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.
Hey! Just wanted to check in with you make sure you’re doing okay? 😊 Looking forward to having you back online
UPDATE
Thanks for asking! I'll be cleared tomorrow, so posting will resume next week.
I'm not sure how many posts yet ’cause it’ll depend on how quickly I pick up my drafts. There will definitely be something for a David Corenswet character and I think it’ll be smut.
For Dean Di Laurentis, it'll be the long-awaited part two to "Something to take the edge off."
Maybe something for Steve Harrington if I get into the rhythm and I'm still working through a Drew Starkey request. I haven't quite figured it out yet but I'm trying.
I might even get something for Daryl Dixon out too.
I'll aim to post at least two things at the beginning of the week but we'll see. I won't be home until Sunday, though I'll try to write on my phone!
As for my heart, it's doing fine. I think it was more the suddenness of the feeling that scared me than anything else!!
a/n: My heart's doing something weird and scary in my chest so I couldn't finish writing pt.2 to "Something to take the edge off", it'll be my next Dean fic but while I get checked up and cleared, here's a little something to read!
Classification: Smut +18 | Oral sex/fingering on the stairs after a win!
Word count: 1,3k
The house was empty and silent, the air thick with the lingering adrenaline of the game and the electric tension that had been building between you and Dean all night. The entryway was bathed in shadows, the only light filtered in from the streetlamps outside, casting long, jagged silhouettes across the walls. You didn't even make it past the foyer before he had you pinned against the wall, his mouth crashing onto yours in a kiss that tasted of victory and desperation.
As he began to guide you both down the stairs, the kiss deepened, tongues dancing in a slow, sensual battle for dominance. Dean’s hands were everywhere, mapping your curves with a possessive urgency as he lowered you onto the carpeted steps, body heavy and warm against yours, trapping you between his muscular frame and the hard edge of the stairs.
You let out a soft moan, hands clutching at his shoulders.
His bedroom was just a few more steps away, a sanctuary of privacy but Dean seemed to have lost all patience. He pulled back just an inch, darkened eyes boring into yours with pupils blown wide with lust.
"If I wait any longer, I'll implode," he rasped, voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent shivers racing down your spine.
His hand slid down, gripping the hem of your dress and scrunching the fabric upward in one fluid motion. The cool air hit your thighs but you were burning up from the inside. Dean couldn’t look away, he kept his gaze locked on yours with an intense, predatory focus that made you feel completely exposed and utterly desired.
As he stared you down, he brought his hand to his mouth and you watched breathless, as he slid two fingers between his lips, coating them in warm saliva. The sight alone made your stomach flip with anticipation. Without breaking eye contact, he reached down and slid those wet fingers beneath the elastic edge of your underwear, driving them deep into your pussy, making your eyelids flutter shut at the intrusion.
"Look at me," he commanded, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Look at me or I'll stop."
You gasped, lips parting as the sudden pressure of his slick fingers made your hips jerk upward.
You obeyed instantly, staring into his eyes, vision already blurring slightly as the pleasure hit you like a wave. Your knees fell open wide, giving him total access as your heels dug into the stairs behind you.
Dean began to move his fingers in a slow, rhythmic curl, hooking them against your G-spot with agonizing precision. He watched your expression, savoring every flicker of pleasure, your dilated pupils and shaky breaths. He wasn't just fucking you with his fingers, he was claiming you and using the eye contact to anchor you to that sensation.
As he increased the pace, his fingers began to slide in and out with a wet, rhythmic slushing sound that was only slightly muffled by the soaked fabric covering the area. The friction was intense, the lubrication of his saliva and your own mounting arousal creating a slippery, visceral heat. You felt the tension building in your lower belly, in a tight coil of need that threatened to snap.
While his hand worked relentlessly between your legs, Dean shifted his weight from where he knelt on the stairs, his other hand coming up to brush against your chest. Through the thin fabric of your dress, he could see your nipples peaking, hard and calling for his attention. He let out a low growl of approval at the sight as he leaned forward, tongue darting out to lick the fabric directly over your nipple, the dampness of his tongue seeping through the cloth.
The combination of the rough fingering and the teasing stimulation of your breasts pushed you toward the edge.
"You're so fucking wet for me," he murmured, fingers driving deeper and faster, stretching you open and preparing you for his cock.
Your breath began to hitch, coming in short, jagged gasps. You were hovering on the precipice of an orgasm, your internal muscles clamping tightly around his fingers in preparation. The slushing sound grew louder and more frantic, as you neared the peak but just as the first wave of the climax began to crash over you, Dean suddenly cursed under his breath and ripped his fingers out of you.
The sudden loss of stimulation left you reeling, a whimpering sound escaping your throat. You looked at him, desperate and aching, as he reached down and hooked his thumbs into your panties, sliding them down your legs and tossing them carelessly onto the stairs.
Dean stared at your exposed pussy, glistening and dripping with juices that smeared against your inner thighs. He looked back up at you and his expression was one of pure, unadulterated hunger.
"I'm so fucking thirsty," he groaned.
Without another word, he dove down, burying his face between your legs and licking you with a ferocity that made you moan openly into the empty house.
Dean didn't just lick you, he devoured you. The moment his face hit your heat, he buried his nose deep into your folds, inhaling your scent with a primal hunger that made your toes curl. His tongue was a weapon, broad and powerful, as he delivered one long, sweeping stroke from your perineum all the way up to your clit, coating you in his saliva.
You let out a loud, shattered whine that echoed through the foyer, fingers digging into his hair and pulling him closer as he began to lap at you with a rhythmic, slurping intensity, tongue swirling around your clit in tight, dizzying circles before suctioning the small nub into his mouth.
The sensation was a concentrated bolt of pleasure that shot straight to your core.
"You taste like fucking heaven," he mumbled against your skin, voice muffled by your pussy.
He shifted his angle, using his chin to press firmly against your pelvic bone while his tongue flicked rapidly against your clit, mimicking the motion of a cock. The speed was relentless. He was slurping your juices with an audible, wet greed, making no effort to be respectful about it.
You were shaking, hips bucking uncontrollably against his face, dress bunched up around your waist as you offered yourself to him completely.
The first orgasm hit you like a freight train. It wasn't a slow build, it was a violent explosion that ripped through your body, making your internal muscles clamp down on nothing as your back arched off the stairs and you wailed his name, still, Dean didn't stop. As your body began to shudder in the afterglow, he doubled down, tongue driving deeper into your pussy, swirling and probing, refusing to let the pleasure fade so fast.
He pushed you right back over the edge before you could even catch your breath. The second orgasm was even more intense, a rolling wave of ecstasy that left you sobbing, legs trembling so hard you could barely keep them open around him. He continued to eat you out with a focused, predatory hunger, tongue working your clit into a frenzy, slurping every drop of cum and juice that leaked from you.
By the third time you peaked, your vision was swimming and your voice was hoarse from so much moaning. You were a shaking, dripping mess on the stairs, completely spent and utterly ruined by his mouth.
As the final tremors subsided and you slumped back against the carpeted steps, gasping for air, Dean finally pulled away. He looked down at you, lips glistening and wet with your cum, a smug, dark satisfaction in his eyes.
Without a word, he reached down and gripped your waist, hoisting you up with effortless strength. In one fluid motion, he flipped you over his shoulder like a piece of luggage. The sudden shift in position made you gasp, your breasts hanging down and your bare ass exposed to the cool air of the stairway.
SMACK!
The sound of his palm connecting with your cheek echoed loudly. He hit your ass hard, leaving a stinging heat that sent a fresh jolt of arousal through your exhausted body. You let out a small, surprised whimper, clutching onto his back as he began to march up the stairs toward his bedroom...intent on fucking you the rest of the way to heaven.
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: You were raised to be admired from a distance, never to take up space of your own but when an acceptance letter offered you a future that finally belonged to you, you refused to let go, holding tight to the belief that the only way out was up. Between moving boxes, sleepless nights and last minute gigs of an unexpected career, you find yourself rising toward something extraordinary, reaching heights you once believed only he could touch.
Classification: Romantic dramedy | college "roommate"!Clark, labeled time jumps to the past/non linear narrative, non sexual nudity, sexual innuendos and humor (graphic jokes about genitals, masturbation and sexual performance), alcohol consumption, smoking, family conflict, emotional manipulation and themes of entrapment.
Word count: 23.9k
Divider by me ;)
At eighteen…
“College?!”
Your mother said the word the same way people announced terminal illnesses in old movies. One manicured hand pressed dramatically against her chest while the other gripped her wine glass hard enough to qualify as aggression.
You kept walking toward your bedroom anyway, dragging your heels across the polished hallway floors with all the enthusiasm of a woman marching toward a public execution.
“Your daughter wants to go to college,” she continued loudly to your father in the living room as though you had already disappeared entirely. “I told you we should’ve sent her to Paris like my mother did for me. Exposure to Europe could've fixed this.”
“There will be no college,” your father answered firmly before the ice in his drink even stopped clinking. “And there will be no Paris either. God forbid, that city has done enough damage to good families already. You came back from Paris with cigarettes, opinions and a taste for expensive shoes. I refuse to fund a sequel. She will court the young man we discussed and then she will get married.”
You closed your bedroom door softly before the sentence finished.
You had learned very young that slamming doors in your parents’ house only created longer conversations afterward. So instead you shut it quietly, leaned your back against the wood and closed your eyes while the noise of your life continued on the other side uninterrupted.
Outside your window, the city breathed. Cold air drifted through the curtains from the open fire escape window, carrying distant traffic, laughter from people walking somewhere below and the unbearable scent of freedom. Somewhere out there people were probably doing terrible things like choosing their own futures and eating dinner past seven-thirty without consequence.
You inhaled slowly, then exhaled, then inhaled again because breathing through emotional devastation counted as coping according to every women’s magazine ever printed.
You should’ve known bringing up college would end like this. Actually, you had known. You just kept hoping your parents might surprise you one day and accidentally develop humanity.
“Bad time?”
Clark’s voice floated quietly through the window and you jumped enough to nearly peel yourself off the door despite the fact this had become embarrassingly routine over the years.
Your eyes snapped toward the fire escape instantly.
Clark sat halfway through the open window frame looking unfairly comfortable there, broad shoulders hunched slightly beneath a plaid button up while moonlight caught against the familiar curve of his face and automatically, despite everything, you smiled…which felt medically concerning at this point.
You locked your bedroom door and crossed the room quickly to reach him.
“There’s no such thing as good timing around here,” you replied dryly.
Clark smiled softly and stood tall on the firescape. He then pushed the window open wider before offering you his hand like this was somehow a perfectly normal entrance method between teenagers and not the beginning of several future tabloid headlines.
You took it.
The second you climbed onto the fire escape and actually looked at him properly beneath the moonlight, your brows lifted. “Glasses?”
Clark blinked once before touching them instinctively.
He’d only been away at college for a month but somehow even that small distance had altered him slightly around the edges. You still spoke often on the phone, though never because you called first, Clark always called you. You told yourself it was healthier that way, less clingy and pathetic, easier for him to eventually fully leave if he needed to.
He still looked mostly like himself though, wearing jeans and plaid. A true farm boy-lead tragedy…your very own Romeo.
At this point you were fairly certain prolonged exposure throughout childhood had conditioned you into tolerating flannel psychologically, almost like a disease.
Meanwhile you looked exactly the same too. Matching lounge clothes, carefully styled hair but no dress tonight, just fluffy heeled slippers because even your relaxation footwear carried performance anxiety.
So really, the same people you had always been.
“Yeah.” Clark grinned shyly and slipped the glasses off briefly. “You like them?”
Your brows rose higher. “Are you asking me for fashion advice?”
Clark laughed under his breath. “The day will come but not today.” He glanced down at his shirt. “I don’t think I’m ready to let go of plaid yet.”
“I would never ask that of you,” you assured him solemnly. “Kansas would probably find a way to sue me specifically for it.”
Clark smiled wider and you felt your chest tighten at the sight of it before immediately pretending internally that nothing happened.
“They make you look…” You paused thoughtfully as Clark’s posture straightened imperceptibly. “Different.”
His face twisted with concern. “Good different or bad different?”
“Cute different,” you answered without thinking.
Silence settled between you as Clark looked at you…and you looked at Clark. Both your chests rose simultaneously while his lips parted slightly like he meant to say something dangerous to permanently alter your life at eighteen.
So naturally, you interrupted immediately. “Well,” you rushed onward, “given you didn’t use the front door tonight…or ever, I’m assuming you took the fast route here.”
Clark blinked once, visibly reorganizing his nervous system before nodding.
“Yeah.” The worry returned to his face. “You haven’t really been keeping up with our call schedule and I just…” He motioned vaguely toward your bedroom door. “I heard yelling.”
Clark had spent the last thirty minutes waiting outside on your fire escape hoping you’d eventually come while you suffered through dinner pretending your family dynamic qualified as normal.
Unfortunately for him, you had mentioned his name halfway through the meal and Clark Kent had never once succeeded at minding his own business where you were concerned…
“You’re not going to college, Y/n,” your mother had said while passing you the salad bowl with all the grace of a queen sentencing someone to death publicly. “That was never the plan. We already agreed on this.”
You took the bowl.
“Mama,” you answered carefully, “I was six when we discussed this and my biggest ambition at the time was becoming a princess.” You placed salad onto your plate aggressively. “I think we should maybe revisit the contract.”
“Maybe you need time off,” your mother suggested immediately. “An activity perhaps.”
Your face twisted instantly. “Time off from what?” you asked. “Tea at four? Waking up at nine every damn morning?”
Your mother gasped. That woman reacted to profanity like Victorian women reacted to tuberculosis. “Watch your mouth,” she hissed. “All those etiquette classes–”
“Fuck those etiquette classes.”
“Y/n!” your father barked while your mother looked moments away from fainting directly into the butter dish. If somebody yelled “whore” dramatically nearby, she probably would’ve died on the spot. You were definitely tempted to…no.
“Clearly they were a waste of money,” you muttered.
At that exact moment Zelda, your housekeeper, stepped beside you carrying the mashed potatoes.
You looked up at her. “Zelda, please tell me you didn’t smooth them too much tonight.” You sighed heavily. “I think I’d rather choke on potatoes than my words at this table.”
Your mother gasped again.
Your father dropped his silverware against his plate with a violent clatter while rubbing both hands slowly over his face. Meanwhile Zelda stood there completely expressionless because after so many years employed in your household, the woman had witnessed things far worse than profanity at dinner.
“You’re being dramatic,” your mother snapped.
“No,” you corrected calmly. “I’m being undereducated. Zelda?”
Zelda leaned down toward your ear with the stealth of a woman who had survived two decades employed by rich people and therefore understood the value of discreet alcoholism. “Don’t worry, Miss Y/n,” she whispered conspiratorially. “I have a bottle of something excellent hidden in the kitchen.”
Almost instantly, hope returned to your body.
“But no drinking on an empty stomach,” she added firmly before straightening again.
There it was, the closest thing you had ever experienced to maternal tenderness.
You smiled faintly as she disappeared back toward the kitchen and then turned once more toward your parents across the dining table. The chandelier overhead cast everything in warm gold light, expensive, polished and deeply suffocating.
You inhaled carefully, then exhaled.
“Papa,” you began, forcing steadiness into your voice, “I want to go to college.” Your fingers tightened around your fork. “I don’t want to stay here.”
Your mother turned toward your father as if calling legal counsel. “Tell her–”
“I think it’s a good idea,” your father interrupted calmly.
You and your mother spoke at exactly the same time, eyes wide. “You do?”
Your father nodded once and your mother rose from her chair so abruptly the legs scraped violently across the hardwood floors. Somewhere in the distance a ghost probably clutched its pearls.
“Wonderful! Look what you made me do,” your mother snapped while storming toward the living room. “My mother is rolling in her grave. Years of etiquette lessons wasted because our daughter suddenly wants an education.”
You watched her leave before muttering under your breath, “If grandmama survived two wars and four husbands, I think she’ll survive me reading some books.”
Your father ignored that completely. “What would you study?”
The question stopped you cold. Your father had always known exactly who he was, a mathematical prodigy with a structured mind and straight path. He had probably emerged from the womb already calculating taxes recreationally.
You, unfortunately, had spent most of your life mastering posture and pretending that counted as purpose. Your breath caught slightly as you looked down at your plate.
“French literature maybe,” you answered carefully. “To meet Mama halfway.” You shrugged lightly. “And Russian too, why not? That sounds difficult enough to impress everyone at Christmas dinner.”
“No.”
You blinked as your father continued eating calmly.
“No?” you repeated, completely thrown.
Your mother reappeared in the doorway then, vindication radiating off her like perfume.
“If you’re going to study,” your father continued, “and I’m paying for it, then you’ll study something useful.”
You stared at him in disbelief. “Useful?” you repeated slowly. “You mean unlike me?”
“Y/n.”
“No, because I’m trying to understand.” You laughed once in genuine astonishment. “You want to marry me off to some entitled little parasite descended from generations of worse parasites and I’m the one who suddenly needs practical skills?”
“I’m not paying for university unless you choose a worthwhile field.”
“Oh, fascinating.” You nodded quickly. “So my future husband can waste oxygen professionally but I need to become economically viable. What year is this?!”
“Enough.”
“No, it’s actually not enough. Not even close.” Your voice rose before you could stop it. “Why can’t you be more like the Kents?”
Both your parents frowned immediately.
“He’s in Metropolis right now,” you continued, frustration spilling faster now. “Living his life and making choices. Nobody chained him to his parents’ dreams before he even understood what dreaming was and trust me, he would know.”
Your mother looked genuinely confused. “Who are the Kents?” she asked your father like you had invented them on the spot.
Your father shrugged once and you stared at them with parted lips and narrowed eyes.
“Smallville?” you repeated slowly. “Clark Kent? My best friend?” You pointed between the two of them. “Does that ring any bells?”
Your mother blinked. “I thought he was imaginary.”
You nearly dropped your fork. “You’ve met him multiple times!”
“When?” your father asked plainly.
“Where did you think I went every time I left the house for six hours?”
“For walks.” Your mother answered with a careless shrug.
Your jaw fell open. “In the ass crack of Kansas?” Even Zelda paused in the kitchen doorway at that one. “You genuinely thought I wandered into cornfields for fun?”
“It didn’t matter. You always came back,” your father answered simply and the sentence hit strangely harder than yelling would’ve.
You looked between them in complete disbelief. “Mama, papa…you’ve met him,” you insisted again.
Your mother turned sharply toward the kitchen. “Zelda?”
Zelda appeared instantly because unlike your parents, Zelda actually paid attention to your life. “Yes ma’am?”
“Have we met this…” Your mother motioned vaguely toward you. “Claire Kent?”
“It’s Clark,” you corrected loudly.
Zelda nodded. “He always comes for Miss Y/n’s birthdays,” she supplied helpfully.
Your mother paused. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” you echoed. “Oh.” You leaned back into your chair, suddenly exhausted. “He got accepted into Met U,” you continued more quietly. “He’s gonna become this incredible journalist and actually build something for himself.”
“I wouldn’t care if pigs flew tomorrow wearing little top hats and singing the national anthem,” your father said, voice dripping with disdain. “You are not going to Met U. The answer is no. Final. Humanity did not survive wars, depressions and your mother’s cooking just so you could throw your life away becoming some glorified typewriter girl or…or some ink-stained, idealistic little journalist chasing scandals and heartbreak in that godforsaken concrete jungle!”
The way he said it sounded offensive and something sharp twisted violently in your chest then. Before you realized it, your chair scraped backward and you were already standing but neither of your parents had stopped you.
Their voices faded behind you as you walked away from the dining room, then faded further still somewhere inside your mind where disappointment had started settling into something colder over the years.
Back on the fire escape, you blinked slowly and looked toward Clark again. “Claire’s a pretty name,” you considered lightly. “At least she got some of the letters correct.”
Clark laughed softly despite the concern still written all over his face. “Y/n, I’m so sorry.”
“Stop apologizing for them, Kent.” You waved him off. “I probably could’ve chosen a better moment to bring it up but…” You shrugged. “I’m running out of time.”
His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
You inhaled sharply. “Wait here.” Then you disappeared back into your bedroom before he could question you further.
Clark watched through the open window while you crossed quickly toward your vanity, dropped to your knees and yanked open the bottom drawer beneath piles of scarves and unopened perfume boxes. For a second he just watched you move around your room with that same restless energy you always carried whenever you were trying not to feel something too deeply.
You returned holding an envelope. You handed it toward him through the window but before even looking at it, Clark automatically steadied you by the waist while helping you climb back onto the fire escape safely.
The contact lingered slightly too long. It always did, even then.
Once your feet landed properly, Clark finally lowered his gaze toward the paper. He unfolded it carefully and read silently, then looked up so fast you almost laughed.
“Metropolis University…” he breathed. “Late admission…” His eyes scanned lower before widening completely. “Accepted with full costs covered.” His eyes snapped toward yours. “You got in?”
The excitement in his voice hit before the words fully settled and suddenly Clark had both arms around you, lifting you straight off the fire escape entirely while squeezing hard enough to rearrange several organs. “This is perfect–”
“You could also,” you wheezed, fighting for oxygen, “ease up a little before my eyeballs detach, file for independence and attend orientation without the rest of me.”
Clark dropped you back down instantly. “I’m sorry,” he blurted while checking your face with visible horror, one warm hand cupping your cheek gently like he genuinely expected structural damage. “I got too excited.”
You laughed breathlessly. “You didn’t squeeze that hard,” you admitted. “I’m messing with you.”
Clark still looked unconvinced.
You leaned back against the brick wall behind you and exhaled slowly. “I have two more days to answer them,” you admitted quietly. “After that they give the spot to someone else.” Clark stayed completely still listening to you. “I wanted my parents on board with the concept before telling them about it,” you continued. “But after tonight?” You shrugged lightly. “I’m an adult. They don’t get to decide every single thing for me forever.”
Then you pushed lightly against his shoulder. “You’re not the only one who gets to fly the coop.”
Clark looked at you for a long moment after and you could’ve sworn his eyes actually shined beneath the moonlight as he smiled. It was the kind of smile that had ruined you years ago, it made your stomach flip, your heart stutter and your brain forget every reason you had ever given yourself for keeping your distance. "The only way out is up."
His arms wrapped around you carefully, one around your waist and the other supporting your back as he pulled you flush against him, lifting effortlessly from the fire escape into the night sky.
The moon was bright above you, casting everything in silver and somewhere far below, the city hummed with the life you had temporarily escaped.
The last of the Talon’s customers finally spilled out into the street one stagger at a time, the door swinging shut behind them with tired little squeaks until silence began settling over the club in uneven patches. Without the crowd packed shoulder-to-shoulder inside it, the room suddenly looked smaller, sadder. The cigarette haze still lingered beneath the hanging lights and the entire place smelled like stale beer, sweat and the consequences of free speech.
The room looked wrecked in the aftermath of the night. Half-empty glasses cluttered tables, cocktail napkins stuck wetly to wood surfaces and a chair near the stage had somehow lost one leg entirely and leaned sadly against another table.
Meanwhile you sat at the bar with the tip basket overturned in front of you, bills spread carefully across the scratched counter while you counted them for what had to be the fourth time now because the number felt fake.
Behind you, chairs scraped loudly across the floor while Susie started cleaning up the room herself.
“You know,” she called out while dragging a mop bucket past the stage, “if you actually need money, I’d pay you a pretty penny to rinse out the communal throw-up bucket.”
You didn’t even look up from the stack of bills in your hands.
“I’d rather pay you not to have one.” You flattened a five-dollar bill against the counter. “Why not just let people throw up in the bathrooms like civilized alcoholics?”
Susie snorted somewhere behind you.
“Do you know how hard it is for somebody five drinks deep to hold their puke?” she asked. “They line up for the bathrooms, then they clog the pipes and suddenly the whole place smells like fermented regret.” She pointed toward the back hall. “And the bathrooms are too close to the stage. One bad overflow and I lose half the room.”
You grimaced. “What a lovely establishment you have here.”
“Not lovelier than you,” Susie replied in the exact same monotone voice.
She came around the counter then, wiping her hands on a rag before leaning over the money spread across the bar. Her eyes narrowed slightly at the stack growing beneath your fingers. Truthfully, she had never seen that much money come out of the Talon’s tip basket before…ever.
“How’s the counting going?” she asked suspiciously. “You’ve been staring at those bills for ten damn minutes. Do rich people not learn little numbers?”
You looked up slowly. “That’s hilarious.” You nodded. “You should try comedy sometime.”
“I said the same thing.” Susie deadpanned right back without missing a beat, leaning onto the counter. “What do we have?”
You counted once more just to make sure your rich upbringing hadn’t actually somehow sabotaged basic mathematics, gathered the final stack slowly and exhaled through your nose.
“Five hundred and twenty-one dollars.” You paused. “And some cents but honestly they feel a tad irrelevant right now.”
Even saying it out loud felt absurd and you could tell by the way Susie’s face tightened.
“A-are you sure?” she asked carefully, leaning closer instinctively. “And before you actually get offended, I’m really not trying to insult your intelligence here but–”
“It’s a lot,” you admitted quietly.
“Almost too much,” she agreed without missing a beat.
You nodded slowly. If someone told you three hours ago that complete strangers would hand you over five hundred dollars after hearing about your emotional collapse and humidity issues, you probably would’ve recommended psychiatric evaluation.
Susie stared at the money another second before letting out a disbelieving huff through her nose. “Where the hell have you been all this time?” she demanded suddenly. “You were up there for maybe ten minutes.”
You considered that carefully. “Ten minutes is really long depending on the context.”
“Not when people are screaming for an encore!” Susie pointed at you emphatically. “You hear me? An encore. In this place. Half these people don’t even clap when performers leave, they just ask for another beer.” She shook her head in disbelief. “This is your calling.”
You barked out a laugh.
“My calling?” You stared at her incredulously. “You think my purpose in life is exploiting my psychological decline in a shitty club with visible ceiling damage?” You glanced upward. “No offense.”
Susie waved dismissively toward the back. “It’d be stupid to get offended by that when there’s currently a bucket of vomit fermenting at the back of the room.”
You laughed despite yourself and looked back down at the money. “It was fun,” you admitted carefully. “But not five-hundred-dollars fun.”
“It was to them.” Susie pointed sharply toward the now empty room like the audience still sat there. “You’re the greatest accidental comic…honestly, comic in general that I’ve heard in my entire damn life.” Her eyes widened as she spoke, voice growing more animated the longer she looked at you. “And every drunk idiot in this disgusting room knew it too.”
She leaned both hands against the counter. “You’re gonna go far if you let this happen.”
You stared at her for a second without answering. The idea sounded absurd, impossible even and slightly humiliating and yet your ears still rang faintly with applause every time the room got quiet.
Susie grabbed your abandoned stack of résumés from beside the register and waved them in front of your face dramatically. “You see this? You forgot to write fucking hilarious on these.” She paused. “You reek of it.”
You instinctively lifted your arm discreetly and sniffed yourself. Thankfully you still smelled expensive…mostly. “I think that might just be the air in here.” You looked down and started reorganizing the money just to have something for your hands to do.
“I need you back,” Susie continued, completely ignoring that. “Every week. I want you on that stage.”
Your eyes drifted toward it automatically. You could still picture yourself standing there beneath the lights, sweating through your dress while strangers laughed hard enough to bend over tables. If you concentrated, you could actually still hear them.
“I wouldn’t even know what to talk about,” you admitted quietly. “I don’t know what triggers it.” You looked back at her. “What if my life stops being terrible and I run out of material?”
Susie barked out a laugh. “You seemed pretty damn ready both times.” She shrugged while stacking glasses loudly behind the bar. “The bits sound messy at first but somehow they all flow together. You jump from one thing to another but it still makes sense.” She pointed at you with an empty beer bottle. “So whatever psychotic process you’ve got going on in that head? Keep doing it.”
You shook your head slowly, still unconvinced.
“How do you write your jokes?”
“What jokes?”
She stared at you in frustration. “The Garrett thing,” she clarified, trying to physically reconstruct your set from memory. “The blue cheese smell, the unpaid child support, then the gambling stuff, then you threatening him with football bets while looking like…” She motioned vaguely toward your entire existence. “Like that.”
You looked down at your outfit instinctively. “Well-dressed?”
“Like somebody who should legally not know how to threaten people.”
You opened your mouth to interrupt but she kept going.
Susie continued talking faster now, hands moving wildly while she tried explaining what she’d witnessed. “And the unlady-like shit too. The laptop thing, the heels, the way you talk about all those rich people rules while actively breaking every single one of them in real time.” She shook her head hard. “I don’t fucking know! Everything connected somehow.” Her eyes widened. “And fuck, was I scared at first. I genuinely thought you were about to spiral into incoherent rambling, some rich girl hostage note halfway through.”
“That’s fair.”
“But then you’d pause at the exact right time.” She pointed again. “You let people think for half a second before dragging them somewhere even funnier.” Her voice lowered with genuine awe now. “One minute they’re laughing so hard I’m pretty sure somebody pissed themselves near table four, then suddenly you’ve got the whole room actually thinking about something before they start laughing again. You say all this completely unhinged stuff but there’s rhythm to it.”
You laughed softly at that and rubbed one hand over your face. “Susie…” You exhaled heavily. “That’s just my life.”
You said the word so seriously that it briefly softened her expression. This was your life, not material or a performance, those were years of thoughts finally spilling out somewhere people couldn’t interrupt them.
“I’m not writing jokes.” You shrugged lightly. “I’m impulsive,” Your fingers fiddled with one of the folded dollar bills. “And mouthy…I hold a lot in and eventually it needs somewhere to go before I explode in public or develop a stress-related disease elegant women get in period dramas.”
“Then, do that here,” Susie decided.
She leaned further across the counter as she spoke, elbows planted firmly against the sticky wood like physical proximity might somehow force the idea into your skull through sheer impact. For once there was no sarcasm cushioning her tone, no dry delivery flattening the sincerity out of her words to make them easier to survive, just certainty. Sharp and almost frantic beneath her exhaustion, burning visibly behind eyes still bright from what she had witnessed an hour earlier.
“Do it on a stage.”
You swallowed.
The room suddenly felt quieter. Well, not silent, the Talon would probably never know true silence after years of soaking drunken confessions directly into its walls like nicotine stains but quieter in the particular way places became once possibility entered them. Ironically, the hum of the old refrigerator behind the bar sounded louder now. So did the distant rattling pipes somewhere overhead, even the flickering neon beer signs buzzed with irritating clarity.
“This isn’t permanent,” you assured her quickly, though your voice frayed slightly around the edges anyway as your thoughts began outrunning one another again. “All of this…”
Your hand motioned vaguely around yourself, the club, the pile of money still spread across the counter and the applause lodged stubbornly somewhere inside your chest like a second heartbeat. Your life had simply derailed temporarily but that was all this was, temporary humiliation, temporary instability and temporary emotional collapse in front of strangers.
You would fix it, you had to.
Susie watched your face carefully for a long moment, studying your face carefully like she was trying to figure out whether you genuinely believed what you were saying or merely needed it badly enough to repeat it out loud.
“You really mean there’s no jokes in there?” she asked finally.
You shook your head immediately. “Not one.”
Susie stared another second before asking more quietly, “You’re really gonna be homeless?”
The question landed strangely hard spoken aloud, not because you hadn’t already admitted it to yourself several dozen times throughout the day, but because hearing somebody else say it transformed the thought into something no longer abstract to shove aside between distractions.
At your small nod, Susie’s shoulders dropped.
“Fuck me,” she muttered under her breath, genuine sympathy slipping through. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not permanent, Susie.” You shrugged lightly despite the tightness beginning to spread through your chest again. “This is just…” You paused, searching for wording that sounded less terrifying than the truth. “Something I have to survive.”
Your eyes drifted toward the money again. “And I will.”
Susie lifted her gaze back to you slowly.
“I’m serious,” she said. “This business sucks. It’s exhausting, humiliating and half the people in it are functioning alcoholics with superiority complexes.” She pointed vaguely around the empty club. “Myself included on a deeply spiritual level.”
A faint smile pulled at your mouth.
“But what happened up there?” She shook her head once. “That wasn’t normal.”
You looked toward the stage once more.
“It’s a fucking shame you can’t sit down here and watch yourself from the audience,” Susie continued.
You opened your mouth automatically but she cut you off before the objection even formed.
“And no, before you say anything, it has nothing to do with those ugly-ass lights making everybody sweat like sinners in church.”
A soft laugh escaped you despite yourself.
“You shine up there,” she said plainly. The sincerity of it made you glance away from her. “You could break this business wide open,” Susie continued, voice gaining momentum again now that she’d started. “The second you stepped onstage tonight it felt like an entirely new category appeared and suddenly everybody else looked outdated.”
Your brows furrowed faintly. “That sounds dramatic.”
“It is dramatic!” she barked instantly. “You’re dramatic. That’s part of the appeal.”
You rubbed tiredly at your temple while laughing under your breath.
“You’ve got the looks to pull in one crowd,” Susie continued, counting points aggressively on her fingers now, “and the actual life experience to connect with another one entirely.”
You blinked at her.
“It’s obvious nobody in this room has lived the way you have,” she said. “And you knew it too the second you started talking.”
Your fingers toyed absently with a folded dollar bill.
“I didn’t know who I was talking to,” you admitted quietly after a moment. “I got up there and suddenly everybody looked…” You searched briefly for the word. “Different from me.” You exhaled slowly through your nose. “Take away the alcohol, heartbreak and jealousy and honestly?” You shook your head slowly. “I felt like an outsider.”
Susie pointed at you immediately like she’d been waiting specifically for that sentence. “And that’s exactly why you fit.”
You looked back up at her.
“You walk into a room and make space for yourself,” she continued. “And you do it without apologizing for existing.” She tilted her head slightly. “How many comics have you seen?”
You shrugged slightly. “In person? None…I’ve seen videos online mostly.” You frowned thoughtfully. “People doing crowd work. Sometimes it’s funny.”
“It’s permanent,” Susie corrected immediately. “It might live on somebody’s page for two days but it lives online forever, that’s exactly why it loses its effect.” She pointed toward you again immediately after. “You won’t.”
A soft laugh escaped beneath your breath. “That’s insane.”
“No, listen to me.” Susie leaned even further across the counter now, completely consumed by the idea of you in a way that was beginning to feel mildly dangerous. “You walk around dressed like you’re trying to keep nineteen-fifties fashion alive all by yourself.”
“I do not.”
“With the dresses, the jewelry, the perfectly styled hair and those undergarments women used to wear that cut circulation directly off from the heart–”
“I don’t wear those.”
“Fine,” she snapped instantly. “But your entire vibe screams exclusivity.”
You stared blankly across the counter at her. “Oh, does it?”
“Yes!” She motioned aggressively toward your whole body now like your existence frustrated her. “You look like people should only be allowed to observe you from behind velvet ropes.”
Another tired laugh escaped you, softer this time. The adrenaline was finally beginning to leave your system now and everything around you had started taking on that strange, unreal softness exhaustion brought with it. The empty club, the money spread across the counter and Susie practically vibrating in front of you like a woman who had accidentally struck gold inside a dumpster.
“I am so unbelievably lost right now,” you admitted beneath your breath.
“And so will the audience be,” Susie replied without missing a beat. “That’s the magic.”
You blinked once.
“They’ll look at you and expect one thing,” she continued, “then suddenly you open your mouth and start talking about threatening landlords with heels and showering beside your stove.”
“I did not threaten him.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I merely implied violence,” you corrected calmly. “And it was barely directed at him specifically.” You paused thoughtfully. “I don’t condone what I did but I’m not sorry either.”
“Exactly.” Susie slapped the counter hard enough to startle you slightly. “Nobody sounds and looks like you simultaneously anymore!” The excitement in her voice had become almost feverish now, the kind that infected people once they became convinced they had discovered something first and wanted desperately to be right about it forever. “I’m telling you,” she insisted, pointing sharply toward you again, “I can make you a star.”
You shook your head, smiling awkwardly through the disbelief curling across your face.
“No, seriously.” She refused to let it go. “A real one too, not one of those television personalities everybody forgets about six months later once somebody younger starts screaming louder.”
Something in your chest tightened strangely at that.
“The kind people actually leave their houses for,” Susie continued. “The kind they line up around buildings to see because they can’t just find you sitting on their screens or shoved onto some streaming platform while they fold laundry.”
