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.
i cant stop thinking about your writings. they’re addictive!! sickening! (in the best way possible ofc).
can i get a boyfriend Steve x Reader x Jancy and they do a date night together? i am thinking a movie where they don’t really pay attention to the it 🙃 maybe extra possessive Steve this time who gets jealous!! xx
FRIDAY NIGHTS
Part II here.
STEVE HARRINGTON x READER & NANCY WHEELER x JONATHAN BYERS (18+)
“I promise we will be quick; just one movie at my place. We haven’t had a double date in weeks! You can wear your new lingerie over here, then devour Steve the moment credits roll. C’mon, it’ll be fun!”
Nancy had begged you, seemingly desperate to not be left alone for another one of Jonathan’s infamous film discussions he held every Friday. Who were you to turn down your best friend’s insistent request?
| ~10k wc. No use of Y/N. Plot + smut!
MDNI! SEXUALLY EXPLICIT! ALL ADULT CHARACTERS! (AFAB reader she/her), (Dom Boyfriend!Steve), (Dom!Nancy), (Sub!Reader), (Sub!Jonathan), (unprotected PIV), (oral), (faceriding/69), (Steve tries to share), (Nancy wants to ruin your friendship/be lovers instead), (spit), (breeding mention), (pet names), (mild perversion?), (possessiveness), (Steve calls himself ‘Daddy’), (lingerie), (degradation), (almost getting caught by Mike), (little aftercare), (untagged general filth), (No chapters/entire work), (Not beta read, we die like Eddie)
AN - I just want everyone to know I miss Joe Keery more than life
Thank you for the prompt, anon! I have received a seperate double-date Jancy request asking specifically for Dom!Nancy and Sub!Jonathan fucking next to Reader so that’s also here. I let Nancy get touchy with Reader because she would most certainly want a taste of you, no matter what Steve had to say about it + obligatory Jonathan spit kink.
I write a lot. I just love these characters loving on you. Feel free to send in more stuff, please! Bien à toi ~ Nyra
divider credits to @pixopix - header photos from Pinterest.
There was something special about the way Nancy’s gaze was always glued to your body, studying every movement in a way that was unwavering, yet never truly unnerving.
“Your eyes… you look like one of my Great Aunt Betty’s haunted dolls,” you teased, catching her stare. “Do you ever spook Jonathan?”
“Only late at night,” Nancy chuckled, continuing to adjust the strap on your bra.
You simply nodded, allowing her to work.
To others, intimacy like this would be odd. In conservative Indiana, it was nearly blasphemous.
Still, you’d grown comfortable with the notion that ‘weird’ wasn’t always wrong, especially when ‘weird’ was happening in Hawkins on a daily.
Your closeness to Nancy was nothing new, only blossoming since you’d met each other back in 6th-grade gym class (when both of you refused to run the mile). Since then, you happily accepted Nancy’s need for proximity as an act of devotion - a love language.
After all, there was nothing as comforting as having Nancy ‘Knock ‘Em Down’ Wheeler always by your side. The best ‘Best Friends Forever’.
“Done. Let me fix the other one,” Nancy offered, already moving to adjust the tightness on your other bra strap.
Tonight certainly felt no different than the many prior nights you’d spent gossiping in Nancy’s room as a child, except you two were no longer in middle school. Time rolls forward, delivering a plethora of gifts. With womanhood came responsibilities; jobs and boyfriends and bills and a keen sense of confidence in knowing what you wanted- and tonight, you wanted to fuck Steve.
Nancy, of course, was more than happy to help with your endeavors.
You turned around fully to face her, feeling rather exposed in Nancy’s childhood bedroom in such risqué attire.
“I feel stupid,” you muttered shyly, your body adorned in cheap, black lingerie. “I had to drive all the way to that sex shop downtown for this, and I don’t even think it fits right.”
“Stop it, you’re fine.” Nancy shook her head. “And by fine, I mean you look really hot.”
You responded with a soft huff of annoyance, still unsure. “Even my ass? Maybe I should’ve grabbed a medium instead of a small.”
“Turn to the side real quick,” Nancy demanded, sitting on her bed.
You did as told, allowing her large eyes to do what they had always done best - observe you. You looked at yourself over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of your profile in the vanity mirror. Nancy poked and prodded your lingerie into place.
“At least it makes my boobs look nice?” you tried convincing yourself, impressed with the sudden cleavage the bra provided.
Even you could admit to a certain confidence that came with the way the black lace hugged your curves so tightly. Your soft skin was only exaggerated by the barely-there coverage of sheer fabric, leaving little to the imagination.
Nancy gave a soft ‘hmmm’, gently running her hand up the back of your silky thigh. You were surprised as her path made its way inward, her cool fingertips tracing up past your garter belt, unexpectedly ghosting over your center.
Your breath caught in your throat, unsure of what was happening. Nancy’s touch retreated, now firmly placing both hands on your hips.
“Now face forward, please,” she spoke, using her hands to position your hips to turn you from your side to your back.
You complied, of course, hoping Nancy wouldn’t notice the slick spot on your panties that most certainly wasn’t there before.
Your new pose gave Nancy a proper view of your (almost) bare ass, albeit for the smallest thong string holding everything together. Her fingers were back at work, adjusting the waistband lace so it lay nice and flat against your skin.
You were shocked at the sudden feeling of your thong being pulled back before immediately snapping against your skin with a sharp sting.
“Ouch! Quit it, Nance! I don’t want any red marks for Steve,” you lectured, no hint of genuine upset in your tone.
Nancy shrugged, standing up and facing you with an innocent expression.
“What? Just checking the quality! Even if it’s a bit trashy, you two have been together for almost a year. Steve would still want you even if you were wearing literal trash bags.”
You couldn’t help but smile. You knew Nancy was right.
It had been nearly two months since you and Steve had the opportunity to be intimate. Your schedules had been so conflicted lately between your night shifts at Hawkins Memorial and his morning ones at the radio station.
The last time you and Steve had both planned a night off, Steve was knuckles-deep in your pussy, cramped in the backseat of his BMW, when he received the dreaded comm from Dustin to help ‘save the world’… again.
But you were his world, and tonight you hoped the added lace details would ensure that.
“Thanks again for coming over. I know you and Steve don’t get that much time together, so it means a lot,” Nancy smiled.
You nodded, as if you truly had a choice if you’d be here tonight.
You and Steve had both been reluctantly roped into what Jonathan liked to call ‘Fun Film Friday’, which was really only fun for him. It usually involved meeting at the Byers or Wheeler house, watching a movie, then Jonathan asking a million questions about the cinematography or acting style that went way over all of your heads.
Still, she had promised you only one movie. ‘I promise we will be quick; just one movie. We haven’t had a double-date in weeks! You can wear your new lingerie over here, then devour Steve the moment credits roll. Just please come.’
She even pinky promised, and Nancy Wheeler always kept her promises.
Your train of thought disappeared at the sudden assault of a loud knock on Nancy’s bedroom door. You immediately reached for the silk robe you’d brought along, throwing it on in an attempt to make yourself decent.
Nancy groaned. “FUCK OFF, MIKE! WE’RE BUSY!”
“It’s just us!” you heard Jonathan’s muffled voice through the door.
Nancy made her way over, unlocking the door. “There you guys are! I thought I told you seven o’clock?.”
Jonathan walked in first, hands overflowing with chips and candy for tonight’s moive plans.
“Yeah, our bad,” he mumbled, placing a soft kiss on Nancy’s lips before giving a polite nod to you.
Right behind him came Steve, all bravado and charm, as always.
Steve beamed, rushing to you immediately.
“And there she is! My sweet, sexy, amazing, god damn angel-of-a-woman,” he chuckled loudly, pulling you tightly against his chest in a compressing hug. “God, baby. It’s only been a week. I was goin’ through withdraws, ya know?”
“I missed you more,” was all you could manage, speaking into his chest.
Steve’s comforting scent of Old Spice aftershave, mixed with his unique musk, immediately enveloped you, making you feel right at home. He placed big kisses against every inch of your face before capturing your lips in the most tender kiss.
Time always slowed in moments like these. Even if absent from your life momentarily, Steve always returned to you as if home from war - desperate, loving, and usually very horny.
Steve pulled back. “Now, would ya look at that? What do we have going on here, babygirl?” he smirked, shaking off his denim jacket.
