#There was this whole paragraph of me trying to say
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fandomsandfeminism · 2 days ago
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Would it be easier for you if I just copy pasted that long list of solutions and the entire last paragraph of that reply? Or is just telling you to reread that long list of solutions and the entire last paragraph of that reply enough?
Because I literally don't know how else to say it. I literally can not figure out *how* yall want me to say it if not one of the 15 ways I've already explained on this exact post.
Yes *right now* recidivism rates are REALLY HIGH and that makes it seem like letting people out of prison is a really bad idea. But we know that *going to prison* entrenches maladaptive, violent behaviors. Prisons *make people worse.* and many many many repeat offenders *wouldn't be repeat offenders* if they were given proper help instead of being chucked into an inherently dehumanizing institution to be repeatedly traumized before sending them back into society.
I'm not going to say "I don't know" how prison abolition proposals account for violent offenders/repeat offenders/"unrepentant" offenders because I DO FUCKING KNOW and have EXPLAINED THIS *repeatedly.* we have a whole list of alternatives. We do as many of them as we can, because each one reduces harm. Each one helps more and more people. And maybe some folks would need several of them or need to try them several times. Maybe some people just can't be fucking helped and we still don't give up on them and we just keep on trying because in the process, we will minimize the total amount of harm done and helped the most amount of people in a systemic way.
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nqueso-emergency · 3 days ago
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i think when Lou was saying “it’s not me” he was on about why the character left. i know his whole paragraph was a bit jumbled but I believe he was trying to say like
“it’s not my fault tommy was written off, it’s no one’s fault, no one else’s fault, it’s just how the story was written” and that’s why he said “it’s not me, it’s not someone else”
i saw someone else say this and it made sense to me at least 🤷‍♀️ esp when talking about the reception towards him and the storyline bc he also said in that interview that some people treat him like he’s the one writing the story when he’s just reading what he’s been given
That does make sense!! Thank you!
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xxplastic-cubexx · 1 month ago
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what is your favorite thing about charles and your favorite thing about erik? separately, as in what you like most about their characters :]
a devious question this one is, my friend!!! it's hard enough for me to explain my thoughts cohesively, but having to pick ONE thing i particularly love is difficult. with characters like charles and erik, theres been so much done with their characters over the decades and so they have so many components to them that make them so interesting and fun to observe. BUT I TRY FOR YOU TODAY. under the cut i kinda ramble and the size of this text box makin me anxious
i think if i were to be simple and broad, what i enjoy most about charles is his determination to help others, even if he isn't really thanked and/or if people don't even like him. ofc, this isn't to say he hasn't done wrong- to be honest, the fact he does wrong/questionable things at times is another aspect of him i really enjoy, maybe because- broadly speaking- he's meant to be altruistic (intent vs outcome and all that). i don't know if that's super exciting to most people, but it is for me
as for erik, my reason for liking him is easier to explain tbh. To Be Simple And Broad, his progression from villain to antihero over the decades has been fun to observe (as much as i have so far anyhow) and analyze. i think to be a bit more specific, him using his rage and pain as justifications for his villainous actions is definitely what compels me the most: hurt people hurt and the sort, an idea i've always found interesting (something something vicious cycles and the like). yet now, he recognizes this wasn't really. A Just Thing To Do and is beginning to change that, which i enjoy
#snap chats#may you forgive me anon i always feel awkward explaining things AVELKJEAKLJ#i feel esp awkward cause i haven't read toooo much of the comics yet- like ive read. an ok amount so far krakoa wise#can you guys tell im fighting god himself to Not write a fuckin. NOVEL#im so sorry i have an over-explaining problem my mom was mean to me growing up but anyways#i definitely want to read more and more outside krakoa. the more i read the more im fascinated by these two and their history#but to continue my prattling. as if the three paragraphs above arent enough This Is Not A Thesis RELAX#i think a. 'poignant' moment i think adds to what i like about charles too is that soliloquy where he recognizes people dont like him#yet he could always be worse- like if he's bad now to others imagine if he really just said Fuck It All#it's simple but so am i whaddyagonnadoboutit. i mean that point itself could be discussed but i'm trying to keep this brief bear with me#i so bad want to know what issue that's from tho all i know is that it's from krakoa but i neeeed the whole context#i think like. an additional bullet point to charles i also like is his loneliness#and i say this cause- I Say From My Amateur-Psychology Armchair- it's a component of why he's so earnest to help#but im keeping this point in the tags until i can confidently verify that with myself after some more reading#Unfortunately a favorite pass time of mine is psychoanalyzing characters like why else you think i major in psychology smh#im going to force myself to cap the post here because i ended up typing like 20 more tags just rambling#and as i said id like to keep this simple and clean !!!!! i have sat here for like four hours answering this ngl#ignore the fact half that time was spent getting distracted by solitaire and riffling cards ok I Am Very Easily Distracted#but fr when it comes to charles and erik- charles esp imo#i feel like i need to write a whole paper just so i can mention the nuances of the characters and like. EVERYTHING#because again six decades is A Lot of time for writing decisions to be made and for their characters to change over time#im a glazer but i wanna be a nuanced glazer yk. is that glazing at that point-- w/e anyway#its a lot. so today you will have to tolerate a very Blah answer from me which i must apologize for#down the line once ive read a comfortable amount more varying from multiple eras maybe ill revisit this question more in depth#as of right now tho .... chat i wanna get legion of x so bad i skimmed it and hhhhhhhhim gonna throw UP#i need to shake charles like a ragdoll BUT ANYWAY. bye bye for now lovelies !!!!!!!#please forgive me if i didnt answer your question efficiently ..#here i am saying i wanted to keep the tag count brief and yet !!! jesus christ. shut up My God I REACHED THE TAG LIMIT
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icewindandboringhorror · 4 months ago
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Lineup of all of the characters that appear long enough to need a visual representation of them in the game lol
#I added a few people that you can randomly run into around town (like at the inn or in the forest or etc) and have very short conversations#with just to kind of flesh out the world a little more in a more natural-ish seeming way. Like nobody in the main cast would really#have much reason to talk about the actual city you're in or anything. Since most of them havent lived there that long anyway.#But if there's a ''city inspector'' that you can run into whilst he's writing up notes examining the local inn. then maybe there could be a#few dialogue options with him where you can ask about things like that. since he would know more about the area as an offical Government#Worker or etc. Optional of course. since I have to be so wary of my natural inclination to lore dump lol and am trying extra hard to make i#all stuff thats easily avoided/skipped. But for the people like ME who deliberately choose to exhaust every possible optional dialogue#option and explore every single inch of the world and try to collect as much information as possible - then there are a few extra places to#do that. Though obviously not all of them just give exposition for like 15 paragraphs blandly. Some you don't really learn anything from#and it's kind of just.. random flavor to make the non-shop map locations more ''lived in'' feeling. Like the random#little girl you can talk to in the park doesn't bizarrely start reading out the wikipedia description of some War that happened 10 years ag#or whatever. she's just complains about school a little and asks if you've tried the nearby ice cream cart treats and etc lol#ANYWAY..#some of the art is so so evil but I'm not going to spend 800 years trying to clean it up and update it. whatever the hell mess I sketched#out in 2018 or whatever is just what I'm keeping lol... it is what it is#One of the many trials of the whole 'briefly work a few months on something and then abandon it almost entirely only to pick up work#on it literally like 4 - 5 yrs later and now you must contend with trying to decipher whatever weird shit you did years ago' experience lol#Also given the population breakdowns of the world in general I think there's an unrealistic amount of jhevona in this lineup since#they're a much rarer species to just see out and about anywhere but.. it IS a global trading center type area. and the game#takes place in the north (the country of Asen. near the coast. for the maybe 2 or less people who actually keep up with my worldbuilding#enough to know where that is lol (the same continent as Navyete (where the avirre'thel live)) and there's a decent concentration#of nothern jhevona only a short ways away so... tee hee..I shall pretend it makes sense and not merely me just wanting#to represent more of that species because I think their lore is interesting lol#I MEAN also realistically there would NOT be a human here because humans are extremely isolated species that don't even know the rest#of the world exists really and human territories are extremely protected from the outside world but... of course it's like.. well we need#at least One of them to be there for the Optional Lore. Same with the Ythrili. But at least those are like.. PLAUSIBLE.. not nonsensically#outlandish. If I had a Verrucalt or something in there THEN that would be truly lore-breaking almost lol#ANYWAY.. rambling that only means anything to me because nobody else knows what I'm even referencing but hbjh#also I think my character designs are so funny in the sense that I really do just love to do the same thing over and over again ghbjh#wow... random asymmetry and belts and arm straps and high collars where the neck is completely covered?? you dont say..how novel
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waynes-multiverse · 20 hours ago
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Ooooh, Arty! I'm so excited for this series (and your FBI one, which I'm hopping into next) 😍 You know I'm obsessed with those things 😂👏
Let's jump into it! 🍿
You were sitting in a bar, hoping that when the results of the final poll came you were drunk enough that you’d cheer and scream like a madwoman to counteract the inevitable news that you’d lose the 2014 presidential elections to your only eligible opponent, Amara Shurley.
I can see why she'd need a bodyguard. Girl, you can't be sitting in a bar as a presidential candidate. Please tell me Secret Service has eyes on this "madwoman" 😂
Either way, you both had incredibly good future legislations and laws, and whoever was elected there’d be a woman as the President for the first time, which was good. Really good.
Yup 💯💯💯 Although, I don't think Shurley's up for the job... 😒
Bella, your other, redhead best friend, sighed and smacked Steph upside her blonde head, earning a gasp at the potentially ruined heatless curls (no, they weren’t ruined, she’s just being dramatic).
Bella sounds like me 😂 Are we redheads all the same?
