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roosterforme · 3 days ago
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Aim for the Sky Part 28 | Rooster x Reader
Summary: You start to realize there could be a reason to worry when your exhaustion won't let up. Bradley is so focused on what's happening in Texas, he doesn't even realize he's missing out on what's happening at home.
Warnings: Angst, adult language, body image, DILF Roo
Length: 3200 words
Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader
Aim for the Sky masterlist. This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order.
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Texas in August was hot as fuck. And the humidity left Bradley wishing he could jump in a pool. There was no cool, coastal breeze. There was no temperate climate. It was gross. It had him vowing to never move from San Diego for the rest of his life.
"How did I live in Virginia for so long?" he grumbled, getting dressed for his first day on base. He had the air conditioner blasting in his small room in the barracks, but he was still sweating at seven in the morning. He considered texting to see how you and Rose fared overnight without him, but it was even earlier at home, and he didn't want to wake you unnecessarily. 
He could picture you curled up on his pillow drooling, and it made him smile. But you had to do everything this week without his help, and that made his smile falter. He always tried to alleviate some of your stress by holding Rose when she fussed or walking around with her until she fell asleep. Mostly he was just in love with being a dad and wanted to spend as much time with his daughter as possible.
"Shit," he muttered when he checked the time, realizing he needed to get out of here before he was late. As soon as he stepped outside, the heat had him convinced he would sweat through his khaki uniform before he got to meet the rest of the recruits. Well, other than the ones he'd met at the bar the previous night.
LTJG Brooke Jeffries, call sign "Indigo", came to mind right away. It was no wonder how she'd earned her moniker. Her eyes were the most shocking shade of blue he'd ever seen. She tried to buy him a drink before insisting he meet several of the other aviators who were part of the program over at the pool table. Bradley stayed for a little while, careful not to let a single one of them buy him a drink. In fact, he only had the one beer with his dinner which would go directly to his expense report. The last thing he needed was one of them trying to get the upper hand or complaining that he was playing favorites.
With no clear idea of where he needed to go, Bradley wound his way along a few corridors before finding the classrooms. The facility was a lot smaller than those of North Island or even Oceana, but the rigorous training protocol at this particular airbase held a lot of promise. He was almost shocked at times that he'd been selected to decide who would advance to Top Gun.
"Lieutenant Commander Bradshaw!"
Bradley turned toward the voice and was greeted by a few Admirals. After some saluting and some chitchat, he was led to the appropriate classroom, the presence of superior officers silencing everyone in attendance. There were some more introductions before he was given control of the group, and if he was sweating because of the heat a few minutes ago, now it was because of nerves. Shit. He wanted to be as successful as possible in this role.
"Good morning. I'm Lieutenant Commander Bradshaw, and I'll be spending this week observing you in the air as well as reviewing the extensive files that have been compiled for each of you. Out of three dozen aviators in attendence, a maximum of eight will be invited to join the training program at Top Gun in September. I look forward to working with you."
He could feel piercing blue eyes on him as everyone stood, adjusting their flight suits as they headed out to the tarmac to get started. Before making his way up to the tower for the duration of the day, Bradley took a few minutes to identify each aviator and answer some questions. It didn't seem to matter where he was standing, Indigo was always nearby, but her questions were pertinent. She seemed like a bit of a teacher's pet, which had never been his style, but to each their own.
Then he sent them up in the air individually and in groups so he and the admirals could take some notes as a group. It was obvious even very early on who the standouts were. After just one day, there was very little question who would be joining him in San Diego.
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You felt terrible. Almost like you had the flu. But every time you checked, there was no fever accompanying the constant exhaustion. Of course Rose decided this week would be the opportune time to have a blowout diaper every hour all night long, leaving you in a state similar to a zombie at work.
"Come here," you whispered, picking her up at daycare after work and giving her kisses. "Your godmother is coming over for dinner, and I want you to be on your best behavior. No pooping," you told her as you pushed her through the parking garage in her stroller. She simply laughed at you in response, which was not a great sign.
It wasn't even hot out. It was beautiful weather, especially compared to what Bradley was enduring this week. Yet you still felt unbearably hot, and you had a headache. "Maybe it's a good thing we didn't go with him," you mused as you situated Rose in her car seat. "You'd be poopy and sweaty, and that's not a combination that I really feel like dealing with at the moment."
While you tried to drive home, your headache just got worse, and you really didn't now how you were going to handle making dinner. Perhaps you should just start taking some cold medication as a preventative. It wouldn't hurt anything. You changed direction to make a quick stop, because a snack sounded nice, too. Maybe you could coax Rose to go to bed right after Nat left, eat some candy and pass out yourself. At least Bradley wasn't at home to stress you out. Recently, he seemed to put you right on the edge of irritation a lot of the time, and it was nice to get a bit of a break.
You were pushing the stroller down the last aisle in the drug store when you saw something which made you freeze in place. "No," you whispered, palms starting to sweat along with the rest of you. The vague awareness that you still never got your period after Rose was born washed over you. As soon as you got back from La Jolla, where you were pretty sure Bradley pulled out, you started back on the pill again. But there was no way for you to tell if you were ovulating.
You grabbed some pregnancy tests and went straight for the registers, freaking out inside before you remembered to double back for some cold medicine just in case. Your fingers were shaking as you used your credit card to pay for everything, including two candy bars. The cashier was making a fuss over your daughter, but the sudden loud ringing in your ears was preventing you from formulating a coherent response. You grabbed your items and rushed back outside.
When you got home, Nat was already there, and tears stung your eyes when she walked across your driveway to help you carry everything inside. "How's my sweet Rose?" she asked, picking her up gently from her car seat and peppering her cheeks with kisses. Then her eyes widened briefly when she what you'd purchased at the drug store. But she didn't say a word about the pregnancy tests, and you didn't have the energy to mention it or try to make an excuse.
