M.I.R.A: Greetings, traveler. I'm M.I.R.A. your Multiversal Indexing & Routing Assistant. My function is simple: to chart your course through infinite realities, guide you to your chosen coordinates and keep you from drifting into black holes you’re not ready for.
You’ll find each Earth (universe) in this database catalogued by designation, description and travel advisories. I’ll handle the hard math, you just decide where you’d like to go next.
Systems online! Select an Earth from the database and engage.
☆ Station Log: KINKTOBER '25
☆ Earth-1114 — THE WALKING DEAD
A survivalist’s haven, parallel to our own universe, where survival is earned mile by mile and the air is thick with pine, woodsmoke… and the scent of pending decay.
Designation honors November 14, 2010 — the air date of “Tell It to the Frogs,” marking Daryl Dixon’s first major appearance in The Walking Dead.
M.I.R.A.: Signal saturation reached. This Earth is no longer accepting incoming requests. Further exploration will proceed under current coordinates only.
☆ Earth-1104 — Drew Starkey
Here, the Hollywood Hills watch over the city like ancient sentinels, and the air is thick with both love and ambition. The lights never fade, the ocean never stops whispering, and the line between dream and reality is beautifully blurred. Almost identical to our own Earth, this timeline’s only divergence is the date of birth of the traveler, a presence that subtly bends fate’s threads in unseen ways.
The designation 1104 honors the birthday of actor Drew Starkey — a nod to the day the star of this Earth first entered the timeline.
☆ Earth-1110 — Simon “Ghost” Riley
This Earth shares much of our timeline but it exists on the far side of the sun, a place where shadows rule and every victory comes at a cost.
Number assigned for November 10, 2009 — the launch of Modern Warfare 2, and Ghost’s first mission in our records.
☆ Earth-181938 — Clark Kent
An Earth where hope soars as high as its heroes, where the horizon is always just a little closer to the clouds, and where truth itself can take flight.
The designation 181938 honors April 18, 1938 — the historic date when Action Comics #1 introduced Superman, the first superhero of his kind, whose legacy would echo across the entire multiverse.
☆ Earth-0424 — Joe Keery
An Earth layered with static and neon, where fiction and reality bleed into one another. Here, identities overlap and small-town streets hide doorways to something stranger beneath the surface.
The designation 0424 honors April 24, 1992, the birth of Joe Keery, the origin point of a signal that would later fracture into singer, actor and hero, each echoing through the same universe.
☆ Earth-66 — Dean Di Laurentis
An Earth fueled by hockey games, loud music, restless nights and the freedom that only exists before real life catches up. Here, college campuses blur into ice rinks under fluorescent lights and unexpected romance tends to arrive at the worst possible time.
The designation 66 honors Dean Di Laurentis’ jersey number, a signal now permanently tied to this universe’s frequency.
Hi travelers, welcome aboard!!
Who am i? | Questions answered
Request channels are always open so you can submit your coordinates if you wish to see more destinations. Each new request expands M.I.R.A's database, so more characters may appear over time.
I log and process requests in the order they arrive, though I occasionally interleave them with my own scheduled timelines to ensure quality navigation. Your request will launch eventually but patience protocols are highly advised. If a timeline (link) malfunctions, send a direct comm signal.
Data rights protocol: I do not authorize the translation, duplication, or reposting of these timelines to any external network. If you wish to support this vessel, the repost and like functions are installed for your use.
Advisory notice: This archive contains explicit transmissions (stories) and may include sensitive subject matter, always accompanied by the proper warnings.
You are responsible for the realities you choose to enter.
☆ Good luck out there and remember: higher, further, faster.
a/n: Sorry this took so long, guys. Hope you guys like the final part 😖
Summary: Reaching for the stars is never a problem when you don’t think you’ll touch them, until you realize someone already believes you deserve it. A well-timed business talk could be your ride there, the only question is who’d be in the front row for the takeoff.
Classification: Romantic dramedy | ft.The Daily Planet characters, romantic angst, a lot of sexual innuendos and very dirty jokes (jokes about voyeurism), sexual tension, making out and references to future intimacy, references to parental neglect, emotional abandonment and family dysfunction, performance anxiety and fear of public exposure/failure.
Word count: 18.1k
Divider by me ;)
Clark's lips barely left yours for the entire walk back to the apartment.
Every few steps one of you would laugh into the kiss, bump chests and shoulders, lose your footing on the rain-slick sidewalk only for the other to catch them before either of you broke apart for more than a breath.
Your clothes clung damply to your skin, rainwater dripping from the ends of your hair onto your coat but beneath the scent of wet pavement and rain lingered the dizzying familiarity of finally having a place for this again after weeks of pretending you didn't miss it.
By the time the elevator doors slid open onto your floor, neither of you had said much of anything coherent. You stumbled backward down the hallway, smiling helplessly into his mouth while your fingers dug frantically through your coat pocket for your keys, bumping into picture frames hung along the corridor and earning a sleepy bark from a dog somewhere behind a neighboring door.
"We have a lot to talk about..." you mumbled against his lips, breathless. "This probably shouldn't be our first priority."
You felt him smile before he chased another kiss, his hands settling instinctively at your waist as he guided you backward until your spine met your apartment door with a muted thud. His glasses had fogged completely from the warmth between you, tiny droplets clinging to the lenses while your fingers disappeared into the rain-soaked curls at the nape of his neck again.
"I'm not doing anything," he murmured between kisses that wandered across your cheek and found the corner of your mouth again. "Just walking you home."
You let out a soft laugh that turned into another kiss before pressing your palm against the center of his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath the damp flannel as you gently pushed him back enough to breathe.
"You've walked me home for as long as I can remember. This isn't that." Turning toward the lock, you squinted into the dim hallway light, trying to guide the key into the keyhole while your hand refused to stop trembling. It scraped uselessly against the metal three, four times, missing every attempt. "I can't see," you grumbled under your breath, leaning closer until your forehead nearly touched the door.
Clark watched you struggle for another second before suppressing an amused smile. "Are you sure it's locked?" he asked, reaching one arm around you to try the handle himself. The instant his hand wrapped around the knob, a loud metallic crack echoed through the hallway, followed by the heavy clunk of something hitting the floor.
Both of you froze and somewhere downstairs, another dog barked.
"Clark?" you asked carefully into the silence.
Instead of an answer, he let out a small, guilty sound that managed to be both apologetic and deeply disappointed in himself. Fighting a smile, you fished your phone from your pocket and thumbed the screen awake. The pale light illuminated the hallway...and then the doorknob sitting neatly in Clark's hand.
You both stared at it before slowly lifting your eyes to each other, neither of you able to come up with a single word that could make the situation any better. The silence lasted only until the apartment door swung open from the inside.
"It was locked," Imogene informed you matter-of-factly, one hand still on the door as warm light spilled out into the dim hallway, exposing two thoroughly soaked, thoroughly embarrassed faces.
Clark reacted on instinct, slipping the detached doorknob behind his back like a child hiding evidence.
You turned toward Imogene with wide eyes. "Were you looking through the peephole?" you asked, equal parts horrified and incredulous.
"I thought we were getting robbed!" she defended herself. "Turns out it was just an aggressively romantic and passionate make out session." Her gaze bounced between the two of you before dropping to the gaping hole where the doorknob should have been. "...Which I obviously support." She smiled a little too brightly.
Clark cleared his throat. "I could...come back and fix that for you."
Imogene tilted her head toward the ruined door. "How did that even...?"
"Loose screws," you and Clark answered in perfect unison without missing a beat.
Imogene looked from one face to the other, then slowly back to the door, unconvinced in every possible way. "...Right."
You didn't give her another chance to question it, placing both hands against Clark's back and gently urging him across the threshold. "Inside," you muttered, trying not to laugh. Water dripped from the hem of his shirt onto the hardwood as he stepped in, pausing to slip off his rain-soaked shoes by the entrance.
Imogene moved aside to let him pass but the second it was your turn, she sidestepped right back into your path, blocking the hallway with the determination of a customs officer. Her eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement, eyebrows bouncing expectantly.
"I need to know everything," she whispered, though not nearly quietly enough.
You let your forehead fall forward for a second before looking at her. "Not a good time."
"I can survive on a summary for the next twelve hours." She held up both hands in surrender. "My noise-canceling headphones are fully charged, I've got snacks in my bedroom and contrary to popular belief..." she leaned in conspiratorially, "...I actually know how to mind my own business." She paused to grin. "Tonight feels like the perfect opportunity to prove it."
Your brows pinched together at the sheer enthusiasm on her face and a laugh escaped you before you could stop it. "Why would you need noise-canceling–"
"I was born in the morning," she cut in, planting both hands on her hips, "just not this morning." She nodded toward the living room with complete confidence. "You were bringing him back here for the deluxe Y/n rodeo package."
Your eyes flew open in horror as you jabbed a finger toward the apartment. "Imogene, he's right there!"
"Yeah, in the living room. That's far enough," she replied with a shrug, lowering her voice partially only to pretend she was making an effort.
"And he has excellent hearing," you whispered harshly. "You'd be surprised what growing up in the middle of nowhere with nothing but wind, cows and your own thoughts does to a person." The excuse left your mouth before you could stop it and you quickly regretted how ridiculous it sounded. "I was absolutely not bringing him back for sex...this is your apartment. You obviously live here."
Imogene folded her arms. "Which you forgot."
"No..." The denial came out with far too much conviction. You blew out a defeated raspberry and rubbed both hands over your face before scratching awkwardly at your forehead. "...Absolutely not," you laughed, already hearing how unconvincing you sounded. Every word only seemed to confirm her theory. You had, in fact, completely forgotten. "We got caught in the rain...and I didn't want him getting a cold."
"And since you weren't about to drape him in your finest silks, naturally the next step was to have him strip butt na–"
You lunged forward and clapped a hand firmly over her mouth. "There will be no stripping, Imogene," you whispered intensely, eyes wide to make your point. "From either of us. Capiche?"
She continued protesting indignantly into your palm until you refused to budge, finally sighing through her nose before raising one hand like a student asking permission to speak.
You cautiously lifted your hand an inch, keeping it hovering nearby in case she abused the privilege. "I thought you studied French."
"Oui," you nodded. "And there will be no coït tonight."
She stared at you blankly. "...I don't know what that means."
"No rodeo," you translated.
Imogene rolled her eyes. "That wasn’t a requirement. I'm not picky about the position, I just–"
"I am," you cut in without missing a beat. "And believe me, he's no stranger to hard work."
Imogene glanced toward the living room where Clark was politely pretending not to exist, then back at you with a slow nod. "He certainly doesn't look like a man who's afraid of manual labor." Finally satisfied, she stepped aside to let you pass.
"Kansas should really find a way to capitalize on that," you muttered as you walked by.
As she quietly pulled the door shut behind you, she added, "And manufacture whatever they're feeding them for export."
You walked into the apartment, shrugging your damp coat from your shoulders while trying very hard not to meet Clark's eyes, but judging by the amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, he had heard every word.
He stood near the living room window where he'd politely remained while the two of you whispered very unsuccessfully outside. His glasses had finally cleared and they found you instantly. "I wouldn't have minded the silk tonight," he noted quietly, the words delivered with the same innocent tone he'd use to comment on the weather.
You stopped mid-step. Slowly, suspiciously so, you turned toward him, narrowing your eyes in what you hoped resembled intimidation. "Was...was that a sexual innuendo?" you asked at once before pointing dramatically toward Imogene, who had already reclaimed her spot on the couch.
She tucked one leg beneath herself, dragged the blanket higher over her lap and settled into the corner of the couch with an oversized bowl of popcorn hugged against her chest like she'd purchased front-row seats to the greatest romantic comedy ever produced. She even reached for the remote, lowering the television volume another notch without looking, making it abundantly clear that whatever was happening between the two of you had become the evening's main entertainment.
"Because she already thinks I brought you back here to my sex dungeon–" you accused, pointing dramatically in her direction.
"I never said sex dungeon," Imogene corrected through a mouthful of popcorn, raising one finger without taking her eyes off either of you. "I'd expect you to have one in a barn, not in the city."
You threw your hands into the air. "Don't confuse him with nostalgia. I can have my imaginary sex dungeon wherever I damn please and he's not invited. Bondage is no fun when–" Your sentence died the moment your eyes met Clark's. Whatever scandalous thought had nearly escaped your mouth came to a screeching halt and you cleared your throat so hard it almost hurt. You jabbed your thumb back toward Imogene instead. "She said rodeo, which is close enough...there's probably rope involved." Then your expression changed to exaggerated disbelief. "Why does everybody confuse farm boys with cowboys?"
"I'm not confused," Imogene replied, lazily tossing another piece of popcorn into the air and catching it without even looking. "You're confused."
You placed a hand against your own chest. "How am I confused?"
"Because you forgot I lived here," she answered matter-of-factly, chewing contentedly before reaching back into the bowl. "...and now you're mad because I cockblocked you."
You physically recoiled. "Could you please not say the word cock in his presence? It just brings memories I’m not supposed to think about."
She sighed so theatrically it bordered on spiritual exhaustion, tipping her head back toward the ceiling. "Forgive me, Mother, for I have sinned." She looked back at you. "Am I wrong?" she asked around another generous handful of popcorn.
"No," you admitted under your breath, shoulders slumping in defeat.
"Yes," Clark answered at the exact same time, giving one firm, earnest nod.
Silence dropped over the room so abruptly that even the popcorn crunching stopped. You and Imogene turned toward Clark at exactly the same moment, so fast he instinctively stepped back a fraction.
"What?" the two of you asked in perfect unison. Yours came out confused, brows knitting together as you searched his face for whatever thought had just escaped him. Imogene's, on the other hand, carried barely concealed excitement, the kind of hopeful prompt that sounded dangerously close to go on...confess your love.
Clark blinked once, suddenly very aware he'd become the center of the conversation, even more than before now that he was a participant. "You're not..." He cleared his throat, glancing between the two of you before settling helplessly on you. "...blocked." His expression remained completely earnest. "I mean...do you still think about that?"
"Called it a rain check for a reason," You stared at him for a long beat, trying to reverse engineer whatever impossible chain of logic had led him there. Then you exhaled through your nose. "Do you still shower with the door unlocked?"
He hesitated long enough to know there was a wrong answer. "I...live alone."
"So did you in college," you replied.
From the couch Imogene raised her hand, bouncing her fingertips twice in the air until both of you finally looked over. "I can tell that was some deeply personal callback and frankly it was adorable," she said with a pleased nod. "But I'd like to submit Exhibit A." She set the popcorn bowl on her lap and clasped her hands together with the confidence of someone defending a doctoral dissertation. "Technically, I'd be the one doing the blocking. You have..." she gestured vaguely to him with both hands, "...the other thing. Which, if I had to make an educated guess, occupies a considerable portion of Y/n's imagination."
You dropped your gaze to your shoes, suddenly fascinated by the stitching on the leather. "She has absolutely no proof of that."
Imogene responded with a vague circling motion of her hand. "Circumstantial evidence is still evidence. Besides," she added, lifting her chin proudly, "I already informed Y/n that my noise-canceling headphones are fully charged."
Clark pressed his lips into a thoughtful line, considering that statement with alarming sincerity. "The noise level would probably be the least of your concerns–"
"Clark," you interrupted, eyes flying open as you pointed an accusing finger at him. "Do not encourage her." Your horrified expression only made Imogene grin wider as she calmly reached for another handful of popcorn, convinced the movie had gotten even better.
He took a slow step closer so only you would hear him, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial tone. "If that doorknob is any indication," he murmured, glancing briefly toward the apartment entrance, "...the structural integrity of the building might be compromised."
You stared at him, utterly bewildered by how naturally he'd gone from pouring his heart out in the rain to conducting what sounded like a building inspection.
Behind you, Imogene let out a thoughtful hum. "What kind of animalistic sex do you people have?" she wondered aloud, tossing another piece of popcorn into her mouth.
"He's not...from around here," you explained carefully, keeping your eyes fixed on Clark as though breaking eye contact might make him say something even worse.
"Clearly," Imogene snorted to herself, shoulders bouncing with quiet laughter.
Your head whipped around to glare at her, narrowing your eyes into the closest thing you could manage to a threat. She merely smiled sweetly and reached back into the popcorn bowl.
Before you could recover or before she inevitably found another way to make the situation worse, the shrill ring of your phone cut cleanly through the apartment.
"Saved by the bell," Imogene sang triumphantly from the couch.
You shot her one last warning look before answering and lifting the phone to your ear. "Susie?" you asked, your brow furrowing when you were met with none of the familiar sounds of the Talon, no glasses clinking, laughter spilling through the receiver or muffled music from the stage, just panicked breathing. "Something wrong?"
Beside you, Clark subtly straightened. His expression never changed but every sense sharpened at once, his attention settling on the call with effortless precision while he remained respectfully silent.
"I feel like I can't fucking breathe," Susie blurted without preamble, her voice accompanied by frantic footsteps pacing somewhere on the other end. "Everything was too small and now it's too goddamn big, I'm terrified you're gonna run for the hills and I'm pretty sure I'm about to throw up. So yes...something's fucking wrong!"
You instinctively pulled the phone a few inches away from your ear as Susie's voice exploded through the speaker, then pressed it back against your cheek once the ringing subsided.
You answered calmly. "If you're hiding from a date, the volume of your voice needs to come down." A small smile tugged at your lips. "Maybe I was wrong to assume someone gave you that talk decades ago. I never got it either, so bear with me...when a daddy loves a mommy very much–"
"Don't you fucking start," Susie barked. "I need you to meet me."
You couldn't help the grin that slipped through. "Will you be clothed?"
Clark lowered his head, unsuccessfully hiding the smile threatening the corner of his mouth, while from the couch Imogene silently buried her face in the popcorn bowl to muffle a laugh.
"Y/n!" Susie groaned so dramatically it sounded physically painful.
"I'm sorry," you replied, failing to sound apologetic in the slightest. "It was right there, and if I don't say it, I'll be thinking about it until I’m back there." The teasing slowly faded from your expression as your eyes flicked from Clark to Imogene. You chose your next words carefully. "I'm done for the night, okay? And I'd like to believe nobody's pointing anything uncircumcised, flaccid or sharp at you because I don't respond well to threats."
"Jesus Christ," Susie sighed, sounding offended by your priorities. "Fuck forbid. I'd bite it clean off and shove it where the sun doesn't shine." You could almost hear her rubbing her forehead through the phone. "I'm sending you an address. Get dressed, better than whatever domestic, fluffy, lacy bullshit you're probably wearing right now and get your ass in a cab."
You blinked, looking down at your sweater as though seeing it for the first time. "Susie..." you said slowly, glancing toward the dark windows. "It's really fucking late. Do you realize that?"
"If you can't find a cab," Susie continued without acknowledging the objection, steamrolling straight over it, "call me. I'll send a car. Just...don't make me come drag you there myself. I've already got enough business brewing tonight."
You frowned. "Send a car? When exactly did we change tax brackets?" A quiet chuckle escaped you. "Sounds serious."
For the first time since answering, Susie didn't fire back immediately. The silence that settled on the line was sufficiently heavy to make even Clark's expression change. When she finally spoke, her voice had lost all of its frantic bite. "It is."
Your eyes drifted to Clark for the briefest moment. He met them calmly and gave a small, reassuring nod. "I have a ride," you said simply.
There was a beat of silence before Susie spoke again, this time with alarming suspicion. "What's that tone?" she demanded. "I don't like that tone. Who are you with and...how naked are you?" She paused, audibly thinking before muttering, "Fuck..." Then louder, "Are your hands sticky?"
You blinked in disbelief. "What tone? And why would my hands be sticky?"
"You have a tone, one I haven't heard until tonight and I know you like pretending you're not cut out for manual labor but I'm starting to have my doubts."
You pinched the bridge of your nose. "This is beyond unprofessional. The only sticks I touch go on my lips..." The words left your mouth and you froze. Across the room Imogene folded in on herself, laughing so hard she nearly spilled the popcorn onto the blanket. "I walked right into that one," you groaned. "I deserve it. I meant lipstick." You looked helplessly at Clark. "And I don't even have any left on, it's all over–" You leaned closer without thinking, studying his mouth with narrowed eyes for any trace of color. Finding none, you pressed the back of your own hand against your lips, checking for transfer before inspecting it under the light. "Never mind," you sighed with satisfaction. "It’s long-lasting." You straightened again, trying to recover what little dignity remained. "There was no tone. I'm just saying I have a ride."
"What kind of ride?" Susie asked, every ounce of suspicion returning. "Does it wear plaid?"
Your eyes widened, mouth falling open. Everything Clark had said over the last hour came rushing back at once. You slowly pointed between the phone and Clark. "Speaking of that...I knew you were acting weird. You two are–"
"Please," Susie interrupted, her voice suddenly tight with dread. "Just, tell me he's not inside you."
You let out a long, exhausted sigh and glanced sideways at Clark, who looked thoroughly unprepared to be included in this conversation. "Not yet," you answered dryly. "We have an audience and he's currently worried about the building's structural integrity, so..." You frowned at the absurdity of hearing yourself say it. "I don't know." Then you threw one hand into the air. "Why is everyone suddenly so invested in my sex life!?" you exclaimed loudly, for the whole apartment to hear. "I'm hanging up now, Susan."
"Yeah, you do that," Susie fired back. "And wash your hands. There's gonna be a lot of handshaking tonight…And Y/n?" She paused to make the threatening tone land. "Call me Susan again and his won't be the only fuck offered to you tonight." With that, the line went dead, leaving nothing but the soft buzz of the disconnected call, Imogene wheezing into the couch cushions and Clark staring at the floor, looking like he wasn't entirely sure whether he was supposed to apologize for existing.
You stared at the dark screen of your phone for a moment, thumb still hovering over it as though another explanation might magically appear if you waited.
"Sometimes when she gets really angry," you said, mostly to Clark, "...she stops making a whole lot of sense." You offered with a small shrug. "She's actually very sweet, though. On the days that don't end in…day."
Clark's lips twitched, though something else had clearly been lingering in his mind since before the phone call. "She called me," He paused, still sounding faintly bewildered by the memory. "...a tall glass of pasteurized milk."
The sentence hung in the air for barely a second before a laugh burst out of you so suddenly it escaped as an undignified snort. You clapped a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking helplessly as the corners of your eyes crinkled. "I'm sorry," you managed between breaths. "It's just–" You pointed vaguely at him, another laugh interrupting you. "...it's genius." You shook your head, still smiling to yourself as you started walking toward your bedroom. "I'm gonna go change."
Clark watched you disappear down the hallway, catching one last muffled laugh behind your hand before your bedroom door swung shut. Only then did he turn to find Imogene already looking at him with the hopeful expression of someone about to make an entirely unreasonable request.
"Any chance your next few conversations can happen with me in the room?" she asked, clasping her hands together hopefully.
Clark politely pointed toward the front door instead. "I should probably fix that first."
"Heard you're good with your hands," she replied with a perfectly innocent smile that fooled absolutely no one.
"Imogene!" you shouted from down the hallway, your voice bouncing off the apartment walls.
She winced theatrically. "Yeah, okay. A screwdriver's good too," she amended quickly. "...I'll go get one." Still smiling to herself, she got up from the couch and padded down the hallway toward the utility closet, disappearing around the corner.
Clark glanced toward the front door where the missing doorknob left an embarrassingly obvious hole in the lock mechanism. Maybe postponing whatever might have happened tonight wasn't such a terrible idea after all, given this was the second doorknob he'd broken in a single evening. You had an uncanny ability to make him feel like he was sixteen again, like every emotion arrived at once, multiplying his strength tenfold while stealing every ounce of control he'd spent a lifetime learning.
You got ready as quickly as you could, which still took nearly an hour. One dress was too formal, another suddenly felt too plain, one pair of heels pinched, another didn't quite match and somewhere in the middle of changing your earrings for the third time you caught your own reflection and wondered why you were trying so hard. You brushed the thought aside before it could settle. In the end, you chose a dress that made you feel like yourself, slipped into your heels, buttoned a heavy wool coat and met Clark on the rooftop of your building just as the rain clouds finally began to break apart.
By then he'd already repaired Imogene's front door and flown home to change into something presentable. He wasn’t going to suggest stopping by his apartment, after the way the evening had already gone, he trusted neither his self-control nor the clock, yet he returned before you had finished pinning back the last stubborn strand of hair.
He met you on the rooftop and wrapped one careful arm around your waist, waited until you settled comfortably against him, fingers instinctively finding the lapel of his jacket before lifting the both of you into the cool night air. He flew lower than usual, slower too, the city gliding quietly beneath your feet while the last droplets clung to rooftops and streetlights turned every wet avenue into ribbons of gold. Neither of you spoke much. Every now and then he glanced down just to make sure you weren't cold, subtly adjusting his grip whenever a gust of wind found the two of you.
A few minutes later, he descended onto a quiet side street tucked behind the building, empty save for a row of parked cars glistening from the rain and the distant hum of traffic several blocks away. His shoes touched the pavement without a sound and only once you were steady on your feet did he let go of your waist.
Carnegie Hall. You recognized the building instantly, you simply refused to let yourself think about what it meant.
A suited gentleman was already waiting beside a discreet side entrance as though he'd been expecting you for quite some time. Without a word, he welcomed you inside and guided you through long carpeted corridors lined with framed photographs, polished brass fixtures and warm lighting that made the entire place feel even quieter. The silence was filled with people speaking softly behind closed doors, with expensive shoes muffled by thick carpet and doors that never slammed.
You had a growing suspicion that every question currently forming in your mind belonged several pay grades above the man escorting you. Clark followed half a step behind, having relieved you of your purse and coat the moment you'd stepped inside. He carried both draped neatly over one forearm while his free hand occasionally rested over them whenever you absentmindedly stopped to smooth your dress, check your hair or adjust an earring that suddenly felt crooked. He consciously made himself smaller, allowing this world to belong entirely to you but he couldn't help noticing how different you seemed. He'd watched you wear dresses your entire life, watched you walk confidently into charity galas, university events and crowded museums without blinking, yet this was different. The nervousness was unmistakable but instead of shrinking beneath it, you stood taller. Your shoulders were set differently and your chin lifted, whatever waited at the end of these hallways terrified you, yet your feet never hesitated.
The farther you walked, the more voices filtered through the walls ahead, mixed laughter, low conversation and someone speaking with animated excitement before being politely interrupted. Your pace slowed without you realizing it and you glanced sideways at Clark, uncertainty written plainly across your face. Without a word he met your eyes and gave you one small, steady nod. It carried no pressure, only a reminder that wherever this night led, you weren't walking into it alone.
When you reached the final stretch of hallway, it opened into a reception room where a cluster of sharply dressed men and women stood talking in a loose circle, glasses in hand and business cards already changing owners. In the middle of them, somehow commanding the entire room despite being the shortest person present, stood Susie.
"There she is!" she announced, immediately abandoning the conversation and marching toward you before you'd even reached the group. She looked you over from head to toe with efficiency. "Only took an hour and forty-five minutes," she muttered before her eyes slid past you to Clark. Gone were the cap and plaid shirt from the Talon, in their place stood Clark in a well-fitted dark suit, crisp white shirt and neatly knotted tie, looking every bit the Pulitzer-winning reporter you'd always sworn he'd become one day, a future he'd spent years pretending wasn't something possible in this lifetime. Susie clicked her tongue. "You clean up nice, Kansas." She motioned vaguely toward the direction of the entrance with her hand. "Park your cow outside?"
Clark merely tilted his head, genuinely considering whether she'd expected a response.
You stepped neatly between them before the silence became any more painful. "He's too nice to tell you to shove that joke up your ass," you said matter-of-factly. "But he's thinking it."
"I wasn't," Clark admitted honestly from behind you.
"I am for both of us," you corrected, barely sparing him a glance before your attention drifted past Susie to the waiting group. Every conversation had stopped, every pair of eyes rested on you now with open curiosity, careful calculation or excitement. You'd spent months commanding rooms full of strangers, yet this scrutiny felt entirely different. Onstage, they came expecting to laugh but here, they expected to decide. It made you feel strangely unfinished, like someone had handed everyone else the script while you'd walked in without one. Your eyes returned to Susie. "You said they'd wait, so I didn’t rush."
She straightened the lapels of her suit with two sharp tugs, the gesture more for herself than anyone else, then gave you a brisk nod. "They have," she said. "Every last one of ‘em. You ready?"
"Uh...no. I actually need a–" you started, only for Susie to plant both hands between your shoulder blades and propel you forward before you could finish. "...briefing," you muttered to yourself.
"Too late," she shot back. By the time you stopped, you were standing in front of the waiting circle. "Ladies and gentlemen," Susie announced with a sweep of her arm, "This is my client. You know her as Mrs. Kent."
A few smiles spread around the group and before you could die of embarrassment, Susie jabbed a thumb toward the tall man nearest you. "He was at your show tonight."
You felt every eye settle on you at once and a nervous laugh escaped. "That's just...a silly stage name," you explained, motioning over your shoulder toward Clark, who stood a respectful step behind you. "His ma is actually the real Mrs.–"
"Won't be silly once it's glowing across the front of the building," the man interrupted warmly. He stepped forward, extending a hand. "Pleasure to finally meet you." You shook it firmly despite the slight tremor in your fingers and he gave your hand an approving squeeze before turning to Clark with another smile. "Hope your...ma doesn't mind sharing."
Clark accepted the handshake without hesitation, his grip careful. His eyes drifted to you before he answered. "I'm sure she won't," he said softly. "Not if it's with her."
The certainty in his voice eased the knot that had tightened there the moment you'd entered the building. That man openly looked Clark up and down, eyebrows climbing as his gaze traveled from polished shoes to impossibly broad shoulders. He let out a low whistle before giving his arm a hearty pat.
"Hell of an assistant you've got," he laughed, eyes falling to you. "Honestly, I'd have hired him as security."
You smiled, shaking your head. "He's not my assistant," you corrected, smoothing invisible wrinkles from the front of your dress. "And I don't need security."
A woman in an elegant navy suit exchanged an amused look with the others before looking back at you. "You will after this."
Your smile faltered. "After...what?"
The woman simply stepped aside and gestured toward the towering double doors behind the group, polished brass handles catching the warm chandelier light. "After you officially divide this business into a before and an after," she said gently. "By taking the Carnegie Hall stage."
The hallway seemed to fall away around you.
Your heartbeat climbed into your throat as you stared at the doors, unable to make your legs cooperate. Somewhere behind you someone adjusted their posture and another quietly cleared their throat…everyone was waiting.
You swallowed, took one uncertain step, then another and Clark matched your pace without a word, crossing behind you and carefully settling your coat and purse into Susie's startled arms as he passed. She nearly dropped both under the unexpected weight. "This wasn't exactly in my job description," she muttered under her breath, glaring after him.
Clark smiled politely without slowing. "Only one of us is on the payroll," he said, nodding toward you. "I'll just make sure she doesn't trip walking onto the stage...or make a run for it."
Susie's eyebrows shot up. "Oh?" she barked, half offended and impressed. "You got jokes now?" She narrowed her eyes at his retreating back. "Where the fuck'd your manners go, Kent?"
Clark only glanced back over one shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting into the smallest, most satisfied smile. "Left outside with the cow," he answered mildly, "figured she'd need them more than I do tonight."
You were the one who pushed the heavy stage door open, its hinges sighing softly before Clark slipped in behind you, letting it swing shut with a muted thud that swallowed the distant murmur of the people outside. Silence settled instantly, vast enough to hear the faint hum of the building itself.
The empty auditorium stretched before you in endless rows of crimson velvet seats, balconies stacked one above another like watchful eyes waiting for permission to fill the space. The polished wood beneath your heels reflected the warm glow of the stage lights overhead, each careful step sending a crisp echo rippling through the hall. You'd stood on a stage only hours earlier but this one refused comparison. It was taller, wider and older, carrying the weight of every voice that had ever stood beneath its lights.
At its center waited a single microphone, not as a prop or a companion but as a necessity meant to send your voice soaring to the very last row where every laugh, pause and silence would belong to people sitting perfectly still, no glasses clinking together, no bartenders shouting over conversations, no distraction to soften failure or success.
Your pace slowed without you noticing, each hesitant step making Clark shorten his own so he wouldn't crowd you, leaving room for you to breathe even while never straying far.
Eventually you reached the center mark and stopped. Your hand rose instinctively toward the microphone, fingertips hovering inches away before falling back to your side as quickly as they'd lifted. You let out a breath, shaking your head at yourself, unable to tell whether you were dismissing the opportunity or the fear blooming inside your chest.
"Don't do that," Clark said gently from several feet behind you.
"Don't do what?" you asked without looking away from the sea of empty seats.
"Don't deny yourself this."
Your answer came before you'd thought it. "It's too much." Your voice bounced back from the walls. "It's..." You swallowed, nodding faintly to yourself. "You were there tonight." Your eyes stayed fixed ahead as memories of the Talon drifted through you. "It's small. Sometimes it smells like stale beer and old cigarettes but I could count the people listening if I really wanted to. I know that room…I know the way laughter moves through it." You lifted one hand toward the enormous auditorium before you. "This?" A helpless laugh escaped. "This isn't a tight twenty in some club downtown. It's not getting paid in martinis and free drinks the next time I show up. Nobody here would come to accidentally discover me because they wandered in looking for somewhere warm…This isn't a secret anymore, Clark."
He watched you quietly before asking, "Does it have to be one for it to remain yours?"
The question made you turn. He hadn't taken another step, he stood just beyond the brightest circle of stage lights as though unwilling to steal even a fraction of them from you, content to remain where the shadows began if it meant every ounce of that spotlight belonged to you alone.
"Doesn't it?" you asked softly. Of anyone, he understood what it meant to keep pieces of yourself hidden. Your shoulders sagged beneath the realization. "I need..." You searched for words that refused to arrive. "There are things I still have to figure out."
"Like what?"
You let out a low, disbelieving chuckle and motioned between the two of you. "This, for one. The newspaper…that headline." You rubbed your forehead with your fingertips. "It's been hours, Clark. I thought...I thought you'd do something with what you know."
He held your gaze without wavering. "I am doing something." His voice was calm, impossibly certain. "I'm making up for lost time."
"You're a reporter," you reminded him, searching his face for the instinct that usually sent him chasing a story. Instead, all you found was you.
"And you're the love of my life," he answered with the same effortless honesty he'd always reserved for the things he could never lie about. "Y/n...I thought I understood love. I thought I'd spent my whole life learning what it looked like." His eyes drifted briefly toward the empty seats surrounding you before returning to your face. "Then I watched you stand on that stage tonight…You rewrote everything I thought I knew about it." He took one slow step closer, not enough to close the distance, only that his voice reached you without the room carrying it first. "But just like before...you were standing at the center of it."
You let out a quiet huff, shaking your head as you looked away with a disbelieving smile. "Making up for lost time..." you echoed under your breath. "By becoming my roommate's entertainment? By making sexual jokes?" You laughed once through your nose, more confused than amused, your heel absently tracing a small arc across the polished stage floor. Your eyes wandered back across the endless rows of seats. You didn’t know much about journalism, but you knew time was money and information was worth even more. If that headline in the Metropolis Inquisitor taught you anything, it was that they didn’t actually know what they were writing about.
You turned back to him, brows knitting together. There he was...knowing everything and doing absolutely nothing with it.
You narrowed your eyes playfully. "Where did you even learn those jokes?"
Clark's smile tugged gently at one corner of his mouth. "You forget how long we've known each other." He gave a small shrug. "You rubbed off on me."
One of your eyebrows climbed, tone slipping into familiar territory before you could stop it. "Anything else I can rub up on?"
Clark simply lifted a hand and pointed toward you with satisfaction. "You see?"
You froze for half a second before groaning into your palms. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry!" A laugh escaped despite your embarrassment. "I can't help it. These gigs have completely loosened my tongue." You dragged both hands down your face before letting them fall, the smile fading as your gaze drifted once more through the cavernous theater.
The silence stretched comfortably between you until you spoke again, this time so quietly your voice barely reached the first rows. "I didn't expect tonight to end like this." You breathed out slowly. "I was gonna go home, use up all the hot water, eat questionable leftovers straight out of the container and watch some terrible movie so I'd have something socially acceptable to cry about."
Clark's expression softened. His eyes dropped for a moment before returning to yours with a tenderness that hurt to look at. "I know, baby," he said gently. "I understand."