You asked in severe mild concern, while Steph just looked either repulsed or amused.
I love when authors add (funny) information in parentheses or strike words through! It adds so much comedy and is my favorite kind of writing style 🤍
That means you got… 64% of the vote
Whoa! You can almost call that a landslide! 🥳
Suck it, Amara 😝
You were the President. The first female President. POTUS. The youngest ever elected too, at 35.
Dude, she's winning in, like... life 👀
But there's something missing... Ah yes! Who will be the First Gentleman? *coughs*
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And please tell me the girls are moving with her into the White House. I'd die 😂😂
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“I’m Becky Rosen, I’ll be your assistant.
Oh dear God, no... 😂 I had a feeling when she snuck up on me in this paragraph lmao
But is she okay? Why do I get the sense her eye bags don't come from being overworked? Is someone threatening her? Trying to gain access to Mme Pres. through her? I'm on alert! 👀
Well, you did say unorthodox applicants can apply if they wanted to, you just didn’t expect a dude in prison to put his file through.
That is a fair assumption 😅 Only one dude would be this crazy to apply to the freaking White House as personal bodyguard to the freaking president 🙈
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A hitman with a list of bodies long enough to fill a small town cemetery
Jesus effing Christ...
I wonder what really went on there? Can't imagine Dean, even AU!Dean, to be this damn cold-blooded without a somewhat (we do forgive him a lot) sound reason
Dean had always been a man who thrived on freedom—the smell of asphalt under the Impala’s tires, the weight of a weapon he knew as intimately as his own heartbeat, the thrill of a job well done.
Chills! Literal chills! 👏
“Unorthodox candidates,” he muttered, smirking. “Guess I qualify.”
Uhm, sweetie...? You feelin' good? 😂
I love how his whole plan rides on "oh, I can get pardoned if I work for the president" 🤣 Dream big, I guess
Before my incarceration, I was highly skilled in tactical operations, surveillance, and neutralising high-level targets. My ability to assess danger and act decisively has been tested in some of the most dangerous environments.
That sounds almost like one Russell Shaw 😏 (Which makes sense, considering they're both the same person – thanks Jackles 😂)
neither were fancy words, and he used a lot of them.
You did good, boo 😘👏
Feldman stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “You realize this is insane, right? You’re in here for life. They’re not going to let you out just because you can write a heartfelt letter.”
A realist, you might say 😂
His lawyer might eat his own ass after he gets out 🤣🤣
“The fuck is this?” You gestured to the heavy shackles on Dean’s wrists and ankles
I love her! She treats him like a human being already, and not like a murderous animal 🤍
He’s not being a perv.
Mmm, I don't quite believe you, Mr. Winchester 😅
“But the equal amounts of money went to Stanford in deposits. Why?”
Ah! And suddenly, it all becomes quite clear. Of course he did all this crazy shit for Sammy. And I bet Sammy, the prosecutor, just loves the fact that his brother is a hitman in prison 😂
You’re. Hired. He could die.
Arty, if this is foreshadowing, I will kill you. Hope you have your bodyguard ready 😝
That whole reunion with Sam made me tear up for real 😭 That was so sweet and genuine!
“He’s teething,” Eden said with a weary smile. “So, you know…living the dream.”
Yes. Just been there last week again 😂
Her family also seems so sweet. She needs a good support system with this job, and it seems like she has that 🤍
Dean Winchester strode into the room with the kind of presence that made people stop and take notice. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried himself with a casual confidence that hinted at years of facing danger head-on. He wore a dark gray suit that was tailored just enough to highlight his powerful frame but not so tight as to make him look polished or delicate. The crisp white shirt underneath contrasted against his tanned skin, and his black tie was slightly loosened, as if he’d deliberately left it that way.
I died somewhere while reading this paragraph 🔥🥵🫠
Steph scoffed, shaking her head. “Girl, no. He’s better than that, he puts Adonis to shame— where’s he been hiding?”
I'm with Steph on this one. Ben Affleck? Ew.
And I have a feeling those walls aren't as thick as the girls believe they are 😂
“So he’s a bad boy.” Bella giggled
DECEASED 🤣🤣🤣 Bella should join the PR team!
That whole conversation has me rolling on the floor, girl 😂 There were so many gems here 🤍✨
“Hey, I’m just calling it like I see it,” Sam said with a grin. “Besides, you deserve someone who can keep up with you.”
Joking or not, I can't believe Sam's entertaining this idea and encouraging him to hit on the president (and his only ticket outta prison) 😂
Wonderful first chapter, babe! 👏👏👏 So stoked to see where this goes, to have more wild girl chats, and more romantic as well as sexual tension! 😏😍
𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞 𝐱𝐲𝐳 1
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SUMMARY: You’re the first female president of the USA, having won the 2014 elections against Amara Shurley by a landslide. Now that you were a symbol of feminism, reform and a better country, it meant that there were a lot more assassination attempts bound to be on your head. For that, you needed a personal bodyguard, so you had to pick right. And you picked right in convicted ex-hitman Dean Winchester. Right?
TW: assassination attempts, ex-hitman!Dean, POTUS!reader, politics!au, politics, murder, gunfire, boss reader, angst, major sexual tension between reader and Dean but also romantic tension cause we love that, slow/quick burn, y’all will have to figure that out
A/N: In honour of our queen Kamala Harris, who didn’t win the 2024 elections, so I give you what could’ve been
NOW PLAYING: Power by Little Mix
office fever
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God, the wait was killing you.
You were sitting in a bar, hoping that when the results of the final poll came you were drunk enough that you’d cheer and scream like a madwoman to counteract the inevitable news that you’d lose the 2014 presidential elections to your only eligible opponent, Amara Shurley. Either way, you both had incredibly good future legislations and laws, and whoever was elected there’d be a woman as the President for the first time, which was good. Really good.
“Come on, babes, cheer up!” Stephanie, one of your two best friends, drawled, checking her manicured nails while absent-mindedly sipping on a Long Island Iced Tea like it was merely water, but that was Steph O’Donnell for you, plain and simple. Eh, she was a bit nails-obsessed, but you loved her anyway for it, she did always look immaculate.
Bella, your other, redhead best friend, sighed and smacked Steph upside her blonde head, earning a gasp at the potentially ruined heatless curls (no, they weren’t ruined, she’s just being dramatic). “Maybe you just need to get less alcohol in your system.” She said pointedly, plucking the vodka shot out of your fingers.
“Bels, if anything, she needs more.” Steph pointed out after checking if her hair wasn’t frizzed up in a pocket mirror. “If she wins, it just means she’s capable of partying harder.”
Bella sighed and rolled her eyes, shaking her head with a small laugh, tsking internally at the notion. “She needs to remain sober for when she gets the results, and she’s going to win.” Bella turned to you with a sparkling smile and took your hand, squeezing it. “We’re here for you, girl. Sure, it’s totally possible that the Amara Shurley woman could win the election — she’s older — but if the country’s not stupid, then you’ll be the next POTUS.”
“I’m not sure whether to feel better or worse.” You playfully rolled your eyes, but let the vodka shot go and gestured to the bartender with a resigned sigh. Yeah, you could go without alcohol for tonight. “But ok. One mocktail, and surprise me with it. Cheers.” You looked to Bella with raised eyebrows, tipping your head slightly. “So, what if I lose the election?”
Bella tutted, and Steph looked up from her nails in shock— damn, that’s how you knew you were in deep shit. “Baby girl, you better get that thinking out of your head right now.” Steph gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in shock. “You are an icon for a feminist nation— a non-toxic feminist nation. If people don’t vote for you, I’m gonna kill those who didn’t, those who did can live.”
“Don’t do that.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Steph, no—”
“Yes—”
A loud squeal from Bella distracted both of you and almost made Steph spill the Cosmo that matched her nails and also made her shoot a you bitch look that she really didn’t mean, but then Bella started flapping her hands and making squealing and unintelligible, Brittany from Alvin and the Chipmunk-esque sounds that made you and Steph share a look. “You ok, Bels?” You asked in severe mild concern, while Steph just looked either repulsed or amused.
“Are you having a stroke?” Steph continued, checking for any signs of maybe a heart attack or an ice cube lodged down her throat so her speech becomes little whistles.
“Do you smell toast?” You waved a hand in front of your nose, but then her phone was shoved in front of your face so the screen and everything went blurry, not to mention the sting of the light on your eyes— shit, that burned until your retinas. Grabbing the phone from her, you held it at a distance and squinted (“grandma”, said Steph) but then saw the headline.
2014 PRESIDENTIAL ELECTIONS, FINAL POLL RESULTS
Then you scrolled down, with bated breath and clutching Bella’s hand like you wanted to rip it off, and you took a shaky look at the numbers.
AMARA SHURLEY — 36%
That means you got… 64% of the vote, now that you did the math. Holy shit. “Holy shit!” You gasped, letting out a Bella-reminiscent squeal just as Steph did, and you were smothered by two heavily-perfumed hugs, the wind knocked out of you, but did that matter? No.
You were the President. The first female President. POTUS. The youngest ever elected too, at 35.
Holy fuck, holy shit, holy crap. This was the most beautiful day of your life, beside the day you met Bella and Steph, that day was important. “You’re POTUS.” Steph grinned, waving for, like, six whiskeys for all of you to down.
“You’re POTUS, baby girl.” Bella giggled, squeezing your shoulders and then spinning around on her bar stool, pointing obviously to you and yelling “POTUS!”, earning a round of cheers and applause from the patrons that made you bury your face in your hands.
But you did it with a grin. You were the President.
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Honestly, being the President was exhilarating, cause that meant you got to make real change, it was incredible. Your new security team had fended off the paparazzi from smothering you Bella and Steph style except more annoying as you were escorted into the White House, a woman only a little younger than you waiting with an eager grin and a clipboard hugged to her chest.