"I'm thinking of making spaghetti for dinner," you told her, settling on the easiest combination of pasta and store bought sauce.
"I didn't want you to have to cook for me, so I brought some hot sandwiches from the diner," she replied. "One roast beef and one turkey. You can pick the one you want, because I like both."
Your mouth was instantly watering, and when you opened the bag on your kitchen counter, it smelled so good, you could have kissed her. "Thanks for getting these," you said, quickly unwrapping both sandwiches and pulling out plates. "I'm really tired this week without Bradley here."
"I figured as much. You've got to keep this little love bug fed and played with and read to all on your own." She sat down on the couch with your daughter in her arms. "I don't understand how something that looks like Bradley can be so adorable. Logically, it doesn't make sense to me."
You snorted, cutting both sandwiches in half to share them evenly. "He insists she doesn't look anything like him."
"Oh, he's so full of crap. I mean, he's lucky your kids will also look like you, because you're beautiful."
You didn't miss the way she used the plural of the word, and you felt your anxiety spike again as you cleared your throat. "Do you want to sit in the dining room? Or at the kitchen island?"
"Whichever is easier," she replied, giving you a lingering look before shifting her attention back to Rose.
You knew it was better to take a pregnancy test first thing in the morning, but after Nat left, you couldn't stop looking at the packages on the kitchen counter. Since you bought several, you didn't see the harm in taking one of them before bed. What's the worst that could happen? You'd stay up all night in a state of nervous energy? You were barely getting any sleep this week regardless, so why not just take it?
Burping Rose and reading her bedtime story were two things your husband readily volunteered to do, but you fumbled your way through both tasks as your heart beat a little faster. You were about to take a pregnancy test. It wasn't that you didn't want to get pregnant again, you just didn't want to get pregnant again right now. Not while your firstborn was still so young, and not when you hadn't been feeling like your normal self again yet. The idea of two babies to care for was also so daunting,  you found yourself close to panicking.
You had to leave Rose in her crib to cry for a few minutes before she fell asleep, because you couldn't wait any longer. Not only did you want to pee on the stupid test just to see a result, you also felt like your bladder was going to burst if you didn't go now. You made a beeline back to the kitchen where you grabbed the boxes and your candy bars before running to your bathroom.
When you tore into the foil wrapper, you accidentally cut your finger. "Damn it!" you gasped, wrapping it up in toilet paper before you got the test ready with your other hand. You didn't know what to think as you finally let your bladder feel so much better. Chances were strong you'd need to take an additional test in the morning if you wanted to double check a negative result. You knew your hormone levels would be stronger then.
"This is pointless you whispered to yourself as you put the test on the counter and set a timer on your phone. You snatched up the candy bar, ripping the packaging open with your teeth and climbed into the empty bathtub to wait. The chocolate tasted delicious. Just as good as the sandwiches Nat brought. You wrapped the toilet paper tighter around your finger when you realized you could smell the metallic tang of blood in the air.
What were you going to do? Bradley would most certainly be pleased if it was positive. He indicated he that he couldn't care less if you were on birth control at all. If the test was negative, you wouldn't even tell him about it. You'd simply take everything out with the trash, and he'd never see it. Unless Nat said something. But you didn't think she would. Especially since you didn't metion any of this to her. That would be breaking girl code. But she was his best friend, so you weren't sure.
You took another big bite of your candy bar and thought about how long it took you to get pregnant with Rose. It was too easy to recall all of the months where you had yourself nearly convinced that it was never going to happen. How much anger and hurt you felt, wanting something your body just wasn't letting you have. And your daughter was perfect. She really was. But now you were scared for a different reason, and you only had yourself to blame for being so horny when you forgot to take your birth control pills away with you.
The fact that this candy bar tasted so good to you was becoming alarming. You could eat about ten of these in a row right now, no problem. You desperately needed to stop with the junk food and lose more weight, but you were starting to worry that there was a reason for this as you did some quick math. If you got pregnant in La Jolla, you would be about nine weeks along by now. You almost choked on the chocolate. That was practically the end of the first trimester. Maybe there was a reason you were so fucking bloated.
When your phone alarm sounded, you carefully chewed up the last of the candy as you eased yourself out of the tub to silence it. Your movements felt like slow motion as you unwrapped your finger to find just a small cut before tossing the toilet paper in the trash. You turned to look at yourself in the mirror, pausing to examine your expressionless face. And before you even looked down at the test on the counter, you knew what the result was.
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Being in a different time zone than you was annoying as hell. Bradley missed a call from you last night when he passed out as soon as he got back to his room after hitting the gym and taking a shower. Once again, he was afraid to call or text you too early and wake you this morning. Besides, he had to be in the tower soon to discuss some of his frontrunners with the admirals since he only had two more days before he flew back to San Diego. At that point, he would start planning the training exercises he would implement with these aviators come September.
Two pairs of Super Hornets were working through a dogfighting scenario when the radios in the tower crackled to life with voices. Once again, Indigo and Rex seemed like the top prospects for permanent roles at Top Gun. "They look really good," Bradley mused, scanning their list of accolades. "They're at the top of my list."
"Agreed," one of he admirals replied. "They are both a bit ruthless in the air, but they get the job done every single time."
The fact that it sounded like they were talking about Jake from five years ago almost made Bradley laugh, but that was probably the energy he needed to bring back with him. He could work some of the ruthlessness out of their systems.
"Who else do you think would fit with the program?" the other admiral asked, and Bradley was pleased to find that his notes and thoughts on all of the aviators were met with respect and agreement. His shoulders loosened, and a rush of confidence filled his veins. He'd been trying not to acknowledge how much this new role was filling him with anxiety. There was the fear of failing at his job, but he also wanted to be successful for his own personal growth. At the end of the day, knowing he was leading a well rounded team was important to him.