“What? We’ve just been waiting for you two to come back with a movie.”
It was true, after all.
He snorted. “Yeah, but why is my girlfriend all wrapped up in a silky robe in Nancy Wheeler’s bedroom, huh?”
Steve looked down, gently brushing a stray lock of hair out of your eyes, studying your face briefly for any hints.
“Do you like showing off your nice legs, or are you two just playin’ dress up, again?” Steve joked, letting out a laugh too short to properly fool you. He loved to fake nonchalance, but the not-so-subtle possessive undertones were always present in Steve’s voice when it came to you.
You hate to admit it, you truly do, but damn it. Jealousy always looks so fucking good on Steve Harrington.
Jonathan chimed in, locking the bedroom door.
“Erm, sorry we took so long. Stevie here wasn’t interested in any of my nice arthouse films back at my place.”
“Not my fault, Byers. We ended up making a quick stop at the store for some snacks, and I ended up buying something wayyyy better.” Steve started digging into his denim jacket pocket, fishing out a video cassette tape.
“Look what I found at Big Buy - Killer Klowns from Outer Space! It just came out on VHS, we’re all gonna hate it!”
You could hear Nancy groan loudly, followed by a ‘told you’ from under Jonathan’s breath.
“Steve, honey? I’m hoping we could watch an actually good movie for once,” you chuckled.
You never truly knew whether Steve’s bad taste in movies was ironic, genuinely terrible, or if he was simply trying to be excused from any future Fun Film Friday double-date invites.
You were almost certain it was the latter.
“Sure, sure. I gotcha,” Steve sighed. “But if you want to make a quick run to Family Video, we have to dress you in somethin’ a little more modest, Princess. As much as I’d hate to put more clothes on you, we don’t need Hopper arresting your cute ass for indecent exposure.”
“Actually,” Nancy interrupted, rolling over to the side of her bed to brush through a pile of junk on her nightstand. Eventually, she pulled out her own VCR tape. “I was thinking we could try watching this indie flick Robin recommended.”
“Oh, c’mon. You’re gonna take Robin’s recommendations over mine?” Steve waved his movie dramatically. “Clowns… and they’re in space!”
Jonathan plucked the tape from Nancy’s hand, turning the box over. “ ‘Passions of the Undone - Young Victorian Princess Elizabeth Weatherby moonlights in the red-light district of Amsterdam in an effort to rekindle her repressed sexual spark. Follow along as Elizabeth navigates the dangers of falling in love with the nightlife, unleashing her taboo desires before entering her arranged betrothal. Can identity be found even in the darkest of places?’ ”
Steve frowned. “A romance? Nah- Boring. I still vote Killer Klowns.”
“This movie is NC-17,” Jonathan added, raising a knowing eyebrow at Steve.
A slight pause followed as Steve immediately conceded, suddenly keen on the idea.
“Okay, so it’s basically porn. Now that I can get behind. What do you say, baby?”
“I’m always down for some ‘romance’,” you shrugged.
Steve smirked proudly. “That’s my girl.”
He pushed a warm kiss to your temple before pulling you onto Nancy’s bed with him, getting in a comfortable position to endure the next 90-or-so minutes. He was now holding you close to his chest, wrapping his strong arms around you securely.
“Don’t think I’m going to let the robe thing slip, baby girl. Whatever the reason, I don’t like you showing off what’s mine,” he whispered into your ear, before retreating back against the pillow.
Jonathan made his way across the room, slipping the tape into Nancy’s tv set that sat snug in the corner, the static screen buzzing to life.
Nancy handed you some M&M’s that the boys had picked up for you both, knowing your affinity for sweets.
This double date couldn’t be too bad. One quick movie for Nancy, a few of Jonathan’s relentless questions, then you’d be whisked away into Steve’s Beamer to have him tear off your lingerie with his teeth, all before midnight.
You allowed yourself to relax, taking some of the M&M’s to munch on as the film finally began.
⋆｡°✩
You had always enjoyed foreign films.
Hell, you were the one to introduce Jonathan to international directors like Hayao Miyazaki and Jean-Luc Godard, often priding yourself on your open-mindedness - on being cultured.
Right now, not even thirty minutes into Passions of the Undone, and you were at the breaking point of nearly becoming undone yourself.
Robin’s tastes had always been eccentric, but this choice was simply odd.
The English captions were not aligned with the fast-paced Dutch dialogue, leaving you clueless about which character said what. Scenes were spliced together in a bizarre way that leaned more amateur than artistic. Every available inch of the screen was being utilized as a way to fill it with at least one naked woman; sometimes many, many more.
Maybe that was the real draw of the film all along.
You had no idea whether Steve had fallen asleep or was simply bored with reading the captions, having said not a word since the movie had started. He simply held you, resting peacefully against Nancy’s headboard.
“Honey? Are you awake?” you asked.
Steve gave you a soft squeeze, nuzzling into your neck. “Yep. Wide awake.”
“You’re really quiet. Is this movie turning you on, or turning you off?” you teased.
“Hmm. Honestly, I stopped paying attention a while ago. I’m watching somethin’ much more interesting.” Steve whispered.
His comment puzzled you. Steve must have been able to pick up on your confusion, gently nudging his shoulder to the left of the bed where the couple beside you had been cuddling.
Their gazes were fixed on the tv screen, but Jonathan and Nancy were most certainly not watching the movie.
Nancy was cuddled up beside Jonathan, head of bouncy curls resting innocently on his shoulder. Her hand, however, could be found in Jonathan’s jeans, which had surprisingly been unzipped.
Her hand was moving rhythmically inside of Jonathan’s pants, stroking her boyfriend's cock quietly through his underwear. They weren’t being too discreet, as you could clearly see the outline of Jonathan’s length attempting to break free of his black briefs.
You watched, almost transfixed, as Jonathan bit his lip in a desperate attempt to keep quiet. Nancy’s fingers disappeared further, now slipping into the front flap of his underwear to allow herself full access to him. The softest whimper could be heard escaping from deep within Jonathan. He closed his eyes in pleasure, tilting his hips towards Nancy for more.
“They’re really gettin’ at it over there, huh, babe? You think they get off to us watching them have fun?” Steve whispered against your neck.
“Shush!” You playfully elbowed him behind you.
You couldn’t help the warmth that flooded your lower extremities as you witnessed your best friend and her boyfriend touching beside you. They really were in their own little world, Jonathan looking to Nancy for any sort of reaction while Nancy simply focused on the film.
Steve was right, this was way more interesting than Robin’s stupid Dutch movie.
Steve planted a few more kisses up your neck, making his way back to the spot that drove you crazy behind your ear.
“Oh, so you want to not focus on them, huh? Fine, let’s talk about you, baby. Like what the hell you’re hiding under that robe of yours, hmm? Have you been showing off your pretty little body to Nancy again?”
“Steve, knock it off!” you groaned, hoping he’d drop it. You didn’t drag your ass downtown and drop $50 on shitty lingerie just to have his surprise spoiled before you even got the chance to have your boyfriend all to yourself.
“What was that!?” Steve grabbed your jaw roughly, turning your face towards him. “You know Daddy doesn’t take attitude. Knock it off, or I’ll take care of your back-talk issue myself. Got it?” he growled.
You nodded sheepishly.
“Good girl…” he spoke lowly, eyes darkened. “Now, tell me why you’re half naked in Nancy’s home, all alone, just the two of you, or I’ll inspect your body myself. Want me to do that? Right here in front of our friends, huh? I bet they’d love that, actually.” Steve snorted, releasing his firm grip on your jaw.
God, you loathed when he became so possessive. What you hated more was that his jealousy did, in fact, turn you on immensely.
His fingers simply slipped the robe off your shoulders without asking, causing the silk to fall to your waist instead. You were now left almost completely exposed, the lingerie doing little to hide your perky nipples poking through the lace.
Steve stilled, for a moment, not expecting the attire. His calloused hands began moving immediately to squeeze your tits from behind.
“God damn, babe. Is this just for me? You know how much I always wanted to dress you up in some black lace just like this.”
You nodded, a brief surge of relief coursing through you at the thought of Steve enjoying your lingerie choice. A quick glance over to the busy couple beside you brought a bit of relief. They were far too preoccupied with each other.
“You always said I look best in black. I was trying to save it for later. Nancy was just helping me adjust it earlier.”
