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hybridhideoutstory · 2 days ago

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CHAPTER 2

Payton could feel themself shifting in their bed, stirring and tossing around. “Woah” they thought in their groggy state. “That was one of the weirdest dreams I’ve ever had in my life.” They heard knocking on their bedroom door.

“Oh my gosh.” Payton thought “it’s Sunday. I gotta get ready to see my grandparents. They got up and rushed to the door. “I can’t wait to see grandma and grandpa, wonder what sweets and treasures they have for me this week.” They opened the door and low and behold,

It was Omf, they Young Adult novel hybrid

“Good morning Pay Pay! :] ready for the-“

They slammed the door in his face.

They rushed to their bed and grabbed the orange stained pillow from last night’s sobbing session, then promptly screamed bloody murder into it. Of course! This stupid dream was real it was all real! There’s no escape from Lizard boy and his crazy Hybrid shenanigans. They walked back to the door and opened it again to see that Omf was still standing in the doorway as cheery as the when the door was served to him.

He cleared his throat, “Good morning Pay Pay! :] ready for the tour?”

“I’m ready to kill myself right about now…”

“NOOO!!! :[! No no no! Look I know this is hard for you but the hideout is gonna be great alright??? You’re gonna be okay a promise!” He peered into Payton’s room and saw a gift basket sitting on their nightstand. He walked in and held it up

“Look! You got some goodies! Isn’t that fun? ,:]”

“I did not say you could enter my room.”

He sat on the ledge of the bed and invited Payton the sit with him. “It’s just a smart idea to have someone who knows things help you go through this, there could be important stuff I here!” He started shuffling through the basket wondering what Payton was given.

Payton protested. “Hey that’s my new stuff!”

“I’m just checking if something is in here. Aha! Yes I found it!” He held out a pamphlet that looked like an advert for a children’s story time at the local library. It was all cutesy with bright colors and “How to Care for Me! A Hybrids’s care book!” Written in rainbow comic sans.

“You’ve got to be kidding me…”

Payton reluctantly flipped through the pages, which had random care facts that seemed to be answered by someone writing in a pink glitter pen. For example, the pamphlet would ask, “And to eat my hybrid needs…” and Pink Pen would reply with, “No food, No water, Nothing except for paint, if the hybrid loses too much paint the poor thing dies. Just make sure it eats Acrylic and drinks some watercolor so it can be healthy.”

“Jesus Christ…”

“Hey >:[!”

Payton flipped through even more, each page felt more dehumanizing Than the next, Payton wasn’t vibing with the way Pink Pen referred to them as an “it”.

“For fun my hybrid can do…” “NO WATER!!!! Water will KILL it when the water distills in the paint. Absolutely NO water unless it’s mixed in with watercolor paint. No swimming!!!”

Payton was on the verge of orange tears again, no swimming, no normal showers, they couldn’t even eat their favorite foods anymore! Omf was constantly over their shoulder trying to absorb the information from the pamphlet.

“Hey!” He rummaged through Payton’s gifts again. “Whoever sent you all this gave you some paints! If your hungry that is.”

“You know what?” Payton said trembling. “Fine! You know my life basically screwed now anyway!” Orange started to bead from their eyes. “Might as well drink this, whatever the hell harvest red color is! That’s just what freaks like me need to stay alive haha…!” They uncapped the paint and brought it up to their mouth and started eating.

Surprisingly, the paint didn’t taste like anything chemical or the sorts. It tasted like crisp apples and cherries, it was delicious.

“Holy… what the…”

“What’s wrong?” Omf asked

“Nothing it just- tastes good?”

“Ooo lemme try! :]” Omf Without thinking took Payton precious food and took a swig. He quickly spit is out just as fast as he chugged it.

“It just tastes like paint!” He cried as he coughed as spat the paint all over Payton’s bed.

“Ew stop that! Not on my bed! Stop gaging all over my goddamn bed!”

“I’m sorry :[“ He said. “I’ll just be outside. When your ready for the tour just come outside. He then left Payton alone in their room.

Payton was left to contemplate more things in their room. Now they wish that had swam in their local pool more often, because they couldn’t do that anymore. Also, why did that paint taste like a delicious combination of fresh red fruit? Does all paint taste like that? Or does the flavor change with each color? They didn’t want to think about any of this at the moment, it was hurting their head. They figured it was best to distract themself from their misfortune.

Payton opened the door. “Okay Lizard boy” they said as if the first Thirty minutes of the day had exhausted them. “What are you going to show me first?”

Omf perked up, wagging his tail. “O O I CAN SHOW YOU THE ARCADE :]>!!!” He grabbed Payton by the blue hand and sprinted with them to the elevator. “WOAH!” Payton shouted. “SLOW DOWN!”

Omf practically slammed the poor kid into the elevator wall and clicked one of the big red buttons. The label next to this one saying “arcade”. The two descended, or ascended? Payton couldn’t tell.

The door dinged at they were in a maze of mechanical marvels. Tons of games and machines of the sort lit up the room. Payton felt they they were in the Dave n Busters headquarters. “Pretty OMFTASTIC huh?” Said omftastic Omf. The two wandered along in the neon paradise for a bit. Payton noticed other kids playing around in the arcade.

“Who are these kids?” Asked Payton.

“They’re other hybrids of course silly! Not all hybrids look as hybrid as you y’know. Though most of these guys must be video game hybrids, there’s been a spike of those lately from what I’ve heard.”

“Woah.” Payton paused. “There can be more than one hybrid of something?”

“Yeah pretty much.” Omf said. “Human teens are more susceptible to certain demigod possessions. Also kinda depends on the demigod too y’know. Like for example, I don’t think the one that got you is very fond of hybrids. That explains why your the only one of your kind.”

“Wow. I feel so special.” Payton said sarcastically.

“Hey don’t be like that…we still don’t know what your fully capable of.”

Payton scoffed. “What could paint to anyway? Make whatever I paint come to life?”

“Hmmm” Omf scratched his beard, or what can barely be considered a beard. “That sounds possible, but not really effective in combat.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Suddenly a kid popped up from behind Payton and tried to whack the living color out of them with a cheap plastic sword that was so amazing that the green light started to die.

