#Reform Conference
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If you're in the US and you're concerned about Palestine, leave US Jews alone, and start asking your local evangelist how much money their christian church sends annually to support the genocide being committed by the state of israel.
#i have been to many evangelical churches and conferences and they are all fully comfortable and proud of funding genocide#'its not a genocide. its a bloodline feud between isaacs children and ishmael's!' oh so you're just gullible and hateful. cool.#do you also think the cia has your best interest at heart and that cops can be reformed?#even at 13 when the sunday school teacher was like ' god made 9/11 happen cause we weren't uncritically supporting the state of israel'#i was like 'idk anything about conspiracy theories or geopolitics but I'm pretty sure you're full of shit'
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The CCAR Worship and Practices Committee felt that bet mitzvah best reflected our determinants of inclusivity, honoring Hebrew, and using familiar or existing language.
Importantly, we do not intend for this term to replace “bar mitzvah” and “bat mitzvah” but rather to be an additional, inclusive option for families and youths. While “bet mitzvah” will be our default general term in CCAR materials, we hope that each student will be encouraged to choose the term that’s most meaningful to them.
#jumblr#jewish#judaism#trans jews#trans and jewish#jewish and trans#lgbt jews#reform judaism#ccar#central conference of american rabbis
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do you think the avengers made pietro make an apology video for his robot racism
#he probably had a press conference like the one in all new X factor#he’s reformed now it’s okay🙂↕️#pietro maximoff
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(Part 2) Intersessional Multi-stakeholder Hearing in preparation for the Fourth International Conference on Financing for Development (FfD4).
The Multi-stakeholder hearing will offer all actors including Member States, civil society, academia, private sector, and philanthropy organizations, among others, to actively engage in discussions towards an ambitious FfD4 outcome.
Watch (Part 2) Intersessional Multi-stakeholder Hearing in preparation for the Fourth International Conference on Financing for Development (FfD4)!
#public and private finances#global financial systems.#financing and reforms#private sector#philanthropy organizations#academia#member states#civil society#ffd4#economic development#panel discussion#Fourth International Conference on Financing for Development#financing for development#multistakeholders
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""PEN" REFORMS BRANDED "MERE WINDOW DRESSING"," Toronto Star. September 22, 1933. Page 2. --- Social Service Council Hear Scathing Indictment of Prison Administration --- Changes in conditions at Kingston penitentiary since the riots were described before the Social Service Council of Canada conference in the Y.W.C.A. yesterday by W. F. Nickle, K.C.. of Kingston, as "window- dressing."
"There's been a little window dressing, but practically nothing has really been done to put into effect the recommendations of the 1921 report," the former attorney-general of Ontario summarized, in a calm, judicial statement. The conference of the council on penitentiary reform was called by the criminology committee and was addressed also by W. N. Nickle, son of W. F. Nickle, both of whom defended inmates of the penitentiary brought to trial recently on charges of taking part in the riots of a year ago.
No fundamental change in punishment of the prisoners, so far as W. F Nickle could see, had been accomplished by the new administration except discontinuance of the use of the hose which used to be turned on inmates with such force that it tore their clothes from their backs.
As for general treatment, the present administration, he outlined, has given the inmates cigarette papers and a little more exercise, but a book of regulations in use in the year 1899 produced at the meeting showed that practically no changes have been made since that day and really no notice taken of the reports by the Investigating commissions of 1914 and 1921.
What is needed, Mr. Nickle urged, is revision of the whole prison system and treatment of transgressoгя, not only at Kingston, but in all penal institutions throughout Canada, in the light of modern psychological advances and the humanitarian principles of to-day.
Describes "Paddling" Asked to describe "paddling" as practised at Kingston in the period following the addresses when the speakers agreed to answer questions asked by the large number of representatives of religious denominations, service clubs, welfare agencies and others interested, Mr. Nickle stated that reports had not exaggerated this punishment when they said it was possible to take off the skin with every stroke of the strap. The numerous holes in the leather made this easy. The administrator of the strap learned the trick of jerking back the strap after the impact. It was quite possible for a man after paddling to be covered with blood across his hips where the perforated strap has been laid on.
Two Salvation Army representatives asked whether there was not a great deal of bitterness among the prisoners on account of the great inequality of sentences imposed by magistrates and judges throughout Canada for similar offences.
It was agreed by Mr. Nickle that there was very little uniformity in sentencing prisoners, and that there undoubtedly is great bitterness among inmates on this account. On the other hand, he acknowledged that quite often the same offence implied in some cases greater degree of offence than in others, justly bringing heavier sentences.
In the opinion of Mr. Nickle it should not be possible for a man to be sentenced by a magistrate to a long term. Instead, there should be a public prosecutor appointed and a board to take into consideration all the circumstances in the life of the prisoner before pronouncing sentence.
At the same time, a system should be devised whereby prisoners by work should be able to earn something to support their wives and families while they are in prison. The council were of the opinion that it is an injustice that the wives and children en should suffer when they are wholly innocent.
Urges Reform Among the reforms needed, the following were enumerated: The segregation of prisoners, so that youths would not be put to work with hardened criminals. Cases were cited of boys, 15 and 16. in the penitentiary. who by contact with older prisoners became morally degenerate within a short time. Another evil referred to was that of isolation of prisoners, It being mentioned that one prisoner. O'Brien, had remained in solitary confinement since 1931. On their discharge prisoners were sent out with $10 and a suit of clothes, which mode of dress in itself branded them as former inmates of the penitentiary, thereby making them an easy mark for those criminally inclined.
The report of the royal commission of 1914 and the report of the committee to investigate conditions in Kingston penitentiary of 1921 were discussed, and the system condemned which advocated that no prisoner was allowed to speak except when spoken to by one of the guards. It was emphasized to the prisoner on entering that he was there for punishment, that he had no privileges, that he should question nothing, and the system proceeded on the basis that every man had full mentality, mentality. while many prisoners were mentally no older than children of ten years. The result of this system was that many prisoners returned to society with a worse outlook on the world than they had before they entered.
The committee on criminology will meet again next Tuesday to decide upon further action.
Canon C. V. Pilcher occupied the chair and it was made very definite that the meeting had no political significance at all.
#toronto#w. f. nickle#national conference#kingston penitentiary#prison conditions#prison brutality#solitary confinement#1933 prisoner trials#1932 kp riot#let in the light#penal reform#corporal punishment#utopia of classification#social service council of canada#prison administration#great depression in canada#crime and punishment in canada#history of crime and punishment in canada#salvation army#christian reformers
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NYC immigration response conference
The conference started with some logistics. Over 170, 000 migrants have entered NYC since July 2022 and we have been responding to their needs. The conference includes the famous Norma Pimentel and the Deputy Mayor Williams-Isomes headlined the conference regarding the reality of the migrant crisis and our response to these challenges. The presenters were introduced.
Deputy Mayor for health and human services, Williams-isomes.
Norma Pimentel is nationally recognized for her work in serving the immigrants crossing into the United States. She is from the Diocese of Bronwsville.
Profesor Solimene: clinical law professor at Fordham. She served as a moderater.
Professor Solimene - Legal status presentation started the conversation. Lawful status happens either the green card which comes through employment based and family based visa. The process was explained to us which demonstrated how complicated the process is. The asylee petition was the presented. Persecution or a well-founded fear of persecution: five standards are given (ie: Race, religions and others) and this must be proven. The US does not allow you to work. You can only have a right to work based on status. Asylee are not eligible until 180 days after application is accepted and pending.
Deputy Mayor - shared some general insights on service and ministry. Basically issues that impact some impact us all. The global humanitarian crisis impacts NYC and we are here to respond with access to the American Dream. In 18 months NYC has doubled a human service system that has been around for over 40 years. 216 emergency sites are in operation. The NYC shelter system was not designed for this and we need other creative solution. 34000 children in schools now. 28,000 asylee application have been processed. NYC is doing all we can to respond but we need more support and a comprehensive plan. The question she leaves us with is, where do we stand at this moment? The immigrant dream is big enough to respond, how will we make that happen?
Sr. Pimentel - reflected on the word radical which was already mentioned a couple of times today. The question is, are we indeed being radical? How can we be ok when someone is out there freezing? She shared some stories of desperate encounters. She shares her experience of encountering the crisis and finding solutions to the crisis she finds. She described her ability to teach children the ethic of welcoming the stranger and being hospitable. She describes how people feel with the basic and meagre services that are offered. Her message is that it is possible to respond when we come together as one.
Then there was a Q & A session.
What are the most pressing challenges for migrants? Response: To feel safe because so many have taken advantage of them. Provide a safe space. Families are hurting and in need of safety. How do we help them navigate the system.
How is the city working to ensure understanding with the public? Response: We want to focus on the migrants. We don’t know when the busses are coming, we try to have the intake center at the Roosevelt operating well to communicate to the migrants. The public response is diverse (some negative, some positive and many exasperated). We may never convince the haters but we need to focus on our responses to the migrants.
