of capital murder in Florida in 1979 and sentenced to death.

Rule was on board — sort of.

“I believed that the verdict had been the right verdict, but I wondered if it had been for the wrong reasons,” she wrote. “It had been too swift, too vindictive. Was justice still justice when it manifested itself as it had in the less than six hours of jury deliberation?”

Ten years later, after his execution in the electric chair, she offered a postscript that stood in marked contrast to those who shouted: “Burn, Bundy, burn!”

“At long last, peace Ted,” she wrote. “And peace and love to all the innocents you destroyed.”

And 10 years after she wrote those words, Rule’s fondness for Bundy seemed to have faded.

“People like Ted can fool you completely,” she said in 1999. “I’d been a cop, had all that psychology — but his mask was perfect. I say that long acquaintance can help you know someone. But you can never be really sure. Scary.”

She added: “I felt sick when Ted was executed — but I would not have stopped it if I could. He was going to get out, and he would have killed again and again and again.”

skippyjumpsin  asked:

Hi Carrie! I know you have a master list of fic recs , but I can't find it :( I was looking for sterek arranged marriage fics. I don't know if you have a list of those, but if you do I would love to see it. Please and thank you! :)

historical (+modern under the cut)

  • A Desperate Arrangement by mikkimouse (E, 116k) ”I’m sorry, I believe there’s something wrong with my hearing,” Stiles said. “Because I could have sworn you just told me you set up a betrothal agreement with the Hales. A betrothal agreement involving me. Me.” Scott smiled his easygoing smile and nodded, which told Stiles no, he hadn’t misheard a damn thing. After seven years of lengthy negotiations, the treaty between the Hales and the Argents has fallen apart and the two countries fell into war. Months later, there’s an uneasy truce, thanks to the intervention of King Scott McCall, but it won’t last. In a desperate attempt to maintain the peace, the Hales sign a treaty with the McCalls to marry Prince Derek to Prince Stiles Stilinski, King Scott’s brother. In the history of the world, there have been many better ideas.
  • Safe Harbor by helenish [part one][part two][part three][part four] [part five] [part six] [part seven][part eight][part nine] He thought—well. Stiles was kind. Polite. Insisted on a generous settlement for Derek in the prenuptial negotiations, stipulated that Derek and his descendants would retain control over the plot of land where the—the house had been. Derek had believed there was an understanding between them. After what it felt like to have his hand clasped in Stiles’ long-fingered grasp, the gentle brush of lips against his jaw, Derek had almost allowed forgotten himself, had hoped for Stiles to become forward enough to steal a real kiss in their few unchaperoned moments. He didn’t.
  • The Well of Living Waters by kalpurna (E, 30k) King Derek takes a consort.
  • and the wild things roared their terrible roar by hoars (E, 5k) Derek as Khal Drogo (but set in snow beyond the wall) and Stiles as Daenerys Stormborn (although he’s a greenseer of the Children rather than a dragon).

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Of course everyone knew of that Malfoy ancestor, Lucius Malfoy the first, second only in influence to William Cecil, chief advisor to Queen Elizabeth the First of England. They had never been allowed to forget him. Or for that matter, to forget that if not for an unfortunate series of circumstances – set about by that curmudgeonly Cecil (and the Flints no doubt, but Cecil had always been blind to the untrustworthiness of those northeners) – it might have been a Malfoy on the throne of England, not some obscure foreigner from a line of half-wits.

That was, of course, the story the Malfoys were most fond of telling at dinner, to the annoyance of everyone else present. Its charm tended to wear thin after the millionth retelling and one could listen politely only so many times when faced with that particularly annoying expression of smug self-satisfaction each Malfoy wore while telling that story. Alas, polite society dictated that they wore smiles on their faces – even if those smiles were frozen and unnatural – and nodded in all the right places. One did not, after all, sever ties with one’s rivals.

Naturally, when their backs were turned, they told a very different tale about Lucius Malfoy, the first of his name. Of course he left out the best part of the story – he might have been second to William Cecil, but we all know how that ended.

(Smirks usually followed that statement. Sometimes accompanied by sly glances aimed in the direction of the Malfoy peacocks.)

Oh there were lots of ways to put those Malfoys in their place. It was always amusing to see them scowl, or at least see the smugness fade into frozen politeness. More so when one was in one cups and unable to judge the consequences of offending this family, as Cygnus Black did the time when he had suffered his future son-in-law’s boasting for far too long and called him “an insufferable vain  peacock, just like your namesake.”

Narcissa counted herself fortunate that that match did not fall through then and there. It was dreadfully bad-mannered, after all, of her Papa to have mentioned that Embarassing Incident, when Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the First, tired of the first Lucius Malfoy’s pretensions, turned him into an albino peacock for her amusement and to punish him for being a generally annoying pest. Everyone laughed at the story – heavens, so did she – but one did not ever bring it up in polite conversation. Not if one was a Black and therefore, above the petty rivalries of their inferiors.

(That was what her Papa had told her and it was shameful that he did not follow his own advice to her.)

(Though indeed, there were some days where she did see some merit in the Virgin Queen’s approach to the Malfoy family. There was nothing half as entertaining as laughing at a Malfoy and seeing him get his feathers ruffled. And Lucius could be oh so insufferable with his pompous tales of family glory; as though other families had not such great achievements to their names.)

Perhaps it was all to the best, then, that the wizarding world evolved this as a means to keep the Malfoys in their place whenever they nursed pretensions to nobility - and grew far too big for their own boots.

