Formerly the writer r66dus

☆ 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.

The CDC was the first breath of relief you’d taken since the world fell apart. There was soft couches, hot water and hard-earned food that wasn’t scavenged but that same comfort unraveled you. As soon as you sat down, the exhaustion you’d buried deep started to claw its way up. Your limbs felt heavy and your stomach turned from eating too much and too fast, so you rushed toward the nearest bathroom. 

The air was thick with steam, the mirror blurred in fog. You cleared it with your hand, gripping the edge of the sink like it was the only solid thing left. You couldn’t afford to be sick, not when you had no idea what tomorrow would look like. 

You tried to will the nausea away but something in the mirror shifted.

Your gaze caught Daryl’s through the glass. His expression was unreadable, towel in hand. You spun around, eyes darting anywhere but him as he finally wrapped the towel around his waist.

“Shit…sorry, I thought that office was unoccupied and…the bathroom.”

He didn’t look bothered. “Ain’t no other empty office. Ya can stay,” His voice, softer than you expected and a little slurred, felt oddly comforting. Your eyes flicked back to him just once. That’s when you saw the scars across his chest and immediately, you knew they weren’t the kind you got from walkers.

You looked away fast. The world had been cruel before it ended and now it was just wearing its brutality on the outside. 

“I didn’t see your things in there…I’ll leave,” you added.

“Ya look like shit,” he said flatly. Then, almost sheepishly he added, “No offense.” 

You let out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, a single tear slipping past your lashes. “None taken.” You wiped it away, straightened up then sniffled. “Probably shouldn’t have had that wine.”

He shrugged. “Ya were celebratin’”

“Celebrating what?” you murmured, no trace of humor in your voice. “I’ve been celebrating just keeping myself alive my whole life. This?” You shook your head, “This doesn’t feel like something worth toasting,” After a long pause, your voice dropped to a whisper, like saying it out loud might shatter the fragile illusion. “Did you see the countdown?”

He nodded slowly, jaw clenching. “Couldn’t stop lookin’ at it.”

Daryl took a step closer. “Wether’s down ‘ere or out there…there’s gon’ be a clock tickin’, tha’s just the one ya can see.”

You met his eyes again, barely able to hold them. “It’s exhausting.” There it was, that awful truth you hadn’t said aloud, even to yourself. You were tired, bone deep, soul-tired.

Daryl stepped forward again, rough hands cradling your face, surprisingly gentle. His thumbs brushed your tears away like they’d done it before. “Whatever yer thinkin’ of doin’, it ain’t happenin’. Not on m’ watch. Ya hear me?”

Your breath caught as someone had finally seen through the mask. Still, you chuckled, soft and bitter. “I’m not asking to be saved, Dixon. I’m not looking to be anyone’s little project.”

He turned without another word, disappearing into the adjoining office space, the towel slung low on his hips, steam curling in the air behind him. You watched him go, caught somewhere between confusion and a quiet ache you didn’t have a name for.

As he rummaged for his clothes, his voice drifted back to you. Low and rough, as if it hadn’t meant to be heard. “Hell…you were it the second I met ya.”

Kids had very vivid imaginations. They could make up monsters during playtime, their own best friends and see love where you believed there was none.

Yours and Steve’s classrooms faced each other, so in the mornings as you stood by the door welcoming in the children to class, your gazes often met in shy glances. The old brick building of Hawkins Middle School still carried the faint scent of chalk dust and floor wax even after the town had tried its best to move on from everything that had happened years ago.

You taught English in room 212 and Steve Harrington had somehow ended up right across the hall in room 211, teaching history to the same group of energetic sixth graders. It wasn’t something either of you had planned but life after the nightmares of Hawkins had taken strange turns for everyone.

Today the hallway was quieter than usual between periods. You had been wrestling with a lesson plan on early American literature when you realized your notes on colonial timelines were a mess because the dates refused to line up neatly with the stories you wanted to share. 

Steve’s voice drifted across the hall, steady and warm, explaining something about the Louisiana Purchase. You glanced at your watch, his class still had twenty minutes left but the question in your head wouldn’t wait.

You smoothed your simple dress and stepped across the hall. The door to room 211 stood open. Inside, desks were arranged in neat rows but the students were anything but neat. A few boys in the back were folding paper airplanes under their desks, while two girls near the window whispered and giggled behind their textbooks and one kid was balancing a pencil on his nose, clearly testing how long it would stay there before it clattered onto the floor.

Steve stood at the front near the blackboard, chalk in hand, drawing a rough map of the Mississippi River. His hair was still that same perfect swoop, though a little shorter now for practicality. He wore a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and khaki dress pants that somehow made him look both professional and like the former King of Hawkins High who had never quite lost his charm. When he spotted you in the doorway, his brown eyes lit up in that familiar way that made your stomach do a small flip.

“Miss,” he said, using the polite title the kids knew you by, “everything okay?”

A dozen heads swiveled toward you as the paper airplane folded itself into stillness and the pencil clattered to the floor. Suddenly every sixth grader in the room found the interaction far more interesting than westward expansion.

You smiled, trying to ignore the way your cheeks warmed. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Harrington. I just had a quick question about the colonial period. My notes on the timeline for the Salem witch trials are all jumbled and I thought since you covered the Puritans last week…”

Steve set the chalk down without hesitation. “Of course, come on in. We were just finishing up anyway.” He turned to the class, his tone easy and confident. “Everyone, eyes up here for one more minute. Who can tell me why the Louisiana Purchase was a big deal for the United States?”

A few hands shot up. While one boy answered proudly, Steve stepped closer to you near the front desk and the kids watched like hawks. You could practically feel their imaginations spinning stories already.

He leaned in just enough to keep his voice low but still audible. “The witch trials stuff lines up around 1692, right after some of the earlier settlements. I’ve got a good map in my desk if you want to borrow it. The timelines match better if you tie them to the religious tensions from England carrying over.”

You nodded, genuinely grateful. His explanation was clear and enthusiastic in that subtle way he had when he forgot to play it cool. You had always suspected Steve was a history nerd at heart, the kind who read extra books not because he had to but because the stories stuck with him. It was endearing.

“Thanks, that helps more than you know,” you said. “I owe you one.”

One of the girls in the front row sighed audibly, a dreamy little sound that made her friends elbow her. Steve’s ears turned faintly pink but he kept his focus on you.

“Actually,” he said, glancing once at the clock, “class, start packing up. Quietly.” Then, softer to you, “If you have a free minute after the bell, maybe we could talk in the hall? I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

The room erupted into whispers the second the dismissal bell rang a few minutes later. Students shoved notebooks into backpacks with exaggerated slowness, clearly hoping to catch every word. You and Steve stepped just outside into the hallway between your two doors, the flow of kids parting around you like a stream around rocks.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit you had noticed over the months. “So, this is probably not the smoothest way to do this, but I’ve been thinking about it for weeks…Uh would you want to grab dinner sometime? Not school cafeteria mystery meat, an actual dinner. Maybe that little Italian place on Main Street this Friday?”

You blinked, heart picking up speed. The hallway smelled like pencil shavings and the faint lemon cleaner the janitors used and a few lingering students hovered near the drinking fountain, pretending not to eavesdrop.

You could not help the teasing smile that spread across your face. “Dinner? With me? Are you sure this isn’t just to keep your kids happy? The kids have been pairing us up since the first week of school. I even heard one of them say we’d make a cute ‘history-English power couple’…whatever that means.”

Steve laughed, a warm, genuine sound that made the teasing worth it. “I swear it’s not for them. Though they’d probably throw a parade if they knew…This is for me. I like talking to you in the mornings, I like how you get excited about books the same way I get excited about old maps and battles and I…I really like the way you look at me across the hall even when you think I don’t notice.”

Heat rose in your face again. You glanced toward your classroom where a few of your own students were already settling in for the next period. “Alright, Harrington…dinner sounds nice, but what if this doesn’t work out? We’re literally across the hall from each other every day. Who between us will be transferring then? I can’t exactly move my whole English library in one go and you’d have to haul all those heavy textbooks and maps…I’d feel bad.”

He grinned, nodding. “I’d transfer…History can go anywhere. Besides, I’d never make you give up your window view. You like watching the birds out there during planning period...I notice things too.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Smooth, very smooth…Okay, Friday…but if the kids start making heart-shaped cards for us by Monday, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal,” Steve said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll pick you up at seven…And don’t worry about the timelines, I’ll bring that map.”

You both turned to head back into your classrooms at the same time. The moment you stepped through your doorway, a wave of applause and cheers erupted from both rooms. Your students and Steve’s had clearly been watching through the open doors and the windows facing the hall. One boy in Steve’s class let out a loud whoop while a girl in yours started clapping so hard her bracelets jangled.

Steve paused in his doorway, turned back and gave you a quick, private smile before disappearing inside. You closed your own door gently, cheeks warming but heart light.

As the applause died down and you tried to settle the class into the next lesson, your mind wandered to the possibility of two Harringtons at Hawkins Middle School. The thought made you smile wider than it should have and the kids would lose their minds in the best way. They already saw love everywhere, spinning stories out of shy glances and hallway conversations. 

So, maybe this time they were right.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a pleasant haze of discussions about short stories and stolen glances across the hall whenever you both stepped out to monitor the corridor. Steve caught your eye once and mouthed “Friday” with an exaggerated wink, to which you rolled your eyes playfully but nodded.

By the final bell, the rumor mill had already started. A group of students waved at both of you as they headed for the buses, whispering excitedly. You stood by your door again, watching the flow of backpacks and laughter and wondered what the school would make of it all if things turned out right. Two teachers, two classrooms facing each other and a whole lot of young imaginations cheering you on.

It felt like the start of a pretty good story. 

One you would not mind writing together, one ordinary school day at a time.

A - Aftercare and adrenaline: Dean might come across as the ultimate cocky fuckboy who’d roll over and smirk after wrecking you but he’s surprisingly attentive once the high fades. He pulls your trembling body flush against his sweaty chest, big hockey-player arms wrapping around you like he never wants to let go. His voice is low and rough as he murmurs against your hair, “You good, baby? Fuck, you took my cock so deep…such a perfect girl for me.” 

Post-game adrenaline turns him feral, after a win he’ll still be buzzing, scooping you up in his suit jacket or half-dressed, carrying you straight to the shower where he fucks you slow and deep against the tiles, water cascading over your bodies while he praises how hot you looked screaming his name from the stands.

B - Bondage and teasing: Dean loves restraining you with his hockey tape or expensive silk ties, stretching your arms above your head and tying you to the headboard so you’re completely at his mercy. He steps back, slowly stroking his thick cock while his eyes devour every squirming inch of you. “Look at you, all tied up and dripping for me. So fucking pretty when you’re desperate.” 

He teases you mercilessly with his fingers and tongue, circling your clit and dipping inside your soaked pussy without giving you what you need until you’re begging with tears pricking your eyes. Only then does he finally sink into you, groaning at how tightly you clench around him as he fucks you hard and deep, using your bound body exactly how he wants.

C - Creampies and breeding kink: Dean is absolutely addicted to filling you up. He loves pounding you until he’s buried to the hilt, then holding himself deep as he cums hard, thick ropes of hot cum flooding your pussy while he growls filthy breeding talk right against your ear.

“Gonna knock you up, baby. Want this tight cunt full of me until it takes.” He’s obsessed with watching his cum leak out of your stretched hole, pushing it back in with two thick fingers while kissing you messily. The thought of you swollen with his kid makes him feral, he’ll fuck you for hours, spilling multiple loads deep inside, keeping you plugged with his cock afterward so nothing escapes.

D - Dirty talk: That smooth, cocky voice gets low and filthy the second your clothes come off. “Fuck, listen to how wet this greedy pussy is for me,” he groans while thrusting deep, the wet sounds of your bodies echoing. “This tight little hole was made to take my cock, wasn’t it? My perfect dirty girl.” He mixes praise and degradation effortlessly, calling you his good girl when you’re clenching around him and his filthy little cumslut when you’re begging. He keeps eye contact the whole time, watching your face as he tells you exactly how good you feel squeezing his dick and how he’s going to ruin you for anyone else.

E - Edging and overstimulation: With his insane hockey stamina, Dean can edge you for hours. He’ll work your clit with his tongue in slow, teasing circles, bringing you right to the edge before pulling away with a wicked smirk. “Not yet, baby. I want to hear you fucking beg for it.” 

When he finally lets you cum, he doesn’t stop, he fucks you through it with deep, punishing strokes, then keeps going until you’re shaking, oversensitive and sobbing his name. He loves the way your thighs tremble around his head and how your pussy flutters desperately around his cock as he wrings every last orgasm out of you.

F - Frat house / Fast and rough: Dean thrives on risky, spontaneous fucks around the hockey house. When the team’s out, he’ll bend you over the kitchen counter or the couch, yanking your panties aside and slamming into you from behind without warning. If they’re home, one big hand covers your mouth to muffle your screams while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. “Shhh, baby. Don’t want the boys hearing how loud you moan for my cock.” He fucks you fast and rough, the thrill of possibly getting caught making him even harder as he fills you up and leaves you dripping.

G - Goon and guided sex: Dean loves when you ride him but he’s still very much in control from below. He grips your hips with strong hands, guiding you up and down his thick length while watching your tits bounce. “That’s it, just like that…fuck yourself on my cock, baby. Look at you using me so well.” He thrusts up hard to meet you, turning it into a sweaty, filthy battle. When you start getting tired he takes over completely, flipping you onto your back and driving into you with powerful strokes until you’re creaming all over him.

H - Hickeys and hair pulling: He marks you up like he owns you, with dark and possessive hickeys on your neck, breasts and inner thighs that he traces with his tongue the next morning. He loves when you pull his hair while he’s devouring your pussy and he returns the favor by fisting your hair tightly, guiding your mouth down on his cock until your nose presses against his pelvis. “Fuck yes…Choke on it, baby,” he groans, hips twitching as saliva drips down your chin.

I - Impromptu and intense: Spontaneous sex is Dean’s addiction. In the locker room after practice, in a bathroom at a party or in the back of his luxury car with tinted windows, he takes you whenever the mood strikes. He’ll push you against the nearest surface, drop to his knees to eat you out like a starving man, then stand up and fuck you senseless, whispering how he couldn’t wait another second to be inside you.

J - Jealousy and possessiveness: Dean pretends he’s chill but seeing someone flirt with you makes him snap. He drags you to the nearest private spot, bathroom, alley or empty room and pins you against the wall and fucks you hard and claiming. “You’re mine,” he growls between deep thrusts, biting your shoulder. “This pussy belongs to me. Say it while I fuck you stupid.” The sex is rough, apologetic and intense, ending with him filling you while murmuring how sorry he is for losing control.