“Welcome to the White House, Madam President.” She grinned, holding out her hand nervously then retracting it— she didn’t know what new bosses wanted, alright? “I’m Becky Rosen, I’ll be your assistant. Anything you need, I’ll handle it. Do you want anything? Tea, coffee, water, a martini— if you want a martini I’ll have the barman get one ready and waiting for you in the Oval Office…”
During that time she’d been rambling you’d examined Becky, getting a feel for what she was like. Thank God your assistant was a woman also and she seemed like good fun, lively spirit, definitely someone who won’t make your schedule sound boring. But she looked overworked and tired, maybe from the last president— that’d be Raphael Easton, right? Yeah.
“Two things,” you started as you were walking through the halls to the Oval Office, “do you have the files for personal bodyguard applicants that I can cycle through before making official speeches?”
“They’re all on your desk, ma’am.” Becky answered almost immediately— damn, she was rather eager, and happy with her job, clearly, but also had dark circles and eye bags that made something twinge in you. It didn’t sit right.
You nodded, then gave her a warm smile, gently taking the clipboard. “How ‘bout you take the day off, yeah? It’s only my first day, I don’t need anything yet, and I can get the applicants from…” You looked through the labels on the file: FBI, CIA, private agencies, ADX Supermax— ADX Supermax?
“What’s wrong, ma’am?” Becky asked, seeing the way your words trailed off upon seeing the file amid all the other incredibly professional outlets for protection, an applicant from the ADX. Well, you did say unorthodox applicants can apply if they wanted to, you just didn’t expect a dude in prison to put his file through.
Oh. Upon opening it, it was just a letter.
You looked up to Becky, biting your lip in thought, cause if this guy’s in the Supermax, he’s prolific.
“Do I have a direct line to the director of the FBI?”
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ADX Florence was a fortress, a high-tech prison designed to keep America’s most dangerous criminals sealed away from the world. It wasn’t a place where hope grew. Dean Winchester, prisoner 11347-7, wasn’t the kind of guy to expect hope anyway. A hitman with a list of bodies long enough to fill a small town cemetery, he had resigned himself to spending the rest of his days in this tomb of concrete and steel.
It wasn’t regret that gnawed at him in the sterile silence of his cell. Regret wasn’t his style. He’d made his choices, taken his hits, and lived by the only code he knew: survival. But that didn’t mean he liked being locked away. Dean had always been a man who thrived on freedom—the smell of asphalt under the Impala’s tires, the weight of a weapon he knew as intimately as his own heartbeat, the thrill of a job well done.
Now, his days were measured in three meals delivered through a slot and the endless monotony of isolation. Until that morning in 2008 when the guard, a surly guy Dean called Mustache, slid a newspaper into his cell along with the breakfast tray.
Dean didn’t read newspapers often. What was the point? The world moved on without him. But that day, boredom got the better of him. He skimmed headlines about wars, scandals, and the economy’s nosedive. Nothing he hadn’t expected. Then his eyes landed on something that made him sit up straighter on the cot.
“Wanted: Elite Personal Security for First Female President. Apply Now.”
The ad stood out like a neon sign in a desert. Beneath the bold letters was a glossy image of the President standing in front of the White House, flanked by Secret Service agents. The text outlined the need for a personal bodyguard—someone with impeccable skills, discretion, and a willingness to take a bullet if necessary. Experience required. Unorthodox candidates welcome.
Dean read it twice, then a third time, the words stirring something he hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t quite hope, but it was close.
ADX Supermax wasn’t the kind of place where people left easily. But this ad…this ad was a door, cracked open just wide enough for someone like him to slip through.
“Unorthodox candidates,” he muttered, smirking. “Guess I qualify.”
By lunchtime, Dean had a plan. It wasn’t perfect—nothing he did ever was—but it was a shot, and that was more than he usually got in this place.
He spent hours staring at the blank sheet of paper he’d salvaged from a previous legal memo. Writing wasn’t his strong suit. Hell, if he’d been good at words, maybe he wouldn’t have ended up in the killing business in the first place. But this wasn’t about flowery language. It was about convincing someone that a convicted hitman could be trusted with the life of the most powerful person in the country.
Dean leaned over the small desk bolted to the wall of his cell, chewing the end of his pen as he started to scribble.
To Madam President,
I am writing to express my interest in the position of personal security for the President. I realize my application may raise questions, given my current circumstances, but I ask for your consideration based on my unique qualifications.
Before my incarceration, I was highly skilled in tactical operations, surveillance, and neutralising high-level targets. My ability to assess danger and act decisively has been tested in some of the most dangerous environments.
Though I am serving time for my past actions, I believe in redemption. This position represents an opportunity for me to use my skills for a greater purpose. I have spent my years here reflecting on my choices, and I am prepared to dedicate my life to protecting someone who stands for hope and progress in this country.
Thank you for your time and consideration. I am available for an interview at your convenience.
Sincerely, Dean Winchester
He read over the letter a dozen times, making minor adjustments. It was rough, sure, but it was honest. And honesty was something he didn’t traffic in often, neither were fancy words, and he used a lot of them.
By the time he was done, his hand ached, and the paper was smudged from his grip. He folded it carefully and tucked it into the pocket of his jumpsuit.
The next step was trickier.
Dean’s lawyer, a wiry man named Feldman who’d been paid off by some shadowy client years ago to keep an eye on him, didn’t usually show up unless Dean demanded it. This time, Dean played the card of “urgent legal matter.” When Feldman arrived, looking mildly annoyed but curious, Dean slid the letter across the table during their monitored meeting.
“You want me to…submit this?” Feldman asked, raising an eyebrow.
Dean nodded. “Straight to the President’s office. No detours, no ‘I’ll get to it later.’ This is priority one.”
Feldman stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “You realize this is insane, right? You’re in here for life. They’re not going to let you out just because you can write a heartfelt letter.”
“They might if they’re desperate enough,” Dean countered. “And that ad says they’re looking for someone who can do the job, not someone who looks good on paper. I can do the job.”
Feldman sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “And if I say no?”
Dean’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You won’t. You owe me.”
Feldman muttered something under his breath but pocketed the letter. “You’re lucky I like long shots.”
Weeks passed. Dean didn’t hear anything, and for a while, he wondered if Feldman had tossed the letter in the nearest trash can. But then, one morning, Mustache appeared at his cell with an unreadable expression.
“You’ve got a visitor,” he said gruffly.
Dean frowned. “Who?”
“Didn’t say. Get up.”
Visitors were rare, especially unannounced ones. Dean followed Mustache down the cold, narrow corridors, his curiosity growing. When he reached the visitor room, his breath caught.
The woman sitting on the other side of the plexiglass partition was dressed in a crisp suit, her posture radiating authority. She wasn’t Feldman, and she definitely wasn’t a typical visitor.
Dean picked up the phone on his side of the glass.
“Mr. Winchester,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “I’m here on behalf of the President.”
He leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Guess you got my letter.”
Her expression didn’t change. “We did. It was…unconventional.”
“That’s me in a nutshell.”
She glanced at a folder on the table in front of her. “Your record is extensive. Multiple charges of murder-for-hire, conspiracy, weapons trafficking…” She looked up, her sharp eyes locking onto his. “Why should we trust you?”
Dean leaned forward, his tone serious. “Because I know what I’m doing. You want someone who’ll lay down their life for the President? Someone who’ll see the threats before anyone else does? That’s me. I’ve been on both sides of this game. I know how killers think because I’ve been one. And if you give me this chance, I’ll prove that I’m more than what’s in that file.”
The woman studied him for a long moment before standing. “We’ll be in touch.”
Dean hung up the phone, watching her leave with a mixture of hope and disbelief. For the first time in years, it felt like the world outside ADX Supermax wasn’t as far away as it seemed.
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You’d been running interviews for a bodyguard for about a week now, and you’d only started them once Becky had gotten a good rest, as well as the rest of the staff at the White House so they could spend good time with their families. First few weeks of presidency were busy ones, so you wanted your employees to have some time for themselves before anything happened.
Nobody seemed suitable to you, even though you’d been presented with the best FBI, CIA and private outlet’s security detail they had, they’d each and all failed your every attempt to make them seem credible, you didn’t want anyone like that. Tabloids had already gotten to smearing your name regarding this, but you were more concerned with your final applicant.
Dean Winchester.
You’d asked the FBI to send over every file they had on him, and the list was — you hated to say it — extensive. Many assassinations of high and low-level targets, and he was credited with over 100 assassinations in the past two years— you had your doubts about this guy, the director of the FBI had said he was in there for a reason.
You’d find out if he was unhinged, or just a normal man.
Well, Dean had been escorted as covertly as possible with a bunch of military and secret service agents, which didn’t make sense as his hands were shackled to his feet. The only way he’d be getting out of these chains was if he was a magician, and he wasn’t, just incredibly good at marksmanship and fighting, thank John for that.
“Alright, alright.” He scoffed, almost tripping out of the car as he was practically shoved up the steps by the agents by his head. “I’m moving, I’m moving, Jesus fuck, you ladies are uptight.” He got to the door of the White House, and holy shit, he was really here. He got let in, hearing a Secret Service agent blabbing in his ear.
“Any funny business, 353, and we’re sending you straight back. You’re gonna address Madam President with respect, no cheek—” Ugh, the sound of his voice was grating, but all Dean could do was let out a terse nod as he was led to the door of the Oval Office and led inside. He stepped in, glaring at the service agent who had been yapping about decorum. Then, suddenly—
“Oi! Hey, hey!” A woman’s voice snapped, and he looked up from his shackles to see you, and boy, were you young for a president. You had to be his age, right? Yeah, and you were surprisingly gorgeous for a POTUS, but the way you’d stood up with a loud chair screech from your desk, snapped your fingers and pointing at Dean’s shackles with a livid expression, he knew the agents were in deep shit.