Financial question: 10 billon dollar expense projected over the next three years. Thankful for 2 billion received but not enough. Creedmore, Randall island and Floyd Bennet field and the shelters and navigation operated through this financial assistance. Sister is convinced that God will provide and when challenged by the panelist she says it does work. But the city of New York responds back that the 2 billion received is wonderful but feds needs to step up.
How do we encourage solidarity: Sister says that she is always able to turn people who she has encounter the situation. Individual healing is very important, bringing people to respond to their own pain and challenges and then be open to the pain for others.
The narrative was asked and while the panelist expressed a positive narrative the reality in this nation is that the negative narrative dominate.
Are there regulatory barriers that need to addressed? Work authorization, how do you bring people into this country and allow them to work? That is the big issue.
How do we respond further? We need a collective response and in this Sister appeals to the churches and colleges. Deputy Mayor says government should pay for this but not lead it, further partnership with organizations. Wants more faith based responses. Convene the faith leaders to speak with one voice. Cardinal and Bishops should be invited to visit navigation center and offer a press conference with a statement from n our response. Bring people to the table, leaders and all in need of conversion, come and see. Do not wait to be called, but definitely extend the invitation.
Concluding thoughts: Deputy Mayor recognizes how difficult these times and crisis has been but this has been a blessed moment where she noted some faith insights from Sister. Sister in the meantime said we are here for only one reason, for these families that we serve and their unbelievable stories. The little faces she encounters asking for help, the kids seem to always come to mind. The mothers relinquishing their children to go to the immigrant officer for safety from the border cartel who rape and kidnap migrants. We cannot lose sight of these stories, the human story. We will be held accountable to this more than anything when it really counts.
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Who's going? 😜
#revision 2024#conference#gatineau#ottawa#ppc#people's party of canada#Canada first#cadpoli#reform party#billboard chris#ReDefining Canadian Politics#voteppc
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I'm seeing a lot of "ugh, so we can't even criticize fic authors anymore?" posts popping up on here and the ao3 subreddit and I just want to say, for the record: No one's saying you can't criticize (fanfic) authors publicly. They're saying it's rude and antithetical to positive fandom experience. And, yes there's a difference.
If this website was a conference and I had just spent a whole afternoon listening to a presentation on [unpopular fic trope] and after that was done, I got up on stage and very publicly told the audience that [unpopular fic trope] was illogical and anyone who writes it is woefully misinformed and should be banned from writing [relevant character], that would in fact be a dick move.
"But the canon character would never--" it doesn't matter. You're shouting down the hall at the person who just happily did a whole seminar on their OOC version of that character. "But I don't like that the author chose to make them--" good, you're well-acquainted with your likes and dislikes, time to find another fic.
We all run into fics and interpretations we don't like. But there's a huge difference between loudly talking about it on Tumblr where the author can see it, and just venting in a private discord or other group. Also, gentle reminder that this is a hobby for most writers and something they do purely because they enjoy it. Stop being massive dicks just because you feel entitled to a certain flavor of fanfiction you will probably be chasing until the Reformation of Krypton.
#rant#mini rant#fandom#fanfic#fanfiction#fic#writing#writing things#fanfiction things#fanfiction writing#ao3#archive of our own#sorry for all the writing rants this week#it's just that r/AO3 is driving me nuts#saw a LOT of hate for evil superman on there this week and I was reminded of my rant last week about this same subject#guess what yall: it's also EVEN MORE of a dick move when you NAME the fic you hate#I see y'all doing that over there and that shit needs to stop#yeah here's this garbage fic: [link} -- are you shitting#me?#anyway#sorry#end rant
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10.5 करोड़ का Injection : Delhi के CM Arvind Kejriwal के द्वारा Kanav को मिला नया जीवन
परिवार ने नहीं मानी हार, बच्चे के लिए ले ��ए इंजेक्शन, अब हालत में सुधार Spinal Muscular Atrophy (SMA) यह एक जेनेटिक बीमारी है। माता-पिता से बच्चों में आती है। Kanav को भी यह जानलेवा बीमारी माता-पिता से मिल गई। पिता अमित जांगरा अपने पहले बच्चे की खुशी भी नहीं मना पाए थे कि इस बीमारी ने उनकी सारी खुशियां छीन लीं। बच्चे के शरीर के निचले हिस्से के मसल्स कमजोर होने लगे। इलाज शुरू हुआ तो डॉक्टर ने जीन…
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#AAP (Aam Aadmi Party)#Arvind Kejriwal#Arvind Kejriwal Achievements#Arvind Kejriwal Interviews#Arvind Kejriwal Press Conference#Arvind Kejriwal Speech#Arvind Kejriwal Updates#Delhi Chief Minister#Delhi Education Reforms#Delhi Elections#Delhi Governance#Delhi Government#Delhi Pollution Control#Health Initiatives in Delhi#Indian Politics#Kanav#Kanav Jangra#Kejriwal News#Kejriwal Policies#Kejriwal&039;s Vision for Delhi#Political Developments
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damn that’s crazy lol
something that's really been bothering me lately is how the church i was a part of would like... repackage doctrine to make it sound nicer and more acceptable. like, the belief that all humans are evil by nature and deserve eternal torture for the crime of existing is inherently violent and cruel. but my church didn't frame it like that. they framed it as "yes we're ALL evil and wicked and we ALL deserve hell to atone for our sin (being human) BUT god loves you despite you not deserving love or happiness or anything good at all and all you have to do to avoid the pits of hell is accept jesus as your savior isn't that so amazing????" and they framed the crucifixion as this beautiful, selfless act of god by taking our place on the cross instead of "this all-powerful being who created all the rules decided that he required torture, death, and human sacrifice to be able to tolerate us". and it's not "women will be viewed as lesser than men" it's "women must submit to their husbands the same way we all must submit to god it's not dehumanizing it's holy and yes women have different roles but that doesn't make them lesser than and sure we don't have any women in leadership positions in the church and we would never even consider it, come on now that's ridiculous, but that's just because men are supposed to lead because men and women are different and created for different purposes it's just biology". and there are plenty others! i know that the reframing of everything is part of how they can even get people to accept the doctrine in the first place, but being on the outside of it is kind of horrifying. when you get down to the actual beliefs that are held without the distortions and manipulation, so many are violent, cruel, dehumanizing, abusive. but they distort and manipulate these beliefs to make them seem acceptable, morally correct, and redefine what love is and should look like.
#ok my church experience is fucking wild tho#cause like#I went to a fucking HOUSE CHURCH#for five years !!!!#the people that were the most controlling of it were all IFB and had come from a Baptist church#They claimed not to be IFB but totally still acted like it#we met in houses for like four years#And then when that went to shit and there were 17 people we met in a fucking HOTEL CONFERENCE ROOM#and then when COVID HIT all of us started going to another church#This church was primitive Baptist#as opposed to reformed Baptist which we kind of were#and anyway#after a year of that and the technical dispersal of us 17#my family started going to a “”quote unquote community church#baptist but supposedly nondenominational#all that to say#I feel like a lot of nondenominational churches#at least in my area#are Baptist in theology but don’t want to be associated with the stodginess of baptists#and after two years of that Community Church(tm)#I finally gave the fuck up and left#shit hit the fan tho cause my family still goes there#in fact#last night#my family had fucking small group at our house and I didn’t know so I was stuck on my room for four hours listening to them it sucked ass#but I just played Nintendo and read a book so it worked out I just had to make a run for it if I wanted dinner#long ass rant in the tags babes#sorry
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Emotional Support Intern Peter Parker
Tony and Peter finally arrive in the large room, polished leather Oxfords and stained-lace Converse making their way through the crowd of professionals. Tony has a hand on Peter's back guiding him, because no matter how many meetings, conferences, and office buildings they traverse together, Peter always manages to get lost the second Tony lets go.
Thankfully Pepper is easy to spot, shaking hands with some blah blah from wee woo Industries. Her hair is the only splash of colour in the constant white black grey of everyone's pencil skirts and collared shirts.
"Hi Ms. Potts!" Peter greets as soon as the woman turns and spots them.
"Hi Peter—Tony. I told you to stop bringing the kid to these things. No offense Peter."
"None taken! You look lovely, did you get your hair done?"
Pepper's hair cascades over her shoulder in perfect curls, splayed out over her white button-up.
"Yes actually, a trim and some highlights. I think she went shorter than I asked though, because I always get half an inch, and this does not look like half an inch."
Peter steps a bit closer and squints at the piece of copper hair she's holding out.
"I think it's just because she curled it. You usually get it blow dried after."
"Hm. I think you're right actually."