K - Kinky games: Everything becomes a game with Dean. Strip poker that ends with you on your knees sucking him off or betting how many orgasms he can pull from you before the movie ends. Loser gets spanked with his big, rough hands, leaving perfect sore prints on your ass while he laughs and teases you for being so easy to beat.

L - Lingerie and lap dances: Dean goes feral when you wear expensive lingerie just for him. He leans back on the couch, legs spread, palming his hard cock through his pants while you give him a slow, teasing lap dance. “C’mere, baby. Let me feel how soaked that pretty set is.” He eventually pushes the lace aside, burying his face between your thighs and eating you out until your legs shake before pulling you down onto his cock.

M - Manhandling and mirror sex: Those strong defenseman arms make manhandling effortless. He flips and lifts you like you weigh nothing, fucking you against walls or tossing you onto the bed. His favorite is mirror sex, bending you over in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom so you both watch as his thick cock stretches your pussy. “Eyes on the mirror, baby. Watch how well you take every inch of me.”

N - Nipple play and neck kisses: He’s obsessed with your tits, sucking, biting and pinching your nipples while he fucks you slow and deep. His mouth on your neck leaves dark marks as he grinds against you, whispering filthy praise that makes you clench around him.

O - Oral (giving and receiving): Dean eats pussy like it’s his favorite meal. He throws your legs over his broad shoulders and devours you, moaning against your clit and tongue-fucking you until you’re grinding on his face. When you suck him off, he’s loud and filthy, groaning your name, praising how good your throat feels and gently fucking your mouth while his hand tangles in your hair.

P - Praise and public teasing: “Such a good girl taking my cock,” and “Fuck, you’re so perfect for me.” He’s generous with praise but loves teasing you in public by sliding his hand up your thigh under the table at team dinners and whispering exactly what he’s going to do to you later until you’re squirming and soaked.

Q - Quickies and quality: Even his quickies are intense. A hard, fast fuck in the stairwell or his car where he still makes sure you cum hard, often twice before pumping you full. He makes every minute count.

R - Rough sex: When the mood hits, Dean fucks like he plays, hard, fast and relentless. He pins your wrists above your head, delivers deep powerful thrusts and lightly chokes you while feeling your pulse race, and growls filthy things in your ear. He always checks in afterward, making sure you’re okay before going for round two.

S - Stamina and sweaty sex: Hockey conditioning means he can fuck for hours. Expect sweaty, loud, bed-breaking sex where the sheets end up soaked. He loves the slide of your slick bodies, the way your skin sticks to his as he drives into you over and over, both of you panting and moaning.

T - Toys and teasing: Dean’s adventurous with toys. He loves using a remote vibrator on you during team events, controlling the intensity from across the room while watching you try to stay composed. He’ll edge you with dildos and plugs before finally giving you his cock.

U - Uniform kink: The hockey gear is a huge turn-on. He’ll fuck you with his jersey still on (on your or him), pads half-off in the locker room, the scent of sweat and ice on his skin driving you crazy. You love riding him while he’s still in parts of his uniform, gripping the fabric as you cum.

V - Voyeurism and risk: Dean loves the thrill of almost getting caught. Balcony sex, fingering you under the table or fucking you against the floor-to-ceiling windows of his apartment where anyone could see. The risk makes him fuck you harder and deeper, hoping to make it worth the potential trouble.

W - Worship: He worships your body like a trophy by kissing, licking and praising every inch while buried inside you. You return it just as eagerly, tracing his abs, scars and cock with your tongue until he’s groaning your name like a prayer.

X - eXhibitionist tendencies: He’s shameless. He’ll let you ride him in the hot tub at a party or record you sucking his cock so he can rewatch it later and get hard again. The danger of being seen only turns him on more.

Y - Yearning and make-up sex: After away games or fights, the reunion sex is desperate and intense. He pins you against the door the second he’s home, tearing clothes off and fucking you deeply. “Missed this tight pussy so fucking much,” he growls, pounding into you like he’ll never get enough.

Z - Zoned out and cockdrunk: Dean lives for fucking you into a blissed-out, cockdrunk mess. He keeps a relentless, grinding rhythm with deep strokes that hit your G-spot perfectly, watching with dark eyes as your eyes roll back, drool slips from your parted lips and you can only whimper and tremble. “That’s my girl. Look at you, all fucked stupid on my cock. So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, hips still moving as he keeps you floating in that mindless pleasure for as long as he wants.

The sight of your vacant expression only fuels his aggression. He grips your hips with bruising force, fingers digging into your skin to anchor you as he drives himself deeper. Every thrust is a violent, calculated strike, his thick cock slamming against your cervix with a wet, slapping sound that echoes through the room.

He shifts his weight, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder to open you up completely. The change in angle allows him to bury himself to the hilt, balls slapping hard against your soaking wet pussy. He focuses on that one specific spot, grinding his pelvis in a circular, punishing motion that sends electric shocks through your entire nervous system.

"You're not even here anymore, are you?" Dean growls, his voice a low, possessive rumble. He leans down, biting hard into the sensitive skin of your shoulder, marking you as his while he continues to pump into you.

You try to form a word, a plea or a moan but all that comes out is a broken, airy whimper. Your head thrashes against the pillow, eyes fluttering, seeing nothing but white light and the blurred image of his dark, hungry gaze. You are completely undone, your mind stripped away by the sheer intensity of the friction.

Dean watches the drool leak from the corner of your mouth, a smirk playing on his lips. He loves this, the total erasure of your will, the way you become nothing more than a vessel for his pleasure. He increases the pace, his breaths coming in harsh, jagged gasps. The sound of his cock sliding in and out of your drenched pussy becomes a rhythmic, frantic drumming.

"Take it all," he commands, voice dripping with dominance. "Take every fucking inch of me until you can't remember your own name."

He feels your internal muscles begin to spasm, the first waves of a massive orgasm beginning to ripple through you. Instead of letting you peak and crash, he slows his pace to a torturous, agonizing crawl. He pulls out until only the head of his cock remains inside you, then plunges back in with a sudden, savage force that makes your back arch off the bed.

The sensation is too much. You scream, a raw, guttural sound, as your orgasm rips through you. Your pussy clamps down on him in tight, rhythmic pulses, milking him desperately. Dean lets out a low groan, his own control finally snapping. He hammers into you one last time, hips locking against yours as he fills you deep, his hot cum erupting in thick pulses against your G-spot.

He stays buried inside you long after the shaking stops, heavy chest heaving against yours as he leans in, licking the stray tear from your cheek, eyes dark and satisfied.

"That’s my good girl," he whispers, his voice possessive and cold. "Now stay right there. I'm not done with you yet."

A - Aftercare and altitude sex: Clark loves wrapping you in his cape and flying you somewhere private for soft cuddles right after heated sex. He checks your pulse and focuses on your breathing because he’s terrified of hurting you or losing control of his abilities when it comes to you. He tries to bring you even higher than the sex itself. It’s followed by slow, weightless floating aftercare, with him keeping his eyes on you while you look down at the world and he admires his.

B - Bondage: Whether it’s with his tie after work or heat vision-welded restraints (especially if you’re superpowered), Clark doesn’t necessarily need them but he knows how much you love being manhandled. He enjoys using his super-strength carefully to pin you or letting you tie him down so he has to hold back from breaking free while you ride him. He’s stuck watching, relying only on his self-control as you sink down on his throbbing cock, back arching, head thrown back, nipples hard and nails scratching his tensing abs.

C - Creampies and breeding kink: It stems from Clark’s alien biology and his deep need to feel connected. He can go multiple rounds and always holds you close while he fills you, whispering about how perfect you feel. He definitely indulges in light breeding talk, “I want to put a baby in you…even if we can’t.” At the beginning of the relationship he worries about getting you pregnant, not because he doesn’t want kids but because he fears it might be too much for you. Once he makes peace with it and you start trying, his biology is no joke. There’s no real “trying” it was one and done and you were carrying his child. He can control when he cums if he focuses, but he loses that control when it comes to you.

D - Dirty talk (in that low Kansas drawl): It’s all soft praise mixed with filthy promises, “That’s it, honey…take all of me,” and “You’re the only one who can handle me like this,” growled right against your ear while he’s buried deep inside your weeping pussy. His accent mostly comes out during sex and the intensity depends on how hard you’re going or how long it’s been since you last had each other. He praises not just how good you’re doing, but how you sound and look and it always pushes you over the edge prematurely, which he fucking loves. He grins at the sight, especially when you beg him to keep talking like that, all while maintaining intense eye contact.

E - Edging and overstimulation: Super-speed means he can edge you for hours and his pattern recognition makes the sex feel perfect. He alternates between slow, deep thrusts and vibrating super-speed tongue or fingers until you’re shaking and begging. He loves hearing your keening mewls and watching you writhe under him, trying to run from the feeling while still pushing your body back into him, desperate for more.

F - Flight and floating sex: It didn’t take long for you to agree to this once you realized how easily he inspires absolute trust. Who’s better than Superman himself? Zero-gravity fucking high above Metropolis happens at least once a week. He could do it in normal clothes but chooses the suit so he can wrap you in his cape, keeping you naked yet warm all over, not just where his cock breaches your pussy. He holds you confidently mid-air while pounding into you, wind whipping around you both as your moans erupt freely into the night sky.

G - Gentle giant / guided sex: Clark is extremely careful with his strength when it isn’t needed, while still giving you everything he has. As big and commanding as he is, he lets you guide him on exactly how rough you want it, “Harder, Clark. I can take it.” His priority is your pleasure, making sure you get everything you want and need every time you take his thick cock. He holds your hips, maintains eye contact when the position allows and reads your body. Don’t even think about lying to him, his ears may be drowned by the sound of your squelching pussy but they’re also glued to your heartbeat and he knows exactly how to tell the difference between pleasure and anything else.

H - Heat vision play: There are insane levels of intimacy and trust involved when he uses controlled heat vision to warm your skin, trace patterns that fade in seconds or lightly stimulate sensitive spots without burning. He also leaves heavy hickeys that he heals with super-breath afterward. He loves watching his marks disappear, replaced by goosebumps spreading across your skin.

I - Invulnerability play: Solar eclipses are always marked on your calendars for this. You marking him by scratching, biting and  riding him as hard as you want, is a sweet treat he wouldn’t miss for anything. On normal days, since he can barely feel it, he focuses entirely on how it feels for you and how you can’t help but try to mark him anyway.

J - Jealousy (reporter vs hero): Clark wouldn’t call himself a jealous person but ‘possessive Clark’ comes out whenever someone flirts with you at the Daily Planet. It leads to rough but apologetic office or alleyway sex where he reminds you and mostly himself, exactly who you belong to. “Didn’t mean to act like a jerk, sweetheart,” he breathes into your ear as his thrusts get deeper. “Or to raise my voice…you can be mad at me, just let me feel you cum.”

K - Kryptonite play (consensual and careful): This only happens if he suggests it first and requires insane levels of trust. A controlled amount makes him feel more human and sensitive. It stays at a safe distance, ideally with you in the dominating position, riding him while watching deep green veins crawl up his skin. When you start worrying and try to move faster, he begs you to slow down so he can experience this vulnerability under your control. He’ll tell you when he needs it to stop but often keeps it around during aftercare so he can feel tired and sleepy with you.

L - Lingerie: He absolutely adores the nights you wear nothing but his cape or just his dress shirt and glasses, making a whole show of slow dancing and bending over for him. He watches you through walls, fighting the urge to abandon dinner on the stove and follow you to the bedroom. You love using his cape as lingerie because he’s torn up expensive pieces before, even when trying to be careful but when you do wear it, he ends up pushing it aside to thrust into you gently, murmuring between your moans and whines, “I’m so sorry honey, I should know how delicate lace is…Let me make it up to you, yeah?”

M - Manhandling: He loves how much you love it and how it makes your heart jump, even when you trust him completely not to hurt you. He effortlessly lifts and flips you, grabbing your ass while you cook or brush your teeth, which often leads to him pulling you into the shower, lifting you smoothly and pushing his cock into your unprepared pussy just to hear your moans bounce off the tile walls. He loves leaving fingerprint bruises he kisses better later and biting your shoulder while pulling your ass back onto his cock.

N - Nipple play (with super-breath): Super-breath on wet nipples is his go-to. It makes your back arch, pushing them into his warm mouth as he sucks the chill away. The contrast is heaven and the noises he makes while doing it drive you wild.

O - Oral (super-powered): The first time he went down on you, he tried not to show off but his tongue and super speed still gave you the best head of your life. You pulled his hair hard enough to leave bald spots on anyone else. You also had to beg him to let you deepthroat him, “Clark come on, let’s just give it a shot.” Clark looked at you in disbelief, “It’s not like I’m asking you to hold me upside down in the air while doing it,” You added and held in laughter as you watched his eyes widen.

In the end, he ended up holding you like he was doing bicep curls before wearing your legs like a scarf, tongue buried deep in your pussy while trying not to thrust too hard into your mouth and choke you.

P - Praise kink: Clark loves being told he’s good, whether you’re dressed or naked, under him or on top. The words and tone go straight to his cock. “Such a good hero,” you moan as you feel his muscles clench under your fingertips. “You’re so strong but so gentle for me,” you whine when he hits your G-spot just right. It makes him melt and fuck you harder just to hear more.

Q - Quickies: They’re never really quick with Clark. He always makes time for you, especially if he gets multiple orgasms out of it. Between saving the world and deadlines, you stay late at the office so he can make up for disappearing in the middle of the day by fucking you on your desk once the building empties. Rooftop quickies happen while he’s still breathing heavily in the suit or he superspeeds you somewhere private for fifteen minutes that feel like hours.

R - Rough sex (very controlled if you’re human): Pinning you against walls or furniture, delivering hard deep thrusts, light choking with perfect pressure control so he can feel your pulse under his fingers. He pulls your hair to redirect your kisses or guide your mouth along his cock while he growls your name. “There you go, all the way in… that’s it,” he rasps, watching your lips stretch around his length, saliva coating it and dripping down your chin, knowing he’ll kiss it clean later.

S - Super-speed and stamina: Hours of endless sex. He never gets tired but you eventually will, so it becomes a game of how long he can keep you right on the edge. You adore the sensory overload of him moving at different speeds inside you while he watches your body tense, back arching, toes curling, then trembling as your orgasm builds.

