The night was winding down. Empty beer bottles had been left here and there in the living room. The evening had been really fun, filled with lively chatting and games that always ended with Robin and Steve arguing about who had really won, while you and the others laughed and watched them. But now, everyone relaxed, not wanting to end the night there but not having much energy left.
On the ground, Jonathan was resting his head on Nancy’s thigh, while she and Steve seemed to be in a deep conversation. They were talking softly so as not to wake the boy close to them who was beginning to fall asleep. Sitting on the couch, Robin was idly flipping through one of Eddie’s magazines, softly singing to herself one of the many songs you guys had played during the evening.
On the other side of the couch, Eddie played with his rings while half-listening to Steve and Nancy’s conversation, one foot propped on the coffee table. You were also sitting on the couch, close to Eddie, your back turned slightly away from him because of the conversation you had with Robin a few minutes ago.
But the tired atmosphere was slowly getting to you too. As you went to rest your head on the headrest, because of your closeness, your shoulder bumped softly against Eddie’s. He instantly raised his arm, as natural as breathing, and you fell against him, your head resting on his chest. You yawned and he slightly lifted you both to grab the blanket lying on the couch and covered you with it.
He went to rest his arm on the back of the couch but you gently caught it and lowered it towards you. He looked down and saw you begin to play with his rings.
Some time later, lulled by the sound of Steve and Nancy talking and by the warmth radiated behind you, you were drifting off in Eddie’s arms. If you were more awake, you would have felt his heart racing because of your proximity. His thoughts were monopolized by you, your soft skin and your sweet scent engulfing him.
He can’t help but watch your chest rise and fall softly, a sign that you’re comfortable resting against him. He loves the sight of your hand still wrapped against his. It’s so domestic, so pure. He dreams of being able to be this way with you for the rest of his days.
He sees in his peripheral vision a hand waving at him. He was so absorbed in watching you sleep that he didn’t notice the others had begun to gather their things and prepare to head home. Nancy is looking more awake than the others, a good thing since she is the designated driver. Keys in hand, she supports a sleepy Jonathan. Robin mouths a “Can I take this ?” while pointing to the last pack of beer. Eddie mouths back in agreement.
Steve was the one who waved at him in the first place. Since you had come with them, he asks if he should wake you up to get you home. As Eddie whispers “It’s okay, I don’t mind”, you slightly shift your head towards his chest, getting comfortable in your sleep. At that, Steve nods and Nancy gives Eddie a knowing smile. After all, she is the one who knows about the crush he has on you since high school. The four of them say goodbye to Eddie and start heading home, Nancy driving Steve and Robin to their shared apartment and Jonathan and her to theirs.
After they leave, Eddie thinks about carrying you to his bed, so that you can sleep in better conditions. But you look so relaxed against him that a selfish part inside him keeps him from doing so. He gently rests his chin against your head, inhaling your scent and closing his eyes. His dreams are filled with visions of you. He feels at home.
synapse: determined to make him look and to feel what he’s lost, she walks into his class braver than she should be, and by the time friday ends, one quiet choice turns into a private reckoning neither of them can ignore.
pairing: professor!henry creel x reader
contains: professor/student relationship, power exchange, riding, dry humping, penetrative sex (p in v), fingering, handjob, cunnilingus
PART TEN IS LINKED HERE
a/n: i did a word count and this was 12,000 words, you guys better love me for this. THIS IS ALSO ONLY PART NINE, READ PART EIGHT HERE BEFORE YOU READ THIS
. . .
Henry let her in without fanfare, but his eyes lingered on her for half a second too long, as if he was still trying to convince himself she was real in his doorway.
“Come in,” he said quietly.
The apartment was warm compared to the hall, the radiator ticking with that steady old-building rhythm. The air smelled faintly of coffee and paper and whatever cologne he used sparingly enough that it never announced itself.
Y/N stepped inside, shrugged her pea coat off, and hung it on the same hook she’d used before. It felt strange how quickly a place could start to feel familiar, how a few nights and a few secrets could turn someone else’s home into something that tugged at you.
Henry shut the door, then hesitated as if he was about to say something and decided against it.
“I need you to wait here,” he said, voice controlled but not cold. “Just a moment.”
Y/N lifted an eyebrow. “Wait here?”
Henry’s gaze flicked away like he didn’t want her to read into it. “I’ll be right back.”
Before she could ask what he was doing, he disappeared down the hall, footsteps measured, quick but not rushed.
Y/N stood in the living room alone for a beat, her eyes tracking the hallway like she was trying to decide whether she was nervous or angry, or both.
The truth was, it still hurt.
Yesterday’s apology hadn’t glued her back together. It had just acknowledged the break.
She exhaled slowly and looked down at her boots.
Then she remembered.
Her dress.
The one she’d worn to his apartment, the one she’d left behind in the messy, rushed aftermath of a life that had suddenly become complicated.
She called softly down the hall, “I’m going to grab my dress.”
There was no immediate answer, but she heard him shift, like he’d heard her and wasn’t stopping her.
So she moved.
She walked down the hall and pushed open his bedroom door. The room was dimmer than the living room, curtains drawn against the winter light, the bed made with a precision that looked practiced. His dresser sat across from the bed, the mirror above it reflecting the quiet.
And there it was.
Her dress was folded neatly on the dresser, as if he’d handled it carefully. Not tossed on a chair. Not stuffed into a drawer. Folded with clean edges, like it mattered.
Y/N’s throat tightened unexpectedly.
She stepped closer, fingertips brushing the fabric.
That’s when she saw it.
Tucked against the edge of the mirror, half-hidden where the wood met the glass, was a Polaroid.
Not the stack.
Not evidence. Not leverage.
One.
Her stomach flipped, sharp and sudden.
She leaned in.
The photo was framed oddly, taken from the cracked classroom door, just like Nancy had said. But this one wasn’t the worst of them. It wasn’t incriminating in a way that would ruin her. It was almost intimate in a different way.
The focus was on her.
Y/N, standing close to Henry’s desk, sweater soft, hair down. The line of her jaw. The curve of her mouth mid-sentence. A look in her eyes that was unguarded for once, like she belonged there, like she was bright and alive.
Henry’s presence was only a suggestion: a cut-off shadow at the edge of the frame, the hint of his shoulder, like he was there but not the point.
Like she was the point.
Y/N stared at it so long the room seemed to hush around her.
Her heart did something stupid, something hopeful.
So he’d gotten rid of the rest.
But he’d kept this.
Not to threaten. Not to control.
To remember.
The realization warmed her chest in a way that made her angry all over again, because if he still cared, if he cared enough to keep this, then what he’d done to her hadn’t been indifference. It had been fear.
And fear had made him cruel.
Y/N’s lips curved despite herself, small and private, almost involuntary.
Then she heard footsteps.
Quickly, she straightened. She slid her hand away from the dresser, forced her face back into something neutral, like she hadn’t just found proof of his softness hidden behind his control.
Henry appeared in the doorway a second later.
He stopped short when he saw her there, in his room, near his dresser. His gaze flicked, fast and assessing, then settled on her face like he was searching for any sign she’d seen what she shouldn’t have.
Y/N lifted her folded dress off the dresser and held it like it was the only reason she’d come in.
“I found it,” she said lightly.
Henry’s eyes stayed on her for a beat too long. Then he stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind him with an odd quietness, as if he didn’t want sound to travel.
He was holding something.
A small paper bag, folded at the top, and a thin book tucked under his arm.
Y/N’s gaze dropped to them automatically.
Henry noticed. His mouth tightened, the faintest hint of discomfort.
“I,” he began, then stopped, as if he didn’t like how uncertain he sounded. He tried again, voice steadier. “I asked you here because you shouldn’t have had to hand me those photos yesterday.”
Y/N’s grip tightened on the dress. “But I did.”
Henry’s eyes darkened with something like regret. “Because I failed to handle it.”
The words were blunt. Honest. Very Henry. No poetry, no excuses.
He stepped closer, stopping a careful distance away like he didn’t know if she’d let him touch her.
“I owed you more than an apology,” he said. “And I know an apology doesn’t repair what I did. But I’m going to give you the truth anyway, because you deserved it the first time.”
Y/N’s chest rose and fell slowly. She didn’t interrupt him.
Henry swallowed once, jaw flexing as if the admission irritated him.
“Daniel Taylor came to me with those photos,” he said. “He threatened to take them to the department chair, the principal, anyone who would listen. He said he would ruin you.”
A muscle jumped in Y/N’s cheek at the name.
Henry’s eyes stayed on hers, steady. “I panicked. Not for myself.” His voice tightened. “For you.”
Y/N’s throat burned. “So you decided ruining me yourself would be better?”
Henry flinched like she’d hit him.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I did.” He held her gaze. “And it was wrong.”
Silence stretched between them.
Y/N’s fingers fidgeted against the dress fabric. “Why keep dragging me back here then,” she asked, voice low, “if you’re still so scared?”
Henry looked down for half a beat, like he hated the answer.
Then he lifted his eyes back to hers.
“Because,” he said, rougher now, “I tried to let you go and it didn’t work.”
Y/N’s heart kicked.
Henry exhaled slowly, as if forcing himself to be plain. “I thought if I cut you off harshly enough, you’d hate me and move on. I thought it would end the risk.” His mouth tightened. “And instead I spent a few weeks feeling like I’d amputated something and expected it not to bleed.”
Y/N didn’t know what to do with that. She hated that it softened something in her. She hated that it made her want to step closer.
Henry’s gaze dropped briefly to her hands, her dress, then lifted again.
“I bought you something,” he said, like it embarrassed him to say it out loud.
Y/N blinked. “Henry”
“It’s not jewelry,” he added quickly, like he didn’t want her to think he was trying to buy forgiveness. “I’m not that kind of man.”
She almost laughed.
He held out the thin book first. “This is for your writing.”
Y/N’s eyes flicked to the cover and her breath caught.
A Room of One’s Own.
Not a novel, but an essay disguised as a quiet weapon. Woolf’s argument that women don’t lack talent, they lack the conditions: space, money, freedom, the ability to write without being interrupted, dismissed, or swallowed by someone else’s life. A classic Henry had mentioned once in passing and she’d pushed back on in class, the kind of book he’d respect and she’d fight with. The margins were wide. The pages clean. A copy meant to be used, annotated, argued with, made hers.
“It’s a better edition than the one in the library,” Henry said, voice quiet. “And it’s yours. Not for class. Not for my syllabus. For you.”
Y/N’s fingers tightened around her dress. “Why?”
Henry’s eyes held hers. “Because you said you came to Emerson to be taken seriously as a writer.” His voice softened. “I believe you are.”
The words landed heavy.
Then he lifted the paper bag slightly. “And this is an apology that’s practical.”
Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds ominous.”
It made a corner of Henry’s mouth twitch, almost a smile.
He opened the bag and pulled out a small item, something wrapped carefully in tissue.
A scarf.
Soft wool. Dark, classic. Something warm enough for Boston winters, and subtle enough that it didn’t scream gift. It looked like something he’d chosen with restraint and thought.
“You’re always cold,” he said quietly, as if stating a fact he’d noticed too many times in class. “And you keep leaving your coat open like you want to prove you’re tougher than the weather.”
Y/N stared at it, throat tight.
Henry’s gaze flicked to her face again, careful, searching. “You don’t have to take it,” he added. “I’m not asking you to pretend I didn’t hurt you.”
Y/N’s voice came out small. “Then what are you asking?”
Henry stepped a fraction closer, stopping himself from closing the gap fully.
“I’m asking you to let me do this correctly,” he said. “If you still want me.” His jaw tightened. “And if you don’t, then tell me and I will leave you alone. For real.”
The room felt too quiet. The radiator ticked. Somewhere outside, a car passed with wet tires on winter pavement.
Y/N’s eyes drifted, without meaning to, to the mirror.
To the Polaroid tucked there.
Proof he hadn’t stopped caring. Proof he’d been lying when he said she meant nothing.
She didn’t call him out on it. Not yet.
Instead, she took a slow breath and looked back at him.
“I’m still upset,” she said, voice steady but raw. “That didn’t disappear.”
Henry nodded once. “I know.”
“And I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted, hating the honesty, hating how vulnerable it sounded. “I don’t know if I should be here.”
Henry’s eyes softened. “Then don’t decide everything today,” he said. “Just be here.”
Y/N swallowed.
She reached out and took the book first, careful, like it mattered. Like he’d made it matter.
Then, after a beat, she took the scarf too.
Henry’s shoulders eased slightly, like he’d been bracing for rejection and had gotten something else: a chance.
Y/N held the items against her chest with her folded dress, a ridiculous bundle of her own life in his bedroom.
She looked at him, anger still there, hurt still there, yet threaded with something stubborn and warm.
“Don’t do that again,” she said quietly.
Henry’s reply was immediate, solemn. “I won’t.”
Y/N’s lips pressed together. “And if you’re scared, tell me you’re scared. Don’t punish me for it.”
Henry’s throat bobbed once, his gaze fixed on hers like a vow. “All right.”
They stood there for a moment, too close to the past, too close to the truth.
And Y/N, still holding her dress, still feeling the sting, still seeing that Polaroid in the mirror with the edge of her vision, realized something with a strange, quiet certainty:
He wasn’t letting her go again.
Not unless she forced him to.
Y/N turned to leave, and he was quick to follow on her heels.
Y/N made it all the way to the front door before she stopped.
She slipped her coat back on. Her bag was on her shoulder. One hand was already on the doorknob, fingers curled like she could simply turn it and be gone, back to campus, back to the version of herself who didn’t walk into a professor’s apartment like it was both a mistake and a habit.
But she didn’t turn it.
The apartment behind her was too quiet. Henry’s presence sat in the air like a low hum, steady and undeniable. She could feel him watching her from across the room, not moving, not trying to stop her, but also not pretending this was easy.
Y/N let out a slow breath and turned around.
Henry stood where she’d left him, shoulders squared, posture controlled. He looked composed in the way he always looked composed, but his eyes gave him away. There was a restraint there that didn’t feel like professionalism anymore.
It felt like effort.
“Henry,” she said.
He didn’t answer right away, like he didn’t trust himself to. Then, quietly: “Yes?”
Y/N swallowed. Her heart was beating too loud. She hated that the sound of his voice still did that to her, softly rearranging something in her chest.
“I need to tell you something,” she said.
Henry’s gaze held hers, steady. “All right.”
Y/N’s mouth tightened. She glanced down for half a beat, then lifted her eyes again, braver than she felt.
“Last weekend,” she began carefully, “I met a guy.”
It was subtle, almost invisible, but something changed in Henry’s face. The muscles in his jaw tightened. His stillness sharpened.
Y/N noticed. Of course she did.
She continued anyway, because she wasn’t doing this to hurt him. Not exactly. She was doing it because she needed him to understand what he was asking her to risk every time he pulled her back into his orbit.
“He’s good,” she said, choosing the word like it mattered. “He’s close to my age. He’s…” She huffed a small laugh that wasn’t amused, more like disbelief at the simplicity of it. “He’s uncomplicated.”
Henry’s eyes didn’t move from her face. “And?”
Y/N’s throat tightened. “And if I wanted to be smart about it, I could.”
Henry’s brows pulled together slightly. “Be smart?”
“Go out with him,” she said plainly. “Publicly. No consequences. No whispers. No doors closing behind me.”
The words hung between them like a threat and a confession at the same time.
Henry’s expression stayed controlled, but his eyes went darker, something protective, possessive, and quietly furious, all restrained beneath the surface.
He should’ve said something.
He should’ve corrected her, argued, insisted she should do exactly that, choose the safe option.
Instead, his voice came low. “Is that what you want?”
Y/N opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her hand slipped off the doorknob. She took a step away from the door without even realizing she was doing it.
“No,” she admitted, the word rough.
Henry’s gaze sharpened. “No?”
Y/N swallowed, pulse jumping. “I’m telling you because I need you to know I’m not trapped. I have choices.”
Henry’s jaw tightened, as if the word choices didn’t soothe him the way it should.
Y/N forced herself to keep going. “But the whole time I was with him,” she said quietly, “I thought about you.”
Henry didn’t move.
The apartment felt smaller suddenly. Warmer. Like the air had thickened.
Y/N’s voice went softer, honest in a way she hated being. “I thought about your hands. Your voice. The way you look at me when you stop pretending you don’t care.” Her cheeks heated, but she didn’t look away. “And I was so angry at myself for it.”
Henry’s breathing changed, barely, but Y/N felt it. The shift of control becoming something else.
“I don’t like what you did,” she said, voice shaking slightly now. “I don’t like how you hurt me. I don’t like that you thought you could decide what I could handle and call it protection.”
Henry’s eyes flickered with pain. He didn’t interrupt.
“But I didn’t stop liking you,” Y/N finished, and the sentence sounded like surrender and defiance all at once. “I tried. I did. And I didn’t.”
The silence that followed was so complete it felt loud.
Henry looked at her like he was fighting the urge to cross the room in two strides and pull her into him, like he was making himself stand still out of sheer will.
His voice came low, carefully even. “You shouldn’t be here if you think I’m going to hurt you again.”
Y/N’s mouth trembled, not with fear, but with the ache of wanting something she didn’t fully trust.
“I shouldn’t,” she agreed. Then she added, softer, “But I am.”
Henry’s gaze dropped to her mouth briefly, involuntarily, then lifted back to her eyes as if he was ashamed of how obvious it was.
Y/N felt her pulse stutter.
She took another step forward, then another, slow enough that either of them could stop it, slow enough to make it feel like choice every second.
Henry didn’t move toward her.
He also didn’t move away.
“Say something,” Y/N whispered, stopping a few feet from him.
Henry’s eyes held hers, dark and steady. “If you walk out that door,” he said quietly, “I won’t stop you.”
Y/N’s breath caught. “I know.”
“I won’t chase you,” he added, voice roughening slightly. “Not because I don’t want to. Because you deserve to leave if you want to.”
Y/N’s throat tightened. “I know.”
Henry’s jaw flexed. “And if you stay,” he said, the words controlled but heavy with meaning, “it can’t be because you’re trying to prove something. Not to me. Not to yourself.”
Y/N let out a shaky breath, eyes burning. “I’m not proving anything.”
Henry’s gaze dipped again, her mouth, her throat, the collar of her sweater, and for a moment the restraint in him looked like it was going to snap.
Y/N saw it.
And she didn’t flinch.
She just whispered, “I’m choosing.”
Henry stared at her for a long beat. Then his voice came barely above a murmur.
“Then choose.”
Y/N’s heart hammered. The apartment felt like it was holding its breath with her.
She moved one step closer.
Henry’s hand lifted slightly, stopped, as if he wasn’t sure he had the right.
Y/N closed the final distance herself.
She rose onto her toes and kissed him.
It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t careful.
It was the kind of kiss you didn’t give unless you meant it.
Henry froze for half a second, like his body didn’t believe it was allowed, then his hands came up to her face, palms warm and firm, and he kissed her back like something silent in him had finally been given permission to speak.
No words.
No explanations.
Just the sound of breathing and the soft, desperate press of mouths meeting again and again, like agreement, like apology, like inevitability.
Y/N’s fingers curled in his sweater, anchoring herself.
Henry’s hands slid from her cheeks to her waist, pulling her closer without rushing, holding her like he’d been starving and refusing to admit it.
They kissed until the air felt thin.
Until the world outside his apartment, rules, consequences, fear, fell away to a dull, distant thing.
And when they finally paused, foreheads nearly touching, neither of them moved toward the door.
Neither of them spoke.
Because they didn’t need to.
The kiss had already answered everything.
The kiss deepened for a moment, a silent, desperate sealing of their pact.
Then, just as suddenly as she’d initiated it, Y/N pulled back. Her breathing was ragged, her chest heaving. She kept her hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, her knuckles white, refusing to let him go.
Henry didn’t chase her mouth. He stayed still, his chest rising slowly, watching her like he was trying to memorize every detail of her face in case she vanished again.
“You don’t get to do that,” she said, voice low.
Henry’s throat moved. “Do what?”
Y/N’s grip tightened. She shook her head once, small and sharp. “You don’t get to kiss me like you didn’t break me open a week ago and then hide behind your principles.”
Henry’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t interrupt. He looked like he deserved every word and was letting them land.
“I’m still upset with you,” she said, the confession rough. “I’m still furious. And if you think one kiss makes me forget what it felt like to walk out of your classroom—”
“It doesn’t,” Henry said quietly.
The softness of it almost made her angrier.
Y/N held his gaze. Her eyes blazed with a tumultuous mix of hurt and desire. “Good.”
For a second they just stood there, too close, the air thick with everything they weren’t saying. Henry’s hands hovered at her waist like a question he didn’t have the right to ask.
Y/N answered it without giving him time to.
She shoved him back, firm and decisive, until the backs of his knees hit the couch and he sat. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t in control. It was simply the force of her making him move.
She climbed onto his lap like she owned the space, straddling him, knees braced against the cushions on either side. Her coat was gone, her sweater warm and oversized, her hair falling around her face like a curtain she didn’t bother to push back.
Henry’s hands started to lift, instinctive to just hold her hips.
She grabbed his jaw, her fingers firm, forcing his head up and his eyes to meet hers. His surprise was quickly replaced by a dark, simmering heat as he looked up at her, at the fierce, commanding woman she had become in the wake of his cruelty.
His breath hitched, and it wasn’t fear. It was the shock of surrender, of being told, without cruelty but with absolute certainty, that he didn’t get to lead this.
“You won’t have control,” she said, her voice trembling just slightly with the intensity of it. “Not tonight.”
His lips parted slightly, a flicker of a challenge in his eyes, but he didn't argue. He just watched her, his body already responding to the dominance radiating from her.
He only asked, careful and quiet, “Is this what you want?”
Y/N stared at him, really stared, like she was checking that he was here, that he wasn’t going to disappear behind a mask the moment things got real.
“It’s what I need,” she said. “I need you to stop deciding things for me. I need you to stop thinking you can protect me by hurting me first.”
Henry’s gaze didn’t waver. “All right.”
The answer wasn’t dramatic. It was steady. It sounded like a promise.
Y/N’s grip on his jaw loosened, but she didn’t move away. She stayed right there, close enough that he could feel her breath, close enough that she could feel the way his body held tension like a confession.
“You don’t get to be the only one with rules,” she said. “You don’t get to be the one who ends things and starts them and sets the terms.”
Henry swallowed. “You’re right.”
The admission hit her harder than she expected.
Her expression flickered with anger, then relief, then something raw underneath. She leaned in until her forehead nearly touched his, her voice dropping to something dangerously intimate.
“Then prove it.”
Henry’s hands hovered again, waiting for permission.
Y/N caught one wrist and pinned it lightly against the couch cushion beside him. Not to hurt him. Not to scare him. Just to remind him she meant what she said.
His eyes shut for a brief second, like restraint was a physical thing he could feel. When he opened them again, he looked at her like she was the only truth in the room.
“I’m here,” he said. “Tell me.”
Y/N’s mouth parted, her breath unsteady. For a moment, she didn’t speak, because the truth was messy.
She wanted him. She hated him. She missed him. She didn’t trust him. She didn’t know which feeling would win if she stopped holding them all at once.
So she did the only thing she could do. She made him stay in the storm with her.
She leaned down and kissed him again, slower this time, deliberate. Not forgiving, but claiming space. Henry made a sound in his throat and kept his hands where they belonged, letting her set the pace, letting her decide how close was close enough.
When she pulled back, their breathing didn’t match.
“You’re still mine to be upset with,” Y/N murmured, like a warning.
Henry’s gaze held hers. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And the way he said it, quiet, obedient, unshakeable, felt like the first real surrender he’d given her in weeks.
Y/N’s hand slid from his jaw to the side of his neck, her thumb resting where his pulse jumped.
“Good,” she whispered.
Then she kissed him again, and this time he followed her lead like he’d been waiting for permission to stop pretending he could survive without her.
Her mouth crashed against his in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue. It wasn't gentle; it was a punishment and a claim. She bit his lower lip, hard enough to make him hiss, before soothed it with her tongue. She kissed him like she was trying to erase the memory of his cold words, to replace them with the overwhelming reality of her need.
Then she began to move.
She rolled her hips, a slow, deliberate grind against his rapidly hardening cock trapped in his trousers.
The friction was exquisite, a maddening tease through the layers of their clothes. She set a languid, torturous rhythm, her body moving against his with a practiced confidence that made his head spin. She wasn't seeking release; she was stoking a fire, building the pressure until he was squirming beneath her.
She broke the kiss, her lips trailing a hot, open path down his jaw to his neck. She wasn't gentle. She nipped and sucked at the sensitive skin, leaving a trail of possessive marks in her wake. She wanted him to see them tomorrow, to feel them, to be reminded of who was in charge now.
"Y/N," he groaned, his hands coming up to grip her hips, trying to guide her, to speed up her maddening pace.
She pulled back instantly, grabbing his wrists and pinning them to the couch cushions on either side of his head. "No," she commanded, her voice sharp. "You don't touch unless I say so."
His eyes darkened with a primal lust as he surrendered to her command. She held his wrists down, her body pressed flush against his, and resumed her slow, torturous grind.
The denim of her jeans rubbed against him in just the right way, the friction building a desperate ache deep in his core.
She leaned down, her lips brushing against his ear. "Does that feel good, Professor?" she whispered, her voice a wicked, teasing purr. "Do you like being helpless? Do you like being at my mercy?"
He could only groan in response, his hips bucking up to meet hers, seeking more of the friction she was so cruelly denying him.
She smiled against his skin, a triumphant, predatory smirk. She had him right where she wanted him, completely and utterly at her mercy. And she was just getting started.
Y/N continued her slow, agonizing grind, her body moving against his with a hypnotic rhythm that was driving him insane. The pressure built, a desperate, coiling ache in his groin, and his control began to fray. His hands, which had been clenched into fists at his sides, slowly uncurled.
They moved up her body, sliding over the curve of her waist, his thumbs tracing the line of her ribs before reaching their destination.
He cupped her breasts, his palms covering the soft weight of them, feeling the tight peaks of her nipples through the thin fabric of her sweater.
At the reminder that wasn't wearing a bra.
The contact was electric, and a guttural groan rumbled in his chest.
But before he could savor the feeling, her movements stopped. She gripped his wrists, her grip surprisingly strong as she pulled his hands away from her body and pinned them firmly back to the couch cushions.
"What did I say?" she asked, her voice a low, dangerous purr. Her eyes were dark, narrowed with displeasure. "I said no touching."
The loss of her warmth, the abrupt halt to the friction, was a physical blow. He was left panting, his cock straining painfully against his zipper, a desperate ache throbbing through him.
He fought back the overwhelming urge to beg, to plead with her to keep going. His pride, his ingrained need for dominance, screamed at him to regain control, but his body betrayed him, trembling with need.
Just as he was steeling himself to endure her punishment, to wait for her to continue, she did the one thing he wasn't prepared for. She got up.
The sudden absence of her body was a cold, shocking void. She stood over him, her expression unreadable, a flicker of amusement in her eyes as she took in his disheveled state.
"You know," she said, her voice deceptively casual. "I'm just not in the mood anymore."
The words hit him like a slap in the face. He stared up at her, his mind reeling. She was punishing him. Denying him. The power dynamic had shifted so completely it left him breathless. He watched, frozen, as she began to slowly pace in front of the couch, her movements fluid and confident. She was enjoying this.
She stopped and crouched down in front of him, her fingers running through his hair, her touch a gentle, mocking caress. "Maybe," she mused, her voice soft and speculative, "you didn't miss me as much as I thought you did."
The lie was so outrageous, so contrary to the throbbing evidence of his desire, that it broke through his carefully constructed facade. "That's a lie," he blurted out, his voice rough and desperate.
"Is it?" she countered, her fingers still stroking his hair, her eyes searching his.
He saw the challenge in her gaze, the test she was laying before him. He could fight her, try to reassert his dominance, and risk losing her all over again. Or he could surrender.
He let out a shuddering breath, the fight draining out of him. "Don't say that," he pleaded, his voice barely a whisper. "Don't ever say that."
A slow, triumphant smile spread across her face. She leaned in closer, her lips brushing against his ear, her voice a low, intimate confession. "I missed you," she whispered. "I missed your lips. I missed your hands. I missed your cock."
The raw, explicit admission shattered what was left of his resistance. The image of her wanting him, of her missing the very parts of him that ached for her, was his undoing. He closed his eyes, a low groan escaping his lips.
"Y/N," he breathed, his voice thick with submission.
She pulled back, looking down at him, her expression softening slightly. She saw it in his eyes, the complete and total surrender. He was no longer fighting. He was hers.
Y/N looked down at him, at the raw, unguarded surrender in his eyes. A slow, predatory smile touched her lips. This was the man she wanted, the one who would give her everything.
"Stand up," she commanded, her voice a low, even purr.
He obeyed instantly, rising from the couch on unsteady legs. She stepped closer, her hands going to the hem of his sweater. She peeled it off him, her fingers grazing his skin, tossing it aside. Her eyes roamed over his chest, his stomach, appreciating the hard planes of muscle that tensed under her gaze.
"Your turn," she said, stepping back.
He reached for the hem of her sweater, but she stopped him with a single look. He froze, his hands hovering in the air.
"Slowly," she instructed.
He nodded, his jaw tight with restraint. He hooked his fingers under the fabric and slowly, inch by agonizing inch, lifted the sweater over her head. He tossed it aside, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of her bare torso.
"You can touch me," she granted, her voice a soft permission. "But only where I tell you."
His hands trembled slightly as they came up to rest on her waist. His thumbs stroked her skin, his touch reverent, desperate.
"Kiss me," she ordered.
He leaned in, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that was hesitant, questioning. She deepened it, her tongue delving into his mouth, claiming him. She kissed him until he was breathless, until he was leaning into her, seeking more.
She pulled back, a smirk playing on her lips. "Not so fast," she chided. She took his hand and led him to the bedroom, stopping him at the foot of the bed. "On your back. On the bed."
He complied, his movements fluid and graceful as he stretched out on the comforter, his eyes never leaving hers.
She watched him with a hunger in her eyes, undoing the four buttons on her high waisted jeans, the rare sight of him so vulnerable made her incredibly wet. She slid the denim down her legs, kicking them off before she followed him, crawling onto the bed and straddling him again, but this time, she didn't start a rhythm.
She just sat there, a tantalizing weight on his thighs, her body nearly bare beside the red lacy fabric of her panties clinging to her.
"You have no idea how many times I thought about this when I was away from you," she said, her voice a low, husky murmur. "Lying in my bed, alone, touching myself, and imagining you here. Imagining you underneath me, at my mercy."
A low groan rumbled in his chest, his hands coming up to grip her thighs.
"Did you think about me?" she asked, her voice a teasing purr. "Did you touch yourself, Henry? Did you think about my mouth on you? About my pussy?"
"God, yes," he breathed, his voice thick with lust.
"Show me," she commanded. "Take off your pants. I want to see you."
He fumbled with his belt, his hands clumsy with need. He shoved his trousers and his boxers down his hips, his cock springing free, hard and thick and already leaking with precum. It was a testament to his desire, a silent plea for her touch.
"Good boy," she praised, her eyes dark with satisfaction. She leaned down, her hair brushing against his stomach as she pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his hip. "You're so hard for me. So desperate. Do you want to be inside me?"
"Please," he begged, his voice a ragged whisper. "Y/N, please."
She chuckled, a low, wicked sound. She reached down, her fingers wrapping around his cock, giving him a slow, deliberate stroke. He bucked his hips, a desperate, involuntary movement.
"Stay still," she ordered, her voice sharp. He froze, his body trembling with the effort of obeying.
She continued to stroke him, her movements slow, torturous. She was in complete control, and she knew it. She was driving him to the brink of insanity, and she was enjoying every second of it.
"Please, it’s been too long…" he begged again, his voice breaking. "I need you."
"I know," she said, her voice soft, almost mocking. She released him, shifting her position. She lifted her body slightly to slip the wet material of her underwear, down her legs. She guided him to her entrance, rubbing the head of his cock against her slick, wet folds, teasing them both. "But you're going to have to wait."
She sank down on him, just an inch, just enough to make him gasp. She held there, her body a tantalizing promise, before pulling back up.
"Y/N," he groaned, his hands fisting in the sheets.
"Tell me what you want," she demanded, her voice a low, commanding growl. "Tell me how badly you need to fuck me."
"I need to be inside you," he breathed, his voice a desperate, broken plea. "I need to feel you. I need to make you come. Please, Y/N, let me fuck you."
She smiled, a slow, triumphant smile. She sank down on him, taking him in to the hilt, her body a warm, tight sheath around him. They both moaned, a shared, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
She began to move, her hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm. She was in control of the pace, the depth, the angle. She was using him for her own pleasure, and the thought was a heady, intoxicating rush.
"You feel so good inside me," she moaned, her head falling back. "So big. So hard. You were made to be inside me, weren't you?"
"Yes," he groaned, his hands gripping her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh. "Only you."
"Tell me," she demanded, her voice a low, breathless command. "Tell me I'm the only one."
"You're the only one," he breathed, his eyes locked on hers. "It's always been you."
She increased her pace, her movements becoming more frantic, more desperate. The pleasure was building, a tight, coiling heat in her belly. She was close, so close.
"Come with me," she commanded, her voice a ragged, desperate plea. "Come inside me. Now."
The command was his undoing. He thrust up into her, his body arching off the bed as he came, a hot, thick flood of release that triggered her own orgasm. She cried out, her body convulsing, her inner walls clamping down around him as a wave of pure, unadulterated bliss washed over her.
She collapsed on top of him, her body a boneless, sated weight. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, his body still trembling with the aftershocks. For a long time, they just lay there, the only sound in the room their ragged, desperate attempts to catch their breath.
She had taken control, and in doing so, she had claimed him completely. And as he held her, his face buried in her hair, he knew he would never want it any other way.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was their ragged, shared breathing. Y/N lay draped over him, her body boneless and sated, his cock still buried deep inside her, a warm, pulsing reminder of their shared release. She could feel his heartbeat, a frantic drum against her, slowly steadying into a strong, steady rhythm.
She felt his gaze on her, a heavy, questioning weight. He was waiting, watching to see if the queen was done with her reign.
She was. The anger had burned out, replaced by a deep, bone-deep satisfaction. The control had been a means to an end, a way to reclaim what he had broken. Now, she just wanted him.
She shifted slightly, a soft sigh escaping her lips. It was all the permission he needed.
In one smooth, powerful movement, he rolled them. His arms wrapped around her, flipping her onto her back without ever breaking their connection. The sudden shift in position made her gasp, his cock sinking even deeper inside her.
He propped himself up on his elbows, his body blanketing hers, his eyes dark and intense as they stared down into hers.
"Did you enjoy your reign of freedom?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "Did you enjoy having all the control?"
Before she could answer, he began to move. It wasn't the slow, sensual rhythm she had dictated. It was a series of short, sharp, deliberate thrusts of his hips, just enough to make her gasp, to stoke the embers of her fading desire back into a roaring flame.
"Henry," she breathed, her hands coming up to grip his biceps.
He ducked his head, his mouth closing over her breast. He wasn't gentle or worshipful now. He was possessive, his teeth scraping her sensitive skin before he sucked her nipple into his mouth, a hard, demanding pull that sent a jolt of pure pleasure straight to her core. He was reminding her who he was, taking back the control she had so thoroughly claimed.
Just as she was arching into him, her body responding to his renewed assault, he pulled out. The sudden emptiness was a shocking, cold void, and she cried out in protest. But he didn't give her time to process it. He grabbed her hips, his grip firm and unyielding, and flipped her onto her stomach.
He was behind her in an instant, his weight a delicious pressure on her back. He nudged her legs apart with his knee, his hands gripping her ass, spreading her open. He didn't enter her, not yet. He just watched her, his gaze a physical touch that made her skin burn.
She was panting into the pillow, her body trembling with anticipation. She could feel herself getting wetter, her arousal a slick, undeniable proof of her surrender. She had been in charge, she had dictated every touch, every kiss, every thrust. But this... this was what she craved. The feeling of being completely and utterly dominated, of being at the mercy of his strength, his desire. The power she had wielded moments before was nothing compared to the intoxicating rush of giving it all up to him.
"Look at you," he growled, his voice a low, triumphant rumble. "So eager. So ready to be fucked."
He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear. "You can pretend to be in charge all you want," he whispered, his voice a dark, possessive promise. "But we both know this is where you belong. Under me. Taking my cock like the good girl you are."
He entered her from behind in a single, brutal thrust, stealing her breath and her sanity. The pleasure was overwhelming, a searing, possessive claim that left her no room for thought. He set a punishing rhythm, his hips slamming into hers, each thrust a declaration of his ownership. She was no longer in control. She was his, completely and utterly, and she had never been more turned on in her life.
The sound that tore from her throat was raw and uninhibited, a loud, desperate cry that was half pleasure, half surrender. He was fucking her with a brutal, punishing rhythm, each powerful thrust of his hips driving her deeper into the mattress. The pleasure was blinding, a white-hot surge that obliterated thought, leaving only the primal, overwhelming sensation of him taking her, owning her.
Her moans grew louder, more frantic, filling the room with the echo of the headboard banging against the wall, the symphony of their carnal reunion. She was lost, completely consumed by the force of his desire, by the feeling of him claiming her so thoroughly. Instinctively, she reached back, her hand searching for him, needing to touch him, to anchor herself to the man who was wrecking her so completely.
Her fingers barely brushed against his hip before his hand shot out, catching her wrist in an iron grip. He pinned her arm behind her back, the angle forcing her shoulders down, arching her spine and presenting her ass to him in a way that was both vulnerable and obscene. The loss of her freedom, the sudden, effortless display of his control, sent a fresh jolt of arousal coursing through her.
"Oh god, yes," she whined, her face buried in the pillow.
His other hand moved from her hip, sliding up the curve of her spine to the back of her neck. His fingers wrapped around the delicate column of her throat, his grip firm and possessive, not cutting off her air but holding her in place, a silent, undeniable claim of ownership. She was completely pinned, utterly at his mercy.
"You wanted to be in charge?" he growled, his voice a low, guttural rasp against her ear. He punctuated the question with a particularly hard thrust that made her whole body tremble. "You wanted to control me? Look at you now. Pinned to my bed, taking my cock so fucking well."
His words were a dark, possessive litany that only fueled her desire. He was right. This was where she belonged. This was the intoxicating, terrifying, glorious surrender she had been craving.
He fucked her harder, his grip on her neck and wrist unyielding. The sound of skin slapping against skin was a loud, rhythmic percussion, a primal beat that matched the frantic pounding of her heart. She was so loud now, her cries and moans a constant, desperate stream of pleasure and submission. She couldn't hold back, couldn't control the sounds he was forcing from her body.
"Who do you belong to?" he snarled, his voice a raw, demanding command.
"You!" she screamed, the word torn from her throat, muffled by the pillow. "I belong to you!"
His grip tightened, his thrusts becoming erratic, more forceful. He was chasing his own release, using her body to find it, and the thought of him losing control inside her was enough to send her hurtling over the edge.
"Come for me," he commanded, his voice a low, dominant roar. "Come on my cock. Now."
The command was her undoing. Her orgasm crashed over her, a violent, all-consuming wave that ripped a scream from her lungs. Her entire body convulsed, her inner walls clamping down around him like a vise as pleasure, sharp and blinding, seized every nerve ending.
He rode her through it, his thrusts becoming deep and irregular. With a final, guttural groan, he buried himself inside her, his body tensing as he poured himself into her, a hot, thick flood of release that filled her completely.
He collapsed on top of her, his weight a welcome, heavy blanket. For a long time, they just lay there, a tangled, sweaty mess, their bodies humming with the aftershocks. He slowly released his grip on her wrist and neck, his hands coming to rest gently on her back, his touch now tender, almost apologetic.
He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her shoulder, his lips a silent promise. He had taken back his control, but in doing so, he had given her something far more valuable: the undeniable proof that she was his, and he was never letting her go again.
. . .
Morning came in slowly, pale winter light leaking through the curtains like it had to ask permission first.
Y/N woke up curled into warmth, sheets tangled around her legs, one of Henry’s pillows pressed against her cheek, the air in the room still carrying the faint, lived-in evidence of last night. Not perfume, not candles, just them: the soft scent of his soap, the clean cotton of the bedding, the quiet heaviness of a space that had held too many secrets. Her body a pleasant, satisfying ache, a tangible reminder of the night before.
For a second she didn’t move.
She just listened.
The radiator ticked. Somewhere outside, a car passed on wet pavement. The building creaked like it always did in the cold. And beside her, Henry breathed, slow, even, the kind of sleep she hadn’t imagined he was capable of.
He looked different asleep.
Not “Professor Creel,” not the man with the controlled voice and the lecture notes and the steady stare that could slice a room in half. Just Henry—hair slightly out of place, glasses abandoned on the nightstand, one arm thrown across the pillow like he’d reached for her in his sleep and never let go.
Careful not to wake him, she slipped out of his embrace and reached over him to the nightstand. Her fingers found the heavy, plastic receiver of his touchtone phone.
She lifted it, the dial tone a low, steady hum in the quiet room. She dialed the number for her dormitory from memory, her movements quiet and practiced.
"Hello, Hawkins Hall residence line," a bored voice answered.
“Hi, Nancy Wheeler please. It’s her roommate,” she whispered, glancing over at Henry.
“One moment please.”
Y/N glanced at the clock. 11:15. If she knew Nancy well enough, she knew that Nancy liked to come back to their dormitory during lunch to eat in peace, study or recollect her patience for the rest of the day.
Soon enough, a new voice answered, “Hello? Y/N?”
"Nance? It's me.”
"No shit. Where are you? You weren’t back last night or this morning," Nancy said, her voice laced with irritation and concern.
Y/N took a breath, trying to sound as pathetic as possible. "I know, I'm so sorry. I meant to come back this morning…I woke up feeling really sick. Henry's taking care of me at his place."
Just as she said the words, she felt the bed shift. Henry had woken up. He rolled onto his side, his eyes blinking open, a slow, sleepy smile spreading across his face as he saw her on the phone. He didn't say a word, just leaned in and pressed a soft, warm kiss to the center of her chest.
Y/N’s breath hitched.
"Y/N? You still there?" Nancy’s voice crackled through the receiver.
"Yeah, I'm... I'm fine," Y/N said, her voice a little shaky. "Just a little weak. Could you, uh, could you maybe get today's makeup work from our classes for me?"
Henry’s mouth began to move lower, trailing a path of hot, open-mouthed kisses down her stomach. His tongue dipped down her navel, sending a jolt of electricity straight to her core. She tensed, her free hand flying to his hair, not to push him away, but to grip it tightly.
"Yeah, of course," Nancy said. "I can grab it after my last class. What's wrong? You sound weird."
Henry’s kisses continued their downward trajectory, disappearing under the blanket that covered her legs.
Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, her heart hammering against her ribs. She knew exactly what he was doing. And she knew she was in trouble.
"No, I'm... I'm just tired," Y/N managed to say, her voice strained. "I think I'm just going to sleep for a while."
She felt his hands on her thighs, gently spreading them. Then, she felt the first, deliberate swipe of his tongue against her slick, sensitive folds. A soft gasp escaped her lips before she could stop it.
"Y/N? What was that? Are you sure you're okay? You’re starting to stress me out," Nancy said, her voice sharp with suspicion.
"I'm fine!" Y/N said, a little too loudly. She cleared her throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "Just... a cramp. I'm fine."
Henry was relentless. His tongue moved with a slow, expert precision, circling her clit, teasing her, stoking a fire that was quickly becoming an inferno.
She could feel the pleasure building, a tight, coiling heat in her belly. She bit down hard on her lower lip, trying to stifle the moans that were threatening to spill out.
"Okay, well... I'll let you rest then," Nancy said, her voice still laced with doubt. "Just call me if you need anything."
"I will," Y/N breathed, the words a desperate, rushed whisper. "Thanks, Nance. Bye."
She slammed the phone back into the cradle, the loud clatter echoing in the quiet room. The moment the call ended, the dam broke. A loud, unrestrained moan tore from her throat as Henry's tongue flicked against her clit, his movements becoming more insistent, more demanding.
"God, Henry," she cried out, her back arching off the bed, her hand fisting in his hair. "Don't stop."
He didn't. He doubled his efforts, his mouth and his tongue working in a frantic, desperate rhythm to push her over the edge.
The pleasure was overwhelming, a tidal wave of sensation that washed over her, drowning out everything else. She was so close, so incredibly close.
With a final, expert flick of his tongue, he sent her flying. Her orgasm crashed over her, a blinding, all-consuming wave of pure, unadulterated bliss. She cried out his name, her body convulsing, her inner walls clenching around nothing as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her.
He continued to lick her through her orgasm, his tongue gentle and soothing, drawing out her pleasure until she was a trembling, spent mess. He finally emerged from under the blanket, his face glistening with her arousal, a triumphant, wicked smirk on his lips.
"Feeling any better?" he asked, his voice a low, teasing purr.
She could only manage a weak, breathless laugh in response, her body still humming with the aftershocks of her release. She was definitely feeling better.
Her body was a boneless, satisfied weight against the mattress. A lazy, contented smile played on her lips as she watched
Henry prop himself up on his elbow, his hair a mess and his face glistening with the evidence of his mischief. He looked smug, and she loved it.
She reached out, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw before curling around the back of his neck. She pulled him down, her lips meeting his in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of her and of him. It was a languid, unhurried kiss, a silent conversation of gratitude and reconnection.
Y/N pulled back just enough to breathe, still close, nose brushing his. Her eyes were heavy, but there was a bright kind of happiness underneath, like the night before had taken something sharp out of her and left room for this.
She sighed, a soft, happy sound. "I should probably let myself out so you can get ready for work," she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep and satisfaction. "I don't want to make you late."
There was something in the way she said it, like she was trying to be reasonable, like she was trying not to ask for more than she was allowed to have.
Henry’s gaze sharpened, not angry, decisive.
He shifted closer, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth like punctuation.
“No,” he said.
Y/N blinked. “No what?”
“No,” he repeated, firmer, and she felt his hand slide to the back of her neck, holding her there gently but undeniably. “You’re not leaving right now.”
Y/N stared at him, startled. “Henry—”
“And I’m not going,” he added.
The words landed in the room like something fragile breaking.
Y/N froze. “You’re… not going.”
Henry’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes did—softer, darker, like he’d already made peace with the consequences.
“I’m not going,” he said again.
Y/N’s voice came out incredulous and almost breathless. “You’re calling out sick?”
Henry’s mouth twitched, the faintest hint of amusement. “I’m not calling out sick.”
Y/N stared harder. “Then what are you doing?”
Henry brushed his thumb along her cheekbone, slow, almost absentminded, like he was grounding himself in the fact she was here.
“I’m staying,” he said simply. “With you.”
Y/N’s chest tightened in a way that wasn’t pain this time.
It was surprise.
It was warmth.
It was the sudden, disorienting feeling of being chosen.
“You can’t just—” Y/N started, then stopped because she didn’t actually want to argue him out of it. Her voice softened. “You never skip.”
Henry’s eyes held hers. “I know.”
Y/N’s brows pulled together, almost shy in her disbelief. “I thought you of all people wouldn’t want me to miss a day.”
Henry’s gaze drifted down her face—her lips, her nose, her eyes—then back up like he was making sure she understood him.
“Things are simpler here,” he said quietly. “When it’s just us.”
Y/N’s throat went tight.
Henry’s voice stayed calm, but there was something honest under it that felt dangerously intimate. “Outside of school, there’s no performance,” he continued. “No faculty. No students. No doors. No—” he exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening briefly, “—risk that someone is always listening.”
Y/N swallowed. “You like it like that.”
Henry nodded once. “Yes.”
He looked almost annoyed by how much he meant it.
“I like it,” he admitted, softer now, “because I don’t have to pretend with you.”
Her heart swelled in her chest, the last vestiges of her hurt and anger dissolving in the warmth of his confession. She tilted her head up, her eyes searching his. She saw the truth there, the sincerity, the quiet contentment that mirrored her own.
“You’re really staying,” she whispered, like she needed to hear it one more time.
Henry leaned in and kissed her again, slow, deliberate, making the answer physical so she couldn’t doubt it.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.
“I’m staying,” he murmured.
“Okay,” she said, a small smile on her lips.
He smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile that reached his eyes. He leaned down and kissed her, a soft, lingering kiss that was a promise of a day spent in their own private world, a world where the only thing that mattered was the two of them, tangled in the sheets, with nowhere else to be.
. . .
The apartment smelled like coffee and something warm frying: eggs, butter, the faint bite of pepper. Morning light spilled across the kitchen floor in thin bands through the blinds, catching dust motes in the air like little drifting secrets.
Henry Creel was already dressed.
Not just dressed. Buttoned, structured, put together in the way he always was when he expected the world to see him. Sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, collar straight, hair still damp at the edges but combed back like he couldn’t stand the idea of looking undone for longer than necessary.
He stood at the stove with the quiet competence of a man who liked control in the small things: the pan centered, the heat just right, movements measured as he stirred and adjusted like he’d been doing it his whole life.
Y/N padded in behind him wearing one of his shirts, soft cotton, too big, falling to mid thigh, the sleeves swallowing her hands. Her hair was still damp, skin warmed from the shower. She looked like she belonged here in a way that would’ve terrified her if she let herself think about it too long.
Henry didn’t turn, but he knew she was there. His shoulders shifted subtly, as if the air changed when she entered.
Y/N took advantage of that certainty.
She walked past him, close enough that her hip brushed the counter, and as she passed behind him she gave him a light, playful smack on the ass, quick, not mean, a punctuation mark.
Henry’s hand stilled for half a second over the pan.
Then, calmly, he glanced over his shoulder with that controlled expression that never quite hid the fact he was affected.
Y/N’s mouth curved. “Why are you dressed,” she asked, breezy and shameless, “if I’m just going to end up pulling it all off later?”
Henry’s eyes flicked over her, slow and deliberate, then back to the stove like he was choosing not to be provoked.
“I’m dressed,” he said evenly, “because after I cook breakfast, I have to stop by Emerson College.”
Y/N’s smile faded into a pout. “Why?”
Henry stirred the pan, voice matter of fact. “To pick up student papers. I need to grade them.”
Y/N sighed like it physically pained her. “You’re really going?”
Henry’s jaw tightened, not irritation, something closer to reluctance that he didn’t want to admit.
“It won’t take long,” he said.
Y/N leaned her shoulder against the counter, watching him with a look that was half sulky, half hungry. “I like it better when you’re not being Professor Creel.”
Henry’s eyes flicked to hers. “And what am I being right now?”
Y/N’s gaze traced the line of his collar, the neatness of him, the way he still looked like he belonged behind a lectern even in his own kitchen.
“Still you,” she murmured. “Just with less pretending.”
Henry’s mouth tightened slightly, as if he disliked how true that was.
Y/N stepped close. She moved behind him again, not teasing this time, just seeking.
Henry was warm where the stove heat reached him, but there was that other thing too: the way he always ran cooler than most people, a quiet coldness that lived under his skin like a signature.
Y/N had noticed it from the beginning.
That cool, controlled presence. That distant, untouchable air.
Coldness that meant he was careful. Calculated. Not soft.
Not easy.
But when she pressed her front to his back anyway, cheek resting between his shoulder blades, Henry didn’t pull away.
He didn’t stiffen. He didn’t step out of reach.
He just let her.
And Y/N felt it like permission.
Like trust.
Like being chosen.
Her arms slid around his waist slowly, holding him there. “I like being close to you,” she admitted, voice quieter now, words muffled against his shirt.
Henry’s hand paused again. The spatula hovered.
Then he set it down carefully and reached back, covering one of her hands with his, grounding, steady.
“I know,” he said, voice low.
Y/N swallowed, tightening her grip. “I hate when you leave.”
Henry’s shoulders shifted, almost a sigh. “I’m not leaving,” he said, firm enough to matter. “I’m stepping out.”
Y/N’s eyes closed briefly. “That sounds like a technicality.”
Henry turned his head just slightly, enough that his voice brushed close to her. “It’s not,” he murmured. “I’ll come back. I won’t do that again.”
Y/N’s throat tightened at the unspoken meaning. I won’t cut you off. I won’t disappear. I won’t decide you’re better off without you having a say.
She lifted her head, looking at the side of his face. “You swear?”
Henry’s gaze met hers over his shoulder, dark, steady, serious. “I swear.”
It should’ve been enough.
It wasn’t.
Y/N shifted her grip, fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt at his waist like she needed proof he was real and present, not just a promise in a neat voice.
“Okay,” she murmured, then tried to sound casual again, like the vulnerability hadn’t just exposed her ribs. “Then come back fast.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed faintly. “Demanding.”
Y/N’s mouth curved. “You like it.”
A brief pause.
Then, almost against his will, Henry’s mouth twitched like he did.
Y/N hummed, satisfied, and let her head rest on him again. “Also,” she added, voice brightening with the familiar spark she’d been missing all week, “you owe me conversation.”
Henry resumed stirring, but his attention was visibly split now, half on the pan, half on the girl clinging to him like she was trying to crawl under his skin.
“What kind of conversation?” he asked, tone carefully neutral.
Y/N slid around to his side, leaning her hip against the counter so she could watch his face. “Literature,” she said sweetly. “Since you’re apparently incapable of being normal.”
Henry’s eyes flicked to her, faintly amused. “And what exactly do you want to argue about?”
Y/N stepped closer as she spoke, almost unconsciously closing the space between them. “Well,” she said, voice innocent, “for starters… Lord of the Flies.”
Henry’s brows lifted. “That’s your starter.”
Y/N nodded solemnly, edging closer. “I want your opinion. Like, real opinion. Not your classroom opinion.”
Henry angled his head. “You think I have two opinions.”
Y/N’s eyes gleamed. “I think you have a private one you don’t share.”
Henry’s gaze dropped to her mouth, then back up. “Dangerous assumption.”
Y/N leaned in closer anyway, voice lowering like it was a secret. “Is it because it makes you look soft?”
Henry’s jaw tightened.
Y/N smiled, pleased she’d hit something. She took another small step, tilting her head as if she were genuinely curious.
“And then,” she continued, “I want to know what you think about Dracula.”
Henry blinked once. “That’s quite a leap.”
Y/N shrugged, feigning nonchalance as she moved closer again. “I like vampires.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Do you?”
Y/N’s smile turned wicked. “Maybe I like monsters.”
Something flashed in Henry’s gaze, quick and dark, like a cord had been pulled too tight.
He finally seemed to notice what she’d been doing: the way she’d inched closer with every book title, closing the distance like she was reeling him in by degrees.
His eyes dropped, her shirt, her bare legs, the way she looked entirely too comfortable in his space, then lifted back to her face.
“Y/N,” he said, warning threaded through her name.
Y/N tilted her head, innocent. “What?”
Henry’s grip tightened on the spatula.
For a second, he looked like he might try to keep pretending he was in control.
Then he exhaled through his nose, reached forward, and turned off the burner with a decisive click.
The silence after the flame died was loud.
Y/N’s stomach flipped.
Henry faced her fully now, no stove between them, no task to hide behind. His hands settled at her waist, firm and sure, and her breath caught as he moved her back, back, until she bumped lightly against the counter.
Y/N lifted her chin, eyes bright with that familiar challenge.
Henry’s gaze held hers, unreadable. Then, without rushing, he lifted her, guiding her up onto the counter like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Y/N’s hands caught his shoulders for balance, her knees falling to either side of him.
Henry stepped in close enough that she could feel his breath.
“You want my opinion,” he murmured.
Y/N’s voice came out softer than she intended. “I do.”
Henry’s eyes searched her face, the edge of his control fraying into something more honest. “You keep asking questions,” he said, low and deliberate, “and moving closer like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”
Y/N swallowed, fingers curling in his shirt. “Maybe I do know.”
Henry’s jaw flexed.
Then he leaned in, and the kiss he gave her wasn’t hurried. It was firm, claiming, like a quiet decision.
Y/N melted into it anyway.
No words. No lecture. No rulebook.
Just a kiss that said: I’m coming back. I’m not leaving. And when it’s just us, this is mine too.
And for the first time since everything had cracked open, she believed him.
He kissed her, a deep, possessive kiss that was now teeth and tongue. His hands were everywhere, sliding up her thighs, pushing the hem of his shirt up to her waist.
"Dracula," he said, his voice low, "is about obsession. About the primal, irresistible urge to possess. To consume."
He didn't give her a chance to respond. He ripped her panties aside, the fabric tearing with a soft, satisfying sound, and then his fingers were on her, stroking her slick, wet folds.
She cried out, her head falling back, her hands gripping his shoulders. He was relentless, his fingers expertly working her clit, circling and teasing until she was writhing on the counter, a desperate, needy mess.
"Henry, please," she begged, her voice a ragged, desperate plea.
He dropped his hand from her heat, making her whine in protest. He unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers with a speed that was both shocking and incredibly hot. He freed his cock, hard and thick, and guided it to her entrance. He thrust into her in one smooth, hard movement, stealing her breath and her sanity.
The countertop groaned under their weight, a loud, protesting creak that only added to the raw, illicit thrill of it all. He set a brutal, punishing rhythm, his hips slamming into hers, each thrust a powerful, possessive claim. She was loud, her moans and cries echoing in the small kitchen, a symphony of unbridled pleasure.
He was fucking her like he was trying to prove a point, like he was trying to erase every last trace of doubt from her mind. He was claiming her, not just with his body, but with his actions. This was his answer to her question, his definitive statement on desire and destruction.
She could feel the pleasure building, a tight, coiling heat in her belly. She was so close, so incredibly close.
"Come for me," he commanded, his voice a low, dominant roar. "Come on my cock. Now."
The command was her undoing. Her orgasm crashed over her, a violent, all-consuming wave that ripped a scream from her lungs. Her entire body convulsed, her inner walls clamping down around him like a vise as pleasure, sharp and blinding, seized every nerve ending.
He rode her through it, his thrusts becoming deep and irregular. With a final, guttural groan, he buried himself inside her, his body tensing as he poured himself into her, a hot, thick flood of release that filled her completely.
They collapsed against each other, a tangled, sweaty mess, their bodies humming with the aftershocks. The kitchen was a disaster, breakfast forgotten, their bodies still joined. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead, his lips a silent promise. He had to go to Emerson, but in this moment, he was exactly where he belonged: with her, lost in a world of their own making.
Henry froze the moment the knock hit the door.
It wasn’t loud, just firm and deliberate, but it snapped through the apartment like a gunshot. It was the kind of sound that instantly reminded them they weren’t alone in the world, no matter how private Henry liked to pretend his walls were.
For a second, neither of them moved.
The kitchen was a wreck of small evidence: a turned off burner, a pan abandoned on the stove, the faint smell of breakfast gone slightly too long in the air. Y/N was still perched on the counter, hair mussed, cheeks flushed, one of Henry’s shirts hanging off her shoulders like she had been wearing it for hours instead of minutes. The whole room felt too warm.