(As though anyone could forget that they were once hangsmen for King William. Or that at least one of their peacocks was not a peacock at all.)

(For the anon who wanted to hear about the Malfoy ancestor who once nearly made an offer for the hand of Queen Elizabeth the First. Or possibly did and failed. History is unclear on this point, by which we mean Malfoys almost certainly paid someone to make themselves look good.)

Noisy Neighbours Modern AU

Hux and Kylo both live in the same refurbished 1950s block of flats in Sheffield. Kylo lives directly above Hux, and their balconies are stacked so they could hear one another if they both have their windows open, but they can’t see one another. They’re both health freaks and always take the stairs so they’ve never really encountered one another beyond the occasional nod at the post boxes.

Hux is an architect and interior designer, a very successful one, specialising in an odd combination of brutalism and intense luxury that appeals to a certain kind of international businessman. He’s a workaholic, frequently loses track of what day it is and is totally reliant on his digital diary. There’s no real identifiable routine to the hours he keeps- other than client appointments he works when he has inspiration and sleeps when his body can’t last another second.

Kylo is an American expat making his money running a mixed martial arts studio and doing stunt work for films. He’s gained a reputation as a determined and dedicated teacher and now has a long list of celebrity clients that he trains on the side. Thanks to his unorthodox work life and the odd schedules of celebrities he’s frequently in and out of building at the strangest times. The only thing he refuses to be flexible on is the need for three hours personal kata practice every day, that he fits in whenever he can.

Despite the 1950s concrete construction of the building sound still travels far too easily between the floors and Hux is frequently treated to the thunder of Kylo pounding across the floor like a herd of elephants at 4am.

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In From The Cold

Fili +  “i slipped on ice outside your house and you ran out barefoot to help me quick let’s get inside under a blanket”

You could not believe how slippery it was….or rather, to say it better, you could not stand it. Literally. You were lucky to still be on your feet as you cautiously made your way down the ice-coated street. With your bag of groceries, which were more plainly guilty pleasures, in hand, you fought to keep your balance not only atop the slick sheet but against the blustering wind and the swirl of snow rising up around you.

At this point, it could be classified as the beginning of a full-blown blizzard. You could barely see a foot in front of you as the powder falling through the air and the layer gathered atop your scarf added to the bite of chill and made it difficult to keep your eyes open. You could feel another pile of snow forming on your wool hat and your finger were starting to numb despite your thick gloves. That could also be attributed to the handle of the grocery bag as it twisted painfully around your fingertips as it was tossed around by the wind.

You continued forward, regretting your impromptu sojourn to the store with every step. Your boots were heavy from the gathering snow and yet your feet felt like to fly up over your head. You were moving slower than a snail and growing more certain that you would never make it the last thirty feet to your home. It was so close and yet so far, sitting nicely on the corner just ahead.

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It was the summer of 2003 when I first saw Cristiano Ronaldo’s magic on the pitch. I was only 15 years old at the time. It happened by a lucky accident that I ended up watching that otherwise not exactly important friendly match between Sporting CP and Manchester United. I feel blessed that I did. I still remember the tingling feeling, the excitement that watching that young man playing as if he was playing for his life gave me. It was love at first sight. Ever since that day I’ve been following Crisitano’s career, and life closely.

It is an honour that I live in an age where I could see someone as talented, as devoted as him day by day. I feel incredibly fortunate that I’ve had the chance to watch him grow, mature through the years. How could I forget when that skinny boy stepped on the grass of Old Trafford for the first time and how the crowd went crazy? He’s already had that certain air around him, the air of greatness.

Many call him a robot because of the terrible amount of goals he scores, because of how he looks like. I’ve never understood the negative voices regarding this subject. If you look at him back in Manchester, and look at him now, you can see all the hard work he’s done to build himself, to achieve the physical perfection. Is that a flaw that he wants to be perfect in every possible way? Shouldn’t it be our goal, too? To try and be the best what we can possibly be?

Personally, I can only admire that determanation what we witness day by day when watching Cristiano. I can only admire his passion for what he’s doing, he’s passion as an athlete, he’s never ending desire to always be better than he was yesterday. I’m saying this as someone who’s been following his career, and the additional terrible war that the media’s started against him a long time ago. I look up to him as a person for a very simple reason, it is something to follow how he never gives up, no matter how they try to break him.

Things got worse in Madrid for him. Not only because of the hate campaings of the press but because of the fans of Real Madrid. Many don’t see how incredibly lucky we are to live in this era. Athletes like Ronaldo don’t born everyday. Many fail to see how he puts everything out on the pitch, how he sacrifices everything for his team. The thought of booing the player who dies on the pitch, and not only tries but achieves as well makes me sick in the pit of my stomach. How is it possible to whistle at a player who scores 50-60 times a year? How is it possible to hate on a player who gave the second most assists in La Liga? How is it possible to do this to a man who’s the best of your team? I wonder how these so called supporters would have reacted to the Manchester United version of Cristiano. He was far from being physically perfect, he fell way too easily, he dribbled way too much, he was in a tantrum half of the match because he did try to do everything by himself and failed many times because he had a lot to learn. Despite of all of those he was admired above all, and still is because we all hear how Red Devils sing for him at the Old Trafford almost at every match. And that makes me feel ashamed… ashamed we have “fans” like that.