T - Toys and teasing: Clark sees toys as teammates. He blushes in sex stores but carefully checks materials so he can make sure they’re safe to warm up with heat vision or cool them with arctic breath. He especially loves remote toys he can control while across the city, listening to you writhe and moan his name with super-hearing.

U - Uniform kink: You welcome him with open arms and legs whenever he comes home in the Superman suit, no matter how dirty or ripped it is. You beg him to fuck you with the cape still on, always face-to-face so you can trace the emblem and hold onto it during orgasms. You’re just as turned on when he’s in his glasses and button-up, watching them fog up as he kisses you while fucking you into whatever furniture you land on.

V - Voyeurism: There’s the thrill of possibly being seen from below while floating and fucking mid-air or the spontaneous moments on the fire escape where you lean over the railing and he takes you from behind, the fresh air cooling the heat in your core. He’s also not above using super-hearing and x-ray vision to watch and listen to you touching yourself from miles away, it’s like immersive phone sex.

W - Worship: There’s deep body worship from both sides. It’s easy to worship every inch of the Man of Steel but even easier to make him forget he was built for the world. You worship Clark, the man you get wholly and completely while he worships you like you’re the only thing that makes him feel human.

X - X-Ray vision: He teases you by describing in detail exactly how wet and aroused you are and how your pussy walls contract around him. He watches his cock slide in and out from inside, the tip kissing your cervix as he fills you. Best of all is watching himself cum inside you in real time as he shamelessly tracks your racing heartbeat during foreplay, driving you crazy with it.

Y - Yearning (and yandere-lite): Clark practically invented the concept, even before you started dating. The intense longing when he’s away saving the world leads to desperate “I missed you so much” reunions that last all night and into the morning with soft, gentle sex all over the bed until the sheets are soaked. Even after you’re done, you cockwarm while talking and kissing, trading whispers about how you knew he’d come home safe and how he could only think of you out there.

Z - Zoned Out: Clark is an expert at fucking you so good you go blissed-out and cockdrunk, drooling, eyes rolling and whining with every breath while he watches you fall apart with pure adoration and lust, thanking the skies for his stamina because he can make it last.

He doesn't just want to fuck you, he wants to erase the world around you until there is nothing left but the sensation of his cock filling you and the sound of your own broken whimpers.

He isn't rushing, Clark knows exactly how to pace himself, using his inhuman stamina to maintain a relentless, grinding rhythm that hits your G-spot with surgical precision. Every thrust is deep, heavy and unwavering, driving into you with a force that makes your entire body shudder.

He watches with dilated pupils as the "glaze" begins to take over. Your eyes start to roll back, the whites showing as your consciousness drifts away from the room and sinks deep into the heat of the friction. You aren't even speaking words anymore, just whining, a high, needy sound that vibrates in the back of your throat, your breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps every time he thrusts back in.

"That's it," he rumbles, voice a low and vibrating growl that you feel in your chest. "Let me in and let everything else go. Give it all to me, I can take it."

He increases the speed, his powerful hips slamming against yours with a wet, rhythmic slap. He watches a thin trail of drool escape the corner of your mouth, jaw slack and your expression one of total, mindless bliss. You are completely cockdrunk, intoxicated by the sheer volume of pleasure he is pumping into you. You try to cling to him but your fingers just twitch uselessly against his biceps, muscles turning to jelly.

Clark feels a surge of pure, possessive adoration. He looks down at your ruined face, warm, sweating and utterly undone and he feels a primal pride. His Kryptonian endurance allows him to keep you in this state of suspended animation for hours if he wants to, milking every moan and tremor out of you.

He leans down, licking the drool from your lip before burying his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he praises your pussy. He feels your internal muscles clamping down on him in a desperate, involuntary rhythm and he simply smiles, digging deeper, determined to keep you floating in that mindless, erotic void until you completely forget your own name.

You were having an exceptionally difficult time not thinking about that night.

Three days had passed, which was long enough for embarrassment to settle in and for common sense to reappear, for you to convince yourself that perhaps your memory had exaggerated certain details. Maybe the tension hadn’t been quite as intense as you remembered, maybe the look in Dean’s eyes had meant less and maybe the entire thing had only felt significant because it had been built on months of denial.

The problem was that every time you tried to convince yourself of that, reality immediately disagreed.

You didn’t regret it and judging by the steady stream of texts sitting unanswered in your phone, Dean didn’t either but you couldn’t answer him…shouldn’t.

Every single vibration in your pocket made your stomach tighten before you even looked at the screen. His messages ranged from annoying to shameless to surprisingly genuine, each one making it harder to maintain the distance you’d spent months carefully constructing. So you avoided him, the rink, the locker room and every hallway he regularly occupied.

You had already cut your time around the team nearly in half, showing up long before practice began or lingering hours after everyone else had left. It wasn’t sustainable and you knew it, because sooner or later people would notice, the players would definitely notice and your godfather?

Your godfather noticed everything, that thought alone made your eye twitch.

Whenever your personal life became complicated, you always retreated toward certainty, toward things with rules, deadlines and clear answers, meaning you buried yourself beneath coursework. Exam season was approaching fast enough to justify the obsession and soon most of your days were spent hidden in forgotten corners of the library, surrounded by textbooks, highlighters and half-empty coffee cups. It was easier there and safer.

At least it should have been.

Instead, you found yourself staring at pages without absorbing a single sentence as words dissolved into memories and paragraphs transformed into flashes of Dean sitting across from you in his room and the unbearable awareness of each other hanging between you from the second you’d climbed through that window.

You squeezed your pen harder as a line of ink dragged crookedly across your notes.

Some stubborn part of you still admired the restraint the two of you had managed that night. After months of wanting, avoiding and pretending, things could have spiraled much further than they had but another part of you, one you tried very hard not to acknowledge, resented that restraint entirely because taking the edge off hadn’t solved anything. 

It had only confirmed what you’d spent months trying not to admit. This wasn’t temporary and it wasn’t a simple crush, it was attraction that wouldn’t simply go away.

“Psst.”

Your pen continued moving automatically across the page. You focused on the music playing through your headphones and on the sentence in front of you…Well, you actually just tried to focus on literally anything except your own thoughts.

“Psst.”

You frowned. The sentence you were copying suddenly looked wrong, very wrong. Your eyes scanned it again and half the words were misspelled while the other half appeared to belong to entirely different paragraphs. You stared at the mess in genuine disbelief because never in your entire life had you been this distracted.

Suddenly, a tiny paper ball landed directly on top of your notebook.

You blinked slowly at it before looking up. The library stretched quietly around you, rows of shelves creating narrow aisles in every direction. Several students nearby were already looking annoyed, though at what exactly you couldn’t tell.

You pulled one side of your headphones off and only heard silence, then…“Psst!”

This time you heard it clearly and your head turned toward the source. You watched as two thick books moved apart on a shelf several rows away to reveal a familiar face squeezed between them.

It sported a grin, dimples and far too much confidence…Dean. His eyes lit up the second he realized you’d spotted him and his grin somehow grew wider. 

You stared at him as he stared back but neither of you moved, then Dean lifted a hand and gave you an absurdly enthusiastic little wave through the gap between the books and your stupid heart betrayed you, because after three days of successfully avoiding him everywhere else on campus, the last place you’d expected him to find you was your hiding spot and judging by the victorious look on his face, he knew it.

Reluctantly, you pushed your chair back and stood. The legs scraped softly against the library floor, earning another irritated glance from a nearby student which you ignored. Your notebook remained open on the desk with highlighters scattered around it and headphones abandoned beside a coffee that had long since gone cold. For a second you considered grabbing your things and making a run for it until you looked through the gap in the shelves again.

Dean was still standing there, grinning and entirely too pleased with himself…which ultimately made you regret getting up at all.

Weaving through the rows of books, you kept your pace quick and your expression carefully neutral. Dean watched your approach openly, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatshirt, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who had just spent several minutes terrorizing an entire section of the library.

The second you reached him, your voice dropped into a furious whisper.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Trying to get your attention.” He nodded as though the answer should have been obvious as the grin remained firmly in place.

You stared at him. “Yeah, I think you got everyone’s attention.”

His smile only widened. “Mission accomplished then.”

“Dean.” You lowered your voice even further. “What do you want?”

“Hmm.” He tilted his head thoughtfully, extending his fingers one by one as though consulting a very serious list. “Let’s see. I’d like you to talk to me. I’d like you to text me back. I’d also like you to stop hiding from what we did.”

“Shh!” The sound came out much harsher than intended and before he could continue, your hand covered his mouth. You grabbed his sleeve with your free hand and dragged him farther between the shelves, away from the study tables and unsuspecting students trying to finish their assignments.

The last thing you needed was Dean casually announcing your personal business in the middle of the library.

“Keep your voice down,” you hissed.

His eyes danced with amusement above your hand.

“We didn’t do anything.”

His brows shot upward as he started speaking into your palm. You felt the vibration of the words before realizing exactly what position you’d put yourself in and your hand disappeared from his face so quickly it almost looked like you’d been burned.

Dean inhaled dramatically.

“You demonstrated it just now,” he informed you. “Except your fingers were sweeter and wet too…you also forgot the part where you kissed the back of your hand afterward and then vanished off the face of the earth.” 

You folded your arms. “If you need a sequel to the second half, feel free to call action right now.” You tilted your head slightly. “I’m excellent at improvisation.”

You watched every stage of his suffering pass across his face in real time. Disbelief, then annoyance…followed by resignation and mild murderous intent…but still, no regret. By the end of it, Dean physically looked like he was restraining himself from rolling his eyes.

“You’re impossible.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Sucks, cause it sounded like one…maybe try smiling a lot less.”

Dean exhaled heavily through his nose before grabbing your forearm and steering you away from the shelves.

You barely had time to protest before he was guiding you toward the nearest side exit.

“Wait, Dean–”

“Nope.”

“Dean.”

“It’s still ‘no’.” 

The emergency door opened with a metallic click and cool air rushed in from the stairwell beyond, only then did his hand settle briefly against the small of your back as he ushered you through ahead of him.

“You’re hilarious, by the way,” he said dryly. “Have you ever considered stand-up comedy?”

There wasn’t a single trace of amusement in his voice.

You smiled teasingly. “Could never make a bigger joke than you.”

The door swung shut behind both of you with a heavy thud and silence followed. The stairwell was empty, stone walls echoing faintly with distant footsteps from other floors.

Dean stopped on the landing and stared at you. “You really are a pain in my ass.”

“Then what are you doing here?” You descended several steps instinctively, creating distance before he could close it.

Dean followed to remain close. Then he continued farther down until he stood a few stairs below your position. For once, the difference in height disappeared, you found yourself looking directly into his eyes without having to crane your neck.

You crossed your arms tightly across your chest, only then did you notice what he’d done. He wasn’t standing there accidentally, he had positioned himself between you and the lower exit.

The realization earned him a narrowed look which he promptly ignored completely.

“I’ve been thinking.”

You groaned theatrically. “Oh, great. The world’s ending.” His eyes closed briefly so you continued anyway. “I can’t spell basic words anymore and Dean Di Laurentis has finally managed to make two brain cells rub together. Truly historic.”

“Well.” A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “One of us has to keep the ship from sinking.”

“I think you can stop…I’m a great swimmer.”

Dean pointed toward you. “See? That.”

“What?”

“That thing you do to deflect. Can you stop for five seconds? Jesus.”

You looked entirely too pleased with yourself while Dean looked entirely…too tired. The words weren’t harsh, if anything, they sounded exhausted. He planted his hands on his hips and looked away briefly before returning his attention to you.

The smile had faded and so had the teasing. For the first time since he’d appeared in the library, he looked genuinely nervous. His jaw shifted once, then again like he was carefully choosing every word before saying them.

“We fucked up, Dean.” The words came out quieter than you intended, stripped of most of their bite by exhaustion. You tightened your arms across your chest and leaned back slightly against the railing beside you. “I’m trying to go back to normal.”

“Well, it’s not working.” Dean shook his head.

The grin he’d been carrying around since ambushing you in the library was far gone. His hands dropped from his hips, frustration slipping through the cracks of his composure. He looked at you for a long moment before speaking again, searching your face like he was trying to find the version of you that hadn’t spent the last three days dodging him.

“You being mean right now, it’s…” He exhaled heavily through his nose. “It’s not helping, okay?”

His eyes stayed fixed on yours as you forced yourself to hold the gaze. That had to be safer because looking anywhere else felt dangerous while looking lower felt…even worse.

The memory of his bedroom was already doing enough damage without additional help.

“I’m not looking,” you said quietly.

The corner of Dean’s mouth twitched despite himself and the growing tent in his pants. “I’d rather you didn’t…it’s getting embarrassing."

His voice softened noticeably but the next sentence only made your face twist further.

“Didn’t know it was that hard cleaning cum stains out of dark fabric.”

“Dean.” You looked genuinely horrified. “Can we not talk about it?”

His expression changed from amusement to disbelief so quickly it almost gave you whiplash. 

“I can’t!” The words bounced around the stone stairwell loudly. He ran a hand through his hair afterward, visibly frustrated with both the conversation and himself. Three days of unanswered messages, three days of avoidance and three days of pretending nothing had happened had clearly pushed him well past whatever limit he’d been trying to maintain.

Your stomach dropped and your eyes widened. “Did you tell someone?” You stepped down another stair before pointing an accusing finger directly at him. “Dean, I swear if you–”

“I didn’t tell anyone.” The interruption was calm but immediate. Dean held both hands up briefly before letting them fall again. “I talked to you about it.” His brow lifted slightly. “Which you would’ve known if you’d read my texts.”

“I told you texting me would get you blocked.” The reminder sounded weaker than you had meant for it to, mostly because both of you already knew it hadn’t happened.

Dean smiled a slow, smug smile that made you regret opening your mouth. “I’m not blocked.”

You blinked as your brain immediately began searching for a response, something clever and perhaps devastating…but unfortunately Dean moved faster.

“How can you be so sure?” you asked.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his sweatshirt and pulled out his phone. Your stomach sank instantly as you watched him unlock it, type something with alarming speed, then hit send.

The silence lasted all of two seconds, then your own phone vibrated inside the back pocket of your jeans and merely a second later came the familiar notification sound.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Do you wanna get that?”

You glared at him. “Probably my godfather,” you replied, refusing to acknowledge the obvious. “I’m having dinner at his place tonight.”

“Mm.” Dean nodded slowly, lips pressed together as though he was physically restraining a comment. Then he reached toward you, the movement was casual until his hand stopped midway when your voice cut through the stairwell.

“I could push you down these stairs.” There wasn’t a shred of conviction behind the threat, Dean noticed that much.