Henry’s jaw tightened.
Another knock came, a little sharper this time.
Y/N covered her mouth with the back of her hand, trying not to laugh and trying not to look guilty at the same time. Her eyes flicked to Henry, bright and mischievous, still glowing with that satisfaction she always got when she dragged him out of his control and made him admit he liked it.
Henry did not look amused.
He looked like a man watching his own life try to implode in real time.
He let out a low, frustrated groan, pulling away with a reluctance that was almost comical. He quickly tucked himself back into his trousers, zipping up and running a hand through his already disheveled hair.
“Stay,” he murmured, voice low and clipped.
Y/N lifted an eyebrow. “Stay where?”
Henry shot her a look that was half warning, half please don’t make this worse. He tugged his pants into place, movements quick but careful, and smoothed his shirt down like fabric could restore dignity.
The knock came again.
Henry exhaled through his nose, then crossed the living room with long strides, every step carrying the weight of reluctance.
Y/N hopped off the counter, her legs feeling like jelly. She quickly pulled down the hem of his sweatshirt, her cheeks burning with a mixture of post-coital bliss and sudden, acute embarrassment.
Henry paused at the door long enough to compose his face into something neutral, something professor like.
Then he opened it.
The neighbor stood there in a sweatshirt and jeans, a notebook tucked under one arm, expression somewhere between annoyed and embarrassed to be standing there at all. He was young, early twenties, clean cut enough to look like he actually went to the library on purpose. His eyes were tired in the specific way people got when they were stressed about tests and too aware of time passing.
He cleared his throat.
“Hey,” he said, voice careful. “Uh… sorry. I just…”
Henry’s gaze was flat. “Yes.”
The neighbor’s eyes flicked past Henry’s shoulder automatically, like he could not help checking the apartment behind him, and that was when he caught a glimpse of the kitchen. The counter. The disheveled scene. The turned off stove.
And then he saw Y/N, wearing nothing but an oversized sweatshirt, her hair a mess, her face flushed
The neighbor blinked.
Recognition sparked instantly.
Because of course it did.
He had seen her before, on the hallway floor gathering groceries, looking sweet and helpful, while Henry had swooped in and hauled her away like he could not stand someone else looking at her for more than a second.
The neighbor’s eyes widened slightly.
“Oh,” he said, as if the universe had finally explained itself.
Henry’s hand tightened on the edge of the door. “What do you want?”
The neighbor swallowed, visibly trying to be polite despite the fact he had come upstairs and knocked on someone’s door to ask them not to, whatever had been happening in there.
“I’m studying,” he said, voice strained. “For an economics test. And, um…” His eyes flicked again toward the kitchen like he could not stop them. He looked back at Henry, cheeks faintly red. “The walls are thin.”
Henry’s expression did not change.
The neighbor continued, more awkward now. “So if you could maybe keep it down. Like, I don’t want to hear… banging. Or screaming.”
Y/N’s eyes widened, then she bit the inside of her cheek so hard she looked like she might choke on her own laughter.
Henry’s jaw flexed like he was one second away from slamming the door.
“I’ll handle it,” he said, tone cold.
The neighbor nodded quickly, like he had gotten what he came for.
But his eyes drifted again, unfortunately and inevitably, back to Y/N.
And that was when it clicked fully.
His expression changed from annoyed neighbor to oh, that is who it was.
He gave a small, helpless exhale through his nose, half laugh, half disbelief. Then he looked at Henry again, eyebrows lifting like he was silently accusing him of being the luckiest man alive while also ruining his GPA.
“Right,” the neighbor muttered. “Yeah. Okay.”
He started backing away, still staring a little too long.
Y/N, unable to help herself, lifted her hand in a tiny wave, sweet and innocent, like she had just borrowed sugar.
The neighbor’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he had clocked exactly who the loud one was.
He pointed once, subtle but unmistakable. Not at Henry.
At her.
Then he shook his head like he was suffering and turned to go.
“I have a test,” he mumbled to himself as he walked away, voice faintly miserable. “I have an economics test…”
Henry shut the door slowly.
Not slammed, just closed with the kind of controlled fury that somehow felt worse.
For a moment, he stood there with his back to the apartment, shoulders tense, like he was trying to reassemble his dignity from the floorboards.
Y/N’s voice floated over, teasing and entirely unrepentant.
“Your reputation is ruined.”
Henry turned his head slightly, giving her a look over his shoulder that could have melted steel.
“My reputation,” he said flatly, “is the least of my concerns.”
Y/N smiled, unabashed. “Mhm.”
Henry walked back toward the kitchen, every step measured, the irritation on his face fighting with something darker and more helpless underneath, something that did not regret what had happened, only the timing.
He stopped in front of her, gaze sweeping over her once, slow and assessing, like he was still trying to convince himself she was real.
Then his eyes lifted to hers.
“You enjoy provoking me,” he said.
Y/N’s smile turned wicked. “I enjoy you.”
Henry’s breath shifted, just slightly.
He leaned in, braced a hand on the counter beside her, caging her in without actually touching her.
“And you enjoy,” he added, voice lower, “making me pay for it.”
Y/N’s fingers curled in his shirt again, tugging him closer with a soft, satisfied hum. “Maybe.”
Henry’s gaze flicked toward the door, as if he could still hear the neighbor’s footsteps retreating.
Then he looked back at her, eyes dark.
“Next time,” he murmured, “we’re locking the door.”
Y/N smiled like she had just been promised something.
“Next time,” she echoed.
And Henry, despite himself, kissed her again, quiet, heated, and briefly careless, like the world could knock all it wanted.
synapse: back in boston at emerson, y/n returns from hawkins with her head clearer but her heart messier because running away for the weekend didn’t stop her from wanting henry creel, it just reminded her she had other options too.
pairing: professor!henry creel x reader, steve harrington x reader (briefly)
a/n: this chapter was originally much longer but I had to cut it down. another part will be posted soon.
. . .
By Friday, Y/N had learned how to move through Emerson College like she hadn’t been hollowed out.
She still went to her classes. She still took notes. She still turned in assignments. She still smiled at the right moments so people wouldn’t ask questions she couldn’t answer.
But in Henry Creel’s English class, in his room, she had gone quiet in a way that felt unnatural even to her.
She sat where she always sat. She listened. She wrote. She kept her eyes on the page like it was safer than looking up.
She didn’t raise her hand anymore.
She didn’t argue his interpretations.
She didn’t push back the way she used to, the way he’d secretly loved, the way she’d once felt so alive doing it.
It wasn’t because she didn’t have opinions.
It was because she didn’t want to hear her own voice sound like hope in a room that had taught her what hope cost.
Nancy clocked it immediately.
Not in a dramatic, public way. Nancy Wheeler never made a scene when she could gather evidence first. But Y/N could feel her friend watching her between classes, in the dining hall, back at their shared dorm, tracking the way she moved like she was trying not to spill.
By late afternoon, Nancy finally said it.
They were in the dorm, sunlight thinning into early winter dusk. Nancy sat cross-legged on her bed with an open notebook and a pen behind her ear, hair pushed back as if she’d been working on something important. Y/N was at her desk, staring at a page she’d already read twice without absorbing a word.
Nancy tapped her pen against her notebook once. Twice.
Then, bluntly, “You’re miserable.”
Y/N didn’t look up. “I’m fine.”
Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re functioning. That’s not the same thing.”
Y/N’s jaw tightened. She kept her gaze on the page like it could shield her. “What do you want me to do, Nancy? Start debating Shakespeare and Atwood again like nothing happened?”
Nancy’s expression softened for a second, then sharpened with decision. “No.”
Y/N finally looked over. “Then what?”
Nancy shut her notebook with a quiet snap, like she’d reached a verdict. “We’re leaving.”
Y/N blinked. “Leaving where?”
“Away,” Nancy said. “For the weekend. You need air that doesn’t taste like this campus.”
Y/N gave a humorless little laugh. “What, like Hawaii?”
Nancy stared at her. “Do you have Hawaii money?”
Y/N’s mouth opened, then closed.
Nancy lifted an eyebrow. “Because I have ramen money.”
Y/N sighed, sinking back in her chair. “Okay, fine. Not Hawaii.”
Nancy leaned forward. “My hometown.”
Y/N’s brows pulled together. “Hawkins?”
Nancy nodded like it was obvious. “Yes. You can stay with my family. My mom will feed you like she’s personally offended by your bones showing.”
Y/N stared at her, hesitant. Hawkins sounded small. Intimate. The kind of place where people noticed everything.
“That’s kind of the point,” Nancy added, reading her expression. “Small. Quiet. No professors. No hallways. No weird campus tension that makes you stare at the floor like it owes you money.”
Y/N’s throat tightened, but she didn’t argue.
Nancy’s voice softened, coaxing now. “And you’ll get out of your head. We’ll walk around. I’ll give you the tour. We’ll do normal things.”
Y/N’s gaze drifted back to her desk. “Normal doesn’t exist anymore.”
Nancy exhaled through her nose. “Then we’ll fake it until your nervous system calms down.”
Y/N’s lips twitched despite herself, barely.
Nancy took that as permission to keep going. “Also,” she said, casual in the way she wasn’t casual at all, “Jonathan’s in town.”
Y/N’s attention flicked back. “Jonathan Byers?”
Nancy nodded. “Visiting from California. And,” she hesitated like she was building suspense on purpose, “you’ll finally meet Robin and Steve.”
Y/N blinked. “You mean Robin Buckley and Steve Harrington?”
Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Full government names, apparently.”
Y/N huffed a small laugh. It surprised her how good it felt in her chest, even tiny. “You talk about them a lot.”
“Because they’re my friends,” Nancy said, then added with pointed emphasis, “and because you need to remember you have a life outside of one man and one classroom.”
Y/N’s smile faltered.
Nancy’s tone stayed steady, but her eyes were sharp, protective. “You’ve been going through the motions all week. You’re quiet in his class, you barely eat, and you act like you’re waiting for a verdict on your own feelings.”
Y/N looked away, throat tight.
Nancy continued anyway, voice gentler now. “Maybe it would be nice for you to be somewhere you aren’t stuck. And maybe it would be nice for you to see you have options.”
Y/N’s stomach dipped. “Options.”
Nancy shrugged like she wasn’t aiming directly at the bruise. “Options. Like, I don’t know… Steve.”
Y/N’s eyes snapped back. “Nancy.”
“What?” Nancy said innocently. “He’s a good guy. And he’s not your professor. And he’s not older than you. And you could go out with him publicly without consequences.”
Y/N’s face warmed, half irritation, half something she didn’t want to name. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m being realistic,” Nancy replied. Then she smirked, because of course she did. “Also, I’ve seen a picture of him.”
Y/N groaned softly, already knowing where this was going.
Nancy leaned in, delighted. “And you said he was cute.”
Y/N’s eyes widened. “I did not.”
“You did,” Nancy said, triumphant. “You said,” she lowered her voice into a bad impression of Y/N, “‘Okay, he’s kind of cute.’”
Y/N grabbed a pillow and threw it at Nancy’s head. Nancy caught it, laughing.
“Stop,” Y/N muttered, but there was less bite in it than usual.
Nancy’s laughter faded into something more serious. “I’m not saying you have to do anything,” she said. “I’m saying you’re allowed to remember you’re not trapped.”
Y/N swallowed. Her gaze drifted past Nancy to the window, to the campus outside: brick buildings, students moving like nothing hurt.
She thought of Wednesday.
Of turning a corner and seeing Patty Newby in the hallway with Henry, the two of them talking like colleagues, like equals, like nothing complicated had ever happened between him and Y/N.
It hadn’t been rational. It had been quick and sharp: jealousy like a cut under the skin, and the old humiliation flaring up again.
It had reminded her how easy it was to feel replaced.
How easy it was for him to look normal while she struggled to breathe.
Y/N looked back at Nancy, quieter now. “Hawkins is far.”
Nancy shrugged. “So is feeling like this forever.”
Y/N’s throat tightened.
Nancy reached forward and nudged Y/N’s knee with her foot, gentle. “Come with me. Just for the weekend. Let my mom feed you. Let Robin talk your ear off. Let Steve do whatever Steve does. Let yourself laugh at something that isn’t him.”
Y/N hesitated, eyes flicking down, then back up.
“Okay,” she said finally, like the word cost her pride.
Nancy’s face softened instantly, relief, satisfaction, victory all at once. “Okay,” she repeated. “Good. We’ll leave after your last class.”
Y/N nodded, but her chest felt strange: tight, nervous, almost guilty.
Not because she didn’t want to go.
Because a part of her still felt like everything she did was somehow tethered to Henry, even in his absence.
And maybe that was exactly why Nancy was dragging her out of Boston for the weekend, so Y/N could remember what it felt like to be wanted without it hurting.
. . .
Saturday night in Hawkins didn’t feel like a Saturday night in Boston.
It felt slower, softer around the edges, like the air itself had more room to breathe.
The sun had already sunk, leaving behind a bruised orange-and-pink horizon that made the town look almost cinematic if you didn’t think too hard about what Hawkins had a habit of hiding. The wind up on the roof carried a bite, cold enough that Y/N kept tugging the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands between sips, but not cold enough to send anyone back inside.
They were on top of WSQK The Squawk, a flat roof with a low brick wall at the edge, a few old vents, and a view of Hawkins that made it look small and contained, like a diorama someone could shake if they wanted to.
Someone, Steve, probably, had dragged up mismatched lawn chairs that looked like they’d survived at least three summers and one questionable garage sale. A cooler sat in the middle like a centerpiece, filled with beer and condensation, with a couple of crushed bags of ice that had already started losing the fight. A radio played faintly from somewhere inside, muffled through the roof access door, like the building couldn’t fully stop being itself even off the clock.
Y/N had been attached to Nancy for most of the day.
Not in a clingy way, more like a life raft way.
Nancy had given her the Hawkins tour with that brisk, determined energy she got when she wanted something to feel normal even if it wasn’t. She’d pointed out the diner, the little stores, the places that sounded ordinary when Nancy described them but carried weight in the way her voice tightened on certain corners.
And now, after hours of introductions and small talk and learning how to smile without feeling like it might crack, Y/N and Nancy Wheeler were the last two still standing close together.
Everyone else had settled into their chairs.
Robin Buckley was perched sideways in one of the lawn chairs like the concept of sitting normally offended her on principle, knees up, arms draped over them. She had that sharp-eyed, restless vibe of someone who could talk for ten minutes straight without taking a breath and still somehow look like she was listening to everything at once.
Jonathan Byers sat a little apart from the main cluster, beer in hand, shoulders slightly hunched against the wind. He looked older than he was, tired in a way that made Y/N instantly trust him, like he’d seen too much and didn’t waste energy pretending otherwise.
And Steve Harrington… Steve was sprawled in his chair like he owned the roof. One ankle crossed over his knee, bottle hanging loose in his hand, hair doing that effortlessly annoying thing where it looked perfect even in the wind. He had the kind of face people trusted automatically, until he opened his mouth and you realized he was either sweeter than expected or dumber than expected, and it could go either way.
Y/N didn’t know him yet.
Not really.
But she’d already caught him glancing at her when he thought she wasn’t looking, quick, curious looks that weren’t rude, just interested. Like he couldn’t tell if she was going to like him or not and it bothered him slightly.
Nancy had barely finished introducing Y/N properly, name, Emerson, “she’s my roommate,” the basics, before Robin, as if possessed by the spirit of chaos itself, leaned forward and decided to set the entire roof on fire.
“So,” Robin said brightly, eyes flicking between Nancy and Y/N with a grin that made it clear she was about to be unbearable, “you’re the one.”
Y/N’s brows lifted. “The one what?”
Nancy made a sound that was basically a warning. “Robin.”
Robin ignored it the way people ignored speed limits.
“The one banging her teacher,” Robin said, with the casual confidence of someone ordering fries.
Time froze.
The wind seemed to pause mid-gust. Even the cooler looked offended.
Y/N’s head snapped toward Nancy so fast she almost gave herself whiplash.
Nancy’s face went red immediately, violently, like someone had flipped a switch behind her skin. She looked caught, guilty, and defensive all at once, which would have been funny if Y/N hadn’t felt her entire soul try to exit her body.
“Are you serious?” Y/N hissed, low enough that it didn’t carry, but sharp enough that Nancy flinched.
Nancy’s eyes went wide. “I…”
Robin lifted a hand, as if she was moderating a debate. “Before anyone murders me, I just want to say Nancy said we’re doing honesty. Like, radical honesty. Like, ‘we’re on a roof and we have beer and nobody can stop us’ honesty.”
“Nancy,” Y/N said again, voice tighter now.
Nancy’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again like she was searching for the right sentence and finding none.
Jonathan, meanwhile, took a slow sip of his beer like he’d decided not to react too hard because it was already spiraling, but his eyes flicked to Y/N with something like sympathy.
Steve had gone very still in his chair, bottle paused halfway to his mouth. His brows pulled together, not judgmental so much as processing. Like his brain was trying to line up “Nancy’s roommate” with “banging her teacher” and struggling with the math.
Y/N could feel heat crawl up her neck. Not just embarrassment, something angrier, because she hadn’t come to Hawkins to have her private life discussed like it was gossip on a roof.
Nancy, apparently sensing the incoming death sentence, did something so painfully Nancy Wheeler it almost made Y/N want to scream. She looked at Y/N with the world’s most pathetic, apologetic puppy-dog expression.
It was shameless.
It was manipulative.
It almost worked.
Nancy’s voice came out small. “I’m sorry.”
Y/N stared. “You told them?”
Nancy winced. “I… yes.”
“Why?” Y/N demanded, then immediately regretted how shaky the word sounded.
Nancy lifted both hands, palms out, pleading. “Because I had to talk to someone about it, or write it down. And I couldn’t write it down because if someone found it…”
Robin nodded aggressively. “Facts. Paper trails are how you die.”
Nancy shot Robin a look. Robin made a face like she was being helpful.
Nancy turned back to Y/N, eyes earnest. “And they’re miles away. They don’t know anyone at Emerson. It felt safe.”
Y/N’s mouth tightened. “Safe. Great.”
Robin leaned forward again, unable to stop herself. “Also, it was kind of impossible for her not to talk about it because she was walking around the house like she had a classified file in her spine.”
Nancy glared. “Robin, please.”
Robin held up both hands again. “I’m just saying. She was stressed. She was like…” Robin mimed writing furiously in the air. “Nancy Wheeler, investigative journalism, except the story was: My roommate is making terrible decisions and I’m emotionally invested against my will.”
Nancy’s face went redder. “That is not…”
Jonathan finally spoke, voice calm, grounded, like he was tossing a rope into the middle of the chaos.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he said to Y/N, “they all know. But nobody’s telling anyone.”
Y/N’s gaze flicked to him, still tight. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
Jonathan shrugged slightly, not offended. “It’s Hawkins. Nobody here cares about Emerson gossip. And if anyone tried to spread it, Nancy would probably bury them in a headline.”
Nancy muttered, “I would.”
Robin pointed at Jonathan like he’d just delivered the moral of the story. “See? Protective. Loyal. Terrifying.”
Y/N tried to breathe through her nose like Nancy had told her a hundred times when she was spiraling. It didn’t help much.
She looked at Nancy again, really looked, at the guilt in her eyes, the tension in her shoulders. Nancy wasn’t laughing. She wasn’t treating it like entertainment. She looked like she’d been carrying it too, in her own way, and had finally cracked enough to tell someone because she didn’t know what else to do.
Y/N exhaled slowly.
“Okay,” she said, voice forced steady. “Okay. Fine.”
Nancy’s shoulders dropped a fraction, relief immediate.
Y/N held up a finger. “But we’re not doing this like it’s a joke.”
Robin opened her mouth.
Nancy snapped, “Robin.”
Robin shut it with a dramatic zipper motion.
Steve, who had been quiet far longer than seemed natural for him, cleared his throat, careful, like he wasn’t sure what tone he was allowed.
“So,” he started, then stopped, then tried again. “Uh. Are we, like… allowed to ask questions? Or is this a ‘do not touch the trauma’ situation?”
Robin’s head whipped toward him. “Steve, shut up.”
“What?” Steve protested, defensive. “I’m being respectful.”
Jonathan’s mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.
Y/N’s eyes flicked to Steve, assessing. He looked genuinely concerned, not gross, not amused. Just out of his depth, trying to behave.
It was strangely disarming.
“We’re not doing questions,” Y/N said flatly.
Steve nodded immediately. “Okay. No questions. Got it.”
Robin pointed at him. “Wow. Growth.”
Steve shot her a look. “I hate you.”
Robin beamed. “You love me.”
Nancy edged closer to Y/N, voice lower now, more private. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I wasn’t trying to… I just… I didn’t know what to do with it.”
Y/N swallowed, the anger still there but no longer spiking. “I know,” she admitted, begrudgingly. “You’re just… you’re you.”
Nancy’s expression softened. “Yeah.”
Y/N looked out over the roof edge at the town, the streetlights blinking on one by one. The sky was deepening to purple. The air smelled like winter and old brick and beer.
It was weirdly peaceful up here, even with the chaos.
She realized, suddenly, that she hadn’t been laughed at. Not really. Robin had said it like Robin said everything, too loud, too blunt, but Nancy looked ashamed, Jonathan looked protective, and even Steve looked like he wanted to be decent about it.
They weren’t judging her.
They were just being people.
Y/N let out a slow breath and turned back toward the group, shoulders easing the tiniest amount.
Robin immediately seized the opening like it was a door left unlocked.
“Okay,” Robin said, grinning again, softer now. “No questions. Fine. But I do get to say one thing.”
Nancy narrowed her eyes. “Robin.”
Robin held up a hand. “Just one. And it’s not gross. It’s logistical.”
Y/N blinked, wary. “What?”
Robin gestured vaguely toward the cooler. “Drink. Because if you’re going to have complicated feelings about a morally questionable academic entanglement, you might as well do it with a beer on a roof at sunset like a movie.”
Y/N stared at her.
Then, against her will, she let out a short laugh.
It surprised her so much she almost looked around to see who had made the sound.
Nancy’s head snapped toward her, eyes wide in relief, like she’d just seen proof that Y/N wasn’t completely gone.
Robin looked absurdly pleased with herself. “There she is.”
Jonathan’s expression softened.
Steve, still watching Y/N more than he probably meant to, relaxed slightly in his chair, like the tension on the roof had finally dropped a notch.
Y/N took a beer when Nancy offered it, cold bottle sweating against her palm. She didn’t drink right away, just held it, letting the chill anchor her.
Then she looked at Nancy again, quietly.
“You owe me,” Y/N said.
Nancy nodded immediately. “I know.”
Y/N’s mouth twitched. “And if Robin says anything else…”
Robin lifted both hands. “I’m muzzled.”
Nancy muttered, “Thank God.”
Y/N finally took a sip.
It tasted like bitterness and cold and something almost like freedom.
And for the first time in days, sitting on a roof in a town she didn’t belong to with people who somehow made space for her anyway, she felt the tight knot in her chest loosen, just a fraction, as the night stretched out ahead of them.
. . .
Y/N ended up on the edge of the roof without really meaning to.
The rest of them were still clustered around the cooler and the mismatched chairs, laughing at something Robin said. Jonathan looked quietly amused, Nancy half-arguing with her drink in hand the way she always did when she was trying to pretend she wasn’t tired.
But Y/N needed a second.
So she sat on the low brick ledge, turned sideways, and let her legs dangle over the drop. The air smelled like cold metal and distant exhaust and that weird electric hum that always clung to buildings with antennas. The sunset had thinned into a dusty purple, and the town below looked smaller from up here: soft lights, quiet streets, the illusion that nothing bad ever happened in a place like this.
Footsteps crunched behind her.
Not loud. Not aggressive.
She didn’t turn right away, but she felt him stop a few feet away like he was asking permission without words.
“Hey,” Steve said, voice easy. “Can I sit?”
Y/N glanced over her shoulder.
He was holding a beer bottle by the neck, but he wasn’t drinking it, just holding it like he didn’t know what else to do with his hands. His hair was wind-tossed, jacket collar slightly crooked, and he looked oddly careful for someone who carried himself like he never had to be.
Y/N nodded once. “Yeah.”
Steve sat beside her, leaving enough space to be polite but close enough that she could feel his warmth in the cold. For a moment, neither of them talked. They just watched the sky change and listened to Robin cackle at something that sounded like an insult she’d been waiting all week to deliver.
Y/N’s eyes flicked back toward the group and landed on Nancy reaching for another beer.
“Nancy,” Y/N called out immediately. “Put it down.”
Nancy froze with the bottle halfway to her mouth and looked over like she’d been caught stealing. “What?”
“I said put it down,” Y/N repeated, louder this time. “I know exactly what you’re about to do.”
Nancy squinted. “You can’t boss me…”
“I absolutely can,” Y/N cut in, pointing at her. “Because I don’t like you drunk.”
Robin made a delighted noise. “Oh my God, she’s right.”
Jonathan nodded calmly from his chair like this was an established fact. “She’s right.”
Steve, beside Y/N, huffed a laugh under his breath. “Yeah. She’s right.”
Nancy looked betrayed. “Excuse me?”
Y/N stared her down. “You get drunk and you start mumbling and rambling, and you say the word ‘bullshit’ every ten seconds like it’s punctuation.”
Nancy opened her mouth, then immediately closed it.
Robin leaned forward, delighted. “Her favorite drunk word is ‘bullshit’?”
Jonathan answered like he was reading a report. “It is.”
Steve nodded too. “It definitely is. I’ve heard it.”
Nancy glared at all of them. “You’re all terrible.”
Y/N softened only slightly. “And you get mean, Nance. Not on purpose, but you do.”
That made Nancy pause. The glare faded into something quieter. She looked away first, like she hated being seen too clearly, then set the bottle back in the cooler with a grumpy shove.
“There,” Nancy muttered. “Happy?”
Y/N exhaled. “Yes.”
Steve watched the exchange with something like surprise, then something like understanding. When Nancy turned back toward Robin and Jonathan, Steve leaned slightly closer to Y/N, voice lower.
“You really care about her,” he said.
Y/N’s gaze stayed on Nancy, lingering a beat. “Yeah,” she admitted. “I do.”
Steve was quiet for a moment, then said carefully, “She needed someone like that.”
Y/N’s eyebrows pulled together. “Like what?”
Steve hesitated, his jaw flexing like he was choosing how much to say. His eyes flicked toward Nancy, then back to the horizon.
“After Barb,” he said quietly.
Y/N’s chest tightened a little. She’d heard the name tonight like it was sacred, the way Nancy said it without saying much at all.
“All I know is…” Y/N swallowed. “She died.”
Steve’s expression shifted, something pained, something guilty that didn’t belong to him anymore but still sat on his shoulders anyway.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “She did.”
He didn’t go into details. He didn’t force the story onto her like a warning label. He just sat there with it for a second, like he respected the weight Nancy carried and the fact that Y/N had taken some of it without even being asked.
Y/N looked down at her boots swinging over open air. “Nancy doesn’t talk about it much.”
Steve’s voice went quieter. “She doesn’t. Not unless she trusts you.”
Y/N’s throat tightened in a way that felt strangely proud. “Okay,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.
A beat passed. The wind tugged at the ends of her hair.
Then Y/N glanced at Steve again, shifting the subject because she needed it to.
“So,” she said cautiously, “you and Nancy…”
Steve’s mouth twitched, half amusement, half resignation. “Yeah. Me and Nancy.”
Y/N didn’t mean for it to sound accusatory, but her voice came out careful anyway. “Is that weird? Me being here? Her trying to set us up?”
Steve shook his head immediately. “No,” he said. “No, it’s not weird.”
Y/N studied him. “You sure?”
Steve leaned back on his hands, looking up at the sky like it held the simplest answer.
“What Nancy and I had, that was in the past,” he said. Not bitter. Not defensive. Just honest. “We were kids. We did what we did. We learned what we learned.”
Y/N’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And now?”
Steve glanced at her, and something in his face softened. “Now I’m looking at the future,” he said. “I’m trying to be better than the guy I was.”
Y/N’s lips parted, a quiet breath. She nodded slowly. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Maybe I am too.”
Steve’s gaze stayed on her a little longer after she said that, like he liked hearing it.
Then, like he couldn’t help himself, he asked, “So… what’s he like?”
Y/N blinked. “What?”
“Your teacher,” Steve clarified, tone casual but curious. “The one Robin yelled about.”
Y/N let out a laugh that surprised her, short and real and a little helpless. “Oh my God.”
Steve smiled. “What? I’m just asking.”
Y/N looked away, cheeks warm. “He’s… I don’t know.”
Steve waited.
Y/N sighed, staring at the town below like it had answers written on it. “He’s smart,” she admitted. “Like, frustratingly smart. The kind of person who makes you want to argue because he sounds so sure of himself.”
Steve’s brow lifted, interested. “Okay.”
“And he listens,” Y/N added, quieter. “Which sounds stupid, because obviously professors listen in class, but…” She swallowed. “He listens like what I say actually matters.”
Steve didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease.
He just nodded once, like that made sense in a way he understood too well.
Y/N kept talking because it felt weirdly easier to say it to Steve than it had been to Nancy. Maybe because Steve was new to her. Maybe because he wasn’t tangled up in her week-to-week pain the way Nancy was. Maybe because he was sitting beside her like he didn’t want anything from her except honesty.
“He makes me feel seen,” Y/N admitted. “And then he doesn’t. And that’s the problem.”
Steve’s expression softened. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That sounds like a problem.”
Y/N’s laugh turned bitter. “It is.”
Steve watched her for a second, then took a breath like he was about to step onto thin ice.
“I like you,” he said.
Y/N blinked, startled.
Steve rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly less smooth. “I mean, I just met you, so that sounds insane, but…” He looked at her again, steadying. “You’re smart. You’re funny. You care about Nancy in a way that makes me trust you immediately.” His mouth twitched. “And you’re really pretty.”
Y/N felt her face heat so fast she almost wanted to duck off the roof.
“Steve,” she started.
“I’m not trying to be weird,” he cut in quickly. “I just… I would really like to take you out.”
Y/N’s chest tightened.
Steve held up one hand, gentle. “But I also have eyes,” he added, softer. “And you’re not over him.”
The sentence landed with a quiet kind of sadness.
Y/N swallowed hard. Her gaze dropped to her hands in her lap, fingers twisting together.
“I’m not,” she admitted.
Steve nodded like it hurt a little but he wasn’t going to make it her problem. “Yeah.”
Y/N looked back at him, eyes glossy in the dim light. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Steve said immediately. “It’s not something you apologize for. It’s just where you are.”
Y/N’s throat tightened again. “You’re really good,” she said, like she was realizing it in real time.
Steve gave a crooked smile. “I try.”
Y/N let out a shaky breath. “If I had fewer issues,” she said quietly, “and if I’d met you sooner…”
Steve’s expression softened, patient. “Yeah?”
Y/N nodded, swallowing down the lump in her throat. “You would’ve been good to me,” she said. “Good for me.”
Steve didn’t argue. He didn’t try to convince her otherwise.
He just sat beside her on the edge of the roof, feet planted, shoulder warm near hers, and looked out over Hawkins like he was willing to be here anyway. No pressure. No punishment. No ultimatum.
After a moment, he nudged her gently with his shoulder. “You deserve that,” he said quietly. “Even if it’s not me right now.”
Y/N’s eyes burned.
She blinked hard and let the wind dry them before they fell.
Then she forced a small smile and leaned her shoulder back into his, just enough to say thank you without words.
And behind them, Nancy’s laugh rose again, Robin’s voice cutting through it, Jonathan’s quiet presence steady as ever, proof that, for tonight at least, Y/N had somewhere to be that wasn’t Henry’s classroom.
. . .
Sunday in Hawkins had that slow, end-of-weekend drag to it: quiet streets, pale winter light, and the faint sense that the clock was already ticking toward the drive back to Emerson College.
Nancy Wheeler drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the radio like she was thinking about turning it on and deciding against it. Y/N sat in the passenger seat with an iced coffee in the cup holder, watching Hawkins slide by through the window: brick storefronts, sleepy intersections, the kind of town that looked harmless if you didn’t know where to look.
They passed a squat brick building with a familiar sign out front.
The Hawkins Post.
Nancy nodded toward it without slowing much. “That’s the Post.”
Y/N’s eyes lingered on the building. “That’s where you worked.”
Nancy’s mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “My first job in ‘journalism.’” The sarcasm in her voice was practiced and tired. “Which really meant I was the coffee-and-lunch errand girl.”
Y/N’s jaw tightened instantly.
She remembered Nancy talking about it back in their dorm late at night, her voice too casual for something that had clearly left bruises. The way the men in that building treated her like she was decoration. The sexist comments. The dismissive laughs. The fact that she had been smart and ambitious and eager, and they’d still looked through her like she was glass.
Y/N’s hands curled in her lap.
“That’s disgusting,” she said, anger rising fast.
Nancy shrugged like she’d learned to shrug for survival. “It was Hawkins. It was… what it was.”
Y/N turned in her seat to look at her properly. “Men like them are exactly why women like us have to fight just to have an opinion,” she said, voice sharp. “To be taken seriously. To exist in a room without being treated like some kind of—”
Nancy shot her a glance, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly. “Yeah.”
Y/N swallowed, gaze still locked on that building as it receded behind them. The anger didn’t fade. It sharpened.
A beat passed. Just the hum of tires on pavement, the faint rattle of the heater, Nancy’s steady breathing.
Then Y/N asked, quiet but lethal, “Who were the worst of them?”
Nancy hesitated, only a second, but Y/N saw it. The flicker of memory in her eyes. The tightening at her jaw.
“Bruce Lowe,” Nancy said, clipped. “And Tom Holloway. He owns the Post.”
Y/N nodded once like she’d just been handed a list.
Nancy barely had time to register the shift before Y/N’s hand reached into the cup holder, grabbed her iced coffee, and the passenger door clicked open.
“No,” Nancy started, alarm spiking. “Y/N, what are you doing?”
Y/N stepped out and shut the door gently. Gently, like she wasn’t about to wage war.
Nancy leaned across the console, eyes wide. “Y/N!”
Y/N didn’t look back. She just lifted the coffee slightly, as if saying trust me, and walked toward the entrance of The Hawkins Post with the kind of stride that said she had never met a consequence she respected.
The glass door opened with a small bell-like jingle.
Inside smelled like old paper, ink, and cheap aftershave. A bored receptionist sat behind the front desk with a phone nearby and a clipboard in front of her. She glanced up lazily as Y/N approached.
“Hi,” Y/N said brightly, her smile polite and entirely untrustworthy. “I’m looking for Bruce Lowe and Tom Holloway.”
The receptionist blinked. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Nope,” Y/N said cheerfully.
“Then I can’t—”
“It’s fine,” Y/N replied, and before the receptionist could finish, Y/N was already walking past the desk like she belonged there.
“Miss,” the receptionist called, standing. “Miss, you can’t—”
Y/N didn’t slow.
She followed the sound of voices, male and loud and self-assured, down the hall.
Then she pushed open a conference room door without knocking.
The room was full of men crowded around a table scattered with papers, coffee cups, and half-eaten lunches. Cigarette smoke hung in the air like a permanent stain. They were mid-conversation, talking over each other with the casual entitlement of people who’d never been told no in their lives.
“Beauty pageant,” one of them said, laughing. “That’s what sells. Get the girls in nice lighting.”
Another voice chimed in, cruder. Something about bodies. Legs. Smiles. A few of them snickered like it was clever.
Then they noticed Y/N.
Silence rippled through the room.
A man in a wrinkled shirt, Bruce Lowe, instantly recognizable from Nancy’s stories by the smugness alone, leaned back and looked her over like she was inventory.
“Wrong room,” he said, annoyed.
Another, older and heavier at the head of the table, Tom Holloway, frowned. “Who the hell are you?”
And then, like she was already assigned a role, someone waved a lazy hand toward the table. “Just leave the lunches and condiments right there.”
Y/N’s smile stayed in place.
“Oh,” she said, her voice sweet as poison. “That’s funny.”
They stared, confused and irritated.
Y/N stepped fully into the room, unhurried. “I don’t work for you,” she said calmly. “But I am a writer. A journalist, actually. And I’m a friend of Nancy Wheeler.”
Recognition flickered: annoyance, contempt, that instant instinct to dismiss anything connected to Nancy.
Bruce’s mouth curled. “Nancy Drew has friends now?”
A couple of men chuckled.
Y/N didn’t flinch. She lifted the iced coffee slightly. “This,” she said, still smiling, “is for her.”
Before anyone could move, before anyone could stop her, Y/N dumped the entire iced coffee over Tom Holloway’s head.
It splashed across his hair and face, soaked his collar, and ran down the front of his shirt in brown streams. Ice cubes bounced off his shoulder and clattered onto the table.
Tom jolted up so fast his chair scraped. “What the—!”
Y/N didn’t pause to enjoy it. She reached across the table, grabbed the nearest unfinished sandwich, mustard already smeared thickly on one slice of bread.
Bruce Lowe started to rise, sputtering, hands lifting.
Too late.
Y/N slapped the mustard-covered bread straight into his face.
A wet, humiliating smack. Mustard smeared across his cheek, his nose, the corner of his mouth.
Bruce shouted, stumbling back, hands flying up.
Y/N leaned in just enough for him, and everyone in the room, to hear her clearly.
“Looks like you finally got that missing mustard you wanted,” she said with a bright, satisfied smile.
For one stunned beat, no one moved.
Then the room erupted.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” someone barked.
Bruce cursed, wiping at his face, furious and humiliated.
Tom was shaking with rage, coffee dripping off his chin. “I’m calling the cops!” he shouted, his voice cracking with indignation.
Y/N backed toward the door like she was leaving a dinner party, calm as anything. “Go ahead!” she called back. “I’m not from Hawkins, jackass!”
She yanked open the conference room door and strode out, leaving chaos in her wake.
The receptionist in the lobby stared as Y/N walked past, wide-eyed and frozen. Y/N didn’t slow until she was outside, the cold air hitting her cheeks like a reset.
Nancy was still in the car, half-turned in her seat, looking like she’d just witnessed a crime and wasn’t sure whether to stop it or take notes.
Y/N opened the passenger door, slid in, and shut it gently, again gently, as if she had merely popped inside for a pamphlet.
She set the empty cup in the holder, brushed her hands together once, and turned to Nancy with a calm, satisfied smile.
Nancy stared at her. “Did you just—”
Y/N buckled her seatbelt like nothing happened. “If they didn’t hate us before,” she said sweetly, “they definitely do now.”
Nancy blinked, still stunned, then her mouth parted like she was about to scold her.
But instead, Nancy’s expression cracked.
A laugh burst out of her, sharp, disbelieving, relieved.
Y/N watched her, that same pleased smile still on her face, like she’d just done the most reasonable thing in the world.
Nancy shook her head, laughing harder now. “You’re insane.”
Y/N leaned back in the seat, eyes glittering. “Maybe.”
Nancy wiped at her eyes, still laughing. “They’re absolutely going to remember that.”
Y/N turned her head to look back through the rear window at the Post disappearing down the street.
“Good,” she said quietly. “I want them to.”
. . .
It had been a few weeks since she’d put the Polaroids on Henry’s desk.
A few weeks since she’d looked him in the eyes and said she was still upset, still hurt, still angry enough to shake, even while part of her hated how much she still wanted him.
Sleep hadn’t fixed anything.
If anything, it had sharpened the edges. She woke with that familiar ache under her ribs, the kind that didn’t let you forget even when you tried. She lay there staring at the ceiling for a long moment, listening to the radiator clink and the distant dorm sounds: someone laughing down the hall, a door shutting, someone’s radio murmuring. Then she finally sat up.
Nancy was still asleep in her bed across the room, curled under her blanket with her hair all over the pillow. The typewriter sat on her desk like a promise. The room smelled faintly of winter coats and paper and last night’s coffee.
Y/N moved quietly, slipping into the bathroom with her toiletry bag tucked under her arm.
She splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth, and stared at herself in the mirror until her reflection started to look like a person again.
Then her eyes shifted, slowly, to the closet door.
And an idea settled into her bones.
Not sweet. Not soft.
Sharp.
Petty.
Necessary.
If Henry wanted distance, if he wanted consequences, if he wanted to learn what it felt like to lose something and have to sit with it, then she could give him exactly that.
She opened her closet and started picking, not with the mind of someone dressing for class, but with the mind of someone crafting a message.
You don’t get to pretend I don’t exist.
She pulled out an oversized knit sweater, thick and soft, the kind that made her look effortless and warm. It was a little too big, with sleeves that swallowed her wrists, and a collar loose enough to slip off one shoulder if she moved wrong. The sweater smelled like her detergent, a faint clean sweetness that always made her feel put together.
She held it up, considering.
Then she made a decision that felt like power.
No bra.
Not because she needed attention from the world. She didn’t care about the world.
She cared about one specific man who had learned to look at her like hunger and then forced himself to look away like she was nothing.
She pulled it over her head and watched the fabric settle. The knit clung just enough to remind her that Henry had eyes. That Henry had a pulse. That he’d memorized her shape whether he wanted to admit it or not.
Next came high-waisted acid wash jeans, button-fly, snug in the waist, perfect on her hips. The kind that sat high and made her feel like she could walk through fire without flinching.
Boots too, solid and a little heeled, loud enough on tile to announce her presence.
She put on a little lip color, just enough to make her mouth look alive. Not a full face, not dramatic. Something that said, I’m okay. Something that dared anyone to believe it.
Finally, she shrugged into her black pea coat, heavy and structured, the winter air already sneaking through the window cracks like it was impatient.
When she stepped back from the mirror, she didn’t look like a girl who’d spent days crying under a blanket.
She looked like someone who could ruin a man’s morning just by walking into a room.
And for the first time since he’d said mistake, she felt something like satisfaction.
She stepped out of the bathroom and found Nancy awake now, sitting up in bed with her hair a mess, blinking blearily as she watched Y/N cross the room.
Nancy’s eyes narrowed almost immediately.
“Okay,” Nancy said, her voice raspy from sleep. “What is that?”
Y/N paused at her desk, sliding her notebook into her bag with deliberate calm. “An outfit.”
Nancy stared harder. “No, I’m serious. You look like you’re going to audition for… I don’t know. A revenge fantasy.”
Y/N didn’t look at her as she zipped the bag. “Maybe I am.”
Nancy swung her legs over the side of the bed, rubbing her eyes, then looked Y/N up and down again with very specific Wheeler skepticism.
Nancy’s gaze sharpened further, and then she glanced meaningfully at Y/N’s chest. “Is there…?”
Y/N cut in smoothly. “A bra? No.”
Nancy’s eyebrows shot up. “Jesus Christ.”
Y/N finally turned to face her, leaning back against the desk with forced nonchalance. “Don’t start.”
Nancy’s expression shifted into full investigative reporter mode. “Oh, I’m starting. Why are you dressing like you’re about to commit a felony in an English classroom?”
Y/N’s eyes flicked away briefly, then back. She didn’t bother pretending she didn’t know exactly why.
“Because,” she said, voice calm but threaded with something sharper, “if he wants to play professor again, if he wants to sit up there and pretend he doesn’t know me…”
Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “Oh my God.”
Y/N’s jaw tightened. “…then he can do it while realizing exactly what he’s choosing to lose.”
Nancy stared at her for a long beat.
Then she exhaled slowly, a hand lifting to her forehead like she couldn’t believe the sentence she was about to say.
“You are insane.”
Y/N’s mouth curved, humorless. “You say that a lot.”
“Because it’s true.”
Y/N did send her a genuine smile through the reflection of the mirror in response.
Nancy’s gaze softened a fraction, but the irritation stayed. “You told me you were still upset.”
“I am,” Y/N said immediately. Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard, forcing it down. “I’m upset. I’m hurt. I’m furious.”
Nancy watched her closely.
Y/N continued, quieter now, honest in a way that didn’t come naturally. “But I’m not going to sit there and act like he gets to break me and then keep my softness like it belongs to him. He doesn’t.”
Nancy’s expression shifted, approval flickering through despite herself. “Okay,” she said cautiously. “That… I agree with.”
Y/N grabbed her bag strap and slid it onto her shoulder. “Good.”
Nancy’s eyes lifted again, pointed. “Still. No bra?”
Y/N shrugged like it was nothing, like it didn’t make her heartbeat spike. “He’ll notice. That’s the point.”
Nancy groaned and flopped back onto her pillow for a second like the world was exhausting. “I hate you.”
Y/N’s lips twitched. “No you don’t.”
Nancy sat up again, eyes narrowing. “Just… be careful. The line between ‘making him regret it’ and ‘making yourself miserable’ is thin.”
Y/N held Nancy’s gaze for a moment.
Then her mouth softened, not into a smile, but into something real. “I know.”
Nancy sighed, resigned. “Fine. Go ruin his day.”
Y/N grabbed her keys from the desk. At the door, she paused, hand on the knob.
Nancy spoke again, quieter, like she couldn’t help herself. “You’re doing this because you want him to feel it, right? Not because you think looking good will fix it.”
Y/N swallowed.
Then she glanced back, eyes steady. “I’m doing this because you’d find out eventually anyway.”
Nancy blinked. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
Y/N’s mouth curved just slightly, a small, sharp smile.
“It answers enough,” she said.
Then she left, the door clicking shut behind her, boots echoing down the hallway like punctuation marks, like she was writing the next chapter herself.
. . .
Fourth period always had a different kind of air to it.
By the time Y/N reached the building, the campus was fully awake: students cutting across the quad with coffee cups, scarves pulled up to their noses, boots crunching over salt-dusted steps. Her black pea coat stayed buttoned all the way up, collar turned against the wind, but underneath it she felt almost too warm. Like she’d dressed herself in a secret she could feel in her bones.
Nancy was already outside the classroom when Y/N got there, notebook tucked under her arm, expression somewhere between wary and entertained.
“You really committed,” Nancy murmured as Y/N approached, eyes flicking once over her outfit like she was cataloging evidence.
Y/N didn’t slow. “We’re not talking about it.”
Nancy’s mouth twitched. “Oh, we’re talking about it. Just later. When I’m not standing in the hallway outside his classroom like I’m about to witness a crime.”
Y/N pushed the door open, and they slipped inside with the rest of the students.
Henry was at the front, of course he was, already composed, chalk in hand, the day’s work laid out in neat piles like order could keep the world from touching him. He looked the same: professional, controlled, everything buttoned up.
But when his gaze swept the room and landed on Y/N, something microscopic shifted.
He didn’t stare. He didn’t react in any way the class would notice.
Still, Y/N saw the way his eyes paused half a beat too long. Saw the subtle tightening at the corner of his mouth, like he’d just swallowed something sharp.
And the anger she’d been carrying flared, not because she hated him, but because she hated that he could still make her feel anything at all.
She chose her seat deliberately. Not hiding in the back. Not avoiding him.
Where she always used to sit, close enough to be seen, close enough to be remembered.
Nancy slid into the chair beside her with a quiet sigh like she was bracing herself.
“Okay,” Nancy whispered, flipping her notebook open. “Mission: make him suffer.”
Y/N didn’t look at her. “Mission: pass the test.”
Nancy snorted under her breath, clearly not buying it.
Class started. Henry’s voice filled the room, calm and even, the same intellectual cadence that had once felt like a lullaby and now felt like a blade if she listened too closely.
He announced there would be a short in-class test.
Groans rippled through the room.
Y/N kept her face neutral, pen poised. She didn’t let Henry see nerves. She wasn’t giving him anything he didn’t earn.
For the first few minutes, she kept her pea coat on.
It wasn’t dramatic, she told herself. It was simply cold in the classroom; the old building was always drafty. But she could feel the sweater underneath, the knit stretching slightly when she shifted, the shape of her body softened by fabric and then not softened at all in the places that mattered.
She could feel the heat of her own decision, the private pulse of it.
Nancy leaned slightly toward her and muttered, “Are you going to keep the coat on for the entire class, or are you building suspense?”
Y/N kept her eyes forward. “Shut up.”
But after a few minutes, the room warmed with bodies and breath and the radiator’s stubborn clanking.
Y/N unbuttoned her pea coat slowly.
Not teasing. Not performative.
Just inevitable.
She slid it off her shoulders, the heavy black fabric falling away, and draped it over the back of her chair.
The oversized knit sweater underneath looked innocent enough, soft and slouchy, sleeves swallowing her wrists, but the looseness of the knit and the way it sat on her made her feel exposed in a way that wasn’t entirely about skin.
She felt Nancy’s eyes cut sideways to her, then away again.
Nancy didn’t say anything.
Which meant Nancy had noticed.
Y/N kept her posture calm, chin lifted, gaze on the board like she wasn’t acutely aware of a man at the front of the room who had once kissed her throat in the dark and promised she was safe.
Henry continued without missing a beat. If anyone watched closely, they’d see him pick up the stack of tests and begin walking the rows, methodical and controlled, handing one paper to each student like a ritual.
When he reached Y/N’s row, her pulse tightened in her throat.
She didn’t look up at him at first. She forced herself to stare at the blank top line of the paper, as if it was the only thing that mattered.
Henry’s shadow fell over her desk.
His hand set the test down in front of her.
And then he looked down.
It was subtle. Just a flick of his gaze, the way a person’s eyes move when they’re taking in a student’s posture or checking whether they’ve written their name.
But Y/N felt it instantly: the tiny shift in the air, the infinitesimal pause that didn’t belong to professionalism.
His eyes dropped, too low and too long.
To the hardened peaks of her nipples visible through the sweater’s fabric.
And for the briefest moment, the mask on his face slipped.
Not fully. Not enough for the class to notice.
But enough for Y/N to see the flash of it in his gaze: heat, hunger, a sharp, involuntary reaction he couldn’t file away fast enough.
Y/N’s grip tightened on her pen.
She didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her react.
Instead, she lifted her eyes slowly to meet his.
Henry’s expression was composed again in an instant, professor first, man second, but his pupils looked darker than they had a second ago, and the tight line of his jaw said he was fighting something.
Y/N held his gaze for one heartbeat longer than necessary.
Not pleading.
Not sweet.
Just a quiet reminder.
You did this. You chose to lose this.
Henry’s throat bobbed once, like he swallowed hard.
He moved on.
But the air felt different after he passed, charged, faintly electric, like the room had shifted by a degree only she could measure.
Nancy leaned toward her and whispered through the corner of her mouth, “Oh my God.”
Y/N kept her eyes on the test. “Don’t.”
“I’m not judging,” Nancy hissed, eyes wide. “I’m observing. Like a journalist.”
Y/N’s lips pressed into a thin line. She forced her breathing to stay steady, forced her pen to touch paper.
She wrote her name at the top.
And as she began the first question, she could feel Henry at the front of the room again. Even without looking, she could sense the faint tension in the way he’d returned to his desk too quickly.
Like he was trying to put distance between himself and a choice he could still taste.
Y/N finished the last question with a kind of grim satisfaction, like she’d carved her way through it on spite alone.
Her hand ached from writing. Her sweater sleeves were pushed up to her forearms, and the classroom had settled into that test-taking hush: pencils scratching, someone clearing their throat, Henry’s quiet footsteps moving now and then between the rows like a metronome.
When she was done, she didn’t sit there second-guessing.
She capped her pen, smoothed the paper once, then stood.
Her chair legs made a soft scrape against the floor, loud enough in the silence to turn a few heads. Y/N kept her face neutral as she walked up to the front, test in hand.
Henry was at his desk, leaning over a stack of papers, posture controlled. He didn’t look up immediately, professional timing, the kind that pretended he wasn’t aware of her at all times.
But when Y/N stopped at the corner of his desk and placed her test down, his gaze lifted.
And then it dipped.
Not subtle this time, not in the way that mattered.
His eyes tracked the line of her sweater, the soft knit draping over her hardened peaks, the fact that she’d chosen to make it impossible for him not to notice. It was only a second, maybe less. The class wouldn’t see it. If anyone did, they’d assume it was accidental.
Y/N knew better.
She felt the heat of his attention like a hand.
Henry’s jaw tightened. His expression stayed unreadable, but his eyes looked darker than they had at the start of class.
“Thank you,” he murmured, voice low enough that only she could hear.
Y/N didn’t give him a smile. She didn’t give him anything easy.
She just held his gaze for one beat, long enough to remind him she’d seen him looking, then turned and walked back to her seat with her shoulders steady and her pulse not steady at all.
Nancy’s eyes followed her like a spectator at a tennis match. When Y/N sat back down, Nancy leaned in slightly, whispering without moving her mouth too much.
“He looked,” Nancy murmured.
Y/N kept her eyes forward. “Nancy.”
“I’m just saying,” Nancy continued, barely contained, “you could power the entire dorm with that tension.”
Y/N’s pen tapped once against her desk. “Please focus.”
Nancy huffed, but she quieted.
A few minutes later, Henry’s voice cut through the room.
“Pencils down.”
The scrape of graphite stopped. Papers rustled. Students sighed and shifted, relief and annoyance mixing in the air.
Henry began walking the aisles, collecting exams and scanning the room the way he always did, like he could tell who’d cheated just by looking at them.
Y/N sat still, hands folded on her desk, face composed.
She felt him before she saw him: the faint change in the space near her, the shadow that fell across the edge of her notebook.
Henry paused beside her desk for only a moment, as if he were simply passing through.
But then his hand moved.
He set something down with careful precision, like he didn’t want the sound to give him away.
A small square of paper.
A sticky note.
His fingertips lingered a fraction longer than necessary, as if the act of placing it there cost him restraint.
Then he continued walking, voice resuming as if nothing had happened.
“Please pass your papers forward.”
Y/N didn’t move right away.
Her heart was beating too loud.
When she finally looked down, the note was tucked partly under the edge of her notebook, positioned so only she could see it.
Henry’s handwriting was unmistakable, neat, controlled, the kind of script that looked like discipline.
After your last class. My apartment. Don’t be late.
No apology. No explanation. No softness.
Just certainty, quiet and private.
Y/N’s throat tightened.
A week ago, that kind of note would’ve made her feel giddy, chosen, powerful.
Now it made something more complicated rise in her: anger still aching under her skin, a fragile pride that she hadn’t folded, and that same stubborn pull toward him that refused to die.
Nancy leaned in, voice barely audible. “What is it?”
Y/N slid the note further under her notebook without looking at Nancy. “Nothing.”
Nancy narrowed her eyes like she could smell a lie. “That’s not—”
“Drop it,” Y/N whispered.
Nancy stared at her a beat longer, then leaned back with a quiet, irritated sigh. “Fine. But I’m not blind.”
Class ended. Chairs scraped. Students filed out into the hallway.
Y/N stayed seated a moment, letting the room empty and letting her breathing settle enough that she could stand without shaking.
Henry didn’t look at her again. He didn’t have to.
The note had done the looking for him.
On the walk between buildings, Y/N kept her coat buttoned, the cold air biting at her cheeks. Her mind replayed the sentence, my apartment, like it was a dare.
By the time her last class ended, she’d made her decision.
She found a pay phone in the hall outside the student lounge, dug coins out of her pocket, and dialed the dorm operator with practiced ease. The line clicked and hummed in her ear.
“Hi,” she said, voice steady. “Can you leave a note for Nancy Wheeler? Tell her I’ll be back later and not to wait up.”
When she hung up, the receiver clacked into place.
Y/N stood there for a second, hand lingering on the phone like it could keep her anchored.
Then she adjusted her bag strap, lifted her chin, and headed out into the winter light, toward Henry’s apartment, toward whatever came next, knowing full well that she was still upset and choosing him anyway.
a/n: had this thought out for a while. just barely edited. i also wrote a jamie imagine and have a story that’s a henry/wandavision au type thing also would you guys be cool if i did different titles for this series because im sick of writing ‘part seven, eight’ etc.
. . .
Morning office hours were usually predictable.
Henry liked them that way: quiet, orderly, students drifting in with questions about essays and commas, the day still clean enough to pretend it would stay that way. He was alone in his classroom early, collar buttoned, chalk dust on his fingertips, a mug of coffee cooling on the corner of his desk.
The knock came sharp and confident.
Henry didn’t look up right away. “Come in.”
The door opened, and Daniel Taylor walked in like he owned the room.
Not nervous. Not hesitant. Not the posture of a student asking for help.
Daniel smiled as if they were equals.
“Professor Creel,” he said warmly, too warmly. “Morning.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Mr. Taylor.” His voice was neutral, clipped. “If you’re here about your last paper—”
“Oh, no,” Daniel cut in, still smiling. He shut the door behind him with deliberate care. “I’m not here about a paper.”
That made something cold shift in Henry’s chest.
Daniel strolled closer, hands in his pockets, then stopped at Henry’s desk like he was visiting a friend. He leaned down, not quite disrespectful on the surface, just familiar enough to be wrong.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Daniel said.
Henry finally set his pen down. “About what?”
Daniel’s smile widened, almost apologetic. “About your extracurriculars.”
Henry didn’t react outwardly. Not a flinch. Not a twitch. He’d learned long ago that the first sign of fear was an invitation.
Still, his hand went still on the desk.
Daniel reached into his jacket and pulled out a small stack of Polaroids.
He didn’t toss them. He placed them carefully—one, two, three—spread across Henry’s desk as if he were laying out evidence in court.
The photos were grainy. Dim. Shot from a bad angle.
But clear enough.
A cracked classroom door. A sliver of shadow. Henry’s profile. Y/N too close to him, close in a way that couldn’t be explained away as tutoring. A hand at her waist. Her body angled toward his. The kind of moment that only existed when they believed the world wasn’t watching.
Henry stared at the pictures without blinking.
Daniel watched him like he was studying the moment Henry would break.
“I took them,” Daniel said, casual. “Your door doesn’t always shut all the way. Guess the old building’s settling.” He shrugged. “Or maybe you were too distracted to notice. I would be too with her...”
Henry’s eyes finally lifted from the photos to Daniel’s face. His gaze was calm, but it was the calm of something dangerous being restrained.
“What,” Henry repeated, “do you want?”
Daniel leaned back slightly, satisfied. “I want you to end it.”
Henry didn’t move.
Daniel tapped the top photo lightly. “Dump her. Cut it off. Whatever you call it.”
Henry’s jaw clenched so hard it made a small muscle jump near his cheek. “And if I don’t?”
Daniel’s smile turned sharp. “Then I take these to the principal. Or the department chair. Or whoever makes the biggest mess.” He shrugged again. “I’m not picky.”
Silence stretched.
Henry’s mind moved fast, and his face gave nothing away.
Y/N’s name wasn’t said aloud, but it filled the room anyway.
Daniel continued, voice still falsely light. “You’re careful, I’ll give you that. But you’re not invisible.” His eyes flicked over Henry’s desk, the classroom, the space where Y/N had laughed once, where she’d challenged him, where she’d looked at him like he was something worth wanting. “And she’s not subtle.”
Henry’s fingers curled slowly against the wood of the desk. “You’re blackmailing me.”
Daniel’s smile thinned. “I’m protecting her.”