"No..." You shook your head before he'd even finished. "No, you don't." You hugged your arms around yourself, pacing a few slow steps across the stage before turning back toward him. "This is nothing like what I thought I wanted after that night at the bar." You laughed weakly, the sound catching in your throat. "Now you're calling me 'baby' like we're past everything that happened and I'm supposed to still want more?" You swallowed hard. "That's greed I can't even defend." Your eyes searched the empty auditorium instead of his. "I didn't want answers that night. I wanted somewhere to fall apart without someone examining every piece because they already knew where it came from." You pressed a hand lightly against your own chest. "I wanted warmth, Clark...and that's exactly what I found." You looked around the enormous space surrounding you. "But this..." Your voice echoed faintly through the balconies. "This is a house I don't know how to fill." You smiled sadly. "I'm not some flying wonder, people are supposed to look up at."
Clark let out the smallest sigh, shaking his head at himself. "That's one heck of a pedestal you've put me on." There was disappointment in his voice but it wasn't directed at you. It was aimed entirely inward.
"You would too..." you answered quietly, eyes dropping to the floor beneath your feet. "...if you knew yourself from where I've always been standing." Your fingers absently brushed the microphone stand before slipping away again. "You're the reason I went to college." You smiled at the memory, bittersweet and impossibly fond. "I honestly thought...if I could become a little more like you, maybe my parents would become a little more like yours." A breath of laughter escaped you, equal parts affection and disbelief. "Somewhere along the way I got lost in it…in you. In everything that came with loving you." You shrugged helplessly. "And then I realized none of it was conventional. Believe me...I'm aware." You took another slow look around Carnegie Hall.
"There are so many things you still don't know and I can't wait to tell you every one of them...but I'm not some stand-up comedy messiah." You gestured toward the doors you'd entered through, where the executives still waited beyond them. "Sooner or later people are going to realize that." Your hand lingered there before falling back to your side. "This..." You shook your head. "This is a fluke, Clark. Those suits should never have been sitting in the Talon tonight. Whatever's printed beneath that headline should never have happened either."
Clark held your gaze without flinching, his answer arriving as steadily as his heartbeat. "But it did."
"We have a plan," you said, shaking your head as you pointed toward the doors leading back into the hallway. "And this isn't it. You don't know Susie…she's terrified. For all we know she got that suit jacket off Jackie through illegal means...he's probably lying unconscious in an alley somewhere wondering where his clothes went." Your shoulders lifted helplessly before falling again. "We're not in a rush." You tapped the stage lightly with the toe of your heel. "This feels rushed."
Clark listened without interrupting, his hands resting loosely at his sides. "You can't plan for this kind of success, sweetheart." His voice was gentle but unwavering. "Not this version of it." He took a slow step closer, his shoes barely making a sound against the polished floor. "You can't honestly tell me every one of those nights you spent on tiny stages wasn't leading here...or somewhere close to it." His eyes drifted around the immense auditorium before settling back on you. "Whether you meant it to or not, this is what you've been working toward…Don't you want to stand here and let people see everything you are?"
You folded your arms again, creating distance where your feet wouldn't. "They can see me in smaller venues just the same."
"Some can," he agreed. "But many more will spend the rest of their lives looking for you because access is its own addiction…You can’t hide forever." He gestured toward the empty seats surrounding you. "People chase stories, voices, the feeling of witnessing something before everyone else does. Information people believe matters..." His eyes found yours again. "...that's always in demand. They don't find you by wandering into a club with a flickering sign outside and a bartender wiping down glasses while you're changing someone's life in the corner, they find you because eventually the rooms become too small to hold everyone who needs to hear you."
You shook your head before he had even finished. "I'm not hiding."
"You are." There wasn't an ounce of accusation in his voice. "I may have arrived late to the party…I've made more mistakes than I know how to count and I'm still figuring out how to apologize for every single one of them." He paused, breathing in quietly. "But the one thing I've never been confused about...is where I hope all of this ends."
You looked away, blinking toward the empty balconies. "This is show business." Your voice echoed faintly around the hall. "We don't control the narrative, Clark. Thinking we do is..." You searched for the word before letting out a tired laugh. "...beyond foolish." Both your hands lifted before falling decisively to your sides. "If this happens...If I let this happen..." You made a clean slicing motion through the air. "...it's over." You looked around the auditorium as though it were already filled with strangers. "It's out of my hands. It's out of Susie's grabby little managerial hands too. There's no putting this back in the box…This isn't some secret identity I can fold up or hang back in the closet once the night's over." Your voice grew quieter. "I won't just be me anymore and we won't have time for..." Your hand moved gently between the two of you. "...this. To figure it out and to make sure it'll last."
You let out a shaky breath. "You think I don't know what all of this means?" You pointed toward the city beyond the theater walls. "The Metropolis Inquisitor doesn't lead with stories like mine. They chase conspiracies, vigilantes and impossible headlines." Your finger slowly turned toward him. "That headline belonged in the Daily Planet. It should've been yours."
"No." His answer came immediately. He shook his head once, firmly enough that the word settled between you like fact instead of opinion. "Don't make this about me." He took another measured step until only a few short feet separated you. "This is about you." His voice softened without losing its certainty. "It's always been about you and I can't let you be the last person to realize it."
Your gaze fell helplessly to the floor, following the faded grain in the wood instead of the emotion in his eyes. Only then did he close the rest of the distance, stopping close enough that you could hear the steadiness of his breathing. "I'm not letting you go," he said quietly. "Sweetheart...there is time and I don't need another second of it to tell you that I love you." He reached out, not touching you, only lifting one hand until it hovered between you before gently pointing toward your chest. "You love this." His eyes searched yours until you finally looked back at him. "So love it as completely as I believe you love me." He swallowed hard, emotion catching every word that followed. "And don't..." His voice cracked. "Don't let the timing fool you." He shook his head slowly, tears beginning to gather despite every effort to keep them at bay. "If you let this pass because we're finally standing in the same place at the same time..." He stopped to steady his breathing, his smile impossibly sad. "Y/n...you'll break my heart...and you'll refuse to fix your own because of it."
The silence that followed felt heavier than the theater itself. You looked at him through tears that blurred the edges of everything except him, your own spilling freely now and for the first time all night there wasn't a joke clever enough or a fear convincing enough, to argue with the truth he'd placed so gently in your hands.
Before you could inevitably tear your eyes away from Clark, the side door creaked open again and Susie strode onto the stage with the purposeful march of someone who had already decided hesitation had no place there.
The door banged softly shut behind her, its echo disappearing into the cavernous hall as she clapped her hands once, snapping through the thick emotion still hanging between the two of you. Her eyes swept over the stage, lingering to recognize the tears, the shortened distance between you and Clark and the conversation she'd interrupted. She filed it away without comment as she wasn't equipped to deal with feelings unless they could be invoiced.
"So..." she began, forcing brightness into her voice as she spun once with both arms spread toward the empty auditorium. "What do we think of the new amenities? I figured velvet seats and gold trim suited you better than warped floorboards, sticky beer stains and a stage barely higher than my kneecaps." She waited…but there was nothing, not even the ghost of one of your sarcastic remarks.
She sighed dramatically, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Jesus Christ, you two look like someone just canceled Christmas." She jabbed a thumb toward Clark. "He practically ambushed me at the Talon. First it was an ambush in a suit, then another one in plaid." Her finger lingered on him for another second. "I got off on the wrong foot with both of them but at least one showed me a business card before ruining my night." She turned fully toward you, the humor leaving her face.
"Y/n...This is it." She motioned toward the hallway beyond the stage doors. "That's our open door out there. They're waiting to come in here and suffocate you with contracts, agreements, percentages, interviews, schedules and enough ideas to make your head spin, but–"
"How long do I have?" you interrupted quietly. "If we do this...how long until Mrs. X gets a last name and a face?"
Susie's jaw tightened as she searched your own, realizing you'd seen far more than she'd managed to keep hidden tonight. She looked instinctively toward Clark, unsure whether she was asking permission or searching for reassurance. He simply gave her one firm nod, trusting both you and the answer. Susie inhaled slowly. "They want you on this stage in three days."
She watched the words hit you before continuing, slipping into manager mode because it was the only way she knew how to keep herself together. "I'd be leaving the Talon, for good…They already know the no phones and no press policy is non-negotiable. We need lawyers before anybody signs a damn thing, because there'll be contracts thicker than my apartment lease and about ten times less honest. Then comes the tidal wave afterward." She blew out a breath. "They're talking publicists, stylists, glam teams..." She rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. "...as if they can improve perfection with hairspray. They don't know you yet." She stepped closer. "This is big, kid...but it's still us. Okay?"
She tapped her own chest. "You, me, bad alcohol and worse decisions." Her voice dropped. "That newspaper?…Don't worry about the press."
You let out a humorless laugh and gestured toward Clark without taking your eyes off Susie. "The press is worried about me."
Susie's eyes slid sideways until they landed squarely on Clark. She crossed her arms.
"Clark Kent," He met her stare without blinking, "Daily Planet reporter."
She scoffed under her breath. "Still better than those assholes at the Inquisitor." She pointed vaguely between him and the city outside. "Don't you people have resources for this kind of thing?" Her finger circled toward you. "You couldn't get the guy in the cape to eavesdrop for five goddamn minutes and figure out her real name before those conspiracy lunatics?"
Clark's lips parted before he caught himself and closed them again.
Susie waved him off. "Relax, Kent, it was a joke." She snorted. "That poor bastard's got better things to do than fact-check comedians. Like saving our asses..." Her smirk returned. "...and giving the entire country something nice to look at every time the news cuts to him. I don't pay for cable just to watch the weather." Then she looked back at you, the bravado slipped away completely. "I figured it'd sound better coming from me than from those suits." She nodded toward the doors. "They'd remind you too much of your parents." She shoved both hands into her jacket pockets. "And if we're doing this, I don't exactly have room in your calendar to pencil in the years of therapy that'll probably come with it." For the first time since you’d known her, Susie Myerson looked genuinely uncertain. The question seemed painful coming out of her mouth. "So..." She swallowed. "...a-are we doing this?"
The theater fell silent again. Your eyes drifted toward Clark only for a heartbeat before landing on the empty first row, imagining it full. "I have requests," you said at last, your voice steadier than you felt. You pointed toward the front of the auditorium. "Am I allowed to make those?"
Susie's shoulders dropped so abruptly it was comical. Relief escaped her in the form of one shaky breath that dissolved into a disbelieving laugh. She was already reaching inside her suit jacket before you'd finished speaking, producing a worn notepad with curled corners and the same pen she'd been carrying for years. She flipped it open, clicked the pen and looked up at you expectantly. "Kid..." A grin spread across her face despite the tears threatening the corners of her eyes. "If the number of zeroes on the check they waved in front of me is any indication..." She poised the pen over the page. "...you don't make requests anymore…you make demands."
Clark walked into the bullpen with quick, purposeful strides, his messenger bag thumping lightly against his hip with every other step. The newsroom hadn't settled since the headline broke, if anything, the frenzy had only intensified overnight.
Someone had commandeered the large whiteboard in the center of the bullpen and transformed it into an investigation wall worthy of a detective drama. Maps of Metropolis were pinned beside grainy photographs of clubs clipped from newspapers, handwritten witness statements, venue flyers and pages covered in circles and arrows, color-coded strings connecting supposed sightings, dates, neighborhoods and increasingly far-fetched theories.
Beside it, a second corkboard had been dedicated entirely to predicting future appearances, looking uncomfortably similar to the sort of conspiracy board usually reserved for alien invasions or Bigfoot.
Half a dozen office phones sat lined up on a table near it, each labeled with masking tape and a reporter's name so the person needed could answer if a lead came in. Coffee cups crowded every flat surface, yesterday's takeout containers still waited to be thrown away and jackets hung over chair backs. Nobody seemed to have slept.
"You're late again, Kent," Perry grumbled from a chair he'd dragged directly in front of the board like a battlefield commander refusing to abandon his post. He didn't even bother looking up from the file resting on his knee, merely pointed a pencil in Clark's general direction.
"Sorry," Clark answered sheepishly, slipping his messenger bag onto his chair before shrugging out of his jacket. "I had to mail something."
Steve swiveled around where he sat perched on the edge of his desk, eyebrows climbing.
"People still do that?" Clark nodded matter-of-factly. "They do if they actually want their parents to receive it." He absentmindedly straightened the strap of his bag before taking in the organized chaos around him.
Cat stood beside the printer waiting impatiently for another sheet to crawl out while Jimmy balanced on the top step of a stool pinning fresh photographs onto the board with sufficient enthusiasm to make it wobble.
Lois sat with three highlighters uncapped beside her keyboard, methodically marking witness statements while barely looking up.
"What's..." Clark gestured toward the ever-growing monument to obsession. "...all of this?"
"Work," Lois replied without lifting her eyes from the papers. "You'd know that if you read the group chat."
Clark blinked. "We have a group chat?" He pulled his phone from his pocket with genuine confusion. The screen lit up to reveal hundreds of unread notifications stacked beneath one another. He stared for a long second. "...That's wildly unprofessional."
"It is," Perry admitted with a dismissive wave. "But I need every one of you reachable twenty-four hours a day until this story lands." He leaned back, rubbing both hands slowly over his tired face before looking up at the investigation board again. "I don't know why..." he murmured more to himself than anyone else. "...I've got this feeling we're running out of time. That exclusive's slipping right through our fingers."
"It was never ours," Clark said. The words weren't loud but they sliced cleanly through the bullpen. Conversations faltered mid-sentence, keyboards slowed and Jimmy froze halfway through pushing another thumbtack into the board.
Even Cat abandoned the printer, leaving a freshly printed page hanging halfway out of the tray as she wandered over with narrowed eyes. "Chief," she said carefully, lowering her voice like Clark had contracted something contagious. "...he's been corrupted."
"Let's cut him some slack," Jimmy jumped in, hopping off the stool and planting himself between Clark and the rest of the newsroom with both hands raised like a hostage negotiator. "Just look at him. The man looks malnourished, pale, he barely sleeps..." He pointed dramatically at Clark's face. "...he's had a rough couple of weeks."
"I don't–" Clark tried.
"Shhh!" Jimmy whipped around and aggressively shushed him, jabbing a finger toward his chest. "I'm trying to save your ass from getting fired and stop the Daily Planet from losing its only direct connection to our national hero. Keep your mouth shut." He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Not all heroes wear spandex for the rest of us to admire."
Straightening again, he addressed the bullpen with renewed confidence. "Clark fully understands the importance of this investigation and has been tirelessly working to–"
Clark tuned the speech out. Turning to his chair, he opened his messenger bag and reached inside, carefully withdrawing a neat stack of thick white envelopes. Each had a name written across the front in careful cursive. He thumbed through them once, found the first and looked back up at the room.
"Stop chasing impossible leads," Clark finished, his calm voice cut cleanly through Jimmy's rambling defense, making him stop mid-sentence as Clark slipped the first envelope into his hands. "I was going to mail these," he continued, already crossing to Steve's desk and placing another envelope in front of him. "But I'd rather none of you develop an ulcer waiting."
He moved through the bullpen at an unhurried pace, giving one to Lois' where she caught it neatly between two fingers without taking her eyes off him, another to Cat and the last into Perry's waiting hand.
The editor accepted it without so much as glancing down, his attention fixed entirely on Clark as though expecting the punchline to reveal itself. For several long seconds, no one moved.
The newsroom, so loud only moments ago with phones ringing, keyboards clacking and reporters arguing over impossible sightings, was swallowed by uneasy silence broken only by the steady hum of fluorescent lights overhead.
Perry finally slid a thumb beneath the flap and tore the envelope open impatiently. A thick cream-colored theatre ticket slipped into his palm, its gold foil catching the light. Across the top, an elegant script read ‘Meet the Mrs.’ Beneath it sat his name, seat number, section, date and time. At the bottom, in bold lettering impossible to miss, ‘No phones. No press.’
One by one, the others hurried to open theirs. Steve blinked several times as though unfocused vision would change the words. Jimmy looked from the ticket to Clark and back again so often he nearly gave himself whiplash. Cat flipped hers over, inspecting the back for hidden instructions or invisible ink before holding it up to the light.
Lois frowned harder with every line she read until curiosity finally outweighed skepticism and she stepped toward Clark. "'No press,'" she read aloud, one eyebrow arching high. "I know comedy's gotten popular lately, Kent but tasteless jokes are still frowned upon. Are we expected to hand in our resignations at the door?"
"Carnegie Hall?" Perry asked, lifting the ticket between two fingers like it might disintegrate if held too tightly. "Is this real?"
Clark nodded once. "It's not a joke...The performance won't be announced publicly until tomorrow morning. That gives everyone else a little over twenty-four hours to buy tickets." His gaze drifted over the envelopes and the tickets held carefully in stunned hands, a small smile softening his expression. "Those..." he continued, nodding toward them, "...were a gift I'll never be able to repay."
Perry slowly pushed himself out of his chair and walked around it until he stood only a few feet from Clark's desk. "You know who she is." It wasn't asked with curiosity anymore, it practically sounded like an accusation.
Clark met his eyes steadily, offering neither confirmation nor denial. "I hope you'll all be there," he said instead. His eyes wandered briefly to the sprawling investigation board covered in maps, photographs, timelines and red string before returning to every face watching him. "...As more than this." He gestured lightly toward the board, then circled behind his desk, pulled out his chair and sat down as though nothing remarkable had happened.
Around him, the others remained frozen, every reporter staring at the ticket in their hands, each realizing that the biggest exclusive of the year had never belonged to anyone but the woman behind it.
Steve let out a quiet huff of laughter, turning the thick ticket over between his fingers, running his thumb across the gold embossing as if expecting another surprise to appear. "Carnegie Hall," he repeated, drawing the words out with a low whistle. "Sounds fancy."
He wandered over to Clark's desk, leaning one hip against it, one hand planted on the wood.
"So..." he began cautiously, tilting his head. "Is it maybe too soon to ask Y/n for advice again...or?" He flashed an apologetic smile that was only half sincere. "Look, I know you're not taking the divorce very well and I don't want to take sides..." He lowered his voice into an exaggerated whisper. "...but I'm a mama's boy."
Clark looked up from absentmindedly straightening the stack of papers on his desk, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "The internet works just as well."
Steve squinted suspiciously. "How would you know?" he muttered, pushing himself upright again. "You willingly wear plaid."
Clark didn't even hesitate. His eyes drifted down to Steve's aggressively striped tie before lifting back to his face. "Bold thing to say wearing that."
A snort burst out of Jimmy, echoing across the bullpen before he clamped both hands over his mouth, earning himself a withering look from Steve, who instinctively glanced down at his tie, frowned at it as though questioning every decision that had led him to wear it that morning, tugged self-consciously at the knot, then silently retreated to the safety of his desk.
Perry shook his head to himself, tapping the edge of the ticket against his palm with a soft, rhythmic thwap...thwap...thwap, never once taking his eyes off Clark. "I don't know how you keep doing it, Kent..." he admitted after a long silence. "...but keep it up."
He slid the invitation back into its envelope with surprising care before disappearing into his office, already barking over his shoulder for someone to bring him coffee before the door had even swung shut.
Once again, they had an exclusive that wasn't really theirs, at least not yet.
Until tomorrow morning, when Carnegie Hall made its announcement, the greatest scoop in Metropolis sat inside envelopes instead of tomorrow's front page. Reporters who usually fought to be first now sat silently studying seat numbers, comparing rows, trying to decipher whether proximity to the stage meant anything at all.
Whispers replaced the frantic theorizing that had consumed the newsroom for days, speculation giving way to conspiracies spoken only for neighboring desks to hear.
Every few minutes someone's attention drifted back toward Clark, hoping he'd slip, smile too knowingly or offer the tiniest breadcrumb to follow but he never did. He simply settled into his chair, sorted through the morning's paperwork and looked, to anyone else, exactly like Clark Kent.
Whether he'd still be sitting there by lunchtime was another question entirely. Metropolis had a habit of needing Superman at the least convenient moments and if the city didn't pull him away first, there was every chance his phone would light up with your name asking him to rescue you from another endless meeting about contracts, publicity and a future that seemed determined to arrive faster than you had time to catch up with it.
Expectedly, the night arrived far too quickly. Between dress fittings you barely had opinions on, contract meetings that seemed to multiply every time one ended, rehearsals everyone insisted you needed despite your protests, endless soundchecks, dodging reporters through service corridors and saying goodbye to a life where anonymity had protected you, the edge of everything you'd worked toward appeared before you.
The dressing room they had given you felt more like a luxury apartment than somewhere people waited to perform, lined wall to wall with bright vanity mirrors that erased every shadow from your face, soft couches no one ever seemed to sit on, fresh bouquets replacing yesterday's before they had the chance to wilt and enough catered food to feed a small wedding.
Yet behind the closed door you couldn't hear the audience gathering, only the muffled rhythm of hurried footsteps, stagehands calling cues somewhere down the corridor and the occasional distant rumble of equipment being wheeled across polished floors. You sat motionless before the mirror, staring at your own reflection without really seeing it, trying to imagine what waited on the other side of those doors.
Fifty people would be scattered through those endless rows of red velvet seats, all expecting certainty from someone who felt seconds away from being sick. The black gown hugged your waist and shoulders so tightly it dictated your posture for you, every inhale so shallow that you had to remind yourself to actually breathe.
Even your phone was gone, Susie had confiscated it hours ago under the excuse that you didn't need "one more escape route," leaving you feeling strangely trapped inside a room designed to make people comfortable. The door swung open without warning and Susie wandered in halfway through demolishing a sandwich, still chewing as she kicked it shut behind her.
"They've got an entire room full of free food back there," she announced around another bite. "I asked if I could get some Tupperware for later." She swallowed triumphantly. "Figured I should probably start worrying about keeping myself alive too."
You frowned over your shoulder. "Why would they give you Tupperware?"
Susie paused mid-chew, genuinely puzzled by the question. "'Cause I told them it was for you."
Her eyes drifted toward the untouched plate sitting beside the vanity, exactly where you'd left it over an hour earlier before hair, makeup and wardrobe had begun. It hadn't moved, much like the rack of backup dresses and neatly arranged line of designer heels still waiting in the corner in case you "changed your mind."
"You're not eating?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "Is this that Ozempic crisis everyone's having?"
You pushed yourself out of the chair, smoothing your hands over the front of the dress more to occupy them than to fix anything. "I wouldn't keep it down," you admitted. "And if everyone we invited is actually out there, the last thing I want is to projectile vomit all over the first three rows."
You began pacing the room, your bare feet sinking into the thick carpet with each nervous lap.
Susie's eyes quickly dropped to the floor. "Why are you barefoot?"
"I don't have any heels to wear," you answered matter-of-factly, continuing your slow circuit past the mirrors.
She blinked, then pointed dramatically toward the glittering collection lined up beside the garment rack. "Are those not heels?" She squinted at them. "You have pointy ones, glittery ones, ones so sharp they could qualify as assault weapons..." She looked back at you in disbelief. "Those weren't even in the contract, those are ass-kissing gifts and I already told them it worked. Don't make me a liar now."
"I am not wearing heels I've never worn before on that stage, Susie." You jabbed a finger toward the door, advancing on her until she leaned back. "The ones I brought won’t work anymore. You know why? Because none of the dresses I planned on wearing let me breathe, and the one dress that was never supposed to be an option is the only one that does." You hooked a finger beneath the neckline and tugged at it irritably. "The stupid tag's been stabbing me in the ribs for the last twenty minutes. It's either that or my heart grew thorns overnight." You threw your hands into the air. "I can't do this. I cannot walk out there barefoot, with last week's pedicure, in front of fifty people scattered around that giant room pretending I belong there. I'm not humiliating myself for free. If self-inflicted embarrassment was the goal tonight, I'd have invited my parents and saved everyone else the trip."
Susie stared at you, her eyes growing even wider as she watched your composure unravel. The truth was she couldn't reassure you because she was barely holding herself together. She could have told you the theater wasn't half empty, that people were still gathered outside hoping someone wouldn't show or that she'd refused to ask how ticket sales had gone because she knew the answer would make her panic too. Every time she'd stepped into that auditorium tonight her own knees had gone weak before she'd even reached the wings.
She'd been stress-eating her way through the catering table for hours and it clearly wasn't helping. Without another word she hurled the remains of her sandwich toward the nearest trash can. It bounced cleanly off the rim, exploded onto the floor and a lone piece of lettuce floated dramatically to the carpet steps away from the rest.
She didn't even look back. "What do you need?" she asked, all business now.
"A getaway car," you answered without hesitation. "A matching tracksuit, oversized so it can swallow me whole, fluffy socks, bunny slippers...a new name, a new city and preferably a bomb in the trunk so I don't have to use any of it."
Susie waved a hand directly in front of your face until you looked at her. "Wrong question." She pointed at you. "Who do you need?"
The fight left your shoulders instantly, relief softening every tense line in your body before you even answered. Susie didn't wait to hear it, she was already out the door, weaving briskly through the backstage corridors, sidestepping stagehands wheeling equipment and narrowly avoiding a violinist.
"Miss Myreson!" a frantic-looking intern called after her, jogging to keep pace while carrying the stack of plastic containers she'd requested earlier. "The Tupperware!"
"No time for that, Kevin," she fired back without breaking stride, despite the nametag clearly reading Ethan. Reaching the intersection where several backstage hallways met, she planted herself in the middle like a traffic officer and clapped loudly to get everyone's attention.
"Listen up!" Heads turned immediately. "I'm looking for a very...broad guy." She spread both arms as wide as they would go. "Glasses…puppy-dog eyes. About..." She held one hand above her own head. "...yay tall. Well, my height multiplied by three. If you get close enough he probably smells like fresh-cut grass...the kind that doesn't know pollution exists...and maybe milk straight from the tit." She frowned thoughtfully. "Depending on whether he makes his own shower gel. Point is, you can't miss him. This is an emergency!"
The declaration sent people scattering in every direction, opening dressing-room doors, peeking behind curtains and calling down hallways as if searching for a missing headliner. Susie checked her watch again, her wrist trembling so much that she had to steady it with her other hand.
"Susie?"
Her head snapped up so quickly she nearly gave herself torticollis. Clark stood at the far end of the corridor, looking thoroughly confused about why half of Carnegie Hall suddenly seemed to be searching for him. "Everybody back to work!" Susie yelled, pointing triumphantly. "I found him!"
She marched straight toward him, grabbed him firmly by the sleeve the moment she reached him and started dragging him down the hallway before he could get a single question out.
"What've you got there?" Susie asked without slowing, glancing sideways at the armful he carried. One hand held a bouquet, the other a carefully wrapped box. "If that's a coffin, it's really fucking small to fit both of us." Her eyes landed on the flowers next. "And I don't want to alarm you, Kansas, but she's already gotten about a hundred of those tonight. I don't know how secure you are around male competition but I'd hate to be the one consoling you when some rich fat guy proposes before curtain call."
Clark looked down at what he was carrying before letting his eyes return to the back of Susie's head as she practically towed him through the corridors. "Why are you walking so fast?"
"Because I've got short legs and I’m scared," she shot back, weaving around a stagehand pushing a rack of costumes. "If she runs, I won't catch her and trust me, she will run. She's pacing barefoot on carpet none of us can confirm has ever been cleaned and I can't fucking fix that either." She skidded to a stop outside a dressing-room door and spun him toward it, flattening a hand against his chest to keep him there. "You've got..." She checked her watch, tapping the face twice like the seconds might slow down. "Four minutes. Either you get her onto that stage or you're writing both our eulogies and you don't know me well enough to lie convincingly. Actually, you don't know me at all, which is even worse because I hear dishonesty gives you hives. Consider that a threat."
Before he could answer, she'd already disappeared back down the hallway barking instructions at someone carrying a headset. Clark exhaled quietly, shifted the flowers and the small box higher against his arm, straightened his tie with the hand he had free and knocked.
It only took a moment before the handle turned. You stood on the other side in a black gown that seemed to catch every bit of light in the room, a glittering gold bow resting just below your sternum, your makeup soft and your hair exactly the way you'd always liked to wear it. For all the changes the last few days had brought, you still looked entirely like yourself, so beautiful that he forgot whatever he'd meant to say the instant you smiled.
"I'm surprised Susie's not in here supervising us," you teased, stepping aside to let him in before closing the door behind him. "I hear orgasms relieve stress." Whether you were joking or not, he couldn't quite tell.
"You're being funny," Clark observed with a relieved smile as his eyes wandered over the dressing room, every available surface crowded with extravagant bouquets. "That's good. Susie made it sound like you had a terminal illness."
"I might drop dead in the next few minutes," you replied, accepting the flowers from him. "Consider these my last words." You smiled to yourself as you buried your nose in the bouquet, recognizing the flowers he'd chosen. They weren't the biggest in the room, nor the most expensive but they were your favorites. The colors, the arrangement, even the scent, it was unmistakably chosen by him.
"Second bouquet in two days," you murmured. "I'll try not to get used to this."
"Don't try too hard," he answered softly, watching you carry them over to the vanity. Without a second thought you lifted another elaborate arrangement from the vase, set it aside and replaced it with his instead, fussing with the stems until they sat exactly the way you liked them.
A laugh escaped you before you gestured toward the untouched catering table behind you. "Hungry? I'd have called you hours ago but I've officially been banned from the outside world." You spread your arms dramatically. "I'm basically Rapunzel, minus the tower, the hair...and that green squirrel."
Clark frowned, amusement creeping into his expression as he stepped closer. "...Squirrel?" he repeated with a chuckle that was meant to calm down the nerves written all over your face but didn’t. "Hey..." His voice softened. "Talk to me."
Your smile faded and your eyes dropped to your feet against the plush carpet, your fingers absentmindedly smoothing the fabric over your waist as though you could iron the nerves out of yourself. When you finally spoke, your voice was barely above a whisper. "You don't want to hear that I'm terrified."
"I want to hear everything from you," he assured softly, he wished you understood just how true that was.
Outside these walls, reporters crowded every entrance hoping for a glimpse of you, while people who hadn't managed to buy tickets lingered on the sidewalks anyway, convinced something extraordinary was happening inside. The performance had sold out in under an hour and if anyone checked eBay now, the tickets were already listed for five times their original price, a fact he was fairly certain violated several policies.
Even from where he stood, the theater hummed through his heightened hearing. Excited whispers rippled across the audience, programs rustled, seats folded upright and strangers compared favorite routines from the Talon as though they'd known you for years.
The anticipation was deafening.
You let out a breathy laugh and shook your head. "You'll hear enough from me if I survive long enough to make it onto that stage." You rubbed your palms together nervously. "Let’s talk about literally anything else."
"Uh..." Clark glanced down at the small box he'd been carrying all this time before holding it out to you. "Priority Mail is expensive…" A sheepish smile tugged at his lips. "And you were right, turns out eBay shipping costs aren’t exactly cheap either." He nodded toward the black box tied neatly with a satin ribbon. "Italy's quite nice this time of year."
Your eyes moved from his face to the gift in his hands. You accepted it carefully, balanced it against your forearm and untied the ribbon with fingers that suddenly felt much steadier. The moment you lifted the lid, you stopped breathing.
Nestled inside lay a pair of black vintage Prada heels, the very ones you'd reached for every chance you got until life had finally worn them beyond saving. Your fingertips brushed across the soft leather as though confirming they were real, tears gathering before you even realized your vision had blurred.
"Like I said," Clark spoke gently into the silence, smiling hopefully. "I've still got a lot to apologize for…but I figured this was a good place to start." You laughed quietly through your tears, lifting one shoe before the other and slipping them onto your feet. They fit perfectly, as though they'd been waiting for you.
You took two tentative steps across the carpet before tapping your heels together with a satisfied little click just as a rapid series of knocks rattled the dressing-room door. "Hey!" Susie's voice called through the wood. "I don't want to alarm anybody but we're sort of under contract here. You've got exactly one minute and seeing as running isn't exactly your thing–"
You smiled to yourself, crossed the room and rose onto your tiptoes, pressing a lingering kiss against Clark's cheek. "I'll try to be a little more lenient out there," you murmured apologetically as you slowly backed toward the door. "But...this is kind of my job." Your hand settled on the handle. "You understand, right?"
Clark's smile reached his eyes, he nodded once. "Break a leg."
You grinned, warmth replacing the panic that had gripped you only moments before. "At this rate," you teased, "I might have to start running after all." With one confident turn of the handle, you opened the door, unintentionally rescuing Susie halfway through another knock. "It's showtime," you announced, stepping into the hallway with your head high, shoulders squared and a smile that looked effortless only because it had been earned.
Susie blinked as though the dressing room had replaced you with someone else entirely. Her gaze dropped briefly to the heels, then lifted to Clark still standing in the doorway, watching you disappear down the corridor with unmistakable pride. "God bless Kansas," she muttered under her breath before breaking into a jog to catch up with you.
Clark jogged down the aisle between rows of polished velvet seats while earning more than a few disapproving glances from patrons who had arrived early enough to admire the gilded balconies instead of sprinting beneath them. He slipped into the front row just as the house lights dimmed another shade. Every seat around him was occupied now, programs folded neatly on laps, expensive perfume mingling with polished wood and old velvet as the low murmur of hundreds of conversations rolled through the hall like distant surf.
Halfway down the aisle Jimmy caught sight of him and mouthed dramatically, "Where the hell were you?" while Lois pinched the bridge of her nose as though she'd expected nothing less.
"Oh, hey Clark," Martha smiled warmly as he finally reached her, patting the empty seat she'd fiercely protected between herself and Jonathan. "I was startin' to think we were in the wrong room."
Clark laughed under his breath as he slipped into place, straightening his tie. "Ma...your names are embroidered on the seat cards." Martha glanced back at the elegant gold lettering as though seeing it for the first time. "Well...city's always been a little confusin'."
Jonathan leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Would you say it's too late to find the restroom?" he whispered. "Folks keep sayin' they're about to piss themselves. Didn't know if that was some theater tradition."
Clark smiled at his parents. "It's...just an expression." He glanced toward the stage. "And yes, it's too late."
"Where's Y/n, Clark?" Martha interrupted, craning her neck toward the doors. "You don't mind the floor, do you? She oughta be sittin' between us when she gets here. It’s gettin’ crowded, don’t want her to miss it."
Before Clark could answer, someone farther down the row stage-whispered loudly, "Clark! Remember me? You broke our door!" Imogene waved both hands enthusiastically, earning several scandalized looks from patrons around her before grinning even wider.
Beside her, Zelda, your housekeeper growing up, caught his eye and smiled with the same affection she'd always shown him, while a few seats farther over a man leaned toward her without taking his eyes off the magnificent ceiling.
"Think this place sells beer?" he asked hopefully.
Zelda blinked at him. "I'm sorry...who are you?"
"That's Ricky from the bodega," an elderly woman answered cheerfully from the next seat before he could introduce himself. She turned toward Zelda instead, admiring her shoes with unmistakable expertise. "Those are lovely, dear. Vintage, aren't they?" Mrs. Alston beamed, smoothing her skirt.
"They were a gift." She replied with a warm smile at the memory.
Mrs. Alston produced a business card from her tiny handbag with the speed of someone who'd been waiting weeks for this exact conversation. "I have an all-vintage online boutique," she said proudly, slipping it into her hand. "We've got social media too. My old employee insisted I mention that whenever I handed these out." She smiled fondly to herself. "Wonderful girl…with impeccable taste."
Zelda thanked her warmly, carefully tucking the card into her purse.
"Son," Jonathan murmured, his disappointment clear, "do you go around breakin' strangers' doors now? I thought we raised you with better manners than that."
"I'm sure there was a reason," Martha defended, already reaching up to press the back of her hand against Clark's forehead as though a fever was the only reasonable explanation. "Are you feelin' alright? Could be all this polluted city air." She frowned thoughtfully. "Or maybe you're workin' too hard again."
Clark smiled helplessly, catching her hand before she could begin checking his pulse next. He gave it an affectionate squeeze and rested it back in her lap just as conversations dissolved into a respectful hush that swept across the hall, before Jackie emerged from the wings, adjusting the cuffs of his tuxedo as he crossed confidently toward the microphone.
Before he could even speak, a loud cheer erupted somewhere near the middle of the orchestra seats. Clark glanced over his shoulder and smiled to himself, the Talon's regulars had cleaned up remarkably well, Jackie laughed under his breath before resting a hand on the microphone.
"This job made an honest man out of me long before a courthouse and wedding vows ever could," he began, drawing warm laughter from every corner of the theater. "And like any honest man, I have a lady to thank for that...though this one isn't exactly mine." Another ripple of laughter followed as his gaze drifted across the impossibly full auditorium, up through the balconies and gilded boxes packed with eager faces. "A little while ago, I told you she'd set foot on this stage one day. Truth be told..." He smiled to himself. "I just never imagined she'd make me look this right this quickly."
You waited beside the stage entrance exactly where you'd first stood with Susie only days before. Every round of applause reached you as a muffled tremor beneath your feet, stagehands moved with efficiency around you, speaking in hushed voices through headsets while two crew members rested their hands on the enormous double doors that would open on cue. Another stood nearby with one finger pressed against his earpiece, quietly counting down timings only he could hear. Your breathing matched Susie's without either of you noticing, slow inhales followed by shaky exhales that betrayed neither of you felt remotely in control.