A warm and deeply frightening feeling curled low in your stomach then.
“You’re gonna become a fucking legend.”
You considered her entire speech for a moment, watching her as she stood behind the bar talking about your future like she had already lived it and came back with notes. The confidence was almost alarming because most people hesitated before making promises but Susie seemed physically incapable of it. She simply decided things were true and then marched toward them until reality either agreed or got out of the way.
You studied her face for another second before deciding you might as well humor her.
“And how exactly are you going to do that?” you asked, smiling despite yourself.
Susie shrugged as if the answer had been obvious from the start and you were the only person still trying to solve the puzzle. “For starters? No phones, just like at the Talon.” She pointed vaguely toward the empty room around you.
“We keep your image ephemeral. People hear about you, people talk about you but nobody gets to take you home in their pocket.” Her hands moved as she spoke. “When we eventually get you on television, the effect will be massive because nobody's seen you fifty times already while scrolling on the toilet.”
You laughed.
She continued anyway. “Your gigs become exclusive…you become exclusive.” She paused as she thought of what came with exclusivity. “No press either.”
“No press?”
“None.” She shook her head firmly. “Not until you're so big they have to beg for it.”
The certainty of it made you chuckle. “Shouldn't I earn that first?”
Susie looked at you like you had completely missed the point. The answer came soon after. “Let people believe you already have.”
You stared at her. Somewhere deep down, beneath the practical part of your brain currently worrying about rent, employment, housing and whether or not canned soup qualified as a sustainable lifestyle, another part couldn't help wondering what would happen if you believed her for a second, just long enough to imagine it.
You glanced down at the money still sitting on the counter. “How do we get there?”
“Easy.” That smile alone should've worried you. “I book you gigs. First here at the Talon…It's your home now.” She pointed toward the stage. “You feel comfortable here and the audience already likes you.”
Already liked you…it still sounded ridiculous.
“Then we move outward…to small shows in other clubs and bars.” She tapped the counter. “You get comfortable outside your little nest before we start throwing you into the deep end.”
You nodded slowly. “And how exactly are you planning to convince these places I'm worth giving a slot to?”
“I won't.” Susie reached into her pocket and pulled out a cigarette. You watched her slip it between her lips, watched the lighter spark and the end glow red. She inhaled the smoke and then exhaled before pointing the cigarette at you. “Because you will.”
A week later…
It was late by the time you arrived at the jazz club.
The city had taken on that strange nighttime glow where everything looked slightly more expensive than it actually was. Streetlights reflected off wet pavement as taxi horns echoed between buildings and a saxophone drifted faintly through the open door before you even stepped inside.
You had never been to a place like this before. It wasn't quite downtown but it wasn’t Midtown either which suited you perfectly because the odds of running into someone you knew dropped dramatically once you wandered outside the handful of neighborhoods your parents would’ve considered respectable.
You pulled your coat tighter against the evening chill before stepping inside. Warmth immediately wrapped around you as low conversation floated between tables and glasses clinked softly. A stand-up bass hummed somewhere near the stage and the entire room glowed beneath dim amber lights that made everyone look more attractive and significantly more interesting than they probably were.
You slipped between crowded tables, carefully navigating around chairs and half-finished drinks while shrugging your coat from your shoulders.
The room felt different from the Talon, socially smaller. People weren't here to get drunk, they were here to listen which felt infinitely more terrifying.
You spotted Susie almost instantly. She sat at the bar hunched over like a gargoyle guarding bad decisions, cigarette hanging lazily between her lips while she watched the comedian currently on stage.
You approached and leaned closer. “You told me the Talon came first.” The whisper came out halfway between a complaint and an accusation.
Susie barely looked at you as she exhaled smoke, then finally glanced sideways. Her eyes traveled down your outfit and up again, then down once more. “You're wearing gloves.”
You looked down at your hands as though you'd forgotten they were there. The cream-colored satin reached up to your elbows and was perfectly unnecessary. “Thought I'd try something different.” You flexed your fingers experimentally. “Feels excessive though.”
“It's perfect.” Susie pointed toward the empty stool beside her.
You slid onto it, only then did she give your entire outfit a second inspection. The cocktail dress was vintage, naturally, made of soft fabric and had a structured waist. The sort of silhouette that would've made your mother nostalgic for reasons she couldn't properly articulate.
You'd spent twenty minutes deciding whether the gloves were too much but now you were beginning to suspect they weren't enough.
“I have a friend,” Susie said, gesturing vaguely toward the stage as you both glanced toward the performer currently finishing his set. “He does the whole singing thing…He had a slot here tonight but couldn't make it.” Susie pointed at you. “So now it's yours.”
You turned slowly toward the room. The audience looked different from the Talon's crowd, better dressed and more formal. People sat quietly at tables instead of shouting over one another and drinks remained mostly untouched because they were actually paying attention to the person opposite them. It felt concerning.
You turned back toward Susie. “This was incredibly last minute.”
“Yep.”
“I'm exhausted.”
“Yep.”
“And it's late.”
“Yep.”
You narrowed your eyes. “So, it better be worth it.”
Susie shrugged one shoulder. The cigarette bobbed slightly as she spoke. “Well, you're here …which means you want it.”
The irritating part was that she said it with the confidence of somebody who already knew you were going to see this through.
“How’s the pay?” you asked, letting out a tired sigh. Your feet throbbed with every shift of weight, heels already biting into your heels like tiny vengeful demons, while your lower back ached from the cumulative events of the past few days.
Both sets of eyes stayed fixed on the comic currently wrapping up his set on stage. You realized with mild horror that you hadn’t heard a single genuine laugh since you walked in. The room felt like a morgue with a cover charge. “Don’t worry about the money…you have ten minutes. Make ‘em count.”
“You’ll sure win Manager of the Year with that speech,” you muttered dryly under your breath before leaning in closer, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I haven’t heard a single laugh in here and I’m seeing phones.” You pointed discreetly at the handful of glowing screens scattered throughout the dimly lit room, their owners half-hidden in the shadows like guilty teenagers.
“Who’s the manager between the both of us? Let me worry about it,” Susie insisted, arms crossed over her chest as sparse, polite clapping trickled through the crowd for the departing comic.
“Up next we have a very funny lady…” the presenter trailed off awkwardly, clearly unsure what to call you.
“Start worrying about how stiff the public looks,” you shot back, already rising from your seat. Half your body angled toward the stage while your face remained inches from Susie’s. “I’m pretty sure post-mortem spasms don’t include laughter.”
“You tell ‘em that.” She jerked her chin toward the stage. “Tits up!” she whisper-yelled as you stormed forward, the flowing skirt of your dress swirling dramatically around your legs with each purposeful step.
You stepped onto the stage with a plastered, megawatt smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. The audience was worse, much worse. These people weren’t drunk and loose, they were sober, impatient and already mentally checked out, waiting for the live music portion as it was the only reason they hadn’t left yet. Their eyes were glued to their phones, thumbs scrolling mindlessly while the occasional bored glance flicked your way.
Your gaze darted quickly to Susie near the bar. She was already scanning the crowd like a soldier preparing for war, her posture tense and ready.
You stepped closer to the microphone, wrapping your fingers around the stand before smoothly lifting it free. “Well, hello, hello, hello,” you purred, flashing another bright smile. “Who’s ready for some jazz?”
A polite smattering of applause rose, lifting a small sliver of the crushing stage anxiety off your chest. “Too bad you’re still gonna have to wait a short ten minutes,” you continued, pacing slowly across the small stage, hips swaying with the movement. “Well…long for those who are married to men.”
The women in the audience let out a ripple of genuine laughter, sharp and knowing.
“You would think their wives just asked them for a romantic night the way some of them just slumped forward…or to the left…or right,” you added, gesturing lazily at a few defeated-looking husbands in the front rows. “I’m guessing that says something about what keeps your pockets looking full and plump but I can’t quite put my finger on it…” More laughter erupted, warmer this time. “Their political parties! That’s it.” The room cracked open with louder laughter. “What? Did you guys think I got up here to talk about penises? Nobody needs to pay me to do that.”
Susie’s sharp eyes raked through the crowd like a predator. One man near the middle had already opened his camera app, lifting his phone with that smug, entitled expression of someone who thought rules didn’t apply to him. Before he could even frame the shot, Susie moved like lightning, hand shooting out and snatching the phone clean from his grip.
The guy started rising from his seat, complaint written all over his flushed face. “Hey, that was–”
“Sit down,” she bit out between gritted teeth, her voice low and dangerous enough to make several nearby heads turn. She held the phone up like a trophy, glaring at him until he slowly sank back into his chair, muttering under his breath.
You didn’t miss a beat, leaning into the mic with a little grin as the tension in the room shifted. “See that? That’s what we call enforcing the no-phone rule, ladies and gentlemen. My girl Susie over there doesn’t play. She’ll snatch your phones faster than your wives snatch the remote as they suggest couples therapy.” A fresh wave of laughter rolled through, louder now, the audience finally starting to wake up. “I respect it as they are sources of information you’d want to keep secret. I would know, my phone could’ve been in evidence about a week ago, at risk of being fondled by a cop who might’ve just thought it’s cute that I almost named my vibrator after a superhero…Long story.”
You let the laugh settle before continuing, your voice dropping into something sultrier, dirtier. “But seriously, put the phones away. Unless you’re planning on using the flashlight app to find my clit later, because fuck knows some of you need the help.” You winked at a table of women who howled with laughter. “I’m not here to be background noise while you doomscroll through your ex’s new girlfriend’s vacation pics, either. I’m here to trauma-dump for cash and emotional damages. So eyes up here or Susie’s gonna start collecting phones like my father collects reasons I shouldn't be allowed freedom.”
Susie smirked from the sidelines, arms crossed, clearly satisfied as another would-be photographer quickly lowered his device under her death stare.
You twirled the mic cord around your finger, feeding off the growing energy in the room like it was the only thing keeping you upright. “But let me tell you about my manager over there,” you said, gesturing grandly toward Susie with the mic. “She wants to run this place like it’s 1957…classy, elegant, with no phones, just pure, unfiltered entertainment. Of course, without all the casual racism and the part where women had to smile while their husbands treated them like decorative houseplants.”
The crowd chuckled, loosening up.
“You know, back when most of you would’ve been attentive enough to memorize your mistresses’ phone numbers instead of screenshotting the incriminating evidence like amateurs,” you added, your voice dripping with mock disapproval. “I mean, come on, fellas. At least have the decency to write it on your hand like a real degenerate. These days you’re out here leaving digital paper trails longer than your…” You let the pause hang just long enough for the dirty implication to land. “...attention span in bed. C’mon, guys focus!” You finished, earning a burst of loud, scandalized laughter from the women and a few guilty-looking coughs from the men. “Susie’s over here enforcing old performance rules while I’m trying to survive 2026 with a broken heart, a police record and dresses that cost more than my unpaid rent. The duality of a woman.”
You paced the small stage, hips swaying, the navy fabric catching the light with every step. “But I agree with the no-phone policy. My therapist says I overshare…and my arrest record says I overshare with props.” You leaned into the mic with a wicked grin. “Though between us, if I’m flashing anything tonight, it’s only because this dress is so tight I might need a crowbar and divine intervention to get out of it later. Any volunteers? Just promise you’ll tip big…”
The room erupted again, the laughter rolling louder, more genuinely. Susie stood near the bar with her arms crossed, a rare smirk tugging at her lips as she watched you work the crowd like you’d been doing this for years.
Back at the Talon…
You blinked at her words, the new responsibility of this hypothetical career settling on your shoulders.
“Okay, so about the material,” you started, sitting up straighter on the stool. “What happens when my life’s miraculously fixed and nothing’s funny anymore?”
You could almost see her rolling her eyes as she exhaled a slow drag from her cigarette, the smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. “You just don’t stop being funny,” she said flatly, tapping the ash off with a practiced flick. “You stop seeing the funny in things, so don’t. You’re talking about your present now but it’ll still be your life six months from now. You don’t wanna write jokes? Fine. Document what happens to you and find the funny in that…then exploit it on stage.”
You nodded slowly, letting her words settle in your chest. She had a point, a brutally practical, cigarette-scented point.
“But you have to work what’s around it,” she added, gesturing vaguely with the cigarette between her fingers, her expression somewhere between tough love and mild amusement at your obvious spiral.
Your brows furrowed, the weight of her vague instruction settling somewhere between confusion and irritation. “What’s around it?”
She shrugged, that casual, infuriating shrug of hers. “We have to polish a few things…” She paused, taking another slow drag, the tip of her cigarette glowing bright in the dim light of the empty club. “And you forgot to say your stage name.”
You blinked, genuinely racking your brain, trying to remember what had come out of your mouth during those ten minutes on stage. The set felt like a blur now from adrenaline, panic and that strange floating sensation that came from saying things you’d never admit to a therapist in front of strangers. “I don’t have a stage name.”
She chuckled, low and dry, like gravel under a slow tire. “You do and it has Mrs. in front of it.”
It took you a few seconds to pinpoint it, the memory surfacing like something awful rising from murky water. “No.” You shook your head firmly. “The name Mrs. Kent’s gotta go. If I’m doing this, I can’t keep it.”
“Why?” She asked, almost scandalized, her cigarette paused mid-air like she’d forgotten it was burning. “People loved it! I heard that name land.”
You let out a breathy huff, because in your mind, it was evident, obvious. “Because I’m not Mrs. Kent…and I know the real Mrs. Kent, she’s a very nice lady who makes excellent sweet tea and lives on a farm in Kansas.” The words came out sharper than intended, defensive in a way that surprised even you.
“Are you kidding me?” She stubbed out her cigarette with more force than necessary. “The first night you were here you seemed adamant about deserving that name.”
“Well common sense has a funny way of working when it comes to me…” You felt the weight of the past few days pressing down on your ribs. “It was clearly a joke.”
“You said you don’t do jokes.”
“Then it was a Freudian slip, Susie.” Your voice dropped, the fight draining out as quickly as it had flared. “I can’t keep it. If you make this happen I gotta find something else.” You held her gaze, willing her to understand. “This cannot reach his ears and trust me, it will… it’s just a matter of time but when it does, it can’t have his name attached to it.”
“You’re such a party pooper.” she murmured under her breath, but there was no real heat in it, more like a disappointed kid who’d just been told no cookies before dinner.
You smiled despite yourself, the tension in your shoulders loosening half a notch. “That’s very mature, thank you.”
“Could you please reconsider?” she tried and you caught the faintest hint of something vulnerable beneath her gruff exterior, like she’d already started building something in her head and didn't want to tear it down.
“I’m considering the whole thing, Susie.” You motioned between the both of you, the small distance across the counter feeling suddenly significant. “You seem convinced and that’s great but you barely know me. This currently sounds insane to me and it’s not a priority. I definitely couldn’t do it full time.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” you echoed, incredulous. “Did you forget the part where I’m not a comic? I’m unemployed and about to be homeless. I can’t think about this while sleeping outside. I need to figure out my life and then…I might be delusional enough to want this.”
Susie observed you in that way that made you feel like she was reading the fine print of your soul. “If you want something that’s yours,” she said slowly, each word intentional, “you might wanna jump on this.”
Something in her tone made your voice lower, the question slipping out before you could stop it. “What about you, Susie? Is working at the Talon not enough?”
She scoffed, turning away to get back to cleaning up, her movements brisk and mechanical. “It’s not permanent.” She repeated your own words back at you, throwing them over her shoulder. “I don’t want it to be…Years ago I pushed to have live music and artists on a stage I had to make myself.” She pointed toward the empty platform. “I’m not dying behind this counter with nothing to be proud of.”
“And you want that to be me?”
“Amongst other things.” She shrugged, that same casual motion but her eyes were sharper now, more intent. “You have talent…I grew up on this, on late night show recordings and vinyls of comics. I had an uncle who knew someone who knew someone who managed artists. I know what to look for and it’s flashing signs and lights when I look at you.”
“I know nothing about it.” The admission felt heavy, embarrassing in its honesty. “Not a single thing, Susie. And if it’s anything like I see online–”
“Don’t.” She cut you off, pointing a finger. “Unsee it. I’m telling you, if we're gonna make a place for ourselves in this business, it’ll be in a category where only you fit.” She said it with such certainty, such unwavering conviction, that you almost believed her.
You sighed as you let silence stretch, pulling out your phone from your purse and looking at the time. The screen glowed back at you, too bright, reminding you of the world waiting outside these walls. “It’s late…I should start heading home…given I still have one.”
She nodded, watching as you stood from the stool and gathered your belongings and résumés, her gaze tracking your movements like she was memorizing them. “You’ll think about it?”
“Sure, Susie…I’ll run it by my pillow and see where it stands on show business.” You collected the money from the counter and split it with quick, practiced fingers. “Your fifteen percent,” you said, handing her a portion.
“I told you that wasn't necessary.” She didn’t make a move to take the money from you, just stood there with her arms crossed, stubborn as ever.
Since she didn’t, you set the bills on the counter and tapped them once as a final punctuation. “Well someone needs to keep the lights on if I decide it’s worth coming back.” You smiled. “Night, Susie.”
“Night!” she called back as she watched you leave, feeling her eyes on your back until the door swung shut behind you.
You spent the next few days packing with no place to go.
The boxes piled up in corners you didn't even know your apartment had, cardboard mountains that seemed to multiply overnight no matter how many you taped shut and stacked against the walls. Your clothing racks stayed mostly untouched because you refused to fold anything that might crease, which meant half your wardrobe still hung suspended in judgment while you packed around them, shuffling sideways through your own home like a guest in someone else's disaster.
You tried your luck with your résumés downtown, the same desperate circuit you had walked a week ago, but now the rejection stung differently. Before, you had been exploring, testing the waters of employment like someone dipping a toe into cold water. Now you were drowning and every polite smile, every "we'll keep your resume on file," and every door that closed without an invitation felt like another brick tied to your ankles.
You found yourself unknowingly orbiting the Talon without making a move inside.
You walked past the neon sign twice on Tuesday, once on Wednesday and three times on Thursday. Each time you told yourself you were just passing through, just taking the long way back home, just clearing your head but your feet kept finding the same cracked sidewalk, the same dim hallway visible from the street and the same flickering light above the stairs that led down to Susie's kingdom of cheap drinks and questionable life choices.
You never went in. If you stepped through that door, you would have to talk to Susie and if you talked to Susie, she would ask about the stage and if she asked about the stage, you might say yes, and saying yes felt like admitting that your life had become something you needed to perform instead of something you needed to fix.
So you kept walking.
The week was ending in three days and you had no clear living situation. The boxes in your apartment proved that much, stacked in precarious towers that seemed to mock you every time you squeezed past them to reach the toilet. Your landlord Garrett had stopped returning your calls entirely, which you suspected had less to do with his schedule and more to do with the ten thousand dollar bet you had placed on his behalf.
You still had no job. The résumés had thinned out considerably, some handed directly to managers who smiled too politely, others abandoned on countertops when you realized nobody was actually reading them and at least three had been sacrificed to coffee rings during particularly discouraging interviews.
You had woken up early on Friday, before the sun had fully committed to rising, and dressed carefully in something that looked expensive without being your best. You needed to pay for the dress you had credited, the navy number with the pink details that had cost more than your first shitty car probably would have if you had ever owned one.
The money from that night at the Talon sat in your purse, along with some extra you had found while packing, crumpled bills tucked between the pages of books you hadn't opened in years, loose change rattling in coat pockets and one very crumpled twenty you discovered beneath your bed that you chose not to inspect too closely.
At least your debt was paid. You had handed over the cash to the saleswoman, who had smiled at you with something that looked almost like respect and collected the clothes they had been holding hostage.
Afterward, you forced yourself to walk back home carrying your paper bag, determined not to spend money on cabs you could barely afford.
Your heels clicked against the pavement in a rhythm that had become familiar over the past week. The city moved around you, indifferent, loud and exactly the same as it had been before your life collapsed, which was somehow both comforting and devastating.
You kept walking until your surroundings felt familiar, the buildings shifting from anonymous glass towers to storefronts you recognized, streets you had walked a hundred times before.
You kept your head down as you passed Mrs. Alston's store, the way you had for days now, avoiding the window because you knew if you looked, you would see something you wanted and right now, wanting things was dangerous.
Left foot, right foot, left again…until your feet halted.
You didn't mean to stop. Your body simply decided for you, muscles locking up mid stride as your eyes lifted wide and landed on the sign at the door.
It read "Store closing soon" in block letters that looked too final, too much like an ending you hadn't been prepared for.
You alarmedly pushed inside, the bell above the door jangling with more force than you intended. The smell hit you immediately, that familiar combination of well taken care of vintage clothes and leather heels, dust, perfume and something that might have been cedar. It smelled like every good memory you had of shopping in this city, like the first time you had found a genuine 1950s cocktail dress in your size, like the afternoon Mrs. Alston had taught you how to spot authentic stitching versus reproduction.
"Mrs. Alston?" you called, your voice bouncing off the overflowing racks as you tried to locate her. The store was crowded, always had been, but now there was something desperate about the chaos, as if everything had been shoved aside to make room for goodbyes.
As well as she kept the store as organized as she could, overflowing was the right word. Dresses hung at odd angles, shoes sat in mismatched pairs waiting to be reunited and hats perched on every available surface like tiny spectators watching the slow collapse of an empire.
"Oh! I know that voice!"
Mrs. Alston emerged from the back room, her face lighting up in a way that made your chest ache. She was smaller than you remembered, though you weren't sure if she had actually shrunk or if you had simply been away long enough to forget. Her silver hair was pinned up in that same twist she had worn for years and her glasses sat slightly crooked on her nose, how they always were when she had been cataloguing.
"Dear, I just got in a collection of heels you will love." She grinned, already gesturing toward the back room with enthusiasm that seemed untouched by the sign on her door. "I just have to catalogue them and you will be the first to take a look."
She sold a bit of everything vintage and curated but her specialty was luxury shoes. That was why she was your shoe lady, the only person in Metropolis you trusted to find the perfect pair, the woman who taught you the difference between vintage and merely old. Her collection had expanded over the years to include clothes and accessories but the shoes remained her first love, and yours too.
You groaned, the sound escaping before you could stop it. "Don't tempt me."
She laughed as she walked back to the counter, her steps slower than they used to be and slightly uneven, which made you notice for the first time how much she leaned on the displays for balance. "I haven't seen you around in a while." She settled onto the stool behind the counter with a soft sigh, arranging her skirt around her. "What can I do for you?"
"For starters, how about not closing my favorite store?" you asked, pointing toward the sign out front with more desperation than you intended to show.
She groaned tiredly, shaking her head as she adjusted her glasses. "I didn't want to." The words came out heavy, weighed down by something that sounded like grief. "But age is catching up to me." She spread her hands on the counter, knuckles swollen and veins prominent beneath papery skin. "I can't stay open as long as I used to. My feet hurt and swell if I don't sit. If I am here organizing and cataloguing things, then I am not open and selling. And when I’m open and selling, I cannot keep up with the rest of it." She sighed, the sound rattling slightly in her chest. "My girls don't want to help. They have their own lives, their own families…I cannot blame them for not wanting to inherit a vintage store that barely breaks even. So we decided that I should close if I cannot keep up."
"I’ll help." The words came out before you thought about them, before you considered what you were offering or what it would mean. They simply appeared, fully formed and desperate, because the alternative was watching Mrs. Alston disappear from your life the way everything else seemed to be disappearing.
She blinked at you, her eyebrows rising above her crooked glasses.
"I know my vintage clothing and shoes." You stepped closer to the counter, your voice gaining confidence even as your stomach churned with the audacity of what you were suggesting. "I can be here six days a week or just take over when you need rest. It might be a biased opinion, but this store has potential. The sales aren't bad...I surely help by being your client, but I can help more by being your employee."
You set your purse and the bag with the clothes you had gotten back down on the counter, the paper crinkling softly. Your hands were shaking slightly which you noticed but you kept talking anyway because if you stopped, you might lose your nerve entirely.
"I can open an online store, that can surely help speed up things. When that’s up and running, by the time you decide to close the store and actually want to retire, the online store could keep working for you." You leaned forward, willing her to understand. "I do not currently have any more résumés on me and if you want to see one that badly, I can run up to Midtown and look in the diner's dumpster where I am sure I will find a copy of mine."
She blinked at your speech, her mouth opening slightly, then closing again. For a moment, you were certain you had overstepped, had pushed too hard, had ruined the one good thing you had left in this city. Then she chuckled, the sound warm and surprised and shook her head slowly.
"I didn’t know you were looking for a job."
"I tried to avoid this street for as long as I could so I wouldn’t be tempted to spend more than I have." You admitted, your shoulders dropping slightly with relief. "I kinda cheated on you with another store but the point is you know me, and I know your store. I will not deceive you." You hesitated, your confidence faltering as the practical realities of your situation came crashing back. "I’ll just need you to show me the ropes."
You watched as she opened her mouth to speak and it hurt you to interrupt her so quickly, but there was one more thing she needed to know. One more piece of honesty you could not afford to leave unsaid.
"And I would need to be paid weekly." You added quietly, your voice dropping so low it barely carried across the counter. "At least until I figure out my living situation…which I rather not talk about."
Her smile spread across her face, slow and genuine, the kind of smile that made you feel like you had just been given something precious. "How soon can you start?"
You let out a sigh of relief so deep it felt like you had been holding your breath for days. Your shoulders dropped and the tension you had been carrying loosened its grip as you shrugged off your coat and draped it over the back of a nearby chair, ready to get to work.
It was criminally late when you got home.
The city had shifted into that strange, liminal hour where the streets belonged to nobody in particular. Taxis still ran but they seemed to move slower, their headlights cutting through the dark like weary eyes struggling to stay open. The bars had mostly let out, leaving behind clusters of people arguing about nothing on street corners, their laughter too loud and their balance too unsteady. You stepped around them carefully, body moving on autopilot while your mind drifted somewhere far above the sidewalk.
You were certain it took you thirty minutes to get up to your floor because you refused to take off your heels. The stairs stretched before you like a personal challenge, each flight longer than the last, each landing a small victory you celebrated only in your head. Your feet screamed at you with every step, your calves burned and somewhere around the fourth floor you had started making promises to your body that you knew you would not keep. Better shoes…more practical choices or flats, even though the thought made you wince.
You carried your purse, the bag with your clothes and another bag of something you had put together in the store. Your uniform, you had decided, though that was not entirely true. You had chosen it because it was a very rare vintage dress, the kind of piece that made your heart race when you found it hanging on a rack, with a fabric that whispered secrets about the woman who had worn it first. You told yourself it was practical, that you needed to look the part if you were going to sell vintage clothing to customers who valued authenticity but really, you just wanted to wear it and for the first time in weeks, you had let yourself want something without immediately talking yourself out of it.
You had never worked so much in your life before.
Your fingers were going to fall off, you were certain of it. Between color coding the inventory, recataloguing everything so it was not done by hand but on an actual computer,and learning the quirks of Mrs. Alston's ancient point of sale system, you had barely stopped moving since you got the job. Your back ached from bending over displays, your eyes burned from staring at spreadsheets and your throat was raw from talking to customers who wandered in to browse and left with armfuls of things they had not known they needed.
But you deemed yourself more than lucky.
Mrs. Alston had walked you through her books in the afternoon, showing you the numbers with a pride that made your chest swell. The amount each piece could bring was significant, especially the donations.
Old friends of hers brought in boxes of clothing they no longer wanted, friends of friends dropped off suitcases full of designer pieces they had inherited and did not appreciate, grandchildren cleared out attics and basements and delivered garbage bags full of treasure. Most of them did not know how valuable the pieces they were so excited to get rid of actually were. A 1960s Chanel suit, shoved into a plastic bin alongside holiday decorations, a pair of 1950s Ferragamo heels, scuffed and dusty but structurally perfect, tossed into a donation box because nobody recognized the name.
The pay was good…so good. Better than you had expected, better than you had dared to hope for when you walked through that door with nothing but desperation and a half formed plan and on top of your base salary, you would earn a commission for each sale. Every dress, every pair of shoes, every carefully curated accessory that walked out the door with a customer would put more money in your pocket.
You were the only employee, which meant the commissions were yours alone, no fighting over customers!
You had made the website during your lunch break, hunched over Mrs. Alston's unused desktop computer while eating a sandwich you had picked up from the deli down the street. The template was clunky and the upload speeds were terrible but you had figured it out, piece by piece, typing product descriptions with one hand while checking how the formatting looked on the smaller screen of your phone.
You started taking pictures of the first things that needed to go, pieces that had been sitting in the back room for years, items that were beautiful but not quite rare enough to command top dollar. Decluttering the store was a priority, Mrs. Alston had explained, because you could not sell what people couldn’t see and right now, nobody could see anything through the chaos. So you photographed and listed, fingers moving automatically while your mind catalogued the next dozen items you wanted to feature.
You made social media accounts too. You posted photos of the store's best pieces, wrote captions that tried to capture the magic of finding something perfect in a pile of ordinary and followed every vintage account you could find. You needed to attract another public, Mrs. Alston had said, younger people who shopped online and cared about sustainability and wanted pieces that told a story. You agreed, even though you were not entirely sure how to reach them, when social media felt like a foreign language you were only beginning to learn.
The stairs loomed ahead of you, the familiar climb that had once seemed endless and now felt like the only constant in your life. You reached the bottom of the final flight, the one that would take you to your floor and stopped.
You took a deep breath, leaning against the railing as your chest rose and fell. Your legs trembled slightly beneath you, the muscles weak from exhaustion, the climb and the simple, overwhelming weight of the past several days. You were still so tempted to sit down and just sleep, right there on the cold, cracked stairs, head resting against the wall and bags clutched to your chest like pillows.
The hallways were still crowded, though the chaos had thinned slightly. At least four tenants had already left, their doors standing closed and quiet where there had once been noise, light and the sound of arguments spilling into the corridor but the remaining boxes still stacked against the walls, the furniture still pushed into corners, the lamps, rugs and framed photographs still waiting to be claimed by someone who had somewhere to go.
You were starting to close your eyes, to rest them just for a moment when a voice made you jump so hard you nearly dropped your bags.
"Finally."
Imogene groaned from her spot on the stairs and you lifted your head to find her sitting three steps above where you stood, her legs stretched out in front of her, arms crossed over her chest like she had been waiting for hours. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, the kind she only wore when she was too tired to do anything else and there was a crease on her cheek that suggested she had been resting her face against the railing.
"I have been knocking on your door like a maniac all day." She continued, her voice carrying that particular blend of exhaustion and indignation that only came from being ignored for hours. "Didn't you see my calls?"
You inhaled and exhaled, your body still trembling slightly from the surprise. "I didn’t." You flashed a tired smile, the expression feeling strange on your face after hours of concentrating on spreadsheets and product descriptions. "I’m sorry...but I have a job now." You lifted your bags with a shrug, the weight of them pulling at your shoulders. "I started today."
She descended the stairs rapidly, her own shoes clicking against them as she closed the distance between you. Without asking, she reached for your bags, pulling some of the weight from your arms and helping you up the last flight. Her presence beside you was warm and solid, and you leaned into it slightly, grateful for the support even if you were too tired to say so.
"And thanks to me, you have a place to live." Imogene said, her voice bright despite the hour. "That is, if you say yes."
"What?" The word came out slower than you intended, your brain struggling to process anything beyond the immediate reality of putting one foot in front of the other. You were so tired, the exhaustion made simple sentences feel like complex equations.
Once on your floor, the both of you stopped and faced each other. The hallway was dim, one of the overhead lights flickering somewhere behind you, casting long shadows across the worn carpet. Imogene's face was illuminated in soft, uneven patches, her smile bright enough to cut through the darkness.
She flashed you with that smile, one that had made you trust her the first day you met, the one that said she had good news and she was about to share it whether you were ready or not. "I found a place." She said the words like an announcement she had been waiting all day to deliver. "It has two bedrooms, a full bathroom and a living room where we can fit a couch." She paused, her expression shifting into something more conspiratorial. "Did I tell you about Archie?"
You blinked, your brain rifling through files it was too exhausted to properly access. "Your boyfriend Archie?"
"Yes." She smiled wider, if that was possible, her whole face lighting up at the name. "He is finishing his masters, and he has a job lined up here in Metropolis, so we will be moving in together...in six months." She drew out the words, letting them hang in the air between you, her eyes wide with expectation. "Which means..."
She trailed off, waiting for you to finish the sentence but in all honesty, all you could think about was how you were going to organize the scarves the next morning at the store. By color, certainly, that was the most visually appealing but length made sense too, so customers could easily find what they were looking for. Or fabric, because silk should not be stored next to wool, that was just common sense. What about all three? Was that too complicated? You could color code within length categories and then organize by fabric within those...
Imogene shook you, her hands gripping your shoulders and rattling you gently until your eyes focused back on her face. "You can move in with me!"
"Oh."
The syllable came out flat, insufficient, the kind of response that did not begin to capture the magnitude of what she was offering. Your brain struggled to catch up, to shift from scarves to roommates, from inventory management to the sudden, stunning realization that you might not have to sleep on the street after all.
"The apartment is downtown, which I know is not your style." Imogene continued, her words rushing out now that she had your attention. "Though it’s only three subway stations from Midtown, so I thought I would ask." She shrugged, suddenly self conscious, her confidence wavering for the first time since she had started speaking. "You have been so busy looking for a job that I didn’t know if you had time for the..."
Her voice cut off as you took her into a crushing hug.
You dropped what you’d been still holding to do it, letting them fall to the floor with a thud that echoed through the hallway. Your arms wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her close, holding on tighter than you probably should have, your face pressed into her shoulder. She smelled like lavender and coffee and the particular warmth of someone who had probably spent the day packing up more boxes and cleaning out closets.
"...rest." She finished, her voice muffled against your shoulder.
You both stood there in silence, you hugging her while your limbs felt heavy and your hands shook slightly from exhaustion and relief. The hallway was quiet around you except for the flickering light and the distant sound of a television somewhere below the only noise.
"I’ve never had a roommate." Imogene added, her voice smaller now, almost shy.
You stepped back, letting go of her, your arms falling to your sides. Your eyes were wet, you realized, though you were not sure when that had happened. You wiped at them quickly, hoping she had not noticed.
"I have." You said with a tired smile, the expression softer now, more genuine. "Well, something like it."
You thought of shared meals and borrowed sweatshirts and the particular rhythm of living alongside someone who knew you better than you knew yourself. You thought of mornings spent arguing about breakfast and evenings spent not arguing at all, just existing in the same space, breathing the same air, pretending you didn’t notice the way your heart sped up every time he walked into the room.
"I know it’s only six months." Imogene said, pulling you back to the present. "But you’ve already been packing, and..." She smiled again, softer this time. "It’s going to be great."
"Yes it will." You nodded, the words coming out firmer than you felt. You crouched, picked up your bags and dragged your heels to your door, each step heavier than the last as your bed was already calling to you from behind the worn wooden panels.
"I’ll send you the lease to your email." Imogene called quietly after you. "We can meet tomorrow after work to help you move your stuff." She paused, already planning and organizing. "What time do you get off?"
As you unlocked your door, key turning with a familiar click, you spoke behind your back. "We’re going to need more help than that." The door swung open, revealing the chaos of your apartment, the boxes, clothing racks and the narrow path you had carved through the mess. "I’ll give Ricky a call."
"Ricky?" Imogene's face scrunched up in confusion, nose wrinkling. "Bodega Ricky?"
"Yup." You said, pushing your door open wider and squeezing through the gap. Your hip caught on a stack of boxes, knocking them slightly askew but you didn’t have the energy to fix it. "Night."
The word came out under your breath, barely audible, as you closed the door behind you. The lock clicked into place, a small sound of finality that separated you from the hallway, from Imogene and the world outside.
You dropped your bags and your purse to the floor, before you collapsed on your bed.
The mattress groaned beneath you, springs protesting the sudden weight. Your face pressed into the pillow, arms sprawled out on either side and legs still hanging off the edge because you didn’t have the energy to pull them up.
You did have a roommate once.
The thought drifted through your mind, unbidden and unwelcome, settling into your chest like a stone dropped into still water.
Life was so perfect back then…
At twenty…
You had already mastered the art of treating Clark's apartment like an extension of your own.