The lie was so effortless it almost impressed Henry.
“You?” Henry said quietly.
Daniel’s eyes flashed. “I tried to date her. She used me. Everyone knows it. Then suddenly she’s glowing again, and you’re looking like you haven’t slept in a week.” He tilted his head. “It doesn’t take a genius.”
Henry’s voice dropped lower. “This isn’t about protecting her. This is about you not getting what you wanted.”
Daniel’s expression hardened for a second, then smoothed back into smugness. “Call it what you want. End it, or I ruin both of you.”
Henry stared at him. Not with anger, not yet. With calculation.
He imagined the aftermath in perfect, brutal clarity.
An investigation. Faculty whispers. Students staring. Y/N labeled before she’d even finished school, reduced to a rumor, a scandal, a cautionary tale. Her writing dismissed as favoritism. Her grades questioned. Doors closing quietly in her face without anyone ever admitting why.
He imagined her sitting across from him, trying to be brave while her future burned.
And the worst part, the part Henry couldn’t stop replaying, was that Daniel was right about one thing:
Y/N wasn’t built to endure shame quietly. She’d fight it. She’d challenge it. She’d get loud.
And she’d be punished for it.
Henry’s gaze dropped to the Polaroids again. His throat tightened with something that had nothing to do with fear.
He’d been telling himself it was just heat. Just hunger. Just a secret he could compartmentalize.
But lately it had stopped feeling like that.
Lately, it had started to feel like belonging.
Like waking up with her in his bed.
Like her laughter in his kitchen.
Like the way she looked at him when she wasn’t being clever, when she was soft and tired and needed him.
He’d been careful not to name what that was.
Because naming it would make it real.
And real things could be destroyed.
Daniel broke the silence. “So?”
Henry finally looked up.
“Take your photos,” Henry said calmly.
Daniel blinked. “What?”
Henry’s voice stayed even, but the edge in it was unmistakable. “Take them. Get out of my classroom.”
Daniel’s smile returned, triumphant. “So you’re going to do it?”
Henry didn’t answer.
Daniel scooped up the Polaroids, tucking them back into his jacket with deliberate satisfaction. He stepped toward the door, pausing like he wanted the last word.
“You’re making the right choice,” Daniel said.
Henry’s eyes stayed on him, cold now. “No,” he replied softly. “I’m making the only choice you’re leaving me.”
The door clicked shut.
The room went still again, but it wasn’t the peaceful kind of stillness Henry preferred. It was the kind that came after a gunshot.
Henry sat down slowly, staring at the empty space on his desk where the photos had been.
His coffee had gone cold.
He didn’t notice.
All he could see was Y/N’s face when he’d hurt her before, how she’d tried to cover it with anger, how quickly her eyes had given her away. He imagined doing it again on purpose, more sharply, more final.
He imagined her saying, What are we? and him forcing out words that would cut clean.
He imagined her leaving his apartment, his bed, his life, and never coming back.
And for a moment, just a moment, his composure cracked, not into rage but into something worse:
Regret in advance.
Because he knew what he’d have to do.
He was starting to fall in love with her. He could feel it like a slow, unstoppable tide pulling at the edges of his control.
And that was exactly why he couldn’t let this ruin her.
Henry pressed his fingertips to his temple, eyes closing briefly.
He could protect her reputation.
He could protect her future.
Even if it meant becoming the villain in her story.
When he opened his eyes again, his expression was perfectly composed.
But his chest ached like something had already been torn out.
He reached for a blank piece of paper, an excuse for her to come see him, a reason that wouldn’t look suspicious, and began to write.
Not because he wanted to end it.
Because he didn’t see another way to save her.
. . .
Y/N walked to Creel’s class like the world had finally decided to be kind to her.
It was one of those crisp Boston mornings where the air felt sharp enough to wake you up properly, where the brick buildings looked warm in the early sun. She had her notebook hugged to her chest, her highlighters tucked into the spiral like a bookmark, and a smile she couldn’t stop from forming; small, private, ridiculous.
She hadn’t seen Nancy’s bed made and empty without feeling that pinch of loneliness this time.
She hadn’t woken up with dread sitting on her ribs.
Because she was going to see him.
Because she’d been counting minutes since she’d left his apartment, replaying the way he’d looked at her when he thought no one was watching. Replaying his voice in her head like it could keep her steady through the day. She was still riding that soft, warm hope that maybe, maybe this could keep being theirs.
She slipped into the classroom early like she always did, expecting that familiar flicker in his eyes. Expecting the subtle shift in his posture, the way the air seemed to change when they were in the same room.
But the moment his gaze found her, something tightened.
Not desire. Not warmth.
Something like grief, quick, buried, gone so fast she almost missed it.
Y/N’s smile faltered for half a second, then she forced it back into place, telling herself she was imagining things. Telling herself it was just morning seriousness. Professor face.
“Good morning,” she said softly, making it sound normal.
“Good morning,” Henry answered.
His voice was the same as always, measured, controlled, but it didn’t wrap around her the way it usually did. It didn’t linger. It didn’t reach.
Y/N slid into her seat, still smiling, still pretending the tiny twist in her stomach wasn’t there. She opened her notebook and waited for him to come closer. For some sign. Anything.
Instead, he stayed behind his desk longer than usual.
When class began and students trickled in, Y/N tried to focus on the lecture. She really did. She wrote notes. She underlined quotes. She raised her hand once, eager, bright, ready to shine the way she always did when she wanted him to see her.
Henry didn’t call on her.
It wasn’t obvious, not to anyone else. He called on another student, moved on, kept the room flowing smoothly.
But Y/N felt it like someone had tapped a bruise.
He walked the aisles like he always did, passing desks, scanning pages, pausing to check someone’s annotation, except every time he came near her row, his path shifted subtly. As if he were avoiding her by inches. As if proximity itself was dangerous now.
Y/N’s pen started to slip in her fingers.
Her stomach churned. Her throat tightened.
What is happening?
She caught his eye once, just once, and the look he gave her made her heart drop.
Not cold.
Not angry.
Worse.
Controlled pity, disguised as indifference.
Her hands went clammy. She kept writing anyway, pretending her notes didn’t start to blur as her eyes watered just enough to sting.
By the time class ended, she was sitting too still.
Too quiet.
As students packed up and chairs scraped the floor, Y/N stayed seated with her notebook open, hoping, praying, this was a misunderstanding that would fix itself the moment the room emptied.
Henry stood at the front like he always did, posture perfect.
“Have a good weekend,” he told the class, voice steady.
Y/N waited until the last student shuffled out.
The door clicked shut. The room fell silent.
Her heart was beating so hard it felt loud.
She stood slowly, forcing her face into something that looked like calm. “Hi,” she said again, as if the word could reset the day.
Henry didn’t smile.
He didn’t come to her.
He stayed by his desk, hands resting on the wood, eyes fixed on a point just past her shoulder like he couldn’t risk looking at her too long.
“Y/N,” he said.
And the way he said her name, careful, distant, made her stomach drop so violently she thought she might be sick.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. Her voice came out too light. “Did I do something?”
“You need to stop coming to see me,” Henry said.
The sentence landed like a slap, clean and sudden.
Y/N blinked, not understanding. “What?”
Henry’s jaw flexed. “This ends. Today.”
Her chest hollowed. She stood there, frozen, her fingers gripping her notebook so tightly the spiral bit into her palm.
“You’re…” she tried again, the room tilting slightly. “You’re breaking up with me.”
Henry’s face didn’t change. That was the cruelest part.
“We can’t continue,” he said, voice as flat as if he were discussing a syllabus.
Y/N’s throat tightened until it hurt. “Why?”
Henry’s gaze flicked to her at last, and she saw it: something raw, something hidden under all that control.
Then he buried it again.
“Because it was a mistake,” he said.
The words were surgical. Precise. Designed to cut.
Y/N’s eyes stung instantly. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe through the pain like she could out-stubborn it.
“A mistake,” she repeated, barely a whisper.
Henry’s mouth tightened, just slightly, like the word tasted bitter. “Yes.”
Y/N stared at him, waiting for the joke. Waiting for the reveal. Waiting for him to step forward and soften and tell her he was scared and he didn’t mean it.
He didn’t.
“You don’t mean that,” she whispered, voice shaking now despite her best effort. “Henry…”
“I do,” he said.
Her heart broke in real time. She felt it, something inside her cracking, sharp and sickening, like ice giving way.
Her eyes drifted helplessly to his hands, so steady, then to his face, so controlled.
“How can you say that?” she managed. “After everything. After…” Her voice caught, and she forced it out anyway because the pain demanded language. “After you held me. After you let me come to you when I was scared. After you…”
Henry cut her off, voice harder now, as if softness would ruin him. “This is not up for discussion.”
Y/N’s breath shuddered. She nodded quickly, too quickly, because if she didn’t do something she would fall apart right there at his feet, and she refused to give him that.
Her face went still, pain sealed behind her eyes.
“Okay,” she said.
Henry’s gaze flickered, a crack of something that almost looked like regret.
Y/N didn’t let herself stare at it too long.
She picked up her bag with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling. She tucked her notebook against her chest like armor.
Then she walked to the door.
Every step felt unreal, like her body was moving while her mind stayed behind, still trying to negotiate with the moment.
Her fingers closed around the knob.
Behind her, Henry said her name again, quiet, wrecked, like he almost couldn’t help it.
“Y/N.”
She paused.
For one brutal second, hope surged, wild and desperate, that he was about to take it back.
She turned halfway, just enough to look over her shoulder.
Henry’s face was composed again. Eyes guarded. Walls up.
“Take care of yourself,” he said.
That was all.
No apology.
No explanation.
No “I’m doing this for you.”
Nothing that could soften the cut.
Y/N nodded once, a tiny motion that felt like defeat, and walked out.
She didn’t cry in the hallway.
She didn’t cry down the stairs.
She didn’t cry on the walk back to her dorm, even though the campus seemed too bright, too normal, too indifferent. Students laughed. Someone played music from an open window. A couple held hands on the steps of a building, careless and young and free.
Y/N kept her face steady, swallowing pain like it was something she could digest.
She skipped her next class without even thinking.
She skipped the one after that, too.
Her legs carried her to the dorm on autopilot.
When she got inside the room, the silence hit her first. Nancy’s side was still empty, her bed made, her typewriter gone. The room felt like it was missing its spine.
Y/N shut the door.
The click was small, but it sounded final.
She stood there for a moment like she didn’t know what to do with her hands. Like she’d been unplugged from herself.
Then her knees buckled.
She crossed the room in two steps and collapsed onto her bed, still clutching her notebook like it could save her. She kicked off her shoes without looking, tugged the blanket up over her shoulders, then over her head, burying herself in darkness like a child.
And that’s when the dam broke.
The first sob tore out of her, ugly and involuntary.
It wasn’t delicate. It wasn’t cinematic. It was the kind of cry that scraped your throat raw, the kind that made your chest hurt, the kind that left you feeling like you were being hollowed out from the inside.
Her hands fisted in the blanket, knuckles white. Her body curled tight, as if she could fold small enough to disappear, as if being smaller would hurt less.
But it didn’t.
It only made the loneliness louder.
She pressed her face into the pillow and tried to breathe, but every inhale came out shaking. Tears soaked the fabric fast, hot and endless, as if her body couldn’t stop producing grief now that it finally had permission.
Her mind replayed it in cruel loops.
Because it was a mistake.
The words echoed until they felt like truth.
She pictured his face as he said it, so controlled, so calm, like everything they’d done, everything she’d felt, had meant less than nothing to him.
She tried to remember the way he’d held her during the night, the way he’d promised she wasn’t alone, and it made the pain worse, because it meant either those moments were lies, or he’d meant them and still chose to cut her anyway.
Her chest tightened until breathing felt like work.
She squeezed her eyes shut under the blanket, whispering to herself, “Stop. Stop. Stop,” like she could command her heart into silence.
But her heart didn’t listen.
It kept breaking.
She wanted to be angry. Wanted to sit up and wipe her face and call him cruel and arrogant and manipulative. Wanted to turn the hurt into something sharp enough to protect her.
But all she had was the ache.
The sick, trembling ache of someone who’d started to believe she was wanted, only to be told she was a mistake.
Eventually she rolled onto her back beneath the blanket, staring into the darkness, tears still streaming. The world felt muffled and far away. Her arms wrapped around her stomach like she could physically hold herself together.
She thought of Nancy, and for the first time she hated that her friend was gone. Not because she blamed her, but because the room had never felt emptier.
There was no one to hear her without seeing her. No one to hand her water. No one to sit on the edge of the bed and say, “Tell me what happened.”
Just her.
And the sound of her own grief.
Y/N pressed a shaking hand over her mouth again, trying to swallow another sob.
It didn’t work.
It never worked.
She cried until her throat burned, until her eyes were swollen, until her body got exhausted enough to stop fighting and simply tremble in the aftermath; quiet, broken breaths under a blanket in a dorm room that suddenly felt like the loneliest place on earth.
. . .
A few days passed the way bruises did, quietly, tenderly, with everything in Y/N’s life rearranged around the ache.
When Nancy came back from Hawkins, the dorm felt different immediately. The door opened with familiar impatience, her overnight bag rustled, and books hit the desk with a soft thud like punctuation. She took one look at Y/N’s bed, the blanket pulled high, the curtains half-drawn, the same untouched cup on the desk, and understood without needing a headline.
Nancy didn’t ask right away.
She moved around the room with a deliberate normalcy, unpacking, hanging her coat, setting her typewriter back in its place as if routine could anchor them both. She offered small things instead: “I brought you a new pen,” “Hawkins had the worst weather,” “Jonathan says hi,” and let Y/N answer with whatever she could manage, even if it was nothing but a muffled sound under a blanket.
But by the third day, Nancy came in carrying a paper bag and a styrofoam cup that smelled like cafeteria coffee and stubbornness.
“Okay,” Nancy said, voice firm, as she set the bag down on Y/N’s desk. “I’m going to do something radical.”
Y/N didn’t move.
Nancy sat on the edge of her own bed and stared at the blanket-covered lump that had become her best friend for the past week.
“I’m going to feed you,” Nancy announced.
A quiet sniff came from under the blanket. Not a laugh. Not even close.
Nancy tapped the bag with one finger. “Turkey sandwich. An apple. Chips. I’m not proud of the chips. But I’m here. Eat.”
Y/N’s voice came out hoarse, barely audible. “I’m not hungry.”
Nancy stared at the blanket like she could see through it. “You haven’t been hungry in days.”
A pause.
Then, so small it barely counted, the blanket shifted. Y/N’s face appeared, puffy-eyed, hair a mess, cheeks drawn tight like she’d been clenching her jaw for a week straight. She looked like she’d been trying to survive on willpower alone.
Nancy’s expression softened for half a second. Then it sharpened again, because softness didn’t fix anything and Nancy Wheeler was built for action.
Y/N sat up slowly, taking the coffee cup with trembling hands. She didn’t drink it at first. She just held it, like warmth was the closest thing to comfort she could tolerate.
Nancy waited and let the silence do its work.
Finally, she asked quietly, “What happened?”
Y/N’s throat worked like she was trying to swallow broken glass. “Nothing.”
Nancy didn’t blink. “That’s a lie.”
Y/N’s eyes filled instantly, like her body had been holding it back for too long and the dam gave out the moment someone said the words out loud.
“He ended it,” Y/N whispered.
Nancy’s spine went straight. “Who?”
“Who else?” Y/N’s mouth trembled. “Henry.”
For a second, Nancy looked genuinely still, like the room had paused around her.
Then the irritation arrived, sharp and immediate, burning through her expression like someone had struck a match.
“He ended it,” Nancy repeated, voice rising.
Y/N nodded once, then stared at the coffee like it might drown her. “In class. After. He… he said it was a mistake.”
Nancy’s jaw clenched.
Y/N’s voice cracked. “Like I was just… something he regretted.”
Nancy’s hands curled into fists on her knees. She forced herself to breathe, slow and controlled, like she was trying not to explode in a room that still had paper-thin walls.
“And you’ve been in here,” Nancy said, tight, “disappearing.”
Y/N swallowed. “I didn’t want to talk about it.”
Nancy’s eyes flicked up to Y/N’s face, gentler now, protective. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
Y/N let out a miserable laugh. “Because you were gone. And because I didn’t want you to look at me like I’m stupid.”
Nancy’s stare went hard. “I don’t think you’re stupid.”
Y/N flinched, instinctively trying to defend him even with her heart in pieces. “Nancy…”
“No,” Nancy cut in, and there was something fierce in the way she said it, like she refused to let Y/N keep bleeding quietly. “Absolutely not.”
Y/N’s eyes widened slightly. “What are you…”
Nancy stood abruptly, already moving, already on a mission. She grabbed her coat from the hook, shoved her arms into it, and picked up her keys.
“Nancy,” Y/N said, panic threading through her voice. “Don’t… don’t do anything.”
Nancy turned at the door, expression brisk and too calm to be honest. “I’m not doing anything.”
Y/N frowned. “You look like you’re doing something.”
Nancy forced a smile that did not reach her eyes. “I’m going to have a calm, rational discussion.”
Y/N stared at her. “With who?”
Nancy waved a hand like it was nothing. “Creel. He’s technically my professor too, which makes this… educational.”
“Nancy…”
Nancy opened the door. “Eat your lunch.”
Then she left.
And the second the door shut, the dorm felt colder.
Nancy didn’t walk to Henry’s classroom.
She marched.
Her steps hit the tile like punctuation marks. Her thoughts ran faster than her feet. He called it a mistake. He made her think it mattered. He let her fall for him. Then he cut her loose to save his own skin.
Nancy’s anger was hot, but it was focused. Nancy Wheeler didn’t do blind rage. She did precision.
When she reached Henry’s hallway, she didn’t hesitate outside his door. She didn’t knock politely.
She pushed it open.
Henry was at his desk, papers laid out, chalk in hand like he’d been teaching normal students normal things all morning. He looked up at the sound of the door with the same controlled expression he always wore.
Until he saw Nancy.
Something flickered in his eyes: recognition, caution, and then the slow tightening of dread.
“Ms. Wheeler,” Henry said, voice measured. “Is everything all right?”
Nancy stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind her with deliberate force. Not a slam, a statement.
“No,” Nancy said. “Everything is not all right.”
Henry’s posture stiffened. “If you’re here about an assignment…”
“I’m here about Y/N,” Nancy snapped.
Henry froze so completely it was almost imperceptible.
Nancy took one step closer, her eyes bright with that specific Wheeler intensity, the one that made people confess without realizing they were doing it.
“She’s been in bed for days,” Nancy said, sharp. “She can barely eat. She’s barely spoken. And do you know why?”
Henry’s jaw tightened. “Ms. Wheeler…”
“You ended it,” Nancy pressed, voice climbing. “And you did it like she was nothing.”
Henry stood slowly, as if movement needed permission. His voice stayed calm, but the strain under it was unmistakable. “This is not appropriate.”
“No,” Nancy said, stepping closer again. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
Henry stared at her, and Nancy saw it: the calculation, the control. The same control he’d used to keep everything hidden. The same control that had let him cut Y/N off clean like an amputation.
Then Henry’s gaze sharpened, as if something clicked.
“You knew,” he said quietly.
Nancy didn’t blink. “Excuse me?”
Henry’s voice dropped lower, controlled but suddenly dangerous. “You’ve known about her. About this. This entire time.”
Nancy’s expression didn’t change. “I didn’t know the details.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed. “But you knew.”
Nancy exhaled, irritated. “Yes. I knew something was going on. I’m not blind.” She lifted her chin, unflinching. “But Y/N didn’t sit down and confess it to me.”
Henry’s mouth tightened. “So she lied to you as well.”
Nancy’s eyes sharpened like knives. “Don’t you dare.”
Henry blinked, caught off guard by the venom in her tone.
Nancy moved closer until she was standing at the edge of his desk, hands planted on the wood like she was pinning him in place.
“She didn’t tell me because she was protecting you,” Nancy said, voice low now, more dangerous than yelling. “She didn’t tell me because she didn’t want you to get in trouble. She didn’t tell me because she trusted you.”
Henry’s throat worked, but no words came.
Nancy’s eyes burned. “And you took that trust and crushed it.”
Henry’s composure cracked, not fully, but enough that his voice sounded rougher when he spoke. “You don’t understand the situation.”
Nancy’s laugh came sharp. “Oh, I understand it perfectly.” She leaned in slightly. “You liked her. You still do. And the moment it got complicated, you decided the easiest way to protect yourself was to make her feel disposable.”
Henry’s hands curled at his sides. “That’s not what I did.”
“It’s what she felt,” Nancy shot back. “Do you think it matters what you meant if she’s the one bleeding for it?”
Henry’s gaze dropped for a fraction of a second, and Nancy caught it: guilt.
Good.
Nancy pressed harder. “You know what she said to me?” Her voice tightened. “She thought she was stupid for believing you cared.”
Henry flinched. It was small, but it was real.
Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “Did you?”
Henry’s jaw clenched. Silence.
Nancy scoffed. “God, you’re unbelievable.”
Henry’s voice came quiet. “I did what was necessary.”
Nancy snapped, “Necessary for who?”
Henry didn’t answer fast enough.
Nancy’s expression hardened like steel. “Exactly.”
She stepped back, breathing hard. For a second her anger looked like it might spill over into tears, but she swallowed it down. Nancy always swallowed it down.
Then she said, voice fierce and steady, “If you cared about her future, you should’ve cared about her heart too.”
Henry’s eyes lifted to hers, and for the first time he looked less like Professor Creel and more like a man trapped in consequences.
Nancy pointed at him, controlled but furious. “You don’t get to build someone up in private and destroy them in daylight and call it protection.”
Henry’s mouth tightened, and his voice came out strained. “If this becomes public…”
Nancy cut him off instantly. “Then maybe you should’ve thought about that before you touched her at all.”
Silence slammed down between them.
Henry’s gaze flicked away, like he’d been struck somewhere he couldn’t defend.
Nancy grabbed the doorknob, then paused.
Her voice softened, just a fraction, the kind of softness that made her words hit harder. “She’s not a mistake. Don’t you ever call her that again.”
Henry’s eyes returned to her. Something pained and quiet flickered there.
Nancy didn’t care.
She opened the door.
Then she added, over her shoulder, like a warning carved into air:
“You want to protect her? Then stop being the one who hurts her.”
And she left him standing in an empty classroom with chalk dust on his fingers and guilt sitting heavy in his chest, because Nancy Wheeler had always been good at finding the truth, and she’d just thrown his back at him.
. . .
Nancy went to Creel’s class alone the next morning.
Not because she cared about The Great Gatsby or whatever he had assigned, and certainly not because she wanted to sit through an hour of him pretending he didn’t have blood on his hands.
She went because someone had to.
Y/N wasn’t coming out of that bed. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not until the world stopped feeling like it had teeth.
So Nancy showed up.
She walked into the classroom with her notebook tucked under her arm and her jaw set like she was headed into a crime scene. She didn’t sit in her own seat. She didn’t even look at the familiar desk that belonged to her.
She went straight to Y/N’s seat next to hers.
Front row. Slightly to the left. Close enough that Henry couldn’t avoid looking at it.
Nancy dropped into the chair like she was claiming it, crossing one leg over the other with deliberate confidence. She set her notebook down and clicked her pen.
Henry was at the front of the room, arranging papers, chalk in hand. His head lifted the moment she sat.
His eyes landed on her, then flicked to the empty seat beside her out of habit, and stopped.
For half a second, the mask on his face wavered.
Not dramatically. Just enough for Nancy to see it: a tightness around his eyes, a brief flash of something like regret that he couldn’t file away fast enough.
Nancy didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
She rolled her eyes slowly, exaggeratedly, and stared down at her notebook like he was nothing more than a professor with a bad lecture to get through.
Henry’s jaw tightened. He looked away.
Class began.
Nancy didn’t raise her hand. She didn’t challenge him the way Y/N always did. She didn’t give him the lively back and forth he clearly missed, even if he didn’t deserve to miss it.
She sat there like a silent accusation.
Every time Henry’s gaze drifted toward that seat, toward where Y/N should have been, Nancy was there instead, staring straight ahead, expression flat.
Punishment by presence.
The lecture crawled by.
Henry spoke about themes and symbols, about language and intent. About characters lying to themselves and calling it virtue.
Nancy kept her pen still on the page, not writing a word, because she refused to take notes from a man who had just rewritten someone else’s life into collateral damage.
When the class finally ended, chairs scraped and students shuffled toward the door. Henry dismissed them with the same polished tone he always used.
“Have a good afternoon.”
Nancy stood last.
She packed her things slowly, letting the room empty, her eyes occasionally flicking toward Henry as if she was weighing whether to say something sharp enough to leave a mark.
She didn’t. Not yet.
She walked out into the hallway and then stopped.
Halfway down the corridor, she remembered what she’d come to do in the first place: get the makeup work, the notes, anything that might help Y/N catch up once she could breathe again.
Nancy turned back toward the classroom door.
She reached the threshold and was just about to step inside when she heard voices.
Not loud. Not arguing. A low, confident male voice that didn’t belong to Henry.
Nancy froze, instincts snapping into place like a camera shutter.
She stayed just outside the crack of the door, careful not to cast a shadow that could give her away, and angled her head slightly.
Inside, someone was speaking, too casual and too bold.
“I told you I’d keep an eye on it,” Daniel Taylor was saying.
Nancy’s stomach dropped.
Through the narrow slit of the cracked door, she could see the scene in fragments: Henry at his desk, Daniel standing too close to it, posture smug, like he belonged there.
And then Daniel pulled something from his jacket.
Polaroids.
Nancy’s blood went hot.
Daniel spread them across Henry’s desk with the same casual cruelty Nancy had seen in people who liked having leverage. He tapped one with his finger like he was admiring his own work.
“See?” Daniel said. “I told you. I got them. Clear as day.”
Henry didn’t speak. His face was turned slightly away, composed, but Nancy could see the rigid line of his shoulders and the stillness in his hands.
Daniel leaned in, voice dropping with satisfaction. “So. You did it, right? You called it off.”
Henry’s voice came low and controlled. “Yes.”
Daniel’s smile widened, ugly in its triumph. “Good.” He gathered the photos back into a neat stack like he was putting away a toy. “Smart choice.”
Nancy’s fingers curled around her notebook so hard the cardboard bent.
Daniel tucked the Polaroids back into his jacket and chuckled under his breath. “She’s available now, then.”
Henry’s head snapped up slightly.
Daniel either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He continued, voice dripping with self-satisfaction. “Honestly, you did her a favor. She was playing with fire. If I’d taken those to the principal…” He whistled softly. “Jesus. She would have been ruined. Not anymore than you have.”
Nancy’s vision went sharp.
He did it. He blackmailed him. He would have ruined her.
Daniel smiled like he was proud of himself. “But don’t worry. I’m not going to. Not now.” He lifted his brows at Henry, as if Henry owed him gratitude. “You did what I asked. So we’re good.”
Henry’s voice was flat and dangerous. “Get out.”
Daniel laughed, like Henry was being dramatic. “Relax. We’re on the same side now.” He turned toward the door.
Nancy moved instantly.
She stepped back into the hallway, heart pounding, and walked away fast, fast enough that her footsteps didn’t sound like panic, but her mind was sprinting.
She didn’t look back until she turned the corner.
Daniel emerged seconds later, strolling out like he had all the time in the world. He didn’t see Nancy, because she had pressed herself into an alcove beside a bulletin board, holding her breath like she was hiding from a predator.
Daniel passed by, whistling under his breath.
When he was gone, Nancy finally exhaled.
Her hands were shaking, not from fear, but from fury so intense it made her skin feel too tight.
She stood there for a moment in the empty corridor, staring at the spot where Daniel had disappeared, jaw clenched, mind racing like a newsroom on deadline.
Y/N had been broken open and left bleeding in her own bed because some smug little boy had decided he deserved her.
And Henry, Henry had taken the hit, thinking he was saving her, not knowing he’d just handed Daniel the power to keep hurting her anyway.
Nancy’s eyes narrowed.
Her anger had a new target now.
And this time, she knew exactly where to aim.
. . .
Nancy didn’t walk back to the dorm.
She moved like she was late to stop a fire.
Her shoes hit the pavement too hard, her notebook pressed tight against her ribs, her breath coming out sharp in the cold air. Every thought in her head was a sentence she wanted to throw at someone’s face. Every step was a decision: don’t confront him, don’t blow it up, not yet.
When she reached the dorm building, she yanked the door open, climbed the stairs two at a time, and made it down the hall like she owned it.
She unlocked the room and slipped inside.
Then, immediately, she turned and locked the door again.
Click.
A deliberate, final sound.
Y/N was still in bed, curled under the blanket like she was trying to disappear into it. The curtains were half drawn, the room dim and stale with days of quiet. There was a cup on the desk that had been sitting there too long, a crumpled tissue. The air felt heavy with grief.
Nancy didn’t bother with gentle.
She crossed the room in three steps, grabbed the blanket, and yanked it off.
“Okay,” she snapped. “Up.”
Y/N jolted like she’d been shocked, blinking hard, hair sticking to her face. “Nancy, what the hell?”
“Sit,” Nancy ordered, and when Y/N tried to flop back down, Nancy grabbed her forearm and hauled her upright so she was sitting against the headboard.
Y/N’s eyes were glassy, confused, instantly defensive. “What is wrong with you?”
Nancy’s chest was heaving. Her face was flushed with anger and adrenaline. She looked like she’d just run from something dangerous, and she had.
“I know,” Nancy said.
Y/N blinked. “Know what?”
Nancy’s voice went sharp and clipped, the way it did when she was about to drop a headline. “I know why Henry broke it off. I know what happened. I know who did it.”
Y/N’s throat tightened. “Nancy, I already told you.”
“No,” Nancy cut in. “You told me he ended it. You didn’t tell me he was forced.”
Y/N stared at her, as if her brain couldn’t process the sentence. “Forced?”
Her face changed instantly: confusion to disbelief to something darker.
“What about Daniel?” Y/N demanded, voice rough.
Nancy didn’t hesitate. “He has Polaroids.”
Y/N froze. “Polaroids of…”
“Of you and Creel,” Nancy said, blunt as a typewriter key striking paper. “Looked like he took them through the cracked classroom door.”
Y/N’s stomach dropped so hard she went cold. “No.”
“Yes,” Nancy said, voice tightening. “I saw them. I heard him. He walked into Creel’s classroom like they were friends and put them down on his desk like a ransom note.”
Y/N’s breath started coming faster. “That’s… that’s not possible.”
Nancy’s voice sharpened. “It is, because I heard him say it. He threatened to turn them in. He demanded Henry dump you or he’d take them to the principal.”
Y/N stared at Nancy like the room was tilting.
For a second, all she could do was blink.
Then anger flooded her so fast it was almost dizzying.
“That,” Y/N’s voice cracked, her hands curling into fists, “that little piece of shit, I’m gonna—”
“I know,” Nancy said, firm. “I know.”
Y/N shot out of bed like a spring snapping.
“Oh, I’m going to fucking kill him,” she hissed, pacing like a caged animal. “I swear to God, Nancy, I’m going to—”
“Stop,” Nancy barked, grabbing her arm.
Y/N whipped around, eyes wild. “No. Don’t tell me to stop. He ruined everything, he—”
“He could ruin everything,” Nancy corrected, tight and urgent. “And that’s why you can’t do anything stupid.”
Y/N yanked her arm back. “I’m not being stupid, I’m being—”
“Angry,” Nancy snapped. “Rightfully. But if you confront Daniel, he’ll panic.”
Y/N scoffed. “Good.”
Nancy’s eyes flashed. “And what do people do when they panic? They act. He’ll turn the pictures in.”
Y/N went still.
Nancy watched her, voice lower now but no less intense. “If you go after Henry, he’ll get scared too. He’ll think you’re going to blow it up. And he’s already on edge. He’ll either shut you out again or…” She swallowed. “Or Daniel will find out you know, and he’ll speed up the damage.”
Y/N’s chest heaved. Tears pricked at her eyes, not sadness this time, but rage and humiliation tangled together.
“So what?” she demanded, voice shaking. “I just sit here and let him keep doing this?”
Nancy held her gaze, steady and unflinching. “No.”
Y/N blinked. “Then what?”
Nancy exhaled slowly, forcing herself to calm down the way she always did before she wrote something that mattered.
“I have a plan,” Nancy said.
Y/N’s laugh was sharp and broken. “Nancy, this isn’t—”
“It is,” Nancy cut in. “Because he thinks he’s the only one with leverage.” Her eyes narrowed. “He thinks he can hold those photos over you like you’re powerless.”
Y/N stared at her, breathing hard. “Nancy…”
Nancy stepped closer. Her voice dropped, calm and focused, dangerous in a different way.
“We’re going to get those photos,” she said.
Y/N’s pulse stuttered. “How?”
Nancy’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “With blackmail.”
Y/N’s brows shot up. “Nancy—”
“Don’t look at me like that,” Nancy said briskly. “You’re dating an English professor in secret. We’re already living in the moral gray.”
Y/N swallowed, still shaking. “What could we possibly blackmail Daniel with?”
Nancy’s eyes flicked over Y/N like she was assessing a witness. “First, you calm down,” Nancy said firmly. “Because if you go storming into the hallway yelling about murder, we’re dead before we start.”
Y/N blinked rapidly, trying to breathe. “Fine. Okay.”
Nancy nodded once, satisfied, and continued. “Second, Daniel Taylor is sloppy. People like him always are. He thinks he’s untouchable because he has something scandalous, which means he won’t be careful.”
Y/N’s voice was tight. “So what do we do?”
Nancy reached for her notebook, flipping it open like she was already taking notes for a story.
“We find out where he keeps them,” she said. “We get him to bring them somewhere. Or we get into his stuff when he’s not looking.”
Y/N’s hands trembled at her sides. “You’re talking about stealing.”
Nancy’s expression stayed flat. “I’m talking about retrieving your life.”
Y/N swallowed hard, eyes burning. “And if he has copies?”
Nancy didn’t flinch. “Then we get those too. Or we make him too scared to use them.” Her gaze sharpened. “But first, we need the originals. Because that’s his confidence. That’s his power.”
Y/N’s throat tightened. “I can’t believe he did this.”
Nancy’s voice softened just a fraction, enough to land like a hand on her shoulder. “He did it because he’s jealous. Because you rejected him. Because he’s petty and thinks women are prizes and punishments.”
Y/N’s eyes filled again, but she blinked the tears back fiercely. “Henry—”
Nancy cut her off immediately. “Not yet.”
Y/N’s breath caught.
Nancy held her gaze. “You cannot go to Creel. You cannot even look like you’re thinking about Creel. Right now, Henry has no idea I heard any of it. That’s good. That’s an advantage.”
Y/N’s voice was small and trembling. “But he did this to protect me.”
Nancy’s jaw tightened. “And he did it in the worst way possible.” She leaned in. “We can deal with Henry later. Right now, we deal with Daniel.”
Y/N stared at her, chest rising and falling too fast. “What do you need from me?”
Nancy nodded once, like she’d just been waiting for that.
“I need you to act normal,” she said. “In class. In the halls. Around Daniel. Like you don’t know anything.”
Y/N let out a shaky exhale. “I don’t know if I can.”
Nancy’s voice went firm again. “You can. You’re a writer. You’re good at playing a role.”
Y/N swallowed hard, nodding slowly. “Okay.”
Nancy’s eyes sharpened. “And I need you to trust me.”
Y/N hesitated, then nodded again, more certain this time. “I do.”
Nancy exhaled, relief flickering briefly across her face before determination replaced it.
“Good,” Nancy said. “Because we’re going to take his power away.”
Y/N’s voice came out low and fierce. “And then what?”
Nancy’s mouth tightened into something cold. “Then we make sure he never does this to you again.”
She closed her notebook with a decisive snap.
“And,” Nancy added, eyes bright with purpose, “we’re getting those photos.”
. . .
They didn’t have the luxury of hesitation.
By the next day, Nancy had turned their dorm room into a war room, quiet and focused, all sharp edges and whispered contingency plans. She didn’t write any of it down where someone could find it. She just repeated it until Y/N could recite it in her sleep.
Act normal.
Don’t look guilty.
Don’t look scared.
Get him comfortable.
Get him close.
Get him careless.
Y/N didn’t feel normal. She felt like her skin had been peeled back and the air hurt.
But she could act.
She had been acting for days already, pretending she was fine, pretending she wasn’t hollowed out, pretending her heart hadn’t been stomped into something small and bruised. Acting was the one skill grief hadn’t taken from her.
So she did what Nancy told her to do.
She walked into the hallway outside Creel’s classroom like she wasn’t carrying a secret bigger than her body. She wore her usual face, chin slightly lifted, shoulders back, lips pressed into something that could pass as indifference if you didn’t know her.
Nancy kept a few steps behind, quieter than a shadow.
Daniel Taylor was exactly where Nancy predicted he’d be, near the bulletin board, talking too loudly to another student, laughing like he owned the building.
When he spotted Y/N, the smile on his face changed.
It sharpened.
Like he’d been waiting for her to show weakness so he could taste it.
Y/N didn’t give him that.
She slowed just slightly, just enough to make it look like she’d noticed him, just enough to hook his attention. Her expression stayed smooth, almost bored.
“Daniel,” she said, like his name didn’t make her want to vomit.
His eyes traveled over her in that gross, assessing way, like he thought he’d earned the right. “Y/N,” he replied, voice smug. “Back on campus?”
Y/N made a tiny sound that could have been a laugh. “I go here.”
Daniel’s mouth tilted up. “Yeah. I guess you do.”
There was something ugly underneath it, an implication he didn’t even bother to hide.
Y/N forced herself not to flinch.
Behind her, Nancy’s presence was like a hand at the back of her spine, steadying her.
Y/N let her gaze flick briefly to the backpack slung loose over Daniel’s shoulder. Casual. Almost accidental. Like she was just noticing it.
Then she gave Daniel the bait.
“I’m surprised you’re still in one piece,” she said lightly.
Daniel blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Y/N shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Just figured you’d be hiding. People talk.”
Daniel’s expression flickered, irritated. “People talk about what?”
Y/N tilted her head like she was considering how much to say. “About you being so interested in my life.”
Daniel scoffed. “Please.”
Y/N leaned a fraction closer, enough to make him feel like she was engaging, enough to make him stop thinking about his belongings and start thinking about her.
“I’m just saying,” she murmured, voice calm, “it’s kind of embarrassing.”
Daniel’s brows pulled together. “Embarrassing for who?”
“For you,” Y/N said, sweet as poison.
Daniel’s pride snapped to attention exactly the way Nancy predicted it would.
He stepped closer, posture puffing up. “You think you can talk to me like that?”
Y/N gave him a tight little smile. “I think I just did.”
Daniel’s eyes flashed, and as he shifted, annoyed and hooked and focused on the conversation, his backpack slid down his shoulder. He adjusted it absentmindedly, loosening the strap, and that was all Nancy needed.
Nancy moved.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t obvious.
One second she was behind Y/N, the next she was beside Daniel, her shoulder brushing his like a total accident in a crowded hallway.
“Oh, sorry,” Nancy said briskly, already bending as if she’d dropped something.
Daniel barely looked at her. His attention was on Y/N, on the way she wasn’t cowering like he wanted.
Nancy’s fingers slipped into the side pocket of his bag with the clean efficiency of someone who’d spent her life snooping through drawers for answers.
Paper. Plastic. The square edge of a Polaroid stack.
She gripped them, slid them out in one smooth motion, and tucked them inside her notebook like they belonged there.
Then she straightened, expression flat, and stepped back into place.
Y/N saw the smallest nod from Nancy, barely a movement.
Got them.
She didn’t let relief show. She kept her face cool as she delivered the exit line Nancy had coached her on.
“Anyway,” Y/N said, dismissive, “I’ve got class.”
Daniel’s mouth curled. “Yeah. Cool. Later.”
Y/N stared at him for one heartbeat longer than necessary, enough to promise she wasn’t done with him, then turned.
Nancy turned with her.
They walked away at a normal pace for the first ten steps.
Then, the moment they hit the stairwell, Nancy grabbed Y/N’s wrist and they moved, down the stairs, around the corner, away from the hallway like the building itself was chasing them.
Y/N’s heart was pounding so hard it hurt.
They reached the dorm. Nancy unlocked the door, shoved them inside, and locked it again.
The second the bolt slid into place, Y/N spun toward her.
“Did you—”
Nancy opened her notebook and pulled out the Polaroids.
Y/N’s breath caught so sharply it sounded like a sob.
There they were, those stolen moments turned into weapons. Grainy proof. Private things made ugly by someone else’s eyes.
Y/N stared at them, shaking.
Nancy’s face was pale with anger. “Yeah,” she said. “I did.”
Y/N’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my God.”
Then a hard knock rattled the door.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Nancy and Y/N froze.
Another knock, more violent.
“OPEN UP.”
Daniel’s voice, sharp and furious and panicked.
Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “He noticed faster than I hoped.”
Y/N’s throat tightened. “Nancy—”
Nancy held up a hand.
The knocking came again.
“I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!”
Nancy walked to the door like she wasn’t afraid of him, like she’d been waiting.
She didn’t open it all the way, just enough to look him in the eye through the crack, the chain still on.
Daniel’s face was flushed. His hair was slightly mussed, like he’d been tearing through hallways looking for them.
He looked right past Nancy at Y/N.
“Where are they?” he demanded. “Where are the photos?”
Nancy blinked slowly, like she was bored. “What photos?”
Daniel’s eyes bulged. “Don’t play dumb—”
“Oh,” Nancy said, cutting him off, her voice calm and razor sharp, “you mean the Polaroids you took through a classroom door like a creep?”
Daniel flinched, just barely.
Nancy leaned closer to the crack in the door, her tone pure Nancy Wheeler, controlled, furious, terrifyingly rational.
“You should leave,” she said. “Before you make this worse for yourself.”
Daniel’s mouth twisted. “Give them back.”
Y/N stepped forward behind Nancy, rage finally overcoming fear. “You never should’ve had them.”
Daniel’s gaze snapped to her, dripping with entitlement. “You’re not in a position to—”
“No,” Nancy cut in again. “You’re not.”
Daniel’s voice rose. “You think you can threaten me?”
Nancy smiled, cold and perfect. “I’m not threatening you. I’m explaining your reality.”
Daniel’s eyes flashed. “You have nothing.”
Nancy’s smile widened by a fraction. “Actually, Daniel, you have nothing.”
He stared, breathing hard. “That’s a lie.”
Nancy’s voice dropped lower, quiet and deadly. “Is it?”
Daniel’s jaw clenched.
Nancy continued, calm as a judge. “Without those photos, what do you have? Your word.” She tilted her head. “Against a professor.”
Daniel’s expression changed slightly, uncertainty leaking in.
“And not just any professor,” Nancy added, “but one of Emerson’s most respected faculty members.”
Daniel’s nostrils flared.
Nancy didn’t blink. “And you’re also up against two students. Two students with perfect attendance, strong grades, and not a single disciplinary mark between them.” She held his gaze. “You think anyone is going to believe you over him?”
Daniel’s confidence faltered for the first time.
Y/N’s voice came out sharp behind Nancy. “Especially when you already look obsessed.”
Daniel snapped, “I’m not—”
Nancy cut him off again, her voice like ice. “You are, Daniel. And if you keep showing up at our door, yelling, demanding things, you’re going to make that very easy to prove.”
Daniel swallowed, eyes darting like he was calculating damage.
Nancy leaned in closer, lowering her voice until it was almost conversational, almost kind, which somehow made it worse.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she said. “You’re going to walk away. You’re going to stop talking about Y/N. You’re going to stop lurking around like a perv. And you won’t say a word about this. And you’re going to pretend you were never stupid enough to try this.”
Daniel’s lips parted. “And if I don’t?”
Nancy’s smile didn’t move. “Then you can explain to the principal why you were taking secret photos through a classroom door. You can explain why you were carrying them around campus. You can explain why you were using them to threaten a faculty member.”
Daniel’s face went pale.
Nancy’s tone sharpened. “You want to gamble? Fine. But you’re the one who loses the most.”
Daniel stood there for a moment, chest heaving, anger fighting fear.
Then he took a step back.
“You’re insane,” he spat.
Nancy’s smile turned sweet and lethal. “No. I’m a journalist.”
Daniel glared at Y/N one last time, bitterness radiating off him. “This isn’t over.”
Nancy’s eyes didn’t flicker. “It is if you’re smart.”
Daniel turned and stormed off down the hall.
Nancy watched until he disappeared, then shut the door and locked it again.
Only then did her shoulders drop.
Only then did Y/N’s legs start shaking.
Y/N let out a breath that sounded like she’d been holding it for days. She looked at Nancy like she couldn’t believe she was real.
“Nancy,” she whispered, voice breaking. “You—”
Nancy turned, still holding the Polaroids, eyes bright with leftover adrenaline. “We got them.”
Y/N’s throat tightened so hard it hurt.
Then she surged forward and threw her arms around Nancy, hugging her so tightly Nancy made a small surprised noise.
Y/N’s voice came out muffled against her shoulder. “Thank you.”
Nancy stiffened for half a second, her arms came around Y/N, firm and protective.
“You don’t get to fall apart alone,” Nancy muttered, her voice rougher than usual.
Y/N shook in her arms, relief finally pouring out where the grief had been. “I thought he ruined me. I thought—”
“He didn’t,” Nancy said immediately. “He tried, and he failed.”
Y/N pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes wet. “You saved me.”
Nancy’s face softened, just a little. “No. I did what friends are supposed to do.”
Y/N’s mouth trembled. “I don’t deserve you.”
Nancy scoffed, wiping at the corner of Y/N’s cheek like she was annoyed by the tears. “Eat your lunch. Then we figure out what comes next.”
Y/N laughed through a sob, hugging her again, harder this time, grateful in a way that felt like survival.
And for the first time since Henry’s classroom door had closed behind her days ago, the world stopped feeling like it was winning.
. . .
Y/N waited until the hallway thinned out.
She stayed near the water fountain at the end of the corridor, notebook hugged to her chest, eyes tracking the classroom door like it might bite her if she got too close. Students drifted past in clusters, laughing, complaining about readings, the usual noise of a campus that didn’t know how someone’s whole world could fracture in the span of a single sentence.
When the last of them finally filed out of Henry’s classroom, Y/N stepped forward.
She didn’t rush. She didn’t hesitate long enough to lose her nerve either.
She slipped inside like she belonged there.
Henry was at his desk, gathering papers with the same careful movements he always had: orderly, precise, like the rest of life could be sorted into stacks. The room smelled faintly of chalk and old books. The windows let in a gray winter light that made everything look a little harsher than it needed to.
He looked up when he heard her footsteps.
For a heartbeat, his expression didn’t change, professional and neutral, and then it cracked.
Not widely. Not dramatically.
But enough.
His eyes fixed on her like he didn’t trust his mind, like he’d been seeing her everywhere and had finally lost the right to have her in his doorway again.
“Y/N,” he said quietly.
It had been a week.
Seven days since he’d looked her in the face and called her a mistake.
Seven days since she’d walked out with her heart in her hands, trying not to let it spill in the hallway.
Y/N shut the door behind her gently, but the click still sounded too loud in the empty classroom.
She didn’t approach right away.
Instead, she stood there, taking in the room: the desks, the chalkboard, the spot near the front where she used to sit like she belonged to something here. The place where she used to look at him and feel wanted.
Now she felt only the echo.
She glanced toward the hallway window in the door, making sure there were no silhouettes lingering outside. Then she crossed to the desk.
Henry didn’t move.
He watched her like he was afraid any movement would scare her back out the door.
Y/N reached into her notebook and pulled out the Polaroids.
The stack was small, but it felt heavy in her hand, heavy with what could have happened, heavy with what Daniel had tried to make of her, heavy with the fact that Henry had let himself be cornered by it and decided she was the thing that needed to be sacrificed.
She placed the photos on his desk.
One neat pile.
Right in the center.
Henry’s gaze dropped to them.
His whole body went still.
Then his eyes lifted back to her face, sharp with realization and something like shame.
“You got them,” he murmured.
“I got them,” Y/N confirmed, voice steady. Too steady, like she was holding herself together with wire.
Henry didn’t touch the photos. He looked at them like they were a live grenade.
“I don’t care what you do with them,” Y/N added. “Burn them. Keep them. Rip them up. I don’t care.” Her chin lifted slightly, defiant and tired at the same time. “I just wanted you to have them. So you know it’s over.”
Henry’s throat worked. “Y/N.”
She didn’t let him speak yet.
She stood on the other side of the desk, close enough to feel the familiar pull of his presence, and it made her stomach twist with anger that it still affected her at all.
Henry finally moved, just a fraction, like he was stepping out of the role he’d been hiding behind.
His voice came soft, raw around the edges in a way she hadn’t heard in class. “I’m sorry.”
The apology landed differently than she expected.
It wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t perfunctory. It sounded like it had been stuck in his throat for days, like he’d rehearsed it alone and hated himself every time he reached the end of it.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, more firmly, as if repetition could prove sincerity. “For what I said. For the way I ended it. For hurting you.”
Y/N stared at him.
A week ago, if he’d said that, she might have melted. Might have run to him. Might have let him fold her back into his arms like none of it happened.
Now she felt the pain flare again, sharp and bright, because his apology was proof that he’d known exactly what he was doing when he did it.
She swallowed, throat tight.
“I don’t like what you did,” she said quietly.
Henry’s face tightened, but he didn’t argue.
Y/N’s fingers curled around the edge of the desk. “I understand that you were scared,” she continued, voice trembling slightly despite her effort. “I get that you thought you were protecting me. I get that you were cornered.”
Henry’s gaze stayed on her, intent, like he couldn’t afford to miss a single word.
“But you didn’t protect me,” Y/N said, and the sentence came out like it had teeth. “You hurt me. You made me feel stupid. You made me feel disposable.”
Henry flinched. The smallest movement, but real.
Y/N blinked hard, eyes burning. “I’ve dated guys before you,” she added, voice rougher now. “I’ve had boyfriends who didn’t call. Boyfriends who cheated. Boyfriends who were whatever.” Her laugh was quiet and bitter. “And I didn’t care the way I care now.”
Henry’s eyes darkened. Not jealousy, something deeper. Something like grief.
Y/N’s breath shuddered. “You’re the first one I’ve ever gotten genuinely upset about. Like it physically hurt. Like I couldn’t breathe in my own room.” She swallowed. “And I hate that. Because I didn’t ask for that.”
Henry’s hand twitched as if he wanted to reach across the desk, to touch her, to fix it. He stopped himself.
Y/N stared at him, trying to read his face the way she used to, like his expression was a text she could annotate.
“I don’t know what happens now,” she said quietly. “I don’t know if you even still want me.”
Henry’s jaw tightened like the question was unfair in how obvious the answer was.
But Y/N cut him off before he could speak, because she wasn’t done.
“All I know,” she continued, voice shaking now, “is that I’m still upset. I’m still angry. And I’m still hurt.”
Henry’s face softened in a way that made his professionalism look like a costume.
He exhaled slowly, as if he’d been holding his breath since the day he ended it.
“I do want you,” he said, voice low and steady, not rushing, not pleading, just honest. “I never stopped.”
Y/N’s throat tightened at the words, because they didn’t fix anything, but they made the ache swell anyway, proof that it had been real, that it still was.
Henry looked down at the Polaroids on his desk, then back to her. “I thought I could protect you by making you hate me,” he admitted, and his voice turned rough with self-disgust. “I thought if you believed I didn’t care, you’d walk away and your future would stay intact.”
Y/N’s lips parted, a silent, pained breath.
Henry’s eyes held hers. “I was wrong,” he said. “About the method. About the cruelty. About thinking I had the right to decide how much pain you could take.”
Y/N’s hands trembled against the desk edge.
Henry swallowed hard. “You don’t have to forgive me,” he said, and it sounded like it cost him something to be that fair. “But I need you to know, none of it was because you meant nothing.”
Y/N stared at him, eyes glossy.
She wanted to throw something. She wanted to collapse. She wanted to kiss him and punch him in the same breath.
Instead, she let the truth sit between them: messy, unresolved, alive.
“I’m not here to fix this in one conversation,” she said, voice small but firm. “I just wanted you to know what happened. I wanted you to have them. And I wanted you to hear it from me.”
Henry nodded once, slow.
Y/N drew in a shaky breath. “And I want you to understand something,” she added.
Henry’s gaze sharpened. “What?”
Y/N met his eyes, brave in the way she was brave only when she had no other choice.
“If you ever do that to me again,” she said quietly, “if you ever decide you get to hurt me for my own good or for some stupid reason, I won’t come back.”
Henry went still.
The words hit him like a verdict.
Then he nodded once, solemn. “Understood.”
Y/N swallowed, tears threatening.
She didn’t let them fall here.
Not in his classroom.
Not on his desk.
She straightened, gathering her notebook back to her chest like armor again.
“I’m going,” she said.
Henry’s voice was quiet, urgent. “Y/N.”
She paused at the door but didn’t turn around right away.
“I don’t know what I want,” she said, still facing the door, voice barely above a whisper. “But I know I didn’t deserve that.”
Henry’s reply came softer than the chalk dust in the air. “No. You didn’t. But I’ll be here if you decide to forgive me because I do still want you.”
Y/N nodded once, like she accepted that answer for now.
Then she opened the door and stepped back into the hallway, heart still aching, anger still alive, and yet, for the first time in a week, she felt like she’d finally gotten some of her power back.
description: you’ve always been sweet. too sweet, probably. then, eddie starts taking you on dates, putting cigarettes to your lips, and looking at you like he wants to ruin you just a little bit.
pairing: eddie x henderson!reader (fem!reader)
tags: eddie x henderson!reader, innocent!reader, virgin!reader, soft corruption, "good girl" energy, sweethearts you to DEATH, firsts, mutual pining, praise kink undertones, protective eddie, eddie not knowing what to do with all of this softness, "jesus christ" 24/7, shy affection, "there she is", "that's my girl", horny but sweet
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do not interact!!, PiV, smoking
WC: 9.9k
A/N: requested by @ihaveaspoon i hope you enjoy!!!! reblog for ya girl, if you don't mind ;) why do i lowkey love a corruption fic🫣 *proofread as best as i could, my brain hurts, sorry
People always say the same things about you.
Sweet, polite, and pretty in that soft sort of way that makes old women at the grocery store smile at you fondly and teachers immediately trust you with passing out papers.
The kind of girl who remembers everyone’s favorite candy, who waves when people let her cross the street, who still says bless you when someone sneezes, even if she doesn’t know them. Hawkins is small enough that kindness stands out, and yours seems endless.
It’s almost strange, really.
Not because you’re naive exactly, but because the world has not managed to harden you yet. You still help Dustin with his homework even after he acts like a little asshole all through dinner. You still leave little notes in his lunchbox and compliment strangers’ outfits and smile at people like you genuinely hope they’re having a good day.
And maybe that’s why nobody’s ever dated you.
Not for lack of trying, because boys definitely do. They trip over themselves around you constantly, all awkward grins and sweaty palms and invitations to the movies that you somehow never realize are dates until weeks later when Robin physically grabs your shoulders and says, “Honey, he was flirting with you.”
Your response had only been a confused blink. “He was?”
Robin had stared at you for a very long moment before muttering something about you being “a baby deer in the middle of hunting season.”
The thing is, romance has always felt like something happening around you instead of to you. Girls in your grade pass notes about kissing boys behind the bleachers while you sit beside them, doodling little stars in the margins of your notebook.
Nancy comes over ranting about Steve, and you listen carefully, chin in your palm, like she’s telling you a story from another planet entirely. Then there’s Eddie. And honestly, maybe the universe should’ve warned him first.
Because Eddie is used to people looking at him and immediately deciding what he is before he even opens his mouth. Freak. Burnout. Drug dealer. Satanist. Every adult in Hawkins looks at him like he’s one wrong move away from corrupting their children, and every girl who flirts with him does it with this expectation that he’ll play into the role they’ve already created in their heads.
But you don’t, you look at him the same way you look at everyone else: warmly.
The first time he really notices it is after Hellfire one night, when everyone else has already cleared out of the drama room except you, sitting cross-legged in one of the chairs, waiting for Dustin to finish arguing with Mike about some campaign detail. Eddie’s shoving books back into his bag when you quietly slide a can of Coke across the table toward him.
“I remembered this was your favorite,” you say simply.
And Eddie just stares at you. Because you remembered that. Not in a flirty way. Not trying to get anything from him. You’d just noticed him mentioning it once weeks ago and tucked the information away in that sweet little head of yours like it mattered.
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.
You blink at him softly. “What?”
“Nothin’, sweetheart.”
The nickname slips out before he can stop it. And the worst part is the way your entire face warms at it, ducking your head shyly like nobody’s ever called you something like that before. Which, horrifyingly enough for Eddie, might actually be true.
Steve’s living room is already loud by the time Eddie gets there.
Robin is halfway through aggressively arguing with Nancy about what movie they’re watching, Steve looks one inconvenience away from death on the couch, and somewhere in the kitchen, Dustin is complaining about the lack of “real snacks” like he personally funds the grocery shopping.
It’s warm inside the Harrington house, all yellow lighting and cluttered blankets draped over the couch cushions, the kind of easy domesticity Eddie always feels a little strange stepping into. Then he sees you.
Curled up in the corner of the couch with sock-covered feet tucked beneath you, smiling the second the front door opens.
“Eddie!” you say brightly, like you hadn’t just seen him yesterday at Hellfire. “There’s still space next to me.”
That immediately becomes the worst moment of Eddie’s entire life.
Because there is space next to you, a very obvious space. One you apparently saved for him without thinking twice. Robin notices the way Eddie visibly hesitates in the doorway and has to fake a coughing fit into her sleeve to keep from laughing.
Eddie drops onto the couch beside you with what he hopes resembles casualness. “Well, sweetheart, how thoughtful of you. Saved me from sitting on the crusty Harrington carpet.”
Steve flips him off from the recliner. “You’re lucky you were invited at all.”
You giggle softly at that, and Eddie immediately has to look away from you.
The movie starts eventually, though Eddie barely absorbs any of it. Not when you’re sitting tucked against his side close enough that your knees keep brushing every few minutes. Every time it happens, you murmur a tiny “sorry” under your breath before doing it all over again thirty seconds later, entirely unaware of the psychological warfare you’re inflicting on him.
At some point during the movie, you start reaching into the popcorn bowl in his lap instead of the one on the coffee table. Again, absentmindedly. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to lean across him every few minutes with your soft perfume surrounding him and your sleeve brushing against his rings.
Eddie thinks he may actually be dying.
“Oh my god, this part is so sad,” you whisper at one point, turning toward him with wide eyes.
Eddie blinks. “Sweetheart, this guy has been on screen for maybe four minutes.”
“I know,” you whisper back earnestly. “But look at him.”
And Christ.