Tony rolls his eyes, "I'm so glad you guys are having such a great slumber party. C'mon kid I have to avoid that senator and he's starting to glance this way." He tries to head over to some tall plants that happen to be great blind spots.
"Ah ah ah Tony! We are talking about this. I told you to stop dragging Peter to all of your work responsibilities. I'm sure he's bored to death with these meetings and work events."
"Pep, he's an intern, he's supposed to be bored and taken advantage of. Besides, if you take away my emotional support intern then I simply wouldn't show up! So."
"You aren't even paying him for his time!" Pepper says at the same time Peter mumbles "emotional support intern?"
"Um excuse me, that 3 million dollar suit he stuffs between his math homework and Go-Gurt begs to differ. And anyways, I pay him with experience. I brought him to that seminar in LA on Saturday, and he's following me to Tokyo for that week long conference in July. I highly doubt he's complaining," he squeezes the boy's shoulders, Peter looking up and beaming at him and Pepper.
"I'm really fine with it Ms. Potts. Besides, the more of these things I go to the more lab time I get!" Peter pipes in.
Pepper glares at Tony. "Really, bribery?"
"Okay well, if us grown adults don't want to be here how else am I supposed to get a 15 year old to talk about environmental reform to people who don't even believe in climate change."
Pepper and Tony hold each other's stares.
"You mean he spoke to Mr. Ellis about the generator you designed for his carbon plant, and it didn't end with him calling us a pansy corporation and you calling him a decrepit geezer who's business is the only thing that's going to die quicker than he is?"
There's barely stiffled hope supressed under Pepper's professionalism.
Tony smirks. "Yep, I think Mr. Ellis even smiled. The kid's got charm! Who knew."
Pepper glances at Peter in consideration.
"Peter have you ever considered pursuing anything further in business? Engineering is great, but if you really want to be successful it's incredibly important to build interpersonal skills, leadership, and even current market and finance knowledge. I mean you might want to sell your designs one day, or start a company."
"Oh, I haven't really-"
"You could shadow me! I mean interning with a CEO is a once in a lifetime opportunity, it would give you a glowing resume, and I know a lot more about this stuff than Tony. He didn't even perform his executive duties when he actually was the CEO."
Pepper has that gleam in her eyes, the one she gets when men call her sweetheart, or when Tony isn't even dressed for their reservation that started ten minutes ago.
It means she's already had the argument in her head.
Peter is still stuttering, flustered with this side of Pepper. Her business face isn't usually directed at him, and it's a far cry from the woman who sends him home with leftovers from dinner.
"Wait wait wait, are you trying to steal my intern?" Tony asks incredulously.
"If anyone even needs an intern Tony it would be me. I have to babysit you and the company, meanwhile you just need him to hand you wrenches. Competent help is hard to find these days and you're wasting his talents."
"Um, excuse me, he's the only thing keeping me together. You already have your fancy day planner and Excel spreadsheets, I need him to get me out of the house. He's the only thing keeping me a responsible adult, if you take away my emotional support intern then I will not attend a single meeting for the rest of the quarter."
"You are such a man child!"
"La la la la can't hear youuu," Tony says with his fingers in his ears.
"Um, guys, I think people are staring."
Peter tugs on the corner of Tony's sleeve to get him to unplug his ears, glancing nervously at the groups of people sending them judgemental stares. The three of them give a wave and pleasant smile, most of the crowd continuing to move along on the grey carpet at the sight of their unsettling synchronicity and false turn of the lips.
Pepper speaks through her teeth, a grin still presented at passers-by. "Fine, you can keep him, but only because he's doing half my job for me. The only person you can emotionally regulate around and it's a teenager. I'm glad you finally found someone who can keep you entertained."
"Love you too honey," Tony says while putting a hand on the small of her back and kissing her cheek. He sighs, looking around the room at all the government officials who think these tech companies are spying on them.
Apparently a surveillance state is only cool when they do it to manipulate their incarceration numbers, rig elections and lobby votes, and not for data mining and targeted ads.
"I say we hit the cheese and crackers, take an awkward amount of sips from those tiny water bottles, and then speak to some old ladies till we have to do our presentation."
"Sounds great Mr. Stark. Will you make sure they don't grab my face again? I smelled like old lady perfume at school and Flash started making fun of me for stealing people's grandmas."
Tony looks into Peter's eyes questioningly and finds nothing but sincerity and resignation in them.
"Well. Not my fault your cheeks are so gosh darn cute. But I'll do my best," he wraps an arm around the shorter and starts heading through the room again.
The weight is comforting. Peter used to get anxious at these events, but Tony never leaves his side and is always looking at him like he's the Michaelangelo in the center of every room. He became accustomed to being Mr. Stark's favourite part of the event. While that may not seem difficult, especially considering the droning lectures and snooty company, it always feels special making jokes about people's ridiculous work jargon, and comparing the staleness of crackers at conferences.
"Emotional support intern huh?" he says smugly.
Tony glances at him, but instead of scoffing or denying anything, he just speaks with honesty. "You and Pepper are the best, most important things to this company. And to me. I'm really glad you're here kid."
Peter doesn't know what to say. The words stick in his throat while Tony hands him a water bottle with the lid already cracked.
Peter has super strength; It's completely unnecessary to open his bottle for him. He doesn't point this out. Tony will do it at the next meeting, just like he did at the last one, and Peter will never mention it.
#irondad and spiderson#peter parker#tony stark#marvel mcu#irondad#mcu#marvel#iron dad#pepper potts#pepperony#marvel fanfic#marvel fanfiction
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request!!!
ben is tryjng to reform and get a job on a conference call meeting and the reader decides that would be the perfect time to mess with him so they start to toy with him but he has to not react but you know?
million dollar man
ben harveeves x reader
hehe i’m writing this at my office job so this is very fun thank you to my dear friend for this idea !!
tags: smut, oral sex (m receiving) slight choking
—
Ben sat in front of his laptop staring at himself before joining his call. He tightened his tie and fixed up his hair to make sure he looked perfect. He couldn’t leave any bad impressions during this interview, he wanting to turn his life around and get a real job. He had you to worry about now, he couldn’t just keep up his bullshit crypto scheme and risk going back to jail. You were sitting on the couch next to his desk, muting the TV so he could focus and watching him.
“You’re gonna do great babe, they’ll love you!” You reassured him as he clicked on to join the meeting.
“Hargreeves?”
“Benjamin, you can call me Ben. Nice to meet you sir.” He tried to resist looking over at you sitting down on the couch but he couldn’t help himself. He focused back on the call answering the questions the interviewer was asking. All of the boring stuff like job history, education, his very obvious resume gap…
You walked over to his desk staying out of sight of the camera and kneeled down next to him, smiling up with a shit eating grin on your face. Even though he refused to look down at you, he knew what you were about to do. You crawled under the desk and slowly inched your hand up his pants as you watched him subtly move his hand to cover his smile.
“And what is your desired salary Mr. Hargreeves?” You palmed his clothed dick and pressed down until his lower half was squirming.
“I-I’m sorry could you repeat that?” Ben’s hand was now fully covering his mouth to hide his smile. The interviewer repeated the question and Ben answered with a smile as you pulled out his cock.
What a tease you were.
He was doing this for you, and here you were messing with his shot at turning his life around. Was he about to risk it for a blowjob? …How could he say no?
You kissed his tip before putting his whole dick in your mouth, hearing him stumble over his words and try not to close his eyes.
“Are you okay, Ben?” The interviewer asked, showing obvious concern for his seemingly painful expression. If only he knew.
“Yes s-sir I’m okay. I apologize.” His hand travelled down to tangle in your hair and lifted your face off of his dick. He quickly looked down to see you smiling at him before wiping your lips and going back onto him. Your hands braced yourself on his thighs so you could work at a quicker pace, occasionally making soft noises that he’d feel the vibration of.. which always led to a small slap to your face and a not-so-subtle whine on the meeting.
You could tell he was getting close by the way he grabbed your hair and held you down. He spoke somehow with no errors as he came down your throat, you unable to breathe and him smiling and nodding along with everything the interviewer was saying. He let out a soft grunt as he let go of you so you could catch your breath. Just as you were wiping your mouth you heard Ben say, “I look forward to hearing from you,” and clicked off his computer.
“I’m going to get you back for this you little slut.”
#the umbrella academy#the umbrella academy season 4#ben hargreeves smut#ben hargreeves x reader smut#ben hargreeves x reader#ben hargreeves#the umbrella academy smut
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𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞 𝐱𝐲𝐳 2
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, daydreaming, talk of rape, sa, abortion, 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: The Man by Taylor Swift
new country
“Madam President!”
“Over here!”
“What are your plans to reform America?”
Paparazzi kept on yelling those questions even though you were perfectly capable of stating every one of your new legislations and ideas one by one. Lucky this was a closed conference, lowering the chance of an assassination, and Dean’s eyes were scanning the crowd anyway for any reporter who could suddenly yank out a .38.