“Mmm hmm.” He nodded, pulling the robe off your waist to reveal the sheer lace thong. “Black is your best color, but this is downright delicious. I hope it wasn’t too expensive, because as soon as we get out of here I’m gonna-”
Jonathan suddenly let out a loud whimper beside you.
“Yes… ‘m being so good for you, Nance. Please?” He whined. The need in his voice is almost tearing at your heartstrings.
You blinked. Steve paused, fixated on your friends once more.
“Sorry. He gets a bit vocal sometimes,” Nancy smiled, though her hand was still well within the confines of Jonathan’s pants and into his briefs, her movement now slower than before.
Nancy noticed Steve’s hands gripping your breasts, now nearly naked and sprawled across his lap, with no robe anywhere on the bed.
“Looks like Steve likes the lingerie?” Nancy asked.
Steve couldn’t help but chuckle, tentatively massaging your breasts again.
“Hell yeah, I do. And don’t worry too much about Byers over there. This one can get whiny, too,” he teased, one of his hands leaving your breast to instead graze your inner thigh.
He gave it a big squeeze, ‘mine’, before his fingers eventually found the slickness that had already been accumulating on your skin.
“Oh? And apparently, someone can’t help herself. Already makin’ a mess in her brand new panties and I haven’t even done anything yet.”
“STEVEN!” You cried, face blushing profusely with embarrassment.
Why the hell was he feeling you up like this in front of people? This was weird. No, this was completely inappropriate.
Steve simply did not seem to care. He was a man of little shame when it came to sex. Few worries, big ego, and an even bigger cock.
Nancy pulled the pillows that had pilled up between you two during the movie, allowing her full access to view your body being groped and grabbed by Steve.
“She was already turned on just by me touching her earlier. Don’t give yourself too much credit.” Nancy shot at Steve.
“Is that right?” Steve looked down at you, his nostrils flaring. “You let her touch you? Did you get all wet from her, babe?”
Nancy’s eyes were now glued to you, as always, waiting for confirmation.
“Maybe? I can’t help it,” you offered.
Nancy smirked, quickening her pace of striking Jonathan’s lank within his pants, obviously pleased with your confession.
Jonathan whimpered again as he pawed at Nancy to keep going.
“You two wouldn’t mind if I just take care of Jonathan real quick, would you? I would usually wait until you leave, but we’re past any weirdness, right?” Nancy smiled innocently.
You desperately wanted to argue ‘no, you weren’t passed anything!’… but you couldn’t find it in your heart to care. Not truly. Not in a time like this.
You’d seen Nancy naked more times than you could count over the past 10+ years of your friendship. She’d see you naked, and you’d both certainly seen Steve naked.
As for Jonathan, you’d heard enough about Nancy’s sex life that it honestly didn’t really matter.
Now here you were, almost completely nude, in your best friend's bed, who was currently attempting to jerk off her boyfriend while yours was tracing the outlines of your pussy through your lace panties. All of this is happening against the background noise of some shitty erotica film. This was honestly one of the more pleasant ‘weird’ situations you’ve ended up in.
It would be weirder not take the opportunity that is being presented to you.
Steve’s finally broke the silence. “No, no, go ahead and take care of Byers. In fact, the way Princess is dripping tells me I should probably do the same.”
“STOP SAYING THINGS LIKE THATTTT!” you begged, not knowing why Steve was insisting on embarrassing you.
“Relax…” Nancy cooed, gently reaching out to touch your thigh with her free hand.
She thought for a moment. “It’s Fun Film Friday, remember? Just…pretend you’re Princess Elizabeth indulging in her fantasies for a bit. You know, for ‘fun’?”
Nancy’s big eyes searched your face for every micro-expression that crossed your features that might elude to your feelings you hopelessly attempted to hold back - Fear, lust, shame, love.
Her long fingers caressed up your thigh to your hip bone. Steve’s breathing seemed to quicken, watching Nancy’s movements cautiously.
Nancy’s hand seemed to then dip into your inner thigh before briefly applying pressure against your soaked thong, immediately pulling back.
“Steve? Is she always this responsive?” Nancy asked.
It was a redundant question asked only for Steve’s sake. Nancy knew very well how you secretly yearned to be under someone else's touch at all times. Perhaps you accidentally confessed it to her at one of your many tipsy sleepovers.
But something told you that Nancy Wheeler naturally attracted those who yearned to be controlled.
“Yeah, she’s pretty vocal,” Steve shrugged. “Other times, she gets too quiet. In her head, ya know? I wish Princess could just quiet her little mind sometimes.”
Nancy nodded, moving herself down from the head of the bed near you. She was now positioning her face near Jonathan’s exposed hips, his band t-shirt having come off to reveal his slim torso during the time you’d been distracted. She started shimmying off Jonathan’s jeans down his hips and thighs and off to her bedroom floor.
“This is good. Maybe ‘Princess’ will feel less shy seeing me suck my baby’s leaking cock. Watch into a weeping mess.”
Jonathan whined, cheeks flushed with sweaty arousal (and perhaps his own shame). “‘m not a mess…j-just…”
“Just what, babyboy?” Nancy mocked, yanking Jonathan’s briefs down in a swift motion to reveal his hardened cock springing free, pink tip bouncing against his abdomen.
The technique Nancy was using was devilishly slow. Her thumb teased up and down a visible vein under Jonathan’s arched shaft, somewhere he so obviously wanted her to touch if the mewls of ‘please’ and ‘thank you, Miss’ were any indication.
Steve placed a forceful kiss on your lips as he adjusted himself, moving out from behind you and down towards the lower half of the bed, similar to where Nancy was lying.
“Ridiculous,” he shook his head, eyebrows knitted in concentration. Steve began kneeling at the end of Nancy’s bed, pulling your ankles towards him.
Two things made Steve Harrington unquestionably jealous to the point of breaking. Men who claimed to have better hair than him, and those who continuously happened to catch your wandering eyes, in that exact order.
“No way in hell I’m gonna let my girl gawk at Jonathan fuckin’ Byers and Nancy goddamn Wheeler when I’m right here.”
Steve pried open your legs. It was hard to make out his exact expression with just the glow of the tv illuminating the room, but the shadows cascading across Steve’s face suggested something primal had awoken within him.
“Yeah, you want Daddy like this? Right here, huh?” Steve cooed, hair tickling your skin. “Let me take good care of you.”
He admired your legs for a moment, taking his time as he began kissing, biting, and licking up into your inner thigh.
As he finally made his way to your center, Steve’s tongue darted out, lapping up the wetness that had seeped through the lace of your panties with an appreciative ‘hmm’.
His skillful tongue helped maneuver the string of your thong to the side of your crotch with practiced ease.
“You love when I suck your clit, huh, babe,” he mumbled into your folds, teeth immediately seeming to find your clit. Steve suckled softly, brown eyes looking up at you, hoping his talents would elicit the praise of your moans.
Your eyes rolled back, encouraging him to keep going.
Steve eagerly started working his warm mouth from your clit, down your slick folds until he was at your core, throbbing eagerly with need for him. He spread your thighs even further apart to allow himself deeper access to your cunt.
Similar to Nancy’s technique, Steve preferred to start hot and heavy, getting you worked up into a needy mess before slowing the pace down to a painful tease.
Steve’s feverish lapping melted into a gentle massage, taking your pink folds between his lips softly, allowing his tongue the time to trace through every inch of your, no, his pretty pussy, making sure to drink any of your sweet arousal he could.
There was nothing Steve loved more than to worship your cunt. He always let you know every time he did, making sure to leave you absolutely breathless, a symphony of moans and a body slicked in sweat; still famished for more.
“Keep going, Nance. Please. A-almost there. I’ve been s’good i-i promise,” Jonathan whined beside you, grabbing for your hand through the layers of sheets, seemingly experiencing his own oral revelations.
Nancy was in her element, sucking Jonathan’s length to the back of her throat with ease. You watched as your best friend bobbed her head back and forth, one hand jerking the base of his cock where her swollen lips simply couldn’t reach.
Her devotion to Jonathan was also just as impressive, making sure to give every inch of his cock undivided attention. Jonathan seemed quite sensitive to begin with, and her technique only heightened the tension within him.
Every pretty moan or whimper Jonathan let out incited the lustful gaze of Nancy, her eyes peering up at him through her spot kneeling on the floor. She was clearly ravished by the fact that her man had become undone while he was deep within the walls of her throat.