Many complains, and mocks him because he makes a scene on the pitch often. As someone who’s been watching him from almost the beginning of his career, I can reassure all of those people that he definitely toned it down as he matured. Let alone the fact that he’s mad at himself most of the times, and not at his teammates, no matter what the press tries to sell about it. Should he be ashamed that he’s a passionate man? Should he feel embarassed that he shows emotions on the pitch, and God help him, don’t act like a robot? I don’t think so. What I do think though, is that the day I see Cristiano Ronaldo losing that passion on the pitch, is going to be the day when I’m going to say he should retire. That passion’s what makes him this incredible force of nature, and I don’t ever want to see it go away. Half of the world may try and conquer him but his fire never goes out, and he always comes back stronger, and that’s what gives strength to so many people, that’s why he can be pointed out as an idol, and that’s why I’m so proud to be his fan.

Zootopia Story: The Moment

It’s been about a year since the events of Zootopia.  Judy and Nick are ears-deep in a grueling case.  At wits end, they discover that support is closer than they think.

A short story about the unexpected moment when everything shifts, and friendship deepens into something beyond.

“More tea, Carrots?”

Judy took a deep breath and brought a paw up to her face.  Pinching the bridge of her nose, she pressed her small claws into the corners of her eyes.  It felt good. She’d been staring at the papers strewn out on the table in front of her for what felt like an eternity.  Even with her eyes closed, she could still see them. “Yes, please,” she said after a moment, reaching out with her other paw towards the sound of the voice. As she felt a mug press into her palm she opened her eyes.  Nick stood before her, a little smile curling up one side of his muzzle. “Cheers,” he said, clanking the edge of his mug lightly against hers.  The strong scent of the blueberry tea he preferred briefly filled the air as he turned theatrically and strode over to the other side of the conference room they’d commandeered.  

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Ice Queen Part 2

Pairing: Dean x Reader (eventually)

Word Count: 3238

Warnings: Angst, grief, some language

Summary: The Reader buys the Impala at an auction and then runs into Sam and Dean on a hunt as they are trying to get into it.  They team up to solve the case.

A/N: I love plot twists. Let me know what you think!

Read Ice Queen Part 1 here

Your name: submit What is this?

The Impala’s tires pounded over the asphalt, the growl of her engine not quite soothing you as it usually did.  On a whim, you pulled the wheel into a sharp left turn onto a gravel road, not caring to slow down.

A few random turns later, the tears were building in your eyes, completely obscuring your vision of the road.  Suddenly, the car wobbled underneath you, the back wheels fishtailing slightly.  You lifted your foot from the accelerator and steered the car out of the skid, breathing a deep sigh of relief once the ride smoothed out.  Realizing you couldn’t stand possibly damaging the Impala by getting into a pointless wreck, you pulled over and cut the engine, trying to get control of yourself.   You knew you had to go back eventually.  Like an idiot, you had left your duffle in the hotel room and you weren’t ready to let go of what it carried—namely, the book and his letter—just yet.  You felt a flash of hot shame in the pit of your stomach at the thought of facing the Winchesters again. Surely they were waiting for you—the crazy crying girl who stole their car.

Yet, you soon discovered you couldn’t control the tears this time.  It had been years since you really, truly cried.  In spite of yourself, you felt a perverse flicker of pleasure, it felt good to get the tears out, like you were an overloaded aerosol can that had busted and was now leaking its contents everywhere.

It was all your fault. Every bit of pain you had ever felt was all your fault. It was you who caused it and you deserved to feel it.  You deserved that aching hole in your chest that never seemed to disappear, no matter how many monsters you killed. What you did…how your family—how he—suffered …all that pain…was it so bad that you didn’t want to cause any more?

Suddenly the passenger side door opened and you reacted out of instinct, withdrawing your knife and holding it to the throat of the person who had dared to enter your car.

“Hey…easy now,” It was Dean, his hands raised as if in surrender, your duffle held in his right fist. You spotted their car in your rear view mirror, Sam sitting in the driver’s seat.  You dropped the knife and it clattered into Dean’s lap, putting your face in your hands, the sobs ripping from your throat sounding less than human.  The duffle bag thumped onto the floor of the Impala and Dean’s arms wrapped around you, causing you to shudder slightly as he pulled your head to his chest.  The warm embrace was remarkably comfortable, new and familiar all at once, like wrapping up in your favorite blanket just after taking it out of the dryer.  

You lost track of the time as you sobbed and Dean held you. The pain felt never-ending, like a horrendous eternal roller coaster. Hateful thoughts paraded around your mind on a slow tortuous carousel.  You couldn’t stop visualizing your family on the day that had changed your life forever.  Your sister’s toothy grin smeared with her blood, those beautiful sparkling blue eyes, dull and dark.  Your parents’ shocked expressions frozen on their faces, while crimson dripped down your mother’s favorite sweatshirt from her slit throat and your dad’s reading glasses lay shattered on the floor next to his cold body. You couldn’t even think his name or picture his light brown hair, without feeling like your heart was ripping itself apart.  It had been ten years, but the images were as sharp as ever.  You wished you could escape the agonizing theme park that was your life for just a minute.  You’d give anything to be anyone but yourself for just a little while.

Finally, the sobs stopped, the aching pain in your chest subsided slightly, and you looked up at Dean nervously, untangling yourself from his arms and scooting backwards.          

“I’m sorry, I…” You said, searching for words. You wiped the rest of the tears off your face with trembling fingers.. “How did you find me?”           