You raised your hand, clearing your throat. “It’s only been about a week since I’ve been elected, but I can, with confidence, share with you my plans to reform legislations and laws in the States. As of tomorrow, after a majority vote, abortion has now become legal in all fifty states.”
The statement became an outcry, reporters and journalists yelling questions as to why, so you had to hold up your hand again with a strong urge to roll your eyes in disdain. Seriously, why can’t these guys ever shut up? “It’s a controversial decision.” You agreed, looking intently at the members of the audience. “I’m wholeheartedly aware, but we have to think of the people who would suffer. Victims of rape who end up pregnant would have to keep their child, and depending on the case, the mother could end up with severe post-natal depression which could affect both the child and their mother, which would do more harm than aborting the child. If a mother’s baby won’t make it to birth, she can’t do a thing to stop the baby’s suffering from happening in the first place. Abortion is a right that should be possessed by every woman in the country, and in addition to this, a psych evaluation will be conducted by licensed professionals to determine any external pressures or lingering doubts.”
You had felt your air running out, so you took a sip of your water before continuing on with your long list of tasks and responsibilities for the presidential serve. “I want to improve relations with our allies in NATO, and there will be foundations in order to support anyone in the States who is in need of education. And, by the end of my service as this country’s president, I want to have America make the switch to renewable sources of energy and be sure that the production of energy in factories is the minority.”
“Any questions?” Becky asked, waving her pen around a little as she looked inquisitively around the room, this fucking room with pretentious reporters who ask stupid questions.
One reporter raised their hand, so Becky nodded and pointed with her pen. “How does it feel, being the youngest elected and the first female to become president? You’re making history.”
“Well, as John F Kennedy said: it’s time for a new generation of leadership.” You smiled— that question wasn’t half bad, really. You knew you were breaking history’s records and taking America in a new direction, but it was for the best. “It’s an odd feeling, as I’ve been raised in a country with men as our presidents, but I’d say I owe a lot of my success to my family, my friends and my fellow candidate, Amara Shurley. She gave me a run for my money, and she’s an incredible woman that only inspired me to do better.”
Another reporter with his hand up. “A lot of women across the States see you as a symbol for feminism. What is your response to this statement?”
Well, that one wasn’t unheard of, you’d give it that. “I’m whoever the people want me to be.” You gave a light shrug, you didn’t really think of that question. You just said what felt natural. “If they need a feminist symbol, they can look to me. If people need reassurance and safety, they can look to me. The only thing I won’t be able to stand is that the good citizens of America can’t put their trust in me because of a contingency or the other.”
You glanced at Becky, who nodded toward the man. He was middle-aged, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a self-assured smirk that screamed, I’ve got something to prove. The logo of his network—one notoriously critical of your policies—was emblazoned on his press badge.
“Madam President,” he began, his voice carrying an edge of condescension that set your teeth on edge. “You’ve outlined ambitious plans for reform, and your stance on women’s rights is certainly bold. But there’s one decision you’ve made that has raised quite a few eyebrows.” He leaned forward slightly, as if positioning himself for a dramatic reveal. “What do you say to critics who question the wisdom of hiring an ex-hitman—someone with a documented history of violence—to serve as your personal bodyguard? Isn’t it hypocritical to preach about progress and morality while employing someone like him?”
For a moment, silence blanketed the room. The question hung in the air, sharp and cutting, as the reporters collectively held their breath, waiting to see how you would respond. You felt the prickle of heat rise along your neck and shoulders, not from embarrassment, but from sheer frustration.
You glanced briefly at Dean, whose expression was impassive, though his jaw clenched ever so slightly. He stood still, his hands resting lightly at his sides, but you could tell the question had landed like a punch to the gut.
You took a deep breath, the crisp scent of polished wood and faint cologne grounding you. Then, with a calm but unmistakable authority, you leaned forward into the microphone.
“That’s an excellent question,” you began, though your tone suggested otherwise. Your eyes locked on the reporter, and your gaze was steady, unflinching. “And it gives me an opportunity to address an issue that’s long overdue for clarification. You see, I don’t make decisions lightly—especially not decisions that concern my safety and the safety of this nation. When I selected Mr. Winchester as my personal bodyguard, I did so with full knowledge of his history.”
The reporter opened his mouth, but you held up a hand, silencing him without a word.
“Let me finish,” you said, your voice firm. “Yes, Dean Winchester has a past. But let’s talk about what that past really means. This is a man who, for better or worse, was shaped by circumstances beyond his control. He didn’t choose a life of crime; he was born into it. And yet, despite everything, he possesses a set of skills and a depth of experience that make him uniquely qualified to protect me—and, by extension, the American people.”
You straightened, your tone sharpening. “Critics like you are quick to point fingers and make judgments from a position of privilege, ignoring the fact that people can change. Redemption isn’t just a talking point for me; it’s a belief I hold deeply. If we can’t offer second chances to those who’ve earned them, then what kind of country are we building?”
The murmurs in the room grew louder, but you pressed on, your words cutting through the noise.
“Dean Winchester has spent the last year proving himself. He passed the most rigorous background checks, psychological evaluations, and combat training our government has to offer. He’s saved lives, prevented threats, and put himself in harm’s way to protect others. And for that, I trust him with my life. So if you want to question my decision, you’re not just questioning his character—you’re questioning mine.”
The room fell silent again, your words hitting their mark. You could feel the eyes of every reporter on you, and out of the corner of your eye, you saw Becky nodding subtly, her expression one of quiet approval.
You leaned into the microphone one last time, your gaze boring into the reporter who had asked the question. “And let me be perfectly clear: I don’t answer to cynics like you. I answer to the American people. So, if you’d like to discuss this further, I suggest you start by addressing me with the respect this office demands.”
The tension in the room was electric, the kind of silence that felt loud in its weight. The reporter, clearly taken aback, sank slightly in his seat, his smirk replaced by a look of unease.
You straightened your posture, smoothing the front of your blazer as you surveyed the room. “Next question?”
A younger journalist, her notebook clutched tightly, hesitantly raised her hand. Becky nodded to her, and she stood, her voice steady but cautious. “Madam President, thank you for your response. Building on that, how do you see your administration addressing broader issues of criminal justice reform and rehabilitation?”
Finally, a question with substance. You allowed yourself a small, appreciative smile. “That’s an excellent question,” you said. “One of my top priorities is ensuring that our criminal justice system focuses not only on punishment but on rehabilitation. Too many people are trapped in a cycle of incarceration because they’re not given the tools or opportunities to reintegrate into society. We need to invest in education, job training, and mental health support—both inside and outside of our prison system.”
You glanced briefly at Dean again, finding a flicker of reassurance in his steady presence. “Because if we’re serious about building a better future, we need to recognize that people are more than their worst mistakes.”
The press conference continued, the reporters slowly shifting their focus back to policy questions and legislative plans. But the earlier exchange lingered in the back of your mind, a reminder of the battles yet to come.
As the session wrapped up and you stepped away from the podium, Dean was there, a quiet shadow at your side.
“Hell of a response,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear.
You glanced at him, catching the faintest trace of a smirk on his lips. “They don’t pay me to hold back,” you replied, your tone wry.
“No,” he said, his eyes scanning the room one last time as he followed you toward the exit. “They pay you to lead.”
And as you stepped into the corridor, leaving the chaos of the press behind, you couldn’t help but feel that, for once, you were exactly where you were meant to be.
“No offence here, ma’am, but I think your fans are crazy.” Dean chuckled as he saw a post on Instagram that was now trending because he apparently was giving daddy.
Whatever the fuck ‘giving’ meant. He was a giver in the bedroom, if that’s what it was referring to. Below it were hundreds of comments, many of which seemed less than presidential.
You glanced at the phone, then back at him, trying—and failing—not to laugh. “Welcome to my world,” you replied dryly, setting your pen down and leaning back in your chair. “You’d be amazed how quickly people can spiral over a photo.”
Dean chuckled, shaking his head as he scrolled through the comments. “‘He could protect me any day’,” he read aloud, his tone mocking but amused. “‘Please, sir, ruin my life.’” He glanced at you with a raised eyebrow. “Do they know I’m literally hired to ruin other people’s lives if necessary?”
You shrugged, biting back a grin. “They probably think that’s part of the appeal.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t even know what half of this means,” he said, squinting at the screen. “Apparently I’m ‘giving daddy’? Whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.” He looked genuinely puzzled, and it only made the situation funnier.
You laughed outright at that, the sound warm and unrestrained. “Dean, it just means they think you’re hot.”
His smirk widened as he pocketed his phone. “So, basically, I’m a meme now.”
“Pretty much.”
Dean leaned against the edge of your desk, crossing his arms as he gave you an exaggeratedly thoughtful look. “You know,” he began, his tone teasing, “I’m starting to think you hired me purely for my looks.”
