Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, semi smut (nothing too descriptive), fluff, creampie, henry being in lovvveee ᥫ᭡.
WC: 500
A/N: Shorter fic. Follows canon kinda. Reminder that requests are open. And as always, my fics incorporate music. ⤵︎
⋆˚✿ As dominant as he is outside of the bedroom, he’s a softy wrapped in the sheets with you. He opens up and you’re lucky enough to see him—to truly see him.
⋆˚✿ Henry hasn’t had much of a love life. He’s spent decades trapped in a lab and in another dimension. Needless to say, he’s feral when it comes to sex. He’s busy but makes time for it. For you.
⋆˚✿ Because of all his pent up energy, Henry can go for hours—sometimes all night. By the end, the both of you are wasted. Sweat stained sheets and the smell of sex lingers through the house.
⋆˚✿ Henry ALWAYS makes sure you get your release—he prides himself on it. Hearing your moans is music to his ears. Feeling your velvety walls collapse around his cock or his fingers, never ceases to bring a smile to his face.
⋆˚✿ After? He’ll tend to your every need. He’ll pour a cold glass of water for the two of you. He’ll grab a towel and make sure you’re clean and comfortable—but not without savoring the image of you covered in his seed. He’ll run a warm bubble bath for you. He’ll comb your hair and rub your back. Basically he’s so in lovvveeee!
⋆˚✿ The first time you and Henry had sex was magical. It was so overwhelming Henry’s carefully crafted facade cracked—he cried. You didn’t know how to respond so you just hugged him. He hugged you back and you both drifted to sleep in each other’s arms without saying a word.
⋆˚✿ Henry is possessive and doesn’t shy away from using crass language during sex: “You’re such a fucking slut for me.” “Sweetheart you’re so needy.” “Fuck baby how long have you been waiting to get absolutely ruined by me?”
⋆˚✿ But… After sex, Henry gets soo lovey dovey. He’ll whisper sweet nothings into your ears and tell you how in love he is: “Sweetheart I swear I fall more in love with you everyday.” “You’re absolutely stunning and the most gorgeous woman in the entire world.” “I love you.”
⋆˚✿ One time after sex, Henry read for you. You couldn’t really remember what the book was—probably classic literature or philosophy like Franz Kafka. He wore his rounded glasses and nothing else while he read. He was so sexy and yet so gentle with his words. His lips fluttered like the wings of a butterfly as he read line by line.
⋆˚✿ Eventually Henry brought the kids to the house. Henry still made an effort to give you attention but it wasn’t like when you both were alone. Even after sex, the aftermath was short lived—you’d both hear a kid call out for Mr. Whatsit.
⋆˚✿ Nevertheless, Henry was a man in love. He was a man who’d do absolutely anything to make you happy and satisfied.
on a scale of 1 to 10, with one being incredibly heterosexual and 10 being incredibly homosexual, where does calling your doe-eyed twink coworker ‘pretty boy’ while you smile really big or tussle his hair or firmly grasp his shoulder land? Asking for science obviously
after class - part twenty-one: “nightly boredom”
synapse: after a night that should have satisfied them both, henry and y/n discover they’re still nowhere near finished with each other.
pairing: professor!henry creel x reader
contains: penetrative sex, masterbation
a/n: meeting jamie on the fifth…im so nervous
. . .
The phone rang twice before Henry answered.
Y/N was already in bed, the dorm room dim and quiet around her, the cord of the rotary phone stretched across the blanket and looped once around her wrist. Nancy was out doing some investigative journalism, which meant she didn’t have to keep her voice down for anyone but herself and even that was becoming difficult.
When Henry picked up, his voice came low and even.
“Yes?”
Y/N smiled instantly. “Hi.”
There was a pause.
Not a long one. Just long enough for him to recognize her, and for the silence to change shape.
“You’re awake,” he said.
“So are you.”
“I was working.”
Y/N shifted onto her side, cheek pressed into the pillow. “That sounds tragic.”
Henry’s voice stayed calm, but she could hear the attention in it now. “And you called to improve my evening?”
“Maybe.”
Another pause.
Then, quieter: “What do you want?”
The question should have sounded simple.
It didn’t.
Y/N felt the warmth spread through her all over again. “You.”
Henry exhaled slowly through his nose, and she pictured him exactly, one hand at his jaw, eyes lowered, trying not to sound as affected as he suddenly was.
“That’s not specific enough.”
“It should be.”
“It isn’t.”
Y/N smiled to herself and let the silence stretch just a little, because teasing him from a distance had its own kind of danger to it.
Henry was the one who broke first.
“What are you wearing?”
She bit her lip. “One of your shirts.”
A beat.
“The one that you never asked for back.”
Henry was quiet for just long enough to make her pulse jump.
“I know which one,” he said.
Something in the way he said it, like he could see it without seeing her at all, made her close her eyes.
“…And what are you doing in it?” he asked.
Y/N let out a quiet breath. “Lying here.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the beginning of one.”
His silence turned heavier.
She could hear the faint shift of him on the other end, chair moving, fabric rustling, maybe him sitting down, maybe leaning back, maybe already deciding this wasn’t going to remain a normal phone call for much longer.
When he spoke again, his tone had changed.
Not softer.
Lower. More deliberate.
“Then finish the answer.”
Y/N’s fingers tightened around the phone cord. “You’re bossy on the phone.”
“You called me for a reason.”
That sent a little thrill through her.
She rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling, breathing slower on purpose, because she knew he could hear more than she meant him to.
“I was trying to sleep,” she said.
“And?”
“And I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
She smiled faintly. “You know why.”
“No,” Henry said, and the lie in it was almost insulting. “I want to hear you say it.”
That did something to her.
Not just the words, the control in them. The quiet expectation. The way he always seemed to know exactly how to make her tell the truth when she wanted to hide inside teasing.
Y/N swallowed. “Because I kept thinking about you.”
Henry didn’t speak.
But she heard the change in his breathing.
She turned her head into the pillow and lowered her voice. “About your hands. About your mouth. About the way you look at me when you already know what you’re going to do.”
Henry’s answer came rougher now. “Y/N.”
Her name in his mouth did exactly what it always did.
“You asked,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said. “I did.”
A pause.
Then, low and steady, “Keep talking.”
Y/N shut her eyes, letting the dark of the room make her braver. “You’re in my head.”
“That sounds like your problem.”
She smiled. “You like when it’s my problem.”
Henry’s voice dropped another inch. “I like when you stop pretending you called me for conversation.”
Her breath hitched.
He knew her too well.
Y/N shifted under the blanket, the phone pressed closer to her ear now. “Maybe I wanted both.”
“You don’t want conversation.”
“No?”
“No.”
His certainty made heat move through her in a slow wave.
“What do I want, then?” she murmured.
Henry was quiet for a beat.
When he answered, his voice was so controlled it almost hurt.
“You want me paying attention to you.”
The words landed hot and immediate.
Y/N didn’t deny it.
Henry let the silence fill for a moment, then continued, more quietly, “You want me thinking about you in that shirt. In that bed. Like I’m there.”
Her throat went dry.
“Yes,” she admitted.
There was the faintest sound from him, something like approval, something darker.
“Good,” he said.
Y/N pressed her lips together, trying not to let him hear too much too quickly.
Henry didn’t miss the effort.
“Don’t go quiet on me now.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
His voice was too calm. Too precise. It made her feel pinned even through a phone line.
“I’m listening,” she said.
“No,” Henry murmured. “You’re waiting.”
That made her stomach tighten.
He knew exactly where he had her.
Y/N’s voice came out softer. “For what?”
And when Henry answered, it was with that same low, dangerous patience that always made her feel like the rest of the room had disappeared.
“For me to tell you what to do.”
Y/N’s breath caught.
The line went still between them, the dorm room around her disappearing into darkness and quiet, every nerve in her body suddenly tuned to the sound of his voice.
She heard him exhale, slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the admission.
“Good,” he said.
The word hung in the air between them, heavy and possessive.
Y/N’s hand drifted lower, grazing her stomach through the thin cotton of her shirt. She didn’t pull it away. Not yet.
She heard something shift on his end, the creak of leather, maybe his chair. He was settling in. Taking his time.
“You kept my shirt.”
“You knew I would.”
His laugh was quiet, dark. “I did.”
Y/N’s fingers found the hem of her shorts. She toyed with the elastic but didn’t push inside.
“What els.” Henry said. It wasn’t a question.
“What else what?”
“What else are you wearing?”
She bit her lip. “Nothing.”
His breath changed. A fraction of a second longer before he answered.
“Then your hand is already there, isn’t it?”
She didn’t answer. Her fingers slipped under the waistband, past her underwear, finding herself slick and ready. She inhaled sharply.
“Y/N.”
His voice was a command now. Low. Controlled. Like he was holding something back.
“You’re touching yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Because I told you to.”
Yes, she thought. But she didn’t say it. She wanted him to push.
He did.
“I want to hear it.”
Her hips rolled into her own hand, a soft sound escaping her lips.
“The way you sound when you think of me,” he continued, the words measured, each one placed like a step closer. “The way you sound when you’re close. When you’re desperate. When you’re about to come apart for me, and I’m not even there.”
She whimpered.
“That’s it.”
Her fingers moved faster, circles tightening. Her thighs fell open under the blanket.
“Henry—”
“Say my name again,” he cut in, rougher now. “Say it when you’re right there.”
The pressure built low and hot. Her breathing turned ragged, the phone slipped from her grasp but immediately pressed it hard against her ear.
“I’m—I’m close.”
“I know.”
His voice was silk over gravel. Quiet. Absolute.
“I want you to come when I tell you. Not before.”
She cried out softly, her hand faltering.
“You’re going to wait for me.”
“Henry, I—”
“You can.”
He waited. The silence was unbearable. Perfect.
Then, softer, almost tender, “You want to be good for me, don’t you?”
She nodded into the dark, not trusting her voice.
“Then listen.”
Her hand stilled, pressed between her legs, trembling. She could feel herself pulsing, aching.
He let the silence stretch. Long enough that she thought she might break.
Then:
“Now.”
She moved her hand again and came undone.
Her back arched off the bed, a broken moan spilling into the receiver. Her hips rocked against her own palm as the waves rolled through her, hot and endless, his name falling from her lips like a prayer.
He didn’t speak until her breathing started to slow.
When he did, his voice was quiet. Satisfied. Dark.
“Good girl.”
She lay there, spent, the phone still pressed to her ear, the line humming between them.
For a few seconds, neither of them said anything. The quiet after felt almost louder than the call itself, her pulse still hard in her throat, the room dim and close around her, the blanket twisted at her legs.
Then Henry exhaled softly on the other end.
“Drink some water,” he murmured.
Y/N smiled weakly into the dark. “Bossy.”
“Yes.”
She could hear him moving now, faint rustle, a drawer maybe, the creak of a chair. Like he was trying to put himself back together, and failing a little.
Y/N turned onto her side, tucking the phone closer against her cheek. “You sound far away.”
“I’m here.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Henry was quiet for a beat.
Then, lower, “I know.”
Y/N closed her eyes. The warmth in her body hadn’t gone anywhere, but now there was something else with it, restlessness, the strange hollow ache of having him in her ear and not in reach.
She swallowed. “I wish you were here.”
That landed.
She heard it in the pause. In the way the silence on his end changed shape again.
When he spoke, his voice was more controlled than before, which only meant she’d gotten to him. “Y/N.”
“I know,” she said softly. “I know.”
“No,” Henry said. “You don’t.”
Her brows lifted a little, but before she could answer, the line shifted, movement, keys, something metallic.
Y/N sat up slightly. “What are you doing?”
Nothing.
Then: “Put on your coat.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Your coat,” he repeated, calm and unmistakably serious. “Put it on.”
Y/N pushed herself up further in bed, suddenly awake in a completely different way. “Henry.”
“Now.”
Her heart kicked. “Are you—”
“Yes.”
The single word hit hard.
Y/N swung her legs over the side of the bed so fast the phone cord pulled taut. “You’re coming here?”
“I’m outside in ten minutes if traffic behaves,” he said. Then, drier: “Fifteen if Boston insists on being Boston.”
A smile broke across her face before she could help it. “You came for me.”
Henry was quiet just long enough to make it feel like an admission.
“I tried not to,” he said finally.
That made her chest tighten.
Y/N stood, still tangled up in the aftermath of the call and now in a rush of adrenaline on top of it. She scrambled for clothes, one hand still holding the receiver to her ear. “You’re insane.”
“Yes,” Henry said. “Get dressed.”
She laughed under her breath, breathless and disbelieving and already moving too fast. “I thought you were being responsible.”
“I was,” he said. “Briefly.”
Y/N found her sweater, then her jeans, then dropped one of her shoes and nearly tripped trying to step into the other.
Henry heard it. “Careful.”
“I’m fine.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She grinned, dragging her fingers through her hair and reaching for her coat. “You really couldn’t stay away.”
“No.”
The honesty of it stopped her for half a second.
Then Henry added, lower now, “Not after hearing you like that.”
Y/N went still.
Her hand tightened on the coat sleeve. “Henry.”
“Come outside when I get there,” he said. “Don’t make me come up.”
That made her laugh again. “You absolutely sound like you’d do it.”
“I would.”
She bit her lip, too pleased with him, too affected by the picture of it.
“All right,” she said softly. “I’ll be ready.”
The line went quiet for one moment more, neither of them quite hanging up.
Then Henry said, voice rougher now, stripped down to truth again, “I want you in my arms, not on a phone line.”
That did it.
Y/N closed her eyes for one second and smiled helplessly into the dark. “Then come get me.”
He hung up first.
The line clicked dead.
Y/N stood there in the silence of her dorm room, the receiver still in her hand, heart racing all over again for a completely different reason.
Then she moved.
Fast.
She went to the bathroom, got dressed properly this time, fixed her hair just enough to look like she hadn’t just spent the last half hour ruined in bed by his voice, failed to hide the glow in her face entirely, and pulled on her coat with shaking hands.
. . .
The night air hit cold and sharp when she stepped outside.
Henry’s car was idling at the curb, headlights low, engine running. He was behind the wheel, one hand at the top of it, the other already reaching across to unlock the passenger side the second he saw her.
Y/N got in and shut the door, breathless from hurrying and from him.
For one second they just looked at each other.
Henry’s tie was gone. His hair was slightly out of place, like he’d run his hand through it too many times. He looked exactly like a man who had tried to act rational and lost.
Y/N smiled first. “Hi.”
Henry looked at her like he’d been imagining this drive the entire way there.
Then he reached over, caught the side of her face in his hand, and kissed her, only pulling away to drive away.
The drive to his apartment was too quiet to be casual.
Not awkward. Just loaded.
Y/N sat in the passenger seat with her coat pulled around her, one hand curled loosely in her lap, the other resting near the window where the city lights flashed gold and blurred past. Henry drove with both hands on the wheel at first, posture controlled, eyes fixed ahead in that deliberate way he had when he was trying not to say too much.
Which only made it worse.
Y/N glanced at him once.
Then again.
His jaw was tight. His tie was gone. The top button of his shirt was undone, and the silence around him felt less like calm and more like discipline stretched thin.
She smiled faintly. “You really couldn’t stay away.”
Henry didn’t look at her. “Don’t.”
Y/N’s smile deepened. “It’s true.”
His grip tightened slightly on the wheel. “Y/N.”
She let the silence sit for a beat, pleased with herself, then turned a little more toward him in her seat. “I mean, I knew you wanted to.”
That got a glance.
Quick. Sharp. Enough.
“You knew nothing,” he said.
Y/N lifted her brows. “No?”
“No.”
But the lie didn’t land. Not with the way his voice had roughened around the edges.
Y/N looked out the window again, smiling to herself. “Mm.”
Henry exhaled slowly through his nose and said nothing else for the rest of the drive.
That silence followed them all the way to his building.
He parked, killed the engine, and for one second neither of them moved.
Then Henry got out first.
By the time Y/N reached the apartment door, he already had the key in the lock. He let her step inside before him, his hand briefly at the small of her back, and then he followed her in and shut the door behind them.
The click of the lock sounded louder than it should have.
Y/N turned.
Henry was still near the door, coat not yet off, eyes already on her.
For a moment he didn’t move.
He just looked at her—really looked at her—like he was taking in the fact that she was here now, in his apartment, in front of him instead of on the other end of a phone line.
Then he crossed the distance between them.
Not fast.
Deliberately.
His hands came to her coat first, fingers working at the buttons with maddening calm. He slid it from her shoulders himself, slow enough to make her pulse jump with every inch of fabric he peeled away.
When the coat hit the chair beside them, he looked at her again.
Y/N tried a smile. “Hi.”
Henry’s expression didn’t change.
His hand came up to her jaw, thumb resting just beneath it, and his voice dropped low.
“Tell me why I’m here.”
The question landed hot and immediate.
Y/N held his gaze, her heart already beating too fast. “Because I called.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She swallowed. “Because you wanted to come.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed slightly. “No.”
He stepped closer.
Y/N felt her back brush the wall.
Henry’s hand stayed at her jaw, steady and warm, keeping her attention exactly where he wanted it. “What did you think was going to happen,” he asked quietly, “when you called me sounding like that?”
Y/N’s breath caught.
“You knew what you were doing,” he continued.
His voice was still controlled. That made it worse.
Y/N tried to keep her expression innocent and failed immediately. “Maybe.”
Henry’s thumb moved once along her jaw. “Maybe.”
She looked up at him through her lashes. “I wanted you.”
Something in his face shifted.
Not much. Just enough.
Y/N’s pulse jumped harder. “I wanted you to come get me.”
Henry held her gaze for one heavy second.
Then his other hand came to her waist, firm and certain.
“That,” he murmured, “is a better answer.”
Y/N’s fingers curled lightly into the front of his shirt. “Were you expecting something else.”
“I was expecting,” Henry said, voice lower now, “to stay home.”
She smiled faintly. “And how did that go.”
Henry’s jaw flexed. “Poorly.”
That made her laugh once, soft and breathless.
His eyes dropped to her mouth.
“You called me,” he said, “and expected me to sleep afterward.”
It wasn’t really a question.
Y/N’s lips parted. “I hoped you wouldn’t.”
The words broke something.
Henry kissed her.
Not gently. Not immediately.
At first it was controlled—his mouth firm against hers, his hand at her waist tightening as if he were still trying to make a point, still trying to keep the whole thing inside the boundaries he’d set for himself.
Then Y/N kissed him back like she’d been waiting all night for him to stop pretending.
Her hands went into his hair. His control slipped.
The kiss deepened fast.
Henry backed her fully against the wall, his body close now, one hand sliding from her jaw to the back of her neck, the other still anchored at her waist. Y/N made a soft sound against his mouth, and he answered it by kissing her harder, all that tension from the drive and the phone call and the waiting finally catching fire.
He broke from her mouth only long enough to kiss along her cheek, her jaw, the side of her neck, his breath rougher now against her skin.
“You have any idea,” he murmured there, “what that drive was like.”
Y/N’s fingers tightened in his hair. “I can imagine.”
Henry’s hand at her waist flexed. “No.”
That sent a shiver straight through her.
She tilted her head back against the wall, giving him more room, and smiled despite the way her pulse was racing. “You should tell me, then.”
Henry lifted his head just enough to look at her.
His eyes were dark now. Focused. Entirely past pretending he was unaffected.
“You sounded,” he said slowly, “like you were in my bed already.”
Y/N’s breath caught.
“And I was supposed to stay home,” he continued, “and act like hearing you like that wasn’t going to follow me all night.”
She looked at him for one suspended second, all teasing suddenly sharpened into something warmer.
Then she touched his face, softer now. “You came.”
“Yes,” Henry said.
Just that.
No apology. No excuse.
Y/N smiled, small and helpless and too pleased with him. “Good.”
Henry kissed her again before she could say anything else.
And this time, there was nothing controlled left in it at all.
His mouth claimed hers without restraint, hungry, desperate, the kind of kiss that said he'd been holding back for far too long. Y/N melted into it, her back pressed against the wall, her fingers twisted in his hair, pulling him closer. His hands roamed her body, sliding down her sides, gripping her hips, lifting her slightly so she could wrap her legs around his waist.
He carried her the few steps across the room. The couch met her back, its faded gold upholstery impossibly soft against overheated skin. Henry followed her down, his body covering hers, his mouth already back on her throat.
The kiss turned into a trail of open-mouthed presses down her neck, across her collarbone. He tugged at the collar of her shirt, buttons scattering as he tore it open. She gasped, laughing breathlessly.
"I liked that shirt."
"I'll buy you another." His mouth found her breast through the lace of her bra, tongue wetting the fabric, circling her nipple until it peaked hard. She arched into him, and he reached behind her to unhook the clasp, freeing her breasts. He took one in his mouth immediately, sucking hard, flicking his tongue across the sensitive tip.
Y/N's head fell back, a moan spilling from her lips. "Henry—"
He switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention, his hand sliding down her stomach, over the waistband of her jeans. He palmed her through the denim, pressing against her cunt, feeling the heat through the fabric.
"Already so wet for me," he murmured against her skin. "I can feel it through these."
But instead of pulling her jeans down, he lingered. His hand stayed on her mound, pressing rhythmically, grinding his palm against her through the denim. She bucked into his touch, desperate for more friction.
Henry lifted his head, looking down at her. His eyes were dark, hungry. He lowered himself, pressing his chest against hers, the length of his body covering her. His hips settled between her thighs, and he began to roll against her, slow, deliberate thrusts of his pelvis against her cunt, still clothed but the pressure electric.
He kissed along her collarbone, her sternum, the valley between her breasts. His mouth was hot, worshipful, trailing down her ribs, her stomach, leaving a path of wet kisses and gentle nips. She shivered, her fingers tangled in his hair.
"You're beautiful," he breathed against her navel. "Every inch of you."
He rocked against her harder, his cock straining against his trousers, grinding into the juncture of her thighs. She could feel him through both layers of fabric, hot and thick, and she lifted her hips to meet him. The couch creaked beneath them.
Henry kissed his way back up her body, his mouth never leaving her skin, her hipbone, the curve of her waist, the underside of her breast. His hands roamed, gripping her thighs, her ass, pulling her tighter against him as he continued to hump against her.
"Tell me what you want," he murmured against her lips.
"You," she breathed. "Inside me."
He sat up, his chest heaving, and looked down at her. Without a word, he stood, unbuckling his belt, unzipping his trousers. His cock sprung free, thick, flushed, glistening with pre-cum.
"Turn around," he said, voice commanding but low. "Over the arm of the couch. I want to watch you take me."
Y/N turned onto her knees, leaning against the arm of the vintage couch. Its soft fabric was cool beneath trembling skin, the warm lamplight painting everything gold. She looked back over her shoulder, meeting his gaze.
Henry stepped closer, guiding his cock through her folds, collecting her wetness. He teased her clit with the head, making her shiver, and then he notched himself at her entrance.
He pushed in, slow, inch by inch, letting her feel every ridge, every throb of his length. She clenched around him, a low moan escaping her lips.
When he was fully seated, he stilled, letting her adjust. His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into her flesh.
"God," he breathed. "You feel—"
He didn't finish. He pulled out slowly, then thrust back in, a deep, rolling motion that sent a shockwave through her. She pressed her face into the couch, muffling her cry. He set a rhythm, long, deep strokes that filled her completely, each one hitting that perfect spot inside her.
"You like that?" His voice was strained, losing control. "You like being fucked on my couch like this?"
"Yes—fuck, Henry, yes—"
He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing in tight circles as he pounded into her. The dual sensation was maddening. She could feel herself climbing toward another peak, her inner walls fluttering around him.
"I can feel you tightening," he said, his breath ragged. "You're going to come again, aren't you?"
"Yes—please—"
"Come for me, sweetheart." His thumb pressed harder on her clit, his thrusts speeding up. "I want to feel you come around my cock."
She did. The orgasm hit her like a wave, crashing through her, her cries filling the room as she pulsed around him. Henry groaned, his hips slamming into her twice more before he followed, spilling deep inside her with a guttural sound that was almost a growl. He pulsed, hot and thick, filling her, and she felt every spasm of his release.
He collapsed over her, his chest pressing against her back, his breath hot on her neck. For a long moment, neither of them moved. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the soft creak of the couch.
Finally, Henry shifted, pulling out slowly. He turned her gently, helping her lie back on the couch, and he stretched out beside her, pulling her against his chest. His hand traced lazy patterns on her hip.
"You're going to be the death of me," he murmured into her hair.
She smiled, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Good."
Henry’s mouth brushed her hair, and Y/N could feel the smile there before she saw it.
“Men have died for less,” he murmured.
She laughed softly against his jaw, still warm and boneless, the couch holding both of them in that loose, heavy quiet that came after everything else had burned itself out. His chest rose and fell steadily beneath her cheek. His hand kept tracing those lazy shapes against her hip like he couldn’t quite stop touching her now that he’d started.
The apartment had gone still around them.
The lamp in the corner cast a soft pool of light over the room, leaving the rest in shadow. Outside, Boston kept moving somewhere beyond the windows, but in here everything had narrowed down to warmth, skin, breath, and the quiet satisfaction settling between them.
Y/N closed her eyes for a second. “You say that like it’s a complaint.”
Henry’s fingers paused at her hip, then resumed. “It is not a complaint.”
She tipped her face up to look at him. His hair was a mess now, his shirt open, the severe edges of him softened into something almost unfairly beautiful. She smiled, small and sleepy.
“You came to get me,” she said, like she was still marveling at it still.
Henry’s gaze lowered to hers. “Yes.”
“You really couldn’t stay away?”
His mouth twitched. “No.”
That simple honesty warmed her again in a place that had nothing to do with the sex.
Y/N traced one fingertip lightly over the open edge of his shirt. “I like when you lose control.”
Henry’s hand tightened slightly at her hip. “I don’t.”
She raised her brows. “Liar.”
He looked down at her for a long second, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead instead of arguing.
Y/N smiled into his chest, pleased with herself.
For a little while, neither of them spoke. Henry just held her there, stretched beside her on the couch, his body loose in a way it almost never was anywhere else. She could feel how tired he was under the afterglow of everything, not exhausted in a bad way, just unguarded. Worn down into softness.
His hand drifted higher, then back down, a slow, absent rhythm.
“You should stay here tonight,” he said quietly.
Y/N tilted her head. “Is that an order?”
“It’s a suggestion.”
“It sounds like an order.”
Henry’s mouth brushed the top of her head. “Then take it as one.”
She laughed softly. “Bossy.”
“Yes.”
Y/N shifted a little closer, tangling her leg more fully with his. “I don’t think Nancy’s expecting me back anyway.”