It was also important that he hit the gym again, or maybe go for a long run. The last few times you'd ordered pizza for dinner, he came home and inhaled half of the pie like it was nothing. When he looked in the mirror, there was definitely some more weight hanging around his middle. When he texted you, asking for some new pictures of Rose, you told him you were still at work but needed to call him as soon as you were done. He had about an hour, so he got changed and turned on his This is what a gym playlist should sound like, Bradley playlist that you made him so long ago, and he started a long run.
You were so much better at making playlists than he was, it was laughable. However the summer heat here was not laughable. Nobody else looked as beet red and sweaty as him. Maybe he was just conditioned for San Diego at this point. He wasn't really sure, but by the time he put a few miles in, he doubled back toward his barracks. When he sat down on some concrete steps at the side of the building, he held onto his phone, ready to answer your call whenever it came.
He was mopping his forehead with the hem of his UVA tee shirt when the door behind him swung open. 
"Lieutenant Commander Bradshaw."
Indigo's voice was now familiar to him from several conversations and the comms in the tower. "Lieutenant Jeffries," he replied as she stepped past him, also dressed for a run. He simply couldn't understand how these people weren't always pouring sweat.
"I meant to ask how you're enjoying Texas."
Bradley laughed and set his phone down on the step between his feet as she stood on the cement before him. "I'm ready to go back to San Diego and escape the heat. Not sure how you all manage here."
She smiled and ran her fingers through her jet black ponytail. "It's not so bad. I'm from Virginia, so it almost feels familiar." Her eyes slid down to his chest, reading his shirt before continuing to his left hand. "You went to UVA?"
"Yeah," he replied with a nod. "I grew up between Norfolk and Virginia Beach."
Her vibrant eyes lit up. "What a small world, Sir. We would definitely have a lot to chat about. After I run my five miles and hit the shower, I'm heading to the bar with Rex and the others. You should meet me there."
Bradley's brow furrowed as he examined her face. She was young. He knew exactly how young from poring over the individual files all week. Her expression held no trace of uncertainty, like she was expecting him to agree without question. She was one hell of a self assured pilot, but he wasn't going to start playing favorites.
"Thanks for the invitation, but I'm waiting for a phone call."
One dark brow quirked up over her blue eyes. "From your wife?"
He nodded slowly, voice deep and raspy when he spoke again. "Yeah. Hopefully my daughter, too."
Her gaze lingered on his face as she backed away from him with a soft laugh. "I'll be looking for you at the bar later."
Then she was off and running, leaving Bradley squinting into the setting sun and her retreating form. When he picked up his phone, he realized he missed your call again. 
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Bradley, please focus on your family. One more chapter of him in Texas, and then we'll see what follows him home. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls
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cheshiresense · 14 hours ago
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Oh my God, you mentioned wanting to write a thing about when Starrk finally let's his reiatsu out, and honestly, I've been thinking about that so much!!! Like here is Starrk, who has been keeping his reiatsu down to around average, who sleeps all the time, so doesn't stand out, who stands beside Ichigo, Ichigo who crazy stands out, also Starrk who joins the 4th, the 4th who everyone else considers to be weaklings!! You imagine the look on everyone's face the first time he let's lose!?! Maybe some bullying goes too far, and Starrk, who nobody thinks much of, just smacks them down hard!!! And everyone is like WTF lol 😆
sorry, I just love the idea of when people realize that Starrk is actually strong like Ichigo!! So 😁 funny!! Anyway, thanks for sharing your thoughts about this. I love reading them.
Lol yes it's one of those scenes that you see happen in so many different ways and all of them would be fun. I'm undecided on how I want to do it Officially so I'm putting it off (or maybe I'll just write several of them lmao).
I imagine it would have to be very serious bullying for Starrk to take that much action, cuz like he really isn't the sort to step in for every little thing. If it happens to someone he considers one of his, he might note it down and then quietly go and prevent it from happening again from behind the scenes, but in real time, he'd rather diffuse the situation or leave it to the "victim" to handle it and only step in if it looks like they really can't, and even stepping in would just be a sharp word or two to run the bully off. He's not a straightforward bleeding heart the way Ichigo is, cuz the hit-the-problem-so-it's-no-longer-a-problem method is def Ichigo's go-to strategy, he would absolutely smack the shit out of someone bullying Asuka or Rangiku in front of him and be done with it right then and there, prob flaring his reiatsu without even meaning to cuz his control's a lot better these days but it's also kind of 0 to 50, well-hidden or flashing neon sign, no in-between unless he really concentrates 😂 It's another reason Starrk would have little reason of his own to act, cuz like Ichigo would absolutely beat him to it.
For me, I could prob imagine him unleashing his reiatsu/revealing his strength if someone's about to die and the threat is big enough that he actually has to flex. He's just not someone who'd easily show what he can do, and hiding it from the likes of Aizen and the Quincy wouldn't even be his top reason. It's more like lingering PTSD--his strength doesn't bother him anymore now that he's had years of proven control under his belt, and he's even needed every last bit of his power over the past decade of war, but subconsciously, he's still not 100% comfortable with just letting anyone feel it, even tho he has enough control now that it wouldn't hurt them unless he wants it to because what if? So like, his first instinct will always be to keep it locked down, and for minor stuff (altho minor is relative for him I guess lolol), pulling out that much power is def a last resort.