“Your phone.  Sam turned on the GPS last night while you were asleep.” He said in a quiet voice, handing your fallen knife to you.  You took it shyly.  He was entirely different than the man you had met last night.  He wasn’t looking at you like you were a piece of meat; he was looking at you with concern and worry tight in those piercing emerald eyes, his lips curved in a slight frown.  How could he have changed so quickly?

“That’s not creepy at all.” You replied, slipping into your default sarcastic tone. You tried to continue, but Dean interrupted you.

“We wanted to be able to protect you.”  His voice held that same quiet tone, sad and low.  You couldn’t stand the sorrowful pity in his eyes.

“I can handle myself,” you said angrily. “I don’t need protection.” You shifted your gaze out the windshield, crossing your arms over your chest.

“It’s something we do.  Protect people.” Dean said, his voice harder.  His gaze was all careful scrutiny, but you pretended not to notice.  

“Even if they don’t ask for it?” You snapped, your tone matching your icy glare. 

Dean’s eyes locked with yours as he answered, “Those are the ones who need it the most.”

You continued to scowl at him, not having the energy to argue further.  These past twelve hours had been too much for you.  You were used to being on your own and keeping to yourself.  This much human interaction had exhausted you in more ways than one.

“Come on,” Dean spoke up again, nudging your shoulder gently.  “You hungry? Let’s get some grub.”  A beautiful half-smile lit his features and your heart nearly skipped a beat.  The way his lips curved reminded you of him again.  You shook your head, trying to get the image out of your mind.

“Yeah, okay,” you sighed.


Half an hour later, you and the brothers were lounging in a diner booth, Dean sitting across from you, Sam next to you, his long frame taking up over half the seat. You had scooted as far away from him as you could in that small space; you weren’t a big fan of physical contact most of the time.  Fortunately, neither of the Winchesters had noticed.  Before long, you had ordered a french toast platter and coffee. After a few sips, the caffeine woke you up, causing you to voice something you’d been wondering about.

“So, how did the Impala end up at an auction? It doesn’t seem like you’d let her go without a fight.” You ran your thumb along the rim of your mug, preferring to watch its progress intently rather than peer into the eyes of the man who had just witnessed how much of a blubbering mess you were.      

“A car can’t come with you to purgatory.” Dean said in an indifferent tone.  

The coffee cup was no longer enough to hold your attention as your head snapped up, eyes focusing instead on Dean’s almost expressionless face.

“Pur—“ You were shocked, especially by the way he talked so nonchalantly about it.  All thoughts of your dreadful morning evacuated your mind to make room for this new information. “You were in purgatory?” You’d never thought of it as a real place before.

“Yeah, this time.  Sam left the life—the hunting life—found some girl, and lost the Impala.  It’s a long story.” sighed Dean, his voice heavy.  You stared at him, dumbfounded, wondering if he was being serious.  What did he mean by ‘this time’?  You studied the tight humorless smile on his face.  His eyes–his marvelous green eyes–were full of pain.

“I…I'm…” You paused, trying to take the information in. “I’m sorry…I just, I don’t know what to say.” You glanced at Sam briefly, feeling helpless. How could you comfort someone who had experienced purgatory? Sam merely looked at you, but his expression made it seem like he knew what you were thinking.  You tried again. “I’m so sorry, that must have been horrible, I can’t even imagine…”

Dean shrugged off your comments, turning his distant stare to the window.  

“Yeah. Well. I’m back now so that’s all that matters.”  You didn’t know Dean Winchester very well, but you hated what this experience did to him, the way it seemed to weigh on his shoulders as an eternal hefty burden.  Even so, you couldn’t help the flicker of curiosity that it ignited within you.  What was purgatory like? How did Dean get out? What did this all mean about heaven and hell? But you held your tongue, not wanting to be rude.  Some part of you didn’t want to make Dean relive it either.  You already cared deeply for the man sitting across from you.  It was an unsettling realization.  

Trying to lighten the mood, you said, “They have the best pie here. I recommend peach.”  Both Dean and Sam turned to stare at you for a second, incredulous looks on their faces. Dean’s haunted look vanished, replaced with wide eyes and parted lips.  

“What?” you asked, looking back and forth between them. You’d hoped your comment was enough to distract them and apparently it did its job a little too well.    

“Nothing,” Sam said a little too quickly. The two brothers shared a weird look and you turned away.

Fortunately, the waitress chose that exact moment to appear at your table, her arms laden with your meal.

For a while, there was only the scraping of knives and forks and the occasional tinkling of a plate or cup to fill the silence. Your mind wandered from questions about purgatory to questions about the Impala until it landed on the reason this whole thing had happened–the case.  

“Any luck researching last night?” You asked Sam.  

“Uh, yeah, actually,” Sam answered, smiling at you.  You could tell he was trying to reassure you somehow.  Like he was trying to say that teaming up with him and his brother wasn’t a bad thing.  You weren’t so sure yet. “Turns out all the disappearances are young women who all have just one thing in common.“ He paused, as if to build suspense.

“Which is?” said Dean, his mouth forming an impatient line around a strip of bacon.  “C’mon, Sam, don’t be a tease.” he continued, heavy sarcasm coating his tone.  