"Susie?" you called softly. She looked over, trying very hard to appear composed. "Whatever comes after this..." Your voice caught before you found it again. "Thank you...for catching me." You smiled, hoping the simplicity of the words carried everything they were meant to, that she'd found you when you were hiding from your own life, believed in you before anyone else had reason to and built a future around a dream you'd barely admitted yourself.
Susie swallowed hard, blinking away the sting in her eyes before giving a firm nod. "Only fools think parachutes are optional."
Onstage, Jackie took one final step to the microphone. "I don't think it's my place to fill in the blanks on anybody else's headlines." He smiled toward the wings. "I'll leave the mystery to the woman standing on the 'X.' Ladies and gentlemen...please welcome the patron saint of comedy herself..."
The applause erupted instantly, rolling through Carnegie Hall like thunder, whistles and cheers joining the standing ovation before you'd even appeared.
Susie leaned in one last time, a grin tugging through her nerves. "Tits up."
You smiled and echoed, "Tits up."
Your shoulders settled, your chin lifted and as the massive doors swung open, warm light spilled over you like sunrise. You stepped through with a smile that found its way onto your face before your courage did. The applause only grew louder, row after row, balcony after balcony, every single seat was occupied. Faces disappeared into a sea of expectation beneath the theater lights until the crowd became something impossible to comprehend. For a heartbeat your lungs forgot how to work, then your heels carried you forward, one measured step after another, until you reached the center mark beneath the spotlight and rested a steady hand on the microphone.
Clark could feel several pairs of eyes pivot toward him the moment you stepped into it, the realization rippling through the front row as visibly as the applause had moments earlier. He scarcely noticed. His hands kept clapping, his gaze never leaving you as though the rest of the place had ceased to exist.
Lois looked from you to him with dawning comprehension, Jimmy's jaw hung low, while Perry slowly removed his glasses only to put them straight back on again, as if clearer vision might explain what he was seeing.
Cat leaned forward first, lips parting. "Is that...?" she whispered, unable to finish the question.
"Knew something was missin' on that résumé," Perry muttered beneath his breath, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin.
Even Martha and Jonathan exchanged a small smile before looking back to the stage with unmistakable pride, as though they'd gained a daughter overnight.
You let the applause fade before leaning toward the microphone with an amused smile.
"Woah..." you chuckled, voice gliding through the theater. "If I were a fraud and only mildly undereducated, I'd mistake this for success, cash the check and make a run for it." Laughter burst through the room as you adjusted the microphone stand to your height. "This is a huge change for me...I wonder how many of you have actually seen me in other clubs," Cheers answered from every level of the theater. "Right? Every seat looks the same, the bathrooms have more than one stall and I'm reasonably confident nobody's sneaking off to a mysterious corner bucket to throw up."
Another wave of laughter rolled across the audience as you lifted the microphone from its stand and wandered slowly across the vast stage, taking in its sheer size. "Don't worry, I'm only doing this lap once to warm up. If I start panting into the mic, the bathroom line's gonna wrap around the block and I really don't need tomorrow's headlines claiming Carnegie Hall hosted the city's least open-minded audience…Mutual masturbation is perfectly acceptable and even encouraged if you’re willing to stay seated, just make sure you aren't seated next to a relative. Last I checked, we're still a few state lines away from Alabama." The room erupted and even ushers stationed by the walls ducked their heads to hide their laughter.
"Please keep all bodily fluids off the velvet," you continued with perfect composure, "and be mindful of the moaning...we've already paid for an orchestra tonight." Scandalized laughter echoed beneath the gilded ceiling as you wandered back toward center stage, your eyes finding Clark in the front row instinctively.
You breathed out slowly, the knot in your stomach finally beginning to unravel. "Whether you applaud anything else I say tonight or not–" you smiled softly, "...I can officially say I've made it." A fresh round of applause interrupted you before you lifted a hand to continue. "This is the kind of thing you tell your therapist...and your butcher...and eventually every nurse at the retirement home when your pants aren't the only thing sagging anymore. I'll be reminiscing about a time when my gynecologist inspected me more thoroughly and my hips didn't crack every time I found myself in a compromising position."
The laughter came easier now, fuller, carried by people already comfortable in your hands. You gestured toward the audience.
"Everybody's here...except my parents." A sympathetic murmur barely had time to form before you added, "Just like my birthdays." You looked thoughtfully toward one of the balconies.
"Must've missed the memo that says you're supposed to invite them even if they live down the hall. I mean, they were home every other day of the year." You scanned the audience with exaggerated concentration. "My dry cleaner's here...the doorman I once begged a cigarette from...and if I squint hard enough, I'm fairly certain I can spot the man who took my virginity."
The audience broke apart with laughter before you nodded thoughtfully. "Actually...I'm gonna need that back. I found someone much more qualified to keep it." Applause thundered through the hall as Clark's ears burned crimson and Jimmy reached to slap him squarely on the thigh, it made him jolt.
You waited for the noise to settle, then pointed toward the front row. "My self-appointed in-laws are here tonight, which probably means I shouldn't spend too much time talking about sex." You smiled warmly at Martha and Jonathan. "They own a farm, though, so I'm guessing they've seen plenty already." Another roar of laughter followed. "It's probably been a while since they've had to put any of it into practice, so listen carefully and take notes..." You leaned in conspiratorially. "...and when I come visit, whatever you do, don't approach the barn." The room quieted for you to finish. "And before anyone asks ‘how would they know you're in there?’..." You paused with impeccable timing, looking toward the ceiling as if genuinely considering the logistics. "...I'm pretty sure cows don't moan their son's name."
The room dissolved into complete chaos, applause colliding with laughter so hard people doubled over in their seats, wiping tears from their eyes while even the musicians could be heard laughing. Clark simply buried his face in one hand, smiling wider than he thought possible.
You covered your eyes dramatically with one hand, peeking through your fingers as the laughter crashed over you. "Are they laughing?" you asked with genuine concern, tilting your head as if you couldn't quite tell beneath the echo filling the room. You lowered your hand a fraction, blinked toward the audience and your face lit up. "Oh! Yes they are!" The room erupted again, your relief so infectious it earned another wave of applause before you turned toward the front row, smiling warmly at Martha and Jonathan. "Am I still invited over for Christmas?" you asked hopefully. "I'd hate to have to shop for another surrogate family at the farmers' market..." You waved the concern away. "Don't worry, I hear snow's a fantastic soundproofing material. All that's left is handing out condoms and praying for it to come..."
You paused, letting puzzled expressions bloom across the audience before nodding emphatically. "I definitely will. I meant the snow." The delayed realization hit like a freight train, laughter ricocheting off the balconies so loudly you wondered if everything you'd ever heard in clubs before tonight had merely been polite chuckling. You glanced over your shoulder toward the stage entrance. "Thank fuck I can take the back door after this..." People were already laughing before you raised a finger. "The one with hinges, people. Get your minds out of the gutter."
You sighed theatrically. "Shame my old landlord couldn't make it, though. I did send him an invitation…Hopefully the gambling rehabilitation center forwards his mail eventually. Worst case, he'll read about this three months from now in one of those newspapers that's always late... somewhere between 'Do Superman’s smiles cause pregnancy?' and 'Is the President secretly from outer space?'" The audience roared as you shrugged innocently. "I only know the answer to one of those...and it involved a positive test."
Clark’s shoulders shook with laughter as his face warmed further. You shook your head, laughing at yourself because only you knew why the joke amused you so much.
"My biggest fear is having a funny kid." You nodded solemnly. "Hypocritical, I know...but I can finally talk about this now that there's at least a slight statistical possibility I might get laid tonight." You very intentionally looked everywhere except Clark. "No pressure, that's what magic wands are for."
The theater nearly came apart. You let the applause wash over you before groaning dramatically. "Oh, Christ...family dinners are gonna be unbelievably awkward from now on and I'll be the one expected to fix it." You glanced toward the Kents again. "That's when I'm supposed to start casually waving stacks of cash around, right? I'll report back if I survive the first holiday." Another swell of laughter settled into warm applause. "Anyway...I hope this whole comedy thing lasts a while so I actually have time to prepare for parenthood. It's purely hypothetical for now…If you'd ever met my parents, you'd know none of this is hereditary..." You paused thoughtfully. "...but just in case bad luck refuses to skip a generation, I should probably start planning." The audience chuckled knowingly. "Kids are terrifyingly clever…I know because I was one."
You smiled to yourself. "I remember being six and making it my personal mission to speed up my father's balding process." Laughter broke out before you even continued. "He gave me this whole speech about respect…which, by the way, is much scarier when your dad refuses to swear and finally told me I was getting on his nerves. So I looked him dead in the eye and said..." You leaned into the microphone. "'Well I hope the last one is as short as the remaining hairs on your head.'" The audience exploded and several people were doubled over, clutching the arms of their seats while Martha laughed so hard she had to dab at the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief. "It's a miracle I made it to eighteen without becoming homeless." You nodded thoughtfully. "Homelessness has missed me twice now and my roommate's here tonight, so the deciding vote is technically hers." You pointed toward Imogene, who was already wheezing into the shoulder of the person beside her.
"Though if our last movie night taught me anything..." You grinned wickedly. "...she's a huge advocate for cuck chairs." Imogene buried her face in both hands as the crowd howled. "Which is reassuring," you finished with a satisfied nod. "Means my preferred evening activities probably won't traumatize her nearly as much as her taste in homemade telenovelas."
You smiled to yourself, nodding thoughtfully. "I guess...I should probably thank my parents for having sex all those years ago." The audience laughed before you added, "That one time." You pinched your fingers together. "Could've been a little quicker with the pullout, dad. You'd think a mathematician would've calculated the odds of this happening but then again...who knows if he ever paid attention in biology. People make questionable decisions when it's cold outside."
The laughter rolled through the balconies, people doubling over in their seats as you shook your head sympathetically. "That learning curve must have been a circle." You traced one in the air with your finger as people laughed. "...it came right back around. And the worst part it’s that they genuinely tried their best." The room howled. "Personally...I would've preferred somebody else's best."
Applause punctuated the laughter. "I'm just glad I left before they could start taking credit for mine." Your smile softened while you looked across the sea of faces as the room quieted. "Ever since I was little, I always knew what I didn't want. That much was easy…For a long time my dreams got hijacked by one simple idea...becoming the kind of daughter they'd be proud enough to show up for."
You paused, letting the words breathe before your grin returned. "Then I grew up and realized they're the kind of people who'd climb a glass wall just to see what's on the other side." The audience laughed knowingly as you walked back toward the microphone stand, placing it there and resting one hand against it.
"I want a big life." You nodded firmly. "I want something so undeniably wonderful they'll have no choice but to sit alone in an empty house wondering how they managed to overlook their own daughter…Truth is, none of this was planned." You smiled faintly. "It started because of one drunken misunderstanding...and because I was terrified no one would hear me once I finally found the words to express it." Your eyes drifted involuntarily toward the front row where Clark sat, smiling at you with tears gathering in his eyes. Martha reached over and squeezed his hand. "I've been in love with my best friend for so long..." you admitted, "...that losing what I thought we had felt like the end of absolutely everything. The future I'd imagined, my friends..." You sighed dramatically before brightening. "...the possibility of consistently good sex."
The tension shattered into laughter. "It forced me to become independent...more independent than I already was, for reasons the people in this room are neither licensed to diagnose nor legally allowed to prescribe medication for." More laughter followed. "Never in my life did I imagine standing on a stage talking about it with all of you but when I heard rumors the journal factory exploded..." You spread your hands innocently. "...I figured there was no other ethical choice." Another wave of laughter crashed through the theater. "Granted...it also could've been alcohol withdrawal hallucinations after my particularly ambitious week of drinking...It’s hard to say." You nodded thoughtfully. "Either way, this is probably something I'll eventually unpack with a psychiatrist...assuming phenomenal sex doesn't solve the issue first." The applause nearly drowned out your next sentence. "Though if he handles me the same way he handles livestock back on the farm..." You glanced toward Clark with impeccable innocence. "I can't promise tonight's paycheck won't go towards funding a lifetime supply of birth control." The audience exploded.
"I'm fairly certain my parents still consider my birth certificate a handwritten apology from the condom factory." Even Clark laughed helplessly into one hand. You let the room settle before offering one final shrug. "My advice? Go no-contact. Parenting's difficult enough without arguing with someone who should've been swallowed."
The theater simply ceased functioning. Laughter collided with thunderous applause as people rose to their feet, entire rows standing at once until a standing ovation swept through the room like a wave. You couldn't help laughing with them, wiping at the corner of one eye before leaning toward the microphone one last time.
"You've been an extraordinary audience." Your voice was softer, sincere beneath the humor. "Thank you...to my friend and manager Susie, to everyone at the Talon who gave me a voice..." Your gaze drifted to the front row, lingering on Martha, Jonathan, Clark, Imogene, Zelda and every familiar face that had carried you here. "...and to the people down front who taught me what the word family was supposed to mean." Your smile trembled. "Thank you...and goodnight!"
The applause became deafening. It swallowed everything else, the remaining laughter, the rustle of clothes and even your own breathing as every single person in the room remained on their feet. Beneath the warmth of the lights your vision blurred, whether from tears or brightness you couldn't tell anymore. Your heartbeat seemed to echo louder than the ovation itself, your knees suddenly unsteady under the weight of a dream that until this moment had never seemed real enough to picture.
You crossed back through the double doors in a blur of applause still ringing in your ears, intercepted every few steps by another handshake, another congratulations and business card pressed insistently into your palm, conversations about tours, contracts and television appearances stacking faster than you could answer them.
Hiding had never solved everything but until tonight, it had solved this.
By morning, anonymity would be gone. Newspapers would connect the dots, helped along by your own face and you'd have to think about leaving Imogene's apartment before reporters camped outside the building, about the conversation your parents would inevitably try to have after reading headlines they hadn't earned the right to celebrate.
Clark flew you home only after making sure Martha and Jonathan reached his apartment safely, returning with the news that Imogene's boyfriend had come into town and she'd very generously decided to spend the night at a hotel with him, though apparently not before promising you a very long lecture for hiding your job from her all these months.
His friends and Perry had cornered him for answers on the way out but every question had been met with the same apologetic smile and a truthful "I don't know anything I can tell you." And later on, his phone buzzed relentlessly with messages from the Daily Planet group chat he'd eventually sighed at, muted and shoved deep into his pocket.
That could wait until morning.
Now the apartment was quiet, the city softened outside your windows, cardboard moving boxes still scattered where you'd never found time to unpack them.
You sat cross-legged in the middle of your bed wearing one of Clark's old Smallville T-shirts, your makeup gone, your hair loose, eating directly from a tub of ice cream while apartment listings glowed from your laptop beside you, already looking for somewhere new even if you intended to spend every remaining day with Imogene before fame inevitably complicated that too.
Clark, tie discarded, jacket folded neatly over the back of a chair and sleeves rolled to his forearms, carefully navigated around the boxes before pulling the chair beside your bed instead of risking dirtying your sheets with clothes that had been outside all evening.
You scooped another spoonful absentmindedly. "My ears are still ringing."
"Sweetheart, We don't have to do this tonight," he said gently.
"Which part?" You smiled over the spoon. "This benefits both of us." You nudged the tape recorder toward him across the mattress. "I give you an exclusive interview and nobody tackles you in the bullpen tomorrow for showing up late."
His eyebrows knitted together. "Why would I be late?"
"Haven't seen my criminal record?" you replied innocently. "I'm extremely persuasive when I'm naked."
The corner of his mouth twitched without his permission. You set the ice cream onto your bedside table, wiped your hands together and sat straighter, instantly slipping into interview posture.
Clark only looked at you for a long moment, admiration softening every feature on his face. "You're different up there," he murmured. "The way you smile...the way you stand...even your voice changes."
You tilted your head with a shy smile. "Learned from the best."
He leaned in, both hands cradling your face before pressing one slow kiss against your lips, then another, smiling faintly as he tasted the vanilla you'd left behind. "Sweet, right?" you whispered, gesturing toward the melting tub. "Thought I'd let it soften so you could drizzle it over me later. I know, you're a hungry man and since Susie stole all the catering in Tupperware…I can’t let you starve."
"How selfless of you," Clark laughed under his breath, shook his head, then reached for the recorder. "Let's get this over with, then. Ready?" He settled back into the chair.
You nodded once. "Let's do it, Cronkite."
He pressed the record button, the recorder chirping softly before the timer began counting upward. "I don't think any introduction could ever reach the bottom of her vintage heels," he began warmly. "But in case you missed her first but certainly not her last, performance at Carnegie Hall...allow me to fix that. Ladies and gentlemen..." His eyes lifted from the recorder to yours, full of pride. "...may I present the magnificent, the magical…the marvelous Mrs. Kent."
You smiled warmly, realizing then that your acceptance of that name, one that wouldn't remain only on stage, had depended entirely on hearing it from him. Carnegie Hall wasn't an ending but the smallest glimpse of a life waiting beyond the walls you wouldn't be hiding behind anymore by sunrise. Bigger stages, brighter lights, louder crowds and reporters who'd spend years asking for more, could all wait a little longer.
Tonight, the story belonged only to the two of you. Tomorrow, the rest of the world could have its turn.
You knew it was foolish to think any of it could wait, because being almost famous for a few hours was only a concept for people who hadn't yet reached the other side of it but who’d eventually belong to the world.
Nothing seemed out of reach now, not even love.
The enddddd!!
A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!
I LOVED the NSFW alphabet you did for Dean…would you be down to do one for John Tucker? 🥺
John Tucker's NSFW Alphabet
Pairing: John Tucker x fem!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66
Classification: Smut +18 | oral sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, edging and orgasm control, praise kink, dirty talk and praise, possessiveness and mild jealousy, marking, slow and rough sex, detailed aftercare, semi-public risk, light restraint, body worship, food play elements and creampies
Word count: 5,2k
Divider by me ;)
A - Attentiveness: Tucker is the ultimate attentive lover, approaching every sexual encounter with the thoughtful, observant care of a gentleman who genuinely wants to please and connect.
He reads your body language the way he reads the ice during a game, noticing the slightest hitch in your breath, the way your thighs tense, the flutter of your eyelashes or how your nails dig into his shoulders. He starts by kissing you deeply, his big, warm hands mapping every curve of your body as if committing it to memory, murmuring in that smooth, low voice, "Tell me what feels good, darlin'. I want to learn every single thing that makes you tremble." Once he's between your legs, it becomes an act of worship, his eyes locked on yours from below while his tongue laps slowly at your folds, savoring your taste, then focusing on your clit with precise, rhythmic suction. He adds thick fingers at just the right moment, curling them against your g-spot while he hums in approval at how wet you get for him.
If you try to close your thighs from the overwhelming pleasure, he gently but firmly holds them open with strong arms, continuing until you're gushing on his tongue and fingers. Tucker doesn't stop at one orgasm, his attentiveness means he coaxes you through waves of pleasure, adjusting pressure and speed based on your reactions, whispering constant praise like "That's my good girl, just like that" until you're a shaking, oversensitive mess. It never feels mechanical, it feels personal and intimate, as if he's pouring all his emotional availability into making you feel cherished and utterly undone at the same time.
B - Build-up: Tucker masters a slow, delicious build-up that turns you into a needy, dripping wreck long before he ever slides inside you. He's confident but never arrogant, using patience as his weapon.
It might start with him cooking dinner shirtless, the sight of his athletic build and low-slung pants already teasing you, then pulling you into him for deep, unhurried kisses that grow hotter and more demanding. His hands wander everywhere, palming your breasts and pinching your nipples until they ache, then sliding down to rub you through your panties with firm, circling pressure.
"No need to rush, sweetheart. I want you soaked and begging before I give you what you need," he says, voice dropping lower as he feels how wet the fabric gets. He loves stripping you piece by piece, kissing and licking every newly exposed inch of skin, sucking marks into your inner thighs while his fingers tease your entrance without pushing inside. By the time he finally lines up and sinks into you inch by inch, you're trembling with anticipation, walls clenching desperately around him as he groans at how perfectly you grip him. The build-up makes every thrust feel electric.
He starts slow and deep, grinding against your clit with every roll of his hips, drawing it out until you're clawing at his back and pleading for more. It's sensual, controlled and deeply satisfying, reflecting his thoughtful nature and his ability to delay gratification for maximum pleasure.
C - Cooking and sensuality: Tucker's passion for cooking, inherited from raising himself alongside his single mom, infuses his sex life with rich, sensual layers that go beyond the physical. He prepares something warm and flavorful, maybe a late-night pasta or homemade dessert, feeding you bites from his fingers while you sit on the counter in just his shirt, his eyes darkening as sauce drips onto your thigh and he leans down to lick it off slowly.
That same appreciation for taste and texture carries into the bedroom, he eats you out like he's savoring a fine meal, burying his face between your thighs with enthusiastic, messy devotion. His tongue delves deep, then flattens to lap broadly at your folds, sucking your clit while two fingers pump steadily, groaning at how sweet you taste. "Fuck, you're delicious," he mumbles against your slick skin, the vibration sending sparks up your spine.
After intense rounds, he's the one who carries you to the kitchen still naked and glowing, making sandwiches or pouring water while stealing kisses that quickly turn heated again, bending you over the counter for a slower fuck where he can reach around to rub your clit and tell you how much he loves taking care of you. The blend of nurturing through food and raw sensuality makes everything feel nourishing and intimate, as though he's feeding both your hunger and your desire in equal measure.
D - Devotion: Once Tucker commits, his devotion translates into intensely connective, reverent sex that makes you feel utterly cherished. He's emotionally available and supportive, so even the filthiest moments carry weight and care. He favors positions where he can maintain eye contact, deep missionary with your legs wrapped around his waist, his shoulders flexing as he thrusts slow and grinding, one hand cradling your cheek while the other pins your hip. "Look at me, baby. Feel how deep I am? This is all for you," he groans, voice husky as your walls flutter around him. He's not afraid of raw need either, he'll flip you onto all fours and take you harder, one hand fisted gently in your hair while the other reaches around to circle your clit, devotion showing in how he checks your reactions and praises you constantly.
After you come, he doesn't pull out right away. He stays buried deep, kissing along your spine, murmuring how perfect you are and how he wants to build a life with you. His devotion makes multiple rounds feel like an extension of emotional intimacy where he holds you close through overstimulation, coaxing one more orgasm with his fingers or mouth before filling you with his release, then cuddling you tightly afterward as though he never wants to let go. It's boyfriend-material sex at its finest, passionate, loyal and deeply fulfilling.
E - Endurance: Tucker's hockey-honed stamina means he can keep going long after most guys would tap out, turning nights into extended sessions of pleasure that leave you limp and satisfied. His tall, athletic frame, broad shoulders, powerful thighs and strong core give him the strength to move you effortlessly. He might start by eating you out until you come twice, then slide into you with a deep groan, setting a steady rhythm that builds gradually. "I've got all night for you, darlin'," he promises, sweat glistening on his skin as he switches positions without breaking stride, pulling you on top so you can ride him while he grips your hips and thrusts up to meet you, then flipping you again for deeper penetration.
He can hold a hard, pounding pace for ages or slow to sensual grinds that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. After a game, when he's still buzzing with energy, expect wall sex where he holds you up with ease, stretching you with every upward thrust while his mouth claims yours. That endurance lets him draw out pleasure for both of you, edging until you're sobbing his name, then finally letting go with a low, satisfied groan as he fills you. It never feels exhausting in a bad way, it feels like he could worship your body indefinitely, reflecting the same steady, reliable nature he carries both on and off the ice.
F - Foreplay: Foreplay with him is an extended, immersive experience that feels luxurious and perfectly tailored, never rushed. He takes his time, using his charm and attentive nature to heighten every sensation. It often begins with deep, soulful kissing, his tongue teasing yours while his hands explore, massaging your breasts, rolling your nipples between skilled fingers until you're arching into him. He loves verbal teasing, "You're already so wet for me, sweetheart. Let's see how much wetter I can make you." His mouth follows his hands, sucking marks onto your neck and collarbones, then moving lower to lavish attention on your breasts, tongue flicking your nipples while fingers dip between your legs to stroke your folds and circle your clit with maddening lightness.
He's a master of oral foreplay, settling comfortably between your spread thighs for long, unhurried sessions delivering broad licks from entrance to clit, focused suction and steady fingers pumping in rhythm until you're grinding against his face and coming hard.
Mutual pleasure matters just as much, he might guide your hand to stroke him while he fingers you or encourage you to sit on his face so he can taste you while you take him in your mouth. By the time he finally pushes inside, you're dripping, desperate and perfectly prepped, every nerve alight.
G - Gentleness: He balances raw athletic power with a surprising, soothing gentleness that makes even intense moments feel safe and cherished. As the thoughtful Southern gentleman, he knows when to be soft, especially after rougher rounds or when you're feeling vulnerable.
He cradles you in his arms, stroking down your back with feather-light touches while he kisses you slowly, deeply, staying nestled inside you without moving for long moments, just letting you feel full and connected. "Easy, darlin'. I've got you," he murmurs, rolling his hips in gentle, grinding circles that rub perfectly against your clit without overwhelming you.
He loves positions like spooning where he can wrap around you completely, one arm under your head, the other hand between your thighs rubbing soft, lazy circles while he thrusts shallow and slow, kissing the back of your neck. Even as passion builds and his strokes deepen, the gentleness remains in how he checks your face, whispers praise and holds you through your orgasms, never letting you feel exposed or used.
After you come, he's all tender kisses and soft caresses, cleaning you up gently with a warm cloth he prepared ahead of time, then pulling you against his chest so you can listen to his steady heartbeat.
H - Hands: Tucker's hands are a highlight, big, strong, calloused from hockey sticks and workouts, yet incredibly skilled and attentive.
He uses them like tools of seduction. He might pin your wrists above your head with one while the other explores, squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples, then sliding down to spread you open so he can watch his fingers disappear inside you. "Look how pretty you stretch for my fingers, baby," he says, voice low and appreciative as he curls them against your g-spot, pumping steadily until you're soaking his palm. He loves gripping your hips hard enough to leave faint marks while he fucks you from behind or wrapping one hand loosely around your throat during missionary with pressure that makes your pulse race while he holds your gaze.
His fingers stay relentless during foreplay, two or three digits stretching you open, thumb circling your clit in perfect rhythm until you come hard, then he makes you suck them clean while watching you with dark, appreciative eyes. Once you've come, those same hands turn gentle again, massaging sore muscles or cradling your face as he kisses you.
I - Intimacy: Intimacy with Tucker feels soul-deep because of his emotional availability and his desire for real connection. He thrives on eye contact, foreheads pressed together and whispered conversation mid-thrust. Slow, passionate sex in missionary is a favorite, his body covering yours, hips rolling deeply so every inch of him drags against your walls while he murmurs how much he loves you, how perfect you feel. He intertwines your fingers, pinning your hands beside your head as he builds to a powerful rhythm, groaning your name when you clench around him.
He pulls your back to his chest in doggy, one arm banded across your breasts, the other rubbing your clit as he thrusts deep, whispering filthy yet sweet praise right in your ear. "This is mine. You're my everything."
Afterward, he's all cuddles and soft talk, discussing dreams or just holding you in comfortable silence, reflecting his family-oriented, nurturing side.
J - Jealousy and possessiveness: Though Tucker is generally laid-back and confident without ego, a flicker of jealousy brings out a deliciously possessive edge that heightens everything.
If he catches someone flirting with you, he pulls you close later with a dark, heated look, kissing you possessively before bending you over the nearest surface. "You're mine, sweetheart. Only I get to see you like this," he growls, tugging your panties down and thrusting into you in one smooth motion, taking you hard and deep with powerful strokes that make the headboard slam.
His grip tightens, teeth grazing your shoulder as he claims you, all while staying attentive enough to make sure it feels incredible.
The possessiveness shows in how he marks you, hickeys on your breasts or inner thighs that he traces later with gentle fingers and in the way he fills you, then keeps you plugged with his fingers or his cock afterward.
K - Kissing: He’s an exceptional kisser, it makes your knees weak and your pulse race before clothes even come off. He kisses with purpose, starting soft and exploratory, then deepening with tongue and gentle bites, as if he can't get enough of you. During sex, the kissing never stops.
He kisses you through every thrust, swallowing your moans while his hips snap forward, or trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down your body before settling between your legs to taste you with the same passionate focus. In cowgirl, he sits up to kiss you deeply while you ride him, hands guiding your hips as tongues tangle. Even during quick, desperate moments, he steals messy kisses, murmuring endearments between them.
L - Loyalty: Tucker's loyalty shows as unwavering focus and dedication in bed. Once he's yours, he's completely yours, pouring that same consistent, supportive energy into pleasing you. He remembers what you like from previous times and builds on it, making each encounter better.
He'll spend hours between your thighs if that's what you need, prioritizing your pleasure above his own, switching techniques until you're boneless and satisfied before finally letting himself come deep inside you with a low groan. His loyalty means he's there for the long haul, marathon sessions where he brings you to peak after peak, then holds you through the come-down, ready to go again when you are. It also shows in his willingness to experiment thoughtfully, trying new positions or toys because he wants to explore with you, always checking in with that caring gaze. "Whatever you want, baby. I'm right here with you."
M - Morning sex: It’s slow, warm and deeply intimate, reflecting his nurturing side and the same thoughtful consistency he brings to everything. He often wakes up first, his body curled behind yours, morning wood pressed hot and heavy against you. Instead of rushing, he starts with soft kisses along your shoulder and neck, one hand sliding down to cup your breast, thumb lazily circling your nipple until it pebbles.
"Mornin', darlin'," he murmurs, sleep still roughening his voice as his fingers dip between your thighs to find you already growing wet. He loves lazy grinding at first, sliding against your folds without entering, coating himself in your arousal while kissing the back of your neck. When he finally pushes inside from behind, it's a slow, deep slide that makes you both groan.
He sets a gentle rhythm, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand reaching around to rub slow circles on your clit, praising how perfect you feel in the morning light, how he could stay buried in you all day. The pace builds gradually as desire heats up, turning into deeper, more purposeful thrusts that have you pushing back against him, his free hand gripping your hip. He draws it out, making sure you come first, sometimes twice, before he lets himself go, spilling deep inside you with a low, satisfied groan.
N - Nurturing: Shaped by being raised by a single mom and his desire to build a family, it makes him an incredibly caring and attentive partner who prioritizes your comfort in every way. He's the one who keeps lube, water and snacks by the bed without being asked.
During particularly intense sessions, he pauses to check in softly, "You good, baby? Need a break?", even while buried deep. His nurturing shows in extended aftercare that feels like an extension of the act itself, like running a warm bath, massaging your thighs and back with strong but gentle hands and feeding you bites of fruit or something he quickly prepares. In the moment, it translates into positions and techniques focused on your ease and pleasure.
He loves having you on top so he can support your weight, hands guiding your hips while he thrusts up, watching your face with warm eyes and whispering encouragement.
He's also drawn to sensory care, using his mouth everywhere, licking and sucking until you're trembling, then holding you close through the aftershocks. This side of him makes sex feel safe and holistic, as if he's not just pleasuring you but actively caring for your body and heart at the same time, which only makes the rawer, more desperate moments hit harder by contrast.
O - Oral worship: Oral with Tucker is pure, enthusiastic worship that can last as long as you can handle it. He approaches going down on you with the same dedication he puts into hockey drills or cooking a perfect meal.
He settles between your spread thighs, shoulders holding you open and starts with reverent kisses along your inner thighs before licking a slow, broad stripe up through your folds. He uses his whole mouth, tongue working your entrance, lips sucking your clit, nose buried against you as he eats you messily and happily.
Two fingers join in, curling perfectly while he focuses suction on your clit, eyes flicking up to watch your reactions with intense focus. He doesn't stop after one orgasm, he gentles his touch to bring you down, then builds you right back up again, sometimes adding a finger elsewhere for extra fullness if you're into it.
When you take him in your mouth, he's vocal and appreciative, a hand resting in your hair, never forcing, hips twitching as he praises how good it feels, how well you take him. "That's it, sweetheart, just like that." Mutual oral in a sixty-nine position is heavenly because he can't stop touching and licking even while you work him with your mouth.
P - Playfulness: Despite his thoughtful demeanor, Tucker has a playful, charming side that comes out beautifully in bed, keeping things light and fun even during intense heat.
He might tease you with an easy smile and quick wit, tickling your sides mid-thrust just to hear you laugh and clench around him, then immediately switch to a deep, grinding stroke that wipes the smile off your face and replaces it with a moan.
He loves light-hearted challenges like "How many times can I make you come before I do?" delivered with a wink. His playfulness shows in the way he manhandles you affectionately, tossing you onto the bed with a grin before diving between your legs or lifting you effortlessly onto the counter after cooking together.
He incorporates small games too, like making you hold eye contact while he fingers you, or rewarding you with kisses for staying quiet during a risky quickie.
Q - Quiet intensity: Tucker can be quietly intense and it’s incredibly compelling with simmering passion that builds without needing loud theatrics. In moments of deep connection, he moves with controlled strokes, jaw clenched, eyes locked on yours and every muscle in his body working in harmony.
Sometimes there's minimal talk, just heavy breathing, low groans and the sound of skin meeting skin as he drives deep and steady. He holds your gaze through an entire orgasm, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your face while he stretches and fills you perfectly. It often surfaces after emotional conversations or during makeup sex, raw need expressed through devastatingly good physicality rather than volume. He might pin you gently but firmly, hips snapping with precision, one hand cradling the back of your head so you stay close.
R - Risk and restraint: He enjoys a touch of risk balanced with natural restraint and thoughtfulness. He's not as reckless as some teammates but the thrill of almost getting caught, a quick, heated moment in a semi-private spot like an empty locker room or the back of his car in a dark parking lot, brings out a focused, hungry side.
He keeps one ear listening for footsteps while he bends you over, tugging your panties aside and moving in deep and fast, one hand over your mouth to muffle your sounds.
"Gotta be quiet for me, baby," he whispers, the restraint in his voice making it hotter. At home, he shows a different kind of restraint during edging, bringing you right to the edge with his mouth and fingers, then backing off with soft kisses until you're begging, all while maintaining calm, devoted control.
S - Sensual slow sex: He excels at sensual slow sex that feels like an all-encompassing experience, drawing out every sensation until you're lost in him.
After a long day, he might draw you a bath or cook something simple, then carry you to bed where he spends what feels like hours just touching and kissing. He starts by worshipping your body with his mouth, sucking on your nipples until they're tight and sensitive, then kissing a trail down your stomach before spreading your thighs wide.
His tongue works you open slowly, licking broad stripes through your folds, circling your clit with patient precision while two fingers slide in and out at a maddeningly slow pace, curling just right against your g-spot.
"Feel that, darlin'? I love how you squeeze around me," he murmurs against your skin, eyes flicking up to watch your face. When he finally enters you, it's inch by inch, both of you groaning as he bottoms out and stays there, grinding deep in slow circles that rub against your clit. He maintains that torturously delicious pace for ages, long, deep strokes where you feel every ridge of him dragging along your walls. His hands roam constantly, cradling your face for deep kisses, squeezing your breasts or gripping your hips to pull you closer.
The scene is filled with his low praise, steady eye contact, and the slick sounds of connection. He brings you to the edge repeatedly, only letting you tip over when he's ready, finally speeding up just enough to come with you, spilling deep while holding you tight.
T - Teasing and edge play: They blend affectionate control with generous reward, rooted in his patient discipline and desire to make every moment intensely pleasurable for you.
He turns it into an extended game that can span hours. Imagine coming home to him after class, he greets you with an easy smile, pulls you onto the couch and starts with light touches, fingers tracing your thighs under your skirt and brushing over your panties without giving you the pressure you crave. "Not yet, sweetheart. We're gonna take our time tonight," he says, voice low and warm.
He brings you close with slow circles on your clit through the fabric, watching your face intently, then pulls back to kiss you deeply, tongue teasing yours while your arousal builds and fades. This cycle repeats, his fingers eventually slipping inside you, pumping slowly and curling against your g-spot, lips on your neck, until you're right on the edge, thighs shaking.
Then he stops, smiles that charming smile and suggests making a snack together, keeping you on edge the whole time with occasional touches. When he finally goes down on you, it's exquisite torture of long, slow licks, focused suction on your clit, fingers working in tandem, bringing you to the brink over and over until you're begging in broken whispers.
Only then does he let you come hard against his mouth, holding you through the waves before finally sliding inside your oversensitive body and moving with deep strokes that quickly build you toward another shattering orgasm.