Your own partner had become impatient himself, as Steve began to pick up his pace. No longer a tease, but a man in search of glory. His tongue was now circling the rim of your hole, your cunt pulsating in need to have something to fill it.
“Ah… AHH!” You couldn’t help the loud moans Steve was releasing from your body.
“Shhhh,” Jonathan gave you a shy smile, adjusting his torso to be closer to you while Nancy continued her work. “We can’t be t-too loud. What if someone comes home? ‘Sposed to be watching a movie, remember?” He stuttered out, his soft eyes fixated on your lips.
Unexpectedly, Jonathan leaned over, capturing your lips in a chaste kiss. You suppose that's an effective way to shut you up.
His tongue began immediately darting out to taste your lips, so gently and lovingly as your mouth opened to allow him in. The kiss was tender, forbidden in a way that was somehow more intimate than just fucking.
It sent an instant shock of arousal straight to your clit, a nearly overwhelming mix of shame and excitement.
You pulled away, unsure of how an overprotective Steve and your best friend would react to you kissing Jonathan.
To your surprise, Nancy was all smiles as she continued working on Jonathan’s cock. She always did share everything with you. Food, clothes, jewelry, and now her boyfriend.
Your eyes quickly shifted to Steve between your legs, who looked somewhat bemused at his girl making out with the other submissive within the group.
You knew Steve had little respect for Jonathan to begin with, referring to him as weak or sensitive almost daily. It was always Nancy he’d been more cautious of when it came to you.
“Good job, Princess.” Steve pulled back, placating your hole by inserting one of his large fingers within you while he talked. “Are you having fun with Byers?”
Nancy leaned back from Jonathan’s thighs, her hand still jerking his cock.
“Okay, they’re kind of adorable? Our two sluts can’t even go ten minutes without touching each other.”
“Maybe our mouths aren’t enough, huh?” Steve suggested, immediately sending you and Jonathan into a fit of denial. ‘No, no, no’.
“What does Jonathan taste like, hun?” Nancy asked you, a smirk on her lips.
“I…” you were lost for words, unable to focus on the present. Everything felt like a dream, hazy around the edges.
“Nancy asked you a question, baby. What does her boytoy taste like?” Steve prodded, removing his fingers from your pussy entirely as punishment for your lack of answers.
“Here,” Jonathan offered. His cold hand softly squeezes your cheeks, causing your lips to part open. His touch was surprisingly warm, and (unsurprisingly) much softer than Steve’s had been.
He paused, inhaling, then leaning forward and spitting into your mouth. You both let out soft moans as you watched his saliva trail from his lips and onto your tongue.
You felt degraded, but God, it was perfect. You swallowed without being asked, surprisingly desperate for Jonathan in a way that was previously dormant within your desires.
“Cinnamon,” you answered, unsure how to describe the sweet-spiciness of Jonathan that lingered on your taste buds.
“Well, yeah, only ‘cause Byers was eating Hot Tamale candies when we started the movie,” Steve smirked, attempting to find any excuse that would belittle Jonathan.
“That’s true. He does love those things,” Nancy affirmed, leaning back in to lick a long strip up the side length of Jonathan’s cock. The man groaned, immediately wrapping his thighs around her face in need. “But he kinda tastes like that all over, too.”
Steve rolled his eyes, running a finger through your folds again to keep you nice and wet. “Yeah, but Byers has nothing on Princess.”
Nancy sighed. Steve is always trying to make everything a competition.
“Really? What’s she taste like?”
Steve paused for a second, conflicted between the jealousy that would undoubtedly come with sharing you, and the pride that comes with showing off your perfect body. His perfect body.
With that, Steve scooched (reluctantly) from his current position, offering your glistening cunt to Nancy.
You propped yourself up from the pillow and onto your arm, watching as Nancy removed herself from Jonathan’s legs and toward your center.
This was very new territory for you. Steve had been the only one who had been lucky enough to have the opportunity to eat you out - until now.
Unsure of what to do, Steve gently caressed your outer thigh for reassurance.
“Be a good girl for Daddy and let Nancy taste you, yeah? I just wanna show you off a bit.”
You managed to nod, watching as Nancy kneels into your swollen, pink folds. She kept her eyes focused on you through her long lashes.
You knew you were supposed to be freaking out given the circumstances, but all you felt were flutters within your stomach. You almost couldn’t look Nancy in the eyes, hoping she couldn’t see the pink hue that settled into your cheeks.
You averted your gaze, fear starting to settle in. Sure, you were open-minded; this whole night had dissolved into a mess of newness. But this? This could ruin more than a decade of friendship. Your best friend and someone with whom you were closer than some family members. You wanted to stop, but not nearly as much as you wanted to push forward.
A glance at the tv showed the Princess character being fucked by a horde of people in some medieval brothel room; very much not helping your nerves.
Jonathan adjusted himself, pulling you against his chest similar to how Steve held earlier. He could sense your anxiety, wanting to give support.
“Watch it, Byers,” Steve warned. “I’m already whoring her out too much as it is.”
Jonathan said nothing, placing sweet kisses up and down your neck. One of his hands reached around you to palm your tits that had long escaped the confines of your lingerie, finally unclamping the bra and tossing it aside.
The warmth of Nancy’s breath hitting the cool slick of your folds made you feel dizzy. Any words of hesitation caught in your throat as you and Jonathan watched his girlfriend give kitten licks to your dripping pussy.
You hummed, surprised at the soft pleasure of her affection soothing the previous sting left by Steve’s stubble that had harshly rubbed against your sensitive folds. It was the same, but it was different. A good kind.
Nancy took your vocalization as approval, continuing to move her tongue further into you with each lick. The warmth of her tongue almost suffocates your clit as you let out a whiny moan that Jonathan attempts to cover up once more by kissing you passionately once again.
Steve grumbled in dissatisfaction, upset that the scene in front of him was also awakening new feelings, turning him on drastically. His cock was now painfully hard within his jeans. Steve palmed at his bulge, itching for any sort of relief, but held his tongue. He had bigger priorities right now, including your comfort. Your pleasure. Your safety.
“Put two fingers in her. My Princess loves riding Daddy’s fingers.”
Nancy did as told, inserting two slender fingers into your pussy with ease. You moaned into Jonathan’s mouth, as he barely allowed you time to catch your breath.
While Steve’s fingers were warm and thick inside of you, Nancy’s were cold, and much longer, able to reach further than you were expecting. You swore she could feel the knot-like tension building in your stomach. Nancy began fucking her fingers into you as they curled around your velvet walls in search of that spot you oh-so needed for her to push.
After a gentle push on the head from Steve, Nancy leaned down, now lapping at your cunt. She continued, eyes staring directly up at you and Jonathan before her pouty lips pulled back, glistening with your arousal.
“She does taste good. You’re right for once, Steve.”
Steve smirked, satisfied. “Yeah, it’s addicting. If I’m not fucking her, I want babygirl to be riding my face at all times.”
Jonathan groaned into your shoulder, hands now holding your hips. He desperately pushed his hard member against your thigh, hoping for any sort of friction that could provide relief for the constant teasing Nancy had shown him earlier.
“Would you like that, Jonathan? To let me ride your face while you touch yourself?” Nancy offered, already knowing the answer.
Jonathan nodded eagerly, letting you go and moving back to lie down on the bed.
“For once, Byers and I want the same thing,” Steve said, pushing Nancy out of your thighs and back to the side of the bed she’d been previously occupying.
Steve had been very good and very patient while Nancy and Jonathan had some fun with you. But that was enough. He was done sharing for now and needed you back with him immediately.
Steve stood from the floor, making his way back to the top of Nancy’s bed. He flopped down onto the pastel pillows, rather excited for what was to come.
All you could do was smile at the silliness that was Steve’s constant jealousy, giving him a tender kiss as the essence of your arousal still lingered on his lips.
⋆｡°✩
Nancy began to strip.
First to come off was her blouse, which she pulled off so quickly that one of the buttons caught in her hair. Next was her simple bra, revealing her small breasts, which you’d seen many times before.
What was surprising was when her shorts fell to her ankles, revealing that she was wearing no panties underneath. Just her naked cunt.
“What?” She asked you.
You scoffed playfully, “You planned this whole damn thing. The movie choice, suggesting the lingerie, no underwear…”
Nancy only shrugged, giving no direct answer. You stripped off the useless garter belt and thong that you still had on before climbing up on the bed.