“No?”
“She’s probably already decided I’m with you and is judging me from across campus when she comes back to an empty room.”
Henry’s hand stilled once at that, then moved again. “She would be right.”
Y/N smiled. “She usually is.”
Henry huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh.
Then the silence came back, gentler this time. Y/N could feel herself starting to drift, not into sleep exactly, but into that soft, floating place where everything felt pleasantly far away and his body beneath hers felt like the safest surface in the world.
After a moment, she murmured, “You know what I like about this?”
Henry’s voice was low. “What?”
“You after.”
His hand paused again, just briefly.
Y/N lifted her head enough to look at him. “Not that you before isn’t nice,” she added, smiling faintly. “But this version of you.” Her fingers traced lightly along his collarbone. “The one that gets quiet and keeps touching me like you’re checking I’m still here.”
Henry’s gaze held hers, and something in it shifted, deeper, more vulnerable than he usually let it get.
“I know you’re here,” he said.
Y/N’s smile softened. “You still check.”
He looked at her for one long moment before glancing away, just enough to betray that she’d hit something true.
Then, with his thumb brushing once along her side, he murmured, “Maybe I like knowing.”
That made her chest ache in a way she didn’t have a witty answer for.
So she just leaned up and kissed him—slow, easy, nothing like before. Henry answered it the same way, one hand sliding to the back of her waist to keep her close.
When the kiss ended, Y/N stayed there, forehead resting lightly against his.
“Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll stay.”
Henry’s eyes stayed on hers. “Good.”
She smiled. “You’re very smug for someone who said I’d be the death of him.”
“You said ‘good.’”
“I meant it affectionately.”
“That does not improve it.”
Y/N laughed, and Henry finally did too, quiet and brief, but real.
Then he tightened his arm around her and shifted just enough to pull the throw blanket down from the back of the couch over both of them, because even completely undone, apparently he was still Henry enough to think ahead.
Y/N tucked herself against him more fully, cheek back to his chest, listening to the steadier rhythm of his breathing.
Henry’s hand kept moving at her hip for a while after that, slow and absent, the room wrapped in the kind of silence that only came after they’d worn each other out thoroughly enough to stop pretending they weren’t addicted to this.
Y/N stayed curled against him, listening to his breathing, half-lost in the warmth of his chest and the steady rise and fall beneath her cheek.
Then, after a long quiet moment, she said into his shirt, “I kind of feel like doing it again.”
Henry didn’t miss a beat.
“Nymphomaniac.”
Y/N smiled instantly, lifting her head to look at him. “That is entirely your fault.”
His mouth twitched. “Of course it is. It’s an Addiction.”
Y/N smiled instantly, lifting her head to look at him. “You call it an addiction…”
His mouth twitched. “What would you call it?”
“A healthy relationship.”
Henry gave her a look.
Y/N smiled wider, propping her chin on his chest. “It is. You know, statistically speaking, many relationships fail often due a lack of sex. We’re ahead of it. When we’re frustrated or angry, we just…fuck the emotions away.”
That got a brief, helpless laugh out of him before he could stop it.
“You make us sound deeply dysfunctional.”
Y/N’s eyes narrowed in playful offense. “I make us sound efficient.”
His hand slid once at her waist. “No.”
“Yes.”
Henry looked down at her with that dry, maddening expression of his, one hand still resting low on her waist. “No,” he repeated. “We both have class tomorrow.”
“It was not meant to sound convincing,” he said. “It was meant to be practical.” He brushed a thumb once against her side. “We both have class tomorrow.”
Y/N let out a dramatic sigh and sat up, letting the blanket fall a little as she pulled away from him. “Fine.”
Henry watched her immediately.
Y/N swung one leg off the couch and stood, stretching with a little too much theatrical disappointment. “I guess I’ll just have to get myself off. Rude.”
Henry went still.
Y/N barely made it two steps.
His hand caught her wrist and tugged.
She let out a soft surprised sound as he pulled her back down onto the couch, half over him, and before she could get another teasing word out, his mouth was on hers.
The kiss was immediate and heated, all the patience from a second ago gone like it had never existed. Y/N laughed once against his mouth, smug, delighted, and Henry answered by kissing her harder, one hand sliding to the back of her neck, the other finding her waist and holding her there.
“Practical,” she murmured breathlessly, just barely pulling back.
Henry’s eyes were dark when he looked at her.
“Quiet,” he said.
Then he shifted, moving over her with unmistakable intent.
in your bikini, your tits spilled out, and your pussy was as wet as the water you’d been playing in for the past hour. steve looked the best he has, all tan and toned in all the right places. you wanted to devour him whole. he’d been giving you the swim captain experience, showing you all kinds of strokes and tricks, which, yes, were cool but so not the ones you wanted to see. as if he could read your mind, he called out for you, “come back in, baby, this trick involves you.” you raised an eyebrow but oblige nonetheless, coming to your feet in the cold water. he eyed you like prey as you made your way towards him, pupils dilating by the second. your breath hitched as you inched closer; him towering over you did something to your stomach. “what’s the trick harrington?”you ask, tilting your head and pushing your chest out. “i’ll show you.” you open your mouth to protest the broad statement, but he beats you to it, shutting you up with a nasty kiss. lips moulding with yours with a deep moan. his hands snaked around your waist to pull you flush to his body, your breasts colliding with his firm chest. you moaned into his mouth as you wrapped your arms around his neck, jerking his head down towards you. heat radiated off your moist bodies, the closeness making you dizzy with need. he shoved his tongue down your throat to take back control of the kiss as you kissed him harder. never letting you win the fight of your tongues. he walks you back to the nearest wall to push you against it, never breaking the kiss for even a second. he slots his knee between your legs and brushes against your clothed pussy in just the right way. his nose clashed with your cheek as he attempted to impossibly deepen the heated kiss. you tug at his wet hair in place of a moan as you rut on his thigh, gliding messily along the bottom of his swimtrunk.
Henry Creel is not naturally a cruel person. The only reason Henry Creel ever got possessed by the Mind Flayer is because he went in the cave to help that scientist. It was this act of kindness that sealed his fate, his biggest mistake in life was being kind
summary: after a toxic ex stirs old insecurities, spencer shows up, protective and insistent, proving that you deserve better
includes: no use of y/n, smut (MDNI), coworkers/friends-to-lovers, insecure reader, bar/alcohol, ex jealousy/freakout, protective spencer, implied (scarcely mentioned) age-gap, reader has a small panic/anxiety attack, sarcasm as a defense mechanism, slow burn/teasing, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (pull-out), fingering, praise/dirty talk, mutual release, post-sex aftercare, intimacy, age gap/daddy kink undertones, bedroom setting, clumsy fumbling, lingering touches, sweat and heavy breathing, consent-focused
this is the longest one shot I've posted. usually I try to edit them down, because I don't want people to have to pause and try and come back later and remember where they were. but for this one I just kept writing, and I decided to leave it long as hell because why delete all that work? lol
based on this request
The room is too warm.
Sheets tangled low around your legs, twisted into something that feels more like restraint than comfort. The air smells faintly of him—soap and something sharper beneath it, something you’ve never quite been able to name but have always associated with this: these visits, these nights, this version of yourself.
He’s beside you, chest rising and falling, breath still uneven. Spent. Satisfied.
And you—
You’re not.
The difference sits heavy in the space between you, unspoken but obvious. Your body still caught somewhere in the middle of something that never quite reached its end. A tension with nowhere to go. A quiet, unfinished feeling you’ve learned not to look at too closely.
James shifts beside you with a quiet exhale, like the moment has already left him.
There’s no lingering touch, no absentminded brush of his hand against your skin—nothing that suggests he’s still here with you in any way that matters.
He stretches. It’s casual. Unbothered. Like this is routine. Like you are routine.
The mattress dips as he sits up, running a hand through his hair before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The air moves with him, cool against your skin where the sheets have slipped too low.
“I’ve got an early day tomorrow,” he says, voice rough but detached, already halfway somewhere else.
You don’t answer. You don’t need to. Because then he glances toward the door. Just for a second. And that’s all it takes.
The rest of it settles into place like it always does—quiet, practiced, familiar in the worst way. He doesn’t tell you to leave. He never has. He doesn’t have to.
You know the pattern. You know your place in it.
You sit up slowly, the sheets dragging against your legs as if reluctant to let you go—or maybe that’s just you projecting something human onto something that isn’t. Wouldn’t be the first time tonight.
James stands, already reaching for his clothes. There’s no urgency in it, no embarrassment. Just efficiency. Like he’s completing a task.
Like you were one.
Your chest tightens—not sharp enough to hurt, just enough to remind you it’s there. That something is.
You gather your things from where they’ve been discarded, movements quieter than they need to be. Careful. Always careful. Like if you take up too much space, the illusion might break completely.
Like if you don’t, maybe it won’t.
A soft buzz breaks the silence. Not loud. Not intrusive. Just enough to fracture what little stillness is left.
James’s phone lights up on the nightstand.
You don’t mean to look. You really don’t.
But your eyes are already there, dragged by something instinctive, something tired and aching and quietly bracing for impact.
The screen glows in the dim light.
You don’t read the message. It's the wallpaper that gets your attention.
The girl in the picture is pretty. Effortlessly so. Long blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, bright blue eyes caught mid-laugh. There’s a softness to her expression, something open and certain. Happy.
James' arm is wrapped around her waist, pulled in close—familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop.
He’s kissing her cheek. And she’s smiling. Holding up her hand. A ring catching the light.
Your eyes close.
Fuck.
It’s quiet in your head for a second. Completely, unnaturally quiet. Like everything just… stops. No thoughts. No rationalizing. No soft excuses you’ve been feeding yourself for months—years, maybe.
Just that image. Burned in.
You inhale slowly, but it catches halfway in your chest. Stutters. Doesn’t quite settle.
Of course.
Of course there’s someone else.
Of course there’s always been someone else.
Behind you, James exhales like nothing’s changed. Like the room hasn’t just tilted on its axis. Like you aren’t standing there, half-dressed and suddenly very aware of how little space you actually take up in his world.
He reaches for the phone. The screen goes dark. Just like that. Gone.
“You good?” he asks, glancing at you briefly as he pulls his shirt over his head.
Casual. Offhand. Like he’s asking if you remembered your keys.
Your throat tightens. You nod anyway. Because of course you do. Because that’s the part you know how to play.
“Yeah,” you say, and it comes out softer than you mean it to. Thinner.
He hums, distracted already, fingers moving over his phone now that it’s in his hand. Typing something out. Quick. Easy. Unbothered.
You wonder if it’s her.
You don’t ask. You won’t ask.
That would imply something you’ve never been allowed to be.
You finish gathering your things, movements slower now—not hesitant, just… heavier. Like each small action carries more weight than it should.
Like something has shifted, even if nothing outwardly has.
Your shoes. Your bag. Your jacket. You pause for half a second longer than necessary, fingers brushing over the fabric before you pull it on.
Waiting.
For what, you’re not entirely sure.
For him to say something, maybe. To stop you. To explain. To choose.
But nothing comes. It never does.
James doesn’t look up right away.
His attention stays on his phone, thumb moving in short, practiced motions. Whatever conversation he’s stepped back into seems to take priority over the one he hasn’t even bothered to finish with you.
Then, like he remembers you’re still there—
“I’m slammed this week,” he says, almost as an afterthought. His tone is easy, unaffected. “Meetings. Late nights. The usual.”
You nod once. Of course.
He glances up briefly, just enough to check that you’re listening. Not long enough to actually see you.
“I head out Saturday,” he adds, tugging his watch onto his wrist. Adjusting it with a small, precise movement. “But Friday’s open.”
There’s a beat.
Then, like it’s already decided—like it always is—
“Eight work for you? Just come here.”
Not do you want to. Not are you free. Not even your name.
Just an expectation. A slot in his schedule. A space you’re meant to fill.
You nod again. Because that’s what you do.
“Yeah,” you say, quieter this time. It barely lands in the room.
He hums in acknowledgment, already moving on. Conversation over. Box checked.
You stand there for a second longer than necessary, like your body hasn’t quite caught up to the fact that there’s nothing left to wait for.
There never is.
So you leave.
The hallway outside is cooler.
It hits your skin in a way that feels sharper than it should, like you’ve stepped out of something thicker than air. Something that clung.
The door clicks shut behind you with a soft, final sound.
And that’s it.
No footsteps following. No voice calling you back.
Just quiet.
Friday comes anyway.
It always does.
But it feels different this time—not in any loud, dramatic way. Nothing that announces itself. Just a subtle misalignment. Like something inside you shifted a fraction to the left and never quite settled back.
You go through the motions of your day. Work. Conversations. Background noise. The steady rhythm of everything that’s supposed to feel normal.
The cursor blinks.
Steady. Patient. Indifferent.
You haven’t typed in—what, minutes? Longer than that. The document on your screen sits untouched, words from earlier staring back at you like they belong to someone else. Like they were written by a version of you that knew what it was doing. A version that wasn’t… this.
Whatever this is.
The office has shifted around you without you noticing. The low hum of conversation has thinned out, chairs scraping less frequently, the rhythm of people packing up settling into something quieter. End of day.
Your fingers rest lightly against the keyboard, unmoving. Your eyes fixed somewhere just past the screen, unfocused. The kind of staring that isn’t really seeing anything at all.
Eight o’clock.
The thought drifts through, uninvited. Lands heavier than it should.
Just come here.
Your jaw tightens—barely, but enough that you feel it. A slot in his schedule. A space. Something to fill.
“Are you coming?”
The voice cuts clean through the fog. You jolt.
It’s small, but sharp—your shoulders tensing, breath catching just enough to betray how far gone you’d been. Your head turns too quickly, like your body is scrambling to catch up.
Reid is standing a few feet away from your desk.
There’s a flicker of something in his expression—not quite concern, not quite surprise. More like confirmation. Like he’d suspected you weren’t really there long before he said anything.
His bag hangs loosely from one shoulder, one hand hooked around the strap. He tilts his head slightly, studying you in that way he does—too observant, too precise. It’s never invasive, exactly.
Just… thorough.
“The team’s going out,” he says after a moment, voice gentle but clear enough to anchor you back into the room. “Luke found a place a few blocks over. Apparently they have—” he hesitates, searching for the phrasing, “—statistically above-average reviews for their bourbon selection.”
A beat. His gaze doesn’t leave your face.
“We’re heading there now.”
There’s a pause—not empty, not accidental. Intentional. He gives you space to respond, but not enough to disappear into.
“Are you coming?”
The question lands softer than it should. Or maybe you’re just more aware of it.
You open your mouth—“Um”—but it doesn’t go anywhere. Your eyes drop instead, almost instinctively, to your phone where it sits on your desk.
Dark screen. Still.
He doesn’t comment on it, but something shifts behind his eyes—some quiet recalibration, pieces sliding into place. He’s good at patterns. Better at people than he likes to admit.
He’s seen this before. Not the specifics. Not the details. But the shape of it. Waiting. Hesitation. Obligation dressed up as choice.
You look back up.
He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t filled the silence. Just stands there, steady, patient in a way that doesn’t feel like pressure—but doesn’t let you hide either.
“Yeah,” you say finally. “Sure.”
The bar is louder than the office.
Not overwhelmingly so, but enough that it fills the empty spaces in your head with something external—music threading through conversation, glasses clinking, laughter rising and falling in uneven bursts. Warm light spills across polished wood and crowded tables, the air carrying the sharp, sweet burn of alcohol.
Your phone glows dimly in your hand.
Thread open. Messages stacked one on top of the other, a timeline of something that always felt like more when you were in it than it ever looks like now.
Short texts. Late-night logistics. Half-finished conversations that never needed finishing because they always ended the same way.
You scroll.
Your thumb hesitates over one from a few weeks ago—You up?—and something in your chest tightens, small and familiar. Predictable.
It’s just after eight.
You glance at the time again like it might change if you look at it differently.
No new message.
No are you on the way, no where are you, no irritation at your absence. Nothing to acknowledge that you didn’t show. Nothing to suggest he cares that you didn't.
Your teeth catch the edge of your thumb before you realize you’re doing it.
Across the table, laughter breaks—Luke saying something you don’t quite catch, JJ swatting his arm, Rossi shaking his head with that low, amused huff. It’s easy, natural. Effortless in a way that feels… distant.
A glass taps down in front of you.
You blink, pulled back just enough to look up as Emily slides a shot onto the table with a small, decisive nod.
The glass catches the light—amber, sharp. You stare at it for a second like you’re deciding whether you’re allowed to have it.
Then you pick it up.
Everyone cheers.
It’s loud, overlapping—Luke’s easy grin, JJ’s bright laugh, Garcia already halfway to a dramatic “bottoms up!” before the rest of the table catches up. Even Rossi lifts his glass with a quiet sort of approval, something softer tucked beneath it.
Spencer raises his glass of water too.
His fingers curl loosely around it, the motion a fraction delayed—like he’s watching first, cataloging, before participating.
His gaze flicks briefly toward you, quick enough that no one else would notice. Long enough that he registers the way your grip on the shot glass is just a little too tight.
Then you drink.
It burns. Sharp and immediate, a clean line of heat down your throat that should anchor you, should pull you fully into the moment. For a second, it almost does—your eyes squeezing shut, your breath catching on the exhale.
But it doesn’t last.
It never does.
Soon, the group begins to scatter.
JJ and Garcia vanish first, drawn toward the dance floor like it’s a magnet, laughter trailing behind them—bright, unrestrained, a kind of joy that feels almost dissonant after the quiet heaviness of the week.
Emily and Tara drift toward the bar, conversation already picking up mid-thought, something low and conspiratorial threading between them.
Luke and Rossi stay, leaning in over the table—voices dropping into that familiar rhythm of debate, something about whiskey aging processes and whether it actually makes a measurable difference.
And just like that, the space shifts.
Your shoulders drop before you even realize you’ve been holding them tense.
The noise of the bar swells and dips around you, laughter rising somewhere to your left, the low hum of conversation weaving in and out beneath it—but it all feels… distant. Like you’re listening through a wall. Like you’re not entirely in the room so much as adjacent to it.
Your phone buzzes.
It’s subtle, barely noticeable over the music—but you feel it. Your gaze drops immediately, like it’s been waiting for the excuse.
James.
Your thumb hovers for half a second before you tap the screen. The message is a picture. You don’t open it. You don’t need to.
You already know what it is—his version of an invitation. A summons, really. A wordless where are you? wrapped in something that’s never actually been about you.
You turn the phone face down against the table, like that somehow dulls the weight of it. Like it isn’t still sitting there, waiting. Expecting.
Your fingers curl loosely around the edge of the table instead.
You could leave.
The thought slips in quietly, familiar as a well-worn path.
You could make an excuse—say you’re tired, say you forgot something, say anything at all. No one here would question it. They’d nod, tell you to text when you get home, maybe tease you lightly about being the first to bail. And then you’d go.
Back to the hotel. Back to him. Back to something predictable. Easy.
Your teeth catch your thumb again before you can stop yourself.
You don’t belong here.
The thought settles in, heavy and certain.
You grip the edge of the table, knuckles whitening, and for the first time tonight you notice how small the space feels around you. Everyone else is laughing, moving, drifting through their easy rhythms like they belong here. And you… you’re just a shadow at the edge of it, fresh out of the academy, six months in, surrounded by people who’ve been this team for a decade. You’ve been trying to fit. Trying to catch up. Trying not to be noticeable.
You’re just a shadow at the edge, watching everyone else move like they belong here.
“Hey… you okay?”
Your chest tightens, breath stuttering. You snap your head up, startled, and your eyes catch Reid’s. He’s standing there, calm, patient, his gaze scanning you like he always does.
“I’m fine,” you say, softer than you mean to.
He tilts his head, suspicion flickering in his eyes. You know he sees through you, and the thought makes your stomach twist. You need movement, something to anchor yourself. “I’m getting another drink,” you tell him. “Anyone want anything?”
Rossi shakes his head without looking. “No thanks, kid.”
You nod, forcing yourself to push away from the table. The chair scrapes the floor, the sound louder than it should feel, echoing in the hollow space of your chest. Step by step, you move toward the bar, each one deliberate, grounding yourself in the smallest act of choice you’ve taken all night.
The hum of conversation and clinking glasses feels distant, muffled by the tension crawling up your spine. You take a breath, shallow, careful, like the air itself might betray you.
A quiet shift to your left makes you glance over. Reid’s there. Close enough that the warmth of his presence nudges your awareness, but not so close that it feels like intrusion. His hands rest lightly on the bar, posture relaxed, shoulders squared. Calm. Steady. The way he always is.
“I thought you didn’t drink,” you say, voice half curiosity, half challenge, like it matters.
He shrugs. “I don’t.”
You just nod, not because it surprises you—because it doesn’t—but because you need the distraction. Something to ground yourself in the ordinary. You catch the bartender’s eye, raising a hand.
“Vodka cranberry,” you say, forcing your voice steady. “Double.”
The words feel heavier than usual, like the alcohol isn’t just going into the glass—it’s for you, to hold on to, to push the buzzing of your chest down just a little. You watch the bartender pour, the ruby-red liquid spilling over ice, the glass catching the warm bar lights.
Reid doesn’t comment. Doesn’t question. Just leans there beside you, quiet, presence solid and patient. You can feel him cataloging, observing, and it’s both comforting and infuriating. His gaze isn’t demanding, not interrogating—it’s just… aware.
You shift slightly, curling your fingers around the glass when it lands in front of you. Cold against your palms, weight real and grounding. You lift it to your lips, sip carefully, and let the burn of it anchor you to the moment.
You glance at Reid over the rim of your glass, letting the drink settle on your tongue for a beat before you speak. The words are sharp with a thread of sarcasm, more shield than truth.
“Did you… just follow me here to watch me drink?”
Reid blinks, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s subtle, quiet, like he’s trying not to let the joke slip fully free, but it lands anyway. The kind of smile that reaches only his eyes and leaves the rest of him calm, unreadable.
“No,” he says, voice low, even, measured. But the smile lingers, a small curve of humor in the steady precision of him. “I—I thought you looked like something was bothering you.”
You don’t know why his words sting a little. It’s not exactly the concern you wanted, but it’s the first thread of recognition you’ve had all evening that someone—someone who actually sees—might notice you.
You set the glass down, careful, deliberate. Eyes meeting his, something in your expression half-asked, half-daring.
“You… you didn’t have to,” you mutter, voice low, and maybe it’s a statement. Maybe it’s a question. Maybe it’s both.
He tilts his head, that same patient tilt, as if weighing what to say, how much to share.
“I know,” he admits softly. “But I—” He pauses, eyes scanning you again, lingering on the tension you’ve carried in your posture, the way you brace yourself in space. “I just wanted to make sure you were… okay.”
You stare at him for a second. Normally, you’d nod, mumble, “Yeah, fine,” and push him away with a wall built out of routine, out of habit, out of every self-preserving instinct you’ve honed. But now… now something else is threading through you, quiet but insistent.
You let your mouth open before your brain can catch up. “My boyf—This guy I was seeing… It turns out he's engaged.”
“And of course he—he doesn’t care,” you blurt, voice catching on the last word. “I mean, not like it’s supposed to matter to me, right? We had this sort of unspoken agreement that this thing wasn't serious. But I was thinking about how if it was unspoken, was it really an agreement?”
Your hands gesture helplessly, tapping, twisting, grasping for purchase in the air. You hate how much of this is spilling out. You hate how much of this is just you, raw and unfiltered.
“And the worst part is that I couldn’t even… I couldn’t even hate him properly “ you continue. “James has always been like this, I've always known what this was. It's my own fault, really. I started thinking it was something more than what I deserve.”
Reid frowns. Opens his mouth, something on the tip of his tongue, but the words never leave his mouth.
They don't get the chance.
“What the hell?”
Your head snaps around. Heart stutters. There he is. Standing too close to the bar, shirt untucked, hair combed back, angry eyes locked on you.
“James?”
“You—” he starts, then cuts himself, eyes narrowing, voice low but tight. “You blew me off… for him?” His gaze flicks toward Reid, and you feel your chest tighten at the way he says it, the edge in his tone: him—like the word itself is a judgment.
You open your mouth, but your voice barely rises above a whisper. “I—James, it’s not—”
“Not what?” he yells, teeth clenched. “Not what? You’re supposed to care about me! I waited. I actually waited for you tonight!” His chest heaves.
You feel heat rush to your face, your chest tightening. Words stick in your throat. You try again, voice weak, small. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Of course you didn’t,” he spits, waving a hand at you, eyes blazing. “You never do. You just… just take. Always taking. And now you’re here, with some… some old nerd?”
You can’t stop it. The word nerd bouncing off James’ teeth makes you snort before you even realize it. Small, sharp, ridiculous.
His eyes flick toward you, narrowing. “What—what’s so funny?”
You tilt your head, letting the corner of your mouth twitch. “You. You actually said that. Nerd. That’s… kind of sad, actually.”
The laugh dies quickly in your throat when you notice how fast his expression hardens. His jaw clenches. Fingers curl, like he’s balancing between self-control and something darker.
His voice drops, low and dangerous. “You—you think this is funny?”
You glare, something snapping in your chest that’s been coiled too long. The last weeks, the tension, the weight of always being small in his world, the image of her burning itself into your mind.
“No, actually, it's not funny,” you spit, voice sharper than you intend. “Because unlike you, some of us actually care about other people. You know, like, your fiancée. Or does that not matter in your little world?”
James’ nostrils flare, the heat in his face rising. “That’s none of your business!” he hisses, stepping forward, closing the distance, chest nearly brushing yours. His hand lifts, threatening—like he thinks he can push you back with sheer weight.
You don’t even flinch. Not because you’re brave—there’s no room for fear, no time for hesitation—but because Reid is already there.
In one fluid motion, Spencer’s hand clamps around James’ wrist, yanking it behind his back. His other hand presses firmly to James’ shoulder, and suddenly the ex is face-down against the bar, pinned with a precision that leaves no room for argument.
“Don’t touch her,” he says, voice low, each word clipped and deliberate—the same tone he’d use when taking a violent suspect into custody.
James struggles, shoving lightly at first, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Hey—what the hell, man?—”
Then a flicker of rage crosses his face. His eyes narrow, jaw tightening, as he shoves and strains against Spencer with increasing force.
“Do you know who you’re dealing with? You have no idea—no—” James’s face reddens, frustration mounting. “Get—off—me! You little—!”
“Let him go, Reid,” you say. “It's not worth it.”
Reid’s grip doesn’t vanish all at once. It loosens in increments, controlled and deliberate. Like he doesn’t trust the space yet. Like he doesn’t trust him.