Again, it contrasts what Ichigo would do. Ichigo's just used to overkill. Like even before he got his powers, he learned that an overwhelming show of strength would solve most of his gangster-related problems very easily, plus he lived in a household where Isshin only backed off from kicking him into a wall or something by kicking first or kicking back. And then after he got his powers, it's not even really his fault that he internalized a "might is right" kind of mindset /points at the entire fucking SS invasion arc and honestly every arc after that/. And also he spent his first years of Shinigami-ing running around with an unsealed Zanpakutou and zero reiatsu control, being in a constant state of Shikai is natural for him, and (moving into this AU's headcanon territory) it took him several months into the Quincy War before he finally learned to seal it away and actually have other ways of fighting that isn't just flinging Getsuga Tenshous around. He uses Bankai the way other people use hand-to-hand combat or Kidou spells, so even now, his first instinct is to just hit the problem hard enough so that it won't get back up to do more harm, and for him, that applies to everything from schoolyard bullying to fighting monster-gods. And on top of all that, his actions are largely driven by emotion. More than anything else, his first reflex is to protect, and that often leads to him throwing way more power at a threat than he actually needs to. He knows how to be more subtle these days, but it's not his preferred method and def not a reflex either the way it is with Starrk.
Of course, Starrk also understands "might is right" just by dint of being a Hollow, but he's basically spent a thousand years as someone too strong for anyone to fuck with just by existing, so he doesn't have the same kind of exposure to physical conflict that Ichigo grew up with that would make violence his first instinct.
Aanndd omg this ran away from me lmao sorry, you get a speedrun analysis on Starrk and Ichigo instead 😅
TLDR I'm still not sure of any exact scenarios that would force Starrk to show his hand, I don't want to wait until a Sternritter shows up or a final showdown vs. Aizen happens because that would take forever before we get there (I mean I could just jump right in there since this isn't a whole fic, but in-universe-timeline-wise, I'd prefer it happening earlier), but it's difficult for me to imagine that something in everyday life or even just a Hollow extermination mission would be enough to make him reveal even a bit of what he can really do.
Case in point, if you remember that mission in SP canon where Shunsui brings Ichigo and Rangiku along on a mission into the Rukongai to gain experience, and Ichigo sees a Hollow about to attack Shinji who hadn't spotted it yet, but he also didn't want to leave Rangiku unprotected, he went straight for unsealing his Zanpakutou and basically hand-delivering a shopping list of unusual or downright unique abilities to Aizen via Gin. In this AU, if Starrk goes along, he would never do such a thing, and in fact, he'd stop Ichigo and just fire a damn Byakurai or something across the clearing and kill it that way. Even if Ichigo doesn't have the finesse to pull off a low-numbered Kidou spell on the fly, he could've chosen a higher-numbered one and that would've still revealed far less to Aizen than unsealing his Zanpakutou would. But again, subtlety isn't his strong suit. He now at least has the presence of mind to think about the consequence of leaping into the fray without thought, it would leave Rangiku wide open, but his first instinct is still to use overwhelming strength to protect the people he cares about.
In contrast, Starrk may be a soft touch compared to basically every other Hollow and quite a few Shinigami, but he has the maturity and just the general personality to go for the strategic option. He has a far more tactical mind, implied even in canon to rival Shunsui in that department, so rushing in just isn't in his nature.
The only other way imo is if someone just... asks. Reikaku (reiatsu-sensing) is a thing Shinigami learn. In canon people can sense exactly who's coming just by their reiatsu (if they know them), not just if they're a Shinigami or a Hollow or even a Human, but it doesn't really expand on how. So I imagine you have to have a good feel for the person's reiatsu, it's the same as my age headcanon for reiatsu, not only can someone halfway decent at sensing reiatsu be able to get an idea of the other person's age, they would also be able to recognize and associate that reiatsu signature with that person since everybody's is different, but obviously they would have to be exposed to it a few times to learn it. Starrk's reiatsu is very unique so once or twice would be enough, and I can see a situation where the kids might ask to feel it for that reason, or a mission might require the team leader to ask, etc. etc. So yeah, that's all I got.
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storiesbyjes2g · 2 days ago
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aDOLTing Generation 3 Recap
Hello, gentle readers!
An extra special reader of mine has been absent for a while and is back. Welcome!! I've missed you! I know how much you love this story, but I also know how daunting it will be to go back and read everything. I can't have you lost, so I hope this recap helps! I have no idea where you left off, so I'll do a quick run down of the whole gen for the benefit of all my new recent followers. Welcome, y'all!!
Let's go!
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This is Luca! His traits are self-assured, outgoing, and active, and his aspiration is self-care specialist. He's a yoga instructor.
He has a younger sister named Alessia. She is very much the annoying little sister, but he loves her very much.
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The only one of her traits I remember is paranoid, and I don't really know what her aspiration is. This story is based on the ISBI challenge, and I'm only allowed to control one sim per generation. The story is told from that sim's perspective. I'm sure you can imagine the shenanigans that can happen with autonomous sims!
These are their parents Alessandro (Ali) and Emerald (Emmy). They divorced right before Luca's child birthday.
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The divorce rattles Luca a great deal because he idolized his parents and struggled with learning they weren't the man and woman he thought they were, and if they can find themselves in compromising positions, what hope is there for him? (His mom cheated for literally no reason because she's selfish and immature.) It made him reluctant to date and trust his feelings. The problem with that was he had very attractive female friends, and most of them wanted him.
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This is Sophia. They met in Mt. Komorebi on his YA birthday trip and kept in touch via Social Bunny. He's in love with her but is afraid to admit it for fear of making a mistake and ending up like his parents. But deep down he knows she's the one, and if they ever hang out IRL he'd never leave her side, so he keeps their friendship confined to Social Bunny until he figures himself out.
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This is Maira. They went to school together and ran into each other at a bar one night. She holds a special place in Luca's heart and is one of his best friends. They each considered becoming more for like two seconds, but it never felt right to escalate matters, and they are fine with a platonic friendship. She, like him, had her own demons and was anti-relationships for a very long time.