“The fuck is this?” You gestured to the heavy shackles on Dean’s wrists and ankles— they were quite heavy and uncomfortable, now that he paid attention to it, but he was more focused on how much of a little Spitfire you were. Young, but you were snapping at these middle-aged men as if they were 5 year old children. “You might as well put a chain around his neck, for God’s sake— whichever of you has the key, take those things off and leave my office, if he kills me, fine, just have Amara take my place, she’ll do a damn good job as well.”
The service agents stood there, stunned, and then a stern look from you — “Damn,” Dean muttered — got the agent next to Dean to shove the key in the lock to his wrists and ankles, letting the chains fall free, and they were promptly carried out. You sighed, returning to your desk, running a hand through your hair.
“I am so sorry about that, Mr Winchester, I’ve just always found those chains really inhumane.” You rushed the sentence, gesturing to your desk in front of you and sipping your coffee to calm down. Honestly, not your best option, it probably made you more jittery.
Dean didn’t argue, he didn’t want to get scolded, just made his way to the desk, grey jumpsuit — he was in protective custody in prison — rustling with every step until he sat down on the irresistibly comfy chair, cause wow, prison chairs were hard and low standard.
His ass felt like it was in heaven right now.
“No problem, ma’am, I see the point. Not exactly the cleanest slate.” He didn’t think it was wise to make a joke of how he’d assassinated people for hire, but it made you laugh, so maybe that was good going. Who knows? “And call me Dean.”
“I see that.” You smiled, then gestured to Dean with a warm smile, not something he was used to unless it was the smiles of his mom that he barely remembered. Otherwise it was either hungry, lustful smiles of desperate women and cunning smiles of ruthless businessmen and mafia bosses. “So, Dean, before we get started, would you like anything? Tea, coffee, water, beer, whiskey— one candidate asked for straight vodka. He’s not getting the job.” Damn. The new POTUS was cool.
“Water would be great.” Dean would have a drop of whiskey, but he wanted to make a good impression and hydrate himself with something other than low-quality prison water. So, when you passed him the water, he downed the tall glass in three gulps, but then paused when he saw you watching.
Then he swallowed. Shit.
But you weren’t judging him, you seemed understanding, that yes, prison water probably tasted like rat piss, so he finished the rest of the glass and wiped his hand with the back of his mouth. “Sorry.”
“No need to apologise. Prison must be really rough, treat yourself.” You waved him off, shaking your head, then peered through his file. Rather interesting family background, how did he turn out that way? “Says here that your father’s a Marine Corporal veteran, thanks for his service, and your brother’s a prosecution lawyer that graduated from Stanford Law. Impressive.” You looked up at him, thumb playing with the ring on your middle finger, eyes focused on the paper.
Dean couldn’t help but note that you were beautiful. Not objectively, just factually beautiful. He’s not being a perv.
“My brother’s a nerd.” Dean stated with a smile as you talked about his family, he didn’t blame them, he wasn’t a bookworm, he wasn’t as smart as his little brother in that aspect, Sam was all about studying and being the good kid.
"Yeah, my brother used to say I was a nerd, now look at me." You chuckled, then nodded in acknowledgement. "You, however, you graduated just on the mark, no honours, didn't go to college and transactions show you started as a hitman when you were 20." You paused for a second, cause that was what you couldn’t put your finger on. "But the equal amounts of money went to Stanford in deposits. Why?"
Dean knew he was gonna be interrogated by the new President, that’s a given, and he made sure to prepare himself for the whole psychological evaluation of himself. His expression remained unreadable, only slightly surprised by how quickly you put together that he’d been paying for his brother’s college.
“He’s family. Sammy’s a good kid, he deserves to get away from this life.” Dean answered, it was a simple answer. It didn’t really dig deep into his past or his true relationships with his family.
Well, all you had to know was that his dad was paranoid after returning from deployment and taught him how to shoot like James fucking Bond and Sammy too, but Sam had left for college while Dean had nothing he could do for himself.
"Mhm." You hummed, looking through the rest of it. "Now my guys are finding that in the years since your brother left college, money you've earned from assassinations ordered by high level clients — that are now behind bars — has been wired to a rehab centre down in Delaware. I looked into it, and I found out your father's staying there. None of that money's going to you." Your voice wasn't judging. You instead sounded understanding.
The only reason why Dean wasn’t surprised or shocked by the fact that you knew this was the fact that you were the President. He should’ve guessed. He smiled slightly as you remained understanding about the whole situation though, most other politicians would’ve seen this as a chance to blackmail and threaten him.
“Yeah, my dad’s got severe PTSD. It’s the only good one nearby.” He explained as he crossed his arms. It would be hard to find a rehab centre that accepted his dad given the whole violent record he had.
You couldn’t help but feel sympathy at that. Dean’s juvenile record wasn’t the cleanest, so no shops would’ve hired him so he could make that money, only black ops would. It was strange, and you’d be under fire by the media if you voiced it, but you saw his struggle. “You did it for your family.” You were surprised at how softly you said that.
“Family don’t end in blood, ma’am.” Dean replied, honestly, and you were hit where it hurt by that statement. You were expecting a cold-hearted killer, not a man trying to do right by his post-traumatic father and little brother. “Not if I’m still breathin’. Sammy’s got a good life, a wife, by what I’ve heard. Don’t wanna burden him with all that shit, a-and I haven’t talked to him in a few years. My boy.” He cleared his throat to not get too emotional.
You had to do that too, just to be clear.
“I’m sorry.” But that wouldn’t just fix everything, so you took a moment to let that hang in order to give him some time. “Only important question I’m gonna ask. Hypothetically, we’re under fire at one of my events. You’ve gotten me to safety, and I give you the order to do the same for civilians. Do you do it?”
Dean took in the question, eyebrow raised slightly as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table as he studied you. That was a odd but interesting question. This was a job interview for real, it seems.
But this answer was simple.
“Civilians. I’d get the innocents out first.” He said, there wasn’t even a hint of hesitation in his voice. Civilians, innocent people will always come first before anything and anyone. He’d made sure when performing hits that no civilians, women, fathers, men, mothers, children— were safely out of the way before taking a shot. If they weren’t, he refused. He wasn’t risking it.
He was expecting you to refuse him on the spot, but instead two words came out that almost made him go “holy shit”.
“You’re hired.”
You’re. Hired. He could die.
“I-I’m sorry, Madam President, I’m what?” He practically gasped, hands clutching the arms of his seat, watching you take out some already prepared parole papers and walking to the door in your heels, handing the file to one of the service agents.
“Hired.” You said simply, a shrug and a smile offered as you walked to the desk. Fucking hell, Dean had never seen a stranger president in his life. “Your parole is being passed effective immediately, and I wanna get you in touch with my stylist and wardrobe guy so we can get you some new and frankly more comfortable clothes. You’ll be staying here, at the White House, you’ll have full access to my staff for anything you might need, but most importantly, you need to call your family.” You tapped your landline that you had prepared on the desk with a small, encouraging smile. “I have Sam’s number and the rehab centre’s number both in your directory file, I’ll give you some time to talk rather than waiting like a creep.”
As you walked out, Dean couldn’t believe his ears. He was now the President’s bodyguard, he got to live in luxury, no doubt there was a large paycheck and he got to call Sammy again. His Sammy, oh, holy shit.
His hand shook as he reached for the landline, opening the file and there it was, Sam’s number, and it’d changed since he got put in prison a good six months ago. His fingers fumbled, clumsily dialling the number and waiting a moment as the dial tone stopped and the ringing shook his eardrum. Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up, please pick up—
“Hello?” Dean’s heart broke upon hearing Sam’s voice again, and he took a shaky breath. Get a grip, Winchester, it’s only your little brother, the man you raised your while life.
“Bitch.” His voice sounded like he’d smoked cigarettes, and he’d quit that habit after high school, but all he could hear was the dead silence of realisation on the other side.
“Jerk.”
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The motorcade pulled up to the white-brick colonial house just as the late afternoon sun began to dip behind the row of oaks lining the driveway. You leaned back in your seat, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. For months now, your life had been a whirlwind of campaign rallies, debates, and sleepless nights in cramped hotels. It all felt surreal. You were the President of the United States. Yet, somehow, coming home to this house—the one you’d grown up in—was what made it all feel real.
Secret Service agents stepped out first, scanning the quiet suburban neighborhood for threats. You glanced out the tinted window, catching a glimpse of the familiar front porch where your father had painted the railing a deep blue years ago. The door creaked open, and a small figure darted out onto the lawn before anyone could stop him.
“Austin!”
The call came from Eden, your sister-in-law, who appeared a moment later, balancing baby Wyatt on her hip. She looked harried but happy, waving at you from the porch. Austin, however, was already halfway to the car, his untied sneakers slapping against the pavement.
You smiled despite yourself. Rolling down the window, you called out, “Hold on, buddy, let them do their job.”
The boy skidded to a stop as one of the agents gently but firmly intercepted him, patting him on the shoulder and guiding him back toward the porch. Austin complied, but his excitement was evident in every bouncing step.
By the time you exited the car, your father, Mark, was standing on the porch steps, arms crossed but with a wide grin splitting his face. “There she is,” he said, his voice booming with pride. “Madame President.”
You felt your cheeks flush as you climbed the steps. “Dad, don’t start.”
“Oh, I’ll start, alright,” he said, pulling you into a tight hug. “My daughter, the leader of the free world! They’re gonna need to expand that Oval Office just to fit my pride.”