That’s another thing about you, you care about everything. Movie characters with three lines. Stray cats behind Melvald’s. Random kids crying in the grocery store. You move through the world with this unbearable softness that makes Eddie feel simultaneously protective and completely ruined by you.
About halfway through the movie, the room cools enough that you quietly reach for the blanket bunched beside Eddie’s leg. He lifts it automatically to help you pull it over yourself, only for you to immediately lift one side toward him too.
“You’ll get cold,” you murmur.
Eddie stares at you for a beat too long before slowly ducking beneath the blanket beside you. Across the room, Robin physically presses her lips together to stop herself from making a noise. Then, somehow, things get worse. Because sometime during the second movie, you get sleepy.
Eddie notices it in little ways first. The slower blinking, the way your words trail off halfway through comments. Eventually, your head tips sideways against his shoulder so naturally that it almost seems unconscious.
The entire room goes quiet for exactly two seconds. Not because of you, but because Eddie completely freezes.
You don’t even realize what you’ve done at first, already half-asleep against him beneath the blanket. Then your eyes blink open slightly, face warming the tiniest bit when you realize where you’re leaning.
“Oh,” you mumble softly. “Is this okay?”
Eddie thinks his heart physically hurts.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, sweetheart. ‘Course it is.”
You smile at that. Small and sleepy and trusting. Then your eyes drift shut again against his shoulder like there was never a possibility he’d say no. Robin watches Eddie very carefully after that. Specifically, the way he doesn’t move for the next hour, not even once.
By the time the movie ends, you’ve wandered into the kitchen with Nancy to help clean up empty soda cans while Dustin argues with Steve over something stupid in the dining room. Eddie is still sitting on the couch like he’s recovering from a near-death experience when Robin drops into the seat beside him.
“You are so unbelievably into her,” she says immediately.
Eddie scoffs without looking at her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Bullshit. You looked at her like a Victorian man seeing an ankle.”
That finally gets a reluctant snort out of him. Robin grins, leaning back into the couch cushions. “She likes you too, y’know.”
Eddie’s expression changes instantly. “No, she doesn’t.” The response comes too fast.
Robin’s face softens slightly beneath the teasing. “Eddie—”
“She’s nice to everybody,” he cuts in quietly, eyes flicking toward the hallway where you disappeared moments ago. “That’s just who she is.”
And maybe that’s the problem, because Eddie knows what people like him do to things that are soft.
Friday afternoon sunlight spills warm through the hallway windows, catching against Eddie’s face as he leans against the lockers outside your classroom like he’s been there a while, pretending not to wait for you.
Which is exactly what he’s been doing.
You almost miss him at first while stuffing books into your bag, too focused on making sure Dustin remembered his science worksheet this morning. It’s only when someone whistles obnoxiously down the hall, and Eddie flips them off without even turning around, that your eyes finally land on him.
And immediately, your stomach does something strange. Not bad, strange, just strange. Because Eddie’s looking at you already.
Not casually either. His dark eyes lock onto yours the second you notice him, and for a moment, he looks almost nervous, which feels impossible considering this is Eddie. Eddie, who performs lunch table monologues and flirts with teachers for extra credit, acts like the entire world is his stage.
You smile anyway.
“There she is,” he says, pushing off the lockers.
“Hi,” you answer softly, adjusting the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder. “Were you waiting for someone?”
Eddie actually laughs at that.
“Sweetheart,” he says, stepping closer, “you are genuinely killin’ me.”
Your brows pull together a little. “What?”
“Nothin’.” He shakes his head, grinning to himself before dragging his rings along the back of his neck. Suddenly, he looks oddly uncertain again. “Uh… actually, I was waitin’ for you.”
“Oh.” The word comes out quieter than you mean for it to.
The hallway around you buzzes with noise, lockers slamming and people shoving past each other on their way outside, but it suddenly feels very far away. Eddie shifts his weight once, eyes flicking over your face like he’s trying to gauge something.
Then he says, “You wanna go out with me tonight?”
“You mean…” You blink once. “Like a date?”
Eddie’s mouth twitches slightly. “Yeah, sweetheart. Like a date.”
And maybe it’s embarrassing how fast your face warms.
Not because you don’t want to go. God, you do. You think maybe you’ve wanted to for longer than you realized. It’s just that nobody’s ever looked at you quite like Eddie is right now, all careful confidence hiding something softer underneath.
“Okay,” you say before you can overthink it.
Eddie stills. “Okay?”
You smile a little shyly. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”
For a second, Eddie genuinely looks stunned.
Then the slowest grin spreads across his face, crooked and warm and so unfairly pretty that you have to glance down at your shoes for a second just to collect yourself.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, mostly to himself.
You laugh softly. “What?”
“There’s that thing again where you say yes to me like I just asked if you wanted a pencil instead of—” He cuts himself off with another disbelieving shake of his head. “Tonight. I’ll pick you up at seven?”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he repeats, like he still can’t believe it.
He walks backward down the hallway afterward, still grinning at you in this helpless sort of way, before finally turning toward the exit. You stand there for a moment after he disappears, your heartbeat feeling strangely uneven beneath your ribs.
Then, naturally, you go find Robin.
She’s already behind the Family Video counter when you walk in later that afternoon, lazily rewinding tapes with Steve half-asleep beside her. The second she sees your face, her eyes narrow suspiciously.
“What happened?”
You blink. “Nothing happened.”
“That is not a nothing face.”
Steve lifts his head slightly from the counter. “What’s a nothing face?”
Robin points at you dramatically. “That face. That’s the face girls make before they tell you life-altering information.”
Your cheeks warm immediately. “It’s not life-altering.”
“Oh my god,” Robin gasps. “You kissed someone.”
“What? No!”
Steve snorts tiredly into the counter. Robin leans forward. “Then what?”
You hesitate for half a second before saying quietly, “Eddie asked me on a date.”
Then Robin slams both palms onto the counter so hard Steve nearly falls out of his chair. “I KNEW IT.”
Your face warms instantly beneath her stare. Steve looks significantly more awake now, too, blinking between the two of you while Robin points at you like you’ve personally validated her entire worldview.
“I told you he liked her,” she says to Steve.
Steve shrugs. “I mean, yeah. The guy looks at her like she personally invented music.”
“Oh my god,” you mumble, covering your face briefly with your sleeve.
Robin immediately softens at that, grinning as she leans her elbows onto the counter. “Aw, honey, don’t look embarrassed. This is cute.”
Cute. The word alone makes your stomach flutter strangely.
You glance down shyly, tracing your thumb along the strap of your bag. “It’s just a date.”
“Mhm,” Robin hums knowingly. “And what exactly are we wearing to this very casual, definitely-not-important date?”
You blink. “I don’t know yet.”
Steve finally sits up straighter. “Wait, hold on. Tonight tonight?”
You nod once. Robin gasps dramatically. “Oh, this is serious.”
“It is not serious,” you protest immediately.
Robin’s expression turns fond in that way it sometimes does around you, all teasing melting into something softer. “Sweetie, he stood outside your classroom looking nervous and was a statue when you fell asleep on him. You’ve altered his brain chemistry.”
You hide your face again with a quiet groan while Steve laughs under his breath.
“I’m serious,” Robin continues. “I have literally never seen him act normal around anybody he’s interested in.”
Before you can answer, Robin suddenly narrows her eyes. “Wait. Have you even been on a date before?”
You hesitate just long enough for her to gasp. “Oh, my god.”
“It’s not a big deal,” you say quickly.
Steve blinks at you. “Like… ever?”
You shrug awkwardly. “I don’t know. Nobody’s really asked.”
Robin and Steve share a look over your head that feels deeply loaded.
“What?” you ask suspiciously.
Robin shakes her head slowly. “Nothing. I just think half the male population of Hawkins is profoundly stupid.”
You laugh quietly at that, cheeks still warm. “You guys are making this sound way more dramatic than it is.”
Robin reaches over the counter to squeeze your hand once. “No, honey. We’re making it sound exactly as dramatic as it is.”
By seven o’clock, your bedroom looks like a small tornado passed through it.
Not because you’re trying overly hard, exactly. More because every outfit suddenly feels wrong the second you put it on. Robin’s teasing voice still echoes faintly in your head every time you glance in the mirror.
"Eddie Munson stood outside your classroom, nervous."
Which is ridiculous, Eddie doesn’t get nervous. However, your stomach has been fluttering stupidly for the last hour anyway.
Eventually, you settle on something simple. Something that still feels like you. Soft sweater, jeans that fit nicely, a little lip gloss Nancy once insisted you’d “thank her for later.” By the time you finally step out of your bedroom, the house is quiet except for the television murmuring faintly from the living room.
Dustin is sprawled across the couch with a bowl of cereal balanced on his stomach despite the fact it’s fully evening. He glances up absentmindedly at first.
His entire face lights up. “Whoa.”
You immediately laugh nervously. “What?”
“You look pretty.”
The sincerity in his voice catches you slightly off guard. Dustin sits up straighter on the couch, grinning at you in a way that suddenly reminds you painfully that he’s still your little brother underneath all the dramatics and endless talking.
“You really think so?”
“Duh.” He gestures vaguely with his spoon. “Eddie’s gonna freak out.”
Your cheeks warm instantly. “Dustin.”
“What? He likes you like… aggressively.”
You laugh softly despite yourself, smoothing your hands nervously over your sleeves. “Robin said the same thing.”
“Because it’s true,” Dustin says, like it’s obvious. “He talks about you all the time.”
That makes you blink. “He does?”
“Oh my god,” Dustin groans, dropping back dramatically against the couch cushions. “You seriously have no idea, do you?”
Before you can answer, headlights sweep briefly across the front window.
Dustin notices your expression and grins even wider. “You’re nervous.”
“I am not.”
“You are,” he says delightedly. “This is amazing.”
Then there’s a knock at the door, and your heartbeat feels too loud. Dustin looks between you and the front door with poorly concealed excitement before jumping up from the couch first.
“Oh, I’m answering it.”
“Dustin—”
Too late. He yanks the front door open with the energy of a child on Christmas morning.
Eddie’s standing on the porch in dark jeans and his leather jacket, curls slightly messy like he’s been dragging nervous hands through them.
He’s holding a small bouquet of flowers that look suspiciously like they came from the little stand outside Melvald’s, and for once in his life, Eddie Munson actually seems unsure of himself.
Then his eyes land on you behind Dustin, and he completely forgets how to speak. Dustin looks back and forth between the two of you with visible delight.
“Oh my god,” he whispers dramatically. “He is freaking out.”
Eddie blinks once like he’s rebooting. “Henderson, I will kill you.”
“You brought flowers,” Dustin says smugly.
Eddie ignores him entirely, still staring at you in a way that makes your chest feel warm all over again. “Hi, sweetheart.”
“Hi.” The word comes out softer than you intended.
Eddie swallows once. Then, very carefully, he holds the flowers out toward you. “These are for you.”
“Be home by ten!” Dustin calls dramatically as Eddie leads you back toward the van.
You pause halfway down the walkway. “Since when do you give me a curfew?”
“Since now,” he says importantly, leaning against the front doorframe. “And no funny business.”
Eddie scoffs loudly without looking back. “You are literally fifteen.”
“And wiser than both of you combined.”
You laugh softly under your breath as Eddie opens the passenger door for you with an exaggerated bow.
“Goodbye, Dustin.”
“GOODBYE. BE SAFE. DON’T GET PREGNANT.”
“Oh my god,” you groan, face burning as Eddie bursts into helpless laughter beside you.
The front door slams shut before you can retaliate further.
“Your brother is insane.”
“You encourage him.”
“Because he’s funny.”
“He’s awful.”
Eddie laughs again as the van rumbles to life beneath you. The sound settles warmly through the small space alongside the radio's quiet static, and for a little while, things feel easy.
Eddie drums his fingers against the steering wheel while he drives one-handed, occasionally glancing over at you with this small private smile that makes your stomach flutter every single time.
It isn’t until he pulls into the overlook outside town later that night that things start to shift.
The place is mostly empty this late, only a couple of scattered cars parked beneath the dark stretch of sky overlooking Hawkins. “This okay?” he asks.
You nod immediately. “Yeah. It’s pretty up here.”
Eddie’s eyes linger on your face for a second too long before he looks away again with a quiet hum. “Yeah,” he says softly. “It is.”
Then, after a moment, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes.
You watch absentmindedly as he taps one loose and settles it between his lips, the flame from his lighter briefly illuminating the sharp lines of his face in warm orange. Smoke curls slowly into the night air once he exhales.
You don’t know why you ask. Maybe curiosity, maybe because everything about Eddie feels a little intoxicating lately.
“Can I try one?”
Eddie freezes mid-exhale. Slowly, he turns toward you. “What?”
You shrug a little, suddenly oddly shy beneath the intensity of his stare. “Just once.”
For a second, he just looks at you. “You’ve never smoked before.”
It isn’t a question. You shake your head once. “No.”
Eddie lets out the faintest breath through his nose, eyes dragging away toward the windshield for a moment. His rings tap softly against the cigarette resting between his fingers.
And maybe this is exactly the kind of thing everyone in Hawkins expects from him. Corrupting nice girls in parked vans late at night. The thought should probably make him feel guilty. Instead, all he can think about is the way you’re looking at him right now, all soft curiosity and trust.
“Sweetheart,” he says slowly, “you really shouldn’t ask me things like that.”
Your brows pull together slightly. “Why?”
Eddie glances back at you then, dark eyes unreadable in the low lighting.
“Because,” he says quietly, “I’m probably gonna say yes.”
Before you can overthink it, Eddie sighs softly and shifts closer across the seat, cigarette still balanced between his fingers. “C’mere.”
You lean closer instinctively, knees brushing his in the cramped space between the seats. Eddie watches you the entire time, gaze flicking once toward your mouth before he catches himself.
“This’ll probably taste awful, by the way.”
You smile a little. “You’re really selling it.”
“Just bein’ honest.”
Carefully, he lifts the cigarette toward your lips. And Christ. The sight alone nearly does him in.
You hesitate only briefly before taking a tentative inhale exactly the way he showed you. Almost immediately, your face scrunches up as you start coughing lightly into your sleeve.
Eddie laughs instantly, reaching over to rub a warm hand against your back. “Easy, easy— there she is.”
“That is horrible,” you rasp between coughs, eyes watering slightly.
“I did warn you.”
You’re still laughing softly at yourself when you finally glance back up at him, only to realize how close he is now. For a moment, neither of you moves.
The cigarette burns slowly between Eddie’s fingers, forgotten entirely now as his eyes stay fixed on yours. You can still feel the warmth of his hand through your sweater, where it rests against your back. Though the look on his face is becoming significantly less careful by the second.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
You nod once.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
Your voice comes out softer than usual, and Eddie notices immediately.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, almost to himself, dragging his eyes away from your mouth with visible effort.
His hand slips from your back only so he can lean farther into the seat, head tipping briefly against it like he’s trying to regain control of his own thoughts.
You watch him for a second before smiling slightly. “What?”
Eddie laughs once, but there’s no real humor in it. “You have genuinely no idea what you do to me, huh?”
Your stomach flips hard enough to make you glance away. Not because you don’t understand what he means, you do.
Maybe not fully, or with the same confidence other girls seem to have, but you understand enough to feel the tension thickening between you now. The difference is you’re not afraid of it, not with him.
“You make me nervous, too,” you admit quietly.
That gets Eddie’s attention instantly. His head turns toward you again, curls falling slightly into his eyes. “I do?”
You nod, fingers fidgeting lightly in your lap. “You always look at me like you’re thinking something.”
Eddie goes very still. Because he is, constantly.
And suddenly, he’s picturing every single filthy thought he’s had about you over the last few weeks while you sat beside him smiling sweetly like you trusted him with your whole heart.
Every moment, he’s imagined pulling you into his lap, kissing you until you forgot your own name, hearing soft sounds fall from your mouth, all because of him.
Dangerous thoughts, especially about someone like you.
“You really wanna know what I’m thinking?” he asks finally, voice lower now.
The question sends heat crawling up your neck. Still, you nod.
Eddie studies your face for another long second. Then he leans closer again, slowly enough for you to stop him if you want to. You don’t.
“You sit next to me,” he murmurs, eyes flicking between yours and your mouth, “lookin’ all pretty and sweet all the time, and you don’t even realize what it does to me.”
Your breath catches quietly.
“Sweetheart,” he says softly, almost pained, “I’m trying my best here not to ruin you.”
The word ruin sends a pulse of heat low in your stomach. His gaze darkens immediately at your reaction.
“There she is,” he says quietly, almost pleased. “That got your attention.”
Your face burns. “Eddie…”
“What?” he asks innocently, though there’s nothing innocent about him anymore. “You asked.”
You should probably tell him to stop. Instead, you whisper, “Keep talking.”
Eddie actually closes his eyes briefly at that. When he opens them again, his face slips into something soft, following something dangerous. Like the restraint he’s been clinging to all night is finally beginning to slip.
“You’re trouble,” he murmurs.
You laugh nervously. “I thought you were supposed to be the bad influence.”
“Oh, trust me, doll.” Eddie’s hand slides slowly along your knee, warm and deliberate enough to make your pulse jump. “I am.”
The touch alone feels impossibly intimate. Not because it’s inappropriate, not because it’s even that scandalous. But because it’s Eddie.
Because he’s touching you like he’s trying very hard not to scare you away while simultaneously imagining a thousand worse things.
“You know what the worst part is?” he asks quietly.
You shake your head once.
“I don’t even think you mean to do it.”
His thumb brushes absentmindedly against your knee, and you swear he notices the exact second your breathing changes.
“You smile at me,” he continues softly, “sit close to me, remember little details that nobody should remember… and every time you do, I think maybe this is the moment I finally lose my mind.”
Your heart is pounding so hard now you’re convinced he can hear it. Especially when his eyes drop once more toward your mouth.
Eddie’s thumb is still stroking slow circles over your knee, his dark eyes locked on your mouth like he’s starving for it. You can barely breathe.
“Eddie…” you whisper, not sure what you’re even asking for.
He lets out a shaky breath, like your voice alone is undoing him. “Yeah, sweetheart?”
You don’t answer with words. Instead, you lean in the last few inches and press your lips to his: soft, uncertain, barely a kiss at all, more like a gentle brush.
Eddie freezes for half a second, then groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your mouth. His hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, careful, as he tilts his head and kisses you back properly, like he’s teaching you how good it can feel.
You make a tiny surprised sound when his tongue traces your bottom lip, and he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing hard.
“Easy, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough. “We can stop anytime. Just tell me.”
“I don’t want to stop,” you whisper, cheeks burning. Your hands are trembling as you reach up and curl your fingers into his jacket. Eddie’s eyes flutter shut like the words physically pain him. “You’re gonna kill me, you know that?”
He kisses you again, deeper this time, guiding you with gentle pressure until your mouth opens for him. The slide of his tongue against yours makes heat pool low in your belly, unfamiliar and overwhelming.
You try to match him, tentative and sweet, and when you shyly suck on his tongue, he makes a broken noise and pulls you closer across the seat.
He pants against your lips while his hand stays gentle on your neck, thumb stroking your jaw, but his other hand grips the edge of the seat like he’s holding himself back from devouring you.
You kiss him harder, braver now, and he rewards you with a soft moan that goes straight between your legs. When you accidentally graze his bottom lip with your teeth, something you’ve only ever seen in movies, he jerks, fingers tightening in your hair.
Eventually, he pulls back, eyes dark, lips swollen. “Back of the van?” he asks, almost hesitant. “Only if you want. We don’t have to—”
You nod before he can finish, heart hammering. “I want to. With you.”
Eddie helps you climb through to the back, spreading out the blankets he keeps there like he’s making a nest for you. He lays you down so gently it makes your chest ache, then settles over you on his elbows, careful not to crush you.
“Look at me, baby,” he says softly, brushing hair from your face. “We go as slow as you need. Tell me if anything hurts or feels weird, okay? Promise me.”
“I promise,” you whisper, reaching up to touch his cheek.
He kisses you again, slower, deeper, until you’re squirming beneath him.
His hands stay respectful at first, stroking your sides and waist, until you arch into him and he finally slides one under your sweater. The warmth of his palm on your bare skin makes you gasp.
“So soft,” he murmurs against your neck, kissing down the column of your throat. “So fucking perfect.”
You’re trembling when he helps you out of your sweater and bra, but not from fear. Eddie looks at you like you’re something holy, eyes reverent as he cups your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples until they tighten.
“Eddie—” Your voice breaks on his name when he leans down and takes one into his mouth, gentle suction and slow flicks of his tongue. You’ve never felt anything like it. Your hands fly to his hair, gripping curls, and he groans in approval.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Hold onto me.”
He works you open with patient fingers later, after your jeans and panties are gone, whispering praise the whole time.
“Relax for me, baby… just like that. Good girl. So wet already, fuck. All for me?”
You nod frantically, hips twitching. When he curls his fingers just right, you cry out, shocked by the sharp burst of pleasure.
“There?” he asks, voice low and pleased. He does it again, watching your face. “Yeah? You like that?”
You can barely speak, just whimper and nod. He keeps talking you through it, gentle but filthy, until you’re shaking apart on his fingers with a broken little moan.
He kisses you through it, then rests his forehead against yours while he rolls on a condom. “You sure, sweetheart? We can stop right here. I’d be happy just making you come all night.”
You shake your head, pulling him closer. “I want you. Please, Eddie.”
He enters you so slowly it almost hurts, a combination of pain and how careful he’s being, how full you feel. He stops every inch, murmuring against your temple.
“Breathe, baby. That’s it… doing so good for me. So tight—fuck, you feel incredible. Breathe, okay?”
When he bottoms out, you both moan. He stays still, buried deep, kissing you softly until the stretch eases into something warm and aching and good.
“Move,” you whisper, nails digging into his back. “Please.”
He rocks into you gently at first, then a little deeper when you start lifting your hips to meet him. Every thrust is measured, his voice a constant low rumble in your ear; praise, dirty little observations, encouragement.
“Look at you taking me so well… my sweet girl. Never thought I’d get to have you like this.”
You get bolder as it builds, wrapping your legs around his waist, experimentally clenching around him. Eddie’s rhythm falters.
“Shit—baby, do that again.”
You do, shy but eager, and he groans like he’s dying. On impulse, you tilt your head and bite his shoulder. Not hard, but just enough to leave a mark. Eddie curses loudly, his hips snapping forward harder for a second before he catches himself.
“Fuck, you’re gonna make me lose it,” he laughs breathlessly, kissing you deep.
He reaches between you and rubs your clit in tight circles, voice growing rougher as you both get close.
“Come on, baby. Let me feel you. Want you to come on my cock—yeah, just like that. Good girl. So good for me.”
You shatter with his name on your lips, clenching around him so hard his thrusts turn erratic. He follows right after, burying his face in your neck as he comes with a broken moan, hips jerking.
Afterward, he stays inside you for a long moment, stroking your hair, pressing soft kisses to your flushed face.
“You okay?” he whispers, voice tender. “Did I hurt you?”
You shake your head, smiling shyly as you nuzzle into him. “It was perfect. You were perfect.”
Eddie laughs softly, pulling the blanket over both of you. “Yeah? Even when I almost lost my mind because you bit me?”
Eddie’s arm is wrapped carefully around your waist, fingers absentmindedly tracing slow patterns against your skin like he can’t stop touching you now that he’s allowed to. Not that you mind.
Your head rests against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slowly come back down while his other hand plays gently with your hair. Every few seconds, he presses absent little kisses to the top of your head like he’s doing it unconsciously, like affection simply spills out of him naturally around you.
You feel him shift slightly beneath you after a minute, enough that you tilt your chin up to look at him. He’s already staring down at you, dark curls messy, lips slightly swollen, expression somewhere between completely wrecked and deeply concerned.
“…You sure you’re okay?” he asks again quietly.
The question makes your chest ache a little. Not because it’s upsetting, but because he sounds genuinely nervous about it.
You smile softly almost immediately. “Yeah.”
Eddie studies your face carefully anyway, like he’s searching for any sign you don’t mean it. “Yeah?” he repeats.
“Mhm.”
“You promise?”
A quiet laugh leaves you then, small and sleepy and warm from where you’re curled against him. “Eddie.”
“What?” he says defensively, though his hand tightens slightly around your waist. “I’m serious.”
“I know.” Your fingers drift lazily along the chain around his neck while you look up at him. “I’m okay.”
Eddie exhales slowly through his nose, tension visibly easing from his shoulders. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, mostly to himself.
You smile a little wider. “You say that a lot.”
“That’s because you keep doin’ things that make me need divine intervention.”
Your laugh this time is brighter, and Eddie immediately looks at you like he’s just won something.
There’s still this almost disbelieving softness in his expression now, like he hasn’t fully processed that this actually happened. That you happened.
“You’re thinkin’ too hard,” you murmur.
His mouth twitches slightly. “Can you blame me?”
You shrug a little against him. “Maybe.”
“Sweetheart,” he says quietly, brushing his knuckles gently along your cheek, “you trusted me with your first time. I think I’m allowed to spiral a little.”
Heat blooms softly across your face at the words.
“You’re really okay?” he asks one more time, softer now.
You nod against him. “Yeah.”
Then, after a tiny pause: “It was nice.”
Eddie goes completely still underneath you. Slowly, he lifts his head enough to stare down at you properly. “Nice?”
You blink innocently. “Yeah.”
A laugh bursts out of him so suddenly it startles you.
“Baby,” he says through his grin, “I am never letting you describe that as nice again.”
Your face warms instantly as you hide it against his chest with a groan, and Eddie just laughs harder, wrapping both arms around you tighter while pressing another kiss into your hair.
“There she is,” he murmurs fondly. “My sweet girl.”
The next morning feels strangely dreamy. Not in some dramatic life-changing way.
Dustin is still loudly arguing with the television before noon, the neighbor’s dog still won’t stop barking, and Hawkins still looks exactly the same outside your bedroom window.
Every time your mind drifts back to the night before, heat creeps slowly up your neck all over again. Eddie’s hands on your waist. The sound of his voice going rough when you kissed him back. The way he kept checking in afterward, like your comfort mattered more to him than anything else in the world.
You think maybe that’s your favorite part. Not the sex itself, though that had certainly been overwhelming in ways you’re still trying to process. It’s the fact that Eddie held you afterward like something precious.
The phone rings around two in the afternoon. You perk up instantly from your spot sprawled on the living room carpet, flipping through a magazine. Dustin glances over from the couch suspiciously while you practically scramble for it.
“Hello?”
A small pause. Then: “Hey, sweetheart.”
Your stomach flips immediately. You smile before you can help it, curling the phone cord loosely around your finger. “Hi.”
Eddie goes quiet for a second on the other end, like maybe hearing your voice affected him too much. When he speaks again, there’s a smile tucked into his words.
“How’re you feelin’ today?”
Warmth floods your face instantly. “I’m okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
Another tiny pause. “Good.”
From the couch, Dustin narrows his eyes. “Is that Eddie?”
You wave him off blindly while Eddie snorts quietly through the phone. “Your brother sounds possessive.”
“He’s nosy.”
“I heard that,” Dustin calls loudly.
You laugh softly, and Eddie goes quiet again for half a second in that way he keeps doing now, like hearing you laugh still catches him off guard.
“So,” he says eventually, voice lower now, easier. “I was wonderin’ if maybe you wanted to come to the Hideout tonight.”
“The bar?”
“Mm.” You can practically hear him lighting a cigarette through the phone. “Thought maybe I could buy you a drink. Since you’re all grown up now.”
Your face burns instantly. “Eddie.”
“What?” he asks innocently. “You are.”
You tuck your hair behind your ear shyly despite the fact that he can’t see you. “I’ve never been to the Hideout before.”
“I know.”
And for some reason, the way he says it sends warmth straight through you again. Like he enjoys being the first person to show you these things.
“Only if you want to,” he adds after a second, softer this time. “No pressure.”
You smile immediately at that. “I wanna go.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Eddie exhales quietly through his nose, almost sounding relieved. “Alright, sweetheart. I’ll come get you around eight.”
“Okay.”
There’s another pause afterward that stretches warm and comfortable between you both. Then Eddie says, quieter now, “Missed you today.”
Your heart stutters embarrassingly hard. “Oh.”
A soft laugh crackles through the receiver. “There’s that little sound again.”
“What sound?”
“The one you make when I say somethin’ that gets in your head.”
You duck your face instinctively, even though he still can’t see you. From the couch, Dustin groans dramatically. “You are smiling so weird right now.”
The Hideout smells faintly like cigarettes, beer, and old wood, the second Eddie pushes the door open for you.
It’s darker inside than you expected, lit mostly by warm amber lights strung lazily behind the bar and the colored glow from an old neon beer sign buzzing softly in the corner. A band is setting up near the tiny stage in the back while people crowd around sticky tables, laughing too loudly over the music humming through the speakers.
His hand settles lightly against the small of your back, warmth through your shirt as he leans closer so you can hear him over the noise. “You okay, sweetheart?”
You glance up at him and smile. “Yeah. It’s just different than I expected.”
Eddie grins. “What, you thought it’d be glamorous?”
“A little.”
“Aw, honey.” He nudges you gently toward the bar. “This place barely passes health inspection.”
You laugh softly under your breath, and Eddie’s expression immediately softens at the sound like it always does now. There’s still something almost disbelieving in the way he looks at you tonight, like he can’t quite process that you came here with him willingly. That you’re sitting beside him at the Hideout, of all places.
The bartender greets Eddie immediately as soon as you slide onto the stools. “Munson.”
“Hey, Frank.”
Then Frank notices you beside him, one brow lifting slowly.
Eddie catches it instantly. “Don’t start.”
Frank smirks knowingly before wiping down the counter. “Wouldn’t dream of it. What can I get you two?”
Eddie glances sideways at you thoughtfully for a second, tapping his rings lightly against the bartop. “Lemme get a beer…”
Then his eyes flick back toward you again, something amused flickering there.
“And a Dirty Shirley for her.”
You blink. “How did you know that’s what I’d like?”
Eddie shrugs casually, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “You just seem like a Dirty Shirley kinda girl.”
The answer makes you laugh softly. And for some reason, Eddie looks absurdly pleased with himself over that. When the drinks arrive a minute later, you eye yours curiously before taking a cautious sip through the straw.
Immediately, your face brightens. “Oh, this is good.”
Eddie snorts into his beer. “Yeah, because it’s basically candy.”
You narrow your eyes playfully. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Nah.” His gaze drifts slowly over your face again, softer now. “Kinda fits you, actually.”
Heat creeps up your neck at the way he says it. You glance down shyly at your drink while Eddie leans one elbow onto the bar beside you, watching you with open fondness now that nobody from school is around to see it.
“You nervous?” he asks after a moment.
“A little.”
“About bein’ here?”
You shrug slightly. “I guess.”
Eddie hums quietly, eyes flicking around the crowded bar before settling back on you. “Nobody’s gonna bother you while you’re with me.”
The words shouldn’t affect you as much as they do. Maybe it’s the confidence in his voice. Maybe it’s the fact that he says it so naturally, like protecting you is already instinct.
Or maybe it’s just Eddie.
“Good,” you say softly before taking another sip.
Eddie goes suspiciously quiet beside you, and you glance over. “What?”
His eyes drag slowly from your lips back up to your face.
“Nothin’, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You just look real pretty sittin’ here.”
The music hums warmly through your chest now instead of pounding against it, and the second Dirty Shirley Eddie absolutely did not need to buy you has left your cheeks pleasantly warm. You’re leaning closer to him without thinking anymore, your knee pressed between his, where he sits angled toward you at the bar like the rest of the room barely exists.
Eddie’s halfway through telling you some ridiculous story about Gareth nearly setting a school amplifier on fire when you start laughing hard enough to grab onto his arm.
And that completely derails him.
He loses his train of thought instantly, eyes dropping to your hand wrapped around his forearm before slowly flicking back up toward your face. You’re still smiling at him, all sweet and tipsy, entirely unaware of the effect you have on him.
“Why’d you stop talking?” you ask.
Eddie blinks once. “You’re pretty distracting, sweetheart.”
Your face warms immediately.
“There she is,” he murmurs fondly into his beer.
Eventually, the bar starts getting louder as more people crowd in, conversations overlapping with the music until Eddie notices you beginning to glance around, slightly overwhelmed.
His hand settles instinctively against your knee beneath the bar. “You wanna get outta here?”
You look back at him immediately. “Yeah.”
Eddie studies your face carefully for a second before asking softer, “Wanna come back to my place?”
And maybe it should feel more scandalous than it does. Instead, all you feel is warm trust settling low in your chest when you nod. “Okay.”
The drive to the trailer park is quiet in the nicest way.
One of Eddie’s tapes plays softly through the van speakers while warm night air drifts through the cracked windows. Your head rests lazily against the seat as streetlights pass over Eddie’s face every few seconds, catching the silver of his rings against the steering wheel.
He keeps glancing at you, not subtly either. Every time you catch him, he smiles crookedly to himself before looking back at the road.
By the time he parks outside the trailer, you’re pleasantly floaty enough that you don’t even think twice before following him up the steps. The trailer is dim and familiar from all the times you’ve picked Dustin up after Hellfire. Eddie immediately tosses his keys onto the counter before turning toward you.
“You want somethin’ to drink?”
You shake your head slightly before your eyes catch the cigarette pack sticking halfway out of his jacket pocket.
“…Can I try another one?”
Eddie actually laughs softly under his breath. “You are trouble.”
You smile innocently. “You said that already.”
“Yeah, well.” His eyes drag slowly over your face again. “Still true.”
This time, when he pulls a cigarette loose and lights it, you step closer before he even asks. Eddie notices immediately, something dark and pleased flickering briefly across his expression before he tamps it down.
“C’mere then, sweetheart.”
The pet name lands warm in your stomach now.
You lean in slightly while Eddie lifts the cigarette toward your mouth again, two fingers resting carefully beneath your chin to angle your face upward. The touch alone feels unfairly intimate, especially when his eyes stay fixed on your lips the entire time.
“That’s it,” he murmurs softly as you inhale carefully.
This time, you barely cough, and Eddie’s brows lift immediately. “Well, look at that.”
You laugh lightly through the smoke, a little proud of yourself despite how ridiculous that probably is.
Meanwhile, Eddie looks devastatingly fond. “That’s my girl,” he says quietly.
Your face flushes even more now, like that’s even possible.
“You like it when I say stuff like that, huh?” he asks gently.
You glance down shyly. “Maybe.”
His grin turns downright dangerous. “Jesus Christ.”
Then, before you can recover from that, Eddie disappears briefly toward his bedroom area. You hear drawers opening for a second before he returns holding something glass and obnoxiously large in one hand.
You blink. “What’s that?”
“A bong.”
Your expression must give you away because Eddie immediately laughs. “Relax, sweetheart. It’s just weed.”
“I know what weed is.”
“Mhm.” He drops onto the couch cushions beside you, smirking slightly. “And yet you looked at it like a church girl.”
You nudge his shoulder lightly while he chuckles to himself, already packing it with practiced familiarity. Then he glances sideways at you.
“You wanna try?” There’s no pressure in his voice, just some boyish curiosity.
You hesitate briefly before nodding. “Okay.”
Eddie’s expression softens instantly into something almost unbearably affectionate. “Attagirl.”
Heat floods your face again.
A few minutes later, you’re sitting tucked against his side while he guides you through it patiently, one hand steady against your waist while the other helps position your fingers correctly.
“Slow,” he murmurs. “Yeah, just like that.”
You follow his instructions carefully, trying not to focus too hard on the fact that his mouth is barely inches from yours right now. The hit burns less than the cigarette but still catches in your throat enough to make you cough lightly against his shoulder afterward.
Eddie laughs warmly, rubbing your back. “That wasn’t too bad!”
“You make everything sound embarrassing.”
“That’s because everything you do is cute.”
Your face immediately buries against his shoulder while he laughs harder, wrapping an arm around you automatically like he can’t help himself anymore.
By the time the second hit settles in properly, you are absolutely gone.
You’re not panicking or dizzy or anything nightmare-inducing. Everything just suddenly feels unbelievably funny and soft all at once, like the entire trailer has been wrapped in warm cotton. The music playing quietly from Eddie’s radio sounds deeper somehow, and you cannot stop giggling every time he looks at you.
Which he keeps doing, constantly.
“You good there, sweetheart?” he asks from beside you, trying very hard not to laugh himself.
You stare at him for a second too long before nodding very seriously. “Your eyelashes are really pretty.”
That immediately breaks him. Eddie doubles over laughing, one hand covering his mouth while the other stays loosely around your waist to keep you upright, where you’re practically folded into his side on the couch.
“Oh my god,” he wheezes. “You’re high as a kite.”
You gasp softly like he’s offended you. “No, I’m not.”
“You just complimented my eyelashes like you discovered religion.”
“They are pretty.”
That only makes him laugh harder.
You narrow your eyes at him for approximately two seconds before dissolving into giggles, too, burying your face against his shoulder. Eddie wraps both arms around you automatically, then, still shaking slightly with laughter, he presses a kiss into your hair.
“Godt,” he murmurs fondly. “You’re adorable.”
You hum happily against him, completely content tucked into his chest while his rings drag lazily along your back.
A few minutes later, you start rambling, not about anything important either. Just whatever pops into your head.
“You know what’s weird?” you mumble suddenly.
“What’s weird?”
“The moon.”
Eddie snorts softly. “The moon.”
“Yeah. It just follows you around all the time. That’s weird behavior.”
“Sweetheart, I don’t think the moon has behavior.”
“It does.”
“Mhm.”
You tilt your head up to look at him very seriously. “You smell good.”
Eddie visibly short-circuits for a second. “…Thanks.”
“And your hair is soft.”
“You touched my hair for like three seconds.”
“I know,” you sigh dreamily. “It was nice.”
That’s apparently the final straw. Eddie drops his forehead briefly against the top of your head with a groan. “Baby, you gotta stop sayin’ things like that before I lose my damn mind.”
You just smile at him sweetly, which does not help. Eventually, after you nearly fall asleep sitting upright against him, Eddie gently decides you need to move to the bed before your neck ends up permanently bent at a horrifying angle.
“C’mon, pretty girl.”
You blink sleepily up at him. “Hm?”
“Bedtime.”
The second he slides an arm beneath your knees and lifts you into his arms, you immediately wrap yourself around him with a soft little laugh.
Eddie steadies you against his chest easily, though his expression goes dangerously fond all over again when you instinctively nuzzle closer against his neck.
“You’re comfy.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm. Like a heating pad.”
Eddie nearly walks directly into the wall laughing.
The mattress dips softly beneath you a moment later as he sets you down carefully onto his bed. You immediately starfishing across it in a way that makes him snort affectionately while crouching beside you.
“You wanna sleep in jeans, sweetheart?”
You make a face. “No.”
“Okay.” His voice stays gentle. “Can I help you change then?”
You nod immediately. That feeling hits Eddie square in the chest every single time.
So he moves slowly. Helping you swap your jeans for a pair of old sweatpants and one of his oversized shirts while you continue mumbling nonsense the entire time.
“Attractive people should legally have warning labels,” you inform him seriously while he helps guide your arm through the sleeve.
“Oh yeah?”
“Mhm. It’s stressful.”
Eddie laughs softly under his breath. “Poor thing.”
“I’m serious.” You squint at him sleepily. “You’re very handsome. It’s distracting.”
He actually stops moving for a second. “Good lord,” he mutters weakly.
“What?”
“Nothin’, baby.”
By the time you’re finally settled beneath the blankets, your eyes are barely staying open anymore. Eddie starts to pull away toward the edge of the bed before soft fingers catch loosely around his wrist.
“Stay.”
Eddie looks down at you for a long second before his entire expression melts. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he says softly, climbing in beside you. “I’m stayin’.”
By Monday morning, half of Hawkins High has already noticed the jacket.
Not because it’s particularly flashy. Eddie’s leather jacket has always looked a little worn around the sleeves, a little too big on you, where it hangs past your fingertips. But everyone knows who it belongs to. Hellfire patches and metal pins tend to stand out in a school full of pastel sweaters and varsity jackets.
You don’t even think much of it at first while standing at your locker between classes, adjusting your books against your hip as Robin practically materializes beside you with the energy of someone spotting celebrity gossip in real time.
“Oh, my god.”
You blink. “What?”
Robin gestures wildly toward your body. “The jacket.”
Your eyes drop downward like you somehow forgot you were wearing it. “Oh.”
“Oh?” Robin repeats incredulously. “That’s Eddie’s jacket.”
You shrug a little, though warmth immediately creeps into your cheeks anyway. “I got cold Saturday.”
“And he let you keep it?”
The way she says it makes you pause. “…Yeah?”
Robin stares at you for a very long moment before muttering, “That man is so far gone.”
You laugh softly under your breath, trying and failing to suppress your smile while Robin watches the entire thing happen in real time.
“Oh, you like him bad too,” she realizes immediately.
“I do not like him bad.”
“Honey, you are literally wearing his jacket. Is that not the universal equivalent of a declaration?”
Before you can answer, someone whistles from farther down the hallway.
You glance up instinctively just in time to see Eddie leaning beside the cafeteria doors, already beaming, looking at you. More specifically, at you in the jacket. The slow grin that spreads across his face afterward is downright unfair.
Robin physically grabs your arm. “Oh, he’s gonna be unbearable now.”
And she’s right. Because Eddie spends the rest of the day looking at you like he won something.
Every time you pass each other in the hallway, his eyes immediately flick toward the oversized sleeves swallowing your hands before dragging slowly back toward your face with a deeply pleased expression.
At lunch, he hooks two fingers through one of the jacket loops while passing behind your chair and murmurs a quiet, “Looks better on you anyway, sweetheart,” directly into your ear.
You nearly forget how to speak afterward. By the end of the school day, your cheeks hurt from smiling.
Outside, the parking lot buzzes with engines starting and people spilling toward their cars in noisy groups while you make your way down the front steps. And there he is. Leaning against the side of his van with a cigarette resting between his lips, like he’s been waiting a while. The second he notices you walking toward him, his entire face softens.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
“Hi.”
Eddie takes another drag from the cigarette while you stop between his knees, where he’s perched against the van door. “You survive another thrilling academic day?” he asks dryly.
“Barely.”
“Yeah? Tragic.”
You laugh quietly while his eyes drift over your face again, lingering there warm and heavy enough to make your stomach flutter. Then your gaze drops toward the cigarette between his fingers.
A slow smile pulls at his mouth. “What?”
You hesitate briefly before leaning in slightly. “Can I?”
This time, he doesn’t even tease you about it.
He simply lifts the cigarette toward your mouth automatically, eyes fixed steadily on your lips while you lean closer to take a slow drag. The smoke burns less now, familiar enough that you barely cough at all when you exhale.
Eddie watches the entire thing like he’s completely mesmerized.
“Atta’ girl,” he says quietly. The praise settles warm all through you.
Maybe it’s the nicotine. Or the way he’s looking at you. Or the fact that you spent the entire day missing him in a way that feels embarrassing to admit.
But suddenly you just want to kiss him, so you do. You lean forward softly, cigarette smoke still lingering faintly between you as your lips press against his. Eddie makes the quietest sound into your mouth.
His free hand immediately slides against your waist, pulling you closer between his knees while he kisses you back, slower this time, like he’s savoring it. Around you, the parking lot continues moving in noisy blurs, but Eddie kisses you like there’s nobody else there at all.
When you finally pull back slightly, he’s staring at you with completely blown pupils.
For a second, he just looks at you. Then he lets out a quiet laugh under his breath, thumb brushing absentmindedly along your waist where it’s still holding you close.
“Who are you?” he murmurs, almost disbelieving.
Your face warms instantly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Eddie grins slowly, eyes flicking toward the cigarette still dangling between his fingers before dragging back to your mouth.
“Couple weeks ago you were apologizing for saying hell in front of teachers,” he says softly. “Now you’re stealin’ drags from my cigarettes and kissing me in the school parking lot.”
Heat blooms all through your chest at the way he says it. Not mocking, something more towards pleased. Like he’s enjoying watching this softer, bolder side of you emerge.
You smile shyly despite yourself. “Maybe you’re a bad influence.”
Eddie actually groans at that, dropping his forehead briefly against your shoulder.
“Sweetheart,” he mutters, “you cannot say things like that to me.”
“Why not?” you ask innocently.
Eddie’s thumb hooks beneath your chin immediately.
“Because,” he says quietly, voice rough around the edges now, “you say it like you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
The warmth in your stomach deepens at that familiar tone, at the way he’s looking at you like he’s equal parts obsessed and completely doomed by it. And maybe you do understand a little more now.
Maybe that’s why your smile turns just slightly shy and knowing when you whisper, “Maybe I do.”
Eddie stares at you for half a second like you just physically struck him. Then he laughs softly under his breath, completely gone for you.
“There she is,” he murmurs.
He doesn’t reply with words after that, just hooks his fingers more firmly beneath your chin and drags your mouth back to his.
Eddie kisses like he’s addicted to it already, cigarette smoke still clinging faintly to him while his hand slides warm against your jaw. The parking lot noise fades somewhere far into the background as he tilts his head and kisses you again and again like he can’t help himself anymore.
And when you melt closer against him with a tiny contented sigh, Eddie smiles directly into your mouth, completely, and hopelessly ruined.
badda bing badda boom.
anyyywayyyyy, hope you all enjoyed.... i have a surprise coming at 11pm >:)
Summary: If you’d known that half a sandwich behind a dumpster was gonna be the start of… whatever the hell this turned into, you’d’ve probably stayed home that day. He wasn’t lookin’ for trouble—hell, he talks to everybody, that’s just how Joel is. But every damn time he saw you sittin’ there, quiet as a ghost, lookin’ like you’d rather be anywhere else, he couldn’t help it. ’Cause life’s funny like that. It throws people at you when you least expect it—usually when you’re already havin’ a goddamn terrible week.
Warnings: +18, smut, fluff, angst, sleazy!joel, fuckbuddy!joel, unspecified age gap, protected sex, oral f!receiving, slight size kink, unhinged dirty talk, fingering, making out, talks about divorce, friends with benefits, talk about child loss, no outbreak
A/N: OMG FINALLY. I've rewritten this chapter like fifty times trying to make it something I don't hate, and I think I finally like this version. It's long, itms messy, it's smutty, and it goes way deeper into readers backstory than I had originally planned. Joels backstory is still lurking in the background, but trust me it's coming in the next chapters. Enjoy pookies!!! <333
Before Strawberry Creampie. Before Sit on it. There was...Half a Sandwich.
And you remembered it like it was yesterday...
You sat in the back of your office, clutching a halfly eaten salad like it was the last chore on a long, long fucking list of things you no longer had the energy to finish. The plastic fork felt flimsy in your hand, the lettuce wilted, the dressing too sour—everything just tasted like too much obligation.
A window with dull concrete around and dry bushes stared back at you, a perfect reflection of the life you were dragging behind you.
Empty apartment, tangled sheets with an unmade bed, mind drifting through fog with no direction or desire.
No one to share this pathetic lunch with, no one to come home to, no soft words to chase away the ache of isolation.
You chewed mechanically, staring at the same patch of wall you stared at yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. The world kept moving around you; cars passing, coworkers laughing, life happening—but only you had felt stuck, suspended in a moment you just couldn’t climb out of.
"Oi, Jerry! Tell that fucker to hurry up!"
And of course, it was once again him, interrupting your thoughts.
Joel Miller, the delivery guy who rolled in every Tuesday with stacks of office supplies, had been part of the background noise in your life long before he became your fuck buddy.
You couldn't ignore him if you tried to anyways; he owned every room he entered with that brash, take-no-shit swagger.
Pushing late forties, hair slicked back with whatever cheap gel he had, a solid gut from beers that he wore like a trophy, not giving a damn.
He smelled like cigarettes and gas stations, a scent that clung to the office air and sparked whispers amongs your coworkers—not out of dread, but that eye-rolling tolerance for the loudmouth who never knew when or how to shut up.
Joel was all noise, no substance: complaining about bullshit traffic, picking fights over nothing just to hear his own voice win, his gaze sliding over everyone—guys, gals, whoever sparked a glance.
Heck, he sees ass, he looking. He finds a face pretty, he flirtin' no matter the gender.
But with you back then? He kept it clean, no sleazy lines or winks, even if his eyes hung a beat too long. He'd spot you, acknowledge, then bounce, like some unspoken rule held him back.
What flipped the switch that day? Maybe that bare finger where your ring used to sit, or the way your stares locked, or just dumb luck kicking in.
Maybe even fate.
"Well, hello beautiful—thought I was the only fool smart enough to sneak off from all that hustle out front." You can still remember the exact words. "What's a pretty thing like you doin' hidin' with your lunch on a day like this? You work inside, right? Must be nice. I'm out here breakin' my back while you're in there enjoyin' the air-conditionin'."
His words were annoying, your fuse already short from the weight of your own misery.
"You're real chatty, huh?" He asked, laughing deep and unbothered, pressing on: "Most people say hi back. Or at least blink. You're like talkin' to a statue."
You stabbed at your greens, sighing loudly.
"That's alright. I talk enough for both of us."
He flashed a grin, propping his clipboard like a throne, eyes lighting with that devilish spark. "If I'd known there was someone this cute hidin' back here, I'd've started takin' my breaks here weeks ago."
You didn't lift your head at that point.
"Ah, playin' hard to get. Classic." He teased. "Name's Joel. And you are?"
Head down, fork scraping plastic, you shot back cold: "Not interested."
He let out a low whistle, more entertained than stung. "That's an interestin' name, sweetheart." Chuckle rolling out thick. "Bet it's real hard to fit on a driver's license."
Annoyance flickered hot, mixed with the dull throb of your solitude—you wanted him gone, but he stuck, a loud intrusion in your quiet hell, dragging the outside world into your numb bubble.
"Alright, miss not-interested. Try not to miss me too much." He called out, and finally left with that.
-
"Lord almighty, I swear this job's tryin' to put me in an early grave," he announced to absolutely no one, wiping sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand. "Ain't even noon and I already wanna go home, crack a beer, and pretend today never happened."
The second week, he didn't just stand in front of you and yapped about everything and nothing—no.
He sat down right next to you.
He dropped onto the concrete with a grunt so dramatic it almost echoed off the wall.
And you didn't look up. You just prayed that he will get up and leave.
But of course, he didn't.
"First thing this mornin', some jackass parked his truck sideways in the loadin' zone. Sideways. Like he spun the god damn wheel, said 'Jesus take the wheel,' and Jesus said 'nah.'"
You stabbed your salad.
"And them warehouse men today? Useless. Every last one of 'em. 'Joel, can you lift this?' 'Joel, can you sign that?' 'Joel, can you fix the forklift?' 'Joel, can you suck my dick?'" You almost chocked on your salad, looking at him in disgust. He chuckled. "Nah, just kiddin'—I'll yap 'bout my route instead."
At some point Joels vulgar language became the standard. At some point. But unfortunately not that day.
"Drove through three counties this mornin', dodgin' puddles bigger than ponds. Tell ya what, darlin', days like this make a fella appreciate findin' a pretty face to break the monotony. You just sit pretty; I've got stories for days."
You inhaled slowly through your nose and closed your eyes for a second, and that was enough for him to make another dumb joke.
"Oh, look at that—she's alive," he said, chuckling.
You glared at him, only earning a grin from him.
"But...you're real good at this, y'know."
"At what?" you muttered.
"Listenin'," he said, smug. "Most folks interrupt me halfway through my first rant. But you? You just sit there takin' it like a champ."
Then he winked obnoxious.
"Guess you're built different, sugar."
You stabbed at your salad again, trying to ignore the twist in your stomach after that pet name. Joel finally pushed himself to his feet, scratching at his belly as he dug a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket.
"Alright, not-intrested. Same time next week."
-
By the third week, you hated to admit it—even to yourself—but you could remember a flicker of anticipation that waited for his presence. A tiny, unexpected part of you sparked with oh, he'll probably show up again.
Because how many days had you been sitting alone on this concrete, telling your coworkers it was "nothing," that the divorce was just a "mutual decision"?
How much you hated their whispers and the way their eyes kept drifting to your bare finger—all of them inventing their own version of your own story, none of them stopping to think, even for a god damn second, 'maybe we should just leave her alone'.
"Lord above, if this mornin' gets any worse, I'm throwin' myself in front of a forklift."
You didn't look up, because you knew exactly what was about to happen.
He plopped down besides you with a grunt, holding a lunch bag and groaning: "Shoot, sugar, you're quieter than a church mouse on sunday, again. but that's fine—means I get to unload without interruption."
So you sat there, clutching on a sad little muesli bar, not even having the slightest energy to open it and listening to his ramblings.
You were exhausted. Exhausted from waking up each day and pretending that everything is okey. Exhausted about battling thoughts on going sick for the day, or even leaving work.
"Warehouse's a damn zoo," he muttered, digging inside his launch. "Boss got me waitin' around 'cause some idiot mislabeled the shipment. Again. I swear, I'm surrounded by fuckin' morons."
He pulled out a sandwich; thick, messy, wrapped in crinkled foil and was about to take a bite when he finally glanced sideways.
His chewing stopped.
He stared at your muesli bar.
Then at you.
Then back at the bar.
"…What in God's name is that."
You blinked. "Lunch."
He snorted. "That ain't lunch, hon. That's a god damn cry for help."
You rolled your eyes at him, ignoring his glance.
Then, without warning, he tore his sandwich clean in half—one loud, irritated rip and shoved the bigger piece toward you.
You recoiled. "No."
"Take it."
"I said no."
He grabbed your wrist then, not rough, just stubborn, and slapped the sandwich half into your palm.
"Gonna starve yourself to death with that lil' piece of shit," he grumbled, already unwrapping his remaining half. "Ain't lettin' you pass out on my watch. I ain't fillin' out paperwork for that."
You stared at the sandwich in your hand. It was warm, heavy, smelling like cheap deli meat and something spicy.
Your throat tightened.
Your husband used to make you sandwiches.
Every morning. Even on the days you didn't speak. Even when the marriage was already cracking down the middle.
You swallowed hard.
Joel didn't notice because of course, he was already back to complaining.
"And another thing...traffic was a damn nightmare..."
You didn't know then how much he'd matter.
-
You couldn't exactly remember why you ended up in a bar that night.
You hated alcohol. The taste. The warmth in your throat.
But it was one of those evenings where the past clawed its way back, uninvited, wrapping around your thoughts like fog and making your heart ache. And as much as you tried to drown it with liquor, a Coke zero did the job better that night.
His hand used to fit perfectly in yours, pulling you through days that blurred into moments of happiness and quiet joys; lazy Sundays with coffee steaming in the kitchen, his laughter rumbling low as he teased you about burning the toast again, the way he looked at you as if you were the only one in his life.
And now?
It was all gone, evaporated like morning mist under the harsh sun, leaving you lost in this unfamiliar city, this bar that hummed with the low murmur of conversations you didn't want to join.
Who did you blame?
Him, for letting the spark die out in a series of unspoken silences?
Yourself, for not fighting harder, for not seeing the cracks sooner?
Had you changed too much, bent too far for his expectations, until you were a shape you no longer recognized?
The questions swirled in your mind, unanswered, as you stared into the bubbles of your drink, the ice melting slowly.
And there you saw him again.
Joel.
He was perched on his stool like he owned that place, nursing a pint of beer that sloshed slightly as he scratched at his big belly, the fabric of his faded flannel shirt straining against the motion.
You sighed, and rolled your eyes painfully.
His gaze lingered too long on a woman's ass as she leaned over the pool table.
Years later you would hear whispers about him, from the regulars who nursed their own sorrows at the bar; how he was a fixture here, always chasing the next warm body, stumbling home with someone on his arm, the scent of whiskey heavy on his breath.
They even said he had a daughter once, lost her young to some tragedy that hung over him like a shadow, but in that night, you didn't know about any of that.
That night, you just wished this god forsaken dim light would swallow him whole before he noticed you.
But as if the universe conspired against your solitude, Joel caught your eye across the room.
His lips curled into a smug smirk, the one you already know all too well.
He shifted on his stool, the wood creaking under his weight, and without a second hesitation, he pushed off and headed your way, his boots thudding softly against the floorboards.
"Well, well, well," he drawled, his voice thick with that southern twang.
He stopped just close enough that you caught the faint whiff of his cologne—cheap and musky, mixed with the sharpness of the beer.
"Didn't expect to see my lunch buddy here, lookin' all lonesome and pretty under these sorry lights. What brings a fine thing like you to a dive like this on a night that's beggin' for trouble?"
You rolled your eyes again.
"Still playin' hard to get, hm?" Joel persisted, leaning one elbow on the counter besides you.
He chuckled low, a rumble that vibrated through his chest, and took a step closer.
"Darlin', you know you can't fool ol' Joel. I see that fire in your eyes, even if you're tryin' to hide it behind that soda. Come on now, what's a man gotta do to get a smile outta you tonight?"
"Joel, please," you said, your voice flat, edged with the irritation. "Ain't in the mood."
He didn't take the hint—never did. Instead, he grinned wider.
"Oh lord almighty," he drawled, dragging out the words exaggerated. "The statue can talk, eh?"
He set his beer down right next to your soda with a clunk, and slid onto the stool besides you, his knee bumping yours under the counter—accidental, or so he'd claim.
The foam from his last sip still clung to the edge of his mustache, a white froth that made him look even more unkempt, more insistent.
"You look like you could use somethin' stronger than that coke, sweetheart. What's got you all twisted up? Some fool broke your heart, or this city just grindin' you down? C'mon now ol' Joel's got an ear and a shoulder, 'specially for a gal who looks like she needs a little…distraction."
"None of your business, Joel. Go bother someone else."
But Joel just leaned in closer, unbothered, his breath warm and beery against your ear as he launched into another rambling.
"Aw, don't be like that, Honey. I'm just tryin' to help a lady in distress. Let me buy you somethin' stronger…or we could slip outta here, find somewhere quiet where a southern gentleman can take care of you proper."
He took a long pull from his beer then, the liquid going down his throat, and when he set it back down, a fresh bit of foam clung to his mustache, dangling there for a second before he swiped it away with the back of his hand, smearing it across his stubbled chin.
You felt the weight of Joel's words settling over you like the bar's humid air.
"Look, I ain't tryin' to go where I'm not wanted. Just sayin' you look like someone life's been gnawin' on. I've been there. Lost a marriage once. Hurts like cheap whiskey goin' down."
His flannel sleeve rode up slightly, revealing a faded tattoo on his forearm, a blurry horse that spoke of younger, wilder days, and you couldn't help but wonder, fleetingly, what stories it hid or if it hid anything at all.
The blunt honesty surprised you, slipping past your annoyance and stirring a thin thread of curiosity.
"Yeah, well," you muttered, your voice barely rising above the hum of the room. "Doesn't mean I need your pity party or whatever this is."
But the words lacked their earlier bite, softened by the way his story mirrored fragments of your own unraveling.
Joel chuckled, his mustache twitching as he scratched at his jaw, stubble rasping against his nails.