You can see it—tension coiled in Reid’s arm, the restraint it takes to let go at all. And then James wrenches himself free.
It’s messy and abrupt, a sharp pull that breaks whatever control Reid had just barely eased into. James stumbles a half-step forward before he catches himself, chest heaving, shoulders tight with anger that has nowhere left to go but outward.
He turns to you. And for a second, you see it. Not affection, nor regret. It’s not even the hallow imitation of either he’s always fed you
It’s pride, bruised and ugly.
“You know what?” he snaps, “I’m done.”
The words land harder than they should. They’re expected, sure, but they’re still his. They’re supposed to mean something, they’re supposed to matter. You’d feared hearing those words from him for months.
“I’m done waiting around for you,” he continues, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Done dealing with your bullshit, your—your games.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You want to throw yourself at—what, coworkers now? Fine. Have fun with that.”
Your throat tightens. You should feel something. You do feel something. Just not what you expected. You feel the sting you’d expect—the tinge of hurt. But beneath that, beneath the instinctive urge to apologize, smooth it over, shrink yourself into something easier to handle—
You feel relief.
James exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Whatever,” he mutters. “You’re not even worth it. This is pathetic.”
He turns sharply, shoulder clipping someone as he shoves his way through the crowd, muttering under his breath, anger radiating off him in waves that part people before he makes it to them.
It’s only then, in the space he leaves behind, that you realize just how many people were watching.
The noise of the bar doesn’t stop, but it shifts. Warps around you. Conversations falter at the edges, eyes linger a second to long before pretending they weren’t looking at all.
There’s a circle. Not a full one, not obvious, but enough. Enough to make your stomach drop. Enough to draw your eye to the woman standing just a few feet away, brows drawn slightly together and a frown on her lips.
Prentiss shifts forward when you make eye contact, and suddenly your chest caves in on itself.
She saw.
Every word, every crack in your voice. Your fingers curl in on themselves, nails biting into your palms.
You want to disappear.
The thought hits hard and immediate. If you could just step back, just slip out, just vanish into the crowd and out the door—
You wouldn't have to see the way they’re looking at you. You wouldn’t have to feel it. The shame curling low in your stomach and sharp in your chest, worse than anything James said.
Your throat tightens, breath catching too high in your chest. You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t be here. You don’t belong here.
You take a small step back, then another. Your vision tunnels slightly, the edges of the room blurring as your focus narrows to one thing: out. You just need to get out.
“Hey, what ha—”
“I, uh—I just need some air,” you blurt, the words tripping over each other. You don’t wait for a response.
You turn too quickly, nearly bumping into someone as you push past, murmuring a half-formed apology. The door is right there. You don’t think, you just move. Push.
The cool air hits you all at once. It cuts through the heat clinging to your skin. You inhale hard, too fast, like your lungs forgot how to do it properly and are scrambling to catch up. Cold air floods in. Again. And again.
Your hands come up instinctively, bracing against your ribs like you can physically hold yourself together.
It’s quieter out here—the traffic is slow, the music is muffled. Less noise, less pressure.
You bend slightly at the waist, dragging in another breath, slower this time. Trying to make it stick. Trying to make it work.
Your breathing evens out first, but your heart doesn’t get the memo as quickly.
It keeps racing, thudding hard and uneven. You take another deep breath and lean back against the brick wall, the rough texture pressing through your clothes. Solid. Grounding, in a way.
Your knees give out before you really decide to sit.
You slide down slowly, controlled at first and then not, until you’re on the sidewalk, the cold seeping through the fabric of your pants. It bites, but you don’t move. Your head tips back against the wall. Eyes close.
For a second, you wish you were a smoker.
The thought is absurd. But right now… right now feels like it would make sense. Something to do with your hands. Something to focus on.
The door creaks open behind you. Footsteps follow, measured and unrushed.
There’s a small, stubborn part of you that hopes that if you stay still enough, whoever it is might just leave. Give you a second longer to exist in the quiet, nothing expected of you.
The footsteps stop anyway, just to your left.
You crack one eye open, lashes sticking slightly where they’d pressed too tight together. Your vision takes a second to focus, the streetlight catching on something glassy, red—your drink.
You open your other eye, gaze tracking up to the person holding it out to you. Reid.
He’s standing in front of you, one hand holding out your vodka cran, the other tucked loosely into his pocket. His poster is relaxed, but there’s something careful to it—like he’s making a conscious effort not to crowd you, not to overwhelm you.
His eyes flick over your face quickly, taking in more than you’d like him to. The slight flush still lingering on your cheeks, the uneven way your breath settles, the way your fingers curl loosely against your knees like you’re not entirely sure what to do with them.
Your gaze drops back to the glass in his hand.
“You—” your voice comes out a little rough, like you haven’t used it in a while. You clear your throat. “I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to leave the building with alcohol.”
“What are they going to do, arrest me?” he winces slightly, like he regrets his own joke before he’s even fully said the words.
“Well, then I guess you’re a repeat offender now, huh?” The words leave your mouth before your brain can veto them. You wince, exactly the way Reid just did.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
But Reid just lets out a quiet, low laugh. Sudden and surprised, like he wasn’t expecting you to say something like that. “Don’t be sorry. I joked first.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and reach for the glass. Your fingers brush his as you take it, the warmth seeping through your skin. “Thanks,” you murmur.
He doesn’t speak, just tilts his head and slides down onto the curb beside you. You stiffen immediately. “Don’t,” you whisper, a little sharp. “You’re… you’re wearing a suit.”
He glances down at the neatly pressed fabric, then back at you, corners of his mouth twitching in that faint, crooked smile that somehow disarms all argument. “I can,” he says simply. And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he does.
Reid shifts slightly, leaning back on his hands. “Are you… okay?” His voice is careful, gentle, like he’s handling something fragile.
You glance down at your knees, still gripping the glass a little too tightly. “I’m… embarrassed,” you mutter. Your throat tightens. “My boss… just saw me get berated by some guy in a bar.” The words taste bitter on your tongue. You imagine her eyes on you, all judgment and concern, and you want to crawl into yourself, disappear.
Reid lets out a quiet laugh, soft but impossible to ignore. “She actually saw me pin him to the table,” he says, voice teasing, but still calm, controlled. “Arguably, that’s a worse situation.”
A laugh escapes you, small, shaky, but genuine. You shake your head, a little of the tension leaving your shoulders. “Yeah… okay. I’ll give you that. Definitely worse.”
He tilts his head, gaze curious, unreadable. “Prentiss doesn’t care that it happened. She just wanted to know if you’re okay.”
You swallow, letting the words settle. Somehow, knowing that she’s not judging, not holding it over your head, makes the heat of humiliation fade a little. “I… I think I am,” you admit softly, letting your fingers relax around the glass. “Thanks… for defending me.”
“Any time,” he says. “You don’t deserve to be treated that way. Not by him. Not by anyone.”
Your breath hitches a little. The words settle in your chest, heavy and warm, threading through the lingering embarrassment. You glance up at him, half-expecting teasing, half-expecting judgment—but there’s none. Just… that steady presence that makes it feel like the world outside this curb has stopped.
“You deserve better,” he adds, more softly this time. “Not just protection from him, but someone who actually respects your time, your space, your… everything.”
"You really think that?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. The skepticism is instinctive, a reflex you've built up over years of being told you're too much, or not enough.
He doesn't flinch. He doesn't look away. "I know it.”
You take a sip of your drink to hide the way your mouth wants to twist, letting the vodka burn sharp and distracting on the way down. You stare out at the streetlights, watching the traffic pass, needing to look at anything but him.
"Well," you say, letting your head loll back against the brick to look at him, your voice dipping into that familiar, jagged sarcasm you wear like armor. "Let me know when you find someone who does that, will you?”
Reid doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile. He just looks at you, eyes soft but intent, reading past the deflection like it’s written in a language he’s fluent in. The traffic rushes by, filling the silence between you, but he doesn’t look away.
"I know someone who’s willing to try," he says.
The air between you seems to still, the rush of traffic fading into a dull, distant roar. Your grip on the glass tightens automatically, a knee-jerk defense against something that feels dangerously like hope. You search his face for the punchline, the awkward hesitation that tells you he’s just being nice, but there isn’t any. Just that steady, calm regard, like he’s stating a fact as simple as gravity.
It’s terrifying. It’s the most genuine offer you’ve had in years, and it comes from the person you least expected to dissect the messy, jagged parts of you and still want to stick around. You force a short, skeptical breath of a laugh, trying to shove the moment back into the box labeled ' impossible' before it can crack you open. "You," you start, your voice rougher than you intended, "you realize I'm a disaster, right? That's—that’s what tonight was. That’s what I am."
Reid just shifts slightly, turning his body toward you so his knees bump yours, a deliberate, grounding point of contact. "I don't think you're a disaster," he says softly. "I think you’re a person who’s been treated like an option for too long by someone who didn't know what he had." He glances down at the drink in your hand, then back up, eyes catching the streetlight with a quiet intensity. "I know the statistics on recovery. I know it takes time to unlearn that kind of treatment. But I'm good at waiting. And I'm very patient.”
You nearly choke on your next swallow, the burn of the vodka suddenly nothing compared to the heat rushing up your neck. You pull away, shifting so you’re not pressed quite so close to his side, putting a fraction of distance between you on the concrete.
"Wow," you breathe out, shaking your head as you stare at the traffic passing on the street. "You really... you actually just cited statistics at me to try and get me to sleep with you." You turn back to him, arching a brow, letting your lip curl just enough to be sharp. "That is—that is impressively unsexy, Reid. I mean, truly.”
The words barely have time to hang in the cool night air before the regret hits you. It’s instant and sickening, washing away the cheap defense of sarcasm and leaving behind the raw ache underneath. You watch his face, expecting him to bristle, to get up, to mutter some logical comeback and leave you there on the curb to finish your drink in solitary humiliation.
But he doesn't flinch. He doesn't look away. He just looks at you.
He holds your gaze with that same steady, infuriating patience. He saw the twitch in your hand, the way you spiraled, and instead of calling you out on the cruelty, he just waited. Like he knows you're already punishing yourself enough for the both of you.
"I didn't mean that," you blurt out, the words rushing together in a desperate attempt to take it back. You set the glass down on the pavement beside you, your hands suddenly feeling useless and trembling. "I'm sorry. That was—that was mean. I was just... deflecting."
"I know," Reid says softly. The forgiveness is immediate, absolute, and devoid of the hesitation you’re used to receiving. “But I mean it. I know it’ll take time. I know it won’t be easy to believe. But I want to be the one who proves that you deserve more. Who actually gives it to you.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, words catching in your throat. Your voice is quieter now, softer. “And if I… if I push back? Or yell? Or—”
“You will,” he says, eyes locking on yours. “I know you will. And that’s okay. I’ll wait. I’ll listen. I’ll… handle it.” His gaze doesn’t falter, doesn’t waver. It’s steady. Enough to make the rest of the night, the bar, James, and everything else fade just a little.
Your laugh is small, shaky, like a bird testing the air for flight. “You’re… insane.”
“Maybe,” he admits, corners of his mouth twitching in that crooked, infuriating smile. “Or maybe I just think you’re worth it.”
You lift your gaze, meeting his steady eyes again. There’s a pull there—something magnetic, something dangerous in the way he looks at you—but it’s not reckless. Not threatening. Safe. The kind of safety that makes your chest ache with longing you’ve barely let yourself feel.
You shift slightly, closer, more instinct than conscious thought, just enough to brush against the warmth of him. Your hand hovers near his arm, and before you know it, it’s resting lightly against his sleeve. You almost pull it away, reminding yourself of restraint, of boundaries—but the warmth of him there, steady, grounding, feels… essential.
Reid’s gaze follows your movement, patient but intent. He tilts his head, a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You don’t have to be careful with me,” he murmurs, voice low, a rasp that makes the air shiver around it.
His hand shifts subtly, brushing against yours, fingers threading just slightly, testing.
“Do you…?” Your voice trembles, small and unsure, carrying the question you can’t quite form. “Do you… want this?”
“I want whatever you want,” he says simply. “I want you. But only if you want me too.”
That’s enough to tip the fragile line you’ve been teetering on. Impulsively, hesitantly, you reach up, tracing the edge of his jaw with your fingertips, memorizing the planes of his face, the way his skin is warm beneath your touch. He leans slightly into the gesture, breath hitching just enough to tell you he notices, that he feels it.
The world narrows. Just you. Just him. The faint buzz of the city, the distant headlights, the cold concrete pressing against your legs—they all fall away until there’s nothing but the hum of possibility between you.
Your lips hover near his, and you freeze, heart hammering. You’re not sure if you want this—if you want him, or just the safety, the closeness, the heat of someone who sees you and still wants you. But the thought of pulling back, of losing this chance, makes your chest ache.
He tilts his head, brushing a strand of hair from your face, thumb lingering against your cheek. “You can stop,” he murmurs. “Or you can try.”
Something in you unravels—the careful walls, the sarcasm, the self-protective reflexes. You close the last fraction of distance, lips brushing his. Soft. Gentle. A spark, a question, a yes whispered in the language of a kiss.
Reid doesn’t hesitate. He meets it, tilting his head to deepen the contact, hand moving to cradle your face, the other brushing along your arm. Safe. Warm. Patient, but insistent enough to let you know he wants this too.
His hand is warm where it cups your face. Steady. Intentional. Not demanding—never that—but there, present, like he’s giving you something solid to hold onto while everything else inside you threatens to tilt.
You expect it to feel overwhelming. It doesn’t. It feels… quiet.
Your lips move against his again, a little more certain this time, testing the shape of it, the reality of it. And he follows—carefully, like he’s reading you even now, adjusting in real time to every shift in your breath, every slight change in pressure. There’s no rush. No taking. Just… meeting you there.
Your fingers curl slightly where they rest against his jaw, and you feel the way his breath catches—not dramatically, not exaggerated, just enough to tell you it matters. That you matter.
It does something dangerous to your chest.
You lean in a fraction more, and this time the kiss deepens—still soft, still controlled, but warmer now. Real. His thumb brushes lightly along your cheek, a slow, grounding motion, like he’s reminding you that you’re here. That this is happening. That you can stop at any point and he’ll let you.
And somehow, that makes you not want to stop at all.
Your other hand shifts, sliding from his sleeve to his wrist, then up—hesitant at first, then more certain—until your fingers rest against the side of his neck. His skin is warm. Steady. You can feel his pulse there, quickening just slightly under your touch.
You like that.
The realization hits you quietly, but it lingers.
Reid exhales softly against your lips, and there’s something different in it now—something a little less restrained, a little more felt.
“Hey…” you murmur, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. Your voice is soft, a little breathless. “Walk me home?”
He blinks, just the faintest flicker of surprise crossing his features before it smooths into that steady, calm look you know so well. “Of course,” he says, the words low, sure, certain.
You stand, brushing the chill off your pants, and he falls into step beside you without hesitation. The city night feels quieter now, the hum of traffic and distant sirens softened by the rhythm of your walking. Your hand brushes his at first accidentally, then deliberately, and he doesn’t pull away—doesn’t need to. The warmth seeps through your nerves, that quiet shock that says you’re alive, that you’re wanted.
There's that look in his eyes again: steady, observant, but carrying a promise that he’ll meet you where you are. That he’ll wait, if necessary, but that he wants this, too.
Your chest tightens. The city lights stretch shadows across the sidewalk, painting him in sharp angles and soft curves. You wonder how it’s possible for someone to feel so steady and so incendiary at once.
When you reach your building, the air seems thicker, heavier with unsaid words and barely restrained energy. The lobby is empty, quiet, the distant hum of the city muffled behind the glass doors. You pause, hand brushing against the wall for something to hold on to, grounding yourself.
“You can… come up,” you murmur before your brain has time to talk you out of it. The words are uneven, hesitant, carrying all your insecurities. “If you want.”
He tilts his head, watching you carefully, reading every microexpression like he always does. “I do,” he says softly. And he follows you inside without hesitation.
You’ve done this before. Let someone follow you upstairs. Let it mean something it wasn’t supposed to.
This feels different.
The hallway stretches a little longer than usual, your footsteps echoing softly against the floor. You don’t look back, but you can feel him there. Half a step behind you. Like he’s giving you the space to stop. To turn around. To change your mind.
The key slips once in your grip before you manage to steady it, the metal clicking against the lock louder than it should be. Your pulse jumps with it. You push the door open and step inside, the familiar quiet of your apartment settling around you like something held too tightly.
For a second, you just stand there. Then, he steps in after you. The door closes with a soft click.
“You can still—” he starts, voice low, careful.
But you close the distance before he can finish.
Your hands find him first—fisting lightly in the front of his shirt, pulling him in like you’re afraid he might disappear if you don’t anchor him there. His breath catches, just barely, and then your lips are on his again. It’s different this time. Less careful. Less questioning.
There’s urgency in it now—something that’s been building, coiling tight all night finally snapping loose. You press closer, rising onto your toes, and he meets you immediately, hands coming up to steady your waist, your back—everywhere all at once, like he’s trying to keep up without overwhelming you.
You tug at him, guiding, half-walking, half-pulling him down the short hallway toward your room. He follows without resistance, but there’s a shift in him—something grounding, something deliberate beneath the heat.
The bedroom door bumps open. You barely register it before you’re turning back to him, hands already moving again, lips finding his jaw, his neck—anything you can reach. It’s a little messy, a little rushed, your breath uneven as it tangles with his.
And then—His hands catch yours.
“Hey—” he murmurs, voice low, breath warm where it brushes your cheek. “Hey… it’s okay.”
You blink, the moment stuttering. Your chest rises and falls too fast, your pulse still racing ahead of you, like you haven’t quite caught up to your own body yet.
“I just—” you start, but the words don’t land. You’re not even sure what you were going to say.
He doesn’t make you finish. “I know,” he says softly.
His thumbs brush lightly over your wrists where he’s still holding them, grounding, steady. Not restraining—just there.
“We can slow down,” he adds. “We don’t have to rush anything.”
The certainty in his voice disarms you in a way you’re not prepared for.
Your shoulders drop a fraction. Your breath stutters, then steadies, just a little.
“…okay,” you whisper.
The word feels fragile. New. But he treats it like something solid.
Reid’s hands loosen, giving you the space to pull away if you want—but when you don’t, when you stay right there in front of him, he lets his fingers slide more gently along your arms instead. Up. Slow. Intentional.
Like he’s learning you. Like he wants to.
His hands find the edge of your shirt, fingertips brushing the fabric where it clings to your skin. He pauses, lifting his gaze to yours, as if asking permission without a word. You nod, breath trembling.
His lips brush along your collarbone, soft and feather-light, following a trail only he seems to know exists. One hand slides up your side, fingertips pressing gently against your ribs, mapping the curve beneath the thin fabric. The warmth of him, the deliberate patience, makes your knees weaken.
“Do you… want me to?” His voice is low, rougher than usual, carrying that quiet certainty you’ve come to rely on.
“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, please.”
His fingers curl into the hem of your shirt, and then it’s gone—lifted slowly, deliberately, like he’s giving you time to change your mind even as it slides over your head.
He leans back in immediately, lips brushing yours, but your hands are fidgety, unsure, tangling in his shirt, pulling too hard, then too soft. Your fingers move to your pants, fumbling the button, and a tiny groan escapes you—half frustration, half embarrassment.
Reid chuckles against your lips, warm and low, the sound vibrating through you. It’s soft, not mocking, just amused, and somehow it makes you grin despite yourself. You can’t help it—a little laugh escapes between kisses, breathless and uneven.
You take a shaky breath and try again, dragging the fabric down with more determination, though you’re still clumsy, tugging at them too fast before pausing, then yanking them the rest of the way. They pool around your ankles, and you step free, kicking them aside—slightly off balance, but he catches you with a hand on your hip.
You tug him closer, heat building between you, and your hands find his, pressing them to the small of your back for a moment before slipping, guiding his fingers along the slope of your sides.
Your pulse hammers in your ears, and you can feel him stiffen slightly under your touch, a shiver running through him as you lead his hands upward to the clasp of your bra. The soft click of the hooks under your fingertips sends a jolt straight through your chest.
He pushes the straps off your shoulders, the soft fabric falling to the floor.
The air feels cooler against your skin immediately. Sharper. You’re suddenly, acutely aware of it—of yourself.
Of him.
You don’t give yourself time to think about it. Don’t let the hesitation creep in. Your hands are already reaching for him again, pulling him forward, chasing the warmth you just had—
Your breath catches, confusion flickering across your face as you look up at him.
“I—” you start, but the words falter when you see the way he’s looking at you.
Not rushed. Not hungry in that careless, consuming way you’re used to. Focused. Intent.
“I want to look at you,” he says quietly.
It lands heavier than anything else he’s said tonight.
Heat rushes up your neck instantly, blooming across your cheeks, your chest tightening as your instinct is to turn away, to fold in on yourself, to hide. You almost laugh it off—almost deflect, make a joke, cover the sudden vulnerability clawing up your throat.
But his hands are still there, resting lightly at your waist.
His gaze doesn’t waver. Doesn’t flick away to give you an out. But it’s not trapping, either. It’s patient. Open.
Like he’s asking. Like it matters.
Your fingers twitch at your sides before you force them to still. You draw in a slow breath that doesn’t quite steady you but helps enough. And then you nod.
Reid’s eyes move over you then—not in a way that feels like he’s taking something, not like he’s cataloging flaws or comparing or measuring. It’s slow. Careful. Like he’s trying to understand something he’s been given permission to see.
His thumb brushes lightly along your side, a small, absent motion that somehow keeps you grounded while his gaze lingers.
“You’re—” he starts, then stops, like he’s recalibrating, searching for the right word and discarding the wrong ones before they ever reach you.
His jaw shifts slightly.
“—you’re incredible,” he settles on, voice quieter now, like it’s something meant just for you.
Your heart skips a beat.
It shouldn’t hit as hard as it does. It’s a simple word. Easy. Overused.
But not like this. Not from him.
You swallow, gaze dropping for a second before you force yourself to look back at him, even as the heat in your cheeks refuses to fade.
Something shifts in your chest, a sudden, impatient flare that has nothing to do with words and everything to do with heat, want, the ache of waiting too long. You pull him toward you. Harder than planned. A startled breath escapes him, warm against your neck, and the sound alone makes your pulse spike again.
He stumbles slightly—both of you caught in the sudden motion—but instinctively, he catches himself. His hands land on either side of you, bracing against the bed, his chest hovering just above yours. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle tension in his arms, the deliberate strength that’s always been there but now feels dangerously immediate.
Your hands roam down his chest, fingers catching on each button as you work them open. The fabric parts beneath your touch, revealing warm skin, the steady rise and fall of his breathing just a little less even than before.
Your hands drag down his chest, fingertips tracing the subtle lines of muscle beneath warm skin, feeling the way his breath shifts under your touch—just a little deeper now, just a little less controlled.
Then back up.
Over his shoulders, pushing the fabric down his arms, your palms following the movement like you don’t want to lose contact for even a second. The shirt catches at his elbows before he shrugs it off completely, letting it fall somewhere behind him without looking.
Your palms trace the warmth of his chest one last time before they drift lower, brushing the waistband of his pants. A rush of heat floods your chest, anticipation curling in your stomach. You inch your hands forward, imagining the weight and warmth beneath the fabric.
He stops you with a gentle but firm grip on your wrists.
“This… isn’t about me,” he murmurs, voice low, rough with something deeper. “It’s about you. I want to make you feel good first.”
You swallow, heat pooling between your thighs at the deliberate weight of his words. Your hands drop, and for a moment, you let yourself just be held, just feel him.
Then his hands are moving—sliding along your ribs, over your hips, brushing over the swell of your breasts, ghosting over your nipples.
Your chest lifts instinctively under the pressure, the featherlight friction making your pulse stutter.
He leans back just slightly, eyes locking onto yours, searching, reading every flicker of reaction. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, but the way he holds your gaze is unwavering—commanding but gentle. “Or not enough. I want to know.”
You arch, pressing into him without thinking, letting the heat of anticipation spill into something more tangible. “Not… not enough,” you whisper, voice low, trembling with want.
A small, satisfied sound escapes him—almost a growl, almost a purr—and his hands move with careful precision, cupping you fully now, thumbs brushing circles over your nipples, slow, deliberate, eliciting shivers that roll down your spine. You bite back a moan, but it escapes anyway, breathless, catching in the quiet of your bedroom.
His hands slide lower along your hips again, brushing teasingly over the swell of your thighs.
“May I?” he murmurs, voice low, husky, as his fingers brush the waistband of your underwear. You nod, barely able to speak, breath hitching in uneven gasps.
He hooks his thumbs under the edges, letting his gaze lift to yours. No hurry, or shame. Just that commanding, attentive certainty that makes your knees weak.
He slides them down your legs, inch by careful inch, letting the fabric brush your skin, teasing, slow, patient, until he can discard them with the rest of your clothes. His hands drift back up your legs, tracing the curve of your inner thighs, stopping just shy of the place that’s already slick with need. You gasp, hips tilting instinctively toward him, heart hammering.
Finally, he lowers himself, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, feather-light at first, tracing circles that leave sparks behind.
The sensation travels inward, unhurried and deliberate, nothing like the frantic, selfish encounters you’re used to. When his mouth finally reaches where you need him most, the shock of it steals the breath from your lungs. It isn't rushed or performative; it’s attentive, his tongue moving with a focused precision that feels almost academic. One hand rests firmly on your hip, anchoring you to the mattress, a grounding tether as he begins to unravel you, lick by slow, devastating lick.
Your free hand finds its way into his hair, fingers tangling in the soft waves to hold him close, your hips lifting off the bed in a silent, desperate plea. He hums against you, a low, vibrating sound of approval that only sends fresh waves of pleasure rolling through your nerves, encouraging you to let go. Every flick of his tongue is a question he already knows the answer to, reading the tremor in your thighs and the broken cadence of your breath like data points on a graph, adjusting the pressure and speed until the only thing you know is the heat of his mouth and the rapidly tightening coil in your belly.
The pressure builds to a breaking point, overwhelming and sharp, and when you fall over the edge, you do so with a cry that you try to stifle against your own arm, a lifetime of conditioning making you shy away from being too loud, too much. But Spencer doesn't let you hide; he carries you through it, slowing his movements to draw out every last aftershock until you’re a trembling, boneless mess against the sheets.
He doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead, his lips start a slow, deliberate ascent from your inner thigh, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin. It’s a reverence in motion, a silent worship that has your eyes fluttering closed.
