Post by Dean Harper on Sept 19, 2024 6:16:30 GMT
The camera comes on to Dean Harper as he sits casually in a deep, velvet armchair, his posture exuding a mix of brooding intensity and effortless grace. His tousled hair falls slightly into his eyes, but he makes no effort to move it. Dressed in a tailored black shirt that fits snugly across his chest and sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, sinewy forearms, his presence commands the room without needing to say a word. His sharp jawline is accentuated by the soft glow of a nearby lamp, casting shadows that deepen his piercing gaze. His lips curve into a slight, knowing smirk, as if he's guarding secrets that no one can decipher, making him the enigmatic, alluring centerpiece. “This is what you wanted. Each week I have to go after another one of your little friends. So far I’m two for two. I’ll admit I don’t think this is working out the way any of you hoped it would.”
He smiles, “After all, you expected this to demoralize me. You expected me to be beaten into a pulp by this point. And yet… here we are. And I am not impressed yet.”
They had moved into the new house, earlier in the day. A new home with no memories to fill for the new family of two. Damien was sleeping soundly in his new room with the ceiling decorated with stars and a night light on as his dog Bluey slept soundly at his feet, ears flicking to any sound in the new empty house.
Dean stands under the steady stream of hot water, the heat fogging up the glass around him, but it does nothing to ease the tension coiled deep inside. His hands press against the cool tiles in front of him as the water cascades down his tattooed and scarred back, but his mind is far from the comfort of the shower.
He stares down at the floor, lost in thought, replaying the scenes from his past relationship with Warren. The mistakes, the compromises, the moments he gave more than he should have—each memory stings like fresh wounds reopened. His jaw tightens as he recalls the times he tried to mold himself into what someone else wanted, only to be left feeling hollow and more distant from who he is. A bitter smirk forms on his lips. He knows now that those sacrifices, those pieces of himself he gave up, never earned him love—only resentment, from Warren and himself.
Dean leans against the shower wall, eyes closed, letting the water pour over him as his mind drifts back to a memory he tries to bury but never quite succeeds, the only bright spot in his life before Max. The thought of his "White Knight" sneaks up on him like it always does when he’s most vulnerable—unexpected, yet so vivid it’s as if he’s back in that summer, feeling the sun on his skin, the rush of a love he hadn’t known could exist.
It was the kind of love that hits hard and fast, leaving no time for second thoughts. He hadn’t planned on falling for him, hadn’t planned on being consumed by the intensity of it. But that’s exactly what happened. His White Knight was everything he wasn’t at sixteen—bright, bold, with a kind of reckless confidence that made Dean want to abandon everything and follow him to the ends of the earth. They spent those summer nights under the stars, whispering about a future far away from the hell Dean was in. They were supposed to run away together, leave everything behind.
Just when they were about to make their escape, his grandmother got sick. Dean had been raised to believe that family loyalty came above all else, that blood was the unbreakable bond he could never forsake. So he stayed. He stayed because he couldn’t bear the guilt of leaving his grandmother when she needed him most, even though every part of him wanted to go. She hadn’t deserved that loyalty. She had made every moment of his life hell but the guilt was too much to leave when she needed him, promised to make things better if he stayed.
And then, just as suddenly as she had fallen ill, his grandmother got better and went back to her old tricks. By the time his grandmother was back on her feet, his White Knight had vanished, leaving only the hollow echo of what could have been.
Dean’s chest tightens at the memory. He wonders, sometimes, if his White Knight thought of him. The thought gnaws at him in moments like this, where he stands alone, wrestling with the decisions he made. He stayed because he thought it was right. But in staying, he lost something irreplaceable—something he never fully recovered from until Maxine but then just as quickly he’d lost her too.
The regret lingers, like a faint scar.
His heart aches, and realizing he might end up alone gnaws at him.
But even with that fear lingering, he straightens, running a hand through his soaked hair. He might be alone, but he won’t lose himself again. Never again will he cut off pieces of who he is for the sake of love that doesn’t deserve him. His eyes harden with resolve as he whispers to the empty shower, "No more."
If he’s going to love again, it’ll be on his terms.
“Now, you had a lot to say—practically a movie-level villain monologue about me.” Dean leans back, crossing his arms with a knowing, almost dismissive look. His expression is unreadable, but the tension in the room is palpable. After a moment, he speaks, his voice low and measured.