"Pity? Hell nah, darlin', that ain't my style. See, after my own shit fell apart, I figured out the best way to forget is with a little company that don't ask too many questions, just shows up warm and willin', lets ya lose yourself in the moment till the sun comes up and chases the shadows away."
You swallowed hard, the tightness in your throat eased just a touch as his words wormed their way in, distracting from the echo of your ex husband's words.
"Company that doesn't ask questions," you echoed softly, the phrase tasting foreign on your tongue, your gaze dropping to the melting ice in your soda.
There was uncertainty in your tone, but a flicker of interest sparking, even if you didn't want to admit it.
"Exactly right," Joel drawled. "No drama—just see where the night takes us, you and me, darlin'. If you say stop, I stop. I promise, by the time we're done, them troubles'll be nothin' but echoes."
His implication clear as day, without shame and respect. The kind of blunt talk that should have repulsed you outright.
And it did, in part; disgust curled in your stomach, at the sleaziness of it all, this old man yapping nonsense like it was gospel.
Yet beneath it all, as your world of careful plans and shattered stability cracked wider, a strange pull tugged at you—an attraction born from desperation, the want of something to numb your thoughts.
"You're disgusting," you shot back, the words tumbling out sharper than intended, your cheeks flushing.
Joel didn't flinch; instead, his lips quirked into that infuriating smile.
"And you're beautiful, honey." he replied, his drawl softening.
The compliment landed unexpectedly, stirring warmth in your chest you hadn't felt in ages.
Overcome by the rush of it all; you acted on impulse, leaning forwards to press your lips to his in a kiss that was quick and fleeting, tasting the bitterness of beer and the rough scratch of his beard against your skin. It was a moment of raw need, but as quickly as it happened, you pulled back, confusion flooding your features, heart pounding.
Joel's eyes widened for a split second, surprise flashing across his weathered face, before that smirk returned, smug and knowing.
"Well now, ain't that a surprise," he drawled, voice thick with teasing triumph. "Looks like all that neediness was just bubblin' under the surface, waitin' for a little nudge."
You froze, the vulnerability crashing over you in waves, embarrassed.
Joel's expression shifted then, the smirk softening just a tad bit.
"Easy there, honey," he murmured, drawl low and coaxing. "No need to bolt like a spooked filly. I get it—world's been rough, leavin' ya all tangled up inside. But how 'bout we take this outta here, head to my van? It's got space, privacy, and I can help chase them tormentin' thoughts right outta your pretty head, least till mornin' comes callin'."
He nodded towards the door.
You breathed deeply, steadying the whirlwind within.
What the hell was wrong with you?
Your eyes met his, searching in those crinkled depths for something real amid the sleaze, and after a long moment, you nodded, accepting the uncertain path ahead.
Joel grinned, wide, sliding off of his stool with a grunt. He fished a crumpled wad of bills from his pocket, tossing them onto the counter, the bartender nodding absently as change clinked back.
Then he stood, extending his hand towarsd you beckoning you into the night, the beginning of something tangled and unexpected.
-
His van was...if you'd put it nicely...very compact.
Boxy, and worn down to its bones. The paint had faded into a chalky blue, chipped along the edges like old nail polish. Rust bloomed around the walls in stubborn freckles, and the back door had a dent big enough to suggest a story he'd never bother telling. A tiny row of potted plants sat on a narrow wooden shelf outside the window, their green leaves pressed against the glass like they were desperate for some water.
Joel's hand settled on your waist as he guided you forwards, fingers splayed just enough to steer you through the puddles without a word.
Who were you in that moment?
The woman who'd once ironed her husband's shirts on Sunday mornings, planned grocery lists with precision, traded her drafting table for PTA meetings and minivan keys?
And now this—trailing after a stranger's touch into the night, not knowing how it'd end.
"Y'know, darlin'," he drawled, "this ain't exactly the Ritz, but it'll do for keepin' the wolves at bay. Got a little garden out back of the park where I park most nights. Pretty flowers on summer and stuff. Ain't much of a flower guy though." He chuckled at his own nonsense.
You tried to school your features, to keep that flicker of disgust from showing: the way the van's interior peeked through the grimy windows, cluttered with stuff and a tangle of extension cords, a far cry from the crisp lines of your old house with its polished counters and linen curtains.
It almost repulsed you, that glimpse of transience, the life pieced together from scraps and stubborn will, but you bit back the words, swallowing them away.
Joel noticed it anyway; his hand tightened fractionally on your waist before loosening. He cleared his throat, the sleaze turning into something almost shy, almost like shame as he fumbled for his keys.
"Yeah... I know it ain't the best place," he admitted, the drawl softening, "Folks look at it and see a mess. But hell, it gets me through the day, y'know? Keeps the roof—such as it is—over my head and the road under my wheels. No mortgage chasin' me down, no fancy lawn to mow into submission. Just me and this old stubborn ass."
He shot you a sidelong glance, eyes crinkling with a forced grin, trying to lighten your mood with that rambling charm of his.
The door slid open with a metallic groan, releasing a puff of warmth laced with the faint, musty scent of unwashed blankets and motor oil.
And inside—much to your surprise—it was actually cozy and put‑together.
Sure, there were empty cans and bottles scattered around, and it clearly hadn't been cleaned in a long time. But somehow, it still felt warm.
There was a narrow space lined with built‑in cabinets, a real bed raised against the back wall with a worn quilt folded neatly on top and a compact kitchen with a proper stove and a tiny sink squeezed beneath a window. Soft fairy lights hung along the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the wood.
"C'mon, darlin', don't stand there catchin' your death," he said. "You can lay down on the bed if ya want—ain't no palace, but it's clean enough, or as clean as a man livin' solo gets. I'll crank up the heat."
He fiddled with the controls until the vent rattled awake, warm air stirring inside the van.
Uncertainty started to coil in your gut, as you sat down his mattress—a tangle of doubt and fleeting desire, the perfect wife you'd been fracturing further with each passing second.
Joel sank down besides you with a grunt.
"Look, I ain't gonna rush ya," he murmured, "We can just sit here, listen to the rain play its tune on the roof, talk 'bout nothin' if that's what you need. Or...whatever feels right. Your call, beautiful—no pressure from this side of the van."
His words washed over you, annoying in their length and sleaziness, yet oddly soothing, smoothing the jagged edges of your thoughts.
You nodded, barely, your fingers twisting in the hem of your shirt.
This wasn't you—climbing into a van with a stranger, a loudmouthed guy who lived like this, all nomadic and unapologetic.
But his promise echoed in your mind, that he'd fuck all your problems away, and part of you, buried deep, wanted to believe it.
Before your brain could catch up, you leaned in, smashing your lips against his in a rush of impulse again. Joel's smirked against you, that smug curve pulling him back just enough to break the kiss. His rough hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your jaw.
"Well now, ain't you just warmin' up quicker than a skillet on the stove, eh?" he murmured, eyes sparkling like he'd won some unspoken bet.
You ducked your gaze, staring at the frayed edge of the blanket, your pulse racing under his touch.
"How long's it been since somebody touched this beautiful body of yours, huh?" He asked, one hand sliding down to trace the curve of your shoulder. "I mean, look at you—curves like a backroad at midnight, all soft and invitin'. Bet it's been a spell, baby, leavin' you all pent up and achin' without even knowin' it."
Too long.
It had been too damn long since anyone had looked at you like that, let alone touched you with intent.
You squirmed under his touch, that directness was disrespectful, disgusting in its bluntness, the way he talked to you like you were a prize he'd earned.
But god, the arousal twisted deeper, heat pooling between your thighs, making your breath hitch.
He didn't wait for words; his lips found your neck, pressing open mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin, stubble scraping in a way that sent shivers racing down your spine. He nibbled at your earlobe, teeth grazing just enough to earn a soft gasp from you, his free hand roaming over the swell of your breast, thumb circling through your shirt until your nipple hardened under the attention.
"Hey now," he whispered, "this still alright with you, sugar? I ain't pushin' if you ain't ready—though damn if you don't taste like trouble I been cravin'."
You nodded, words already failing as your body betrayed your caution, arching slightly into his touch.
Joel's grin widened, pleased, before he captured your mouth again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming dance.
He shifted, guiding you back onto the mattress with a gentle push, his weight settling over you. That big belly of his pressed down, soft and heavy against your stomach, pinning you.
He broke the kiss with a chuckle. "If you can't breathe under all this, darlin', just holler—though I reckon you'd rather I smother you a lil' more, keep you pinned like the pretty thing you are."
You rolled your eyes and pulled him back down.
Your kisses grew hungrier as Joel's hand wandered lower, tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, before dipping between your legs. His fingers brushed the edge of your panties, and you startled, thighs clenching instinctively, a jolt of uncertainty spiking through the haze of desire.
"Whoa there, easy now," Joel soothed, not pulling away but pausing, palm resting on your thigh. "Ain't no need to jump like a cat on a hot tin roof, beautiful. I got you—gonna take it slow as molasses in January, make sure every touch feels like heaven. Been doin' this dance longer than you think, and I promise, by the time I'm through, you'll be beggin' for more of this big ol' belly pressin' down on ya."
His words tumbled out, long and filthy, uttering nonsense half of you didn't even understand. But it distracted you from that uncertainty and replaced it with a fresh wave of want.
He slipped his hand under the waistband of your panties, fingers finding your slick folds.
You were soaked already, embarrassingly so, and he groaned low in his throat as he traced your clit in slow, deliberate circles.
"Goddamn, honey," he muttered, "you're drippin' like a summer storm out there."
He slid one thick finger inside you, then two, curling them just right to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. The stretch was big, his movements steady and unhurried, pumping in and out with a rhythm.
You moaned, the sound escaping raw and needy, your hips bucking up to meet his hand.
"Listen to you, moanin' like a siren callin' me home," Joel teased, thumb pressing firmer on your clit as he worked you deeper. "Sounds filthy as hell, sugar—got me harder than a fence post just hearin' it. Keep makin' those pretty noises; I could listen to 'em all damn night while I finger this sweet pussy of yours."
"Shut up," you gasped, half-annoyed, half-breathless, but the words unfortunately lacked any bite, dissolving into another whimper as he quickened his pace, the wet sounds of his fingers filling the van.
The coil in your belly tightened quicky, pleasure building quick, the months without touch, the sleepless nights, every stroke of his fingers pushed you closer.
And when the orgasm hit, it crashed over you in waves—your walls fluttered around his fingers, body arching off the mattress as you cried out, the release washing away all the insecurities in a flood of bliss.
"That's it, beautiful, come for me," Joel praised. "I got you, honey, ride it out...yeah, just like that."
As you calmed, Joel shifted slightly, his free hand drifting down to his lap, fumbling with the zipper of his jeans.
He pulled out his cock then; thick, heavy, already hard and swelling under his grip as he gave it a slow stroke.
Your eyes widened, locking onto the sight—veined and girthy, curving upward with a heft you'd never encountered, the head flushed and glistening faintly in the low light.
It was bigger than anything you known.
He chuckled, low and smug. "Like what ya see there, beautiful? Ol' Joel's packin' a bit more than most fellas, ain't he? Been told it makes a gal's eyes pop just like yours are doin' now—wide as saucers, wonderin' how it'll all fit. Don't worry, sugar; this big boy's got a mind of its own, but it'll treat ya right if ya let it."
"I want it." You whispered before you could even stop yourself.
What was wrong with you?
Joel's smirk widened, knowing, as he kept stroking, his thumb circling the tip to spread the bead of pre-cum.
"Oh, I know ya do, baby. Finally breakin' down for me, huh? Good girl—ain't no shame in cravin' what ya need. This pussy's beggin' for it already, I can tell."
You sighed, the annoyance flaring even as arousal pooled low in your belly, but there was a smile tugging at your lips.
He paused then. "Condom?"
You nodded quickly—you hadn't been on birth control since the divorce.
Joel rummaged in a drawer besides the bed, pulling out a foil packet with a grin, tearing it open and rolling the latex down his length with practiced ease, the material stretching over his size.
He smirked at you the whole time, eyes gleaming. "I'll promise ya some lovin' and care, baby. All these thoughts will be gone—poof, like smoke in the wind. Gonna fuck 'em right outta ya, leave ya floatin' on a cloud of nothin' but good feels."
You rolled your eyes, a mix of exasperation and excitement bubbling up as you didn't know what the hell you were doing, but in that moment, it felt right enough.
He shrugged off his shirt fully now, revealing the full expanse of his belly, soft and heavy, before nudging your legs apart and settling between them, his weight dipping the mattress further.
"Look at this pretty pussy, all pink and swollen from comin' on my fingers," he murmured. "Shinin' like a damn pearl in the moonlight filterin' through that window there."
He pushed in then, the blunt head breaching you inch by agonizing inch, your walls fluttering around the intrusion. It burned at first, a delicious ache as he filled you, his girth forcing you open.
You winced, discomfort flickering across your face, and he paused, one hand stroking your thigh, the other braced besides your head.
"Easy now, honey, breathe through it," he cooed, though his tone was laced with triumph. "I know it's big, but you're takin' it like a real champ."
"Shut up, oh my god," you hissed, embarrassment washing over you, but the words broke into a moan as he bottomed out.
Joel grinned, sweat beading on his brow, and shifted his weight onto you completely, pinning you beneath his bulk as he began to thrust—slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that dragged his cock along your inner walls.
"That's it, beautiful, feel me fuckin' ya deep, chasin' away every damn worry in that head of yours."
His pace quickened, thrusts turning rougher, the bed cracking in time with the slap of skin on skin, his belly rubbing against you with each drive.
He kept yapping, filthy stream of consciousness pouring out between grunts, his drawl turning breathless but no less annoying unfortunately.
"Fuck, darlin', this tight hole's milkin' me good—gonna fill this rubber up with my cum soon, mark ya as mine even if it's just for tonight. You love it, don't ya? Takin' every inch like a pro, moanin' for more."
The words blurred into sensation, your body responding despite the sleaze, hips rising to meet his as pleasure rebuilt, coiling tighter.
You clenched around him, cries spilling from your lips as it crested, waves of ecstasy crashing through you, your nails raking his back.
Joel followed soon after, groaning loud and guttural, his thrusts stuttering as he came, hips grinding hard against you while he filled the latex with hot spurts.
He collapsed then, breathing ragged.
After a moment, he pulled out carefully, disposing of the condom with a quick tie and tossed into a nearby trash can. He cleaned himself up with a towel from the floor, wiping away the sweat and stickiness, before turning back to you.
You laid there all breathless, chest heaving, skin flushed and damp, the emotional high crashing into a wave of shame that made you curl inward.
You rolled your eyes at his gaze and turned away, burying your head into the pillow, the scent of him overwhelming as regret whispered in your ear:
What had you done, giving in like this?
Joel noticed immediately, his voice softening as he reached out, hand resting on your shoulder.
"Hey...did I hurt ya? What happened, honey? You were all lit up like fireworks a minute ago, and now you're hidin' like a scared kitten."
You mumbled something into the pillow, the words muffled. He pulled you back gently, wrapping you in his arms again, that unexpected tenderness cutting through the post-climax haze like a balm.
You didn't cry, but you let out a big sigh, looking at a corner of the van.
The empty apartment, the signed papers, the life unraveling like frayed thread. It all came crashing down on you.
What had you done to deserve this?
You muttered against his shirt, voice muffled and broken, "I got divorced."
The words hung there, exposed, the rain seeming to pause in sympathy.
Joel pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb stroking your cheek with surprising care, though his grin crept in, sleazy but laced with a sweetness that caught you off guard.
His eyes softened, just a fraction, and he murmured, "Oh, baby."
"God dammit, that mother fucker was sure as hell a dumbass to let you go like that," he said. "I mean, look at ya—pretty as a peach in July, all soft curves and fire in them eyes. He'd have to be blind and stupid to toss away a woman like you."
You couldn't help it—a laugh bubbled up.
His words were filthy in their bluntness, annoying in their endless sprawl, but they lightened the mood, pulling you from the edge.
So, you two stayed like that for a while, wrapped in his arms, the van's heater humming as the rain drummed on, his hand stroking your back in lazy circles until your breaths evened out.
-
The next day, he slipped his phone number into your palm while you were still asleep, pressed a quick kiss into your hair, muttered something about needing to get moving before his boss 'chewed him out like a dog with a bone,' and then left the van quietly so you could keep sleeping.
And when you came home again, disgust started to coil in your gut, sharp and unrelenting.
Was this who you were now?
Divorced once, the ink barely dry on those papers, and already fucking strangers in the back of a van just to numb the ache?
The shame washed over you in waves, hot and suffocating, but tangled in that was something far worse—the admission that it had felt good.
Too good.
Joel chased away those shadows in your mind, his kisses, sleazy as they were, had landed soft, pulling you under until the pain dulled to a distant hum. The way he pleasured you, something you haven't felt in years.
You didn't cry.
You never let yourself. Crying felt like a crack in the armor, and you couldn't afford to fall apart—not now, not ever. Not even as you got fired the next day.
Your boss's voice droned through the office like white noise—too many sick days, too little output, pack your things and leave.
You only nodded numbly, the words sliding off of you like rain on glass, and drove home in silence, the radio off, the engine's hum your only companion in that moment.
And there you sat in your apartment:
Divorced. Fucked by a random man in his rusty van. And now, fired.
Where was the perfect wife from years ago, the one with the husband who kissed her goodnight in their beautiful house, the one with plans and stability woven into every corner?
Still, no tears came.
You could remember how hard it had been, those days stretching like no end in near, each one heavier than the last, the weight of unraveling pressing down until breathing felt like a chore.
And in that moment all your eyes could see Joel's number on the coffee table, staring up at you like a dare.
You thought about it for two full days, fingers hovering over your phone in the quiet hours, the what ifs swirling in your head.
What would happen if you called?
He would say some sleazy, stupid shit. Tease you in that obnoxious tone until you rolled your eyes. And then? He would ask to fuck.
You felt so fucking stupid even considering it—chasing distraction from a man who probably saw you as just another notch—but god, he numbed the pain, turned the sharp edges soft, if only for a night.
"Now, who the hell is this callin' me up? I swear to the good Lord above, if this is one of them scam artists tryin' to fleece old folks outta their hard earned cash, you're barkin' up the wrong damn tree, buddy—ain't got nothin' but cigarettes in my pockets and a van that leaks worse than a sieve."
You swore you didn't want to call.
But a soft smile tugged at your lips despite the knot in your throat, the sound of him so vividly alive in that sterile quiet of your space.
"Joel," you said softly.
There was a beat of silence, then a low chuckle, lazy and smug. "Well, I'll be damned, if it ain't my favorite troublemaker callin' me up outta the blue. Here I was, sweatin' bullets thinkin' I'd scared you off for good with all my big talk and bigger belly." He said. "Hell, I been thinkin' 'bout you non-stop, beautiful, wonderin' if you'd come to your senses and give ol' Joel a ring. What's the word? You need a laugh? A ride? Somethin' more...interestin'?"
He talked and talked, words tumbling out in that endless, annoying stream, painting pictures with his charm.
Suddenly, the words spilled from you, unbidden.
"I got fired."
"Lord have mercy," Joel growled, the playfulness dipping into something almost genuine. "Fired? Shit, darlin', that's a raw deal if I ever heard one. You holdin' up alright? Tell me what happened, or hell, don't—ain't gotta spill it all if you don't want. But listen here, you sound like you could use a pick-me-up, and I know just the thing. You need me to swing by and scoop you up?"
He'd been thinking about that one thing again, the heat of bodies and the escape it promised,
but in the ache echoing through your chest, maybe that's exactly what you needed—a distraction.
So you whispered into the phone, "Yes."
-
"Goddamn, darlin'," he drawled, voice muffled against your wetness. "You taste like honey straight from the hive—sweet and sticky, makin' a man forget his own damn name. Let it go now, yeah? Tell ol' Joel what's eatin' at you 'bout that job. What'd they do to my girl, huh?"
It ached once inside your stomach when he said 'my girl' but it was quickly overshadowed by his tongue diving over your clit.
Joel's broad shoulders were wedged between your thighs, his calloused hands gripping the soft flesh there, thumbs pressing into your skin that sent shivers up your spine.
Tongue flat and broad, he licked a slow, deliberate stripe up your pussy, savoring the slick folds with a groan that vibrated through your core.
No words were said from the drive over—just his knowing grin as he manoeuvred his truck in front of his van.
And what happened next, didn't surprise you.
"C'mon, tell ol' joel what's bothering you."
You exhaled a shaky breath, fingers threading into his salt-and-pepoer hair, the strands coarse under your palms as the first waves of pleasure loosened the knots in your chest.
"The...the endless meetings," you murmured, hips twitching upwards into his face, the words fracturing on a gasp as he hummed approval, the vibration sending sparks along your nerves. "Talking in circles, nothing ever changing..."
He didn't stop, couldn't—tongue thrusting shallowly now, lips sealing around your clit to suck with rhythmic pulls that made your thighs quiver against his ears.
"That's it, beautiful, keep talkin'. What else? Gimme the dirt—bet they had you runnin' ragged like a dog chasin' its tail."
His free hand slid up your belly, palm warm and heavy, thumb brushing the underside of your breast in lazy strokes, grounding you even as he unraveled you.
"Boss...always breathing down my neck," you continued. "Criticising everything, like I was invisible until I screwed up. And the hours—god, the hours bleeding into nothing."
Joel growled low, the sound feral and approving, doubling his efforts: tongue flicking rapidly over your clit while two thick fingers eased into you, curling to stroke that sweet spot inside you.
Confessions started spilling freer now: "Colleagues whispering, promotions going to the loudest liars, feeling like I was drowning in paperwork that meant jack shit"—until the dam broke.
Orgasm crashed over you like a sudden storm, thighs clamping around his head as you came on his face, pulsing waves of release soaking his beard and lips.
You cried out, back bowing off of the mattress.
Joel pulled back slowly, chin glistening, eyes triumphant. "Fuck me, beautiful, that was a sight—comin' apart like Fourth of July, all fireworks and no holdin' back." He drawled.
He stood up then, the mattress dipping under his weight and rummaged in a nearby drawer, pulling out a towel, and dabbed gently at your thighs, cleaning your release with care, his touch lingering just enough to tease without pushing.
You sat up slowly, limbs heavy with afterglow, watching him through half lidded eyes; his belly strained against his shirt, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow catching the dim light filtering through the curtains. He caught your gaze and grinned, tossing the towel aside.
"Well, hell, I'm gonna miss ya as my lunch buddy now that you're footloose and free."
You smirked, a playful spark cutting through the haze, even as surprise flickered at your own words tumbling out.
"You got my number now."
Why did it sound like that?
Like you two were something official...
"Yeah," he drawled simply. "Gimme a sec—gonna wash up."
He walked towards the tiny bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving you alone with the hush.
Your eyes wandered and wandered then, tracing the faded photos pinned to a corkboard above the sink—mementos amid the chaos of tools and takeout wrappers.
One caught your eye: a faded snapshot of a blonde girl, no more than eight, gap-toothed smile besides a younger Joel, his arm slung around her shoulders, both squinting into the sun at what looked like a county fair.
"Is that your daughter?" you asked when he emerged, towel slung over his shoulder, voice light and curious, no weight behind it—you didn't know him and you didn't want to push it.
Joel froze mid-step, the easy smirk fading, his face hardening into lines etched deep by time and loss.
The air thickened, a sudden stretch of silence between you.
"Yeah," he said finally, voice low. "Lost her a long time ago."
You went silent then, nodding once, gaze dropping to the rumpled sheets.
This was the only time you ever heard about Joel's daughter. The rest was whispers and rumours from the bar. Even today, Joel never wanted to talk about it. And you didn't push him.
Joel cleared his throat after a beat and headed toward the narrow kitchen at the front.
"Hell, this bastard's hungry now—mouth's all worked up, but I ain't got nothin' but some sad ass lookin' tomatoes, a hunk of cheese that's probably seen better days, and fuckin' bread that's more hole than loaf." His sleaze returned, trying to lighten the mood.
You rose quietly, padding after him on bare feet, and leaned against the counter's edge. "Let me make you something. I don't need more than that."
He stared at you for a beat, something unguarded flickering in his eyes before he shoved it down. But you caught the way his features grew soft.
-
By the third time it happened, you stopped pretending it was an accident.
Joel had spent the days between calling you nonstop to complain about anything he could think of— payments, deliveries, the guys in the warehouse—just rambling into your ear until you fell asleep from sheer boredom.
You remember being deep in your job search—hours of scrolling through listings that blurred together into rejection and possibility—when your thoughts started to distract you again.
The phone buzzed on the coffee table, jolting you from the haze, Joel's name lighting up the screen like an uninvited spark.
"Honey, you ain't gonna believe the bullshit I dealt with today—had this asshole at the site yappin' about permits like he owns the damn place, breathin' down my neck while I'm tryin' to weld a frame that won't hold up to a stiff breeze. Swear to God, if I had to listen to one more word 'bout codes and inspections, I'd have shoved that clipboard where the sun don't shine. Anyway, enough of my griping—how's that fancy job hunt goin'?"
Bla bla bla and more bla.
You rolled your eyes.
But there was a pause then, his breath catching just a fraction, the bravado softening into something almost shy.
"Listen, uh... you wanna come over tonight? Or I could swing by and pick ya up? Ain't pushin', just...thought maybe we could unwind, y'know?"
You sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet room, the promise you'd made to yourself after the last time—no more distractions, no more surrendering to the pull of his rough warmth—cracked under the strain of solitude.
"Yeah," you said finally, voice steadier than you felt. "Pick me up."
So...you landed in his van again.
His lips met yours with a hunger tempered by familiarity.
You melted into it, hands finding his neck, fingers tangling into his strands as the kiss deepened—tongues brushing in lazy exploration, breaths mingling hot and ragged in the small space.
You pressed closer, the scratch of his beard against your skin a grounding rasp, the make-out stretching slowly, bodies shifting on the bed until you were half in his lap.
Breathless, Joel pulled back first, forehead resting against yours, his eyes searching yours.
"I was thinkin'...we could make this somehow official. Nothin' serious, mind you—just fuckin' around and stuff when we need it, y'know? Keep the loneliness at bay without all the messy strings." He grinned, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in it.
You laughed, the sound light and disbelieving, echoing softly in the van's cocoon.
"Are you serious? You want me to be your fuck buddy?"
The term hung absurd in the air, but it pulled a chuckle from him too, his eyes crinkling further.
"Yeah... why not? If we're gonna keep doin' this, we might as well call it what it is. Ain't promisin' the world, but hell, I could be your go-to when the night's too damn quiet."
You looked at him then, really looked—the way he held his gaze steady despite the sleaze, while you remembered the care in his hands after that first unraveling, how he wiped away the evidence of your surrender with a tenderness no one else had offered. The way his presence drowned out that hollow ache, letting you forget the spin of your life for stolen hours.
How were you able to numb those thoughts otherwise?
How could you deal with this loneliness eating you from the inside?
"Yeah," you said, the word simple and sure, sealing the pact with another kiss.
You remember that you were left wondering, even then, if this was just how Joel was—if he took care of everyone like that, if he softened for anyone who crossed his path. You told yourself not to read into it, not to mistake kindness for anything else. You assumed he was like this with all the people he let close.
You didn't know he'd cut them all off the same week he met you. All women, all men he hooked up with.
You didn't know you were the exception.
You didn't know he'd never been gentle for anyone else.
And you...you saw or still see him as temporary.
A placeholder.
Someone you'll leave behind once you finally get your life back.
You downloaded a dating app that same evening you agreed to the arrangement with Joel.
Two people agreeing to keep things simple, and only one of them caring too much.
-> If you'd like to be tagged for this series, please let me know!!!
i'm sooooo bad at past tense stuff so i hope this isn't super confusing and just somewhat understandable. I also hope this met yall's expectations on how Joel and reader met. This is how i always had it in my mind and well...it'll get angsty🤭🤭
i beg re9 taking care of reader, like spoiling them while reader is like calling them old man or whatever silly names
જ⁀➴ Re9!Leon taking care of you even if you’re being a brat about it ᝰ.ᐟ
You’ve been practically glued to your laptop all day, hunched at the screen for hours on end without moving a single muscle. The most he’d gotten out of you since this morning was a plea for help when you got stumped on how to spell a certain word, but for the most part, it’s been complete radio silence.
It was admirable at first to see you so passionate, but now you’re rolling your shoulders every few minutes, murmuring under your breath like a crazy person, frowning at the words on the screen like they’ve got you hostage.
It was worrying him, so he figures you need an intervention.
“Alright. You’re done.” He says, literally dragging your chair away from the desk until your laptop is out of reach, much to your dismay.
“Leon, no. I need to finish this paragraph— just one more hour.”
He ignores your protests with a disapproving tut of his tongue. “I already gave you an extra hour, baby. I’m not asking, I’m telling you. You are done.”
He’s using that tone, the ‘dad voice’ as you had called it once, just to take a jab at his age. The sternness in his tone leaves no room for if’s or buts, and you know from past experience he isn’t above manhandling you into relaxing for an hour or however long he sees fit, really, so what else is there to do save for letting him steer you into the living room?
You plop yourself down onto the couch and instantly melt back into the plush cushions, a relieved sigh falling from your lips.
“C’mere you stubborn girl.” He mutters, sitting down beside you and tugging you closer— his big hands clasping around your shoulders with a deep squeeze, slowly working the tension from your taut muscles.
Despite how much you want to huff and puff at him, to tell him he was being ridiculous, he was good with his hands, and you were weak to his touch— especially when his thumbs press over that spot at the base of your neck, slowly smoothing out the tightness at your shoulder blades.
He chuckles under his breath when you lean into him with a faint whimper that you fail to bite back, your fingers curling into a throw pillow.
“Mmm, s’this how it feels to be your age, old man?” You giggle teasingly yet arch into his hands.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up— I’m old, it’s hilarious.” He mutters, but there’s no denying the fondness in his voice. He’s used to your little jabs by now, and to be honest, he kinda likes them. “But sweetheart,” he muses, leaning in to brush a kiss to the nape of your neck before you could get another word in, “only one of us here is currently groaning like a grandma.”
You scoff in feigned offence, and he doesn’t need to see your face to know that you’re rolling your eyes at him. “Mm, whatever, it’s not like-” your sentence gets cut off by an honest-to-god moan when he presses over a certain spot that aches a little too good.
You stretch your back out and roll your shoulders, and Leon all but coos behind you, “ohh, that’s it’s, big stretch f’me baby.” You fight the urge to hit him over the head with a pillow.
“Ugh… hush it, old man,” you mutter weakly.
“Mhm, you gonna let this old man run you a bath?” he smirks against your shoulder as you slump back against his chest with a pout, and you feel him chuckle behind you, the sound vibrating against your back. “Come on, let me spoil you tonight, you pouty little thing.”
“M’kay… fine,” you sigh, melting under his loving affection, trying to fight back the fluttery warmth in your chest when he coos a soft, “There’s my girl.”
જ⁀➴ Resident Evil Masterlist જ⁀➴ General Masterlist
AN: I’m on my period and this turned out way more horny than it should have.
warning: age gap (reader’s mid 20s-early 30s), annoying brat!reader, piv, wet dreams, masturbation, pussy slapping, angry car sex (kinda hate sex but not really), minor choking, sexual tension, voice kink, mentions of dead bodies, themes of field investigation, violence, viral mutations, weapons and physical training (literally just DSO stuff)
w/c: 8.3k
notes: I just saw a tt of this idea, so I had to do this asap. hopefully this suits the person’s idea, if not, I’m glad I made this. you can find part two here. (@uzmacchiato for dividers)
-present time: month two, 9 pm-
The car was engulfed in silence, rain poured heavy against the vehicle slackening the roads and blurring the city lights into long, watery streaks. The wipers dragged across the windshield in slow arcs, Leon’s eyes remained firm on the dark road, jaw tight enough that you could faintly see the worked up muscle clench against the blue lights. One hand was white knuckled gripping the wheel, the other was glued to his inner thigh folded into a firm first.
You sat stiff and awkward in the passenger seat, arms crossed over your chest as if you were wrongfully reprimanded (some would say that you were). Neither of you had said a word since getting in the car, just sat in silence for ten painful minutes. You were too busy stubbornly staring out the window and he was busy giving you well deserved silent treatment. It’s been like this for two whole weeks. Constant bickering, constant arguing, constantly having to put up with your bullshit.
Leon exhaled through his nose, eyes set on the blur in front of him, ears ringing from how fucking quiet it was. And it’s weird because Leon has dealt with much, much worse, but something about you just worked him on his last nerves. He’s literally fought the worse of the worse, but you just got under his skin in a way he couldn’t shake.
You were assigned to him on a cold Monday morning, loud confident and painfully honest. The first three hours he had with you were bliss, you listened, you nodded all eagerly and got along with the others. The second you were fully alone with him, you completely switched, lips pouted, arms crossed, eyes rolling at every thing he said.
Leon had tried, really tried, to be patient. He’d even given you the whole, ‘I’m not as scary as I seem’ speech.
Didn’t matter.
You talked back, you argued, you sassed him.
-day one, 8 am-
Leon stood in the hallway outside the training room, arms crossed, trying to look approachable. It wasn’t really working.
You were escorted by someone whose name you kept forgetting, walking up to him as you eagerly scanned the place. You didn’t even notice that the person left, not even bothering to introduce you to Leon, but it wasn’t really like you needed an introduction. You heard a lot about him.
“Rookie,” he greeted gruffly with a nod, your attention turning away from the framed photo on the wall beside him. You blinked up at him, giving him a small smile as you tried your very best not to ogle. “Welcome.”
“Thanks.” It was quick, a little too friendly and curt, but the words stuck in your throat like your body was forcing you to not word vomit to Leon of all people. All 5’11, tired, stubble blessed calmness wrapped up in the hottest dilf you’ve ever seen.
You blinked, clearing your throat awkwardly. “What did you say?”
He eyed you once, exhaling slightly before nodding to follow him. “First day jitters is normal. Try not to let it get to your head.”
You followed him like a lost puppy, staring at the back of his head letting your eyes just naturally trail along down his shoulders and arms. You weren’t able to stop in time at his abrupt stop, colliding into his back in a quick smack that had you letting out a loud oof in surprise. He immediately turned around, barely budging as he looked down at you.
Silence.
Heavy, suffocating silence.
“Maybe try to walk beside me and not behind me.”
“Right, sorry.”
Leon lead you to the training room, giving you side glances every now and then to make sure you weren’t stumbling over yourself again.
“Are we immediately going to train?” You asked loudly, stepping in front of him and turning around as you walked backwards just so you could look at him.
“Did you think we were?”
“Aren’t we?” He stared at you silently, glancing behind you at the rapidly approaching wall, stopping a few feet from a nearby door so you couldn’t go smacking into it. “Can we?”
“I think it’s a little more custom to show you around and introduce you—”
“I just want to get to the good stuff.” You interrupted impatiently, looking down a nearby hallway before rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet.
“I’m sure we’ll get to that soon.”
“What’s down there?” You pointed with one finger, Leon looked down the hallway with you, turning to look at you again.
“Offices.”
“Oh, okay.” You trailed off, looking up at the ceilings for some type of directional cues. “Whose office?”
“Important people.”
“Do you have an office?”
“No.”
“I thought important people have offices.”
Leon breathed in slowly at that, eyes boring into you. “What was that?”
You looked at him again, eyebrows raised slightly. “Huh? Oh, I meant, just— y’know…”
He let you stumble over your words, eyes meeting your avoidant ones until you quickly turned to go down the hall. “You’re going the wrong way.” He said simply, watching as you did a full 180 and walked the opposite direction.
This is going to be a very long day.
-day two, 4 pm-
He could still hear your voice echoing in the back of his head, unnecessary comments, rapid-fire questions, annoyed sighs. Everything went down hill after showing you around, he blamed it on nerves. That was the only thing that stopped him from questioning his own sanity.
Leon stared at the ceiling.
He’d been through hell.
Literal hell.
And yet somehow you were the one testing his mental health.
Leon was focused on the briefing folder in his hands, blocking out your nonstop seven minute rant. He honestly wasn’t even sure what the fuck you were even talking about, or how you had so much to talk about. He hoped you would’ve just tired yourself out and stopped talking completely, but you never did.
“…and I’m just saying, why would he expect perfection out of me for our first drill? It was so unfair. I didn’t have breakfast either, I slept through my first alarm, so I had to drink some gross smoothie my roommate made. Do you like smoothies, or are you more of a milksh—”
Leon closed the folder slowly.
“You done?”
You blinked at him. “Well, no? I was just about to ask if you liked milkshakes more than smoothies. I can understand if you do, sometimes I prefer milkshakes more.”
He just let you ramble on, opening the folder again to quietly read the contents. Inhaled through his nose and reminding him that you were new, he was a professional, he’s been in your shoes before. It’s just nerves. It’s just nerves.
“Also, you walk a little too fast. Could you slow down a bit?” At your question, he immediately stopped walking, turning to the side to face you as he closed the folder.
“You have to keep up.” He spoke softly, extending the folder for half a second like he was debating on letting you read it but decided not to give it to you.
“But I can’t really keep up with you if you’re taller than me.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, and looked down at the folder for some divine intervention to help him out of this interaction. “Okay, I’ll walk a lil’ slower.” He looked back at you with a tight smile, walking in an awkward languid stride.
He was starting to miss zombies again.
-day five, 12 pm-
Leon crouched beside the evidence marker, gloved fingers tracing the edge of a blistered wound on the open neck of the victim. You watched as he examined the scorch pattern on the concrete, head tilting as he examined the body. You stood behind him, arms crossed, rocking on your heels.
“What am I supposed to be doing?” You stepped onto the tips of your toes, peeking over his shoulder to watch his gloved hand as he
“Observing.”
“I already am.”
“Then you’re doing what you need to.”
You fell quiet, staring at the back of his head before quickly crouching beside him, stepping so unnecessarily close that your shoulders bump together. “Is that a bite or a burn?”
Leon doesn’t look up, and you’re not sure if he’s aware of the close proximity or just doesn’t care. “Burn. High-temp, chemical.”
“Can I examine it too?”
“No.”
“Am I supposed to just watch you?” You asked curiously, turning at the sound of his knees popping as he stood upright again. Your gaze lingered on his legs, inching up slowly, slowly before craning your neck to look up at you. He was looking off into the distance, scanning something you weren’t able to see. “I could help you if you told me.”
“It’d help me if you were quiet,” you could tell he didn’t mean to say it, just a slip of his mouth that he wasn’t able to stop in time. Your eyebrows furrowed in defensiveness, lips curled into an offended pout as you stood up. His head quickly turned to you, eyebrows lifting slightly in recognition. “I’m sorry. It’s easier for people to focus on the evidence when it’s a bit… quieter.”
You looked away, mumbling to yourself before digging the tip of your shoe into the dirt. For the tiniest of seconds, he actually felt bad, watching your shoe scrape in the dirt and the way your shoulders curled in slightly. He approached you quietly, head ducking slightly to try to catch your eye, one hand hovering over your shoulder. “Hey..”
You finally lifted your head, eyes narrowed just a little in that bratty, dramatic way that had him immediately pulling back. “Is your lack of patience a compensation for your inability to be in full control of others?”
He sighed sharply, giving you a slow nod as his eyebrows raised quickly in that ‘figures she’d start something’ kind of way. He hummed lowly, blinking down at you before tugging on the edges of his sleeve. “I’m used to working alone. That’s all.”
You blinked, pursing your lips together to try to offer some advice, but he cut you off before you opened your mouth again. “Maybe you should wait in the car, hm? I think we could both use a break.”
For a moment, the air between you softened. Just a little. You stared at him for a long moment, eyes flicking along his face before shrugging slightly. “Fine by me.”
You walked past him, glancing over your shoulder to sneak another peek at him as he turned around, the broad expanse of his back moving slowly against the tight fabric of his shirt. You lingered by just long enough to watch the muscles move, eyes trailing up along his shoulders before hurriedly dipping into the safety of the car with a shaky exhale.
-day seven, 3 pm-
The warehouse was dark, cold and stuffy, reeking of mold and whatever organisms were too busy growing in between the walls. Leon figured it would be a good idea to bring you out to the field with him. Exposure therapy. It was more in hopes that whatever happened was scare you into not being an insufferable brat for two minutes. It was a terrible thought to think, especially about a new recruit, especially by someone he was training.
It seemed like you were purposefully stepping too close to him, he could feel the warmth of your body seeping into his personal space. You lingered exactly three inches away from him, chest nearly pressing into his back in an incredibly distracting way. He had cast you two stern looks to try to give you a silent reminder on this new thing called personal space, but nothing seemed to click.
He held up a fist, a clear signal to stop. You kept walking too distracted on the creepy, dark hallway to the right of you to notice his signal. You bumped into his back, hard enough that you were sent right back into a déjà vu moment of your first day. You quickly looked up at him, hoping he wouldn’t send another firm, cold look towards your way. Leon slowly turned around, eyeing you up and down once before walking forward after a long period of silence.
You winced to yourself, focusing on the back of his shoulder and the extend of his arm as he held his gun out. He took a sharp turn left towards a crate covered in yellow stickers, but you were a fraction too slow to turn. He quickly grabbed the back of your crate, tugging you towards him with such simple ease you were certain your stomach butterflies multiplied into frantic moths.
“Stop,” he said simply, keeping your vest firm in his grip, looking sternly at you in a way that had your cheeks warming. “Pay. Attention.”
“I am.” You rebutted to yourself, watching as he shook his head, but motioned for you to follow him before moving towards the safety of the crate. You listened this time, mainly staying behind him just to proudly stare at the way he moved.
-day thirteen, 5 am-
The sky was still dark when Leon stepped out of his car, eyes heavy, shoulders stiff. You were already waiting at the entrance of the building for him, quickly rushing forward at the sight of him stepping out.
“Good morning,” you smiled sweetly, handing him a small paper cup of black coffee. He looked down at it in silence, rubbing the side of his stubbled jaw before cautiously taking the cup. “Nice car.”
You peeked inside the car through its windows, squinting as you tried to scan the interior. Leon just wrapped an arm around your hip, politely turning you away. “Thank you.”
“I guess the higher ups had to repay for not giving you an office, huh?” You joked lightly, nudging your elbow against his, but he just blankly stared at you. Taking a long sip of his coffee, and maintaining that eye contact, he nodded once.
“Not much of a morning person?” You asked, quickly following after him as he took three steps off the street. He inhaled through his nose, taking another aggressively large gulp. “It’s a beautiful day out.”
At your words, he looked up at the sky, subtly looking around for the beautiful day you were talking about. “Where?”
You pressed your lips together, motioning around at the semi quiet area. “Everywhere.” Leon gave you a look, glancing down at the half drunken coffee in his hand before humming lowly.
“Drink a lot of these?” He motioned with the cup.
“How’d you know?” You tilted your head at him, skipping in line as he stepped up the stairs of the building.
“Just a hunch.”
You nodded to yourself, feet subconsciously pattering in line with his strides. He stopped at the top of the stairs, turning to you before he opened the door. “You seem tired, Leon.”
“Do I?” He said sarcastically, opening the large front door for you. He stepped behind you after you entered the building, quickly tossing the coffee into a nearby trash can.
“So, I’m taking it you’re not a morning person? Are you more of a night owl? Or maybe like an evening…stallion?”
“I’m always tired.”
“Why?”
“Because of you, kiddo.”
You paused, puffing your cheeks out at the very appealing fact of Leon being awake all night because of you. You cleared your throat, trying not to dwindle too much on thoughts of what he’d be doing all alone late at night. “You saying I keep you up?”
He nodded simply, but his head snapped around at the sound of your poorly muffled snickers. He tilted his head at you, a short, genuine chuckle slipping from his lips as he realized the hidden innuendo of his words. “Yeah, that’s real cute.”
Your brain literally short circuited at the sound of his laugh, eyes blinking once at him as if he had sprouted angel wings and a glowing halo.
-day eighteen, 1 pm-
You and Leon are sat side-by-side in the briefing room, legs pressed together in a professional, bordering on inappropriate way. The director drone on about mission parameters and potential targets. You weren’t too sure, you stopped listening six minutes ago. Your leg was jittering up and down, foot bouncing sporadically against cold tile. Every now and then, your foot would nudge against his boot, and even though he’d occasionally nudge his foot against yours to get you to stop, you physically couldn’t. It was like your body just needed the physical reminder that he was just within reach.
You sat up straight as the director glanced your way, eyes scanning the room to ensure everyone was still paying attention. You peeked a fast side glance his way, then another, trying to savor the look of his side profile.
You nudged his foot once.
Nothing.
Nudged again.
Nothing.
Nudged a third time.
Nothing.
He just sat there, actively listening to everything the director said, not even sparing you the smallest of glances. You nudged his foot again, and he was quick to reach down under the table to grab your knee. You stared down to where his hand engulfed your knee, forcing your leg still. His jaw flexed, muscles visibly clenched to keep from speaking while the director was.
You looked up at him again as he pressed enough force against your thigh that you could feel the heat of his palm through the fabric of your pants. You kept still, slowly blinking up at his stoic expression. After a moment of keeping you in place, he unfortunately pulled away from you, the warmth of his hand disappearing almost immediately.
You waited about two seconds before nudging his foot again.
-day twenty four-
The two of you sat silent in a filing room, sitting on a metal table, you watched Leon as he stared down at the newly filed report in his hands. You could see the way his eyes shifted back and forth as he reviewed the mission report, checking over for anything he might have missed. You leaned forward towards the edge of the table, legs swinging back and forth before you cleared your throat.
“How’d I do?” He set down a pen nearby beside you, running one hand through his hair before looking at you.
“If you hadn’t ignored two of my commands, you would have done better.”
You sighed softly, looking down at your thighs as you brushed off a small speck of lint from your pants. Leon’s eyes followed the movement, turning to look back at the report.
“So, like on a scale from one to ten?”
“Six.”
“A six?” You repeated in shock, eyes wide as your head snapped up to him fast enough there would’ve been a cartoonish whoosh of air.
He shrugged, patting you by the hip to motion for you to get down. You quickly hopped off, snatching the pen from the table and clicking it aggressively a few times. “Well, you did…better. Than last time.”
“Really?”
“Mhm.”
“By how much?”
“On a scale from one to ten?” You nodded at him, to which he looked away deep in thought. “One.”
-day thirty three, 10 am-
You handed Leon the file he asked for, but not before giving him a once‑over. He gave you a double take, eyebrows furrowed at the sudden look but turned to study the file. His eyes flicked up from the paperwork, catching the way your gaze lingered a little too long on his hands. He quickly looked down at the papers, trying to ignore the burning feeling of your eyes on him.
“You look like you slept well last night,” you said suddenly, and he had to force himself to not look up at you. “Did you?”
“I guess so, yeah.”
“Does that mean you’re not thinking of me anymore?”
At that, his eyes looked up to meet yours, eyebrows tilted up ever so slightly. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, I mean, like— a few weeks ago you said that y—”
“I know what I said.”
“Is that a no?”
He looked down at the file, not answering your question, but his silence was enough of an answer for you. You pressed your lips together in annoyance, shoulders squaring slightly like you were getting ready to pounce on him. You stared at him, chewing on the inside of his cheek as you debated on how to get his attention again.
“Maybe it’s a good thing then. People your age need all the sleep they can get.” He blinked at you, tucking the file under his large bicep.
Bingo.
“My age?”
“Yeah. Y’know, like… an older guy.”
For a moment, you could see the puzzle clicking together in his head, the loud debate on whether he was going to entertain your stupidity or not. He blinked slowly, turning around to start walking down the hallway. You huffed under your breath, rushing a little to catch up to him. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. Sleep is important for everyone, but more important for older people.”
He nodded silently, stepping out the building and walking to his car, not bothering to check to make sure you were following because he knew you well enough to know that you were following him like a baby duck. “I slept really good last night too.”
“Yeah, that’s good, kid.” You hummed happily to yourself, hands behind your back as you rounded the car to reach the passenger side.
You swung the door open, stumbling inside before slamming the door behind you. You waited until he got in the car, door closing with a soft thud before grinning at him. “Do you normally stay up late thinking of me? Isn’t that a bit unprofessional?”
“I think this conversation is unprofessional.”
“You didn’t say no.”
He shifted in his seat as he clicked his seat belt on, leaning against the leather cushioning as he stared at you. He turned the car on with a quick motion of his wrist, resting his hand against the bottom of the steering wheel. “Put your seatbelt on.” He said curtly, looking out the window until he heard the soft click of the belt.
“…Leon?”
“Yes?”
“Are you embarrassed because of my question?” You leaned forward, hands on the center console as you pushed through his personal space bubble like always. He looked over at you, peeking towards the windows as he started the car.
“No.”
“But you didn’t answer my question.”
“Your question doesn’t need to be answered.”
“But not giving me an answer makes it seem like you do think of me.”
“Yeah, I see you in my nightmares.”
-day thirty nine-
The building was quiet for once, the kind of late‑evening lull where most agents had already gone home and city around had gone quiet out of respect for long days. You were exhausted, body heavy, eyes droopy, mind all foggy from a day of investigations and identifying viral mutations. The sights were burned into your head, staring at vials under a UV and spending hours trying to identify which one is which, what they look like when they take a host, which one is more deadly. And don’t even get started on the amount of filing you’d done.
Who knew the DSO required so much work?
The clock on a nearby wall ticked towards midnight, dim lights peered out from closed doors of other agents who were trying to wrap up their last bit for the day. You hadn’t seen Leon since that abandoned building earlier today, and honestly, you were starting to miss his brooding self, even if it had barely been only thirteen hours since you last saw him.
You’re holding a cup of lukewarm coffee that you’ve neglected to drink because you were too busy running around reviewing case files you didn’t fully understand. You’re sitting on the floor of an empty hallway, back against the wall and a small handful of paperwork spread out awkwardly against your lap. You reread the same sentence you’ve been stuck on for five minutes, trying to get your mind out of its temporary brain freeze.
Footsteps echoed from down the hall, you quickly pull your legs into a lopsided pretzel, blinking up at the pair of legs with a tight polite smile. You’re fully expecting to see some random person giving you a concerned look at the disheveled sight of you. Leon appears from the corner, jacket off, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, hair slightly mussed from running his hands through it too many times.
He stops when he notices that it’s you on the floor and not another stressed out newbie. “You’re still here?” He asked, voice low and hushed. For the first time since he’s met you, and probably for the first time today, you don’t speak.
Or complain.
Or correct him, or make fun of him for stating the obvious.
You were just quiet, brain running on 20%, body slumped over in fatigue and face completely calm in similar ways it would be when you’d just woken up from a peaceful sleep. He lingers in front of you, watching as you gave him a slow nod before crouching down in front of you. “What are you working on?”
“This...” You trailed off as you tried to find the right words, but eventually gave up and opted on giving him the report so he could read through it instead. Your eyes shift from his own, watching them flick left and right as he read, before dipping down to where his arms hovered over your knees.
“How long have you been at it?”
“Uhm…what time is it now?”
Leon watched you for a moment, arms crossed loosely. It was strange seeing you like this— not poking at him, not trying to get a rise out of him. Just… relaxed.
He gently grabbed the rest of the papers from your lap, standing up slowly. “C’mon, you’re done for the night.” He extended his hand out to you, to which you quickly obliged, reaching out to allow your hand to be blanketed in his.
He pulled you up with ease, his hand steady around yours as he tugged you towards him. You stumbled forward slightly, legs half asleep from the position you were in, standing closer to him than you meant to be. You quickly straightened up, smoothing the wrinkles on your pants as you took a small step back.
“Grab your stuff,” he looked down the hall as you quickly bent down to grab the coffee cup from the floor, his eyes flicking momentarily at the curve of your ass. “I’ll take you home.“
You turned to him with eyebrows raised. “No, that’s okay, you don’t have to—”
“I know,” he cut in gently. “I’m still doing it.”
There was no room to argue, not with the way he quickly turned to walk down the empty hall. You rushed after him, the building humming quietly around you as he glanced over to the side to ensure you were nearby.
“You shouldn’t be here this late.”
“You were here this late.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
He didn’t answer, just pressed the elevator button and waited, arms crossed against his chest. The elevator doors slid open, and he gestured you inside with a small tilt of his head before following after you. The doors closed with an eery shut, sealing the two of you in a quiet metal box lit by soft fluorescent light.
You leaned against the wall, watching the levels tick down. “What were you doing?”
“Work.”
You looked over at him, glancing in his hands for the paper or files he would’ve been working on but you only found the ones he took from you. “Where’s your files?”
“Submitted.”
“Oh.”
He looked over at you, giving you a slow hum. “I’ll keep these in my car until tomorrow.” He just stood there beside you, keeping the files tucked under his armpit.
“Thanks.”
By the time you reached the garage, the air was cold enough to make you shiver, night air biting aggressively at your face. Leon unlocked the car with a soft beep, stepping around the vehicle to open the passenger door for you. You slid into the passenger seat, sinking into the warmth of the interior. Leon got in a moment later, shutting the door with a soft thud that echoed in the quiet garage.
He started the engine, the dashboard lighting up in soft blues. The radio stayed off. You provided him your address, but for a while, neither of you spoke.
You watched the way his hands rested on the wheel, the way his eyes darted around the roads as he drove. The ride was surprisingly relaxing, the perfect amount of comfortable silence needed for such a late night.
When he finally pulled up in front of your building, he shifted the car into park but didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look at you, just sat there, hands resting against the wheel, eyes forward. You unbuckled slowly, glimpsing up at him before swinging the door open. “Thank you, Leon.” At the sound of his name, he glanced your way, giving you a slight nod.
The cold air hit you the moment you opened the door, but the warmth from the car clung to your skin. You stepped out, closing the door gently behind you. You walked toward your building, your footsteps soft on the pavement. Halfway up the stairs, you turned back towards the unmoving car.
Leon was still there, still watching. Sitting in the quiet glow of the dashboard lights, eyes following you until you reached the door. He didn’t even look away when you turned back. You turned towards the front door with a shaky sigh, swallowing the lump in your throat as you unlocked it.
Stepping inside, you quickly peeked out the nearest window at the sound of the low rumble of his car pulling away. You smiled to yourself, biting your bottom lip before rushing up to your bedroom.
The peace was nice while it lasted.
-day forty, 1 am-
Leon could feel the weight of your body on top of him, the tight suction of your cunt around his cock had his head tipping back, guiding your hips against his own. Each breathy little gasps and moans filled his ears, cock twitching inside you.
Heavy eyes were stuck to your every move, watching as you bounced up on his length, trailing down to the jiggle of your tits. The slick sounds of your pussy rang in his ears, breathing heavy as he stared up at your face, soaking in every inhale you took. Leon gripped your hips tighter, one hand sliding down to grope at your ass lifting up and connecting down against the flesh in a firm smack.
Lost in the feeling of you, he was only dimly aware of a distant ringing sound until the shrill trill of his cell phone shrilled loudly, slicing through the haze of lust. Leon's eyes flew open, his body rigid as he jolted awake. The first thing he saw was the empty expanse of his bedroom, the rumpled sheets tangled loosely around his bare legs. The second was the unmistakable heat and dampness between his own thighs, sticky and cool in the wake of his precum his cock throbbed against his sweats.
With a low, frustrated groan, he slowly sat up against his headboard, staring off into space as his phone continued to ring. He didn’t even want to give his dream a second thought, but the painful heat in his gut made it incredibly hard to.
Leon cursed under his breath. “No fucking way.” He hesitated, glancing over at his phone as he reached out for it. He let the phone ring until the call naturally ended, watching the notification of a missed phone call from Claire. His cock throbbed angrily at its neglect, one hand fisting tightly around the blanket.
Leon laid back on his bed, the faint moonlight filtering in through the half-open blinds. His mind drifted to the thought of you, just for long enough that he could physically feel the leak of precum coating his underwear. He dragged a hand along his face, trying to wipe the thoughts away.
It didn’t really make sense. You were annoying. A sassy fucking brat who spoke back on every little thing he said, constantly pushed his buttons. But the longer he thought about it, the more he pictured you, like a flashing red light of warning that only made the straining erection in his pants worse.
As if summoned by his thoughts, Leon's hand drifted down to palm his growing erection straining against his sweatpants. He groaned breathlessly, eyebrows furrowed slightly. Shielding his eyes with one muscular forearm, Leon slipped his hand into his sweatpants and wrapped it around his cock. A shudder of warmth rippled through his body at the contact, his breath catching in his throat as he began to stroke himself with slow deliberate pumps.
He tried to block out the memory of you from his mind, but almost like it was on cue, a flash of you bending over popped up. His thumb pressed against the weeping head, dragging along the slit before sliding down to squeeze at the base. “Oh ffuckk.” He breathed shakily, and for a moment he could feel the warmth of you around him, could nearly hear the soft, breathless whines that left your mouth.
With a low exhale, he removed his arm from his face, dragging his pants down until the weight of him slapped up against his stomach. He moved his other hand, wrapping his fingers back around the girth base, the pinkish head flushed and leaking. His calloused palm glided up the thick length, circling around the swollen crown before sinking back down.
His climax approached swiftly, muscles tensing and stomach clenching as his hand worked over his cock. He breathed out laboredly, head pressing against the pillow under him as he mumbled out your name. At the last possible second, his hips jerked up into the tight fist of his hand, cock twitching and pulsing as thick ropes of semen erupted from the tip. Jet after jet of his cum splattered against his hand and stomach, painting himself with his own release.
For a long moment, Leon could only lie there gasping for breath, his heart pounding against his ribs as the lingering echoes of his climax slowly faded. The night was dark, the only sound the distant wail of a siren echoing through the quiet city streets outside. He sighed heavily, eyes fluttering closed as his cock slowly softened.
“I’m so screwed.”
-present time-
The rain had softened to a steady hiss against the car, the two of you both actively avoiding each other despite being within three feet of one another. Leon kept his hands on the wheel, jaw set as he was trying very, very hard not to think about how irritated he was.
You hadn’t spoken since the argument.
He hadn’t either.
Then you shifted in your seat, clearing your throat as you looked at him. “Are you mad?”
Leon’s eyelid twitched. Just barely. “I’m not mad.”
“You look mad.”
“I’m not.”
“You sound mad.”
“I’m not.”
You stared at his side profile, leaning forward to try to force him to look at you but his gaze remained steady on the road. “Did I embarrass you back there?”
“Rookie.”
“What?”
“Just say what you need to say.”
You perked up slightly, leaning back against the seats. “So, earlier, when you said I was being reckless—”
“You were.”
“—I wasn’t.”
Leon’s head turned so slowly it was almost mechanical. “You ran into a room without checking your corners.”
“But you were beside me, couldn’t you do it too?”
He stared at you. Actually stared. Like he was trying to decide if you were joking. He pressed his tongue along the inside of his cheek, turning back to stare at the road.
“Leon.”
He ignored you.
“Leon?”
Still silent.