“Mark, give her some room to breathe,” your mother, Odette, chided as she stepped outside. She was smaller than you remembered, her hair streaked with more gray than the last time you’d seen her. But her smile was as warm as ever. She held her arms open, and you leaned into her familiar embrace, the scent of lavender and vanilla washing over you.
“It’s good to see you, Mom,” you murmured.
“We’re so proud of you,” she said softly, pulling back to study your face. “But I bet you’re exhausted.”
You nodded, glancing over her shoulder to see your older brother Ryan descending the stairs, a grin on his face. “Well, well, look who decided to come back down to earth,” he teased, reaching out to clap you on the shoulder.
“Someone’s gotta keep you grounded,” you shot back, the familiar rhythm of sibling banter falling into place as though no time had passed.
Eden appeared beside him, Wyatt still on her hip. She offered you a smile, and you leaned in to kiss her cheek. “How’s this little guy doing?” you asked, reaching out to tickle Wyatt’s chin. The baby let out a squeal of laughter, his chubby arms flailing.
“He’s teething,” Eden said with a weary smile. “So, you know…living the dream.”
Austin, who had been hovering impatiently at the edge of the group, finally couldn’t contain himself. “Auntie!” he shouted, throwing his arms around your waist.
“Hey, kiddo,” you said, ruffling his hair. “What’s new?”
“I got an A on my science project!” he said, looking up at you with bright eyes.
“That’s great!” you said. “What was the project?”
“Volcanoes,” he said, puffing out his chest. “Dad helped me with the lava.”
Ryan coughed. “Helped is a strong word. He mostly just told me what to do.”
“That’s because you were doing it wrong!” Austin protested, and the group dissolved into laughter.
Inside, the house was exactly as you remembered it. The worn hardwood floors creaked under your feet, and the faint scent of your mother’s cooking lingered in the air. The walls were covered with family photos—some old, some new—including one of you on election night, surrounded by your team, your face frozen in an expression of shock and joy.
Dinner was already laid out on the long wooden table in the dining room. A roast chicken sat in the center, surrounded by bowls of mashed potatoes, green beans, and your mother’s famous macaroni casserole. It was a far cry from the catered meals you’d been eating on the campaign trail, and your stomach growled in anticipation.
“Let’s eat before it gets cold,” Odette said, ushering everyone to their seats.
You took your usual spot, sandwiched between Austin and your father, while Ryan carved the chicken. Plates were passed around, and soon the room was filled with the clatter of silverware and the hum of conversation.
Mark raised his glass of water. “A toast,” he said, his voice cutting through the din. “To my daughter. The first woman to sit in the Oval Office. You’ve made us all so proud.”
“Here, here!” Ryan chimed in, lifting his own glass.
You felt a lump rise in your throat as you clinked glasses with everyone around the table. For a moment, the weight of your responsibilities seemed to lift, replaced by the simple joy of being surrounded by the people who had always believed in you.
After dinner, you helped your mother clear the table, despite her protests. “You’re the President now,” she said, swatting your hands away from the plates. “You don’t need to be doing dishes.”
“Maybe not,” you said, grinning. “But I don’t think I’ve outgrown being your daughter.”
She relented, shaking her head with a fond smile, and the two of you worked side by side in comfortable silence. When the last dish was put away, you found yourself drawn to the living room, where the rest of the family had gathered.
Ryan was sprawled on the couch, flipping through a photo album with Austin perched beside him. Eden sat in the armchair, rocking Wyatt to sleep, while Mark stood by the fireplace, nursing a cup of coffee.
You sank into the armchair opposite Eden, your eyes drawn to the flickering flames in the hearth. “It feels good to be home,” you said softly.
Mark looked over at you, his expression thoughtful. “You’ve got a hell of a road ahead of you, kid,” he said. “But don’t forget—you’ve got us. We’re here for you, no matter what.”
You nodded, feeling the truth of his words settle in your chest. “I know,” you said. “And I’m going to need that. All of it.”
Ryan looked up from the photo album, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Think we’ll get to visit the White House? Austin’s dying to see the bowling alley.”
Austin’s head snapped up. “There’s a bowling alley?”
You laughed. “There is. And yeah, you’ll all come visit. But I can’t promise I’ll have much time for bowling.”
“Why not?” Austin asked, his brow furrowing. “You’re the President. Can’t you just…make time?”
The simplicity of his question made you smile. “It’s a little more complicated than that, buddy,” you said. “But I’ll do my best.”
Later that night, after the house had quieted and everyone had gone to bed, you found yourself standing in the backyard. The air was crisp and cool, and the stars above were brighter than you remembered. You wrapped your arms around yourself, feeling the enormity of your new role settle over you like a heavy cloak.
The back door creaked open, and Mark stepped outside, a blanket draped over his shoulders. He joined you on the porch, handing you a steaming mug of tea.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
You shook your head. “Too much on my mind.”
Mark nodded, staring out at the dark yard. “It’s a big job,” he said. “But if anyone can handle it, it’s you.”
“I hope so,” you said quietly.
He placed a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. “You’ve got what it takes,” he said. “And you’ve got us. Don’t forget that.”
You looked up at him, your heart swelling with gratitude. “Thanks, Dad.”
He smiled, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “Come on,” he said, gesturing toward the house. “You’ve got a long day ahead of you tomorrow. Let’s get some sleep.”
As you followed him inside, you felt a sense of peace you hadn’t felt in months. No matter how hard the road ahead might be, you knew you wouldn’t be walking it alone.
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The Oval Office was as grand as you’d imagined—perhaps even more so. Its high, curved ceilings and rich, historic decor exuded authority, yet the warmth of the afternoon sunlight filtering through the tall windows softened the edges, giving the room an almost serene quality.
You sat at the Resolute Desk, a stack of documents waiting for your signature. Each one bore the weight of history. Education reforms. Trade agreements. Environmental policies. Every flick of your pen carried consequences that rippled far beyond the iconic walls of this room.
Across the room, Becky, your ever-efficient assistant, was perched on the edge of one of the armchairs, tablet in hand. “After this meeting with the education committee, you’ve got a fifteen-minute break before the press briefing,” she said, scrolling rapidly through the day’s schedule. “Then at three, there’s the Cabinet discussion on infrastructure. And don’t forget the call with the German Chancellor at four.”
“Got it,” you replied, signing your name with a practiced flourish. “Anything else?”
Becky hesitated, glancing at her screen. “Oh, and your new personal bodyguard will be arriving shortly. Dean Winchester.”
You kept your expression neutral, though you’d been briefed extensively on this particular appointment. A former hitman, Dean’s resume wasn’t exactly typical for someone tasked with protecting the President. But his unconventional background—and the skillset that came with it—was exactly why he’d been chosen.
“Right,” you said, setting your pen down. “I’ve read his file. Has he been through security clearance?”
“Thoroughly vetted,” Becky assured you. “And cleared. He should be here any moment.”
You nodded, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Let’s hope he lives up to the hype.”
Just as Becky opened her mouth to reply, the door opened.
You looked up, and the words you were about to say caught in your throat.
Dean Winchester strode into the room with the kind of presence that made people stop and take notice. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried himself with a casual confidence that hinted at years of facing danger head-on. He wore a dark gray suit that was tailored just enough to highlight his powerful frame but not so tight as to make him look polished or delicate. The crisp white shirt underneath contrasted against his tanned skin, and his black tie was slightly loosened, as if he’d deliberately left it that way.
Despite the formal attire, there was an undeniable ruggedness about him. His short, tousled hair was just slightly too messy to be regulation, and the shadow of stubble along his jaw added an edge that no amount of tailoring could hide. His green eyes, sharp and assessing, swept the room before landing on you.
You found yourself momentarily distracted by the way the suit accentuated his broad chest and tapered waist. It was a rare thing for someone to wear something so formal yet exude the kind of raw, unrefined masculinity that Dean seemed to embody.
“Madame President,” he said, his voice low and gravelly as he stopped a respectful distance from your desk.
You forced yourself to refocus, clearing your throat as you rose from your seat. “Mr. Winchester.” You allowed yourself a small smile, noting the way his gaze remained steady but professional. “You clean up well.”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “Thanks. I aim to please.”
Becky glanced between the two of you before standing. “I’ll step out and make sure everything’s ready for the committee meeting,” she said, gathering her tablet.
“Thanks, Becky,” you said, watching her leave before turning back to Dean.
For a moment, the room felt smaller. His presence was magnetic, and you couldn’t help but take him in once more, your gaze lingering on the way his shoulders filled out the suit jacket, the way his long fingers rested casually at his sides, the way they gripped his chair as he sat down. You snapped your attention back to his face before he could notice.
Dean leaned back slightly in the chair, taking in the sight of you as you scanned your schedule on the tablet in front of you. The soft lighting of the Oval Office seemed to highlight the sharp lines of your features, and the way you carried yourself—confident, composed, entirely in command—struck him in a way he hadn’t expected.
He’d done his research, of course. He knew your career milestones, your policies, even a few of your personal quirks. But seeing you in person was different. The photographs didn’t do you justice.
As you spoke, your voice clear and firm, Dean found himself watching the curve of your lips, the subtle tilt of your head when you emphasized a point. You had a presence that filled the room, a quiet strength that made it impossible to look away.
“Your main job,” you were saying, “is to ensure my safety, both here and when I travel. You’ll coordinate with the Secret Service, but your focus will be on close-range protection. You’ll accompany me to all public appearances, meetings, and events.”
Dean nodded, forcing himself to focus on your words rather than the way your blouse fit perfectly beneath your blazer. “Understood. Anything specific I should know about your routine?”
You looked up, meeting his gaze. “It varies. I keep a tight schedule, but unexpected situations come up all the time. You’ll need to be adaptable.”
“I’m good at that,” Dean said, his tone confident but not cocky.