Sam furrowed his eyebrows in a frown and pursed his lips.  He glared at Dean and replied, “They’re all virgins.  And, get this, there’s been a string of robberies this past week.  The only thing they take is gold.  Which means we’re dealing with–”  

“Dragons,” finished Dean, setting down his fork for only a minute.  He wiped his mouth with a napkin, saying, “Dammit, I hate those leathery sons of bitches.”

You blinked. What? Did he just say…dragons? You’d fought demons, vampires, werewolves, witches, and all sorts of monsters, but you’d never once thought of dragons as part of that list.   

“Hold on, dragons are real now?” Both Winchesters turned their gazes on you. You laughed nervously.  “What’s next, flying broomsticks? Mermaids? Angels?”

“Well, actually…” Sam began, glancing at Dean, a wry half-smile forming on his lips.   

“You mean to tell me you have a couple of flying broomsticks hidden in the trunk of your car?” Your voice rose an octave, disbelief coloring your tone.  

“No, no, of course not.  Angels, though, they’re definitely real.” said Sam, his smirk now a full-blown smile as he watched you take in his words.   Was he being serious?  You hardly knew these men; they could be yanking you around.  You weren’t sure how much you could trust them, no matter how experienced they seemed to be at hunting.  You decided to assume they were joking.  

“Oh come on, you guys don’t really believe in angels, do ya?” You laughed again, looking back and forth between the brothers, waiting for one to say “gotcha!”

Instead, Dean cleared his throat and began to speak.  

“Actually, we know some.  Most of them are dicks.  But our friend Cas is one of the good guys.”

“You’re friends with an angel?” The way they were looking at you–straight-faced, not a trace of humor in their eyes–gave you the sinking feeling they were telling the truth.  

“Yeah,” Dean said, studying your face. “He’d probably stop by if we prayed to him.” A slight pause, then: “Dear Castiel,” he closed his eyes and bent his head, his voice quiet.  “Need your help down here.  We’re at Della’s Cafe, Sidney, Nebraska–”

“You’re talking to angels now,” you interrupted, rolling your eyes.  “That’s cra–holy–!” Your heart jumped so far up your throat you nearly choked on it as a man appeared next to Dean in the seat across from you, his sapphire eyes intensely focused on your face.   

“Yes, I am,” said the man, his voice so low and rough you thought he might bust a vocal chord. “Perhaps I am now less holy than I once was but, yes, that is correct.”

You stared wide eyed at Dean and Sam, your mouth hanging open.  

“Y/N, meet Castiel, your friendly neighborhood angel.  Cas, this is our new friend, Y/N.”   Dean nodded at Cas and you in turn, continuing to eat his pancakes, apparently unfazed by the angel’s sudden materialization.  

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” said Cas.  “May I assume you are a fellow hunter?”

“Uh–well–uh–yeah,” you stuttered.  Twelve hours ago you weren’t sure heaven existed and now, here you were, talking to an angel from that very place. You coughed, trying to gather your thoughts. “Yes, I’m a hunter.  It’s nice to meet you too…Castiel.”  He didn’t smile; he merely continued to gaze intently at you, his head tilted in curiosity. You stared back for a couple of seconds, confused, before Dean noticed and clapped a hand on Cas’s shoulder.

“Dude, chill,” he said, taking a sip of coffee. “She’s cool.  She’s helping us with the case.” Only then did Castiel blink and look down at the tabletop.

“Apologies, Y/N,” the angel said, turning to scrutinize the view out the window instead, apparently checking out of the conversation.

Sam coughed nervously.

“Anyway…so, we know it’s dragons,” he mused, drawing your attention from the strange Cas. “One or two judging by the number of vics. We’ll have to search the sewers to find them.  I think we should start near that warehouse you checked out last night, Y/N.”

“That’s great and all,” you said, nodding, determined to not seem like a total hunting novice, “But how exactly do we gank a dragon?”  You looked expectantly at the boys, secretly proud of how strong and nonchalant your voice sounded.  They shared another look and Dean spoke up.  

“We ran into one a few years back.  Killed it with a blade forged with dragon’s blood.  We’ve got it in the trunk.”  You raised your eyebrows, surprised at his effortless response.  Apparently, the two men before you were no ordinary hunters.  Who the hell were these Winchesters?

“You guys just know everything, don’t ya?” you sighed, once again humbled by their obvious expertise.  Sam just chuckled softly, while Dean merely grinned around his last mouthful of pancake.


A few hours later, the search of the sewers was yielding no results.  After paying for your meal, Cas had disappeared to take care of some “angel business” as Dean called it, whatever that was.  The brothers and you had headed to the warehouse right away, Dean insisting the three of you stay together rather than search separately since there was only one weapon that would be of any use against the monster, which was held aloft in Sam’s right fist. Three flashlight beams dusted over the musty floor and walls, illuminating nothing but grime and cement.  

Suddenly, Sam’s whisper broke the silence.  

“Y/N, what’s your favorite song?“ he said, his alert gaze shifting to you for only a second.

“You’re kidding, right?” you muttered.  “Sam, we’re kind of busy at the moment. Don’t you think this can wait?”

“Oh, c’mon. I’m curious.” he replied, shrugging, his eyes still focused on the tunnel ahead of him.  Surprisingly, Dean had no quick retort.  Funny, he always seemed to have something to say.  

“I don’t have one,” you answered automatically.  Sam frowned, visibly unsatisfied with your answer.  You sighed, confused and frustrated. “I guess if I had to choose,” you continued grudgingly. “Sweet Child O’ Mine by Guns ‘N Roses,” A slight pause. “Or anything by Queen, really.  You know, the classics.”