U - Unhurried exploration: Tucker's unhurried exploration turns sex into a deeply personal journey of mutual discovery, reflecting his curious, emotionally available nature.
He dedicates full evenings or lazy weekends to this, creating a safe, pressure-free space.
A rich scene might start with both of you in bed after he's cooked a light dinner. He begins by having you lie back while he explores every inch with his hands and mouth, kissing the sensitive skin behind your knees, tracing along your hip bones, sucking gentle marks on your inner thighs while asking quietly what feels best. He encourages you to guide him or say what you want, turning it into an intimate conversation.
When he goes down on you, it becomes exploratory, trying different pressures and patterns with his tongue, adding fingers in new ways, even bringing in a small toy if you're open to it, all while watching your reactions closely.
"Like this? Or slower?" he asks, voice husky. Penetration comes later, after you're thoroughly relaxed and aroused. He slides in slowly, then experiments with angles, depths and rhythms, moving fluidly between positions, missionary for eye contact, you on top for control or spooning for closeness, to find what makes you moan loudest.
He might edge you lightly during this or introduce light restraint with his hands, always checking in along the way. The unhurried pace allows for multiple peaks, laughter when something feels ticklish and quiet conversation between rounds.
V - Vocal praise and dirty talk: Tucker's vocal praise and dirty talk work so well because they blend sweet charm with raw filth, delivered in a voice that sends shivers down your spine.
He stays generous from start to finish. During foreplay, as his fingers sink into you, "Fuck, baby, you're absolutely soaked for me. Such a perfect, greedy girl." While going down on you for a prolonged session, "Taste so damn sweet, darlin'. I could stay right here between these thighs all night, listening to you moan my name." As he moves deep and hard, "That's it, take every inch. Look how well you stretch for me, this was made just for me." He mixes in heartfelt praise that makes it feel emotional, "You're so beautiful when you come for me. I love how you trust me with your body."
In one scene after a win, still riding the high, he has you bent over the kitchen counter after a celebratory meal he made, moving into you while growling, "Been thinking about having you like this since the final buzzer. Gonna fill you up." Then he softens it with, "You feel incredible. I'm so lucky you're mine." He loves when you talk back, encouraging you with more praise for every moan or word.
W - Whole-body worship: Whole-body worship with Tucker is a slow, reverent ritual that celebrates every part of you.
He treats it like a full sensory experience, lights low, maybe soft music, starting with a full-body massage using warm oil. His hands work your shoulders, back and legs, turning therapeutic into erotic as he kisses every spot he massages. He pays loving attention to less obvious areas, sucking on your fingers, tracing the backs of your knees with his lips, gently biting along your hips before moving lower to tease with his tongue.
He spends ample time on your breasts, sucking and licking your nipples until they're hypersensitive, then moves lower for extended oral. During penetration, he continues the theme, hands and mouth everywhere, kissing your neck and collarbones while thrusting deep and slow. In cowgirl, he sits up to worship your breasts and rub your clit while you ride him. The entire act leaves you feeling adored from head to toe, with him murmuring constant appreciation, "Every inch of you is perfect." Afterward, the worship continues with gentle cuddling and caresses.
X - Extra care after rough sex: After rough, stamina-testing sessions where Tucker uses his athletic build for intense, pounding sex, his extra care is meticulous and loving, highlighting his protective qualities.
A typical rough scene might involve him taking you hard against the wall or in deep doggy until you're both sweaty and spent, leaving marks from his grip and more than one release. Immediately after, he shifts seamlessly into caretaker mode. He scoops you up, carries you to the bathroom for a warm shower where he washes you gently with soapy hands, massaging any sore muscles in your thighs, hips or shoulders.
Back in bed, he applies lotion to any sore spots or marks, whispering apologies mixed with praise, "You took me so well, baby. So strong for me." He makes sure you're hydrated, brings snacks he might have prepped (fruit, cheese, something light) and holds you close under the covers, legs tangled, stroking your hair while talking softly or simply being present.
If you're feeling emotional or a little floaty afterward, he stays exceptionally patient, offering reassurance and cuddles until you feel grounded again.
Y - Yearning: Tucker’s yearning for you runs deep and constant, a steady undercurrent that makes every reunion feel electric and every touch charged with genuine need.
Whether it’s after a road game or a long day apart, he comes to you with hunger in his eyes, pulling you close the moment he’s through the door. His hands roam like he’s trying to memorize you all over again, kissing you with slow-burning intensity while murmuring how much he missed the taste of your skin, the sound of your voice breaking on his name.
That yearning translates into thorough, focused lovemaking where he takes his time rediscovering every sensitive spot. He’ll spend ages with his mouth on you, licking and sucking like he’s starved for your pleasure, groaning against your folds about how he thought about this the entire time he was gone.
When he finally sinks into you, it’s with a low, relieved sound, hips rolling deep and steady as if he’s trying to fuse the two of you together. “Been aching for you, darlin’,” he breathes against your lips, never rushing even when the need is overwhelming.
Z - Zest for your pleasure: He brings an infectious zest and enthusiasm to your pleasure that makes every encounter feel vibrant and alive. His athletic drive and positive energy mean he approaches sex with the same wholehearted commitment he gives to hockey, eager, focused,and determined to make you feel incredible. He gets visibly excited watching you come undone, that charming grin flashing before he dives back in with renewed vigor, whether it’s adding a third finger while sucking your clit or flipping you into a new position so he can hit that perfect angle.
He’s vocal about it too, praising your responses with genuine delight, “God, look at you…so fucking gorgeous when you let go for me.” That zest keeps things dynamic, one moment he’s playfully teasing you to the edge, the next he’s giving you exactly what you need with purposeful strokes that leave you breathless.
Even in the quiet moments afterward, his energy changes to warm, affectionate care, holding you close, laughing softly with you, already buzzing with ideas for the next round.
a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍
Summary: Across every stage of the outbreak, your physical relationship with Daryl mirrors his emotional growth from detached survivor to a man who worships and protects the one person he refuses to lose.
Classification and content warnings: Smut +18 | Rough sex, consensual but primal encounters, dirty talk, fingering, oral sex, biting, marking, mild choking and creampies.
Temporal setting: Season 1 to 11
Word count: 4,5k
Divider by me ;)
Quarry Camp:
In the early days, the world was fresh in its death, nerves raw with everyone on edge.
Daryl was a ghost at the edges of the group, crossbow always in hand, resentment simmering under his skin from Merle’s absence and the constant babysitting of these soft strangers. You were useful, another set of eyes, a decent shot and not afraid to get dirty. That was all it was.
He didn’t talk much, never did but one night after a supply run gone tense, the quarry’s humid air thick with insect noise and distant moans of the dead, he cornered you behind the tree line, away from the flickering campfires. His hand landed heavily on your hip, callused fingers digging in as yours did the same over the tent in his jeans.
“Need this,” he growled low, more a statement than a question.
He spun you against a thick trunk, rough bark scraping your palms as he yanked your pants down just enough. His own jeans were shoved low on his hips, cock already hard and leaking from the day’s pent-up rage and there was no kissing.
He spat in his palm, slicked himself once and pushed in a raw and thick, burning stretch that made your teeth clench. He fucked like he was punishing the world with brutal, shallow thrusts at first and then deeper, hips snapping with frustrated force. One hand fisted your hair while the other gripped your waist hard enough to bruise as grunts and low curses spilled from him.
“Fuck…tight…f–shit,” voice gravelly and breathless.
It was quick and ugly. He came with a choked groan, hips stuttering as he forcefully pulled out, then quickly tucked himself away while you were still catching your breath, slick dripping down your thighs. He quickly wiped you with a rag from his pocket, offered a nod and he was gone back to his tent. There was no aftercare or additional words because it was a matter of convenience and release, in the same way he would scratch an itch or hunt for food.
CDC:
The CDC felt like false hope wrapped in sterile walls. Everyone was drunk on wine and the illusion of safety while Daryl was still on the outside of the main room, distrust thick in his veins but the alcohol loosened his tongue just a fraction. You ended up in a dim side corridor after everyone else had passed out or paired off.
He was a little less feral here, still no tenderness but the frustration had changed into survival-fueled need mixed with the knowledge that tomorrow might be the end. He pulled you into a shadowed lab room and bent you over a cold metal table, pushing your jeans down and shoving your shirt up so he could look at your strengthening back muscles. His mouth was on your neck this time, biting more than kissing, teeth scraping skin as he lined up and sank in with one rough thrust.
“Keep quiet,” he muttered against your ear with a thick voice. His pace was steadier but still punishing, hips slapping loud in the empty room as the table creaked under you.
He reached around, rough fingers finding your clit and rubbing in messy circles, it was in no way skilled, mostly effective. You clenched around him and he cursed, low and filthy, pounding in harder as sweat dripped from his chest onto your back. When he came it was with a bitten-off groan, hips flush against your ass as he pulsed inside.
He lingered a second longer than at the quarry, forehead pressed briefly to your shoulder while he caught his breath but then he pulled out, helped yank your pants up with a grunt and left. This time, it was convenience with the faintest edge of mutual reliance now since you watched each other’s backs out there more than once.
Hershel’s Farm:
The farm brought fragile stability as days blurred into chores, patrols and quiet nights. Daryl was more integrated but still prickly, especially after Sophia. You hunted together now as silent but efficient partners in the woods and inevitably, that shared competence started bleeding into everything else.
Sex wasn’t random anymore. It happened after long days tracking, in abandoned barns or deep in the woods where no one wandered. He still didn’t do ‘soft’ but there was more of a rhythm now and he made sure you came at least once.
One evening after a successful hunt, blood still under his nails, he tugged you up the ladder into the hayloft, moonlight filtering through the slats. He stripped you slowly, your shirt went first but he still hesitated to touch anywhere else. When he pushed inside, you were on your back in the hay, legs wrapped around his waist, his thrusts were deep and grinding, less frantic than before but still very blunt. Skin slapped and heavy breathing filled the space with the occasional low “Yeah…like that,” when you moaned or tightened around him.
He watched your face more, studying reactions like he studied tracks. One hand pinned your wrist above your head while the other gripped your thigh, spreading you wider so he could hit deeper. Sweat-slick and grunting, he fucked you until your legs shook and when you came, he didn’t stop, just kept that relentless pace until he followed, burying himself with a ragged groan and staying there longer, hips twitching.
Afterwards, he didn’t leave right away. He rolled off but stayed close, one arm draped heavy over your waist while you both breathed heavily. There was no ‘love talk’ or any real cuddling but there was a quiet acknowledgment, you were not just a warm body anymore. You were the one who moved silently with him through the trees, the one who didn’t flinch at his scars or his moods.
Respect was starting to root, even if feelings were still buried deep under layers of loss and survival.
The road after the barn burned:
The farm was ash and the group was scattered on the road, exhausted, hungry and hunted while nights were cold and the days brutal. You and Daryl fell into a rhythm of scouting ahead, hunting small game and watching each other’s backs without needing words.
The sex became less about pure frustration and more about grounding each other in the chaos, two hardened survivors stealing heat and release when the weight of leadership and loss pressed too heavy.
One night the group camped in a tight circle of cars off a forgotten highway. You slipped away together into the tree line, far enough for privacy but close enough to hear if walkers or threats appeared. Daryl pulled you behind a thick oak, his crossbow leaned nearby within easy reach.
The air smelled of pine and distant smoke. He was dirt-streaked and tense but his hands were sure when he turned you to face the tree. “C’mere,” he muttered, voice low and rough like gravel though you were starting to like it. He tugged your pants and underwear down to your knees in one motion, then freed himself, he was already hard, thick and flushed, veins prominent from the day’s adrenaline. He spat into his palm again, an old habit but this time he reached around and worked the slickness over your entrance with two rough fingers, opening you up properly for the first time in weeks.
When he pushed in it was still shallow, still a stretch that burned so good, too good, but slower. He bottomed out with a heavy exhale against the back of your neck while one arm braced on the trunk above your head, the other wrapped around your waist, holding you steadily against him. His thrusts started deep and rolling, in long strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you, yet the slap of skin was muffled by the night. He grunted softly with each thrust, breath hot on your skin.
“Fuck…you feel good,” he admitted between clenched teeth. It definitely wasn’t sweet talk, it sounded more like pure honesty, a bit surprising. His hand slid down, callused fingers finding your clit and rubbing firm, steady circles in time with his hips.
He was learning your body now, paying attention to the way you clenched and gasped, so when your legs started to shake, he didn’t speed up, he kept that relentless pace until you came hard around him, biting your own arm to stay quiet.
Only then did he let go, hips snapping sharper as he chased his own release. He came with a low, broken groan, pressing deep and staying buried while he pulsed inside you, forehead dropped to your shoulder.
For a long minute he just breathed there with you, arm still banded around your middle like he just remembered what came after this. He pulled out carefully, helped you fix your clothes with surprisingly gentle hands, then wiped himself with a rag before offering it to you.
You hunted together the next morning like always and the respect was palpable now. He trusted you with his life out there and the sex had become another way you took care of each other in a world that took everything.
The prison (Before the Governor):
Prison walls finally offered something like safety with its cells, fences and routines. Daryl was more settled but still carried the weight of the group on his shoulders.
You two shared a cell more often than not as the weeks passed and the sex reflected that. It was still rough around the edges but laced with intimacy born of partnership since you had bled together, killed together and kept the group alive together.
Late one night after a long watch shift, the prison was quiet except for distant walker groans outside the fences. You were in the lower bunk of a cell in another block, the place you usually went to when you needed to get away from the group. Daryl climbed in after you, his body heavy and warm as he pressed you into the thin mattress. No words were needed before he stripped you both efficiently, hands roaming your sides and mapping scars he had memorized by now.
He settled between your thighs, cock heavy and leaking against your soaked pussy. This time he took his time entering, thick inch by inch, watching your face in the dim light filtering through the bars. Once he was fully seated he paused, hips flush, letting you feel every inch of him stretching you open. “Good?” he rasped, voice barely above a whisper. You nodded and he started moving deeply with precise thrusts that rocked the bunk frame quietly. His mouth found your neck then, sucking marks that would be hidden by a high-neck shirt in the morning.
He fucked you like a man who knew exactly what you needed after a hard day. One hand pinned your hip while the other braced beside your head and the angle let him grind against your clit with every thrust. His grunts were low and guttural, “That’s it…take it…fuck, too good of a habit to quit.” The words slipped out heavily with the truth of your partnership as he was claiming you in the only way he knew how.
When you came he rode it out, stroking you through it until you were trembling, then he let himself go, burying deep with a choked groan, hips stuttering as he filled you. He collapsed half on top of you afterward, breathing hard against your neck with one arm wrapped around your waist. He didn’t pull out immediately, he stayed inside you, softening, while his thumb stroked lazy circles on your skin, yet there were no grand declarations but the protectiveness was there in every touch. You were his hunting partner, his cellmate, the one person he let see the cracks and he realized how respect had become bone-deep loyalty.
The prison (After the Governor):
The Governor’s attack left scars, literal and otherwise. The prison was damaged, the group fractured and trust in short supply. Daryl was darker now, angrier and more withdrawn after losing so many, as a result, the sex turned fiercer, punishing in its intensity but it was still the one place where the two of you could reconnect without the weight of leadership crushing you.
After a brutal day reinforcing defenses and scouting for revenge, he found you in that same secluded cell block and tension rolled off him in waves, same with you. He pushed you against the cold concrete wall, removing your boots, yanking your pants down roughly while his own were haphazardly shoved low by you. He was rock hard, angry-hard and he spat on his cock before hiking your thigh up and driving into you in one brutal thrust.
“Need you,” he growled against your ear, teeth grazing the shell. There was no warmup that time, he fucked you hard and fast with deep, punishing strokes that lifted you onto your toes. The slap of skin echoed as his hand wrapped around your throat lightly, holding you possessively while the other remained at your thigh, fingers gripping hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Don’t you fuckin’ leave me too,” he snarled between thrusts, voice cracking with everything he wouldn’t say outright.
It was desperate and sweat dripped. Your moans mixed with his grunts as he angled to hit that spot inside you relentlessly until you shattered around him, clenching so tight he cursed viciously. He followed right after, slamming deep and staying there, cock pulsing as he spilled hot and thick inside you with a long moan.
He stayed pressed against your front for a long time, breathing ragged, arms caging you in until he softened and pulled out, resting his forehead against yours for a silent moment, allowing rare vulnerability. Then he helped clean you up with hands steadier than his mood.
The partnership was ironclad now, he would kill for you without hesitation and the sex was how he reminded you and himself that you were still here, still his to protect in this brutal world. There weren’t any feelings yet but the foundation was set, layered with deep respect, fierce loyalty and a bone-deep need that only grew stronger with every loss.
Alexandria (Before Negan):
Alexandria’s walls felt like a different world between the clean houses, running water and the people still trying to pretend the dead weren’t out there. Daryl was uncomfortable with the softness and domesticity but he was adapting. You two had a house now, a shared space and inevitably, the sex changed noticeably. The frustration and pure convenience were gone since respect had deepened into vulnerability and feelings started to surface in the quiet moments after, now that there was a space they could live in safely.
One night the house was quiet and the neighborhood asleep. You were in the bedroom you shared, moonlight cutting through the curtains when Daryl came back from a late watch, still wired. He found you already in bed and stripped slowly, eyes locked on you the entire time and when he climbed over you, his touch was still callused and sure but there was a new reverence in it.
He kissed you now in deep, hungry kisses that tasted like want and something softer. His mouth trailed down your neck, sucking marks you no longer hid and he took his time undressing you, hands mapping every inch like he was memorizing you all over again.
When he finally pushed inside, it was slow and thick, stretching you open with a groan that vibrated against your throat, though you didn’t need to be quiet now.
“Goddamn…always so good for me,” he murmured, voice rough but laced with emotion he couldn’t quite hide. His hips rolled in deep and steady thrusts, they had grown confident and controlled, hitting every spot that made your back arch. He was fully present, watching your face and adjusting his angle whenever your breath caught.
One hand laced with yours above your head while the other gripped your thigh, spreading you wider so he could sink even deeper.
The pace built gradually making your skin slick with sweat as the bed creaked softly. He ground against your clit with every thrust, low grunts mixing with your moans. “Been keeping those sounds away from me? Those are mine now,” he whispered against your lips, it was the first time he said it quite like that, claiming in a way that carried weight. When you came he rode it through, kissing you through the tremors, then let himself follow, burying deep with a ragged groan as he filled you, hips stuttering with the intensity of it.
He stayed inside you for a long minute, then rolled you both so you were draped over his chest, arms wrapped around you as one hand stroked slowly up and down your back. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, small and hesitant but at least there was no more bolting and no more walls to keep up. The feelings were there now, quiet and extremely terrifying for a man who had lost everything. He held you like you were the one thing in this world he refused to let slip away.
The Hilltop:
Hilltop brought new alliances, new dangers and new responsibilities. The relationship had settled into something solid by then as sex reflected his growing confidence, he knew what he wanted, knew what you needed and he gave it without hesitation.
You stole a night in one of the smaller trailers on the outskirts. The air was cooler, tension from recent runs still humming under his skin as he pulled you onto the narrow bed, stripping you both with practiced hands. He was harder and more assured now in what the two of you had built.
He went down on you first, something that had become more common. His rough stubble scraped your inner thighs, tongue and lips relentless and skilled from practice before two thick fingers curled inside you while he sucked on your clit until your hips bucked and you came against his mouth with a muffled cry. Only then did he climb up, cock heavy and dripping as he slid into your soaked pussy in one smooth thrust.
“Fucking…perfect,” he growled, voice low and gravelly. His thrusts were powerful and confident in deep, rolling strokes that made the bed frame knock against the wall. He pinned your wrists lightly, mouth on your neck, sucking fresh marks while he fucked you steady and hard. He changed angles until he found the one that made you keen, then exploited it mercilessly, hips snapping with precision.
The possessiveness was stronger now, mixed with open care. “Stay with me,” he rasped between thrusts. “Ain’t losin’ you out there.” When you clenched around him and came again he groaned loudly, following you over the edge and burying himself to the hilt as he spilled hot and deep, hips grinding through the pulses.
After, he cleaned you both with a warm cloth from the basin, then pulled you tight against him under the thin blankets. His hand rested on your hip, thumb stroking lazy circles and he talked more now, just quiet murmurs about the day, about worries for the group and about how you made the weight feel bearable. The man who once fucked you against a tree and left was gone, this Daryl held you like you were home.
Alexandria (After Negan):
Negan’s shadow had left its mark of blood, loss, captivity and war. Daryl was harder again in some ways but with you he was open like he never was before. The sex, when he could finally indulge in it, was emotional, a release and a reaffirmation that you both had survived. He had lost too many and the fear of losing you fueled everything.
Back in your shared house in Alexandria, the first night after Negan and the Saviors were successfully defeated by the group, he was on you the moment the door closed and he kissed you like a man drowning with deep and desperate hands roaming everywhere. Clothes came off in a frantic trail to the bedroom and once you reached it, he lifted you onto the bed, spread your thighs wide and buried his face between them first, eating you out with single-minded hunger until you were shaking and oversensitive.
Then he was inside you, thick and stretching you out perfectly. He fucked you with deep, shallow strokes, hips snapping against yours with control. Every thrust carried the weight of relief, love he still struggled to name and inevitably, the fear of tomorrow.
“Can’t lose you,” he growled against your mouth, voice breaking. “You hear me? You’re it for me.”
He laced your fingers together, pinning your hands beside your head while he drove into you. The pace was relentless and the sound of skin slapping obscene as sweat-slick bodies moved together. He watched your face the entire time, drinking in every moan and flutter like it was the first time and when you came he didn’t stop, he kept fucking you through it until you were sobbing his name and cumming again, then finally let go with a deep, guttural moan, emptying himself inside you in long, pulsing waves that sounded painful.
He collapsed beside you and pulled you into his arms immediately, holding you so tight it was almost bruising. He buried his face in your neck, breathing you in and apologizing for being so “gone” which you immediately corrected even as he pressed soft kisses to your temple and shoulder. His hand stroked your hair, your back and anywhere he could reach because there was no hiding anymore, the feelings were overflowing and terrifying. He whispered rough promises against your skin, about how he would always come back to you and how he would protect what you had built together.
This Daryl was confident, devoted and deeply in love, even if the words still came slowly. The evolution was complete in its own way, from frustrated quick fucks in the woods to this raw, emotional and unbreakable connection without a place to hide.
The Commonwealth:
Years had carved their marks deep into both of you. The Commonwealth offered structure, safety, even a fragile sense of normalcy with its bustling streets, electricity and attempts at governance but Daryl had seen too many utopias crumble. You were the one constant he refused to lose, the one person who had walked every mile of hell beside him, from quarry dirt to these polished Commonwealth streets. The sex between you now was no longer just release or partnership, it was love made physical and intricate, a language only the two of you fully understood. It was slow when time allowed and desperate when the ghosts pressed close, always profound.
One night in your shared apartment, modest by Commonwealth standards but private and secure, Daryl returned from a long day helping with outer perimeter checks. The weight of old habits lingered in his shoulders, his crossbow still strapped nearby even there.
You met him at the door and the moment his eyes locked on yours, the tension changed. He pulled you into a deep, claiming kiss, hands sliding under your shirt to feel warm skin, thumbs brushing the familiar scars he knew by heart and clothes were shed without rush but with purpose, leaving a trail through the living room into the bedroom. The bed was larger than any you had shared before, dressed in soft sheets that still felt foreign against skin used to rough blankets and forest floors.
Daryl laid you down like something precious, his body covering yours, heavy, solid and safe while his mouth explored with patient hunger, kissing down your throat, across your collarbone, sucking one nipple until it pebbled under his tongue while his callused hand palmed the other breast. He moved lower, broad shoulders spreading your thighs wide as he settled between them.
His stubble scraped deliciously against sensitive skin while his tongue parted your folds, licking long, slow stripes before focusing on your clit with precise, relentless circles. Two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling just right, pumping steadily as he sucked and licked until your back arched and your fingers fisted in his long hair. He didn’t stop when you came the first time, drawing it out and savoring every flutter and gasp, murmuring low praises against your slick flesh, “Tha’s it…let me hear ya…so fuckin’ beautiful f’me.”
When he finally climbed back up, his cock was heavy, flushed dark and leaking. He held your gaze as he pushed in, stretching you open inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt.
A deep groan escaped him at the tight heat and for a long moment he stayed there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing the same air. “Can’t lose you,” he whispered, voice rough and cracked with years of unsaid terror. “Lost too many…not you, never you. I’ll be selfish ‘bout tha’”
Then he began to move in deep, rolling thrusts that ground against every sensitive spot inside you. His hips moved with confident precision, the years of learning your body were evident in every stroke. One hand laced with yours, pinning it beside your head as the other gripped your hip, tilting you just right so he could sink even deeper.
The rhythm built gradually, skin sliding hot and slick together as the wet sounds of sex filled the room alongside his low grunts and your moans. He kissed you through it, messily and open-mouthed, tongues tangling as his pace turned harder and more possessive. He moved to hook one of your legs higher around his waist, changing the angle until you were crying out with every thrust. “Gonna marry ya,” he growled against your neck, teeth grazing the skin he had marked a thousand times before. “‘S always been ya. My home…my reason.” The words were sparse but heavy with everything he felt, the love, the fear and devotion of a man who had finally found something worth living for after the world ended.
When you came again, clenching hard around him, he rode it out with gritted teeth, prolonging your pleasure until you were trembling and oversensitive. Only then did he let go, thrusts turning deep and erratic, hips snapping as he buried himself as far as possible and came with a long, broken groan. You felt every pulse, every hot spurt of thick cum as he filled you, marking you from the inside like he always had. He stayed buried deep, hips making tiny, involuntary rocks while he softened, savoring the connection. His arms wrapped around you, rolling you both so you were draped across his chest as his hand stroked slow, soothing lines up and down your spine.
For a long time the room was quiet except for slowing breaths and distant Commonwealth night sounds. Daryl pressed kisses to your hair, your temple and shoulder, as small reverent touches that spoke volumes. His fingers traced old scars on your body, then newer ones, making a silent catalog of everything you had survived together as he murmured quietly about the day, about worries for Judith and the others and about how you made the weight of survival feel bearable.
Summary: A night of free drinks, curious friends and a stranger’s failed flirtation leads you straight into Simon’s office. There, whiskey and honesty expose the fear and desire keeping you from taking the final step.
Classification: Fluff
Word count: 4k
Divider by me ;)
You wove your way through the crowd, slipping between clusters of people swaying to the music with your phone balanced in one hand, thumb tapping out a reply as someone nearly bumped your shoulder. The bass pulsed beneath your feet, conversations blending into laughter and clinking glasses until it became little more than background noise.
I'm here
I'll be at the bar until you're done
Take your time
You sent it in a few short messages, more out of habit than anything else. A few years ago you might have worried about sending too many texts, about coming across as impatient or needy but Simon had long since made it clear that none of that bothered him. If anything, he seemed to like knowing where you were.
“There she is.” The familiar thick Scottish accent carried over the music before you even reached the counter. “Wonderin' when you'd show up…He's been grumpier than usual.”
Soap's grin was impossible to miss from several steps away as he finished ringing up another customer. The second they walked off with their drinks, he wiped his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder and immediately reached for the bottles he needed, already making your usual without asking.
“Hello to you too,” you replied, a tight smile tugging at your lips as you leaned your forearms against the polished bar, your eyes wandering over the familiar crowd. There were the regulars occupying the same stools they often claimed, a handful of soldiers loudly celebrating something you doubted they'd remember tomorrow morning and a scattering of new faces who looked slightly overwhelmed by the atmosphere.
“Ye know,” Soap continued as he poured the liquor with ease, “I was about t' call ye myself if ye hadn't shown up soon.” He laughed to himself, clearly far too entertained by the situation.
You let out a quiet sigh through your nose, shaking your head. “Can you at least pretend you're not enjoying this quite so much?”
“I'm afraid I cannae do that, lass.” There wasn't even a hint of guilt in his voice.
You were fairly certain all of them had figured out that something was going on between you and Ghost, maybe they didn't know exactly what it was or how far it had gone but they weren't blind, much less deaf. They'd seen the lingering conversations, the stolen moments and just how Simon's mood changed whenever your name came up. Soap, unfortunately, had turned those observations into a personal hobby.
He slid the finished drink across the counter until it stopped neatly in front of you. Without thinking, you reached into your jacket pocket, pulled out a folded ten-dollar bill and pushed it across the counter.
Soap looked down at it, then back up at you. He clicked his tongue, nudging the bill right back with two fingers. “Can't take tha’,” he said with an amused shake of his head. “You know it. Boss' orders.”
“Tell your boss to stop being a fucking ass,” you said, flicking the bill with your finger so it sailed neatly over the counter and disappeared somewhere behind the bar. You were practically family here, Simon refused to let you pay for anything and by extension neither did anyone who worked for him.
It didn't matter if you ate at the attached restaurant four times a day or wandered back later when the place transformed into a crowded bar and nightclub, every drink, meal and tab was covered before you ever had the chance to reach for your wallet. No reservation was ever needed, no questions were ever asked and every member of staff knew exactly whose standing orders those were.
“Ye tell 'im tha’,” Soap grinned, polishing another glass without looking at it. “He won't fire ya for it.”
You snorted softly. “Neither would he you,” you pointed out. “Just take it Johnny, I won’t tell. Buy yourself a pack of condoms or something…You might actually find a use for 'em tonight.” You took a slow sip of your drink as your gaze wandered across the club.
It was even busier than usual, though that hardly surprised you anymore. However exclusive the entrance looked from the street, the place had become more successful than anyone, including its owner, had ever expected. It attracted the sort of crowd that rarely felt welcome anywhere else, old friends of the now-retired 141, veterans, bikers and rough-looking men with loud laughs and soft hearts, all creating an atmosphere where almost everyone felt safe enough to let their guard down, at least most nights.
“Aye,” Soap nodded with exaggerated confidence, his lips already twitching into another grin. “I'll make sure t' save ye both half the box. Fuck knows ye'll need it.”
“Won't work,” you replied, hiding your own smile behind the rim of your glass. “His kind of size is hardly found in the market.” The words left your mouth so casually they caught even you by surprise but judging by Soap's expression they landed exactly as intended.
His grin vanished, replaced by wide-eyed disbelief as his mind visibly fought between demanding answers he absolutely wasn't supposed to ask and acknowledging the increasingly impatient customer waving for his attention down the bar. “Go,” you laughed, pointing toward the waiting patron. “Before they start throwing bottles at you.”
“This conversation's not over,” Soap warned, pointing a finger at you before reluctantly turning to the increasingly impatient customer. You simply lifted your glass in acknowledgment and took another sip, letting the music swallow the exchange as you quietly sang along to the chorus playing overhead, fingers tapping absentmindedly against the condensation gathering on the glass.
A moment later, someone slipped into the empty space on your left, resting both forearms against the counter before setting a half-finished beer beside them. He was tall in the conventional sense, broad enough to occupy the space comfortably but you barely spared him a glance at first. Between the dancing club lights and your complete lack of interest, his face never really registered.
“Hey,” he said, leaning closer than necessary, his words edged with the unmistakable warmth of alcohol.
You looked up shortly to acknowledge him before your eyes drifted away again, briefly meeting Soap's across the bar. The slight tightening around his eyes was enough to remind you how closely you were watched in this place. You answered with the smallest shake of your head, silently telling him you had it handled.
“Wassup?” you replied dismissively before taking another sip of your drink.
The man shrugged, flashing an easy grin as he moved a little closer, his shoulder inching toward yours. “Not much. What's up with you?”
You narrowed your eyes ever so slightly, not at the question itself but at the confidence behind it. Tilting your head to look past him, you spotted a table further into the room where a group of men had very clearly been watching the interaction unfold.
You recognized the booth immediately. It wasn't the most exclusive one in the club but it was close, tucked into one of the busiest rooms where reservations disappeared weeks in advance and tables usually went to whoever spent the most. You'd spent enough time wandering through Ghost's office to know exactly how that side of the business worked.
That table wasn't cheap and judging by the smirks being exchanged in your direction, that was exactly where his confidence had come from. “Do I know you?” you asked, your attention returning to him as you lazily swirled the ice in your glass.
“Not yet,” he answered with another grin, extending his hand across the bar. “I'm Blake.”
You looked down at the hand he was offering, then back up at him, making no move to take it and just as the silence between you began stretching into visible discomfort, he hurried to fill it.
“I'm the owner.”
Your brows lifted and the smile that spread across your face came entirely from amusement. You had time to kill, so there was no harm in entertaining yourself for a minute. You finally took his hand, your grip so firm that it made him readjust his own.
“The owner? Woah…” you mused, your voice carrying sufficient surprise to sound convincing. “It's...it's a great place you've got here,” you added, slowly looking around the room as though you were taking it all in for the very first time.
“Thank you,” he nodded, taking a sip from the cheapest beer sold in the building, a detail you couldn't help noticing. “That's always nice to hear.” The irony almost made you laugh. “Look, I've got a table with some of my buddies,” he continued, proudly pointing toward the booth you'd already clocked several minutes ago. “The bar gets pretty crowded with people just grabbing drinks and all that. You should come over…We've got you covered.”
Your smile widened into the sort you wore whenever you were seconds away from laughing out loud. “Oh wow...what an honor,” you replied, tilting your head ever so slightly with exaggerated sincerity. “But I don't want to bother you guys.”
In truth, you had no interest whatsoever in joining them but you were mildly curious to see just how far he'd take the act.
“No, no,” he insisted, stepping closer as though persistence alone would seal the deal. “You wouldn't be. Like I said, we've got a table.”
“It's a good table too,” you noted thoughtfully.
“It is,” he chuckled, mistaking your observation for admiration. “So, what do you say?”
Your lips had already parted, another harmless lie ready to leave your mouth, when a familiar pinch landed lightly against your side to steal your attention as it always did. You didn't even have to turn around to know who it was, Simon had a habit of getting your attention exactly like that whenever he wanted nothing more than to disappear back into his office but had still come to fetch you himself so he could walk you in.
You didn't even turn around. Instead, your hand reached back to catch his wrist behind you, fingers closing around it before he could continue walking away, subtly pulling him closer.
Simon followed without the slightest resistance, allowing himself to be guided through the crowd as though your grip rivaled the strength you knew he possessed, weaving between people until he came to a stop beside you.
You could feel his eyes settle on you immediately, carrying that familiar silent question of ‘What was that about?’ but you never looked up at him, keeping your attention fixed squarely on Blake with the same pleasant smile you'd been wearing all along. “Simon,” you said brightly, “perfect timing. This is my new friend...” You gestured toward the man in front of you before pausing with an exaggerated frown.
“Blake,” he supplied quickly, extending his hand toward Simon.
“Blake, yes,” you echoed with a small puff of air through your nose. “Sorry. Terrible memory.”
Simon accepted the offered hand without hesitation, his much larger one swallowing Blake's entirely. Under any other circumstances he probably wouldn't have bothered but you were the one making the introduction, which meant there was a reason for it.
He trusted you with an unsettling certainty, following your lead the way other men followed maps. His instincts had never failed him where you were concerned and somewhere along the way you'd become the closest thing he had to a rulebook in situations that didn't come with one.
Watching Blake's confidence visibly shrink beneath that handshake was enough to make you laugh. “He's the owner,” you announced cheerfully, raising your brows toward Simon as you finished the last sip of your drink.
“The owna'?” Simon repeated, glancing down at you for confirmation.
You nodded once, setting the empty glass on the bar.
Blake cleared his throat. “Y-yeah. It's not really something I like advertising, so I'd appreciate it if you kept it on the down low,” he said with an awkward chuckle, the easy swagger he'd approached you with now noticeably thinning. “I was just inviting the pretty girl over for a few drinks. I'd invite you too, big guy, but we need to keep this place open through the weekend.” He laughed at his own joke and reached over to clap Simon firmly on the shoulder. The impact barely disturbed the fabric of his shirt, let alone the man beneath it.
Simon glanced down to where Blake's hand had landed on his shoulder, then at you, his eyes lingering briefly to silently confirm what he already knew. ‘Pretty’ wasn't the word for it, you looked gorgeous, always did, whether you were dressed up for a night out or tucked away in his office hiding from the rest of the world with him. If he were any less selfish, he might've called it a waste.
“Mhm,” he murmured, dragging his gaze back to Blake. “Wouldn't want t' drink all the stock.”
Blake laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “No offense.”
You looked between them, thoroughly entertained, deciding the poor man had suffered enough for one evening. “Right, well...thanks for the invite, Jake, was it?” you asked with an innocent shrug that made Blake open his mouth to correct you before thinking better of it. “But I've got plans.”
Without waiting for an answer, you slipped into the crowd, disappearing between dancing bodies while both men watched you go, though for very different reasons, until Simon's attention drifted back to Blake as though struck by an afterthought.