You exited your studio apartment with your toothbrush in your mouth, the bristles working against your teeth as you crossed the hallway. The floor was cold, how it always was in the mornings before the building's ancient radiator system remembered it was supposed to produce heat. You didn’t actually mind, you had stopped minding most things about this place, the thin walls, the unreliable hot water and the way the windows whistled when the wind picked up. It was yours for the time being, paid by your school and Clark was right next door, which made everything else tolerable.
You pushed open the door in front of yours, one that swung open without resistance because Clark had stopped locking it sometime during your first semester. He said it was because he forgot but you knew better. He left it open for you, the same way he left his closet open for your overflow of clothes and the same way he left space in his refrigerator for the things your tiny studio fridge could not hold.
You stepped inside his apartment, a bigger place that you knew well by now. You were halfway through your second year of university, which meant you had been doing this for nearly eighteen months, walking into his space like you belonged there, helping yourself to his things and occupying the corners he had cleared out for you without ever being asked.
His bathroom was at the end of the hall and your feet carried you there automatically, toothbrush still moving in slow, practiced circles. Steam curled under the door, warm and damp, carrying the smell of whatever soap he was using this week. Something herbal his mother probably sent him in a care package because Clark never bought things like that for himself.
You didn’t knock as you pushed the door open.
"Y/n." Clark started from behind the shower curtain, voice carrying that particular tone he used when he was pretending to be annoyed but was not quite pulling it off.
"Not looking!" You said the words around your toothbrush. You walked over to his bathroom counter, eyes scanning the organized chaos of his things until you found what you were looking for. His toothpaste sat beside the sink, the tube squeezed from the bottom like you’d taught him. "I’m out of toothpaste."
You put a dollop of it on your toothbrush, the minty paste cold against your tongue and didn’t bother going back to your apartment to finish brushing your teeth. Why would you? His sink was right there and so was his mirror.
Clark pushed the curtain open just enough to meet your eyes in the mirror.
His hair was wet, plastered to his forehead in dark curls and water dripped down his face in steady streams. His look was unsurprised at the sight of you in his space, you were in his apartment more than you were in your own and he had long since stopped questioning it.
"What." You said the word around the foam in your mouth, gesturing toward the door with your free hand as you continued brushing. "Are we still pretending you don’t leave the door open so I can do this?"
He blinked at you, water dripping from his eyelashes. "I’m in the middle of showering."
"And I’m brushing my teeth." You spit out the excess foam into his sink, the toothpaste swirling down the drain in white ribbons. You didn’t bother rinsing yet, head lifting to meet his eyes through the mirror. "What’s your point?"
"I’m naked."
The words hung in the air between you, simple and declarative. He wasn’t being provocative, nor was he trying to make you uncomfortable. He was simply stating a fact, the same way he might mention the weather, the score of a baseball game or the fact that you had left your lights on again.
You turned around to actually face him, your hand still moving your toothbrush in automatic circles. The curtain was pulled back just enough to give you a view of his shoulders, broad, wet and glistening under the harsh bathroom light. Soap bubbles clung to his skin in places, sliding down his biceps in slow motion and trailing over the curve of his chest. Water dripped from his jaw, from his collarbone and from the lines of muscle you had watched develop over the past year, changes so gradual you had almost missed them until suddenly you couldn’t look away.
He gripped the curtain tightly, holding it against his body to cover the rest, his knuckles white against the plastic.
"Right." You said, voice steady despite the way your heart had started beating faster. "I can see that." You tilted your head, considering him the way you might consider a painting in a museum, appreciative but detached. "Should I drop some one dollar bills and wait for the music to come on, or..."
A smile began spreading across your face before you could stop it, the expression breaking through your carefully maintained composure like sunlight through clouds. You could feel the warmth building in your cheeks but you didn’t look away, because looking away would mean admitting something you weren’t ready to admit.
Clark closed the curtain rapidly, the plastic swishing against the rod as he yanked it shut but not before you saw him blush, the color rising on his cheeks and spreading down his neck, disappearing beneath the water still streaming over his shoulders.
You laughed breathily around the foam in your mouth, the sound bright and entirely too pleased with yourself. You turned back to the mirror, catching your own foggy reflection, eyes bright and smile wide despite the toothpaste still coating your teeth.
"You give me a lot of shit about locking my door while you don’t lock yours." You spit again, the foam disappearing down the drain. "Make it make sense."
Behind you, you heard the water turn off, the sudden silence almost louder than the spray had been. You watched in the mirror as Clark's dripping wet arm reached out and grabbed a towel from the hook beside the shower. The fabric disappeared behind the curtain and you heard the rustle of him drying off efficiently.
Seconds later, he stepped out of the shower with the towel wrapped around his hips.
Water still clung to his chest, beading on his skin and trailing down his abdomen in paths that disappeared beneath the blue fabric. His hair was even darker when it was wet and it curled against his forehead in ways that made your fingers itch to push it back. He looked soft and hard at the same time, the contradictions of him somehow making more sense than anything else in your life.
"I think I can handle an intruder." He said, voice steady again now that he was covered. He reached for a smaller towel and started drying his hair, the motion ruffling the curls until they stood in every direction. "But I’m not around all of the time when you’re home."
You leaned down to rinse your mouth, cupping your hand under the faucet and bringing the water to your lips. The mint taste faded, replaced by the faint metallic flavor of the building's ancient pipes, the same taste you had gotten used to months ago. You straightened up and reached for the towel hanging on the rack beside the sink and wiped your mouth with the corner.
"Nope." You agreed, dropping the towel back onto the rack. "But you’re fast enough for me to pretend you are."
You left your toothbrush in the same cup where he kept his, the two of them standing side by side, your pink plastic nestled against his blue one. The sight of them together was so domestic it almost hurt, two toothbrushes in one cup, two lives tangled together in ways neither of you acknowledged yet.
You watched as Clark's eyes went down to the cup and back up at you. "You’re not gonna take that?"
You shrugged, the motion casual. "I’ll be back. I don’t get this month's stamps until next week."
The words landed between you heavily. Your parents had cut you off completely when they found out you enrolled at Metropolis University and the small amount of money you had saved had run out faster than you expected.
You could almost see how hard he was trying not to say it. His jaw tightened and lips pressed together as one hand gripped the towel at his hip while the other hung at his side, fingers curling into a loose fist. He was fighting with himself, you could tell, the same way he fought with every instinct that told him to fix things, to help and to save.
"Let me take you shopping." He said finally, the words careful. "Groceries….necessities. Anything you need."
You shook your head immediately, the refusal was almost reflexive by then. "I don’t need your help, Clark."
"Oh yeah?" His eyebrows lifted and something changed in his expression, the careful concern giving way to something lighter and teasing. "So what’s all the pink in my closet?"
He asked the question knowing the answer, knowing it would make you smile and break the tension that had settled between you. You watched your own smile spread across your face in the mirror, the expression softening the hard lines of your refusal.
You didn’t have enough space for your belongings in your student studio apartment, that much was true. The closet was barely big enough for your winter coats and your dresser had arrived with a missing drawer that you had never bothered to fix. Most of your things lived in Clark's apartment now, spread throughout his closets and drawers, your clothes hung beside his and shoes lined up inside his. Your presence was woven into the fabric of his space so completely that removing it would leave holes.
"Well that’s different." You shrugged. "Who wouldn’t want a big strong man protecting their growing vintage collection?"
Clark huffed something that might have been a laugh, the sound soft and warm in the small bathroom. His skin was still damp and the steam from the shower had fogged the edges of the mirror, blurring your reflection until you were both just shapes, just colors, just two people standing too close in a room that suddenly felt much smaller than it was.
"By the way." You added, remembering suddenly. "I’m getting a package tomorrow while I am taking my exams, so I’ll need you to sign off on it for me." You pointed at him, voice taking on a warning tone. "And be gentle. It’s silk."
His brows furrowed, the expression pulling his features into something between confusion and offense. "I’m not a brute."
"You sure are getting bigger." You pointed out, the words coming out softer than you intended, almost under your breath.
It was true. He had changed over the past year, filling out in ways that seemed almost impossible. His shoulders had broadened, his arms had thickened, and there was something different about the way he moved. It was almost like he was going through a second puberty, his body changing into something new while you watched, helpless to do anything but notice.
Your eyes almost widened at the situation. You were in his bathroom, still in your night dress with a tulle cover up, while he stood half naked, wet and larger than any man had any right to be. The towel around his hips sat low, dangerously so and you could see the line of hair disappearing beneath the fabric, could see the way his stomach tightened when he breathed.
"Physically." You cleared your throat, the sound too loud in the quiet bathroom. You pointed at your own face, then at his, trying to redirect the conversation somewhere safer. "You have some..."
You motioned vaguely at his jaw, where a dark shadow of stubble had appeared overnight. It was new, this facial hair, appearing in patches that made him look more mature. The stubble darkened his jawline, roughened the sharp angles of his face and you found yourself staring longer than you meant to…so it needed to go.
Clark looked in the mirror, touching his jaw with the tips of his fingers. The motion was almost absent, his attention already somewhere else, eyes focusing on something you couldn’t see.
You watched as his eyes glowed red and ducked immediately, body reacting before your brain caught up, dropping into a crouch beside the counter as soft lasers flashed from his eyes.
The beams bounced off the mirror and back onto his skin, burning away the stubble in precise, controlled lines, making the hair disappear in small puffs of smoke.
"What the hell is wrong with you!?" You exclaimed from your crouched position, your heart pounding in your chest. "Next time give me a heads up or something."
The lasers stopped. The bathroom now smelled faintly of burnt hair and something ozone sharp that made your nose wrinkle. Clark looked down at you, his expression calm and unconcerned, as if he had not just nearly blinded you.
"Is it better?" He asked, completely ignoring your outburst.
You rose to your feet slowly, knees cracking from the sudden movement. You stared at his face, at the smooth skin where stubble had been moments before and at the complete lack of any evidence that he had just used his eyes as weapons.
You nodded. "Nice party trick." You smiled, the adrenaline still humming through your veins. "Almost took me out in the process, though."
You reached up before you could think better of it, placing your hands on his face. Your palms cupped his jaw, fingers spread across his cheeks and you turned his head gently from side to side, checking for missed spots, for patches of hair he hadn’t caught. His skin was smooth beneath your hands and you could feel the slight warmth of his jaw where the lasers had done their work.
"Is this why yesterday's bacon was burned?" You asked, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones without meaning to.
"Caramelized." He attempted, the word coming out softer than usual. His hand came up, the one that had been holding the towel and rested gently on your forearm. His touch was firm and warm, holding you there as your eyes traveled all over his face, cataloging the details you had somehow missed before.
"Charred." You corrected.
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his jaw and into your hands. You gave him shit about burned bacon several times a week, complaining loudly about ruined breakfasts and wasted food but you knew exactly what he’d been doing. Whether it was saving a cat from a tree, preventing a car wreck or any of the other hundred things that occupied his time when he was not with you, you knew him. There were things you didn’t need him to explain.
Your eyes met his as his held yours.
The bathroom fell into silence, the only sound was the drip of water from the showerhead and the distant hum of the building's heating system finally kicking in. You were too aware of your hands on his face, too aware of the warmth of his skin and too aware of the way his thumb was moving in slow circles against your forearm.
You began slowly lowering your hands…as the sound of soft fabric pooling at his feet in a quiet heap broke the tension.
Your eyes widened and his mirrored yours, trapped in a loop of mutual horror as he stood there naked, the towel abandoned on the tile floor between you.
"Keep your eyes up." He advised, voice strained and higher than usual.
"I..." You stuttered, your words catching in your throat. You could feel the heat spreading down your neck, burning in your chest. "They’re up."
"Keep them up." He insisted with what sounded a whole lot like desperation.
You tried very hard not to smile but failed. It tugged at your lips, threatening to break through and you bit the inside of your cheek in futile attempts to hold it back.
"I’ve..." You chuckled, the sound nervous and bright. "Always been interested in male anatomy."
"I’m sure." He nodded, his voice tight. "And I’ll...I don’t think I’m human enough for that."
He was getting redder by the second, the color spreading from his cheeks down his neck and lower where you couldn’t look. His hands hung at his sides, fingers twitching like he wanted to cover himself but couldn’t quite make himself move.
You chuckled again, the sound more confident this time. "Let me be the judge of that."
"You know where the door is."
"Rain check?" You asked, raising your eyebrows.
"Y-Yeah, sure." He nodded, holding your eyes, not looking away even though every instinct in him was probably screaming to do exactly that.
"Though I’m curious if you shave like that elsewhere..." You began, voice trailing off suggestively. Your eyes dropped for just a fraction of a second, then snapped back up when you remembered his warning.
"Y/n." He said firmly, voice dropping an octave. Something stirred lower, something he couldn’t control and the knowledge of it must have shown on his face because his eyes went wider and his jaw clenched.
"Yup. Okay, time to go!" You nodded, smile breaking through completely now. "I’ll see myself out."
You stepped backwards toward the door, eyes locked on his as your heels hit the tile in reverse. You didn’t look down or let your gaze wander. You kept your eyes on his, on the blush spreading across his cheeks and on the desperate hope in his expression that you would just leave already before this got any…harder.
You reached the door and slipped through it, pulling it closed behind you.
The hallway was cold, colder than the bathroom had been and you stood there for a moment with your back against it, heart pounding and hands shaking as your mind replayed every single second of what had just happened. You could still feel the warmth of his skin beneath your palms, could still see the water dripping down his chest and could still hear the way he had said your name.
You pushed off from the door and walked back to your studio apartment as calmly as you could.
Eventually quiet laughter began bubbling out, the sound muffled against your hand, because Clark was still standing naked in his bathroom with a rain check he probably did not know how to cash and you had never been more certain of anything in your life.
What followed was a week full of events.
Between moving out of your old apartment and moving into the new one with Imogene, you barely had time to breathe, let alone process everything that was happening.
Ricky had shown up with his regulars and friends to help you move your things, a small army of bodega loyalists who complained about every box they carried but kept coming back for more. He had grumbled about the stairs and the weight of your clothing racks and the fact that you owned more shoes than anyone he had ever met but deep down, you could tell he was happy.
You weren’t crying about Clark anymore and for Ricky, that was more than enough.
You were also so busy with work that you technically still hadn’t moved in. Your boxes sat in piles around Imogene's new apartment, waiting to be unpacked, while you spent your days at Mrs. Alston's store and your nights everywhere else. You slept on a mattress on the floor, surrounded by a few selected half opened boxes and clothes that needed to be hung and you were too exhausted to care about any of it.
But you hadn’t missed shooting that quick text to Clark with your new address.
You had typed it out during a break at the store, your fingers hovering over the screen longer than necessary while you tried to decide how to sign it. Finally, you had settled on something simple, something that felt like armor and confession all at once.
-A working girl.
You’d been proud of it. The words felt true and honest without being vulnerable, confident without being arrogant. You had a job that paid actual money, a side gig that paid well too and a future that didn’t depend on anyone else's charity.
You were sure somewhere in there, Clark was proud of you too.
Your set at the jazz club had gone well…better than well, if the crowd's reaction was anything to judge by. They had laughed in the right places and stayed quiet in the others and when you finished, the applause had rolled through the room like thunder. It had paid well too, enough for you to send back your bail money to Clark.
Thankfully…he had refused to take it.
You had tried to send it to him twice and both times he had refused with an earnest phone call. You had argued, of course, because arguing with Clark was practically a sport at this point but he hadn’t budged. So the money had sat in your account until you used some of it to pay the fine that came with your court date.
The court date had arrived in the mail three days after you started working at the store, the envelope crisp, official and deeply unwelcome. You had hired a lawyer, a no nonsense woman named Patricia who specialized in petty offenses and seemed entirely unimpressed by your explanation of what had happened that night. Together, you had pleaded guilty to a reduced charge, paid the fine and walked out of the courthouse with a record that would follow you for the next year and a lecture about better decision making.
You had taken the lecture and used the rest of the money to cover the lawyer's fees.
Now you lived closer to the Talon, which should have made things easier but somehow did not.
Your first working days had been so charged, so full of new information and new responsibilities, that you hadn’t had much time to think about your work nights. The stage felt like another life, something that happened to a different version of you, someone braver, more reckless and less concerned with consequences but you thought about that jazz club gig sometimes.
It happened when you were at the store, when customers trailed off describing a piece of clothing that you had already identified after the first three words. You would stand there, nodding along, waiting for them to finish and your mind would drift back to the stage, lights and microphone. To the way the crowd had leaned in when you spoke, hanging on every word like you were telling them something they needed to hear.
Things were going really good.
That was the thought that kept circling back, the one you returned to whenever you started to doubt. The store was picking up, the website was generating interest and Mrs. Alston had started looking at you with what might have been hope. The store’s social media accounts were growing, followers trickling in one by one and people had started messaging about specific pieces they had seen in your photos.
So when Susie called with a slot later that following week, you had eagerly accepted.
You didn’t hesitate or talked yourself out of it. You simply said yes, the word coming out before you could second guess it and hung up the phone with your heart pounding in your chest.
Now you were crossing the street toward the Talon and you absolutely couldn’t believe the noise.
The sound hit you before you even reached the sidewalk, a low thrum of voices and laughter that spilled out of the club's entrance and into the night. Clusters of people stood outside smoking, their faces illuminated by the glow of their phones and the flicker of lighters.
It was unusual and so was the line in the hallway inside.
You stood there for a moment, frozen at the entry, watching as people filed past the tiny window where the same guy always sat. They were paying for entry, handing over bills and fishing coins out of their pockets and you watched as each person also turned in their phone, depositing it into a plastic bin before receiving a bracelet and moving inside.
You opened your purse automatically, already reaching for your wallet and calculating how much cash you had left.
"Y/n." The voice came in a loud whisper, cutting through the noise of the crowd. You looked up, trying to locate the sound. "Y/n!"
You looked around until your eyes met Susie's. She was already at your side, materializing out of the crowd like she had been waiting for you, hand closing around your arm before you could react.
"You picked the right night not to be fashionably late." She said, already pulling you forward, steering you toward the entrance.
You looked down at your dress as she walked you inside, skipping the line entirely. People turned to watch you pass, some curious, some annoyed and others already whispering to each other behind their hands. You ignored them, too busy trying to see yourself the way they must be seeing you.
The dress was deep red, a cocktail number courtesy of Mrs. Alston's store. The fabric was soft and it caught the light when you moved, shifting from crimson to burgundy to something darker. Now that you worked at the store, you could buy what you wanted at a very attractive price and if it was from the donation pile, it could almost be free. You were limited to two items per week, Mrs. Alston's only rule but it was still something, still more than you had ever hoped for.
"Do you not like what I’m wearing?" You asked as the both of you walked inside.
The club was even more packed than the sidewalk had suggested. Bodies pressed together at the bar, at the tables, in the corners where people had given up on finding seats and simply stood with drinks in hand, talking over each other's shoulders. The air was thick with smoke and perfume and the particular energy of a room that knew something important was about to happen.
"What?" Susie glanced back at you, her brow furrowed. "I didn’t say that. I’m saying I’m just glad you’re not late."
She kept pushing through the crowd, her shoulder clearing a path as she moved further inside and to the other side of the bar. People stepped aside for her, some annoyed, some amused, most just grateful to have someone else making the decisions.
"I’m never late." You swatted her hand away from your arm, though you kept following her. "And why are all these people here?"
The two of you finally stopped by a small room, a storage closet, near the back. There was a mirror on the wall, a chair and a table where you could leave your belongings. Susie pushed the door open and gestured for you to step inside.
You could finally see her face in the harsh light of the single bulb hanging overhead. She was grinning, wide eyed and she took you in with a look that was almost hungry.
"They’re here for you." She pointed at you, the gesture emphatic.
Your brows lifted. "For me?"
You watched as Susie nodded, the motion quick and excited, like she had been waiting all week to see your reaction. "I’ve had all week to let customers know you would be here tonight." She paused, her grin widening. "And that gig at the jazz club?" She excitedly hit your arm, harder than necessary.
"Ow!" You whispered, rubbing the spot.
"You did so fucking good." She continued, ignoring your complaint. "I don’t know what entitled prick ran his mouth to his friends since then, but look."
She pointed toward the booths along the far wall. From the distance, you could read reserved signs placed on several tables, marking them as off limits to the general crowd. People in expensive suits sat there, drinks in hand, their postures relaxed but their eyes alert. They looked like the kind of people who didn’t usually find themselves in places like the Talon, the kind of people who belonged in private clubs, rooftop bars and other spaces you had only read about.
"I had to make those myself." Susie added proudly. "I misspelled a few, but I still got the job done."
"Are you serious?" You asked, eyes going back to her.
She nodded, still grinning. Your gaze drifted to the entrance, where people were still filing in, still paying and handing over their phones. "And the people outside?"
"Jackie talked to them." Susie shrugged, as if this whole thing was normal. "They want to stay until the last minute to see if they can make it in."
You looked back at the room, at the bodies pressed together and at the energy crackling through the air like electricity before a storm. It was lively, more than you’d ever seen it and there was something in the atmosphere that made your skin prickle.
"I had to employ three more servers for tonight." Susie added, motioning toward the crowd.
Your brows furrowed as you tried to find the new faces, picking out unfamiliar people carrying trays of drinks, moving through the crowd with professional efficiency. "How are you going to pay for that?" You asked.
You had recently learned that the Talon was not exactly doing insanely well. The books were tight, the margins were thin and Susie had been operating on faith and stubbornness for longer than she probably wanted to admit.
She pointed at you. "Tonight, entry fee is thirty-five dollars."
"Thirty five?!" Your eyes widened, the number landing like a physical blow. "Susie, you’re fucking robbing people blind. I’m not worth that much."
She scoffed, waving away your concern like it was smoke. "Don’t worry. We’re only charging that to the people in suits and expensive coats." She gestured toward the booths, where the well dressed crowd sat. "They will be fine. For the rest, it has gone up to twenty but regulars stay at ten."
You tried to calculate in your head how much money that would make. The math swirled behind your eyes, numbers adding, multiplying and growing into an amount that made your stomach flip. Your official agreement with Susie from that night at the jazz club had remained at fifteen percent of your earnings. You had actually taken advantage of the lawyer you employed for your court date to craft an agreement between the two of you, a sort of contract until you decided if you were actually going to stick with this. It was just a precaution, Patricia had assured you, something to protect both parties while you figured out what you wanted.
The club would keep one hundred percent of the public's consumption, which had gotten five percent more expensive, not quite reaching Midtown bar prices, but a sizeable amount after a week of increased traffic. Susie would keep fifteen percent of entry fees and the rest was for you. For now, you didn’t want her to also pay you for your performance. This was your home, your testing ground and taking a cut of the door felt like enough.
"This place’s fucking bursting at the seams." Susie mused, looking out at the crowd with wonder.
"Please tell me you got rid of the communal bucket." You asked, your voice almost pleading.
She nodded, a smile spreading across her face. "Even called in a plumber to stay around all night, just in case."
You nodded back, the motion automatic, while the anxiety filtered in through the cracks in your composure. The room was full, the crowd was different and somewhere out there, people were paying thirty five dollars just to see you talk for twenty minutes.
"Should I change my set tonight?" You asked, voice quieter now and full of doubt. "Filter something out?"
This was a new cocktail of people, suits, regulars and curious strangers all mixed together. You didn’t know what they wanted, didn’t know what version of you would land best and you didn’t know if the usual jokes would work here.
Susie shook her head, turning to look at you properly. Her eyes traveled over your outfit, taking in the deep red dress that would definitely hold attention the minute you got on stage. You seemed less tired than the night at the jazz club, which showed that you were getting used to your new working life. The shadows under your eyes had faded, the tension in your shoulders had loosened and your posture was steadier with confidence.
"Nothing." She decided. "You get up there and give ‘em what you have." She paused, considering. "Will this be a collection of recycled stories or should I prepare to tackle you off the stage at some point?"
"Depends on how clean these floors are." You joked, then shrugged. "Whatever comes out. I’ve been writing a lot, but I don’t know how it’ll come out."
"Whatever it is, make sure they eat it up and beg for seconds." She nodded, pulling a cigarette pack from her pocket. She pulled one out, placing it between her lips and then lifted the package toward you. "Smoke?"
You shook your head.
"A drink?" She nudged you with her shoulder. "It’s on the house." When you did not immediately respond, she added, "Come on, say something. I don’t want you tense."
"I’m not tense."
"Oh, yes you are. You look like you have a stick up your ass." She lit her cigarette, the flame casting shadows across her face. She blew out smoke, the gray plume curling toward the ceiling. "I told you this would go fast." She paused, eyes drifting to the crowd. "The people in here have a sense of exclusivity. That’s what pays well." She turned to face you, her expression softening slightly. "This is all you."
"I’m good." You nodded, breathing in and out, trying to steady your heart. "Okay, I’ll take one…just to have something to do with my hands."
"Attagirl." She pulled out another cigarette and handed it to you. You took it, holding it between your fingers as you watched her light it. The tip glowed orange, the smoke curling up toward your face and you inhaled.
Once the smoke hit your lungs, you exhaled slowly, watching the gray cloud dissipate in the dim light. "But I am quitting after tonight." You murmured. “We really should've included a death clause in that contract…”
"Whatever rocks your boat." She shrugged, unbothered as she looked down at her watch. “I gotta tell them to start denying entry.”
“...’Cause it really feels like the kind of thing people remember right before dying.” You took another deep breath, the cigarette burning down between your fingers. "Is it just me or is the air getting thinner in here? Whatever you do, don’t tell my parents I loved them."
"Five minutes until you are up…You’re gonna be fine." Susie announced, already stepping away and disappearing back into the crowd. She turned back at the last moment, her eyes finding yours through the haze of smoke and bodies. "Tits up."
Then she fused into the crowd and disappeared, leaving you alone with your cigarette, your thoughts and the distant sound of a room full of people waiting to see what you would do next...
You took another slow drag from your cigarette, the smoke curling lazily around your fingers as you stepped out of the room and watched Jackie step onto the stage. The crowd quieted down almost instantly, the low hum of conversation fading as the spotlight hit him.
“You’ll soon be hearing many people presenting her as a very funny lady,” Jackie announced, his voice carrying through the packed room. “Truth is, you don’t know fun until you hear her and even then, the adjective will fall short. So I’ll let her do the heavy lifting…and when you see her at Carnegie Hall…if you can ever get tickets to that, just remember you saw her here first.” He extended his arm dramatically to the left side of the stage. “Please, give her a very warm welcome.”
The applause swelled, loud and enthusiastic, as he stepped off. You straightened your posture, gave yourself a firm little nod in the shadows and whispered under your breath, “Tits up.” Then you plastered on a bright, dangerous smile and walked onto the stage with purposeful, swaying steps. The applause grew even louder, crashing over you like a wave as you approached the mic.
“Why, thank you, Jackie,” you said animatedly into the microphone, your voice warm and playful. “Believe it or not, that’s the most I’ve heard him talk since this whole ordeal started.” Scattered laughter rippled through the crowd. You turned fully to face the audience, eyes sweeping over the sea of faces, of suits mixed with regulars, all packed shoulder to shoulder. “And look at you all. Now I’m told we’ve passed our occupancy level, so please everyone keep your hands where I can see them. I won’t be responsible for the people you impregnate tonight.”
Laughter erupted, sharper and louder than you expected from the first joke. You took a quick drag from your cigarette, exhaling smoke as the chuckles rolled on.
“Isn’t it funny how that’s how some of our grandparents told us we’d get pregnant?” you continued, pacing slowly. “Or more so your parents, depending on the age range here…I’m trying to be more inclusive.” The crowd chuckled warmly. “Meanwhile, some of them were dating their cousins and blaming TV for fucking us up.” More laughter burst forth, but a stern-looking older man in the very front row looked outright outraged. You pointed your cigarette at him with a grin. “Oh, don’t you worry, sir. I’ll only be up here for around twenty minutes, if I can help it, which is more than some of you last in bed. You’ll be hearing the word fuck a lot, and I see that the way out is as tight as a–” You paused, letting the implication hang as laughter erupted. “See? There’s a very funny joke here that could count as blasphemy, which I won’t say in case there are any nuns in here.”
You took another drag while pacing slowly across the stage, the deep red fabric of your dress catching the light with every movement as laughter built. “I’ve also broadened my horizons to a jazz club closer to Midtown…nothing too fancy, which still allowed me to say the word orgasm about four times.” You grinned as fresh laughter rolled through. “I say this because I’m seeing so many new faces tonight and I’m told you’re all here for me. Now, I’m fairly new to comedy, so the fact that so many of you knew my name and showed up just to see me on stage reminds me of this stalker I had in college…”
You shrugged, taking another pull from the cigarette before continuing with theatrical flair. “Long story short, I’m in love with my childhood best friend and he…well, he’s a man.” The crowd laughed knowingly. “And can’t see past this.” You gestured dramatically at your figure in the red dress. “Though now that I see it from this angle, maybe he’s scared of venturing into the darkness.” Louder laughter followed. “Might need a night light.”
You continued, voice dropping into something sultrier.
“Something amazing happens in the mind of someone who’s never felt the love of a parent when someone else shows some interest,” you said, pointing at the audience. “It’s what happened to me…I met this guy in one of the French classes I took in college…well, he met me. I still don’t know his name. Hell, he might even be here tonight.” People laughed, already looking around for him. “I very often got these cute notes in French…ones that made me feel like a buttered-up croissant.” You shimmed your shoulders playfully, earning wolf whistles and louder laughter. “Of course, in my mind I thought my best friend was writing them…so romantic, right? They went a little something like…Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?” Your French accent was spot-on. “And something that roughly translated to ‘I’d like to live in your skin until the both of us…rot?’” Your voice trailed off as you shrugged helplessly and the room burst into laughter.
You took a drag, letting the smoke curl as the laughter died down just enough.
“Now part of me believed this farm boy just didn’t know much about flirting, but honestly I should’ve begged someone to hit me in the head with a hard baguette for fooling myself. I should’ve known better given I’ve been around the guy on a farm… all of those ‘Attagirl’…” You dropped your voice into a sultry tone. “Or ‘You’re doing so fucking good’...without the ‘F’ word, of course, he doesn’t curse and ‘What a good girl’ as he fed his cows…I mean, it made me consider veganism for a while.”
The room lost it and you simply waited as they clapped, cigarette between your fingers, smiling as the laughter peaked.
“Anyway, turns out he caught this guy following me home by following him. I can promise you, I’d never seen my best friend so angry. He held the guy by his arms and shook him and I turned around to see what all the screaming was and I was so…” You breathed dramatically, eyes wide. “Enamoured by how big his arms looked. I mean, I should’ve been scared but Oh! Quel homme!!” You almost moaned it, sending the crowd into fresh hysterics. “That’s French for “Oh, what a man!”…you know what else is French? The guillotine.” Laughter exploded again.
“So gentlemen, when you leave here tonight, be conscious of yourselves. Mr. Kent might not be around, but his Mrs. is…I will find you and punch you in the nose.” The laughter grew so loud it shook the room. “Now I’m not strong, but at the very least you’ll be very embarrassed that you got punched in the nose by a not-strong comic. You might get the last laugh…but just know it’ll be your last…ever.”
You took one final drag, stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray on the stool beside you as the applause and laughter thundered.
You grinned, riding the wave. “I might not have a concealed carry permit, but nobody has ever looked under my skirt…And for context, my favorite toys have always been big, dark and automatic.”
The audience completely lost it. Howls of shocked laughter exploded across the room, while whistles pierced the air, mixed with groans of disbelief and genuine belly laughs that ricocheted off the walls like fireworks. A table of women in the middle nearly collapsed into each other, one of them slapping the table so hard her drink sloshed over the rim. Even some of the suited men in the reserved booths were red-faced, trying and failing to hide their amusement behind newly expensive cocktails.
You lifted one hand in mock surrender, grinning through your own laughter. “I’m kidding,” you assured them, eyes sparkling under the stage lights. “Size isn’t important…” You let the pause stretch just long enough for the room to lean in, then delivered the punch with perfect timing. “But you know what is? Growth.”
The groan that rippled through the crowd was immediate and delicious. You groaned right along with them, dramatic and theatrical, clutching the mic stand like you were embarrassed by your own joke. “Tough luck for show-ers… it just takes away all of the fun.”
The laughter hit a new peak, loud, filthy and unrestrained. Several people were wiping tears from their eyes. A woman in the front row pointed at you with both hands, shouting “Yes, girl!” while her date looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. You let the wave of applause and laughter wash over you, feeding the adrenaline buzzing in your veins.
You paced a few steps, the deep red dress swirling dramatically around your legs, catching the light like liquid fire. The audience was eating out of your hand now, completely hooked.
After a minute, the laughter finally began to quiet down. You leaned into the mic with a playful smile, giving the crowd a moment to breathe.
“I promise I don’t always talk about penises and sex,” you said, raising a hand in mock innocence again. “I also talk about my parents…and running away from home for love. Now that I think about it, hosting comedy acts probably isn’t the greatest way to hide from them, but that’s a problem for another day!” You paused for the scattered chuckles. “Alright, let me think. Besides my rapidly growing criminal record, what else is new?...I got a new apartment.”
The crowd clapped and cheered enthusiastically. You grinned, nodding along. “Yes, I’ve moved out of Garrett’s building right after hearing him practically drop dead from the bet he lost…ten grand, which I may or may not be responsible for. Any lawyers in the house?” You scanned the room theatrically. “Obviously he called the police on me…who I love,” you added with heavy sarcasm. “Who historically can do no wrong. I mean, it took very little conversation with Garrett for them to decide he’s a gambling addict and that the nice little lady with the vintage dresses had absolutely nothing to do with his upcoming financial ruin.”
The audience laughed heartily, clearly enjoying your chaotic life updates.
“It’s too bad, really,” you continued, “because the best sleep I had all month was in a holding cell.” More laughter rippled through the room. “Also, I have a day job now too at a retail store.” You nodded proudly. “It’s fascinating, the different people you meet and how eager we all are to overshare what’s wrong in our lives. That’s exactly why I’m standing on this stage about to tell you how I eagerly encouraged a woman to divorce her husband of forty-five years…while he was just a few aisles away.”
The crowd groaned in delighted shock.
“Yeah, I know,” you said, wincing theatrically. “So, the store was pretty full and as I’m helping this lady at the counter, I noticed her eyeing one of our regulars…this nice, tall man with a salt-and-pepper beard I’d want to sit on.”
A collective gasp swept the room, followed by scandalized laughter. You quickly corrected yourself with wide eyes. “I mean, her! Or me! Hey, I might be a Mrs. up here, but unlike their marriage, this act won’t last long!”
The laughter swelled again. You rode the wave, pacing slowly across the stage.
“Anyway, she looked starstruck, so I told her, ‘He’s single, no kids…’ Obviously I omitted the part where he lives in Gotham, just in case she was more interested in what’s in his will.” You shrugged innocently as people howled. “I’m trying to keep true love alive! And she’s like, ‘Oh no, I can’t,’ and I’m like, ‘Yes you can!’ And she’s like, ‘No I can’t…’” You paused, eyes widening in realization. “That’s when I remembered she’s one of the ladies who comes in regularly just to talk shit about her husband in hopes of talking me out of an equally terrible marriage.”
Laughter erupted once more.
“So I looked her dead in the eyes and said, ‘Well, that doesn’t mean you can’t run to the end of your leash and bark!’”
The room exploded. People were clapping, laughing and some nearly falling over in their seats.
“Ladies, don’t let your awful husbands keep you from finding a boyfriend,” you declared, pointing across the crowd. “And for those with not-so-terrible husbands…my most sincere condolences.”
More laughter rolled through the room, warm and appreciative.
“I’m serious though, don’t let permanence dictate your life if that thing no longer serves a purpose. I’d be the first one to tell you that you need to experience things in the moment. Like fine wine…or a really expensive divorce.” You almost groaned the last part, earning another big laugh. “And I know this because she comes back every single day to update me on how it’s going. Just this morning she found out he cheated on her earlier in their marriage…on her Egyptian cotton sheets, which she paid for. She picked them out while he was busy ‘networking’ which nowadays is code for ‘ejaculating prematurely while thinking about stock options.’”
The crowd lost it again with a mix of shocked gasps and roaring laughter.
“I realize now that I’m single-handedly keeping lawyers in business while accidentally profiting off this woman’s divorce,” you added with a grin. “Because every time she comes in, she buys something new with their money and I earn commission. But I’m technically supporting the cause because by the time they split their assets, that poor man’s gonna own a recliner, half a toaster and several very expensive regrets while she’ll be draped in enough silk to survive winter without central heating.”