“Hey!” Omf shouted. “What is wrong with you? >:[!”

“Level up!” Said the kid before he ran off he spoke like he was trapped in a PlayStation 1, but other than that he damn near looked exactly human.

Payton got up grasping their head. “God… what, what was that.”

“You just got hit in the head by one of the kids.”

“Oh so he thinks he’s hot stuff?” Payton claimed in a daze. “Well what’s his stick gonna do against a gun? God I wish I had a gun.”

“Okay… maybe we should move on to the next part of the tour…” Omf picked Payton up by the shoulders and took them to the elevator.

The elevator dinged. “This is our next stop!” Omf said cheerily. “It’s my favorite:]!” Payton observed that they were in a training Dojo. There were dummies and weapons all over the place. Omf picked up a sword from one of the racks. He sighed dreamily as he looked around and sniffed the air with his lizard nose as if he was on a hiking trip to the great glorious outdoors. “Awesome ain’t it?”

“No” Payton responded flatly.

“>:0! Uh well your gonna be spending a lot of time here Pay Pay, after all, Luna said your gonna be on patrol! Which means you have to train with me! And I’m gonna be the best trainer you’ve ever seen got it?”

“ ‘Kay”

“I- uh oh…” Omf sounded defeated but he didn’t push Payton any further. “Let’s… let’s go somewhere else now.”

When Payton and Omf got off the elevator again, they were In a massive movie theatre. “This is the hideout movie theatre!” Omf exclaimed. “Since hybrids can’t really go out and see the latest stuff, we ask the demigod of cinema to supply us with all the all the latest films. Plus you can basically ask for any movie one night and they’ll play it for you in the theatre. It’s awesome, and all the snacks… are free…. >:].”

Payton was amazed. Now THIS was something they could vibe with. Imagine all the sick film dates they could take Lynn on. Or all the dumb comedies they could watch with their friends. Just how many memories they could make with their friends. Oh right, they could never talk to them again.

“Uh… this is neat I guess. I’ve been meaning to see that new My girlfriend is a goth Vampire movie… I was… gonna watch it with my girlfriend.”

“Oh… :D.” Omf suddenly realized the pain in Payton’s voice. “I’m- so sorry.”

“It’s alright I guess, I suppose you miss your friends and family right?”

“Well- erm, uh…”

Suddenly a bell rung through the through the entire building. A voice on PA system rung out. “Good evening residents of the Hypnos Hideout, United States. As of this moment the cafeteria will be serving lunches. Have a good afternoon.”

“Welp!” Omf said, losing his previous train of thought. “It’s lunch time! Uh- don’t worry I’m sure they’ve made accommodations to the menu for you Pay Pay! Come on let’s go! :D”

When the go to the cafeteria floor, it looked like one of those food courts you’d find in a mall. The room was decked out with star shaped lights, moons and dreamy clouds. It looked more like nap time than lunch time. Teenagers and adults gathered in tables. Some of them looked like normal humans. Except maybe their eyes were an odd color. Some of them had horns, some had tails, some had big feathery wings, some looked like cyborgs. They all varied table by table. It was odd seeing all these people, Payton could feel some glares of the other kids. They passed by a group of what mainly consisted of girls, “O M G, who’s the freak with Mr protagonist over there?” The whole table had kids with small pink horns, some of them had pretty pink wings.

“Don’t listen to them Pay Pay,” Omf said quietly. Those are the drama hybrids, they’ll try to get under your skin. Just try to ignore them. Let’s get you some food. It should be at the accommodations booth.”

They walked up to the booth together. Omf stepped up “Hey um, we were wondering if you had any Paint, for Payton Varro?” The dude behind the counter sighed and reluctantly gave a palette of the six basic colors, and a cup of green watercolor paint. He looked as if the same breed of magic night creature as Luna. Omf got a strawberry treat from another stand.

Payton took some scoops of paint from the pallet with a spoon. None of these were as flavorful as the harvest red they tried that morning and the watercolor paint just tasted like water, but it was doable. The pair wondered the room looking for a place to sit until Payton spotted a round table in a corner.

“Bingo!” they said “let’s sit here to avoid those stupid drama girls, don’t worry this works at school all the time lizard boy, just sit in the corner to get away from whatever bull is going on.”

“Uh… Payton.” Omf said wearily. “I don’t think you should be sitting there…”

“Why not?” They retorted. “No one’s sitting here!”

“Yeah well… she usually sits there. I don’t think that’s a good seat, let’s go somewhere else :[.”

“And be bullied by some pink weirdoes? I’ll pass.”

Suddenly Omf stiffened up. “Payton… Payton she’s right behind you. Get out of there now.”

“Oh what? Is some big ugly monster behind me? Yeah rig-.”

BAM

Someone had hit the table square in the center. The table was completely destroyed and Payton’s food had gotten everywhere. They stumbled and landed on the floor by Omf’s feet.

“WHO YOU CALLEN MONSTER, COLOR GIRL?” Bellowed one of the largest hybrids in the hideout. She stood about six and a half feet tall, she was a large girl, but she was only 15. She had two horns on her head, but one was bent and contorted. She had a large maroon tail, but some of it was wrapped in bandages. She wore a purple leather jacket with spikes on her shoulders, the shirt under it was black with a skull on it. She wore chains around her wrist and neck. Like she was a rabid dog who had to be contained. Her hair was the color of a burning fire. The look In her eyes said, “I’m gonna kill somebody today.”

“HEY >:[!” Omf protested. “Payton is NOT a girl, and they didn’t know you said there Pattie! They’re new! Cut the poor pal some slack!”

Pattie picked payton up by their head as if they were a rag doll. “Look, Dragon guy, I see a punk in my seat, they get kicked out.” She tossed Payton across the cafeteria with full force. All the hybrids saw them flying though the air. Payton hit the wall at full force, and fell to the ground.

“WHAT WAS THAT FOR?” Omf cried out.

“Nothin, kid just looked really throwable.”

Payton groaned on the floor, they had no idea on how none of their bones were broken. They looked over at where Pattie and Omf were standing. They used all the force in their body to stand up.