"I don’t owe you an explanation, Shea," he says, his gaze unwavering. "Not about what happened, or why it ended." His tone is calm, but there's a sharp edge beneath it, a warning. "You think you know the whole story, but you’re only seeing what you want to see."
He leans forward slightly, his eyes darkening. "Warren wasn’t… Isn’t the hero you’ve built up in your head. Not even close. But I don’t expect you to understand that. Not yet." His lips twitch into a faint, almost mocking smile. "In time, maybe you’ll realize things aren’t as black and white as you think."
"But by then, it'll be too late." Dean shrugs, “I know it’s easier to blame me for everything. He asked me to remove anyone who was a threat to him, I assumed the protection for Vivienne was removed. My mistake.”
“But…” Dean’s eyes narrow, his voice dropping into a dangerously calm tone. "You think I call you a homewrecker unjustifiably? You think I don’t know, Shea?" he says, a cold smirk playing on his lips. "I know you asked him to leave me."
The silence that follows is suffocating. His gaze stays locked on the camera, sharp and cutting, as if daring her to deny it.
"Did you really think you could manipulate your way into this? That I wouldn’t find out?"
His voice was a low growl now. "You played your hand, and you think it makes you the better person. But what you don’t understand," he leans in, “Is that you’ve only made things worse for yourself."
A cruel satisfaction gleamed in his. "You didn’t save anyone, Shea. Least of all yourself."
“We both know the real reason you hate me. Because you thought I told him not to go to you when you lost the baby and Will abandoned you. I had nothing to do with that. He left you alone to process that, all of his own choice.”
“You are going to make me beg?”
Dean’s smirk widens as he hears the challenge, a dark glint flashing in his eyes. He tilts his head slightly, his confidence practically oozing from him. “You think you can beat me?” his voice dripping with amusement as if the very idea is laughable.
His tone turned sharper. “You don’t have a clue what you’re up against, do you?” His eyes flicker with a dangerous intensity, the smirk fading into something far more sinister. “I’ve been through worse than you can imagine, and I’m still standing.”
Dean leans back in, his voice a low, threatening whisper. “So, if you think you’re ready to take me down… go ahead. Try.” He pauses, before pulling back with a chilling smile. “But I promise you, Shea— don’t bark if you can’t bite. It takes a monster to destroy a monster, and you ain’t got that in you. You might think I’m an asshole but I’ve pictured what I’m going to do to you for years.”
He gives an almost pitying expression, his voice softer but laced with disappointment. “You know what your real problem is, Shea?” he asks, his eyes scanning as if seeing through every façade. “You don’t believe in yourself. Not really. No self-respect. You don’t believe in The Murder’s mission but you signed up for it because you felt left out of reindeer games and wanted Starlight to notice you. Despite the fact you told her if she stayed in the murder you weren’t friends anymore and called her a whore. You have the Queen’s Gambit case and were too fucking scared to cash in against Jennie. Despite the act, deep down you think you are worthless, unloveable, and unfuckable.”
He shakes his head slightly, his gaze never leaving hers. “It’s a shame, too. A real pity, considering what you could be.” There’s a hint of regret in his tone, as though he’s looking at something wasted. “You’ve got potential, more than most, but you’re so wrapped up in your own doubt, you can’t even see it.”
He steps closer, his voice lowering, more intense now. “If you just let go of that fear, if you stopped holding yourself back, you’d be unstoppable. But instead…” He trails off, his eyes hardening. “You settle. For less. For failure. And that’s what’ll always hold you down. If you stopped living your life hoping someone else would notice you were worthy, if you stopped trying to get other people to like you, to get other people to see you? You’d be someone that people feared. You beat Eternity. You were the only one consistently able to beat Rowan. Two-time Shieldmaiden champion, fuck you were the first IWF Shieldmaiden champion. You had a world title off Rowan. You could and should be in the pillars of what defines the women’s division.”
Dean straightens, his disappointment clear as he turns away slightly, shaking his head. “What a waste,” he mutters, more to himself than to her. "You could've been something."
Dean cracks his knuckles, “But no, you hold back. You back down. You could be great but you hold yourself to second-tier bullshit. Even now, even when you think you can take me, trust me, sweetheart, you can’t do half of what you would need to do to get me to beg.”
Dean leans in close to the camera, his voice a low, menacing whisper that sends a chill down the spine. His dark eyes lock onto the camera with an intensity that feels suffocating, like he’s savoring every moment of growing discomfort. “The pain you're going to feel,” he murmurs, his lips curling into a twisted smirk, “it's only the beginning.”