Never had two people reacted more weirdly to a useless piece of trivia than how Sam and Dean reacted to your words.  Sam smiled triumphantly at Dean, like he’d just won some bet, while Dean turned his steely glare back to the dank walls ahead of him and surged ahead.

“What is with you two?” you said, bewildered. You followed behind Dean, not waiting for an answer, and focused instead on the hunt.  Sam gave a low, quiet chuckle before falling in line behind you.  

The three of you continued like that for a few more minutes. At some point, you’d somehow switched spots with Sam and you were bringing up the rear.  As you came up on an junction of the sewer tunnels, you shone the flashlight beam to your right out of habit as you passed the intersecting tunnel, stopping in your tracks as your eyes snagged on a glimmer of gold lying on the floor a few feet away.  By the time you identified it as a heap of gold jewelry, Dean and Sam had turned a corner up ahead.  

“Guys,” you whispered, not wanting the dragon to hear you.  After waiting a few seconds for them to appear, you shrugged, deciding to follow this trail of gold on your own.  You were a good hunter, you reasoned, and you had plenty of experience.  You could definitely handle some dumb monster.  

Creeping along the dark tunnel with your gun and flashlight held at shoulder-height, it wasn’t long until you found a large metal door.  You pushed it open as quietly as you could and stepped inside.  Steel grates replaced the cement underneath your feet and you could see steam rising between the metal.  

Without warning, an arm hooked around your neck, dragging you back a step. The gun and flashlight were knocked out of your hands as you sputtered, your airway choked, and you squirmed against the arm, lifting your boot to stomp your heel on your captor’s foot.  A voice gasped and the grip loosened just enough for you to pull forward and swing your elbow back, the point connecting with a bony jaw.  You spun out of your attacker’s grasp and faced him, taken aback at how normal he looked.  He was balding and scarred, with muddy brown eyes full of malice, but his pointed fingernails resembled claws.  So, this was a dragon.   

He smiled eerily, wiping discolored blood from his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket.  

“Well, aren’t you quick,” he jeered, taking a step closer.  “And pretty too.” He sniffed the air and closed his eyes briefly, as if in pleasure. His smile grew wider.  You gulped and you knew.  He could tell.  He could tell just by smelling you.  “My, my, it’s not often that my prey wanders so willingly into my home.”

Read Part 3 here

Dersha Prompt Request #2: Fortunate

Prompt Request: “Dersha labor and delivery with Derek being really attentive, anxious and sweet.”

Note: Writing a pregnant Dersha was a lot, but it was definitely fun to play with. I hope this happens for our babies somewhere down the line! This is set a year from now, so certain details are a bit different (but not too much). Thank you to the person who requested this…I hope I did it justice for you! Also excuse any errors, it’s really late. Enjoy!


“Hey you.” The pregnant dancer greeted sweetly as she waddled her way out into the parking lot of the downtown, L.a luxury spa. A hand adorned with a gorgeous 18-carat diamond ring splayed gracefully across her huge baby bump. 

“Hey yourself, beautiful.” Derek grinned, placing a tender kiss on his fiance’s cheek. “You look relaxed.” The player quickly opened the door for the expecting mom-to-be.

The Devil Girl had just finished an hour long labor-inducing massage therapy session, and with two weeks left in her pregnancy, the event couldn’t have come at a better time for Ahsha. “And you look hot,” the dancer teased, biting her lip. The chocolate complexion of Derek’s smooth toned skin beamed deliciously in the California sunlight. Ahsha fawned at the sight, pulling the player in for a hot kiss.The two lovebirds were all smiles as the dancing beauty finally tore herself away from her fiancé’s lips. 

Ahsha released a heavy breath, plopping down ungracefully onto the padded leather seat of Derek’s truck.

Being young, working and expecting was far from easy – even with having an amazing man like Derek Roman by her side. As the months went past, thoughts of her future and the future of their unborn daughter constantly plagued her mind, causing Ahsha to become stressed way more often than she needed to be. Of course, Derek was always the first to notice when Ahsha was beginning to get strung out. Hence him insisting on booking her a pregnancy massage.

“How was it?” Derek rested a large hand on the dancer’s thickening thigh. The couple were matching in denim and white tees, Ahsha in a pair of baggy jean shorts a fitted v-neck fitting for the L.A. weather.

“It was nice…” Ahsha’s full lips drew into a warm smile. The mocha beauty was radiant and glowing in these final weeks of her pregnancy. Ahsha was thankful for the California breeze as the two cruised the streets en route to the Devil’s arena. Although the Devil’s were in the off-season, both Ahsha and Derek still had a lot of business to attend to. It was all in their efforts to secure the upcoming months after the baby’s arrival.

The car ride was relaxing for Ahsha, as Derek’s focus was mostly on the road. They player made sure to take caution with the busy Los Angeles streets. Precious cargo was an understatement considering how far along his woman was.

With Derek’s hand draped protectively across her thigh, Ahsha quickly retrieved her phone to scan her texts and emails. For the last few months the dancer had been working on securing a dance studio for a group of girls she’d volunteered to train, through a program sponsored by the Devil’s organization. With a baby on the way, Ahsha figured it would be best to immerse herself in as much work as she could before the baby came. That way, she would have less things to worry about once their daughter finally got there. She’d continued to choreograph dances up until she couldn’t anymore, and with maintaining her position as Devil Girl captain over the last year and half, Ahsha had been getting endless opportunities. Magazine spreads, press coverage throughout the dance season, show appearances, dance gigs overseas and outside of the arena… But those opportunities were nothing compared to the passion-project Ahsha had taken on with her girls. And with a new baby on the way, the dancer wanted to make sure she had everything finalized for the new studio. 