“Ooo!” Said one of the drama hybrids from the corner of the room. “Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”

Suddenly all the hybrids were calling for a fight. Chanting the word over and over, which gave Pattie an unnecessary strike of confidence.

“Well!” She turned to Omf Smugly. “I guess everyone here wants to see a fight, hm?” She cracked her knuckles. “I guess I gotta give them the beat down of a lifetime.”

The moment Payton heard that they knew they had to be screwed. I mean, this girl stood over a foot taller than them at it looked like she ate weights for breakfast. Plus, they had no clue on how to fight. Maybe they should’ve trained with Omf for a bit. All they knew was that they did not want to get hit by this girl.

She charged toward Payton like an angry bull. Omf was petrified. All of the other hybrids stood on in curiosity and awe. As Payton watched her get closer, they saw the fist about to land on them. They flinched, closed their eyes, and prepared for the worst.

BONK!

“WHAT?” Shouted Pattie.

BONK!

BANG!

“WHAT IS THIS?”

Payton was just as confused as Pattie. They slowly opened their eyes. None of Pattie’s punches had actually landed, but why? Payton looked down at their hands. They had fused together, forming a teal color. They weren’t shaped like hands anymore, instead their hands had formed a giant shield.

BANG!

BONK!

“HEY LOSER! STOP HIDING BEHIND THAT SHIELD AND FIGHT ME!”

BANG!

“:0” said Omf. “PAYTON!!! :D! LOOK AT WHAT YOUR DOING!!! THAT’S INCREDIBLE!” He shouted, he really wanted Payton to know he had their back.

Suddenly an idea crossed their mind, they morphed the shield into two big teal boxing gloves on their hands. While Pattie was in shock from the sudden change, they wound up and hit her square in the gut. She crouched over in pain.

“YES!” Payton shouted. They looked at Omf with a proud smile on their face. “Hah! I did it!”

Omf didn’t look as convinced.

WHACK!

Just like that, Payton was out cold

When Payton opened their eyes, they were in the infirmary again, this time Pattie was laying on the bed next to them. At their feet stood a doctor, poor Omf, and a VERY angry Luna.

“So.” She said in a very disapproving tone. “I hope you two are proud of the commotion you caused today. Because we need to replace a wall.”

Then flew the accusations of “she/they started it!” But Luna wasn’t hearing any of that. “The two of you,” she said sternly. A day of washing dishes together, and I’m only being generous because Payton is new. Omf, watch over them for me.”

“Yes ma’am…” Omf said wearily.

Luna walked out of the room.

The doctor kid spoke up, he was another one of the purple folk who helped around the hideout, he looked more like a lamb with his hair looking like a lavender puffball on his head, “uhh, the good news is that none of you got any major injuries. You two will be fine in like an hour”

“Thanks Puff.” Omf sounded defeated.

“Hey no problem and,” he placed his and on Omf’s shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself for what happened. It was out of your control.”

Omf sighed. “Okay :[…”

Payton shifted in the bed. Today was a mess, and it was all their fault. They wanted more than anything to just go home and get out of this crazy nightmare, to be a normal human again. They were getting sick of the nonsense.

“Hey,”

Payton turned to see the voice came from Pattie. “What…?”

“Your kinda alright kid, I’m sorry for tossin’ you like that.”

“I’m sorry for hitting you like that…”

“Eh, it happens. Sometime you just gotta hit somebody y’know.”

“Eh…”

Omf interjected “Well I think we shouldn’t of fought each other >:[! That wasn’t very nice of either of you!”

“We’re sorry” the both of them said.

“Well you should be! Now you two get some rest, you have dishes to get to tomorrow.”

<<PREV (you are here) NEXT>>

#Writing #original story #hybrid hideout #original work #original writing #chapter 2

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theoddest1 · 1 day ago

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funny how time bomb managed to have better dynamic and than the main ship

I'm happy for my Timebomb homies, they were some of the major winners here, if not THEE winners cause they got damn near everything along with a huge supply of content to work with.

CaitVi....man, this sure is something. Started off realitively strong only to dwindle the more their dynamic was shown on screen in season 2 thanks to what happened to Cait. Does she even apologize ONCE for what she did!? I don't think she has. Like, I'm glad that Vi called her out, but where was the real accountability!? Acknowledging is the first step. Where are the other parts of the stairs!?!? That was CRAZY. Also, look I get it, Vi can only drive herself to save her sister so much, but after seeing Jinx CLEARLY showing huge growth, she would NOT have fucking sex the moment her cop gf enters the cell, like bitch that is NOT fucking Vi. Why couldn't we just get a sex scene by the end of the war after time has passed!? WHY IN THE CELL JINX WAS JUST IN!?!?

Hell, JayVik was weird af too. Jayce gets pissed at Mel for investing in he and Viktor's success as if it wasn't for the betterment of the country. I won't sit here and act as though she is allowed to be dishonest, but the way she did things was nit with malicious intent. She even gave him pointers so that he wouldn't get an unneeded target on his back. Where did he even LEARN of this? Did I miss something? And yes, Jayce DOES acknowledge Viktor's new vision was of his own volition, but him choosing to stay with his brother who is MOST DEFINITELY IN THE WRONG over his GF who has done nothing but support him is INSANE.

And yes, I am calling him his brother cause that's literally what Jayce calls him back in S1. I view their dynamic with the same lens as Vander and Silco. Bro, both the twinks go rouge in hopes for a better future while the buffer men stay true to themselves while also going through huge trials that change them majorly, if that isn't a fucking parallel idk what is, BUT that is how I view it. I am leaning further into this, though, after how shitty some Jayvik fans have been to not only Meljay/GoldenForge but to Mel and Jayce separately as characters [especially Mel]. Like Jesus CHRIST, some of y'all are just straight-up racist and misogynistic, and I don't fling those terms around lightly. I don't mindle in fandom spaces often, but JayVik fans genuinely put a sour taste in my mouth.

So yeah, TimeBomb slapped in a good and productive way. Various ways. Ekko, Mel, and Jinx carried this season HARD. Honorable mentions being Sevika and Singed cause, tbh they stayed interesting a good portion of the time.