You rolled your eyes, though your smile didn’t falter. “Oh, please.”
“No, seriously,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself. “Be honest with me, ma’am. You saw the jawline, the broad shoulders, the smoldering intensity—”
“Smoldering intensity?” you interrupted, arching an eyebrow.
He gestured toward his face, grinning. “And you thought, This guy? Perfect for standing around looking menacing and driving Instagram wild.”
You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up, shaking your head as you looked at him. “Dean, I hired you because you’re qualified. Your record speaks for itself.”
He tilted his head, feigning skepticism. “But you did notice the jawline, right?”
“Stop fishing for compliments,” you said, swatting at his arm playfully.
He chuckled, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just saying, ma’am. I’ve been around long enough to know when someone appreciates the package.”
You sighed, folding your arms and giving him an exaggeratedly serious look. “Fine. You’re attractive, Dean. Happy?”
He grinned, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. “Very.”
“But,” you continued, holding up a finger, “that’s not why I hired you. I needed the best, and you are. Everything else is just a… bonus.”
He laughed, the sound rich and genuine, and for a moment, the usual weight of your responsibilities felt lighter.
The playful banter between you continued, a rare moment of levity in the otherwise intense environment of the Oval Office. Dean settled into the chair opposite your desk, leaning back with an easy confidence that only added to his inexplicable charm.
“So,” he said, his tone conspiratorial, “how does it feel knowing your bodyguard is officially the internet’s new crush?”
You smirked, leaning forward slightly. “Honestly? It’s hilarious.”
“Hilarious?”
“Yes,” you said firmly. “You’re all stoic and intimidating most of the time, and now half the country wants to climb you like a tree.”
Dean laughed, shaking his head. “Well, if you ever get tired of being President, you could have a solid career in stand-up comedy.”
You grinned, enjoying the back-and-forth more than you cared to admit. “I’ll keep that in mind.” A short pause, but it felt good, light. He didn’t seem like the typical bodyguard, you could actually have conversations with him.
“Well,” he said, standing and stretching slightly, “if you ever want to go viral again, just let me know. I’m apparently great at it.”
“Noted,” you replied with a grin.
As he made his way to the door, he glanced back over his shoulder, his smirk firmly in place. “And for the record, ma’am? If I ever need a second career, I’ll just put ‘hot bodyguard’ on my résumé.”
You laughed, shaking your head as he disappeared into the hallway. “Good luck with that, Winchester.”
And as you returned to your work, a small smile lingered on your lips. Dean might drive you crazy sometimes, but moments like this made it impossible not to appreciate the man behind the reputation.
The late afternoon sun cast a warm, golden glow over the Oval Office, filtering through the tall windows and highlighting the meticulously maintained room. Papers were spread across your desk in organized chaos, and the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air. You’d been working for hours, signing documents, reviewing proposals, and making notes in neat, precise handwriting. The quiet hum of the office was almost soothing—your assistant, Becky, had left to run errands, leaving you to your thoughts and tasks.
You leaned back in your chair for a moment, massaging the tension from your neck. The weight of the presidency wasn’t something you’d underestimated, but there were days, like today, when it pressed harder than usual. Still, the sense of purpose it gave you was unshakable. Every signature on these documents was a step toward the vision you had for the country.
As you reached for your coffee mug, the door opened quietly, and Dean stepped inside. You looked up, unsurprised—his ability to move without a sound still startled most people, but you’d grown accustomed to it.
He was out of his suit jacket now, the dark gray fabric slung over one arm. His white dress shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, revealed strong forearms, and the faint shadow of a day’s stubble added to his rugged appearance. Dean wasn’t one for idle conversation or intrusions without purpose, so you set your pen down and gave him your full attention.
“Madam President,” he began, his voice as steady and low as ever. But there was something in his tone—an edge of hesitancy, maybe even guilt—that caught your attention.
“Yes, Dean?” you prompted, tilting your head slightly.
He stepped closer, standing just in front of the desk, his hands resting on the back of one of the chairs. He seemed to consider his words carefully before speaking.
“I wanted to say… you didn’t have to do that. Back at the press conference.” His green eyes met yours, earnest and unguarded in a way they rarely were. “Defending me like that, in front of all those reporters. It wasn’t necessary.”
You blinked, surprised by his sincerity. You leaned forward slightly, resting your forearms on the desk. “Dean,” you said gently, “of course it was necessary.”
He shook his head, the movement quick and almost dismissive. “No, it wasn’t. My past is my burden to carry, not yours. You’re already under enough scrutiny as it is. I don’t need to add to it.”
The vulnerability in his words tugged at something deep inside you. Dean Winchester was a fortress of a man—strong, guarded, and unflinching in his role as your protector. But in this moment, he was letting you see the cracks in that armor, the part of him that carried the weight of his past like a scar that wouldn’t heal.
You stood, pushing your chair back slightly as you rounded the desk. His eyes followed you as you came to stand beside him, your expression calm but firm.
“Dean,” you began, your voice softer now, “I knew exactly what I was signing up for when I chose you for this job. I knew your history. I knew how people might react. And I didn’t care.”
His jaw tightened, and he looked away for a moment, as though struggling to accept your words.
“Listen to me,” you continued, stepping closer. “I’m not just your employer. I’m your ally. And when someone questions my decisions —when they question you— it’s my responsibility to set the record straight.”
He let out a quiet breath, almost a sigh, and looked back at you. There was something in his expression that made your chest ache— a mix of gratitude and disbelief, as though he couldn’t quite fathom why you’d stand up for him so fiercely.
“You’ve earned your place here, Dean,” you said, your tone unwavering. “And if anyone has a problem with that, they can take it up with me.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable; it was contemplative, a shared moment of understanding. Dean nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.
“You’re stubborn,” he said after a moment, his lips quirking into the faintest of smiles.
You chuckled softly. “I’ve been called worse.”
His gaze lingered on you, and for a brief moment, you felt the intensity of it like a tangible weight. But then he straightened, rolling his shoulders back as if shrugging off the last remnants of doubt.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice quiet but resolute. “For believing in me.”
“Always,” you replied, meeting his gaze with a small, sincere smile.
The atmosphere shifted, the earlier tension giving way to a more relaxed ease. Dean glanced at the paperwork strewn across your desk, his brow furrowing slightly.
“You’ve been at this all day,” he said, nodding toward the stack of documents. “When’s the last time you took a break?”
You waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll take a break when I’m done.”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with your answer. “That’s not how that works, Madam President. You can’t run a country if you run yourself into the ground.”
You sighed, knowing he had a point but unwilling to admit it outright. “I’ll take a break soon,” you conceded.
“Good,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “Because if you don’t, I’ll drag you out of here myself.”
You couldn’t help but laugh at that, the sound light and genuine. “I’d like to see you try.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, and for a moment, you saw the faintest hint of mischief in his eyes. “Don’t tempt me,” he said, and there was a warmth in his voice that made your chest feel lighter.
As he turned to leave, you called after him. “Dean.” He paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “For what it’s worth,” you said, your smile soft but full of meaning, “I think you’re doing a damn good job.”
He didn’t respond right away, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes. Finally, he gave a small nod, his lips curving into a quiet, appreciative smile.
“Thanks, boss,” he said, and with that, he left the room, his footsteps fading into the hallway beyond.
You returned to your desk, the papers waiting patiently for your attention. But for the first time that day, the weight of the work didn’t feel quite so heavy. You’d stood up for someone who deserved it, and in doing so, you’d strengthened a bond that went far beyond the professional.
As you picked up your pen, a thought crossed your mind—one that made you smile. Dean Winchester might not be perfect, but he was exactly the kind of person you wanted in your corner. And if the rest of the world couldn’t see that, well, that was their loss.
The day after the press conference, the Oval Office was already humming with its usual controlled chaos. You were deep in paperwork, focused on revising yet another draft of a new energy initiative, when your assistant, Becky, buzzed in to inform you that Bella and Steph had arrived.
You sighed fondly. Of course, they had. They’d been texting nonstop since the moment the press conference aired, full of commentary about your plans and, predictably, about Dean.
“They’re here to see you,” Becky said over the intercom, a hint of amusement in her tone.
“I’ll be out in a moment,” you replied, shaking your head with a small smile.
Bella and Steph didn’t wait long. As soon as they were cleared to approach the Oval Office, they strode down the hallway, chatting animatedly, their voices carrying just enough to alert Dean, who stood stationed just outside the office door.
He looked up from where he was scrolling through security updates on his phone, his sharp green eyes assessing the two women as they approached. His posture was relaxed but professional, and his expression shifted to one of slight curiosity as he took them in.
Bella was the first to notice him. She slowed her pace, her jaw slackening just slightly as her gaze took him in—head to toe and back up again. Steph, walking just behind her, barely contained a whistle as she caught sight of Dean standing there in his dark suit and tie, his sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms.