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This is Yasmine. They smashed. She was the most persistent of all the friends and helped him understand woohoo could be casual without strings. Even though he was very gun-shy about women and relationships, the dude was horny all the time and she was very happy to help him with that lol.
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This is Xochitl (Chi Chi). They're neighbors, and he thought she was the most gorgeous woman. She has a daughter, and they both talk a LOT. She tried to get him to go out several times, but he always felt guilty because Sophia was always in the back of his mind while meeting all these women. Chi Chi is social and always looking for a good time and quickly figured out he was never going to ask her out. She really just wanted to be friends anyway, so it was all good. They are still great friends today.
As you'd expect, Luca gets to a place where he can separate his parents' drama from his own life and can no longer deny, no matter how many women he meets, and no matter who he smashes, his mind had only ever been on Sophia, and she had his heart from the beginning. He finally asks her out on a proper date, and the night ends nowhere near how he expected.
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She asked him to move in! That scared the cowplant essence out of him and caused all that fear and confusion he finally put away to come rushing back. But Sophia is gentle and has a knack for asking poignant questions in a soft manner. She asked if he trusted her and their relationship. He could either answer honestly, man up, and get over it, or lie and go back to being a scared little boy. Thankfully, he answered honestly and started working toward putting those fears to bed for good.
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Sophia has known him his entire young adult life and knew all about that stuff and was patient with him as their relationship blossomed. She met the parents and even ghost grandma. Everyone loved Sophia. Luca eventually got to a place where he could tell her he loved her without throwing up, heh. That was one magical night.
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Everything happened so fast, and he was too busy finally enjoying life and kinda forgot to tell everyone else his relationship status had changed.
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Luca and Sophia went out one night, and Yasmine was there. Luckily there no drama ensued, but he had some explaining to do. Luca told Sophia about all his friends and their statuses and got everything on the table. Sophia has history of her own and was a bit triggered by the situation. She knew Luca hadn't cheated on her because they weren't together, but she didn't know he was talking to other women. She accepts that his friends are women but doesn't really like it. It will take her a while to get over it.
With all of that out of the way, the only thing left to do is...
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But before that, he meets a young man from Brindleton Bay named Wade (Dub) Banks. He's from The Banks Dynasty by @mysimsloveaffair. You should check it out if you're not already reading.
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He's in town with his lady friend visiting her father. He saw Luca and asked for suggestions on what to do in San Sequoia. They are kindred spirits and become instant friends. He is currently Luca's bestest friend in the world.
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Anyway, Luca and Sophia get married, honeymoon in Tartosa, and eventually buy a house in San Sequoia. Instead of living the blissful wedded life, they begin a painful journey.
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Their plan was to start a family immediately, but Sophia had a hard time getting pregnant. They tried fertility treatments, but they don't work. She's staring her adult birthday in the face and is afraid she'll never birth her own children. To make matters worse, so many around them are getting pregnant unexpectedly. Dub and his now girlfriend had a reckless night in the hot tub and had a baby girl. Yasmine turns up pregnant with twin girls. Even his sister, Alessia, who he thought would never settle down now has a live-in boyfriend and got pregnant. The cherry on top was learning Luca also had low fertility and they were definitely not having children the traditional way. That was a very dark period that threatened to break them down, but they stayed strong. Eventually they decide to do IVF and announced the pregnancy at Sophia's birthday party. A daughter, Desiree, was born on the eve of Luca's birthday.
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Alessia gave birth to triplets (2 boys and a girl) about 12 hours before. Having Desiree brought joy into Luca and Sophia's life, but the painful journey did not end there. His father died shortly after her birth, and his mother died a few days later. As a card-carrying mama's boy, that one hit HARD. He was prepared for Ali dying, but Emmy's death came unexpectedly.
Luca and Alessia struggled through raising their children while grieving their parents. He was especially worried about his sister because she never once desired to have children or lead a domestic life, and now she's raising THREE children on her own. Her boyfriend left during the baby shower and went back to his ex because he was spooked about having triplets. So with Emmy dead, and the boyfriend gone, she's all alone in that big house. Luca gets an idea from Dub and decides to look for a duplex so he and Alessia can stay close and raise their children together and support each other.
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Meanwhile, little by little, they pick up the pieces of their lives and adjust to the new normal. Dub and Maia elope and invite Luca and fam to the wedding in El Ciudad Enamorada. They volunteer to babysit while Luca and Sophia go on a much needed date. Their lives had been so heavy and hectic ever since getting married, they hadn't been on a proper date since they found out Sophia was expecting. Having a night to themselves and spending time together as a family for the next day and a half put things in perspective. Luca was in the throws of a midlife crisis and was losing confidence about his purpose in the world. He has loved yoga ever since his mother introduced it to him as a teen, but teaching yoga and opening his own studio was her idea, not his. Without goals of his own, he happily pursued that dream and even tried to adopt it as his own, but it never felt completely right. Dub gave them a money tree for a wedding gift, and it was so timely because Luca was able to be with Sophia the entire time they struggled through infertility. Lately he'd been thinking about getting back to work but wasn't sure if teaching yoga was the right thing. That messed him up for a few days, but he eventually decided his career doesn't define him. He's still a good husband and father even if he doesn't have a job and contribute in society. He will focus on raising Desiree well and shaping her to be the best she can be. That will be his contribution.
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Luca finally decides to rent out his father's house to a family with infant twins. He also finds the perfect duplex for him and Less. He lives on one side and she rents out the other. The kids age up, and that is where we are now!
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There's lots of subplots I skipped over like the drama with Emmy and her boyfriend Dwayne and shocking developments about Yasmine's children, but this is the basic gist of generation 3. If anyone has any questions, feel free to ask!