“Good.” You swiped at the tablet, then set it down on the desk. “I’ve read your file. Your skillset is…impressive.”
He tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “That’s one way to put it.”
You arched an eyebrow, your lips curving into a wry smile. “I’d call it unconventional, but that seems to be exactly what I need.”
Dean’s gaze flicked over you again, this time lingering on the curve of your jawline, the way your fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the desk. He’d worked with plenty of high-profile people before, but you were in a league of your own.
“Anything else I should be aware of?” he asked, his voice low.
You tilted your head, considering him for a moment. “You’re going to see me at my best and my worst,” you said plainly. “Long hours, high stress, bad days, good days. It comes with the territory.”
Dean nodded. “I’m here to do my job, ma’am. Whatever it takes.”
Something in his tone made you pause, your gaze sharpening as you studied him. “You’ve been in worse situations, haven’t you?”
“Let’s just say I’m no stranger to high stakes,” he replied, his smirk returning.
You leaned back in your chair, satisfied. “Good. I’ll need someone who can keep a cool head under pressure. And someone who doesn’t mind telling me the hard truth when I need to hear it.”
Dean’s smirk widened slightly. “I can handle that.”
The conversation shifted to logistics—your upcoming travel schedule, security protocols, and daily routines. Dean asked a few questions, his tone professional, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was studying you as much as he was listening.
If you noticed the way his eyes dipped to your collarbone when you leaned forward to make a point, or how his gaze lingered on the curve of your wrist as you gestured, you didn’t let on. You were focused, deliberate, every bit the commander-in-chief he’d expected.
When the meeting wrapped up, you stood and extended a hand again. “Welcome aboard, Dean. I look forward to working with you.”
Dean rose, his hand engulfing yours once more. “The pleasure’s mine, ma’am.”
As he turned to leave, you called after him, “And Dean?”
He paused, glancing over his shoulder.
“You really do look good in that suit.”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
Alone again, you returned to your desk, your mind already shifting to the next task. But for a moment, you allowed yourself a small smile.
It was going to be an interesting partnership.
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“Ok, excuse me?” Bella had practically squealed when the door to your bedroom behind you, her and Steph had been shut by Dean, who was now waiting outside to give you some privacy, and thank God those walls were thick enough to hide this conversation. “You didn’t tell us your bodyguard was a Ben Affleck and Brad Pitt combo.”
Steph scoffed, shaking her head. “Girl, no. He’s better than that, he puts Adonis to shame— where’s he been hiding?” They both turned to you expectantly, clearly not aware that your Adonis-transcendent bodyguard was fresh out of the United States Penitentiary, Administrative Maximum Facility. Oh, that’s gonna be a hard pill to swallow, right?
“Prison.” You swallowed, clearing your throat awkwardly upon saying it, cause you weren’t often the bringer of news that a guy like Dean used to be a prolific criminal who kills for money. “ADX Florence. An ex-hitman, to be clear, with over 100 kills in the past two years.”
“So he’s a bad boy.” Bella giggled, clearly not phased, which kind of concerned you with which brain they both were thinking from, and hopefully not the downstairs one. “Even better, oh my god, I was getting worried he’s a goodie.”
Steph raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a sly grin. “Right? Like, you can’t just drop ‘ex-hitman with over 100 kills’ and not expect us to have questions. Or fantasies.”
“Steph!” you choked, glancing toward the door as if Dean could hear through the thick walls.
“What? I’m just saying!” She crossed her arms, leaning back against the bedpost. “Honestly, though? He’s got that whole ‘dark past but reformed bad boy’ thing going for him. You’re living every romance novel heroine’s dream.”
Bella, not to be outdone, clutched at her chest dramatically. “Forget romance novels—I’d climb him like a tree. That man looks like he could bench press me and not even break a sweat.”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Can we not?”
“We absolutely can,” Bella countered, her voice rising with glee. “Seriously, you’ve got the hottest bodyguard in the country, and you didn’t think we needed to know this? Girl, where’s your sense of sisterhood?”
Steph was nodding in agreement. “Yeah, you’re withholding important information. Like, what’s he like in person? Is he all business, or does he have that smoldering, ‘I could kill you, but I won’t’ energy?”
Your cheeks burned, both from their shameless gushing and the mental image Steph’s words conjured. “He’s…fine. Professional.”
“‘Professional,’ she says,” Bella snorted. “Professional at looking fine as hell, maybe.” She leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “Come on. What’s he like? Does he flirt? Does he give you those ‘I’m secretly in love with you’ stares when you’re not looking?”
You glared at her. “No. Absolutely not. He’s just doing his job.”
“Sure he is,” Steph said with a smirk, clearly not buying it. “But don’t think we didn’t notice the way he looked at you when he shut the door earlier.”
You blinked. “What? He didn’t—”
“Oh, honey,” Bella interrupted, waving her hand dramatically. “He totally did. That man looked at you like you were the last piece of chocolate cake at a birthday party. And don’t even get me started on how he stood. You know, all broody and protective, like some kind of…” She trailed off, searching for the right words.
“Alpha wolf guarding his mate,” Steph supplied helpfully.
“Exactly!” Bella snapped her fingers. “Thank you, Steph. That’s exactly the vibe.”
You groaned again, resisting the urge to bang your head against the nearest wall. “You two need help.”
“What we need,” Steph said, grinning wickedly, “is for you to admit that you’ve at least thought about it. Because if you haven’t, you’re lying.”
“I haven’t!” you protested, a little too quickly.
Bella’s eyes lit up like she’d just won the lottery. “Oh my God, you totally have! Look at you—your ears are turning red.”
“Leave me alone,” you muttered, glaring at the floor.
But they weren’t about to let you off the hook.
“Okay, okay,” Steph said, holding up a hand as if to calm the chaos. “Let’s be serious for a second. He’s obviously gorgeous, and clearly there’s some…tension. But what’s the story? Like, how did you even end up with him as your bodyguard? I feel like there’s a Netflix series waiting to happen here.”
You hesitated, weighing how much to tell them. “It’s…complicated. He was recommended through some very high-level channels. Apparently, he’s the best at what he does.”
“And what he does is kill people,” Bella said, her voice dripping with mock solemnity.
You shot her a look. “Not anymore. He’s reformed. He went through a rigorous vetting process before he was even considered for the position.”
Steph tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. “So, he’s done bad things, but now he’s protecting the President of the United States. That’s a redemption arc if I’ve ever heard one.”
Bella sighed wistfully. “And he’s doing it all while looking like a Calvin Klein model who got lost on his way to the shoot.”
“Can we not turn this into a thirst-fest?” you pleaded, though you knew it was a losing battle.
Bella leaned closer, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Oh, sweetie. It’s already a thirst-fest. You’re just in denial.”
The conversation spiraled from there, with Bella and Steph taking turns crafting increasingly absurd fantasies about Dean’s hypothetical love life.
“He probably has a tragic backstory,” Bella said dreamily, lying back on the bed. “Like, maybe he lost the love of his life in some tragic accident, and now he’s sworn to protect others to atone for his past.”
“Or,” Steph countered, ��he’s secretly a billionaire who does this for the adrenaline rush. Like, by day he’s your bodyguard, but by night he’s funding orphanages and saving puppies.”
Bella clapped her hands. “Yes! And in his free time, he restores classic cars and writes poetry.”
You stared at them, equal parts amused and horrified. “You two have officially lost it.”
“Or,” Steph said, ignoring you entirely, “he’s secretly in love with you, and this whole bodyguard thing is just an excuse to be close to you.”
Bella gasped, sitting up suddenly. “Steph, that’s it! That’s the one!”
You buried your face in your hands. “I regret ever letting you meet him.”
“Don’t be like that,” Bella said, patting your shoulder. “We’re just saying—you’re sitting on a goldmine of romantic potential here. If you don’t at least consider it, we will.”
“Noted,” you said dryly, standing up and heading for the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have actual work to do. Unlike you two.”
Bella and Steph exchanged knowing looks as you opened the door to find Dean standing just outside, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.
He straightened slightly when you stepped into the hallway, his eyes meeting yours. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” you said quickly, avoiding his gaze as you brushed past him.
But as you walked away, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Steph and Bella might have been onto something.
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The drive to Sam’s place was smooth, the kind of easy journey Dean Winchester hadn’t experienced in years. Maybe ever. The hum of the Impala’s engine, a comforting growl beneath him, was as close to peace as Dean could imagine. His day off had finally rolled around, and he hadn’t hesitated to decide how he’d spend it.
Sam had settled in a quiet neighborhood outside Washington, D.C., where tree-lined streets and neat, white-picket fences painted a picture of suburban serenity. It was a far cry from the lives they’d led growing up, but Dean couldn’t deny it suited his little brother.
Pulling up to the house, Dean killed the engine and climbed out, adjusting his leather jacket as he took in the sight. The two-story home was modest but inviting, with a tidy lawn and a swing set in the backyard visible through the side gate. He could hear faint laughter—probably from Dean Jr., Sam and Jess’s kid, who, much to Dean’s delight, was his namesake.
Dean’s boots crunched against the gravel path as he approached the front door. Before he could knock, it swung open, and Sam stood there, looking every bit the family man.
“Dean,” Sam greeted, his face lighting up in a grin. “Right on time.”
“Of course,” Dean said, stepping inside. “I’m punctual now. Didn’t you hear? I’ve got a government job.”
Sam chuckled, clapping Dean on the shoulder as he shut the door behind him. “I’m still getting used to the idea.”
Inside, the house was warm and lived-in. Pictures adorned the walls—Jess and Sam on their wedding day, little Dean Jr. blowing out candles on a birthday cake, snapshots of family trips to the beach. The scent of something delicious wafted from the kitchen, and Dean’s stomach growled in response.