He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in before continuing, “You’d better get used to it, Shea. You’ll beg—again and again—and I’ll watch, knowing there’s no end in sight for you.” His voice grows even softer, a deadly whisper, “Begging becomes second nature after a while. You’ll see.”
Dean sits back, a look of cruel satisfaction playing on his face, “But if you ask nice enough I’ll take it all away and show you what you could have been all along.”
He smiles, “After all, you expected this to demoralize me. You expected me to be beaten into a pulp by this point. And yet… here we are. And I am not impressed yet.”
They had moved into the new house, earlier in the day. A new home with no memories to fill for the new family of two. Damien was sleeping soundly in his new room with the ceiling decorated with stars and a night light on as his dog Bluey slept soundly at his feet, ears flicking to any sound in the new empty house.
Dean stands under the steady stream of hot water, the heat fogging up the glass around him, but it does nothing to ease the tension coiled deep inside. His hands press against the cool tiles in front of him as the water cascades down his tattooed and scarred back, but his mind is far from the comfort of the shower.
He stares down at the floor, lost in thought, replaying the scenes from his past relationship with Warren. The mistakes, the compromises, the moments he gave more than he should have—each memory stings like fresh wounds reopened. His jaw tightens as he recalls the times he tried to mold himself into what someone else wanted, only to be left feeling hollow and more distant from who he is. A bitter smirk forms on his lips. He knows now that those sacrifices, those pieces of himself he gave up, never earned him love—only resentment, from Warren and himself.
Dean leans against the shower wall, eyes closed, letting the water pour over him as his mind drifts back to a memory he tries to bury but never quite succeeds, the only bright spot in his life before Max. The thought of his "White Knight" sneaks up on him like it always does when he’s most vulnerable—unexpected, yet so vivid it’s as if he’s back in that summer, feeling the sun on his skin, the rush of a love he hadn’t known could exist.
It was the kind of love that hits hard and fast, leaving no time for second thoughts. He hadn’t planned on falling for him, hadn’t planned on being consumed by the intensity of it. But that’s exactly what happened. His White Knight was everything he wasn’t at sixteen—bright, bold, with a kind of reckless confidence that made Dean want to abandon everything and follow him to the ends of the earth. They spent those summer nights under the stars, whispering about a future far away from the hell Dean was in. They were supposed to run away together, leave everything behind.
Just when they were about to make their escape, his grandmother got sick. Dean had been raised to believe that family loyalty came above all else, that blood was the unbreakable bond he could never forsake. So he stayed. He stayed because he couldn’t bear the guilt of leaving his grandmother when she needed him most, even though every part of him wanted to go. She hadn’t deserved that loyalty. She had made every moment of his life hell but the guilt was too much to leave when she needed him, promised to make things better if he stayed.
And then, just as suddenly as she had fallen ill, his grandmother got better and went back to her old tricks. By the time his grandmother was back on her feet, his White Knight had vanished, leaving only the hollow echo of what could have been.
Dean’s chest tightens at the memory. He wonders, sometimes, if his White Knight thought of him. The thought gnaws at him in moments like this, where he stands alone, wrestling with the decisions he made. He stayed because he thought it was right. But in staying, he lost something irreplaceable—something he never fully recovered from until Maxine but then just as quickly he’d lost her too.
The regret lingers, like a faint scar.
His heart aches, and realizing he might end up alone gnaws at him.
But even with that fear lingering, he straightens, running a hand through his soaked hair. He might be alone, but he won’t lose himself again. Never again will he cut off pieces of who he is for the sake of love that doesn’t deserve him. His eyes harden with resolve as he whispers to the empty shower, "No more."
If he’s going to love again, it’ll be on his terms.
“Now, you had a lot to say—practically a movie-level villain monologue about me.” Dean leans back, crossing his arms with a knowing, almost dismissive look. His expression is unreadable, but the tension in the room is palpable. After a moment, he speaks, his voice low and measured.
"I don’t owe you an explanation, Shea," he says, his gaze unwavering. "Not about what happened, or why it ended." His tone is calm, but there's a sharp edge beneath it, a warning. "You think you know the whole story, but you’re only seeing what you want to see."
He leans forward slightly, his eyes darkening. "Warren wasn’t… Isn’t the hero you’ve built up in your head. Not even close. But I don’t expect you to understand that. Not yet." His lips twitch into a faint, almost mocking smile. "In time, maybe you’ll realize things aren’t as black and white as you think."