“Could I leave ya my curriculum t' be a bouncer?” he asked with complete seriousness. Somehow, through the music and the haze of conversation, you still caught every word and couldn’t help but chuckle to yourself.
Blake blinked, his eyes slowly dragging away from your retreating figure to meet the towering man beside him. “Uh…” He hesitated, genuinely considering it before giving a small apologetic smile as he began walking away. “I don't think you're the right fit.”
“First time I've ever been told tha’,” Simon muttered, turning to follow you but before he'd taken more than a step, Soap's voice rang out from behind the bar.
"Boss!" Simon stopped and looked over as Soap slapped the ten-dollar bill onto the counter with exaggerated disappointment. “Lass tried t' pay again.”
Simon cursed under his breath as though that bill represented the greatest threat to his peace all week, plucking it off the counter between two fingers before fixing Soap with a long, unimpressed stare. “And ya let 'er?” he asked, tilting his head in disbelief, the disappointment in his voice making it sound like Soap had betrayed him.
Soap barked out a laugh, unable to keep a straight face. “Practically threw it at me. Think she likes winding ye up more than she likes drinkin' for free.”
Simon exhaled through his nose, already feeling the familiar weight of a conversation he'd had a dozen times before and knew would end exactly the same way. “Alrigh'. I'll talk t' her,” he muttered with a resigned nod, pocketing the money as if reclaiming stolen property, fully aware the same speech would be delivered next weekend, ignored with the same smile and repeated again the weekend after that.
He had already turned to leave, as was his habit, never bothering to properly end conversations, when Soap leaned both forearms onto the bar, a knowing grin spreading across his face.
“Amongst other things,” he added, eyebrows lifting suggestively.
Simon stopped mid-step and slowly looked back at him, finding very little employee and entirely too much friend standing behind the counter. He pointed at him without missing a beat. “You're fired.”
Soap's eyes widened theatrically as his hands flew into the air. “Wha'? It was a joke! I was just sayin’...” he protested at a volume that made a couple of customers look over but Simon was already disappearing into the crowd again, which seemed to part around his broad frame before closing behind him again.
“I know what you were sayin'. You're fired. Go piss off someone else,” he grumbled, making his way through the staff corridor toward the administrative wing tucked behind several heavy locked doors where, one by one, each door muted the pounding music until only a distant bass remained, replaced by the comforting quiet he always sought when the club became too loud.
Without bothering to knock, he leaned into Gaz's open office, where he sat hunched over his laptop, clearly intending to spend the rest of the evening buried in paperwork. “You're on main bar duty,” Simon said, jerking his thumb back toward the club. “Johnny's fired.”
Gaz didn't even look surprised anymore, only sighed as he lifted his eyes from the screen.
“Again?” he asked dryly. “What about Price?”
“Not back yet…it’s too busy to put any of the others, an’ I’m not in the business of losin’ money,” Simon said as if the conversation was settled. He paused to pat the doorframe, glancing back toward Gaz. “Put Johnny on latrine duty. I’ve got better things to do.”
With that, he disappeared down the corridor, leaving Gaz exactly where he was and Soap exactly where he always ended up, because Simon knew those words had been nothing more than oxygen wasted between friends who had never taken his threats seriously, at least without weapons involved.
He passed the lounge, the kitchen, the staff areas filled with the quiet hum of people working behind the scenes, before climbing another set of stairs and pushing through one final door that swallowed the last traces of the club’s noise. The silence on the other side was immediate and familiar and when he stepped into his office, his eyes found you instantly.
You were sitting in his chair like you owned it, your belongings long abandoned on the old leather couch in the corner, your feet propped casually on his desk beside stacks of paperwork and open files, flipping through one of his notebooks with the same effortless curiosity you had always shown toward the parts of his life he usually kept locked away. Simon didn’t comment on it, only walked over to where you had left your jacket and slipped the ten-dollar bill back into the pocket.
“Got to quit tryin’ t’ pay around here,” he said, repeating the argument you had both had too many times to count. “You’re wastin’ their time and time’s money.”
You looked up with an amused smile, watching him move around the office. “Spoken like a true businessman,” you teased. “It’s called a tip, which you should be familiar with.” Your eyes followed him as he crossed to the alcohol cart, the quiet clink of glasses filling the room as he poured whiskey for both of you. “Do you fake an accent during calls or have you developed a customer service voice already?”
Simon ignored the jab entirely, returning with both glasses and setting yours down within reach before calmly taking the notebook from your hands, it wasn’t because there was anything in it he didn’t trust you with, if there was something important enough to matter, you’d already know but because he knew you enjoyed pushing your luck.
He dropped it onto his desk with a soft thud before bringing the whiskey to his lips. “Johnny doesn’t need tips,” he said simply as he let a beat pass. “He’s fired.”
Your grin widened, you had heard that exact sentence in various forms more times than you could count and neither of you believed it. You finally lowered your feet from his desk and reached for your glass, taking a small sip while watching him over the rim.
“He’ll be back in the morning,” you said confidently, you knew Johnny too well and you knew Simon even better.
The corner of his mouth threatened to move. “Foolish of you t’ think he listened at all.”
“Well, it’s been proven that he possesses the ability,” you chuckled into the rim of your glass before taking another sip, the whiskey warming your throat as you sat comfortably. “Selective hearing…After being stuck with all of you out in the desert for years, I’d expect him to know exactly when to switch it on and when to turn it all the way off.”
Simon watched you over the top of his own glass, eyes narrowing ever so slightly with curiosity as he took a slow drink. “What’s tha’ mean?” he asked, genuinely unsure where you were going with it.
You smiled, already amused by the image in your own head. “It means he would've taken that tip as permission to hand-deliver us a box of condoms before the night's over.”
The words made Simon's hand stall halfway to his lips again. He swallowed his whiskey a little too carefully before clearing his throat. “But we're not...” He hesitated, finding it harder to finish the sentence than he had expected.
“...Fucking?” you finished for him without missing a beat, giving a small, dismissive shrug. “No. We’re just doing everything else.” You let the thought hang between you for a moment before adding, “Besides, you refusing to let me pay for anything makes me overthink it, so maybe start thinking of it as a donation instead.”
Simon blinked once, then again, his gaze never leaving yours as he quietly tried to untangle your logic. “And wha'd’ya tell him?” he asked after a moment.
You tipped your head toward the jacket hanging on the couch where he'd discreetly slipped the ten dollars back into your pocket. “Just made a joke about how big I think your dick is,” you admitted with a grin that carried absolutely no shame. “You know me.” Then you gestured lazily toward him with your glass. “Just like you know I'll find another way to tip someone on your payroll eventually.”
“I do,” he admitted with a small nod before letting out a quiet sigh, setting his glass on the desk with a soft clink that sounded louder in the stillness of the office. “If I could...know I tip big.” He delivered it with such a straight face that only the faint shift in his eyes betrayed the innuendo hiding beneath the words, his thick accent doing little to soften it.
Your brows lifted for the briefest moment as you instinctively sat forward, your gaze dipping below his belt before you forced it back to his, biting back a smile that threatened to give you away. “I figured,” you replied, amusement lingering in your voice. “So why don't you?”
Simon held your gaze for a long second before reaching for his glass again, rolling the last mouthful of whiskey around as though it might help him find the right words. “'Cause it's where we're too similar,” he answered, finishing the drink before setting the empty glass aside. “We'd keep comin' back for more.” His eyes dropped briefly to the amber stain left at the bottom of the glass before finding yours again. “I know I would.”
You leaned back into his chair, one arm resting comfortably on the armrest as you exhaled through your nose, entirely too calm for the conversation you were having. “Worried it's not something you can give?” you asked gently.
Simon's jaw clenched. “Afraid it's not somethin' you want.”
The quiet smile that found your lips, made something tighten painfully in his chest. You took another slow sip of your whiskey without ever looking away from him. “You might not know me that well then.”
Simon had become a selfish man. Once, he had convinced himself that surviving was enough, that wanting more than the next mission, the next deployment and quiet night alone was a luxury reserved for other people. It should have been enough, yet the more life offered him, the more he found himself wanting to reach for it with both hands instead of letting it pass by, he wondered whether all the rules he had built his life around had only ever been placeholders until someone came along worth rewriting them for.
Classification and cw: Smut +18 | Kinks (dominance, light restraint, edging, hair pulling, sensory play, praise), aftercare, dirty talk, power exchange, semi-public/risky encounters, violence/trauma references and PTSD elements.
Word count: 6,3k
Divider by me ;)
A - Aftercare: The former King of Hawkins High who evolved into the ultimate babysitter and protector after diving headfirst into the horrors of the Upside Down, treats aftercare like one of his non-negotiable duties. By the time he is fully entangled with the group, driving the kids around in his BMW, wielding that nail bat and trading sarcastic quips with Robin at Family Video, he has learned that real strength means showing up for the people he cares about, especially after intense moments.
Imagine a stolen night in his parents' empty house after a close call with demodogs or Vecna's influence lingering in the air. Sweat still clings to his chest, his famously great hair tousled from your fingers, as he pulls you close on the king-sized bed. He keeps a warm washcloth ready in the bathroom (old habits from trying to be the perfect boyfriend back in the day), gently cleaning you up while murmuring in that low, self-deprecating tone, "You did so good for me, baby. Took everything I gave you like a champ." He wraps you in one of his letterman jackets or a soft blanket, holding you against him as he strokes your back. Steve has grown into someone who checks in, "Was that too much? Tell me where your head's at." He fetches a soda from the fridge or plays a mixtape he made for you on the stereo, the soft 80s synth filling the room while he listens to how you feel. This is Steve proving he is nothing like the distant, neglectful parents who left him alone in that big house, his care is fierce, consistent and laced with that signature Harrington charm.
B - Babysitter instinct: Steve's protective "babysitter" energy translates perfectly into the bedroom, especially post-Season 2 when he has fully embraced looking out for the kids and the group. He is dominant in a guiding, watchful way, never controlling out of ego but out of that deep-seated need to keep you safe in a town full of literal monsters. He’s the guy who’s been hit in the head too many times, who’s fought demodogs and who now channels all that hyper-vigilance into making sure you’re taken care of, even (especially) when you’re falling apart under him.
In a midway-kinky scene, he might “babysit” you through an intense edging session on the hood of his car parked deep in the woods after a risky Upside Down-related errand. The engine is still ticking as it cools, headlights off, only the faint glow of the dashboard radio lighting his face. His strong hands pin your hips down gently but firmly against the warm metal, that signature smirk in place as he says, “Stay right there, honey. I’ve got you…just like everything else. Let me take care of this.”
He brings you close over and over with his mouth and fingers, pulling back right when your thighs start shaking. His voice stays low and teasing with that sarcastic encouragement he’s famous for, “Don’t fight it. I know what you need. Breathe… yeah, just like that. Good girl.” He keeps one hand splayed across your stomach like he’s physically holding you together, the other working you expertly while he watches your face the entire time, checking for any sign that it’s too much. The thrill of secrecy makes everything sharper.
Afterward he always debriefs, pulling you into his chest in the backseat, running fingers over your skin and asking quietly if you’re okay, if the power exchange felt good, if there’s anything he should do differently next time. It’s rooted in his growth from selfish King Steve to the selfless guardian who’ll throw himself in front of danger without hesitation, only now the danger is how hard he can make you come before you lose your mind.
C - Caretaking kink: Whether he’s patching up the Party after battles, driving the kids around in the middle of the night or making sure everyone’s got snacks and a safe place to crash, he finds real satisfaction in providing. In intimate moments this becomes a full-blown kink with slow, attentive worship where he focuses entirely on your pleasure like it’s his personal mission.
Picture a steamy shower in his big empty house after a long shift at Scoops Ahoy or Family Video. The 80s tiles are fogging up, water beating down as he washes your hair with careful fingers, massaging your scalp like he’s got all the time in the world. He’ll kiss every bruise or hickey he left the night before, murmuring apologies mixed with praise. Then he drops to his knees on the wet floor, water dripping from his perfect hair and looks up at you with those big brown eyes while his tongue works you over with focused dedication.
“God, you taste amazing,” he groans against you, the vibration making your knees weak. “Just relax and let me handle it, okay? I’ve got you.” He’s relentless in the best way, two fingers curling just right while his mouth stays on you, bringing you over the edge repeatedly before he even thinks about himself. He loves the way you grab his hair, the way your voice echoes off the tiles and the way you go boneless against the wall when he finally lets you come.
It soothes his own insecurities about being “just the muscle” or the guy who used to be all flash and no substance, making you fall apart becomes proof that he’s good for something deeper now. Afterward he wraps you in the biggest, fluffiest towel, carries you to his bed if your legs are too shaky and keeps the caretaking going with some cuddling, snacks and soft kisses on your forehead while he checks in. “You good? Need anything else, princess?”
D - Dirty talk: Steve is surprisingly verbal once he drops the cool-guy facade. His dirty talk is a perfect mix of 80s swagger, sarcastic teasing and genuine affection that makes your stomach flip. He’s not crude for the sake of it, it’s always laced with that signature charm and the protective streak he’s developed after everything he’s been through.
Pinned beneath him in his bedroom, the faint glow of his bedside lamp catching the sweat on his shoulders, he might growl against your ear, voice low and rough, “Fuck, you’re so tight for me…my good girl.” He builds you up with steady praise while he moves inside you, “Look at you, taking me so well. I knew you could handle it. Just like that…yeah, squeeze me again.”
He’ll mix in that sarcastic edge that never fully left him, “Thought you said you could keep quiet? C’mon, let me hear it. The neighbors already think I’m a delinquent anyway.” But it always circles back to reassurance. Mid-thrust he’ll slow down, press his forehead to yours and check in with a soft, breathless “You okay, honey? Too much?” before picking up the pace again when you nod. “I’ve got you. Let go for me. I want to feel you come on me like only I can make you.” He loves whispering filthy praise while his hair falls in his face, eyes locked on yours the whole time.
E - Experience: Steve had plenty of casual experience as King Steve from pool parties, backseat hookups, the kind of quick, ego-stroking encounters that never went deeper than a night but with you, especially after Season 3 and 4 when he’s working retail jobs, bonding with Robin and confronting his own insecurities, he learns to slow down and actually communicate.
He studies your body like he memorizes the kids’ routines or the layout of the Starcourt mall. He remembers exactly how you like his fingers curled, the precise angle that makes your back arch and the way you shiver when he kisses that spot just below your ear. He’s confident without being arrogant, open to experimenting but always discusses it first, “You ever thought about trying this? We can stop anytime, just say the word.”
What used to be shallow technique becomes attentive skill. He turns potential awkwardness into shared laughter like the time he nearly fell off the bed trying a new position and ended up cracking a joke about Russian torture being less complicated. That trust makes the sex better every time because he’s not afraid to admit when he’s learning, “Tell me if this feels good… yeah? Fuck, the way you sound when I do that…I’m never forgetting it.”
F - Foreplay: Steve excels at drawn-out, teasing foreplay. He’s patient, using his charm, his hands and that devastating smile to turn you into a mess before he even gets your clothes fully off.
In his car parked at the quarry or a quiet spot outside town, the windows fogging up while a mixtape plays low, maybe some Springsteen or The Police, he kisses you deeply, one hand sliding under your blouse while the other grips your thigh. He takes his time, sucking marks into your neck, careful ones that can be hidden with a scarf or high collar while his fingers tease light, maddening touches over your clothes until you’re squirming.
“Patience, honey,” he murmurs against your skin, that smirk clear in his voice. “I’ve waited through demodogs, Russians and a thousand screaming kids. I can wait to hear you moan my name properly.” He loves building it slowly by kissing down your chest, tongue flicking over sensitive spots, fingers slipping under fabric but never giving you everything at once. He watches your reactions like it’s the most important thing in the world, whispering encouragement the whole time, “So pretty like this…”
By the time he finally sinks into you, you’re already shaking and he loves every second of it. Foreplay with Steve isn’t just the warm-up, it’s part of the caretaking and of making sure you feel completely wanted before he loses himself in you.
G - Guiding hands: Steve's strong, capable hands become one of the most intoxicating parts of being with him. He’s acutely aware of his own strength and is careful with it, turning those hands into tools of both control and comfort.
He loves pinning your wrists gently above your head with one big hand while the other explores your body. The hold is secure and protective with enough pressure to make you feel held and completely safe in his grip. “I’ve got you,” he says, voice low and steady like when he’s herding the Party away from danger. His thumb brushes soothing circles over your pulse point even as he’s buried deep inside you, a constant reminder that you’re safe with him.
In heated moments he’ll use those hands to guide your hips exactly where he wants them or wrap one around your throat with the lightest pressure while murmuring, “Eyes on me, honey. Just feel me.”
Afterward he’s always massaging your wrists gently, kissing the spots he held, checking for any discomfort with that soft, concerned look that melts you every time. Those guiding hands make you feel claimed and cherished at the same time.
H - Hair pulling (light): Steve’s famously great hair is not just for show, especially once he has traded popularity for protecting the Party from the Upside Down horrors. By Seasons 3 and 4, when he is working at Family Video or Scoops Ahoy and has faced Russians, demodogs and Vecna’s curse, he craves that tangible connection during intimate moments. He loves when you thread your fingers through his thick, perfectly styled hair and tug lightly as he thrusts into you on the plush couch in his empty family house, the distant hum of a radio playing in the background.
The sensation makes him groan deeply, hips snapping forward with a little more urgency as he buries his face in your neck. “Fuck, honey, do that again,” he murmurs in that smooth, slightly breathless voice. He returns the favor gently, fingers sliding into your hair to guide your head for a messy kiss or to tilt your face so he can watch your expressions while he grinds deep and slow. It’s never harsh or painful, just enough pull to heighten the connection, a playful reminder of how alive you both feel after surviving another close call with the other dimension. He checks in constantly with soft questions like “Too much?” or “Feels good?” because his experiences have taught him that real strength is knowing when to hold back.
In a heated quick moment in the back of his car parked at Lover’s Lake after a tense night watching for threats, your hands fisting in his hair as you ride him turns the windows foggy and draws out those rare, unguarded sounds from King Steve. The light hair pulling becomes another thread in the trust you have built, blending the adrenaline of your secret life with raw, affectionate pleasure.
I - Intimacy: For Steve, intimacy is the core that makes everything else worthwhile after the chaos of the Upside Down. Once he is deeply involved with the kids, driving them around Hawkins and sharing knowing looks with Robin about the weirdness of it all, he values real emotional closeness more than anything. Even in midway-kinky scenes, he needs eye contact, foreheads pressed together and whispered confessions.
Picture a quiet night in his empty house after helping the Party escape another threat. He has you beneath him on his bed, moving slow and deep, one hand cupping your face so you can’t look away. “Stay with me, baby,” he whispers, voice rough with emotion. “Just us right now…no monsters, no bullshit.” His thrusts are measured, grinding against you with every roll of his hips while he kisses you like he is afraid the world might end again. The kinky elements, like light restraints from a silk scarf or his belt, only heighten the feeling of being completely seen and safe with each other.
He talks openly during and after, sharing how the battles have changed him and asking about your fears, turning the bedroom into a sanctuary where vulnerability is as powerful as any nail bat swing. This deep intimacy helps him process the weight of being the group’s protector, making every touch and shared breath, a reaffirmation that he is more than the former King of Hawkins, he is yours.
J - Joyrides: Joyrides in Steve’s car are charged with kinky energy, especially during the later seasons when late-night drives serve as both escape and lookout for Upside Down activity. He pulls over at a secluded spot outside town, engine still ticking as it cools and hauls you into the backseat with that smirk of his. The leather seats creak under you as he peels away layers of clothing, hands roaming with confidence while a mixtape of upbeat tracks plays low. He loves the confined space for its forced closeness, fingers teasing between your thighs and mouth hot on your neck, building tension until he has you straddling him. The risk of passing headlights or distant thunder that could signal danger adds adrenaline but Steve stays in control, with one hand steady on your hip while the other explores. “You feel so good like this,” he groans, guiding you down onto him with care. Afterward he drives with one hand on your thigh, windows cracked to let in the cool Hawkins night air, talking through the session and making sure you are okay. These joyrides blend his love for speed and freedom with caretaking, turning potential danger into thrilling, intimate release.
K - Kink level: Steve operates at a solid midway-kinky level shaped by his growth across the seasons. As the former popular jock who became the reliable, bat-wielding guardian for Dustin, Lucas, Max and the rest of the Party, he is confidently dominant in a protective, guiding way. Light restraint with scarves or his own hands, praise that borders on worship, edging to draw out pleasure and caretaking elements dominate his style. He stays far away from anything violent, degrading or truly painful, the real monsters he has faced make him fiercely committed to safety, enthusiastic consent and frequent check-ins. “You tell me if anything changes, okay? I’ve got you,” is a constant refrain. His kinks revolve around trust built through shared trauma and everyday normalcy at Family Video or the mall. Everything feels fun, immersive and deeply connective, with plenty of sarcastic humor to keep things light even when the intensity peaks. This level lets him channel his strength into making you feel cherished and secure in a town that offers little safety.
L - Locations: Steve is hyper-aware of the constant dangers lurking in Hawkins, so every location is chosen and prepared with safety and secrecy in mind. His parents’ empty house is the go-to for long, uninterrupted nights, sprawling across his king bed with zero fear of interruption but he also thrives on the risky thrill of other spots.
The back of his car during night patrols is a favorite. The storage room at Family Video after closing, surrounded by stacks of VHS tapes and the faint buttery smell of old popcorn leads to quick, desperate encounters against the shelves. Hidden clearings in the woods near the quarry feel dangerous and exhilarating, he always brings a blanket, keeps one ear open for anything unnatural and has an exit plan ready like the seasoned survivor he is.
Lazy afternoons at the empty community pool (after hours, of course) let him indulge in playful variety, chasing you through the water, then lifting you onto the edge for teasing foreplay with ice cream smeared across your skin from Scoops Ahoy shifts. Stolen moments in the back of the ice cream shop after closing turn into sticky, giggling sessions that quickly become heated. No matter where you are, Steve turns even risky places into safe havens through preparation, constant check-ins and that protective instinct that never sleeps.
M - Mirror (or reflection): Mirror play appeals to Steve’s lingering appreciation for visuals. In the large bathroom mirror of his family home, he positions you so both of you can watch him standing behind you, one arm banded securely around your waist while he enters you slowly. His chin rests on your shoulder, eyes locked on your reflection as he murmurs, “Look how perfect we look together. You’re so beautiful like this.” He keeps the pace deep and rolling, one hand sliding down to circle your clit while narrating softly how warm your skin feels and how well you take him. The reflective surface lets him read every micro-expression, adjusting instantly if he sees anything off, true to his instincts honed through seasons of watching over the Party. There aren’t any harsh grips, just steady strength and constant praise that combats any doubts, turning the visual into emotional vulnerability and connection after all the unseen horrors you have faced together.
N - Nail bat energy: Steve channels the fierce energy of his nail bat into controlled dominance that feels safe, empowering and deeply personal.
In his bedroom after a long strategy session with the group, the faint smell of pizza and tension still lingering in the air, he uses his body to pin you gently against the mattress. His strong hands hold your wrists above your head with enough pressure to remind you how strong he is while his hips grind slowly between your thighs. There is no actual bat of course but he brings the metaphor in with that sarcastic-yet-earnest voice you love. “This right here?” he murmurs against your neck between kisses, “This is nothing compared to what I’d do out there for you. I’d swing for anything that tried to hurt you…but right now I just want to make you feel good.”
He teases you open with his fingers, precise and relentless, keeping you right on the edge with perfect strokes while his free hand roams your body. He stays playful about it, never letting it cross into anything dark. “Think I could take on a demodog one-handed while doing this?” he jokes breathlessly right before he makes you fall apart with a particularly devastating curl of his fingers.
O - Oral: Steve is an incredibly generous and skilled giver when it comes to oral. He takes his time, settling between your thighs on his bed or the backseat, strong hands holding you open while his mouth works you over with dedication. His tongue is talented and relentless, alternating broad strokes with attention on your clit until your legs shake. “Taste so fucking good,” he mumbles against you, looking up with those warm eyes and messy hair, the same proud expression he gets when the kids succeed. He draws it out, bringing you close and backing off slightly in a light edge, then dives back in with renewed enthusiasm. When you return the favor he is vocal and appreciative, fingers in your hair guiding gently while praising you. Long sessions often follow close calls with the Upside Down, turning physical relief into emotional grounding.
P - Pace: Steve masters a full range of paces but he’s especially skilled at reading what you need in the moment. After narrowly escaping danger, the adrenaline often leads to hard and fast, slamming you against the wall of the empty house, breath hot on your neck as he groans your name like a prayer and a curse. “Fuck, I need you,” he growls, hips snapping with urgency that leaves you both breathless and shaking.
Most of the time though, he prefers a slower, more controlled build. Deep, grinding thrusts that let him feel every flutter and clench, forehead pressed to yours, eyes half-lidded as he watches your face. He reads your body like a book from the way your nails dig into his back, to the hitch in your breathing and how you moan his name and adjusts perfectly. “Slow like this?” he’ll murmur, rolling his hips in a devastating circle. “Or do you need it harder, honey? Tell me what you want.”
He loves drawing it out, making you beg with teasing thrusts, then giving you exactly what you need when you’re trembling beneath him. The man who once coasted on charm now puts in the work to make every second feel perfect.
Q - Quickies: Steve is exceptionally good at quickies, a skill honed by his chaotic life balancing dead-end shifts at Scoops Ahoy or Family Video, wrangling a bunch of supernatural-traumatized kids and constantly watching for interdimensional threats. He’s efficient without being selfish, the type of guy who can go from zero to making you see stars in under ten minutes but still ensures you’re taken care of.
In the Family Video break room during a slow afternoon, with the bell above the front door rigged to give a few seconds warning, he’ll yank your pants down, bend you over the rickety table and bury himself in you with efficient, devastating strokes. One hand covers your mouth to muffle your moans while the other grips your hip hard enough to leave faint marks you’ll trace later with a smile. “Gotta be fast, honey but I’m still making you come,” he promises in that low, breathless voice, lips brushing your ear. His fingers slip between your legs, working your clit in tight circles in perfect sync with his thrusts.
The faint smell of stale popcorn and plastic VHS cases fills the air as he drives into you with intensity, hair falling messily over his forehead.
He always makes sure you finish first, sometimes twice if he’s feeling particularly cocky, before chasing his own release. Afterward you’re both flushed, grinning like idiots, fixing your clothes with hasty laughs and stolen kisses. He’ll run his fingers over your hair to tame it, wipe away smudged lipstick with his thumb and murmur, “Still okay? Didn’t hurt you, did I?”
R - Risk: The constant undercurrent of danger in Hawkins and the ever-present risk of Upside Down exposure, demodogs or worse, makes semi-public and secretive encounters with Steve thrilling yet meticulously managed.
In town, the back alley behind Family Video after closing or the locked storage room become playgrounds for charged, whispered sex where every creak of the floorboards or distant car engine sends a jolt through both of you. Steve turns that risk into shared excitement that deepens your bond as fellow survivors. He’ll pull you close afterward, breathing hard, stroking your back while he scans the darkness out of habit. “You’re safe. I’ve always got an exit plan, remember?” The danger never fully leaves him but with you it transforms into something electric, a reminder that you’re both still here, still fighting, still finding pleasure and connection despite everything trying to tear Hawkins apart.
S - Sensory/scents: Steve engages every sense with pure 80s flair and the attentive care that defines him now. He’s a man who notices details and he brings that same awareness into the bedroom, overwhelming you in the best possible way.
His signature cologne, something clean and woody with a hint of musk, mixed with the worn leather of his jacket creates an addictive scent that makes your head spin when he pulls you close. He loves using temperature play, stealing ice cubes from the fridge in his empty house and trailing them slowly down your body while you’re blindfolded with one of his bandanas. “Feel that chill?” he murmurs, voice husky as the ice melts against your heated skin. “Now my mouth…yeah, just like that. Fuck, you’re so sensitive.” The contrast between cold and the heat of his tongue has you arching off the bed.
He incorporates texture intentionally, the rough denim of his jeans rubbing against your inner thighs as he grinds slowly, soft feathers pulled from a torn pillow teased across your breasts and stomach or the smooth warmth of his palms mapping every inch of you. The low hum of his favorite mixtape provides the soundtrack, mixing with his filthy praise and the wet sounds of his fingers or mouth working you open. He describes everything in that smooth Hawkins drawl: “God, you smell so good when you’re this turned on. Can feel how wet you are for me…hear how desperate you sound? Just let me take care of you.”
T - Toys (improvised): Steve gets wonderfully creative with improvised toys when high-end options are not exactly lining the shelves of Hawkins. His resourcefulness shines through as he turns everyday household items into tools of pleasure. He always keeps your comfort and enthusiastic consent at the absolute center.
He discusses everything first so he can make sure you are fully on board. “What do you think about trying the ice tonight? I will go slow, promise. Tell me if it is too much.”
He trails the ice cube across your nipples and down your stomach until you are shivering and aching, he then immediately follows it with the heat of his mouth. He might use the smooth handle of a hairbrush for gentle internal stimulation. If you manage to get your hands on a discreet vibrator from a trip to the mall or a catalog order, he incorporates it like a pro. He holds it against you while he fucks you slow and deep, with his eyes locked on your face the entire time to read every reaction.
“Feel good?” he murmurs in a low husky voice. “Want me to turn it up? Or do you want my fingers instead?” Everything is done with care and curiosity. He loves watching you fall apart from the new sensations but he’s quick to stop and switch to his hands or mouth the second anything feels off.
U - Undress: Steve savors undressing you like it’s a sacred ritual. He turns the simple act of removing clothes into one of the most erotic and affectionate parts of being together. He takes his time and lets anticipation build with every layer peeled away. Whether it’s your tight denim, delicate lace or one of those oversized sweaters you steal from his closet, Steve will worship you with reverence.
He starts with slow deep kisses as he slips your jacket off your shoulders. He then trails his lips down your neck while unbuttoning your blouse. “God, you’re beautiful,” he whispers against your collarbone while pushing fabric aside so he can taste the skin underneath. He loves it when you wear his jacket or one of his stolen work vests from Scoops Ahoy or Family Video.
The process is always teasing yet deeply affectionate. He kisses the tops of your breasts as he unhooks your bra and flicks his tongue out to taste you the second you’re bare. When he finally slides your panties down your legs, he follows the path with his mouth and murmurs praise the entire way. “So soft. So perfect. Been thinking about this all damn day.”
The sight of you in his clothes makes something primal flare in his chest. He pushes the oversized fabric up around your waist while he’s inside you, with the Harrington name tag brushing against your skin as he thrusts.
V - Volume: Steve is wonderfully vocal. He fills the space around you with a symphony of groans, filthy praise, sarcastic one-liners and that deep husky voice that makes your toes curl.
He has never been shy about expressing himself and once the cool-guy walls came down his sounds and words became one of the most addictive parts of being with him. Whether it’s in the privacy of his big empty house or a risky spot where you have to stay quiet, Steve uses volume as another way to connect and heighten everything.
Pinned beneath him in his bedroom with the headboard knocking softly against the wall, he lets out low groans right against your ear every time you clench around him. “Fuck, baby. You feel incredible. So tight and warm like you were made for me.” He mixes raw dirty talk with genuine affection effortlessly. “That is my good girl, let me hear you. You sound so good when you moan my name like that.”
When the location demands quiet, he muffles your cries with deep devouring kisses yet he’ll actively encourage you to let go when it’s safe and coaxes you with that signature sarcastic charm. “Come on honey. Don’t hold back on me now. The neighbors already think I’m trouble so we might as well give them a show...” Even in the middle of intense punishing thrusts, he drops playful one-liners that make you laugh and clench at the same time. His voice gets rougher as he gets closer, breaking into breathy praises and desperate groans that let you know exactly how wrecked he is for you.
The combination of his sounds, his dirty encouragement and the way he listens and reacts to every noise you make, turns sex into something immersive and deeply intimate. Afterward, when the room falls quiet except for your slowing breaths, he’s still murmuring soft affection against your skin.
W - Wild card: Steve’s standout wild card is edging. It’s the perfect blend of his babysitter instincts and his deep need to keep you safe even while pushing your limits. He brings you right to the edge, holding you there with expert precision while constantly reassuring you and turning the tension into something cathartic and profoundly bonding.
“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs in a voice that stays steady and warm even as his fingers or cock keep you teetering on the brink. “ Just hold on a little longer…Trust me, I know what you need.” His strong hands pin you in place or stroke soothing patterns across your skin so you never feel abandoned in the overwhelming sensations. He watches your face the entire time, reading every tremble, gasp and every flutter of your lashes. The build-up is exquisite torture with slow deep thrusts that drag right against that perfect spot inside you combined with his mouth on your neck and his filthy-sweet praise.
When he finally lets you tip over the edge, the release is absolutely shattering. Your whole body seizes as waves of pleasure crash through you and Steve is right there through all of it. He holds you tight and talks you through the orgasm with words like, “That’s it, let it all go. So fucking beautiful when you come for me.”
The intensity leaves you boneless and floating, often with tears in your eyes from how overwhelming and safe it feels at the same time.
He pulls you into his chest, wipes your tears, gets you water, strokes your hair and checks in softly until you are fully back with him.
X - Explicit communication: Steve believes in raw, honest explicit communication both in and out of the bedroom. He describes exactly how you feel around him with zero filter. “God, you’re soaking my fingers. So fucking warm and tight, gripping me like you never want me to leave.” He wants the same level of honesty from you and creates a space where you feel safe giving it. “Tell me how you want it. Harder? Deeper? Want my mouth on you while I fuck you with my fingers?” There is no vagueness and no guessing games. It’s just clear, filthy and loving communication that makes every encounter better.
During sex he narrates what he’s doing and how it’s affecting him. “Feel that? That’s me rubbing right against that spot you love. Fuck… your thighs are shaking. You’re gonna come again aren’t you, baby?” He constantly checks in with soft but direct questions even in the heat of the moment. “I need you to come on my cock honey…Let me feel it. I’m right here with you.”
By the time you are both coming down, tangled together and catching your breath, the honest words keep flowing with praise, affection and quiet admissions that make you feel closer to him than ever.
Y - Yearning: Separations caused by dangerous missions into the Upside Down, late-night kid-wrangling duties or the need to keep certain town secrets hidden, make Steve’s yearning for you intense and all-consuming. He’s the guy who has lost count of how many times he has had to watch people he cares about disappear into danger so every moment apart from you weighs on him heavily. The longing builds like pressure until he can finally get back to you.
He shows up at your door or the arranged meeting spot looking a little rumpled with maybe a bruise fading on his cheekbone or his hair still messy from the wind. He carries small thoughtful gifts such as a new mixtape he spent hours curating with songs that remind him of you, lots of heartfelt ballads mixed with upbeat tracks for the drive, your favorite snacks from the gas station or a single flower he definitely stole from someone’s yard on the way over. The second he sees you the dam breaks and he pulls you into a crushing hug with hands roaming like he needs to reassure himself you are real and safe before the kisses turn deep and desperate.
Those passionate reunions are filled with months’ worth of pent-up need poured out in one night. He kisses you like he is starving against the wall or tumbling straight into his bed. His hands map every inch of you as if committing it to memory all over again. “Missed you so fucking much,” he groans between kisses with his voice rough with emotion. “Every damn night I was out there all I could think about was getting back to you.” The sex is intense and multi-round mixing slow savoring touches with urgent needy fucking that leaves you both sweaty and marked up. He whispers constant reaffirmations. “You are my safe place. Do not ever doubt that.” The separation makes every moment together feel infinitely more precious. It’s a reminder that in a town that keeps trying to tear everything apart, the two of you keep finding your way back to each other.
Z - Zzz (Sleep): After thorough aftercare with cleaning you up gently, making sure you have had water and snacks massaging any sore muscles and talking softly about how you’re feeling, Steve pulls you close like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
His strong arm drapes protectively over your waist with his chest pressed to your back and his nose buried in your hair as he finally lets himself drift off. In his parents’ house or a makeshift safe hideout after a long night you become his anchor against the darkness that still haunts him.
Steve doesn’t sleep easily. The nightmares of demodogs, the Russian base, Vecna’s curse and the fear of losing the kids or you, linger even years later but with you there warm and safe in his arms his body finally relaxes. His breathing evens out and the constant tension in his shoulders melts away as he holds you like you might vanish if he loosens his grip. He sleeps better knowing you are protected and loved with the steady rhythm of your heartbeat under his palm acting as the best lullaby he’s ever had.
In the morning he wakes slowly often before you and is content to just watch you sleep for a few peaceful minutes with that soft unguarded expression he rarely shows the world. Lazy morning talks come easily with his voice still sleepy and raspy as he traces patterns on your skin.