“Are you seriously giving me the silent treatment? Aren’t you a little ol—”
“Rookie.”
“Yeah?”
“Stop. Talking.”
You raised an eyebrow at him, scoffing to yourself before looking out the window. The car fell silent again. Leon’s grip on the steering wheel had gone from tense to white‑knuckled, his jaw locked so tight it looked painful. You could practically feel the irritation radiating off him. You shifted again, just enough to make the leather seat creak.
“So,” you said, keeping your eyes on the scenery around you, “you’re definitely still mad.”
That was it.
Leon’s hand shot out, turning the car sharply towards the side of the road. Tires hissed against the wet pavement, his hand quickly turning the engine off which idled and hissed to sleep. He didn’t speak for a moment. He just sat there, deep breathing like he was trying to keep himself calm.
Then he turned to you.
Slowly.
“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low and tight, “I am trying, really trying, to keep my composure. But you are making it extremely difficult.”
You blinked once, pointing to yourself. “Me?”
“Yes. You.” He ran a hand through his hair, unbuckling his seatbelt to physically turn and face you. “You don’t listen,” he started listing things out on one hand, fingers extending at every annoying thing you’ve done for the past two months. “You argue with everything I say. You run into danger like you’re invincible. And then you sit here and poke at me like it’s a game.”
You opened your mouth, but he held up a hand.
“No. No. This is where you stay quiet and listen.”
Your mouth zipped shut. You swallowed, suddenly very aware of how seriously angry he was.
“You do realize, I’m responsible for you,” he asked, waiting for you to silently nod your head to make sure you were actually listening. “I cannot do my job if you won’t let me.”
The car went silent again, but it wasn’t the same silence as before. It was this heavy, tense kind of tension. You stared at him, blinking slowly as you shifted in your seat trying to relearn how to breathe.
Despite the harshness of his words, you couldn't ignore the way your body reacted to his stern lecture. A thrill raced through you, settling low in your belly as you met his heated gaze. The furious set of his jaw, the intensity burning in his eyes—it sent a secret, shameful pulse of arousal through you. You knew it was wrong, but the way he was looking at you, speaking to you with such authority... it was incredibly exciting.
“I’m sorry.” You mumbled softly to which he let out a curt chuckle.
“Oh, you’re ’sorry’?” He tilted his head at you, watching the way you immediately just nodded your head at his echo. He looked at you for a moment longer, taking in the way your face darkened in embarrassment and the slight downturn of your lips into the pout he knew all too well. Realizing he might’ve overreacted, he quickly looked away, arm resting against the center console as he scratched the side of his jaw.
He couldn't shake the lingering ghost of his dream, the feel of you against him still etched into his skin. “Leon?” You spoke hesitantly, gently tapping him by his elbow to check on him. His head turned to look at you again, but the more he looked at you, the more he thought of that fucking dream.
And then he an insistent, throbbing ache deep in his groin. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, shaking his head slightly to try to ignore the pulsing heat building between his legs, but you took it as a silent shut down. You anxiously sat there, oblivious to his internal struggles.
He couldn't focus, couldn't think straight. All he could do was let the silence trudge onward, as he battling the temptation clawing at his insides. He finally looked at you, eyes darkened as he drank in the sight of your chest heaving up and down. With a low, muttered “fuck it.” he surged forward, one calloused hand cupping your jaw as he captured your mouth in an intense kiss.
You gasped, eyes flying wide open as you jerked back in shock. The two of you looked at one another in tense silence, and almost like he realized the severity of his actions he slowly pulled back. Before he could open his mouth to explain himself, you quickly reached out for his upper arm to pull him into another kiss. Your lips parted instinctively to welcome the warmth of his tongue.
Your hands fisted in his hair, arching into his chest as your lips moved eagerly against his. The kiss deepened, growing more urgent, until Leon's hands slid to your waist, ensuring you were unbuckled before yanking you out of your seat. In a single, swift motion, he pulled you onto his lap, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you tight against him.
His other hand searched around for the lever to push his seat back a few inches, before sliding up to rest against your ass. His lips left yours, leaving you huffing for air as his mouth trailed down to your neck, nipping at your pulse point. Your head lolled to the side, warmth running through your body like a furnace.
His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your ass, kneading and squeezing as he pushed your hips forward. You could feel the hard outline of his erection against your thigh, sending a sharp throb straight to your cunt. He pulled away from your neck, hands traveling around your hips before sliding down to wrap around your thighs to force you to sit up. “Do you want me to—to take off—”
“Yeah.” He breathed out heavily, watching you with heavy lidded eyes as you nervously fumbled with the buttons of your pants. His hands lingered over yours to make sure you didn’t need help before sitting back as you wriggled out of them. He could’ve gotten a heart attack at the sight of your lacy, see-through underwear, damp path spreading in the middle.
You quickly undid his zipper, shifting back as he lifted his hips up and tugged his pants down until they pooled awkwardly around his knees. Three fingers dipped under his boxers to free his cock, the crown leaking a tear of precum. His hand disappeared somewhere by the seat, forcing the chair back to give him extra leg room.
You stared down at the sight of his length, not even attempting to blink in case this was the best fucking wet dream ever. “Can I take these off?” You glanced down at his hands as they hovered by your panties, immediately nodding. He carefully slipped the fabric down, down until they were free from your legs, jaw going slack at the sight of your dripping slit. “Holy shit.”
His large hands gripped your ass, fingers sinking into the pliant flesh as he guided your movements, pulling you down to meet his cock. The two of you gasped in unison, back arching at the contact as he slowly rolled your hips against his, watching the way his cock nestled in between your lips. “L-leon.” You whined lightly, his cock immediately throbbing at the sound of your voice, another glob of pre leaking out to rub against you.
Leon’s eyes stuck on your face, eyes dilated and breath labored as he struggled to speak. “I know, I know, just gimme a sec.” He strained out in between a rumbling groan as the head of his cock caught at your entrance. He continued to guide you against him, grinding up against you little by little until the tip of his cock started inching against your hole.
You clenched around the intrusion, sucking a strained gasp from his mouth. His hands tightened around your hips, one heavy palm rubbing against your ass before giving it a quick plap. “Relax a little for me, baby.” He squeezed a handful of ass, one hand moving to wrap around his cock the same way he did the other day, except this time he was nudging his length inch by inch inside you.
You tried to ease up a bit, but it was like your pussy was trying to suck him in one go, walls clenching tight around the head of his cock. “Fuck. Keep gripping like that and I’ll cum before I even get all the way in.” Leon grunted, pulling out just to bring his hand down against your cunt in a warning smack. You flinched at the temporary pain, a surprised moan slipping from your lips as he took the opportunity to slide his cock into your slick heat.
His large hands gripping your hips as he guided you to straddle him, thighs pressing against thighs. Your pussy fluttered around his length, taking a second to get used to the sheer thickness of him. Your slick arousal dripping down onto his thighs, pussy stretched obscenely around him.
“Oh god.” You muttered to yourself, attempting to roll your hips forward only to be met with the nudge of his cock against your g-spot.
“It’s okay, I got you.” He reassured softly, fingers rubbing against your skin as he experimentally jerked his hips up, studying the way your face twisted up into a whiny moan.
You started to move, lifting yourself up until just the swollen head remained nestled inside your entrance. Then, with a roll of your hips, you sank back down, taking every throbbing inch of his hard length deep inside your soaked, clinging heat. His eyes followed your movements, one hand sliding up to wrap around your arm to tug you against his check. You gasped against his shoulder, the sound sending straight to his cock as his hips bucked up subtly.
Your movements started to grow desperate, hips moving up and down to feel the drag of his cock against the spongy, sensitive spot. “Mm fuck fuck,” you grunted breathlessly, head leaning against his shoulder, tilting down to watch as your pussy sucked him.
“Doing s’good, keep going.” He praised, his hand firm around your arm to keep you arched against him. His other hand rested around your hip, lightly ghosting over your movements.
His words spurred you on, and you began to bounce on him in quick hops, your hips rolling down against his. His hand smoothed up along your back, running back down to give your ass another firm slap just to feel the way your pussy clenched around him. The slick sounds of your coupling filled the car, windows fogging and lewd slaps of flesh against flesh forcing the car to creak in time with the movements.
Leon thrust upwards to meet your downward pressure, hips smacking against yours with each bounce. His heavy-lidded gaze remained locked between your face and the fast bounces of your hips, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, watching every flicker of pleasure.
His hand slid up to your bouncing breast in front of his face, cupping the soft swell before squeezing the tender mound, rolling the stiff peak between his fingers. He pinched and tugged on your nipple, forcing out another strained moan as his fingers curled around your throat. His grip tightened slowly, enough pressure to make your pulse pound against his palm, thumb pressed against your jaw as he guided your face towards him.
He pressed a slow kiss on your lips, cupping your jaw in one hand as he breathed heavily at the eager clench of your pussy. “You getting tired?” He asked against your lips, to which you quietly nodded, moaning as he snapped his hips up again. “Gotta get that stamina up, hm?”
“Keep going.” He said shortly, glancing down at the ring of cream leaking down his length. His hips continued their relentless rhythm, the thick head of his cock kissing your cervix with each buck.
He could feel your body trembling, could see the way your eyes fluttered shut as the pleasure became too intense. But he didn't let you slow down, hips snapping up to meet yours every time you’d slow down. You gasped heavily, back arching as a wave of warmth rippled through your spine. You shivered against him, falling limp against his chest with a broken moan as your climax crashed through you.
Your cunt clenched down around his length, soaking his cock with your release as your toes curled and you spasmed over him. Leon watched in rapture, mouth slightly open as he felt the liquid squirting against his legs. But he wasn’t done with you. He forced you to ride out the waves of your orgasm on his cock, your body jerking and shuddering above him as he thrusted his hips up.
Only when your climax subsided did he slow down his thrusts, breathing still ragged as he watched you come to. You rolled your hips slowly, one hand resting on his shoulder as he tilted his head up to stare at you more. You looked in between your legs, pulling your hips up until his cock slipped free, coated in your arousal. “You didn’t— did you come?”
His hands rested on your ass cheeks, giving you a slow grin as he shook his head. “No, but it’s o—”
“Let’s go to the back.” He looked at you in a split second of surprise, watching as you stumbled off his lap and crawled to the cushions of the seats behind him. He turned to watch you, cock jerking in his grip as he rushed up to follow you. He watched as you laid back against the seating, legs spread apart.
Synopsis: You're obsessed with your older boyfriend, you can't help it!
Tags: DILF!Leon (re9 requiem) x Fem!reader, age gap, cheeky reader, attempt at humor, silly nicknames (and little use of daddy), established relationship, masturbation and blowjob (m receiving), swallowing semen, dick worship, Leon slightly whiny and more!
Note: Ugh, I can't stop thinking about him!! I would adore him for the rest of my days, fr😋 this post is based on this, enjoy!
Leon's whole world had turned upside down because of one cute little thing: you.
He didn't know how it had happened, you simply entered his heart and turned his brain to mush. And come on, he was a grown man and wasn't supposed to be playing house with a girl as pretty as you, but damn it, he really adores you.
You're simply dazzling. You like to look beautiful, you're attentive, and you like to play with him, making a older and more experienced man feel flushed as if he were a damn teenager. You're just a cheeky one, saying whatever comes to mind when you see him.
And Leon tried to keep up with you.
"You look so daddy right now." you'd commented once, watching him from the doorway as he got ready for one of your date nights. He turned around, confused, half-buttoning his shirt. "What does that mean?" he asked, looking at himself in the mirror again, confused. But you just laughed and went into the bathroom to continue getting ready.
"Do I look too old?" he whispered to himself, dismissing it before continuing to button his shirt.
In another situation, you'd find yourself staring at his well-defined arms while he fixed a leaky faucet in his kitchen. You'd shamelessly bite your lip and let out giggles that only you understood.
"I really want you to give me a headlock, Lee." you said, in that sweet little voice of yours. And he just stood there, staring at you as if you'd said something in a new language. But he quickly let out a half-laugh, embarrassed. "Oh my goodness, baby." was all he said, but you could see the smile on his face. He enjoyed your attention. He enjoyed every comment you made, feeling desired.
But you just had no mercy for him. Saying things like, "You're fucking hot, babe." while sitting on his lap and kissing his cheeks, or "I wanna suck your dick—" while you were shopping or at some boring dinner, with that exasperating pout as if it were the most normal thing in the world. And Leon would just look away, almost shyly, with that same embarrassed laugh, holding you closer to him.
You were just shameless, like now. You were comfortably between his legs, lazily giving him a handjob, watching his red, sensitive tip drip down your fingers. Occasionally ran your tongue over the sensitive tip to "clean" it.
"Pretty cock, honey." you murmured, smiling as you felt his cock throb in your grip. "It's so big—I love it." you said, looking at him through your lashes with those big eyes. Leon let out little groans, putting his arm over his eyes to hide the heat rising from his neck to his face. He was fucking cute.
"Don't, Don't say things like that." He groan, moving his arm to look at you as if he were trying to scold you, though the way his hard cock twitched between your fingers when you complimented him gave it away completely. He enjoyed being the object of your attention, he loved it.
"Why not? It's the truth." You stated proudly, tightening your grip at the base of his hard cock. You brought your glistening lips to his heavy balls, sucking gently to give them attention as well. And Leon's soul simply sank.
He let out the most dirtiest moan as he threw his head back at the same time his hips lifted. Oh, he was sensitive here.
He could barely keep his eyes open the moment your hand began to masturbate him properly, rotating your wrist appropriately and sucking on his balls. You were completely wetting his flushed cock with your saliva. Fucking wet. The sticky sound of your hand sliding up and down his member filled the room.
"God, baby." He groaned, his voice trembling, and you might laugh if your mouth weren't full right now. "You're fucking amazing..." he whined. Really whining now that your mouth was sucking on the dripping tip of his hard dick. His big, thick thighs tensed at your sides every time your tongue traced that swollen vein along its base.
"I'm not gonna last, fuck, fuck—" He warned, thrusting his hips upward to choke you with his twitching cock, but it was too late because he was already coming hard in your throat. You stayed there, with one of his hands on your head, letting him empty himself completely into your mouth.
His body relaxed on the sheets, sweaty and with a silly grin on his lips. He barely opened his eyes before your mouth was on his, kissing him and tangling your tongue with his, letting him taste the remnants of himself in your mouth.
When you broke the kiss, Leon opened his mouth to say something, but you already had the advantage. "Tastes good, doesn't it?" you asked, your eyelids heavy and a satisfied smile on your swollen lips.
Once again, Leon didn't know what he was going to do with you, he was going to go crazy.
I never get tired of this, I fucking need him ughh my man, my man😩😩
Support is always welcome, and let me know if you liked it, tyyᡣ𐭩
summary: an unavoidable trip to a nature resort has you discovering something new about yourself, all thanks to the handsome owner.
cw: nsfw (18+) - mdni!!, smut, fluff, older!leon, kissing, oral sex, masturbation, dry humping, p in v, spit kink, praise kink, daddy kink, age gap, aftercare
wc: 8.3k
a/n: been going feral over leon since the re9 trailer <3
also on ao3!
You couldn’t remember the last time it had been this cold.
A white puff of air forms from your lips as you stare out at your surroundings. Snow hadn’t fallen yet, but the grass under your feet was wet and slippery, half frozen over. A frown pulls at your lips as you stare out at the cabins, pulling your jacket around yourself tighter. Some of them were lit up, a couple lingering on the porch outside with their arms wrapped around each other.
Your frown deepens, bitterness seeping in and mixing with the chill of the air. This was meant to be your big break, your relaxing trip away from home. Only it wasn’t relaxing to be out in the middle of a forest freezing your ass off with a bunch of strangers for company. Not to mention, you weren’t meant to be here alone. The trip had been planned months ago, back when your boyfriend was kind and caring, and all that other bullshit he had managed to convince you into thinking he was before he had gone and ended up between the thighs of your supposed, and no longer, friend.
A groan escapes you when the memory comes back to mind, and you pat your cheek in an attempt to self-soothe. The booking deposit was non-refundable much to your dismay, and whilst you didn’t exactly want to be here, you’d been too busy wallowing in self-pity to badger an unassuming customer service rep who probably didn’t give a shit about all your woes.
So you’d shoved a few clothes into a duffel bag, along with a few other necessities and made the trip out here, into the freezing – and somewhat beautiful, you could at least admit – wilderness.
Your gaze flits back towards the couple, now entangled in a kiss, the thought of throwing a frozen rock at their heads briefly crossing your mind. Another white puff escapes. You really were pathetic.
You grumble to yourself as you haul your duffel bag to the large, warm-looking wood lodging situated a little way past the cabins, pushing through the doors to find yourself engulfed by heat. It soothes you a little as you poke your head around, examining the large space. There's a cozy fire going, a few tables set out in an open area, a kitchen set off to one side with staff milling around, most probably preparing for the dinner service.
“Hi,” you say tiredly as you trudge up to the receptionist, giving her a wane smile in an attempt to at least appear polite. “I’m here to check in.”
“Sure,” she chirps happily, clicking across the keyboard rapidly, “could I please get your name?”
You tell her, watching with slight bewilderment as her fingers fly over the keyboard again. She glances up at you, her head tilting to look behind you, her brows furrowed.
“I know it’s been booked for two people,” you interrupt. “But he won’t be making it today.” You glance towards a window, taking in the foggy darkness that was beginning to settle in. “Snowstorm,” you explain breezily, forcing a brighter smile onto your face, unsure of why you were trying to explain yourself. “He’s uh– stuck in a snowstorm.”
“Oh, that’s too–”
She’s interrupted by the sound of heavy footfalls, and you glance behind you to find a man trudging his way through the doors, an axe in hand. Serial killer, your tired, wretched mind conjures dramatically as you stand there, rooted to the spot.
“Leon!” the receptionist greets cheerily, smiling at the man as he rounds the reception desk.
He murmurs something you can’t quite catch, and you find yourself leaning forward, curiosity sparking through your veins as you let your gaze trail over his brown hair and broad shoulders.
When he turns to face you, you feel your breath catch. He’s older than you – you figure by the few streaks of graying hair – but he’s… handsome. His hair is a little long, hanging over an eye and you swallow when you spy the stubble covering his jaw. You would keep staring if you could, but he clears his throat and you snap out of your trance, thrusting your hand forward awkwardly.
Leon glances down at your hand, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement before he takes your trembling hand in his.
Warm, you think dazedly as you introduce yourself, feeling his calloused skin against yours.
Warm, warm, warm–
You manage to let go before you latch on, watching with barely disguised curiosity as he disappears back out the doors.
“That’s Leon,” the receptionist explains as she hands the keys to your cabin. “He owns the place.”
“The entire place?” you ask, brows raising incredulously.
The receptionist nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! The forest is huge, a couple of acres, actually. He opened up the cabins after he stopped working for the government!” She winces when she realizes what she’s said, giving you a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have told you that. I’m… technically not meant to know either.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” you reassure her.
She draws a path on a small map to your cabin and you give her a small smile before you leave, following the path.
The cabin is nice. The fireplace is already lit up, spare wood tucked neatly into a corner nearby. You hum to yourself as you unpack, pulling your jacket off once the warmth in the cabin becomes too much. Exhaustion pulls at your weary limbs, guiding you towards the large bed.
You realize it’s meant for two people when you lay down, curling onto your side to find the space next to you empty. You’re unable to stop yourself from wallowing in self-pity and sniffling, the sleeve of your shirt brushing across your cheeks to wipe your tears. You were meant to be over him, meant to have forgotten about the aching memories, but all it had taken was the size of the stupid bed to send you spiralling.
Wallowing a little more, you eventually drag yourself out of bed for dinner. To your disappointment, the man from earlier – Leon, is missing. You wouldn’t have minded staring at him a little more to ease your sadness, to let your gaze travel over him and figure out what secrets he was hiding.
When the night grows colder, you return to your cabin, shedding your worn clothes. A hot bath later, you burrow under the heap of blankets you’d been wise enough to bring with you, sprawling over the entirety of the bed.
It’s warm and cozy, and in the haze of sleep, you think of Leon’s hand.
–
The next morning – against better judgement – you decide to explore the forest.
Drowning in self-pity wasn’t exactly how you wanted to spend your days here, and you’d figured that the fresh air would do you some good. Your nose scrunches as you walk along the marked trail on the map, fingers tugging at your scarf to ward off the cold.
It was still misty when you had set out, the unforgiving chill biting at your skin. Your eyes squint as you stare down at the map, not quite sure which turn you had taken on the trail. Blinking confusedly, you play with the map, glancing around at the surrounding forest, the cabins and main lodging nowhere in sight.
You spin on your feet, sweat beginning to bead across your forehead. Fingers trembling, you glance up towards the sky only to see that it’s covered by the dense forest canopy.
“Fuck,” you breathe out, feeling your stomach churn. “Fuck, fuck, fuck–” you frantically yank your scarf from around your neck when your body blisters with heat.
You were lost.
And it was all his fault.
“I hope you’re happy!” you snap at the sky. “While you’re too busy fucking her, I’m lost in a fucking forest!” Another irritated shriek escapes. “I hate you! Fuck you, you cheating, vile excuse for a–”
Something crunches in the distance.
You stiffen, clamping your mouth shut. You’d seen one too many true crime documentaries to meet an untimely end in a forest in the middle of nowhere. The leaves crunch against the forest floor once more and you stumble backwards, bumping into something firm.
Head tilting back, all you need is a glimpse of shaggy hair for a scream to tear its way out of your throat. The man behind you sighs heavily, as though you’ve managed to inconvenience him somehow, his arm wrapping around your waist to hold you still as you thrash wildly like a fish out of water.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low, “stop screaming.”
“Fat fucking chance,” you screech, trying to claw at his arms. “I’m not fucking dying today, you creep!” Your voice is so shrill that it hurts your own ears. “Help! Let go of me, you fucking– Help!”
He grunts irritatedly, clamping his gloved hand over your mouth. Your eyes widen in panic, a muffled squeak escaping you when he turns you around to face him. Your cheeks flush hot with embarrassment when you see who it is.
Leon.
“You gonna stop screaming?” he asks, his grip on you loosening.
You nod rapidly, sucking in a sharp breath of crisp air when he removes his hand. Leon stares down at you, his brows raising and you clear your throat awkwardly, giving him an equally awkward smile.
“Just– um– just testing out the ol’ vocal cords.” You rub your throat.
“Right,” Leon says skeptically, his gaze flitting over you with mild interest. “The uh– not so dulcet tones of you being lost, is that right?”
You blink up at him, eyes narrowing when you spy a smile playing on his lips. “I have a nice voice!” you protest, stumbling after him when he starts walking back through the forest.
“Sure, sweetheart,” he rumbles, “you nearly took out my hearing with all that screeching.”
“That’s because I thought you were a serial killer,” you chirp, glancing around when he stops in a clearing, several wooden logs stacked into an orderly pile.
Leon glances at you, his brows raising. “Serial killer?” he echoes, reaching down to grasp the axe you had seen him with the day earlier.
“Case in point,” you say pointedly, gesturing towards him. “You have an axe and you own a huge forest, Leon. That’s like, textbook serial killer.”
You flinch when he brings his axe down, stepping back when stray pieces of wood fling about. Leon doesn’t say anything more, instead moving the wood unceremoniously. You decide not to interrupt, squirming on your feet as you watch him, strangely enamoured by the swing of his arms, the flex of his shoulders.
It’s hot, you decide, to watch Leon chop wood. There’s hair falling over his eyes messily, but he doesn’t push it away, instead bringing down the axe over and over again methodically. You bite back an indecent noise when he sheds his heavy jacket, the map in your hand crinkling as you ogle the outline of his broad shoulders and thick biceps through the fabric of his black shirt.
Leon grunts sporadically and you force yourself to look away towards the dark trees, squirming a little more when you feel how sticky your panties are.
“Remind me why you’re out here again?” Leon asks, drawing your attention back towards him as the axe comes down against the log, the wood splintering.
“Character building,” you reply vaguely, shrugging.
Leon lets out a low laugh – the kind that warms you – propping his axe up to run his hand through his hair. You swallow at the action, refusing to let your eyes drop anywhere lower than his stupidly handsome face.
“There are better places to do that,” he muses, his head tilting.
“Sure,” you shrug, kicking at a rock, “but maybe I like the great outdoors.”
Leon hums, stepping closer. “In the middle of winter?” he drawls, a smile pulling at his lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling. The sight is boyish enough to have your heart kicking up in a wild flutter.
“Especially in the middle of winter,” you shoot back, faltering under his line of questioning.
He smiles knowingly and you frown, distracted by the motion of him removing his gloves. You think you can see a few scars littered over his skin, your eyes finding his when you catch him staring down at you intently.
You decide to hold your tongue, lips pursing instead as you rock on your feet awkwardly.
“You’re nervous.”
“For good reason,” you scoff, “you might chop me up to bits with that axe of yours.”
“If I wanted to kill you, you would’ve already been dead, sweetheart,” Leon replies drily, his fingers flexing.
“Well, you–”
He interrupts you with a hush, Leon’s arm curling around your waist to pull you into him. You open your mouth to protest, but his hand is sliding over your mouth once more, his gaze directed towards the forest.
“Shhh,” he soothes, nodding towards a flash of gray. “Look.”
You have half a mind to ask him whether he’s insane, but the gray thing seems to grow larger until it finally appears through the thick foliage. Your breath catches when you see that it’s a wolf, its ears pricked up as it turns to look at you.
Leon hushes you once more when you whimper, his grip on you tightening. You can feel the warmth of his body seeping in through all the layers you’re wearing, lashes fluttering when his chin rests on your shoulder lightly. It’s difficult to keep your eyes on the wolf when all you can think about how nicely he fits against you, how nice it would to feel his weight against yours, his hips settling between your thighs–
You dispel the thoughts as quickly as they come, stumbling against him when the wolf pads closer, its head tilting in curiosity. The overwhelming and entirely stupid urge to reach out flares up inside of you, to coax it closer and let your fingers run through its soft fur.
“Pretty, isn’t she?” Leon murmurs, his hand stroking over your hip soothingly.
You manage a slow nod, sulkily wishing that he was talking about instead. Leon holds you against him for a few moments longer while the wolf examines its surroundings before it’s gone, padding back into the trees leisurely.
“You okay?” he breathes out, turning you to face him, his hands still on your hips.
“I– yes,” you sputter out, peering up at him. “You have wolves?”
Leon runs his hand through his hair. “They usually don’t get so close. You must’ve startled her earlier.”
“What?” you hiss, throwing your hands up. “It– it could’ve eaten me!”
“I highly doubt that,” he laughs softly, letting go of you to pull his jacket back on, his fingers wrapping around the handle of the axe. “Well… unless you taste good.”
You stare at him blankly, following the line of his broad shoulders when he starts to walk away. Not wanting to get lost for the second time today, you follow after him closely.
“Do you?” he asks, offering you his hand to help you climb over a large log.
“Do I what?”
“Taste good?”
Your breath catches in your throat, fingers tightening around his hand. His words leave your brain scrambled, so much so that you lose your footing, yelping as you lurch towards him. Leon grunts as you fall onto him, trying to grab ahold of you. It only causes you to flail more, both of you crashing down onto the fallen leaves covering the forest floor.
You blink down at him dazedly when you realize you’ve landed on top of him, fingers sliding over the back of his head when he groans.
“Sorry,” you wince, shifting in his lap as he sits up, your fingers rubbing at his scalp gently.
“It’s okay,” Leon rasps, his eyes squeezing shut in pain. “I shouldn’t have said that to you. I thought you uh–” he trails off, letting out a soft laugh, his cheeks turning a light shade of pink. “I thought you might be into me,” Leon finishes, his eyes fluttering open to peer up at you, “guess I just read into it too much.”
“Oh,” you say, sounding shrill. “Oh! No– I mean–” you stumble over your words, feeling hot with embarrassment. “You didn’t read it into it,” you say finally when you get your brain back in working order.
Leon stares up at you, his brows raising. “I didn’t?”
“No,” you murmur, feeling shy under his intent gaze. “I– I am into you. It’s just… I’ve never been with someone that’s older.”
He nods, his fingers tracing over the curve of your cheek gently. You tremble when he leans in closer, his lips pressing against your cheek gently.
“That’s fair,” he whispers, “it’s a first for me too, being with someone younger.”
You give him a small smile, hands slipping up over his firm chest, arms wrapping around his neck. Leon leans closer, his fingers sliding over your jaw to gently grip your chin. You swallow nervously, gaze flitting from his eyes to his lips.
“You should probably know,” you whisper, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “My boyfriend cheated on me. It’s why I’m out here in the first place.”
“Not for character building?”
You laugh, shaking your head.
“Too bad,” Leon murmurs, cupping your cheek. “I was looking forward to your transformation.”
“Really?” you whisper when he draws you closer, breath hitching when his nose nudges against yours playfully.
“No,” he muses, kissing the corner of your mouth.
Your lips part, a retort sitting on the tip of your tongue, but Leon is surging forward, slotting his lips over yours. A soft gasp escapes you, eyes fluttering shut in surprise before your fingers tighten, drawing Leon closer.
He groans, the sound rumbling against your lips, his hands smoothing over your waist and along the length of your back. You’ve never been kissed in the way Leon does. It’s soft, insistent and wanting, his lips working against yours feverishly as though the next moment might be the last.
The scratch of his stubble against your chin and cheeks has you shivering and mewling, fingers slipping into his hair to tug at the soft strands. Leon jostles you in his lap, shifting you closer until he’s able to kiss you more firmly, his hand cupping your jaw to hold you in place.
You’re dazedly concerned about the fact that you’re making out with Leon with wolves around, but your concerns are soon forgotten as he licks into your mouth, tongue stroking against yours. Whining, you squirm closer, twitching in his lap when he sucks on your tongue lazily. Leon lets out a low, rasping laugh when he hears you, and you whine louder, toes curling in your socks as you pull at his hair harder, desperately wanting more.
He grins up at you when you pull away, eyes lit up with mirth. You let out a petulant huff, pulling his hand towards you again, making him cup your cheek. Nuzzling into the warmth of his calloused palm, you sigh, peering over at him.
“Did–” you sound embarrassingly breathless, “did you want to do more?”
Leon raises his brows, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he pulls you into another soft, slow kiss.
“Yeah,” he whispers, “is that okay?”
You nod, trying not to look too eager, but Leon must see the glint in your eyes because he’s standing up, pulling you to your feet. He says something about his cabin not being too far away, but you’re too busy lacing your fingers together, heart fluttering happily when you see how easily your hand fits against his.
Leon’s cabin is tucked away, past a line of heavily shrouded trees. The main lodging is visible when you step up onto the porch, leaning against the wooden railing as you rock up onto your toes to observe the sprawling expanse of land.
There’s a warmth pressing against your back from behind, arms wrapping around your waist to pull you closer. You sigh, head tilting as you bare your neck to Leon, your fingers tracing over his knuckles when he kisses your neck.
It’s hard to keep your eyes open when he pants into your ear softly, his stubble brushing against your skin as he drags his lips over the length of your neck.
“You like it?” he asks quietly, his chin settling on your shoulder as he looks out at the sweeping trees and dark, misty sky.
“It’s nice,” you murmur, reaching back to play with his hair, “a little dark, but… nice.”
“You flatter me,” Leon says drily, his teeth scraping over your neck in retaliation.
You gasp, fingers tightening around his forearms before he’s pulling you inside his cabin, letting you kick off your boots. He grunts when you push him against the closed door, going willingly when you yank him down using his jacket, moaning into your mouth as you kiss him eagerly.
He’s grabbing at every part of you he can, smiling against your lips when you whine as he grabs your ass, squeezing gently. You paw at his chest, arms slipping around his neck as he hefts you up into his arms, pressing you against a nearby wall as he kisses you.
“I– I wanna–” you whisper, squirming in his arms in an attempt to get him to put you down.
“Wanna do what, baby?” Leon murmurs, pressing closer, capturing your lips in another deep kiss, his hands squeezing at your thighs greedily.
Baby. You nearly swoon right then and there in his arms, the deep, rasping timbre of his voice almost enough to send you over the edge. You squirm a little more, returning his kisses with equal fervor until you manage to pull away with a whimper.
You blink up at him, swallowing harshly. “I wanna suck your cock,” you demand stubbornly.
“I–” Leon trails off, looking a little dazed. “I uh– wasn’t expecting that.”
But his grip on you falters all the same, his mouth opening and closing as he watches you settle onto your feet before you sink down onto your knees.
“Baby,” he tries again, his hand reaching out hesitantly, settling on the top of your head gently. “Are you sure? You don’t have to–”
“Leon,” you say, shifting on your knees to get a little more comfortable on the rug underneath you, “I want to.”
“Okay,” he breathes out, noddily jerkily. “Okay, sweetheart. It’s– fuck, it’s been a while so–”
You smile up at him, biting your lip. “I’ll be gentle, old man.”
“Don’t be a smartass,” Leon rolls his eyes, his fingers running through your hair before they splay out over your scalp.
Your eyes slip shut at the motion, leaning up into it as he strokes your hair lazily. It’s gentle, sweet, and you hazily realize that no one’s ever treated you like this – like you’re soft, like you matter.
Leon’s belt buckle clinks, and you lean forward unconsciously, eyes fluttering open lazily to watch him pull his trousers down. The outline of his half-hard cock sits prettily on his dark boxers, Leon’s hand drifting over it to squeeze gently before his hand settles back into your hair again.
You hum when Leon gasps, nuzzling into his clothed cock contentedly, rubbing your cheek along the thick length. It’s big, you can tell that much just from the outline, drool pooling on your tongue.
“Shit,” he breathes out, his hips bucking when you mouth at his boxers, sucking lazily through the fabric. “Baby, fuck–”
“Can I take it out?” you ask sweetly, your own hand slipping past the waistband of your pants and into your panties to stroke at your sticky folds. You’ve never felt so empty, the ache between your thighs making you rock your hips needily as you mouth at his hardening cock.
“Yeah,” Leon rasps, his darkened eyes watching you, “yeah, sweetheart, go ‘head. Take my cock out.”
You tug his boxers down, throat drying when you see his cock. It’s pretty, flushed dark at the tip, several veins running along the length. You bite back a moan when you see the pre-cum beading at the tip, tongue lolling just in time to catch a glob that falls. Leon mutters a low curse, his hand pressing against the back of your head.
“‘s pretty…,” you whisper, your hand wrapping around his cock, delighted by its thickness and heat, eyes dropping to take in his heavy balls. “‘s really pretty, Leon.”
“Hah– Thank– Thank you, baby.”
His politeness has heat flaring in your stomach, lips pressing against the head of his cock in a fleeting kiss. Leon groans as you kiss along the length of his cock, his fingers flexing against the wall, curling into a fist before long. You take him into your mouth, unable to hold off for much longer, moaning when you feel the weight of his cock on your tongue.
He tastes intoxicating, the silky skin of his cock sliding over your tongue as you wrap your lips around him daintily, letting your lashes flutter up at him.
“Fuck,” Leon says, his brows furrowing in need when you swirl your tongue around his cock, beginning to slurp. “Sweetheart, fuck– look so pretty down there taking my fat cock.”
You preen, batting your lashes up at him a little more, your fingers curling around his thighs greedily, nails digging into his skin. Leon’s hips rock forward when you suck, a hoarse moan escaping him as he watches you hollow your cheeks with wanton intent, his hand slamming against the wall when you begin to bob your head.
“Takin’ me so fuckin’ good,” he snarls, his head tipping forward, eyes squeezing shut.
You watch through the misty haze of lust, your fingers working against your aching clit, rubbing at the swollen bud rapidly as slick pools into your panties. The fabric is probably ruined by now, with how wet you are, a muffled mewl escaping you as you use your other hand to play with his balls. You massage them gently, squeezing and letting your thumb brush over his skin, gagging when Leon’s hips buck too far forward, burying his cock down your throat.
“Shit!” Leon gasps when he hears you, pulling back, pushing his hair out his eyes. “Baby, I’m sorry, you okay?”
“Yeah,” you mumble, cheeks flushed and eyes drooping. You lick your lips. “I– I can take it, Leon,” you say petulantly, leaning forward to nuzzle into his warm thigh, biting into him needily.
He huffs out a hoarse laugh, his fingers cupping your jaw to tilt your head before he’s lowering his head, kissing you sweetly. You whine, hugging his leg tighter with an arm while your fingers slip into your needy cunt, hips rising and falling as you fuck yourself on your hand.
“So pretty,” he whispers, his nose nudging against yours as he wraps his hand around his cock, stroking the length as he watches you writhe on the rug, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. “Can I try something, sweetheart?”
You nod, desperate for attention, for his touch. Leon’s thumb is sliding over your tongue, pressing down as you open your mouth wider, eager for his fat cock back in your mouth. But he doesn’t give you his cock. Instead, Leon’s lips purse, a soft noise leaving him as he spits down into your mouth.
It’s filthy, so terribly obscene and yet it makes your cunt throb harder, thighs squeezing together as violent need unravels through the crevices of your brain until you’re moaning and swallowing, tongue sticking out for more.
“Please,” you gasp, holding your mouth open, staring up into his eyes. “Please, Leon.”
“You’re driving me crazy,” he mutters, shaking his head as he watches you bounce on your knees, his thumb pressing down on the soft wetness of your tongue, hissing when your lips latch on unforgivingly, slurping at the digit. “Didn’t think you’d get me this fucking insane.”
You whine louder, a sliver of brattiness breaking through as you let go of his thumb in favor of lurching towards his thick cock again. You manage to get your lips around it, squirming closer until it’s half-way into your mouth, feeling the tip of it nudge against the back of your throat. You’d never taken it so deep, but you’re feeling stubborn and the uncharacteristic need to please has infiltrated your mind, setting your nerves alight.
“Sweetheart,” Leon grunts, muttering out a low curse when he watches you shift, settling on his boot. “Needy fuckin’ girl, huh? Okay, I’ll give you what you want, greedy little thing.”
His hand finds the back of your head, pressing gently as he urges you forward. You moan around him, hips rocking against his boot, holding him closer as it presses up right between your legs, giving you the friction you need, the relief you need.
“Good girl,” he whispers, letting his hips inch forward slowly. “Good fuckin’ girl.”
You whimper, hollowing your cheeks, trying to relax your throat as he strokes your hair. It’s a little uncomfortable, but Leon taps your nose and you mewl, managing to suck in a deep breath before letting you go lax as he pushes in deeper, just enough to feel your throat convulse around him.
Leon moans hoarsely, holding you there for a brief moment before he pulls his cock out of your mouth, brushing his thumb over your messy, spit-covered lips.
You blink up at him tearily, reaching for him when he leans down to kiss you, panting into his mouth.
“Leon,” you whimper, tears threatening to fall over your lash line at how good it feels to be here with him.
“I know, baby,” he croons, dipping his head to kiss your tears, trailing his lips over your cheeks. “You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart.” He kisses you once more, slow and gentle, letting his nose nudge against yours. “You wanna cum? Hm? Go ‘head and rub that needy little pussy all over my boot, baby, go on.”
You nod rapidly, kissing him eagerly as he cups your jaw, letting your hips roll once more, your fingers worming back into your panties to press against your swollen clit, circling the aching bud desperately. The coil in your stomach grows tighter with every kiss Leon gives you, every brush of his lips against your skin.
Through your hazy gaze, you can see him stroking his cock, pre-cum wetting his hands, the slick sounds emanating through the quiet, dark cabin. It’s a little difficult to get your fingers inside of you with how you’re settled on his boot, so you stick to rubbing your clit, grinding against his boot.
“Gonna cum,” you whisper dazedly, rocking harder, eyes rolling back when Leon’s hand slides over your throat, gently squeezing before he’s tipping your chin up so you can watch him fist his cock.
“Yeah?” Leon rasps, “just from grinding on my boot? You’re so dirty, baby.”
“‘m– ‘m not!” you protest, arching into him. “‘m not dirty!”
“No?” he coos condescendingly, licking into your mouth feverishly until he’s devouring your needy sounds, letting his tongue tangle with yours momentarily before he’s pulling back and spitting into your mouth. “But you’re gonna cum, sweetheart.”
It’s all too much for you. Leon’s hand on your hair, the low, rasping laugh that leaves him when you nuzzle into his thigh, the soft kiss that lands on your cheek.
You cum with a cry, shaking and shuddering and wanting, squirming towards his cock despite the violent twitches that rack through your body. Leon’s laugh is broken by a guttural groan when you suck his balls into your mouth, slurping and letting your tongue run over the hot skin.
“Fuck,” Leon snarls, his voice trembling as he strokes his cock faster, “fuck, baby– fuck!”
He grunts as he cums, hips jerking forward unevenly when you wrap your lips around the spurting head of his cock to swallow his cum down. You lap at the head, letting his heady cum pool on your tongue before you show him, batting your lashes up at him in a way you hope is pretty.
He sinks his teeth into his fist as he watches you swallow it down, fingers coming down to stroke over your throat gently before he kisses you, pulling you up onto shaky feet. You flush when Leon cups your cheeks, fingers trembling against his chest.
He smiles down at you, letting out a soft, disbelieving laugh. You smile back, unable to help yourself, leaning into him as he lets his head drop forward, resting on your shoulder.
“That was fun,” you say breathlessly, running your fingers through his hair.
“Fun,” Leon echoes, letting out a snort. “Sure, baby. Think you might’ve sucked my soul outta my cock.”
“Shut up!” you laugh, hitting his chest.
“What?” he grins, holding you in place as he peppers kisses all over your face making you laugh and squirm, his stubble scratching across your skin. “Gorgeous,” Leon whispers, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “You’re so gorgeous. My pretty baby.”
Your heart lurches in your chest, beginning to thud so violently you think it might somehow tear its way out of your chest and find its rightful home in Leon’s scarred hands. He kisses the tip of your nose and you shiver, voice soft when you speak.
“Thank you, daddy.”
You pause when you realize what you’ve said, eyes widening in mortification as Leon’s brows shoot up in surprise. Your mouth opens to apologize, to back-track, to say something to explain why the fucking word daddy has slipped out of all things, but your mind is utterly devoid of thoughts.
All you can manage is an incoherent gargle, the noise making you sound choked.
You’re half-expecting him to turn and pull away from you, but all Leon does is just… stare at you.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, “I don’t know where that came from.” You throw your hands up, growing panicked. “I mean, you were just kissing me and stroking my hair and I felt wanted and so fucking safe and I don’t fucking know why I–”
“Hey,” Leon’s voice is soft when he catches your hands, lacing his fingers through yours tightly. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”
“It is?”
“Yeah,” he nods, lifting your hands to brush his lips over your knuckles. “It’s just…,” his brows furrow, “not what I was expecting.”
Your eyes flutter shut when he kisses you, his hands slipping over your sides until he’s pulling you impossibly closer, deepening the kiss. You think there might be some sort of magic laced into the kisses with how they’re easing the tension in your shoulders, the anxiousness in you bleeding out with every press of his lips and stroke of his tongue.
Leon pulls away with a chaste peck, his forehead pressing against yours. His breath is hot as it fans across your face, and you lurch forward to steal another kiss from him. Leon catches you before you can, his thumb pressing against your lips.
“You want daddy to take care of you, baby?”
You blink up at him owlishly. The way he’s speaking to you – soft, low and deep – is rewiring the synapses in your brain, carving out a place just for Leon.
“Yes,” you whisper, head tilting to let Leon kiss your cheek. “Yes– yes, daddy.”
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his hands cupping your thighs as he lifts you up into your arms.
You’re too distracted by his mouth to notice that he’s carrying you to his bed, lashes fluttering as he lays you down. He leans back to shrug his jacket off and you’re doing the same, pulling at all the layers you’re wearing, discarding them hurriedly until you’re moving to tug your socks off.
“Leave ‘em on,” Leon says, pulling his shirt over his head. “They’re cute, baby.”
You’d disagree if you weren’t so distracted by his chest and abdomen. There’s a dusting of hair on his chest and you swallow, letting your gaze travel down over his muscled abdomen spattered with scars. You bite your lip, following the trail of coarse hair that lies below his navel, whimpering when you see his cock hard again.
Leon’s crawling over you, capturing your lips in another deep kiss, his hands brushing over your bare skin.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, staring down at you, “so fucking pretty for me, sweetheart.”
You mewl, fingers sliding through his hair as he mouths at your breasts, back arching when he sucks one into his mouth, his tongue swirling over your areola and flicking at your hardened nipples. If his cabin is cold, you don’t notice, not with the way he’s rubbing against you, the hot heat of his mouth making your eyes roll back as he tugs your nipple with his teeth.
“Daddy,” you whisper, bucking your hips, “daddy, please.”
“Use your words, baby,” Leon murmurs, switching breasts, kissing over the soft skin reverently, his hands squeezing at your thighs. “What do you want from daddy?”
“You!” you gasp desperately, tugging at his hair as he laves over your breast, sucking it into his mouth lazily before he’s letting it slip out of his mouth with a muted pop. “Want– want you to fuck me, daddy.”
“Yeah?” he says, hand sliding between your thighs to cup your pussy, his thumb sliding through your puffy folds to press against your aching clit. “Want daddy deep inside this pretty, little pussy?”
“Yes– ah– yes,” you whine, voice hoarse and broken, hands pawing at his broad shoulders as he slinks lower, head settling between your thighs.
A sharp squeal escapes you when Leon’s mouth latches onto you suddenly, his tongue gliding through your folds, lips sealing around your clit as he sucks it into his mouth. Your legs kick out, hands pushing at his head at the overwhelming sensation, but Leon doesn’t let up, wrapping his arms around your thighs, palms resting on your lower stomach to hold you in place.
You wail, toes curling as you thrash, back arching involuntarily when he fucks his tongue into your aching cunt. The motion has his stubble scraping deliciously along your skin – scratchy and rough.
“Daddy!” you squeal, “‘s too nghh– much!”
“You can take it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice muffled by your pussy as he laps at your cunt, working his tongue into every now and then until you’re shaking and yanking at his hair desperately. “Be good for daddy.”
You whimper, nodding to yourself as you reach for his hand, heart fluttering when he gives it to you, letting you hold his hand tightly. Broken moans and gasps fill the air as he laps at your pussy, over the slick folds, drinking down the taste of you greedily. He groans into your pussy, the sound travelling through your sensitive flesh, making you twitch.
Leon’s tongue swirls over your clit, flicking against the sensitive bud until you’re squealing louder, your feet slipping over his broad back in an attempt for purchase, only to find none.
“Fuck me,” you say dazedly, pulling at his hair, pouting down at him. “I said– hah– I wanted you to fuck me, daddy.”
He huffs out a laugh, peppering your clit with soft kisses until you whine and squirm again.
“You’re being bratty, sweetheart,” Leon muses, letting his hips roll between your thighs, his fat, heavy cock dragging against your slick pussy. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, groaning when you slip your hand between your bodies, guiding his cock against your pussy.
“Sorry, daddy,” you mumble, not sounding very sorry at all as you let your thumb brush over the head of his cock, mewling happily when Leon whimpers, pre-cum dribbling from the tip of his cock and onto your clit, coating the swollen bud.
“I– fuck– I don’t have a condom on me,” he says, kissing your neck.
“You can pull out,” you offer, peering up at him when he reappears, an arm wrapping around his neck as you roll your hips, feeling the head of his cock nudge against your empty cunt. “Just want you inside, daddy. It aches.” You pout a little more.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, pushing your hand aside to grasp his cock, stroking it once before he presses it against your aching hole. “Okay, baby, take my fat fuckin’ cock then.”
Your eyes widen when his cock starts to push forward, scrabbling at his shoulders when you feel the stretch of his cock pressing inside.
“‘s big,” you whisper, staring up at him, gaze flitting about his face. “Daddy, ‘s too big.”
Leon smiles, his cheeks flushed prettily. “Thought you wanted me to fuck this sweet little cunt, sweetheart. Hm? Should daddy pull out and kiss you instead?”
“No!”
The refusal slips out of you quickly and Leon laughs when he sees the flare of panic in your eyes.
“Sorry, baby,” he says, kissing your cheek. “Daddy’s being mean.”
You pout, pulling him down for a bratty, sloppy kiss as Leon lets his cock sink into you deeper, feeding inch after inch into your until your pussy flutters around him, desperately trying to accommodate his size.
Leon lets you adjust for a moment before he’s drawing his hips back and snapping them forward. You gasp, the sharp noise ripped out of your throat as he watches you, brows knitted together as he fucks his cock into you, setting a pace that has you seeing stars already. He brushes your messy hair out of your face, hand settling on your hand as he drops his weight down onto you, pushing your legs up so that they wrap around him, your ankles locking together tightly.
There’s drool leaking from the side of your mouth, Leon’s tongue catching it as he feeds it back to you, spitting into your mouth filthily as you babble incoherently, eyes rolling back.
“Perfect fuckin’ pussy,” Leon growls, his hands squeezing your hips, so hard that you can feel the bruises beginning to bloom. “Good fucking girl, taking daddy’s cock like a fuckin' champ.”
You preen at the praise, managing to draw a gasp out of Leon this time when your pussy clenches around his fat cock, his hips jerking forward when you claw down his back in delirium.
“Daddy– love daddy’s cock,” you slur, feeling his chest press against your breasts, the weight of him so comforting that you coo, legs tightening around him to hold him closer to feel his cock pounding into you with abandon, balls slapping against your ass. “Daddy– ah! daddy, daddy!”
“Daddy’s got you, baby. Doing so fucking good for me,” he snarls, mouth slotting over yours messily, his fingers moving to grip your ass to hike your hips up a little higher.
The new angle has him hitting deeper and you’re squealing, so loud that you think it might be enough to scare off the wolves outside. Leon groans and grunts, shifting his hips until he’s able to hit exactly where you need him, his fat, girthy cock carving its way through your pussy.
You can vaguely hear his bed creaking with every thrust, head tilting as Leon whispers sweet nothings into your ear, his fingers finding your clit. Every brush of his skin against yours has you crying out, the heat of your bodies becoming blistering.
“My perfect girl,” Leon whispers, his fingers splaying over your jaw as he watches your wanton expressions. “My pretty, perfect girl. All for me, hm? Tell me, baby, is this all for me? All for daddy?”
“Y– nghh– yes,” you whisper dazedly, feeling your body rock as he thrusts into you, driving his hips deeper and deeper. “All for you, daddy,” you tremble underneath him, “no one’s– ahh– no one’s ever made me feel this way.”
“Oh sweetheart,” Leon says, his brows furrowing as he watches you pucker up your lips for a kiss. He gives you what you want, letting his lips brush over yours, his hand tangling into your hair. “Tell me what you are then, pretty baby. Tell daddy what you are.”
You blink up at him, lower lip trembling for a moment before Leon kisses you again gently, his nose brushing against yours in silent encouragement.
“‘m daddy’s pretty, perfect girl,” you mumble out shyly, smiling faintly when he kisses your cheek.
“That’s right,” he soothes, brushing his fingers over your clit, beginning to rub faster, in tight, little circles. “Such a good girl for daddy, hm?”
You nod, giggling dazedly when he peppers your cheek with kisses, toes beginning to curl when he grinds his cock into you briefly before he’s fucking you again with long, deep strokes.
He’s moaning into your skin and you whine back, heels digging into his ass when he buries himself to the hilt in your fluttering pussy.
“Gonna cum, sweetheart,” Leon rasps, trying to pull back, his hands settling on your waist as he tries to detach from you. “C’mon baby, you gotta let daddy go.”
“N– no!” you protest, shaking your head at the thought of him wasting his cum when he could cum inside you. “Want it inside, daddy… want your cum inside,” you sound embarrassingly desperate. “Fill me up?” you try, “please?”
“Fuck,” he breathes out, running his hand through his hair as he glances down to where his cock is still buried inside of you.
You blink up at him, arching your back a little, squeezing your breasts before letting your hand drift between your thighs to rub at your clit.
“Please?” you whisper, your other hand reaching to scratch at his abdomen, grazing the coarse, dark hair below his navel. “Fill me up, daddy. ‘m so– so empty.”
“You’re a bad fucking influence,” Leon rumbles, grabbing your chin. “If you want daddy’s cum, you’re gonna have to take every fuckin’ drop.”
You smile at him hazily, lolling your tongue out playfully. Leon’s groaning and rolling his eyes, but he gives you what you want, spitting down into your mouth, letting his tongue glide over yours before he’s moving his hips again.
He seems to be close with the way he’s groaning into your ear, his movements stuttering with each consecutive thrust, fingers digging into your skin tightly. You kiss him sweetly.
“Cum, daddy,” you mewl, peering up into his eyes. “Wanna watch you cum, daddy.”
“Too fuckin’ good to me,” he rasps, his fingers playing with your clit.
Leon’s hips stutter forward one final time, a low whine leaving him as he cums, inching forward to bury his cock into you. You keen when you feel his cock throb, eyes rolling back when his hot, thick cum spills into you, your own thighs twitching as Leon rubs at your clit a little harder.
“Let go, baby,” he manages through rough pants, “cum on daddy’s cock, pretty girl.”
You cry out when he thrusts into you once more, clinging to him as your orgasm hits you, thighs shaking and body twitching as you cum. Leon kisses you lazily through it, his hands stroking over your sides as you ride it out, sagging against the sheets limply.
Leon pulls you into his side after he pulls out and you frown when you feel his cum beginning to leak out of you, pressing your thighs together stubbornly until the heady fog of lust fades and you realize that you’d let Leon cum inside of you.
You watch him when he leaves the bed, silently appreciating his broad back as he stokes the fire before disappearing through a door. He reappears, a warm, damp cloth in hand and clad in a pair of sweatpants and hoodie.
A yawn escapes you as he sits down on the bed, letting him clean you up with a kind of reverence that has your gaze clouding over again. Leon helps you get dressed, forgoing your panties as he helps you into a pair of his boxers, dressing you in his warm clothes, pulling you into his arms soon after.
“You okay?” he murmurs, kissing your cheek. “That was pretty intense.”
“Yeah,” you say, curling into him as he pulls the blankets up over you both. “But it felt good,” you flush a little, burying your face into his chest. “It felt good with you, Leon.”
He laughs, kissing your forehead, rubbing his hands over your back soothingly until you relax against him a little more and come out from where you’ve been hiding.
“Are you okay?” you ask, leaning into his palm when he cups your cheek. “I’m sorry if I was too much–”
“You weren’t,” Leon interrupts, tracing the curve of your cheek. “I told you, you’re perfect, baby. And yeah, I’m okay,” he grins down at you, “think you left a little ache in my joints though.”
You huff out a breath, trying to feign annoyance but he looks so boyish when he grins that you can’t help smiling back. You squirm closer, kissing his cheek before pecking his lips, nuzzling back into his warmth.
“So,” you begin, letting your hands slip under his hoodie to feel his bare skin, “what’s the story with the scars?”
“There’s a few,” he murmurs, nosing into your cheek, “all bad, I’m afraid.”
“Worse than serial killers?”
He snorts, hugging you closer. “Yeah baby, worse than serial killers.”
You bite your lip, eyes softened with affection. You kiss him again, your lips lingering against his like a promise.
“At least you’re here,” you murmur when you see the flicker of apprehension in his eyes. “Alive and warm and um… in the middle of a forest with a pack of wolves?”
Leon lets out a low laugh, his eyes boring into yours intently.
“And with you,” he adds quietly, holding you tighter.
Best Friend’s Dad!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader (one shot)
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, age gap, dilf Leon, older man/younger woman, dirty talk, slight role play, pet names, praise kink, daddy kink, breeding kink, praise, oral (f receiving), grinding, kissing, unprotected sex, creampie
Follower milestone fic is finally here! 🎉 Thank you to everyone for being here and I hope you enjoy 😉 also a big shoutout to the always lovely @ao3-rex1223 who inspired best friend’s dad and lent an ear when I needed it 💜 💜 Not proofread as usual lol
Your friend Sarah pulls open the door, a grimace that forces itself into a smile once she recognizes you.
“Hey, come on in.” She widens the door and lets you step inside the house before closing and locking it behind you. “Hopefully we can sneak past my dad without hearing another shouting match.”
Your brows pinch together as she turns to lead you down the hall to her room. “Everything okay?”
“Kinda.” You watch her shoulders shrug. “My mom is asking for more money since my little brother is staying with her while going to college.”
“Hasn’t he been doing that for a couple of years now?” You cringe, hoping you didn’t overstep.
She laughs half-heartedly. “Yeah, which is why my dad is so pissed off. He was yelling into his phone when I snuck by to answer the door.”
Sarah nods at the open door of her dad’s office. She tiptoes past and you follow her lead. You peek in as you walk by, catching a glimpse of Mr. Kennedy hanging his head into his hands from where he’s propped his elbows up onto his desk. Heart twinging with empathy, you frown to yourself. Not to think rudely of Sarah’s mom, but she’s always been bitchy—from screeching about you two leaving scuff marks from kicking off your shoes at the front door to playing music too loud in Sarah’s room.
You’re not surprised that she’s trying to finagle more money from Mr. Kennedy; he’s always had a decent paying job, enough to take care of his kids and live comfortably while also giving his ex-wife enough to pay for her own place. She’s always off gallivanting with some rich guy, but now it sounds like she’s in between boyfriends so Mr. Kennedy is having to deal with her money issues.
All of these thoughts buzz through your brain by the time you and Sarah walk into her room. She collapses down onto her bed with a groan, then flips over onto her back.
“I was hoping he would go out this weekend, so I could invite Josh over.” She blows out a breath before turning her head to look at you. “He could bring one of his friends over, so you’d have someone to hang out with.”
You wave her off as you collapse down into the bean bag chair she’s had since her eighth birthday. “Eh, last time that didn’t work out so well.”
She raises up and hugs a pillow to her chest while crossing her legs. “Steve was nice. Just kind of boring.”
“Boring? I’m pretty sure he even put Josh to sleep.” You roll your eyes. “Besides what’s to stop you from going out with Josh anyways?”
She flattens her expression before pointing at the door. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe my uptight dad?”
She tosses the pillow at you when you laugh.
“Okay, okay, I get it.” You throw her pillow back to her. “Well, since I’m here, you could sneak out. I’ll cover for you. You know he never bothers us when we do our sleepovers.”
“Maybe.” She purses her lips in thought. “We’re not teenagers anymore, so do you really think he’ll fall for that?”
You shrug. “I think so. I know we haven’t really done a sleepover since going off to college and stuff, but we’ve never done anything like it before. So why would he suspect anything different?”
She smiles brightly. “You’re right! Let me text Josh and tell him to park down the street. I’ll just slip out the window and you can cover for me if dad asks.”
You laugh. “Alright, but you owe me one.”
“I’ll take you to lunch tomorrow.”
“Deal.”
Sarah climbs out of her window and gives a small wave as she sneaks out of the yard onto the sidewalk. You lose sight of her as she rounds the corner, and you close the window softly making sure not to latch it. Glancing at your phone, you see it’s just now seven, leaving you with hours to occupy yourself before your friend makes it back from her date.