“You’d do anything for an excuse to kiss me better.” His response came just as quiet, just as effortless.

Before you could even formulate a comeback, his fingers slipped into the back pocket of your jeans. The movement was so smooth and familiar that it made your pulse stumble as he pulled your phone free while maintaining unwavering eye contact the entire…fucking…time.

The bastard was smiling and you hated that specific victorious smile…or at least you hated that you didn’t hate it.

He tapped the screen awake and immediately began scrolling through the notifications crowding it. His grin widened when he noticed the top message was from him…and so was the one beneath it…and the one beneath that.

Dean tilted the phone slightly toward himself. “Well, look at that.” His eyes flicked upward. “Did they remove the block button?”

“Relocated, I believe.”

“Mm.” The hum lingered in his throat as he continued looking at the screen before finally lifting his gaze back to yours. The amusement was still there but beneath it sat something softer. “Didn’t try very hard, did you?”

“And you would know all about ‘hard,’ wouldn’t you?” You tilted your head slightly as you threw the comment back at him. The smile tugging at your mouth made it clear you already knew exactly what reaction it would get.

You didn’t need to look anywhere below his face to know you’d landed the hit.

Dean’s eyes narrowed.

You watched him inhale slowly through his nose and let the breath back out with visible restraint, shoulders rising and falling once beneath his sweatshirt. Then, without breaking eye contact, he slipped your phone into the front pocket of his jeans, far away from your reach and so that grabbing it back would require getting entirely too close.

The fact that he looked completely satisfied with himself afterward only made it worse but both of you knew you were stubborn enough to leave it behind and buy another one out of spite if necessary, which meant the gesture had absolutely nothing to do with the phone.

“I have a proposition.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Do you, now?” The words came out smooth and teasing as you shifted your weight against the stair railing. “Is that what all those texts were about?”

A grin spread across his face, the one that usually meant he was about to say something deeply unnecessary. “I was texting you about how sweet you sound when you’re not making smartass comments every five seconds.” The grin widened.

“What can I say?” You shrugged. “Been spending too much time around you.”

“Not nearly enough.” The answer came too quickly like he’d been thinking it for days.

For a brief second, his eyes dropped to your mouth before returning to your gaze. The movement was small enough that most people would’ve missed it but you didn’t and neither did your pulse.

The silence stretched long enough for him to notice and for your breathing to betray you. That’s when Dean smiled to himself, victorious and deeply infuriating to you.

“You like plans,” he continued. “Rules…lists and color-coded schedules. So I’m here with a plan.”

You groaned dramatically. “Does this plan include fixing that fuck-awful interview you gave the other day?” 

Hope actually crept into your voice, you still couldn’t understand how he’d managed to perform so badly. You’d written the questions and he’d picked the ones that would be asked, then somehow he’d stood in front of the camera and acted like he’d never spoken to another human being before.

Dean looked genuinely offended. “They usually go better when there’s someone else behind the camera asking them.”

You stared at him and he stared right back, neither of you budged.

“What? Are you hard of hearing? Should I have asked them to speak louder?” you finally asked.

His grin returned. “Been hearing just fine.” He paused. “I’ve just been distracted lately.”

You closed your eyes briefly, he just couldn’t help himself. “What is your plan, Dean?”

The question came out flatter this time, because every second this conversation continued, your imagination became increasingly unhelpful. The enclosed stairwell wasn’t helping either, nor was the fact that Dean had somehow positioned himself close enough to matter while still maintaining enough distance to pretend he wasn’t doing it intentionally.

“It’s simple.” His hands slid into his pockets and his shoulders relaxed. The expression on his face said he believed he’d just solved a major international crisis. “Once is an accident, twice is coincidence…and three times is a pattern.”

You already hated where this was going but Dean continued anyway. “Which means we can screw up twice and still be fine.”

For a second, you simply stared at him, then you laughed in his face, a sharp sound that bounced off the stone walls around you.

“Have you ever heard the phrase ‘don’t jump to conclusions’?”

His grin remained firmly intact. “Maybe.”

“Because right now it feels like you backflipped into one.” You pointed at him. “Several, actually…and I thought skating was your thing.”

Dean looked entirely unapologetic, the smile threatening at the corner of his mouth told you he was enjoying this far more than he should have and unfortunately, the fact that you were smiling too made it very difficult to claim otherwise.

Dean nodded reluctantly and the eye roll still came anyway. He knew perfectly well you were right. His argument had several holes in it, most of them large enough to drive a truck through but he wasn’t ready to abandon it yet.

“It still makes sense,” he insisted. “Think about it.”

“No, you think about it.” You folded your arms tighter across your chest. “We’ve technically already fucked once…remember?”

His entire face twisted and a dramatic sigh left him as he looked away toward the stone walls, blowing out a breath through pursed lips before turning back to you.

“That’s–” He pointed vaguely between the two of you. “That was a sample.”

You blinked. “A sample.”

“Yes.” The confidence alone nearly made you laugh. “You don’t walk into an ice cream shop and immediately buy a whole cup of some new flavor,” he explained, gesturing with his hands as though this was a perfectly reasonable comparison. “You sample it first.”

His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Or at least stare at it through the glass deciding if it’s worth the commitment...which was what we did.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Who’s the ice cream in this scenario?”

A grin spread across his face so quickly it almost looked painful. “I lick spoons clean when I’m done.” He nodded once, entirely pleased with himself. “You’ll figure it out soon.”

“Dean.” His name came out as a warning.

Dean immediately raised both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay.” But the grin remained. “The saying applies to penetrative sex.”

You continued staring.

“And maybe some of the other stuff too,” he added. “But then the numbers start adding up really fast and–”

“That’s just greedy.”

“I thought so too.” He nodded in agreement as the conversation stalled.

The teasing was entirely gone and the stairwell grew quiet again. Somewhere several floors below, a door opened and closed while distant voices echoed briefly before disappearing.

Dean glanced down at his shoes as you watched him. He looked back up a second later and found your eyes already on him.

The sight alone softened something in his expression. “What do you say?” The question was quiet and careful.

You exhaled slowly and looked away first, turning toward the window beside the stairs. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the glass, casting pale strips of light across the stone steps.

“The off-limits thing wasn’t my idea.” Your voice was softer now. “And it’s fucking ridiculous.”

Dean nodded without hesitation. “I agree.”

“And so’s this.”

“I agree with that too.”

That earned the smallest smile from you, when you looked back at him, neither of you spoke for a few seconds. The silence felt different, it was less defensive, the fragile sort that appeared whenever honesty slipped into the conversation by accident.

“But?” Dean asked it before you could stop yourself from smiling.

“But,” you echoed, it made his attention sharpen quickly. “I guess I could entertain the thought for a little while.” His grin appeared before you’d even finished speaking and you rolled your eyes. “I mean, I should probably give you credit.”

Dean straightened slightly. “For?”

“Allegedly using whatever’s underneath all that hair.”

His smile widened instantly as he teasingly tilted his head, lowering his already soft tone. “Just promise you won’t pull too hard.”

You laughed. “Only if you promise to make it worth my while.” The answer came with a smile neither of you bothered hiding.

Dean nodded firmly as the confidence returned, his brows lifted. “A kiss to seal the deal?”

The hopeful look accompanying the question was almost embarrassing…almost.

You stepped down one stair, then another while Dean’s attention followed every movement and by the time you stopped, barely any distance remained between you.

You were close enough to notice the faint stubble shadowing his jaw and to see the way anticipation had already settled behind his eyes. You held his gaze the entire time as your hand slipped into the front pocket of his jeans.

Dean’s breath caught, the reaction was so clearly involuntary that it made your mouth twitch. Your fingers searched briefly before finding what you’d come for, the phone…and nothing else but still, they grazed the tip of his hardening cock, feeling it twitch in its restrained state before you wrapped your hand around the phone and slowly pulled it free.

“I think,” you said quietly, lifting the device between you both, “you need to find something better to do.”

His eyes dropped briefly toward your mouth before returning to yours. “Nothing better than you.”

For a moment neither of you moved but eventually, you carefully stepped back, one step…then another and one more as the distance returned slowly.

You watched Dean remain exactly where he was, looking up at you with entirely too much confidence and not nearly enough concern for his own well-being.

Shaking your head, you turned toward the library door. “See you around, Di Laurentis.”

You pushed the library door open without looking back, already stepping into the familiar hush of turning pages and whispered conversations.

Behind you, Dean let out a quiet breathy laugh. “Oh, yes you will.”

The confidence in his voice followed you through the doorway and you hated how easily it made you smile.

Once must be an accident…

The first time happened at the training center, which was undeniably your first real act of rebellion.

The building had mostly emptied hours ago. Practice was over, meetings were done and the endless stream of athletes, trainers and staff had long disappeared into the night. Only a handful of overhead lights remained on, casting warm pools of light across the otherwise dark hallways. The polished floors reflected every movement, every shadow and sound, including yours.

Your laughter echoed loudly through the corridor as you walked beside your godfather, bouncing off the high ceilings and glass office walls. It was the sort of laugh that came easily around him, unfiltered and familiar after decades of shared history.

He shook his head as he laughed too.

“You were such trouble,” he said. “And I knew it would only get worse the second you started walking.”

You shrugged dramatically. “You still keep me around. I’d say you’ve had plenty of years to fix it and decided not to.”

“That was my first mistake.”

“Probably.”

He snorted. The smile never left his face as he circled an arm around your shoulders and pulled you closer for a brief side hug. The gesture was automatic, practiced through years of scraped knees, school events, birthdays and every other milestone in between.

“Nobody else around here benefits from nepotism quite like you do.”

Your laugh burst out immediately. “Wow.”

“Hey, you know it’s true.”

“You actually said it out loud. That’s…wow.”

That only made him laugh harder. “You’re good at what you do,” he continued. “You’re passionate about it. You work harder than most people in this building and half the ideas the department uses come from you.”

“Aw.”

“Besides,” he added casually, “I apply a family discount to your paychecks.”

You gasped so dramatically that he nearly stumbled laughing. Pushing him away, you stared at him in mock horror. “Are you serious?”

His head tipped back as the sound of his laughter filled the hallway. “Your college housing is free,” he reminded you. “You could move in with me and your aunt tomorrow and be a ten minute drive from campus…I also paid for your car.”

You opened your mouth to speak but he kept going. “You have a weekly allowance too…What exactly are you struggling with here?”

“How about that family discount turns into a promotion with benefits?”

His grin widened. “You mean more money.”

“It’s the only language you speak.” You pointed at him. “Don’t act surprised.”

He scoffed. “I speak plenty of languages.”

“No. You speak hockey and money.”

“That’s two.”

“Barely.” You continued walking together, your footsteps echoing softly through the corridor. “If I start calling you Coach Jensen in front of the guys instead of all the ridiculous nicknames I gave you growing up,” you offered, “would that help my chances?”

“Oh, never that.” His response was immediate as genuine horror crossed his face and you laughed. “No amount of money is worth that.”

“See? Promotion worthy answer.”

“Not happening.” He shook his head.

The two of you continued down the hall, passing framed team photographs and championship banners hanging behind glass displays. Most of them had been there for years. Some of them included players who were now professional athletes and others included kids he’d coached before you’d even started high school.

Then his expression softened slightly. “The rest of that money’s invested, by the way.”

You glanced over. “What money?”

“The money you’re constantly trying to get out of me.”

“Oh.”

“It’s sitting in an account collecting interest.” His shoulder bumped yours lightly. “It’ll do you a lot more good when you finally leave the nest.”

You grimaced. “Who says I’m ever leaving?” His brows lifted in curiosity so you continued. “Nepotism’s nice,” you informed him. “It’s comfortable…It offers a very soft life.”

That earned a quiet chuckle as he looked at you for a moment, observing and thinking, though it wasn’t difficult to guess where his thoughts had gone. The subject had come up before, of the assumptions and the advantages that came with being connected to him. 

You’d spent years hearing variations of the same concerns.

He cleared his throat. “Nobody giving you a hard time about that?” The question was casual but the concern underneath wasn’t.

You shook your head. “Your boys are good.” A small smile tugged at your lips. “I’d say they’re nicer than most people give them credit for.”

His expression softened. “And outside this building?”

You shrugged. “I’m not sure many people even know.” Then you smiled slightly. “And if they do, I don’t really care.”

His eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“I mean it…I’m a grown woman. I can handle someone being annoying.”

The look he gave you said he wasn’t entirely convinced. “You’re still my kid…you’re still my responsibility.” You looked away first because the sincerity always got to you.

“If something happens,” he continued, “you come to me. I don’t care who it is.” He pointed down the hallway as if the guilty party might suddenly appear. “Anybody gives you trouble, I deal with it.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Especially if it’s one of my players.”

Your heartbeat picked up immediately for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with the conversation. You focused very hard on the floor as you walked. “Right.”

“You hear me?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Unfortunately, all you could think about was Dean, about stairwells, text messages, plans and about how catastrophically this conversation could go if Coach Jensen ever discovered what had been happening.

“You give really good fake-dad speeches.”

He snorted. “Fake?”

“Adoptive.”

“That’s better.”

You hesitated. “Hypothetically…”

His eyes narrowed as he looked at you and you instantly regretted the choice of words.

“Uh-oh.”

You chuckled. “There’s no uh-oh.”

“There’s definitely an uh-oh.”

“I just…” You paused, “You mean that in a ‘if someone hurts me’ way, right?”

There was absolutely no hesitation in his voice. “I’ll decide when the time comes.”

It did absolutely nothing to ease your concerns but before you could respond, he glanced down at his watch. His expression changed instantly as he stopped walking and patted one pocket, then another and finally his jacket.

“Crap.”

You stopped too as he checked all of his pockets again individually. “What’s wrong?”

“I forgot my keys in my office,” he said, already patting down his pockets once more for good measure with a quick, irritated exhale. “We’re running late and I’ve got to make a call. I wanted to do it in the car.”

“Make your call,” you replied, already stepping backward down the hallway. “I’ll go get them.”

He hesitated only a second, eyes still scanning his pockets as if willing the keys into existence.

“It might take a while. Twenty, maybe thirty minutes. Should I call you an Uber and just cancel the whole dinner?”

“No way you’re getting out of it,” you said without slowing down. “I’ll wait. I’ll just use your printer to get some work done so I can sleep in tomorrow. Call me when you’re done.”

His brow lifted slightly. “So you’re the reason I’m constantly out of ink.”

You shrugged as you kept walking. “The library charges thirteen cents per color page. I’m not made of money…color coding saves lives.”

A quiet scoff followed you down the hall. “No color coding for my favorite goddaughter. Can you imagine?”