“Morning honey. You okay after last night?” These quiet moments often lead to more of that devoted care. Slow gentle morning sex or just lying there tangled together talking about everything and nothing while sunlight filters through the curtains. He makes breakfast or at least attempts it with his limited skills, brings you coffee and checks in again making sure the night’s intensity has not left you overwhelmed.
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A - Affection: In the quiet moments between the chaos, he pulls you into his lap on the worn couch of whatever hidden spot you’re meeting in, his usual sharp edges dulling as he buries his face in your neck.
“Don’t know why it’s different with you,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and conflicted, hands sliding under your shirt with uncharacteristic gentleness. His fingers trace slow patterns along your back before cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples until they pebble. He kisses you deeply before laying you down and settling between your thighs.
When he pushes his cock inside your pussy it’s slow and deep, eyes locked on yours the entire time. “You make me feel like maybe I’m not completely fucked up,” he whispers, hips rolling in a steady rhythm that builds heat without the usual brutality. His forehead rests against yours as you both chase release, his hand intertwining with yours.
Even when the conflict flashes in his eyes, the Kook prince tangled with a Pogue, he never takes it out on you. He holds you after, stroking your hair and pressing soft kisses to your temple. The affection becomes a rare sanctuary in your turbulent world.
B - Bruises (gentle): Rafe still leaves marks but they come from passion rather than punishment. He’ll suck slow and very intentional hickeys along your collarbone while he’s buried inside you in the back of his truck, the windows fogged up from your shared breath.
“Want everyone to know you’re someone’s, but I don’t want to hurt you,” he admits, voice rough with conflict as he thrusts deeply but with control.
His fingers dig into your hips enough to leave faint prints that he’ll trace apologetically afterward, kissing each one softly. “Sorry, baby. Can’t help wanting to claim you.” The sex is intense but caring. He watches your face for any sign of discomfort, adjusting his pace and angle until you’re moaning his name in pleasure. When you cum he follows right after, wrapping you in his arms and whispering how he wishes things were different, how he hates that his world could hurt yours but he’ll protect you from it all.
C - Comfort: After another explosive fight with his father or a night where the weight of his family’s expectations nearly crushed him, he shows up at your small house on the Cut late at night, looking more vulnerable than anyone else ever sees him.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” he admits quietly, stepping inside and immediately pulling you into his arms. His usual sharp edges soften the moment he touches you. He kisses you slowly, deeply, like he’s trying to pour all his chaos into something good.
His hands slide under your oversized t-shirt, mapping every curve as if memorizing you yet he doesn’t rush. He lays you down on your bed, the one that’s too small for his tall frame and spends a long time just kissing down your body, collarbones, breasts, stomach and inner thighs, whispering how you’re the only thing that quiets the noise in his head.
When he finally settles between your legs and pushes his thick cock inside your pussy, every inch is savored.
“You feel like comfort I don’t deserve,” he breathes against your neck, hips rolling in a steady rhythm that builds heat gradually. His eyes stay locked on yours most of the time, watching every flicker of pleasure across your face.
One hand holds yours, fingers intertwined, while the other caresses your cheek or brushes hair from your forehead. “I’ll figure out how to make this work, I swear. I won’t let my shit touch you.” When he follows you over the edge, he holds you tight through the aftershocks, staying buried inside you as long as possible, stroking your sides and pressing gentle kisses to your temple. In these moments, you are his safe harbor and he makes sure you feel cherished rather than caught in his storm.
D - Devotion: He shows it in how he risks being seen with you on the Cut or how he discreetly pays for things you need without making it feel like charity.
In bed, that devotion manifests as worship. He’ll pull you onto his lap in the driver’s seat of his truck parked deep in the marsh, hands gentle as they roam your body.
“You’re the only person who makes me want to be better,” he confesses, voice thick as he helps you sink down onto his cock. The sex is slow and intimate with deep rolls of his hips to meet yours, his mouth on your neck and breasts, murmuring how perfect your pussy feels around him.
He watches your face the entire time, adjusting his angle until your moans tell him he’s found the perfect spot. “I’d burn everything down for you but I’m trying not to,” he admits during a particularly emotional thrust, the conflict clear but never weaponized against you.
His hands stay gentle, one steadying your hip while the other rubs your clit with patient circles. He draws out your pleasure until you’re trembling and cumming around him, then follows with a soft groan of your name, holding you close as you both come down.
Afterward he doesn’t pull away. He keeps you in his lap, still connected, caressing your skin and telling you stories from his childhood he’s never shared with anyone else. He may be a Cameron but with you he chooses softness, choosing to protect your heart even when his own is at war.
E - Endless: The desire Rafe feels for you is endless, a constant undercurrent that doesn’t fade even when the world tries to pull you apart. He can spend hours touching and loving you when you have the rare luxury of time.
In the Cameron boathouse on a night when his family is away, he lays out soft blankets and takes his time undressing you under the moonlight filtering through the windows.
Every piece of clothing removed is followed by slow, worshipping kisses.
“I could do this all night,” he murmurs, lips brushing your inner thigh before his tongue finds your clit. He eats your pussy with patient devotion, bringing you to the edge and then easing you back down multiple times until you’re shaking. When he finally slides into you, it’s with a shared sigh of relief, his thrusts long and deep, savoring every flutter and squeeze. “You feel endless to me,” he whispers, forehead against yours as he moves.
The sex stretches on, switching positions so he can hold you close, kiss you deeply and watch your pleasure. He makes you cum multiple times, each one drawn out and intense, before finally letting himself go, spilling deep inside you with your name like a prayer. Later, he holds you for hours, talking softly about dreams of a future where class doesn’t matter. The endless affection becomes a quiet rebellion against his world.
F - Forgiveness: Rafe seeks and offers forgiveness in your arms in a way he never does with anyone else. He shows up some nights carrying the weight of his mistakes, things he’s done, words he’s said and the person he’s been forced to be.
“I don’t want to bring that shit here,” he says but you pull him close anyway. He makes love to you like an apology and a promise all at once. His hands are gentle as he positions you, lips following every path his fingers take.
“I’m sorry for the parts of me that aren’t good enough for you,” he whispers between thrusts. He moves with purpose, hitting every spot that makes you gasp and moan. “You forgive me just by letting me have you like this.”
G - Gentle: Rafe can be shockingly gentle with you, a side of him that emerges only in your presence.
He’ll trace your body with feather-light touches, kissing every scar and imperfection from your life on the Cut. In your bed, with the fan spinning lazily overhead, he enters your pussy slowly, giving you time to adjust and watching your face for any discomfort.
“Tell me what feels good,” he murmurs, voice soft. He kisses you constantly with kisses that match his rhythm. “You make me want to be soft,” he admits, one hand cupping your head while the other rubs your clit gently. He brings you to orgasm with patient care, then follows, holding you close as you both come down.
H - Home: No matter how chaotic Figure Eight gets, being with you feels like returning to something real. He shows up at odd hours, sometimes conflicted and tense but the moment he’s inside you everything settles. He moves with deep, grounding strokes, whispering how you make him feel safe and wanted. “You’re home to me,” he says softly against your skin. The sex is intimate and connecting, full of eye contact, intertwined fingers and soft words.
J - Jealousy (protective): Even though Rafe softens considerably around you, a flicker of jealousy still ignites in him when he sees you interacting with your Pogue friends, especially the guys.
It never explodes into the destructive anger he’s known for with others. Instead, it manifests as possessiveness that he channels into tender reassurance. He’ll wait until you’re alone together in the back of his truck parked deep in the marsh at night, the distant sound of waves mixing with your breathing.
“I saw you laughing with JJ earlier,” he admits softly, his voice carrying that familiar tension, the Kook prince who was raised to look down on Pogues now hopelessly tangled with one but he doesn’t lash out.
He pulls you into his lap instead, hands gentle as they slide under your shirt. “I know it’s not fair. I hate that part of me still feels it.” His kisses start slowly, almost apologetically, as if he’s trying to erase his own jealousy through affection and when he finally guides you down onto his cock, it’s with a shared sigh, his hands steady on your hips as you sink down.
One hand stays on your lower back, supporting you, while the other caresses your cheek or plays with your hair. “You’re mine in the ways that matter, right?” he whispers during a deep thrust, the jealousy fading into soft devotion. He rubs your clit with patient circles, drawing out your pleasure until you’re trembling and cumming around him with promises and his name on your lips.
You encourage him to talk through his insecurities once it’s over. “I’m working on it for you. You make me want to be the kind of guy who doesn’t get jealous over nothing…but I just– I’m trying.” The protective jealousy always circles back to tenderness, reinforcing how much he wants to shield you from his own darker impulses and the judgment of his world.
K - Kisses: Rafe develops an almost obsessive tenderness for kissing you during every intimate moment, turning sex into extended makeout sessions.
Whether it’s in the Cameron boathouse or your small bedroom on the Cut, he starts by pulling you close and kissing you for what feels like an eternity with exploratory kisses that taste like longing. “I can’t get enough of your mouth,” he murmurs against your lips, hands gently cupping your face.
As clothes come off, the kisses continue everywhere in soft presses to your collarbones, lingering ones on your breasts and teasing trails down your stomach before he settles between your thighs.
He kisses your wet cunt with the same devotion in gentle licks that turn into deeper, worshipful strokes of his tongue, punctuated by actual kisses on your clit and folds.
Once inside you, he keeps kissing you through every thrust, the rhythm of his hips matching the movement of his mouth. “Kissing you while I’m inside you… it’s the closest I get to belonging,” he confesses.
The kisses remain soft and loving even as pleasure builds, his tongue dancing with yours during intense moments. He always makes sure to kiss you through your orgasm, swallowing your moans and continues kissing your face, neck and shoulders in the afterglow while holding you close.
L - Longing: The longing Rafe feels for you when circumstances force you apart is deep, aching, and constant, coloring every stolen moment with heightened emotion. After days of limited contact due to his family obligations or the need to keep your relationship hidden, he seeks you out the first chance he gets, pulling you into a secluded spot.
“I’ve been thinking about you nonstop,” he admits, voice thick as he draws you close.
The intimacy that follows is born directly from that longing. He worships your body with slow kisses and gentle hands that explore every curve like he’s afraid it might disappear.
He drops to his knees, pressing his mouth to your core with devoted, patient licks and sucks, savoring your taste and the way your thighs tremble around his head.
“This is what I’ve been yearning for,” he breathes against your skin, one hand intertwined with yours while the other caresses your hip before he goes on about all the ways he misses you when you’re apart.
M - Morning: The rare soft mornings he manages to steal with you are some of the most intimate and cherished times. He’ll sneak into your room at dawn, sliding under the covers still warm from sleep and waking you with gentle kisses along your shoulder.
“Morning, baby,” he murmurs, voice sleepy and soft. His hands explore your body with lazy affection, cupping your breasts and teasing your nipples until you’re arching into him.
He spends a long time between your thighs, using his mouth with slow licks and gentle suction, savoring every soft sound you make. “Best way to wake up,” he whispers, pressing kisses to your inner thighs and stomach.
The morning intimacy is unhurried and tender, full of soft moans and whispered words. He brings you to a gentle, shuddering orgasm with his tongue and fingers and afterward he lingers as long as he can, tracing patterns on your skin and talking quietly about his hopes for a day when he doesn’t have to sneak around.
N - Need: His need for you runs deeper than he ever anticipated, a force that draws him to you even when his Kook life pulls him in every other direction. Some nights he shows up at your door looking exhausted from family obligations, his usual confident mask slipping the moment you open it.
“I tried to stay away tonight,” he admits softly, stepping inside and immediately pulling you into a tight embrace.
His hands move with gentle urgency as he guides you toward your bed, kissing you like he’s been starving for the taste of your lips. His fingers tremble slightly with restrained desire as he kisses every new inch of exposed skin, your shoulders, the curve of your breasts, the dip of your waist and the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.
“I need you like this. Just you,” he whispers. He settles between your legs and pleasures you thoroughly with his mouth, savoring every reaction and drawing out your pleasure with patient devotion.
One hand stays laced with yours on the pillow while the other caresses your face, brushing hair from your eyes so he can maintain that eye contact while he fucks you.
“You’re the only thing that makes sense when everything else is falling apart,” he confesses. He makes sure you cum first, watching with soft eyes as pleasure washes over you, then holds you close as you come down.
In the long afterglow he stays wrapped around you, stroking your back and talking in low murmurs about his day, his fears and how being with you fills a need nothing else can touch. The need is met with nothing but tenderness. He never demands or takes, he only gives and receives with gratitude, making you feel essential rather than obligated.
O - Open: Rafe becomes strikingly open with you in ways he never allows himself with anyone else in his privileged circle, letting the walls he’s built over years of family pressure and reputation crumble during your intimate moments.
In the soft glow of string lights you hung in your room, he holds you close while sharing pieces of himself he usually keeps locked away.
“I’ve never told anyone this,” he whispers against your lips between kisses. He talks about the pressure from his father, the loneliness of being the golden boy who’s actually crumbling inside and how being with a Pogue both terrifies him and feels like the most honest thing he’s ever done.
P - Protection: Rafe’s protective instincts toward you are fierce yet expressed through consistent care and gentleness rather than control or dominance. He knows the risks of a Kook being with a Pogue on the island, the judgment, the potential backlash and it makes him even more determined to shield your heart.
In intimate moments, this protection shows as constant attentiveness. He’ll pull you close in whatever private space you’ve found and undress you slowly, checking in with soft questions. “Is this okay? Tell me if you want to stop.” His touches are careful and reverent as he pleasures you with his fingers, watching your face for any sign of discomfort and adjusting immediately.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers as you cum. He prioritizes your pleasure completely, making sure you feel safe and cherished through every touch. Even when his own emotions run high, he channels them into safeguarding your experience, never letting roughness slip through.
Q - Quiet: After a chaotic day navigating his Kook world and the constant awareness of how forbidden this relationship is, he seeks you out in the late hours when the island feels still.
He arrives at your house without fanfare, slipping inside and pulling you into bed with gentle hands. There’s very little talking at first, just the quiet sounds of breathing, fabric rustling and soft sighs as you grind together. His kisses are quiet too, pressed reverently against your skin as he explores your body with patient touches.
The intimacy is hushed and deeply connecting, with slow caresses that create a private bubble where the outside world fades. “I love the quiet with you,” he whispers against your lips. His movements stay unhurried and purposeful, one hand gently cupping your face while the other traces soothing patterns along your side. The quiet amplifies every sensation and soft sound you share as he brings you to orgasm with that same intensity, holding eye contact as you tremble.
The quiet continues with his fingers stroking your back, occasional soft kisses to your forehead and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against yours.
R - Reassurance: Rafe senses the exact moment the weight of sneaking around with a Cameron hits you, so instead of using his words first, he acts. One night, after a close call where his father’s boat nearly spotted you two in the marsh, he rows you out to a tiny hidden sandbar only locals know. Under a sky turning indigo, he spreads his jacket like a blanket and pulls you down with him.
He starts by simply wrapping around you from behind, chin on your shoulder, breathing you in. His hands slide under your shirt, warm palms mapping your ribs like he’s memorizing safety. “I know you’re scared sometimes,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “That I’ll choose the easy path…but I choose you even when it’s hard.”
His fingers drift lower, teasing with feather-light strokes until you’re arching. He kisses down your neck, slow and open-mouthed, then turns you to face him so he can watch every flicker of pleasure. He brings you over the edge twice, once with his mouth, tongue lazy and devoted because he can’t help it, no matter the spot and once with two fingers curled just right and between gasps he keeps promising, “You’re mine to protect. My safe place, too.”
The reassurance sinks in deeper than any orgasm.
S - Softness: The same hands that slam doors at the Cameron house become reverent. In the bed of his truck parked deep in the woods behind the Cut, he undresses you like you’re made of moonlight.
“You bring this out in me,” he admits, voice rough with wonder. “And I’ll never be able to thank you enough.” He cups your breasts like they’re fragile treasures, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebble. His mouth follows, sucking softly, then harder when your fingers tighten in his hair. He doesn’t pin or bruise, he merely holds you like you might slip away if he’s not careful. When he finally slides inside you, it’s slow, eyes locked, one hand laced with yours by your sides.
“I don’t want hard with you,” he breathes against your lips. “Just this.” The softness turns deliciously intimate when he stays buried deep, grinding in tiny circles while whispering how perfectly you grip him, drawing out the pleasure until you’re both shaking.
T - Tenderness: It shows up in the details before clothes come off. He shows up at your window with the oversized hoodie you love and a thermos of coffee fixed exactly how you take it. Inside, he pulls you onto his lap on the edge of your narrow bed, kissing your temples, your eyelids and the tip of your nose.
His lips trail lower, jaw, throat and collarbones, lingering at your breasts with gentle sucks and lazy licks that make your toes curl. “Show me how to love you right,” he whispers. “I only want to be gentle.”
He spends ages between your thighs, mouth and fingers working in perfect sync, reading every twitch of your hips. When you come, he doesn’t stop, he soothes you through it, then starts again softer, until you’re boneless. Afterward he cleans you with a warm cloth he warmed on your radiator, then tucks you against his chest, fingers massaging your scalp while he talks about the parts of his day he’s never told anyone else. This is how he protects your heart.
U - Understanding: Rafe understands the invisible weight you carry without you having to explain. One humid evening, after you’ve had a brutal shift at the Wreck, he sneaks in, strips you down and draws a lukewarm bath in your tiny tub. He sits behind you, legs bracketing yours, washing your shoulders while you talk.
Later in bed, his touch is pure intuition. He knows when you need him deep and slow, pressing your thighs wide and rocking into you with steady pressure that feels like being held from the inside. One hand stays splayed on your lower back, the other stroking your cheek or rolling a nipple between gentle fingers.
“I see how heavy your world is,” he says, forehead to yours. “Let me carry some of it here.” He brings you to orgasm repeatedly, adjusting angle and rhythm by the sound of your breath until you shatter. In the afterglow he listens for hours, never trying to solve your problems just making space for them beside his own.
V - Vulnerability: In your cramped room with the window cracked to let in marsh sounds, Rafe lets the mask drop completely. While he’s kissing down your stomach, he pauses.
“I’m terrified I’ll fuck this up,” he confesses, voice cracking. “That one day you’ll see the real me and leave.”
You pull him up and he sinks into you, slow and bare. The vulnerability makes every thrust feel like a promise, he buries his face in your neck, letting you feel the way his breath hitches when you clench around him. You come together, trembling and he doesn’t pull out right away, just holds you while he whispers his fears and hopes.
Being vulnerable with you is the ultimate risk he takes gladly.
W - Whisper: Rafe becomes addicted to whispering against your skin. In a secluded cove at midnight, water lapping at your ankles, he presses you against a smooth rock and drops to his knees. Then, between long, worshipful licks he murmurs, “Fuck, the way you taste…I dream about this.”
As he rises and slides his hard cock into you, the whispers never stop, “So warm…so tight for me…that little sound you just made is my new favorite.” He tells you how your pussy flutters when he hits that spot, how your existence makes him want to ruin his reputation for you. Even while you’re coming, he’s praising you in that low, wrecked voice.
X - eXclusive: This side of Rafe exists for you alone. No one on Figure Eight would believe that man pins you gently against the wall of the old abandoned lighthouse, hands exploring like he’s discovering new continents. “No one else gets me like this,” he swears, voice thick.
He drops to his knees right there, hiking one of your legs over his shoulder and devouring you until your knees buckle. When he fucks you against the weathered wood, it’s deep, possessive but never rough while every thrust is paired with eye contact and soft kisses. The exclusivity feels like the ultimate gift, the feared Kook prince chooses to be gentle, open and entirely yours in these stolen pockets of time.
Y - Yearning: The days you’re forced apart make the reunions electric. After nearly a week of radio silence, Rafe shows up soaked from a sudden storm, hair dripping. He doesn’t even make it to the bed, he lifts you onto your tiny kitchen counter, mouth hungry but hands careful.
“I missed you so fucking much,” he groans between kisses. He takes his time, fingers and tongue working you open until you’re begging, then fucks you slow and deep right there, your legs wrapped around him. The built-up yearning pours out in trembling thrusts and whispered confessions about every moment he thought of you. Afterward he carries you to bed and holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again.
Z - Zenith: The zenith arrives during a rare full night together in a borrowed beach house.
Hours of slow exploration with him learning exactly how you like his tongue on your clit while two fingers curl inside, you riding him lazily and sweet, build to something transcendent.
When it hits, you come together in perfect sync, bodies locked and eyes wide open, breathing the same air. The pleasure crests in long, rolling waves that leave you both shaking. He stays buried deep through every aftershock, kissing your tears, whispering how you’re his everything.
Wrapped in sheets as the sky lightens, the outside world doesn’t exist; only two people who found softness in each other against all odds, reaching heights neither thought possible.
Likes, reblogs and comments are always greatly appreciated! 🤍
had the cute fluffy idea of after Clark opens up about who he is, and of course goes through everything with reader, she asks more questions but the last one is “Do you want me to start calling you Kal-El?” because all she wants is to make him feel seen and loved
Before sunset
Pairing: corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-181938
Classification: Fluff with a hint of angst | college-aged Clark and reader, childhood bestfriends to lovers
Word count: 3.3k
Divider by me ;)
The sun would never feel like this on his skin again, whether because this would be the last sunset his world would ever know after the conversation he'd been dreading for years or because, by the time it ended, you would finally step out of his life for good. To Clark, there was hardly a difference between the two.
He stood beneath the shade of the old tree, its trunk thick enough to outlive generations and its branches stretching a little farther into the sky every year, though he doubted he would come back often enough to notice the difference anymore. From the hilltop he could see the Kent farm resting quietly in the distance, the cattle grazing without a care beneath the orange wash of evening, the barn roof glowing in the fading light, yet none of it managed to hold his attention for more than a heartbeat because the only thing he could truly focus on was you, making your way up the hill with that bright, easy smile that had always undone him.
His heart had beaten hard for you from the very first afternoon he'd seen you, when the feeling had been so new he hadn't even known what to call it but this was different, heavier and unfamiliar. It made him feel fragile because this wasn't love growing, it was fear spreading to every corner of him, fear that once the truth left his mouth there would be no taking it back, no pretending to be just Clark anymore and he realized then that he had never truly understood what it meant to dread losing someone until the possibility was standing right in front of him.
Was this it?
You laughed softly as the incline stole your breath, breaking into a run for the last few yards before stopping in front of him with your hands on your hips. “Shouldn't we be packing?” you asked, still smiling as you looked him over, committing him to memory without even realizing it.
Somewhere in the back of your mind you wondered whether he'd still dress like this years from now, plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dirt clinging to his boots or if the city waiting for him would smooth away every trace of the boy who belonged to these fields, just as you quietly wondered whether the two of you would recognize each other at all the next time life brought you back here.
“We have time,” he answered gently, the same reassurance he'd given you all summer whenever you worried about the future, about leaving and growing up too quickly.
You believed him every single time, though now he wasn't sure he believed it himself because you were ready to leave, ready to chase everything waiting for you beyond Smallville and the only thing keeping him rooted to that spot wasn't the farm or the city ahead of him but the secret sitting heavily in his chest, demanding to be spoken before it was too late.
“Do we?” you asked, your eyes searching the worry written across his face, the tension sitting heavier in his shoulders than the late summer heat ever could.
In two days, you would leave for Metropolis University, where everything around you would change and the one thing you had always believed wouldn't was the man standing in front of you, though looking at him now, you weren't so sure anymore. The past few weeks had been spent drifting between the Kent barn and your own house, helping each other decide what deserved a place in the future and what was better left behind, tucked safely away from change.
Clark had originally planned to stay close to Smallville, commuting every day so he could keep helping his parents on the farm and when he first told you, uncertainty softening his usually steady voice, you had smiled and tried to be supportive even if it felt wrong, because for as long as you'd known him, Metropolis University had been the dream.
You had heard him talk about it on quiet drives home from high school, while sitting in the loft of the barn with your legs swinging over the edge and out in the fields where you watched him work beneath the relentless Kansas sun. When the time finally came and he chose Metropolis after all, you never questioned what had changed, only hid the wave of relief that swept through you as carefully as you could.
You didn't want to be selfish but the man in front of you had come to mean more than you had ever managed to explain and somewhere in the back of your mind you had hoped leaving home would finally force the right words into your vocabulary.
Funnily enough, he seemed to be waiting for those same words too.
Clark gave a small nod, his gaze lingering on the farmhouse in the distance before returning to you.
“Two days,” he murmured to himself. “Seems like enough.”
“Enough for what, Clark?” you asked, already feeling fear climb into your throat before you could stop it. You swallowed against it, following his eyes toward the farm for a brief second before looking back at him. This time your voice came out quieter, fragile. “Clark?”
You knew how selfish this feeling was. You had confessed it only to your pillow in the middle of sleepless nights, whispered it to the stars scattered across endless Kansas skies and let it dissolve beneath the stream of your shower where no one else could hear it. You weren't ready to say goodbye.
Clark drew in a slow breath, one that seemed too heavy for even him to carry. “For the truth.”
You let out a shaky laugh, though it sounded more like a sigh, a breath your body surrendered without asking permission, as if fear had been sitting inside your lungs for hours looking for the nearest exit while anxiety did its best to convince the rest of you to shut down before whatever was coming could reach your heart, but neither quite managed it.
“I’ve waited a long time…” you murmured, nodding more to yourself than to him. “I think I can wait a little longer.”
Clark shook his head immediately. “Secrets can’t see us off, Y/n.”
“They can follow...I–I’m okay with that.” You nodded again as your eyes wandered over the field, the tree, the fence lines, anywhere but him. Meeting his eyes now felt like stepping onto a bridge you already knew would collapse beneath you.
“Y/n.” He took a careful step closer.
“No.” You answered just as quickly, retreating one of your own, drawing in a deep breath in a failing attempt to keep the tears where they belonged. There wasn't a reason to cry yet and somehow that only made it worse. “I’m not saying goodbye…to you.”
“It’s not about saying goodbye.”
“Yes it is!” The words burst out sharply. “That’s all life is.”
“It’s not,” he insisted, softer this time, unable to stop himself from taking another step toward you as you instinctively took another back, his hands lifting slowly between you, palms open, like you were some frightened animal he was desperate not to scare away. “It doesn’t have to be.”
You let out a humorless laugh, born entirely from nerves. “You forget that I know you, Kent,” you said, pointing accusingly at him before turning to gesture toward the farm stretching behind you. “And I figured this is where you’d do it. You’d never taint the barn with goodbyes, so you’d come here instead, let them sink into the dirt where nobody could dig them back up. It’s the highest point around.” Your gaze drifted across the fields before returning to him. “You’d stand here in an unfortunate present, where this–” you motioned quietly between the two of you, “–doesn’t seem to have a place anymore and then you'd look over there.” You pointed toward the familiar silhouette of the barn. “To the place where you think it belongs.”
Clark's expression tightened as he slowly lowered his hands. “There are things you need to know,” he said, voice pleading now. “You’ve waited long enough.”
You sniffled, pressing your lips together. Deep down, you knew he was right.
The Kents, the farm, the strange little moments that never seemed to add up, the things that disappeared as quickly as they happened and the stories that ended halfway through before anyone answered your questions. You had grown up alongside all of it, close to know there was always something hidden beneath the surface but never close enough to be trusted with it.
Once, that mystery had made you curious but now it only felt like another thing standing between you.
You searched his face, trying to imagine what kind of truth could possibly justify the fear in his voice, the look in his eyes and why he held himself as though the next few minutes might cost him everything. Your mind reached for answers and found none.
After a long moment, you simply gave a small, defeated shrug.
“You’re a little…odd,” you said matter-of-factly, as though you were pointing out the weather rather than dismantling years of carefully guarded secrets. “You disappear all the time, then show up out of nowhere like you've only been gone five minutes and you have the strangest reactions to certain things. You’ve only been sick a handful of times and every single time, I had the feeling your mother was lying to me about it.” You smiled faintly despite yourself. “She tried her best, bless her heart.” You paused, gathering your thoughts before continuing. “You drink an alarming amount of milk…you somehow always end up in the middle of trouble, I’ve seen you bleed maybe four or five times in my life and no matter how deep the cut was, there’s never been a scar afterward. You remember everything. Birthdays, conversations, things people said years ago...I always thought you just had an unfairly good memory. You’re ridiculously strong, though I still haven’t decided whether that’s because of the gallons of milk you drink or because Jonathan Kent raised you on a farm and…” You stopped long enough to draw in a steadying breath. “I know to keep meteor rocks away from you. That’s all I need to know.”
Clark looked at you for a long moment before letting out a quiet sigh. “You can’t keep making exceptions for me,” he reasoned gently. You had always chased answers, always followed every lead until there was nothing left to uncover, except when those trails inevitably led to him.
When you were children, he had been endlessly grateful for that blind spot but somewhere along the way, though, gratitude had become hope, hope that you would finally keep digging until you reached the truth he had never been brave enough to hand you himself.
“Yet here you are,” you replied softly, gesturing toward him, “about to prove to me why I should.”
He lowered his eyes for only a moment before looking back up at you. “Things are going to change in the city,” he admitted quietly, the words carrying a weight that reached far beyond either of you. “And I don’t want those changes to begin with a lie between us.” He hesitated before speaking again, his voice smaller this time. “Will you sit with me and listen? For old times' sake.”
A quiet, bittersweet laugh escaped you as you brushed away the tear that had slipped down your cheek and took a few slow steps toward the broad roots at the base of the tree. “That’s such a sad thing to say,” you murmured. “‘Let’s do it for the love that was once there.’”
Clark watched you with an expression so full of affection it almost hurt to meet. “There’s still plenty left,” he said softly. “More of it will pour out…if you let it.”
The sun had long since disappeared beneath the horizon by the time Clark finally let everything pour out, telling you the truth in the only way he knew how. It wasn't polished, nor rehearsed the way he'd imagined it might be during countless sleepless nights. It came in uneven pieces, tangled with old memories and stories that bridged the gaps, reaching back through the years to moments the two of you had shared, moments where your childhood suspicions had brushed against the impossible only to be gently nudged toward explanations a little girl could live with.
He filled in every blank he could remember, retracing your lives side by side until your separate versions of the same story finally became one. He showed you what words alone couldn't explain, revealing pieces of himself he'd spent his entire life hiding, baring not only the impossible truth of what he was but the frightened boy who had carried it alone for so long.
Somewhere between one confession and the next, time slipped away unnoticed. The sky faded from gold to indigo, then to velvet black scattered with stars and the two of you remained beneath the old tree, shoulders brushing, hands resting close enough that your fingers occasionally grazed on the grass without either of you pulling away.
For the first time in nearly four hours, silence settled comfortably between you. He had apologized more than once, asked for forgiveness in a voice that broke a little each time but there was nothing for you to forgive.
You tilted your head back, your gaze wandering across the stars overhead as though searching for one that belonged to him. “I'm sorry for your loss,” you breathed.
Clark's head turned so quickly it almost startled you. Of the three people on Earth who now knew the truth, he was certain no one else would've thought to say those words, even he rarely had. His life had always been measured by everything he'd gained, Jonathan and Martha, Smallville and you, not by the world he'd lost before he'd ever been old enough to remember it.
You turned your head to meet his eyes, your expression gentle despite the tears still drying on your cheeks. “And I'm sorry…” you admitted. “I tried to run.” A sheepish smile tugged faintly at your lips. “I don't do well with goodbyes.”
A tiny smile found its way onto his own. “I would've caught up to you.”
You let out a soft laugh, lowering your eyes to your hands as they fidgeted absentmindedly in your lap. “I suppose you would've.” The words lingered for a moment before another thought surfaced. “Don't you want to know more?” you asked. “About...Krypton, I mean.” The word was still foreign on your lips.
Clark looked up toward the stars, following your gaze. “The past comes to me in pieces,” he said softly. “At odd moments in my life. Whenever I go looking for it…”
“It outruns you,” you finished in the same quiet tone.
He nodded once, mostly to himself. “Yeah.” A thoughtful breath left him as he shrugged lightly. “I don't know what's waiting for us where we're going. I don't know what university will be like or who we'll become once we leave this place.” His eyes drifted back to yours, certain despite everything he'd just confessed. "I just know that whatever it is...I need you there with me.”
You smiled before you could stop yourself, your chest tightening in that familiar way it always did whenever he looked at you like that. “I don't think I know anywhere else to be,” you admitted softly. “My heart certainly doesn't.” You drew in a slow breath of cool night air, the breeze carrying the scent of grass and earth through the field and a quiet laugh escaped with it. “Could you hear it?”
“Always...it's my favorite sound,” he confessed and you let your head come to rest against his shoulder, feeling the warmth of him beneath your cheek before he pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head.
He had heard your heart skip and stumble more times than he could count over the last few hours, every truth he admitted and every impossible thing he showed you sent it racing all over again and each time it did, a part of him wished he could rewind the evening. It wouldn’t have been to keep the secret but to tell you sooner, to spare you years of guessing, because there wasn't a single universe where he chose a life that didn't eventually lead to placing the whole truth in your hands.
“Was it scary?” he asked quietly.
“No…” you answered after a moment, your eyes drifting back to where you'd watched his feet leave the grass beneath the setting sun. “You were beautiful.” The memory settled over you again, impossible and breathtaking in equal measure, yet language still failed you the way it always did whenever something mattered too much. “I whisper to the stars about you sometimes,” you admitted softly. “It's very special that they managed to keep your secret for you.”
A small smile tugged at Clark's lips. “You think they know me?”
You looked up at the sky, at the endless scattering of stars overhead, imagining every one of them as a soul Krypton had lost, still watching over the son it had sent away. “I think they sent you here,” you murmured. “And I think they were eager to hear about their son from someone who could translate feelings into light.” You paused, your gaze never leaving the heavens. “Do you think they miss hearing your other name?”
Clark's breath caught. For the first time in his life, he felt as though he understood himself a little better and somehow it had happened because you'd looked at everything he'd feared and found something beautiful inside it. “You might know them better than I do,” he admitted.
You lifted your head from his shoulder to look at him. “I could introduce you one day.”
When your eyes met, he nodded without hesitation. “I'd like that.”
You looked back up at the stars then, certain they shone a little brighter than before, the summer sky stretching endlessly above the two of you like it had been listening all evening.
“They ask me, 'Have you seen our son? Have you seen our beautiful Kal-El?'” you whispered.
Clark turned his head toward you, watching your profile instead of the constellations. “And what do you tell them?”
A fond smile spread across your face. “I tell them you used to hide behind the sun…” you murmured. “And that I'm not sure I should speak that name.”
He shook his head gently, something old and heavy slipping from his shoulders with the movement as he finally looked up. “I won't hide anymore.”
The silence that followed settled comfortably between you, filled only by the distant chorus of crickets and the wind rustling through the tall grass.
“Would you ever want to hear it more often?” you asked at last, shyly.
When he looked at you, you continued, “I think it'd be...unkind for the part of you that came before Earth to only exist in stories or in your Fortress. If that's your name, it shouldn't be forgotten just because everyone else calls you Clark.” Your eyes searched his carefully, as though asking permission long before the words themselves did. “I'd be careful with it,” you promised softly after a small pause. “I could keep it close...hold it the way it deserves to be held.”
Clark's breath caught somewhere in his chest. No one had ever offered to carry that part of him with such tenderness, to love a name that belonged to a planet he didn’t remember as though it had been entrusted to them. His fingers found yours where they rested in your lap, threading between them until your hands fit together as naturally as they always had.
“My future is yours to keep…” he said quietly, his thumb brushing absent circles across your knuckles. “And so is my past.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “If anyone could teach me a kinder way to hear my own name...it'd be you.”
A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!
i’m begging like on my hands and knees for more i would’ve done that sober please please please it was like so amazing you are so talented keep it up!!
I hate being sober
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x childhood best friend!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66
☆ Read part 1 here!!
a/n: Big thank yous all around for your patience. I hope you guys enjoy this part! Let's all be responsible readers and keep some tissues nearby. Don't blow your snot on your shirts and keep your underwear on!!
Classification: Smut +18 | Alcohol consumption at a college party (background), confrontation, insecurity and anxiety around sexual performance and orgasm, references to a past bad relationship, emotional vulnerability, fear of rejection or disgust from a partner, overthinking and anxiety in romantic/sexual communication, sensory deprivation, mild nipple play, oral sex, conversations during sex/talking you through it and praise, unprotected p-in-v, creampie, mild cum play??, multiple intense orgasms, crying during sex and aftercare and past references.
Word count: 14 k
Divider by me ;)
Hockey boys disappeared.
You wished you had known that before you let Dean slip out of your place two nights ago.