Steve smiled, still happy as ever. You couldn’t help but relax a bit more, seeing how sweet and eager he always was to please you. You swung your leg over Steve, now gently sitting on his chest.
“You think Steve will let you me ride your face?” Nancy asked lowly, her eyes big and hopeful as she positioned herself over Jonathan’s face.
“NO! ABSOLUTELY NOT!” Steve snapped. “Babygirl is a pillow princess. You both only have the privilege of givin’ her pleasure. I am the only one who she can please, capeche?”
Nancy rolled her eyes at Steve before turning her focus back to Jonathan, who already had his tongue out, almost panting in anticipation.
You couldn’t help but chuckle at the usual possessiveness Steve had over you before following suit, wrapping your thighs around Steve’s head, hovering your pussy over his face.
“Nuh uh, pretty girl. Turn around.”
“What?” you paused. “Do you want me to watch the movie while we do this or something?”
Steve frowned, unamused. “I want to eat you out, baby. Dear god I really, really want to. Just… my dick will fall clean off my body soon from lack of attention.”
“Jesus,” you laughed, reaching back to feel Steve’s obvious bulge desperately trying to escape through the front of his jeans. You obliged, turning around so that your pussy and ass were now in Steve’s face.
You quickly unzipped Steve’s jeans, slim fingers pulling down his boxers to reveal the massive length within his pants. Always intimidating, but you supposed it was a blessing and a curse to have a boyfriend so well endowed.
Nancy was already one step ahead of you both, wasting no time for herself.
“Open your mouth,” Nancy commanded Jonathan, whose mouth was now open wide. “Good job,” she purred, leaning down and spitting into his mouth.
At least you now know where he got the spit kink from.
Jonathan’s soft ‘thank you’ was barely heard as Nancy immediately pushed her soaking cunt onto Jonathan’s face. She moved back and forth, grinding into Jonathan.
Steve took it upon himself to start as well, pushing his own face into your pussy.
“Oh fuckkk, Steve!” You gasped, trying your best to focus as Steve greedily pushed his nose up against your ass. His tongue was already buried deep inside you, rough hands on your hips in an attempt to have you rock back into his face before pushing your mouth forward onto his cock.
You started licking up and down Steve’s shaft in an attempt to lubricate it enough to fit in your mouth. You truly loved nothing more than feeling Steve fucking his cock deep into your throat; you really did. However, it wasn’t just the length that always made such attempts rather tricky, but also the sheer power he held over you in positions like this, even when you were on top. Steve was always in control.
Steve continued, using his tongue to finally fuck your hole that he so nicely teased earlier. His palms were resting on your asscheeks, spreading them open greedily so he could have a better view of every single part of you.
Steve’s, “keep going, babygirl. You’re doing so well,” seemed to sync up perfectly with Nancy’s “such a whore, Jonathan. Being so good,” creating a symphony of encouragement you didn’t know you needed.
You could feel Steve growl into your pussy when you stroked him in a circular motion, your mouth sucking softly on his balls as he was desperately pushing himself up and into your throat. You began to lick around his swollen head, being mindful to apply some pressure over the slit, where precum was already greeting you.
Steve moaned into your cunt, vocalizing his pleasure as he swirled your pussy around his face, practically smashing your body back into him. The way he’d maneuver your hips so he could see your asscheeks bounce above him made you feel silly for even worrying about lingerie earlier.
You peeked over to see Nancy having the time of her life, bouncing herself as Jonathan kept his tongue sticking out, flattened for her to ride and use to her own pussy's pleasure. Jonathan’s arms were being held over his head by Nancy, his cock still hard.
He apparently hadn’t earned the pleasure of touching himself yet; poor thing.
Jonathan’s voice cracked as he looked up at Nancy, almost on the verge of tears. “Keep going. Ride my face harder, please.”
You felt a strong sensation flip-flop within your stomach as Steve pulled his tongue out from between your folds, quickly running it over your pink asshole, something he frequently did to draw your attention back to him during sex.
And it always works.
You immediately went back to stroking and sucking as much as you could handle of his cock, moans becoming louder, the vibrations pleasing Steve’s length stuffed down your throat.
He responded with his own grunt, pulling you back onto him, shaking his face into your pulsing clit once more.
A surprising, sharp slap was felt on your right asscheek.
A quick glance to the other side of the bed revealed Nancy, still bucking into Jonathan’s face, but her hand now gripping onto ass.
“You have to be…” she paused to catch her breath between waves of pleasure. “You have to be quiet for us, okay?” she lectured softly, that same tone she always said so lovingly to you.
All you could do was nod, muffling any remaining noises with Steve’s cock in your mouth. You could feel Nancy’s delicate fingers still on your ass, helping to guide you onto Steve’s face.
“That’s it… good girl,” Nancy praised with a smile.
Her words must have annoyed Steve, causing a gentle bite to your clit in protest.
Nancy continued. “You and Jonathan are being such good little whore’s, letting us use you both how we please.”
You and Jonathan let out muffled whimpers of agreement, both of your mouths preoccupied with pleasing your lovers.
Steve pulled his tongue back, just enough to mumble words into your pussy. His warm breath came out in huffs as he tried to steady it.
“Such a pretty little pink pussy, all for Daddy. I feel you tightening on my tongue, yeah? Gonna come for me, Princess? Wanna taste more of you. This cunt belongs to me, yeah? Mmmm. God, I love you so much. My hole to use however I like…Come for Daddy; it’s the least you can. Come for me. Now!”
Steve’s words always did you in, sending you over the edge. Your pussy quivered, becoming slick with cum as Steve continued licking, and grotesque noises filled the room.
Your orgasm caused Nancy to reach her own, slowing herself down as she continued to slide across Jonathan’s face. “Good job, yesss. Feels sooo good,” she chuckled, riding the high of elation on his face.
She finally released Jonathan’s hands from above, who immediately started jerking himself while Nancy remained seated.
After a moment to catch his breath, Steve playfully tossed your leg off of his chest, causing your body to fall towards the center of the bed.
Nancy reluctantly dismounted Jonathan, who stopped touching himself with a soft sigh. You turned towards him, trying not to laugh at the hazy bliss that seemed haunt his features.
“Your eyes are all big and dilated,” Jonathan spoke, his voice hoarse.
“So are yours.” You smiled at him.
You two broke into a small fit of giggles, a seemingly innocent moment shared, before Jonathan leaned in for another kiss. You could taste cinnamon once again, now combined with the slick of Nancy still on his lips.
You were only torn away when Steve roughly grabbed your ankles, pulling your ass to the edge of the bed.
“You’re lucky I’m even lettin’ you kiss the bastard, babe. Byers doesn’t deserve it. You’re mine, remember?” Steve snarked, his words low and steady in a way that signified he was not happy.
“No one can use this-” He pushed his finger into your mouth, hooking your cheek and forcing you to look up at him. “-or this-” he continued, pulling the finger out of your mouth and pushing it into your already aching hole, your pussy wrapping around him. “-but me. Got it, Princess?”
You nodded as Steve pulled his finger back. “Yes.”
Steve placed a kiss on your lips, a soft reward for your submission.
Nancy tsked, lying down on the bed beside you, legs hanging over the edge. “There goes Steve, again. Always greedy with his toys.”
“Damn right I am, Wheeler.”
You couldn’t help but get lost in Nancy’s blue eyes again as she smiled at you. The weirdness and confusion from earlier are now a distant memory.
Nancy offered you a soft smile of assurance before her expression changed into one of immense pleasure. The grunts and whimpers from Jonathan telling you he was finally allowed to slide his cock into her.
Steve followed, flipping your legs up onto his shoulders. He eagerly began to press the head of his cock into your wetness, letting out a soft moan at your warmth.
Just like earlier, Steve loved nothing more than to make you a desperate mess beneath him. The way his cock stretched you open was a delicious mix of pain and pleasure, the sting always addicting. He let out rough grunts as he would pull back, the hot air of the room touching your swollen cunt before he’d plunge deep into you once more.
You couldn’t help the whine that would escape your lips as he patiently filled you up, making you take his cock one inch at a time.
“There you are, Princess. You’re still so tight for me even after all that stretchin’. Your pussy must just love my cock, yeah? Don’t worry, shhh. Just let me keep…” He pulled back out before pushing back in deeper. “-just let me take my time. I know… I know...”