“Jess is cooking?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.
“She insists,” Sam replied with a shrug. “Says you need a proper meal after all that ‘White House food.’”
Dean smirked. “Tell her I’m not gonna argue with that.”
Jess appeared moments later, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. She was glowing, as she always seemed to be, her blonde hair pulled into a loose ponytail and her smile bright enough to light up the room.
“Dean!” she exclaimed, pulling him into a quick hug. “It’s been too long.”
“Too long,” Dean agreed, glancing over her shoulder. “Where’s the rugrat?”
As if on cue, the sound of small feet thudding down the stairs filled the house. Dean Jr. appeared, his face lighting up when he saw his uncle. The kid was a spitting image of Sam, with floppy brown hair and wide hazel eyes, but he had Dean’s mischievous grin.
“Uncle Dean!”
“Dean-o!” Dean crouched, catching the boy as he barreled into him. “What’s up, kiddo? You keeping your old man in line?”
Dean Jr. nodded enthusiastically. “Dad says you work for the President now. Is that true?”
Dean ruffled the boy’s hair. “Sure is. Cool, huh?”
“Super cool,” Dean Jr. said, his eyes wide with awe.
“Alright, enough hero worship,” Sam teased, though his smile betrayed how much he enjoyed seeing his son and brother bond. “Come on, dinner’s almost ready.”
The meal was hearty—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and vegetables—and filled with easy conversation. Dean filled them in on the basics of his new job, skirting around the grittier details of his past. Sam and Jess shared stories about their life, from Jess’s latest work project to Dean Jr.’s adventures in Little League.
It was only after the dishes were cleared and Jess had taken Dean Jr. upstairs to bed that the conversation turned serious.
The brothers sat in the living room, each nursing a beer. The light from the fireplace cast a warm glow, and the house was quiet except for the occasional creak of the floorboards above.
“So,” Sam began, leaning back on the couch, “you gonna tell me how this happened?”
Dean took a long swig of his beer, then set the bottle down on the coffee table. “What, me working for the President? Thought you already knew.”
“I know the headlines,” Sam said, his brow furrowing. “But what I don’t know is how you went from ADX Florence to the White House.”
Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Figured you’d ask eventually.”
“Of course I’d ask.” Sam’s voice was gentle but firm. “You were in prison, Dean. The kind of prison people don’t just walk out of.”
“Yeah, well.” Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It started with a newspaper.”
Sam blinked. “A newspaper?”
Dean nodded. “I was in my cell, flipping through this paper someone left behind. Saw an ad for a private security position with the President. They were looking for someone who could think outside the box, someone with…unconventional skills.”
Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “And you thought, ‘Hey, that sounds like me’?”
“Something like that.” Dean’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. “Figured I didn’t have much to lose, so I wrote up a resume. Handed it off to my lawyer, told him to file it.”
Sam stared at him, his disbelief evident. “And they just…hired you?”
“No,” Dean said with a chuckle. “They didn’t even call me at first. Took weeks before I heard anything. When they finally did, they put me through the wringer—interviews, background checks, psych evaluations. The works.”
“And they still hired you?” Sam asked, shaking his head in amazement.
“Guess they figured my track record spoke for itself,” Dean said, his tone turning more serious. “I’ve done things, Sam. Bad things. But I’ve also done what needed to be done when no one else could. They saw that.”
Sam was quiet for a moment, processing his brother’s words. “And now you’re protecting the most powerful person in the world.”
Dean nodded. “Guess you could say I’m making up for lost time.”
Sam studied his brother, his expression thoughtful. “You know, Jess and I were talking about you the other night. About how far you’ve come. We’re proud of you, Dean.”
Dean shifted uncomfortably, not used to hearing such straightforward praise. “Don’t get all mushy on me, Sammy.”
Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m serious. You’ve been through hell and back, and somehow you’re still standing.”
Dean took another sip of his beer, his gaze distant. “Yeah, well. Standing’s about all I’m good at.”
“That’s not true,” Sam said firmly. “You’ve got a purpose now. A second chance. Don’t sell yourself short.”
Dean glanced at his brother, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks, Sammy.”
Sam returned the smile, then leaned back with a sigh. “So, what’s she like? The President.”
Dean hesitated, caught off guard by the question. “She’s…different.”
“Different how?”
“She’s smart. Sharp as hell. Tough, but not in a fake way. And she actually listens, which is more than I can say for most people in her position.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you respect her.”
“I do,” Dean admitted.
“And for your type…” Sam smirked, his voice taking on a teasing tone. “She’s pretty hot.”
Dean nearly choked on his beer. “Sam!”
“What?” Sam asked, feigning innocence. “I’m just saying. You’ve got a thing for strong women, and she sounds like she fits the bill.”
Dean shook his head, trying to suppress a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“Hey, I’m just calling it like I see it,” Sam said with a grin. “Besides, you deserve someone who can keep up with you.”
Dean rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t deny the warmth that spread through him at his brother’s words.
The rest of the evening passed in easy conversation, the kind that only happened between brothers who’d been through it all together. When Dean finally stood to leave, Sam walked him to the door, clapping him on the shoulder as he stepped outside.
“Take care of yourself, Dean,” Sam said, his voice quiet but steady.
“You too, Sammy,” Dean replied, his gaze lingering on his brother’s home—the warmth, the love, the life Sam had built.
As Dean climbed into the Impala and drove away, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of hope. Maybe, just maybe, there was a place for him in this world after all.
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NEXT UP:
“Dean,” you said, a touch of surprise in your voice. “I thought you were on your break.”
He didn’t reply right away. Instead, his gaze locked with yours, and the air seemed to thicken. There was something different about him—an intensity in his expression, a flicker of something unspoken.
Without a word, he reached up and tugged at his tie, loosening it further before slipping it over his head and tossing it onto one of the chairs.
Your eyebrows shot up. “What are you doing?”
Dean didn’t answer. He shrugged out of his suit jacket next, draping it over the back of a chair with deliberate ease. His movements were slow, calculated, and impossibly confident.
“Dean?” you repeated, your voice catching slightly.
His shirt followed. Button by button, he undid it with maddening patience, his green eyes never leaving yours. Your breath hitched as he peeled it off, revealing the broad, chiseled planes of his chest and the faint scars that crisscrossed his skin—a testament to a dangerous past.
By the time his hands went to his belt, your pulse was racing.
“What are you—” you began, but the words died in your throat as he stepped forward.
In one smooth motion, Dean swept the documents off your desk, scattering them across the floor. He leaned down, his hands bracketing you on either side as he effortlessly lifted you onto the polished wood surface.
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TAGLIST: @goldngguk @sweetpeachbombshell @slut-for-stiles @staple-your-mouth @daddyscrimsstuff
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©️ 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐤 / 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲’𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐨
𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐝/𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝
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arsenicflame · 1 year ago
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hey does anyone wanna bounce bellhands/they all went to pirate school together ideas with me? im trying to figure out the missing pieces of my personal set up and it might be easier with someone else!
#if youve never spoken to me before please be aware i will type a whole paragraph in response to one (1) sentence#but if ur down for that! please.#ive got like. the start and the end and a couple bits in the middle fleshed out but it doesn't f l o w#this is the problem with trying to condense more than a years of ideas into one cohesive narrative. i usually swap and change things as#and when it suits so im like. i don't know what i need in this#its just for my silly little tumblr post but#i would appreciate it <3#i can send you what ive wrote and we can go from there or we can start from scratch bouncing ideas or u can just ask me questions#or something to help fill in gaps idk whatever works for u! what ive got is like. a fuckin mess honestly its ramblings and half finished#thoughts and just. its. a complete state and thats not even touching on whats missing (like. anything that matters in the middle basically)#nyxtalks#ofmd#bellhands#sam bellamy#izzy hands#israel hands#if you're unfamiliar with the concept: its Hornigold era stuff; jack + ed + izzy + sam all sailing under him and learning the ropes togethe#im not trying to go into too many details; just the underlying structure that is what I think of when i think of them#its probably not something anyone else cares about but i think i need it for some of the more fun 'what if Izzy went with sam' posts#i realised if i wanted to say what the divergence point was i Needed to establish all this lol#'oh yeah its when izzy chooses sam after the mutiny despite their argument' NYX WHAT ARGUMENT. you need to tell us what u mean
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selfcarecap · 1 month ago
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It’s so sad when you comment/reblog with something really nice on a fic and the writer never replies bc like I don’t even know if they read it? I was trying to make their day and don’t even know if they saw it or cared about it 😭
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squirmydonnie · 8 months ago
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My brain is such a mixed bag. It doesnt understand anything
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goldenguillotines · 2 years ago
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Not in order in the slightest however I wanted to put all my sprites ive done this year (minus ... 4 lost files for two and the other are wips for others and i think itd allowed havinf to see lammeks oldest sprites and brutes again dies) but all my sprites from this year wooooo! Jaevya being my most up to date with my skills hehe
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igneouswyvern · 11 months ago
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After nearly two and a half years of being completely obsessed with Zestiria after I beat it way back in July of 2021 I finally decided to go back and watch the anime, Zestiria the X and, yeah I have some thoughts
I'm gonna start with the good. Definitely the best part was getting to see Rose and Alisha interact with each other, and Dezel and Zavied interact as well, since they were never in the party at the same time in the game. The anime format also did a lot of good for both Alisha and Zavied's characters (I'm so glad Zavied is something besides "the horny guy" now). Really the story works a lot better with the full party of 8 together towards the end.