They didn’t do it intentionally, never maliciously either but the season swallowed them whole. They vanished into six a.m. skates and afternoon lifts, into physical therapy appointments that patched together bruised shoulders and strained knees. Into mandatory media interviews the athletic department insisted would make the team more marketable, more approachable and into lectures they attended only long enough to collect notes before hurrying off to practice again, then came the exams they'd postponed because hockey had always come first until suddenly it couldn't.
Their schedules folded in on themselves until entire days disappeared without warning.
You only ever seemed to find them again at parties, ones Allie and Hannah practically dragged you to, insisting fresh air, loud music and cheap drinks counted as emotional healing.
Your skin had been buzzing ever since that night, an awareness sitting right beneath the surface no matter how hard you tried to ignore it. Every time you opened your dresser, the tangled pile of Agent Provocateur lace shoved unceremoniously into the back of your drawer stared back at you like evidence from a crime scene. You'd stuffed it in there without folding a single piece, too flustered to deal with it afterward, yet you still couldn't bring yourself to move it somewhere less obvious.
Then there were Dean's texts, you answered them eventually, right after rewriting each reply sufficient times to make yourself question your own sanity. Was starting a sentence with a capital letter too serious? Did ending it with a period make you sound annoyed? Was “okay” different from “ok”? You caught yourself deleting perfectly normal messages simply because they looked too eager before sending something shorter that felt even stranger.
You hadn't mentioned that night once.
You tried not to think too much about the kiss or what had come before and especially not how it had ended. He'd watched you pull your pajamas on without a trace of impatience, giving you the privacy of looking away whenever your eyes met before inevitably finding you again, you kept your focus away from the memory of the gentle press of his lips against your forehead before he'd left, so tender you could still feel the warmth after he’d stepped away. You'd looked completely wrung out, limbs heavy, emotions stripped bare, too tired to pretend you were anything but vulnerable and he'd treated you like something precious instead of fragile.
You hadn't reached for him.
Even now, the memory made your fingers twitch uselessly at your sides. If you'd caught his wrist and tugged him back for even another minute, would anything feel different now? Or would you still be dissecting text messages like they were evidence in a court case, wondering how you had become shy after years of knowing each other better than anyone else?
“So that's what it feels like,” you breathed, the words escaping before you realized you'd spoken them aloud as your heeled boots scraped lazily against the sidewalk.
A few steps ahead, Allie stopped so abruptly she nearly caused a collision. She turned on her heel, her brows knitting together as she looked first at Hannah walking beside you, checking whether she'd heard the same thing, before her attention landed squarely on you.
“That's what what feels like?” she asked, curiosity overtaking whatever conversation you three had been having.
You could feel another exchange of glances pass between them, so quick most people would've missed it. Hannah's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, Allie's mouth pulled into a thin line before she gave the smallest shrug in return.
Years of friendship had made you fluent in conversations that didn't require words. If you had to guess, it translated roughly to “Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe it was too soon to drag her to a party.” You pretended not to notice. Instead, you let your gaze drift down the street.
Cars lined both curbs, squeezed bumper to bumper beneath the streetlights, while clusters of students spilled across lawns and sidewalks with red cups already in hand. Music pulsed from somewhere ahead, bass so heavy it vibrated faintly beneath your feet and every few seconds another burst of laughter erupted from the overcrowded house at the end of the block where people continuously filtered through the front door, the party breathing them in and out.
You let out a quiet sigh, wondering whether turning around now would actually be more awkward than simply going inside.
Hannah spoke first, her voice light. “We don't have to stay long,” she reasoned, slipping her hands into the pockets of her jacket as she smiled at you. “There's free booze. Let's just treat it like a pregame, then we can head back to the apartment, order something greasy and play poker.”
“No offense, girls,” you replied with the ghost of a smile, “but I'm not stripping naked in front of you two tonight. Sorry to disappoint.”
Allie snorted. “I think she means the normal kind of poker.”
You looked at her with exaggerated disbelief. “We're in college, Allie. There is no other kind.”
A laugh escaped Hannah while Allie rolled her eyes so dramatically you were surprised they didn't disappear into the back of her head permanently.
“Okay…” Allie muttered under her breath, drawing the word out as she pointed an accusing finger at you. “Pessimist.” Then her entire expression brightened again, optimism returning with alarming speed. “Let's not waste good outfits by turning around prematurely. One hour.” She held up a finger. “Two, tops.”
“And no boys–” Hannah added.
You watched Allie's head whip toward her so quickly a strand of hair stuck briefly to her lipstick. “What?” she protested.
Hannah ignored her entirely, keeping her eyes on you instead. “We'll keep them at bay.”
“Who's we?” Allie demanded, her eyes widening in horror. She turned toward Hannah, raising both eyebrows in an elaborate series of expressions that looked suspiciously like she was trying to negotiate exceptions without saying them openly.
“Yeah,” you chimed in before Hannah could answer, “let's not be rash.”
Both of them looked at you at once and you blinked innocently. “I mean…” you amended, scratching lightly at the side of your neck. “Talking's fine, right?” Your shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “If Tucker came up to me, I wouldn't ignore him.”
“You like Tucker?” Hannah asked carefully, the question so gentle that it almost sounded like she was testing the ice before stepping onto it. Her eyes narrowed, though the corner of her mouth betrayed the beginning of a smile. “Though he's not the demographic I'm worried about.”
Your head snapped toward her. “No, I–” You stumbled over the words, making a vague gesture in the air between you. “It was just an example. He's a boy–” You caught yourself. “Man.” The correction did absolutely nothing to restore your confidence as both of them continued staring at you expectantly. You winced. “Okay, it was a bad example,” you admitted, ducking your head.
Before either of them could capitalize on it, you slipped neatly between them and continued walking toward the house, hoping physical distance would somehow end the conversation…It didn't.
“Surprised you didn't use Dean,” Allie remarked quietly.
Your entire body locked up and your next step faltered before stopping altogether. Slowly, you turned back to face them, your expression caught somewhere between horrified and deeply offended. “Let's pick another word.”
Allie blinked. “…What?”
You shrugged awkwardly, refusing to elaborate for a second before mumbling, “‘Use’ just sounds wrong.”
“I meant ‘use him’…” Allie's grin spread wider the second she realized what could’ve happened inside your head. “As in ‘use him as an example’.” She pointed at you dramatically. “Though if you're into that dominatrix shit, I'll just ask you not to do it in the apartment.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “And much less with Di Laurentis. I doubt his ego could handle physically being under a woman and–”
Your eyes widened a little more with every passing sentence. Your mouth opened twice, each time thinking now was the moment you'd interrupt, only for Allie to barrel cheerfully into the next thought before you could squeeze a single word in.
“…he'd probably have trouble performing or something. I don't remember Six Flags having a ride where you stand in line for forty minutes just to leave disappointed. He'd spend more time advertising himself than actually delivering and fuck forbid he finds a captive audience…we'd never hear the end of how 'life-changing' he thinks his d–”
“Allie,” you finally managed weakly, which thankfully made her rant stop.
A few steps away, Hannah made a strangled sound that was half laugh, half cough. “Okay!” she wheezed, trying and failing to compose herself. “I think we'll all stay away from boys tonight.”
A huff of laughter escaped you, the tension finally cracking. “So if Garrett waltzes in,” you asked, “you're just going to keep that man away?” Your eyebrows lifted knowingly. “If what slips through the thinnest walls ever made is any indication, I'd like to see that work in your favor.”
Hannah didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed. “Well, that's different,” she replied with unmistakable pride. “We're together.”
“Better wrap up your French lesson then, Madame,” Allie declared, already marching ahead with exaggerated determination. She shook her head dramatically, muttering loud enough for both of you to hear. “We? Who's we? Far as I know this is still a free country…” She threw one hand into the air in theatrical protest without ever slowing her pace, leaving you and Hannah exchanging an amused glance before following after her.
You grimaced before leaning slightly toward Hannah, lowering your voice as though the woman in question might somehow overhear you from halfway up the walkway. “I think we should start putting the news on as background noise,” you reasoned with complete sincerity.
A laugh escaped Hannah before she bumped your shoulder lightly with hers as the two of you started walking again, unhurried despite Allie steadily increasing the distance between you.
“College is torture enough,” Hannah sighed. “Let's at least wait until we get this semester's grades.”
You nodded thoughtfully. “And gauge exactly how much pain we actually deserve…smart idea.”
Hannah breathed out dramatically. “Or the worst I've ever had.”
You laughed under your breath just as Allie's voice carried across the front lawn. “Are you guys coming or what!?” She stood on the porch with one hand on the doorway of the open front door, the music spilling out around her while impatiently waving both of you over.
“Yeahhh…no,” you replied, motioning toward the overflowing house in the distance, the one she'd insisted would be a good idea in the first place. “I think this one already beats it.” You let out a long, defeated sigh as you and Hannah finally caught up to Allie, meeting her expectant stare. “Poor choice of words again, babe.” You told her, pressing your lips into a thin line.
Allie rolled her eyes with exaggeration, muttering something under her breath that was completely swallowed by the music pouring from the open front door before disappearing inside. The bass had grown strong enough to rattle the loose wooden steps with every beat.
You stepped through the doorway last.
Warm air, thick with perfume, sweat, beer and something unmistakably fruity from whatever jungle juice someone had mixed in the kitchen, hit you instantly. Every room seemed packed wall to wall with students, some danced with complete disregard for personal space while others shouted conversations directly into each other's ears. Plastic cups littered every available surface, laughter rose above the music in uneven bursts and somewhere upstairs someone cheered so loudly, it briefly overpowered the speakers.
“…Or what,” you echoed quietly to yourself as the front door swung shut behind you.
The phrase lingered in your head while your eyes swept over the crowded rental. You spotted Hannah and Allie weaving confidently through the bodies ahead of you, Hannah reaching back once to make sure you were still following before the crowd swallowed her hand again.
“I'm gonna get us something to drink!” you called over the music once you'd caught up.
Allie answered with an enthusiastic thumbs-up that quickly dissolved into dancing with whoever happened to be beside her, already swaying to the beat without a hint of self-consciousness. Hannah, meanwhile, had her phone out before you even finished speaking, her attention dropping to the screen with a smile you recognized instantly as she typed what was almost certainly a message to Garrett letting him know the three of you had made it there safely.
You smiled back at everyone who greeted you on the way through the house, returning waves and quick hellos even when you barely recognized the faces. If you acted normal for a while longer, maybe your brain would eventually believe that this was just another party, another late night. No tangled thoughts or awkward tension sitting beneath your skin, no constant awareness of a pair of hands that had learned you with impossible patience only two nights earlier.
You kept searching for the kitchen instead, hoping the simple task would occupy your mind before it drifted back to your bedroom, to the mirror the two of you had stood in front of, to the way he'd looked at you through your own reflection, the quiet praise, the tenderness and how he'd made you feel seen by expertly opening the walls to your own pleasure.
By the time you reached the kitchen, you were relieved by the mundane sight of overcrowded counters. You pulled it open, grabbed three cans of soda and decided they were probably the smarter choice, experience had already proven that alcohol loosened your tongue far more than your common sense appreciated.
You cracked yours open, taking a long sip as the cold, fizzy sweetness settled pleasantly in your throat, cooling the nervous warmth that had been building there all evening. For a moment, you simply stood there, your eyes wandering over the crowded kitchen. People leaned against countertops with red cups in hand, someone laughed loudly, making the room glance over and two strangers debated mixers in front of the freezer.
Then your gaze caught on the one face you had hoped not to see, your ex.
His eyes found yours in the same instant, his posture straightening automatically. You recognized that look, that subtle shift that always came a second before he decided on his next move which was toward you.
Instinctively, you took a step backward, only to bump into a cluster of people reaching for drinks behind you. Someone muttered a quick apology without looking up, another squeezed past with a bag of ice and before you could sidestep out of the way, the kitchen had filled in around you completely. There was nowhere left to retreat.
He threaded through the crowd anyway, slipping between shoulders and conversations with determination until he stopped in front of you, wearing the careful expression of someone approaching a frightened animal he believed he could still coax closer. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”
“Let’s make that a little longer then, wouldn’t that be nice?” you replied with a smile that never quite reached your eyes.
He exhaled through his nose, already looking faintly irritated in that familiar way that told you he'd remembered one of the things he'd disliked most about dating you, your sarcasm. “Come on, don’t be like that–”
“Don’t be like what?” you cut in flatly.
He hesitated, his rehearsed opening clearly unraveling. “I just meant…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m trying to apologize here, okay?”
You let out a humorless laugh. “Great fucking job you’re doing,” you noted with a careless shrug. “Fantastic timing too, just like in the cafeteria.”
He sighed heavily, rubbing a hand across his face as though he could erase the last few weeks with the gesture alone. “I know I fucked up, okay? I tried to text you–”
“You’re blocked.” The interruption came so automatically you barely thought about it.
He paused for half a second before giving a slow, unimpressed nod. “I figured.”
“Good.” You took another sip of your soda before looking back up at him. “I was worried guessing would use up the rest of your brain cells and you wouldn’t have any left by the time exam season came around.”
A dry, humorless laugh escaped him. He glanced around the kitchen instinctively, checking whether anyone had overheard the exchange before his attention settled back on you. “This is all just a fucking game to you, huh?” His eyes dragged over you with thinly veiled annoyance.
“Isn’t that what made you leave?” You shot back, “Only one of us hates losing badly enough to flee.”
“Fuck you,” he bit out sharply. “I didn’t flee.”
“You didn’t stick around to try either.” You stepped forward to press a finger firmly against the center of his chest, the contact making him stiffen. “I fucked you.”
His jaw flexed so hard you thought you heard his teeth grind together. Slowly, almost unconsciously, he took a step backward, your finger slipping away from his shirt.
“Don’t text again,” you finished, your voice suddenly much quieter than before. “I think you’ve wasted enough of each other's time.”
He stared at you for another second, searching your face for something that wasn't there anymore, then he looked away first. Without another word, he turned, disappearing back into the crowd until the moving bodies swallowed him entirely.
You remained where you were, blinking slowly as your pulse settled, willing the humiliation from the cafeteria and the anger sitting hot in your chest to dissolve together into something less exhausting. They stubbornly refused.
Your eyes dropped to the soda can still clutched in your hand. You frowned at it as if it had failed you before lifting it for another long drink, the carbonation stung pleasantly at the back of your throat. You swallowed, exhaled through your nose and muttered under your breath, “I fucking hate being sober.”
“No you don’t.” The voice reached you immediately and it made every muscle in your shoulders relaxed before your brain had even caught up. You turned around so quickly a few drops of soda sloshed over the rim of the can. Relief settled into your chest the second you saw him.
Dean stood just a few steps away, both hands shoved into the pocket of a dark hoodie thrown hastily over a wrinkled Briar hockey T-shirt. A baseball cap sat low on his head, hair escaping around the edges and there were faint shadows beneath his eyes that spoke of too many early practices and not nearly enough sleep. He looked nothing like someone who planned on staying at the party and despite looking completely worn out, seeing him made the crowded kitchen feel infinitely less suffocating.
“Get me out of here,” you sighed, the words leaving you in one long breath. “Please.”
Dean's eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise before one corner of his mouth curled upward. The tiredness hanging around his eyes didn't disappear but it softened beneath a grin he was clearly trying and failing to suppress. “Is that begging I hear?”
Your eyes narrowed sharply. “Make yourself useful, Di Laurentis.”
He nodded with exaggerated thoughtfulness, accepting the challenge as he reached over to pluck the two unopened soda cans from your hands, balancing them effortlessly in one hand. “Front jean pocket,” he instructed, nodding toward your right side. “On your right.”
Your gaze followed the gesture before immediately flicking back up to his face, then, despite yourself, it drifted lower to his jeans. You looked back up at him with unmistakable suspicion and slowly shook your head. “I'm not putting my hand in there,” you decided, lowering your voice instinctively beneath the music. “It's inappropriate…and there's a…” Your eyes darted downward again before returning to his. “…lump.” Doubt colored the last word.
Dean stared at you for a beat before an incredulous laugh escaped him. “Those are my car keys,” he clarified, amusement bleeding into every syllable. “I figured you should wait in my car.” His grin only widened the longer he watched realization dawn across your face. Tilting his head slightly, he studied you with obvious delight. “You think I'm hung like that?”
You straightened, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking embarrassed. “There was a point where we bathed together before it got weird,” you reminded him matter-of-factly. “I think I know exactly how hung you are.”
His eyebrows climbed. “Seen it recently?”
You snorted. “Your pants don't leave much up to the imagination.”
“Trust me,” he replied with effortless confidence, giving a small shake of his head. “They do.” He nodded once more toward his pocket. “Front pocket. Go on.”
You groaned quietly. “You saying ‘go on’ doesn't somehow make this better, you pervert,” you whisper-yelled, stepping closer so your complaint wouldn't carry past the people milling around the kitchen.
Dean mirrored the movement, leaning down until the two of you were close enough that neither of you had to raise your voices. Around you, the party rolled on without a second glance. Someone behind you was arguing over whose turn it was at beer pong, another group erupted into cheers from the living room and a couple squeezed past carrying more drinks, nobody spared the two of you so much as a curious look.
Dean's eyes lingered on your face, taking in the fake indignation you weren't quite managing to sell.
His smile softened, more playful than teasing. “Don't let those fingers stray, then,” he murmured, his tone light, you couldn't tell whether he was trying to fluster you or simply enjoying how easily you flustered yourself. “I'd hate for you to get distracted.”
You reached forward, hooking a finger through one of Dean's belt loops and giving it a small tug that drew him a step closer without either of you thinking much about it. The movement brought him within arm's reach, the familiar scent of clean detergent, cedar and the lingering bite of cold night air clinging to his hoodie crowded out the smell of beer and cheap liquor filling the kitchen.
You intentionally looked everywhere but at his face as you slipped a cautious hand into his front pocket, determined to keep your attention fixed on finding the keys rather than on the warmth radiating through the denim beneath your fingertips. Your fingers searched carefully until they brushed cool metal.
The two of you stood almost chest to chest now, neither acknowledging just how little space remained between you. “New perfume?” he asked conversationally, though the amusement in his voice was impossible to miss. It was probably the safest compliment he could give you, anything more direct and there was a decent chance you'd retaliate by driving a knee into somewhere he valued quite highly.
Then again, he thought with private amusement, doubling over from the pain would technically put him even closer to you.
“Shut up,” you mumbled, refusing to look at him as you heard him unsuccessfully swallow a laugh. Your index finger finally caught the loop of the keychain and with a victorious little huff you pulled the keys free before quickly retreating a full step as though distance alone could erase how aware you'd just become of him.
You held the keys up between two fingers. “Couple of lumps you've got in there.”
Dean stared at you for half a second before slowly shaking his head. “Poor choice of words.”
You pointed vaguely in the air between the two of you. “Yeah, say that to Allie.”
His brows pinched together. “…What's that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” You answered far too quickly before he could pry further. Gesturing toward the crowded rooms beyond the kitchen, you added, “I don't care if they drink, just make sure they have a driver home. We drove here.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he replied with an exaggerated nod and a mock salute. “Garrett's with them anyway. I'll tell him.” Moving to the side, he tipped his head toward the hallway in a silent gesture for you to go first. You squeezed back through the crowd, Dean falling into step close behind you without needing to be asked.
“Alright,” you muttered, fishing your phone out as you carefully navigated around a couple dancing in the middle of the hallway. “I'll text them too.” Your thumbs were already opening the group chat. “Seeing my fuckass ex is enough of an excuse to call it a night.”
Dean's expression, playful until then, quieted as he glanced back toward the kitchen you'd just left before looking down at you, his pace never slowing to make sure you never had to push your way through the crowd alone.
“He's here?” Dean asked, every trace of amusement now fully gone. His shoulders straightened instinctively as his eyes swept back toward the kitchen over his shoulder. “Where?”
You caught him halfway through turning, already reading exactly where his mind was headed. Before he could take a single step, you reached out, your fingers slipping into the waistband, lightly catching against his jeans to tug him back in the opposite direction. “Not the mission,” you reminded him.
Dean's attention dropped briefly to your hand before he let himself be redirected without resistance, falling back into step behind you. “I'm willing to make an exception,” he muttered, though there wasn't much conviction behind it anymore. After a beat, his voice softened. “Did he talk to you?” The concern sat plainly beneath the question.
You hummed in acknowledgment. “And I talked back.” You shrugged as if it had cost you nothing, even if your heartbeat hadn't entirely settled yet. “He won't invade Troy tonight…problem solved.”
By the time you reached the main room again, you rose onto your toes, scanning over the sea of heads for Hannah and Allie. “I saw them over there last.”
Dean followed your gaze before nodding. “They went out back. I'll go find them.” He jerked his thumb toward the street outside. “My car's up there.”
“No detours,” you warned, pointing a finger squarely at his chest. “I'm serious.” You didn't have to explain which detour you meant.
Dean looked at you for a second before lifting both hands innocently. “I'd say I'll keep my eyes down,” he replied, “but then we'd come face to face.” He punctuated the joke with the most exaggerated, insincere shrug imaginable, very intentionally mocking your ex's height.
You couldn't help the laugh that escaped you. “Face to nose if he's wearing his lifts,” you corrected.
“Told you he wasn't that tall,” Dean added, unable to resist sounding just a little smug as he began walking backward toward the sliding door leading outside, keeping his eyes on you until someone bumped into his shoulder and forced him to glance away.
“Yeah, well,” you mumbled as you headed toward the front door instead, weaving between conversations and dancing bodies, “one pair of fakers we were.”
The cool night air met you the second you stepped outside, washing away the suffocating warmth and noise of the packed house. You drew in a deep breath, the distant bass now muffled behind closed walls and doors instead of vibrating through your ribs. Following Dean's directions, you walked up the street beneath the glow of scattered streetlights until you found his car parked along the curb. You unlocked it with a press of the key fob, climbed into the passenger seat,and shut the door behind you. The silence that settled around you felt almost foreign after the chaos inside. You leaned back, letting your head rest against the seat, absently turning the unfinished soda can between your hands while condensation dampened your fingertips.
It wasn't long before the driver's door opened. Dean slid into the seat beside you, shut the door with a solid thud and for a moment neither of you said anything, both simply appreciating the quiet. The two of you sat without moving, facing the windshield as warm orange streetlights painted long streaks across the hood of the vehicle.
“Forgot how to drive?” you asked quietly, turning your head toward him. The question died when you realized he was already looking at you. He hadn't been watching the street ahead at all.
“Forgot I can't read your mind?” he countered, one eyebrow lifting.
“We both know you can,” you replied just as quietly, the corner of your mouth threatening the smallest smile. “Just won’t advertise it.”
Dean held your gaze for another second, searching your face as though deciding whether to challenge that. Instead, he looked away first. He reached for the ignition, started the engine and shifted the car into drive. It wasn't surprising in the slightest when he drove toward your apartment without asking where you wanted to go.
The drive passed in comfortable silence, it didn’t beg to be filled but still acknowledged some conversations deserved better than red lights and passing traffic. Every now and then your eyes drifted toward him, only to find his attention fixed on the road, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel while the other tapped absentmindedly against the stick shift in time with a song only he seemed to hear.
He glanced at you once at a stoplight, offering a faint, reassuring smile before looking ahead again.
When he parked on campus, neither of you commented on the fact that he killed the engine immediately instead of lingering in the driver's seat. You climbed out together, your footsteps falling into an easy rhythm as you crossed the silent pathways toward your building.
The night air had cooled further, carrying the scent of damp grass and distant rain and Dean stayed close without crowding you, matching your pace while occasionally glancing your way as though weighing a dozen different openings to a conversation he hadn't quite found yet.
You unlocked your apartment door and stepped inside. He followed a second later, pulling the door shut behind him until the click of the lock left the apartment wrapped in familiar silence.
“Not much of a talker these days, I see.” The words carried no accusation. If anything, there was relief in finally saying them aloud after days of carefully skirting around the obvious.
Your replies had shrunk from paragraphs to sentences, then from sentences to a handful of words. Phone calls that once stretched lazily into the early hours now barely lasted a few minutes before one of you found an excuse to hang up. You wandered farther into the living space, slipping your jacket off your shoulders and draping it over the back of the couch.
Beneath it, the fitted top you'd worn out suddenly felt much less out of place than it had at the party. At home, there was no reason to pull the fabric loose or check how much skin it revealed. Hiding from Dean had never really been an option and after everything the two of you had shared, it felt pointless to start now.
“Not much of anything lately,” you mumbled, avoiding his eyes as you smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from the hem of your top.
Even without looking, you could feel his gaze settle on you. It carried none of the hunger that had unsettled you in front of your bedroom mirror days before. Instead, it was patient, concerned, impossibly attentive and that made it even harder to meet. Warmth crept across your skin anyway, a shiver tracing lazily up your spine under the weight of being so thoroughly seen.
Dean took a couple of measured steps forward, stopping before the space between you disappeared entirely. He tilted his head slightly, trying to catch your eyes and finding only your profile. “Did he get into your head?” he asked gently.
The question lingered for barely a heartbeat before you shook your head and finally looked up.
Your eyes found his. “No,” you answered. “You did.” The words came out quietly, stripped of frustration or blame. They weren't meant as an accusation, they mostly sounded like the first honest thing you'd managed to say all week.
“Well,” he breathed, the corners of his mouth lifting into an easy smile, “think I should've gotten first dibs on it before anyone else anyway.” As he spoke, he closed the remaining distance between you with unhurried confidence, leaving barely enough room for a breath to pass between your bodies.
“Funny,” you answered dryly, though the effort it took to keep your expression straight was entirely wasted. Your lips betrayed you, twitching upward despite your best attempts. You rubbed absently at your eyebrow before letting out a sigh, trying to smooth away nerves that refused to settle. “I don't know how to talk to you anymore,” you admitted, the confession falling somewhere between frustration and vulnerability.
It explained the clipped texts, the shortened calls, every conversation that had ended long before either of you had actually wanted it to. Dean's expression softened as he gave the smallest shake of his head, his voice matching the gentleness in his eyes. “That's okay.”
“No, it's not.” Your gaze dropped to your heeled boots, suddenly fascinated by the floor beneath them.
“You're doing it to me,” he replied with certainty. “I would know.” He stepped forward until there was nowhere left for the distance between you to exist. “Look at me.”
The request carried none of the sharpness of a command. It was patient, warm, spoken with the confidence that you'd meet him there eventually. Slowly, you lifted your eyes just as his hands came up to cradle your face, his palms warm against your cheeks, his thumbs resting lightly close to your ears. “It's okay,” he repeated, searching your face as though he intended to make you believe it through persistence alone.
You exhaled through your nose. “Of course you'd think that.”
“Mhm.” The sound vibrated quietly in his throat as he leaned in, brushing the tip of his nose gently against yours. The tiny gesture stole another reluctant smile from you. “Though if you ever say you're not much of anything again,” he murmured, “I'm afraid we're gonna have issues.”
Your hands rose instinctively, settling against his biceps, feeling familiar muscle beneath the soft fabric of his hoodie. “Don't we already?” you asked, smiling properly now.
“My only issue,” he replied without hesitation, “is that I haven't kissed you in two days.” His thumbs brushed lightly across your cheeks. “What's yours?”
“I already told you.” Your smile lingered as he began guiding the two of you backward through the apartment with tiny, measured steps, never pushing or assuming. Every movement left you room to stop him if you wanted to, though you never did.
“And I know you have a close second,” he said quietly.
You hesitated, swallowing once before admitting the thought you'd spent days trying to bury. “…It's embarrassing when the wanting shows.”
Dean's expression softened further. He shook his head once. “And the only person who ever made you feel ashamed of that isn't here anymore.”
Your fingers tightened around his arms without thinking. “It's gonna take a while to unlearn that,” you whispered.
“I can wait,” he answered. There wasn't a trace of impatience in his voice, only certainty. “I happen to know that what comes after is worth a lot more than passing time.”
Your breathing caught slightly. “What comes after, Dean?” you asked, your hands holding him a little tighter as though the answer might slip away if you didn't.
He leaned down until his lips barely grazed yours, close enough for every word to be felt as much as heard. “You.” The single word lingered between your mouths before he continued softly, “Everywhere else it can wait. Until that happens, you cum first.” A teasing smile slowly returned to his lips. “Still think my choice of words is poor?”
A quiet laugh escaped you, so warm it dissolved the last remnants of tension sitting in your chest. “Not if you prove it to be right.”
That was all the encouragement he needed. His mouth found yours with restrained hunger, patient for only the first heartbeat before deepening the kiss. One hand slipped from your cheek to the place where your jaw met your neck, tilting your face upward to meet him fully, while your own fingers disappeared into his hair, threading through the soft curls at the back of his head as every uncertain conversation from the past two days quietly gave way to something the two of you had always understood better than words.
Your tongues moved together with an ease that made the last two days of awkwardness feel impossibly far away, every hesitant thought dissolving into this. Your fingers gradually slipped from his hair, lingering there for a heartbeat before finding the front clasps of your top instead.
You worked at them absentmindedly, your attention never truly leaving him until the kiss eventually broke with a soft, audible pop, though neither of you moved very far.
Dean rested his forehead lightly against yours, his breathing still uneven as his eyes searched your face rather than wandering elsewhere. “Do you need anything?” he asked, his voice low enough that it barely disturbed the silence filling your room. Even as you continued undoing the clasps, he never looked away from your eyes. “Tell me what I can do.”
A small smile tugged at your lips, heat pooling low in your belly at the intensity of his gaze. You finished with the last fastening and shrugged the fabric from your shoulders, letting it slide carelessly to the floor beside your feet. Your breasts spilled free, nipples already tight and aching from the cool air and the weight of his stare before folding your arms loosely across yourself more out of habit than discomfort. “I was hoping you had a plan.”
Dean nodded, his expression turning thoughtful. His gaze drifted around your room instead of lingering on you, as though sorting through possibilities rather than impulses. The lingerie crossed his mind only briefly before he dismissed it, that had helped once but it wasn't something he wanted either of you to rely on.
He pressed a gentle kiss against your forehead before turning away entirely and walking toward your dresser. Pulling open the top drawer, he began looking through it with surprising confidence, as though he vaguely remembered where things belonged from years of friendship spent around you.
“Sure…” you nodded, watching him with growing amusement as you bent to unzip your boots, kicking each one aside before slipping out of your skirt and underwear as well, letting them pool at your feet, leaving you completely bare before him. “Make yourself right at home.”
“We can argue about it later,” he answered without looking over his shoulder, continuing his careful search. “You'll tell me how forward it was of me and I'll agree with whatever punishment or compensation you decide on afterward.” His hand paused before finally lifting a long, narrow scarf from beneath a folded sweater. “This'll do.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “For what?”
Turning back toward you, he crossed the room at an unhurried pace, stopping within arm's reach. The teasing had disappeared from his face, replaced by the same patience he'd shown you all evening.
Holding the scarf loosely in one hand so you could see it clearly, he asked, “Do you trust me?”
You tilted your head, studying him, trying to read whatever idea was taking shape behind his eyes. “I don't think I've ever had to ask myself that.”
“I need you to ask now,” he replied gently. “Do you trust me?” He let the question sit between you before adding, “And if you don't like where this is going, we stop. Immediately…at any point.” His certainty wasn't performative, it was calm, leaving no room for doubt about whether he meant it.
You held his gaze for another moment before answering, your voice barely above a whisper. “I trust you.” A faint smile softened your features. “It's not something I've ever questioned.”
He waited a beat before speaking again, giving you every opportunity to change your mind.
“Turn around.” The instruction was patient, offered rather than imposed. He didn't repeat it when you hesitated, didn't fill the silence that settled between you.
His eyes simply remained on yours as you swallowed, searching his face one last time before slowly turning your naked body away from him until your back faced his chest. You felt him move closer, heard the faint rustle of fabric as he stretched the scarf carefully between both hands. It rested gently over your eyes, the material impossibly soft against your skin before he drew the ends behind your head and tied a secure knot with care.
His fingers lingered, checking that nothing tugged uncomfortably. “Is this too tight?” he asked.
You instinctively shook your head before remembering he would probably request for it to be spoken. “No,” you managed softly.
His hand settled lightly against your hip, the simple contact making your breath catch. With the gentlest pressure, he guided you back around until you faced him once more. Deprived of your sight, every other sensation sharpened, from the warmth radiating from where he stood, to the rhythm of his breathing and the subtle creak of the floor beneath shifting weight.
You heard the soft thud of fabric landing somewhere nearby once he peeled off his hoodie and t-shirt, followed by another low rustle before his footsteps returned. His hands found yours gently, wrapping loosely around your wrists before guiding them upward until your palms rested against the warmth of his bare chest.
He didn't move them any further, leaving the choice entirely to you. Tentatively, your fingertips traced across firm muscle, learning the shape through touch alone. Your confidence grew by degrees, hands exploring broader paths over his shoulders and chest, your nails lightly grazing the contours beneath his skin before drifting lower over the firm lines of his abdomen, pausing briefly at his navel before following the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.
Your fingers came to rest just above the button. “I want these off,” you breathed.
Dean couldn't help the smile that spread across his face, though you only heard it in the warmth that colored his reply. “You think you're in a position to make demands?”
“That's exactly what I think, Di Laurentis.” You nodded once beneath the blindfold, a small smile tugging at your own lips. “If you want me to play the game, you're going to have to comply a little sooner.”
A quiet chuckle escaped him before it faded just as quickly. When he spoke again, his voice had lost almost all of its teasing edge. “I don't think this is us playing around anymore.” You felt him lean in, his breath brushing against your forehead as he spoke. “I hate that we used that as an excuse.” The frustration threaded through his words was unmistakable, directed inward rather than at you, carrying the weight of every feeling the two of you had hidden behind jokes because admitting them outright had always seemed far more frightening.
You couldn't help but smile at the memory, warmth creeping into your expression. There had been something absurdly innocent about the two of you back then, trusting each other so completely that curiosity had outweighed embarrassment, stumbling into questions neither of you had been old enough to answer, only to leave them hanging for years.
“We were getting too curious,” you murmured, a quiet laugh escaping with the admission.
“Isn't that what's happening now?” he asked, his voice carrying the faintest hint of amusement.
You tilted your head beneath the blindfold, the smile on your lips widening. “You know how to tie your own laces now, don't you?” you teased. He laughed softly before leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your lips. Your hands rose instinctively, finding the sides of his face, your thumbs brushing lightly along his jaw as you returned the kiss with an ease that had finally replaced the uncertainty of the past few days.
His tongue brushed yours, drawing a soft moan from your throat as heat pooled heavier between your thighs and while you kissed, his hands worked open the button of his jeans. You heard the metallic rasp of the zipper, followed by the rustle of fabric as he shoved them down his hips along with his boxers. He kicked off his shoes and stepped out of the rest of his clothes, leaving him gloriously bare. The heat of his body radiated against yours and you could feel the hard length of his cock brushing against your stomach, hot, heavy and already leaking at the tip.
His strong hands slid down your sides, then gripped your waist, lifting you effortlessly as a surprised yelp escaped you, quickly dissolving into a breathless laugh. Your legs wrapped around his hips as you kept kissing, mouths moving together in perfect sync while his muscles flexed beneath your palms as he carried you across the room, the thick head of his erection nudging teasingly against your inner thighs with every step.
He knelt carefully onto the bed, the mattress dipping under your combined weight and gently laid you back against the pillows. Your legs fell open shamelessly, knees bending and parting wide to make room for him. The cool air kissed your dripping pussy, making you acutely aware of how soaked and ready you already were.
Dean settled between your spread thighs, hips brushing the sensitive skin of your inner legs as his lips left yours to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along the corner of your mouth, your cheek and down the sensitive column of your throat. Then he pulled back, leaving you waiting in the dark, blindfolded and aching.
You reached for him, fingers tracing and caressing every inch of his face from his cheekbones, the slight stubble on his jaw and the curve of his lips, trying to paint his expression in your mind.
His nose nudged affectionately against yours and you felt the warmth of his breath mingle with your own, the thick tension between you crackling like electricity.
He swallowed. “Can I kiss you?” His voice was hesitant, it didn't belong to the confident grin he usually wore. The uncertainty made your brows draw together for the briefest moment before your expression softened into a small, helpless smile.
“I think we're beyond you asking,” you replied, your heartbeat quickening as the silence stretched comfortably between you.
Dean's eyes lingered on your face, before landing on your lips for only a moment before lifting again. “Not on your mouth, Y/n,” he specified shamelessly.
You swallowed hard and nodded softly against the pillows, chest rising and falling faster as you heard the mattress shift under his weight.
His warm lips finally landed on your shoulder, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss there before trailing lower. They brushed along your sternum, then settled between your breasts, his hot breath fanning over the sensitive skin. When his mouth closed around one peaked nipple, you gasped sharply. The wet heat of his tongue swirled around the stiff bud, flicking and sucking with just the right pressure, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. Your back arched instinctively, pushing more of your breast into his mouth as slick arousal coated your outer lips.