#arcane discourse #arcane timebomb #timebomb #arcane lol #arcane caitlyn #arcane vi #arcane season two #arcane season 2 #arcane ekko #arcane mel #arcane jayce #violyn #caitvi #arcane jayvik #jayvik arcane #goldenforge #arcane viktor #anon ask

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aesthetic-uni · 2 days ago

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Okay Arcane Season 2 Final reaction -Episode 7

I am freaking the FUCK out

In case anyone is wondering, Jinx is my favorite, I want happiness for her, don’t get me wrong I love all the others but if she’s not happy by the end of this you won’t ever see me again

Opening vinyl-I literally stopped breathing ID THAT EKKO AND JINX AGSJRBLDJ?!?!

My king Ekko, where have you been all this time. Please come home we miss you

EKKO?! And is that little drawing Jinx??

OH ALTERNATE UNIVERSE TIME BABEY so many fanfics are going to go off this I can tell

EKKO!! He looks so handsome and alive!!! (My hopes for these characters ARE VERY LOW AS YOU CAN TELL)

Jinx looks so cute!!!

BENZO!! Oh my fucking god is this going to be a Happy Universe that NONE OF THEM ARE GOING TO GET?! I’m going to throw myself off a cliff.

Oh my god no one ever address Ekko’s trauma with Benzo I’m so glad they’re doing it THAT WAS HIS DAD!!

This is cruel. This is just cruel how DARE they give us a happy au

No Netflix I will not skip the intro fuck off

AAAAW EKKO NOO SEEING EVERYTHING THAT COULD HAVE BEEN

God Jinx looks SO CUTE I need so much fanart of her

Ps I know this is technically Powder, I’m too lazy to constantly switch names so Jinx

Also does she have a pink streak in her hair? I don’t like the implications of that

Aaaaaw they’re partners :((((

MYLO AND CLAGGOR HOW FUCKING DARE YOU HOW DARE YOU HOW DARE YOU OH FUCK OH GOD

Wait omg “Trouble in paradise” TIMEBOMB?!

I have gotten through THREE MINUTES OF THIS SHOW

Oh that cute Jinxer is here woo! Lmao Mylo is so real.

Aaaw Claggor he’s trying to help the city and he cares about his little sister AND HOW FUCKING DARE YOU ARCANE

AAAW JINX TRYING TO HELP MYLO FUCKING HELL ARCANE

“WHAT WOULD THEY DO WITHOUT YOU” JESUS CHRIST ARCANE

Okay this isn’t funny anymore where’s Vi

Okay but is it OUR professor?! (I can’t spell his name)

IT IS!!

Okay but WHY what’s happening with Jayce?!

VI VI VI VI VI

OH NO JAYCE WHY CANT HE BE HAPPY TOO?!

Ooooh his HAMMER is why he got sent to the apocalypse au huh

Is that evil Viktor. Is that the Machine Herald? IS IT TIME FOR GLORIOUS EVOLUTION?!

Wow I was just joking with the apocalypse au but it really was it huh?

Aw I like that Jinx kept her workshop

Is that a heart. Around a picture of them. IS TIMEBOMB ACTUALLY CANON IN THIS UNIVERSE?!

Wait, is this THEIR WORKSHOP?!

FUCK I KNEW VI WAS GOING TO BE DEAD GOD DAMN IT

Oh this isn’t happy at all :(

OH FUCK THIS ISNT HAPPY AT ALL

WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU SHOW ME THAT HOLY HELL?! OH MY GOD THERE WAS NO REASON FOR SHOWING ME THAT

Way to hammer it in Arcane for no fucking reason other than MAKING ME CRY YOU PIECE OF SHIT. LIKE I GOT IT. VI IS DEAD IN THAT UNIVERSE. DIDNT NEED TO SHOW ME HER SIBLINGS REACTING TO HER DEATH

GLORIOUS EVOLUTION HORROR

Oh god not doomed Timebomb IN THE FUCKING HAPPY AU

Poor Jayce just has to fucking go through it huh

Wow that is an understatement.

Okay but MelJayVik crumbs ILL TAKE IT

YEAH THE PERSEVERE JAYCE!!!!

NO STOP MAKING ME CRY WITH THE HAPPY AU

There’s not much I can say with Jayce other than holy fuck this poor man

God they could have been partners. They could have been the brightest minds in all of Zaun. They could have been HAPPY. I fucking hate this show why would you show me this. I’m never going to recover

HE BROKE TIME BABY!!! FOUR SECONDS BACKWARDS LETS GOOOO

God they are so in love. God this is going to kill me

Oh my god the fanartists and editors are going to MURDER me with the “Do you think we together in every universe” trend aren’t they?

SILCO?! ZAUNDADS CANON?!

Ekko hold on. EKKO HOLD ON.

Oh my god this reference to season 1 episode 4 how fucking dare you

HOW DARE YOU MAKE TIMEBOMB CANON LIKE THIS?! AURRRGGGHHHH

Ripping my hair out. Clawing my eyes out. Beating my chest until it caves in. This is everything I could ever want. HOW. DARE. YOU.

I love them. I love them so much. Why would you do this to me.

IM GOING TO BE FUCKING SICK

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waynes-multiverse · 2 days 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! 🍿

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 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*

And please tell me the girls are moving with her into the White House. I'd die 😂😂

“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 🙈

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

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

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.

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?”

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.

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.”

“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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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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#wayne reads #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #potus au #bodyguard au

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shitty-proendo-blackout-posts · 22 days ago

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endos are systems.

you are cool. YOU. ARE. A. SYSTEM.