The crowd roared with laughter, several women cheering loudly in solidarity.
You struck a dramatic superhero pose with a hand on your hip and your chest slightly forward. “I’m like Superman…but with better boobs.”
The room absolutely erupted in loud, delighted laughter mixed with whistles and applause. You held the pose for a beat, soaking it all in with a satisfied smirk before dropping it.
You raked your eyes over the room one last time, taking in the energy, the flushed faces and the genuine connection vibrating through the packed club.
“It’s very clear to me that as of this past week, my two new favorite F-words are financial freedom…and the fact that you all paid to be here is only encouraging this behavior.” You flashed a bright, grateful smile as fresh laughter spread. “Well, the laughs help too.”
With a satisfied little smile, you carefully placed the microphone back onto the stand, the motion final.
“You’ve been a wonderful audience, ladies and gentlemen. That’s it for me…I’m Mrs. Kent. Thank you and goodnight!”
The applause was thunderous. Loud, sustained and full of whistles, cheers and stomps. Several people stood up, the reserved booths included, as the entire room erupted in celebration. The sound vibrated through your chest, warm and victorious, as you gave a graceful little bow.
You remained on the stage for a few seconds, soaking in the applause as the sound washed over you in waves. The lights were bright and warm against your skin and somewhere in the back of the room, someone began whistling so loudly you could hear it over the thunder of clapping hands. You let yourself stand there just a moment longer, breathing it in, letting the noise settle into your bones like heat after being out in the cold too long.
Through the crowd, you saw Susie push her way toward the stage, her shoulders working against the press of bodies, her face lit up with something that looked almost like wonder. She reached the edge of the stage just as you began stepping down and people immediately surrounded you, congratulating you eagerly, shaking your hand, patting your shoulder and leaning in to say things you could not quite hear over the noise. A woman with bright red lipstick grabbed your arm and told you she had not laughed that hard in years while a man in a wrinkled suit pressed a business card into your palm and mouthed something about representation. You nodded, smiled and kept moving, kept pushing through, because Jackie had already taken the stage again and started introducing some loud music that made conversation nearly impossible.
"Follow me." Susie's voice cut through the noise and you didn’t argue.
You ducked into the small room where you had left your belongings. Your hands moved automatically, grabbing your purse and your coat, then you followed her out but instead of heading toward the bar, she turned left, pushing past a cluster of people who stepped aside when they saw her coming. A side door appeared in the wall, one you had never noticed before, hidden behind a curtain that looked like it had not been washed since the club opened. Susie pushed it open and stepped through and you followed her into the night.
"Did you see me up there?" The words spilled out of you before you could stop them, your voice high, bright and barely containing the energy thrumming through your veins. "It was better than drugs."
Susie snorted but she didn’t turn around.
"I mean, I haven’t done them in years but it feels like an opportunity." You were talking too fast, you knew that much, but you couldn’t seem to slow down. The adrenaline was still pumping, still buzzing under your skin and every word that came out of your mouth felt like it needed to be said immediately. "Oh, I actually need a drink."
The fresh air hit your face as you stepped fully outside, cold, sharp and sobering in a way that made you blink. The alley behind the Talon was narrow and dark, lit only by a single flickering bulb above the door and the distant glow of the street beyond. Trash bins lined the walls and somewhere nearby, water dripped steadily onto pavement.
"I need a drink so stiff I could blow it." You said and then Susie suddenly halted.
You did the same, stopping mid step, heel scraping against the cracked concrete. You turned to face her, still buzzing and grinning…until you read her face.
She was just staring at you with the most neutral expression you had ever seen, her mouth flat and eyes unblinking. For a moment, you thought she was angry or disappointed or maybe just exhausted from the chaos of the night but then her nose twitched and her eyes began to water, and you watched in growing horror as her composure cracked.
"Susie?" Your voice pitched higher, concern cutting through the last of your adrenaline high. "What the fuck?"
She covered her face with both hands, her shoulders shaking as she attempted not to cry. The sound that came out of her was somewhere between a laugh and a sob, muffled by her palms.
"You’re going to change my life." She sniffled, the words coming out thick and wet.
"Well..." You hesitated, caught off guard by the raw emotion on her face. "I...I sure can try."
It was not just your life you wanted to change, you realized. It was hers too. Susie had been here for years, stuck behind that bar, watching other people perform while she cleaned up after them and now she was standing in an alley with tears in her eyes, talking about your future like it was the only thing that mattered.
"Most comics take years to work up those first ten minutes." She shook her head as she met your eyes, her voice was thick with something that might have been wonder. "Let alone go on for twenty with random things that happened to them while creating a connection with the crowd…You did it in a month."
You shrugged, looking around at the dark alley, the dripping water and the single flickering bulb. The night was darker now than when you had arrived, the sky above the buildings a deep, endless black. "Feels like years to me."
She shook her head firmly. "You’re really good."
"Thank you, Susie." You said sincerely, letting out a sigh of relief that seemed to deflate in your chest. The tension you had been carrying all week, all month, all year, loosened slightly.
"No, Y/n." She stepped closer, her voice getting more emotional, eyes glossed over again. "You’re really fucking good."
Your eyes widened. "And you’re scaring me."
She sniffled again, wiping her tears with the back of her hand and straightening her posture. She rolled her shoulders back, lifted her chin and somehow managed to look almost composed again, despite the redness around her eyes. "It’s just allergies." She said, her voice steadier now. "Thank you for coming tonight…I know you’re busy..and unsure."
You breathed in and nodded, the cold air filling your lungs. "No, I think I needed this." The admission came out quieter than you intended, almost private. "Life’s gotten too serious lately."
Susie nodded, her attention caught by the noise spilling from the club behind her. The music was still playing and somewhere inside, people were still laughing and talking, still living inside the world you had created for them.
"I’ll call you tomorrow when the money’s counted ." She breathed, already starting for the door. "Go home, wash this success off, and...get fucked, I don't fucking know."
You laughed, the sound bright in the dark alley. This was definitely the kind of thing you could have celebrated with sex, the kind of high that begged for something physical to match it but right now, all you wanted was a shower, a pizza and about six hours of sleep until you needed to clock in for work.
"Susie?" You called back quietly.
She turned to face you, her hand on the door, silhouette framed by the dim light spilling out from inside. The two of you stared at each other across the narrow alley but you were not present at all. You were back on stage, hearing people laugh and applaud, feeling the warmth of the lights on your skin, riding the wave of something that felt gloriously close to purpose.
Susie hadn’t forced you to be here tonight. She wasn’t asking you to stay, either or to do it again in the following week…The problem was that you wanted her to.
"Tell me this is going to work." You instructed, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest.
You had six months.
Six months in Imogene's apartment before Archie finished his master's degree and moved in. Six months before you'd need somewhere else to live. Six months before the carefully assembled life raft you'd been floating on reached the end of its rope and after working with Mrs. Alston for a few weeks, the truth had become impossible to ignore.
Soon there wouldn't be mountains of donated clothing arriving every week. The website was already moving inventory faster than before while social media had people coming in specifically for pieces they'd seen online. The business was improving which meant eventually the racks would thin out.
Mrs. Alston would retire and that chapter would end too.
The store wasn’t a forever thing, so this had to be.
"It has to stick." You finally decided, the words coming out firmer than you felt. "I want it to stick."
For a moment Susie didn't answer, she simply looked at you, at this new version standing in front of her with tired eyes, aching feet and enough hope in her voice to make the whole thing terrifying.
Slowly, she nodded, trying very hard to look professional about it. It was her careful attempt at looking like a manager discussing business opportunities instead of a woman who'd just watched her future walk onto a stage and accidentally change both of their lives but her eyes gave her away. She was trying not to cry and was becoming increasingly aware she was losing the fight.
"Sure." She tried, the word was careful as if trying not to scare you away, trying not to push too hard, ask for too much and make you change your mind.
You shook your head. "No. I need you to be sure of it." Your voice dropped, the words coming out slower now, more deliberate. "That if I fall and there is just a stretch of space below, a void... that you will catch me."
She nodded and this time there was no hesitation. "I will dive right in, no doubts." She said it like a vow, like something she had been waiting to say. "If we go down, then we’ll go down together." She paused, something flickering across her face. "But we’re not all Superman."
You nodded, the word landing somewhere in your chest, settling into the space where your heart was still racing. She pushed the door open and walked back inside, the noise swallowing her up, and you stood there in the alley for a second, alone with the dripping water, the flickering light and the weight of everything you had just decided.
You fumbled to open your purse, fingers clumsy with adrenaline and cold and pulled out your phone. The screen glowed in the darkness and you tapped the one pinned contact without letting yourself think too much about it.
You pressed the device to your ear and listened to it ring…once.
You took in a deep breath, the air cold and sharp in your lungs. You exhaled slowly, watching your breath cloud in front of your face as your lips stretched into a gentle smile.
"Hi." You breathed, your voice softer, warmer. "Is it too late for a walk? I don’t want the night to end yet."
Maybe new beginnings only happened after endings…or maybe they happened the second you finally stopped running long enough to make that call.
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!
a/n: guys, I listened to Mika and Stephen's Quinn episodes while editing this (didn't pay for it so I might end up in jail) and I swear the artist/gallery worker reader is a complete coincidence. I heard it and I just went…oh 😭 Also, that was my very first time listening to anything like that and oh my god is that what it feels like to read smut when you don't write it??
Summary: You know that he’s your ex, but can’t two people just reconnect? “I only see him as a friend,” was the biggest lie you’d ever said as you tripped and fell into his bed!
Classification: Smut +18 | Exes rekindling, impulsive/poor decision-making, yearning (mostly from Dean), cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected p-in-v in prone bone position, creampie, mild cum play, dirty talk and breeding-kink adjacent language
Word count: 4,5k
Divider by me ;)
You didn’t do “regret.”
Regret implied failure somewhere along the carefully constructed architecture of your life, it implied you had made a wrong turn and now sat mourning an alternate version of events where you had somehow known better and you hated that mentality. Things happened, people changed, choices got made and you dealt with them. End of story.
Dean Di Laurentis was not one of your regrets.
He wasn’t just some ex-boyfriend reduced to funny anecdotes over cocktails and late-night gossip with friends. Dean had been your first love in every embarrassingly real sense of the word, the one that settled deep inside your bones and permanently rearranged them afterward and you had been his right back. Every awkward discovery, every fumbling touch, every late night conversation about sex, fear and the future had happened side by side, learning each other carefully until it became impossible to tell where one of you ended and the other began.
People always assumed you’d dated longer than you actually had whenever his name slipped into conversation, maybe because of the weight attached to it. The relationship itself had lasted barely over a year but it had consumed enough emotional space to feel infinite.
That single year had carved through your life with enough intensity to feel longer than most marriages.
Before that, there had been years of orbiting each other helplessly and cautiously, dancing around feelings both of you recognized long before either admitted until eventually neither of you remembered who had caved first.
Even now, you would both choose the word “sacred” because you had been each other’s “one and only”.
Even years later, the relationship remained untouched territory between you both, so sacred that your names still occasionally stuck in each other’s throats like some forbidden incantation. Friends joked about exes casually while you and Dean handled each other like loaded weapons.
You had been the one to end it before he left for Briar and it wasn’t because you stopped loving him. That would've made things easier.
Dean had his future lined up with terrifying precision back then, hockey, school, structure and goals stacked neatly one after another while you still felt haunted by pieces of your past you couldn’t quite outrun yet. You loved him enough to know he deserved freedom, deserved college without having to constantly worry about the girl still trying to keep herself afloat hundreds of miles away carrying baggage heavy enough for two people.
Dean had disagreed immediately, actually, “disagreed” was putting it lightly. He had outright said ‘no’ like a breakup required mutual consent.
For six straight weeks afterward, he ignored the fact you’d ended things entirely. He kept showing up after your classes, kept texting you good morning and kept trying to take you to dinner as if stubborn consistency alone could undo heartbreak if he refused to acknowledge it properly. Eventually, you had to stop answering altogether because every time you saw him, you almost folded.
The breakup itself stayed strangely gentle despite that. There had been no screaming, betrayal or dramatic ending, only two people loving each other badly timed.
Years later, you still existed in each other’s peripheral vision through social media and mutual friends. You knew about his hockey career because his face appeared online often enough for avoidance to become impossible. Sometimes you allowed yourself a few extra seconds reading comments underneath interviews or game clips before forcing yourself to scroll away without interacting while Dean did the same.
He knew about your travelling, your art and the gallery work, as well as the occasional blurry appearances of people beside you in pictures. He never believed any of the men lasted very long, not because he was arrogant enough to think nobody else could have you but because somewhere deep down he couldn’t picture anyone understanding you correctly.
When nights got too quiet, he reread old messages he absolutely should’ve deleted years ago but tonight had been particularly bad.
The Briar Hawks had lost earlier that week and apparently half the team decided the healthiest way to cope with that was snapping at each other until morale hit rock bottom. Practices had turned tense, locker room conversations shorter and sharper, everyone carrying irritation under their skin like bruises they kept pressing on purpose. Dean usually handled losses well, but after days of teammates barking at each other and coaches running everyone into the ground, something inside him started feeling worn thin in a way hockey normally never managed, so he escaped.
By the time he got back to his family’s New York penthouse, he’d convinced himself silence would fix whatever had been clawing at him lately. Instead, the place just felt empty in expensive ways. Too much glass, too much space and too many rooms carrying memories of you around like ghosts that paid rent there.
Especially once he found that old video in his phone. He recognized the exact window immediately because he stood in front of it now, the city spread before him in dark glittering lights while your younger voice filled the room through his phone speakers.
The video shook slightly as you filmed the skyline from his bedroom years ago, your laughter airy and careless while midnight painted the windows black.
“That’s so beautiful,” you’d murmured softly. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of it.”
“Of me?” younger Dean joked instantly, voice muffled into the mattress somewhere next to you. He could practically remember himself face-down and exhausted after sex. “I hope not.”
Your laughter burst out louder then, making the camera jerk slightly.
“And I hope this is one of those things where you’re filming the view but actually calling me beautiful…That’d be romantic.”
“I bet you’d love that,” you cackled.
“Not more than I do you.”
Dean closed his eyes briefly. He remembered exactly how that video ended, the laughter dissolving slowly into kissing, into tangled sheets, whispered conversations and love making that lasted until dawn turned the skyline pale blue and gold.
He had never revisited those videos before tonight but something about hearing your younger laugh again cracked open a weak spot he’d spent years trying to reinforce.
Meanwhile, you sat tucked inside a crowded New York bar with old friends, laughing hard enough your stomach hurt while someone retold a story you’d already heard three separate times over the years. Your trip was short, barely a few days for work but it justified reconnecting with people you missed whenever life slowed down long enough to let nostalgia sneak in.
Dean knew exactly where you were because of one Instagram story, one tagged location…and one bad idea.
Your phone buzzed against the sticky wooden table just as you lifted your drink toward your mouth.
The second you saw his name, everything inside you stalled.
Your laughter cut off so abruptly one of your friends frowned instantly. “Y/n? You okay?”
“What?” You blinked hard, lifting your brows too quickly as you straightened. “Yeah. Yes. I just– excuse me one second.”
You grabbed your phone before you could think better of it and slipped outside into the cool night air of the city, the muffled bass from the bar fading behind you as you pressed answer and raised the phone to your ear.
Ten full seconds of silence followed. There was no greeting or breathing, so naturally you started thinking that maybe he called accidentally or lost his nerve halfway through because surely…this was a bad idea, right?
“How’s New York?” he asked suddenly, voice finally cutting through the silence.
You smiled despite yourself. You had heard his voice plenty over the years through interviews, videos teammates posted and clips floating around online after games but none of those had been meant for you. This was.
You could hear the exhaustion underneath it now that it wasn’t filtered through screens and public smiles.
“I have a feeling you already know,” you replied calmly, leaning your shoulder against the brick wall outside the bar.
Silence stretched again as you weighed your next words carefully, debating whether to let him hide behind casual conversation or acknowledge that you knew him too well for that. In the end, the defeated undertone in his voice made the decision for you. The Hawks had lost, sure, but Dean didn’t call only because of hockey.
“That bad, huh?” you asked softly.
You heard him exhale quietly on the other end. “It might get worse if I don’t do this.”
Your brows furrowed slightly. “Do what?”
“Fail at being a proper ex.” The soft laugh escaping him pulled one from you too before you could stop it.
“We’re awful at it,” you admitted.
Dean laughed properly then, low and warm through the speaker. “It’s pathetic,” he said. “On my part, at least…Seems like you’re doing alright.”
You looked down at the pavement, smiling faintly to yourself. “I still picked up on the first ring.”
“It rang three times on my end,” he argued. He tried sounding teasing about it but you caught the truth underneath. For a second there, he’d genuinely thought maybe you finally wouldn’t answer anymore.
You laughed softly. “Once on mine. And I’m pretty sure I was the one who called last time…or the one before that.”
Dean leaned his head back against the penthouse window behind him, smiling helplessly to himself. God, you still sounded exactly the same…same voice and cadence, same way of speaking that made him feel seventeen and stupidly in love all over again.
“I’ll always pick up,” you reminded him quietly, turning your head to glance through the bar windows at your friends inside. “You know that.”
“And I’ll always call,” he admitted. “Hoping you’ll come.”
The honesty in it hit you straight in the chest. You heard him clear his throat awkwardly afterward, probably rubbing at the back of his neck the way he always did when he felt too exposed.
“I’m at The Heyward…if you–”
Your thoughts disappeared entirely. One second you had common sense and self-preservation and the next your brain had turned into static. Seeing him tonight became the only coherent thing left glowing obnoxiously bright in the middle of it all.
“I can…” you interrupted softly before you could stop yourself. You almost heard your own better judgment trying to physically drag the words back down your throat.
Fuck it, it’s fine.
“I can be there in maybe…thirty minutes.”
The relief on the other end was immediate even if Dean tried hiding it. He let out a breath you were pretty sure he’d been holding since you answered.
“I can text you the address.”
You chuckled quietly, your hand already resting on the handle of the bar door. “I’ve never had trouble finding my way back.”
Both of you fell silent for half a second after. There it was…the truth neither of you had ever really escaped. You thought you were over it and done, you thought you were through. Thought maybe distance, years and other people would've eventually worn the feelings down into something manageable but there was no denying perfection once you’d already had it.
“No,” Dean murmured under his breath. “That you haven’t.”
You were grateful the night had already started winding down by the time he called.
Back inside, you announced vaguely that you were exhausted, that work had drained you and you needed sleep before your meetings tomorrow. Conveniently, your departure encouraged a few other people to call it a night too, which kept anyone from paying too much attention to your sudden need to leave.
You paid your tab, hugged your friends goodbye and stepped into a car fully aware you were actively driving toward the destruction of every sensible decision you’d made over the past few years…and worse? You didn’t even feel guilty about it.
The route to Dean’s place came back to you embarrassingly easily, every turn felt familiar enough to make your chest tighten. Somewhere during the drive, you realized there had been dozens of opportunities to stop this before it happened, yet you ignored every single one.
By the time you walked into the building lobby, your mind had gone almost completely blank again.
The elevator ride to the top floor felt endless, your pulse hammering harder with every passing second which was enough time to turn around, to remember all the reasons this was a terrible idea but when the doors slid open… there he was.
Standing barefoot in the doorway already waiting for you, completely unaware of the plans he was wrecking and probably even less aware of how deeply fucked up this whole thing was.
Dean smiled the second he saw you and you were sure you’d seen much hotter men…you just really couldn’t remember when!
He carried you into the bedroom, bodies fused together as you kissed with a desperation that bordered on starvation. It was as if the air in the room had vanished, leaving only the scent of him and the heat of your skin as the only things keeping you alive. The room was slick and modern, all clean lines and muted tones but the atmosphere between you was chaotic and primal. Your tongues clashed and danced, a familiar rhythm that felt like coming home after a lifetime in exile.
Clothes were stripped away in a frantic blur of grasping hands and impatient tugs, discarded carelessly on the polished floors. The moment your skin was bare, he didn't waste a second. He pressed you back onto the bed, mouth immediately finding your breasts. He sucked your nipples into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the peaking tips with a hunger that made your toes curl. You arched your back, breath hitching in jagged gasps as he alternated between biting and sucking, marking you as his own again.
He moved then, sliding down the length of your body and knelt at the foot of the bed, his presence commanding and focused. He reached down, large hands gripping your thighs, massaging the soft flesh with a firm pressure that forced your legs wide open, exposing you completely to his gaze.
As he leaned in, his eyes locked onto yours with a deep, piercing stare that communicated everything the silence couldn't. There was an intense, wordless understanding in his expression, a recognition of every curve and every hidden need of your body. He knew exactly where to touch, how much pressure to apply and exactly how to break you.
When his tongue first made contact with your clit, a violent shiver racked your entire frame. He licked you with long, slow strokes, savoring the taste of your arousal. He began to suck the small, sensitive nub into his mouth, creating a vacuum that sent electric shocks straight to your core. You let out a loud moan, fingers diving into his hair, gripping the strands tightly and pushing his face harder against your pussy.
He responded by sliding two fingers deep inside you. The intrusion was sudden and perfect, filling you up while his tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit. He began to pump his fingers in a rhythmic, curling motion, hitting your G-spot with a precision that made your hips jerk uncontrollably to meet him halfway.
The world outside the bedroom ceased to exist. There was no past or future, only the friction of his fingers and the wet, sliding warmth of his tongue. You watched him through hooded eyes, seeing the way he focused on your pleasure, the way his jaw tightened as he worked to bring you to the edge.
Your moans became a constant, melodic soundtrack to the act, filling the modern silence of the room. You couldn't hear your own thoughts anymore, the mental noise had been drowned out by the sheer intensity of the physical sensation. Your mind stopped processing language, stopped questioning and fearing. Even your internal monologue dissolved into a single, echoing "ah" that vibrated through your soul.
He increased the pace, fingers fluttering inside you while his tongue flicked faster and harder against your clit. He was driving you toward a cliff and you were leaning into the fall. You gripped his hair tighter, pulling him in, legs shaking as the tension built into an unbearable coil in your lower belly.
The orgasm hit you hard. Your internal muscles clamped down hard on his fingers, pulsing in rhythmic waves of ecstasy. You screamed into the quiet room, your back arching off the mattress as your vision blurred. Every nerve ending fired at once, a blinding explosion of white light and heat that left you breathless and trembling. You collapsed back into the sheets, your chest heaving, staring down at him with wide, glazed eyes as the aftershocks continued to ripple through your body.
He didn't let you linger in the afterglow for long. He began to crawl back up the bed, lips trailing a path of fire across your inner thighs, your stomach and your breasts, kissing every inch of skin as if he were reclaiming territory. When his lips finally crashed against yours, the kiss was different, no longer just desperate but possessive and deep. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your tongue tangling with his, while your hand slid down between your bodies to find him.
The moment your fingers closed around his cock, a jolt of need shot through you. It was thick, pulsing and scorching hot. You gripped him firmly, jerking him with a rhythm that spoke of a hunger you had suppressed for far too long. During the months you had spent with other men, you had tried to bury the memory of this specific weight, this specific hardness but the second you touched him, the comparisons were devastating. No one else compared to this.
He let out a low groan right into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest. With a sudden, powerful movement, he manhandled you, flipping you over onto your stomach. You gasped as your chest hit the mattress, your face now aligned with the floor-to-ceiling windows. You looked out at the view you loved so much, to the city lights shimmering like fallen stars but the scenery was secondary to the weight of him pressing you down.
Dean moved to your ear, licking the lobe before sucking it deeply, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. He trailed kisses behind your ears and down the nape of your neck, his hot breath sending fresh shivers racing down your spine. You were both breathing heavily, the air in the room thick with the scent of sex and arousal.
He reached for a pillow, shoving it swiftly under your hips. The movement propped your ass up, arching your back and tilting your pelvis perfectly toward him. In one fluid, decisive motion, he aligned his head against your still pulsing, dripping wet cunt and thrusted home.
The impact was seismic. You both groaned in unison, a raw, primal sound of relief. Your head fell onto the mattress and he collapsed his forehead against your shoulder blades, both of you frozen for a moment as you breathed through the sheer intensity of the fullness. He was bare, sliding deep into your heat without any barrier and the feeling of skin-on-skin friction was overwhelming. Any thought of consequences or logic was incinerated, the only thing that mattered was the way he filled every single void inside you.
As he began to move, the friction was exquisite. He started with slow, heavy thrusts that seemed to reach your very soul, pulling back until he was almost out before slamming back in. You let out throaty whines as your fingers clawed at the sheets and your vision began to blur, making the city lights outside merge into a haze of color that mirrored the fog settling over your mind.
He reached down, hand searching for yours. Instead of letting you grip the linens, he interlocked his fingers with yours, pinning your hand against the bed. The intimacy of the gesture, combined with the rhythmic pounding of his cock in your pussy, was too much.
"Holy...angh, fuck!" you breathed shakily, squeezing his fingers as his large hand completely encompassed yours.
"I know you’ve missed this," he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against your skin.
"How...?" you managed to gasp out between broken moans, hips instinctively bucking back against him, begging for more.
"Because I have..." he groaned, pace quickening as the sound of your wet bodies slapping together filled the room. "And fuck...you're so tight. Reminds me exactly whose cock you were molded for first."
The words fueled the fire. He began to fuck you with a relentless, driving force, each thrust hitting your G-spot with bruising precision. The feeling of being claimed after so long was intoxicating, this wasn't just sex, it was an erasure of everyone else who had touched you in his absence. You felt stretched, filled and completely dominated.
As the tension began to coil again, tighter and more violent than before, he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. "Enjoying the view?" he whispered, feeling the internal muscles of your pussy begin to squeeze and ripple around him in desperate spasms.
You let out a breathless, broken laugh that dissolved into a loud moan. "Can't...can't really focus on liking anything but you right now."
That confession broke his last shred of restraint. He abandoned the slow rhythm for a frantic, punishing pace, his fingers squeezing yours so hard it almost hurt but you welcomed the pain.
You were spiraling, the pleasure building into a towering wall of heat.
The climax hit you both simultaneously. You screamed into the mattress as your walls clamped down on him in violent, rhythmic contractions. He let out a loud grunt, thrusting one last time as deep as he could go, filling you with his hot, thick cum. You both shook violently, locked together in a crushing embrace, the world outside the window disappearing entirely as you drowned in the sensation of finally being whole again.
For a few long, heavy seconds, neither of you moved. You remained as you were, the only sound in the room was the ragged, synchronized gasping of your breath. He stayed buried deep inside you, his weight pressing you firmly into the mattress, chest heaving against your back. You could feel him still pulsing, the aftershocks of his orgasm sending waves of heat through your core as he continued to leak his thick, hot cum deep into your womb.
Slowly, he began to move, his muscles tensing as he tried to pull out. The sensation of his thick cock sliding against your sensitized walls was almost too much to bear yet the friction was delicious, dragging against every nerve ending that was still screaming from the climax. But as he withdrew, he found he couldn't fully let go. The tight, wet grip of your pussy was clinging to him, refusing to let him leave.
He let out a low, shaky breath and instead of pulling away completely, he began to slowly fuck the remaining cum back into you. “Don’t you spill a single drop.”
He pushed in, a slow and agonizingly deep slide that filled you to the absolute brim.
"Ugh fuck…" you moaned, the sound raw, vibrating through the mattress. The feeling of being stretched wide again, combined with the slickness of his seed acting as a lubricant, made the sensation incredibly intense.
He paused for a heartbeat, letting you feel the sheer girth of him, before he slid back out almost entirely, until only the head remained teasing your entrance and then slammed back in with a heavy, wet thud.
"Mmmh…" you whined, voice breaking.
The sounds were obscene, the loud, squelching slap-squish of your wet bodies colliding echoing through the quiet room. Every thrust sounded like a splash, the excess cum and your own juices bubbling around the point of impact. It was a primal, messy sound that only served to heighten the eroticism of the moment.
You couldn't find words anymore. Instead, you began to hum, a low, vibrating sound in the back of your throat that mirrored the pleasure radiating through your lower body. Your entire frame began to quake, a fine tremor that started in your thighs and traveled up your spine.
Inside, your pussy was in chaos. The walls were spasming, clamping down on his cock in involuntary, rhythmic pulses. Each time he pushed in, your muscles gripped him with a desperate, milking intensity, squeezing him tight as if trying to draw every last drop of pleasure from his body. You were a trembling mess beneath him, completely undone, shivering through the exquisite torture of those slow, wet and deep thrusts.
In between slow kisses and another round of loving, unhurried sex beneath the steaming spray of the shower, you somehow found your way back to his bed again, skin damp, limbs heavy and loose from exhaustion and familiarity. The city lights spilled through the massive windows in streaks of gold and white, cutting across the sheets and over Dean’s bare chest as he laid facing you, one arm tucked beneath his pillow while the other traced lazy paths up and down your naked arm, fingertips catching on goosebumps every now and then.
Your own hand moved over his face just as slowly, mapping features you already knew by heart but still wanted to relearn anyway, the sharper line of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows, the mouth that always looked seconds away from either a grin or trouble. Time had matured him in unfair ways. He looked older now, rougher around the edges, broader everywhere and yet the expression in his eyes while looking at you still carried traces of the boy who once refused to let you break up with him for six straight weeks.
“What were you thinking?” you asked softly, voice barely louder than the hum of the city beneath you both.
Dean’s eyes stayed on yours while his thumb dragged slowly over your shoulder. “That I needed to get you,” he admitted quietly. “The screen wasn’t cutting it anymore.”
Your thumb lowered to his lips, tracing the soft fullness of them while silence settled comfortably around you again. The truth was neither of you had been thinking much at all tonight. You had simply tripped into each other all over again, like muscle memory, like every version of yourselves somehow still led back here no matter how much distance or time you forced in between. Every conversation with Dean eventually became this strange gravity neither of you ever fully escaped.
His hand slid from your shoulder higher, warm palm settling around your neck as he tugged you closer across the pillows. “What’s so bad about a little lovin’?” he murmured with a crooked grin, the words brushing teasingly against your lips before he kissed you again, slow at first and then deep enough to make your chest ache.
Your heart practically sighed at the feeling while your brain cursed it immediately after.
“I only see him as a friend” it told you, which was the biggest lie it ever said.
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! 🤍
Can we get season 1 Daryl and Fem reader on a run who are CONSTANTLY arguing and fighting especially since she has a smart ass mouth and they have to hide out in like a grocery store or something because the car they took blew a tire and it’s pouring outside and they end up hooking up ⁉️😏
Keep quiet and cum
Pairing: Daryl Dixon x fem!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-1114
Classification and content warnings: rough standing sex, unprotected p-in-v, ass smacking, hair pulling, dirty talk/shit talking during sex, creampie while on birth control and squirting
Temporal setting: Season 1
Word count: 0.9k
The fluorescent lights of the convenience store hummed overhead, casting a sterile, flickering glow over the aisles of stale chips and canned soup but the atmosphere between you and Daryl was anything but cold. It was caustic, the air was thick with the residue of a three-hour screaming match over a shredded tire and Daryl’s stubborn refusal to admit he’d botched the patch job. That frustration had curdled into a desperate, aggressive hunger and now, the only sound filling the store was the rhythmic, wet slap of skin hitting skin.
You were bent over the checkout counter, your palms pressed flat against the cold Formica, your pants and underwear pooled around your ankles. Daryl was behind you, chest heaving against your back as his calloused hands gripped your hips with bruising intensity. He was fucking you with a raw, punishing cadence, driving his thick cock deep into your pussy with every thrust, as if he were trying to drive himself right through you.
Even now, with your vision blurring and your breath hitching, you couldn’t shut your mouth.
"This...the only thing you're good at, Dixon?" you gasped, your voice strained and shaky. "Since you can't...oh fuck! fix a damn tire... you just...ah! fuck things dumb?"
The response was instantaneous. Daryl’s hand flew up, palm connecting with your right butt cheek in a loud, stinging smack that echoed through the empty store. The shock of the pain sent a jolt straight to your clit and you let out a loud pathetic moan, head tossing back.
"Watch yer damn mouth," he rasped, his voice a low, dangerous growl near your ear.
He didn't slow down, if anything, the insult fueled him. He reached forward, winding his fingers deep into your hair and yanking your head back sharply. The sudden tension in your scalp forced your throat open, leaving you exposed as he hammered into you. You rolled your eyes back in sheer pleasure, the sensation of being dominated and filled to the brim making your brain feel like it was melting.
The friction was intense, a searing heat that built with every plunge. You could feel the walls of your pussy stretching, gripping him tight as the wet sounds of your lubrication splashed against his thighs. You were being fucked dumb, the cognitive part of your brain shutting down until there was nothing left but the feeling of his cock hitting your cervix and the stinging heat on your skin.
"You're so...goddamn desperate," you teased, a breathless laugh escaping you. "Mmm angh! Can't handle...a little criticism...so w-what? have to just...shove it in?"
Daryl groaned, a sound of pure animal frustration and accelerated. He began to jackhammer into you, his thrusts becoming short, fast and punishing. You were shaking, fingers clawing at the counter as the pleasure became too much, forcing a tidal wave to crash over you.
You felt your internal muscles seize, pulsing rhythmically around him as a forceful orgasm ripped through you. You screamed, the sound echoing off the linoleum floors, body shuddering under the weight of the climax but as the waves began to subside, Daryl didn't stop. He kept grinding into you, breath hot and ragged against your neck and cock still hard and insistent.
You panted, head hanging low and voice returning in a needy, blabbering whine. "Don’t fucking stop, ’m gonna cum again, fuckkkk agh! You wanna break me?" You shifted your hips, feeling the lingering sensitivity. "D-Daryl…If you actually...make me go again... I'll be quiet...all the fucking way back to the quarry. I swear."
Daryl tightened his grip on your waist until it hurt. He leaned in, lips brushing your ear with a gravelly, ruined whisper.
"That’s even if ya can still walk by then," he rasped.
The sheer arrogance of it, the promise of the wreckage he intended to leave you in, sent a fresh surge of arousal crashing through you. Your pussy clamped down on him in a sudden, involuntary spasm and the intensity triggered a violent reaction. You felt a hot, gushing release as you began squirting, the fluid spraying down and soaking your thighs as you wailed, body arching back into him.
Daryl let out a choked sound, his own control finally snapping. He let out a guttural groan, body stiffening as he drove himself in one last time, burying his cock as deep as it could possibly go. You felt the hot, thick jets of his cum erupting inside you, filling you to the brim, pulsing against your walls in heavy waves.
He stayed there for a moment, panting, forehead pressed against your shoulder, before he slowly pulled out. The sound of him sliding out of your drenched pussy was wet and loud and as he stepped back, he delivered one final, sharp smack to your sore ass.
"Now keep yer damn word and shut yer mouth fer once," he commanded, voice returning to that stubborn, gruff tone.
You collapsed forward onto the counter, limbs trembling and quaking, breath coming in shallow sobs of exhaustion. You felt completely undone, mind now a blank slate of pleasure and fatigue. As you slowly pushed off the counter and straightened, you felt a warm, viscous stream of his cum leaking down your inner thigh, dripping onto your panties.
You leaned back against the nearest shelving, staring up at the ceiling, body still humming with it. You thought about the birth control pills you had tucked away, enough for the next six months.
You wondered, with a dazed half-smile, just how many times he could possibly cum inside you before those pills stopped working. Looking at him, still flushed and dominant, you suspected he was more than capable of testing the limit.
could u request perhaps a steve x reader fic (hurt comfort) where reader and steve get into an argument prior to a crawl and hes being a little stubborn and avoiding reader but finds out from walkie or another person that shes badly hurt and won’t wake up?
happy ending please 🙏🙏 i know this doesnt fit the timeline of your henderson! reader but i don’t mind it being a standalone one shot :)
Just to keep you satisfied
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-0424
a/n: Suggestions are open for anything, not just Henderson!reader! The fact that my only two ST fics happen to feature that is purely a coincidence, so no worries!
Classification and content warnings: Angst and fluff | Avoidant attachment tendencies, injury, emotional distress related to relationships
Word count: 3,3k
Divider by me ;)
You lived in absolutes, in extremities sharpened by probabilities where every outcome measured against loss, grief and love.
Love most of all.