The hand not supporting his weight traced a feather-light path from your knee upward, fingers grazing the soft skin of your inner thigh before reaching the neglected breast. He cupped its full weight, massaging slowly, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger while he continued devouring the other, gauging every reaction, squeezing harder when your breathing turned ragged and gentling when you whimpered, learning exactly how you liked to be touched.
When the first nipple was glistening and throbbing from his attention, he switched sides. His mouth claimed the other peak with the same hungry reverence, sucking deeply while his fingers continued to knead the slick, sensitive flesh he’d just left behind, all while low, needy sounds spilled from your throat.
Satisfied, Dean let his tongue drag lower, licking a slow, wet trail down the underside of your breast. He pressed lingering kisses along your ribs, then your stomach, each one audible and intentionally placed, his lips brushed over your navel, teasing the sensitive skin there before venturing even lower. He took his time, kissing the crease where your thigh met your pelvis, then settling fully between your spread legs.
Your heart thundered so loudly in your ears that the rest of the world felt distant. Blindfolded and trembling with need, every other sense was amplified, the heat of his breath against your dripping pussy, the faint scent of your arousal mixing with his and the slight tremble in his hands as he gripped your thighs. He was clearly trying to pace himself, wanting to savor you without rushing, refusing to give your doubts any room to surface.
A broken moan tore from your lips the moment his mouth finally sealed around your swollen clit. The wet heat, the perfect suction and the slow swirl of his tongue, were nearly too much, your hips jerked upward, fingers fisting the sheets as pleasure spread outwards.
He reached up, finding your hand where it gripped the sheets and laced his fingers through yours, squeezing once. The simple touch pulled you back into the moment when your mind threatened to drift.
“Tell me what you like,” he murmured against your pussy, the low vibration of his voice making your clit throb.
Your mind reeled. No one had ever been this patient with you, this attentive, this unwaveringly focused on what you needed instead of how quickly things could move forward. It felt unfamiliar, so much so that part of you didn't quite know what to do with it and the comparison arrived before you could stop it. Your ex had tried a handful of times but his enthusiasm had always faded the moment your body didn't respond on the timeline he expected. He would pull away with a shrug, muttering excuses about not enjoying it or not liking the taste, always making it sound like a matter of preference while leaving the weight of it squarely on your shoulders.
Every abandoned attempt had left you feeling increasingly self-conscious, wondering whether there was something wrong with you, whether you simply asked too much by needing patience instead of urgency.
Your throat tightened around the words before they ever had a chance to leave it. You wanted to explain why his patience mattered so much, why every careful pause and every moment he gave you without expectation made something in your chest ache but the memories felt too tangled, too embarrassing to lay bare.
“I wouldn’t know,” you breathed, voice shaky.
Dean didn't ask what you meant, he didn't press for details you clearly weren't ready to give, nor did he try to fill the silence with speeches that would only skim the surface. He pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss right over your clit, then answered calmly, “Feel it. I know you can.”
He accommodated, strong hands sliding under your ass to tilt your hips slightly, giving himself better access. His tongue flattened and licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance up to your clit, gathering your wetness and savoring it with a quiet hum of approval. The sound was so genuine it made your cheeks burn.
He repeated the motion again and again with broad strokes that coated his tongue and lips in your slick arousal, then circled your clit with the tip of his tongue, learning the exact pressure that made your thighs twitch. He sucked the swollen nub gently between his lips, holding it there while his tongue flicked it softly. The suction was warm and rhythmic, never rushed or demanding and when your breathing grew uneven, he eased off enough to drag his tongue back down, licking through your folds and pressing the flat of his tongue against your entrance, tasting you deeply.
His saliva mixed with your own arousal, dripping down over your ass and soaking into the sheets beneath you. He kissed your pussy like he was kissing your mouth, slowly and attentively, alternating between gentle licks, soft sucks and lazy swirls of tongue that explored every inch of your most sensitive regions.
The blindfold made it impossible to predict where his tongue would go next, keeping your body in a constant state of anticipatory tension while Dean kept your hand firmly in his, thumb stroking soothing circles over your knuckles whenever he felt you start to tense or overthink.
Every so often he would pull back to press a tender kiss to your mound or the crease of your thigh, murmuring soft, wordless sounds of encouragement against your skin before diving back in. The sensations were overwhelming in their gentleness, relentless patience that made your pussy feel swollen and pulsing under his mouth.
After another slow, savoring pass of his tongue through your folds, he moved lower and pressed the tip of his tongue against your entrance. He circled the tight ring of muscle first teasingly, before pushing inside, gently but insistently. The thick of his tongue slid into you, stretching you open in the most intimate way possible. He fucked you with it in slow, shallow strokes, curling and thrusting, coating himself in the fresh rush of slick that leaked around his mouth while his nose pressed firmly against your clit with every forward motion, rubbing in time with the rhythm of his tongue.
Your skin grew damp with sweat, a light sheen covering your chest and stomach, nipples tightened into painful peaks, aching in the cool air. Your hips rolled and twitched against his face, thighs trembling as they tried to close around his head only to fall open wider again.
Your breathing turned into soft, broken whimpers that even you could tell sounded strained and uncertain. Dean noticed and slowed his movements but didn’t yet stop, still fucking you gently with his tongue, still licking up every drop of your arousal like he couldn’t get enough.
“Mngh…Dean–” you barely managed, his name catching on a shaky breath before your voice gave out entirely. His head lifted rapidly as he pulled away, concern replacing concentration as he searched your expression for any hint of discomfort. Every trace of certainty vanished from his posture, his brows drawing together as he studied you.
One of your hands reached down blindly, grabbing at his shoulder and pulling him upward. Your chest heaved as you struggled to steady your breathing, each inhale feeling a little too shallow to quiet the thoughts racing through your mind. Words crowded against one another, half-formed confessions and old fears tangling together until you couldn't tell where one ended and the next began.
Your other hand shook as it slid down your body, covering your throbbing, soaked pussy, clit pulsing hard under your palm, slick, swollen and too painfully sensitive to keep going. You still weren’t anywhere close to coming and all you could think about was saying the wrong thing, about ruining the fragile safety he'd spent so much time building around you. More than anything, you were terrified of disgust, that subtle withdrawal, the excuses and the feeling of being left unfinished.
Your voice came out small and fragile. “I’m sorry. I’m–fuck, I’m so sorry.”
His hand found your cheek, palm warm against your skin as his thumb brushed slowly beneath the blindfold. He studied your face in silence first, as though making sure you were really listening before he spoke and when he did, there wasn't an ounce of frustration in him. “You don't apologize,” he said firmly, thumb stroking gently across your cheek once more before coming to rest beneath your jaw, encouraging you to keep your chin up. “Not to me.”
One hand stayed wrapped tightly around his arm, fingers digging into the firm muscle as if you were afraid he might pull away despite his words. Your heart hammered so loudly in your ears that you barely registered his words at first. “It just takes really long–”
“Hey…” Dean nudged your face gently with his palm, guiding you back to the present until your racing thoughts quieted. “I would’ve sucked you clean off the bone if you hadn’t pulled me up,” he smiled.
The moment you registered his words, you let out a shaky sob that melted into soft laughter, the tension in your chest finally easing.
“We can try again some other time if you want–”
You were already eagerly nodding before the words had fully left his mouth.
He chuckled, the sound low and breathy against your skin. “Yeah? Did you like it? Was that okay?” His fingertips traced feather-light paths along your sides, your ribs and the curve of your waist, keeping the connection gentle but constant, which he knew you needed.
“Overwhelming,” you breathed, still feeling the lingering slick between your thighs as it cooled and the heavy pulse of your swollen clit against your palm.
“Mmm…Yeah?” His voice dipped with interest.
“Overwhelming’s good,” you continued softly. Your body felt flushed and sensitive all over, like it needed that intensity just to begin learning how to let go. “I like feeling you close.”
“How close?” he teased, his nose brushing slowly along the side of your jaw, warm breath tickling your skin.
“Really fucking close,” you whispered, guiding his face until his lips met yours in a deep, slow kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue, tangy, slightly sweet and undeniably intimate, nothing like you had imagined. Dean moved his tongue against yours with the same patience he had shown between your legs, licking into your mouth with quiet groans of pleasure that vibrated through your chest.
“Tastes like fucking heaven,” he rasped when you finally parted for air.
Your nails dug into his shoulders as you pulled him closer, until your chests pressed together, skin hot and slightly damp with sweat as the hard length of his cock rested heavily against the soft inside of your thigh, twitching every time you moved.
You smiled against his lips, letting out a teasingly doubtful hum. “Careful there…might be disappointed when you go.”
“Doubt it. If there is one, you’re going there too.” The smug happiness in his voice made you laugh, the sound light and breathless. He responded by pressing a flurry of soft kisses all over your face, cheeks, nose, forehead and the corner of your mouth, while his cock dragged teasingly along your inner thighs, leaving a faint trail of precum on your skin.
Your laughter quickly faded into quiet, needy moans, inciting your own hand to apply pressure against your still-throbbing pussy, fingers slipping through the mess of slick there in an attempt to relieve the area. Dean lifted his upper body slightly, looking down between you as he stilled the accidental roll of his hips and you moaned again at the loss of friction.
“I could get closer,” he breathed, voice rough with want. “Want me to do that?”
Your legs parted wider in silent invitation as you nodded against the pillow, heart racing.
“Let me see you,” he spoke softly. It wasn't a command, more of a gentle suggestion, one he waited patiently for you to consider. You slowly moved your hand away, exposing your glistening, swollen pussy to him once more while you tried to picture the expression on his face, the way his eyes would darken with hunger and affection. “Do you have condoms?” he asked carefully.
“Closer, Dean,” you echoed, voice small but sure. “I want you as close as you can get right now.” You paused, ears straining for any change in his breathing. “I’ve never…” You trailed off, taking a deep, steadying breath. “I’m clean. I take my birth control–”
“Me neither.” His forehead dropped against yours, breath warm on your lips. “I just want you to be sure.”
You swallowed, nodding as your hands roamed up and down his arms and across his broad shoulders, feeling the tension and warmth of his muscles. His pulse jumped under your touch. “I would want it to be with you,” you confessed, bare and vulnerable.
He went still above you, the words knocking something loose. “I've always wanted it to be with you,” he breathed, the honesty in his voice wrapping around you like a second skin.
With a deep, measured breath, he wrapped his hand around the thick base of his cock, stroking it once before pressing the blunt, leaking head right against your slick entrance. Hovering over you, he braced his forearm beside your head, eyes remaining locked on your face as he pushed in leisurely until he sank deep in one long, continuous thrust.
Both of you moaned openly, lips falling slack at the intense sensation. He filled you completely, stretching your walls around his girthy length, stealing the breath right from your lungs. At the same moment, he reached up and gently tugged the blindfold away, letting you finally see him, your eyes glassy with overwhelmed tears as they met his, the eye contact undoing you more than the fullness between your legs.
You whimpered, voice breathless. “I hate that you might be right.”
“About?” he chuckled softly, staying buried to the hilt while he gave you time to adjust, eyes tracing over your face like he was trying to memorize it.
“Thinking highly of your dick…” You swallowed hard, your pussy fluttering and clenching around the solid invasion. “It sure is there.”
“Focus on it then,” he grinned, that cocky yet tender expression making your chest tighten. His gaze dropped to your lips, then back up as though he couldn't settle on one place to look.
“Not much else I can do,” you admitted, voice shaky, the words barely making it out whole.
Dean leaned down, catching your mouth with his, searching and wanting to swallow the shakiness right out of you. Only when you softened against him did he begin to move, shallow at first, drawing back only a few inches before sliding back in, letting you feel every inch of him dragging along your sensitive inner walls. Each time he bottomed out, his pelvis pressed firmly against your clit, sending sparks of sharp pleasure through you. Your body rocked beneath him with every careful thrust, the wet, intimate sound of your joined bodies filling the room alongside your shared breathing.
“Talk to me,” he murmured, eyes never leaving your face as he kept an unhurried pace, rolling into you repeatedly. He watched for every flicker, every little crease between your brows and twitch at the corner of your mouth, searching for the exact angle and depth that made your expression soften with bliss instead of tension. “What’s on your mind?”
“You,” you answered immediately, the most honest thing you could say.
His smile deepened with satisfaction but he wanted more than what was at the surface, what he knew you thought he wanted to hear. His thumbs brushed tenderly across your temples, easing your mind. “What’s around it?”
“How…” A moan interrupted you as he rolled his hips just right, cock stroking a spot inside you that made your toes curl. “Just how much I’ll want you to believe me when I say this was good…once it’s over. I know it will be.” Your breathing came in heavy pants now, chest rising and falling against his. “Even when…when I won’t–”
“If,” he corrected gently but firmly, still thrusting steadily as the head of his cock dragged deliciously along your walls on every withdrawal, then pushed back in deep. “That’s if you don’t.” He paused, “Listen to me, I don’t think there’s anything you’d tell me that I wouldn’t believe.”
“Well…I need you to be sure,” you pressed, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from spilling. Vulnerability sat raw in your throat, each word feeling like it cost you something you couldn't get back. Your nails dug crescents into his sides, holding on like he might disappear the second you finished the thought. “Please, be sure.”
“Certain,” he nodded, then leaned down closer, forehead nearly touching yours, eyes locked so you could see the sincerity burning there. “I’m right here with you, now and after this.”
He maintained the thrusts long and measured, pulling almost all the way out until only the swollen head remained inside you, letting you feel the stretch as he sank back in again, its slick glide was audible with every meeting of your bodies. Sweat beaded along his collarbone and dripped onto your chest as he held himself above you, muscles flexing with control.
His pelvis kissed your clit on every downstroke, rubbing in slow circles when he stayed buried deep, grinding the sensitive bundle of nerves until your thighs trembled around his hips.
When your brows creased a little too tightly, he adjusted the angle, tilting his hips until the sensation smoothed your expression again. He watched your eyes and mouth, learning your body in real time, focused entirely on making this feel safe and good rather than chasing his own end, he simply wanted to be connected to you.
Your walls hugged him tightly, fluttering with every push, your wetness coating his shaft and easing each deep slide while you could feel the way his cock throbbed inside you, the subtle twitch it gave when you clenched around him. He drew his cock back slowly so you could feel every ridge and vein dragging along your inner walls before sinking back in.
Your breath hitched sharply, as if that alone told him everything he needed to know, he repeated the motion, slower this time letting you feel the full drag and press of him. He pulled out almost completely on the next stroke, just the swollen tip resting inside you, before sliding back in with one smooth thrust that forced a whimper from your throat, strokes that let you savor the way your pussy stretched around his thickness, the way your walls fluttered and clenched trying to keep him inside.
Your hands roamed his back, nails lightly scoring his skin as another deep thrust made your feet arch and when your brows drew together in concentration, he moved again, tilting his hips, changing the depth. Near the end of a dragging stroke, he reached down and hooked one hand behind your knee. He lifted your leg slowly, draping it over his hip and higher along his side, opening you up further, the new angle letting him press deeper. He rolled his hips upward on the next thrust, driving his cock into you with a smooth, upward grind that rubbed directly against a spongy pillow inside while his pelvis continued to crush against your clit.
Your whole body reacted at once, back arching hard as a broken moan spilled from your lips.
“Right there, mmh?” he cooed, voice low and warm, repeating the exact same rolling motion. “Try that for a bit?”
You nodded quickly, eyes falling shut as you surrendered to the sensation. His cock stroked along that perfect angle with every upward push, the head pressing right where you needed it most, pussy clenching tightly around him and soaking his cock even more with every grind.
Dean kept watching you, even as your eyes stayed closed. He studied the way your head tilted back against the pillow, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips trembled on every moan. He adjusted the angle of his hips in tiny increments, searching for the rhythm that would keep those creases of wonder on your face. The emotional weight of his attention made your throat tight, he wasn't just fucking you, he was tuned in completely, making sure you felt safe and cherished in every stroke.
“M–middle,” you moaned, voice breaking on the word.
Dean adjusted accordingly, angling his cock exactly where you needed him but before he could even settle into the new position, a raw, wanton moan tore from your throat and your back arched sharply off the bed as your eyes opened.
“Breathe,” he instructed gently, locking eyes with you and giving a slow, reassuring nod. His thumb brushed over your parted lips. “Breathe,” he repeated, “Focus on what you know.”
He kept moving in that centered, precise rhythm, strokes that dragged his thick cock along the same devastating path inside you.
“Mmpppff,” Your eyes fluttered shut as the pleasure built higher, one hand dug into his shoulder, nails biting into his skin while you struggled to draw full breaths. You tried to focus only on the slick drag of his cock entering and leaving your pussy, the way your walls stretched and clenched around his girth, the constant wet sounds of your bodies meeting.
“There you go. That's it,” he husked, bending lower to press a soft kiss to each of your closed eyelids. The new angle drove him even deeper, he pressed forward, settling his weight fully over you and nudging his face into the crook of your neck. Your moans became continuous, loud and broken, spilling from your open mouth without pause.
Dean groaned against your neck, low and desperate sounds vibrating through your skin and making you even hornier. His own unfiltered whimpers and heavy breathing mixed with yours as the position allowed you to breathe him in, sweat, skin and sex, chest heaving beneath his weight.
For several thrusts, no sound came out of you at all. Your mouth hung open in a silent cry, breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat, refusing to let go. The pressure inside you coiled tighter than you'd ever known, winding higher with every drag of him, every muscle in your body drawn taut and ready to snap.
It was new, unfamiliar with an edge of fear threading through it, a building intensity you had no name for or memory to compare it to. Your fingers curled hard into his shoulder, keeping yourself against a feeling that seemed too big for your body to hold.
A sudden, sharp gasp tore from your lungs, followed immediately by a sob that shook your entire frame. The orgasm crashed over you, deep, vaginal and violently intense, unlike anything you'd known your body capable of. Your pussy clamped down hard around his cock in rhythmic contractions that squeezed him in waves as pure ecstasy ripped through you. For one disorienting second you didn't know whether to cry or laugh, caught between the shock of it and the sheer relief of finally breaking. You sobbed openly, tears spilling down your temples and into your hair, a startled laugh bubbling up right alongside them.
“Mmhnhgh…fuck, fuck, fuck!” you cried, voice wrecked and trembling as the pleasure kept rolling through you in devastating pulses. Your walls fluttered and pulsed wildly around his thrusting cock, soaking him even more.
Dean groaned deeply at the sensation, his hips stuttering for a moment before he forced himself to keep moving, drawing out every last tremor of your orgasm. A quiet laugh escaped him, disbelieving and reverent, the sound punched loose from his chest before he could stop it. He stared down at you, eyes wide, drinking in the sight of your face gone soft and open, tears streaking your temples and lips parted around broken breaths. You looked undone in the most beautiful way he'd ever seen and for a second his vision blurred, his head going light with it.
He blinked hard, jaw tight, willing himself to hold it together as your walls kept squeezing him greedily, refusing to let him go.
He fucked you through it with careful, deep strokes, prolonging the pleasure until your body trembled beneath him. You felt impossibly wet, your arousal and his precum mixing and leaking out around his cock with every thrust.
The first orgasm had barely begun to fade when his pelvis ground harder against your swollen clit with each rolling thrust. The added stimulation pushed you straight into a second, clitoral orgasm that blindsided you, entirely different from the first and brighter too now as many sensations arrived all at once for your mind to sort through. Your thigh quivered violently against his side as bright pleasure exploded outward from your clit, blending with the deep, pulsing contractions still rippling through your core. You cried out again, fresh tears streaming down your face as the dual sensations overwhelmed every nerve in your body.
Your vision whited out for several seconds, your entire body locking up and then shaking apart in his arms. Sobs mixed with desperate moans as wave after wave rolled through you, leaving you raw and shattered in the best possible way.
Dean bent down and kissed away your tears, the salt of it lingering on his lips. “That's how you're supposed to feel,” he hushed against your temple, voice rough with awe and restraint.
“Nnngh, can’t–” you managed, lips parted, chasing words that wouldn't come.
“I know, I know,” he soothed, voice thick. “Gotta let it happen.”
Dean kept thrusting for as long as he could, fucking you through the tail end of your orgasms. His hips snapped forward a few more times, chasing his own release, less controlled than anything he'd let himself be before.
With a wanton whimper, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard, harder than he ever remembered coming, raw and unguarded, shaking with the force of it. Thick, warm pulses of his cum spilled deep inside you, flooding your pussy with heat that made you shudder, your oversensitive body twitching around him as his cock throbbed and jerked against your walls.
He stayed inside you, breathing heavily against your neck, neither of you speaking and just letting the last tremors settle.
After a moment he pulled back reluctantly, until there was just room between your bodies for both of you to look down and watch. He gave a few shallow, unhurried thrusts, fucking his cum deeper into you, the creamy mixture leaking out around his cock with every small movement. You were both transfixed by the filthy, intimate sight, watching each slow slide, neither of you willing to look away until his cock finally stopped twitching.
With one final thrust he stilled completely, buried deep inside you and let his forehead drop to your shoulder.
Neither of you moved.
The room went quiet except for your shared, rasped breathing and underneath it, the faint hitch of his breath catching, over and over in quiet little hiccups he couldn't smooth out no matter how he tried. You ran your hands slowly up and down his back, soothing the tremor still running through him and caught the small, wet sniffle against your skin, proof that he'd cried too, that this had undone him just as much as it had undone you.
You finally felt like you could breathe again. Every muscle in your body went limp as you melted into the mattress, utterly spent, tears still drying on your cheeks and Dean's warm weight pressing you down in the most comforting way possible.
You kissed while stubbornly blinking back tears, holding yourselves together until you simply couldn't anymore. Time dissolved into something shapeless, measured only by slow breaths, racing hearts and bodies pressed together. The sheets twisted around your limbs and for the first time, your body didn't feel like something you had to apologize for.
When Dean finally moved, he did it with an achingly slow pace. He kissed you deeply, tongue dancing with yours while he began to pull out, as though the press of his lips could somehow stop the inevitable. You whimpered softly into his mouth at the feeling, his thick cock sliding from your sensitive, cum-filled pussy in one continuous, wet glide.
A thick trickle of your shared release followed, leaking slowly down your folds and onto the sheets. The sudden emptiness left you aching and strangely bereft, even as his tongue continued to stroke gently against yours through the loss.
Whatever this was afterward, it was unlike anything you'd ever experienced.
“Stay right here,” he murmured against your lips once they parted.
Dean eased himself out of bed shortly to start the shower, testing the water with the back of his hand until the temperature was just right before returning for you. He wrapped an arm around your waist and picked you up bridal style, carrying you into the bathroom and taking your weight without making you feel incapable.
Then guided you beneath the warm stream. Steam gradually filled the room while he took his time cleaning you, soapy hands moving with care over every inch of your skin, washing away sweat and the evidence of your shared pleasure, pausing every so often to brush a kiss against your shoulders, the back of your neck, the curve of your spine, or inside of your wrist.
He slipped away for a moment with a parting kiss, only to strip the bed and remake it with fresh sheets before returning the instant he heard the water stop.
You couldn't help but stare as he stepped into the bathroom doorway. A clean towel was already waiting in his hands, along with clean underwear and a pair of pajamas he'd unearthed from your dresser, and with obvious satisfaction, one of the hoodies he'd been insisting had mysteriously disappeared months ago.
Another towel hung dangerously low on his own hips, barely clinging to the sharp cut of his pelvis. Droplets of water still clung to his skin, tracing slow paths down the defined lines of his abs and the deep V that disappeared beneath the towel. The sight made your breath catch all over again, his body glistening, relaxed and impossibly attractive in the soft bathroom light.
Dean noticed your gaze and gave you a small, knowing smirk but said nothing. He set the clothes aside and got to work, drying your skin carefully section by section, working moisturizer into every inch of you with soothing strokes and helping you into the soft fabric of your clean underwear and pajamas. Then he carried you back to the freshly made bed despite your quiet insistence that you could walk.
After fluffing your pillows and tucking the blankets around you, he finally took a moment to dry himself off and pull on his boxers. Only then did he return to your bedside, lean down and press a gentle kiss to the crown of your head before lingering there for a moment, as though reassuring himself that you were comfortable and finally at peace.
“I'll go raid your cabinets for something to eat,” he said quietly, palm moving slowly over your hair in absent, soothing strokes as he looked down at you. His thumb brushed lightly against your temple before his hand slipped away.
It was far too late to order food and even if somewhere nearby was still open, you doubted you had the energy for anything more substantial than a few bites. A tired smile tugged at your lips as you gave him a small nod but the moment he stepped away from the bed, your chest tightened unexpectedly, eyes following him across the room as though distance alone suddenly felt wrong.
Dean noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye but kept walking toward the bedroom door. “If you hear something heavy drop,” he said over his shoulder, a teasing grin returning now that the weight of the evening had begun to lighten, “that's probably just me hiding from Hannah and Allie if it comes down to it.”
A quiet chuckle escaped you as you turned your head toward the clock resting on your bedside table, the glowing numbers confirming just how late it had become. “Doubt they'll be back tonight,” you murmured, your voice rough with exhaustion.
Dean paused with one hand resting against the doorframe. Instead of leaving, he turned back to look at you properly. His teasing expression faded as he searched your face, trying to read what you needed without making assumptions but he knew tonight had been overwhelming in more ways than one. Maybe you wanted to be alone now, to untangle your thoughts in private before either of you tried putting words to everything that had changed between you.
He wouldn't force that conversation tonight if you weren't ready. “I can go,” he relented, the offer sincere enough that you knew he'd leave without hesitation if that was what you wanted.
Your hands fidgeted restlessly with the edge of the blanket gathered over your lap, smoothing wrinkles before twisting the fabric between your fingers again. You gave the smallest shake of your head, so slight it was nearly impossible to notice.
“I'd rather you didn't.” The words came out quietly. Your gaze drifted away from him, settling instead on the dark window across the room where your reflection stared back faintly against the glass.
You drew in a slow, steadying breath. If there was ever such a thing as good timing, you doubted either of you had managed to stumble across it tonight, then again, maybe there never would've been a perfect moment for this. All you knew was that you were tired of keeping parts of yourself hidden from him.
Dean remained exactly where he was. He didn't move closer, didn't interrupt or rush to fill the silence stretching between you.
“I think I love you,” you admitted at last, it felt strangely fragile once spoken.
Your eyes finally lifted to meet his as you blinked quickly, trying to keep the fresh sting of tears from spilling over, you'd already cried enough for one night.
Dean's expression didn't morph into surprise. Instead, he nodded once, his head tilting and his answer arriving with a tenderness that marked you more than if he'd been shocked. “I know that.”
A breathy laugh escaped you, your head shaking as you smiled weakly. You should've known he’d say that. The two of you had said those words before, they'd existed between you for years in birthday cards, sleepy phone calls, goodbye hugs and reassurances before exams or after bad days, less frequently as you'd grown older, perhaps but they had never truly disappeared.
This was different, though, you'd hoped he'd hear it in your voice. “No…not like that.” You swallowed, clearing your throat before trying again. “The…the other way.” The confession sat awkwardly on your tongue, still too new to fit comfortably. “It's probably going to take me a while to figure out that one too.” You let out a self-conscious laugh that barely qualified as one. “I just thought…I'd give you a heads-up.” Your fingers tightened around the blanket. “In case…you have time to stick around for that too.”
Your eyes dropped back to your hands, unable to bear watching disappointment if it appeared.
For a long second, the room remained perfectly still, then Dean smiled. It was far from the teasing grin he wore so effortlessly, a smile touched with years of memories only the two of you shared.
“I know, baby,” he ventured.
His fingertips tapped absently against the doorframe as scenes from years ago drifted through his mind of the two of you, younger and convinced you were being impossibly sneaky, sitting shoulder to shoulder in playgrounds you'd long since outgrown after the sun had gone down, hiding behind climbing frames and plastic tunnels simply because they gave you somewhere to be alone together.
Memories of fingers laced together in the dark, shared laughter muffled into sleeves and the first time your mouths had met almost by accident, followed by another and another, both of you pretending each one had been just as thoughtless as the last since acknowledging it felt far more frightening than simply letting it happen again.
“I never thought we'd grow out of it,” he admitted, his eyes never leaving yours. “You've never been an enigma to me…Of course, I have time,” he murmured. “I've loved you for as long as I can remember. For you, I’ve always had time.”
He smiled softly and everything inside you slid into place.
Oh, love. The nostalgia returned with childlike wonder. How long had it been waiting for you to find your way back to the playground?
a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍
M.I.R.A.: Unusual levels of activity detected across the network. Traveler presence has exceeded expected parameters. Initiating celebration protocol. Route updates incoming for all users...
Six Earths, over one hundred timelines logged across them and now...6000 habitual travelers!!
If M.I.R.A. weren’t a machine designed solely to guide, I suspect her systems would be far too overwhelmed to function properly. Since she’s incapable of expressing human emotion, I’ll be taking over commands for a moment.
Seriously...what???
Whether you found my work through my previous blog or discovered this one recently, thank you. I wish I could thank every single one of you individually!! Thank you for making this little corner of the internet what it is, for giving me a place to put down all of my daydreams and see where they take me.
Writing has always filled my days, but this feels like something much bigger than that. Every like, reblog, comment, ask, and message reminds me there’s someone on the other side of the screen enjoying these worlds as much as I enjoy creating them. It means more than you know.
To celebrate everyone who has stumbled across this blog, no matter which Earth brought you here, I wanted to dedicate next week to each of them. That does mean there won't be any posts this week but I promise it's for a good reason!
Most of these fics are already written, a few are waiting to be pasted over and only a handful are still in their final stages of editing. No matter where they are in production, this felt like the perfect time to finally share them all!!
☆ Earth-181938 (Clark Kent)
Truth, laughter, journalism...and a name that graced the headlines long before reaching for the stars.
"The Marvelous Mrs. Kent" is finally reaching its final chapter. Secrets will be gracefully revealed, there will be tears, there will be laughter and there will be a future so grand you can almost reach out and touch it...though you might be a few inches short. A good pair of vintage Prada could probably fix that!
And because I know not everyone is following the series, a requested standalone fic will also be joining the archive later this week. (Hopefully, if I have time.)
☆ Earth-66 (Dean Di Laurentis/Off Campus)
I wanted to thank you all again for the unbelievable response to "I would've done that sober."
Part two is officially coming next week!! It's currently receiving its final edits before release.
Everyone who requested another part in the comments has already been added to the tag list and if you'd still like to join, just leave a comment on the original post and I'll add you before publication.
And later in the week...John Tucker's NSFW Alphabet is finally arriving. I promised it was in the works and I'm happy to report it's finished and ready for posting.
Beau Maxwell's and Hunter Davenport's alphabets remain safely stored for the future.
☆ Earth-1104 (Rafe Cameron)
Another entry is joining Rafe Cameron's archive, more specifically the growing collection of NSFW Alphabets.
This time, you'll get a glimpse into a softer version of him, one shaped by a Pogue reader who was willing to look beyond the treasure everyone else was chasing. Turns out, not everything worth finding is buried...sometimes you simply have to search somewhere else!
The question is, once you've found something more valuable than gold, will you be able to keep it hidden?
☆ Earth-0424 (Steve Harrington)
Steve Harrington may have once been known as the guy who always knew exactly how to charm his way into someone's attention but what happens when someone finally catches his?
His NSFW Alphabet explores the space between the boy everyone remembers and the person he's becoming as the Upside Down's roots begin spreading beyond the shadows of Hawkins.
Surviving monsters, saving his hometown and constantly throwing himself into danger doesn't erase desire, especially not when you're suddenly everywhere he looks.
☆ Earth-1114 (Daryl Dixon)
The apocalypse changes almost everything. You'd think it'd be enough to kill a person's libido too but apparently not!!
Casual hookups don't exactly fit between walkers and survival runs but building something worth surviving for? That's another story entirely.
Every safe haven the group stumbled upon carried the same rumor...somewhere nearby was a couple refusing to let the end of the world take everything from them. After all, frustration needs somewhere to go.
☆ Earth-1110 (Simon Riley)
I’m still very much in the brainstorming stages for this one. It might become some kind of character study or an actual fic... we’ll have to see where this timeline takes us, but I have to ask...what do we think about club/bar owner Ghost? Might be time to defrost that draft.
That being said, this week is entirely dedicated to getting these finished. I don’t know exactly when everything will be posted yet, so expect them to appear either individually or in pairs, with around a 30-minute difference between posts, depending on how editing goes.
I'll surely be taking some time off after.
A couple of smaller updates before I go...
The blog has had a bit of a makeover! For anyone wondering, all of the space-themed banners are screenshots from Star Citizen and my profile picture came from there too. The original text on it was “MIRAI” and it’s actually what inspired M.I.R.A.’s name!!
Everything is edited by yours truly using Canva's free version or the Pro trial, more specifically Typecraft for the lettering and my watermark on the suit that had to be shaped to every curve. One thing about me is that I'll very responsibly cancel the trial before it remembers to charge me!
I’m definitely not a graphic designer. I just happen to have an incredibly specific vision in my head and, unfortunately for me, I’m the only person I’d ever bother with my perfectionism.
As always, asks are open if you need anything, whether it’s requests, questions, or just stopping by to say hi.
Thank you again, truly. I’ll see you all next week 🫶🚀
M.I.R.A.: Celebration protocol complete. Traveler reminder: alcohol consumption aboard the vessel remains unauthorized. Current emergency supplies include zero motion sickness bags...a disappointing design flaw. Please remain seated and contain all biological reactions until we complete the current transit sequence.
All passengers remain within acceptable operating parameters. Please do not provide reasons for reconsideration.
omg i just found your page for the first time and i just have to tell you i am obsessed with it and your aesthetic. i love the space station-y sentient computer vibe like karen from spongebob. both your writing and your style is absolutely fantastic and i’ve never played cod in my life but wow my jaw and your mic have both been dropped. please know you’ve altered my timeline for the better :)
Thank you so much, this genuinely made my day!! And to be completely fair, when I first started writing for COD I had only watched gameplays (obsessively so, that kind of stuff has always been up my alley, I love action content of any kind) I didn't even own a PS at the time. Now I do and I have the first game but I'm still very much a newbie and such an anxious player, so I haven't touched it yet 😬
I'll definitely try my hand at writing for Ghost again soon!
OMGGG THAT CLARK SMUT PIEVE WAS AMAZINGGGGGGGGGGGGGG !!!!! SUCH A BRILLIANT IDEA ILYYY 😩♥️♥️♥️
Thank you so muchhhhh!! I would LOVE to do more like that in the future and when the time comes I'd love to get you guys involved by sending in some positions for me to write about!!
If you've missed it, read "Have you ever tried this one?" here!
I didnt realize how others also realized how much AI is in the Off Campus tag 😭 I can’t tell 100% but some of the writings, not just in that tag, are just sooo emotionless? It’s happening in alot of popular show or movie tags— it’s alarming as it follows the AI pattern
I might be fully wrong but I think it has a lot to do with how fast the show blew up, there was high demand for more content and very little time to respond to it because everyone was rushing to be first on the hype train.
I can't say I fully understand it either, I'm speaking from quite a privileged position. Writing is just what I do, in university and out of it. I'm unemployed at the moment too, meaning I can easily put in 7 hours of writing a day. I have the time and the training to just write and I don't feel that immediate need to constantly put content out without depth just to live in you guys' timelines.
I'm lowkey a big fat hater of immediately popular shows 😭 like I didn't get into Stranger Things until after season 3 aired, I didn't watch Off Campus the day it came out either. I started noticing the edits, the fics (the good ones and the bad ones) got a free Amazon Prime trial about a week later, watched it in one sitting and to my surprise ended up very invested in Allie and Dean's relationship. I creatively become very immersed in media so I told myself I'd enjoy it casually FOR ONCE and then days later I still couldn't get it out of my head, so I sat down and wrote something very surface level, just a "quick fuck". I even wrote a few more things before ever posting Terms and conditions just to see if I could sustain it and if I'd even be interested in finding more out about these characters.
Writing doesn't have to be deep but it shouldn't just be a means to an end either. I might put out some quick smut one day and the next serve you guys a piece of my heart. Writing is SO much about finding a reason to speak and the only reason I still find stories in these worlds is because I have something to say.
I absolutely forgot to schedule Dean's fic on the right night and since I'd been working on both simultaneously, polluting my Google search history with sex articles and Kamasutra deep dives, I figured, what the hell why not! (Though I often do it too when my drafts need to be emptied a bit)
I genuinely love learning all about sex so there will definitely be more of that in the future and the sheer amount of positions out there just gives me so many ideas…