“Uh, excuse me?” Bella said, stopping directly in front of him with a hand on her hip. Her voice was playful, bordering on flirtatious. “You must be the Dean Winchester.”
Dean raised an eyebrow, tucking his phone into his pocket. “That’d be me,” he replied, his tone even but laced with caution.
Steph stepped up beside Bella, giving him a once-over with such blatant appreciation that Dean shifted slightly, his expression an amusing mix of bemusement and wariness. “Oh, wow,” Steph said, dragging out the words. “She wasn’t kidding. You’re even better-looking in person.”
Bella nodded enthusiastically. “I mean, we saw the pictures, but they didn’t do you justice. You’re—what’s the phrase?—‘giving everything.’”
Dean blinked, his lips quirking into an involuntary smirk despite himself. “Appreciate it,” he said dryly, “but I think you’re looking for the President. She’s inside.”
Bella waved a hand dismissively. “We’re her friends. She won’t mind if we take a moment to admire her excellent taste in bodyguards.”
Dean let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That’s not exactly how she put it.”
Steph leaned in slightly, her grin downright mischievous. “So, Dean, what’s the story here? Are you single? Because if you’re not, you really need to start considering the President. You two would be perfect together.”
Dean raised both eyebrows at that, his smirk turning incredulous. “That’s… bold,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.
Bella wasn’t deterred in the slightest. “Oh, come on. You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. She’s brilliant, gorgeous, and now she’s the President. And you? You’re a literal ex-hitman who looks like you walked off the cover of GQ. It’s a match made in tabloid heaven.”
Dean opened his mouth to respond, but whatever he might’ve said was interrupted as you stepped out of the office, arms crossed and eyebrows raised at the scene unfolding before you.
“Really, ladies?” you said, your tone dripping with mock exasperation.
Bella and Steph whirled around, both grinning guiltily but unapologetically. “We were just getting to know your bodyguard,” Bella said, batting her lashes innocently.
“And suggesting he hook up with you,” Steph added helpfully, earning her a sharp elbow from Bella.
You pressed a hand to your forehead, sighing. “I knew letting you two anywhere near Dean was a mistake.”
“Can you blame us?” Bella asked, gesturing toward Dean like he was an exhibit at a museum. “I mean, look at him.”
Dean, to his credit, remained perfectly composed, though there was a faint pink tinge to his ears that you didn’t miss.
“I am looking at him,” you said dryly, then turned to Dean with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about them. They don’t have a filter.”
Dean gave a half-smile, his voice carrying that familiar note of humor. “It’s fine, ma’am. I’ve heard worse.”
“Oh, I’m sure you have,” you replied, shooting Bella and Steph a pointed look. “But I’d rather they not embarrass themselves—or me—any further.”
Steph raised her hands in mock surrender. “We’re just stating the obvious. And for the record, you’re welcome.”
“For what?” you asked, exasperated.
“For giving you the perfect opportunity to admit he’s hot,” Bella said, winking.
You sighed, shaking your head as you stepped aside to usher them into the office. “Dean, can you make sure no one else tries to instigate a matchmaking session while I’m in there?”
He nodded, his smirk widening ever so slightly. “Consider it done.”
As Bella and Steph passed him, they both threw him one last playful look, Steph muttering, “Call us if you ever get tired of babysitting.”
Dean chuckled softly, shaking his head as the door closed behind them.
Inside, you turned to your friends with your hands on your hips. “Seriously? You couldn’t even wait until you got inside to start embarrassing me?”
Bella flopped onto one of the chairs, grinning. “Hey, we’re just looking out for you. And honestly, if you don’t lock that man down, someone else will.”
Steph nodded, leaning back against the desk. “He’s got that whole brooding, dangerous vibe going on. And those arms?” She mimed fanning herself, grinning wickedly.
You groaned, running a hand through your hair. “You do realize he’s standing right outside, don’t you?”
Bella shrugged. “Maybe he’ll take it as a compliment.”
You shot them both a look, your annoyance tempered by the amusement you couldn’t quite hide. “You’re impossible.”
As the three of you settled in to talk about why they’d actually come to visit, your thoughts briefly wandered to Dean outside the door. His composure, his humor, and the way he’d handled your friends’ antics—it all reminded you why you trusted him so much.
And, fine, you’d admit it. They weren’t wrong about the jawline.
The Oval Office was unnervingly quiet, save for the scratch of your pen against paper and the occasional shuffle of documents. You had spent hours entrenched in policy revisions, draft reviews, and enough bureaucracy to numb your senses entirely. A dull ache had started to build behind your eyes, but you powered through. It wasn’t like the President of the United States could take a sick day.
You leaned back in your chair, letting out a long sigh as you pushed your current stack of papers aside. The late afternoon sunlight poured through the tall windows, bathing the room in a warm golden hue. For a moment, your mind wandered, your focus slipping as you stared at the faint pattern of light on the ceiling.
Then, the door to your office creaked open.
Your attention snapped back, your heart skipping at the sight of Dean stepping inside. He was dressed sharply as always, his dark suit tailored to perfection, though his tie was slightly loosened, and his sleeves were pushed up just enough to reveal his strong forearms.
“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.
Your breath came in short, shallow bursts as he pressed closer, his lips a hair’s breadth from yours. “You’ve been working too hard,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that sent a shiver down your spine.
Before you could respond, his mouth crashed into yours, claiming you in a kiss so heated and consuming that it left no room for thought. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer as your fingers found their way to his hair, tangling in the soft strands.
It was overwhelming—the warmth of his body, the taste of his kiss, the way his fingers dug into your waist with a possessive edge that sent sparks shooting through you.
And then—
“Madam President?” Becky’s voice crackled over the intercom, pulling you violently back to reality.
You blinked, your surroundings snapping into sharp focus. You were still in your chair, your desk untouched, your papers neatly stacked where you’d left them. Dean wasn’t in the room—wasn’t shirtless, wasn’t lifting you onto your desk, wasn’t kissing you like the world was ending.
Heat flooded your face as you sat up straight, your heart pounding in your chest for entirely different reasons now.
“Yes, Becky?” you managed, your voice slightly hoarse.
“You’ve got a visitor—Director Landry from the FBI. He’s here for the meeting regarding Agent Winchester’s appointment.”
Your stomach dropped, the implications of the daydream compounding the embarrassment that already burned hot in your chest. “Send him in,” you replied, clearing your throat to steady your voice.
Moments later, the door opened, and Director Landry entered, his crisp suit and severe demeanor a stark contrast to the imagined chaos of moments ago.
“Madam President,” he greeted with a nod.
“Director,” you replied, standing to shake his hand. “Please, have a seat.”
The two of you settled across from one another, and Landry wasted no time getting to the point. “I understand Agent Winchester’s appointment as your personal bodyguard was an unconventional decision.”
“That’s putting it lightly,” you replied, your tone neutral but firm.
Landry leaned forward slightly, his hands folded on his lap. “While Agent Winchester’s skill set is undeniable, I have to express my concerns. His past… affiliations and actions make him a controversial figure. Are you certain this is the image you want associated with your administration?”
You straightened in your chair, your expression hardening. “Director, I appreciate your concerns, but Dean Winchester was vetted thoroughly before I made my decision. His record speaks for itself—he’s one of the most skilled operatives we’ve ever had.”
“His record also includes a stint in ADX Florence,” Landry countered, his tone measured but pointed.
You didn’t flinch. “I’m aware. And I also know he served his time and cooperated fully with authorities during his incarceration. Dean Winchester has earned his second chance, and I’m not in the business of denying people opportunities based on their past mistakes—especially when they’ve proven themselves more than capable.”
Landry’s gaze narrowed slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.
You leaned forward, your voice steady and resolute. “Dean has already demonstrated his loyalty, his discretion, and his ability to protect me in ways no one else could. He’s not just a bodyguard, Director—he’s a deterrent. Anyone who knows his reputation would think twice before making a move.”
The director regarded you for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Very well. If you’re confident in your decision, I’ll respect it.”
“I am,” you replied firmly, meeting his gaze head-on.
As the meeting concluded and Landry left, you let out a long breath, sinking back into your chair. The tension from the conversation—and the residual heat from your earlier daydream—left you feeling drained and slightly disoriented.
You turned your chair toward the window, letting the fading sunlight warm your face as you tried to shake off the lingering embarrassment.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you could almost hear Dean’s gravelly voice teasing you: You’ve been working too hard.
Dean stood outside the East Wing of the White House, bathed in the faint golden light of the late afternoon. It was one of those rare moments when the world around him seemed to pause, granting him a sliver of peace amidst the relentless schedule of his new life. The crisp November air carried a sharp bite, and Dean savored the sensation as he leaned against a marble column, his hand loosely wrapped around his ever-present phone.
