Bruce Timm Nude Novels & Stories

The screen showed what looked a normal chat screen, nothing out of the ordinary. "Watch." Tim loaded two separate photographs. One showed the President of the United States at some official function. The other showed the President of Russia at what looked like a different event entirely. "Two completely unrelated photos, different places, different times." Then he typed in a few sentences that she didn't have time to read before the screen changed to show a rectangle and with a circle going around in the middle of it like a computer thinking. Prue watched and waited, her coffee forgotten in her hands, as Tim worked. Within minutes, there on the screen was an image that made her stomach drop.

My whole chest reacted to it without permission. Tim was on the couch, curled small, deeply asleep. His cheek was pressed into the cushion, his freckles dark against the flush of his skin, his hair going in three different directions at once. He looked like someone who had finally, for just a few hours, managed to put everything down. All that weight he carried around the wariness, the history behind his eyes it was gone while he slept. I stood over him longer than I should have. There was a bruise at the side of his neck, dark purple against pale skin. Mine. The sight of it did something to my composure that I refused to examine too closely.