Eventually, Steve had achieved his aim, bottoming out within you. You didn’t even attempt to muffle the loud moan that escaped, basking in the feeling of having your love so far inside of you. So warm, so filled.
He stilled his length for a moment more, allowing you the much-needed time to adjust, the weight of his cock always making a bit of your cervix bulge from your abdomen.
“There we go. See? First comes a bit of pain, now you get all the pleasure your pretty pussy can take, babygirl. Always doing such a good job for me.” He praised, brown eyes full of nothing but adoration.
The way Steve paid attention to your body and your needs made you feel like the only woman in the world. You were brought into a completely different headspace, only being drawn back to Earth from the intense sounds of your best friend getting railed next to you.
The contrast was like night and day. Where Steve was eager to make the moment last, Jonathan was just… eager.
Steve began his slow movements again, the burning pain dissolving into a dull pleasure as your bodies responded to one another.
Pull out. Your pussy squeezed desperately around his length, tempting Steve’s cock back inside. Push in.
The feeling of Steve twitching inside you always sent a shiver down your spine. The intimacy between you two intensified as Steve now stood on his toes, his balls slamming greedily against your pussy in an effort to get every inch of himself inside of you.
“Oh, Steveee!” you leaned back against the bed, closing your eyes in pleasure.
For Steve, that simply wouldn’t do, the attention whore he is.
Steve’s fingers brush through your locks, gripping your hair. He angled your head up so you could better see his length disappear into your dripping core.
“Look at me. Watch how good your pussy takes me, baby. S-so tight. It needs me, yeah? Needs me to fill it and use it and taste it-... and…” He trailed off, beginning to lose his focus. “God, you’re mine. Mine, mine, fucking mine.”
You rolled your head back again as Steve let your hair go.
“Bad girl, what did I say about lookin’ at Daddy?” he growled. Steve instantly grabbed your wrists, stretching your arms over your head, holding your wrists captive in his grip.
Your gaze fell back to Nancy, who had been watching you this whole time. She continued being fucked in missionary by Jonathan while Steve fucked into you.
“Having fun?” Nancy mouthed.
“So much fun,” you mouthed back.
Steve picked up the pace once more, his hair sticking to his forehead as he planted sloppy kisses on your inner thighs. Your legs began to tremble, your second orgasm nearing.
“Not yet, babygirl. Daddy’s almost there,” Steve growled, picking up the pace to the point he was panting.
You whined softly in annoyance, trying your best to remain patient.
Cold fingers softly made their way over your hips, down your cunt, and onto your clit, as Nancy started rubbing gentle circles. One hand in your pussy, the other rubbing her own clit.
Steve grunted, “Hands to yourself, N-Nance. That’s my job.”
“I’m just helping. If you’re busy holding her wrists, what else is a girl to do?” Nancy said.
You started pushing yourself further onto Steve’s cock in an effort to have the head of his length continue to pound against your cervix. The feeling of Nancy continuing to massage circles in your clit, combined with the pressure that was building in your stomach from Steve, was threatening to have you done for.
“Mmph…Now?” You whined to Steve, glassy eyes begging for any sort of relief.
Steve sighed, clearly agitated. “Ask correctly,” he snapped, barely holding it together himself.
“May I come now, pretty please?”
“Yeah. Of course you can. You’ve been so good. Come for Daddy, Princess.” He groaned, running out of breath.
With the help of Steve’s magic words once again, you both finished together, riding your orgasms until the high melted reality around you.
Steve rutted into you.
“Fuckkkk. Fillin’ you up nice and pretty, yeah - my babies. My pussy. You’re stuck with Daddy. Oh Jesus-… mmmm,” he groaned, almost collapsing as he pressed his weight down and on top of your body.
He began pressing messy kisses to your salty skin, continuing to rut his cock as far as possible up into your cervix. You closed your eyes as Steve’s hot seed filled you up completely, cum sticking to your thighs. You couldn’t help but bask in the warm satisfaction that had settled into your aching, used core.
Steve stalled, pushing in only a few more half-hearted pumps before finally pulling out.
He immediately went into boyfriend mode, scrambling to lie beside you on Nancy’s bed, pulling you up into his chest. You grabbed onto the shirt he was still wearing.
“Love you so much, baby. You doin’ okay? No worries, you’re safe,” he whispered into your hair. The sweet nothings mixed with his soothing voice began to calm your soul, slowing your pulsing clit.
It seemed Nancy had found her way into her own world of pleasure, riding out her orgasm with Jonathan beside you.
Jonathan didn’t have to be told twice, continuing the same pace, clearly exhausted. His whole body was trembling, and the beautiful sounds he was making only hinted at the absolute whining mess he always was.
Once Nancy seemed to settle under the same dissipating euphoria after her orgasm, she finally said the magic words Jonathan had been wanting to hear all damn night.
“Mkay, baby boy. Come for me-”
Jonathan pushed himself quickly into Nancy’s cunt, coming almost instantly at the command. His loudest whines yet fell from his lips, so vulnerable. Jonathan’s pace began to slow, his face full of relief as he finally pulled out.
Glassy-eyed and absolutely spent, Jonathan immediately crawled onto Nancy, seeking warmth and undoubtedly words of affection.
The four of you relished in the moment, coming down from your orgasms in the peace of Nancy’s room.
The movie you had previously started finished long ago, leaving only the azul glow of the tv default screen to show the contentment that settled on your faces.
The moment was immediately ruined by the extremely aggressive slamming on Nancy’s door, causing the four of you jump in fear.
“TURN DOWN YOUR GODDAMN MOVIE, NANCY!! I HAVE FRIENDS OVER!!”
Mike Wheeler was not happy, the doorknob shaking violently as he tried to enter. Thank god Jonathan was thoughtful enough to lock the door behind him earlier tonight.
Nancy pushed out a half-shout, yelling back in what her strained voice could manage.
“shIT! SoRRY, MikEY!”
You could hear Mike's heavy footsteps retreat down the stairs, leaving you shocked at what had just happened.
The surprise visitor, the sex, the horrible movie. It would take at least a few days for your brain to recover.
“Well, I wasn’t really expecting a second dose of adrenaline so quickly,” you teased.
Steve grumbled in agreement, pressing kisses into your hair.
“I thought you said the house was empty, Nance.”
“It was empty. I can’t control Mike and his stupid friends. They always end up back here,” Nancy sighed, scratching Jonathan’s back as he remained happily sprawled out on top of her.
Steve’s hand reached towards the night’s stand, grabbing a handful of Milk Duds he’d been snacking on earlier. He brought them to your lips, feeding you one at a time.
“Hey, looks like movie night was a success! What was that movie supposed be about, again?” Steve asked.
“A princess who lives a double life as a prostitute,” Jonathan mumbled into Nancy’s skin.
“Oh yeah,” Steve nodded, his finger hooking into your jaw gently to have you look at him. “Dumb movie. You’re the only princess I care about.”
You leaned in to kiss him, feeling the bed dip as Nancy began moving Jonathan’s tangle of slim limbs off of her in an attempt to stand.
“Anyone hungry? I’ve worked up quite an appetite.”
“You’re always hungry,” Jonathan smiled.
“It’s 10 pm. Mel’s Diner on Main should still be open,” you suggested, a common spot you and the Party frequented after many late-night crawls.
Nancy nodded, standing up to stretch before searching for her clothes.
The rest of you followed. Steve was first to find your bra, which had been half-hazardously tossed onto one of Nancy’s lampshades in the middle of your… events.
“It did look nice on you, ya know? I was more than surprised.” Steve smiled, helping you put the bra on.
You began venturing around the room for your thong, as the others were now fully dressed. Unable to find it, you shimmied your way into your jeans and the t-shirt you’d worn upon arriving at Nancy’s this afternoon.
You’d find them eventually. Right now, salty fries and a gluttonous milkshake were very much your priority.
⋆｡°✩
The floaty feeling in your head didn’t really go away.
This made it rather difficult for the four of you to give your best efforts to remain quiet. You tiptoed through the hallway and down the stairs. The front door wasn’t far. A few steps to freedom.
You could hear the kids chatting in the kitchen, allowing you a quick getaway if all went well.
It was somewhat expected that Steve’s weight would cause one of the steps to groan loudly, immediately summoning Mike and Dustin to gather at the landing.