You had never been optimistic about it. The second something became important enough to lose, your mind immediately began preparing for the damage, so when you and Steve happened, when whatever existed between you stopped being casual and started surviving things that should have destroyed it, your thoughts turned vicious toward yourself.
You questioned every moment of it, every stretch of peace, explaining it away with the town, with trauma and proximity, with the fact that Hawkins had a way of welding people together under pressure until they could not tell the difference between dependence and devotion.
You told yourself it was because you had never seen love done right. Every example you had ever known seemed to rot eventually, becoming bitter, painful or cruel once it settled long enough to harden into permanence. From where you stood, love ruined people, it hollowed them out and left them recognizable only in pieces. You had built your entire life around avoiding that fate, around never needing anyone enough for them to destroy you if they left.
Hyper independence had become religion to you and Steve fought against that without even trying.
The longer your relationship lasted, the more unbearable that realization became since it survived everything thrown at it. Near death, bloodshed, monsters, fear and nights where either of you could have disappeared into the dark and never come back. It stayed standing anyway, stubborn, warm and terrifyingly steady but as long as it stayed exactly what it was, you could breathe through it. As long as nobody touched it, labeled it or pushed it toward something bigger, you could pretend you were still in control but the second the water shifted beneath the boat, the second the future became something tangible instead of implied, bile climbed your throat because the Upside Down had been constant too.
You had spent the entire afternoon preparing for the crawl. Weapons spread across tables, maps pinned down under impatient hands, everyone talking over each other inside the Squawk while tension sat thick in the room like smoke. This time you were going with Hopper. Nobody argued with the choice because every crawl into the Upside Down made the odds worse, every mission sharpening that ugly, unavoidable thought sitting in the back of everybody’s mind.
What if this was the one somebody did not come back from?
By the time the sun began sinking low enough to stain the fields gold and copper, you and Steve slipped outside together, escaping the suffocating planning and worried glances for a little while. The air smelled like dirt and drying grass, warm from the heat of the day but cooling quickly as evening settled over Hawkins.
You watched Steve walk a few steps ahead of you through the field before jogging lightly to catch up. “You think this is it?” you asked.
He glanced over at you, slowing his pace. “That you find Vecna tonight?”
You nodded once.
“The sooner we do,” he said carefully, “the sooner everything goes back to normal.” A grin tugged faintly at his mouth then, teasing something softer into his voice. “We’ll go back to our boring lives…You might actually have to get serious about getting a job.”
You let out a quiet laugh through your nose. “Don’t even know what I’d do with all that safety and time.” Your eyes drifted across the endless stretch of fields around you, the sunset catching along the horizon in bruised shades of orange and pink. “I barely remember what Hawkins was like before all this. Might actually get really boring.”
“We don’t have to stay here,” he said.
There was something careful hidden underneath the words, something almost restrained.
You looked at him sideways. “So what? We escape in one of those shitty getaway cars with the cans dragging behind it and a ‘just married’ sign taped to the back?”
Your tone stayed light, joking but Steve’s expression changed in a way that made your stomach immediately tighten.
He looked at you too long and then he sighed, so quiet you almost missed it but there was relief in it somehow, relief at finally standing near the thing he had clearly been carrying around for a long time.
The look on his face hit you like cold water. He looked hopeful…hopelessly in love.
Your body reacted before your thoughts did. You took a step back instinctively as Steve shook his head gently, almost like he thought moving too fast would scare you off.
“No,” you breathed, pulse beginning to pound hard enough to make your chest ache. Your stomach dropped violently as his stare remained unchanged. “N-no,” you repeated, softer this time, shaking your head.
“You can’t deny something that’s already yours.”
The words landed hard, making your throat tighten. You backed away again while he moved forward slowly, carefully, like approaching something wounded.
You pointed toward the ground between you both as if he had physically contaminated the space with it, with futures, promises and permanence, with things that never lasted for anybody around you no matter how badly they wanted them to.
“You picked a fucked up moment, Steven.”
“We need to make sense of this before you go down there,” he insisted, voice roughening around the edges. God, he was practically begging now. “We’ve had three good years,” he said as he stepped closer again, eyes fixed on yours as if he could hold you there through sheer will alone. “And it’s time we call it what it is.”
You kept shaking your head before you even realized you were doing it, the word ‘no’ falling from your mouth over and over while your feet kept carrying you backward through the field.
“I love you and I have for a long time and you need to hear it.” His voice trembled through the confession even while every word stayed painfully clear, intention unwavering despite the fear cracking underneath it. “I’ve tried to show you and you wouldn’t let me, which is fine, but before you go, before whatever happens down there is out of our hands, I need you to give me an answer because I just can’t…” He stopped for a second, swallowing hard enough for you to see it in his throat. “I can’t keep going like this.”
“Steve, please don’t,” you begged quietly.
But he kept going anyway, because this had clearly been clawing at him for too long to stop now.
“I learned what you couldn’t take and I stopped doing it.” His eyes stayed fixed on yours desperately, trying to hold you still long enough to finally understand him. “And I’m happy I did. It’s fine. And I waited, and I never complained because I...” He broke off suddenly, his expression twisting as his eyes glossed over. “You know, I figured you’d love me.”
The words hit you harder than anything else had.
You kept shaking your head softly, almost unconsciously, hoping he would see the panic written all over your face and stop before either of you said something irreversible.
Instead his voice got louder, never yelling but definitely fuller now, wounded and spilling out too fast to pull back. He looked away from you for the first time, gaze drifting across the field as if he could not bear watching your reaction anymore. It was obvious he was making this part up as he went along, fumbling through raw honesty without a plan, just like the two of you had stumbled through the relationship itself.
“And I realize maybe I messed up somewhere,” he said roughly. “Maybe I fucked the timing completely. Maybe I’m not this changed man everybody keeps saying I am...”
“No,” you cut in, stepping toward him to make him finally look back at you. “Yes, you are.”
Your voice cracked with urgency because none of this changed the fact that he deserved it. He deserved someone capable of holding what he offered without trembling underneath the weight of it.
“You’ve grown into an amazing man,” you said, forcing the words through the tightness in your throat. “Too good for me, and I’m grateful for all of these years and I’m so proud of you.” Emotion climbed too fast into your chest, choking the next sentence apart as soon as it left your mouth. “But I just...” You inhaled shakily. “This isn’t something I know how to keep. I don’t know why.” You shook your head harder, frustrated tears beginning to blur your vision.
“You can’t?” he echoed quietly, brows pulling together.
“No,” you breathed. Then you blinked quickly and kept talking before he could interrupt again, before you lost the nerve to keep hurting him.
“You should be with someone who can actually handle normal life when this is over. Someone who doesn’t flinch every time they’re shown affection and actually knows what to do with it.” Your voice shook despite how hard you tried to steady it. “I’m awkward, and I don’t even understand why we didn’t go wrong already when I’ve been proven over and over again that I ruin things. And I won’t drag you with me past this.” You motioned vaguely around you, toward Hawkins, toward the disaster your lives had become and the rot underneath everything.
“I love you, Y/n,” Steve said in the middle of your spiraling but hearing it again only made your panic sharpen.
“And we’d constantly fight over stupid shit like how I drive your car,” you continued breathlessly, motioning toward the distant shape of it sitting near the road. “We can’t help it even now.” You laughed once, hollow and humorless before your face crumpled again. “You’d end up hating how skeptical I am about everything, and I’d spend every day questioning what you could possibly see in me, and we’d become miserable, Steve. We’d wish we left it trapped here, down there with the demogorgons and all the rest of it, and everything would turn catastrophic.”
The silence afterward stretched painfully long. Only then did you realize Steve was no longer looking at you.
His eyes had dropped toward the ground, jaw tight like he was blaming the dirt beneath his feet, blaming the existence of the Upside Down itself for carving this fear into you so deeply that even love sounded like catastrophe.
“Anything else?” he asked finally. His voice was so quiet you barely heard him.
You bit the inside of your cheek until it hurt before shaking your head. “No. No, nothing else.”
“Alright.” He nodded once, firm and restrained, then turned back toward the Squawk.
The movement made your stomach plunge so violently it almost hurt. You reached for him instinctively. “Except that...”
Steve stopped and turned back toward you again, giving you a small nod to continue.
You froze for a second.
“Steve,” you started weakly, “I don’t think I’ll ever understand how to hold what you tried to give me. This...” You gestured helplessly between you both. “This is safer. Messing it up fatally won’t ruin me this way.”
“I think you’re wrong about that, Y/n,” he replied immediately, voice firm again despite how wrecked he looked.
“I don’t...”
“I think you will find a way,” he interrupted softly. “You’ll find somebody worth risking your heart for, and you’ll love them, and you’ll live and die for them because that’s your way.” His expression tightened painfully as he forced out the rest. “And you will.” He paused. “And I’ll watch.”
You stood there and watched Steve walk away from you while your own feet stayed rooted to the ground. Every instinct in your body screamed to stop him but wanting that and knowing how were two entirely different things and somewhere in the middle of your fear and selfishness you realized you had run out of words to justify yourself with. The reasoning that had always protected you suddenly sounded thin and desperate in your own head.
Still, you let him go.
You kept your eyes lowered when you walked back inside the Squawk, forcing yourself into focus as everybody geared up around you. You concentrated on the plan, on weapons, on timing and routes. You promised Hopper you were fine, focused and ready to go, which were the same lies that had carried you straight toward your own ruin.
You were reckless during the crawl, in small terrible ways that added up fast.
You made decisions that sent adrenaline crashing through your body every few minutes just so you could feel something other than the hollow ache Steve had left behind. It all blurred together quickly after that, dark tunnels of vines, spores and rotting air while demogorgons chased close enough behind you to hear their shrieks echoing against the trees.
You had done this a thousand times before and that was probably the problem.
Your weapon slipped from your grasp while you were running and instead of leaving it behind, instead of following Hopper toward safety like you were supposed to, you slowed down.
You turned back and tried to outsmart it, tried to buy Hopper more time to get ahead…and failed.
The hit came hard and fast, the force of it throwing you violently backward into the trunk of a tree. Pain exploded through your skull the second your head cracked against the bark. Through blurred, tear-filled vision you barely managed to see Hopper firing wildly, injuring the creature enough to force it retreating into the dark.
After that, consciousness came and went in fragments. You felt hands dragging you, voices yelling your name, blood running warm down the side of your face and the suffocating smell of the Upside Down clinging to your lungs.
When you finally forced your eyes open again, you were inside a house you did not recognize, laid out in some dim ruined room overtaken by thick crawling vines spreading across the walls and ceiling.
Hopper’s voice echoed loudly through the haze wrapped around your head as consciousness slowly dragged itself back into place. Your vision swam in and out of focus while you blinked at the ceiling above you, vines twisting across it like veins and watched him pace hurriedly through the room with a walkie talkie clutched tightly in his hand.
He had called in the accident the second you were dragged back to safety.
Steve, reckless in the exact way Steve always was when it came to you, had not hesitated for even a second after hearing Hopper’s voice break over the radio. He had driven straight through the newly opened gate with Nancy, Jonathan and Dustin, tracking a wounded demogorgon deeper into the Upside Down in hopes it would lead them to you. The more Hopper explained what happened, the harder Steve pressed down on the gas pedal, panic swallowing every other thought in his head until even your rejection disappeared beneath the need to reach you.
Now all of them were somewhere out there searching blindly while communication crackled in and out around the interference poisoning the air.
“Steve?” you called weakly, your voice scraping painfully against your throat as you tried pushing yourself upright. The second you moved, agony split through your skull.
Hopper immediately dropped the walkie onto the nearby table and rushed toward you.
“Hey, kiddo, hey.” His hands carefully steadied your shoulders before you could sit fully upright. “Lay back down. You hit your head pretty bad.”
Your fingers instinctively rose toward the throbbing ache near your temple. When you pulled your hand back down, blood stained your fingertips dark.
“It stopped bleeding,” Hopper assured quickly when your breathing shifted unevenly. “But you need to stay down. Help’s coming.”
He guided you gently back against the mattress and this time you let him. Your entire body felt weak and heavy, exhaustion pressing into your bones while pain pulsed behind your eyes.
“I messed up,” you rasped.
Hopper shook his head immediately, even though both of you knew you had. You had broken formation, abandoned the plan and nearly gotten yourself killed. Still, his expression softened instead of hardening.
“We don’t gotta talk about it right now.”
“With Steve,” you corrected shakily, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. “I was too quick turning him down.”
Hopper blinked slowly before exhaling through his nose and lowering himself into the chair beside the bed.
Truthfully, he had guessed as much the second you and Steve walked back into the Squawk earlier that evening. The both of you had looked devastated in entirely different ways and Hopper knew heartbreak well enough to recognize it immediately. He understood now why Steve had seemed ready to tear the world apart before driving into the Upside Down after hearing your name over the radio. Hopper had spent years watching the two of you orbit each other helplessly, stuck in that miserable gray area between fear and devotion, too close to walk away but too terrified to call it what it was.
“Do you love him?” Hopper asked quietly.
You blinked toward the ceiling for a second before answering.
“If he asked me again,” you whispered, swallowing around the knot tightening painfully in your throat, “I think I’d say ‘yes’.” Your eyes finally moved toward Hopper’s. “Do you think he’ll ask me again?”
“But do you love him?” he repeated, firmer this time.
The question settled heavily in your chest. You gave a small nod against the pillow despite the way it made your head pulse violently. Tears slipped freely down your face now, warm against your skin.
“I just don’t want him seeing parts of me he can’t fix,” you admitted brokenly.
Hopper’s expression changed, something deeply understanding moving through his eyes.
Before he could answer, noise erupted from downstairs followed by multiple footsteps and raised voices. Then Steve’s voice cut through everything else as he called your name with enough panic behind it to make your entire body tense.
Hopper watched you react, watched the way your expression changed before you could stop it.
“Upstairs!” Hopper shouted back before slowly standing from the chair. His eyes stayed on you as Steve’s footsteps thundered through the house. “Steve’s a big boy…let him decide that for himself,” Hopper said softly.
Steve appeared in the doorway. His chest heaved violently from exertion, hair damp with sweat and sticking messily to his forehead while his wide frantic eyes landed on you almost painfully fast. Relief and terror crashed across his face so openly it made your chest ache.
He crossed the room. “Oh, my sweet girl,” he breathed.
Steve dropped beside the bed, one hand carefully cradling the side of your head while the other moved shakily over your arms and shoulders like he needed physical proof you were still there. His eyes scanned every visible injury at once, muttering frantically under his breath about getting you out, getting you to a hospital and figuring something out.
“What if you don’t like what you see?” you interrupted weakly, your trembling voice finally pulling his attention fully back to your face.
Steve’s eyes lifted to yours instantly and somehow, in that moment, it felt like he already understood every single thing you meant, like he had seen all the ugly parts already and stayed anyway.
His hand slid slowly to your cheek, thumb brushing carefully over your trembling lower lip while his breathing gradually steadied, his heartbeat finding an entirely different rhythm now that he knew you were alive.
“How deep am I allowed to look?” he asked quietly.
A sob broke from your chest. “As deep as it goes.”
Something in Steve’s expression softened completely before he leaned down carefully and kissed you, deep and warm and maybe a little desperate in a way that felt like breathing after nearly drowning, oxygen finally forcing its way back into your lungs to keep you alive through the pain, the fear and through every doubt that had ever convinced you love would ruin you before it could save you.
a/n: If you enjoyed this, consider saving the archive. More stories are coming, and requests are always welcome! Likes, reblogs and comments help others find my work and mean more to me than you know. Thank you so much for reading 💛
a/n: Here’s my little “get well soon” gift for @kryptidfiles !! Imagine this wrapped in a huge bow with flowers sticking out from every side. EVERYONE GO FOLLOW HER BLOG and I hope you enjoy!!
Summary: You made the mistake of turning sex into casual conversation with your coworker and accidentally start the worst HR violation of your life.
Classification: Smut +18 | coworkers to lovers, several smut scenes, alcohol consumption, rude/arrogant Scott Miller, oral sex, fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, rough groping, protected and unprotected sex, doggy style, missionary, squirting, ass smacking, marking/bruising, praise, dom/sub dynamics, workplace boundary issues and emotionally repressed idiots in love.
Word count: 9,2k
There was a difference between good sex and great sex, the same way there was a difference between getting fucked and being made love to...
Good sex was what you expected from anybody decent enough to make it that far with you. It was the kind people talked about casually with their friends, the kind that came up over drinks after someone asked, “So, was he good?” Good sex happened on Tuesdays after work with the guy from Hinge who insisted on taking you out somewhere too expensive for a second date. You split a basket of fries, drank half a beer because you still had work in the morning, drove home with exhaustion sitting heavy behind your eyes, then let him fuck you well enough to sleep for four uninterrupted hours.
Good sex was practical and predictable. It convinced your body you were living a normal life.
Great sex was different. Great sex happened after work parties when your mascara was already smudged and your heels were in your hand by midnight. It happened on weekends with nowhere to be the next morning. You never talked about great sex because it sounded exaggerated the second you said it out loud, like you were overselling a man nobody else would understand. Great sex made you cum or at least brought you close enough that your stomach tightened every time you remembered it afterward. You thought about great sex while driving long stretches of empty highway, your hands steady on the wheel while your mind wandered somewhere warmer.
Great sex stayed in your body for days. You caught yourself replaying parts of it absentmindedly while standing in line for coffee or brushing your teeth before bed.
Then there was getting fucked…
There was no cleaner way to define it. It lived somewhere between fantasy and urban legend, passed around between women in half-serious conversations that always dissolved into laughter. Everybody claimed to know someone who’d experienced it but nobody could explain it properly. Getting fucked was the kind of sex that distracted you in the middle of the day badly enough to make you stop what you were doing and change your underwear. It sat dangerously close to the limits of what sex could actually be before the whole thing collapsed under its own weight.
If a guy treated you too much like an object, it fell apart immediately.
If you didn’t orgasm, it didn’t count.
If you weren’t still thinking about him six months later at red lights and in grocery store aisles and during lonely hotel nights, then it wasn’t that either.
Getting fucked sat at the very top of the scale, lit up like something obvious and somehow most men still missed it completely.
Being made love to was worse and more dangerous, honestly.
For somebody like you, it could become embarrassing fast. Storm season kept you on the road for months at a time, bouncing between states, sleeping in motels with stiff sheets and weak air conditioning. Off-season meant office buildings, weather models glowing across multiple monitors, long meetings about funding, new equipment and data collection. Your life moved constantly and men liked that at first. A woman who was smart, busy, gone half the year, financially stable and difficult to pin down.
Men loved the idea of you because it excused the fact they never had to give very much. Most of them thought they were in love but really, they just liked access to somebody they found impressive.
Before all of that, you used to think being made love to meant passion…intimacy. That it was slow sex with somebody who knew your body so well they could pull an orgasm out of you patiently and confidently, like it mattered to them as much as breathing did. You imagined hands lingering at your waist, sleepy conversation afterward, somebody brushing your hair away from your face before kissing you again.
Instead, you ended up underneath men who mistook enthusiasm for intimacy. You stared at ceilings while they grunted above you, listened to them breathe your name like they were performing something instead of feeling it. Sometimes you felt your stomach turn from the boredom alone, your body rocking mechanically with theirs while your mind drifted somewhere else entirely to storm reports, grocery lists and whether you needed to change your oil before the next drive west.
You never let them finish once you realized you hated it, that was the one thing you refused to fake. You pushed them off, sat up and reached for your clothes while they blinked at you in confusion. You told them it wasn’t going to work, sometimes you said it gently and other times you just didn’t bother. Either way, you watched realization settle over them while they sat there flushed and humiliated, their ego bruised worse than their feelings ever were but somehow your harsh words still made them cum…
Needless to say, after a while, you stopped having sex altogether.
You were in your rental house after a long day spent staring at storm data and listening to Javi ramble about whatever breakthrough he thought he’d made this time. It was late, the entire house felt heavy and warm, every light dimmer than usual and lately, you weren’t alone nearly as often as you used to be.
Scott sat at your dining table with your laptop open, shoulders slightly hunched, completely absorbed in columns of numbers and radar models. You’d known him for two years and he’d been your partner for one of them.
People were right about him. He was direct to the point of rudeness, arrogant enough to make most people defensive within five minutes and mean when he thought someone deserved it but unlike most men in your field, Scott had learned how to admit when he was wrong, far from gracefully or happily but still, he did it.
The two of you were impossibly stubborn in almost identical ways, so sharing space with him sometimes felt like being trapped in a room with a sharper version of yourself. Separately, you were both good at what you did but together, you were nearly impossible to beat.
You couldn’t pinpoint when “coworkers” had turned into Scott walking into your house without knocking, helping himself to your fridge and sitting at your table like he paid rent.
“Best orgasm you’ve had during sex?” His voice came from across the room, casual and flat, like he’d asked you about rainfall percentages. He didn’t even look away from the laptop while he said it.
You’d forgotten he was meeting you there before the two of you drove to the bar together, which was why you were still walking around in sleep shorts and a bra, trying to find something decent enough to wear without looking like you’d spent an hour trying.
You took a sip from the beer he’d already pulled out of your fridge and nearly snorted into the bottle. “You think men do that?” you asked as you disappeared into your bedroom.
“To you?” Scott finally looked up. His eyes tracked your movement automatically while he reached for the beer the two of you were apparently sharing now. “I hope so.”
He took a drink as his eyes followed your movement.
You walked back into view holding two dresses on mismatched hangers. “You’re a fucking idiot,” you said plainly. “And maybe a pervert.”
Scott pointed at you immediately. “You’re changing in front of me. I could probably keep count of your bras at this point and I don’t. That actually makes me less of a pervert.”
You disappeared back into your room. He could hear hangers scraping against the closet rod while you searched through clothes with growing irritation.
“Just because it doesn’t make you hard doesn’t make you not a pervert,” you called back, your voice muffled through the wall.
“How do you know I’m not?” he shot back instantly, sounding almost offended by the assumption.
Silence followed but about a minute later, you walked back out wearing a dress he’d never seen before. It was simple, fitted enough to make his eyes stop for a second before continuing downward automatically. You crossed the room toward him, letting your heels drop onto the hardwood before slipping them on one at a time.
“You’re not attracted to me, Scott,” you said flatly.
He looked up slowly then, his eyes dragging over the length of the dress with enough attention to make most people nervous. On you, it just made you impatient.
“You seem awfully confident about that.”
“I am.” You adjusted the strap on your shoulder before glancing toward his laptop screen. “So don’t say shit that makes me sound stupid.”
Scott looked back at the laptop fast enough to make the movement obvious. He pretended to scroll through data he’d stopped reading the second you started undressing in the next room.
“I’m ready,” you said. “Good to go?”
“Need five minutes,” he muttered.
You walked behind him toward the front door, tapping his shoulder as you passed. “The data will still be there tomorrow. C’mon, Scotty.”
The teasing grin in your voice made something in his jaw tighten. You disappeared outside before he could even think of an answer.
Scott closed the laptop harder than necessary and stood, quietly adjusting himself through his jeans with the irritation of a man betrayed by his own body. He shut off the lights one by one and grabbed your keys from the counter before locking the door behind him.
The porch light was off so you couldn’t see the tent in his jeans. Thank fuck for that.
“Scotty was an eight-year-old with chubby cheeks,” he muttered while locking the deadbolt. He glanced over at you waiting by the passenger side of his truck. “It’s Scott.”
“It’s whatever I decide it is,” you replied easily.
He rolled his eyes and walked down the porch steps, unlocking the truck with a sharp click.
“Come open my door.”
“Since when do you need me to do that?” he complained, already circling the hood anyway.
“Since you got comfortable commenting on my bras.”
Scott stopped in front of you to stare before reaching around your waist to pull the handle open. The movement brought him close enough to smell your perfume underneath detergent and beer.
You smiled to yourself while climbing into the passenger seat because for once, Scott didn’t have anything smart to say.
Talking about sex with your coworkers was probably the least professional habit you could develop but professionalism stopped mattering after twelve-hour drives, shared motel rooms, gas station dinners at midnight and enough close calls together to make normal boundaries feel unnecessary. There were barely any women in the field to begin with, which meant the few of you that existed clung together fast and Scott, despite being deeply irritating most of the time, was easier to talk to than most people.
Brutally honest people usually were.
At some point, conversations that started as jokes during long drives turned into real discussions about relationships, sex, exes and every disappointing person either of you had ever slept with. It happened slowly enough neither of you noticed the line moving until it was already somewhere far behind you.
HR would’ve had a heart attack.
That night, you learned Scott Miller did not do good sex. If good sex existed to him at all, it involved two people fully clothed and standing on opposite ends of a room.
The bar was more crowded than you expected, packed wall to wall with storm chasers, meteorologists, researchers and people who somehow always smelled faintly like dust and gasoline no matter how clean they looked. Whenever women in the field found each other, there was an unspoken tendency to group together immediately, so you spent most of the night at the bar talking with another researcher from Oklahoma while music pounded so loud you felt it vibrate through the floor beneath your heels.
Eventually Javi appeared beside you carrying drinks you absolutely weren’t going to refuse. He handed one over before leaning closer, lowering his voice.
“What’s wrong with Scott?”
You blinked at him. The question caught you off guard enough to make your brows pull together immediately because nobody ever asked about Scott. People either tolerated him, argued with him or avoided him entirely. Whatever problem Scott had, he usually fixed it himself before anyone could notice it existed.
Your eyes scanned the crowd automatically until you found him near the back corner of the bar with a soda in his hand. Of course he wasn’t drinking, he stood half-shadowed against the wall looking deeply unimpressed by the concept of social interaction…and staring directly at you.
Your eyes narrowed slightly until Scott finally got the message and looked away first.
You turned back to Javi. “Do you mean tonight or in general?” you asked dryly. “Because I’m pretty sure he was dropped as a child, but you’d have to ask his mother for confirmation.”
Javi frowned harder. “I mean tonight. He looks tense and it’s making me uneasy.”
“It’s Scott. He always looks tense.”
“More than usual.” Javi glanced over his shoulder carefully. “Tell him to relax for once…and to make some friends. That’s literally why we came here.”
You pointed at yourself immediately. “Why am I responsible for that?”
Javi shrugged like the answer was obvious. “Because you speak ‘Scott’ fluently. Translate what I just said into something he’ll actually understand.”
Your gaze dropped to the drink in your hand. “You’re bribing me.”
“And that drink cost me twenty-five dollars,” he replied. “So yes. Go.”
You snorted into the rim of your glass. “Pretty sure stress is what’s making you bald, by the way…not Scott’s burning gaze.”
Javi adjusted his baseball cap defensively. “Just go talk to him.”
You shook your head, already grinning despite yourself and pushed through the crowd toward the back of the bar, which Scott noticed immediately.
The music got louder the closer you got to him, voices bleeding together into useless noise, so instead of trying to shout over it, you reached forward and hooked one finger through the belt loop of his jeans.
“Outside,” you said simply, tugging once as you moved toward the exit.
Scott followed without argument, that alone should’ve concerned you more than it did.
The plan was for him to ask what you wanted once you got outside. Instead, somewhere between the crowded bar and the exit door, he got distracted watching you walk ahead of him. Your dress moved against your hips every few steps, exposing flashes of leg skin under the low bar lights and the muscles in your bare back moved subtly every time you pushed through another cluster of people.
Inevitably, Scott’s eyes dropped lower before he caught himself.
By the time the two of you stepped outside into the cooler night air, he still hadn’t said a word.
You finally let go of his belt loop once the two of you were far enough from the entrance that the music had dulled into muffled bass behind you. You turned to face him properly, folding your arms across your chest as you looked up at him.
“What’s your current issue?” you asked.
“Current?” Scott repeated, brows pulling together.
You nodded once like the question made perfect sense.
“When’s the last time you had sex?”
A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged carelessly, shoving one hand into the pocket of his jeans. “What? Are you the only one allowed to ask those questions?”
You laughed again, this time shaking your head as you pointed at him. “Yes. Obviously.”
Scott snorted.
“And those are long-drive questions,” you continued, motioning vaguely toward his truck behind you before pointing back toward the crowded bar. “Not ‘parking lot outside a packed bar’ questions.”
“You still need to answer.” He shrugged again. “Those are the rules.”
“Have I ever told you how stupid those rules are?”
“First time I’m hearing complaints since you’re the one who made them,” he replied with a grin.
“You’re insufferable,” you muttered under your breath before taking another sip of your drink.
Scott stayed quiet as he just watched you over the rim of his own soda, patient and expectant in a way that immediately irritated you because he clearly thought he was getting an answer eventually.
“Are you seriously gonna make me answer?”
“I can’t make you do anything,” he said calmly. “But I can wait. I still have to drive you home.”
You looked up toward the entrance of the bar. Through the windows you could still see people packed together under neon lights, laughing too loud, talking over each other about work, storm patterns and equipment failures. You’d already reached the point of the night where conversations started blending together into white noise.
“Can we leave now?” you asked.
Scott didn’t answer verbally. He just pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked the truck with a click, then held his hand out toward your drink.
“Get in and lock the doors,” he said as he took the glass from you and turned back toward the bar to return it.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” you called after him while walking directly to the passenger side and doing exactly that.
Honestly, you didn’t mind answering the question. The problem was that once you actually thought about it, you realized you weren’t entirely sure how long it had been. It had been long enough that you had to start considering technicalities and long enough that the answer became embarrassing and unfortunately, thinking about sex while sitting alone in Scott’s truck immediately led your brain somewhere unhelpful…
Scott eventually climbed back into the truck and shut the door behind him. He didn’t start driving right away, he just sat there in the dark, one hand resting on the wheel while the dashboard lights cut sharp shadows across his face…waiting, because the thing about car questions was that silence usually came first.
“A year and a half,” you blurted out finally. “Give or take.”
Scott’s head turned toward you so fast it almost looked painful. “No,” he said immediately. “I don’t believe that.”
You laughed in disbelief and looked toward him. “Believe whatever you want, Scott. I answered the fucking question. That’s the game.”
“A year and a half?” he repeated, staring at you like you’d confessed to murder. “What the hell do you even do on weekends?”
“Currently?” you replied dryly. “Sit in your truck while you annoy me.”
“No,” he said, already turning the key in the ignition. “You’re irritated because you’re sexually frustrated.”
You barked out another incredulous laugh.
“And you’ve been sexually frustrated since I met you,” he continued as he shifted the truck into reverse. “Which explains why you piss me off every single fucking day.”
“Excuse you?” You turned toward him fully now, half laughing from sheer disbelief. “First the bra comments and now this? What’s next? Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?”
“Put your seatbelt on.” The command came out flat and automatic.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do, Scott. I’m not drunk enough to–”
The words died in your throat the second he reached across you.
His arm slid in front of your chest while the truck reversed smoothly with his other hand still turning the wheel. His forearm brushed against the underside of your breasts accidentally…or maybe not so accidentally and your breath caught hard at the sudden closeness. Scott grabbed the seatbelt beside your shoulder, pulled it across your body in one sharp movement, then clicked it into place at your hip without looking away from the rear window once.
You drove home in complete silence.
No radio or conversation, just the steady sound of tires against asphalt and the occasional flick of the blinker while Scott kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. You’d heard every version of his voice over the last two years, sarcastic, irritated or sharp enough to make grown men defensive in meetings but hearing him tell you to put your seatbelt on while his arm pressed across your breasts had done something deeply unfortunate to your brain.
This was entirely your fault. You were the one who made sex an acceptable topic between the two of you, you were the one who turned it into a game, into background conversation during long drives and late nights. Somewhere along the way home, your definition of good sex had rewritten itself around that precise moment.
For most people, that probably counted as foreplay, but for you? It counted as a serious fucking problem.
By the time Scott parked outside your house, your thoughts had spiraled so badly that you barely registered the truck stopping. You stayed seated even after he cut the engine, staring forward blankly while the silence settled heavier around you.
Scott got out first without saying anything and walked around the front of the truck toward your side.
The passenger door opened. You looked up just in time to feel him lean in and reach across you again, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric stretched over your waist as he unclipped the seatbelt. The contact lasted maybe a second but that was already too long.
Only then did you finally move. You climbed out quickly, making an effort to keep close to the truck instead of brushing against him, then headed straight for your front door while digging through your purse for your keys even if it was practically empty and somehow that made it worse. You found lip balm…receipts…some loose cash, everything except what you actually needed.
Scott followed behind you quietly.
You still hadn’t found the keys when his arm appeared beside you, reaching around your body with frustrating familiarity. He’d had your keys the entire night, he usually did whenever the two of you went out together because you constantly lost track of them.
The metal clicked softly as he unlocked the door for you.
Your breath stalled as Scott stood so close behind you that you could feel the heat coming off him through the thin fabric of your dress. His chest nearly touched your back, one arm still braced near your shoulder while he turned the lock. It boxed you in completely, your body caught between the door and him and the worst part was that it felt good.
The sharp heat low in your stomach made that painfully obvious.
Good sex, apparently, was standing fully clothed on your own porch while your coworker unlocked your front door…all while standing right behind you.
The lock finally clicked open. You pushed the door open and stepped inside fast to put distance between you before turning back toward him.
Determination sat stiffly in your chest now…You were staying dressed. Whatever this weird tension was had to be alcohol-fueled, temporary, deeply stupid or preferably all three and gone by morning.
Unfortunately, Scott looked unfairly good standing on your porch under weak yellow light.
At some point he’d taken off his cap, you didn’t know when and hadn’t realized until now. Why did he look dreamy!? His hair was messy from running his hands through it all night and the expression on his face had settled back into that unreadable calm that somehow made things worse.
“Night, Scott,” you said quickly, then shut the door directly in his face…very determined to remain dressed.
“Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?” That sentence replayed in your head later for one humiliating reason: Scott Miller had never been the kind of man to hand off work he could do himself.
You’d been wrong earlier, completely wrong.
Great sex didn’t happen on weekends or after parties or during long-awaited moments with somebody you trusted. Sometimes it happened five minutes after you slammed your front door in a man’s face and tried convincing yourself you still had common sense.
You stayed standing by the door after closing it, palms warm against the wood, waiting to hear his truck start. You expected the familiar sound of the driver’s side door opening, shutting and the low rumble of the engine before he pulled away but nothing happened.
At first you told yourself you were imagining the silence because you were still too aware of him…then a full minute passed…followed by another and then three more.
Five long, miserable minutes where your brain refused to focus on anything except the fact Scott was still outside your house.
You opened the door expecting embarrassment or maybe annoyance, maybe him realizing he forgot something. Instead, he was still standing there in the same position with that same unreadable expression, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans like you hadn’t just shut the door on him…five minutes ago.
You stared at each other for a second too long.
You never figured out what exactly snapped first. Pride, self-control or curiosity…maybe all of it at once again.
One second he was standing on your porch and the next you were grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him forward hard enough to make him stumble into you as your mouth crashed against his.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the fragile determination to stay dressed shattered. You didn't just invite Scott in, you practically hauled him across the threshold, pulling him into a kiss that tasted of alcohol and months of suppressed frustration. It was messy and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongues that left you both breathless.
You stumbled backward, the friction of your bodies fueling a fire that had been simmering for far too long. As you navigated the space, your heels clicked erratically against the floor until you kicked them off with frantic movements, one flying toward the wall and the other sliding away as you backed into the dining area.
You hit the edge of the heavy wooden table and Scott didn't miss a beat. He gripped your waist with bruising force and hoisted you up, the sudden elevation making you gasp into his mouth. He didn't stop kissing you but his path shifted, lips sliding down your jawline to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands were everywhere, frantic and demanding, sliding up the fabric of your dress and bunching it up around your waist until your thighs were bare and shivering against the cool wood.
You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, tugging them down with a sharp, decisive motion until you could kick them off, exposing you to the air. As he lowered himself, his mouth found the swell of your breasts through your dress, biting lightly against the fabric on his way down between your legs.
"You don't need to do that," you managed to moan, your voice trembling as he moved your weight, sliding you toward the edge of the table until you were perched precariously, your legs naturally falling open.
"Shut up," Scott muttered against your skin, his voice a low, arrogant growl that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your clit as he finally settled himself firmly between your thighs, the heat of his body radiating against your wetness.
Then, he dipped his head. The first touch of his tongue was a shock of heat, it was wet and precise. He dove right in, tongue licking upward from your perineum to your clit in one long, sweeping stroke. You arched your back as a loud moan escaped you since it had been so long since you’d felt anything this raw, this focused. You were starving for it and Scott was feeding off of you with a primal intensity that blurred everything else out.