“It’s criminal,” you called back.

He finally pulled out his phone, already thumbing through it. “Keep your phone close,” he added without looking up, voice slipping back into that habitual coaching tone. “Or you’re walking home.”

“Yes, Coach,” you replied with a lazy salute over your shoulder before turning fully toward his office.

His muttering faded behind you as he scrolled, already pulled into whatever chaos lived on his screen. You kept moving through familiar corridors, passing framed team photos and closed doors, the building quieter now than it had been all day. He had always been like that, always halfway inside something else, phone never truly out of reach, his attention constantly split between ten different responsibilities. You’d grown used to it long before you ever realized what it meant for you.

You pulled your phone out while walking, scrolling through the documents you needed to print, checking formatting and margins out of habit as you turned the last corner. The office door came into view at the end of the hall, slightly ajar.

You pushed it open enough to slip inside and nearly jolted out of your skin when two hands landed at your hips, pulling you in before your brain even caught up. Your head snapped to the side so fast your hair whipped across your cheek, breath catching hard in your throat before your eyes locked onto Dean standing right behind you.

He lifted a finger to his lips in a quick, silent shush, then guided you further inside with an ease that made your stomach drop for a second, nudging the door shut behind you with his foot.

“You motherfucker,” you hissed the moment the latch clicked and turned to face him. “I watched you leave.”

Dean’s grin was immediate, infuriatingly relaxed. “I was waiting for you in the parking lot.”

Your eyes narrowed in the dim office light as it settled properly around you. The space smelled like paper, coffee and the faint sterile edge of hockey equipment that never fully left anything he occupied. The desk behind you was cluttered, a laptop still open while folders lied stacked slightly unevenly near the edge.

“Oh, fantastic,” you muttered. “That’s not creepy at all.”

He stepped closer, still smiling. “You came to practice tonight.”

“Wow,” you replied flatly. “Anything else, Sherlock?”

His hands tightened at your hips again as he started guiding you backward without hesitation. The motion was slow, controlled, like he already knew exactly where this was going and had no interest in pretending otherwise.

“You look beautiful,” he added.

You rolled your eyes, but the words still landed. You were wearing a light summer dress. You’d kept a blanket wrapped around your shoulders during the game earlier, tucked into the rink seating, ignoring the cold while Dean had spent half the period barely paying attention to the puck.

“Yeah,” you said, voice quieter now as your back hit the edge of the desk. “I know.”

The realization of where he’d led you hit a second too late, making your breath catch again.

The desk pressed into your ass as your hands hovered uncertainly near the surface. You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself as logic tried to catch up with instinct.

“Dean,” you started, firmly. “We don’t have time for this…You hear me? There’s no time to test the waters.”

“Good,” he simply said and with a sudden, decisive movement, he hoisted you up onto the table, the cool surface a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off his body. “I mean to taste them.”

Your eyes widened instantly. “I’m serious. He could walk in.”

“I heard you out there. We both know he’s incapable of walking and holding a professional phone conversation at the same time,” Dean said without hesitation, his tone annoyingly certain as he adjusted your position on the desk. “I’ll be fast.”

Your eyes narrowed immediately, hands bracing lightly on the edge of the desk as papers shifted beneath your palms, sliding just enough to remind you how fragile this situation actually was despite the confidence in his voice.

“I’m not walking out of here half-pleasured,” you decided flatly, holding his gaze so he understood you weren’t joking, not even slightly.

Dean didn’t even blink. “Who said you are?”

That answer only made your expression tighten further.

“Oh, so you’re just magically going to figure me out in…” you glanced down briefly at your phone screen, thumb hovering over the time without thinking. “Fifteen minutes?”

A slow, confident exhale left him.

“You’re not the only one good at observing, Hawkeye,” he said, eyes locked on yours as if the rest of the room didn’t exist at all. His hands moved again, gathering the fabric of your dress with controlled ease, the motion unhurried but so intentional that it made your breath catch slightly despite yourself.

The desk creaked faintly beneath your weight as he leaned in closer.

“Ice isn’t the only thing I’m fast on.”

He stepped closer between your thighs, his presence overwhelming and absolute. He didn't break eye contact for a single second, his gaze heavy and knowing as he reached down. You felt the sudden, firm hook of his fingers into the lace of your panties as he pulled them down slowly, the fabric sliding over your skin with an agonizing pace.

"I want you quiet," he murmured, voice a low, dangerous vibration that seemed to settle right in your gut. A smirk played on his lips. "I know how hard that is for you, so...try your hardest."

The arrogance of it sparked a flare of defiance in you. Even as your heart hammered against your ribs, you managed to bite back, "I know how to stay quiet."

Dean’s grin widened, sharp and predatory. Without a word, he bunched the fabric of your panties into a tight ball in his fist and in one swift motion, shoved them into your open mouth. The taste of your own scent and the sudden fullness of the fabric gagging you caught you off guard, forcing your jaw open and stifling any further retort.

"Just a precaution," he whispered, his eyes gleaming with triumph. "I'm keeping those after."

He sank to his knees between your legs, the movement fluid and confident. You stared down at him, chest heaving as the feeling of being gagged for the first time sent a jolt of raw, forbidden electricity through your nerves. It was humiliating and exhilarating all at once, stripping away your voice and leaving you completely vulnerable to whatever he decided to do next.

Dean leaned in, breath hot against your inner thighs before his mouth found you.

The first touch of his tongue was a revelation. He didn't fumble or guess, he hit your clit with a precision that made your entire body jerk while a muffled, desperate sound died in the back of your throat, trapped by the fabric in your mouth. He knew exactly where to go, his tongue swirling in a tight, wet circle that sent a wave of heat crashing through you.

It was toe-curling, an intensity of pleasure you hadn't known was possible. He began to suck, his lips creating a firm, vacuum-like seal around your nub, pulling it deep into his mouth. The sensation of the wet, sliding friction of his tongue combined with the rhythmic pressure of his suction was overwhelming.

You felt your face heat up, your eyes fluttering shut as you lost yourself in the sheer sensory overload. Every flick of his tongue felt like a lightning strike, vibrating through your hips and settling deep in your core. The contrast was maddening, between the silence forced upon you by the gag and the loud, screaming pleasure echoing in your mind.

Driven by a sudden, primal need for more, your hands flew to his head. You gripped his hair, fingers digging into the strands to pull him closer, wanting to fuse your body to his mouth. Dean noticed the second you grabbed him and a low hum of satisfaction vibrated from his throat and directly into your sensitive flesh. He leaned into the pressure, increasing the pace, tongue working with a relentless, expert rhythm.

He was sucking you with a hunger that matched your own, his mouth wet and warm, creating a sloppy, sliding sound that filled the quiet of the room. You could feel the moisture coating you, the slickness of his saliva making every stroke of his tongue feel even more immersive.

As you sat there, gagged and trembling, you hated how right this felt. You hated that the agonizing wait, the teasing and the verbal sparring had all led to this exact moment of surrender. The confidence he radiated and the way he took control without a shred of doubt, was intoxicating. You were trapped in a cycle of intense anticipation and shattering satisfaction, your body humming like a live wire, desperate for a release that he was intentionally, cruelly delaying.

Dean didn't let up for a second, his tongue becoming a weapon of pure pleasure. He shifted his angle, pressing his face deeper into your pussy, nose brushing against your folds as he focused entirely on your clit. He began to use the flat of his tongue, delivering long, slow and wet strokes from the bottom of your opening all the way up to the peak of your nub, coating you in a thick layer of saliva that made every movement slide with effortless, slick friction.

The sensation was agonizingly perfect. You felt your thighs tremble, your muscles twitching involuntarily as he alternated between those broad, sweeping licks and sharp, pinpoint flicks of his tongue. He was playing you like an instrument, knowing exactly how to build the tension without letting you break. Every time you felt yourself tipping toward the edge, he would slow down, swirling his tongue in a teasing, lazy circle that left you whimpering into the fabric of your panties.

The gag in your mouth felt heavier now, the taste of yourself mixing with the heat of your breath, turning your muffled moans into desperate, nasal whines. Your head fell back, eyes rolling back as you focused on the wet, sloppy sounds of his tongue working between your legs.

He suddenly increased the intensity, tongue hardening and darting rapidly against your clit in a blurring rhythm. It was a relentless assault of pleasure, a rhythmic drumming that sent sparks flying behind your eyelids. You gripped his hair even tighter, knuckles lightening, pulling his face harder against your pussy, almost begging him with your body to never stop.

He responded by sucking you back in, lips creating a tighter, powerful seal that pulled your clit between his teeth. He sucked with a rhythmic, pulsing force and it soon felt like it was drawing the very soul out of you. You could feel the constant vibration of his throat as he let out a low, muffled growl against your skin, his confidence radiating through the sheer dominance of his technique.

You were floating in a sea of heat and wetness, your entire world narrowing down to the point where his mouth met your flesh. You were drenched, your own juices mixing with his spit, making the encounter sound wet and filthy.

He teased you, pulling back just a fraction of an inch to let the cool air hit your wet skin before diving back in with a sudden, deep lick that made you gasp into the gag. He was prolonging the torture, savoring the way your body shook under his control. He knew you were desperate, knew you were hovering on the precipice of something shattering and he took a sadistic pleasure in keeping you right there, suspended in a state of pure, unadulterated arousal.

Dean soon felt you trembling, body vibrating with a tension that had become almost unbearable. He knew you were balanced on a razor's edge and with a predatory glint in his eyes, he finally decided to push you over. While his tongue continued to swirl and flick against your swollen clit, he slid two fingers deep into your soaking wet pussy.

The sudden intrusion nearly broke you. The feeling of him filling you, stretching your tight walls while his tongue relentlessly hammered your nub, was an overload of sensation that shattered your composure. Your shoulders began to shake, chest heaving as you fought for air through your nose. Your eyes forced shut, the world disappearing into a haze of white-hot pleasure and you bit down on the fabric of your panties with everything you had, jaw aching as you muffled screams of ecstasy into the gag.

He didn't let you fall yet. He kept you right there, at the agonizing precipice of orgasm, fingers curling inside you to hit your G-spot with rhythmic, punishing precision while his mouth worked in a wet, sloppy frenzy. You were trapped in a loop of pure erotism, hips bucking wildly against his face, body begging for the release that he stubbornly denied you. For what felt like an eternity, you hovered on the brink while your muscles twitched and your mind screamed for the end.

Then, the sharp, intrusive ring of your phone pierced through the silence of the room.

The sudden shock of the sound, combined with the peak of the stimulation, was the final trigger. Your body snapped. You let out a muffled, guttural shriek into the gag as a violent orgasm ripped through you. Your walls clamped down hard on his fingers, pulsing in rhythmic waves of intense pleasure that made your toes curl and your back arch. Your eyes flew open, wide and glazed, looking down at the vibrating phone on the desk as you shuddered through the climax.

Dean stayed right there, slurping up every drop of your juices, tongue licking the cream from your folds with a greedy, satisfied sound. He continued to suck and lick even as the waves subsided, ensuring he tasted every bit of your release.

Slowly, he pulled back but he left his two fingers buried deep inside you. He stood up tall, looming over you, his expression one of complete enamourment. He watched you breathe heavily, chest heaving as he continued to move his fingers in and out of your dripping hole in a slow, teasing slide that reminded you exactly who was in control.

With shaking fingers and trembling legs, you reached up and pulled the damp fabric of your panties from your mouth, pulling out the gag. You didn't pick up the call. Instead, with a shaky hand, you typed a quick text back. "I'm coming."

Dean leaned over, reading the screen and let out a low, dark chuckle. "Yes you are," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.

He finally withdrew his fingers with a wet pop, maintaining intense eye contact as he lifted them to his mouth and licked them clean, savoring the taste of you one last time.

"You're such an asshole," you breathed, voice raspy and exhausted. You hopped down from the desk, legs feeling like jelly and looked around for your bunched-up panties. You swore you had left them on the desk just a second ago.

Dean opened his opposite palm, revealing the lace fabric gripped in his hand. "Told you I'm keeping them," he said with a smug grin. Then motioned toward the door with his head. "Go, before he comes looking."

You grabbed your phone and found your godfather's keys, turning to leave but just as you reached the door, his voice stopped you, dripping with a mix of mischief and dominance.

He licked his lips, "I made sure to get all of it but don't walk too fast...just in case."

He grinned, knowing exactly how drenched you were. You didn't say a word, face heating up as you opened the door and finally stepped out. Behind you, Dean stood in the center of the room, breath heavy and staring after you with the biggest, hardest erection of his life as the scent of your sex still clung to his skin.

“There you are.”

Your godfather’s smile appeared the second you stepped into view, warm and completely unaware as he pushed himself away from the wall he’d been leaning against. The overhead lights cast long shadows across the now-empty lobby, the training center nearly silent around you aside from the distant hum of ventilation and the occasional echo of a door closing somewhere deeper in the building.

“Ready for dinner?”

You forced a smile onto your face and tossed the keys toward him before he could look too closely at you. The metal jingled through the air before he caught them one-handed, only then did you trust yourself to speak.

“Is it bad that I’m craving takeout?”

He laughed and as far as you could tell, he wasn’t suspicious but the sound made guilt twist somewhere deep in your stomach. 

“Not bad at all.” He slipped the keys into his pocket as you finally reached his side. “We’ll save the dinner for next week.”

You nodded quickly. “That sounds good.”

The two of you headed for the exit together. Your godfather reached the door first, holding it open as cool night air rushed inside, carrying the scent of damp pavement and freshly cut grass from the athletic fields beyond the parking lot.

You stepped outside and the darkness felt refreshing against overheated skin.

The parking lot stretched ahead under pools of yellow light, mostly empty now except for a few scattered vehicles belonging to coaches and staff members working late.

Your eyes immediately found his car.

“Coach!”

The voice hit like a gunshot and your entire body locked before your mind forced it to turn around…and there he was.

Dean jogged out of the building toward the two of you, sports bag slung across the front of his body in a position so intentional it almost made your eye twitch. His hair looked slightly messy too but the fact that he could still look this comfortable after what you’d done made you want to throw something at him.

“Di Laurentis.” Your godfather stepped aside to lock the doors behind everyone. “Five more minutes and you would’ve been spending the night with the cleaning crew.”

Dean laughed the same laugh he used with coaches, professors, reporters and strangers. “I fell asleep after practice.” His eyes landed on yours and the smile on his face shifted almost imperceptibly as he reached up and pushed a hand through his hair fixing it.

You nearly choked.

“It was an…accident,” His gaze lingered on yours, the sweetness in his voice was subtle when he spoke again. “Hi, Y/n.”