“Hey, what the hell? You all were up there watching a movie?!” Mike asked, clearly confused.
As far as Mike could remember, Nancy never held movie nights in her room, always in the living room with the larger tv and always with many failed attempts at shushing the campaign night he held in the basement.
Mike’s eyes met each of yours, assessing the pink flush that still lingered on your faces. You had no doubt your mascara had smeared a bit during your physical activity.
Nancy scoffed. “So, having people in my room is a crime, now? I wasn’t aware you owned the damn house.”
Mike’s expression soured, sensing unusually high tension.
“What were you watching up there that sounded so…” Mike trailed off.
“Sexually explicit,” Dustin offered. “We could totally hear, like, muffled moaning through the ceiling vents.”
Steve had planned for such accusations, having the foresight to grab the movie from Nancy’s tv before leaving. He shoved the tape into Mike’s hand.
“It’s called Passions of the Undone, if you want to be so nosy. It’s a romance story that isn’t made to be viewed by innocent eyes like yours,” he smirked.
“You could’ve just watched it down here,” Mike snapped back, refusing to let the moment go, much to your dismay. “We can watch R-rated movies now. Robin used to rent them to us all the time at Family Video.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not Robin. This shit here is NC-17, kid, which means ‘No Children’. And you two, as far as I’m concerned, are children, now and forever, whether you like it or not.” Steve huffed victoriously, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes.
“Was the moaning because of zombies? Is there lots of gore?” Dustin asked.
“What? No, Hernderson. What romance movie has ‘lots of gore’? Sometimes, adults just want to enjoy things in private, in the comfort of a bed. Okay?”
Mike flipped the tape over and read the film description aloud.
“‘ Young Victorian Princess Elizabeth Weatherby moonlights in the red-light district of Amsterdam in an effort to rekindle her repressed sexual spark'…okay yeah. Gross. That explains the weird-ass moaning noises.”
Mike shoved the tape back towards Steve, clearly satisfied with the explanation.
“WAIT WAIT! Does this Elizabeth chick go topless?” Dustin asked eagerly. “Cause I totally have a homework assignment due Monday that requires watching a European erotica film right nowwwwww.”
“You’ll never know,” Nancy added, ushering the three of you out the door. “We’re off to Mel’s. Don’t burn the house down,” Nancy warned Mike, slamming the front door shut.
The mood seemed to instantly shift again, lighter now without the aggressive questioning. The cool air felt nice against your warm skin. The stars were out, and Hawkins felt even more peaceful during quiet hours like this.
Jonathan gestured towards his sedan, fumbling for his keys in his pocket.
“You know, one of us is going to have to actually watch Passions of the Undone. The boys will talk to Robin, and Robin will bombard us with scene-by-scene questions because we finally took one of her film recommendations,” you chuckled softly.
“God fuckin’ damnit, you’re right,” Steve shook his head fondly, sliding the movie securely into his denim jacket. “Now I am the one with the homework assignment of watching a European erotica before my next Squawk shift. Could be worse, I guess.”
Steve’s hand rested on your ass, giving it a brief squeeze before helping you into the backseat of Jonathan’s car - the gentleman he was.
“No panties, babe? I know Mel’s ain’t fancy, but they probably still require decency,” Steve teased, giving you a playful swat before sitting beside you, buckling your seatbelt.
With a soft smile, you leaned back into the seat.
You hadn’t been too worried about the whereabouts of your cheap lingerie until now, when you spotted the thin line of a familiar black lace waistband peaking out of Nancy’s shorts.
The lace was clearly on display for you while she bent down to sit in the front passenger seat beside Jonathan. Your used panties. What you’d just soaked through maybe less than half an hour ago. What Steve had maneuvered off of you with his tongue, now being worn so casually as if normal for best friends.
It was sick -weird. So incredibly Nancy to pull such a power move right under your nose. You knew if you ever wanted them back, it’d be up to you to pry them off, Steve and Jonathan be damned.
Nancy turned to face you, seeing your bewildered gaze exactly where she was hoping it’d be.
For the first time in a long time, you were the one finally gawking at her.
“Finders-keepers,” she mouthed, sticking her tongue out playfully before turning to face forward again.
Summary: You confess to your stepdad about having a crush and he gets angry and horny about it.
Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, step-cest thus infidelity, big legal age gap, mean!Joel, switching POV, reader has a crush on a girl, Joel is disgusting but accepting of it, reader is afraid of spiders (no spiders in the story), f/m!oral, throat fucking, light pussy spanking, one face slap, unprotected piv, creampie, multiple orgasms, hyperspermia, degradation, slutshaming, manhandling, praise kink, daddy kink, mention of alcohol, swearing.
Word count: 3 k
A/n: the story was inspired by this anon ask, thank you for the idea, love! Kisses to @milla-frenchy for beta-ing and inspiration behind ‘the spider shed’ lol♥️ Dividers by @cafekitsune ty<3 Hope you all will enjoy! Muah💋
Stepdad Joel Masterlist || MASTERLIST
Joel
‘Fuck this shit!’
Joel growled, wiping sweat off his forehead, and grabbed another nail. The nagging bitch which he called his wife had made him fix the fence in this damn heat so he was gritting his teeth at the Texan sun that had been fucking everyone in the ass every day that summer.
The back door creaked and Joel turned his head toward the sound. Here you were — his cock-hungry stepdaughter, sauntering into the yard with a glass of lemonade in hand and a pretty smile on your face. You were wearing a tight top and the shortest Daisy Dukes he'd ever seen in his life. Damn! He was really lucky to have such a slut walking around the house.
"Thanks," Joel barked before taking the glass from you and downing the refreshing liquid in one go. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, shamelessly checking out your naked legs, tummy and cleavage. "Get me a beer next time. I ain't twelve."
"K," you shrugged and headed back. Joel covered his eyes from the sun and ogled your asscheeks, poking out from under the jeans shorts. Ughhh... He adjusted himself with a grunt, already in need of a release - only a minute next to you and he already popped a semi. But that goddamn fence wasn't done. And his wife was home. 'Fuck my life!' Joel thought and kept on working.
A few minutes later you surprised him when instead of hiding inside the house from the unbearable heat you came out, sat on a lawn chair and stretched forward your gorgeous naked legs.
Joel scoffed, noting that you didn’t throw one glance at him but instead pulled your phone out and started click-clacking over the screen.
Joel spat onto the glass, thinking that you deserved a good spanking, didn’t you have anything else to do besides taunting him with your sexy body? His balls were getting heavier the longer he was staring at you but he wanted to finish the work today so he turned around and continued to hammer away.
Joel considered himself to be a strong-willed person, yet he couldn’t help but check you out again and again. Without a care in the world, not aware of his struggles, not looking at him at all, you were focused on your phone, your fingers typing.
Soon Joel realized it would be impossible to work — his head kept turning your way, his attention drawn to your gorgeous, almost naked body. Besides, he was getting really annoyed by you giggling like a silly schoolgirl, distracting him from his task.
Of course, you were addicted to your stupid phone like everyone in your generation so Joel didn’t think much of it at first but you kept tapping and laughing, laughing and tapping and Joel snapped. You knew your stepdad’s rule number one — ‘NO BOYS’ so who the fuck were you texting?
Joel threw the hammer on the grass and stomped to you.
“Whatcha gigglin’ about?” He gruffed, stopping so close, his leg was touching yours. Not waiting for an answer he unceremoniously grabbed your phone out of your hands.
“Hey! Give it back!” You jumped onto your feet, matching your stepdad’s scowl with your own. Joel didn’t give a fuck. He looked at the screen and his expression softened when he saw a girl's name at the top. For a second he almost felt bad, thinking that he had overreacted and you had just been talking to your friend, but he knew better than to trust such a slut like you so he began scrolling up and found a video.
“Joel, you can’t do this!” you exclaimed, trying to take your phone back, but Joel pushed your hands away and pressed Play. Music and loud voices filled the yard and Joel turned the volume down not to attract his wife's attention.
“No! Give it!” You tried to grab your phone again but Joel turned around and kept watching.
It looked like a house party and you were dancing with a girl among other people.
“Lookin’ like a slut… what a shocker!” Joel growled, getting even hornier at the sight of you in a short tight dress. His eyes were getting progressively wider the longer he was watching the girl and you grind against one another, hands roaming each other’s bodies, until she leaned over and kissed you on the lips.