He used his hands to grip your hips, pulling you closer to the edge so he could bury his face in you as he kneeled. He began to lap at you with a rhythmic, punishing speed, his tongue flattening out to cover as much surface area as possible before narrowing into a sharp point to flick relentlessly against your clit.
The sensation was overwhelming. You began to squirm, hips jerking instinctively against his mouth as your fingernails clawed at the tabletop. You weren't just enjoying it, you were unraveling.
"Fuck…Scott...please," you whimpered, though you didn't know what you were asking for.
He responded by changing your position. He pushed you flat onto your back on the table, the hard wood pressing into your spine and hauled your legs up, draping them over his broad shoulders. The position left you completely exposed, your pussy flared open and glistening in the dark room.
He didn't stop the oral but added more by sliding two fingers deep inside you, stretching you open while his tongue continued to hammer away at your clit. The combination of the internal pressure and the external friction was too much. You were shaking, breath coming in short, jagged gasps as your feet drummed against his back.
He could tell you were close, encouraging him to increase the pressure, fingers curling inside you to hit your G-spot while his tongue sucked your clit into his mouth, creating a vacuum of pleasure that felt like it was pulling your entire soul out through your cunt.
“Holy s-shit!” Your head thrashed from side to side, a loud, unrestrained scream tearing from your throat as the orgasm hit you like a freight train. It was violent and all-consuming, your internal muscles clamping down hard on his fingers as waves of intense pleasure crashed over you, leaving you whimpering and twitching on the table.
As the peak slowly subsided, Scott didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his breath hot against your sensitive skin, slowly lapping the remaining juices from your pussy. He cleaned you thoroughly, his tongue lingering on every inch of your swollen cunt until you were completely spent, lying limp and shivering on the table, finally satisfied.
He straightened slowly from between your legs, chest rising hard with uneven breaths that matched your own. His mouth was swollen and wet when he licked across his lips absentmindedly, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made heat crawl back under your skin even while your body still twitched from the orgasm.
From your place sprawled across the dining table, you stared up at him in stunned silence. Your thighs were still trembling now against his sides and you were almost certain your expression looked ridiculous, wide-eyed and dazed in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to look around another person in years.
Scott held a hand out toward you and you took it automatically.
He helped you sit up first before guiding you carefully off the table, one hand steady on your waist while your legs struggled to cooperate beneath you. The second your feet touched the floor, your knees nearly gave out entirely.
Scott wiped his mouth with his palm. “Goodnight,” he said and the gentleness of it caught you off guard more than anything else that night had.
His hand slipped away from your waist and the two of you just stood there for a second, staring at each other while trying and failing to breathe normally again.
Then Scott turned and walked toward the front door.
You stayed frozen in place while he opened it and left your house without another word. A few seconds later you finally heard the sounds you’d been waiting for earlier, the truck door opening, shutting and the engine starting before he drove off into the night.
You tried walking toward your bedroom afterward and immediately realized your legs barely worked. You ended up half stumbling down the hallway, one hand dragging along the wall for balance because your entire lower body still felt weak and oversensitive.
Great sex…that had been unbelievably, painfully great sex.
You thought about it constantly afterward. In the shower, during calls and meetings, while sitting in traffic or lying awake at night staring at the ceiling with your thighs pressed together. You didn’t mention it to your friends or talked to Scott about it, even during the long stretches of silence that filled the truck during drives. The two of you understood what happened without discussing it directly, you’d crossed a line and both of you seemed aware that talking about it too much would probably drag you over it again.
The following mornings, you waited for him outside on your porch instead of letting him walk into your house like usual. Mostly because you’d spent the entire week masturbating to the memory of him between your legs on your dining table before getting ready for the day and you didn’t trust yourself to survive seeing him inside your kitchen before sunrise.
For one solid week, you slept perfectly. No insomnia or late-night work spirals, no pacing around rooms or answering emails at one in the morning just to keep your brain occupied. Whatever tension usually sat under your skin had disappeared completely and now it sat between you both instead.
Every drive felt heavier, the silence stretched longer and every sharp inhale from him made your stomach tighten unexpectedly until eventually you got sick of pretending neither of you noticed it.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” you interrupted suddenly.
Scott glanced toward you briefly, eyes leaving the road for barely a second before returning forward. “Do you want to?” he asked.
“I don’t,” you admitted. “I feel like you do though.”
“You’re right.”
You snorted quietly and looked back down at the laptop balanced across your knees.
“I thought you liked being right.” Scott added.
“Fucking love it,” you replied automatically before grimacing. “Usually.”
Silence settled again until you broke it. “Okay,” you sighed eventually. “Maybe one thing.” You turned to him properly this time. “I wasn’t that drunk that night. Actually, I wasn’t drunk at all. I had that one beer before we left my place and the rest were mocktails.”
Scott turned his head enough to study your face for a second. “I wouldn’t have touched you if you were drunk,” he said flatly. “I’m an asshole, not fucking stupid.”
You leaned back against the seat slowly. “Even that’s changed.”
His brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”
“The coffee for starters,” you said. “The lunches, too. You stopped buying disgusting gas station sandwiches and now we actually eat dinner out like normal people.” You gestured vaguely toward him. “You used to hand me coffee with five sugar packets on the side because you couldn’t remember how I took it. Now it’s magically perfect every fucking morning.”
Scott adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.
“I thought eating around other people would make this less weird,” he admitted. “And I got tired of sugar packets all over my truck.”
“Our truck,” you corrected automatically before pointing at him accusingly. “And nothing about this is normal, Scott! You ate me out on my dining table!”
“Stop yelling at me.” His tone stayed frustratingly calm.
“Why?” you shot back. “Is it making you hard?”
Scott shifted in his seat hard enough that you noticed instantly. Both his hands locked tighter around the steering wheel while he stared straight ahead at the road. The tension in his jaw became visible because unfortunately for him, you weren’t wrong.
The last week had changed things. You looked less exhausted and less tightly wound. You hadn’t snapped at him once during work and he hadn’t gotten a single unhinged one a.m. email from you all week because for the first time since he’d met you, you were actually sleeping.
“So when are we doing it again?” he asked finally, against every ounce of common sense he had left.
NEVER…that should’ve been the answer. It was the logical answer, the responsible one, the answer two coworkers with already questionable boundaries should’ve landed on immediately.
It just wasn’t the truth.
You had always maintained that getting fucked couldn’t happen in motel rooms. It didn't matter how good the sex was, the second cheap carpet, bad lighting and a rattling air conditioner got involved, the whole thing dropped several levels automatically.
Motel sex could be great, sometimes even memorable but it couldn’t be that, so the next time it happened definitely wasn’t in a motel room.
The weather that day had turned bad enough to keep everyone grounded but not dangerous enough to send your team chasing storms through three different counties. There was heavy rain, low visibility and too much lightning for comfort but not enough rotation to justify going out.
At some point, without either of you actually saying it outright, waiting the storm out in Scott’s apartment became the plan instead of sitting cramped inside the truck for hours pretending the tension between you didn’t exist.
You still couldn’t pinpoint who made the first move once the elevator doors closed behind you.
One second you were standing beside him soaked at the edges from the rain, listening to distant thunder through the concrete parking garage and the next, Scott’s hand was inside your pants like it belonged there.
You gasped hard into his mouth as his fingers slid against you immediately, already somewhat familiar with exactly what made your hips jerk forward. The kiss that came after barely counted as one, it was messy and distracted, interrupted constantly by your breathing and the quiet sounds you kept failing to swallow down.
The elevator ride lasted less than a minute but by the time the doors opened onto his floor, your orgasm was already hitting you in sharp waves around his fingers while your forehead pressed against his shoulder to keep yourself standing.
If you weren’t already fucked, you were about to be.
You’d been inside Scott’s apartment before. A handful of times after late nights working or when weather reports needed reviewing somewhere quieter than a crowded diner. You remembered the big windows first, stretching across the living room area with a full view of the skyline in the distance. Tonight they framed heavy gray clouds and rain pouring so hard that it blurred the city lights into smears of white and yellow.
Scott barely gave you time to look around because the second the apartment door shut behind you, his hands were on you again. He walked you toward the living room with rough impatience, pulling your pants down from behind while you stumbled against the edge of an armchair. Your underwear followed immediately after, dragged down together in one quick motion before pooling around your ankles.
The air in Scott’s apartment was heavy, charged with the static of the storm raging outside. The gray light of the overcast sky filtered through the windows but the atmosphere inside was scorching.
"Kneel," he commanded as he pointed toward the armchair, his voice a low, authoritative rumble.
You didn't hesitate. The tension that had been building between you for weeks, the unspoken glances and lingering touches, had finally snapped. You sank to your knees on the plush seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. You leaned forward, gripping the headrest with both hands, body already trembling in anticipation. You were completely exposed to him, your ass tilted back and waiting.
Scott disappeared for a moment, leaving you in a silence broken only by the distant roll of thunder. When he returned, the sound of a foil packet tearing echoed in the room. You heard the metallic click of his belt unbuckling and the slide of a zipper.
The anticipation was agonizing. You heard him roll the condom on, followed by the wet sound of him spitting on the head of his cock to make the entry smoother.
He stepped up behind you, heat radiating against your backside. He lined himself up and then, with one powerful, decisive surge, he thrust deep inside you.
You let out a sharp, strangled whine, your fingers digging into the fabric of the headrest. It had been so long since you’d felt a man inside you and Scott was massive. The initial stretch was borderline painful, a blunt force that filled every millimeter of your tight, starving pussy. You blinked rapidly, tears pricking your eyes as your body struggled to accommodate his size, your breath hitching in your throat.
Scott didn't give you time to adjust. He reached forward, his large hands clamping onto your hips with bruising force and yanked you backward, pulling you deeper onto his cock until there was no space left between you.
"I wanna see you," you moaned, your voice broken and desperate, trying to twist your torso around to look at him.
He didn't let you. Instead, he leaned in and sank his teeth into the skin of your shoulder, a sharp bite that made you moan despite your best efforts. His hand moved from your hip to your jaw, gripping it firmly to keep your head pinned forward.
"Just focus," he rasped calmly against your skin, the contrast of his steady voice and his firm grip sending a shiver of submission down your spine.
He let go of your jaw and began to thrust. He didn't start slowly, he hit you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. The apartment was suddenly filled with the sound of your sudden, loud moans and frantic curses. You collapsed forward, your chest pressed against the headrest, your body jarring with every hit.
As he hammered into you, Scott reached around, his hands finding your breasts. He didn't bother undressing you further, he grabbed your boobs firmly over your clothes, squeezing and kneading them with a rough, possessive grip that matched the violence of his hips.
"I'm gonna fuck you on every surface of this apartment," he growled. "You'll be seeing a lot of me."
The sex quickly became raw and primal and so, so fucking good. The sound of skin slapping against skin, mixed with the wet, rhythmic thud of his pelvis hitting your ass filled the room, competing with the roar of the thunder outside. Every thrust shook your entire frame, quaking your body from your head to your toes. You were whimpering loudly now, the pain of the initial stretch having completely melted into an overwhelming, white-hot pleasure you never thought you could feel.
Your eyes watered, staring out into the distance of the room, the world blurring as the friction built. It was fast, harsh and so perfect that you found yourself wanting to bite the armchair, your teeth sinking into the fabric as your back arched violently. You were unraveling, the long period of abstinence making you hypersensitive to every inch of him.
"I'm right there, keep going! Scott, please! Don’t fuckin’ stop." you whined, voice echoing through the apartment.
He didn't, he instead increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and more frantic, drilling into you with an obsession that felt like he wanted to merge his body with yours. The thunder peaked with a deafening crash that seemed to trigger something inside you.
Suddenly, your internal muscles spasmed. A wave of heat exploded from your core and you felt a sudden, uncontrollable gush of fluid. You were squirting, something that had never happened to you before, the hot spray soaking the armchair and your own thighs. You began to shake uncontrollably, your legs giving out as you sobbed out of pure pleasure into the headrest.
Scott let out a guttural groan, the feeling of you flooding around him driving him over the edge. He loved it, hell, he was obsessed with the way you were falling apart under him. He kept going, ignoring your tremors, continuously driving himself into you as you peaked into a mind-blowing, screaming orgasm that left you completely breathless.
With a final, deep thrust, he groaned loudly, coming hard into the condom.
The momentum stopped abruptly. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you frozen, chests heaving in unison.
Slowly, he withdrew, the wet sound of his exit punctuating the silence with an obscene pop.
You both watch the rain lash against the glass, the gray light illuminating the wreckage of your passion. You took a long, shuddering breath, body still twitching from the aftershocks as your pussy twitched around nothing, back arching further needily, earning a smack from him.
"Holy fuck," you both breathed simultaneously, the weight of the encounter settling over you in the heavy, humid air.
There was no going back after that day. Not to abstinence, not to disappointing hookups or to pretending sex was something casual and forgettable that fit neatly between work schedules and storm reports.
Once Scott got his hands on you, everything else lost appeal embarrassingly fast.
What started as isolated incidents quickly turned into a pattern neither of you seriously attempted to stop. It was a terrible idea professionally, obviously, but somehow the two of you functioned better afterward. Meetings became easier, long drives felt lighter and you argued less viciously because the tension always had somewhere to go now instead of festering under your skin for weeks.
You started going home together most nights under the excuse of saving gas money. Then showering together afterward became another practical decision because apparently water bills mattered too now. Somewhere between shared coffee in the mornings and him keeping spare clothes for you at his apartment, things moved quietly into something neither of you had planned for and the worst part was that it worked.
The sex stayed incredible. Sometimes rough enough to leave hickeys along your skin and fingerprints fading across your thighs and hips by morning, or other times slow enough that you ended up tangled together for hours afterward while thunderstorms rolled outside the windows. Every now and then he fucked you hard enough to leave you shaking afterward, staring blankly at the ceiling while he stood in the kitchen making you food like that was a normal sequence of events but eventually you realized it wasn’t just about that anymore.
You started having actual dates without calling them dates, it was dinner after work that lasted until restaurants closed around you. You went grocery shopping together because both of you were too exhausted to go separately and you began falling asleep on opposite ends of his couch while weather models played quietly on television screens neither of you were really watching.
Off-season made it worse.
Without constant travel, motel rooms and adrenaline keeping you both distracted, there was finally time to explore whatever this thing between you had become. You drifted naturally between your house and his apartment depending on whose place seemed closer to the office that day. Half your belongings somehow ended up at his place and vice versa. You texted each other constantly during meetings despite sitting twenty feet apart, phones hidden beneath desks while coworkers talked around you.
Scott started bringing your coffee to your desk already made exactly how you liked it before you even decided you needed one. You started buying his preferred cereal without asking if he wanted any. He slept better with you in his bed and you stopped grinding your teeth in your sleep when he stayed over.
So naturally, being made love to finally happened exactly the way you once thought it would and it wasn’t some exaggerated version of romance men convinced themselves they were capable of after two drinks and mediocre conversation.
It sort of snuck up on you. It was Scott pulling you into his lap while both of you were exhausted after work, kissing your shoulder absentmindedly while you read through data on his laptop. It was him waking you up slowly on Sunday mornings with his hand sliding under your shirt and nowhere either of you needed to be. It was sex that lasted forever because he knew your body well enough to take his time with it, knew exactly what made you gasp, what made your legs tense and what made you hide your face against his neck when the pleasure became too much.
He paid attention and it made all of the difference. Scott learned your body like he learned storm patterns, thoroughly and obsessively, until touching you became instinct to him and it showed…
The morning light filtered through the curtains of your bedroom in soft, golden slats, painting the sheets in hues of amber and cream. The house was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of your shared breathing and the distant chirp of birds welcoming the dawn. You were tangled together, skin on skin, the warmth of the duvet trapping the heat of your bodies in a private, humid cocoon.
There was no rush, no storm to outrun and no urgency born of desperation. There was only the heavy, sweet weight of Scott pressing you into the mattress. You were both fully naked, your limbs entwined in a lazy, possessive knot.
Scott began slowly, his lips tracing a path of fire across your collarbone. He wasn't just kissing you, he was tasting you, tongue swirling against your skin in slow circles that made you shiver. He moved lower, mouth finding the sensitive curve of your breast as you let out a soft, airy moan. He took your nipple into his mouth, sucking firmly while his thumb and forefinger pinched the other peak, twisting it just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
You arched your back, your fingers sliding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. The friction of his chest against your breasts was intoxicating, the rough hair of his torso grazing your sensitive skin.
He shifted, sliding his body up so he could look into your eyes. His gaze was dark, filled with an intensity that felt more overwhelming than any of the rougher encounters you'd had. He didn't move to flip you or push you into a different position, instead, he settled between your thighs in a classic missionary stance and pushed inside. There was no latex barrier this time, no clinical snap of a condom. It was raw, wet and absolute.
The sensation of his bare skin sliding against yours was a revelation. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt the full, throbbing heat of him filling you completely. It felt different, more intimate and permanent. The lack of a barrier made every ridge of his cock feel amplified, every pulse of his blood echoing against your own internal walls.
He didn't start with the punishing pace of the past. Instead, he began to rock, his movements slow and agonizingly deep. He pressed his palm flat against your stomach, pushing down firmly to tilt your pelvis, ensuring that every thrust hit the deepest part of you.
"Gripping me like a fucking vise…so perfect." he groaned, his voice a gravelly morning rumble that vibrated through your chest.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles to pull him even deeper. You were lost in the rhythm, the slow, sliding friction creating a build-up of tension that felt like a tightening coil in your belly. You ran your hands through his hair, your nails lightly scratching his scalp as you moaned into the first rays of the morning sun.
The intimacy was suffocating in the best way possible. As he continued to rock, his movements grew slightly more urgent, the slow glide turning into a passionate, driving force. He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, tasting the salt and sweetness of your skin while he continued to pinch and tease your nipples, hand roaming your curves with a familiarity that spoke of a deep, obsessive knowledge of your body.
It didn’t take long for your breath to become shallow, chest heaving as the pleasure began to peak. You could feel the walls of your pussy clenching around him, milking him with every deep stroke. Your body tensed, toes curling into the sheets as a wave of heat crashed over you. You cried out, a long, melodic sound of surrender, as your orgasm ripped through you in slow, pulsing waves that left you shaking beneath him.
Scott didn’t slow his pace as his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily. He continued moving, the intimacy of the connection almost too much to bear.
"Want to be done?" he whispered, his voice strained, muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.
You looked up at him, eyes hazy with pleasure and affection. The thought of him pulling away felt wrong because you wanted everything. You wanted the weight, the heat and the mark of him.
You shook your head with an escaped whimper, pulling his face down to yours. "Don’t you dare pull out…’want you to come inside." You breathed.
The request broke the last of his restraint. Scott let out a guttural sound, a mix of a groan and a sob and began to drive into you with a renewed, primal intensity. It was a desperate, loving hunger. He hammered into you, movements strong and deep, each thrust a claim and a promise.
As he reached his limit, his grip on your hip tightened, fingers digging into your skin. He thrust one last time, burying himself as deep as physically possible and you felt the hot, thick bursts of his cum flooding into you. The sensation of him filling you from the inside out was the most intense feeling you had ever experienced, a physical manifestation of the bond that had grown between you.
In the height of his release, as his body shuddered violently against yours, he gasped out the words he had been holding back.
"I love you," he choked out, the confession raw and unplanned.
The world seemed to stop for a heartbeat. You felt a surge of emotion that rivaled the intensity of the orgasm, a warmth that started in your chest and radiated to your fingertips. You tightened your hold on him, pulling him down for a deep, searing kiss.
"I love you too," you whispered against his lips.
He collapsed onto you, heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your own, both of you spent and glowing in the morning light, finally and completely entwined.
A few years ago, you would’ve hated the idea that Scott Miller of all people would end up teaching you everything worth knowing about sex. It would’ve bruised your ego badly, especially considering how seriously you once took those stupid categories and scales in your head before Scott showed up and ruined all of them completely.
Good sex stopped mattering.
Great sex became expected.
Getting fucked became routine enough that you lost count somewhere along the line, usually around the third orgasm of the day and definitely before he started dragging you into his lap halfway through work calls just because he felt like bothering you…with his hands and dick.
But somehow, even after all the rough sex and ruined schedules, Scott still managed to make love to you exactly the way you once imagined it should feel.
So if somebody offered you the chance to go back and do it all over again, you would without hesitation.
You were an absolute HR nightmare now and what a fucking delight that was!
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!
Look at him just chewing the FAWK out of that gum 😭 (wait chew me next)
I absolutely loved your last Dean story!! I was wondering if you would be able to write about a reader who has never been able to finish, with herself or anyone else, and dean helps her learn.
Beautiful writing!
I would've done that sober
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x childhood best friend!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66
a/n: Well that was long, but such a delight to write and soooo so sexy
Classification: Smut +18 | Talks of ex's and sexual dysfunction/insecurity, emotional vulnerability, recreational drug use (NOT DURING SEX), dry humping/grinding, getting caught, fingering, tension and arousal descriptions, orgasm, praise and partial undressing/lingerie.
Word count: 12k
Divider by me ;)
You sat across from the fire pit in the boys’ backyard, elbows resting on the armrests of your chair while the flames cracked softly in front of you both. The night air had turned colder hours ago, but neither of you had gone inside. Dean kept talking and you kept letting him or trying to.
Every time he opened his mouth, you exhaled slowly through your nose as if physically releasing air might stop you from interrupting him.
“He’s an arrogant son of a bitch,” Dean repeated for probably the fifth time that night. He took another drag from the blunt before passing it toward you, smoke curling past his lips as he leaned back deeper into the chair.
“That’s what pisses me off the most,” he continued, staring hard into the fire like your ex-boyfriend personally offended him. “He had no clue what he was doing in the relationship from day one and still had the confidence to ask you out.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Usually I respect delusion like that, but that guy’s a fucking disaster.”
You accepted the blunt with a quiet sigh.
Dean had been ranting for nearly a week straight now. Anyone overhearing him would’ve assumed he’d been the one publicly dumped in the cafeteria instead of you but he’d been there when it happened, front row seats to your ex fumbling through excuses while half your friends sat frozen around the table pretending not to listen. Maybe that was enough for Dean.
Now, instead of being out partying with the rest of the team, he sat outside with you night after night, sharing weed and acting personally victimized by your breakup.
“Dean,” you finally interrupted, tone firm.
He stopped talking immediately.
You inhaled slowly before looking over at him through the smoke, holding his gaze while you exhaled. “It’s okay.”
Dean’s expression flattened instantly. “We have very different definitions of okay.”
His eyes drifted back toward the fire for a second, replaying the memory again. You could practically see it happening behind his eyes, the cafeteria, your expression and your ex stumbling through his speech.
“You should’ve let me talk to him,” he muttered.
“What good would that have done?” You brought the blunt back to your lips, inhaling before handing it over again. “It’s not his fault.”
Dean’s head snapped toward you so fast he nearly dropped the thing. “The fuck does that mean?”
You almost rolled your eyes at the offense in his tone. Instead, you looked away toward the fire again, watching orange light flicker against the patio stones.
“I’m lost here,” he scoffed. “Is being wrapped around another girl at a party three hours after dumping you not a dick move now?”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Dean,” you said gently, finally turning your head toward him again. “I think I’m the only person who wasn’t surprised by the breakup.”
His brows furrowed.
You shrugged one shoulder lightly. “He just beat me to it.”
“Oh.” The word left him quietly. Dean looked away immediately afterward, dragging a hand over his mouth while he gathered his thoughts before glancing back at you. “That’s the first time I’m hearing about that.”
He passed the blunt over again.
You took it carefully, staring down at it between your fingers for a second before answering.
“Yeah, well...” You inhaled deeply, smoke burning pleasantly in your lungs before you let it back out slowly. “You’ve got other business to worry about.”
Dean huffed out a laugh instantly. “You are my business.” The certainty in his voice made your lips curl before you could stop them. “So start talking.”
He always did that. Dean had this way of making honesty feel inevitable. The two of you talked about everything, always had. He knew things about you your closest friends didn’t. Hell, he’d bought condoms for you the first time you planned on sleeping with someone because you’d been too embarrassed to walk into the store yourself.
You moved deeper into the chair, pulling one leg beneath you while you searched carefully for the right words. “Um…” You inhaled again, then blurted it out before your brain could stop you. “I suck at the sex thing.”
Dean’s face twisted immediately in disagreement as you passed the blunt. “Bullshit.”
You laughed softly. “No, seriously. I do.” You rubbed awkwardly at your neck before continuing. “Turns out not being able to cum eventually becomes an issue when your partner realizes you never actually have with them.”
Dean’s expression changed instantly. Every conversation you’d ever had about sex clearly started replaying in his head at once because confusion hit him violently.
“But you told me–”
“I lied.” The words came out easier than expected. You shrugged lightly, though your stomach still tightened. “I’ve been lying for years...Faking it until I got tired of faking it and started bruising egos.” A humorless smile tugged briefly at your mouth. “Including mine.”
Dean stayed quiet now so you stared into the fire instead.
“I just…” You exhaled slowly. “I don’t think sex is really my thing.” Your shoulders lifted. “I like the idea of it. I enjoy parts of it…but everyone talks about this huge explosive ending and I just…” You shook your head. “Don’t get there…naturally people stop believing you when you say it was still good.”
Dean watched you carefully. “Was it?”
“The sex?” You let the silence drag for a second before shrugging again. “I think so.” Your lips twitched faintly. “It was good enough to build better stories around afterward.”
Dean stopped smoking entirely after that. The blunt burned slowly between his fingers while he stared down at it, suddenly looking far more sober than either of you probably were. He looked like he was trying to organize his thoughts before speaking again.
“How about alone?” The question came softly, carefully.
If you didn’t know him so well, you might’ve mistaken the look on his face for pity. Thankfully, you did know him, which meant you recognized concern immediately.
You shook your head slowly. “That’s why I’m saying it’s not his fault.”
“It’s not yours either,” Dean argued as he flicked the rest of the blunt into the fire pit before continuing. “It just hasn’t happened yet.” His voice softened further. “Doesn’t mean it never will.”
You let out a slow breath, eyes closing briefly as the weed finally started loosening the tension sitting on your shoulders. “It’s definitely not from lack of trying.”
You could feel him staring at you even with your eyes closed.
The silence stretched comfortably after your confession, softened by the crackling fire and the distant chorus of crickets surrounding the backyard. The flames had started dying down, wood collapsing inward with quiet snaps while smoke drifted lazily into the cold night air.
Dean still hadn’t looked away from you. “So what now?” he asked finally.
You swallowed slowly, still keeping your eyes shut. For a second or maybe an entire minute, Dean genuinely thought you’d fallen asleep mid-conversation.
Then your lips twitched. “Celibacy.”
The offended sound that tore out of him made your smile widen. You heard him trying to hold it back too, which honestly made it funnier but this was Dean. Subtle outrage had never once existed in his body.
“Think I’d look hot as a nun?” you asked lazily.
“You’d look hot in a banana costume wearing clown shoes six sizes too big,” he replied instantly. “And you’re absolutely not dropping out of Briar to become a nun. End of discussion.”
His tone came out firm enough to sound ridiculous considering he had absolutely no authority over your life whatsoever.
You finally peeled your eyes open to look at him. The weed had settled into your bones now, leaving you heavy and relaxed against the chair. Dean looked hazy too, hair falling perfectly while the firelight flickered warm across his face.
“You’re not giving up because some five-eleven idiot couldn’t be patient long enough to figure you out.”
You grinned. “He’s six-one.”
Dean scoffed. “He tried out for the Hawks freshman year. Trust me, he’s five-eleven.”
Your brows lifted. Dean kept going without needing encouragement, already slipping into that protective streak he pretended wasn’t there. He always collected information about people around you, quietly filing it away for future use whenever he deemed necessary.
“He was wearing lifts during tryouts,” Dean added smugly. “One bad pivot and the guy almost snapped an ankle.”
A laugh escaped you softly.
“If you wanna stop having sex altogether, God forbid–”
“You should become a priest,” you interrupted.
Dean barked out a laugh, tipping his head back. “Yeah,” he nodded. “It’d probably take a year and a half to cleanse my sins.” He pointed toward himself loosely. “And that’s assuming I don’t burst into flames the second I walk into a church.” His eyes drifted back to you. “Can I continue now?”
“Yes, Father,” you replied through a chuckle.
Dean shook his head, smiling despite himself before settling deeper into his chair again.
“If you really wanna do the celibacy thing, fine.” He shrugged dramatically. “I’ll support you. We’ll find support groups together and hold hands through the trauma.” His mouth twitched. “Though personally, I’d go through withdrawals first.”
“How solidary of you.”
He nodded solemnly. “Exactly. Plus I can probably add it to my extracurriculars somehow.”
You laughed harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly as you leaned back into the chair. “You’re so fucking stupid.”
Dean watched you carefully while you laughed. The sound came out lighter than anything he’d heard from you all week, chest rising and falling unevenly while your eyes squeezed shut again for a second and suddenly the conversation stopped feeling funny to him.
Because underneath the jokes, underneath the weed and the teasing, he kept thinking about what you’d actually said earlier. About you trying and nothing happening.
Dean loved sex. Everyone knew that much about him but you did too or at least you loved wanting it, loved feeling desired, loved the intimacy, the heat and everything wrapped around it and now all he could think about was how frustrating that must’ve been for you. Wanting something everyone else talked about so easily only for your body not to cooperate no matter how hard you tried.
The thought sat badly in his chest. Dean looked down at the dying fire for a second before his eyes lifted back to you.
“Use me,” he blurted out.
Your laughter faded gradually after his words, the smile still lingering at the corners of your mouth while your eyes settled back on him even more carefully this time.
“What do you mean?”
Dean didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll be your last resort,” he repeated easily, like he’d already thought this through far more than he probably had. “Aren’t you always telling me to make myself useful?”
You narrowed your eyes, blinking slowly through the haze settling heavier behind them.
“What exactly are you suggesting?” You rubbed at one eye with the heel of your hand. “Because I’m starting to think I hallucinated that sentence.”
“I hold my weed better than you,” he reminded you smugly.
That part, unfortunately, was true. Dean leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting against his knees now, all lazy amusement gone strangely sincere beneath the teasing.
“You wanna quit? Fine.” He shrugged. “Quit when you’re actually out of options.”
A quiet huff left you, somewhere between disbelief and laughter. “Didn’t realize Six Flags counted as an option.” Your lips twitched faintly. “I hate rollercoasters.”
Dean nodded decisively. “Then I’ll go out of business.”
“You’ll close the park?”
“I’ll shut the whole thing down,” he promised solemnly. “Just so you can ride the teacups.” The grin spreading across his face warned you half a second too late. “Remember when you threw up on the–”
“Yes,” you cut him off immediately, flat and horrified. “I remember.”
Dean laughed anyway. Full-bodied, warm and entirely too pleased with himself as he pointed at you. “You were crying,” he accused through the laughter. “You kept saying your stomach hated you–”
“I was fifteen.”
“And dramatic.” He added. “But so cute…less mouthy too.”
“You held my hair while I threw up into a trash can behind the funnel cake stand.”
Dean’s laughter softened slightly at that memory. Back then he’d been genuinely terrified something was wrong with you. He’d hovered beside you the entire night looking pale enough to pass out himself while you recovered on a bench wrapped in his sweatshirt. Now he just looked fond.
You glanced away first, eyes dropping back toward the dying fire while your thoughts started turning over his earlier suggestion again despite yourself.
It could go horribly. Actually, no, it would go horribly. There were at least seventeen reasons this crossed every boundary imaginable. You already hated rollercoasters, hated fast turns and hated giving up control over literally anything involving your body and Dean…Well, Dean was Dean.
Confident, experienced, annoyingly good-looking and unarguably good at sex if campus rumors counted for anything and unfortunately they definitely did. You hadn’t exactly conducted research firsthand but after years of hearing stories from girls around campus, the reviews were embarrassingly consistent.
“You really think that highly of your dick?” you asked finally.
Dean shrugged lazily against the chair. “Nobody said anything about using it.”
That made your eyes snap back to him fully. “And if nothing works?” you asked quieter this time.
The question slipped out more honestly than intended because suddenly you weren’t thinking about sex anymore. You were thinking about aftermaths, about what happened if this ruined things between you. Dean had woven himself into your life years ago so naturally that imagining him gone felt impossible now.
You genuinely didn’t know how you’d survive losing him too.
Dean studied you for a second and for once the confidence in his face softened into something steadier. “Then we fail,” he decided.
You swallowed.
His grin returned slowly afterward, softer around the edges. “Fail with me,” he corrected. “Fail better.” He pointed between you both lazily. “Fail together.”
A laugh escaped you despite every effort not to give him one.
You rolled your eyes hard enough to make him grin wider, shaking your head while the weed continued smoothing the sharp corners off your thoughts. The night air no longer felt cold against your skin and embarrassment had slowly stopped existing somewhere during the conversation. Maybe that was the dangerous part and not Dean’s suggestion but how easy it suddenly felt to consider it.
You didn’t bring it up again for the rest of the night and neither did Dean.
When the rest of the guys stumbled back into the house loud and half-drunk sometime after midnight, he changed back into normal so smoothly it almost irritated you. He made sure you had food, water, your charger and then bullied one of the sober freshmen into driving you home while standing outside by the car until you pulled away like he always did.
You slept absurdly well afterward.
A heavy sleep and dreamless night, the type that glued you to the mattress the next morning until sunlight was already cutting aggressively through your blinds. By the time you shuffled out with an oversized hoodie you were certain was your ex’s, your phone was buzzing with unread texts from Dean sent hours earlier, probably before morning practice.
You ignored every single one and it wasn’t because of regret. Embarrassment simply crawled into your chest somewhere between the first and third spoonful of cereal and decided to settle there permanently.
The entire conversation replayed so clearly now that you were sober. “Use me,” You nearly groaned into the bowl.
Three hours of class helped, at least temporarily. You sat near the back of the massive amphitheater classroom while your professor rambled enthusiastically about the new book he’d conveniently written himself and would definitely require students to purchase before midterms. You probably would’ve absorbed more information if you weren’t scrolling mindlessly through Instagram the entire lecture.
The doors behind you opened quietly midway through class.
You barely paid attention at first since nobody descended the stairs toward the lower rows and a second later the seat beside you groaned softly under someone’s weight.
You recognized the cologne immediately.
“How hard do you think you need to scrub for that scent to leave your skin?” you whispered without looking up.
Dean grinned beside you, leaning closer enough for warmth to brush your shoulder as his eyes dropped toward your phone screen.
You locked it quickly and finally looked at him. “You’re not in this class.”
“I see your phone works perfectly fine,” he replied.
The professor thankfully dismissed class early before you could answer, students immediately growing louder as backpacks zipped and people exited the space.
You stood quickly and started gathering your things. “Did you need something, Di Laurentis?” you asked flatly.
Dean remained seated on purpose, forcing you to awkwardly climb past him to leave the row. The asshole looked entirely too pleased with himself while you muttered under your breath and stepped over his legs.
The second you reached the aisle, he stood and followed.
You walked fast, actually, aggressively fast. Dean almost struggled to keep up at first, his legs clearly still wrecked from morning practice while you marched out of the building like escape itself was the objective. He finally caught you outside near the steps leading toward the quad.
“We need to talk.”
You slowed at last before turning toward him. “What we need is space,” you corrected, motioning firmly between your bodies.
Dean looked down between you both thoughtfully, then took exactly one step backward.
You almost laughed, especially because he looked unbearably smug afterward, standing there grinning in the middle of campus like he deserved a reward for basic listening skills.
“You’ve gone to New York with me enough times to know I don’t need more space,” he pointed out. “But fine.” His expression softened slightly afterward, amusement fading as he studied your face more carefully. “What’s going on?”
Of course, he was right. Dean practically crawled into people’s personal bubbles recreationally, so the fact he’d backed off at all made it harder to flee the conversation entirely.
You exhaled slowly. “We said stuff last night.”
He nodded once, blinking at the tension written all over your face. “Yeah. That’s usually how conversations work.”
“Stuff you might regret,” you clarified.
Dean’s brows lifted before a quiet laugh escaped him. “Regret?” He pointed toward himself loosely. “C’mon. It’s me.”