“Hey.” The answer came out remarkably normal considering you suddenly remembered exactly what he’d looked like less than twenty minutes ago.

“Accidents happen.” Your godfather finally finished locking the doors and turned back toward you both. An arm settled comfortably around your shoulders. “You did good at practice today,” he told Dean. “Go get some real rest.” Then he looked down at you. “We could drive you.”

“No need.” You spoke up far too fast, making both men look at you instantly.

Shit.

You forced a smile as you watched Dean’s mouth twitch.

That fucking asshole…

“Yeah,” he agreed before anyone could think too hard about it. “I’m good.” His sports bag moved slightly against the front of his jeans and you swore you almost saw him wince. You looked away before things could get worse. “Night.”

He began backing toward his car, slowly, eyes lingering on you every chance he got.

“Night,” your godfather answered. Then his arm tightened around your shoulders as he steered you toward the car.

The conversation immediately changed to something entirely different, his voice filling the space between your thoughts as he launched into yet another debate about ordering pineapple and pepperoni pizza.

You groaned automatically as he laughed.

The parking lot stretched ahead beneath the lights as the two of you walked away and despite your best efforts, you could still feel Dean’s eyes on you from somewhere behind.

That might have been the greatest accident to ever exist but then again…

Coincidences had always been better.

It wasn’t often that you skipped parties. As exhausting as college could be, you firmly believed it was supposed to be filled with shared experiences, stupid stories, regrettable decisions and memories people laughed about years later. If your friends were going somewhere, you usually went too, even if you only stayed an hour before disappearing home.

Tonight was the exception.

Jules had handed you the keys to the boys’ house earlier that afternoon. You’d let yourself in without knocking, music already blasting through your headphones and immediately claimed a stool at the kitchen island.

The house seemed and looked unusually quiet, there was no shouting and no hockey game playing on the television.

You spread your work across the countertop and got comfortable.

Most of your evenings had been spent reviewing PR material for the upcoming week. Social media calendars, engagement reports, interview clips and promotional content. You frequently collaborated with Jules to make sure everything the team posted felt consistent, professional, and aligned with the image Briar Hockey wanted to project, at least, that had been the plan. 

Instead, you found yourself checking your phone every few minutes because your roommate had a guy over again. The arrangement had seemed like a great idea when you’d first arrived at college. Living with a roommate felt like one of those essential university experiences everyone was supposed to have. It built character and created memories, now it mostly created scheduling conflicts.

If you couldn’t go home yet, you might as well be productive. Gathering the notes Jules had asked you to leave in Logan’s room, you pushed yourself off the stool and headed upstairs.

The music in your headphones swelled as you climbed and your body immediately followed the rhythm.

One hand trailed along the railing while your hips swayed unconsciously with the beat. You sang lyrics you couldn’t actually hear over the volume, completely off-key and blissfully unaware of it. You made the stack of papers bounce lightly against your thigh as you moved through the hallway, turning the familiar walk into a private concert attended by absolutely nobody…or so you thought.

You stepped into Logan’s room without hesitation and the notes landed neatly on his desk.

You turned toward the door again, still moving with the music, shoulders rolling gently with the rhythm while your fingers slid absentmindedly over your own arms and down your sides as you spun once, completely caught up in the song.

Until you looked up…and screamed. The sound tore itself out of your throat before you could stop it.

Your entire body jumped and your soul practically left through your mouth as Dean stood in the doorway, motionless and watching with a towel hung low around his hips, damp skin still glistening from the shower. His hair looked darker wet, strands falling across his forehead as tiny droplets continued disappearing down the side of his neck.

You ripped the headphones off so fast they nearly flew across the room. “What the fuck is your problem?!”

Dean’s eyebrows lifted slowly as he pointed at himself. “What is my problem?”

“Yes!” Your hand pressed against your chest where your heart was still attempting to escape. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.” The reminder came accompanied by an entirely unhelpful grin. “Nice moves, by the way.”

Your eyes narrowed while adrenaline still surged through your veins. “Fuck you.”

His grin widened. “I might start begging you to.”

You groaned loudly and pushed past him, unfortunately, instead of leaving the house entirely, your feet carried you directly into his room and Dean followed.

“What are you even doing here? There’s a party tonight,” you asked as you dropped onto the edge of his bed.

“I was studying.”

“Naked and wet?” You questioned.

“I was in the shower.” He added flatly, “Which you would’ve heard if you weren’t surgically attached to those headphones.”

You rolled your eyes. Then, somehow, the room grew quieter, the two of you looked at each other long enough for your breathing to gradually settle into the same rhythm and for Dean’s attention to drift toward the headphones hanging around your neck.

“What’s so special about them?”

You glanced down. “The headphones?”

“The obsession.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth. “It isn’t the headphones.” You removed them and turned them over in your hands. “It’s the music.”

Dean remained where he was, listening.

“If you find the right song,” you continued, “it can completely change where you are.” Your fingers traced absent patterns along them. “It can take a boring walk and make it feel important. Turn studying into something less miserable and make a random day feel cinematic.” Your smile softened. “It just makes everything better.”

Dean tilted his head. “Better?”

You nodded. “Sexier.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Sexier?” The amusement in his voice made you regret using that word…only slightly. “Does it work with everything?”

You swallowed. The question felt harmless but the way he asked it didn’t. “What’s everything?” you asked carefully.

Dean held your gaze for another second before nodding toward the headphones in your hands. “Put them on.”

His voice was quiet and patient, entirely too interested in whatever reaction he thought he was about to get.

You slid the headphones over your ears and the world instantly shifted. The sudden surge of music drowned out the ambient noise of the room, isolating you in a cinematic cocoon of sound. The bass thrummed through your skull, vibrating in your chest, turning the reality of the room into a silent movie where only the visuals mattered.

Dean stepped directly in front of you, his presence commanding and heavy. Because you couldn't hear him, your entire focus narrowed onto his face. He leaned in, his expression a mixture of hunger and playful dominance. He didn't speak or if he did, the music swallowed it but he carefully mouthed the words, “Watch me...read my lips.”

A shiver raced down your spine. You nodded, your heart hammering against your ribs in time with the beat of the song. His hands moved slowly, reaching for the towel wrapped around his waist. Before he moved it, he paused, gaze locking onto yours, silently asking for consent.

You nodded again, breath hitching.

The towel pooled at his feet in one fluid motion. You sat perched on the edge of the bed, your eyes immediately dropping to his cock. It was semi-hard, thick and pulsing slightly, with a neat trim of hair at the base that only made the sight more visceral. You watched, mesmerized, as the blood rushed to it, the shaft thickening and lengthening right before your eyes, straining upward as he sensed your gaze.

Driven by a sudden, desperate need to be bare before him, you began to undress. You kept your eyes locked on his hardening length, the visual of his arousal fueling your own. You kicked off your shoes, the friction of the carpet against your soles a distant sensation compared to the heat radiating from him. You peeled away your pants and slid your shirt over your head, leaving you exposed. Without a bra, your breasts were fully revealed, nipples already peaking from the chill and the anticipation. Finally, you reached for your panties.

As you slid them down your thighs, Dean reached out, his fingers twitching as if to snatch them away, a callback to his possessive streak. You quickly shook your finger ‘no’ with a small and defiant smile playing on your lips. He chuckled, though you only saw the vibration of his chest and the crinkle at the corners of his eyes.

He began to crawl toward you, his movements predatory and slow. You retreated, crawling backward into the center of the bed, the soft fabric of the sheets sliding against your skin. He followed, closing the gap until your head hit the pillows. You remained pinned by his gaze, holding intense eye contact as he loomed over you.

Then, his touch arrived.

His fingers began to graze over your naked body in a light, agonizingly slow exploration. He traced the line of your sternum, the sensation sending electric sparks through your nerves. When his hands reached your breasts, he cupped them firmly, thumbs rolling your nipples between his fingers. The friction was exquisite. You gasped, your back arching instinctively but the sound of your own moan was lost to the music, leaving you in a vacuum of pure sensation.

Dean, however, heard it. He saw the way your throat tightened and heard the muffled sound of your pleasure and the sight of your vulnerability made him even harder. He leaned down, capturing one nipple in his mouth. The heat of his tongue and the sharp tug of his suction sent a jolt of lightning straight to your core. He switched to the other side, lips wet and demanding, swirling around the peak of your breast until you were writhing beneath him.

As your back arched off the mattress, you felt your pussy clamp shut around nothing, the internal muscles pulsing with a desperate, empty longing. You were slick, the heat between your thighs becoming an ache that demanded to be filled. Dean must have seen the way your hips tilted, the way your thighs trembled, because he shifted his weight.

He slid two fingers deep inside you in one smooth motion. You let out a sharp whine, your head tossing back against the pillows. The feeling of him filling you, the stretch and the sudden friction, was overwhelming. He began to move his fingers in a rhythmic, curling motion, hooking them upward to hit the sweet spot.

Your focus remained obsessively on his face. You watched his lips, searching for a word, a command, a promise…anything, but he remained teasingly silent, refusing to kiss you, denying you that final point of contact. Your eyes fluttered, the pleasure threatening to pull you under into a blackout of bliss but you fought to keep them open, desperate to read his lips, to stay connected to him through the only channel left.

Your legs twitched open wider, inviting him in, body humming like a live wire. He curled his fingers deeper, increasing the pace, the wet sounds of his intrusion lost to the music but felt vividly in every nerve ending. You were hovering on the precipice, the tension building into a towering wave but he kept you right there, on the edge, breathless and begging, with no release in sight.

Until he leaned closer, his body a heavy, radiating heat between your thighs. His fingers continued their relentless work inside you, curling and sliding in  rhythmic friction. You looked up at him, vision slightly blurred from the intensity and your lips parted.

"Fuck me louder," you breathed, the words barely a whisper, lost to the thumping bass of the music in your ears. “I know just how much you like to hear me sing.”

He saw the desperation in your eyes and the way your hips were bucking upward. He moved, pressing the raw, blunt tip of his cock directly against your clit. The sudden, direct pressure made you whine, a high-pitched sound that vibrated in your own throat but remained unheard by you.

In one swift, decisive motion, he withdrew his fingers. For a heartbeat, there was a void, a cold, empty ache and then his lips ghosted over yours, a teasing promise of what was coming as he lunged forward, pushing his thickness into you in one powerful thrust.

The stretch was immense. You felt your pussy walls scream and then surrender as he bottomed out, burying himself to the hilt. A synchronized groan escaped both of you, the sound muffled by the collision of your mouths as you finally, desperately, kissed. The sensation of him filling you completely for the first time was an explosion of tactile data, you could feel every vein, the heat of his shaft and the way your internal muscles clamped tight around him in a shocked, welcoming grip.

The kiss became messy and hungry, tongues clashing and swirling as you fought for air and dominance. Your body struggled to adjust to his size, your pussy walls twitching and pulsing rhythmically around him, trying to mold themselves to his shape. Your nails dug deep into his sides, leaving red crescents in his skin as you anchored yourself to him.

He began to move.

He pulled back nearly all the way, almost slipping out, before slamming back in with a force that rattled your teeth. You couldn't hear the wet, slapping sounds of your pelvises colliding or the guttural groans he was making into your mouth but you felt them. You felt the vibration of his voice in his chest against yours and you knew with absolute certainty that you were both making insane, primal noise that would have filled the room.

The sensory deprivation heightened everything to an unbearable degree. Because you were blind to the sound of the world, the physical sensations became hyper-focused. Every slide of his cock felt like a lightning strike. You didn't know if it was the hypnotic rhythm of the music or the agonizing anticipation of the last hour but the sex was transcendently good.

Dean broke the kiss to dive back down to your breasts, latching onto your nipples and sucking them hard, the sharp tugging sensation mirroring the deep rolling thrusts of his cock. His large hand slid down, gripping your ass cheek with bruising force, lifting and tilting your pelvis to change the angle of penetration.

The change in position allowed him to hit your G-spot with every single plunge. You felt as though you were going to shatter into a thousand pieces. Your face twisted, eyes rolling back in a mask of pure, unadulterated pleasure, your mouth hanging open in a silent scream. The visual of him, his muscles straining, his face tight with lust and the sight of his hips slamming into yours, combined with the feeling of being completely impaled, pushed you further and further toward the edge.

He was relentless, driving into you with a rhythmic, punishing pace that left you breathless. You were a prisoner to the music and the friction, trapped in a loop of exquisite torture where the only thing that existed was the feeling of him stretching you open and the sight of his hunger. You were hovering on the precipice again, the tension building into a towering, unstable wave but the release remained just out of reach, leaving you desperate for more.

Dean stopped the linear slamming and began to employ rolling thrusts, grinding his pelvis in a slow, circular motion that smeared his cock against every sensitive ridge of your vaginal canal. The friction was agonizingly perfect, a swirling pressure that stoked the fire in your gut until it became a roaring blaze.

You were unraveling. Your head thrashed against the pillows, mouth wide and gasping, emitting a torrent of raw, uncontrolled moans and whimpers. You couldn't hear the volume of your own voice but you saw the look of satisfaction on Dean's face. He was drinking in the sight of your undoing, the knowledge that while you were trapped in a silent world of bass and rhythm, your voice was filling the room. To him, your desperate cries were a symphony, a private concert of pleasure that belonged solely to him. He loved that you were oblivious to how loud you were, how completely you had surrendered your dignity to the sensation of him.

The tension reached a critical mass. Your internal muscles began to seize, clamping down on his shaft in involuntary spasms. You felt a sudden, electric snap deep within your core and then the dam broke.

It was the longest, most delicious orgasm of your life. It didn't hit like a wave, it hit like an earthquake, shattering your composure and sending jolts of white-hot electricity radiating from your clit to your fingertips. Your body arched, spine curving off the bed as you locked your legs around his waist, trying to pull him even deeper. Your eyes rolled back into your head, leaving only the whites visible as you drifted into a void of pure, sensory overload.

He sensed the climax gripping you and used it, fucking you right through the peak. He drove into your pulsing walls with a ferocious intensity, his cock sliding through the flood of your release. The combination of your orgasm and his relentless pace pushed him over the edge. 

With one final, guttural surge, he buried himself to the absolute hilt, pinning you to the mattress as he erupted. You felt the hot, thick jets of his cum pulsing deep inside you, filling your womb with a searing warmth that seemed to anchor you back to reality.

The world slowly began to refocus. 

The two of you remained locked together, chests heaving in a synchronized rhythm as sweat glued your skin together. The noise in your ears was still there, the music continuing its steady beat but the physical intensity had changed into a heavy, languid glow.