The scrape of his teeth against the curve of your hip draws a sharp, hitching gasp from you, your hips bucking involuntarily. He just smiles against your skin—a dark, knowing thing—and soothes the sting with his tongue, his hands continuing their slow, grounding glide up your sides. He’s taking his time, mapping the topography of your body like he has all night, like he has a lifetime.
His mouth finds the dip of your navel, lingering there, his breath hot against your stomach. Your muscles jump and flutter under his attention, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts as the heat coils tighter, low and demanding. The sensations are overwhelming—every nerve ending feels raw, exposed, and terrifyingly alive.
He moves higher, tracing the line of your ribs with a devotion that feels almost holy. Your breath stutters, catching in your throat as the ghost of his breath feathers over your racing heart, the steady thump-thump-thump betraying just how undone you are. He presses a lingering kiss right over that frantic beat, as if trying to soothe the ache there with his own rhythm, his hands sliding up to bracket your waist, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of your sides in a slow, hypnotic pattern.
He nips gently at the soft skin where your neck meets your shoulder, and your head falls back against the pillow, exposing more of yourself to him in a gesture of surrender that feels foreign yet terrifyingly right. You can feel the tension in his arms where they cage you in, the tremor of restraint running through him as he takes his time, leaving a trail of fire in his wake that burns away the lingering memory of every cold, careless touch before him.
Finally, his face hovers above yours, blocking out the dim light of the room until he’s the only thing you can see. His lips are red and swollen, his breathing ragged as it mingles with yours in the scant space between you. He doesn’t kiss you immediately; he pauses, searching your eyes with that piercing, analytical gaze that sees too much, stripping away every last defense. Then he lowers his mouth to yours, slow and deliberate, and the taste on his tongue is you—salt and musk and a sharp, intoxicating proof of exactly how much he wants you.
He breaks the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath still coming in ragged, syncopated bursts. The air between your bodies feels charged, electric with the lingering static of what just happened and the mounting pressure of what’s coming next. His eyes search yours, dark and intent, stripping away any last defenses you might have thought you had.
"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, the words low and rough, vibrating against your lips. His hand drifts down, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw, tilting your chin up so you can't look away, can't hide from the weight of the question. "I need to hear you say it."
Your pulse hammers against your ribs, a frantic, uneven rhythm that matches the ache settling deep in your bones. There’s no room for hesitation here, no space for the deflective sarcasm or the practiced diffidence you usually hide behind. Not with him. Not like this. You force yourself to meet his gaze, to let the want show plainly on your face, raw and unvarnished.
"I want you to fuck me, Spencer. Please."
The words leave your lips in a rush, jagged and desperate, stripping away the last of your composure. You expect him to hesitate, to offer you another slow, sweet reassurance, but instead, his control snaps. A low, ragged sound tears from his throat—half-groan, half-growl—and his mouth crashes into yours, searing and demanding, swallowing the gasp that rises in your throat. There’s no patience left in him now, only a starving intensity that matches your own, his hands gripping your hips like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go.
He shifts above you, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that feels grounding rather than trapping. You can feel the hard, deliberate line of him against your thigh, the heat radiating through his clothes, a stark reminder of how much he’s been holding back. He makes quick work of his belt, the metal buckle clinking softly in the quiet room, followed by the hurried slide of fabric. Every movement is precise, efficient, but his hands are trembling just slightly, betraying the depth of his own need. When he finally settles back between your legs, skin against skin, the sensation is overwhelming—a perfect, frictional fit that makes your hips lift instinctively, seeking more.
He pauses for a second, tilting his head slightly as his hand drifts from your hips to brush along your lower stomach. “Do you… want me to use a condom?” His voice is low, careful, giving you the space to answer.
You let out a sharp curse, half-laugh, half-frustration. “I… I don’t have any. James always—I don’t have any.” The words stumble out, messy, just like your racing heart.
He opens his mouth, as if to say something, but you cut him off with a hurried shake of your head. “Just… pull out,” you murmur, voice a little breathless.
He blinks. “What?”
“Please,” you say quickly, looking up at him, heat in your cheeks, pulse hammering. “I‐if you’re okay with it.”
There’s a brief pause—a beat of hesitation—but you can feel it more than see it, that careful weighing of trust, of boundaries, of desire. Then his hands settle on your hips again, steady, grounding, as his lips brush yours in a soft, lingering kiss.
“Okay,” he murmurs, voice low and certain.
He pushes forward with a torturous slowness, letting you feel every inch as he stretches you, filling you so completely it steals the air from your lungs. It’s intense—a heavy, burning pressure that borders on too much—but it’s anchored by the way he’s watching you, his jaw tight with restraint, his focus entirely on the micro-expressions crossing your face. He’s waiting for you to adjust, treating your body with the same reverence he treats your mind, giving you time to catch up to the reality of him.
Your breath hitches, a sharp, uneven sound, and instinct overrides everything else. You surge up, crashing your lips against his, needing the distraction, needing the connection. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into the skin as you pull him closer, deeper, and your legs wrap around his waist, locking him in.
The movement changes everything. It breaks the careful control he was holding onto by a thread. He groans low into your mouth, a sound you feel vibrate through your chest, and his hips snap forward the rest of the way, burying himself to the hilt. The sudden depth drags a cry from your throat, which he swallows instantly, his kiss turning hungrier, more demanding. He doesn't withdraw; he stays there, deep and pulsing inside you, letting you feel the weight of him, the sheer reality of being this close, before he finally begins to move—no longer slow, but deep and rolling, matching the desperate rhythm of your heart.
A sharp cry tears from your throat as he sets a rhythm that obliterates your ability to think, each stroke hitting deep and precise, dragging a desperate sound from your lungs that you can’t hold back. Your body reacts instinctively, legs tightening around his waist, arms locking around his shoulders to anchor yourself as the intensity builds, threatening to pull you under. It’s overwhelming in the best way, a tide rising higher and higher with every thrust.
"I've got you," he breathes, the words ragged against your mouth, punctuated by the sharp, uneven cadence of his breath. "You're incredible—god, look at you."
He doesn't stop moving, doesn't let up, his hips snapping into yours with a focused, driving rhythm that feels relentless and careful all at once. But even in the middle of it, he finds the air to speak, his voice a low, rough hum that vibrates against your lips.
"So good," he murmurs, his forehead pressing tight against yours, the words ghosting over your mouth in between the relentless, deep thrusts that make your vision blur. "You feel so good, taking me like this. You have no idea." His voice cracks on a groan, the restraint finally splintering as he buries himself impossibly deeper, grounding you with the weight of his body and the raw honesty in his tone. "You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect."
Your fingernails dig into the sweat-slicked planes of his shoulders, holding on for dear life as the coil in your belly winds tighter, threatening to snap. Every praise feels like a brand, searing away the old, jagged memories of being too much or not enough, replacing them with the undeniable reality of how much he wants you right now. "Spencer," you gasp, his name sounding broken on your tongue, and he captures the sound with a searing kiss, swallowing your cries like they're something precious.
"I know, I know," he soothes, though his hips are losing their rhythm, becoming erratic, urgent. He shifts slightly, changing the angle just enough to make you see stars, his hand sliding down to grip your hip, holding you steady for the force of his thrusts. "Let go for me. I've got you, always." He presses his lips to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, worshiping every inch of skin he can reach. "Come on, baby. I want to feel you."
Your body arches off the mattress, seeking more of him, more of this grounding, overwhelming connection, and when the release crashes over you, it blinds out everything else. It’s a blinding whiteout of sensation, your entire world narrowing down to the feel of him inside you, the weight of his body pressing yours into the mattress, and the sound of your own cry echoing in the quiet room. You clamp around him, your inner muscles fluttering and gripping as the pleasure rips through you, leaving you trembling and gasping in his arms, your fingers still digging desperately into his shoulders.
The way you tighten around him tears a ragged groan from his throat, his control finally shattering completely. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing turning harsh and uneven against your sweat-dampened skin. "That's it," he chokes out, the words strained and low, vibrating against your collarbone. "You're beautiful—so beautiful like this." He chases his own high then, his movements becoming jagged and desperate, thrusting deeper, harder, his grip on your hip almost bruising as he lets himself go.
You can feel the tension in every muscle of his back, the way his movements are becoming less calculated, more desperate, driven by pure instinct. He’s right there with you, hovering on that precipice, and for a second, you think he’s going to let go completely.
But then his rhythm stutters. He gasps sharply against your skin, and with a herculean effort that seems to cost him everything, he tears himself away.
The sudden loss of contact leaves you feeling empty, cold for a fleeting second, but he doesn't go far.
He moves his hand, but before his fingers can close around himself, your hand is there, brushing his aside.
He lets out a shattered gasp, his eyes flying open to find yours, dark and wide with surprise. The heat of him is heavy in your palm, slick and desperate, and you don't hesitate. You wrap your fingers around him, stroking firmly from base to tip, taking over the rhythm he had denied himself.
"God—" The word breaks apart on a groan, his head falling back, exposing the long, pale line of his throat. His jaw goes slack, his lips parting on a silent exhale that turns into a low, guttural sound of pure surrender. He’s powerless to stop it, the tension in his body snapping like a wire drawn too tight.
The pleasure overtakes him in a rush, and with a guttural moan that sounds almost like relief, he spills hot and wet across your stomach. You don't stop; your grip stays firm and sure, thumb brushing over the sensitive head as you stroke him through every pulse, intent on wringing every last bit of pleasure from him. He shudders violently above you, his whole body bowing under the intensity, his hands fisting in the sheets on either side of your head to keep from crushing you as he rides out the aftershocks.
As the tremors finally begin to subside, the frantic energy leaves him, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. His arms give out, and he lowers himself carefully, mostly collapsing onto you but catching his weight on his elbows to keep from smearing the mess between you any further. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged, cooling gusts against your overheated skin, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs that gradually begins to slow.
You let your hand release him, fingers drifting instead to the hair at the nape of his neck, combing through the damp strands in a slow, soothing cadence. The room is quiet now, save for the shared sound of your breathing, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat.
He presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, then another to the curve of your jaw, seemingly unwilling to break the connection just yet, content to simply exist in the warm, heavy aftermath of it all.
But eventually, he shifts, pressing one last lingering, soft kiss to your forehead, and pushes himself up. The mattress dips and lifts as he climbs out, the cool air of the room rushing in to fill the space he left behind.
You watch him, your body still thrumming, muscles heavy and liquid, but your mind instinctively bracing for the shift.
This is the part where the silence gets awkward. This is the part where he finds his shirt on the floor, pulls it on, and mutters something about an early morning or a meeting.
But he doesn’t even glance at his clothes. He turns, padding silently toward the bathroom in his bare feet, disappearing into the slice of light spilling from the open door.
The water runs for a moment—the sound jarringly domestic in the quiet apartment—before cutting off.
You blink, staring up at the ceiling, your heart rate settling into something resembling normalcy even as your brain struggles to catalog this deviation from the script. You’re still bracing for the sound of a zipper, for the click of a belt buckle, but instead, you hear the soft tread of his return.
Spencer comes back into the dim light of the bedroom, a damp washcloth in his hand. He isn’t dressing. He isn’t rushing. He sits on the edge of the mattress, the dip in the springs shifting you slightly toward him, and reaches out with a gentle hesitance, waiting for a flinch that doesn’t come.
When he touches the warm cloth to your stomach, the heat is shocking—not painful, but incredibly grounding, chasing away the chill of the drying air and the sudden, hollow fear that you were just a convenience.
He wipes the skin with meticulous care, his eyes focused on the task as if it’s a delicate procedure requiring his full attention. There’s nothing perfunctory about it; he cleans you up with the same steady reverence he explored you with, drying your skin with the corner of the cloth before tossing it onto the nightstand.
He leans in then, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your collarbone, your lips—soft, unhurried things—and then he simply pulls the quilt up over you, his hand lingering on the sheet as he looks down at you, making it clear that for tonight, at least, he isn't going anywhere.
The silence stretches, comfortable but fragile, and suddenly the vulnerability of the moment feels heavier than the pleasure did. You feel a ridiculous lump forming in your throat, a shy, terrifying question sitting on the tip of your tongue. It’s just asking him to stay, but it feels like asking for everything.
"Will you..." You start, then stop to clear your throat, your voice barely above a whisper. "Will you lay with me?"
Spencer doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t look for an excuse or a clock. He just turns those soft, serious eyes on you, his expression softening into something so open it makes your chest ache.
"Of course," he answers immediately, as if it were the only logical conclusion, the only option worth considering. He shifts, sliding under the quilt with an easy grace, and the mattress dips under his weight as he settles in behind you. There’s no fumbling for space, no awkward negotiation of limbs; he fits against you like he was always meant to be there, his chest pressing flush against your back. The heat of him is immediate and grounding, seeping through your skin and chasing away the last of the lingering chill.
He reaches out, gathering you up with a gentle, insistent tug, pulling you back until you are completely cocooned in his embrace. One arm slides beneath your pillow, cradling your head, while the other drapes over your waist, his hand splaying wide across your stomach to hold you close. You can feel the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat against your spine, a slow, hypnotic cadence that anchors you in the present moment and makes it impossible to spiral into your usual doubts.
You let your body relax into his, melting against the solid length of him, and for the first time in a long time, your mind goes quiet. The insecurities, the voice that whispers that you’re too much or not enough, the habitual shrinking you do to make room for others—it all fades into the background, silenced by the undeniable reality of him holding you.
Spencer presses a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there with a reverence that feels like a seal, a promise that you don't have to be anything but exactly who you are right here. Safe, wanted, and held.
summary: After coming off a date with a bad review, Steve sets out to prove that he really is good at going down on girls.
tags: MDNI!! [roommates/friends to lovers] [smut] [oral fem receiving] [mutual pining] [he just needs an honest review] [friends help each other...right?] 2k words
a/n: While brainstorming this fic, I couldn't decide whether I wanted it to be fluffy or smutty, so I had you guys vote. And you wanted me to write both. (Here is the fluffy sister fic if you want to read it!)
It is your deepest held belief that Friday nights are, indeed, best spent in.
You’re on the couch, curled up with a book, basking in the soft lamplight as steam from your favorite tea reflects in the dark windows beside you.
All is peaceful. All is quiet. It’s perfect.
And then your apartment door opens.
You jump, looking over your shoulder just in time to see your roommate, Steve, storm through the entryway. His dress shirt is untucked, tie loose, and his hair is a wreck, like he’s run his hands through it a million times.
That’s not a good sign for a man supposed to be on a fancy date tonight.
He said, if things went well, he’d probably end up back at her place for the night. You thought that might be a little presumptuous, but hey, it’s Steve Harrington you’re talking about here.
Steve looks around wildly, and when his eyes land on you, the intensity in them takes you aback.
“I’m guessing things didn’t go well, then—?” you start, but he cuts you off, his words overlapping yours.
“Take off your pants.”
You freeze.
What the—
He must not register the utter shock on your face, because he’s already moving towards you. The silky tie snaps through the air as he rips it from his neck. God, he must really be wound up. He didn’t even take his shoes off at the door.
“Excuse me?” You manage to choke out.
“Don’t freak out, I just really need to try something,” he grunts, rounding the couch. “Just for a second.”
The moment his knees hit the carpet in front of you, your jaw goes slack.
“Harrington!” You scramble back into your mountain of pillows, nearly knocking your mug off the side table. You reach out and steady it with one hand, suddenly very aware of how your tank top has ridden up with the movement. “What the hell are you—?”
“…can’t believe she said that,” he mutters, ripping back the blanket thrown over your lap.
“Who said what?”
He doesn’t respond, eyes locked on your short sleep shorts. They’re a cute set you picked up recently at the mall. Navy blue with white flowers. Innocent-looking. Sweet.
But he’s staring at them like he’s going to rip them off with his teeth.
Heat rushes to your cheeks.
While you can’t deny what that look is doing to you, there’s something else trapped in his gaze. Sadness? Not quite. Disappointment, maybe? You’ve only been roommates for six months, but you already know him well enough to know when he’s upset.
Reaching down, you grab a fistful of his hair and tip his head back. His eyes snap to yours.
“What did she say?” you ask again, firmer this time.
Steve’s lips form a thin line before he sighs heavily. You drop his hair.
“She said I was bad at sex. Specifically, bad at...this.” He gestures unhelpfully between your legs and your stomach swoops as his finger almost brushes the seam of your shorts.
It takes you a second, but then your brows pull together. “She actually said that?”
“Not exactly,” he groans. “The date was fine. It was our third, so when she invited me upstairs, I figured…well, you know. And then we got to making out and it was hot. I guess…”
You swallow hard and gesture for him to continue, even if the thought of his lips trailing down some other girl’s neck feels like a knife in your side.
“And then I went down on her and she said—” He cuts himself off with a miserable little huff before resuming. “She said it wasn’t doing anything for her. At all. Like it wasn’t good enough or something. Can you believe that? I could’ve lived if she said my thrust game needed work or something, if we had even gotten to that point, but this? This is, like, my thing.”
Oh. Okay.
Yeah, you could’ve gone the rest of your lease without knowing that eating pussy is your hot roommate’s thing.
That is not good for your little crush you have going on that you refuse to talk about. Or think about. Ever.
You nod quickly and clear your throat. “S-so, what exactly does this have to do with me?”
Steve just shrugs. “We’re friends, right?”
“Right.”
“Right.” He levels your gaze, brown eyes soft and playful in the lamplight. “So…”
The moment stretches between you, an invitation, an ask, and a dare all rolled into one.
“So, because we’re such good friends, we just…give each other oral sex?”
Steve sighs. “Look. I just want a second opinion, okay? I mean, this is bad. Really bad. If Cindy didn’t like it, then what if other girls didn’t either? Then I’ve just been lied to all this time—”
Your gaze drops to his fingers digging into the couch cushion beneath you, and despite yourself, a smile creeps across your lips. “Oh my God, this really got to you, didn’t it?”
“What?” He balks. “No! It’s just…I need to set the record straight.” He taps your knees with a knuckle, playful but firm. “Spread ‘em.”
You bark an unbelieving laugh that ends in a sound too close to a whimper when his hands come down on your thighs.
You cannot let him do this to you. If you do, you’ll never be able to get over your secret-no-good-very-bad-crush on your roommate.
You force yourself to breathe. “I…I don’t want thinks to get weird.”
His eyes flick up to yours. “Weird?”
“Between us.”
Steve seems to take a second to understand what you’re saying, and you watch as an emotion you can’t place crosses his face.
Suddenly, he moves to stand. “You’re right. Sorry. God, I’m an idiot. What am I thinking, I just—”
Panic spikes and you snatch his wrist before you even really know what you’re doing, cutting him off. “No, wait. It’s like you said. We’re…friends, right?”
He nods quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah.”
“So, we don’t let it get weird.” The words spill out of you before you can take them back. But you don’t want to. “I’ll give you an unbiased review. A one time thing.”
You watch as his lashes drop again to your legs, and his pupils widen as your knees fall apart a little on instinct.
“You’re sure?” he asks, voice thick.
In an effort to appear nonchalant, you shrug. But you’re salivating when his tongue darts over his bottom lip.
“Yes,” you breathe.
He doesn’t waste a second dropping back down to his knees, and your legs widen immediately to give him space.
“So, you’ll tell me the truth, right?” he rasps, eyes jumping between your face and your hips. “Be honest. I can take it.”
“Honest,” you agree, but the word comes out in a whisper as his fingers slip under your waistband.
Your face burns as he pulls down your shorts and panties in one smooth motion, baring you to him. His hands gently ease your thighs farther apart, and you fight the urge to squirm under his gaze.
“Steve! Stop looking at it like that,” you gasp.
“Why?” he asks without glancing up. “It’s pretty.”
Shit.
You’re not strong enough for this.
But when he finally looks up, you recognize the silent question in his eyes. He’s asking for permission. You could stop this right now, and he would let you easily. He’s probably never even bring it up again. No harm done.
And you should.
God, you should.
But you don’t want to.
So instead, you just nod, not trusting your voice to speak.
As he leans in, you brace for the feeling of his tongue, but you’re surprised when he starts by just…kissing you.
His lips are soft against your folds, and your breath catches at the tenderness there. His eyes find yours before he goes lower, and the moment his nose bumps your clit, your body jolts in his hold.
He makes a muffled sound and his eyes drift shut, large palms moving to your hips, pinning them to the cloth couch beneath you.
Then there’s that wet heat.
His tongue slides over you with just enough pressure, starting slow and exploring your entrance.
“Oh, God,” you whimper.
His hair is so soft against your inner thighs, and when he makes a sound of encouragement against you, and his tongue swirls higher, catching the underside of your clit, your mouth drops open in a silent moan.
He’s hardly done anything yet, but the way he’s doing it, so confident, and steady, it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.
“See? Good, right?” he mutters, the words muffled and slick against your core. “I know what I’m—mmm, fuck, you taste good.”
Before you can respond, his hands wrap up and around your thighs, and he hauls you closer. Your tank top rides up even higher as you slide down into the cushions, but you don’t reach up to fix it.
Mostly because Steve Harrington is going down on you, and that thought alone is nearly making you lose your fucking mind.
His lashes flutter shut as he makes out with your dripping cunt, his throat bobbing as sucks gently, swallows, and goes back for more.
You’re surprised to find there’s no performance to his actions, but more of a genuine enjoyment.
Steve eats pussy like he wants to.
You watch, transfixed, and you can’t help but roll your hips once against his mouth, smearing your slick all over his pretty fucking face.
Too pretty for his own good.
A sound escapes his chest, something caught between a moan and a whine, and he nods against you, peeking up from beneath his lashes.
The carpet whispers as rises higher on his knees, mouth traveling up your mound and over the soft, sensitive skin below your belly button.
But you whimper at the loss, pushing his head back down.
His throat vibrates against you with a chuckle, but he follows you obediently. “Oh, yeah? So definitely doing something for you then.”
“Shut up,” you groan, but the sound dies out harshly when his mouth latches to your clit and sucks.
Hard.
You gasp, back arching as your core clenches instinctively.
Then, without warning, he pulls back.
You look at each other, chests heaving. Suddenly, you’re afraid he’s done. That you now have to give a report based on that.
“Is that it?” You squeak.
“What? God, you think I would just leave you like that? No, I was just thinking—” He draws in a breath, like he needs to physically rearrange his thoughts. “Well, I haven’t even kissed you yet.”
You just stare down at him, chest heaving, bare and slick from the waist down.
He takes one look at your face and clears his throat. “Right. Later.” He leans in again, but pauses before glancing up at you one more time. “Yes?”
“Yes, Harrington, I will kiss you, later,” you whine pitifully, canting your hips into his hands.
He seems pleased, and wastes no time picking up where he left off.
And this time, he doesn’t tease you.
Your head hips back, a moan tearing from your throat as two of his fingers spear deep inside and his mouth closes over your clit.
As you threaten to fall apart beneath him, Steve just watches.
Every little whine and whimper. Every jerk and arch of your back. Every wriggle of your hips and curl of your toes.
He studies you like a map, surveying everything that makes you soak his face, everything that makes you clench hard around his fingers, his tongue, and finding new routes to all those destinations.
The tension between your hips pulls tighter, and when he reaches up to palm your breast, slipping his hand underneath your tank top, you wonder if he can feel it.
The way your heart slams against your ribs.
A silent, helpless confession. A call for him to see that this will not, in fact, be a one-time thing.
That you’ve been thinking about this—about him—ever since the day you moved in.
That ache builds like a tidal wave, threatening to break, and your fingers fly to his arms for stability. He’s warm, and strong, and his muscles shift under his dress shirt.
It’s honestly impressive how quickly he responds, how easily he reads every subconscious signal your body gives him. Because when that breathy, urgent whine starts to leave your lips, his thumb replaces his mouth on your clit, rubbing firm, perfect circles that drive you higher. And then he dips lower, tonguing your entrance, devouring you in thick, broad strokes, pushing you to the fucking brink.
“Yeah, you gonna come for me?” He slurs against your aching cunt. “Just like that. That’s it. I’ve got you—mmhm—”
The second his tongue spears deep inside, the tidal wave breaks.
Your moan fills your quiet apartment, and you nearly come off the couch with the intensity of it. The rush is unlike anything you’ve felt before. You have no option but to surrender fully to it as it pulls you under, shamelessly riding your orgasm out on Steve’s tongue.
Steve’s ready for it though. He goes with you easily as your hips rise and fall, strong hands holding you to his mouth, unwilling to let you slide away.
When the pulsing eventually fades to shuttering jolts, he pulls back, but his hands stay on your hips, caressing you softly, bringing you back down to earth.
You bite your lip, looking down at him panting between your knees. Your body aches, but in a good way. Like you need more, but somehow, it still won’t ever be enough.
“God, Steve—” you whine, but you’re cut off by him lunging up across your body and pressing his lips to yours.
You laugh into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue as he kisses you eagerly.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that.” He murmurs, pulling back a little.
Something catches in your chest at his confession, and you thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him back down for another kiss.
This one is different.
Deeper, and softer, and…meaningful.
He sinks back down onto his knees, squeezing your thigh, your waist, like you’re something precious.
“So, tell me , honestly, was it good?” He urged, gazing up at you.
You blink dumbly, throughly flushed. “Yeah, uh…no notes.”
He smirks. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Five out of five stars.”
“I don’t know, Harrington. That literally means no room for improvement.” You’re not sure his ego is ready for that.
“Oh?” His lips tilt in a crooked smile that makes you want to kiss him again. “What would you have me do to earn that fifth star, huh?”
His lids go heavy as you tighten your hold on his hair and urge his mouth back down where you want it.
“You could do it again.”
a/n: It's my canon that his date, Cindy, was just hung up on her ex, and Steve was the unlucky rebound that night. Plus, Steve wasn't that into it. Because he was thinking about you, obviously. Also, here is the fluffy version sister fic if you care lol
ᥫ᭡ dividers by @cursed-carmine| steve masterlist | drop by my desk
steve was so stubborn sometimes it annoyed you. If he didn't want to do something, he wouldn't even verbally refuse; he just wouldn't do it. now was no different, you thought. thought your whines and pleas for steve to choke you went in one ear and out the other. clearly, he had other plans. his cock drilled in and out of you, skin slapping filling the room, pelvis hitting your ass over and over again. your moans and his groans fought for the spotlight, each one getting louder with each thrust. your stomach twists with excitement in response to him getting rougher with you, you craved it—loved when he was mean. “fuck steve there right there m’ getting close” you whine, head falling into the pillows. your words get him going almost instantly, feeling his pace quicken, and his grip on your hips get tighter. his dick delves deeper inside as he leans over you, getting so close to your ear that you could feel his breath. “can’t miss any of those pretty sounds,” he whispers, lifting your head gently. he abandoned his nice act quicker than you could blink, you barely had time to nod before he was wrapping his toned arm around your head, locking you in place. you choke out a whimper as you clench around him, arousal soaking your folds. “steve—!” you try, as if words would form. you couldn’t even moan from how good he had you. “stop complainin’ for once. wanted to be choked so bad, didn’t you? i’m listening to you.”
synapse: after a painful accident leaves y/n shaken, the night ends in the one place she feels safest.
pairing: professor!henry creel x reader
contains: professor/student relationship, blood mention, fluff, cannabis use
a/n: tbh I had this chapter done days before now I just get scheduled so I could work on the next one
. . .