His voice gentled slightly after and the worst part was he looked relieved, because apparently the phrase ‘stuff you might regret’ translated in Dean’s brain to ‘good, she’s not upset’.
“I would’ve said that sober,” he assured you.
His eyes stayed fixed on yours while your attention darted briefly around campus before returning to him again exactly like he knew it would. Dean stepped closer instinctively, lowering his voice enough that the passing students around you blurred into background noise.
“You want me to repeat it?” he asked quietly. “Let me help you cum.”
Your stomach tightened at his tone of voice. “It might not work,” you reminded him softly.
You hoped your face conveyed the actual problem because this had never been about his ego. Dean could survive failure, he’d probably laugh through it, so that wasn’t what scared you.
Dean shrugged anyway, maddeningly calm. “What if it does?”
“And what if it doesn’t?” Frustration finally slipped into your voice. “Dean, I don’t want us to get weird.” You shook your head hard once. “I don’t need ‘optimistic Dean’ right now,” you muttered. “I need ‘realistic Dean’, so pull him out of your ass.”
“You already are weird,” Dean corrected easily, smiling down at you. “I accepted that years ago.” His grin widened then. “Actually, I encourage it.”
You rolled your eyes, though the corner of your mouth betrayed you.
“Let me try,” he insisted again, the confidence in his voice should’ve irritated you more than it did.
Instead, you found yourself studying him in silence, searching for something off in his expression. Some sign this was ego, curiosity or boredom disguised as concern but he just looked…earnest. Enthusiastic, sure, because he was Dean and apparently incapable of approaching anything halfway but not creepy about it and maybe this was partially your own fault.
You’d spent years talking openly with him about sex, relationships and attraction. About wanting something good someday instead of tolerable, about how when you were old and exhausted with kids running around, you still wanted a partner who looked at you and wanted you back because you were almost certain you’d still want them too.
Dean remembered everything you said…unfortunately.
You sighed heavily. “We need rules.”
“Fine.” He agreed so fast it almost startled you. Dean straightened afterward, nodding once with ridiculous seriousness like the two of you were entering business negotiations instead of whatever disaster this actually was.
You almost reconsidered your next words. Almost.
“No kissing.”
Dean’s shoulders visibly dropped. “Why?”
“Because!” you hissed. “And if we’re doing this, you don’t get to question the rules.”
His face twisted in disbelief. “We’ve kissed before.”
You crossed your arms tighter. “That was different.”
Dean scoffed softly. “We were literally each other’s first kiss.”
Again, he was right. You weren’t just each other’s first kiss either, a few firsts existed between you both scattered through years of friendship and growing up side by side, all except for sex. There was awkward teenage curiosity, truth or dare disasters and one regrettable spin-the-bottle incident Garrett still occasionally referenced against your will.
Which was exactly why kissing now felt dangerous. This couldn’t spiral into some ‘why didn’t we do this sooner’ conversation. It needed boundaries and structure, something detached enough that neither of you accidentally ruined the friendship orbiting underneath all this and selflessly, you also didn’t want the group dragged into the fallout if things exploded.
“We’re adults now,” you said firmly. “So no kissing.”
Dean stared at you for another second before exhaling dramatically.
“Okay,” he relented…Too easily, which immediately made you suspicious he’d already started planning arguments against it for later.
“I’ve also thought about what you said last night,” you continued carefully. “About Six Flags.”
Dean’s brows lifted.
“And shutting down the entire park feels unfair to you,” you explained. “Potentially devastating, honestly.” Your lips twitched slightly. “So you can still hook up with other people if you want. I genuinely don’t care.”
Dean actually looked offended. “Didn’t realize I needed permission.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.” His voice sharpened for the first time since the conversation started. “But no thanks.” He shrugged once. “It makes this more exciting anyway.” A grin tugged briefly at his mouth again. “I’ve got one ride right now and that’s all I need.”
Your face scrunched at his words. “Does weed somehow make you an even bigger asshole?”
Dean ignored that completely. “I’m not doing anything with anyone else until we’re done here,” he repeated firmly. The teasing disappeared entirely from his voice that time and there was no smugness either, just certainty.
You quieted automatically when a group of students passed nearby, a few of them recognizing Dean instantly and greeting him as they crossed the quad. He responded absentmindedly without taking his eyes off you once.
The second they moved far enough away, you continued. “Why?”
Dean’s expression softened at the question. “Because I need you comfortable,” he answered simply. “And I need you to trust me more than you already do.”
You groaned. “Oh my God,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re making this weird.”
He grinned at your reaction while you grabbed his sleeve and started pulling him further across campus before more people stopped to talk to him. Dean let you drag him along without resistance, looking far too entertained by the whole thing.
“We don’t even know how long this will take,” you pointed out.
“My fist works perfectly fine in the meantime,” Dean decided easily.
You looked up at him so fast your neck almost hurt.
Dean pressed his lips together, visibly trying not to laugh at the pure disbelief written across your face. His head tilted slightly, hair strands falling over his forehead while he watched you stare at him like he’d just confessed to tax fraud.
Your gaze dropped away first.
Contrary to what everyone on campus believed, Dean didn’t actually need constant hookups to survive. He liked the reputation, liked exaggerating it even more whenever it annoyed you enough to argue back or laugh at him but underneath all that, he could handle himself perfectly fine.
Unfortunately for you, he seemed almost smug about proving that now.
“Can I add rules too?” he asked.
You sighed dramatically. “Sure.”
The two of you kept walking through campus side by side, your pace slower now that the conversation had moved on from terrifying to merely humiliating.
“No scheduling things specifically for this,” Dean decided. “If it happens, it happens.”
You blinked once before nodding slowly. “Yeah. Okay.” Relief actually loosened something in your chest at that. “That’s good. I’ll stress less.”
Dean glanced sideways at you, probably pleased you agreed so quickly…Except his rule immediately created entirely new problems.
“Uh…” Your steps slowed slightly. “How do you…” You scratched awkwardly at your eyebrow. “Take it?”
Dean stopped walking altogether. “How do I take what?” he asked carefully. “My coffee?”
You groaned. “No.” Your hand motioned vaguely between the two of you in a series of gestures that explained absolutely nothing. “Like…how do you like it?”
Dean’s brows lifted as realization hit him almost visibly.
You looked away at once. “Fuck,” you muttered under your breath. “Do I need to be clean shaven constantly or not?” Your voice lowered progressively through the sentence while your eyes darted around campus to make sure nobody nearby overheard you discussing grooming preferences in broad daylight.
Dean stared at you for half a second too long before answering.
“Y/n.” The seriousness in his tone made your eyes flicker back toward him. “The day I tell you what to do with your body, you better knock me unconscious.”
Your mouth parted slightly.
“I’ll literally kneel for it if that makes it easier,” he continued firmly. “Do whatever makes you comfortable.”
And he meant it. Dean would enjoy it either way, obviously, but that wasn’t what mattered to him here. What mattered was getting you out of your own head long enough to actually enjoy yourself instead of performing comfort for someone else.
You blinked slowly at him because suddenly your ex’s comments replayed in your head with uncomfortable clarity. Little preferences disguised as jokes and suggestions repeated enough times to become expectations and judging by the expression tightening briefly across Dean’s face, he’d realized exactly where your question came from too.
That only made you feel worse somehow. Your attention drifted toward the students moving around campus nearby.
You suddenly wondered if people would notice eventually. The same way older women always claimed they somehow knew when girls became sexually active. Weird comments about posture and confidence, wider hips and glowing skin that sounded fake until suddenly you became the target of them too.
Your stomach tightened faintly. “What are we supposed to tell people?”
Dean barely hesitated. “To mind their own fucking business.”
You snorted softly.
He looked over at you again, entirely serious despite the amusement still lingering around his mouth. “Just like I’m doing mine.”
The rest of the week passed almost painfully normal.
There were parties, late-night food runs, afternoons sprawled around the boys’ house while someone yelled at a video game in the background and hockey games while Dean acted exactly the same as always. You spent time with Hannah and Allie between classes and after them, listened to Garrett complain dramatically about assignments he’d started twelve hours before they were due, watched Tucker cook enough food for six grown men while Logan disappeared upstairs with company more often than not.
Nothing changed.
Dean still touched your shoulder when he walked past you, still stole fries off your plate and still looked at you too long whenever you laughed at something stupid and somehow that made the entire thing worse because half the time you genuinely convinced yourself you’d imagined the whole conversation by the fire pit entirely.
Maybe the weed had made you both insane and none of it was real.
You sat curled up on the floor of the boys’ living room later that week with your knees tucked to your chest, a notebook balanced across your thighs while formulas blurred together across the page. Your back rested against the couch and the TV played quietly in the background though neither of you actually paid attention to it.
Dean sat opposite you in the armchair, long legs spread comfortably while he hunched over his own notebook with far more concentration than anyone would expect from him or maybe not because he took hockey so seriously. He took school seriously too, despite pretending otherwise whenever possible but unfortunately for you, he also looked unfairly good doing homework.
You tried focusing on your own work, tried hard. Instead, your eyes kept lifting toward him between equations, your brain repeatedly snagging on the memory of everything he’d said days earlier and the fact neither of you had taken any of it back…or done a single thing about it.
“What’d you get for number three?” Dean’s voice pulled you from your thoughts but still didn’t look up from his notebook.
You blinked down at your own page, trying to remember where your brain had abandoned the assignment entirely.
“C,” you answered eventually. “But I’m not confident about it.”
Dean hummed thoughtfully. “I’ve done the math twice and I keep getting B.”
You reread the problem slowly, trying to force your attention into place. “Then it’s probably B.”
Dean finally looked up at that, one brow lifting. “You’re admitting you’re wrong?”
You snorted softly. Honestly, it was extremely possible. Your brain hadn’t functioned properly all week because you kept thinking about him offering himself up like some absurdly confident science experiment.
“Don’t need to dig through my family tree to know I’m not descended from Isaac Newton.”
A smile tugged slowly across Dean’s mouth as he leaned back in the armchair. “If you are,” he said, eyes dragging over your face, “I’m glad the ugly recessive genes skipped you.”
Your nose scrunched instantly. “What kind of compliment is that?”
“The kind I’m hoping gets you over here to help me.” He motioned you closer lazily with his pointer and middle fingers.
You sighed before setting your notebook on the coffee table and padding across the room toward him. The house was quieter this late afternoon, though not empty. Hannah was upstairs with Garrett, Logan had disappeared into his room hours ago and Tucker was outside training.
“Let’s see,” you murmured.
You bent slightly over Dean and the notebook resting on the armrest, attention dropping fully to the equations scattered across the page. The movement loosened the collar of your shirt enough for cool air to brush your skin.
Dean noticed and his throat cleared quietly.
Your attention remained on the notebook while his eyes betrayed him completely, dropping for one dangerous second to the visible lace of your bra before forcing themselves back upward toward your face instead.
Dean had promised himself he’d take this slow and naturally because the second he acted weird about it, you would too. You’d overthink every movement, every look and accidental touch and unfortunately for him, you’d always been terrifyingly good at reading him.
He moved the notebook slightly farther from you as one hand settled carefully against your hip, guiding you.
You reached automatically for the notebook before he moved it entirely out of reach, successfully grabbing it just as he tugged you forward enough for your balance to tip. A second later you settled directly onto his lap, knees falling naturally to either side of his thighs.
You blinked once. “Smooth,” you muttered, adjusting yourself carefully without looking at him. “I’ll give you that.”
Dean grinned openly now. You balanced the notebook against his chest like it was a table and reached backward for the pen loosely held in his free hand. His fingers brushed yours before letting go.
“Should be a five,” you corrected while marking over the equation. “Not a seven.” Your brows furrowed slightly. “Your handwriting’s gotten worse over the years.”
“You still read it.”
“I’m not the one grading you.” Your eyes lifted straight into his.
You’d sat on Dean’s lap before, during packed car rides, group trips and random stupid moments over the years where proximity stopped mattering because he was just Dean. This didn’t feel like that, not even close.
“Not in math,” he said quietly.
Only one of his hands touched you still, resting warm and steady against your hip like he was making a conscious effort not to overwhelm you. Whether it was intentional or not, it worked. His eyes drifted downward slowly toward your mouth.
“You should be rating everything else though.” A grin ghosted briefly across his lips. “Pretty sure Six Flags has customer surveys.”
You shook your head once, slow enough that your hair brushed lightly against your cheek. “No ride, no survey.”
Dean’s mouth twitched. His legs spread slightly wider underneath you then, subtle enough that you still felt the change as the apex of your thighs aligned more directly with his. The hand on your hip tightened enough for you to notice. “Go on then,” he murmured.
Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, down to the visible tent pressing insistently against the front of his sweats. Heat climbed your throat immediately.
“Interesting moment you picked,” you muttered softly, eyes flicking briefly toward the rest of the house.
You felt comfortable there. Comfortable enough to leave clothes behind, to wander into the kitchen without asking and to nap on the couch when you got tired during movie nights but knowing the others were still around somewhere made your pulse jump harder instead of calming it.
Dean noticed. “Just focus on me,” he instructed quietly.
Not ‘look at me’, just ‘focus’ which you could do.
You looked at him, seeing the genuine curiosity and lack of judgment in his eyes and for the first time, the wall you'd built around your sexuality felt more like a shield and less like a cage.
Slowly, tentatively, you moved as the gravity of the moment pulled you toward him. You settled your weight directly onto him, feeling the distinct, blunt shape of his cock through the layers of your clothes. He wasn't fully hard yet, just a semi-firm pressure against your clothed pussy but it didn't make you recoil. In fact, it sent a low thrum of anticipation through your nerves.
The air between you grew thick, charged with a tension that felt heavy enough to touch. You remembered your own rule: no kissing. So, you kept your face inches from his but you didn't close the gap. Instead, you focused on the sound of his breathing, which had hitched the moment you sat down. You could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over your lips, a teasing, invisible touch that made your skin prickle.
Dean’s hand still hovered near your waist, trembling slightly but he didn't grip you. He seemed to be fighting every instinct to pull you closer, respecting the fragile boundary you had set.
"I'm gonna keep my hands off," he whispered, his voice strained and rough. "You just keep moving. Take whatever you're comfortable with."
He pulled his arms back, resting them flat against the seat beside him, leaving you in complete control. The sudden lack of physical contact made the friction between your pelvises feel even more intense. You knew what you were doing, you had enough experience to know how your body worked, even if the 'explosive ending' always eluded you. You began to rock, a slow, tentative grind that pressed your pussy firmly against the length of him as a sharp, jagged exhale escaped his lungs.
You felt him react instantly, the semi-firmness beneath you surged, his cock thickening and hardening rapidly against your center. You rolled your hips in a circular motion, aiming for the sweet spot, feeling the dampness beginning to soak into your underwear. You were getting wetter, the friction creating a sliding, sensual heat that radiated upward into your stomach.
"You still okay?" he breathed out, voice barely a murmur.
You simply nodded and tried to focus entirely on him, wanting to give him something perfect, something that would leave him breathless. You pushed down harder, grinding your clit against the hard ridge of his dick. You watched his face, head falling back against the headrest, leaving his throat exposed and pulsing but he forced his eyes to stay open. He wanted to see you. He wanted to witness the way your expression changed as you found a rhythm that worked.
The intimacy was suffocating in the best way. There was no kissing to distract you and no wandering hands to break the spell, just the raw, rhythmic pressure of friction. You could feel the heat radiating off his thighs, the way his chest heaved in time with your movements as your own breathing became ragged, mirroring his, the sound of your synchronized gasps filling the quiet space.
You felt a small, involuntary moan escape your throat, a soft sound of pleasure that made Dean’s hips jerk upward instinctively, trying to meet your descent. You pressed closer, your mind racing, trying to synchronize your pleasure with his but as the tension built, a familiar frustration began to creep in. You were so close to that peak, that elusive edge but the more you focused on his perfection, the more you felt yourself slipping away from your own. You wanted it, you wanted to break through the ceiling you'd lived under for years and the frustration made you grind harder, more desperately.
You were just beginning to lose yourself in the friction, your body humming with a desperate, electric need, when the spell was shattered.
The heavy thud of footsteps hit the wooden porch outside, then came muffled voices.
Tucker.
The sound slammed into you like ice water dumped straight down your spine.
You jolted backward instantly, panic snapping through your body so violently that your balance disappeared completely. The friction, the heat, the dizzy haze clouding your brain shattered in one humiliating second as you scrambled away from Dean in pure instinct.
Dean’s hands had actually stayed off, so when you lurched backward, there was nothing anchoring you in place, no arm catching your waist or grip steadying you. You slipped right off his lap in a graceless tangle of limbs and landed hard beside the chair with a muffled curse, your pulse hammering violently against your ribs.
Dean moved at the same time you did. One hand grabbed the nearest couch pillow and yanked it straight into his lap while the other instinctively reached toward you, fingers brushing empty air because you were already halfway onto your feet.
The front door opened and you froze.
Your breathing came embarrassingly uneven as you tried forcing your body back under control, thighs trembling faintly from the abrupt stop, nerves buzzing so hard beneath your skin it almost hurt. Dean leaned back into the chair with his head tipped toward the ceiling for one brief second, chest rising sharply beneath his t-shirt while tortured frustration flashed openly across his face before he forced himself together enough to look toward the entryway.
Tucker walked in distractedly, phone pressed to his ear while he kicked the door shut behind him with his shoe.
“–No, because that’s not what I said,” he argued into the phone before finally glancing up.
Dean’s voice came out rough and annoyed. “Can't you knock?”
The irritation in it made your eyes widen and before thinking better of it, you reached over and smacked lightly at his arm which made him look offended for half a second.
Tucker’s brows pulled together slowly as his gaze moved between the two of you…You standing there awkwardly and Dean spread out in the armchair with a pillow aggressively covering his lap.
The TV was still playing, forgotten in the background too.
“Wait,” Tucker muttered into the phone, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hold on.” He lowered the phone away from his ear and motioned vaguely around the living room. “I live here,” he pointed out flatly. “If you two wanna study in complete silence maybe turn the TV down or go to the library.”
Your mouth pressed into a painfully tight smile.
“Hey, Y/n.” he greeted, much more gently.
“Hi,” you replied weakly with an awkward nod.
Tucker gave you one more lingering look before wandering toward the kitchen, already returning to his phone conversation while opening the fridge like absolutely nothing life-altering had just occurred in his living room.
The second he was no longer looking, your eyes snapped back toward Dean, his were already on you, wide and still dark with frustration and lingering heat and approximately ten other emotions you absolutely did not have time to unpack right now.
You hurried toward where you’d abandoned your bag near the couch and started shoving your things inside far too quickly.
Dean muttered a curse under his breath behind you as the fridge door opened again. “Wait, wait, wait,” he whispered urgently.
You ignored him completely, nearly dropping your belongings while trying to zip your bag shut.
“You don’t have to leave,” he continued quietly, unable to stand for reasons both of you were painfully aware of. The pillow remained trapped over his lap while he leaned forward slightly, voice dropping lower. “Stay for dinner.” Then louder, “Right, Tucker?”
From the kitchen, still mid-conversation, Tucker lifted a distracted thumbs up without even looking over. Of course you could stay, you were always welcome there and it somehow made this infinitely worse.
“Y/n, c’mon,” Dean tried again, even softer this time.
You finally looked at him, at his flushed face and the way he still looked wrecked from you despite the interruption.
Your stomach flipped painfully. “You can text me that survey of yours,” you muttered.
Dean groaned quietly at the reminder, watching as you grabbed your bag and headed straight for the front door before your embarrassment could physically consume you alive.
You didn’t say goodbye or looked back. You slipped outside into the cold early evening air and shut the door behind you, immediately dragging in one huge breath like you’d been underwater too long.
Fresh air hit your lungs sharply, cool and tensionless.
Your legs felt weird as you walked down the porch steps and somewhere beneath the embarrassment sat an even more irritating realization. You needed to change your panties and somehow, you still hadn’t come.
For the first time in your academic career, you were thankful exam week existed.
The chaos of midterms had given you and Dean something else to focus on besides the fact you’d nearly climbed him in the middle of his living room while Tucker casually walked through the front door. Between study sessions, essays, last-minute cramming and the general emotional collapse that overtook Briar every semester, things had settled back into something manageable.
You and Dean had talked afterward, though absolutely not alone.
He’d insisted on meeting in a crowded coffee shop near campus where old women typed aggressively on laptops and students cried quietly over textbooks in the corner booths. Dean had spent most of the conversation reassuring you Tucker didn’t know anything, swearing repeatedly that if Tucker had known, the entire hockey house would’ve heard about it within twelve minutes. More importantly, he’d made sure you still wanted this and despite the embarrassment, the frustration and how badly your body still reacted whenever he looked at you too long, you did.
“Are you seriously not coming?” Allie paced dramatically across the apartment while speaking, changing outfits for what had to be the fourth time in under an hour. Both you and Hannah tracked her movements from the couch like spectators at a tennis match while she disappeared into her room only to emerge seconds later wearing something slightly tighter each time.
Hannah finally peeled her attention away from Allie to look at you instead.
“She’s right,” she agreed. “Exams are over. Maybe partying would actually help.”
You smiled lazily from your spot curled into the couch cushions, blanket draped across your legs while exhaustion sat heavy behind your eyes.
“What’ll help me is eight uninterrupted hours of sleep,” you informed them. “Which I plan on pursuing aggressively the second both of you leave.” Your mouth twitched slightly. “Now see some boys and make questionable use of your mouths elsewhere.”
Allie barked out a laugh loud enough to echo while Hannah groaned.
“When are we finding your rebound?” Allie asked as she finally settled on an outfit and bent down to tug on her boots.
“It’s too soon,” you decided immediately.
“It is,” Hannah agreed with a firm nod. “She doesn’t wanna think about men right now and we’re respecting that.”
You pointed gratefully toward her. “See? Emotional maturity.”
“Sure,” Allie snorted. “I’m still passing your Instagram around tonight though.” She grinned wickedly while crossing toward the couch. “You can decide what to do with the options later.” Before you could answer, she leaned down and squeezed you tightly against her side. “Don’t wait up for us.”
You watched them drag out the goodbye process intentionally, moving toward the door with exaggerated slowness like they expected you to suddenly change your mind and throw on heels at the last second.
You sighed and stood from the couch, physically herding them toward the exit. “Just go,” you laughed while they protested loudly.
“We tried,” Hannah reminded you with a smile while Allie opened the apartment door. “We’ll send you the address anyway.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“You say that now...”
You waved them off anyway and finally shut the door behind them once they disappeared down the hallway already talking excitedly about shots and music and whatever terrible decisions the night would inevitably produce.
Silence settled across the apartment immediately afterward.
You exhaled slowly…now what? You considered your options while wandering aimlessly through the living space. You could curl up on the couch with your laptop and a movie or crawl into bed and disappear beneath blankets for twelve straight hours like a Victorian woman with mysterious exhaustion. Or…Your thoughts drifted elsewhere automatically, toward your room and the drawer beside your bed.
You grimaced slightly. Maybe tonight was the night you tried again, actually committed to figuring yourself out instead of giving up midway through frustration like usual. You’d bought enough toys over the years based entirely on optimistic reviews and late-night curiosity alone.
Were they even charged? You were approximately two steps away from your bedroom when knocking sounded at the front door.
You groaned at the sound. “Did you guys forget your condoms again?” you called out while turning toward the entrance. Honestly, it happened often enough that the assumption came naturally now.
You unlocked the door and pulled it open. Then blinked at who you saw. “Dean.”
Dean stood casually in the hallway wearing a baseball cap and dark sunglasses despite the fact it was nighttime indoors, which might’ve worked better if he wasn’t also carrying an enormous black bag beside him.
“I always carry condoms,” he informed you smugly.
Your face scrunched instantly as his answer only emphasized how thin the apartment walls actually were. You narrowed your eyes at him while glancing suspiciously down the hallway.
“Why aren’t you at the party?”
Dean lowered the sunglasses enough to properly look at you over the frames.
You looked soft tonight, comfortable. Wearing sweatpants and an oversized shirt, hair messier than usual from lying around all day. The sight quickly made something warm settle low in his chest.
“Because I’m here with you.”
“No,” you corrected. “You wanted to be here with me.” You pointed vaguely toward campus. “Past tense…You should currently be at that party.”
“No can do.” Dean slipped smoothly past you before you could stop him, nudging the apartment door shut behind him with his foot.
Only then did you fully notice the bag. It was large, rectangular, black and rigid with no visible branding whatsoever. It completely ruined the whole incognito outfit.
Your eyes narrowed harder while Dean looked far too pleased with himself.
“I come bearing gifts,” he announced, then he walked straight toward your bedroom like he paid rent there.
“How did you know I didn’t go to the party?” you asked while following him toward your bedroom.
Dean set the bag carefully onto your bed before finally turning around, fingers hooking beneath the brim of his cap as he pulled it off. The sunglasses followed next, revealing eyes already fixed on you with far too much satisfaction.
“I have my sources.”
You grimaced again. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”
“Hannah asked me the other day to convince you to come out tonight.” He shrugged casually. “I didn’t.”
You crossed your arms. “Who says I would’ve agreed anyway?”
Dean smiled instantly. “Me.” The confidence in his answer came without hesitation. “I’m very persuasive.”
You rolled your eyes before your attention dragged back toward the massive black bag sitting suspiciously at the foot of your bed. “What is that?”
Dean glanced over his shoulder toward it. “Our entertainment for tonight.” His mouth twitched slightly. “Well…mine.”
You narrowed your eyes harder at him before stepping around him toward the bed. The bag gave nothing away from the outside, rigid and sleek and annoyingly mysterious.
Cautiously, you reached inside and your fingers brushed lace first. You blinked then slowly pulled the item free into the light between you both, pinching it delicately between two fingers like it might suddenly attack you.
“Lingerie?” you asked, genuinely confused.
Dean nodded once. “I had to get rid of the boxes,” he explained. “Turns out Agent Provocateur packaging isn’t exactly subtle.”
Your eyes widened immediately. “Agent Provocateur?” You stared at him in disbelief before looking back into the bag. “Are you insane?”
One by one, you started pulling more pieces out. Black lace…cream silk and tiny straps. Things so soft they barely felt real against your fingertips.
Dean watched your growing expression carefully and only then seemed to realize he may have gone slightly overboard. “I got lost on the website,” he admitted. “And then there was free shipping after a certain amount which felt financially irresponsible to ignore.”
You straightened slowly, still clutching one lace bodysuit in your hands while looking at him like he’d lost his damn mind.
“Explain to me,” you said carefully, “how exactly this counts as entertainment.”
“Besides the obvious?”
Your stare sharpened. Dean exhaled quietly before answering, his tone softening as the teasing faded from his expression.
“When you were on my lap the other day…” His eyes flickered briefly toward the floor before returning to you. “You stopped focusing on yourself after a while.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the lace.
“You started trying to get me there instead,” he continued gently. “Like you were more worried about proving something than actually feeling good.”
Heat crept onto the nape of your neck because he was right. Dean noticed everything.
“And I get it,” he added quickly, voice staying careful. “Probably instinct. You wanted me to enjoy it.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Which I definitely did, by the way. Don’t start doubting that part.”
You stayed quiet while watching him and actually listened instead of acting on your urge to flee.
“Tonight,” he said after a beat, nodding lightly toward the lingerie scattered across your bed, “the lingerie can be for me.” His eyes moved back to yours. “So the rest can just be yours.”
The room went quiet afterward. The plan had probably sounded more coherent in Dean’s head at one in the morning while online shopping half-awake with his laptop balanced on his stomach but somewhere beneath the absurdity of it, you understood what he meant.
Lingerie wasn’t only about someone else seeing you in it, women bought it for themselves too, to feel pretty, desired and confident. Sometimes just to stand in front of the mirror and reclaim something private but eventually, with partners, it often became performative too, something shared and visual. Dean was trying to remove that pressure from everything else.
Your gaze drifted slowly back down toward the pile of lace but you still weren’t entirely sure what happened next. You tried things on and then, what?
Your voice lowered slightly. “What kind of mind games are you playing?”
You hoped it didn’t sound accusing because it wasn’t meant to. You were just struggling to process the fact Dean had seen through you so clearly after one failed attempt, that he’d gone and actually thought about it, considered it and returned with something tangible instead of empty reassurance and blind confidence.
Dean shook his head immediately. “No games.” His voice stayed soft and patient, ready to leave the second you told him this was too much. “Let’s just give it a shot.”
Silence stretched again before you finally reached for a pair of panties instead. The lace slid smoothly through your fingers as you lifted the panties between you both for further inspection.
Dean’s eyes dropped instantly and despite himself, one very clear thought crossed his mind.
‘Yeah. Definitely one of my favorites.’
“How do you even know these will fit?” you asked honestly. The fabric looked expensive enough to disintegrate if handled incorrectly, soft lace brushing against your fingertips while you inspected the tiny details stitched into it.
Dean opened his mouth…closed it and opened it again. “I’m…observant?”
Even he sounded unsure of the answer.
Your lips twitched as you bit back a laugh while digging through the pile until you found the matching bra, then gathered both pieces in your hands.
“Observant and persuasive,” you mused while backing toward the bathroom. “Let me know when there’s something substantial to add to that list.”
Dean nodded solemnly like you’d given him serious criticism to reflect on. “Will do.”
The bathroom door clicked shut behind you and the second it did, Dean exhaled sharply and looked down at himself...for fuck’s sake.
He adjusted himself miserably through his pants while staring at your closed bathroom door in defeat. Lately everything about you affected him differently, your voice, your teasing and the way you looked at him for half a second too long depending on the day.
It was becoming genuinely embarrassing.
Dean barely moved from the spot you’d left him in.
He stayed planted near the foot of your bed, one hand dragging occasionally through his hair while his eyes remained fixed on the bathroom door like staring hard enough would somehow let him see through it. Every few seconds he twitched awkwardly in his pants, dealing unsuccessfully with the consequences of occasionally hearing your hums through the thin wall while knowing exactly what you were changing into behind it.
Inside the bathroom, you stood frozen in front of the mirror for far longer than necessary.
You tried very hard not to think about how closely Dean must’ve paid attention to you over the years to somehow get the sizing exactly right because it fit perfectly.
The lace sat snug against your skin without pinching anywhere, soft black patterns curling over your chest and hugging your hips beautifully. The bra lifted your breasts enough to make your posture straighten instinctively while the matching panties rested low against your hips, delicate enough to feel expensive but comfortable enough not to make you tug at them every two seconds.
You looked good, not just tolerable under dim lights or acceptable after strategic positioning and reassurance and maybe that was what scared you most because now you had to walk back out there and let someone else see it too.
With one last glance toward your reflection, you finally reached for the doorknob and stepped back into your room.
Dean looked up immediately, the reaction was almost embarrassing.
He stopped breathing for half a second entirely, eyes dragging over you slowly enough to make heat climb straight into your throat. He barely blinked while following your movement across the room as you drifted toward your full-length mirror, fingertips lightly tracing the lace resting over your shoulders before moving lower toward the small details connecting the cups together.
The silence stretched thickly.
You kept looking at yourself mostly because looking directly at him felt dangerous right now, even as he moved behind you slowly without touching. He was just standing there close enough for warmth to gather along your back while his eyes followed yours through the reflection. Wherever you looked, he looked too, until eventually your gazes met in the mirror.
You swallowed. “What do you think?”
Dean inhaled deeply through his nose. “I think,” he said slowly, “Six Flags might be going out of business soon.”
Your brows lifted immediately before a quiet laugh escaped you despite yourself.
You turned around to face him fully then, stepping closer until only inches separated you both. Your hands settled carefully against the center of his chest, fingertips brushing lightly against the fabric of his shirt while you looked up at him.
Dean held your gaze steadily, too steadily, sometimes it genuinely felt like he could read your thoughts if he stared long enough. “What do you think?” he echoed softly.
You hummed quietly, eyes flickering downward toward his mouth before lifting back up again.
“I think…” Your hands began sliding slowly down his chest, fingertips grazing over the hard planes beneath his shirt one inch at a time. “Maybe…” Your voice softened further as your palms drifted lower. “I could show you something I actually know how to do.”
Dean’s jaw tightened as your fingers brushed the bulge straining against his pants.
“With my mouth,” you finished quietly.
You didn’t move afterward and neither did he.
In your head, the logic made sense. Dean already thought you were beautiful, so you didn’t need him witnessing your frustration firsthand too. You could give him something good instead, something you knew how to control.
For one dangerous second, he looked like he was genuinely considering it. Then Dean exhaled sharply and turned you around instead, guiding you gently back toward the mirror until your back rested against his chest.
A startled breath caught in your throat as your ass pressed unintentionally against the hard outline of his erection.
Your eyes met his again through the reflection.
“I don’t doubt you can do those things,” he murmured near your ear. “All of them.”
One of his hands settled carefully against your waist while the other slid slowly downward, fingertips brushing beneath the waistband of your panties enough to make your stomach tighten.
His eyes never once left yours in the mirror. “So why do you?”
The reflection showed the two of you, a study in tension and longing. You could see the intensity in his eyes, the way he watched you not just with desire but with a focused, intentional kind of devotion.
His hand didn't push further, he stopped before his fingertips brushed the outer lips of your pussy, leaving a teasing spark of contact. He held himself there, gaze locking onto yours in the mirror, waiting. He wasn't going to take a single inch more without your explicit permission.
You felt your heart hammer against your ribs, chest heaving. You looked into his eyes and gave a small, shaky nod.
The moment you did, he slid deeper. His fingers glided through the slick already gathering between your thighs, parting you with a gentle pressure that could’ve made your toes curl. He didn't rush, he navigated the wet lips until his fingertip found the small, swollen bud of your clit. He began to circle it slowly with agonizingly steady rotations that sent ripples of electricity shooting straight to your core.
"Tell me what you see," he whispered, voice a low and gravelly vibration against your ear.
You swallowed hard, voice trembling as you focused on the reflection. "You...you touching me," you breathed.
As you spoke, you watched your own body react. Your breathing picked up, turning into shallow, jagged gasps. In the mirror, you saw your breasts heaving, the nipples peaking and hardening into tight, sensitive points through the lace of your bra. As if reading your thoughts, Dean’s other hand reached around, his fingers finding one breast and gripping it. He massaged the hardened peak, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger and you let out a sharp, involuntary swallow, head tilting back slightly.
"And what's at the end of me?" he asked, voice humming with a dark, sensual curiosity.
"Me," you whispered, the word barely leaving your lips.
"What else?" he pressed, fingers continuing that relentless, circling motion. He was forcing you to stay present, stripping away your ability to hide in your head or focus on his pleasure. He wanted you trapped in your own skin.
You stared at yourself, hyper-aware of every inch of your anatomy. "Beauty marks," you murmured, noticing the small moles on your thighs and torso that you usually ignored.
"And here?" he asked, his thumb flicking the tip of your nipple.
"Hardened nipples," you gasped, eyes fluttering.
"And on your skin..." he prompted, his fingers quickening their pace, the friction against your clit becoming more insistent and demanding.
"Goosebumps," you whimpered. You could see them breaking out across your shoulders and arms, a physical manifestation of the arousal peaking within you.
The sensory overload was dizzying. Every time you named a part of yourself, the pleasure seemed to intensify, as if acknowledging your own body was unlocking a door you'd kept bolted shut. Dean’s fingers were no longer just circling, they were fluttering, vibrating against your most sensitive spot with a precision that made your hips instinctively buck back against him. You felt the wetness flooding out of you and coating his fingers, making the sounds of his touch wet and explicit in the quiet room.
You tried desperately to keep your eyes locked on his in the mirror but as the pleasure climbed, the world began to blur. Your eyelids grew heavy, the edges of your vision darkening as the sensation centered entirely on the point where he was rubbing you. You started to moan, the sounds raw but still shy, escaping your throat without your permission. You pushed your backside harder against the rigid length of his erection, craving the friction, the completion.
The tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter, a spring winding up to the point of snapping. You were right there, on the precipice, the beginning of an orgasm shimmering just out of reach. Your breath became a series of broken sobs as your body trembled in anticipation. Was this it?
"I think...I–" you started, voice breaking as the first wave of a climax seemed to form but just before it solidified, just as you were about to believe it would, Dean abruptly pulled his hand away.