“Don’t you think it’s about time you slowed down a bit?” Derek’s deep voice interrupted. The player’s brow rose as he threw his fiance a quick glance. Ahsha had been so fixated with her device that she had failed to notice Derek’s gaze. The truck slowed as the player neared the entrance of the arena. Ahsha chewed on her bottom lip, but remained silent.

“Ms. Hayes.” The guard nodded. “Mr. Roman.” Derek nodded back before easing into the parking lot. 

“The doctor said…” Derek began to protest, causing Ahsha to sigh heavily. The last thing she needed was an argument, especially the same one.  It was the same back-and-forth on a loop for the last six months. Slow down… Relax… Take it easy. Ahsha couldn’t stand it anymore. She was far from helpless and she just wished Derek would get that. “She said, I would fine as long as I take it easy. I just got back from the spa. I’ve been doing business from home just like you wanted.” Though her tone was sweet, Derek could hear her frustration building up.  

“Yeah,” Derek rubbed Ahsha’s leg as he continued on. He decided to tread lightly, not wanting to upset or cause her stress. “But you haven’t slowed down, have you?” The concern in Derek’s voice wasn’t missed.

“Derek…,” Ahsha muttered, but was interrupted once again. “Ahsha… Look, I’m not trying to upset you.” Derek paused, “But we can’t keep doing this. You’ve been running around non-stop and it’s been like this for months. I keep thinking you’ll slow down but we’re basically nine months in and I feel like it’s only gotten worse, baby.”

The wrinkle in Derek’s brow was a tell-tale sign of the Devil’s worry. For months he had to bear witness to Ahsha’s continuous obsession with work. At first it was admirable to see his woman continue to work so hard. The morning sickness, the mood swings, and the fresh struggles of a first-time pregnancy didn’t slow her down. To the outside world, she made it all look easy. But knowing her better than anyone else, Derek knew better. When the basketball season ended, he assumed the Devil Girl would finally kick her feet up. But really, the off-season merely gave her more time to devote to work. No matter how hard the player tried to convince his fiance that she didn’t need to push herself so hard, she kept going. It was clear to Derek that Ahsha’s issues were beyond his control. 

“Tell me what’s really wrong Ahsha,” Derek insisted. The Devil turned off his engine and sat back in his seat, simply waiting. He needed a real answer this time. Not just words to temporarily soothe his worries.

Ahsha sighed heavily feeling like the world’s weight was on her shoulders. She had never truly opened up to Derek about her feelings regarding their pregnancy. The months breezed by so fast, she had never really gotten the chance. Now, she was days away from labor and she felt like her world was caving in.

The truck was quiet as the two lovers sat in silence. There was a long pause before Ahsha finally spoke up.  “I’m… not ready.” The dancer’s voice cracked with the weight of her confession. It felt like her entire world had come to a halt. “I…” Ahsha froze, realizing what she had just said. Her eyes immediately snapped towards her fiance. “Derek…” 

Derek’s entire body grew tense. The player’s eyes were boring a hole into the Devil Girl’s face. “What is that supposed to mean?” Derek questioned softly, though his brows drew together with confusion and concern. The couple were days away from the arrival of their newborn. Even though Derek knew Ahsha was going through something, he would’ve never guessed that she wasn’t ready for a family. “Are you saying you don’t want this?” 

“What?” Ahsha’s shock was evident. “No. No… That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” The devastation on the player’s face was heartbreaking. The dancer’s mouth hung open as she racked her mind for the right thing to say. She quickly grabbed his hand in hers. Wanting to assure him that his assumption wasn’t what he thought it was.

“It’s not like that,” She paused, gazing into Derek’s eyes. “Look, I love you. But you already have the world at your feet. You don’t have to worry about not knowing what your next move is going to be. You’re set. And I get that. That means she’s set too, but…” Ahsha clung to her stomach. “I want things. For myself, Derek. I don’t want her to be born into a world with a mom who doesn’t have her stuff together,” Ahsha confessed. Derek’s facial expression was clear with surprise. The Devil player wasn’t expecting such a confession. The dancer sighed. “I don’t want to be just another dancer on a player’s arm. Do you get that?” 

Ahsha finally took a breath. The hard look that was in Derek’s eyes had softened instantly. 

“Baby…” Derek started, reaching across to comfort her. Ahsha felt as if the floodgates had just opened, freeing all the emotions she had kept hidden for the past few months. When Derek drew her closer Ahsha’s breath hitched. “I’m scared Derek. I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing…” 

The player wrapped her up in his arms as her voice broke. The tightness of his embrace causing Ahsha to fall apart. The reality of the past few months came crashing down on her all at once. The only reason she’d been driving herself into the ground was because she felt like she wasn’t enough of a woman to begin raising their child. There was so much Ahsha wanted to accomplish, not just for herself, but for her daughter. The dancer was only twenty-five, and the thought of being a mother, now, – terrified her. There were days she still felt like a child herself. There was so much she felt like she still needed to prove. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Derek’s grip tightened as the player entangled a hand in the dancer’s long locks. Cradling the back of her head, Derek finally started to soothe his fiance’s fit. “I don’t know… I know it’s so stupid…” Ahsha sniffed.