The anime also gave me the one thing Tales games never give me, which is a full proper ending, and by that I mean showing us exactly what happened to the world after the final battle was won. I've never been very good at using my imagination when it comes to a peaceful and normal world so it was nice to see that fleshed out. While unrealistic I am also glad Sorey came back within Rose and Alisha's lifetimes because that always kinda bugged me in the game
Using Berseria as a legend in Zestiria was pretty cool considering they didn't get to do that in the game since it came out first. I thought it worked really well. However I am very confused on why they decided to animate the first three hours of post-prologue Berseria smack dab in the middle of the Zestiria plotline and just...never return to it. I don't know why they decided to do that, it didn't fit at all and the whole time I was just wondering if or when they were ever gonna come back to it. And if they were gonna do it for context's sake shouldn't they have, I don't know, jumped ahead to some part where Velvet actually fights Artorius?? It just felt so strange to me.
Onto some more bad: Why the hell did they make Maltran a good guy. She worked just fine as a twist villain. They just cut that entirely for no reason??
And there's one particular huge thing that they just completely changed. One of the most interesting things to me about Zestiria's narrative was the underlying theme that "you can't save everyone." From "everyone knows you can't purify a dragon" to that first moment in Pendrago when they encounter a hellion so strong that the only way to quell its malevolence is to outright kill it, leading all the way up to the finale of the game where Sorey has to kill Heldalf because he can't be purified. They learn over and over again that malevolence has consequences, and that the Shepherd's journey isn't without sacrifice, and that sometimes taking a life is the only way to save that many more.
And Zestiria the X just throws that whole concept out the window?????
First they straight up replaced the corrupted church lady in Pendrago with something totally different and far less impactful, just a corpse that can be purified. And then they go and purify a real dragon??? You can't just do that????? And of course that means they won't kill Heldalf either. He ends up unrealistically purified as well. It just bugs me so much. It goes against everything the original game wanted to set up. Sure it gave us a happier ending but we don't always need a perfectly happy ending! Life is full of heartache and tragedy and sacrifices, and the original Zestiria showed that in a really neat way. And the anime just goes and tosses all of it out the window. It just...it makes me really upset. Tbh the Pendrago sequence is one of my favorite moments in the game, and the dramatic sequence where you kill Heldalf is another favorite, and I was really excited to see those in anime form. And instead they just got binned entirely. My disappointment is immeasurable and my day is ruined :(
And for that matter they also kind of completely got rid of Sorey's character arc, as meager as it may have been. One of my biggest gripes with Zestiria the game is that Sorey is just too perfect a guy, he's too pure and innocent and never really makes mistakes and the game had opportunities to allow him to do that but were too scared to actually commit to it. But despite that, Sorey still has a character arc of some sort, mainly in what I mentioned above where he has to accept that sacrifices are inevitable but in some other ways too. Meanwhile the anime just removes all of that. Sorey pretty much never struggles, except maybe in matters of strength in the beginning you know, and he always gets his way--he never has to make a sacrifice and always saves everyone. All this culminating in The X Sorey being somehow even more flawless and perfect and static than game Sorey. And it's really disappointing to see because I was really hoping to get a more fleshed out Sorey as a result of the anime format.
Something pretty insignificant that bugged me was the fact that they pretty much never got to explore ruins or old temples or whatever else. The game's gameplay loop was pretty much go to a town, deal with some political stuff/watch some cutscenes, go to a ruin or temple and fight a boss, back to the town. Which worked really well for a game setting, but I recognize doesn't work as well in an anime. However, what the anime decided to do was completely cut out any ruins exploration and focus exclusively on the political conflict in the towns. I see why they did this, don't get me wrong, but I just can't help that it doesn't really feel like Zestiria when Sorey and Mikleo aren't nerding out over random stuff in ruins, you know? All that political stuff started to get really boring after a bit. And like so much of the game's story and lore takes place in those dungeons, so it just feels so odd to have them completely removed.
Pretty minor thing but I felt like they kind of messed up Lailah's character. Her whole thing in the game is that she knows everything about the Shepherd's journey but she's not allowed to talk about it because of her oath, so she does the whole inconspicuous whistling and deflecting to other topics the whole time. And I kind of liked it because she looks totally airheaded but it isn't true, she knows a lot she just can't tell us. But in the anime it felt like Lailah didn't know all that much about the whole situation, like she seemed just as surprised as the rest of the party in a lot of scenes. And I feel like that just kind of took all the life out of her character. She was already kind of generic in the game and taking away the one thing that made her interesting just made her even worse.
Okay I'm starting to make it sound like I hate Zestiria the X, I don't. I think I am just a huge purist when it comes to the original game and the anime did a lot of things contradictory to the game that I didn't like very much. But it's okay it was still a good anime and worth watching
It didn't really help me like my favorite characters (Sorey, Mikleo, and Edna) even more, but it did help bring the characters I was lukewarm about (Alisha, Rose, Zavied) about up to par with the original three in terms of how much I liked them, so that's nice. (Lailah and Dezel were more interesting in the game anyway.) I think if you took The X Alisha, Rose, and Zavied, and put them into the game's narrative, you'd have a pretty solid experience in total.
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a-rebellious-waffle · 1 year ago
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You ever see something where you're very much on someone's side but also you hate how they're handling the argument
Yeah
That
#look i get that telling people to fuck off and die is appealing but like. having been on the recieving end of that before. it's not good#i still haven't forgotten the people telling me to kill myself for the incredibly unpopular opinions of 'not everyone is equally bad'#or 'if they died fighting for a noble cause I'll honor their sacrifice bc even a bad person can do good things'#if you want to ratio them? fine. if you want to talk down to them? fine. if you want to treat them like children? fine. but there's a line#and for me that line is when you have a paragraph of insults with zero arguments within.#i get that debating those people gives them legitimacy they don't deserve. but I also truly believe that in order to fully destroy a nazi#you need to obliterate their arguments. you can't just say they're wrong and tell them to fuck themselves. you need to explain why#because if there's nothing disproving them then there's nothing telling other people WHY they shouldn't believe their shit.#there's no barrier or sign marking the slippery slope and big shock the slippery slope is in fact slippery! people slip! and fall!#look this may be a shocker guys but not every fascist is born a fascist. 99% of fascists are tricked into believing in fascism#I've got a whole post I'm editing specifically on that topic in fact. it's a whole thing.#if you explain to a fascist why they're wrong you don't just guard yourself against fascism. you don't just help guard others against fash.#you might even redeem a fascist and help them see the error of their ways#and even if you don't it's still worth trying!#anyways. rant over
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radishwizard · 2 years ago
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the parasocial relationship im about to have with the person who had this heavily annotated copy of maurice before me -- (pretty sure this says something like "stealing people's left textbooks to sell them for 1/3 the price so I've money for liquor")
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evansbby · 2 years ago
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i personally really like your writing style; it’s not overly descriptive and full of highfalutin terms but not bland or lackluster either, it’s balanced so it makes the story flow naturally. my only criticism is sometimes you forget(?) to italicize most internal dialogue, im kind of nitpicky about stuff like that but it’s not a major problem nor does it affect the story anyway
The whole narration is an internal dialogue so I don’t feel the need to italicise all of it tbh. Likeee for example, if she’s generally thinking about something: “ Why would I do this, what’s happening?” etc, then I wouldn’t italicise that. It’s not forgetting, I just don’t do it bc then 70% of the whole fic would be italicised. It’s also bc a lot of my writing is based on/inspired by my fav authors growing up and how they wrote. Like for example Virginia Andrews had a loootttt of internal dialogue in her books but only the super important ones were italicised. Also, often in writer workshops it’s always advised to minimise italicisation 😭😭 like… it’s not as needed as you think it is!! Like I realised I was italicising too much at one point last year and since then I cut down!!
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hergan416 · 2 years ago
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"While this passage may seem racist or orientalist to modern readers, Wilde here follows Huysmans in using 'the radically foreign (non-Western) as the occasion for showing that the discriminating observer can desire and regulate his body differently from the vulgar, inartistic, bourgeois.'"
Please, tell me why using non-Western music in this sense isn't racist or orientalist.
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snekdood · 2 years ago
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Terfs: i will never engage with you. You are literally nothing to me. Like a piece of dog shit on my shoe. Get out of my palace.
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thespacesay · 1 year ago
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ID: a tag. #this is actually how the CDC makes decisions i believe / end ID
the CDC has declared THE MIASMA harmless after extensive research by Subway Fresh™ scientists. “if THE MIASMA were dangerous,” say researchers, “no one would be able to Eat Fresh™ this summer”
#ID provided#like i WANT to trust the CDC and shit#but i only trust the explicitly linked sources and only as much as i see actual science agreeing#i do not have the time to check every paper or shit like that but if it's something 'political' enough to need urgent checking#i try to look at what science ppl in the field are saying when they read the papers#and work with my own science background to interpret how bad it actually is based on WHAT types of issues they see#like if they're saying 'hm methodology is standard and results are concerning' then i'm taking shit seriously but realistically#if they're like 'bruh wtf kinda methodology is this' then the whole paper is usually garbage better used to judge the politics#i do not want to be a methodology person. i just want to trust science :(#but alas#reminds me that a friend and i read - for shits and giggles - a paper suggesting that ppl with fibro should soak in baths for pain#among the problems: hm a 6 week 40 person study with 3 baths per week and showing substantial improvement for 6 months. hm.#and oh - what's this? they used the local hot spring baths? hm i wonder- ah that research lab is highly associated with them? wow!#and we're going into some strange analysis of the specific benefits of those springs? curious!#oh and the statistics section... was a single paragraph with no numbers#super super trustworthy ;)#i love when we simply apply ANOVA and tell no one anything#ANOVA is good but like... it requires a normal distribution. you need a much larger sample size to assume normal distribution in data#my stats class used 100 as a baseline but this was gen ed level shit#also if there's something that deviates from your conclusion do NOT just dismiss it out of hand!!! what's ur theory/theories???#aaaaaaaa
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