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waynes-multiverse · 21 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
@dob-4-life @marcis-mixtapez @nonoreas0n @gabrielasilva1510
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@cheynovak @bitchykittenconnoisseur @underground-secret @heartiella
@bollzinurmouth
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©️ 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐤 / 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲’𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐨
𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐝/𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝
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nednickerson · 1 year ago
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also have convinced myself that i’m slightly hyper flexible so there’s that
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questioning sexuality is so exhausting
#(edit: sorry for the rant in the tags and i just. i want someone to talk to me)#i keep on doing it for no apparent reason#someone was talking about lust yesterday and i realised today that.#even tho id thought i don't experience it. i possibly do. but exclusively towards women.#i hate it here!#for a multitude of reasons i will never have a relationship with a woman but! i may be incapable of having a relationship with a man!#at some point in the last few months i have abruptly pivoted from definitely wanting marriage and kids to being ambivalent on marriage#and not wanting kids. that's such an outlier in my life that it might just be a mental health thing tho idk#but at the same time i. want to be loved.#i don't know what i want anymore and im tired of questioning myself#i definitely overthink it but idk how to stop it#and i hate hate hate how the moral obsessions have bee lately#this isn't entirely related but it kind of is#like Am i a terrible morally bankrupt person for having certain thoughts or is it just religious ocd go brrrr?? am i overthinking it?#i don't know. i don't know!#for a while labelling myself as arospec ace kinda calmed that down but. i don't know#i do't want to be attracted to women. i don't want to have to look away so often. i don't want any of that.#but i don't know how to stop it.#i don't even know if i'm attracted to men at all.#this is a cry for help and encouragement and prayers no matter what your views on these matters are#queer stuff tag#i nearly fessed up to my friend yesterday about same sex attraction and i might've except that it would have probably outed me as#the person who anonymously sent in a question several months ago about the side b movement to a church thing#ive only told one person at church about any of that sort of stuff and it was very vaguely worded#also see: this friend is the mother of the boy i?? i don't even know how i feel about him#i increasingly think it wasn't romantic at all. but i don't know#i would love any encouragement you got. anything at all.#i don't know how much this stuff is affected by the fact that i consider myself unloveable and think it highly unlikely any boy will ever#care for me#now im rambling. sorry
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unopenablebox · 2 months ago
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what personal quality exactly is the one where i am constantly driven to write "firing shots in the air" style posts but ones that i think my mutuals will be genuinely unsympathetic to. why can't i stop trying to compulsively confess that i'm an atheist. or making disclaimers about my fear that my career as a biologist will trick people into believing that i am someone who Cherishes The Sacred Importance Of Trees And Frogs [good, virtuous, near-druidic, queer] as opposed to my actual motivation, Thinks Taking Videos Of Cells And Arguing About Them Is More Fun And Materially Grounded Than Almost All Other Activities [stembrained, cold and sentimentless, utterly lacking in the sacred feminine, not even a real gay person and if you were it'd be one of the bad ones where you're just a coupled gay man whose perspective is not relevant to the modern era]
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purpurussy · 4 months ago
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#tw suicide#idk i feel like i am probably gonna kms after TIT#i would do it sooner but i asked one of my friends to come with me and it would suck if i made him go alone#and it is something to look forward to which is helping me hang on i guess#but ughhhh once uni starts again in september i know everything is gonna fall apart.#i already got an extension on my thesis due to being a useless shell of a person who can't motivate themselves to do anything atm#but i was supposed to get some work done over the summer and have so far done nothing#hence why i want to kms before i have to talk to my fucking supervisors again and admit yet again that i simply cannot do this 😭#and it's not just this. my executive dysfunction has been so bad over the past couple of years and it's only getting worse#to the point where i can't imagine being able to work at all. and if i can't work i can't get out of my parents house#and then what the fuck is the point.#every time i see someone on here talking about bonding with their parents over dnp I'm like damn what's it like#to have parents who actually want to talk to you DSFGJJKL i know they let me live in their house at my big age#but that's only bc id literally be homeless otherwise and they're not like evil. they just don't love me#also went through a deeply embarrassing breakup recently#tl;dr ive been in love with this person for over a decade and i thought they were the dan to my phil or vice versa.#then after 10 years they left me and i'll spare the details but it has me wondering if they ever loved me#i thought it was a “let's live together and get a cat one day” relationship#but now i feel like for them. it was just a “sex and video games” type situation#i am trying soooo hard to at least be creative bc that makes me happy sometimes but it's hard to not be overly critical of myself#and now im getting to a point where i can barely even find any joy in this space any more. for a bunch of reasons#most of which revolve around me being extremely sensitive. and this is like my last bastion of dopamine so that fucking sucks#idk i don't see the point in my life any more. a social worker actually told me recently that i should consider euthanasia so.#it's just completely over for me i fear#this is not even mentioning all the damn migraines. and all the other ways in which my body simply doesn't work properly#sorry for this weird ass vent I'm not in therapy any more bc i couldn't find a therapist willing to treat me+all my diagnoses at this point#and im scared my friends will stop wanting to talk to me if i talk to them about this. several of them already have#the 2 friends i have left anyway. that's a whole other thing. when they said it's hard for autistic ppl to make friends i took that persona#so uh at this point it's vent here or develop a substance abuse problem. and im already halfway to having a substance abuse problem#anyway dan and phil for the love of god please fucking post something tonight. unfortunately you are my only hope
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sannyo-appreciation-posts · 8 months ago
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poparthuriana · 6 days ago
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For better or for worse, I have Cornwall Gang brainrot again, the sort where "What would Kahedin's taste in movies be?", "Does Isolde like poetry?", and "Would Tristan ever own a parrot?" suddenly seem like urgent questions.
(My answers, in reverse order, are "Not with proper planning, and he'd sort of hate it but become nauseatingly fond of it", "Yes, but probably not as much as Tristan", and "I have no idea.")