Before he let his weight collapse onto you, Dean reached up. His fingers brushed your hair as he carefully slid the headphones off your ears.

The sudden influx of sound was jarring. The room rushed back in, the distant hum of the house, the rustle of the sheets and most prominently, the ragged, heavy sound of your shared breathing. The noise was intimate, raw and echoing.

As the sound of his labored exhales hit your ears, you felt a fresh wave of arousal ripple through you. Your pussy, still tight and sensitive, gave a series of rhythmic, needy throbs around his softening cock, making Dean let out a low, shaky breath against your neck.

It probably took the two of you twenty minutes to finally peel yourselves away from each other and even then neither of you moved very far. You lay side by side beneath tangled sheets, staring up at the ceiling, shoulders barely touching whenever one of you moved. Every muscle in your body felt pleasantly heavy, as though simply sitting up would require far more effort than either of you were willing to spend.

Unfortunately, being comfortable didn’t stop either of your brains from working.

If anything, the silence only gave them more room.

You found yourself thinking about how this could possibly happen again eventually. At the same time, another part of you was already trying to figure out how to stop it from happening a third time. The contradiction would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so hopelessly obvious.

You truly believed this was your “twice”, your glorious coincidence.

Beside you, Dean let out a long sigh before finally breaking the silence.

“Would you say it counts if we don’t move?”

Your chest shook with tired laughter. “If you want a positive answer, you might want to ask the Mormons.”

Dean groaned. “So no.”

The room fell quiet again and for several seconds neither of you spoke.

Then your eyes widened slightly. “Wait.”

Dean turned his head toward you as you continued staring at the ceiling while thinking through the idea.

“What if we don’t orgasm?”

“No.” The answer came so quickly you almost laughed again. Dean didn’t even need time to consider it. After everything he’d experienced over the past hour, the suggestion wasn’t remotely tempting. “No, absolutely not…I can’t do that. I won’t survive it.”

You smiled toward the ceiling. “It’s good that you’re finally admitting how greedy you are.”

“I’m not that greedy.”

“You absolutely are.”

Dean scoffed.“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It usually is.”

A grin tugged at his mouth despite himself. “Maybe it resets every month.” His voice sounded thoughtful now.

You turned your head toward him. “What does?”

“The count.” He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling as though presenting serious scientific evidence. “Maybe there’s a monthly reset and every month we get two new chances.”

You stared and Dean shamelessly stared right back. “I’m serious, what day is it?”

You suddenly burst into laughter as you ran both hands down your face, though the sound still echoed softly around the room.

“We are in so much trouble.” Your voice came out muffled behind your palms.

Dean couldn’t keep his eyes away from you and the smile that appeared was lazy, warm and entirely too satisfied for someone supposedly worried about consequences and patterns.

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

You peeked at him through your fingers and rolled your eyes as he laughed quietly to himself before settling deeper into the mattress.

“But sure…I’ll get back to you on that,” he said. “Sometime after my brain starts working again.”

Unfortunately for both of your very optimistic interpretations of statistics, neither of you had started counting at the right place. The truth was that you’d been sampling this relationship for months before the night you climbed through his window.

With every lingering conversation, stolen glance, every excuse to stay five minutes longer and every hallway, stairwell, empty office and late-night text message, the line had been moving long before either of you admitted it existed and those had merely been milestones along a road the two of you had already been traveling for a very long time.

This was your third…the very last piece of the pattern, which meant there was no stopping this anymore. 

The only thing left to do was keep it hidden for as long as possible, hoping the secret survived longer than your self-control had.

After all, mathematics had never really been your forte but public perception certainly was.

The kitchen was bathed in the warm, amber glow of the ambient lights, the scent of a simmering dinner still lingering in the air, though it had long been forgotten. Your bag lay abandoned by the front door and your clothes were a discarded trail of fabric leading across the linoleum floor to where you now sat pinned against the cold granite of the countertop.

You were completely naked, your skin warm and sensitive. One of your arms was stretched high above your head, wrist locked tight in a pair of heavy steel handcuffs that David had clicked shut around the handle of the upper cabinets. The metal was cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the searing heat of his body holding you in place.

David, still smelling of the city and the grit of his shift in the Harford County Narcotics Task Force, was positioned between your thighs. He had you folded perfectly, just the way he always liked, with one of your legs hiked high, calf resting heavily over his shoulder, while your other leg was hooked firmly around his waist. The position left you completely open, exposed and vulnerable to him.

As he pushed his cock forward and past your entrance, the sensation was overwhelming. You were incredibly tight, walls gripping him with a desperate intensity because despite the distance and complications between you, you hadn't let another man touch you. You were reserved only for him. 

You both looked down together, breaths hitching in unison as you watched his thick, rigid cock slide slowly, inch by agonizing inch, into your soaking wet pussy.

The sight of the penetration and the way your flesh stretched and molded around his girth, made you gasp. You looked up at him, eyes hooded and heavy with lust and whispered in a sultry, teasing drawl, "Welcome home."

His gaze snapped to yours, blue eyes darkening with hunger. He reached up, fingers brushing your wrist as he tightened the handcuff just a fraction more, securing you firmly to the cabinetry. 

"That's my line," he rasped, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your chest.

He began to move his hips, the motion slow and tentative, as if he were rediscovering every curve of your interior. You kept your eyes locked on the point of contact, mesmerized by the friction and the wet, slapping sound of your bodies meeting. David, however, couldn't look away from you. His eyes drifted down to the wedding ring that dangled from a delicate chain around your neck, resting right between your breasts, metal shimmering under the warm lights. He was still wearing his own ring, a silent testament to a bond that neither of you had truly managed to break.

As he drove deeper, the pleasure spiked, sending a jolt through your spine that made your head thud softly against the top of the cabinets. You closed your eyes, your breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches as you tried to focus on breathing, though the sensation of him filling you made it nearly impossible.

David’s large hand came up to grip the leg resting on his shoulder at the thigh, his fingers digging into your soft skin. He leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to your ankle and the tenderness of the gesture made a pathetic, needy whine escape your throat.

"Being inside you is my home," he murmured against your skin, voice thick with emotion. "I hope you feel that."

You could only nod, head lolling back against the cabinets as he continued to fuck you, pushing all the way in until there was no space left between you. He didn't rush, he savored the tightness, the way you clung to him and the sheer eroticism of the scene.

The warm light reflected off the glistening moisture where your pussy met his girth, the lubrication making every slow slide feel like silk. You were trapped, folded and dominated, yet the intimacy was suffocatingly sweet. Every time he bottomed out, you felt the weight of him, the raw power of his body and the undeniable truth that no matter where you went, this desperate, sensual collision in a quiet kitchen was the only place you ever wanted to be.

The slow, tentative pace eventually changed, evolving into something more urgent and possessive. David’s free hand left your thigh and slid upward, fingers wrapping firmly around your throat. He didn't squeeze to hurt but the pressure was commanding, tilting your head back and exposing the line of your neck as he crashed his lips against yours. It was a hungry, open-mouthed kiss, your tongues tangling in a desperate dance that mirrored the friction between your legs. You moaned into his mouth, the sound muffled and needy but he didn't slow down to enable it.

He fucked you with a renewed intensity, hips driving forward with a rhythmic force that threatened to slide you right off the granite. Your free hand scrambled across the cold countertop, fingers splaying wide as you gripped the edge to anchor yourself against the power of his thrusts. Every time he bottomed out, the impact sent a shudder through your entire frame, body vibrating from the sheer depth of him.

He was driven by a frantic sort of hunger. 

He didn't know when he’d see you again because you were a ghost in his life, a beautiful haunting that appeared and disappeared at will. If he was lucky, you might stay until the morning but the probability was high that you’d be gone before he even woke up. That desperation fueled him, making every slide of his cock into your soaking pussy feel like he was trying to brand you from the inside out.

As he pulled back slightly, his gaze dropped back down to the ring dangling between your breasts. The metal shimmered against your sweaty skin, colliding softly against your chest with every heave of your breath. Your nipples had peaked, hard and sensitive, reacting to the cool air of the kitchen and the heat of his body. Your breathing accelerated into ragged gasps and the whining in your throat grew louder, echoing the wet, slapping sound of your pelvic bones colliding. Slap. Squish. Slap. The lubrication was excessive now, a thick, slippery slick that coated his shaft and leaked onto the countertop.

"I know, baby. I know what you want," he groaned, his voice a gravelly rasp.

The hand that had been on your neck moved, thumb finding your clit with pinpoint accuracy. He began to circle the swollen nub, applying a firm, rhythmic pressure that made your world tilt. You melted instantly, a violent shudder racking your spine as the dual stimulation of his cock filling you and his thumb teasing your peak pushed you toward the edge.

Suddenly, he withdrew. He slid out of you slowly, the vacuum of your tight walls creating a wet, popping sound as he fully exited. You both watched, breathless, as he held himself just an inch away, tapping the head of his thick, glistening cock against your opening and clit. A string of clear, viscous slick stretched between the two of you, a glistening bridge of arousal that snapped as he pushed back in.

He forced you to look at him, eyes boring into yours with an intensity that felt like it could strip you bare all over again. He captured your lips in another deep, tongue-heavy kiss, this time pulling you flush against him, eliminating every millimeter of space.

"Try not to rip out the cabinet door, will you?" he murmured against your lips, a ghost of a smirk playing on his mouth.

You smiled, a smartass retort forming on your tongue but before you could utter a word, he slammed out and back into you. At the same moment, his fingers reached up to pinch and roll one of your hardened nipples. You let out a deep moan that vibrated in your throat, eyes rolling back as the pleasure became an all-consuming wave. This was the only cure for the day you'd had, the raw, unfiltered dominance of the only man who truly knew your body.

"Nobody else in Baltimore to fuck, huh?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low, teasing rumble as he trailed kisses down your jawline.

Above you, the handcuffs rattled violently against the cabinet, the steel clinking as you strained against the restraint, itching to wrap your arms around him and pull him even deeper. Your free hand reached out, clutching at his shoulder, nails digging into his skin.

"Only one who knows how," you moaned, voice breaking.

The pace accelerated into a blur of heat and friction. The sound of body slapping echoed through the quiet kitchen, a combination of the rhythmic, wet thud of his hips hitting your inner thighs, the squelch of your pussy gripping his cock and the heavy sound of your combined breathing. He was fucking you raw, movements becoming more primal, driving into you with a force that left you breathless and trembling, the wetness between your legs turning into a frothy lather as he continued to claim you.

The friction intensified, the rhythm now changing to frantic. David’s hips became a blur of motion, driving into you with a relentless force that made the kitchen cabinets groan under the strain. You were locked in a feverish kiss, tongues battling for dominance while your breathing began to falter. The air in your lungs seemed to vanish, replaced by a mounting, electric tension that coiled tight in the pit of your stomach, radiating downward toward the point where you were fused together.

As the orgasm began to crest, David shifted his grip. He reached up, palm curling around the wedding ring dangling against your skin and clutching one of your breasts in a firm, bruising hold. He pressed the metal and your flesh hard into his palm, massaging them closer to your heart. He wanted the imprint of that ring, the symbol of what you once were and what he still claimed you to be, to be branded into your skin by the sheer pressure of his desire.

Your lips parted in a silent plea for release that escaped you. Your foreheads met, skin slick with sweat and together you both looked down. You watched the sight of his thick, glistening cock disappearing completely into your soaking wet folds, the skin of your pussy stretched taut and glistening with a lather of arousal.

"Come on, I know you have it...breathe," he commanded, voice low.

The combination of his voice, the visual of his cock burying itself inside you and the agonizingly perfect friction triggered the collapse. You gasped for air, a sharp, jagged intake of breath that broke into a series of high, needy moans. Your body suddenly shuddered with it, your internal walls clamping down on him in a series of rhythmic, involuntary spasms. Your pussy twitched and pulsed around his cock, gripping him with a desperate tightness that nearly brought him to his knees.

He forcefully kept his hips moving, driving through the waves of your climax, refusing to let you simply drift away. Every time he withdrew almost entirely, the vacuum of your orgasm triggered a release and you began to squirt, jets of clear, hot fluid spraying across his pelvis and the floor with a wet, splashing sound. Squelch. Splash. Slap. The sound of the lubrication and the squirting became a symphony of filth, the air smelling of sex and salt.

"I'll never get tired of seeing you cum," he groaned, voice thick with a primal hunger. “Fucking love to see it.”

The sight of you unraveling, body shaking and leaking all over him, pushed him over the edge. 

His cock gave a sudden throb deep inside your walls and with a deep-chested groan, he finally broke. He slammed himself into you one last time, pinning you against the cabinets as he began to cum.

You felt the hot, thick pulses of his seed erupting from him, filling you up in heavy, rhythmic bursts. The sensation was that of a flood of warmth that seemed to reach your very core. David’s entire body shivered, his muscles locking up as he poured himself into you, his breath coming in ragged, desperate hitches. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cabinet beside your head, chest heaving against your breasts once he finally released his grip.

You stayed there for a long moment, suspended in the afterglow, the only sound the heavy, synchronized thumping of your hearts and the dripping of fluids onto the floor. Your hiked-up leg remained there, though it now trembled from the intensity of the release. Your hand moved from his shoulder, sliding up to the nape of his neck, nails running through his hair as you felt the last of his cum fill you to the brim.

As the silence of the kitchen returned, you felt the cold steel of the handcuffs biting into your wrists. You knew there would be angry marks to hide the following morning, bruises that would serve as a map of this encounter but as you felt the heavy, warm weight of him still inside you, you didn't care. 

You hoped he stayed branded inside you, a secret, liquid mark of his possession that you would carry with you wherever you disappeared to next.

David couldn’t stop thinking about it almost a month later, which pissed him off more than he cared to admit, because he was sitting in the middle of an active investigation surrounded by cops who expected him to be paying attention, expected him to be chasing leads and to be doing literally anything besides staring through the glow of his computer screen while his chair rocked lazily from side to side beneath him.

The task force had spent days chasing a surname that seemed to exist everywhere and nowhere at the same time, buried beneath dead ends, sealed records, reluctant witnesses and databases that returned absolutely nothing useful and every road they took somehow circled back to the same frustrating conclusion: somebody was protecting somebody else and nobody wanted to talk or cooperate. 

They were stuck and all he could clearly think about was…sex.

“Any luck?” Gordon’s voice cut through the room as he abandoned his desk and walked toward the printer.

David blinked and sat forward, forcing himself back into the present. “No.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw and shook his head. “I’m thinking we should make some calls.”