The quiet was interrupted by the buzz of an incoming call. The number wasn’t saved, but Dean knew it immediately—he recognized the area code, the unmistakable pang of familiarity twisting in his chest like a rusty knife.
For a moment, he considered letting it ring out. But he knew better than to ignore a call from them.
Dean swiped his thumb across the screen and brought the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”
“Winchester,” a deep, gravelly voice snarled on the other end of the line. The accent was unmistakable—Brooklyn through and through. “You’ve got some fuckin’ nerve.”
Dean let out a slow exhale, his gaze flicking to the horizon as he stepped further into the shadows of the colonnade. His voice was calm, measured. “What do you want, Frank?”
“What do I want?” Frank barked a harsh laugh. “How about an explanation, for starters? You think we wouldn’t see it? You strutting around on TV in a monkey suit, playing babysitter for the goddamn President of the United States?”
Dean didn’t flinch, though the venom in Frank’s tone was enough to make most men’s blood run cold. “I don’t work for you anymore,” he said simply, his voice low but firm. “I haven’t for a long time.”
“Bullshit!” Frank snapped. “You don’t just leave, Winchester. You don’t walk away from the family and decide to play hero. That ain’t how this works, and you know it.”
Dean’s jaw tightened, his knuckles white as he gripped the phone. The word “family” left a sour taste in his mouth—it was always their go-to excuse, a leash they used to drag their people back into the fold.
“I didn’t walk away,” Dean replied, his tone sharper now. “I was locked up, remember? ADX Florence. Solitary confinement. Twenty-three hours a day in a cell the size of a broom closet. You didn’t exactly come running to my rescue.”
“You think that gives you a free pass to spit on everything we built? On everyone who had your back?” Frank growled, his voice crackling with fury. “You don’t get it, do you? You didn’t just screw us, Winchester. You screwed the whole damn network. You’re a traitor.”
Dean’s pulse quickened, but he kept his voice steady. “I’m not a traitor. I’m just done. Done with the jobs, the lies, the blood on my hands. I’ve paid my dues, Frank. I’m not going back.”
“Not going back?” Frank repeated, his voice dripping with contempt. “You think you can just slap on a suit, play by their rules, and call it a clean slate? Newsflash, buddy: your past doesn’t just disappear because you want it to. The network doesn’t forget.”
The network. The tangled web of organized crime that had once defined Dean’s life. It was a world of favors and debts, alliances and betrayals, a world where loyalty was currency and betrayal was punishable by death. Dean had clawed his way out of that pit, but its shadows still clung to him, no matter how far he tried to run.
“I didn’t ask for a clean slate,” Dean said, his voice laced with quiet defiance. “I know who I am, and I know what I’ve done. But I’m not your guy anymore, Frank. I don’t take orders from you, and I sure as hell don’t owe you a damn thing.”
Frank was silent for a moment, but the static of his labored breathing was still audible. When he finally spoke, his voice was colder than ever. “You think you’re untouchable now, huh? That shiny badge of yours makes you bulletproof?”
Dean’s lips twitched into a grim smile. “I think you know better than to try me.”
There was another long pause, the weight of unspoken threats hanging heavy in the air.
“You’ve made your choice, Winchester,” Frank said finally, his voice low and dangerous. “But don’t think for a second that we’re just gonna let this slide. You’re walking a fine line, and sooner or later, you’re gonna fall.”
The call ended abruptly, the click of the disconnect echoing in Dean’s ear. He stood there for a moment, staring at the phone in his hand as the tension coiled in his chest like a spring wound too tight.
The air around him felt colder now, the shadows deeper. Dean slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned his gaze toward the distant horizon, the Washington Monument rising like a silent sentinel against the darkening sky.
The ghosts of his past were never far behind, and tonight, they’d made it clear they weren’t going anywhere.
Back inside, the warm lights of the White House felt almost alien after the cold, harsh conversation. Dean made his way to the security wing, nodding to a few Secret Service agents as he passed. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of Frank’s words pressing down on him.
You don’t just leave.
Dean knew that all too well. He’d spent years trying to carve out a life for himself that wasn’t defined by the blood and chaos of the criminal underworld. But no matter how far he ran, it always found a way to pull him back in.
As he reached his quarters, Dean leaned against the doorframe, letting out a long breath. His eyes drifted to the small desk in the corner, where a few case files and a polished Glock rested side by side.
He knew he had made the right choice—choosing a path that, while complicated, gave him a chance to do something good. To protect someone who genuinely wanted to make a difference.
But as he sat down, his mind lingered on Frank’s final words.
Sooner or later, you’re gonna fall.
Dean clenched his fists, his jaw tightening with resolve.
Not if he could help it.
Frank slammed the phone onto the mahogany desk in front of him, the sharp crack echoing through the dimly lit room. The ornate office—more of a lair, really—was as ostentatious as it was oppressive, with heavy red drapes and polished wood paneling that seemed to suck the life out of the air. A crystal tumbler of bourbon sat untouched on the desk, catching the faint golden glow of the single overhead light.
His face was twisted with anger, the veins in his neck bulging as he clenched his fists and let out a string of curses.
“That ungrateful son of a bitch!” he barked, his voice reverberating through the room. “Who the hell does he think he is?”
Across from him, Lou, his most trusted advisor, stood with his hands clasped in front of him, his expression carefully neutral. Lou had been with Frank for over two decades, a steady presence in the volatile storm that was the New York mafia. He knew better than to interrupt when Frank was in one of his moods.
“He’s got a death wish, that’s what,” Frank continued, pacing behind his desk now, his expensive Italian shoes thudding against the Persian rug. “Thinks he can just walk away, like the past doesn’t mean jack. Like we don’t mean jack.”
Lou cleared his throat delicately. “He’s always been a loose cannon, Frank. You knew that when you brought him in.”
Frank whirled on him, his face contorted with fury. “Yeah, well, I also knew he was the best. The best hitter I ever had. He cleaned up messes nobody else could, and he did it without batting an eye. I gave him everything, Lou. Everything! And this is how he repays me?”
Lou didn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch just long enough to diffuse some of Frank’s rage. Then he asked, carefully, “What’s the move, boss?”
Frank ran a hand through his thinning hair, exhaling sharply as he tried to collect himself. He reached for the bourbon, downing it in one gulp before slamming the glass back onto the desk.
“The move?” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less dangerous. “The move is reminding every last one of them what happens when you cross me.”
Lou raised an eyebrow. “You want us to go after him?”
Frank let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “No, no. That’s too small. Dean Winchester’s a nobody without that badge he’s wearing now. No, Lou—this is bigger than him.”
Lou tilted his head slightly, waiting for Frank to elaborate.
Frank leaned forward, planting his hands on the desk as he stared at his advisor with cold, calculating eyes. “You saw the news, didn’t you? The pictures? Him standing there, all smug, right next to her.”
“The President,” Lou said, his tone careful.
Frank nodded. “The goddamn President of the United States. He’s not just working for her—he’s protecting her. Like she’s some kind of queen, and he’s her loyal knight.”
Lou remained silent, his brow furrowing slightly as he began to piece together Frank’s train of thought.
Frank straightened up, pacing again as his mind raced. “You know what that makes us look like? Weak. Powerless. Like we let one of our own turn his back on us and walk away without so much as a scratch. It’s a slap in the face, Lou. A slap in the face to the entire goddamn network.”
Lou shifted his weight slightly. “So… what are you suggesting?”
Frank stopped pacing, turning to face him with a grim smile. “We send a message. Not just to him, but to everyone. To the entire world.”
Lou’s eyes narrowed. “You’re talking about—”
“I’m talking about taking her out,” Frank interrupted, his voice low but resolute. “The President. You want to send a message, Lou? There’s no message bigger than that. You kill the President of the United States, and suddenly, everybody remembers who the hell we are. They remember who I am.”
Lou’s expression remained unreadable, but the tension in the room thickened. “That’s… a bold move, Frank. High risk. High profile.”
“Yeah, and high reward,” Frank shot back. “Think about it. This isn’t just about revenge, Lou. This is about power. Control. We pull this off, and we’re untouchable. Nobody messes with us, not the feds, not the other families, not even that bastard Winchester.”
Lou hesitated, clearly weighing the implications of such a move. “It’s not gonna be easy. Security around her is tighter than anything we’ve ever dealt with. And Winchester’s no slouch. He’ll see us coming a mile away.”
Frank smirked, a glint of malice in his eyes. “Then we don’t let him see us coming. We hit her when she’s vulnerable, when nobody’s expecting it. And as for Winchester… well, let’s just say I’d love to see his face when he realizes he couldn’t protect her.”
Lou nodded slowly, though his expression remained guarded. “All right. I’ll put the word out, see who’s available for a job like this.”
Frank’s smile widened, but it was a smile devoid of warmth. “Good. And Lou?”