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fanfaire · 15 hours ago
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' ROBIN ' SEEMED AN APT NAME——she nods accordingly, like a puzzle piece slotting in neatly. "it's not as though there was ever a good opportunity," she sets upon the other's apology with pragmatic forgiveness, quickly then returning her attentions away from the brief diversion to the task at hand. the blank pages stare back at her in challenge, reflecting the girl's predicament. . . "what sort of melody might be best? a feeling for a girl afraid to feel at all. . . "
as she begins to consider the options, robin thinks quicker than she. "perhaps something that starts a little melancholic," she offers, and twin blues glance up to her in consideration, "then turns brighter until you get to the bridge. if this girl is afraid to feel, then the music should help guide her through that fear." her fingers start to move, skating and tapping out an invisible tune across the papers, a gesture the starlet herself is quite familiar with. "we start soft, maybe in the minor scale. then we can layer in more dynamic tones later on."
sound judgment, all sound. a few ideas begin to take shape, but she looks to kaveh first to see if he had anything to add. the scholar, however, merely nods absently, still looking like he's sorting through his thoughts. "this seems to be your area of expertise more than it is mine, so i'm willing to follow your lead here."
even so, his arms unfold in the next moment, and contemplative steps take him over to the window, where he gazes out past the panes as if searching for something.
". . .do you notice that? there are no stars."
furina's eyes quickly follow. she'd seen that earlier, but hadn't thought much of it. "maybe it has something to do with an unfilled wish. . . or not knowing what to wish for in the first place, if we're to take this symbolism at face value."
hm. . . ! yes, it could very well. . . indeed, leave it to the finest minds of sumeru to think so out of the box. eyes widen as she considers how this may tie into it all. "incorporating the view outside. . . of course! your expertise really is something special, kaveh. mm, hm. . . " she begins to pace as she talks, hardly even aware of the motion. "being afraid to feel isn't something to dismiss lightly. there are many reasons for that fear, and it can be an extremely valid one." she halts, opposing blues flickering for a passing moment——then gone. "not knowing what to wish for. . . being afraid to feel. . . yes. yes!" balled hand smacks into the other palm with resounding inspiration. she begins talking faster:
"a hesitant melody at first, a minor key——classic——perhaps even a different meter. yes, halting, hopeless. . . perhaps to this girl, feeling nothing is simpler than the pain of feeling when nothing ever comes of it. as the melody draws to its end, there's no need to give her some grand happy ending. such a dramatic change would only make light of the severity of her struggle. it's this that should be highlighted. of course, there shouldn't be no hope at all. . . but not overdone. one ray through the clouds is enough, one shooting star, and leave the audience to ponder. . . hm, hmmh ♩ ♫ ~ "
unaware of the other two's eyes tracking her, each with smiles of their own, she starts to hm out the beginnings of something even as the wheels keep turning, ideas pouring out faster than she can voice them. "an unresolved chord then? mmm, mm ♪ . . . something like that. . . ?" / @hopetune @aesthetecomplex
give little anguish
˚ʚ [ #GHSecondSky — week 2 ] ɞ˚
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sophieswundergarten · 11 months ago
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I have ideas???? But actually I have no ideas
Schrodinger's idea
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pa-pa-plasma · 2 months ago
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kind of frustrating that people took "fat does not equal unhealthy" to mean "fat is not unhealthy." sometimes being obese IS unhealthy & excess fat can cause a lot of problems. ignoring health issues isn't progressive. real "oranges kill people with depression" moment
#i have a lot to say but i think it all boils down to this:#the only reason people think this way is because they experienced body shaming & bullying for their fatness#& instead of gaining a healthy relationship with their body & its needs they went full denial mode#people that aren't fat that think this way are just going with things uncritically which is also bad btw#because when you have decades of proof that being severely overweight can be detrimental to your health#(& no i don't mean fucking. supersize me. i mean medical proof that too much fat causes diseases & early death)#but you're ignoring that because a tiktok influencer that has no medical experience said so#that is a huge lack of critical thinking skills on display & people are gonna listen to that misinformation & some might die#this isn't some light shit that can be waved off as non-harmful because it IS harmful! it is actively hurting people!!#again being unhealthy isn't a moral failing & no one deserves shit for that!! but that's the whole damn point isn't it!!!#militant fat activists are so afraid of their fatness being associated with anything negative they turn right around into ableism#they don't WANT to be considered disabled! because being disabled IS a moral failing to them. disability is abnormal#& of course being morbidly obese is totally normal. because if it wasn't then they'd need to do work & handle an ED#& that's too much to grapple with mentally so. no. they're normal. super normal. don't look at the lifespan of someone over 300lb#btw i am 100% aware that a lot of this is combined with other issues like racism sexism homo/transphobia genuine fatphobia#but also sometimes they really can't operate on someone that can't recover afterwards#like i wouldn't call the vet bigoted & cat-hating for being unable to operate on my 20yo cat#Minnie would simply not survive that. because she is so damn old#unfortunately for Minnie she can't get younger but people CAN lose weight in multiple different ways#& it may seem like the world is attacking you but you really have to train yourself out of automatic bad faith reactions#''you couldn't possibly understand!!'' yeah okay i'm sooo abled & privileged you got me there (<-sarcasm. if you couldn't tell)#just because someone hasn't experienced your EXACT thing doesn't mean they can't relate & haven't gone through similar#it's so difficult to train your brain out of that shit i get that but you really really really have to. or you will die#or at least be miserable#DISCLAIMER: i'm not talking about every person who has even a little fat on their body. fat is NEEDED#but like all things too much of a good thing can cause problems & fat is not exempt#this is about morbid obesity. not someone who's like 160lb that shit is normal#& people need to stop thinking anything over 110lb is fat#because it isn't & i think most people are getting into unhealthy territory at that low of a weight#basically i view being too fat the same as being too thin. they both cause health problems & should be taken seriously