Y/N barely felt herself hit the first few steps.
What she remembered later was the sudden catch of her foot on somebody’s abandoned book bag, the ugly lurch forward, and then the sharp, humiliating scramble of gravity deciding for her. Her shoulder clipped the banister. Her palms smacked wood. Her ankle twisted hard enough to send a bolt of pain up her leg, and then she was halfway down the stairwell in a graceless tangle of limbs, coat, and bruised dignity.
For one awful second after it stopped, everything went quiet.
Not actually quiet, there were still voices somewhere down the hall, a door shutting, a radio playing faintly from somebody’s room, but the kind of quiet that settled inside your skull after something embarrassing enough to make you want to evaporate on contact.
Y/N lay there for a beat, stunned and furious, then pushed herself up immediately.
“I’m fine,” she muttered to absolutely no one.
Her hands stung. Her ankle hurt, but not enough to stop her from standing. Mostly, she just felt stupid. Not injured. Not scared. Just stupid.
She looked around quickly, half-expecting witnesses, some freshman gawking at her from the landing. No one stopped her. No one asked. Good.
She grabbed the banister, steadied herself, and limped the rest of the way up to her floor, refusing to give the pain in her ankle the satisfaction of being taken seriously.
By the time she reached her dorm room, she was more annoyed than anything else.
She pushed the door open and found Nancy exactly where she always seemed to be lately, at her desk, hunched over the typewriter, sleeves pushed up, totally absorbed in the next thing she’d decided was urgent enough to deserve her entire personality.
The rhythmic clack-clack-clack paused when Y/N shut the door harder than usual.
Nancy glanced up briefly. “You’re late.”
Y/N shut the door behind her and started shrugging out of her coat. “I almost died.”
Nancy’s fingers hovered over the keys. “Did you?”
“Practically. I tripped over somebody’s stupid book bag and fell down the stairs.”
Nancy made a face that was somehow sympathetic and judgmental at the same time. “That is a humiliating way to go.”
“Thank you,” Y/N said dryly, limping toward her bed. “I needed support.”
Nancy went back to the typewriter. “I support you privately. Publicly, I mock.”
Y/N sat down carefully and tugged one shoe halfway off, wincing when her ankle protested. “What are you writing now?”
Nancy kept typing. “A piece on the administration pretending student complaints are ‘under review’ when really they just throw them in a drawer and wait for us to graduate.”
Y/N nodded as if this were perfectly normal dinner conversation. “That’s good. Bitter. Very you.”
Nancy’s mouth twitched faintly into a small smirk. “Thank you.”
Y/N rubbed at one palm, still feeling the sting there. “If I die from this, make sure you mention I was graceful.”
Nancy snorted softly and looked over at her again, about to say something smart.
Then she stopped.
The sound of the typewriter ceased completely.
Y/N noticed the silence first, then Nancy’s face.
“What?”
Nancy was staring at her back.
Not at her face. Not at her ankle. Her back.
“What, Wheeler?” Y/N repeated, slower this time.
Nancy stood up so quickly her chair rolled back a few inches. “Don’t move.”
That got her attention.
Y/N’s stomach dipped. “Why are you saying that like that?”
Nancy crossed the room in three quick steps and turned her by the shoulder.
Y/N blinked at her. “Nancy—”
“There’s blood.”
Y/N laughed once, automatic and disbelieving. “No, there isn’t.”
Nancy’s eyes widened in the specific way they did when something had gone from annoying to very real. She turned Y/N slightly and looked at the back of her shirt again.
“There is,” she said. “A lot of it.”
Y/N twisted, trying to see over her own shoulder. All she managed was a glimpse of dark red soaking through the back of her shirt near her shoulder blade, uneven and spreading.
For a second her brain refused to connect it.
“That’s not mine,” she said weakly.
Nancy looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “Whose do you think it is, Y/N?”
Y/N’s mouth opened and closed.
“I didn’t feel anything,” she said, and the words came out smaller than she meant them to. “I fell, but I didn’t— I just thought my ankle—”
Nancy was already moving. She grabbed a towel from beside the sink, then changed her mind and snatched up a cleaner one from the closet.
“Sit down,” she ordered.
Y/N obeyed this time.
Nancy knelt behind her and carefully lifted the back of her shirt enough to inspect the damage. The second she saw it properly, her jaw tightened.
Y/N felt the shift in her before Nancy even spoke.
“What?” Y/N asked.
Nancy pressed the towel gently against the wound. “You probably caught it on the edge of the stair or a nail or something.”
Y/N sucked in a breath. “That bad?”
Nancy didn’t answer immediately, which was answer enough.
“Nancy.”
Nancy’s voice was calm, and that made it worse. “You’re going to need stitches.”
Y/N stared ahead at the wall, all the blood abruptly feeling much more real now that someone had said the word out loud.
“That’s not…No…. That’s dramatic,” she whispered.
“It’s medical,” Nancy replied.
Y/N swallowed hard and looked down at her hands, palms scraped raw, still trembling a little from the delayed shock of it all. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
The room went quiet except for the sound of Nancy adjusting the towel against her back and Y/N trying very hard not to think about stitches, or hospitals, or how much blood she had apparently managed to lose while insisting she was fine.
Then the rotary phone rang.
Both of them looked at it.
The bright, shrill sound felt absurd in the middle of everything.
Nancy frowned. “When did we get a line?”
Y/N blinked at it. “A few days ago.”
Nancy kept pressure on the towel with one hand and reached for the receiver with the other. “Why?”
Y/N gave her a tired look. “Because I got tired of sharing a phone with everyone on the floor.”
Nancy narrowed her eyes. “That’s responsible.”
Y/N hesitated for half a second. “…Also so I can have possible phone sex with Henry.”
Nancy’s face twisted in immediate disgust. “I hate you.”
The phone kept ringing.
Nancy grabbed it and tucked it between her shoulder and ear, still too busy managing the towel and Y/N’s shirt to fully switch into her usual suspicious mode.
“Hello?”
A pause.
Then her face changed. Irritation.
Y/N recognized it instantly. “Who is it?”
Nancy didn’t answer her, too distracted now by both the blood and the voice in her ear.
“Yes,” she said shortly into the phone. “She’s here.”
Y/N looked at her, alarmed. “Nancy.”
Nancy ignored her. “No, she can’t come to the phone.”
Another pause. Henry, obviously, asking questions in that clipped, controlled tone that only got sharper when he was worried.
Nancy pressed the receiver harder to her ear and looked down at the towel now streaked red.
“It’s really bad, Y/N. We need to go to the hospital,” she said aloud, not really meaning to say it into the phone as much as to Y/N.
The second the words left her mouth, she froze.
Y/N stared at her, jaw slowly going slack in shock.
Nancy stared back, horrified, not by the hospital part, but by the fact that Henry had absolutely just heard that.
The voice on the other end sharpened immediately. Nancy could hear it even though Y/N couldn’t make out the words.
“What hospital?”
“What happened?”
“Miss Wheeler—”
Nancy, already knowing she’d slipped, cut him off before she could make it worse.
“We have to go,” she said tightly, and then hung up.
Y/N blinked at her. “Did you just tell him.?”
Nancy looked deeply offended with herself. “I was distracted.”
“You told him hospital.”
“I know.”
Y/N stared at her. “Nancy.”
Nancy pointed at her with the hand not covered in Y/N’s blood. “In any other scenario, I would not have said a word.”
That was true enough that Y/N didn’t argue.
Nancy set the receiver back into place and exhaled sharply through her nose, already shifting into motion again.
“Okay,” she said. “Coat. Shoes. We’re leaving.”
Y/N looked down at her half-removed shoe. “My ankle hurts.”
Nancy deadpanned, “Yes, I gathered that from the fall down the stairs and the blood loss.”
Y/N glared weakly.
Nancy softened only enough to help her stand.
“Come on,” she said, slipping an arm around Y/N’s waist while keeping the towel pressed against her back. “I’m taking you to the hospital before you pass out and make this even more inconvenient for me.”
Y/N tried to laugh and mostly succeeded.
Nancy guided her carefully out into the hall, toward the stairs, then clearly reconsidered that.
“No,” she muttered. “Absolutely not. We are not doing stairs again.”
Y/N leaned against her, pale now in a way she hadn’t been ten minutes ago. “Good call.”
So Nancy took her the long way, down the elevator, across the lot to her car, moving fast without looking panicked.
Only once she got Y/N into the passenger seat and shut the door did she let herself breathe.
Then she rounded to the driver’s side, got in, started the engine, and said without looking at her:
“If Creel shows up at the hospital before we do, I’m killing both of you.”
Y/N leaned back against the seat, wincing, exhausted, and muttered, “Fair.”
. . .
The emergency room was too bright.
That was the first thing Y/N decided when the nurse finally got her into one of the curtained treatment bays and helped her sit on the narrow hospital bed. Bright and cold and aggressively unforgiving, like the whole place had been designed to make people feel more exposed than they already were.
Nancy stood beside the bed with her arms crossed, still keyed up from the drive over, still keeping that look on her face that said if you pass out and make this worse, I’m going to be furious.
Y/N sat very still while the nurse, middle, aged, efficient, not especially sentimental, peeled the blood-soaked towel away from her back.
Y/N hissed.
“Yeah,” the nurse said, not unkindly. “That’s not nothing.”
Nancy immediately leaned forward. “How bad is it?”
The nurse didn’t answer right away. She pulled Y/N’s shirt carefully up at the back and inspected the wound with practiced eyes, then glanced at the scrapes on her palms and the swelling around her ankle.
“You fall down stairs?” she asked.
Y/N, who had spent the last forty minutes trying to preserve some dignity, muttered, “Allegedly.”
Nancy looked at the nurse. “Yes.”
The nurse gave Y/N a look that said she’d heard every variation of that joke before.
“Well,” she said, reaching for gauze, “your ankle’s going to need a closer look, but this back wound is what concerns me first.” She started dabbing gently, cleaning enough to see what she was dealing with. Y/N gripped the edge of the mattress and stared hard at the curtain in front of her.
After a moment, the nurse said, “It’ll likely need stitches.”
Y/N went completely still.
Nancy’s expression tightened, but her voice stayed level. “How many?”
The nurse gave the wound one more look. “Not too many. But enough.”
Enough.
Y/N closed her eyes briefly.
The nurse set the bloody gauze aside and looked between them. “Doctor will be in soon. I’m going to get a fresh set-up and have someone come look at that ankle too.”
She gave Y/N one last assessing glance. “Don’t lie down on it.”
“Wasn’t planning to,” Y/N muttered.
Then the nurse was gone, the curtain swaying softly in her wake.
For a second the bay was quiet except for the sounds of the ER around them, phones, footsteps, someone coughing behind another curtain, the intercom crackling overhead.
Nancy exhaled through her nose.
Y/N looked over her shoulder as much as she could manage. “Likely need stitches,” she repeated weakly.
Nancy folded her arms tighter. “Yes.”
“I hate her.”
“No, you don’t.”
Y/N stared down at her hands, palms raw and scraped. “I might.”
Nancy’s face softened just a fraction, but only a fraction. “You’ll live.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It’s not supposed to be.”
Y/N let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh. Then the curtain pushed open again, not a doctor, just a clipboard-bearing volunteer or admin staffer who handed Nancy some forms and asked her to sign a few things at the front.
Nancy looked at the clipboard, then at Y/N, then back at the forms like she resented all systems equally.
“I’m going to sign this and get coffee,” she said. “Do not move.”
Y/N looked offended. “Where am I going to go?”
“You,” Nancy said, “have proven yourself capable of falling down an entire staircase. I’m not taking chances.”
Y/N managed a tiny, tired eye-roll.
Nancy set the clipboard against her hip, then paused, looking at Y/N more carefully now. “You okay for a minute?”
The answer should have been yes.
Instead Y/N, pale and embarrassed and still trying not to think about the word stitches, just nodded.
Nancy gave one short nod back. “I’ll be right back.”
Then she stepped out through the curtain, paperwork in one hand and her car keys in the other, already scanning signs for admissions, vending machines, whatever came first.
. . .
The hallway outside the ER bays was colder than the treatment room.
Nancy signed what needed signing at the admissions desk, scowling at questions that should have been obvious, then took the hall toward the vending machines and coffee stand like she was marching into battle.
She turned the corner near the elevators.
And saw him.
Henry Creel was standing near the wall beside the elevator doors, one hand shoved into his coat pocket, the other clenched loosely at his side. He looked exactly like himself from a distance, composed, neat, controlled but Nancy could see the strain in him immediately.
His tie was still on from school, but loosened. His hair looked like he’d run his hand through it too many times. His eyes found her instantly.
And for one long second, neither of them said anything.
The elevator dinged.
The doors slid open.
Nancy stepped in because what else was she supposed to do, and after the briefest hesitation, Henry followed her.
The doors shut.
Silence.
It was the most awkward silence Nancy had experienced in at least a month, which was saying something considering her life.
She stared straight ahead at the brushed metal doors.
Henry stared at the panel like the floor numbers were personally insulting.
Then, finally, Henry said, “How is she?”
His voice was low, clipped, too controlled in the way voices got when the person using them was trying very hard not to sound afraid.
Nancy kept her eyes forward. “She’s fine.”
Henry’s jaw flexed. “Miss Wheeler.”
“She fell down the residence hall stairs,” Nancy said, cutting him a glance at last. “She didn’t feel it at first because she was more embarrassed than injured, apparently. Then I noticed she was bleeding through the back of her shirt.”
Henry went very still.
Nancy saw it, the way his face didn’t change much, but his body did. His shoulders drew tighter. Something in his expression shut down more cleanly, more sharply.
“She hit her head?” he asked.
“No.”
“Lost consciousness?”
“No.”
“What did they say?”
Nancy looked at him properly now.
He wasn’t just asking. He was cataloging. Assessing. Trying to build a full picture so he could measure how bad it was and what he should do about it.
“They’re checking her ankle,” Nancy said. “And the nurse said her back will likely need stitches.”
That got to him.
Again, not dramatically. Henry Creel was not a man built for dramatic public reactions.
But Nancy saw his throat work when he swallowed. Saw the way his hand in his pocket clenched tighter.
“She’s scared of stitches,” he said, almost to himself.
Nancy blinked.
It wasn’t what he said. It was how he said it.
Not like a guess.
Like he knew.
“She hasn’t started freaking out yet,” Nancy replied carefully. “But I’m expecting it.”
Henry gave one short nod, gaze dropping briefly to the elevator floor.
The silence came back, only now it felt different. Less hostile. Just… loaded.
Nancy crossed her arms. “You got here fast.”
Henry’s eyes flicked back to hers. “You said hospital.”
Nancy made a face. “Yes. By accident.”
“I assumed.”
That almost sounded dry enough to be humor.
Almost.
The elevator kept moving.
Nancy looked at him again, more openly now. “You were worried.”
Henry held her gaze for one beat too long before looking away. “Yes.”
No hesitation.
No lie.
No attempt to pretend otherwise.
That, more than anything, took some of the edge off her.
Nancy shifted her weight. “She’s going to be fine.”
Henry nodded once, but he didn’t look reassured.
“I know,” he said. “That doesn’t…” He stopped, jaw flexing, then tried again. “That doesn’t make it easier to hear.”
Nancy studied him in profile.
For months she’d known him as a terrible idea in a blazer. As the professor who’d broken her best friend’s heart once and only later earned some fragile amount of trust back. She knew he was careful. Complicated. Too old for this. Too dangerous for Y/N in ways Y/N was too deep in it to fully respect.
But this version of him—
Standing in a hospital elevator, pale under fluorescent lights, trying not to unravel over the word stitches, this version was harder to hate.
The doors opened.
Neither of them moved immediately.
Then Nancy stepped out first, and Henry followed.
As they walked back toward the ER bays, she said, not looking at him, “She asked if you were going to show up.”
Henry turned his head slightly. “What did you tell her?”
“That I’d kill both of you if you beat us here.”
Henry’s mouth twitched despite the situation.
Nancy noticed that too and hated that she noticed.
Then, quieter, because she was not good at saying kind things directly, she added, “She’ll calm down once she sees you.”
Henry looked at her then, properly. Something in his face shifted, surprise first, then something more careful.
Nancy kept her eyes forward. “Don’t make me regret saying that.”
“I won’t,” Henry said.
And to Nancy’s annoyance, he sounded sincere.
They reached the curtain outside Y/N’s bay.
Nancy stopped and looked at him, measuring him one last time before deciding whether to let him past this point in her life or not.
“She’s sore, embarrassed, and trying to act tougher than she feels,” Nancy said. “If you laugh at her, I’ll kill you.”
Henry’s gaze sharpened. “I’m not going to laugh at her.”
Nancy nodded once. “Good.”
Then she pushed aside the curtain and stepped in first.
Y/N, sitting stiffly on the bed with one palm bandaged loosely and her shirt still pulled awkwardly around the wound, looked up immediately.
The second she saw Henry behind Nancy, something in her face loosened.
Not all the way.
But enough.
And Nancy, standing there with a clipboard in one hand and bad vending machine coffee in the other, saw it happen in real time and realized, with some irritation, that this was probably the beginning of her tolerating him.
Not because he deserved it automatically.
But because he had come. Because he had looked terrified. Because Y/N had relaxed the moment she saw him.
And because sometimes, unfortunately, those things mattered.
Henry stepped into the bay like the room had narrowed down to only one thing in it.
His eyes found Y/N immediately.
And then stayed there.
For a second he didn’t speak at all. He just looked at her, really looked. At the paleness in her face, the awkward way she was sitting to keep pressure off her back, the scrape on her palm, the swelling beginning at her ankle. His concern showed most clearly in his eyes, in the way they kept moving over her as if he were checking for damage no one had mentioned yet.
“Y/N,” he said quietly.
The sound of his voice did exactly what Nancy said it would.
Y/N’s shoulders lowered a fraction. Some of the bravado drained out of her face. She looked exhausted suddenly, and younger, and very relieved he was there.
“Hi,” she said, trying for casual and missing by a mile.
Henry came closer at once, stopping beside the bed. “Are you dizzy?”
Y/N blinked. “No.”
“You didn’t hit your head?”
“No.”
“Nauseous?”
“No.”
He looked at her hands. “Your palms.”
“Scraped,” she said. “Dramatic, but survivable.”
His jaw tightened slightly. “And your ankle.”
“Hurts.”
Henry’s gaze flicked over the blanket, probably checking if she was favoring it. “Can you put weight on it?”
“Sort of.”
He took all of that in without wasting a word, then his eyes landed on the back of her shirt where the fabric had been lifted and pinned out of the way with hospital tape and gauze.
His expression changed again.
Not bigger.
Worse.
The kind of quiet anger that came from seeing someone you cared about already hurt and having nowhere to direct what you felt.
“Henry,” Y/N said softly, because she could see it.
His eyes came back to her face immediately. “Does it hurt?”
She tried to shrug and regretted it. “A little.”
Henry’s hand hovered near her arm for half a second before he let himself touch her, just lightly, fingers closing around her forearm as if he needed the contact as much as she did.
Nancy stood near the curtain with her coffee, watching both of them with the expression of someone who was learning something against her will.
Henry looked back at Y/N. “How long have you been waiting?”
“Not that long.”
Nancy answered for her. “Long enough.”
Henry glanced at Nancy, nodded once in acknowledgment, then looked back at Y/N as if no one else in the room was especially relevant.
“You should have let someone walk you up the stairs,” he said quietly.
Y/N gave him a tired look. “I blame it on the dipshit who left a random bag lying around.”
The corner of his mouth moved, but his eyes stayed worried.
A doctor pushed aside the curtain a second later, a man in his thirties, calm, efficient, gloved, with the kind of bedside manner that suggested he’d seen every possible human reaction to stitches and respected none of them more than necessary.
“All right,” he said, glancing at the chart. “I’ve had a look. It’s a good-sized laceration, but it’s clean and straightforward. We’ll numb it and put in a few stitches.”
Y/N went very still.
Henry felt it happen under his hand.
The doctor looked at her over the chart. “You’ll be all right. It’s your upper back, so the position will be awkward, but it shouldn’t take too long.”
“Awkward,” Y/N repeated weakly, fingers patting quickly against her thigh.
Nancy set her coffee down.
Henry’s fingers tightened slightly on Y/N’s arm.
The doctor stepped toward the tray, checking supplies. “We’ll get you leaning forward a bit. I’ll inject local anesthetic first. That’s the worst part for most people.”
That sentence did not help.
Y/N’s face lost what little color it had left.
Henry saw it immediately.
Her eyes dropped to the tray. Metal instruments. Gauze. Needle. Thread. All neat and clinical and way too real.
The doctor looked up. “You ready?”
Y/N opened her mouth.
What came out was: “Actually, I think I’m fine with a split-open back.”
The doctor blinked once.
Nancy closed her eyes briefly like she had expected this exact moment.
Henry stepped in closer at once. “Y/N.”
She looked at him, eyes wide now in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with panic finally arriving late.
“No,” seriously,” she said quickly, shaking her head once. “No, I think I can just— I can go home and keep pressure on it and maybe not move for the rest of my life. I like being a couch potato anyway.”
The doctor, to his credit, did not laugh.
“You need stitches,” he said.
“I hear you,” Y/N replied, voice climbing, “but have you considered that I don’t.”
Nancy muttered, “Oh my God.”
Henry was already moving.
He stepped between Y/N and the tray just enough to block her view of it and put both hands on her arms, steady and grounding.
“Look at me,” he said.
Y/N did, instantly, because his voice cut through the rising panic better than anything else in the room.
Her breathing had gone too fast.
“I don’t want him touching me with that needle,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“It’s on my back, I can’t even see it.”
“I know.”
“I hate this. I bit the doctor last time I saw a needle.”
Henry’s voice dropped lower, calmer. “I know.”
She looked at him and closed her eyes. “I can’t believe I told you that.”
The repetition helped, not because it fixed anything, but because he wasn’t trying to logic her out of fear. He was meeting it where it was.
Y/N’s eyes were bright now, panic crowding the edges.
The doctor stood back half a pace, letting Henry work.
Nancy, silent now, stayed near the curtain and watched.
Henry brushed his thumbs lightly over Y/N’s sleeves. “You’re not doing this by yourself.”
Her breath hitched. “Henry—”
“You can hold onto me,” he said.
That got her.
Her face changed just enough to show she was already considering it.
The doctor spoke gently from behind Henry. “If she leans forward, I can work with someone standing in front of her.”
Henry nodded once without looking away from Y/N.
Then, softer, to her, “All right. Come here.”
He moved closer and slid an arm around her waist, helping her shift on the bed. Because the wound was on her upper back, she had to sit near the edge and lean forward slightly for the doctor to work.
The second the nurse adjusted the bed and the tray shifted, Y/N’s composure broke the rest of the way.
“Nope,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”
Henry didn’t hesitate.
He stepped directly in front of her and drew her in against him, one arm tight around her back and the other at the nape of her neck. Y/N latched onto him immediately, arms around his middle, then higher, clinging hard enough to wrinkle his shirt.
Her face buried in the side of his neck.
“Okay,” Henry murmured, one hand in her hair now, the other spanning her back carefully so he wouldn’t touch the wound. “That’s it. Stay with me.”
Y/N clung tighter.
The doctor looked at Henry over her shoulder. “I need her leaned just a little more forward.”
Henry adjusted without complaint, guiding her carefully until her head rested against his shoulder instead of fully in his neck, one of his hands cupping the back of her head, the other anchoring her at the ribs.
Y/N could guess she looked exactly like a koala clinging to a tree and was past caring.
Nancy swallowed down what might have been a smile and definitely was not.
The doctor prepped the area quickly.
“All right,” he said. “You’ll feel a sharp pinch with the numbing medicine.”
“No,” Y/N said into Henry’s shoulder.
Henry kissed her hair once. “Squeeze me.”
“I already am.”
“Then keep doing it.”
She did.
When the needle went in, Y/N jolted and let out a small, strangled sound against his neck, fingers digging into his back. Henry tightened his hold immediately, hand firm at the back of her head.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “That’s the worst part. Stay with me.”
“I hate you,” she whispered, not meaning him.
“I know.”
Nancy watched Henry’s face then.
He looked calm.
Not easy. Not unaffected. Calm in the way people only got when they were putting everything else aside for the sake of someone else. His jaw was tense enough to cut glass, but his voice stayed low and even, and one hand kept moving slowly through Y/N’s hair like he’d done this before in some other lifetime.
The doctor worked quickly after the numbing.
“Pressure now,” he said.
Y/N made another unhappy sound and pressed even closer into Henry.
“You’re all right,” Henry murmured. “You’re doing well.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m literally clinging to you.”
Henry’s mouth brushed the top of her head. “Yes.”
She drew in a shaking breath.
“Still doing well,” he added.
That actually got the tiniest laugh out of her, damp and miserable but real.
The doctor stitched in silence after that, efficient and quick, with only the occasional warning about pressure or pulling. Y/N kept her face hidden against Henry’s neck or shoulder the whole time, one arm hooked tightly around him, the other fist clenched in his shirt.
Every now and then Henry murmured something too low for anyone else to hear.
Nancy caught pieces.
“Stay with me.”
“Almost there.”
“You’re fine.”
“I’ve got you.”
And because Nancy was paying attention now in a way she hadn’t wanted to be, she noticed something else:
Y/N trusted him completely.
Not flirtation. Not secrecy. Not chemistry.
Trust.
When the doctor finally tied off the last stitch and stepped back, he stripped off his gloves and said, “Done.”
Y/N did not let go.
The doctor’s mouth twitched faintly. “You can unclench now.”
“I’ll think about it,” she muttered into Henry’s shoulder.
Nancy covered her mouth with her hand for half a second to hide the smile that tried to happen.
Henry stayed exactly where he was until Y/N loosened on her own.
When she finally lifted her head, her face was blotchy with adrenaline and embarrassment, but the worst of the fear had passed. Henry’s hand stayed at her neck, thumb brushing lightly just under her ear.
“It’s done,” he said quietly.
Y/N blinked at him. “I know.”