"But by then, it'll be too late." Dean shrugs, “I know it’s easier to blame me for everything. He asked me to remove anyone who was a threat to him, I assumed the protection for Vivienne was removed. My mistake.”
“But…” Dean’s eyes narrow, his voice dropping into a dangerously calm tone. "You think I call you a homewrecker unjustifiably? You think I don’t know, Shea?" he says, a cold smirk playing on his lips. "I know you asked him to leave me."
The silence that follows is suffocating. His gaze stays locked on the camera, sharp and cutting, as if daring her to deny it.
"Did you really think you could manipulate your way into this? That I wouldn’t find out?"
His voice was a low growl now. "You played your hand, and you think it makes you the better person. But what you don’t understand," he leans in, “Is that you’ve only made things worse for yourself."
A cruel satisfaction gleamed in his. "You didn’t save anyone, Shea. Least of all yourself."
“We both know the real reason you hate me. Because you thought I told him not to go to you when you lost the baby and Will abandoned you. I had nothing to do with that. He left you alone to process that, all of his own choice.”
“You are going to make me beg?”
Dean’s smirk widens as he hears the challenge, a dark glint flashing in his eyes. He tilts his head slightly, his confidence practically oozing from him. “You think you can beat me?” his voice dripping with amusement as if the very idea is laughable.
His tone turned sharper. “You don’t have a clue what you’re up against, do you?” His eyes flicker with a dangerous intensity, the smirk fading into something far more sinister. “I’ve been through worse than you can imagine, and I’m still standing.”
Dean leans back in, his voice a low, threatening whisper. “So, if you think you’re ready to take me down… go ahead. Try.” He pauses, before pulling back with a chilling smile. “But I promise you, Shea— don’t bark if you can’t bite. It takes a monster to destroy a monster, and you ain’t got that in you. You might think I’m an asshole but I’ve pictured what I’m going to do to you for years.”
He gives an almost pitying expression, his voice softer but laced with disappointment. “You know what your real problem is, Shea?” he asks, his eyes scanning as if seeing through every façade. “You don’t believe in yourself. Not really. No self-respect. You don’t believe in The Murder’s mission but you signed up for it because you felt left out of reindeer games and wanted Starlight to notice you. Despite the fact you told her if she stayed in the murder you weren’t friends anymore and called her a whore. You have the Queen’s Gambit case and were too fucking scared to cash in against Jennie. Despite the act, deep down you think you are worthless, unloveable, and unfuckable.”
He shakes his head slightly, his gaze never leaving hers. “It’s a shame, too. A real pity, considering what you could be.” There’s a hint of regret in his tone, as though he’s looking at something wasted. “You’ve got potential, more than most, but you’re so wrapped up in your own doubt, you can’t even see it.”
He steps closer, his voice lowering, more intense now. “If you just let go of that fear, if you stopped holding yourself back, you’d be unstoppable. But instead…” He trails off, his eyes hardening. “You settle. For less. For failure. And that’s what’ll always hold you down. If you stopped living your life hoping someone else would notice you were worthy, if you stopped trying to get other people to like you, to get other people to see you? You’d be someone that people feared. You beat Eternity. You were the only one consistently able to beat Rowan. Two-time Shieldmaiden champion, fuck you were the first IWF Shieldmaiden champion. You had a world title off Rowan. You could and should be in the pillars of what defines the women’s division.”
Dean straightens, his disappointment clear as he turns away slightly, shaking his head. “What a waste,” he mutters, more to himself than to her. "You could've been something."
Dean cracks his knuckles, “But no, you hold back. You back down. You could be great but you hold yourself to second-tier bullshit. Even now, even when you think you can take me, trust me, sweetheart, you can’t do half of what you would need to do to get me to beg.”
Dean leans in close to the camera, his voice a low, menacing whisper that sends a chill down the spine. His dark eyes lock onto the camera with an intensity that feels suffocating, like he’s savoring every moment of growing discomfort. “The pain you're going to feel,” he murmurs, his lips curling into a twisted smirk, “it's only the beginning.”
He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in before continuing, “You’d better get used to it, Shea. You’ll beg—again and again—and I’ll watch, knowing there’s no end in sight for you.” His voice grows even softer, a deadly whisper, “Begging becomes second nature after a while. You’ll see.”
Dean sits back, a look of cruel satisfaction playing on his face, “But if you ask nice enough I’ll take it all away and show you what you could have been all along.”
Well howdy there pardner.