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solidcarbon · 13 days ago
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#i'd stayed alone for a few days before. for a week. for weeks#but this week was something for some reason#a fight against depression or whatever shit is in my head and i lost it#it was so shitty i can't even describe HOW. all i know that i was supposed to rest and i didn't rest#ED STUFF DON'T READ IF IT TRIGGERS ETC ETC more food was thrown out in these 8 days than i ate#wake up feel awful feel hunger drag yourself out of the bed to the kitchen#realise you in no condition for cooking#or for making a simple sandwich or something#look at food and think “aye i don't like that :(( i don't want that :(( i feel like dying but i can't force myself to eat :((ok back to bed”#LITERALLY hunger HURTS and i CAN'T eat just fucking CAN'T#you feel like you'll collapse on the floor any minute soon and.... yeah you guessed right#it's not like any typical ed i know and not what i could find when digging information abt it#'cus i also sometimes INTO food and even consider it tasty and even WANT it.......#and i tend to cope with stress with sweets sometimes#like WHAT THE FUCK it frustrates me so fucking bad#idk what to do#except for going to therapy. but i can't afford therapy rn#nor i can tell my mother#just need someone who'll repeatedly poke me with reminders to EAT. several times at a time#ED SECTION ENDED!!!#i wanted to say something ant anxiety but forgot what. for good i guess#need positivity. just a bit of it. today i've done half of the stuff i was supposed to do a week ago and i'm up to finishing it when#i'll get home#and everything else is probably ok.#fictional blorbos halping me survive day 948#dame can't shut up#vent post
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jabeur · 2 months ago
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was taken aback by my coworker's genuine kindness today and then taken aback by my (new) other coworker's lack of tact and humanity lol
#suicide tw#for my next tags and GRAPHIC kind of so take care#but i genuinely think if you say something like 'i don't think he actually wanted to kill himself. if you want to slit your wrists you do#it you don't just slit them a little bit'#you should probably consider shutting the fuck up ??????#like that lacks so much compassion and not to mention a lot of us in that office are mentally ill or have a history of mental illness#which i think she doesn't know she literally got here 2 days ago#but holy shit maybe don't just start talking about someone you know slitting their wrists with people you barely know?#it was so unnecessary too like she was telling a story but she could've just said he attempted suicide no need to be specific about the#method. like it was extremely triggering for me i was genuinely so shaken#also lmao. clearly she's never tried to slit her wrists .... idk if it was a me problem but it's not as easy as it seems lol#it's actually in my experience the hardest method. that i've tried. for a few reasons i'm not getting into but it also takes lots of guts#so maybe don't go around saying 'if you REALLY want to kill yourself in that way then you just DO IT'#and if you really wanted to be a piece of shit you could just say i think suicidal people are a bunch of cowards or something lol#ALSO LIKE. before that she was like 'my friend's son who's not well.. he has severe psychological problems poor thing...'#like 😭😭😭😭 can you not treat us like we're poor little souls who need to be pitied. thanks#god i hate ppl sometimes. it'd take 0 effort to just not say things that could make others feel bad and yet#delete later
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wr0ngwarp · 1 year ago
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um. uh. hi every body. something evil and malevolent happened in my brain this month.
this is. um. a Jet Set Radio/Pokemon Mystery Dungeon: Explorers of Death joke AU, spawned out of a in-joke that started in a pokepasta discord. my apologies to both the pokepasta and jsr fandoms
the entire basis is the idea that Corn in Future retconned og JSR Beat as leader/founder of the GGs (is beat being leader in the og even CANON?) so Corn and Beat are the Myras. no it's not a joke funny enough to justify how many hours i sunk into drawing these. no attempt was made to change the setting, assign most of the other cast, or otherwise make this au hold up to ANY amount of scrutiny. if i tried to make this actually work somehow then i'd REALLY end up too far gone. also i keep calling myrtle!beat "Meat".
MEANWHILE, IN A BETTER UNIVERSE:,
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#jet set radio#pokepasta#creepypasta#jsr#explorers of death#pokemon#crossover#gore#body horror#blood#ask to tag#long post#jsr eod#also i said ''i didnt assign almost anyone else'' but thats not entirely true.#i did assign dj professor k as wigglytuff. but i decided i needed to draw a line in the sand somewhere#and drawing dj k as eod!wigglytuff is simply too much. some mental images really DONT need to be inflicted on others#i also thought about who would be grovyle and ended up leaning towards combo#i sort of think of him as having protagonist swag about him bc of chapter 2 in teh first game.#also i have a running joke w my sibling about combo being meta-aware bc of a jp-only line he has in future#where he tells roboy he wants to save.#i swear to god i had more reasoning than this but my mind is drawing a blank rn. sad#also i guess this would imply that cube and coin would be celebi and dusknoir but theyre not even in explorers of death so RIP#i did also briefly consider clutch as grovyle bc 1. stealing things lol and 2. joke about him being future-exclusive#and grovyle is FROM DA FUTURE... but frankly clutch does not feel like he could pull off being grovyle. in my opinion.#also i guess sitting here now i suppose it wouldnt even make sense in the context of the eod au cuz everyone but the main trio is og jsr#on that note. i had no idea what to do for gum's design so i chose the most awkward route possible i guess. im sorry gum.#in general gum kinda got the short end of the stick here due to being consistently the Second-in-Command meaning she's shadow#I'M SORRY WOMEN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#well at least she's better off than yoyo. me n my sibling just automatically were like ''he's bidoof'' ''yeah he's bidoof''#also like last note. but. the jet set radio fandom is SEVERELY lacking cliche edgy over the top evil creepypasta versions of the cast
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