“You survived.”
She gave him a weak look. “Barely.”
The doctor gave aftercare instructions, keep it dry, change the dressing, come back if there was redness or fever, take it easy on the ankle, likely sprain, follow up if the pain worsened.
Nancy took the discharge papers because she was apparently the only responsible one in the room.
Henry helped Y/N sit back properly on the bed, his hands careful and certain, as if he’d become part of the hospital equipment and no one had thought to object.
Nancy looked at him then, not as Y/N’s terrible idea, not as the professor she distrusted on principle.
Just as the man who had shown up, gone pale at the word stitches, and held her best friend through the whole thing without once making it about himself.
It did not erase all her reservations.
But it changed the shape of them.
And when Henry finally looked over at her and said, quietly and sincerely, “Thank you for getting her here quickly,” Nancy found herself unable to answer with anything nastier than:
“Yeah. Well. Don’t make me do it again.”
Henry’s mouth twitched.
Y/N, still half clinging to him, noticed that too, and for the first time all night, even through the ache in her back, she felt like something had shifted in the room besides just her pain.
. . .
By the time they got to Henry’s apartment, Y/N had decided two things with absolute certainty: first, she hated stairs.
And second, she hated whoever the hell had left that book bag sitting there like a trap for innocent people just trying to go to their own room.
Henry had barely gotten the door shut behind them before she said, with exhausted venom, “I’m never taking stairs again.”
Henry took her coat gently from her shoulders, careful of her back. “That seems impractical.”
Henry’s mouth twitched, but his hands stayed careful, one at her elbow, one at her waist as he guided her farther into the apartment. “The stairs did not betray you.”
“Yes they did.”
“It was a bag.”
“It was a conspiracy, excuse you,” she corrected.
Henry shut the door, locked it, and looked at her properly.
She was pale with pain and adrenaline aftershock, one palm still loosely bandaged, the back of her shirt now changed out for one of his that sat loose and soft over the fresh dressing. Her ankle was wrapped, not enough for a cast but enough to make every step awkward. And her face still had that tight, brittle look of someone trying very hard not to admit she hurt.
Henry’s expression softened.
“You should sit down,” he said.
Y/N looked toward the couch and then toward the hallway that led to his bedroom. “Your elevator is closer to your apartment than the elevator in my residence hall is to my dorm.”
Henry blinked once. “That is your argument for staying here.”
“Yes.”
He stared at her a second longer, then nodded once, as if the logic, while absurd, was still fundamentally sound. “All right.”
Y/N sighed in victory, then immediately winced because apparently even satisfaction used back muscles.
Henry noticed. Of course he noticed.
He stepped closer at once. “Easy.”
“I know,” she muttered.
“No, you don’t.”
His hand slid to the small of her back, hovering more than touching so he wouldn’t aggravate the stitches, and he guided her toward the bedroom with the kind of quiet authority she was too tired to argue with. He moved around the room quickly after that, turning down the bed, fluffing pillows, folding back the blanket, setting a glass of water on the nightstand like he’d already accepted she wouldn’t be leaving.
Y/N watched him from the edge of the mattress, one leg stretched carefully out in front of her, feeling sore and wrung out and irrationally angry all over again.
“I’m still mad,” she said.
Henry glanced at her while adjusting the pillows behind her. “At the stairs.”
“At the stairs. At the bag. At that person.” Her eyes narrowed. “If I ever find out who left it there, I’m ruining their life.”
Henry sat beside her and started unlacing her shoe with gentle, efficient fingers. “You are not ruining anyone’s life.”
“I’m at least writing them a threatening note.”
“You are not doing that either.”
Y/N leaned back into the pillows as he eased the shoe off her good foot, then carefully touched the wrapped ankle. She hissed.
Henry’s jaw tightened. “Still bad.”
“Yes,” she said flatly. “Almost like I fell down stairs.”
He gave her a look.
She gave him one right back.
Then, because the fight had gone out of her body and left behind only soreness and bad ideas, she slumped lower into the bed and stared up at the ceiling.
Henry adjusted the blanket over her legs. “How’s your back?”
“Like I got cut open.”
Henry’s hand came up to smooth a strand of hair away from her face, the gesture so instinctive it made her chest ache a little. “You’re being brave about it.”
Y/N let out a tired laugh. “No. I’m being pissed.”
“That too.”
For a little while, the room went quiet. The city outside moved on in soft, distant noise, and Henry stayed beside her, one hand resting lightly near her knee as if he didn’t trust himself to leave her alone with the pain just yet.
Y/N looked over at him.
He still had that hospital tension clinging to him, the calm he’d worn when she was scared, the strain in his shoulders, the way he kept checking her with his eyes like he was waiting for her to suddenly admit she felt worse.
She exhaled slowly.
Then, as if the idea had risen up fully formed from the exact center of her exhaustion, she said, “I should smoke.”
Henry blinked. “No.”
Y/N turned her head toward him. “Yes.”
“You fell down a staircase.”
“Exactly.”
“That is not a reason.”
“It feels like one,” she muttered.
Henry gave her a long, flat look. “You have stitches.”
“I know.”
“You also may be concussed.”
“I’m not concussed.”
Henry’s brows lifted. “That confidence is concerning.”
Y/N stared at him. “Henry.”
He stared back.
Then she said, slower, as though explaining something to a child, “I am sore. I am angry. I am deeply spiritually offended by architecture. I need a joint.”
That almost got him.
Almost.
His mouth twitched once before he forced it away. “No.”
Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “You’re saying that because you think I’ll drop ash on your bed.”
“I’m saying it because you were just stitched back together.”
She pointed a bandaged hand at him. “And yet.”
Henry caught her hand before she could keep gesturing with it and lowered it gently back to the blanket. “Don’t wave your injured hand around while making terrible arguments.”
Y/N huffed out a breath and leaned back harder into the pillows. “I hate when you’re reasonable.”
“I know.”
She was quiet for one beat.
Then, with great dignity, she said, “My bag has a joint in it.”
Henry closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them again, he looked at her the way a man might look at a beloved menace he had somehow agreed to share a life with.
“You planned this.”
“I plan for many things.”
“You planned post-hospital weed.”
“I plan for self-care when necessary in life, not just for hospital visits.”
Henry looked toward the chair where her bag had been dropped and then back at her.
Y/N could practically see the argument in his head. Pain versus irresponsibility. Relief versus control. The fact that she was clearly not going to stop looking at him like that until he either refused decisively or gave in.
Finally, he sighed.
“You’re not lighting it in bed.”
Y/N’s face brightened instantly. “So that’s a yes.”
“It’s a conditional yes,” he said.
“That’s still a yes.”
Henry stood with the long-suffering energy of a man making peace with poor decisions and retrieved her bag from the chair. He set it beside her carefully and crossed his arms.
Y/N smiled up at him, far too pleased given the circumstances, and started digging through it.
Henry watched the process in silence until she pulled the joint free with a little victorious hum.
“Look at that,” she murmured. “Hope.”
Henry shook his head. “What am I supposed to do with you?”
Y/N looked up at him, pain and annoyance and adrenaline all softened now by the smallest promise of relief.
“Take care of me. You’re already doing great.”
His expression changed at that, not dramatically, but enough.
Then he sat back down on the bed beside her and said, quieter this time, “Yes.”
Y/N’s smile turned warmer.
She leaned into his shoulder for just a second before trying to sit up straighter with the joint in hand and immediately regretting it, a hiss of pain escaping her.
Henry was on her at once, hand at her side, steadying her.
“Careful.”
“I know, I know.”
“No,” he said, already adjusting the pillows behind her again and taking the lighter from her hand before she could fumble it. “You clearly don’t.”
Y/N let him fix the angle of her body, let him tuck one pillow here and another there until she was half-reclined in a way that didn’t pull too hard on her back.
Then he handed the lighter back.
Y/N looked at him. “You’re really helping me smoke after I got stitches.”
Henry’s voice stayed dry. “I’m supervising.”
Y/N smiled faintly. “That’s somehow hotter.”
Henry chose not to answer that.
But he didn’t move away, either.
And with the apartment warm around them, her body aching in ten different places, and Henry close enough to catch her if she shifted wrong, Y/N lit the joint with a small, satisfied breath, ready, finally, to take the edge off the worst day the stairs had ever given her.
Y/N held the joint between two fingers and looked over at him expectantly.
“Come on,” she said. “One hit.”
Henry, sitting in the chair beside the bed with his sleeves rolled and his expression already suspicious, didn’t even pretend to consider it. “No.”
Y/N frowned. “Why not?”
Henry gave her a flat look. “Because the first time I ever did that, I don’t remember what happened after.”
Y/N’s mouth twitched. “You remember enough.”
“Not enough,” he said dryly.
She grinned. “You got very honest.”
“That is exactly the problem.”
Y/N laughed softly and took a hit herself, then held the smoke for a second before letting it out toward the ceiling. The apartment was quiet and warm around them, the sting in her back dulled now into something more manageable.
“At least sit next to me,” she said.
Henry looked at the bed. Then at her. Then, with the air of a man conceding a battle on principle, he stood and sat carefully on the edge beside her.
Y/N immediately leaned into his shoulder.
“There,” she said, pleased.
Henry glanced down at her. “Are you comfortable?”
“No,” she replied. “But I’m committed.”
That almost got a smile out of him.
She took another slow drag, then turned her head just enough to look at him. “You know what we should do?”
Henry’s voice stayed cautious. “I suspect I won’t like this.”
Y/N smiled. “We should smoke a joint together and have really hot high sex.”
Henry closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them again, his expression was deeply unimpressed in a way that only made her smile wider.
“You say that,” he murmured, “as if it’s a respectable plan.”
“It’s an excellent plan.”
“It’s barely a sentence.”
Y/N laughed and rested her head more fully against him. “No, listen. When we go to the Cape—“
Henry’s eyes shifted to her. “In a month.”
“Yes,” she said. “When we go.” Her smile turned dreamy now, touched by the weed and the fact that the idea of the Cape still felt unreal and wonderful to her. “We should do it every day.”
Henry just looked at her.
Y/N lifted the joint like she was making a formal proposal. “Wake up. Smoke. Have sex. Maybe go to breakfast. Be irresponsible near the ocean.”
Henry’s mouth twitched despite himself. “You’ve built quite a schedule.”
“I’m a planner.”
“You are not.”
She grinned. “I’m an aspirational planner.”
Henry shook his head once, but his hand came up to rest lightly on her thigh anyway, thumb moving once in that absent, grounding way he always had when he was less resistant than he wanted to appear.
Y/N looked up at him, eyes bright. “Tell me that doesn’t sound amazing.”
Henry’s gaze held hers for a moment.
Then, very quietly, “It sounds…” He paused, choosing the word with more care than the joke deserved. “Very you.”
Y/N smiled. “That’s not a no.”
“It’s not a yes either.”
She made a face. “Coward.”
Henry’s hand tightened slightly on her leg. “I have learned to be cautious around your ideas.”
“My ideas are excellent.”
“Your ideas nearly got me addicted to you.”
Y/N blinked, then grinned slowly. “Nearly?”
Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”
She laughed under her breath and lifted the joint again. “Still not taking a hit?”
“No.”
“You don’t trust yourself?”
Henry’s gaze flicked to her mouth, then back to her eyes. “No,” he said calmly. “I don’t trust you.”
That made her giggle harder.
Y/N settled against him again, warm and satisfied, letting the quiet stretch for a second before she murmured, “We really are going, though.”
Henry’s fingers moved once more against her thigh. “Yes.”
The softness of the answer made her chest tighten.
She smiled into his shoulder. “Good.”
Henry glanced at the joint, then at her, then finally leaned back against the headboard beside her as if resigning himself to the fact that this was how the rest of the evening was going to go: Y/N half-high, half-injured, making outrageous plans for the Cape while he sat there pretending not to love hearing them.
And though he still refused the joint, he stayed exactly where she wanted him, beside her, close, listening as she talked about ocean air and motel rooms and long mornings neither of them would have to hide from.
The joint had burned itself down to nothing in the ashtray, leaving behind that soft, smoky sweetness that still hung in the room. The apartment had gone quiet again, the kind of quiet that only felt full instead of empty because neither of them was alone in it.
Y/N was curled into Henry now, head tucked against his chest, one of his arms around her shoulders and the other draped low across her waist. She felt warm and heavy and pleasantly distant from the sharp edges of the day, her thoughts slower, softer.
For a while she just listened to his breathing.
Then she smiled a little to herself and said, “It’s crazy how far we’ve come.”
Henry’s hand moved once against her side. “Is it?”
Y/N tilted her head back slightly to look up at him. “Yes.”
His eyes lowered to hers. “How so?”
She grinned, slow and sleepy and high. “At the beginning of the year, I was always eye-fucking you.”
Henry’s mouth twitched.
“That,” he said quietly, “has not changed.”
Y/N laughed immediately, the sound warm and breathy, and buried her face against his chest for a second before looking back up at him. “Okay, true.”
Henry’s hand slid a little higher on her back, steady and familiar.
“But,” she added, her voice softening, “you were so closed off.”
Henry didn’t answer.
Y/N traced one lazy line against his shirt with her finger. “It was hot,” she admitted. “Like, obviously. Very tortured-professor, don’t-touch-me energy.” Her mouth curved. “But I like this better.”
His gaze stayed on her face.
“This,” she repeated quietly. “You with me. Comfortable.”
Something in his expression shifted at that, subtle, but there. The kind of look he got when a sentence of hers landed too directly for him to deflect.
Y/N smiled, then giggled suddenly, the thought arriving with no warning. “But I kind of miss when Daniel Taylor was a problem and not stairs.”
The effect was immediate.
Henry’s arm around her tightened.
Not painfully. Just enough that she felt the change.
His voice came low. “Don’t mention that fool of a student.”
Y/N blinked up at him, amused by the sharpness. “Okay.”
Henry’s jaw flexed once, like even hearing the name irritated him on principle.
Y/N kept looking at him. “What happened to him, anyway?”
Henry glanced down at her. “What do you mean?”
“I haven’t seen him,” she said. “Not really. Not since the week we blackmailed him.”
That got the faintest shadow of a smile out of him.
Henry leaned his head back against the cushions and spoke with the kind of dry calm that suggested he’d enjoyed this more than he would ever say directly.
“Shortly after that,” he said, “he came to my classroom after hours.”
Y/N’s brows lifted. “He did?”
Henry nodded once. “He asked for a transfer slip to a different class.”
Y/N stared at him. “That’s incredible.”
Henry’s mouth moved slightly. “I didn’t ask questions.”
“You just signed it.”
“I just signed it.”
Y/N laughed, delighted. “Oh my God.”
Henry looked down at her again. “He was in a hurry.”
“I bet he was.”
They sat with that for a second, Y/N smiling to herself at the image of Daniel Taylor finally having enough sense to remove himself from her life.
Then she looked back up at Henry, eyes bright with lazy amusement.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “when I finish college, I’ll have actually completed a huge goal.”
Henry’s expression turned wary at once. “Should I be concerned?”
“Yes,” she said.
He waited.
Y/N’s smile widened into something shameless. “Sleeping with my college professor.”
Henry closed his eyes briefly.
She laughed the second she saw his face.
When he opened them again, he was already looking at her like she was a menace.
“That is not a goal anyone should have.”
“It was very motivating.”
“Y/N.”
She giggled and tucked herself closer to him, fully aware she was being impossible and choosing it on purpose.
“I’m serious,” she said, still smiling. “Degree? Amazing. Personal growth? Important. But this—” she lifted one hand weakly between them, gesturing at him, at the bed, at the ridiculous entirety of their situation, “this is a huge accomplishment.”
Henry looked at her for a long second, then sighed through his nose in that familiar, defeated way he had when he knew he was never going to win.
“You are incorrigible.”
Y/N grinned. “And yet.”
“And yet,” he repeated.
His hand slid into her hair then, fingers combing through it slowly, his voice lower now, more thoughtful than teasing.
“You did accomplish something.”
Y/N blinked. “What?”
Henry’s eyes held hers. “You got me.”
That stole the joke right out of her.
Her smile softened instantly.
Henry’s thumb brushed once near her temple. “Which,” he added dryly, “was not on my plans for the school year.”
Y/N’s chest warmed. “No?”
“No.”
She smiled, smaller now, more sincere. “Me neither.”
Henry’s hand settled at the back of her head, keeping her close.
And because the high had left her honest and a little emotional, Y/N looked at him for another second and said quietly, “I’m glad, though.”
His gaze didn’t leave hers. “So am I.”
That sat between them for a moment, soft, uncomplicated, more intimate than anything she’d joked about before.
Then Y/N, incapable of staying serious forever, smiled again and said, “Still putting ‘slept with my college professor’ on my list of achievements, though.”
Henry looked toward the ceiling as if asking it for patience.
summary: steve drops you back home, but he doesn’t want you to leave just yet…
wc: 2.5k
contains: fem reader, established relationship, NSFW but no sex (MDNI), grinding, making out, pet names (baby, my girl), suggestive ending, no use of y/n
a/n: literally couldn’t get s1 steve bathroom scene out of my head. needy steve>>
Steve parked his Beamer on the curb outside of your house at 1 am. It's raining outside, and the soft splatter of the rain can be heard through the glass windows. Steve turned the radio down to a low hum; its soft sound mixed with the sound of lips smacking.
Steve had a problem: he just couldn't seem to let you go. You guys had spent the whole day together, and after a lot of coaxing on your part, you finally got him to drive you back home. This wasn't enough for Steve. He craved more of you, so now he is holding you hostage in his car, using his wonderful lips to keep you captive.
Your boyfriend has always been a little needy. Always wanting to hold your hand or praise you with those lips you so adored. Today was an entirely different situation. He was extra needy, extra doting, starving and deprived. The only way to relieve him of this hunger was to have you as close to him as humanly possible, always.
In the past, receiving excessive affection wasn't something you necessarily hated; it was just something you didn’t know how to handle. But when it comes to Steve, how could you hate it when he looks at you with complete adoration? How could you hate it when he looks up at you, pouting when you stop running fingers through his hair? And how could you hate it now when he’s kissing you like he needs it to survive?
“Steve,” you laugh while dragging the ‘e’ at the end of his name. “I have to go now, my parents are gonna kill me,” you say softly, your voice breathy as Steve continues to plant kisses on your lips, your cheek, anywhere he can kiss you.
“Just.. gimme.. one more minute,” Steve mumbles in between kisses. He places one hand on your cheek and the other on the back of your neck to bring you closer to his face. He lightly rubs his nose against yours – his way of telling you that he’s going in for another kiss. He leans in and kisses you, slowly at first until it grows to be messy and desperate. Despite your best efforts to leave his car, you can’t seem to resist his touch, his kiss.
Whenever Steve kissed you, it was as if the whole world went quiet and it was just the two of you. No monsters, no upside-down, no disappointed parents – it was just you and him. Nothing but you and Steve sweetly embracing each other, and a kiss that makes both of you melt into one another. For both of you, that feeling of nothing, nothing except the two of you in that moment, was sweet and devoid of any expectations.
You gather enough self-restraint to pull away from Steve's hold, pressing your palm flat against his chest to create some distance. “Okay Steve, I really have to go now,” you plead, but he is already moving, positioning himself to hold your face with both his hands.
“Okay, just one more minute, and then I’ll let you go.” he uses his thumbs to caress your face slightly. His eyes focus on your lips like he’s spellbound, as if your presence has him completely hypnotized.
“You said that five minutes ago!” You laugh at your boyfriend's silly logic. You slightly shake your head in his hands, but you make no move to push him off. With any other guy, you would've been annoyed, but it was different with Steve. You loved when he got all clingy; it made you feel wanted.
“I know baby, I know…” he trails off, eyes wandering all over your face, from your lips to the loose hairs on your forehead, like he’s trying to engrave this moment into his brain. “I just really missed you.” Steve does that slight pout that he knows you can’t resist, and in that moment, you feel your stomach flipping.
“Steven Harrington, I know you're doing that on purpose.” Your tone is playfully stern. You swiftly take his hands off your face, moving them down to the middle console of the car. You don’t let go of his hands though, and Steve uses this as an invitation to lean into you again, noses almost close enough to touch.
“Maybe…” Steve gives you a sheepish smile while his eyes dart from your lips to your eyes. “Is it a crime to miss my girl?” This earns him an eye roll from you, but regardless, a big grin stays planted on your face. In Steve's defence, you guys have been apart for a bit. With your hectic work schedule and Steve’s odd work hours at the radio station, it made it hard for your schedules to match up, leaving him with massive ‘you’ withdrawals.
A piece of Steve's hair falls on his forehead, and muscle memory has you freeing one of your hands to brush it into the rest of his perfect hair. This causes Steve to let out a quiet sigh, his head leaning slightly into your touch. His eyes flutter closed as you rake your fingers through his hair in that practiced way where you know won’t mess up the shape of his hair. The two of you stay like this for a couple of seconds before Steve breaks the silence.
“Okay, let's make a deal.” His eyes open again, looking into yours. He knows you have a weak spot for his hazel eyes, and he uses this to his advantage, making puppy eyes at you, eyebrows slightly raised.
You retreat the hand that was in his hair back to the middle console of the car. You give him a hesitant glance, almost accusatory. “Come on, don’t look at me like that!” Steve shakes his head, chuckling a bit before continuing. “Listen, all I’m asking is for one last kiss and then I'll set you free. I promise.” He looks at you with pleading eyes, hoping that you agree to his proposition.
You think it over for a second, slightly squinting your eyes, which you can tell is making him a little nervous. “Fine, but just one last kiss! I’m serious this time.” You poke your index finger against Steve’s chest, and he puts his hands up in defence.
He moves his hands to cradle your face once more, “One last kiss, I swear.”
Steve gazes into your eyes lovingly, and you decide right in that moment that if this was going to be the last kiss of the night, you would make it memorable. You slowly turn your head to kiss the palm that Steve had resting on your face. Steve doesn't take his eyes off of you, his lips slightly parted as he watches you. You then turn over to his left hand and lightly kiss his thumb. There was something about Steve that always brought out the most delicate parts of yourself. He just knew how to bring out an affectionate side of yourself that you’ve never been able to share with anyone else.
Taking Steve's hands off your face, you swiftly maneuver over the middle console of the car and settle yourself into his lap. You place your hands against his chest as he hugs you closer to him, one arm circling across your waist and the other holding the back of your neck. In this moment, Steve looks at you with absolute hunger in his eyes. With the hand placed on your neck, he pulls you closer to his face, softly brushing his nose against yours until your lips meet. Immediately, your head feels fuzzy as you start to lose yourself in the feeling of growing pleasure.
The kiss is soft at first, a kiss that truly shows how much you've missed each other. His lips were warm, soft, and all too inviting. You can feel his breath tickle beneath your nose as he plants gentle kisses on your lips, each one getting longer than the last. The familiar warmth that comes with kissing Steve spreads through your stomach. There’s a slight trace of peppermint that lingered from the gum he was chewing earlier on his lips.
With every passing second, the kiss gets hungrier and hungrier. Steve wastes no time sneaking his tongue into your mouth, making the kiss even sloppier and heightening the taste of peppermint. His arms tighten around your waist, gripping you as a way to stabilize himself. He cradles your head with that gentle firmness that you’ve grown to expect when Steve holds you close to him. It makes you feel like you're in the safest place on earth.
You take in a fistful of Steve’s sweater to help you softly grind your core into his lap, desperate for any friction that your Levi’s jeans will allow. You moan frustratingly in his mouth, wanting more. Steve slides his hands onto your hips, his big hands squeezing and helping you grind down onto his lap. You feel the growing bulge in his pants, which only adds to your pleasure.
Both you and Steve are now moaning messily into each other's mouths. He takes up all your senses. The feel of his sweater in your hands, the taste of his lips, the faint smell of his cologne.
You feel one of his hands slide to your ass, grabbing the back pocket of your jeans to further control the roll of your hips in his lap. This new position has your hips rolling against Steve’s bulge in just the right way that has him breaking off the kiss to hiss out a “fuck…baby”. He leans his head against the headrest as you continue to grind down on his lap, using this time to catch your breath. All thoughts of getting home on time are out the window when Steve is whimpering out a series of curses, completely overwhelmed by the feeling of you on top of him.
You let go of your grip on Steve's sweater and slide your hands up to the back of his neck. Heavy breathing and soft moans fill the car as you gently tug the hair near the nape of his neck and close the distance between your mouths. Steve continues to whimper into your mouth as you deepen the kiss.
You guys continue like that for a couple more minutes. Moaning messily into each other's mouths as you guys grind into each other, trying to chase any feeling of pleasure you can.
After one final stifled moan into your mouth, Steve reluctantly pulls away from you, resting his forehead on yours and slightly panting. If there was one thing about Steve Harrington, it was that he was a man of his word. Even if it pained him to leave you, he would keep his end of the deal.
You’re also trying to catch your breath, eyes half lidded, and in an act of pure desperation, you go against your better judgment. “Stay the night,” you say, looking dead into Steve's eyes with a look of pure need.
You knew the risks. You knew that your parents were strict when it came to unexpected visitors, especially when said visitor was your boyfriend sneaking in with you at 1 am, way past the time your curfew was set. And even though you are an adult, living under your parents' roof means they still treat you like a teenager. Despite knowing all of this, you physically and emotionally did not want Steve to leave you, so you said fuck it.
Before he responds, Steve searches your face for any signs of hesitation, giving you the time to really make your mind up about this. But you still had that expression that he knows all too well, the almost stubborn look when you’ve made your mind up on something, and you’re willing to face any consequences that come with your decision.
“Well, if you insist,” Steve grins up at you, hands resting on your hips. This earns him a light slap on the shoulder. You’re trying to fight your smile as your boyfriend dramatizes the hurt from the slap.
“Don’t push your luck,” you say, giving a stern look. Despite the sarcasm in your tone, you still plant your two hands on the area that connects his throat and shoulder, your thumbs caressing light circles on his neck. Steve's grin grows into a smile as he acknowledges your pattern. The one where you use a tough voice with him, but the most gentle touch. He’s come to understand that it's your way of reassuring him that you're not being serious.
You guys stay like that for a couple of seconds, your thumbs on his neck and his hands rubbing up and down from your hips to your waist. That sweet nothing feeling that you guys have grown so familiar with, a feeling that has you both completely out of touch with the outside world, is being felt by you and Steve at this moment.
“You’re so beautiful.” Steve looks up at you with glazed-over eyes, a mix of lust and love in his expression.
“You’re so corny,” you grin at him. In response, Steve frowns and pretends to be all wounded. This makes you laugh a little as you go in to give him a peck on the corner of his mouth.