Deciding to grab some snacks and just veg out in front of Sarah’s tv, you leave her room and head to the kitchen. Nearing Mr. Kennedy’s office, you hear him arguing with someone. More than likely his ex-wife, you think, but you don’t want to assume. You slow down to eavesdrop, finding it hard to pass up the opportunity to be nosy.
“No, I’m not. I can’t help if you’re behind on your car payment. You traded in the one I gave you in the divorce. The one that was paid for. You brought it on yourself. No, no—STOP.”
Your heart rabbits in your chest with the sudden change in his tone.
“Now, listen here,” he growls out, and you have to bite your bottom lip to stifle your gasp. “I am done with this conversation. You will take what I’ve already given you, and you won’t get one penny more. If our son needs help, HE can reach out, not you. Am I making myself clear? Goodbye.”
Your palms are sweaty. You’ve never heard Mr. Kennedy speak in this way, and it’s way hotter than it has any right to be. Waiting for a few minutes, you slowly step past the doorframe. Crossing your fingers, you hope he doesn’t notice you.
“Oh, hi there, sweetheart, I didn’t know you were visiting.”
You mentally accept defeat when he calls out to you, but you also notice that he has dropped his strict tone for something more warm and inviting.
“Hi, Mr. Kennedy.” You smile at him, stepping into his office. “Yeah, Sarah and I are having a little sleepover tonight.”
He smiles, highlighting the crows feet at the corners of his eyes and the laugh lines surrounding his mouth. “Just like old times, huh?”
“Yep.” You smile back, a little nervous flutter in your stomach.
Standing up, he makes his way to the front of his desk, waving you closer to take a seat. “I haven’t seen you in ages, how’ve you been?”
“Good, I’m doing good,” you clear your throat and take the seat he’s gesturing for you to take.
“Alright then,” he chuckles.
Once you’re sitting down, he braces his hip against the desk’s edge, folding his arms as he looks down at you. You nervously smooth down your skirt.
“Uh, how are you?”
He glances back at the phone lying dark on his desk; his brows pinch together in distaste before smoothing back when he turns to you.
“Things have been better, but can’t complain too much. I have my health at least,” he chuckles, and it pulls a small laugh from you.
“That’s good!” You have to press your thighs together to keep your leg from nervously bouncing.
He hums in agreement, blue eyes roving over your face before flicking down you body and back up. “Well, I guess I should let you get back to Sarah.”
He pushes off his desk as you stand and you catch a whiff of his smoky cologne; it sends a shiver through you—a low warmth pooling in your belly. Mr. Kennedy’s palm rests on your lower back, guiding you to the door of his office. It’s not necessary, but you soak up the warmth from his palm, heart racing with excitement.
“I’m sure I’ll catch you girls later,” he chuckles, leaving you in the hallway while he heads back to his desk.
Your feet take you further into the house, muscle memory leading you into the kitchen while your brain buzzes with the interaction you two just had. Feeling a little out of sorts, you ignore any snacks and just grab a bottle of water. On the walk back to Sarah’s room, you hear the trill of a cellphone followed by Mr. Kennedy’s voice.
“Yello, son.”
You can hear the smile in his voice.
“Yeah, I know. Uh huh. Well, you’re always welcome to stay here. I know it’s a drive—“
The click of a door signals the end of the one side conversation you were listening in on—leaving you even more curious about the Kennedy family dynamics. Quickly shuffling past the now closed office door, you end up back in Sarah’s room. You make the decision to change out of your clothes into your pajamas—it’s not like you were planning on going anywhere later anyways.
Flopping down on her bed, you scroll on your phone for a lot longer than you intend (as usual) before deciding to actually grab a snack, this go around, from the kitchen. You make it further than the first time before being stopped; only now, instead of it being the home office, it’s the living room.
“You two having fun?”
Mr. Kennedy’s voice startles you for a split second, making you pause in the open entranceway. Your head pivots and you take in his relaxed posture, sitting on the couch with a tumbler in his hand. He looks loose, like the stress from earlier has melted away—it probably has, you think to yourself while glancing at the glass in his hands.
“Is that a no?” His sardonic tone snaps your gaze up to his face.
“I’m sorry?” You laugh nervously, stepping further into the room.
“I asked if you girls were having fun?”
“Oh,” you breathe out. “Uh, yeah, just like always.”
His lips quirk up into a grin. “That’s good. Why don’t you have a seat next to me? Tell me what’s been going on in your life.”
You fiddle with the hem of your thin shirt and make your way over to the couch and Mr. Kennedy. When you sit down next to to him, he pats your leg.
“Y’know, you’ve been friends with Sarah so long, it’s almost like you lived here.”
He laughs and you join him with your own nervous giggle.
“Well, what’ve you been up? Besides classes,” he waves off the reply on the tip of your tongue. “I mean, you dating anybody? Going to parties?”
Your brows pinch together in thought. Maybe he’s asking to pry into whether you andSarah hit up any of the sorority invites. You shake your head no.
“Not really. I mean, I don’t really like to party so Sarah and I hang out and watch movies and stuff.” You pick at your nails. “And I haven’t dated anyone since high school.”
He nods. “Oh yeah, that boy who chickened out of taking you to prom.”
You cringe internally, embarrassment welling up. “Uh, yeah. So, my life outside of school is pretty boring.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” he pats your leg again. “Sounds like you’re being a good girl.”
The words send a tingle down your spine. “Thanks, Mr. Kennedy.”
He smiles, teeth glinting in the low light. “No problem, sweetheart. I just like knowing you’re being safe.”
A warning bell goes ignored in your brain. “Safe?”
“You can never be too careful these days. I hear all kinds of things about dumb little boys and sweet girls like you.”
“Oh,” you frown, angling your body to face him more. “Well, like I said I pretty much just stick to my classes.”
“And that’s good,” he murmurs, eyes dark as they skim down your body. “You’re much too sweet for some dumbass boy. Such a pretty girl deserves a man who knows what he’s doing.”
Your heartbeat ratchets up, nipples pebbling under your too thin shirt at his smooth baritone. Mr. Kennedy’s eyes drop down to your breasts and he grins.
“I s-should probably g-go,” you stammer out, beginning to rise up from your seat. “Sarah’s waiting.”
The glass tinks when he places his whiskey tumbler onto the surface. He wraps his hands around your waist and pulls you down into his lap, your back pressing against his chest.
“Fuck, you smell good,” he huffs, nuzzling his face into your hair before trailing his lips across your neck.
“Mr. Kennedy,” you gasp out, disbelief widening your eyes even as arousal makes your body feel heavy.
He moans, hands dropping to your hips to hold you down while he grinds up against your ass. “I know you lied for my daughter.”
Your stomach drops, anxiousness flooding your brain. “I-I don’t—“
“Shhh,” he soothes, shifting his hands until his palms are hot against your bare thighs. “The security cameras went off and I have a tracker on her phone. I know she’s out with her boyfriend.”
You slump back against him, thoughts running circles in your head. “She didn’t think you’d let her go out.”
He chuckles and the sound vibrates against your back. “She’s old enough to know better.”
His fingers dig into the dough of your thighs, spreading your legs wider. “Just like you are. I’ve seen the looks you’ve been giving me.”
He nips the skin below your ear and you shiver in his lap.
“And since she’s gone for a while, why don’t we play house, sweetheart.”
“House?” You mumble, teeth sinking into your bottom lip when Mr. Kennedy lightly traces his fingertips against the skin of your inner thighs.
“Yeah,” he laughs, low and dark. “I’ll be the daddy and you can be the mommy.”
The fingers of one of his hands glides up the seam of your sleep shorts before cupping your pussy through the fabric. “And daddy wants to play with mommy’s cute pussy all night long.”
You keen loudly, hips bucking up into his hand. His fingers dig into your cunt, the heel of his palm rubbing against your clit. The sensitive bud throbs—trapped underneath layers of cotton and aching to be touched. Arousal and trepidation go hand in hand as you writhe in Mr. Kennedy’s lap, letting him touch you in such an intimate way, wanting him to do even more. It feels so wrong, but that only heightens every nerve, making the rush that much more pleasurable.
Mr. Kennedy’s other hand grasps your hip, thumb pressing down on the soft skin. The digit digs into the tender joint and you gasp, rocking your ass down against the bulge underneath you. He grunts, palm grinding against your mound and guiding you into a rhythm that has you both panting.
“You’re already soaking through your panties, aren’t you?” He chuckles, and your chest burns in embarrassment. “C’mon, you can tell daddy.”
“Y-yes,” your breath hitches. “Daddy makes me so wet.”
“Fuck,” he growls. “Is mommy gonna let me play with that cute pussy?”
He moves the hand cupping you through your pajama shorts to slide underneath the elastic band, fingers gliding under your panties until his digits press down onto your clit.
“Ohhh,” you gasp, eyes fluttering at the feeling of fingers squeezing together your pussy lips.
“Well?” Mr. Kennedy squeezes your cunt lips in pulses, teasing your clit with hints of pressure that only make your hole drip more slick.
“Yes, please, please play with my pussy,” you mumble, head tipping back to rest against his shoulder.
“Whose pussy?” He kisses the shell of your ear.
“Daddy’s?” Your voice lilts, a little confused at what he’s asking from you.
He hums and swipes a finger across your bundle of nerves. “No, but I do like the sound of that. Tell me whose pussy I’m playing with, sweet girl.”
“My pussy.”
He clicks his tongue, and you whine when he pinches your swollen bud. “Mommy’s pussy!”
“Good girl,” he coos, fingers petting across your cunt lips and the hood of your clit. “Daddy only plays with sweet mommy’s like you.”
Your heart thumps wildly in your chest, brain buzzing with static as his fingers tease your pussy with light strokes of his fingers. It feels like he keeps you there for hours, trapped against him, his hand cupping and squeezing your cunt with only the lightest of touches to your bundle of nerves as he whispers filth into your ear.
“So wet, my fingers are drenched, sweet girl.”
“Mommy likes daddy teasing this soft little pussy, doesn’t she?”
“Imagine what my cock’s going to feel like. Can’t wait to stuff this sweet cunt.”
By the time he pulls his hand free of your clothing, you’re a whining mess, begging him to keep touching you.
“Shh, shh,” he murmurs, helping you up from his lap. “We’re just going to continue this in my room.”
Your head bobbles with a nod, legs shaky as he guides you with a warm palm squeezing your ass. Thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind—you barely take in the change of scenery while he closes his bedroom door. Your eyes lock on Mr. Kennedy, watching as he sheds his clothes until he’s standing there totally nude. A light dusting of hair covers his chest, but what draws your eye is the blonde hair trailing from his belly button down to the thatch of hair above his cock. Your mouth waters at the sight; his dick is thick and long, uncut tip dripping precum that you want to taste on your tongue. His eyes crinkle with a teasing smile.
“Aren’t you going to get undressed?”
Your stomach flips with nerves, but you quickly slip your own clothes off until you’re just as bare as him. His eyes darken, taking in your teardrop breasts and hard nipples before dragging his gaze down your body like a caress, locking onto the damp curls at the apex of your thighs.
“Aren’t you a pretty little mommy,” he murmurs, stepping into your personal space.
Mr. Kennedy kisses you. It’s hot and wet and perfect. He sucks your bottom lip into his mouth before letting go with a soft nip. Whimpering, you cling to him, hands gripping his chest and eagerly kissing him back. His tongue draws yours into his mouth and his groan vibrates your lips. Mewling in your throat, you kiss him sloppily, spit coating your lips and chin, making you feel that much hotter. His hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples in soft circles.
Your mouth drops open in a moan, your own hands reaching out to grab onto his thick biceps. Tugging your nipples with his fingertips, Mr. Kennedy grins down at you, pinching the buds roughly before smoothing his thumbs across your stiff peaks. He pushes you down to sit on the edge of the bed and kneels on the floor in front of you. Ducking his head, he latches onto one of your nipples with a rough suck, leaving the other one free for him to flick with his fingers.
Digging your fingers into his thick hair, he groans at the tug on his scalp. His mouth pulls away with a wet pop and he trails his lips across your chest until he can suckle on the opposite bud. He squeezes and gropes the breast not covered by his face, pinching the wet nipple between his knuckles before tugging it gently.
“God, it feels so good,” you whimper, fingers snagging in his hair and pulling him closer.
He chuckles and pulls away making you whine in protest. “As much as I love sucking on mommy’s tits, think I want to taste something even better.”
You gasp and arch your hips upward, “Oh please, daddy, please lick my pussy.”
“Fuck, how can I say no to that,” he kisses a line from your sternum down to your mound. “Lean back, sweetheart, and let me eat that hot cunt.”
With zero fanfare, Mr. Kennedy shoves his face into your wet pussy, tongue licking into your drippy hole with a rumbling moan. His nose grinds against your clit as his tongue laps at your cunt, slurping against your pussy so loudly it makes you go hot all over.
“Such a messy cunt,” he mutters against your pussy lips. “What a good girl.”
Mewling, your hands cup the back of his neck and you hump his face, smearing your wet cunt against his lips and chin. He groans, hands cupping your ass and holding you against him, letting him lick deeper into your pussy. Grunting like an animal, he eats your cunt like it’s his last meal. You rock your hips against him, dripping slick all over his tongue as he licks and kisses across your pussy lips. Pinning your hips down to the bed, he holds you in place, not allowing you to move at all while he kitten licks the hood of your clit before circling the wet muscle around your swollen bud.
He suckles your bundle of nerves with a hum before pulling back. His face is covered with spit and slick, the sight searing into your brain and kicking up your arousal even higher.
“Mr. Kennedy,” you sigh, tugging him upwards. “Want a kiss.”
“But I am kissing you,” he smothers his laugh into your cunt, kissing across your slick folds. “See?”
You pout, tugging his hair gently. “Please, kiss me.”
Dragging his tongue up your slit, he drops one last kiss to your clit before shifting up your body. Bracing one forearm by your head, he softly grips your neck with his free hand, lightly squeezing your throat. Whimpering, you buck your hips up, grinding your slick cunt against his abdomen before he slots his dick against your wet pussy.
“So sweet,” he murmurs before kissing you.
You can taste yourself on his lips and tongue and it draws a low whine from your chest. Slanting his mouth, Mr. Kennedy kisses you deeply, tongue plunging past your lips and filling your mouth with spit. It makes your clit throb when you’re forced to swallow his saliva. He moans, rubbing his cock along your sopping wet slit. The head of his cock brushes against your slippery clit and you wrap your hands around his shoulders to give yourself something to hold onto.
“This little pussy is just aching for daddy’s cock, isn’t she?” He finally leans back enough to murmur down at you. “You on birth control, sweetheart?”
“No,” you shake your head as you answer. “I’m not on anything.”
He groans, rutting his cock forward until the tip presses against your hole. “That’s good, so fucking good. You ready?”
“W-what about protection?” The sentence comes out quieter than you intended.
“We don’t need that,” he reassures you, voice saccharine sweet. “Daddy’s and mommy’s don’t use condoms.”
Another warning bell goes off the back of your mind, but the promise of raw, unprotected sex with Mr. Kennedy overrides all your nervousness.
Nodding, you murmur, “Okay.”
“Good girl,” his praise makes you glad you decided to keep going. “Reach down and guide me in, show daddy how much you want his cock.”
Dropping one hand between your bodies, you grip the base of his cock and slowly press it against your leaking pussy. He hisses under his breath and you glance up into his face. A grin quirks up his lips and he nods.
“Just feels good. Keep going.”
Biting your bottom lip, you turn your attention back to your hand. Giving his cock a gentle squeeze, a thrill goes through you to hear him grunt. You notch the tip of his dick at your hole, feeling your inner walls clenching in anticipation. He rolls his hips forward and his cock begins to sink deeper inside your cunt.
Your hand slips away and your head drops down to the pillow with a choked out whine. “Oh, it feels so big.”
“Shit,” he growls, hips jumping and forcing more of his cock into your slick pussy. “I’ll make it fit, don’t worry.”
When Mr. Kennedy finally bottoms out inside your pussy, you’re both breathing a lot harder than before. Your walls flutter and squeeze his dick until he tightens his grip around your throat.
“You better quit that if you don’t want me blowing my load,” his gravelly tone makes your pussy flutter like crazy which in turns makes him tighten his fingers on your neck. “You just can’t help it can you? Mommy’s just feeling too good.”
His mocking doesn’t help anything, and you whine needily. “Please, it’s just too much.”
“Poor pitiful thing,” he coos.
He pulls his cock halfway out before burying himself inside your squelching cunt— again and again and again. Picking up the tempo, he fucks you at a steady pace, knocking the tip against your cervix and sending lighting bolts of pleasurepain to sit heavy in your core.
“Can’t believe you’re going to let me nut in you without any protection,” he laughs to himself. “Fuck, gonna make me a daddy all over again, aren’t you?”
“N-no,” you stutter brokenly, eyes rolling back when he slips his fingers between your bodies to rub at your clit.
“I’m not mad, sweet girl. I love breeding little pussies like this, all soft and wet.” He groans, fingers circling your sensitive bud. “Can’t wait to see my cum dripping out of you.”
“We can’t.” But you can’t deny the more he talks about it the wetter you get.
“C’mon, don’t you want me to breed this sweet little pussy?” He grunts, cock spreading open your cunt with each thrust. “Just fill you up with load after load.”
You whine, walls clamping down around his thick length. “Mr. Kennedy, I can’t.”
“Aww, yes you can,” he croons, wrapping a calloused hand around your thigh to hike your leg higher, bottoming out in your pussy with each pump of his hips. “You can take it. Take me. Look at how eagerly this soft slippery hole gobbles me up.”
You glance down your body, past your heaving chest and soft belly to see Mr. Kennedy’s cock, glistening in your slick, sliding out from your fluttering pussy. He grips the base and slaps it down on your clit with a wet plap plap plap.
“Ready?” He asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. He guides the tip to your drooling hole and slowly pushes inside.
Whimpering, you can’t take your eyes off the way his cock easily sinks inside your cunt—walls greedily clamping down on him as he rocks himself deeper into your clenching heat.
“Yeah, there we go,” he murmurs, head falling back as he luxuriates in the feeling. “Fuck, love this tight pussy. Love stretching you out.”
“Mr. Kennedy,” you gasp and he groans loudly.
“That’s right, sweetheart. Let me hear how much you like this daddy stuffing your tight cunt.”
Moaning, your fingernails dig into his shoulders and he grunts at the slight sting, hips pistoning harder into your wet cunt.
“I’m gonna breed this tight pussy,” he whispers down at you, pupils nearly swallowing the blue of his eyes. “Don’t you want to be a real mommy? Hmm? And who better to help you than a real daddy.”
Your walls flutter around his fat cock, more slick coating his length and making each thrust sound obscene.
“I can’t,” you pant, dizzy with the idea of Mr. Kennedy getting you pregnant. “I-I’m not ready.”
“But this little pussy is just begging for a creampie,” his voice is liquid sin in your ear. “Don’t you feel so empty? Let daddy give you a baby, sweetheart. Let daddy fill you up. I won’t let you out of my bed til it takes.”
The visual of Mr. Kennedy breeding you over and over has your legs twitching, body shuddering as your climax hits you hard. Nails scoring down his back, you babble nonsense as your pussy clenches and milks his cock, your orgasm whiting out your senses.
“Please, please, want it, want you to breed me,” you chant up at him, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Please daddy make me a mommy.”
“Oh fuck,” he hisses, fucking into your spasming cunt with hard, rough thrusts. “Don’t worry, I’ll give it to you, stuff you so full you’ll be leaking my cum for days.“
He grunts and picks up the pace, hips rabbiting against yours as he fucks his cock deep into your slick walls. Growling out words you don’t catch, he buries himself to the hilt inside your hole, his dick pumping rope after sticky rope of hot cum in your pussy. You can feel his cock throb and pulse, making you keen weakly. Lying together, you both bask in the afterglow and try to catch your breath.
Once his dick softens, he pulls out with a low groan. He shifts to the side to lay back on the bed before pulling you into his arms. You rest your head on his chest, and he runs his fingertips up and down your back, leaving goosebumps in his wake.
“I’m not as young as I used to be, but it won’t take me long to go again,” the rough burr of his voice burns low in your belly.
“I don’t mind,” you murmur, tilting your head back to look at him.
He dips his head and kisses you, tongue sliding past your lips. You suck on the slick muscle, throwing your leg over his so you can grind your cum filled pussy against his soft cock.
“Naughty girl,” he chuckles against your mouth.
“You said you’d make me a mommy,” you tease back.
Mr. Kennedy manhandles you onto your back, slotting himself between your thighs. His cock kicks against your messy cunt and he kisses you heatedly.
summary: You’ve been pining over the man next door for months. On a humid summer afternoon, the devil angel on your shoulder finally wins the argument. Between a batch of cookies and a blue sundress, you’re hoping for more than just a polite "thank you" at his front door.
warnings: age gap (reader mid-20s, leon 50), re9!leon, female reader, smut (vaginal sex, fingering, cowgirl, missionary), praise kink, mild dirty talk
pairing: Leon Kennedy x Reader
word count: 7k
A/N: English isn’t my first language, so any constructive criticism is welcome!😭 Likes and reblogs are appreciated
This is stupid. But watching Leon pull his bike into the driveway next door, shoulders heavy with a kind of exhaustion that looked bone-deep, was the final push. He’s back from whatever "work" keeps him gone for months, and opportunities to see him when he isn't guarded or half-dead on his feet don’t come often. After months of pining over the older, quiet man, you finally have the nerve to act.
You stand in your neglected kitchen, squinting at a blog post on your phone. “Set the oven to…” you murmur, fumbling with the dial until it clicks. Flour coats your knuckles as you measure sugar and butter. The ceramic bowl skids across the counter, but you catch it just before it hits the floor. By the time you shaped the first cookies onto the tray, your hands were dusted in white, and the smell of dough filled the air. You slide the tray into the oven, heart racing at the thought of giving these to him.
The whole house smells like a warm bakery by the time you reach the wardrobe.
There it is—the blue sundress, still hanging exactly where you left it in the back. You reach for it before you can talk yourself out of it.
The silk slides easily over your hips, the fabric soft and light against your skin. Your reflection makes you pause. Yeah…he’s definitely going to notice this.
You settle for a lighter makeup look, adding more emphasis to your eyes. An approving hum slips from you as you study your reflection.
You gather your hair, letting it fall loosely before smoothing it down, just enough to make it sit the way you want. A few strands frame your face as you give yourself one last look.
The air in the kitchen is warm. You tuck the last of your things into your purse before stepping toward the oven. When you open it, the smell of fresh cookies rises up –sweet and inviting—and something in your chest loosens.
You take them out carefully, wrapping them into a container, your movements slower now, steadier.
With the cookies secured, you move back to your purse. You unzip it, glancing inside—phone, keys, everything still in place—then close it and sling the strap over your shoulder.
Outside, your skin tingles under the heat of the sun. The neighborhood’s quietness amplifies the sound of your steps, the fabric of the dress swishing against your legs. Your grip on the container tightens, palms slick as you near Leon's house. A stupid idea, you thought, scoffing.
Before you can hesitate further, you’re already on Leon’s front porch. With a deep inhale, your hold on the container loosens. Relax Y/N. Don’t overthink this. Wiping your free hand down your dress, you ring the doorbell and quickly retract it to your side.
Insecurity washes over you as the moment stretches on, and for a second you wonder if you should’ve just stayed home. Just as you start to wallow—
“Hey there.”
You look up—and there he is. Leon. Obnoxiously attractive as ever.
He’s clad in a long-sleeved compression shirt, completely unfitting for the summer heat. It clings to him, outlining his physique a little too well. Is that even his size?
And he smells—god, he smells incredible. Clean and warm, something woodsy underneath, like fresh soap and fabric that’s been sitting in the sun too long.
Your breath hitches as you catch yourself gawking like a creep. Your posture straightens unconsciously. Not trusting your voice yet, you lift a hand in an awkward wave, nearly dropping the plastic container in the process.
The container is pressed closer to your chest now. “Hi…Mr. Kennedy," your voice comes out breathless–way too breathless. God, you felt like a highschooler with a barely masked crush.
“How’s it going Y/n,” Leon’s voice draws you out of your thoughts and you try not to linger on the quiet warmth in it.
You cough. “Um, fine—really fine. How about you?” That last part comes out a little rushed.
“Not too bad,” Leon answers, a warm smile on his face.
Without overthinking, you hold out the cookies to him. “So uh..I think I underestimated the portion and made too much of these,” the deliberate lie slips out from you. “...And I thought, maybe you’d like some?”
Hmm, that was much less frightening than you thought it would be. Surprise flickers across Leon’s face, but he quickly masks it with a faint smile. He certainly hadn’t expected his next-door neighbor to show up at his door, somehow even prettier than he remembered. For a moment, he just takes in the sight of you before speaking.
“I really appreciate it, Y/n.”
A quiet hum leaves his lips as he takes the cookies from you, his expression softening. “These look really good,” he says, glancing back at you, “Thanks, again.”
Nodding, you reply, “It’s nothing.” Now that your hands have lost their anchor, you smooth them down your dress, hoping to hide just how nervous you feel.
Leon scratches the back of his neck, looking toward his apartment. He hesitates, then asks, “Do you… maybe want to come in? If it’s okay.”
You press your lips together, stifling the small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Not wanting to make your excitement too obvious, you reply, “I don’t want to be a bother.” You’re secretly hoping he sees right through the bluff and insists on letting you in anyway.
He tilts his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “A bother? Not at all… I wouldn’t mind some company.”
“Okay—of course… I mean, yeah.” You groan internally at the sound of your voice, please stay home next time. Leon, however, doesn’t react to your flustered state, simply stepping aside to let you in.
The first thing you notice is how clean and quiet his place is. Light streams through the tall windows, hitting the pale floors and making the space feel bigger than it is. There’s barely any furniture, but it all feels effortless, like someone who uses what they need and nothing more.
Leon walks over to the kitchen, placing the cookies on the sleek marble countertops. His kitchen is immaculate, almost too neat. He gestures his hands towards the living room, “Please y/n, make yourself at home.”
You shift slightly, then reply, “Thanks,” moving to sit on the couch. You tuck your hands into your lap, hoping you don’t look as out of place as you feel. A half read book lies upside down on the coffee table, its pages slightly bent, like it had been abandoned mid-thought. You linger on it for a moment—then your gaze shifts, catching on the wilting flowers in the vase. The faint scent of their petals drifts to you, and after a pause, you clear your throat and glance at him.
“Mr. Kennedy,” you say, your words a little halting, “what do you usually get up to this time of year?”
He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Leon’s fine,” he says with a small smile. “And…well,” he hums for a moment, “not anything interesting if I'm being honest. Just, maybe picking up some old hobbies.”
You hum. “Makes sense… I should probably be more like you, Mr Kenne—uh, Leon.”
He raises an eyebrow, a small grin forming, “What, you mean boring and bad at cooking?”
You shake your head, a small laugh escaping. “No, that’s not what I meant. I just… I want to have more time for myself. My friends always drag me to every new event.”
Though you liked keeping busy, sometimes you just wanted a little space to do your own thing, and honestly, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to be a little “boring” for once.
“Well… it’s good to have a balance of both,” Leon says, walking over to where you’re seated, “just don’t compare yourself to me—or to anyone else.”
You chuckle, looking up at him, “Thanks for the wisdom.”
He huffs out a laugh, “Don’t mention it,” a hint of amusement in his tone.
Leon’s eyes stay on you, calm and steady, and for a moment you can’t look away. Growing shy under his gaze, you look to the side, pretending the abstract painting on his wall is suddenly fascinating. Your stomach twists, a faint warmth creeping up your neck. Woman up Y/n — you didn’t come here to melt under his stare.
The quiet stretches, just enough for you to notice the soft ticking of the clock.
“…You look different today,” he says, breaking the silence.
“Different how?” you ask, looking back at him, trying to sound normal and failing miserably.
He shrugs slightly, but doesn’t look away, “Dressed up,” he says. “For cookies?”
Oh God. Abort mission. “I always dress like this,” you lie.
He steps a little closer, not enough to be obvious, but enough that you notice.
“Right,” he says, uncertainty laced in his tone.
“You don’t look convinced.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Maybe I’m not,” he says.
You let out a small, breathy laugh. “God, you’re making this really embarrassing for me.”
His expression shifts, softer now. “Wasn’t my intention,” he says quietly.
You take a deep breath in. “I just…” you start, then stop. God, say it.
You let out a small, nervous laugh, shaking your head. “Wow, this sounded a lot better in my head.”
Leon doesn’t interrupt this time, he just watches you, patiently, and that almost makes it worse.
“I didn’t come here just to give you cookies,” you admit, your voice quieter now. “I mean—I did, but not just for that.”
Your fingers twist together in your lap.
“I wanted an excuse to see you.”
There. It’s not everything, but it’s something? The silence that follows isn’t awkward, just, heavy.
Leon’s expression has changed again. Not teasing this time. Something more focused, like he’s actually seeing you now.
“…An excuse?” he repeats.
You nod quickly, heat rushing to your face. “Yeah. Because if I didn’t have one, I probably wouldn’t have come over at all.”
“Why not?”
You let out a breath, almost a huff. “Because you make me nervous.”
That earns you a quiet reaction, a small exhale, almost like a surprised laugh under his breath. “Do I?”
“Yes,” you say immediately, then wince at how fast that came out. “I mean—obviously. Look at you.”
The words slip out before you can stop them, and you pause, already regretting it. For a second, nothing happens. Then Leon lets out a quiet laugh, an actual one, not just the polite kind he usually gives.
“‘Look at me,’ huh?” he echoes.
You groan, covering your face for a second. “Can we pretend I didn’t say that?”
“No,” he says easily.
You peek at him through your fingers. He’s smiling, but there’s something else under it now. Something warmer and more interested. “…I’m glad you did,” he adds.
That makes your stomach flip, and you slowly lower your hands. The air between you feels different now, heavier and charged. Leon leans back a little, crossing his arms, but his gaze doesn’t leave you.
“So,” he says, tilting his head just a bit, “you baked too many cookies, dressed up, and came over… just for an excuse to see me.”
Your throat goes dry. “…Yeah.”
Silence settled between you again as Leon studies you for a moment.
He tilts his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Well,” he murmurs, voice cutting through the quiet, “I guess I better make it worth your trouble.”
No fucking way.
You huff out a laugh, trying to hide the deep flush on your cheeks. “How do you plan on doing that?”
His eyes darken slightly, amused, and he steps closer. One hand comes up, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, then lingering on your cheek. You turn your face away, cheeks burning.
“Hey,” he says softly, his voice low but teasing, “don’t look away from me now.”
“I’m not… I’m just…” You search the living room for a distraction. “Taking in the… architecture. It’s nice.”
Leon lets out a genuine laugh, the sound short and breathy. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”
You manage a small, awkward grin, shaking your head, “Hey… give me some credit, okay? It’s not easy coming up with a lie on the spot.”
Seeing the way your cheeks flush, Leon leans back slightly, just enough to tilt your face up with two fingers beneath your chin. “If it would make you more comfortable, then I’m as nervous as you are,” he murmurs softly.
You feel your eyes soften themselves, something Leon doesn’t miss. You reach out hesitantly, fingers gently wrapping around his hand.
“Is it because…,” you let the sentence trail off, not wanting to make false assumptions.
“I think you know why,” he says, voice quieter than you expected.
You bite your lip, fighting the urge to close the distance between you. His gaze drops to your lips—so quickly you almost miss it. A beat passes. Maybe two. You don’t realize how much closer you’ve gotten until the tip of your nose lightly brushes against his.
Before you can close the gap, Leon pulls back—just slightly. He exhales, unsteady, eyes closing as if he’s trying to think. He shakes his head once. Then he straightens.
“Fuck, I… I’m sorry Y/n, that was really out of line,” he says, a slight crack in his tone, lungs still breathless.
Your face scrunches up in confusion, did you do something wrong?
Leon pinches the bridge of his nose, voice tight and jittery. “You’re… you’re young, and I… I shouldn’t be doing this.” He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “God, I wasn’t thinking.”
You stay seated a heartbeat longer, cheeks warm, fingers twisting in your lap. Slowly, you push off the couch, letting the cushions sigh behind you. You rise carefully, testing yourself as much as him.
Leon glances up, startled. His eyes flick between your face and your hands, catching the way your fingers brush the edge of your dress. His shoulders tighten, a quiet tension coursing through him.
You take a tiny step closer, almost instinctively letting your fingertips brush against the edge of his arm. “I… um,” you murmur, voice a little shaky. “I’m not a kid. I… I wanted this.”
Your lips twitch into a nervous, fleeting smile. “The cookies, the dress,” you let out a shaky exhale before proceeding, “I thought… maybe you’d like them.” The words are quiet, almost hesitant.
Leon swallows hard, caught in between surprise and disbelief. He’s trying to process you, trying to understand.
Seeing the confused look on his face, you let out a soft, breathy laugh. “I think you know why a girl would go out of her way…to do all this,” you say, glancing up at him.
Feeling entirely too bold for your own good, you take his hand, placing it on your waist. “I know what I want Leon," you say, voice coming out lower than you intended. “But…if I misread this and you want nothing to do with me—then,” a shaky exhale falls from you. “Then I’ll leave.”
You couldn’t believe you just did that, not as someone who was never this direct. Either way, you weren’t going to waste any more of your time on someone who had no interest in you.
Leon blinks rapidly, his mouth falling open for a second before he snaps it shut. “I…” He trails off. “No—I… I do,” he admits, voice unsteady, though there’s a quiet certainty beneath it. He huffs out a breath of laughter, turning his head to the side. “God, I do want you. I want you so bad.”
Your breath hitches, caught off guard by the rawness in his voice.
“How could I not?” Leon’s voice is a low, tired rasp, and the grip on your waist finally firms up, pulling you flush against him. He huffs a short, dry laugh, his gaze dropping to your lips. “I’ve been trying not to want you, Y/N. Believe me. “But you’re… you’re genuine. Ambitious, kind, smart. You’ve got this energy I can’t even describe, and I’ve spent far too much time away thinking about it.” He shakes his head, his thumb grazing the skin just above your hip.
A small, almost shy smile tugs at your lips, and your heart skips a beat. You can feel the warmth of him pressed against you. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the quiet between you heavy but charged. You glance up, catching his gaze, and it feels like the world has narrowed down to just the two of you.
Your fingers inch along his arm, tentative, lingering. He leans closer, his forehead almost brushing yours. You can feel your heartbeat in the quiet, each thump louder than the last.
Finally, you murmur, voice barely above a whisper:
“Kiss me.”
Leon’s breath catches. His lips hover near yours for a heartbeat, then slowly, deliberately, he closes the gap. The first brush of his lips against yours was soft, uncertain, almost like neither of you could comprehend that this was actually happening.
His lips are soft, so much softer than you thought they would be. The roughness of his stubble grazes your cheek, sending chills straight down your spine. Leon takes your hands, brushing over them softly before guiding them to rest at his nape.
Your lips curve into a smile against his, fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. Leon coaxes your mouth open slowly with his tongue, a low groan slipping from him as he deepens the kiss. You sigh breathlessly, the taste of him intensifying and going straight to your head.
You slowly pull apart from the kiss, both a little breathless. Leon’s face is flushed, pupils blown so wide the blues of his irises are almost black.
“I’m tired of standing,” you murmur, your bottom lip softening into a pout.
“Yeah,” he rasps, voice unsteady, hands tightening as he walks you back toward the couch.
As Leon takes a seat, you decide to be bolder, climbing into his lap. A rush of adrenaline tingles through your body. His eyes widen a fraction, surprised by your sudden boldness—like the kiss has knocked something loose in you.
You shift in his lap, tentative at first, until you find a position that feels right. His hands slide to your waist, warm and certain, and the small reassurance of it steadies your nerves. Your breath catches as your eyes drop to his lips again. This time, you don’t hesitate — you lean in, closing the space between you.
Leon’s grip on your waist is still there, and you feel it begin to grow tighter as the kiss deepens. You adjust your weight in his lap, and the small movement pulls a sharp hiss from him. You quickly bite back the soft moan that nearly escapes you.
His tongue teasingly traces your bottom lip, the action making your grip on his shirt tighten. Of their own accord, your thighs begin to move against Leon’s lap, slow and unsteady. A low groan escapes him as his tongue nudges yours, parting your lips. Every brush of his tongue sends a jolt through you, heat pooling between your legs.
A soft moan slips from you as your heat presses perfectly against his growing bulge. You grind against his thigh, the friction impossibly right. Leon gasps—really gasps—before his hands drift downward to your ass, gripping firmly and urging you on.
Without warning, Leon pulls back from your lips, his face flushed, lips tinged red. He holds your gaze, voice low and rough. “You sure you want to go further?”
“Mhmm,” you murmur, cheeks warming, fingers twisting together. Your voice is quiet, a little shaky—but there’s a teasing edge. “I… I could do all the work… if you think you can keep up at your age.”
Your stomach tightens at your own boldness. You weren’t sure what you were getting yourself into. Leon looked… strong, capable, and completely unflinching, and just imagining what might come next makes your cheeks heat. Could you really keep up with him?
“Riiight,” he smirks, his gaze sharp. “Guess I’ll leave it to you then… ma’am.”
Your chest tightens. No, no! He was actually letting you take the lead? Oh… you were absolutely doomed.
A nervous cough escapes you, trying—and failing—to hide the quiver in your voice. “R-right then… buckle up, Leon” His terrible jokes were already rubbing off on you. Of course, Leon laughs, really laughs, and for a moment, his eyes crinkle at the corners, making him look younger, almost mischievous.
Leon rubs his hands against your upper thighs, eyes lidded. “If it’s fine with you… maybe we could go to my room?”
You bite your lip, heart skipping, and nod. “Yeah… let’s.”
He lifts you with ease, your thighs wrapping around his waist as your arms settle around his shoulders. Without breaking the moment, he turns and starts up the stairs, each step measured as he carries you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
With his foot, he nudges the bedroom door open and carries you inside. Your heart races, excitement bubbling through you. You hadn’t expected things to go this far, even though you’d worn the black lacy set in preparation–but now that they have, you’re not complaining.
Leon places you gently on the bed and takes a step back. His voice lowers, tinged with concern. “Last chance to back out… are you really su—”
Your cheeks heat, heart hammering. You bite your lip, words catching in your throat… then the need bursts out before you can stop it. “Leon… if you don’t—fuck me—right now… I swear I’ll die from frustration,” you whisper, voice trembling, almost pleading.
Leon huffs out a laugh at your boldness, the side of his mouth curving up into a slight smirk, “Demanding, are we?”
Growing increasingly impatient, you toy with the neckline of your dress, just enough to hint at the curve of your chest. Leon gulps, his eyes dropping to the flash of black lace peeking out from beneath the fabric. He steps closer, large hands settling on your waist, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles against your skin.
“Can I?” he murmurs.
You felt your face getting hot as you nodded and whispered back, “Yeah.”
His thumb drifts to the slit of your dress, tracing the smooth skin of your upper thigh. You bite back a soft mewl as his fingers gather the fabric, inching it slowly higher. Your breath catches as the material slides up, revealing more than it did before.
Finally tugging the dress over your head, his eyes rake over you, blue melting into molten as they take in the lacy black set you chose to wear. He leans in, curling a finger under your chin to tilt your face up. “You really had this planned out, huh?” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
Your cheeks heat, and you press your hands to your face. “Stop…”
Leon reaches for your hands, lowering them gently. “Hey, hey… none of that,” he says softly, fingers brushing over yours. “There’s nothing to be shy about. I… really appreciate the effort.”
Something in your chest eases, a warmth spreading through you as your nerves settle slightly. Leon steps back, gaze steady on you as he pulls the navy shirt over his head.
Your eyes widen as you catch sight of him shirtless. You’d known he was big—his skin-tight shirts had done nothing to hide it—but seeing him like this… your gaze lingers on the solid expanse of his chest, shoulders, and arms, every inch impossibly thick and muscular.
Leon’s voice cuts through your ogling, “Why don’t you take a picture?”
The corny joke pulled out a breathy laugh from you, “You can’t be real,” you murmur, shaking your head.
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s pleased with himself. He leans in slowly this time, giving you a second to react, to pull away. You don’t.
His hands find your thighs, warm and steady, and when he kisses you again, it’s firmer—less teasing, more intent. The kiss deepens quickly, his tongue tracing your bottom lip. You part your lips without resistance, letting him in, a soft sound slipping from the back of your throat.
His thumbs press lightly against your abdomen, tracing a slow path upward toward your sternum. A soft, involuntary moan slips from your mouth, and his fingers linger there for a heartbeat, as if memorizing the curve of your body—before they begin to drift downward again, gliding over the gentle slope of your waist. They move lower, thighs clenching when his fingers brush against the delicate lace of your underwear.
Leon breaks away from the kiss, eyes filled with concern, “You ok?”
You catch your breath as he pulls back, heart racing. “Yeah… yeah, I just… haven’t done this in a while, and… I guess I’m just… more sensitive,” you breathe out, words trembling slightly.
He lets out a short laugh, eyes softening, “Yeah… uh, same here.”
You slowly release the tension in your thighs, letting your legs fall into a more open, relaxed position. Leon’s gaze drifts lower, catching on to the wet patch on your panties. He groans–quiet but hoarse, “Fuck you’re soaking.”
Then, his hand slides into your underwear, fingers feathering across your mound. A broken whimper falls from your lips, pussy clenching around nothing at all. Leon’s fingers move to your slit, slowly circling your entrance. The delicate trace has you shifting restlessly beneath him, desperate for more.
And then, after what feels like forever, he drags a single finger between your folds. It's just one finger, but it feels more than it should, your jaw unlocking and falling wide open.
You arch helplessly into his hand, chasing more. A sharp gasp escapes you as he adds a second finger, the stretch making your thighs quiver uncontrollably.
He settles into a deliberate rhythm, his thumb circling your clit with slow, measured circles.
“Oh fuck… Leon.”A low moan breaks from you, your toes curling against the sheets.
You shove your face into the sheets, hips jerking forward as he curls his fingers through your fluttering walls. Leon watches your face closely, noting every subtle reaction.
“That’s the spot?” He whispers, voice strained.
You nod against the sheets, feeling your vision going hazy at the edges. A loud, frantic moan slips past your teeth as his thumb speeds over your clit, the pressure just right. Immediately, your hand covers your mouth, attempting to bury any more moans that threaten to spill out.
“I want to hear you,” he says, his voice low and rough, “Let me hear you.”
Slowly, you lower your hand, resting it against your upper chest. His fingers plunge in and out of you, the pace quickening as he leans in. “Yeah… that’s a good girl,” he coos.
You clench hard around his fingers at the praise, a sharp gasp escaping. “Oh god, Leon—”
Leon’s eyebrows arch, his head tilting with a smirk. “You like that, huh?”
Your breath hitches, a sharp, ragged sound catching in your throat as the friction becomes too much.
“Leon... I’m—I’m close,” you say hoarsely, legs shaking uncontrollably as you near your edge.
Leon looks down at you, his gaze dark and feral. “Yeah?” he goads, his pace turning ruthless, “Then don’t you dare hold back for me.”
All you can do is nod, eyes glittered with tears that threaten to spill over your lashes.
“Fuck! ‘Im gonna cum,” you whine pathetically, hardly breathing at this point. “Leon–oh god, m’ gonna–” you cry out, every thought burned away by the raw friction of his fingers.
“I know, I know,” he whispers, his forehead resting against yours. “I’m right here. Do it for me, sweetheart.” He maintains a punishingly perfect pace that leaves no room for air.
Without warning, the sensation tips over the edge. Your breath dies in your throat as your cunt seizes around his hand. Everything goes white, your eyes stinging and wet.
Your back finally rests against the bed, chest heaving in a ragged rhythm. Leon tracks your shallow breaths, his gaze softening at your exhaustion. With agonizing slowness, he uncurls his nimble fingers and slides them from your slick, aching heat. A tiny, broken gasp leaves your lips as he retreats.
He leans over you, his thumb brushing away the stray strands of hair clinging to your damp forehead. “Good job,” he whispers, his voice a low, grounding rumble.
Usually, you’d flush and hide, but the intensity has left you with a daring, heavy-lidded buzz. Instead of shrinking away, you shift, propping yourself up on your elbows. The movement is slow, intentional, and entirely uncharacteristic of your usual shyness.
“Said I was gonna do all the work, right?” you whisper, your voice dropping into a sultry, confident edge as you look him dead in the eye. You offer him a playful, challenging smirk. “So lay back down, old man.”
Leon huffs out a laugh, shaking his head in amusement. “Alright, ma’am,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave as he plays along.
He settles back against the mattress, lacing his fingers behind his head to give you the floor. He looks entirely too comfortable, his gaze fixed on you with a heavy, hooded sort of expectation—like he’s just waiting to see if you can actually back up the talk.
Smug bastard.
“Ready when you are,” he groans, the corner of his lip twitching up into a lazy, lopsided smirk.
Oh, you are definitely going to wipe that look off his face.
Slowly, you push off your elbows, your weight shifting as you crawl over him until you're straddling his abdomen. You settle there, staying just high enough to keep him waiting.
Leon’s eyes go dark, his breath hitching as you press down against the hard ridges of his abs. You reach back, the muscles of your arms tensing as you fumble with the clasp of your bra.
The moment the metal clicks, the air leaves Leon’s lungs in a low, shaky exhale. The smugness finally fractures, his jaw tightening as he stares up at you, his composure stripped away as your bra falls from your chest.
His gaze drops from your face, tracking the movement with a heavy, unblinking focus, his mouth hanging open slightly as any witty retorts are seemingly scorched from his mind. “Fuck... you’re so beautiful, you know that?” he whispers, his voice strained and barely audible in the quiet of the room.
Your neck flushes at the compliment—as if he’s one to talk. Leon’s hands slide down your sides to find your waist, his grip firm as his fingers drift lower, grazing the edge of your lace.
You slightly lift your hips up, fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear. With a slow, deliberate motion, you slide them down your legs, leaving a faint, shimmering trail of wetness clinging to the soft fabric.
You’re fully naked above him, skin gleaming in the dim light. Leon doesn’t know where to fix his gaze—your face, the curve of your chest, or the heat where your mound presses against his abs. He looks utterly entranced, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. Your fingers drift down to toy with the waistband of his jeans, a silent question in your touch.
"Can I?" you whisper.
He nods, his breath hitching in anticipation.
You make quick work of the zipper on his jeans. You’re impatient as you unbutton them and shove the denim down, leaving him in nothing but boxers. You swallow hard; you’d felt how big he was, but seeing the heavy bulge up close like this sends a fresh spike of heat through you.
You hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and peel them away, dragging them down his legs with excruciating slowness. You toss them aside, and your gaze remains fixed, eyes immediately locked on his cock. The air between you goes heavy as you take him in, every inch of him finally exposed.
You swallow, blinking dazedly as you take in the length and thickness. It’s huge. The tip is flushed dark, already leaking slightly. It’s rock solid, twitching with every breath he takes. You don’t think your hand could even close all the way around it.
You cough, a desperate attempt to swallow your obvious fluster. “Wow, can still get it up, old man?” you say, feigning confidence—yet your voice lacks any real stability.
Leon chuckles, low and dark, “You’re bluffing.”
You roll your eyes playfully, thighs squeezing firmly around his hips to regain control. “Whatever, just—put it in,” you scoffed, trying to hide the fact that your heart was racing.
“Change of plans? I thought you were gonna handle this part yourself,” he drawls, mocking you with that lazy, arrogant smirk.
Your eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a thin line. “Fine then,” you challenge.
You reach down to circle the base of his length; the sudden contact makes him twitch, reacting instinctively to your grip. Slowly, your hand slides along his shaft, grip tightening slightly. Leon’s hips jerk up into your palm, a low groan escaping him at the weight of your touch.
Suddenly, you bite your lip, the heat in the room momentarily chilled by a realization. "Leon, wait," you whisper, your movements faltering. "I just realized… do you have protection?
Leon doesn't even blink. He just reaches out, his large hand covering yours for a brief second before gesturing blindly toward the mahogany nightstand. "Top drawer," he rasps, his voice a low, rough command. "Back corner."
You pause, a playful smirk tugging at your lips as you reach over and slide the heavy drawer open. You have to push aside a fountain pen and a stack of printed documents just to find the small, foil square.
The wrapper glints under the dim light as you catch the edge between your teeth; with a sharp tug, you tear it open and spit the scrap of foil aside, your eyes locked onto his the entire time.
You place the condom against the head of his cock, still flushed and leaking. With careful movements, you slowly roll it down the length of him. Your fingers faintly brush against the soft skin on the base of his cock, and leon hisses through his teeth, his grip on your waist tightening.
You rise up on your knees, reaching between you to grab his cock. Carefully, you guide him to your entrance, thighs spread wider in hopes that you can accommodate his size. The leaking head of his cock meets your soaked slit, and it’s electric.
Finally, you start descending on him. The head of his cock pushes past your entrance, and the second it slips past your folds, you let out a muffled gasp. There’s no way he was going to fit.
“Leon,” you cry out, nails digging into his shoulders as you lower yourself further.
Leon’s warm hands rub against the soft skin of your waist. “Easy, baby... take your time,” Leon says, his voice thick and strained.
You bite at your lip, thighs quivering as you lower inch after inch, your wetness making it easier to adjust to his length. You let out a ragged gasp as you finally take all of him, walls fluttering uncontrollably around his cock.
“F-fuck... don’t do that if you want me to last,” he says, his voice strained and desperate as he grips your hips.
You stay still for a few seconds, breath catching as you look down at where you’re connected. The sight is visceral, almost sinful.
Leon’s hands are steady on your waist, but his knuckles are white. He’s watching you with a heavy, hooded gaze. "There you go," he rasps, his voice strained as he tries to keep his own breathing under control. "Just breathe, baby. I've got you."
Slowly, you sink back up, the friction a slow burn that makes your head spin, before you slide all the way down again. The moan you let out is raw, and it hits Leon like a physical blow. His eyes snap shut and his head thumps back against the pillow, a wrecked "Fuck..." escaping his lips.
“You’re so warm,” he groans, his fingers digging slightly into your hips to keep himself from bucking up. “Keep that pace... just like that.”
You start to grind against him, a slow, heavy rotation. Your breasts move with the rhythm, and Leon opens his eyes, looking completely hypnotized. His hands leave your waist to grope them, his palms heavy and hot as he squeezes, his thumbs catching your nipples with every downward move.
"Look at you," he rasps, his composure starting to fray as he watches you work. "You're perfect."
Your head tilts back, your throat exposed as the pleasure starts to override his instructions. Your pace increases instinctively, the slow grind turning into a frantic, driving heat. Leon doesn't stop you anymore; he just grips your chest tighter, his breath coming in ragged, desperate hitches as he watches you take control.
Then, your legs give out. The muscles in your thighs begin to shake violently, and your movements turn sloppy. The burn becomes too much to handle, forcing you to a shaky, frustrated stop. You slump against him, your legs still twitching from the effort.
"Leon," you pant, "I—I can’t. My legs..."
Leon tries to smirk, but it’s more of a strained pull of his lips, his face flushed and damp with sweat. “Thought... thought you said you were going to do... all the work, baby,” he teases, the words coming out in short, breathless hitches.
You pout at him, your own exhaustion making your eyes watery, and Leon saves you the embarrassment of trying to continue. He lets out a low, shaky exhale, his grip on your hips tightening as he takes over. He begins moving you again, his movements heavy and uncoordinated but determined.
Suddenly, he grunts, using the last of his strength to hook an arm around your waist. He flips y’all on the bed, the world blurring until your body is splayed out beneath him. He collapses into the space between your thighs, his arms shaking as he props himself up. His eyes are dark, completely blown out as he looks down at you, and he begins to move inside you with a desperate, driving force that tells you he’s just as close to the edge as you are.
The new position made you feel him even deeper inside you. Your pussy pulsed around him while he drove his hips forward in a faster, more urgent rhythm.
“Leon–Leon, Leon, Leon!” your voice is gone, barely recognisable as yours.
“Jesus, sweetheart—” he groans, his head dropping to the crook of your neck, his voice sounding absolutely wrecked. “You’re tight as fuck. God.”
The walls of your pussy clamp down, forcing a loud, guttural groan from him.
Leon lets out a breathless, wrecked laugh against the sensitive skin of your neck. “Fuck, you really don’t want me to last, do you? You’re trying to ruin me.”
He lets out a sinful, low-bellied groan when you shift just right, the vibration of it making your pussy clench hard in response. You don't let up—you do it again, clamping down on his cock with everything you’ve got, forcing a raw, unfiltered moan out of him that echoes in your ear.
“You’re evil,” he chuckles breathlessly, his teeth grazing your shoulder before he sucks a bruise into your skin. “Taking every fucking inch of me and still asking for more.”
His hips drive upward in a faster, more desperate rhythm, chasing the friction that’s coiling tighter and tighter in your gut. “Leon, m’ gonna—m’ gonna cum, I’m—"
“I know, baby, I know,” he whispers, his voice strained and thick with his own need as he catches your frantic rhythm. “Just like that. Take it all. Come for me.”
A few more heavy, wet strokes and you finally come undone, your walls spasming around him in a breathless, shaking mess. Leon follows only seconds later, a low growl ripping from his throat as he thrusts deep one last time, his body locking up as he spends himself, buried as far as he can go.
He stays buried inside you for a long moment, his forehead resting against your shoulder as his breathing comes in heavy, ragged hitches. The room is silent except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath.
Eventually, the stillness breaks as he shifts his weight, easing up on his elbows just enough to look at you.
You swallow, then murmur, “T-that was…” your voice still a little airy.
“I know,” he murmurs, a faint huff of breath following the words.
Leon pushes himself up from your body, his movements slow and deliberate. “Need to clean you up,” he says, though his eyes haven't quite lost their heat.
As he stands, the sudden chill makes you bold, and you can’t resist teasing him one more time. “I was hoping for round two,” you say, letting your gaze linger, “but then I remembered you’re…”
The insinuation hangs in the air, obvious and biting. The dark look Leon gives you makes your thighs clench together. A slow, dangerous smirk tugs at his lips, and you realize you’ve just handed him the perfect excuse to prove you wrong.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you and Bucky have been at odds since you first met. he can't stand you. you pretend you can't stand him. and if Bucky ever knew how you really felt, you think you might die. not when there's no chance he'd ever feel the same way. right?✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, drinking, no use of y/n, mutual pining, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, drunken and sober love confessions, little plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, sex toys, overstimulation, squriting, bucky's packing, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 13.5k✦
✦Author's Note: i think i got possessed with this one. was barking to myself writing. Enjoy!✦
He’s the kind of beautiful that makes you want to strangle him.
Bucky walks around your apartment like he owns it, laughing all loud and musical, smiling like he fell out of a movie, running a hand through his hair and forcing you to see his sculpted torso and tanned skin. He barely fits in his shirt as it is, there’s no need for him to show off about it.
You’ve pressed yourself right to the corner of you couch, watching him silently. Watching all of them, but mostly Bucky. And his shining eyes and full lips and thick arms. Those things should be classified as weapons, or at least hazards. It’s too easy to imagine him wrapping them around you, pining you to the couch, handling you like a doll but still so gently-
“You’re staring at me again.” He drawls, and you start.
You give him an unimpressed glare, hoping your flush stays hidden in the low light of the room. “Shut up.”
“So nice to me, sweetheart.” He mocks, leaning a little further down. “Bet you dream about me, don’t you. Up all night with that rabbit Nat got you-“
You shove your foot up, slamming it square on his chest. He’d been getting too close. You’d been able to smell his cologne, and it made your head spin like opium. Bucky laughs again, walking away like you’re not even worth the argument. Your heart stings, but you ignore it. It’s an old bruise. You’re usually good at not pressing it, at pretending it doesn’t exist.
But Bucky exists only to torture you. So it never fully heals.
He’d been teasing about the rabbit thing. It had been a gag gift for secret Santa, and after Nat had even gotten you a very nice pair of shoes when you were in private. But Bucky’s clung onto it, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever thought of. You, with a vibrator. You possibly being able to get off, when you’re the uptight little prude. The one who never brings back hookups, never dates, just sits in corners like an ivy, clinging to the shadows and watching everything else live around her.
You’ve never been fun. Never been someone Bucky would’ve chosen to know. He didn’t choose to know you. You knew a girl who worked with another girl, and that girl had a boyfriend who knew a girl who needed a roommate. You needed a roommate. You had good credit—because you’re boring—and the girl interviewing you had taken a liking to you.
Natasha rode a motorcycle. She worked in a job she was allowed to tell you about—something in black ops, that explained all the wigs in her closet—and spoke five languages. She baked calm down, and went to shooting ranges to calm down, and insisted on getting you a gun license so she’d feel more comfortable with all the hidden guns in the house.
“Hidden guns?” You’d asked, feeling your face blanch. She’d just smiled.
“You’ll never find them all. Let’s go, it’ll be easy.”
It had not been easy. But you understood how—to someone like Nat—it might be. She’d never lost patience with you, but she’d still made it look easy. When you’d gotten home and mumbled that you needed to go shower for an hour, she’d just patted your head like you were a bunny and smiled.
She might’ve been your first real friend in a while. Because it’s not that you’re not… personable. You’re just a little mean tongued. And nervous. And boring, and blunt, and you don’t like leaving the house unless someone grabs the scruff of your neck and drags you. You go to work, and you go home, and that’s mostly it. Your closest friends before Natasha had been co-workers. And you’d been really, truly happy with that.
But interesting people have interesting friends.
Natasha had a lot of friends. And they moved in and out of your apartment like they lived there.
Tony was a tech titan who you used to watch on the news, and now he left crumbs all over your couch. Wanda was a refugee and artist, and Clint worked in that same black ops thing Nat did. Steve had worked in it, but left to start his own non-profit with Sam. They all went far back, to elementary schools and playgrounds and clubs. They had history, but they were kind to you. Treated you like your little bachelor’s degree and normal person job fit in with their grand showmanship and large personalities that had been sucked right off the movie screen.
Most of them treated you like that.
Bucky didn’t.
Before you’d been introduced to him, Nat had described his as basically Steve’s brother, and it had been a striking endorsement. Steve had been kind to you. He brought you to a movie you’d really wanted to see, and never made fun of your stuffed animal collection. No brother of his could be all that bad, certainly not one even Nat described as charming and kind and not bad on the eyes.
Only one of those things was true.
Bucky Barnes is not bad on the eyes. You’d classify as maybe a medicine for the eyes, a miracle for the eyes, a blessing on a weary and tired viewer. He works in security or something, and it shows in his body. Sometimes he lets his hair grow out, and it’s frames his strong jaw and nose perfectly, all while making you want to run your fingers through each lock. You’re sure it would be like petting a very well-kept dog. He cares for it better than you care for yourself.