Across the room Gordon slapped the side of the printer after it refused to cooperate for the third time. A second later the machine groaned to life. “Calls to who?”

David’s gaze drifted away from the desk phone and landed on his personal cellphone instead. 

He shrugged. “We’re wasting time trying to guess.” His thumb moved the mouse through photographs, names, reports and connections on his screen, trying to find something they’d missed while staring at the same evidence for days. “There might be someone I could ask.”

Gordon grabbed the fresh page from the printer and started scanning it. “Your buddy in intelligence?” He watched as David shook his head. “Wouldn’t it go against protocol?”

David laughed without humor. “Fuck protocol. We’re stuck.” He leaned back again. “We want the same thing…It’d be a favor I won’t have to pay back.”

Gordon considered that for a moment, eyes moving across the growing list of dealers, suppliers, runners and associates cluttering the page in his hand.

Finally he sighed. “Make the call.”

David nodded and reached for his phone but the movement stopped halfway once Scott walked into the office looking like he’d just swallowed something unpleasant.

His shoulders hung lower than usual, while his expression was that of annoyance and resignation. “The feds are here.”

The room around them went quiet as he pointed toward the conference room before turning around again, already moving towards it because nobody asked questions or needed to.

David exchanged a look with Gordon before pushing himself off his chair and following the rest of the task force down the hallway.

The conference room was already full by the time they arrived. Half the unit was sitting around the tables or against them while the other half leaned against walls staring forward as several people in suits stood at the front beside the whiteboard that had become a graveyard of photographs, names, timelines and theories.

David walked in last, feet faltering once his eyes locked onto yours and for a second, the entire room disappeared.

You stood at the front beside other federal agents and Andrea Smith herself, head of the Organized Crime Drug Enforcement Task Force, posture straight, expression unreadable and hands folded neatly in front of you like you belonged there.

Like you owned the room…and this wasn’t the first time you’d been standing across from him while holding all the cards.

His jaw tightened which you noticed, because nobody in that room knew him the way you did. They didn’t know how quickly irritation settled into the corners of his mouth or the difference between David being angry and David trying very hard not to be.

This wasn’t anger yet but it definitely was disappointment that came from realizing somebody had been sitting on information they probably should’ve shared a long time ago.

Andrea cleared her throat once everyone settled.

“It seems our investigation has crossed jurisdictional lines. I’ll be giving the FBI the lead and I expect everyone here to cooperate so we can continue moving this case forward together.”

Murmurs spread through the room but Andrea ignored them and stepped aside as you stepped forward. For the briefest second your eyes met David’s again before your attention moved to the rest of the room.

“I want to reassure everyone that we’re not here to take over your case or claim credit for work you’ve already done. We’ve simply been assigned to prevent this investigation from moving into areas that exceed your jurisdiction.”

“And those are?” Scott asked from somewhere behind David.

You didn’t hesitate. “Confidential.” Several groans answered that but you continued. “We’re operating as a joint federal task force.”

You motioned toward the agents beside you. “Organized crime and drug enforcement, financial crimes and safe streets.” Your gaze swept across the room already preparing for the reactions. “I’m Special Agent in Charge…McDougall.”

The room went silent. David’s expression didn’t change but Gordon turned so fast his chair nearly tipped over while a few other heads moved between the two of you, the same sudden realization spreading through the room.

You continued. “I’m assigned to the Public Corruption Unit and you’ll be answering to me.”

Eyes continued to drift toward David with varying degrees of subtlety but when half a room of cops tried to be discreet at exactly the same time it stopped being subtle altogether, becoming its own loud, awkward thing that settled over the room. The shift in attention was immediate and impossible to miss. Men who had spent years reading witnesses, suspects, informants and each other were suddenly pretending they weren’t looking directly at him.

David felt every second of it. Still, his eyes never left you.

You let the silence sit for a moment, long enough to make everyone uncomfortable without letting it turn into a spectacle.

“I know this isn’t ideal,” you said, your voice level and controlled, your attention moving around the room now instead of lingering on him. “Nobody likes finding out their case has a ceiling they didn’t know was there. That’s not a reflection of your work, it’s a reflection of how far this thing goes.”

Your hands remained clasped together in front of you. “What you’ve built here matters. The names, the patterns, the connections and the dead ends–” You paused. “Especially the dead ends…We need all of it.”

You reached back and tapped the whiteboard behind you.

“From this point forward your chain of command remains intact for everything that stays inside your jurisdiction. The moment something crosses into ours, it comes through me first. Not around me, not after the fact…but first.” Your eyes swept across the room again. “I’m not asking anyone here to trust us…I’m asking you to work with us while you decide whether you do.”

You took a step back which was the universal signal that the speech was over. “Any questions?”

David nearly rolled his eyes before the sentence had fully left your mouth because he knew what was coming. In his peripheral vision Scott’s hand was already halfway in the air.

You pointed at him. “Go ahead.”

Scott sat forward slightly. “Any relation to…” His finger pointed toward David and the room somehow became even quieter.

“Yes.” You didn’t hesitate.

If cooperation was going to happen, you knew some things were better handled immediately rather than letting rumors do the work for you. You’d made peace with that possibility years ago when you decided not to change your name.

“He’s my ex-husband.”

A slow ripple of realization moved through the room. Several heads turned as pairs of eyes dropped to David’s left hand and to the wedding band he still wore, then to yours which was bare.

The silence thickened again so you cut through it before it could settle. You tilted your head. “Do you also want to know my blood type?”

Scott blinked with a scoff. “What the hell would I want–”

“You came up with one stupid question.” You shrugged. “I was checking to see if you had another.”

A few snorts escaped around the room. Scott looked offended while Gordon looked like he was trying not to laugh and failing miserably at it.

You didn’t give anyone the opportunity to continue. “We’ll be set up in that room over there.” You pointed toward an office near the back. “So you can keep using this space freely.”

Then you turned toward your own team. “Try not to step all over these gentlemen’s work…Get to it.”

The room finally started moving again, chairs scraped, papers shuffled and people stood while conversations started in low voices and the spell broke. At least for everyone except David, because while everyone else was thinking about jurisdiction disputes, federal oversight and whatever fresh headache had just landed on their desks, he was thinking about you.

Specifically how the hell he’d let this happen without seeing it coming.

His gaze found yours again and for a second it looked like you might actually walk up to him and speak but then a ringtone sliced through the noise.

You grabbed your phone and answered quickly. “Mcdougall.” A second later your posture straightened. “Yes, ma’am.”

You turned away and headed for the hallway, the conversation already pulling your attention elsewhere.

David watched you disappear through the doorway before finally pushing himself upright.

“You in bed with the feds?” Scott’s voice stopped him halfway across the room.

David turned slowly and could see that the look on his face wasn’t accusatory so much as deeply curious which somehow made it worse. “That’s my wife you’re talking about.”

The response came automatically, so sharp that it made several nearby heads turn.

Scott raised an eyebrow. “Ex-wife by the looks of it…I’m wondering how your current wife feels about that statement.”

“What?” For the first time all afternoon David genuinely looked confused.

Gordon finally walked over and without a word, pointed toward David's wedding band. His jaw tightened as he followed their gazes before looking between them again, but mostly at Scott. 

“You do ask stupid questions.” David shook his head and walked away before either of them could continue.

A few minutes later you stepped back into the room, phone still in your hand after ending the call. The conversation around you continued uninterrupted as most people had already returned to work, except for your ex-husband who was already moving towards you.

“Talk for a second.”

There wasn’t even the slightest attempt to make it sound like a question. He didn’t stop or wait to check whether you’d agree. He simply kept walking and the assumption that you’d follow him was still firmly intact after all these years.

To your mild annoyance, you did.

He reached an empty interrogation room near the end of the hallway and held the door open for you. The second you stepped inside, he followed and shut it behind you both, letting the click of the latch echo in the small room.

You opened your mouth immediately, clearly prepared to smooth things over before the conversation could become an argument but David beat you to it.

“Is this what that night was?” He asked, the implied accusation as clear as nothing else could’ve been. ”Merely getting info out of me?...That was a low blow.”

The claim landed harder than either of you expected, because David was angry enough to reach for whatever explanation hurt the most and you could see him doing it in real time, trying to force pieces together into a version of events that made sense to him, one where he hadn’t been blindsided in front of his own task force, one where he hadn’t spent the last month remembering you in ways that made him feel like a complete idiot.

You stared at him for a second before a humorless laugh escaped you, the sheer absurdity of it catching you off guard. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t get shit out of you because we were too fucking busy having sex.”

His jaw flexed. “No,” he shook his head. “I’m sure you made it fit somehow in there.”

Your eyebrows shot upward. “Yeah, definitely. I think it was somewhere between the third and the fourth round…Was it before or after we fucked in the hallway on the way to the shower?” You asked sarcastically.

He threw his arms to the side. “Sure. I don’t fucking know…you always were a great multitasker.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fuck you.”

His laugh came out sharp and immediate.

“You did and that’s my fucking problem. You did a month ago and now you’re fucking me again, except this time I’m clothed and at work which makes it way less fun, by the way.” he shook his head, running a hand over his head in frustration. “I should’ve known.”

There was the real problem and it surprisingly wasn't the FBI and the jurisdiction nightmare sitting outside that door. It was you and the fact that you’d shown up after all that time and he’d simply opened the door without a second thought.

“Known what?”

His eyes locked onto yours.

“You hate Baltimore! You always have, even when we were married. You couldn’t wait to get back to Quantico,” He motioned towards you. “That night you showed up at the house and I just…I let you in. I didn’t question why you were there, and I should’ve. I’m a detective, for crying out loud…It’s my fucking job.”

The statement almost made you laugh because it was true, absurdly so. “You didn’t ‘let me in’ David, you just never asked for the keys back, which means it’s still my house.”

In all the years since the divorce, through every argument, every period of silence and every failed attempt at pretending you were finished with each other, it had never once occurred to him to ask for those keys back.

“Then why did you ring the doorbell?” He asked, frustration slipping through the cracks.

You shrugged. “I don’t fucking know. What if you had company?  Excuse me for being considerate.” A dry laugh escaped you. “I’m so sorry, that’s always been my greatest flaw.”

The answer visibly offended him. His face twisted, like you’d said something genuinely unreasonable.

“I’m not seeing anyone, much less bringing them into our home,” he pointed.

The words hung between you heavily and neither of you dared correct his words, you simply nodded as something in you gave way and the fight bled out at once, your voice softening before you even fully realized it had.

“I was wrong for that, okay? It’s your space…and we agreed to keep it that way. I should’ve just gotten a hotel room–”

The second the apology appeared, David’s expression changed enough for you to recognize the discomfort immediately. He hated apologies from you, always had, especially when he didn’t deserve one. He let out a slow breath as he shook his head and stepped closer. 

You continued. “I was here for work but I swear it wasn’t about your case. I didn’t even know it was yours when I agreed to it and when I found out, I–”

His hand came up, settling against your neck and jaw with a familiarity that neither of you thought twice about. His thumb rested near your cheek as his expression softened.

“Okay, that’s enough. I’m sorry–” he said, bringing your face to his in a deep searing kiss.

The apology barely registered past the contact of his mouth on yours, the words dissolving into the space between breath and impact and whatever resistance you still had left in you didn’t even pretend to last because your hand was already catching the front of his shirt, pulling him back in like instinct had taken over where restraint should’ve been.

The apology actually surprised you more than the kiss did. It always did with him, that sudden shift from bite to something almost careful and honest, as if he didn’t know how to stay angry at you for longer than it took to get close enough to forget why he started it.

“You’re an asshole,” you said in between kisses as his lips curled into a smile.

That smile made it slower and linger instead of resolve, muscle memory was doing half the work for him while the rest of him kept dragging the moment out, refusing to let it end cleanly.

“I know…I know, baby,” he mumbled as he went in for more, tilting your head up for better access. “But you could’ve called.”

His mouth pressed back onto yours soon after, he was trying to make a point without words.

You exhaled into it without meaning to, the sound swallowed between you as he moved closer, crowding the space without actually moving you anywhere else, just pinning the moment in place with nothing but presence and the familiar arrogance of someone who knew exactly what he was doing to you and didn’t care.

Years of habit were overriding every sensible thought either of you should have been having and for a few reckless seconds it became dangerously easy to forget where you were, that there were federal agents, detectives and task force members less than fifty feet away.

Only then did reality return and you pushed firmly against his chest to create distance as you stepped back and he didn’t try to stop you, just watched while you couldn’t help but lick your lips subtly.

“I fucking hate you.” It came out entirely without conviction.

His grin widened as he moved to sit on the edge of the desk nearby and crossed his arms. “You hate that you don’t.” He paused. “And I don’t like how easily ‘ex-husband’ slipped out…so watch your mouth while we’re at it.” he cautioned playfully.

Your brows lifted while a reluctant smile threatened to appear. “Excuse me? Are we not divorced? I mean, we’re not great at it but–”

“I didn’t say that.“ he shrugged. “I said I don’t like how it sounded.”

You laughed under your breath. “Well, too bad. I remember you in court when it happened…and I didn’t put a gun to your head to sign those papers.” You shrugged.

The smile disappeared from his face. “No, I know.” His voice was quieter now, not revealing even a fraction of what crossed his mind every time he remembered that courthouse, every signature, document and opportunity he could have stopped it but didn’t. “...Would’ve told you to make sure you didn’t miss.”

The honesty of it caught you off guard. You looked away first. “I have to go.”

His eyes tracked your movement as you stepped toward the door. “Hate to see it.”

Your hand almost reached the doorknob before you stopped, turning back as professionalism slid back into place. “And just in case you were too busy thinking about sex out there while I was talking, I’m your boss now…a helpful indicator being that we’re both dressed and vertical,” you pointed out, making sure your bedroom tendencies and dynamics didn’t bleed into your jobs.

David nodded once. “Yes ma’am.”

You narrowed your eyes as he looked entirely too pleased with himself and your hand finally settled on the doorknob.

“I love you” he waited, seeing as you still weren’t moving. “Say it back.”

“I’m on the clock and your superior...I’ll say it at lunch.” You pulled the door open, the hallway noise immediately spilled back into the room.

“As long as I get to slide home tonight.” He said under his breath as he got up and followed.

You shook your head as you stepped through the doorway, fighting a smile that absolutely did not belong on the face of a Special Agent in Charge.

David let the door close behind him and knew two things with complete certainty. The first was that working under his ex-wife was going to be a disaster and the second was that by the end of this assignment, he’d be getting down on one knee again…whether it was to sate his primal hunger, sucking the honey right from the source or to propose again, he didn’t know.

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.

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!