“I guess you’re pretty beautiful yourself,” it comes out sounding so shy, and a small smile tugs at your lips.
Steve’s faux frown morphs into a smile as he rakes his hands up your back and pulls you in for a tight hug. He breathes you in, savouring this moment for one more second. “Thank you, baby,” Steve mumbles into your neck, planting a ghost of a kiss to your skin. Just that slight contact sends a shiver down your spine. You can’t believe that he still pulls that reaction out of you.
He loosens his arms around you and gives you a slight pat on your butt. “Time to go,” he breathes out. You shift back into the passenger seat. You watch as Steve pulls the driver's door open and walks into the rainy night. He does a little jog over to the passenger side, and you
turn in your seat, getting prepared to exit the car. Steve holds his hand out, helping you get out of the car.
He lifts his jacket above both your heads as a makeshift umbrella, and you guys make a beeline to the front door. Once you reach the awning of your porch, Steve lowers his jacket and snakes one arm around your waist as you fumble with your keys.
Before you fully unlock the door, you turn back at Steve, one of his hands still resting on your waist. You tug at the collar of his sweater, ushering him down to meet your lips. You swiftly kiss him, causing his breath to hitch at the unexpected action.
Just as he's settling into the kiss, you pull away and make your way into your dimly lit house. The quick kiss has Steve's head all scrambled, and he quickly follows your retreating body inside like an eager puppy dog.
a secret relationship with your high school coach, Coach Steve (age gap, corruption, dominance/submission)
After Hours
Coach Steve Harrington x College Student!Reader
Summary: You’re the team’s quiet, reliable student trainer. Steve Harrington is the hot 31-year-old head coach who’s been slowly losing his mind watching you every night. Months of unbearable tension, stolen touches, and whispered filth finally snap one night.
Word count: 3.3K
Warnings: NSFW, age gap (31/21), authority kink, d/s dynamics, semi-public sex, size kink, breeding kink, possessive Steve, lots of praise + degradation, creampie
A/N: I changed the reader to a college student because I don’t write smut involving minors.
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You’d been the student athletic trainer for the men’s basketball team at Indiana State for almost two full seasons before Coach Steve Harrington ever looked at you like you were anything more than equipment. Just another clipboard-carrying junior in a navy polo two sizes too big, hair always pulled back because the gym was humid and the players sweated like pigs. You knew the stats, taped more ankles than you could count, and kept your mouth shut when the alumni boosters got handsy at fundraisers. You were reliable. Invisible.
Steve was not invisible.
He was thirty-one, everybody knew because the athletic department printed it in the media guide like it was a selling point and he still looked like the guy who used to own every hallway in Hawkins High. Same thick brown hair that fell into his eyes when he got frustrated, same crooked grin that made freshmen girls in the stands forget how to cheer. He’d played D1 ball for two years before a knee injury ended it, then coached high-school for a bit, and now here he was: youngest head coach in the conference, already turning a perennial bottom-feeder into a tournament threat. The players worshipped him. The boosters wanted to be him. You tried, for a long time, not to notice the way his polo stretched across his shoulders when he demonstrated a defensive slide or how his voice dropped half an octave when he got serious in the huddle.
It started with the knee.
Not yours. His.
Late February, last season. The team had just lost in overtime to Evansville and Steve was limping around the training room after everyone else had cleared out, jaw tight, trying to hide the fact that the old injury was screaming at him. You were restocking the fridge, pretending not to watch him in the reflection of the glass door.
“Need ice, Coach?” you asked without turning around.
He huffed a laugh that sounded more like a groan. “I need a new fucking knee, kid.”
You finally looked at him. He was leaning against the table, arms crossed, hair damp from the shower. The fluorescent lights did unfair things to the cut of his jaw.
“I can tape it,” you said. “Better than whatever half-ass job you did on yourself.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You offering to put your hands on me, sweetheart?”
The word slipped out of him like it was nothing just locker-room banter. But his eyes stayed on your face a second too long, and something electric crackled between you. You felt it in your stomach like a missed step on the bleachers.
You swallowed. “Only if you sit down and stop pretending you’re not in pain.”
He did sit. Let you roll his sweats up to mid-thigh, let you wrap the tape with clinical precision while your pulse hammered in your ears. His skin was warm, the muscle underneath hard as oak. When your fingers brushed the inside of his thigh he inhaled sharp through his nose, but he didn’t move.
“You’re good at this,” he said quietly.
“Practice,” you answered.
He watched your hands the whole time.
After that night he started staying late. Said he needed to review film, but he always ended up in the training room while you finished inventory. He’d lean in the doorway, arms braced overhead, and talk about the team, about the next recruit, about how the athletic director was breathing down his neck. Sometimes he’d ask about your classes. You were pre-physical therapy, carrying eighteen credits, and he listened like it mattered. Like you mattered.
By mid-season this year the tension was a living thing.
He started calling you into his office for “strategy sessions.” You’d sit across from his desk while he drew plays on the whiteboard, but his eyes kept drifting to the way your lips moved when you suggested a different defensive rotation. He’d drag a hand through his hair and mutter, “Jesus Christ, you’re smart,” like it pissed him off.
One night in November the power went out during a thunderstorm. The whole athletic complex went dark except for the emergency lights. You were alone in the training room, counting bandages by flashlight. Steve appeared in the doorway like he’d been summoned, rain still dripping from his jacket.
“Power’s out campus-wide,” he said. “You shouldn’t be here alone.”
“I’m fine.”
He stepped inside anyway. The door clicked shut behind him. The small room felt even smaller.
“You’re always here,” he said, voice low. “Last one out. First one in. You ever sleep?”
You shrugged, trying to ignore how the emergency light painted shadows under his cheekbones. “Someone has to make sure the tape doesn’t run out before you bench the whole team for stupid reasons.”
He laughed, soft. Took one step closer. Then another. Until he was close enough that you could smell rain and the faint cedar of his cologne.
“You keep looking at me like that,” he said, “and I’m gonna do something we both regret.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Like what?”
Steve’s hand lifted. His thumb brushed your lower lip, slow, deliberate. His eyes were dark, pupils blown. “Like bend you over this table and finally find out if you taste as good as you smell.”
You didn’t breathe.
He dropped his hand like it burned him. Stepped back until he hit the door.
“Lock up when you leave,” he said hoarsely. “And for fuck’s sake, go home before midnight.”
He was gone before you could answer.
That was the first almost.
There were more.
December. After a blowout win. The team went out to celebrate, Steve stayed behind to watch film. You brought him coffee at 10:47 p.m. He was slouched in his office chair, tie loosened, top two buttons of his shirt undone. When you set the cup down he caught your wrist.
“Stay,” he said.
You stayed.
He pulled you into his lap like it was the easiest thing in the world. You straddled him, heart hammering, and he buried his face in your neck, breathing you in.
“Been thinking about this for months,” he muttered against your skin. “Every fucking practice. You in those little shorts, bending over the cooler. You have any idea what you do to me?”
His hands slid up your thighs, under the hem of your polo, thumbs pressing into the crease where leg met hip. You whimpered. He groaned like the sound hurt him.
Then his phone buzzed, assistant coach asking where the hell the game film was. Steve’s entire body went rigid. He lifted you off him like you weighed nothing, set you on the desk, and stood up so fast the chair rolled backward.
“Go,” he rasped. “Before I lock that door and ruin both our careers.”
You left on shaky legs, thighs slick, panties ruined.
January brought the real corruption.
You’d never been with anyone who made you feel small in the best way. Guys your age fumbled and asked permission for everything. Steve didn’t ask. He took. But he did it so carefully, so deliberately, that you felt cherished and owned at the same time.
It started with text messages.
Late nights. After curfew.
Steve: You still in the training room?
You: Finishing shoulder tape for Walker.
Steve: Leave the door unlocked.
He’d show up in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair messy from practice, and he’d lock the door behind him. Then he’d back you against the counter and kiss you like he was starving. Deep, filthy kisses that left your lips swollen and your brain fuzzy. He never let it go further than that, hands under your shirt palming your breasts through your bra, thumb circling your nipple until you moaned into his mouth. He’d grind against you, hard and thick through his sweats, letting you feel exactly what you did to him, but he always stopped.
“Not here,” he’d growl against your ear. “Not like this. You deserve better than a fucking training table.”
You started touching yourself at night thinking about his voice saying those words.
He knew. He could tell by the way you looked at him during practice, eyes glassy, thighs pressed together. Once, during a defensive drill, he blew the whistle and called you over to “check the ankle tape on number twelve.” While you were crouched in front of the player, Steve stood behind you, voice low enough only you could hear.
“Keep squirming like that and I’m gonna drag you into the equipment closet and make you come on my fingers before the next possession.”
You almost dropped the tape.
He was corrupting you slowly, methodically. Teaching you what it meant to want so badly it hurt. Teaching you to wait. To obey.
By March the tension was unbearable.
The team was 22-6. March Madness was two weeks away. Steve was in every headline, every podcast. And every night he was texting you things like:
Steve: My office. Now.
Steve: Wear the black leggings.
Steve: Don’t you dare touch yourself before you get here.
You obeyed every time.
That night, the night everything finally snapped, you showed up at 11:15 p.m. The arena was empty except for the security lights. His office door was cracked. You slipped inside.
Steve was sitting behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, forearms corded with muscle. The second the door clicked shut he stood up, crossed the room in three strides, and locked it.
Then he looked at you.
“Lock was open,” he said, voice rough. “Anyone could’ve walked in. You that desperate for me, baby?”
You nodded, throat dry.
He stepped close. Tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. Then his hand slid into your hair and tightened, tilting your head back so you had to look up at him.
“Words,” he said. “Use them.”
“Yes,” you whispered. “I’m desperate.”
His eyes darkened. “On your knees.”
You dropped instantly. The carpet was rough against your leggings. Steve’s hand stayed in your hair, guiding but not forcing. He unzipped his slacks with the other hand and pulled himself out, thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip. You’d felt him through clothes a hundred times, but seeing it bare made your mouth water.
“Been dreaming about this mouth for months,” he murmured. “Open.”
You did. He fed you his cock slowly, inch by inch, until your nose brushed the dark hair at his base. You gagged once; he pulled back just enough to let you breathe, then pushed in again, deeper.
“Fuck, that’s it. Good girl. Just like that.”
You gagged instantly, eyes watering, but he held you there hand fisted tight in your hair, hips rocking just enough to keep you full.
“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, low and filthy. “Taking every inch like you were made for it. That’s my good girl. Relax your throat. Yeah, just like that. Let Coach fuck it.”
He started to move. Not gentle. Deep, measured thrusts that made your nose brush the dark, trimmed hair at his base on every downstroke. Saliva spilled from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin and onto the front of your shirt. The wet, obscene sounds of your throat working around him filled the office mixed with his low curses and the creak of the floorboards under his shoes.
“You’ve been practicing, haven’t you?” he rasped, thumb wiping a tear from your cheek only to smear it across your stretched lips. “Touching that needy little cunt every night thinking about choking on me. Bet you come with your fingers in your mouth pretending it’s my cock. Such a filthy secret, baby. My perfect little trainer on her knees for the man who signs her paychecks.”
You moaned around him, the vibration making his hips stutter. He pulled out suddenly, strings of spit connecting your swollen lips to the glistening head of his cock. You gasped for air, but he slapped the wet length against your cheek once, twice then shoved back in, fucking your face harder now, balls tapping your chin.
“Gonna come down this throat one day,” he promised, voice wrecked. “But not tonight. Tonight I’m burying every drop in that tight little pussy you’ve been teasing me with for months.”
He yanked you off him with a wet pop. Before you could catch your breath he hauled you up, spun you around, and bent you over the desk. Papers and a clipboard clattered to the floor. Your palms slapped the wood as he shoved your leggings and panties down in one rough yank, leaving them tangled around your ankles. Cool air hit your soaked cunt and you whimpered.
Steve’s hand cracked across your ass sharp, stinging, perfect. “Arch your back. Show me what’s mine.”
You did, spreading your legs as much as the fabric allowed. Two thick fingers dragged through your folds, spreading your slick from clit to entrance.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “Dripping down your thighs already. All this for Coach?” He pushed both fingers inside you without warning, curling them hard against that spot that made your vision white out. “So fucking tight. Been clenching around nothing for weeks waiting for this, haven’t you?”
“I have,” you gasped. “Please, Steve—”
He slapped your ass, sharp and perfect. “Coach. When my dick’s about to be inside you, you call me Coach.”
The word left your mouth on a broken moan. “Coach, please.”
He pumped his fingers fast, thumb circling your swollen clit in tight, merciless strokes. The wet squelch of your pussy filled the room. Your hips bucked back against his hand, chasing the orgasm that was already barreling toward you.
“Don’t you dare come yet,” he growled, smacking your ass again. “You come when I say. When my cock is splitting you open.”
You sobbed, trying to hold it back, but he added a third finger and crooked them just right. Your walls fluttered hard.
“Now,” he ordered, voice dark. “Come on my fingers like the desperate little whore you are for me.”
The orgasm crashed through you so hard your knees buckled. You cried out, muffling it against your forearm as your cunt clenched and gushed around his fingers. He didn’t stop, kept fucking you through it, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive.
Only then did he pull his hand free. You heard the wet sound of him sucking his fingers clean.
“Sweetest fucking pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he muttered. Then the blunt, fat head of his cock was nudging your entrance, sliding through your slick. “Breathe, baby.”
He pushed in slow at first, letting you feel every thick inch stretch you open. You were still pulsing from your first orgasm, and the burn was exquisite. He bottomed out with a groan, hips flush against your ass, balls pressed tight to your clit.
“Fuck,” he hissed, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “So goddamn tight. Like you were made to take Coach’s cock. Feel that? Feel how deep I am?”
You nodded frantically, tears of overwhelming pleasure leaking from the corners of your eyes. He was so big stretching you to the limit, pressing against places you didn’t know existed. When he pulled back and slammed in again, the desk scraped forward an inch.
He set a brutal pace. Hard, deep strokes that made your tits bounce against the wood and your hips bruise against the edge of the desk. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed off the cinderblock walls, wet, filthy, loud. Every thrust punched the air out of your lungs.
“Take it,” he growled, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Take every fucking inch. This pussy is mine now. Gonna ruin you for anyone else. No college boy’s ever gonna fill you up like this.”
He reached around and rubbed your clit again fast rough circles that had you spiraling toward another peak.
“Come again,” he demanded. “Milk my cock while I’m still balls deep. Let me feel how much you need me.”
You shattered. The second orgasm ripped through you harder than the first, walls clamping down around his pistoning cock like a vice. You screamed his name Coach muffled against the desk, body shaking as pleasure bordered on pain.
Steve fucked you through it, hips snapping harder, chasing his own release. But he wasn’t done.
He pulled out suddenly, spun you around, and lifted you onto the desk like you weighed nothing. Papers flew everywhere. He shoved your thighs wide, hooked your knees over his elbows, and drove back inside in one brutal thrust. The new angle had you seeing stars, deeper, somehow, the head of his cock dragging right over your g-spot with every snap of his hips.
“Look at me,” he ordered, voice hoarse.
You forced your eyes open. His face was inches from yours, hair wild, sweat beading on his forehead, jaw clenched. Those big brown eyes were blown black, but there was still that soft, possessive tenderness underneath the dominance.
“That’s it, baby,” he panted, rolling his hips in devastating circles. “Eyes on Coach while I fuck this cunt full. You feel how deep I am? Gonna come so hard inside you you’ll be leaking me for days.”
He kissed you then messy, desperate, all tongue and teeth while he pounded into you. One hand shoved your shirt up, yanking your bra down so he could pinch and roll your nipple. The sting went straight to your clit.
“Again,” he growled against your mouth. “One more. Come on my cock while I fill you up.”
You were helpless to stop it. The third orgasm tore through you like lightning, long, shattering waves that made your vision tunnel and your toes curl. Your cunt fluttered and clenched around him, drawing him impossibly deeper.
Steve’s rhythm stuttered. “Fuck—baby—gonna come. Gonna pump this tight little pussy full of my load. Take it—take every drop—”
He slammed in to the hilt and stayed there, hips jerking as he came with a guttural groan that vibrated through his chest. You felt the hot, thick spurts of his cum flooding you pulse after pulse, so much it leaked out around his cock and dripped down your ass onto the desk. He kept grinding through it, milking every last drop, until you were both trembling.
For a long moment the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the arena’s emergency lights.
Steve stayed buried deep inside you, forehead pressed to yours. His hands gentled stroking your sides, your hair, your flushed cheeks. The dominance melted into something softer, almost reverent.
“You okay?” he whispered, voice wrecked but tender. He kissed the corner of your eye where a tear had slipped free. “Did I hurt you?”
You shook your head, boneless and glowing. “No. God, no. It was… perfect.”
He smiled, that crooked, boyish Steve Harrington smile that still made your stomach flip even after he’d just fucked you raw on his desk. He pulled out slowly, both of you hissing at the oversensitive drag. A thick trickle of his cum followed, and he watched it with dark, satisfied eyes.
“Mine,” he said quietly, almost to himself. He grabbed a clean towel from the cabinet behind his desk (the one you kept stocked for the team) and cleaned you up with careful, gentle strokes. Then he fixed your bra, tugged your shirt down, and pulled your leggings back up your legs like he was dressing something precious.
He dropped back into his chair and tugged you into his lap, arms wrapping around you tight. You curled against his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart slowing down.
“We’re careful,” he murmured into your hair, echoing the words he’d said after the first time. “No one can know. Not yet. But this—” He squeezed your hip, thumb brushing the fresh bruise he’d left there. “This is real. You’re mine now, baby. All mine.”
You nodded against his neck, pressing a soft kiss to the sweat-damp skin there. “Yours, Coach.”
He chuckled, low and warm, and kissed the top of your head. “Good girl.”
tags/warnings: dark academia, black ravens induction, reader insert, fem!reader, jealousy, possessive behavior, power dynamics, tension, restraints, spanking, penetrative sex (v & anal), orgasm denial, oral, threesome (m/m/f)
Patience Rewarded
Theo’s hand tightened slightly around your wrist enough to make heat rush instantly through your entire body.
The library felt suffocatingly warm now, firelight flickering gold across dark wood and velvet shadows while snow battered softly against the stained-glass windows behind you.
Nobody spoke.
Nobody seemed capable of it.
Jane watched the three of you carefully, calmest in the room by far, though something sharper had appeared in her expression now too. Satisfaction, maybe. As if she’d seen this outcome coming long before any of you had.
Gregory broke the silence first.
“Well,” he murmured softly, eyes fixed on Theo’s hand around your wrist, “that’s new.”
Theo didn’t let go.
Your pulse jumped again at the realization.
Gregory noticed that too, obviously.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he said mockingly to Theo, “you’ve completely lost composure.”
“Shut up.”
Gregory laughed quietly.
You should probably have stepped back. Instead, you tilted your chin slightly toward Theo.
“Are you going to let go?”
Theo’s eyes snapped fully back to yours.
Wrong question.
You saw the exact moment something in his expression shifted further.
Dangerous.
Possessive.
Like the challenge in your voice had gone directly to his head.
“No,” he said quietly.
The single word sent warmth spiralling low through your stomach. Behind him, Gregory actually looked impressed. Jane, meanwhile, looked delighted.
“There he is,” she murmured.
Theo finally loosened his grip slightly, fingers sliding slowly down from your wrist before releasing you completely. The touch lingered anyway.
Gregory stepped closer immediately the second Theo let go, entirely incapable of behaving normally for even a moment.
“You make him insane very quickly,” he observed conversationally.
“You make everyone insane,” Theo shot back.
“True.”
Gregory’s gaze drifted lazily over you again. Openly.Intentionally.
“You’re staring again,” you pointed out.
“Yes.”
At least he was consistent.
Jane moved then, stepping between all of you effortlessly, reclaiming control of the room without raising her voice once.
“You’re both overwhelming her,” she said calmly.
“I don’t think she minds,” Gregory replied.
Unfortunately, he sounded entirely too confident saying it. Jane’s eyes shifted toward you knowingly.
“You could tell them to stop.”
The room went still again. Theo looked at you immediately. Gregory did too.
Waiting.
That dangerous feeling twisted sharply in your chest again, because you realised suddenly that Jane was right.
You could stop this. You absolutely should stop this. Instead, your gaze flicked toward Gregory first. Then Theo. Then back to Jane standing impossibly composed between the chaos of both men.
“I don’t want them to stop,” you admitted softly.
Silence.
Then Gregory swore quietly under his breath. Theo looked completely ruined by the answer.
And Jane—
Jane smiled slowly like she’d just won something.
“That’s what I thought,” she said gently.
The fire cracked loudly behind you. The magic in the library seemed to hum lower through the shelves somehow, warmth curling through the room thick enough to make your thoughts feel slow around the edges.
Gregory moved first this time.
Not toward you.
Toward Theo.
He stepped close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed, eyes still fixed entirely on you as he spoke.
“You’re glaring again.”
Jane sighed softly.
“You’re both becoming distracting,” she said.
Gregory grinned immediately. “You say that like it’s a criticism.”
“It is.”
Theo barely reacted, still watching you with that same intense focus that made warmth curl low in your stomach every time you met his gaze.
Jane noticed. Of course she noticed. That slow smile crossed her face before she looked back at you.
“Come here, sweetheart.”
Your pulse jumped embarrassingly fast at the softness in her voice. Jane nodded toward the velvet armchair near the fire.
“Sit.”
The word wasn’t harsh. If anything, it was calm. Certain.
And somehow that made it worse.
You hesitated only briefly before moving toward the chair, hyperaware of all three of them watching you cross the room.
The fire crackled loudly beside you as you lowered yourself slowly into the dark velvet seat.
You suddenly felt very aware of the fact that you were now seated while all three Ravens remained standing.
Jane approached first.
Naturally.
Controlled as ever, she stopped beside the chair and rested one hand lightly against the back of it, eyes moving slowly over your expression like she was reading every thought crossing your mind.
Theo followed a second later.
Less composed. More hesitant. Like he knew he was already too affected by this and hated it.
Gregory came last, lingering just behind Theo with obvious amusement written all over his face.
“You look nervous again,” Gregory observed.
You looked up at him. “You keep causing it.”
“That’s becoming my favourite thing about you.”
Theo exhaled sharply through his nose. Gregory smirked immediately without even turning toward him.
“Both of you behave.”
“Impossible request,” Gregory replied.
Theo ignored him entirely and stepped closer to the chair instead, stopping near enough that your knee brushed lightly against the side of his leg.
The contact sent heat spiralling instantly through your chest. Theo felt it too. You could tell by the way his jaw tightened slightly.
His gaze dropped slowly from your face down the length of your body before lifting back to your eyes again.
The look alone made your stomach tighten.
Not rushed.
Not careless.
Intentional.
As if he was trying very hard to remain controlled and failing a little more every second.
Gregory noticed immediately.
“Oh, he’s gone,” Gregory said softly behind him. “Completely gone.”
“Be quiet,” Theo muttered.
Jane’s hand slid from the back of the chair to your shoulder, grounding and possessive all at once.
“You’re shaking,” she observed quietly.
“I hate all of you a little bit.”
Gregory laughed.
Theo didn’t.
His eyes remained fixed entirely on you, darkened by something intense enough now that it was difficult to look away from him.
The firelight flickered across the sharp angles of his face as he stepped closer to the armchair.
This time neither of you moved away.
“Sweetheart,” Theo said softly.
The nickname sounded different now. Lower. Rougher around the edges.
Your pulse jumped immediately. Theo glanced briefly toward Jane, like checking something silently between them, before looking back at you again.
Then, carefully-
“Take your clothes off for me. All of them”
The request settled heavily in the room.
Gregory went very still behind him.
Jane looked openly amused now, though there was something approving in her expression too.
“You ask so politely when you’re losing control,” Gregory murmured.
Theo ignored him completely.
His attention never left your face.
“You don’t have to,” Jane added calmly, fingers brushing lightly along your shoulder once. “Not unless you want to.”
The reassurance made something warm twist unexpectedly in your chest. And maybe it was the wine. Or the firelight. Or the fact that all three of them were watching you like the room had narrowed entirely around this moment.
But slowly, your fingers moved to the buttons of your coat.
Gregory exhaled quietly behind Theo.
Theo’s jaw tightened instantly at the sound.
Jane noticed that too, obviously.
“Careful,” she warned Gregory lightly. “You’re making him worse.”
“You say that like I’m not doing it on purpose.”
Theo finally glanced back at him sharply. “Gregory.”
“Sorry,” Gregory said, sounding not remotely sorry. “You just look very pretty when you’re jealous.”
The silence that followed felt dangerous.
You slid the coat slowly from your shoulders, the heavy fabric falling back against the velvet chair as warmth from the fire immediately brushed against your skin.
Nobody spoke for a second.
The silence felt heavier now.
More dangerous.
Theo looked completely focused on you — not subtle about it anymore, not even trying to pretend otherwise. His eyes moved slowly over you before lifting back to your face, something possessive flickering visibly beneath his composure.
Gregory leaned slightly against the side of the chair behind you, watching Theo more than anything now.
“You see?” Gregory said softly. “You always get like this.”
Theo ignored him entirely.
Jane’s fingers brushed lightly down your arm once, grounding your attention back toward her.
“You’re doing very well, sweetheart,” she murmured.
The praise hit embarrassingly hard.
Gregory noticed your reaction instantly and smiled.
“Oh, she likes that.”
“Gregory,” Jane warned lightly.
“What? I’m observing.”
Your fingers drift down to the hem of your dress. Rising slowly, you peel the fabric up along your thighs before slipping it off completely and letting it fall to the floor.
Your hands moved hesitantly behind your back, fingers fumbling slightly with the clasp.
“Wait.” Jane’s voice cut softly through the room.
You looked up immediately.
She was already walking toward you again, dark eyes steady beneath the firelight while Theo remained standing near the chair, watching her far too closely.
“Let me,” Jane murmured.
Heat rushed instantly into your face.
Her fingers brushed lightly against yours as she guided your hands away, calm and unhurried like she had all the time in the world.
Behind her, Gregory shifted subtly closer, openly fascinated by the entire interaction.
Jane’s touch lingered briefly against your back as she worked at the clasp, the movement slow enough to make your pulse flutter nervously again.
“Relax,” she said softly, amusement threading through her voice. “You look like you’re overthinking every second of this.”
Gregory laughed quietly under his breath. “She absolutely is.”
You shot him a look over your shoulder. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m trying very hard, actually.”
Jane took his time, her fingers tracing the edge of the delicate lace before finally finding the clasp. The click was loud in the quiet room, and you felt the tension in your shoulders break as she pulled the straps down your arms.