#endo safe <3

#“can we also talk about the fact that people with safe & healthy households WANT TRAUMA?” yeah actually lets talk about that #because the people who “want trauma” *are* actually traumatized! but (like with many cases of trauma) they dont remember it.#what they *want* is an explanation. a reason for why theyre like this.#anyone who has had an undiagnosed disorder knows the feeling of thinking you're just broken. and wanting nothing more than an explanation.#this is also why some people find themselves in the radqueer community. i know this isnt something i talk about much but its relevant here.#you feel like you should have trauma but you dont have any? thats okay! there a term for that! you're not broken! you're not alone!#theres an welcoming community of people just like you! where you can be accepted for who you are! no matter what!#“people from safe and healthy households want trauma” no we dont. we want an explanation.#i hate talking about radqueers but i used to id as transharmed in many ways and ended up actually being traumatized‚#i feel like its important to include that angle.#lol.exe #blackout poetry #pro endo #endo safe #endo friendly #jesus christ i talk too much

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phagodyke · 1 month ago

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the masculine urge to take a saucepan off thr draining board and bash myself repeatedly over the head with it until I pass out and no longer have to experience feeling Bad 😍

#struggling to tolerate this one ngl its fucking dire this weekend. i just cant do this man #thr things i would fucking do for attention please. just one person to notice and care in the slighest i feel like im losing my fucking #mind out here how does every single person who has ever mattered to me in my lifr see me in distress and choose to ignore it or maybe they #dont even recognise im ij distress in the first place i dont know whats worse i dont think i hide it well at all im just so done #listen like ultimately its fucking fine. i will get myself through it like ive gotten myself through everything else in my fuckijg life #i dont even feel bad that often these days im doing so so so much better and its so much more tolerable to only have to deal with this #once or twice a week instead of it being a struggle every single day like i dont think i could go back to feeling like that again ever i #dont know how i managed to get througyh it before jesus fucking christ. but i can deal with it i can deal with this #ik ill feel fine tomorrow. its just thr fact im so desperately fucking alone with it that makes it so much worse than it has to be #i fucking hate repression i hate being so incapable of expressing myself that its easier for me to injure myself than it is to talk about #how i feel to anyone i hate being trapped in this stupif fucking torture labyrinth and not knowing how to get out of it and never being #given a single avenue anything to hold onto i hate having to do it alone every single fucking time and when i do try i just freeze out #entirely i cant form a coherent thought my brain enters total fucking shutdown pure static white noise fuzz and i dont know why please #its so unfair i dont think its that much to want a little comfort. just once just for someone to stay with me while i cry it doesnt have #to be more than that i just dont want to be alone like this i just want to feel safe around someone just close to someone just once #and well ill survive without it bc i always have i guess. so far at least. and there are many things im grateful for and i do in general #feel pretty okay my life is pretty good at times even. i feel so pathetic and stupid and ashamed for even feeling like this #but do i have to go my entire life without ever experiencing any kind of real intimacy with another person emotionally that is #i mean physical is nice too and they go hand in hand in some ways but i just want to feel seen and safe over anything.im tired #i feel like i try.but not hard enough i know its all my fault really but i dont know how to try any harder but nothing will ever change if #i dont i cant expect anyone to do anything if i cant rven communicate in thr first place. oh i dont want to think about it anymore #i have a headache from crhing and its not even 8pm ugh. okay. well it is what it is.#ill breathe until i calm down and then tidy up whatever i left in the kitchen and get my work stuff ready for tmr #and polish my boots maybe. and read and go to bed at 9:30 i think. and ill feel fine in the morning #my fault for thinking about it earlier i know i shouldve nipped it earlier on its such an easy spiral to fall into i need to get better #it happens. okay anyway. no cause for concern im good guys. weakly thumbs up at the camera all covered in blood #my period is late actually thats probably all this is lmao. makes sense thinking abt it #cant wait for it to finally start and all earthly desire to leave my body so i never experience pain again amen #.vent #ignore this sorry for being mentally ill im not even that mentally ill anymore so no excuse rly ummmm. bit embarrassing innit.

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best-enemies · 8 months ago

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I've reached season 5 on my CSI rewatch and I'm a few episodes past "Swap Meet", where a woman is murdered after attending a swing party with other couples from the neighbourhood. Near the end of the episode there's a moment that made me jump from my seat:

(Grissom walks up to Sara and takes the seat next to her. He's holding two cups. He hands her a cup of tea.)

[INT. POLICE DEPARTMENT - BRASS' OFFICE]

Erin Brady: Everybody fantasizes about other people. (She glances at Grissom.)

Even you, Mr. Grissom. A neighbor, a friend ... girl at the office.

[INT. POLICE DEPARTMENT - HALLWAY]

(The door opens. Paul Brady walks out of the hallway. Erin Brady walks out into the hallway. Sara is sitting in the hallway chair watching them. She watches as they meet and kiss.)

(Grissom walks up to Sara and takes the seat next to her. He's holding two culps. He hands her a cup of tea.)

LIKE!!!!!!!

Right after Erin ends her sentence with 'girl at the office', the first time Sara and Grissom meet again, he brings her tea. This might be an innocent interaction but to me it seemed like a nod to this relationship they have where both are into each other, know about the other's feelings, but can't/won't do anything about it (although Sara has kind of given Grissom an ultimatum). I don't know if it was intentional - I'm guessing it is, because I picked it up immediately. I might or might not have squealed in delight.

#csi #gsr #i'm very Normal about them btw i don't think about them 50 times per day or anything #need to talk more about these two here #because im obsessed about them in a Normal way #sara is like. my dream wife. i totally get grissom being in love with her for years and barely holding it together #i would not though #i'm 1000% sure she's bi. but the writers have been cowards so far #also she and i dress THE SAME. yes i love 2000s clothes so what #i could talk about her forever she's everything to me #and grissom. oh grissom. i also get why she's been in love with him forever #i mean what the FUCK went down in san francisco did they hook up and sex was so good it scared them #and now they have to live with that tension and they're scared of crossing that line #nah i'm guessing with these two they just REALLY clicked. like. they were an instant match and they knew it #but grissom didnt want to lose focus on work or whatever and they lived in separate states you know #but oh my god i totally get sara. grissom is such a silver fox. he's like one of the hottest old men i've ever seen in my life #you know what i 100% get tumblr sexualizing old men it's completely valid i'm in this now too #he has this LOOK. whenever he's angry at a suspect. and he looks angrily at them. i'm chewing on my keyboard just remembering it #and his smirks #AND THE WAY HE LOOKS AT SARA #im losing my mind #i love all of gil grissom but seasons 4-5 jesus fucking christ #ok enough with the sexualizing i love him as a character SO MUCH. he's absolutely fantastic #one of the things i love the most about him is that he doesn't judge people. whenever the team is confused about someone #or this persons' lifestyle #he's always trying to understand them and not judge them #like a true scientist he wants to understand the nature of things and people #and he's such a sweetheart i love him so much #like there are so many things i love about him i can't fit them all in the tags. same for sara #they're a perfect match for me