He’s got those eyes that knocked all the thoughts out of you, the moment you saw him. They’d sparkled and shone with his polite, white smile, and you’d just been swaying there like a lost scarecrow in a tornado. Your brain had been reduced to a fuzzy TV static and loud blaring noise, like you’d lost your own connection. Bucky had flexed his hand, a silent reminder you were supposed to shake it, and you hadn’t been able to get enough control over your body to even smile back.
His hand had been big. Calloused, with thick fingers and a lot of tiny scars. You’d shivered just at the idea of his touch. It might’ve been warm.
Might’ve been.
If Bucky had ever bothered to touch you at all.
By the time you’d dragged control back into your body, Bucky had given up and moved on. His ears had been a little red, in the moments after. You’d opened your mouth to apologize, make any excuse that would get him to offer a hand again.
He’d turned and walked away. Hadn’t looked at you for the rest of the night.
And when he looks at you now, it’s with something sharp behind his gaze. He never looks at anyone else like that. Never teases or mocks them, either. Acting like their mere presence in the room is a plague on his refined, perfect existence. He certainly never suggests they won’t be able to make it up five flights of stairs or asks if they’re sure they want to go out for the night.
You hate stairs. And you don’t want to go out for the night.
There’s only one thing more powerful than your picky little aversions, though.
The petty, blistering feeling at the top of your chest, that refuses to let Bucky win.
“You’re really coming with us?” Bucky calls your name from the kitchen, and you lift your chin, trying to look down your nose at the massive man.
“I was invited.”
“You’re always invited, you never actually get off the damn couch-“
“Barnes.” Nat walks past him, whacking his arm. “Don’t question miracles.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not a miracle-“
“Yes it is.” She grabs your arm, hauling you off the couch like you weigh nothing. “I’ve been asking you to do this for years, I’m not letting Bucky frighten you off with his Buckying.”
That makes you giggle, and Bucky frowns. You catch him shooting Steve a look you can’t really read, and Steve just shrugs in return.
“I’m not trying to ruin it.” Bucky says, lofty and bored. “I’m just sayin’ she never comes out with us, and it might be a lot for the little doe to be shoved into the jungle or whatever-“
“You’re a poet.” Natasha says, giving him a flat glare. “Go wait in the car.”
Bucky scowls. “The car-“
“If you act like a dog, you wait in the car.”
“I am not acting like a dog-“
Sam raises his hand. “I caught him humping the furniture this mornin’ when he heard about it-“
“Sam.” Bucky hisses. “Shut the hell up before I knock your teeth out-“
“Steven.” Nat gives him a firm nod, and he sighs.
“Yeah, I got it.”
Bucky and Sam aren’t small men, but Steve grabs them by the collar and drags them out of the room without breaking a sweat. Leaving you and Nat in a suddenly very quiet apartment, a lingering smell of spice and pine still clouding the air.
Another reason you hate Bucky coming over. He’s mean to you, and he’s nice to everyone else, and he questions you then leaves the whole room stained in his presence.
“Ignore Barnes.” Natasha says it like an order, and it probably is.
You smile at her. “I always do.”
You think it comes off airy and convincing. Nat looks at you like she’s trying not to either scoff, or laugh. Before you can insist on anything, she’s grabbing your hand and dragging you into the bathroom. You did promise you’d let her get you ready. When you’d told her you could do makeup and prep yourself, she’d snorted and said maybe, but I’ll do it better.
One of the first lessons you learned was not to argue with Natasha when she’s sure of something. You let her sit you on the counter and sort through your makeup bag, finding everything she deems worthy of being on your face tonight. Your outfit hangs on the door, and you did choose that, but after Nat vetoed three others.
It’s nothing special. A short dress and heels that will blend right in a club. It hadn’t been that different from your other suggestions. But it had gotten a curt nod of approval and smirk from Nat, so it had something. You’re smarter than to question what.
“You should talk to Bucky tonight.” Nat says suddenly, and you blink at her in surprise.
“I- What?”
“Make him apologize. For being an ass to you.”
“That’s- It’s fine-“
“No, it’s not.” Nat gives you a firm look, and you sigh.
“I know, but- I don’t really care, okay? That’s just- It’s Bucky, right?”
You give her a weak smile, and this one doesn’t even convince you.
It is just Bucky. He’s charming and sweet and handsome, and he hates just you. So you hate him in return, just for being so perfect and deciding you’re the only person in the world not worthy of his attention. It would be easier if he really was a bad man. If you didn’t know he volunteered with kids and Steve’s foundation, if he didn’t advocate for his fellow veterans, if he hadn’t made his ma’s chicken soup when you and Nat had both caught something last winter, and taken the time to drop it off in person.
For Nat.
Because you’re just… Not worth it for him. Not worth his time, not worth his smiling, barely worth anything more than glowering stares and taunting words. And you’re not weak. You fight back every day, and keep all of your desires and affection buried deep in the pit of your stomach and swollen like an infection around your heart.
He never has to know that you think about him all the time. That you feel yourself bloom whenever your eyes meet, then wither when his gaze snaps away. Whenever he presses his body over yours just to tease you, the heat of his body makes your breath hitch. You spend long days daydreaming about how good a boyfriend he’d be, if he didn’t hate you. Attentive and caring and giving.
Every night you think about how giving he’d be. Flowers and coffee like he brings Wanda for galleries, or for Nat or Clint when they’ve been working late night shifts. He likes watching TV, you know, because he spends a lot of time sitting next to you on the couch and loudly making comments until you threaten to force-feed him bleach. But if that wasn’t the blunt and unforgiving knife of reality, you could just lay in his arms forever.
He could pick you up and carry you to bed. The same bed that you put that accursed vibrated between your legs, close your eyes, and dream of him railing you into the mattress. Fucking you until you can’t stand, until you can’t speak or thing, until your eyes are rolling back and your mouth can’t even figure out how to close, so he kisses you possessively or gives you some of those thick fingers to suck on-
“You should still talk to him.” Natasha’s words are blunt. If she’s noticed how you’ve been working yourself up, she doesn’t say a single word. “Before he does something stupid.”
You snort. “Bucky always does something dumb-“
“No. He does a lot of dumb things. Close your eyes.” Nat picks up an eyeliner, and you obey. “But there’s a difference between dumb and stupid. Stupid is harder to take back.”
You grunt, and you don’t think anything stupid Bucky does is going to have anything to do with you. But something scratches at your brain, and it’s green and bitter. Your fingers fidget in your lap, and you shouldn’t ask, but-
“Is he bringing someone?” You blurt, and just the idea makes you sick. Bucky with some model-type, holding her hips while she grinds onto him, all the honey he’d pour into her ears and down her throat while you just hugged yourself in the corner of the room. Her sitting on his lap in your apartment, you trying to hide the ugliness of jealousy but never being able to spare her more than a crude sneer. It’s the only reason Nat would possibly want you to talk to him. You and Bucky’s childish game of pulling each other’s hair and biting without teeth and seeing who breaks first, it ruins his picture of the perfect suitor. If you keep it up, you’ll ruin this for him, and he deserves to be happy but the thought of him being happy while you just sink into yourself like quicksand makes you want to die-
“Jesus, no.” Nat laughs. “That’s- Never mind.” She shakes her head, still chuckling about some secret you apparently don’t get to be a part of.
“What?” You try to push. “I’ve heard about his- You know. Promiscuity.”
Nat snorts. “From who?”
“Sam.”
“Sam’s an idiot.” She dismisses plainly, and you frown.
“Tony’s mentioned it too-“
“They’re both idiots.”
“Bucky’s told me, he said he leaves all his girls satisfied-“
“Bucky is the biggest idiot of all of them. Open.”
You listen again, and find Nat smiling at you with a strangely soft affection. Like you’re some wet kitten she rescued off the street.
“Put on your dress.” She says, wiping the corners of your slightly pouting lips. “Talk to Barnes.”
At the very least, you manage to follow one of those orders.
The dress is a little shorter than you thought it would be. It rides up your thighs, forcing you to pull it down with every step. In the car you cross your legs and stare at the floor, grounding yourself in the bass of Nat’s loud music as your heartbeat starts to pick up. You’re going out. You’re going out. Spiting Bucky was not a good enough reason to do this, it’s going to be loud and you can dance but not in front of strangers, and you’re going to be even more boring than usual and you feel like a fraud.
“Nice dress.”
Bucky’s voice is a low behind you, his breath fanning on your neck. You almost scream.
“Christ, calm down.” He’s grinning when you whip around, leaning forward in his seat to whisper. Sam and Steve are next to him, one very pointedly staring out the window, the other looking at something on his phone and humming like he’s already trying to drown out you and Bucky’s fighting.
“You scared me-“
“You saw me get in the car, sweetheart. Not my fault you’re jumpy-“
“I am not jumpy-“
“You are. Like a bunny.” His grin widens, and you scowl.
The shifting streetlamps make him look like an angel. Golden halo rays behind his head, long shadows that make him look even more rugged than usual. His lips look fuller, softer, eyes glimmering like a floodlight through the dark, and-
“Shut up.” You snap, turning back around. You can’t keep looking at him. It’s dangerous.
“I was just saying your dress was nice.” Bucky’s breath tickles your neck. You wrap your arms tight around your stomach.
“You also called me a rabbit.”
“Called you a bunny-“
“That’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
You flip him off over your shoulder, glaring firmly out the windshield. You can feel him retreat, but the closeness had lit up your nerves, and now they’re buzzing with hope that he’ll return.
Stupid fucking body. Stupid fucking Bucky.
You refuse to look at him when you arrive. You stumble a little bit in your heels—Natsha insisted on six inch, which is far too tall for anyone—and Bucky catches your arm, holding you upright. You brush his hand off like a fly and march on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of some other comment about how you’re like a baby deer.
When you get inside, you can smell it. The stench of sweat and alcohol and something fruity they probably use to cover the first smells. You cling to Natasha, letting her guide you through the crowd to the bar. She orders you two shots because you need them, and you don’t argue. Between Bucky and the club, you do.
You down them both without flinching, and Sam whistles from behind you.
“Damn, you took those like a champ.”
You shrug, and Sam elbows Bucky.
“You see that, Buck-“
“Yeah. I saw it.”
Bucky’s voice is lower than usual. Almost sullen. You’d examine him, try to figure out what’s wrong with him, but you’re not supposed to be letting yourself care. He’s not your problem tonight. You’re here to indulge in fun.
You’re already not very good at that as is. Bucky’s consuming presence isn’t going to help.
Another drink might.
You’re three shots in when Nat brings you out to the dance floor. The liquor is pulling you lose, the frayed knot that’s always in your chest going slack enough to allow you to dance. You’re smiling and laughing like a normal person, almost completely able to forget to check where Bucky is in the room.
Near the edge of the crowd, drinking and talking to Steve.
A fourth shot might be needed.
You’re smiling like a fool now. The room is tilted a little, all the colors neon, but they blind out your usual worried and the tilt helps your worries slide off your body. You’re able to forget about Bucky until you notice a girl talking to him, and you take a fifth shot. A sixth, when he vanishes for nine and a half minutes, and your brain starts to map everything he might be doing to that girl.
Seven, when the first stranger asks you to dance and you’re not drunk enough to forget about Bucky and say yes.
Eight, when he tries to kiss you and you shove him away, because his lips aren’t pink enough and he’s not broad enough for you to every pretend.
Nat tries to cut you off there. You slip past her, and take a ninth. The room is just a blur now. You can’t fully remember who Nat is, and why you’re trying to avoid her. There’s a man with his hands on your hips, and he’s got dark hair that looks too greasy for you to touch. Another man calls you sweetheart, but he says it a little wrong and it makes you want to cry. None of them have the right eyes, and the ones that are closer don’t have the right smile.
You feel like you’re going to cry, by the time you’ve rejected the eleventh man. Or only fourth. Numbers don’t feel real right now. Most everything doesn’t feel real.
Everything except Bucky.
Because your own name is just a sound in your head that sounds foreign, but Bucky says it and you know to turn around.
It’s less because it’s your name. More because Bucky called you.
You smile, swaying on your feet, and you’re not even sure where you are anymore. It’s somewhere with a lot of people. Loud music. It’s dark, but bright at the same time, and Bucky looks like a walking dream as he moves towards you. Your vision swims, but he’s made of clear lines and a stern expression.
He’s mad at you. Your face falls, lip wobbling, and you take a step back. You don’t want him to be mad at you. Your heart is already beating in your ears, Bucky’s anger or distain might make it burst.
“Where the hell did you go?” He snaps, and you bow your head.
“I- I dunno-“ You hiccup, hugging yourself tight.
“Nat’s been looking for you, Steve barely stopped her from trying to make the building go into lockdown, and I-“ He cuts himself off, running a hand over his face, and you blink the tears away.
You’re looking up at him under your lashes, and he’s still angry. Some distant voice in your head tells you it’s your fault entirely. That he must’ve been about to go home with someone when they lost you, and now he’s pissed he had to pause his night to find you. You sniff, wiping your nose with your arm.
Bucky’s frown deepens. He takes a step forward, and you try to step back but balance feels like an Olympic feat right now.
His arm loops around your waist, pulling you right against his chest. You stare up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks from feelings you can’t even name anymore. They’re hollow and big and full and made of a million little cuts. They burn in your heart and through your blood, but also freeze in your throat and muscles. You can’t move. You don’t want to move.
Bucky’s big hand is splayed on your back, and you don’t want to go anywhere you can’t feel him.
That voice from before reminds you that’s not allowed, so you wiggle a little.
Bucky holds you tighter, and you surrender in a split second. His frown deepens, and you think you’re still crying. Your cheeks are certainly burning, and your throat feels oddly tight.
Gentle fingers brush under your eyes, and you hum softly. Bucky’s nostrils flare, those fingers brushing hair from your face before cupping the back of your head, forcing your gaze onto his.
“Jesus, woman.” He mutters, those beautiful eyes scanning over your slack face. “How much did you have to drink.”
“I dunno.” You breathe. His brow furrows.
“Best guess.”
You shrug, shaking your head, and Bucky sighs. You want to shrink and hide from him, from his obvious annoyance and disappointment. It’s nothing new, but it’s raw like this. You can’t figure out anything, let alone how to pretend like his hatred doesn’t bother you. You try to turn and hide your face, but Bucky just pulls it right back.
“Over five?” He prompts, and his voice is so soft. Like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you.
“I- I don’t know.” You whine slightly, and he sighs.
“Yeah. Alright.” Bucky’s throat bobs, and he looks up. Glances around you, his hands never leaving your body.
You stare up at him in the dark. You’re not supposed to be looking at him, but it’s impossible. He’s magnetic, and beautiful, and you’ve never been this close to him without one of you trying to claw at the other.
But your fingers cling to the fabric of his shirt, and it’s not to draw blood. You just don’t think that if he walks away you’re going to be able to stand up.
Bucky looks back down at you, and his tongue flicks over his lips. His thumb drags slowly over your cheekbone, leaving a little trail of fire in its wake. Your breathing gets shallow, your eyes fluttering. Everything feels like a lot. Like you’re so high in the atmosphere the air is starting to get thin. Bucky’s brow furrows, and he works his jaw like he does when he’s thinking.
You’ve always wanted to reach up and touch the lines that form on his face, when he worries. They’re deep, and still handsome, but they only ever mark that he’s stressed. He shouldn’t be. It’s only you, and you’re nothing to him.
He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, his hand dragging down to cup the back of your neck. You tip your head back, waiting for him to do something. Kiss you. Bite you. Slam you back against the wall and relieve the ache, building up between your thighs. Maybe just smell you and let his lips brush over a sensitive spot on your neck, teasing you like always until you’re crying and begging for him.
Instead, Bucky just sighs. He pulls you forward, twisting you until you’re in front of him. His arms cage you to his chest, and he’s almost herding you down the hall.
“Where’re we going?” You tip your head back, and find him glowering at everyone around you.
They’re all moving so fast, stumbling in your path then scrambling away under Bucky’s glower. His eyes flick down to yours for a second, and maybe it’s the delusions of grandeur and liquor, but you could swear they soften slightly.
“We’re gettin’ you home.” He mutters, shouldering the door open. “You need to sleep this off.”
You wrinkle your nose as the chill of night air hits you. “But it’s cold-“
“Car will be warm.”
“But we don’t have a car-“
“We’re taking Nat’s.”
You scoff. “Nat would never give you her car-“
“Well, she did.” He grunts, voice dropping under his breath. “You’d never give me your car.”
“I don’t have a car.” You snap, and Bucky chuckles dryly.
“Yeah, I know.” He opens the door, giving you an amused look. “Up and in, baby.”
Your whole world stops for a second. You feel like you’re floating, a ditzy smile crossing your face, and you start to giggle because he called you baby. Bucky called you baby, like you matter to him, and he’s touching you.
Bucky sighs when you don’t move, and bends down. He scoops you up and drops you in the car like you weigh nothing. You’re still giggling when he closes the door and walks around the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. For a second you stop, looking out the club with a frown. The world is still hazy, but you can see the neon sign, and it feels like you’re forgetting things that are very important-
“They’re all goin’ back to our place.” Bucky grunts, and you look over to find him staring at you with one of those stone-faced, unreadable expressions that he only uses around you. “It’s closer, cab will be cheaper.”
You frown. “Why aren’t they riding with us?”
“’Cause we’re going back to yours.”
“Why?”
“’Cause.” Is all Bucky offers. He starts the car before you can ask another question, and puts his arm around your seat to back out of the spot.
Nat has a back cam. He just always does it like this, and you’ve always chalked it up to his big, responsible man thing. Usually when the arm is around you, you glare out the window and pretend you can’t feel how close he is. How his fingers brush your upper arm, or how his smell gets stronger.
Tonight you can’t really remember why you do that. And Bucky does really smell good.
You turn your cheek, pressing it into his bicep. Bucky freezes, the car jerking to a stop, and you can feel his attention. It sparks a tiny fire in your core, and seeps down between your thighs. Your lips graze his skin, and he coughs.
His fingers dip down, brushing near your collarbone. You hum happily, and the car starts moving again.
When you’re out of the parking lot, Bucky doesn’t remove his arm like usual. You’re grateful. If he did, you might have chased it right into his lap.
“You have fun?” Bucky breaks the silence, voice gruff.
You nod, turning to watch him drive. He always does it in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive. He holds the wheel lazily, like he knows it’s under his control. You want him to hold you like that.
Bucky clears his throat. “You, uh- You did good.”
“Good?” You murmur, not fully understanding the praise.
You know it makes you throb, and press your thighs together. Bucky’s eyes flick to the motion, and his throat bobs.
“Yeah.” His grip on the wheel is white knuckled. “Good.”
Silence settles again, and you let yourself stare at him. He’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes you unsure that he’s real. You’d like to trace the line of his jaw, hear his smooth, deep voice again. Hear it say your name, because it’s the only thing that reminds you that you’re real. You can’t remember why you ever deprived yourself of this. Of him, and all his quiet glory. He’s a loud man, but never boastful.
He’s only really boastful to you. When he fixes the shower for Nat or someone brings up his army service, he waves them off and laughs, and you’ve always loved that about him. You love most things about him, even when he’s being insufferable. You sort of love that he’s insufferable, too. You’re not that easy either. And if you wrapped around him, you’re hoping he’d be too chivalrous to cut you off. He could mock you all he wants, you’d just hide your face in his neck and breathe him in. Grounding. Handsome. Impossible to resist.
Your fingers are itching, to touch that sad little furrow. There’s nothing for him to worry about. The world revolves around him.
“Saw you got some numbers.” He grunts suddenly, and you pause.
“Numbers?”
“Phone numbers.”
“Oh.” You reach for you bag, checking that the hard line of your phone is still there. It is. You don’t know what he’s talking about.
“You gonna call any of them?”
“Any of who?”
Bucky gives you an exasperated look, then double takes slightly. His worry lines deepen. It makes you pout, grabbing at your own hands to stop them from reaching for him.
“The guys.” He says slowly, frowning at the road. “That you were talkin’ to.”
Oh. Phone numbers. “No.”
His brows raise. “No?”
You shake your head, and Bucky prompts you with an oddly tight voice.
“Why?”
They’re not you. Even your drunk brain seems to know it’s bad idea to say that. “I didn’t want them.”
“Hm.” Bucky taps his hand on the wheel, shooting you a strange look. “Why?”
You can’t tell him that, but you also can’t think of a good excuse this time. You make a lame, half-hearted sigh, and turn your face back into his arm.
He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t talk for the rest of the drive. His thumb drags little circles on your upper arm, lulling you into a half-sleep only interrupted by the bump of the road. You’re not sure how much longer you’re in the car, and when it stops you can’t really remember what you’re supposed to do now.
Bucky helps. He slides away from you, squeezing your thigh in a silent reassurance before he steps out of the car. Your hand traces over where he’d touched you. Bare skin on skin, hands still light and gentle. He seems to have burned his handprint into you, and it spreads until you’re tingly and weak-kneed.
The door on your side opens, and his voice is low in your ears.
“C’mon, pretty girl.” A strong arm loops around your stomach, pulling you back. “Let’s get you in bed.”
You hum, and let Bucky guide you. You trust him completely, with all your heart and not a single question.
He handles you carefully. Guides you inside, holds you steady in the elevator, takes your keys from your shaking fingers and opens the door. You’re sent to take a shower, but start to trip over nothing the moment Bucky lets go of you, so he sighs and draws you a bath.
“How am I gonna stand?” You mumble, sitting on the toilet while he runs the water. “Or rinse.”
Bucky grunts. “I’ll help.”
You hum in approval, and start to pull off your dress. Bucky makes a strangled sound, eyes flying up to the ceiling, and you’ve never seen his face so red.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting ready for a bath?” You frown at him, and he groans.
“You- Fuck.” He takes a heavy breath through his nose, closing his eyes. “Just- Keep your underwear on, alright?”
You nod, trying to ignore the heavy sting that he doesn’t want to see you naked. Bucky won’t even fully look at you as he helps you into the tub. He leaves the room while you sit helplessly in the water, barely moving until he returns. You wrap your arms over your chest, suddenly consciously that maybe you’re not pretty enough for him to look at you. You pull your knees to your chest and sniffle, just waiting for him. You don’t even know why he left in the first place. You wanted him here.
Bucky sighs, when he opens the door to find you crying.
“Christ, I leave you alone for five seconds- Hey, woah-“ He kneels on the bathmat, hand flexing before he reaches out and wipes away your tears. “It’s alright, you’re alright. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re okay-“
You bite down a sob and turn your face, pressing it right into his shoulder. Again, Bucky stiffens. His arms hover for a second, breathing shallow, and you think he’s going to shove you away.
But he doesn’t. After that single, million year heartbeat of a moment, he grabs you. Holds you tight into his body, cradling your head and rocking you back and forth. The water flows under you, pushing up on the lip of the tub. A little bit flows over, splashing his pants.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
“C’mon, baby.” He murmurs, slowly starting to rise. “Let’s get you to bed.”
You nod, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. When he gets you on your feet, he stops for a second. His lips brush near your ear, and an electric rush dart through you. Then, fast but certain, he kisses the side of your head.
It’s so quick you’d think you imagined it, if you couldn’t feel the burn of his lips long after he pulls away. You reach up to brush it, when Bucky deposits you on your bed. You watch him move around the room like he belongs there.
He does.
He’d belong with you, if he wasn’t such a massive butt about your existence.
“It’s your fault, you know.”
Bucky glances up from your dresser, fisting a shirt in his hands. “What?”
“You.” You say, because it’s that simple.
He’s the reason you’re drunk. That you didn’t score tonight, that you’d been crying, that you have to be coddled like a baby.
Not that you mind that last one. It’s wonderful, having him touch and speak to you like he cares.
It’s still all his fault.
“What’s me?” He says, and you roll your eyes at the ceiling.
“All of it.”
Bucky says your name, and you wave him off with a dramatic sigh. You can hear him pad slowly across the room, and when he pulls you up gently you flop over his body. A useless ragdoll he’s trying to get a shirt onto.
But the harder you make it, the longer he’ll stay. The longer he’ll be nice, and touch you, and-
“I love you.”
Bucky stills. Your words hang in the air, but you don’t understand why. You’ve said far worse things to him, and he must have known. You know. You’re pretty sure Nat does too, with all the looks she’s always giving you after Bucky teases you and you flush, or you bicker and he marches away with a scowl.
It’s not some grand confession. You love him like the seasons turn and the sun always rises. It’s a deep, mechanical part of you that can’t be rewired, and you know because you’ve tried. But Bucky’s leans back and stares at you like the sky is falling.
“What?”
His voice is a croak, and you frown at him.
“I love you.” You say it slower this time. Maybe you’d slurred the words, and he hadn’t understood. “It’s your fault, because I love you and you’re just… There.”
He blinks at you slowly, obviously still not understanding. You roll your eyes, and flop back down.
Bucky coughs, grabbing your knee as if to steady himself. He’s sitting down, and it’s not like he’s in love. The world is perfectly under his feet. You’re the one suffering.
“I’m here?”
“All the time.” You whine, and his grip on your knee tightens.
“But you love me.”
“Mhm.”
“So why’s it problem that I’m here-“
“Because you never do anything.”
You can hear the frown in his voice. “I do things. I do lots of things-“
“You never touch me.” You prop yourself on your elbows, glaring down at him. “You just- You’re there, and you don’t like me and it- It makes me-“
“Makes you what.” Bucky’s voice is deep, his eyes dark on yours, and you stick your tongue out at him.
“You don’t get to know.”
“I don’t get to know?” He snorts. “No, you can’t just- You can’t say that kinda stuff then-“
“I wish you’d touch me.” You tell the ceiling.
Bucky grunts. “Yeah, I’ve heard. But-“
“Think I could cum just from listening to you talk.” You hum, your voice sounding like a faraway dream.
Your eyes are getting heavy, and Bucky’s gone completely silent. The words start to float out of you, like steam escaping through windows, into the warm, open sky.
“I’d like to touch you, too. Put you in my mouth, or just- ride you.” You sigh. “I want everything. I’d do- Do anything you told me too if you asked. Anything.” You look back up at him, your lip wobbling again. “But you never ask me. Why don’t you ever ask me?”
Bucky’s gaping at you, and he shakes his head, his voice a low croak. “I, uh- You’ve never-“
He swallows, glancing down, and you follow his gaze.
He’s straining through his jeans, shifting uncomfortably. You giggle, flopping back down. Your eyes start to droop, the room fading in and out. Bucky rises over you with a sigh, pulling the blankets up.
“’S nice.” You murmur. “You. Bein’ here.”
You yawn, and Bucky’s laughs. Under his breath, like an inside joke he won’t bring you into.
“Yeah. I know.” His hand grazes over your cheek, and you hum sleepily, eyes closing.
His lips press to your forehead, and it’s like a spell. The world, slowly and easily, starts to slip away.
“Sleep well, baby.” He mutters, and under that command, you do.
He’s not there when you wake up, and you have to be okay with that.
You don’t know how you’re ever going to face him again anyway. There’s a fog hanging over your brain, but it’s not thick enough that you can’t remember last night.
Bucky saw you naked. He was in your room, and put you to bed, and you-
You told him you loved him.
That you wanted him. That you could cum just from him talking to you.
You have to move. You have to change your name and move as far away as possible. Maybe Siberia, or Russia, or Romania, or somewhere he’ll never find you again. Because you told him you loved him, and now he’s gone.
He left a water on your bedside table. Mocking you with the fact that last night was real.
You force yourself to sit up, rubbing your temples, and take the glass. If you’re never going to see Bucky again, and you don’t plan to, there’s no need to spite him with ignoring it.
When you stand up, it takes a few deep breaths to start moving. Nat isn’t home yet, and she probably won’t be for a while. That gives you plenty of time to wallow before you vanish forever. You can spend the morning moping and cursing yourself, then worry about consequences.
You make cereal and put on coffee. Stare at the little bits floating through the milk, and try not to think about Bucky. If he’s thinking about you.
If he is, you don’t want to imagine what. That you’re a whore for throwing yourself at him, a fool for think he’d be open to such a confession—from you of all people—or maybe just the same as he always did. Maybe he’d known the whole time, and he just thinks you were gutsy to say it aloud when he so clearly wants nothing to do with you.
Nothing at all, but taking care of you while you’re drunk. Giving you a bath and putting you to bed, handling you like something precious and kissing the side of your head.
That could have been just more mocking. The same game he’s always played, accusing you of wanting him then laughing. Like he’d already known.
But playing that game while you’re out of it isn’t Bucky’s style. He likes you biting back, sometimes he dangles comments over your head and grins when you snap at them. So there’d be no reason for him to play when you weren’t even able to a join him. But then there’s no reason for him to act like that at all.
It’s too early to be thinking this much. You put all your hopeful bets on Bucky having somehow forgotten everything, so you don’t have to move.
The door opens down the hallway, and you glance up. It’s early for Nat to be back.
But it’s not Nat that calls your name through the house.
“Where’d you- Hi.”
Bucky walks into the kitchen, and you stare at each other. He’s wearing his clothing from last night, his hair mussed, two paper coffee cups in his hands. You swallow, and he coughs, glancing around the kitchen.
“I got you coffee.” He mutters a little bitterly, and you follow his gaze to the rumbling coffee machine.
“Oh.”
“You don’t have to- It’s here.” He puts it on the counter, and you nod, focusing back on your cereal.
You’re both silent for another long moment. There air is thick, like a swamp at the height of summer. You’re not sure how you remember to speak.
“How’d you know I was up?”
“Your door was open.” He mutters. “Made sure it was closed before I went out.”
“Did you-“
“On the couch. Just, uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked onto yours. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone, and- I think we, uh- You said some things. That we should talk about.”
You rip your gaze away as you flush, but if you’d had any hope of pretending you’d been too drunk to retain the night and just hoping he’d leave you be, that ruins it.
Bucky’s eyes narrow. He walks forward, until he’s right at your side. You can feel his presence buzzing through you, and swallow.
“You remember.” His voice is low, and he leans further down before you can protest. “Don’t lie to me. We’ve both been lyin’ way too much.”
You don’t dignify him with an answer. With even a glance.
Bucky leans closer.
“You said you wanted to touch me.” He’s almost growling in your ear. “You said you wanted me in your mouth, that you wanted me to ride you, that you’d do anything I told you-“
“James.” You hiss, twisting to glower at him.
Mistake.
He looks hungry. His eyes are blown out, only inches from yours, his tongue darts over his lips when you look down at them. He’s watching you like a dog that’s finally been told it can have its bone. Your grip on the counter tightens. It’s hard to stay upright.
“Full name.” He hums, the corners of his lips tugging up. “I’m in trouble.”
“You’re being a dick-“
“Yeah, but you like it.”
“I- You-“
“You love it.”
You freeze at that word. The air feels thin now. Your face is burning, and Bucky’s as collected as ever. Like this is all still just a game to him.
“Fuck you.” You spit. It takes everything you have.
Bucky doesn’t even flinches. “Yeah, you want to.”
Your mouth falls open, and he leans in closer.
“You meant it, right? Everything you said?”
Denying seems pointless. You try to anyway, but your lips barely prepare for the word no before Bucky’s giving you a stern look—don’t lie to me—and your voice dies.
He says your name, and it’s the same voice he used last night. Lighter, gentler, man trying to tend instead of force. You weren’t any match for it last night, but that doesn’t seem to be the drink’s fault. You give in just as easily right now.
“Yes.” You breathe.
Bucky’s eyes flash. “All of it?”
“Bucky…”
“Do you want me.” His voice is demanding now, and you try to look away.
He catches your chin, pulling you back. Forcing your gaze onto his, onto those beautiful, enchanting eyes.
You nod, and he hums in approval. The sound settles, molten and warm in your tummy.
“Do you love me?”
His words sound so sincere and taunting at the same time. You can’t look away, so you glare, and he chuckles.
“Come on, baby.” He brushes his lips over yours, his voice becoming something low. Something dangerous.
You don’t even bother to move away this time. You’re breathing in your chest, your stomach filled with too much desire to do much else. The brush of his lips let you taste coffee and mint, and his grip on your chin is commanding. You’re only putty in his hands. A lost cause that doesn’t really want to be found.
“Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”
Bucky’s eyes gleam, and he’s playing again. He knows he has you, that you want to be had.
His hand drags slowly, gently, on your waist. His fingers dip under your shirt, the soft touch making you gasp. You lean forward, and Bucky leans back. He tilts his head slightly, something stern still in his gaze. You blink hopelessly, trying to figure out what, and he squeezes your hips. It’s grounding and electric, and he presses back forward as you go still below him.
“Do you want me to fuck it out of you.” He growls, and your mouth falls open with a whimper.
Permission. He was holding himself on a leash for your permission.
Doubt drains from your head, far down south where a warm, summer storm is brewing between your thighs.
You spread your legs slowly, and grab his hand on your hips. Push it slightly down, until his attention follows.
Bucky’s jaw clenches, and his hand on your chin drops. You watch as he moves so tantalizingly slow, brushing the band of your panties before dragging down the seam at the apex of your thighs. He rubs you over the fabric, and your hips buck into the touch.
“Fuck.” Bucky hooks two of his fingers, tearing your underwear in one rip. “You’re so wet. Soaked through the panties, soaking my fucking fingers.”
You moan, pressing your face into his shoulder. Bucky dips his fingers into your heat, smearing the arousal all over your pussy, and you shake.
“Bucky-“
“You got this,” he spanks your pussy, then drags the mess down your inner thighs. “’Cause I’m here? Or just from thinking about me?”
“B- Both.” You mumble, trying to keep still as the broad pads of his fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, tantalizing circles.
He hums. “You think about me a lot?”
Pressing hard on the sensitive button. Your knees give out, and you’re only caught by his arm around you’re lower back.
“Careful, baby-“
“All the time.” You whimper the confession, looking up at him with big, teary eyes. “Think about you all the time, Bucky, you’re- You’re so- Oh my god-“
Bucky yanks his hand from your pussy, grabbing your jaw and angling it back for a kiss.
It’s slower than you thought it would be, with how he crashed over you. You’d been expecting rough and harsh, all spit and ownership. Instead there’s a certainly behind it—a rough passion that’s demanding and hot—but it’s slow. Bucky doesn’t use his tongue until you open your mouth, and he hums in satisfaction when you grab at his hair, tugging slightly.
He grabs your ass, hauling you up on the kitchen counter. His hands wander your body lazily, tracing the softness of your hips and curve of your spine. He chuckles when you arch into the touch, deepening the kiss. Stars swim behind your eyes, and you realize you’re still grinding up into his torso.
“Bucky.” You plead, and he presses another tiny kiss to your lips, taking his sweet damn time.
“Off.” He tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms to help him.
He leans back when you’re uncovered, and this time he isn’t trying to cover anything else. He palms one of your breasts, licking his lips before he takes the nipple between his fingers and rolls it. You squeak and his eyes dart up, almost studying how you shiver and blink at him.
“So reactive.” He switches to the other breast, and your fingers dig into the nape of his neck. “Almost came before I even really touched you, sweetheart. If you can’t hold it, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ wreck before I’m even done with you.”
You shake your head, face heating further. “It- It’s been a long time-“
“Yeah, but that’s not it.” He drags his hand down, over your abdomen. Back between your thighs. “You got that little toy keepin’ you satisfied-“
“Not satisfied.” You breathe, head lolling to the side as Bucky resumes his tight circles on your clit. “Not you, Bucky, fuck-“
He groans, dragging you back into a deep kiss. You give him everything you have in return, nipping at his lips and yanking his hair. Bucky groans and picks you fully off the counter, walking you both to your room and kicking the door shut.
“You drive me fuckin’ crazy.” He grunts between kisses, his own steps getting a little uneven. “The stuff I wanna do to you, no way we’re covering it in one night. Years to make up for, gotta ration it.”
“Years?” You pull back, and Bucky grins.
“Oh yeah. You’re not the only one who’s not satisfied, babydoll.”
“But-“
“Ah.” He kisses you, lowering you onto the bed. “Nope. Not now.”
You frown up at him. “Bucky, you said we needed to talk-“
“And now I’m sayin’ not now. And if my memory’s right,” he grins down at you. “You’re the one who said she’d do whatever I want.”
You flush, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky laughs. He pulls his shirt off, and you almost fall backwards on the sheets like it’s an atomic blow.
There have been glimpses. Moments. You’ve been to the pool with him before, and he’d been shirtless there too.
But he hadn’t been standing over you, massive and radiating power. You hadn’t been close enough to trace your fingers over the scars littering his muscle, remnants from his time in the army. You reach up in a trace, tracing one closer to his pant line, and he flexes under your touch. A low sound rumbles through him, and he catches your wrist with a warning look.
You giggle. “You’re not the only one who’s sensitive.”
Bucky’s eyes flash, his voice dropping impossibly low. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak.”
Your shift in the sheets, more desire building in your already aching pussy. Bucky’s attention darts to the movement, and his throat bobs. Every muscle in his body strains, and you give him a sweet smile.
“Prove it.”
Bucky makes that deep, growling sound again and grabs your face between his hands. He presses over you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and this is the kiss you’d been expecting from before. Rough and starved, almost marking you as much as kissing you. He bullies you down into the mattress with his weight, and you spread your legs wide to accommodate him.
“You’re so soft.” He mutters, kneading your thighs as his mouth starts to trail hot kisses down your neck. “Thought about touchin’ you like this forever, about how beautiful you’d be under me. And let me tell you, baby,” he nips under your jaw. “Better than I managed to dream.”
You grind up below him, trying to chase a little more friction. You keep meeting the rough fabric of his jeans, and the drag is beautiful, but it’s still not enough.
“Needy girl.” Bucky drags your legs apart, pressing his hips firmly over your core. The sudden pressure does the trick, and you moan, tipping your head back in brief relief. “Yeah, you like that. Feels so good and I’m not even doin’ anything.”
“Bucky, don’t- Don’t tease-“
“But it’s so fun.” He coos, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You get all nervous, makes me want to stuff you up with cock and see how you squirm-“
You make a loud, wanting sound, trying to fuck your hips up into the air. But Bucky’s heavy. You can only claw at his shoulders, and it just makes him tease more.
His rolls his hips, dragging the bulge in his jeans over your burning core. Your mouth falls open, and he kisses you, sneaking and arm tight around your back.
The forced arch of your back makes your legs open widen, giving him further access. He starts to rut against your bare pussy, and it’s perfect torture. Your arms are tight enough around him to choke, but it doesn’t slow him down. Bucky dry fucks you, your pussy throbbing desperately for release, arousal trickling down your ass and every thrust filling you with a burning pleasure.
You hadn’t been lying. It’s been a long time. But that’s not the only reason why you’re already so close to the edge again. Bucky’s body is everywhere around you, his thick arms holding you tight, his lips wandering over your neck and cheeks, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The friction is everything, he’s everything, and you don’t have enough restraint to fight it.
The orgasm is sudden and harsh, shaking your whole body. You claw at his back, twitching and whining in his ear. You didn’t know you could cum that hard, hard enough to make eyes close from the overwhelming sensation, and it’s just from dry humping.
Bucky groans in your ear and pulls back suddenly. His eyes are lidded, expression lustful, and his palm flexes near his bulge like he’s forcing himself not to rub it. Your breathing is uneven, your pussy still aching, and you reach down to try and rub your clit until he collects himself.
He catches your wrist and pins it to the mattress, shaking his head. “You just fuckin’ came, baby.”
“I- I know- I just-“ You try to turn, and Bucky slaps your cheek lightly. Forces your attention back to him.
“You’re a big girl. Use words.”
You want to glare at him, but something about the slightly mocking order makes your pussy throb. Bucky raises his brows, and you barely manage not to drool.
“Want more.” You mumble, and he grins.
“And?”
“And?”
“You what?”
You stare for a second, then roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”
Bucky smirks, squeezing his hold on your wrist. “’S alright. We’ll get there.”
You stick out your tongue, and he hums.
“That’s not very nice, baby. Think we need to work on your manners.”
“My manners are fine-“
“You’re a brat.” He teases, and you flush.
“I am not-“
“Yeah, you are. You’re a wet, needy little fuckin’ brat.” Bucky starts to move your hand between your legs, and you pretend to try and pull away.
He sees the challenge, and yanks it down. Presses it against your core, making you shake. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky laughs.
“Look at you.
“You really still got that vibrator?”
You nod, and he pulls your hand up. kisses your knuckles, eyes sparkling.
“Grab it.”
You scramble up the moment he lets go of you, yanking open your bedside drawer and pulling out the pink rabbit. Bucky grabs your hips before you can roll back over, pulling you backward with your ass in the air. You twist to look at him and find his attention entirely fixed on your core. On the mess between your legs.
He’s almost in a trance, as he drags two fingers through your pussy lips. You flutter, overly sensitive from before, and Bucky shoves his fingers right into your pussy.
You go limp, at the sudden stretch. Bucky’s fingers are everything you’d imagined they’d be, and more. Rough in all the right place, deft and thick, crooking right at the edges as he finds your g-spot faster than even you can sometimes. He hums like he’s figured out something interesting and kisses the curve of your ass. He starts to rub the tips of his fingers, massaging that happy, spongey place inside you, and you moan into the sheets.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“You’re tight.” He mutters, kissing between your ass and pussy, the tiny patch of skin that sends a shiver up your spine. “And wet. Gonna feel real good around my cock, babydoll. Got a perfect pussy for me to fill up.”
You make another desperate sound, and Bucky presses further in.
“Oh, that sounds good to you, doesn’t it. Getting stuffed full of my cum, being my pretty cockslut. I’d make you walk around with it after, wear a skirt so I can fuck you again whenever you run out. Fuck you until it’s stained on your legs, until everyone can fuckin’ smell it. ‘Till they know you’re mine.”
Your pussy clenches at the possessive promise, and Bucky groans.
“You wanna be mine, don’t you sweet girl.”
“Ye- Yes-“
Bucky yanks his fingers out of you unexpectedly, and you almost scream in frustration. You try to twist around again to chew him out, but he grabs the back of your neck and shoves you into the sheets. You go limp, trembling as tears prick at your eyes. Bucky arms snakes around your stomach, his thumb resting under your clit. Never touch it, or where your pussy is fluttering, desperate to be filled.
“Say it.” He grunts, and you shake your head. You’re not that easy.
Bucky doesn’t seem in any rush to give up though. He spanks your pussy, and you cry out in a mix of pain and delight.
“Say it.” He orders, and your hands fist in the sheets as he spanks your pussy again. You grind against him, chasing more, and he pinches your clit hard.
You almost fly out of your skin, a lewd, garbled plea escaping your lips as another orgasms rushes through you. This one is shorter, but no less consuming. You clench around nothing, mouth hanging stupidly open, and Bucky sucks near your throat, his teeth brushing and making the pleasure all the more intense.
“Fuckin’ brat.” He mutters, awe almost coating his voice. “I’m a damn saint, making you cum again when you’re so greedy. When you got this hungry little pussy, begging to be stuffed with cock, and I’m letting you go first.”
“Please,” you try to flip over, but Bucky’s hold on you is too strong. “Bucky, please- Please just fuck me.”
“Oh, I will.” He kisses under your ear, voice silken and taunting. “But not now, babydoll. Then we would’ve brought this out for nothing.”
“What’s-“
A buzzing sound fills the air, and your eyes widen.
“Bucky, wait-“
“You know, you get more sensitive after you cum.” Bucky drawls, dragging the thick tip of the rabbit up and down your pussy. You try to focus on your breathing, squeezing your eyes shut as your body starts to get swept away in a wildfire.
“God, fuck-“
“Quiet.” He grunts. “I’m trying to talk, sweetheart. Be good.”
You nod, biting on your lower lip, desperate to listen well. To be good.”
“Like I was saying.” Bucky drawls, shoving the vibrating dildo up against your clit, then yanking it away. “You get more sensitive. And I was thinking all night about your little confession. That you can cum just from listening to me talk.” Bucky hums, dragging the head down to rest right over your entrance. “I like a challenge, but I’m got enough on my hands with you today. And since I’m so nice.” He pushes the thick length a little inside you, and your pussy clenches around it. “I’m gonna give you some extra hands. Extra sensitive,” he gives your clit a series of tiny hits, shoving the rabbit in deeper. “Some fake fuckin’ cock to get you ready for the real thing, and me.”
Bucky drags you back into his lap, right as he shoves the dildo home. You almost scream as the smaller bit presses over your clit, the thicker part driven right against where Bucky already knew your g-spot was.
“Bucky- Holy shit-“
He pulls your face to the side, silencing you with a deep kiss as you shake. You’ve already cum twice. That’s more than usual, and you’re not sure if you’ve got another.
You don’t get to tell him that, though. You don’t think he’d care to hear it right now, and fuck, do you want to see him try.
“I said quiet.” He growls when he pulls away, and before you know what’s happening he’s shoving the same fingers that had been in your pussy into your mouth.
You melt immediately, sucking on them as your eyes flutter. Bucky groans in your ear, moving his free hand to hold the rabbit inside your gushing, oversensitive pussy.
“Good girl.” He drawls in your ear. “Didn’t even have to ask, you just knew didn’t you. Fuck, you suck my cock half this good I’m not gonna be able to last ten minutes.”
You moan, and Bucky kisses the corner of your jaw before continuing.
“I know you’d like that. What was it you said? That you wanted to touch me? When this is done we can get you on your knees. If you behave.” He nips at your sweaty skin. “I’ll let you suck my dick. I’ll even fuck your face if you ask real nice. I hope you’re nice, baby, cause I can imagine it. You crying, lips around me, fucking your fingers while you choke on my cock. My pretty baby, my sweet fuckin’ doll loving me so much.”
You slump back against him fully, hips rolling uselessly, and it’s more subtle this time. The heat building at the bottom of your tummy, winding tight and made of a strange pressure.
“You’re gonna say it.” He coos in your ear, and your pussy starts to fight against the rabbit. Like it knows you can barely take it.
But you can’t lend it much energy. You like this position well enough.
“After you cum for me again, I’ll fuck you. Fuck you properly like the brat that you are.” Bucky groans, pressing his nose into your hair. “Walking around, making me feel like I’m the asshole for wanting you, for loving you when you’re snapping off at me,you’re a mouthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you babydoll. Lotta bark but,” he pushes his fingers further into your mouth. “Not even a little bit of bite.”
Your eyes roll back, head pressing into his shoulder, and you give him a silent look of pleading that’s only met with a mocking grin.
“So pretty like this, sweetheart. Stupid and quiet, I ain’t even fucked you yet. Won’t clean you up after you’re done, just let you walk around with it dripping. Maybe I’ll fuck you until it sticks. Until you’re mine.”
Your back arches, and you’re so close. You can feel Bucky’s dick twitch against your ass, and somewhere in the distance your thoughts manage to collect enough to tell you that he removed his bottoms at some point.
“Fuck, ‘course you’re into that. Shouldn’t have expected more from you, with how much you love this. You’re close, baby.” His lips tease the shell of your ear. “So close.”
You whimper, grinding down onto him as the dildo vibrates, and Bucky groans. He pins you down to his lap with a hiss, fingers flexing on your stomach.
“Shit- You can’t just-“
He presses his mouth where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and sucking as his dick throbs against you, and his dirty talk becomes mumbled and deep.
“My pretty fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for it, cum for me, babydoll, come on, fuckin’ show me how much your greedy pussy wants my dick-“
The pressure breaks like a flood. Your pussy gushes so hard it pushes out the rabbit, and your head flies back as you grind into the air. Bucky moans, fully moans, and starts to rub your clit back and forth with the palm of his hand. You grab his wrist, spasming and trying to chase it and escape all at once. You whine as it becomes all too much, batting at Bucky’s hand.
He stops, collecting your release on his fingers.
When he presses them against your lips, you open. Hum as he feeds your own juices to you. All you can do is lap at his fingers and look at him under fluttering lashes, and he smiles.
“Good girl.” He coos, and your body seizes up again. You moan around his fingers, and Bucky laughs.
He pulls them out, turning your head for a gentle, deep kiss. You’re boneless and cockdrunk, only able to let him give and give whatever he’s willing. You can’t even try to drag him close.
Bucky rolls you over, making sure your back is pressed into the mattress as he kisses you lazily. He rises up after a few moments, his gaze raking down your body, and you flush. If you had more strength, you’d cover yourself. You’ve never been good at being looked at.
But there’s nothing expect awe and affection in Bucky’s eyes. He traces a hand over your every curve and softer spot, rising slowly on his knees to part your legs.
“You’re a miracle, baby.” He murmurs, pumping his cock in his hands and for once, you feel like one. “Look at what you do to me.”
You do, and you might be about to burst into flames.
Bucky’s thick. Long, but not enough to worry you, and thick. He’s going to drag, be able to get balls deep and make you feel him everywhere.
You’re drooling, and he sees it. He smirks knowingly, and you wrinkle your nose.
“Come on.” He teases. “Say it, and it’s all yours.”
You shake your head, and Bucky hums. Crawls back over your body, notching his cock right at your entrance. His hovers his lips over yours, not quite fully kissing.
“Say it.”
When you find your voice, it’s raspy and broken.
“No.”
“But you know you want to.” He presses the first inch inside, and if you’d had any worries about not being able to take more, they’re knocked away with how good he feels.
You were right. He’s an even bigger stretch than his two fingers, and it perfect. There’s a slight ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the closeness. By how well he fits, how much you need more of this brimming, explosive pleasure already threating to take you over.
“Just say it, pretty girl. Say it for me.”
You shake your head, and Bucky pushes further in, and your hands fly into his hair like they were pulled there.
He groans, rutting into you, and bottoms out. You didn’t know you could feel this good. Be this full. Bucky moans in your ear, and you breath slowly, trying to adjust.
“You feel so good.” He smashes his lips over yours, the kiss demanding and long. “Knew you’d feel this good, always knew you’d feel this good, Christ-“
You roll your hips up, and it makes Bucky jerk. He slams into you, knocking the air from your lungs, and your toes curl in delight.
He barks your name, grabbing your jaw, and you beam at him.
“More.” You breathe, and Bucky’s eyes widen in slight surprise.
He recovers fast.
“Yeah?” He pulls out slowly, then slams back in, his tip kissing your cervix. “You like that? Like being fucked like a toy?”
You moan happily, and Bucky laughs.
“Thought you might surprise me, babydoll, but no.” He taps your cheek, and you open without a thought. “You’re just the pretty cockslut I thought you were.”
He drags all the way out again, but this time pushes in slower. You whine, but he doesn’t even acknowledge you, setting a slow pace that feels good, but is far too much. The roughness made you numb with a good, fuzzy sensation, but this makes you feel it. Bucky’s cock dragging against your gummy walls, the press of him over your g-spot and heat of him, right over your clit.
You can barely take it. You’re already so fucked out from the other orgasms, you’re barely able to hold onto Bucky properly. You think you might be about to black out from pleasure, but no part of you wants him to stop altogether, and how you’re trapped somewhere between paradise and hell.
“Look at you.” He grabs one of your breasts, palming it as he thrusts smooth and deep. “Nobody else does this to you, do they. Makes you feel so good, gets you so stupid on their cock.”
You shake your head, and Bucky taps your mouth again.
“Words.”
“Bucky…”
“Want to hear you, sweet girl.” He kisses your cheek, words pure filth in your ears. “Here you scream for me while I fuck you, hear how much you love it.”
“Can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” He slams a little firmer, giving you a pointed look. “Good girls listen. And when they listen,” he repeats the motion, holding your gaze. “They get filled up.”
You whimper, but nod. Bucky smiles in satisfaction, returning to his torturous speed from before.
“Anyone else do this to you?” He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No- No. Never, Bucky, only you-“
He groans, picking up his pace. “That’s fuckin’ right. No one fucks you like this, I’m gonna ruin you. If you wanna cum you’ll have to find me, I’m the only one who plays this perfect fuckin’ pussy- Shit-“ He groans, jaw clenching as he hits a little deeper than before. “Nobody takes care of you like me-“
“No one.” You echo, and you’re rewarded with another rough slam. “No one, Bucky, only- Only wanted you, needed you- Fuck-“ You cry out, pressing your cheek into his jaw. “You and your thick cock, needed you so bad-“
“I know. I know, babydoll, but I’m here now.” He kisses you quickly, speeding up again.
It’s enough to make you start to feel it again. Not slowly building, but being dragged out. The tip of Bucky’s cock drags through you, and that hot feeling in your core starts to fill up again.
“Wanted to do this for so long.” He groans in your ear, and a loud moan escapes your lips. “You really got no idea, I thought I was gonna lose it every time I saw you, thought you’d never let me- God-“
You clench around him, and Bucky angles your hips up, allowing him to hit deeper. You moan, and he kisses the back of your neck, sucking a dark mark.
“My girl.” He mutters possessive, and you babble an agreement. “My smart, mean fucking baby, drunk on my cock. Prettiest girl in the world, mine-“
You moan, and Bucky cuts himself off with a groan. He kisses you again, then rises over you. Bracing his arms on either side of your head as he looks to where he’s fucking into you. Your gaze follows, and the warmth in your gut flares at the sight.
It’s the most vulgar, pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Bucky’s thick cock, sliding in and out of you with ease. Precum and your own need for him shining on the thickness of him, his chest flexing with restraint as he forces himself to keep the same pace. You watch his cock vanish into your body, and feel him deep inside you, and God-
You look up, checking if Bucky’s as strangely moved by that as you are, and find him staring at you. The moment your eyes meet, he grabs your jaw, pressing you back down into the pillows with a rough kiss. You’re unable to do anything but take it all. Bucky’s tongue pressing down your throat, his lips moving expertly over yours, his cock fucking every word but his name out of your head.
“Look at me.” He rasps when he pulls away, and you nod.
His eyes are almost wholly black, and shining. Tears prick at yours, but Bucky leans down, kissing them away before going faster again.
His balls start to slap on your ass, his cock pumping in and out of you until it’s all you can think about. Bucky deep inside you, lighting you up, how you can feel a rush up your spine with his every thrust. A lewd, wet sound is filling the room as he pounds into you. Your pussy burns and spasms every time, but it’s too good to fight.
Bucky’s too good to fight. You don’t know why you tried for so long.
“Bucky-“ You breathe, and he grunts.
“You’re close, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you don’t know how he knows, but he’s right.
You’re about to snap again. To lose it from how he’s fucking you like you’re a doll and the love of his life, all at once. You grab his wrist, squeezing tight.
“Pretty girl,” he teases. “Gonna soak this cock like a good girl, aren’t you. Give it to me, baby, show me how much you love it-“
“Love you.” You breathe out, and Bucky freezes.
Balls deep, he stills. His cock throbs in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care.
You blink at him, praying you didn’t ruin it. Bucky swallows, and rasps out your name.
“What?”
“I- I love you- Oh.”
He jerks into you when you say it, and you almost fly out of your skin.
“Fuck, Bucky- I- I love you-“
It happens again, but you don’t think he’s doing it to mess with you. He can barely seem to control himself, his attention almost feral as his cock jumps inside you.
“I- I love you- Oh my god-“
Bucky dives over you, kissing you like he’s trying to steal the words from your mouth. Like he can taste them.
“Damn right you do.” He grunts, cock dragging inside you as he starts to fuck you, shallow and brutal. “Love you, love you so much, you’re-“
He kisses you, and somewhere through the floating, hazy dreamworld his cock is fucking you into, you think he’s run out of words.
Bucky’s fucking you like an animal, because there’s nothing left for either of you to say. He pulls your hips back up to that angle from before, returning to that pace from before that pulled the confession out of you. You’re in incoherent, babbling mess, tugging at the sheets and watching Bucky above you like he’s God.
“Good girl.” Is all he’s grunting out, but it’s deep and every word of a noise than anything else. “Mine, my good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, you’re-“ He moans, doubling over your body as his thrusts become short and harsh. “You’re perfect-“
From nowhere, you find the strength to reach up and grab Bucky’s face. You pull it down, kissing him with every word you’re too ruined to say, and he moans.
Bucky slams home, muttering your name against your lips like a prayer. You can feel him everywhere. Hot and sticky, pumping deep into your own heat, coating your walls, dripping out and running down your ass. When Bucky starts to move again, slow and lazy, he presses it deeper, spreads it everywhere.
It’s hot on your clit, and Bucky’s still jerking and spraying inside of you. You’ve never been this full, it’s addicting. Your brain is empty, body alight with the feeling, Bucky’s cum so thick and demanding that you could swear you feel it washing through your whole body.
He reaches between your legs to rub your clit.
You get there all on your own.
Your vision goes white, as you cum. You’re so out of it you feel it the same way you feel a cool breeze. Light and relieving, washing over the heat inside you and pulling a happy sigh from your lips.
Bucky kisses you, and this time it’s only sweet. All his mean words and taunts so easily dissolve as you reach up, running your fingers through his hair. He smiles against your lips, and you smile back.
“Told you I’d do it.” He mutters, and you shove his chest with a weak laugh.
“Shut up.”
He grins, moving up to kiss your brow, then the side of your face. He’s still buried inside you. Neither of you are in a rush to move any time soon.
“You mean it, though.” He pauses, moving back over your body.
There are those worry lines again. You reach up with a tiny smile, and soothe your fingers over them. Bucky hums, leaning into your touch, and you smile.
“Yeah.” You whisper, and his shoulders sag.
“Thank god.” He presses his face between your breasts. “That would’ve been bad.”
You laugh, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around your body. He’s slid out a little, but you’re still connected to him, and you never want to move again.
“How long?” He mutters against you, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “Cause mine was when I saw you.”
You flush stupidly—he’s inside you—and mumble, “Me too.”
Bucky frowns. “But you were always- “
“And were you any better?”
He snorts, leaning up to peck your cheek. “Fair shot.”
“I know.” You snip, then, “You- You meant yours, right? I mean- What you said while…”
You trail off, because you didn’t imagine it. I love you and mine, too sincere to just be dirty talk.
Bucky rises back over you, gently guiding your gaze back to his. He smiles when your eyes meet, and kisses the tip of your nose.
“With everything I fuckin’ got.” He mutters, and you smile.
“Good.”
“I know. I mean, I did really well for myself- I’m complimenting you, woman!”
You’d shoved him, and Bucky grabs your wrists, wrestling them down into the mattress. He looks at you with a rough, fond exasperation.
“You’re a gremlin.”
“You like it.” You beam up at him, and he lower back down, kissing you lightly.
“Tough curse.” He mutters. “But I’m enjoying it.”
You roll your eyes at him, and he grins. Beautiful and all yours.
“Can we stay here for a while?” You ask, just because you want to have this, and sit in it. “Please.”
Bucky nods, and you feel your heart shine like it’s been given new batteries. Beating out of your chest and comfortably all at once, as Bucky rolls you both onto your sides, wrapping tight around you.
“We can do whatever you want.” He mutters, rubbing your hips and kissing the marks on your neck.
You relax, because you believe him. About all of it.
And now, you have him with you for all the time in the world.
✦End note: big fan of that horny old man in every universe.✦
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