Jane stepped back, leaving you standing there in nothing but your underwear while the silence in the library grew heavier.
———
You stood there for a second after, your heartbeat so loud you were convinced all three Ravens could hear it.
Warmth from the fire curled against your skin while cold nerves twisted sharply in your stomach, leaving you caught somewhere between wanting to hide and wanting to see what would happen next.
All three of them were staring.
Gregory looked openly fascinated.
Theo looked completely ruined by the sight of you.
And Jane looked entirely in control of all of it.
You shifted your weight slightly beneath their attention, trying not to look as nervous as you suddenly felt.
Which was difficult when Theo’s eyes kept dragging slowly over you like he physically couldn’t stop himself.
“So…” you said softly, a slightly shaky laugh escaping you before you could stop it. “Am I the only one expected to stand here without clothes on, or–”
Gregory immediately grinned.
Theo’s mouth twitched faintly at the edges.
“You’re nervous,” Gregory observed.
“Obviously I’m nervous.”
“And excited,” he added knowingly.
Heat flooded your face instantly.
“That’s none of your business.”
Gregory laughed softly. “Oh, sweetheart. It absolutely is now.”
Theo shot him a warning look before his attention settled back on you again, expression softening almost imperceptibly.
You hated how much that affected you.
One hand slipped into the pocket of his coat as he leaned casually against the edge of the chair.
“I don’t particularly feel like taking mine off yet,” Theo said calmly.
The answer made your stomach flip embarrassingly fast. Mostly because he sounded far too composed compared to how affected he looked.
Gregory rolled his eyes dramatically. “He likes thinking he’s in control. It’s a whole thing.”
Theo ignored him completely.
Jane, meanwhile, stepped slowly toward Gregory, dark eyes steady and calm while Gregory visibly straightened beneath her attention alone.
“You,” she said softly.
Gregory went still instantly.
Your pulse jumped again at the shift in atmosphere.
“Take yours off.”
The command wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
Gregory obeyed immediately, hands moving to the buttons of his shirt while you watched with widening eyes, suddenly very aware of how real this all was becoming.
The firelight flickered gold across his skin as he shrugged the shirt from his shoulders and tossed it carelessly aside.
He fumbled with his belt and unzipped his fly — freeing his fully erect cock, veins pulsing with need.
Jane smiled faintly.
“Good boy.”
Gregory exhaled sharply at the praise, his head tipping back briefly like the words physically affected him.
Jane tilted his chin toward her with two fingers before leaning in and kissing him slowly, deliberately, like a reward for his obedience.
Gregory melted into it almost instantly, one hand tightening against the sofa cushion beneath him.
You swallowed hard.
“Oh,” you breathed quietly before you could stop yourself.
Jane laughed softly at your reaction.
“You’re very easy to read, sweetheart.”
“I think I’m still trying to process whatever this dynamic is,” you admitted nervously.
Gregory smirked. “You like it though.”
Unfortunately, he was probably right. That was the worst part.
Jane’s attention shifted back toward you then, expression gentler this time.
“Sit back down for me.”
Your pulse fluttered nervously again at the softness in her voice. You lowered yourself slowly back into the velvet armchair, suddenly hyperaware of everything: the warmth against your skin, the tension in the room, Gregory beside Jane, Theo watching you like he wanted to ruin you.
Jane stayed near Gregory this time, one hand resting lightly against his chest while he leaned subtly toward her touch without even seeming aware of it.
Theo, meanwhile, turned fully toward you again. Then he exhaled sharply through his nose before stepping closer toward the chair.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Every step made your heartbeat worse.
By the time he stopped in front of the chair, your stomach was in knots — nervousness and anticipation twisting together until you genuinely couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
Theo looked down at you beneath the warm shadows of the library, dark eyes lingering on your expression before finally lifting back to your face.
He was close enough now that your knees parted instinctively just to make space for him. The reaction crossed his face immediately
“You’re shaking again, darling,” he murmured softly.
You tried to laugh.
“I think that might be your fault.”
Something warm flickered briefly across his expression at that.
Then, quieter–
“You look much prettier like this,” Theo said, gaze dragging slowly over you once more.
The words sent heat rushing instantly through your chest.
Theo held your gaze for another second like he was trying very hard to stay controlled.
Failed.
One of his hands lifted slowly to your jaw, fingers tilting your face upward before he kissed you.
Unlike Jane’s kiss earlier, Theo’s felt messier somehow.
Hungrier.
Like he’d spent the entire evening holding himself back and had finally run out of patience for it.
The moment your lips parted against his, the kiss deepened immediately, drawing a quiet startled sound from you that only seemed to make Theo worse.
His hand moves to cup the back of your neck, the other settling against the arm of the chair beside you like he was trying to stop himself from pulling you fully against him.
Somewhere behind him, Gregory let out a low laugh.
Theo ignored him completely.
His attention stayed fixed entirely on you, every bit of composure he’d been clinging to slowly unraveling beneath the firelight and warm shadows of the library.
By the time he finally pulled back, your breathing felt uneven.
Theo rested his forehead briefly against yours, eyes still half-lidded as they searched your face.
“You’re trouble,” he murmured softly.
Gregory scoffed from somewhere behind him. “She’s not the one currently losing his mind.”
Theo finally glanced back toward him with a sharp look before slowly lowering himself onto his knees in front of the chair.
The movement felt strangely deliberate.
Dangerous.
Your breath caught embarrassingly fast as his hands settled lightly against the sides of your thighs, not pulling you closer yet — just there, warm and steady beneath the firelight.
Behind him, Gregory made a quiet sound under his breath.
“You look ridiculous down there,” he murmured, though the amusement in his voice had gone softer around the edges now.
Theo barely glanced back at him. “Jealous?”
Gregory opened his mouth immediately.
“Careful,” Jane interrupted smoothly before he could answer.
Gregory fell silent at once.
You looked over just in time to catch Jane resting a hand against the side of Gregory’s neck, fingers brushing lightly upward beneath his jaw while he leaned instinctively into the touch.
The shift in him was immediate.
Less sharp.
Still watching you carefully, but quieter now beneath Jane’s attention.
“Better,” Jane murmured softly.
Gregory rolled his eyes a little at that, though he didn’t move away from her.
Theo’s thumbs brushed lightly against your thighs, pulling your attention immediately back toward him.
“You’re getting distracted again, darling,” he said quietly.
———
His fingers began to trace idle shapes across your skin before reaching for your underwear, sliding them off with ease.
“Look at you, soaked for me already,” he murmured, his voice low and rough enough to send a shiver through her, before leaning in.
The heat of Theo’s breath against your skin made your entire body tense, your fingers tightening around the arms of the chair as you fought to keep steady beneath all three of their attention.
Theo’s hands rested firmly against your thighs, keeping them parted as he focused on you with slow, deliberate attention that made your breathing uneven almost instantly. His tongue met you with agonising slowness, moving up from your entrance to meet your clit.
Across the room, Jane stood against the sofa opposite, her hand curled around Gregory’s jaw as she kept him facing forward.
“Don’t look away,” she said quietly to him, her thumb pressing lightly against his chin. “You wanted to watch.”
Gregory swallowed hard beneath her grip, his eyes flicking straight back toward you immediately.
“Yes, Jane.”
The sound of his voice only made heat rush harder through you.
Jane noticed instantly, a faint smile pulling at her lips as she leaned slightly closer to Gregory. “See what you’re doing to her?” she murmured. “She likes being watched.”
You let out a shaky breath at that, instinctively trying to shift in the chair before Theo’s grip on your thighs tightened slightly, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
“Stay still,” he muttered against your skin, calm and controlled.
You tried. You genuinely tried.
But every flick of his tongue sent another wave of pleasure through your body, sharp enough to steal the breath from your lungs.
The room filled with the sound of your uneven breathing and the helpless noises you could no longer hold back, each reaction only seeming to encourage him further.
Your hand slipped into Theo’s hair, your body shaking from the intensity of it all.
“Theo…” you breathed weakly, barely managing his name as the rest of your words dissolved into broken gasps and soft, uncontrollable sounds.
A quiet sound of amusement left him before he finally glanced up at you, his grip tightening slightly against your thigh.
“Use your words for me, sweetheart,” Theo murmured smoothly. “Come on, tell me what you want.”
“I want…” Your voice faltered for a second before you looked down at him properly, flushed beneath all of their attention. “I want you to go faster.”
Jane let out a soft, approving hum from across the room while Gregory’s expression darkened slightly at the sound of your voice.
“There you go, such a good girl for me” Theo murmured, a faint smile pulling at his lips. “Wasn’t that hard, was it?”
His hand tightened against your thigh again as he lowered his head back between your legs.
He carefully parted your folds before focusing back on your clit, circling it in a fast, steady rhythm that made your entire body tense instantly.
Your back arching sharply off the chair as a broken gasp escaped your lips, your grip tightening in his hair.
“Oh god yes.. right there,” you breathed shakily, your voice barely steady.
A low sound left him against your skin, the vibration making your breath catch sharply as it went straight to your core.
One of his hands slowly moved higher, sliding over your bare skin before gripping your breast and brushing his finger over your hardening nipple. His touch was enough to pull another helpless sound from your throat as the overwhelming sensation made your body tense.
Gregory looked completely distracted by you, but Jane kept him under control effortlessly, fingers still resting against his jaw while the other hand dragged slowly through his hair.
“Poor thing,” she said softly, though whether she meant you or Gregory was impossible to tell. “Neither of you can behave tonight.”
Gregory let out a quiet breathy laugh at that, eyes still locked on you. “Can you blame me?”
Jane tilted his head back slightly with her hand, forcing his attention onto her for a second. “I didn’t say you could speak.”
“Sorry.”
The instant obedience in his voice made your stomach tighten sharply, heat rushing through you so obviously that Jane caught it immediately
“Oh, you liked that,” she said with quiet amusement, her gaze flicking back toward you knowingly. “Interesting.”
Theo’s attention combined with Jane’s voice was enough to leave you trembling on the edge.
You could feel the orgasm building tighter and tighter inside you, your breathing turning uneven as it became harder to think about anything except him.
But just as you felt yourself about to fall apart completely, he stopped.
A frustrated whine escaped you before you could stop it.
Theo glanced up immediately, amusement flickering briefly across his expression.
“Theo—”
He only smiled slightly at the sound of his name, one hand sliding briefly along your thigh before he finally stood from in front of the chair.
“Ravens need to learn patience, darling,” he murmured smoothly.
Heat rushed instantly into your face.
Behind him, Gregory let out a quiet laugh from where he’d been half-sprawled against the sofa, still watching the two of you with dark, fascinated eyes.
“That’s evil,” Gregory murmured.
Theo turned toward him slowly.
“You say that like you’re surprised.”
Gregory’s expression shifted immediately beneath Theo’s attention — smugness softening into something sharper, more anticipatory.
Jane moved to lean against the arm of the sofa beside him, fingers brushing lightly through Gregory’s hair once.
Gregory visibly stilled at the touch.
Theo stopped directly in front of the sofa, gaze fixed on Gregory now.
“Get on all fours for us” he said quietly.
Gregory’s mouth twitched faintly. “Bossy.”
“But you still listen every time.” Jane murmured softly beside him.
Gregory glanced toward her briefly before doing exactly as theo asked, the teasing expression never fully leaving his face even as he obeyed.
“Stay where you are, sweetheart,” Jane said softly from beside Gregory.
Theo glanced back toward you then, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly at your nervous expression.
“You’re going to watch,” he murmured smoothly. “And Gregory is going to behave himself.”
———
You stayed where Theo had left you, wrists resting against the arms of the chair while your eyes remained fixed on the sofa.
Gregory was already breathing harder beneath them despite the smug expression he kept trying to hold onto.
Theo stood directly in front of him, one hand gripping his jaw whenever Gregory’s attention drifted, while Jane stayed behind him with complete control over every reaction she pulled from him.
“Look at you,” Jane murmured softly, fingers tightening briefly against Gregory’s hip. “Still trying to act cocky.”
Gregory let out a shaky laugh. “Sorry, Jane”
Immediately, Gregory forced his focus back onto Theo.
The obedience in it made heat twist sharply through your stomach.
You shifted slightly in the chair, thighs pressing together instinctively as you watched the way Gregory reacted to every command they gave him. The sounds filling the room only made it harder to stay still.
Desperate for some kind of relief, your hand slid slowly down your stomach before your fingers found your clit, rubbing quick, needy circles that made your breath catch.
Theo noticed almost instantly.
His eyes flicked toward you sharply while Gregory was still trying to steady his breathing beneath him.
“Naughty girl,” Theo said calmly.
Your breath caught immediately.
Jane glanced over her shoulder toward you, clearly amused the second she realised what you’d been trying to do.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Were you really that desperate?”
Before you could move your hand away, Theo lifted his fingers slightly.
Magic snapped tight around your wrists instantly.
You gasped as invisible restraints pulled your hands back against the chair again, holding them firmly in place this time.
Gregory laughed breathlessly despite himself. “You couldn’t even behave for five minutes.”
Jane’s hand slid into Gregory’s hair immediately, tugging his head back slightly.
“And you should be focusing on your own problems,” she reminded him smoothly.
A sharp sound cracked through the room as Jane’s hand came down against Gregory ass, the sudden sting pulling a shaky breath from him as his body tensed instantly beneath her touch.
Theo’s gaze stayed fixed on you for another second, calm and knowing.
“You watch,” he said quietly. “That’s all you’re allowed to do.”
Jane stepped back slightly then, her eyes flicking toward Theo for a second before she lifted one hand casually.
A sharp snap echoed through the room.
Magic flickered briefly in the air beside her before the strap appeared instantly in her hand.
Your breath caught.
Gregory visibly swallowed at the sight of it, though he still tried to keep some teasing confidence in his expression.
“Oh, now you’re nervous,” Jane said softly, stepping closer again.
“Never nervous,” Gregory replied quickly.
Theo raised an eyebrow. “Liar.”
Jane laughed quietly at that before resting a hand against Gregory’s shoulder, guiding him forward slightly.
“Behave for us properly,” she murmured near his ear. “You wanted attention so badly earlier.”
You watched the entire interaction breathlessly from the chair, pulse racing every time Gregory obeyed them without hesitation.
Jane noticed your expression almost immediately.
“See?” she said softly, glancing toward you. “He acts difficult, but he listens very well when he’s told to.”
Jane secured the strap around her before she leaned closer behind Gregory, completely calm compared to how tense he looked beneath her attention.
“Relax,” she murmured near his ear, one hand steady against his hip as she positioned him exactly where she wanted him. “Or this is going to be very difficult for you.”
Gregory’s fingers tightened against the sofa cushions instantly, a shaky breath leaving him as Theo kept him focused from the front.
Theo reached for the fastening of his trousers, the quiet sound of the zipper filling the room before the dark fabric dropped carelessly to the floor beside him, freeing his hardened cock.
“Eyes up, mouth open” Theo reminded him smoothly. “You don’t get to hide now.”
Gregory obeyed immediately.
The sight alone sent heat twisting sharply through your stomach.
Theo then guided Gregory carefully onto his cock in one slow, deliberate thrust pulling a shaky breath from him immediately. Theo kept a firm grip in his hair, controlling the pace completely from the start.
Jane’s hand settled against Gregory’s hip, keeping him steady while she positioned him exactly how she wanted him before pressing the strap against his tight entrance.
She slowly pushed it in, the movement deliberate enough to pull a sharp sound from Gregory immediately. His hands clenched tightly against the sofa cushions as tension rushed through his entire body.
Theo didn’t give him much time to recover before continuing at a steady and demanding pace, enough to leave Gregory visibly overwhelmed beneath the combined attention from both of them.
Every movement pulled another broken sound from him, his composure slipping further each second while tears gathered helplessly in his eyes from the intensity of it.
Jane noticed instantly.
“Look at him,” Jane murmured lowly, her hands tightening against Gregory’s hips to keep him still. “You need to relax.”
The initial tension in Gregory’s body slowly shifted into something else entirely, his breathing growing more uneven as Jane continued to fuck him. A soft moan escaped him before he could stop it.
Theo stayed calm the entire time, fingers tightening in Gregory’s hair whenever he lost focus while Jane worked him from behind.
“Breathe,” Jane reminded softly when Gregory’s shoulders tensed again.
Gregory nodded quickly, visibly trying to obey.
Jane’s movements gradually became faster and more confident, each thrust pulling another helpless sound from Gregory as the sofa shifted slightly beneath him. By now he was completely overwhelmed between them, struggling to keep steady. The sensation clearly became too much for him to handle properly.
You shifted instinctively in the chair watching them, thighs pressing together before remembering that your hands were still restrained behind you.
The frustration was almost unbearable.
Every sound Gregory made only made it worse.
The room felt far too warm now, filled with uneven breathing, quiet praise, and the constant reminder that you weren’t allowed to touch yourself no matter how badly you wanted to.
Theo noticed the way you were struggling almost immediately.
“You’re thinking about breaking the rules again,” he said calmly without looking away from Gregory.
Heat flooded your face because he was right.
Jane glanced toward you briefly, her expression sharp with amusement.
“Poor thing,” she murmured. “Watching’s difficult when you can’t do anything about it, isn’t it?”
You swallowed hard, unable to answer properly.
Meanwhile, all Gregory’s teasing confidence was long gone.
Theo’s breathing grew noticeably heavier, his grip tightening slightly in Gregory’s hair as he chased his own release.
Gregory let out a weak, overwhelmed sound beneath him, visibly shaking as Theo kept him exactly where he wanted him.
A low sound escaped Theo before he finally stilled, holding Gregory close for a moment while he came down his throat.
“Swallow,” Theo murmured quietly, calm and controlled even then.
Gregory obeyed immediately
Jane’s hand slid soothingly through Gregory’s hair afterward.
“You’re being such a good boy,” she murmured softly, clearly pleased by how obedient he’d been through all of it.
Gregory was close. So close
And just as he seemed close to falling apart completely, Jane suddenly pulled back.
A soft whimper escaped him instantly at the loss, his entire body tensing in frustrated disbelief.
“Don’t worry,” Theo murmured smoothly, a faint note of amusement in his voice. “You’ll be allowed to finish soon.”
———
The room stayed quiet for a few moments after, except for uneven breathing and the soft crackle of the fireplace nearby.
Gregory remained half-collapsed against the sofa cushions, visibly flushed and trying to recover what little composure he had left. Jane sat beside him looking entirely unaffected, one hand lazily brushing through his hair whenever he leaned into her touch without thinking.
Theo’s attention shifted back toward you then.
Your wrists were still restrained against the chair, your pulse racing from having watched everything unfold in front of you.
Theo noticed the way you were staring immediately.
“Come here,” he said quietly.
The restraints around your wrists disappeared at once.
You stood slowly, legs slightly unsteady as you crossed the room toward them. The closer you got, the more aware you became of all three of them watching you now instead.
Jane’s eyes moved over you carefully before she shifted slightly against the sofa to make room.
“Lie down for us, sweetheart,” she murmured softly, patting the cushions beside Gregory.
You hesitated only briefly before climbing onto the sofa, heat rushing into your face as Theo stepped closer again almost immediately.
Gregory looked at you from where he was leaning back against the arm of the sofa, still breathing unevenly.
“She looks nervous,” he said quietly.
Jane smiled faintly. “That’s because she knows we’re paying attention to her now.”
Theo’s hand settled gently against your jaw, guiding your attention back toward him before you could look away again.
“You’ve been very patient tonight,” he murmured smoothly, “and patience gets rewarded.”
Theo’s thumb brushed lightly against your jaw before he finally stepped back slightly, his gaze shifting toward Gregory instead.
“Up,” he said calmly.
Gregory looked at him immediately, still flushed and visibly affected from before, but he obeyed without hesitation, pushing himself upright from the sofa.
Theo’s hand settled briefly against the back of Gregory’s neck as he guided him closer toward you.
“You’re going to take care of her now,” Theo murmured smoothly. “And this time, you follow instructions properly.”
Gregory swallowed hard, eyes flicking toward Jane automatically.
Jane noticed instantly, amusement flickering across her face as she moved to stand beside the sofa.
“Oh, he’s paying attention already,” she said softly.
Theo’s hand tightened slightly against Gregory’s neck. “He should be.”
You felt your pulse jump as Gregory moved closer, his expression somewhere between nervous and eager beneath all of their attention.
Jane tilted her head slightly as she looked at him.
“You only move when we tell you to,” she reminded him calmly. “Understood?”
“Yes, Jane,” Gregory answered immediately.
Theo’s mouth twitched faintly at the response before his attention returned to you again.
His hand slid slowly along your thigh as he looked down at you carefully.
“Tell us something, sweetheart,” he murmured smoothly. “Do you want Gregory to be gentle with you…” His fingers tightened slightly. “Or do you want him to fuck you properly?”
Gregory’s eyes locked onto you immediately, his breathing still uneven as he waited for your answer.
You swallowed hard, feeling a rush of wetness between your thighs, pressing them together instinctively before the words finally left you in a shaky rush.
“Please…” you breathed, already sounding desperate. “I want him to fuck me properly.”
Gregory let out a weak sound at that, visibly affected by hearing you beg for it, while Jane’s expression shifted into open amusement beside him.
“Oh, she’s begging now,” Jane murmured lightly.
Theo’s hand tightened slightly against your thigh, clear satisfaction flickering across his expression.
“Good girl,” he said quietly
Theo’s hand slid from your thigh to Gregory’s jaw instead, forcing his attention fully forward again.
“Well,” Theo murmured smoothly, “you heard her.”
Gregory swallowed hard immediately.
Jane leaned closer behind him, one hand resting lightly against the back of his neck.
“Don’t keep her waiting,” she said softly. “Go on. Take care of her properly.”
Gregory nodded quickly, eyes flicking back toward you with a mixture of nerves and anticipation before he finally moved closer.
He settled himself carefully between your legs, his hands tightening slightly against your thighs as he buried himself inside you with one rough thrust.
The sudden sensation pulling a sharp gasp from your throat as your body instinctively tensed beneath him.
Each thrust pulled another breathless reaction from you as the sofa shifted slightly beneath the force of it. Every time he moved, another rush of sensation tore through your body, making it impossible to stay still.
Theo stayed close beside the sofa the entire time, one hand resting firmly against Gregory’s shoulder whenever he lost focus on you. Every so often his fingers would tighten slightly, silently reminding Gregory to pay attention to your reactions instead of getting overwhelmed himself.
A broken sound escaped you as your fingers dug tighter into Gregory’s shoulders, the overwhelming pace he set making the pressure in your stomach tighten further.
Jane stayed near your head for most of it, fingers occasionally brushing through your hair or tilting your chin gently whenever your eyes tried to close.
“No hiding,” she murmured softly. “We want to watch you.”
Jane’s hand slid slowly along your thigh while Gregory continued to fuck you, her nails dragging lightly against your skin just enough to make your breath catch harder.
Theo noticed immediately.
“There you go,” he said quietly to Gregory. “She likes that.”
Gregory visibly lost composure for a second at the praise, a quiet whimper leaving his lips. His grip tightening instinctively against your hips before he forced himself to steady again.
He shifted slightly, changing the angle of his cock in a way that pulled a sharp gasp from you as it instantly hit that sweet spot, your entire body tensing as the overwhelming sensation made it harder to think properly.
Jane laughed softly beside you. “He’s trying so hard to behave properly.”
“And doing very well,” Theo replied calmly, still keeping him focused.
You clung to Gregory instinctively, your fingers gripping tightly against his bare shoulders as every thrust pulled another breathless reaction from you. The close press of his body against yours only made everything feel more overwhelming, your hardened nipples brushing against his skin with every movement.
The sensation became almost impossible to handle, every movement pushing you closer and closer until you could barely think straight anymore. Your breathing turned uneven, broken sounds slipping from your lips as the tension inside you tightened unbearably.
“Gregory,” you cried out, your back arching off the sofa, “please… don’t stop”
Gregory continued to pound into you with even more force.
Then one final thrust sent you completely over the edge.
You cried out sharply, your entire body convulsing as pleasure crashed through you all at once, overwhelming enough to leave you shaking in Jane’s arms. Wave after wave rolled through you, your fingers digging helplessly into him while you struggled to catch your breath again.
Gregory wasn’t far behind you.
His movements lost what little control he still had left, uneven breaths breaking from him as he buried his face briefly against your shoulder. A low sound escaped him as tension finally snapped through his entire body, his hot cum pulsing into you.
———
For a few seconds, neither of you really moved.
Theo stepped closer to the sofa first, one hand settling against the back of Gregory’s neck almost immediately.
“There you go,” he murmured calmly. “Good job.”
Gregory let out a weak laugh against your shoulder, visibly exhausted now that the adrenaline had finally worn off.
Jane sat beside the two of you, fingers brushing gently through your hair before moving to Gregory’s a second later.
“You both look ruined,” she said lightly, clearly amused.
Heat rushed back into your face instantly.
Theo’s hand slid beneath your chin, tilting your head up slightly so he could look at you properly.
“And very pretty like this,” he added quietly.
Gregory groaned softly from beside you. “You are both impossible.”
Jane smiled faintly before leaning over to press a brief kiss against Gregory’s temple before finally standing from the sofa.
“As entertaining as this has been,” she said smoothly, “we should probably return before the elders start wondering where we disappeared to.”
Gregory groaned softly into the cushions.
“You’ll survive,” Theo said, standing beside the sofa before holding a hand out toward you. “Eventually.”
You took his hand carefully, legs still slightly shaky as he pulled you upright.
The reality of returning to the party suddenly felt absurd.
“You’re seriously expecting me to walk back out there like nothing happened?” you asked weakly.
Theo’s mouth twitched faintly. “That is generally how secrecy works, sweetheart.”
Jane moved across the room collecting pieces of discarded clothing with effortless calm while Gregory fixed his shirt with the expression of someone recovering from a near-death experience.
“You two are evil,” he muttered.
“And yet,” Jane replied smoothly while tossing his jacket toward him, “you keep volunteering.”
Gregory caught it with a sigh.
You quickly pulled your clothes back on, still feeling flushed beneath their attention while Theo adjusted the sleeves of his shirt beside you like this was all completely normal.
The contrast somehow made everything worse.
Once everyone was dressed again, Jane walked toward the door first, pausing only briefly before glancing back at the three of you.
“Composure,” she reminded lightly.
Gregory immediately straightened slightly.
Theo rested a hand briefly against your lower back as you followed them toward the corridor again, the distant sound of music and conversation growing louder the closer you got to the ballroom.
By the time the door opened again, all four of you looked almost perfectly composed.
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