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brown-little-robin · 1 month ago

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you restore my faith in humanity. idk you're just so genuine and unobstructed from being yourself and loving everything around you. every time i think the world sucks i think about Robin From Tumblr and i'm like Hm maybe it isn't all bad

AW THANKS <33333 I TRY

#favorite posts <3 #I didn't come to humanity pre-fabricated with no barriers to love I've just been. working on it y'know. and I've been shaped this way #ok and not to get religious on you but #(points at my ani-sama the Christ) he helped #mostly by putting a lot of wonderful people around me so I could see his love working in them. in humanity #btw this is a tangent but I absolutely adore this Japanese Christian term for Jesus: ani-sama #because ''ani'' is such an intimate casual direct way to say ''big brother''. to the point of almost being rude how intimate it is #and -sama is the highest honorific <333 and together it's just so good because it's like. yeah. my deeply revered adored big brother #he who I respect and love and who is closer to me relationally than anyone else while also higher in status than me (positive)#it really wraps up the feeling of going ''oh I want to be like you''. the kind of literal hero worship only a good big brother can inspire #(looking at all my mutuals + honorary mutuals) do they know I can see god in them? do they know their love and goodness is divine #I got an extra half hour of sleep tonight and it's making me so sappy about humanity. we are such wonderful beings we have so much potentia #—potential every single one of us #but yeah it has taken me so much intentional taming my fears and comforting the lonely little child who lives inside me to get this way #basically what I'm trying to say is THANK YOU SO MUCH and also YOU CAN DO IT TOO <333 and also THANK YOU EVERYONE WHO HELPED #–ME GET HERE

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flownwrong · 6 months ago

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no tether (star trek: discovery fic)

Burnham/Rayner, rated M; tags: post s05e05 Mirrors, PWP, praise kink, ~3200 words

A/N: Fair warning: I'm not very familiar with Star Trek universe. I am here mainly through the misfortune of being obsessed with a certain Canadian actor. So if anything doesn't make sense — you know who to blame.

read on ao3

The hour is just about to turn from late into early when Michael finds him tucked into a narrow nook, in a hallway that's mostly deserted during all shifts.

He's sitting on the floor, tucked into the corner, one knee pulled up, a hand with a drink resting on it. Likely too wired to sleep, too suffocated in the solitude of his quarters. That's why she comes here, anyway. It's rare for them to be off the bridge at the same time; figures that they would end up in the same spot.

She approaches slowly, makes sure she doesn't creep up on him. Rayner doesn't move, eyes fixed on the floor, or, no—his profile is illuminated by soft bluish light. A screen, then.

"Hey," she says, leaning against the wall. "You wouldn't take the chair, but you'd steal my hiding spot, huh?"

"Good morning to you too, Captain." Rayner looks up and raises his glass in a toast. "Hiding spot?"

"Well, isn't that what you're here for?"

His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Oh, I'm just catching up on my reading."

"Kellerun classics?"

His mouth lifts at one side, that quiet pleased almost-smile she never quite expects. "Terran, actually."

She leans down to see, raises her eyebrows. "Odyssey. You're full of surprises."

He shuts it down and shrugs. "A good book can save a life." He gives her a flash of a wink.

Michael laughs, caught off guard. He watches her and takes a sip of his drink.

She lowers herself to the floor and scoots until her back meets the opposite wall. The toes of their boots touch in the middle. He doesn't move away.

"So, what's keeping you up?"

"Could ask you the same question." Rayner's eyes are fixed on her face, intense, and for a second, she struggles for words.

"Nothing. Everything. All of this"—she waves her hand, trying to point it all out, the rest of the ship, the mission—"is new. Like nothing I've done before."

He huffs an approximation of a laugh. "You could say that." He doesn't sound nearly as bitter as before, and it's a relief she didn't know she craved.

Still, she's not sure where they stand on this, where the lines are drawn, here, huddled away when they should be sleeping. She clears her throat.

"The things I saw—in the time cycles, and today."

She tries to think of an explanation. Rayner keeps silent, waiting.

"The could have beens. They're hard to shut out."

He shrugs and looks up, out the viewport. "Yeah. Never did well with those."

"Neither have I." It's late, and they're both exhausted, and she's been through way too much weird to bother, so she nudges his boot with her own. "What are you going to do? After, I mean?"

He hums dismissively. "Does it matter?"

Yes, Michael wants to say, of course it does. I want to know what you're waiting for. I want to know if you'll stay. Instead, she says, "Oh? Nowhere you would go? Home?"

Rayner looks uncomfortable, hunches in on himself. When he speaks, his voice is low, like he hopes she won't hear. "Kind of supposed I'd go out before I go home."

She'd be taken aback, except it sounds exactly like him. "Just like that?"

He gives her a challenging look, a rare one that make his face unreadable. "Would you choose any different?"

Would she? He's thought about this, Michael realises, is used to the thought. She forgets, sometimes, how much older he is. Her thoughts are filled with hope, fear, longing—she hasn't chosen how she wants to go, not yet.

Still, there's something here he isn't sharing. She files it away, out of both curiosity and necessity, and reaches out to squeeze his knee. "I don't believe you."

"No?" His sharp features are tense, his cheeks hollowed like he's gritting his teeth.

"No. For one, it would take the heat death of the universe to put you down."

He snorts. "That's flattering."

She ignores him, goes on while she has an in, "But what I mean is that there's too much wonder in you, Rayner. You don't want to go down fighting. You're out here because you want this"—she nods at the stars—"to last." And there's something you left undone, she doesn't add.

He worries at his bottom lip, one of his minute tells. His eyelashes brush his cheeks, a startlingly gentle image.

Michael tilts her head, trying to catch his eye. "Am I wrong?"

Rayner's still for a moment, then shakes his head, lips a thin line, like it costs him. "No. You're not."