“It’s not. It’s not stupid, baby.” Derek replied. “I understand. I know. I know it’s scary. Trust me,” the player assured with a little laugh. He knew how Ahsha felt because he had felt those feelings too in the beginning. But now, there was nothing he was more sure of than his desire to raise his daughter. Derek rubbed her back. “You’re the greatest woman I know, Ahsha. And you’ll make the best mom.” The player kissed her temple. Holding her face close to his own, Derek clutched Ahsha’s soft cheeks in his large palms. “I love you so much. And I still got you.” Derek drew her closer, kissing her lips. Ahsha wrapped her hands around his wrists as Derek’s hands clung to her face.  

“I got you too.” She smiled shyly. Derek’s eyes lit up as he smirked. “And she’s got us.” Derek placed a hand on Ahsha’s bump. The two lovers smiled before sharing a kiss. 


3 Weeks Later

At thirty-seven weeks Ahsha finally went into labor. The Devil Girl was at her mom and dad’s when her contractions first hit, with Derek by her side every step of the way. The player had made sure to take care of all his business endeavors, that way the chance of him missing his daughter’s birth would be slim to none. When the couple and the grandparents-to-be first arrived at the hospital, the dancer was fairly calm. It wasn’t until her contractions started to really hit that the mom-to-be grew impatient and anxious. The pain of her labor wasn’t one she could mask.

“It hurts…” the tears on Ahsha’s face tore Derek apart. The beauty of her birthing sweet didn’t take away from the horror Ahsha was feeling. Derek had made sure she was as comfortable as possible through the lengthy process. Ahsha had some of the best nurses and the best physician that L.A. could provide. But they could only do so much to ease her pain through the baby’s arrival. Derek was right beside his fiance. Hand in hers, nursing the soon-to-be-mom through every moment until it was time for her to push.

Derek grabbed onto her hand tighter. The player stood over Ahsha, coaching her through it all. 

“You can do this, babe. A few more pushes and she’s out. Our babygirl will get to see how badass her mom is,” Ahsha laughed through tears and the pain. The dancer continued to push even through the weakness of her body. Before the world knew it, Ahva Dani Roman was born. 


“God, she’s beautiful honey,” Sloane watering eyes crinkled with her smile. The new grandma softly stroked her granddaughter’s thick locks while Ahsha held her newborn. The room had quieted down much since Ahva’s arrival. The bundle of joy was fast asleep in her mother’s arms. The nurses and doctor had exited the room a while ago.

“My baby just had a baby. Jesus. I feel old.” Pete said jokingly. The proud look on his face added to the beauty of the moment. “You are old.” Sloane shot back. The entire room responded with laughter. The coach simply shook his head with a smirk, continuing to fawn over over his daughter and grand-daughter.

“I’m going to grab something from the machine. We’ll give you two a moment,” Sloane’s hand entangled with her husbands as the two quietly exited, thoughtfully giving the new parents some privacy.

Derek couldn’t stop staring at the two most important women in his life. The sight of Ahsha’s bravery and courage was one he knew he’d never forget. The player’s lips curved up as he gazed at the love of his life. 

“You did it,” he kissed her forehead, and then Ahva’s. 

“I’m sweaty and disgusting,” Ahsha furrowed her brows with a twist of her lips. 

Derek laughed, stroking her hair. “You’re gorgeous.” 

“And so are you, princess…” Ahsha lifted her arms as Derek carefully lifted Ahva’s tiny little blanketed frame. Their baby girl was the perfect mixture of both of her parents, with her toffee colored skin, pouty lips, and full cheeks. She was the best and most treasured thing Derek had ever laid eyes on.

Ahsha’s lazy smile was missed by the player as he walked towards the couch before sitting down softly, being careful not to wake his baby girl. Minutes passed and before the player knew it, Ahsha was sound asleep.

Even with her hair tussled, her face make-up free, her skin sweating, and in a drab hospital gown… she was stunningly beautiful. Derek eyes traveled back to his daughter, as the tiny little Devil’s hand wrapped tightly around his finger. Ahva’s doe eyes fluttered open as she stared up in marvel at the her father. 

“I guess it’s just me and you princess. Your mom’s fast asleep,” Derek rocked his hand slowly. His chest swelled with the feeling of love he felt as his daughter latched onto him in complete comfort at his presence. “She deserves it, though. If it were up to me I’d let her sleep for an entire year,” when Ahva blinked up at him, he chuckled at her, “Yeah, I know.” 

“For some reason she thought she wasn’t enough for you, but we both know that’s a lie. Right? All that hard work you gave her. And she pushed through, literally…” Derek grinned as he continued to converse with Ahva as if her tiny mind was developed enough to understand every single word. Her little responses were adorable. It was almost as if she really could understand. “She’s caring… and she’s tough. Loyal. Hell, she puts up with me…” Derek shook his head, looking over at Ahsha’s sleeping form. The player quickly added, “Don’t tell her I said hell, alright? She’ll go crazy… She’s scarier than I am…”  

The player continued to talk his little girl up as she cooed incoherently in his arms. He didn’t know it, but Ahsha wasn’t completely asleep. She’d heard every word, and the joy she felt was so much, it overpowered her. The few tears that escaped onto her face were tears of pure happiness. She truly couldn’t deny how fortunate she was to have this all…