The sudden void was shocking. You gasped, body jolting from the abrupt loss of stimulation, the orgasm denied at the very last second of creation. You were left vibrating, aching and halfway undone but before you could process the frustration, he gripped your waist and turned you around in his arms so you were facing him.
Your eyes were wide, glazed with lust and confusion, chest heaving as you looked up at him.
"What the hell are you doing?" you asked, voice a breathless wreck.
Dean didn't answer immediately. He just looked at you, taking in the desperate hunger in your eyes. He gripped your hips firmly, knuckles white and began backing up toward the bed, pulling you with him.
"Trusting you to do it first," he murmured.
As the back of his knees hit the mattress, he let himself fall back, laying flat on his back and spreading his arms wide, leaving himself completely open and vulnerable to you.
You climbed over him, your movements determined, fueled by a desperate, humming need that had been wound tight in the mirror. You braced your knees against his sides, feeling the hard muscle of his thighs beneath you and planted one hand firmly on his chest. Beneath your palm, you could feel his heart hammering a frantic rhythm, a mirror to your own. With a renewed sense of determination, you slipped your other hand beneath the fabric of your panties, your fingers finding the slick, swollen heat of your pussy.
As you began to touch yourself, you closed your eyes for a moment, repeating the litany he had forced you to acknowledge in the mirror. You focused on the hyper-awareness he had instilled in you, turning that mental lens inward. You found your clit, already engorged and sensitive and began to circle it. Your breathing became ragged, each exhale a shaky shudder that vibrated through your entire frame.
You opened your eyes and looked down at your hand on his chest. You watched the way his pectorals heaved under your touch, his skin flushed and warm. Then, you felt his hands slide up your legs, his large palms gripping your thighs firmly. The sheer intensity of his gaze, the way he watched your every movement with a hunger that felt almost tangible, made a low moan escape your throat.
You had never reached this point before, never felt this close to the edge of something so profound. The pleasure was a rising tide, threatening to pull you under.
"Be patient," Dean breathed, his voice a low, grounding rumble that seemed to vibrate through the mattress and into your bones. "Listen to your body."
You nodded, eyes locked onto his and focused entirely on the sensation. You ignored the noise in your head, everything except the friction of your own fingers. You kept your hand working at a speed you liked, a steady, rhythmic pressure that built a coil of tension in your lower belly. You began to squirm, hips rocking in a slow, undulating motion against your own hand, chasing the spark.
In your haze of arousal, you shifted, pressing your soaking wet clothed cunt directly onto the rigid length of his erection through his pants. The sudden, blunt pressure against your clit sent a shockwave of pleasure through you and you let out a loud, uncontrolled moan. Dean groaned in response, a sound of pure, tortured restraint as he kept his hips from jerking upward to meet you.
You quickly lifted your hips again, holding them high in the air, body arching as you fought to maintain the rhythm.
“Holy fuck,” You were so close now, the world was narrowing down to the point where your fingers met your flesh.
"Attagirl. That's it," Dean whispered, voice thick with praise. "You're doing so good. Just like that...look at you, taking it all in. So fucking worth it."
His words were like fuel to the fire. The praise made you bolder and movements more frantic. You pressed harder, your fingers fluttering with an urgency that bordered on desperation until the tension reached a breaking point, a white-hot spark that suddenly ignited into a roaring flame.
The orgasm hit you like a physical blow. Your head snapped back, your spine arching as the first wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your lips parted and an unreal, unabashed sound, a high, keening cry of release slipped out of you, echoing through the room. It was your first time ever coming and the sensation was overwhelming. It didn't just peak and fade, it rolled through you in long, rhythmic pulses that seemed to last forever, shaking your entire body, leaving your muscles twitching and your mind a complete blank.
Dean didn't move. He looked at you, completely mesmerized, eyes wide and unblinking. He watched the way your throat worked as you gasped for air, the way your breasts heaved and the way your body shuddered under the aftershocks. Beneath you, his cock throbbed and twitched painfully against the constraint of his pants, a visible manifestation of the agony and ecstasy of watching you shatter.
As the waves finally subsided, leaving you limp and floating, you collapsed onto his chest with a sultry whine, skin damp with sweat and breathing heavy and synchronized with his as you caught your breath.
The silence of the room was thick, charged with the lingering electricity of the moment.
You swallowed hard while still catching your breath, voice a mere whisper against his skin. "Is it too soon to say that was the best orgasm I've ever had?"
Dean let out a heavy, uneven breath beneath you, the sound shuddering straight through his chest and into yours. Only then did his hands finally leave your thighs. Slowly, almost cautiously, they slid upward along your sides until his palms settled against your back.
Gone was the restraint that had kept his fingers tense and controlled earlier. Now he touched you lightly, almost reverently, fingertips drifting along the curve of your spine over the lace while he tried to steady his breathing. Every few seconds his hands flexed against you instinctively, like he still couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.
“Definitely the best one I’ve ever had,” he murmured.
His voice sounded wrecked, dizzy, like simply watching you come apart on top of him had pushed him somewhere dangerously close to losing it himself.
You lifted your head slowly from where it rested against his chest, pushing up enough to properly look at him.
Dean blinked up at you lazily, pupils completely blown.
You swallowed once. “Did you…?”
The question barely finished forming before Dean’s expression morphed into something sheepish and amused all at once. He swallowed too before nodding once against the mattress.
Your eyes widened slightly as his hand slid upward from your back, fingertips brushing softly along your jaw while he looked at you with an expression so openly fond it almost hurt to hold eye contact with him.
“Am I still not deserving of a kiss?” he asked quietly. Half joking, half absolutely not.
You hummed thoughtfully like you were genuinely considering it. “You want a cookie and a gold star too?”
Dean’s grin spread slowly across his face, matching yours instantly despite the pleasure still weighing down his features. “Better than the survey.”
You laughed softly through your nose before finally leaning down the rest of the way.
The kiss was warm, searing and long overdue.
Dean’s hand moved instantly to the back of your head, holding you in place like he’d been waiting weeks to finally do exactly this. It started slow for approximately two seconds, soft lips parting against yours carefully, almost disbelievingly, before weeks of tension snapped apart all at once.
You melted into him with a breathless sound as his mouth pressed harder against yours.
Dean kissed like he did everything else, thoroughly.
His thumb pushed lightly beneath your jaw, tilting your head back enough for him to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against yours slow at first, exploratorily, before the restraint he’d been clinging to all night dissolved completely. The taste of him, the warmth of his mouth and the low groan that rumbled out of his chest when you kissed him back with equal desperation made your stomach tighten all over again.
The kiss quickly turned messy, hungry. You could barely catch your breath between them, mouths reconnecting instantly every time you pulled apart for air like neither of you could tolerate the distance anymore. Dean’s grip tightened on your hair as his other hand spread wide against your back, dragging you flush against him while his tongue swept against yours again, deeper this time, making heat rush straight through your body.
So much for rules.
Seems like Six Flags had just been privatised for a single Agent Provocateur wearer…indefinitely.
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! 🤍
i deadass need more dean fics holy shit, it’s so hard to find writers who capture a character so well! feels like i just dug up gold or something, you’re very talented:)
Oh gosh, thank you so much!! And you all really came through with the interactions on that post, it genuinely means a lot! I'll say I've only watched the show, so I'm still very much experimenting with his characterization. I won't be reading the books for a few different reasons, but that never stops me from doing my own research!
I'm actually currently working on a request for him as we speak, it's going to be a longer one and it's still in the works, but you'll have it sometime between the beginning and middle of the week. Fair warning though, I have a feeling the next few pieces are just going to be a whole lot of smut, so I hope you're all okay with that 😅
Hi! I was just wondering if you’d ever write for Peter Parker?
Yesyes!! definitely in the very near future and if not before, then certainly when the movie comes out! The way inspiration tends to hit me outside of requests is very specific and comes with a character already attached to whatever storyline that is, so if that happens it'll only make it sooner. It's also honestly why I haven't written for Dick Grayson yet like I said I would, inspiration just hasn't struck for him and I can't really force it.
As for which version, I'd probably write for both Garfield's and Holland's, but Garfield's is absolutely my top pick!
i had no idea you were r66dus! it feels like seeing an old friend again lol! i hope life treats you well and just know we’re all glad you’re back. sending you love
Not so surprisingly coming back felt just like coming home after a long while away! Thank you so much for the kind words and I'm so very glad we both found our way back. Sending even more love right back to youuuuu!
i just wanted to come over and say how much im obsessed with your work. everytime i read one of your fics, it feels like im transported to a new place and its inspiring to read such amazing work, honestly makes me want to be a better writer everytime i read your fics. the way you characterize clark is literally so perfect everytime, least to say i loved the secret life of miss honey series so much.
im so excited to see where you take the marvelous mrs kent series!!!!! everything about this made me want to scream. all the dynamics within just the first two parts make me crave for more!!!! (i would loved to be tagged in the series please)
honestly, im just excited to see anything you put out and i hope youre having an amazing day 💕💕💕💕💕
You guys are genuinely the sweetest, I swear!
Thank you so much and that's truly all I ever hope to do. There's a reason my theme is multiversal travel! I want to take your minds somewhere else, even if it's just for 15 minutes because we all need a place to escape to.
And honestly Clark might just be the easiest character I've ever written for 😭 You take a perfect man and you just do whatever it takes to make him even more perfect. That's the whole job but I'll also say I'm still very much trying to grow as a writer myself, while making sure I'm actually enjoying the process which at the end of the day is the most important part even if it’s “just a hobby”
It's so funny because it really does seem like the series you all gravitate toward the most are the ones that started as a random little story that I then had to build from the ground up which stresses me out just a teeny tiny bit 😀
“The secret life of Miss Honey” was such a joy to write and I am so passionate about “The marvelous Mrs. Kent” so knowing it's already making people laugh so much means everything.
Next up will be a standalone fic so I can take the week to properly work on the next chapter! Chapters 4 and 5 are already being planned, so both are confirmed for now. I'll absolutely tag you in the upcoming parts and thank you so much for taking the time to reach out. It genuinely means a lot! 🫶🫶
Honestly it’s my own damn fault for wanting to make something creative with little to know design experience. I’ll try to make a better looking flying Superman divider one of these days, I swear!
It's a big maybe and it really comes down to a couple of things!
I've been slowly stepping back from TWD fics in general because the fandom feels like it's winding down and I'm not really taking on new requests at the moment. That said, if something catches my eye and sparks inspiration, I'll absolutely write and post it!
Also, the era would weirdly matter a lot to me. I feel like Glenn and Maggie's relationship is such a fundamental part of the group's story that writing him as a love interest for someone else just feels...off, unless it's set before that dynamic really took root but I guess it also has a lot to do with how much I love them as a couple. So if I were to write it, I'd set it somewhere between the quarry and the farm before the fire. That window feels like the only one where it would feel true to his character to explore romantically without glossing over something so significant to that world.
I've sort of applied the same logic before when I wrote for Rick and that was also set before him and Michonne became a thing. Though I'll admit, their window is much MUCH larger. Even so, I wouldn't go near that golden couple era out of genuine love for what they have.
It's something so perfect that I fear I could never do it justice for a reader insert unless an absolutely insane amount of inspiration hit me first and knocked me off my feet.
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x coach's goddaugther!reader
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a/n: Thank you so much for all the love shown to my first Dean fic! Here’s a little extra so you guys can see what my blog has to offer. I’ve created the masterlist and more is coming (not only smut but I need to get through the horniness first).
Summary: You were always off-limits. The coach’s goddaughter, the team’s PR girl and the one woman Dean couldn’t have...but the thing about limits was that it was still a line to skate over.
Classification: Smut +18 | voyeurism/exhibitionism, detailed mutual masturbation, forbidden romance, risk of getting caught / secret relationship tension (coach’s goddaughter + player dynamic) and pining
Word count: 5,2k
Divider by me ;)
You were the embodiment of ‘off limits’.
A PR and communications student assigned to the hockey team to learn the ropes, glued to a camera, phone or a laptop half the time, always lingering somewhere between the locker room and the rink with that little furrow between your brows whenever the boys gave you trouble.
And worse, you were the coach’s goddaughter, practically raised by the man and threaded into Briar hockey long before Dean had ever pulled on the jersey.
You attended Sunday dinners at his house and there probably were childhood photos stacked in dusty albums somewhere in his office. Those were years of trust Dean had absolutely no business threatening.
Off. limits.
Dean repeated it to himself constantly over the last year, as if repetition alone could beat the impulse out of him. He did so in empty equipment rooms when you brushed past him carrying stacks of media packets, in hotel lobbies during away games when you sat cross-legged on a couch editing footage at two in the morning while the rest of the team got drunk upstairs and during practices when he’d glance toward the bleachers and immediately regret it the second he spotted you there, bundled in team colors, chewing absently on the cap of a pen while watching the ice with sharp, attentive eyes.
It wasn’t harmless anymore and that was the problem.
At first he’d told himself it was mere attraction…temporary and easy to bury, but months kept passing and somehow every woman he brought home blurred together because none of them were you, none of them looked at him with restrained annoyance whenever he pushed too far and none of them straightened his collar before interviews with distracted but perfectionist little tugs of your fingers.
Hell, he couldn’t even get it up anymore and the few times he tried sleeping with someone else ended badly enough to bruise his ego.
You hadn’t even touched him yet and somehow you’d ruined him completely.
You hadn’t shown up to practice that afternoon, choosing instead to camp out in your godfather’s office to finish assignments, legs curled beneath you on the couch while the muffled sound of pucks slamming against boards echoed through the walls. By the time practice ended, you’d gathered your folder and headed out to finish your actual responsibilities before the boys disappeared for the night.
You caught Garrett first on the way toward the showers, then Logan and Tucker, who exchanged immediate shit-eating grins before inevitably dragging Dean into it. Completely wrecking your original plan of quietly emailing him the document later and pretending not to care when he probably ignored it for three whole days.
The hallway outside the locker room had mostly emptied by the time he appeared.
Dean strode toward you lazily, sweaty hair sticking slightly to his forehead, gear half removed, skates still carving heavy sounds against the rubber flooring. The second he noticed how empty the corridor was, his mouth tilted upward slowly, something pleased and dangerous settling into his expression.
“Did you need me, Hawkeye?” he asked as that grin widened once he stopped directly in front of you…far too close.
Only then did you realize your mistake, standing near the wall like an idiot, leaving nowhere to go once his frame crowded the space. He towered over you already and the skates only made it unfair. Heat rolled off him fresh from practice, sharp cologne mixing with sweat and cold air from the rink.
“You need to stop calling me that,” you said flatly, immediately looking anywhere but directly at him.
Dean’s eyes fixed on your face with infuriating patience. “Why?” he asked lightly. “Thought your whole job was noticing everything.”
You finally looked at him then, holding his stare in what you hoped translated to ‘behave yourself for once’.
His expression barely changed but something darker flickered behind his eyes anyway.
A quiet sigh left him. “What’d you need me for?” he asked softer this time, voice dropping into that maddening tone he reserved only for you. Gentle and careful, like he was handling something delicate instead of actively making your life harder.
It only got worse when he stepped closer.
Instinctively, you stepped back. Your shoulders nearly hit the wall, breath catching painfully in your lungs at the sudden lack of space. You straightened afterward, forcing your posture taller like it would somehow help. It obviously didn’t because Dean was already bigger than you, even more when he was standing there in skates, looking down at you like he had all the time in the world.
“You need to approve the questions for the next team interview,” you told him, pulling a printed sheet from the folder you carried.
Dean glanced down at the paper briefly but made no effort to take it. His eyes found yours again, gaze lazy and unwavering. “I don’t need to,” he said. “You wrote them.”
“It’s protocol.” You insistently lifted the page higher between you both.
“It’s you,” he replied, like that alone justified everything.
Your expression flattened. “So if someone asks you ‘how many strokes it takes you to nut’ mid-interview, you’re just gonna roll with it?”
A grin spread slowly across his face, brow lifting. “Depends.” He mirrored your earlier shrug casually, though his attention never once left your face. “Will you be the one asking me the question?”
You glanced down the hallway again before answering. “I won’t be there.”
“Then no,” he decided immediately.
“It would still be bad,” you stressed, pushing the page against the center of his chest. The paper bent slightly over the hard padding beneath his gear. “My entire job is making sure things like that don’t happen. Read them and approve at least three.”
Dean looked down at your hand where it rested against him but his own still didn’t move.
“I’m a hockey player,” he reminded you solemnly. “Reading’s already asking a lot from me.”
“Email me your pick.” You pressed the page harder against his chest when he still refused to take it, annoyance sharpening your movements enough to wrinkle the paper more under your palm.
“Can’t,” he replied easily. “She’s standing right in front of me.”
“Of the questions,” you clarified firmly which finally earned a quiet laugh from him.
Dean took the page at last, fingers dragging against yours for a second too long before pulling away. It was entirely intentional, you knew that much from the way his mouth twitched afterward.
“Then I’ll text you.”
“You’ll send your answers to my school email,” you corrected quickly. “Texting is unprofessional and it’ll get you blocked.”
You conveniently left out the real issue, which was that the two of you absolutely should not be texting each other in the first place because every interaction already lingered too long and every conversation slipped somewhere dangerous eventually.
Dean studied you for a moment, his expression soft and voice quieter underneath the teasing. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
You nodded once because denying it would’ve been pointless. “I’ve been busy.”
His head tilted slightly, lips pressed in a tight line. “With what?”
“Avoiding you.” The smile that pulled at your mouth betrayed how true the answer was. “The world doesn’t revolve around you,” you continued. “If I get one bad grade, I lose this job and you are the epitome of a distraction.” You paused, letting the silence stretch as you waited for his answer. “Epitome means–”
“I know what it means,” he cut in, grinning wider now. “Your godfather’s not gonna fire you.”
“No,” you corrected, poking a finger into his chest. The impact hurt you far more than him against all that equipment. “Your coach will. Then he’ll give me some speech about loving me and wanting what’s best for my future, which honestly makes it worse because he’ll be right.”
Something changed in Dean’s face as the grin began fading. “I missed you,” he admitted quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
You saw it happen in real time too, the brief regret flashing behind his eyes after saying it aloud but it was already there now, hanging heavily between you both.
“We’re already stuck doing this…” He gestured vaguely between your bodies, frustration roughening his voice. “‘Almost’ thing and now you wanna disappear too?” He shook his head once, jaw tightening. “We need to figure something out because I can’t think when you’re around.” His eyes dragged slowly over your face before settling back on your eyes again. “And somehow I can’t think when you’re gone either.”
Your brows pulled together, trying very hard to stay serious despite the smile threatening at your mouth. “Can’t fix the lack of a brain, Di Laurentis.”
“Funny,” he murmured flatly, nodding once. “No, actually, that was hilarious. I almost believed you didn’t care for a second there.”
Your mouth opened with a rebuttal ready, but voices suddenly echoed further down the hallway and they got progressively louder and closer. Dean reacted instantly. His hand found your waist before you could protest, firm and warm even through layers of clothing, steering you quickly down the hall toward the nearest side room.
Once you entered, the door shut softly behind you both.
Your nose scrunched. “What the–,” you whispered harshly. “It fucking stinks in here.”
Your eyes adjusted enough to make out scattered hockey equipment piled around the cramped storage room. Gloves, pads and jerseys that, judging by the smell alone, hadn’t been cleaned recently.
Dean stood directly in front of the door, broad shoulders blocking it almost entirely. “It was either this or getting caught.”
“Oh, so you are aware there’s an issue here.” You nodded slowly. “That’s amazing progress for you, actually.” You pointed toward the door behind him. “Can I go now?”
He shook his head once, decisive even in the cramped, sour-smelling storage room. “I wanna see you tonight.”
You let out a breathy laugh before you could stop it, the sound slipping out lighter than you intended. “I’d like to see me too,” you decided, adjusting your grip on the folder like it could anchor you back into something sensible. “I’ve got things to turn in. Between that and this job I’m trying very hard to keep and deserve despite the obvious nepotism allegations, I barely have time to do anything else.”
“Perfect,” he said, as if you’d just agreed with him. “So I’ll be your distraction.” He paused, then carefully added, “From a…appropriate distance.”
Your brows pulled together. “Are you even listening to me?” You reached up on instinct, tilting his head down slightly like you were physically trying to redirect his attention. “Didn’t know hockey required ear plugs.”
Dean’s grin turned sharper. “You know exactly what hockey requires,” he countered, voice low. “You just wanted to touch me.”
His hand softly caught your wrist halfway before he seemed to remember himself and let go as quickly as he’d taken it. Still, he stepped closer right after, restraint only applying in pieces. Your breath caught on the way in, shallow and inconvenient, as his nose nudged yours gently, forcing your gaze up.
“An hour,” he murmured softly, almost in a begging tone. “Two tops…I’m going through withdrawals here.”
You huffed out a quiet laugh, the word choice alone almost ridiculous enough to cut through the tension. “I don’t think that’s medically accurate,” you said.
“You wouldn’t want to be the one explaining it to the coach,” he continued, unfazed, “or posting it on socials.”
“No,” you agreed, lips twitching despite yourself. “It wouldn’t get the right statistics. It’s bad rep for the team.”
The humor didn’t quite hide the way your breathing slowed, attention narrowing until it was just him, too close in a room that suddenly felt smaller than it should’ve. You breathed him in without meaning to, realizing it was the first time you’d allowed yourself the space to notice everything without immediately stepping away.
So for one weak second, you indulged in it…and if something happened because of it, if lines blurred and boundaries slipped, you’d blame the idiot currently brushing his nose against yours like he had no self-preservation instinct whatsoever.
You swallowed. “It’s a bad idea.”
Dean shrugged, entirely shameless. “I’ve had plenty of those before.” His lips curved. “Came out alright every time.”
You exhaled and this time your hand came up to his chest pushing lightly to create space. To his credit, he allowed it, always did when it mattered. “You can’t get it up,” you reminded bluntly, “there’s nothing ‘alright’ about that.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, head tilting like he was recalibrating you, yet amusement still flashed across his face. “How do you know that?”
“Voices carry in these hallways,” you replied, momentum making it worse instead of better. “And it’s suspicious when the team’s resident roller coaster suddenly stops offering rides to every girl with a pulse.”
His grin only widened. Fuck, he was enjoying this…and worse, so were you.
“So maybe it really is withdrawals,” you decided.
“Then help me with it,” he added, as the simplest solution in the world.
Silence followed immediately after as you held his gaze while the seconds stretched painfully long, until even the smell of old gear faded, drowned out now by the overwhelming presence of him.
You eventually cleared your throat, stepping back carefully until your shoulder nearly brushed a stack of equipment. “I’m gonna go now,” you announced, voice steadier than you felt. “I’ll go one way–” you gestured vaguely toward yourself, then the door, drawing boundaries in the air. “And you’ll go the opposite way.”
“And then what?” His voice matched yours, it was quiet and careful.
There was no teasing left in it anymore. Dean was used to this part, used to you pulling away at the last second, both of you pretending restraint still meant control but even now, he stepped aside from the door without argument, giving you space to leave because as badly as he wanted this, he wanted you to want it too.
You moved toward the exit slowly, fingers wrapping around the cold handle before glancing back at him one last time. “I’ll see you around,”
You opened the door and stepped back into the hallway, letting cold, clean air replace everything that had been pressing in on you.
The door clicked shut behind you as Dean exhaled hard through his nose and stayed exactly where he was because the worst part of the entire interaction wasn’t the rejection, it was the reminder that he wasn’t broken at all…the unmistakable hardening tent in his hockey pants made that painfully obvious.
Dean stayed home that night.
For probably the first time in months, he skipped the party the team had been planning all week. The excuse came easily enough, he’d faked discomfort in his ankle the second he got back to the locker room after you left, enough grimacing and irritation to keep the guys from questioning him too hard.
By the time everyone headed out, the house had finally gone quiet and now he sat alone on the edge of his bed staring at the blank wall across from him with the concentration of a man trying not to lose his mind.
His phone rested facedown on the desk a few feet away, intentionally dead. He had watched the battery drain without plugging it in, convincing himself this counted as effort…progress or even detox. Maybe if the phone died, the temptation would too. This way he couldn’t text you or call, or even stare at your contact until his self-control caved in around midnight like it usually did.
You had become a habit too quickly…worse than a habit honestly, because Dean had given up plenty of things before. Bad grades, classes and women whose names he should’ve remembered to moan instead of yours, but trying not to reach for you felt violent in comparison.
A frustrated breath left him as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, glaring toward the dead phone anyway. Fucking hell, even silence tempted him.
He could already picture it perfectly if the phone still worked, he would send one stupid text, something harmless enough to start things off. You’d reply annoyed within minutes with sharp little responses pretending indifference while still answering too fast. Then eventually one of you would push too far and suddenly the conversation would drift past every boundary you both kept swearing mattered.
Dean scrubbed a hand down his face roughly then froze when a noise sounded outside his window.
For half a second he thought he imagined the house creaking or branches scratching against the siding just as your head appeared outside his second-story window.
You shoved the unlocked frame forward with visible irritation, balancing dangerously on the ladder propped against the house. “Are you gonna help me,” you hissed, “or just fucking stare while I die?”
Dean moved instantly and crossed the space in seconds, grabbing the window and holding it wider as he reached out for you. The original intention probably involved helping you climb inside normally, maybe by steadying your arm or something. Instead, the second his hands landed on your waist, instinct completely took over and he hauled you inside too quickly.
Your balance disappeared entirely and the both of you toppled backward onto the bed in a mess of limbs and startled noises. You landed squarely on top of him hard enough to knock a grunt from his chest.
Dean looked up at you already grinning while you were certain your eye twitched with annoyance so visibly he almost laughed again.
“Hurt ankle, my ass,” you muttered, pushing yourself upright swiftly and moving off him, sitting cautiously on the edge of the mattress for approximately two seconds before your expression changed.
A look of sudden reconsideration crossed your face making you stand right back up.
Dean watched in amusement as you wiped your palms against your jeans, glancing around the room instead of at him.
“Fuck knows what’s happened on that bed.” You mumbled under a breath.
“You came to check on me,” he said instead, smile widening as he propped himself up on his elbows. “Thought you didn’t do house calls.”
You shrugged lightly, immediately reaching for technicalities the way you always did whenever you crossed one of your own rules. “I didn’t call,” you pointed out. “Or text.”
Dean’s grin softened at that. “Did you get my email?” he asked, weirdly proud of himself.
“I did.” You finally looked at him properly again…with annoyance, of course. “Though signing it ‘Big Dick Dean Di Laurentis’ felt incredibly tasteless.”
He sat up fully now, visibly delighted. “That was obviously a typo.”
“Then why are you smiling?”
Dean climbed to his feet slowly, attention locked entirely on you as he stepped closer. “You could’ve used the front door,” he pointed out. “There’s no one else here.” His gaze dropped pointedly toward where you still hovered beside the bed instead of sitting. “And it’s clean,” he added. “Thought you knew all about how little play I get these days.”
That comment earned him a look, one of those quiet staring contests the two of you somehow kept having lately, where neither person moved first because both of you wanted the other to crack beforehand.
Eventually, you sighed and sat down on the bed properly.
Dean dragged his desk chair around and dropped into it, hands resting on his evidently muscular thighs as he faced you.
“Should we unpack that a little?” you asked teasingly, your tone mischievous. “I almost majored in psychology.”
“There’s nothing to unpack.” Dean leaned back in the chair, watching you carefully while he spoke. “Everything works perfectly fine.”
The pause afterward felt challenging. You held his gaze stubbornly at first, refusing to give him the satisfaction of reacting but eventually your eyes betrayed you, flickering downward despite yourself and straight to the growing outline beneath his sweatpants and judging by the smug look spreading across Dean’s face the second it happened, he noticed.
You dragged your eyes back up to his face with visible effort. “Well,” you started carefully, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from your jeans, “I won’t ask what the issue is then.” Your mouth curved. “Wouldn’t wanna embarrass you.”
Dean let out a quiet laugh through his nose, low and knowing. “You won’t ask because the issue is sitting right in front of me.”
The words settled heavily between you both.
His gaze dropped briefly as you shifted on the mattress, one leg crossing slowly over the other without much thought. Unfortunately for him, the movement dragged the fabric of your jeans tighter across your thighs.
Dean’s jaw flexed once as his eyes lingered there for a second too long before he forced them back upward. “You’re torturing me,” he rasped. “And the worst part is you know exactly what you’re doing.”
You said nothing, you couldn’t, not when he looked at you like that.
Your attention stayed locked on him completely, unwilling to miss even a second of whatever this had become. The room felt smaller now, warmer somehow despite the cold night air drifting through the still-open window behind him. Every tiny movement seemed louder, from the creak of the desk chair when he leaned back, to the faint rustle of fabric when you adjusted your legs again and the quiet exhale Dean took afterward like he regretted noticing.
“Why are you here?” he asked suddenly.
You shook your head once. “I don’t know.”
Dean watched you for a long moment, expression unreadable for approximately half a second before he gave a small nod, already deciding you were lying and unfortunately, he was probably right.
“You do,” he corrected, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re lying to me…and normally I’d let you get away with it,” he continued. “But not when you’re sitting on my bed rubbing your thighs together.”
Your breath caught at the change in his tone. He spoke each word gently, letting them land with intent as his gaze dipped again, tone turning sultry while his hand slid down and disappeared into the waistband of his sweatpants. “You need something from me,” he decided.
The sentence barely sounded like teasing anymore. Your pulse thudded painfully hard against your throat and between your legs as the silence stretched. You uncrossed your legs in response, your fingers inching toward the button of your jeans.
“Something,” he continued carefully, not wanting to rush this. “to take the edge off.”
The air thickened as you popped the button open, the soft rasp of the zipper following as you drew it down slowly. Your jeans parted enough to reveal the edge of your lace panties, the fabric already damp against your skin.
Across from you, his hand moved inside the cotton of his sweatpants, the outline of his cock thickening under his palm as he began to stroke in long, unhurried pulls.
The mere sight of it sent a fresh pulse of heat between your thighs.
You slipped your hand beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers gliding over the slick heat of your pussy. A quiet sigh escaped you as you traced your folds, circling your clit with firm pressure while he watched every motion, his own hand working steadily as the head of his cock peeked above the waistband with each upward stroke.
Precum glistened at the tip, catching the low light as he smeared it along his length.
Your fingers moved in slow circles, spreading the wetness that coated your sensitive skin, each pass making your hips twitch involuntarily on the bed's edge.
His breathing grew heavier as he adjusted his grip, pulling his sweatpants lower to expose more of his shaft. The veins along his cock stood out prominently under the firm strokes of his fist, the skin stretching taut with every upward motion.
You could see the way his thumb brushed over the head on each pass, gathering more of that shiny fluid to ease the slide. The visual made your own touch quicken, your middle finger pressing firmer against your swollen clit while your other fingers teased at your entrance.
Drawn by the growing ache, you leaned back until your shoulders met the mattress. The sheets carried his scent of warm musk and faint soap, filling your lungs and making your clit throb harder under your circling fingers.
You spread your knees wider, jeans still hugging your hips as your hand worked faster inside the panties. Every inhale pulled more of him into you, fueling the slick glide of your fingertips over swollen flesh. The mattress dipped slightly under your movement and you turned your head to press your cheek against the sheets, breathing deeper to draw in that intoxicating aroma. It wrapped around you like an invisible touch, making your nipples tighten against the fabric of your shirt.
He stroked himself openly now, full length exposed to your gaze, firm grip twisting at the head with each slow pass as his eyes landed on your noticeably hardened nipples.
You pictured him rising from the chair, crossing the space between you to bury that thick cock deep inside your aching pussy, stretching you open with one thrust. The fantasy burned even hotter because you were both holding back, letting the forbidden tension build instead. Your fingers dipped lower, parting your lips to press inside, the wet motion of your touch mingling with the rhythmic slide of his fist. He groaned softly, the sound vibrating through the room as you felt your walls clench around your own fingers in answer.
Your free hand clutched the sheets, twisting them as your hips rocked lightly to meet your own touch. Wetness coated your fingers, dripping down to the fabric inside your jeans while across the room Dean’s breathing grew ragged, eyes half-lidded while he watched your body arch and tremble in his bed. The scent of him made your head spin, your pussy fluttering around nothing as you finally thrust two fingers deeper, curling them against that sensitive spot inside. Every curl sent sparks of pleasure radiating outward, your thighs trembling as you imagined the weight of his body pressing you down, his cock replacing your fingers in one smooth motion.
The pressure coiled tighter in your core, every stroke of your clit sending sparks up your spine as you watched his cock twitch visibly in his fist, a bead of cum welling at the slit before he spread it down his length again.
You moaned, the sound raw and needy and his pace quickened in response. Your jeans restricted your movements enough to heighten the friction, the denim pressing against the back of your hand as you worked yourself closer to the edge. The room filled with the soft sounds of your mutual pleasure, his low grunts mixing with your gasps.
You allowed yourself to keep your eyes locked on him, watching intently as his fist pumped steadily along the rigid length, the skin sliding taut over the swollen and pinkish head with each upward pull.
Below, his balls hung full and heavy at first, swaying slightly with the motion of his strokes but as the tension kept building, they began to draw upward, the loose skin tightening and wrinkling as the muscles contracted. You watched the way they pulled closer to the base of his cock, tensing visibly with every twist of his wrist.
His thighs flexed in the chair as he spread them wider, offering an unobstructed view of the entire scene.
The veins along his cock stood out even more now, pulsing in time with his quickening strokes, the skin pulling smooth and firm as his breathing grew shallow and urgent, mirroring your own.
The sight pushed you harder against your own fingers as his body locked, balls pulling up completely into a tight, rounded shape at the root of his cock. A restrained groan tore from his throat as the first thick rope of cum surged free, jetting over his knuckles in a hot, white arc that landed across his clothed stomach. His balls pulsed visibly with each spurt, contracting and releasing in waves as more cum erupted, splattering higher and dripping down his shaft.
Your orgasm hit shortly after. Your back bowed off the bed, thighs quaking as your pussy pulsed and gushed around your fingers, sending waves of pleasure rolling through you in hot, liquid surges that left you quivering and whimpering on his bed watching as immediate relief hit the both of you.
His grip loosened slightly, cock jerking uncontrollably while his balls finally relaxed, emptying in long, forceful pulses that left him trembling and spent. Thick strands continued to ooze from the tip as the last tremors faded, his hand slowing to gentle strokes that milked out every last eager drop.
As relief and pleasure eased through your spent forms, you both were left boneless and utterly relaxed. You slowly withdrew your hands from between your thighs, the evidence of your arousal glistening on your fingers as they lingered for half a second like your body hadn’t fully caught up to your brain yet. Staring up at the ceiling, you caught your breath, while he gazed forward, both of you panting as though you had just sprinted straight through every boundary you’d spent months trying to maintain and were only now realizing there was no finish line waiting on the other side.
Neither of you spoke because what exactly was there to say?
Congratulations on making things infinitely worse?
You sat up slowly and met his eyes briefly in the heavy silence before looking away, your hand moving to zip and button your jeans as you tried to act like nothing extraordinary had occurred. You pushed yourself to your quivering legs, balance threatening to betray you for a second before steadying. You stepped towards him as his gaze tracked you the entire way.
Standing in front of him felt strangely so, even more intimate after everything else, which honestly seemed ridiculous considering what had just happened. Still, your throat tightened slightly when he looked up at you flushed and wrecked, pupils blown wide enough to swallow the blue in his eyes almost entirely.
Your hand lifted toward his face before you could think too hard about it and his lips parted faintly against your palm the second you covered his mouth. You pretended not to notice him inhaling the scent of your essence deeply as you pressed a slow kiss to the back of your own hand, right over his lips.
"I’m glad that question won’t be asked," you murmured, straightening up. Dean’s brows furrowed slightly, still dazed enough that it took him a second. "Couldn’t keep count of the strokes."
With that, you crossed the bedroom, opened the door and disappeared into the hallway before he could answer, your pulse still hammering against your ribs.
Behind you, Dean licked slowly over his lips where your hand had been, head dropping forward afterward as a quiet curse left him under his breath.
His cock throbbed and began hardening again, muscle starting to draw upward once more with renewed tension, the loose skin tightening as his shaft swelled visibly under the fresh surge of arousal.
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: This universe is interfering with my systems through excessive audio levels. I am also detecting traces of cheap beer, long messy nights, hockey games and poor decisions. Reminder: alcohol is not permitted aboard the vessel…no matter how charming the source appears to be.