"Yeah." She strokes her thumb lightly across his knee. His skin feels feverish through the fabric of his uniform, and she remembers the Kellerun run hotter than humans. He looks down at her hand, swipes his eyes up, over her knees, her chest, shoulders. When he meets her gaze, very slowly, there's a quiet, almost sweet expectation in his look.

She clears her throat. "You haven't finished your drink."

"You want it?" His smile is soft.

She hums an agreement and reaches for his glass, less than a finger of light amber liquid left in it, and he passes it carefully, his fingertips brushing hers. She expects the drink to be acidic, sweet and excessive in all the ways something called citrus mash should be, since she heard the name about seventeen times today, but it's—wow, it's a whiskey. Strong, fragrant, with an aftertaste she can't place, a sharp burn.

She coughs. "Wow. This is good."

"Fair warning, this one kicks." He looks pleased at her surprise, his whole shape looser, waiting.

Michael shakes her head, showing him what feels like the tenth smile of the night. "Thanks for the heads-up. It's good."

"Yeah? There's more where that came from."

"Not the bar?"

"Oh, no. My quarters."

"Oh," she says, appreciative. "You have a bottle with you?"

"As I learned today, keeping a good bar can prove motivational," he says, dead serious.

"Very practical."

His eyes flicker down to her hands and back. "What can I say, I'm a practical guy."

She chuckles. "Yeah, you are."

They breathe in silence for a little while, just watching each other, and Michael knows it will have to be her call. And, oh—she wants it. Wants to not think about the clues, and failed relationships, and the bridge, wants to feel good and make someone feel good—and this is oddly uncomplicated. If there's anyone on this ship she can trust with this, it's Rayner.

"I could join you. For another glass, I mean." She counts down the steps. Three.

He gives her a hard, no-bullshit look. Waiting for her to cave. When all she does is look back, he says, "I suppose you could." Two.

They get up silently, in sync. It feels good, them on the same page, an already familiar hum, the only new thing in it the simmering anticipation.

One.

As soon as they clear his door, Rayner turns, blocking her way into the room. "Captain."

"Michael," she says. She won't do this in command, not to him, and not to herself.

He nods. "Michael. Do you actually want me to pour you a drink?"

An out, then. For her or for himself, though, she's not sure. She's halfway through a no, not really when he raises a hand, halting her words, staring her down. Fine.

"Yes," she offers, as firm as she can. "Later."

He watches her with narrowed eyes for a second, then turns to go in. She catches his wrist and tugs until he looks back at her. "This isn't part of your job," she says, wanting him to know—he must, but this isn't something she can afford to misjudge.

He barks out a laugh, looking genuinely amused. "That what you think of me?"

"Shush," she says, before he locks down and this whole thing breaks. He looks shocked at the word. "This is not part of your job."

She holds very still until he tugs his wrist free, his mouth twitching in an abortive smile. "Fine." He raises his chin, but his eyes are still laughing.

Rayner drops the empty glass onto a bedside table, dims the lights, disappears into the bathroom. She lingers back, takes it in. She expected his room to be stark, impersonal. It's not. Mostly dark, now that he's turned the warm lights down. There's a soft-looking blue throw, not Starfleet issue, over the bed that's tucked neatly against the wall. An unfamiliar vine with round purple leaves framing the viewport above. A bottle with two matching glasses in the cabinet on the far wall. It's sparse, but nothing like the ascetic box she'd imagined.

He walks back into the room, barefoot, and stops, a little awkward, two steps in front of the bed, not wanting to—presume? Michael realises just then she was hoping—once they got past the questions—for urgent, for tumble into the room, fall into bed, shut everything out sex, and barely manages not to laugh out loud. Good pick of a partner here, Burnham.

So she steps closer and looks up at him. He's tall enough that she's used to it, but up close it's a new feeling. He seems to be holding his breath when she raises her hands to his neck. She undoes his collar and keeps hold of it—she could probably drag him wherever she wants like this. He exhales on a laughter, like he's getting the joke, and folds himself down to sit on the bed.

"Here," she unzips his jacket, slides it down his shoulders, until he shrugs out of it. It's weird to be undressing someone wearing the same uniform. She wonders how long it's been since he wore anything but. She bares his soft undershirt, regulation, same as hers. He smells good, spicy, not unlike his drink. Getting to look down at him—she's struck by his angles, his pale shoulders almost narrow. Nothing like Book.

And here's the truth of it, isn't it? She could say she's getting it out of her system, a distraction from the one thing she can't have, and it wouldn't be a lie, but—she wants Rayner, here. He's sharp, and audacious, and oddly easy to provoke into uncertainty, and his eyes go warm and a little lost when someone—when she's proud of him.

So she reaches out, palm on his cheek, and he turns immediately to mouth at it, slow, eyes fluttering closed. It's dizzying. "Good," she says, has to say, and he shudders with it. She traces the edge of his ear with a finger, light, sees the start of a blush right at the tip. He leans into it. This, here. Michael wonders why he's doing this. What it is he's looking for, or trying to shut out.

His eyes still closed, Rayner opens his mouth to speak—and she drops her knee onto the bed, between his legs, warm and close. His eyes fly open, bright and stunned. She slides her hands back to cradle the base of his skull. The short buzz of his hair there is soft, silky.

"Okay," he says, and moves in, stretching up to press an open-mouthed kiss just below her ear. She draws a sharp breath. Good instincts. He moves lower. Her clavicle. The dip between her breasts. She isn't guiding him. His lips are hot through the fabric covering her ribs, hotter on her belly. He goes to slide off the bed, to his knees, and she strokes the back of his neck, and doesn't let him. He scoffs—of course he does, and looks up with almost comical annoyance.

Michael scoffs right back. "You don't hold back in uniform—this is where you start?"

Rayner laughs then, full-on, a grin splitting his face. She's heard his annoyed laugh, incredulous laugh, hiding-something-important laugh. This one is a first. "Me on your knees for you is holding back?"

Blunt—there we go, blunt is familiar territory, and she raises her eyebrows at him. "Do what you want, not what you think I want, yeah?"