“Yeah, boss?”
“Make sure it’s someone we can trust. Someone who understands what’s at stake. This isn’t just another hit—this is history.”
Lou inclined his head, then turned and left the room, leaving Frank alone with his thoughts.
Frank sank into his chair, a satisfied smirk playing at his lips as he poured himself another glass of bourbon. He swirled the amber liquid thoughtfully, his mind already racing with plans and contingencies.
Dean Winchester thought he could walk away from the life. Thought he could play the hero, stand in the light, and leave the darkness behind. But Frank knew better. The darkness had a way of finding you, no matter where you ran.
And soon, Dean would learn that lesson the hard way.
The alley was dark, a maze of cobblestones and shadows that swallowed up the last traces of daylight. The smell of stale garbage and rain-soaked concrete hung in the air, thick and oppressive. It was the kind of place where deals were made in whispers, where the murky dealings of the underworld could be carried out without the watchful eyes of the world’s authorities.
Lou stood at the entrance to the alley, the tip of his polished shoes barely touching the edge of the grime-covered street. He had a hand in his coat pocket, fingers wrapped tightly around a wad of cash, his eyes scanning the alley with practiced indifference. He wasn’t here to make friends. He wasn’t even here to talk, not really.
He was here to ensure the job was done—no questions asked, no mistakes. Frank had given the order, and Lou was the one who would make sure it was carried out to the letter.
The shadows at the far end of the alley shifted, and Lou stiffened. The figure emerging from the darkness was tall, a silhouette whose face remained hidden in the dimness, a hood pulled up over their head to shield their identity. They moved with deliberate grace, footsteps silent against the damp ground, their presence unsettling, as if the shadows themselves had brought them to life.
Lou didn’t flinch. He had met people like this before. People who operated in the dark, who carried out their work with ruthless efficiency. People who didn’t need to be seen to make an impact.
“You got the money?” the figure rasped, their voice low and gravelly, as though it had been worn down by years of disuse.
Lou pulled the cash from his pocket, holding it up to the faint light spilling out from the windows above. He glanced at it for a moment before slipping it into a plain envelope. It was a sizable sum—enough to make even the most hardened hitman pause, but that wasn’t why Lou was here. Money was always the easy part. It was the message that had to be delivered, and that was worth more than any amount of cash.
“Everything you need is in there,” Lou said, his tone calm and measured. “But it’s not just about the money. It’s about making a statement. A clean job. No mess. It has to be perfect.”
The figure stepped closer, now within arm's reach. Their silhouette was more defined now, the curve of their shoulders broad under the dark fabric of their coat, but still, their face remained hidden.
“A statement?” The figure's voice was skeptical, but there was something in the way they asked the question that suggested they had heard it all before.
Lou didn’t hesitate. “The President. You’re going to take her out. Make it clean, make it quick. No mistakes. And when it’s done, it needs to be clear—this wasn’t just some random attack. It’s a message. A message to everyone who thought they could turn their backs on us. He turned his back on us, and now we pay him back.”
The figure’s face remained in shadow, but Lou could see the faint movement of their head as if they were considering the weight of the job.
“You’re talking about her, the new President?” the figure finally asked, the tone slightly amused. “I thought she was untouchable.”
“She’s not. No one is.” Lou’s voice hardened. “You do this, and everyone will know. You send a message to every fucking player in this game—no one walks away clean.”
There was a brief pause, then the figure took a step forward, the shadows lifting slightly as they approached. Lou’s eyes narrowed, scanning them closely. There was something familiar about their movements, the way they carried themselves. The way they moved like they owned the dark.
Lou took a step back, the envelope still clenched in his hand. “You understand what I’m asking?”
The figure nodded slowly, then pushed back the hood.
Lou’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening as the face emerged from the shadows.
It was him.
The man standing in front of him wasn’t just a hitman. It was Benny Lafitte, one of the most notorious operatives to ever work for VIPER. The same man who had helped Frank build his empire, the same man who had been second only to Dean Winchester in terms of skill and ruthlessness. Benny was a ghost, someone who had disappeared from the underworld years ago after a particularly bloody job, but now he was back. And he was standing in front of Lou, as calm and unbothered as ever.
“Benny,” Lou said, his voice betraying a mixture of surprise and respect. “I didn’t expect you to be the one on this job.”
Benny’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “You didn’t think I’d hear about Dean’s little betrayal? Of course I’m involved. You think I’ve been sitting around twiddling my thumbs for the last few years?”
Lou was still processing the fact that Benny Lafitte—the ghost of the criminal underworld—was standing before him, ready to take on one of the most dangerous assignments Frank had ever given. Benny had a reputation for being precise, deadly, and entirely unpredictable.
“You always did like to be the best,” Lou muttered, still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Benny was back.
Benny chuckled lowly, the sound dark and almost amused. “The best doesn’t retire, Lou. The best waits for the right time to come back. And it looks like the right time is now.”
Lou handed him the envelope. “The target’s the President. Make it look like a clean, political hit. We need the world to see it as a message. It’s not just about her—it’s about what Dean’s done. This is for him. For betraying the family.”
Benny took the envelope from Lou with a slow, deliberate motion, his fingers brushing against Lou’s briefly. Then he turned it over in his hands, examining it as if it were a piece of fine art rather than a job request.
“I’m clear on the details, Lou,” Benny said, his voice dropping lower, almost a growl. “But just so we’re clear… this is his punishment, not hers, right?”
Lou’s eyes darkened, his gaze cold. “This is for Dean. The President? She’s just in the way.”
Benny gave a nod, his eyes glinting with something darker now. “Then we’ll get this done. Clean. Quick. And unforgettable.”
Lou turned to leave, already hearing the faint sound of Benny’s footsteps receding into the shadows behind him.
One thing was for sure: If anyone could send a message like Frank wanted, it was Benny Lafitte. And once it was done, the underworld would know—no one walked away from VIPER. Not even Dean Winchester.
Benny stood still in the alley for a moment after Lou had walked away, his hand still wrapped tightly around the envelope. His eyes flickered up to the narrow slice of moonlight overhead, a reminder of just how far he’d fallen—and how far he was willing to go to make sure Dean Winchester didn’t come out on top.
The plan was simple: in and out, make the shot, leave no trace. Frank had asked for precision, but Benny had other ideas.
Why make it clean, when you could make it memorable?
After all, what was the point of sending a message if no one remembered it?
And so, as the chill of the night air wrapped itself around him, Benny’s mind began to race, already plotting the President’s downfall in the most spectacular way possible. He had no love for Dean, and he had no love for the President either. They were simply obstacles in a game much larger than any of them could comprehend.
And Benny Lafitte? Well, Benny was the one who would tip the scales.
This was going to be a hell of a show.
As Benny disappeared back into the shadows, Lou stepped into his car, the weight of the job heavy on his mind. Frank had given the order, and Benny would follow through. The message would be loud and clear.
The underworld would never forget what had happened tonight.
And neither would Dean.
NEXT UP:
Bella leaned in with a sly grin, her eyes practically sparkling with mischief. “We’ve been friends for how long now, huh? You’re telling us nothing happened last night? Nothing?”
You swallowed again, resisting the urge to shift uncomfortably in your seat. “What are you talking about?” you asked, trying to play it cool.
Steph didn’t let you off the hook. She put her coffee down and stared at you seriously, her eyes narrowing. “Come on, you were talking about him last night, and now you can’t even focus? You’ve been staring at that plate like it’s your first meal in months.”
Your heart pounded as the realization hit you—they knew. They were onto you.
You let out a shaky breath. You could feel your pulse racing, the thought of admitting what had happened last night making your stomach flip uncomfortably. “It’s just…” You trailed off, trying to find the words, your fingers nervously tapping the edge of your glass.
Bella’s smirk only widened. “Come on, tell us. What’s the deal with you and your very handsome bodyguard?”
Your breath caught. You hadn’t expected them to be so direct, and yet it was exactly what you needed. You let out a long breath, looking down at the table to avoid their eyes.
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Making Finance Work for People and Planet: How FfD4 can strengthen country leadership on financing through integrated national financing frameworks.
The side event will explore how countries are using Integrated National Financing Frameworks (INFFs) to transform national financing ecosystems to accelerate progress toward the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs).
With over 85 countries utilizing INFFs to align public and private finances with the SDGs, this session will highlight country experiences and discuss how the Fourth International Conference on Financing for Development (FfD4) can strengthen the impact of INFFs. The event will feature high-level government officials and international partners, focusing on fostering collaboration to drive sustainable development financing and reforms in global financial systems.
#side event#Integrated National Financing Frameworks#INFFs#Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs)#Description#public and private finances#Fourth International Conference on Financing for Development#FfD4#high-level government officials#international partners#foster collaboration#sustainable development#financing and reforms#global financial systems.
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