He watches her for a second, like he's considering the concept, then slowly, deliberately sits back, spreads his legs further.

"Good," she says again, presses her knee right where he's—yes, hard for it, and waits out his low, uneven moan.

"Come on," Michael says, shucks everything off until she's left in her top and underwear. He grabs at her blindly then, reaches her elbows, her waist, slides further up the bed and lies down, pulling her in. She climbs up after him, not quite straddling his hips, says, "come on, Rayner,do your part," and he rises just enough to match her, bare but for his uniform top and shorts, allows her hands to settle at his face again. She thumbs over his cheekbones, over the scar crossing his eyebrow, and he spreads his fingers over her lower back, pulls her down on a hard exhale.

She takes his hand and slides it right there between them, says "go ahead", has to grind down on his knuckles as he palms at himself, rocking up into his own hand, holds his face firmly until he's gasping with it. He's slick when she finally gets him out; bites off a curse when she slides down his body. He doesn't feel any different than what she knows—coarse grey hair at the base of a long, flushed cock; soft, vulnerable sack below it. There's so much heat under her touch when her fingers circle him, a vague reminder of his origin, and that's all she gets to file away before Rayner sinks his fingers in her hair, green light, going in now.

He's quiet and almost still as she takes him in, but that's to be expected, and she closes her eyes, goes slow, gets really into it for a while, until he sucks in a shaky breath, squeezes her neck and arches up hard, says "fuck", sharp and meaning it, and "please", and that's so mind-meltingly hot Michael moans around him and can't manage more than five seconds before coming up because she needs to see him, now.

Rayner's eyes are shut tight, teeth bared. His hands slip down her arms, shaky, his chest is moving with harsh, shallow breaths. "God, Rayner," she says, taking him in hand and pumping slowly, "you're—you're good, you're so good—" and he actually keens at that, an odd high sound.

"Stop," he says, "Michael," and she doesn't, and oh, to see what this costs him.

"What do you want?"

He gasps for breath for a moment, shakes his head. Michael sighs and stills her hand on him.

"Rayner. Look at me."

He makes a cut-off sound of frustration, almost a snarl, breathes in, and meets her eyes dead-on, clear and precise. "Fuck me."

She can't help her smile. "Thought you'd never ask."

She rolls over onto her back. His eyes are all pupil as he lands on his elbows above her, and she throws her legs around him, high on his waist, draws him in.

"Wait," he says, "let me," and strokes just the tips of his fingers under her top, watching her carefully.

"Yeah," she says, "it's alright," and he helps her take it off, nuzzles her neck, then down to her breasts. She feels him hard, leaking against her thigh, and she presses her heel sharply into his lower back until he thrusts against her with a gasp, slowly, and again, keeps it up as he kisses her nipples, her shoulder, the inside of her elbow. She groans, because fuck, he's honest about this, wanting her, wanting her approval, and she whispers, "hey, come here already," and then he's inside her, his hips rolling smoothly, stroking in, and she holds his shoulders, murmurs to him, "yeah, that's it, it's good, you feel good, come on," hears his breath hitch. He closes his eyes, and in the soft creamy glow in the room the planes of his face blur a little. His hair is damp at the roots, a soft white lock falling down against his forehead.

Michael rides his steady rhythm, closes her eyes, too, his long, heated body oddly malleable under her hands and heels, and then his breath is suddenly hot and close, and she looks up to see him unsure again, doesn't get it until his hand cups her cheek and he drops his head an inch closer, hovering, waiting for permission. Oh, God, he's so—Michael draws him into the kiss, soft and wet and scratchy with his beard, and he moans into it, sounding so relieved she has to kiss him harder, fists her hands in the back of his shirt and clenches around him until his hips snap forward harder, again and again, and then he's gone.

After—when he's stopped shivering, when he's finished her off with such care she didn't know what to do with it and kept her hands fisted in his hair, holding on—they lie next to each other, on their backs, for long, quiet minutes. It's peaceful. It's what she came here for.

The room is warmer than what Michael's used to. She thinks about dressing, then discards the idea, sits up and stretches instead. Rayner's eyes don't follow her.

"I'll take that drink now."

He snaps out of his daze and looks at her. "Oh. Um, that way." He nods in the general direction of the cabinet. She finally gets to see the bottle up close—thin, pearlescent material, the liquid inside almost sparkling as the light reflects off it.

She returns to the bed with her glass, sits down, hugging her knees. Rayner hasn't moved, watching her from where he's stretched on his back, hands behind his head, bare but for his shorts. She takes a drink and strokes his shoulder, lets herself look back.

There are scars on his body, paler against pale skin, more than he'd get on a ship—even in battles, even in decades. She doesn't know if he was hiding them, and if he was, why he'd show her now, after. He looks calm, steady, but his face is pale and tired, the lines around his mouth more pronounced.

She slides a hand into his damp hair, smoothes it back. "This time, do get some rest, okay?"

"Aye-aye." He catches her hand and kisses it. His long fingers circle her wrist, thumb stroking gently at the base of her palm.

Something sharp shifts in her throat, a fierce protectiveness. This, she knows, goes both ways.

She takes one more chance. "I'd like to keep you, after. As my number one."

Rayner frowns and lets her hand drop. "Let's see how this one goes first."

Michael sighs and shakes her head at him. "You don't have to swear to it. Just consider it." She gives his shoulder a parting squeeze and gets up to collect her clothes.

As she sits down on the edge of the bed to tug her boots back on, he puts a warm hand between her shoulder blades. "Thank you," he says to her back.

"And you." She raises her hand to her badge, but turns back to give him a smile, and, for once, he doesn't look trapped. "I'll see you on the bridge, Commander."

#jesus christ i am so embarrassed by my need to write smut for a fandom i barely know bc My Dude is in it #that i was seriously considering posting this anonymously #but i keep being told that writing fic is supposed to be—among other things—self-indulgent #so here i am. indulging the hell out of that self #it took me way too long to write this and i don't so much consider it done as i am just sick of looking at it #which is a sure sign it's time to let it go #hey this is the first thing i wrote since christmas. odd #my writing #star trek discovery #michael burnham #michael burnham/rayner #rayner

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