Joel’s jaw dropped and cock twitched.
He was staring at you two making out for a few seconds and then the video ended.
A scowl returned to Joel’s face and he hissed through his clenched teeth, “What the hell is this?”
“Nothing,” you mumbled, sneaking your phone out of his big hands, your anger gone and quickly replaced by embarrassment. You looked like a puppy who’d just wet the floor. Joel placed his hands on his hips, his pose intimidating.
“Didn’t look like nothin’, little slut. Why were you kissin’ that chick?”
“We were just dancing, Joel.” You kept looking at your feet, avoiding your stepdad’s glare. It was almost cute but Joel was too angry and horny to be charmed.
“I saw that. You always shove your tongue into other people’s mouths when you dance? Is she your girlfriend?”
“No!” You finally lifted your head, locking eyes with your stepdad. “Well…”
“Well?”
“We’ve just met but… I like her,” you said with a trace of defiance in your shaky voice.
Joel narrowed his eyes.
“You a lesbian now? As far as I remember you were happily bouncin’ on my cock just two days ago.”
“Yeah but ..,” you held your head high and declared, “I’m exploring my sexuality. I don’t wanna limit myself to boys. Or.. men.”
Joel inched closer to you and anger rumbled in his chest as he gruffed,
“Ya better limit yourself to this cock or we're gonna have a problem.”
You were staring up at him with concern in your Bambi eyes, then threw a glance at the house, making sure your mom wasn’t looking, and put your hand on his broad chest.
“But, daddy,” you purred, pressing your body to his. “You said that I can be with girls.”
Joel was still glaring down at you but your sweet tone, your soft hand on his pack, your pretty eyes full of submission, all that made his cock harden and heart soften.
“Yeah, yeah…,” he muttered, his gaze darting from your eyes to your lips. Joel was conflicted, he wanted to have full control over his stepdaughter, wanted you to be horny just for him but the images of you fucking another chick made his dick very very happy.
So he leaned over and asked with a wolfish smile,
“Did you eat ‘er pussy yet?”
“Oh my god, Joel! No!” You took a step back from him and crossed your arms over your chest. Your tits looked even better now. “I said we just met.”
“Who knows what you kids do these days. A bunch of pervs.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Aren’t you the one fucking your stepdaughter?”
“Watch it!” Joel pointed his thick finger at you and added, “Or no more daddy’s dick for ya!”
Your expression soured and you were fumbling with your fingers for a few moments, then looked at Joel and said quietly,
“I still want you to… to use me. All the time.” Then you glanced at your phone and added, “But I really like her.”
“Aww,” Joel mocked your confession with a sarcastic tone. “I don’t give a fuck what you want.”
Now you looked downright hurt and he hated when you were in a sulk — your pussy wasn’t as wet, your blow job technique turned sloppy and not in a good way. He liked you needy and willing to give yourself to him completely.
So Joel took a deep breath and sighed,
“Pussies are ok, I guess.”
When you heard him, your face lit up and you bounced on your feet with excitement.
“Thank you, daddy!” You chirped but Joel quickly wiped the smile off your face when he added,
“But if you two fuck I wanna hear the details.”
“Eww, Joel! You’re the worst!” you exclaimed and crossed your arms again.
Meanwhile Joel’s eyes skimmed the windows, looking out to the yard. He was painfully hard but his wife could catch you and him inside the house. Suddenly a bright idea popped into his mind.
“Let’s go to the shed! All this pussy talk made me hard.”
Joel grabbed you by your arm and began leading you to a small construction on the other side of the yard. Your eyes widened and you screeched,
“Spider shed?”
“There aren’t any spiders, jeez… Your mom’s home. She’ll see us inside.”
“Any shed has spiders!”
You were trying to free your arm from Joel’s iron grip but he was relentlessly pulling you forward.
“Not this one! And you gonna be busy taking my cock. Spiders will be the last thing on your mind,” Joel chuckled, already opening an old wooden door.
“Mom can catch us here too!” You whined, giving him your last argument, but Joel was already pushing you inside.
“Nah. She’d never believe you’re in the spider shed.”
“Joel!!!”
You
Joel was right. It was hard to think about anything else except a huge schlong filling your mouth, a fat tip hitting the back of your throat. Your stepdad was towering over you in a tiny shed, his feet planted wide apart, his sweatpants and boxers tucked under his sweaty balls, while you were on your knees, gagging and drooling all over his crotch. The musk hitting your nostrils was intoxicating you, the salty taste of his sweat and precum made you salivate so much, your chest and top were soaked. Your eyes were watering profusely, tears streamed down your cheeks. You looked like shit with all the throat fucking and the temperature inside the shed being hellish, but damnnnn you were in heaven.
“Yeah— fuck—take it—take it—take it,” Joel chanted, rocking his hips and pushing his cock deeper down your throat with each thrust. You were doing your best, trying to breathe through your nose, but Joel was like a feral animal, smashing his lower belly into your face so fast, you started suffocating.
Desperate for air you scratched his hairy thighs and his hand, that was clutching your hair, roughly pulled you off his cock.
“What?!” he grunted, stroking his glistening shaft. You were coughing and wheezing, blinking your tears away and swaying on your shaky knees. You couldn’t reply and Joel slapped your cheek with his big wet cock and chuckled,
“Look at you. Nothing better than daddy’s dick, right?”
Your throat was sore already and you just nodded, looking up at him with your glossy eyes.
“Reckon that’s enough for your suckin’ hole. Let’s use your fuckin’ hole,” your stepdad smirked and pulled you up onto your feet. He pushed you to an old workshop table in the corner, unzipped your shorts and manhandled you to lie down on it.
You scrunched your nose in disgust feeling the dusty surface under your hands but the desire to get railed was so strong, you didn’t complain.
Joel looked insanely hot— his golden skin glistening with sweat, his hair wet and dark, his neck veins bulging.
“Spread ‘em. Knees bent. Yeah like that,” Joel threw commands at you after taking your shorts off and leaving you ass-naked. As always in your stepdad’s house, per his rule, you had no panties on.
“Here's my favourite cunt,” he said with a carnal smile, staring between your thighs, his head titled to the side. Your holes were fully exposed to him and Joel lightly slapped your pussy, coaxing a needy whine out of you, then laughed at your reaction and repeated the spanks a few times, watching you jerk again and again, each slap sending electricity through your whole body.
“Slutty snatch. Droolin’ when she gets spanked.”
Joel’s obsidian eyes were set on your leaking entrance, his breathing heavy, then he licked his lips, bent down and latched onto your spread cunt like a man starving.
“Oh my god!” When his hot mouth crashed against your heat, you gasped and arched your back. Your mind was short-circuiting as Joel began lapping at your folds, sucking on each pussy lip, flicking your clit with his tongue. It was his turn to drool now. Soon your already wet cunt was drenched with a mixture of your juices and his saliva.
Joel locked eyes with yours, his lips and facial hair shiny with your slick, and smirked, “Watch me,” then opened his mouth wide and stuck his tongue out. The next second he pushed it into your dripping hole and started tongue-fucking you, grunting and slurping, keeping your folds spread with his thumbs. You lifted your torso on your elbows and watched Joel eat you out, committing the sight and the sensation to memory for your later ‘self-care’ sessions.
Even biting your lips you couldn’t stop yourself from moaning and whimpering, filling the small space with your noises. You dropped your head back when pleasure rippled through your body, heat rose up in your core and you began shaking on the table, a hard orgasm hitting you like a freight train.
“No one’ll eat you as good as me. Got it?” Joel gruffed, parting from your hole that was clamping around nothing, then pushed your trembling hips down and kept sucking on your pussy throughout your shattering climax.
“Yes—yes—no one,” you mumbled as if drunk. When your orgasm began subsiding, your limbs felt weak, your body spent.
“And no one will fuck you as good as daddy,” he smirked, straightening up and settling between your legs. His cock landed heavily on your mound and lower belly and you shifted on the table, eager to fill up your wet but empty hole.
Apparently Joel wanted to play with you first, so he dragged his big fuzzy balls against your puffy pussy and you jerked, overstimulation burning you.
“Beg me to fuck you,” your stepdad gruffed and roughly snapped his hips into you, his leaky cockhead drawing a wet line on your skin. You wanted him so much, you’d do anything. You locked your blown out eyes with his and purred like a good stepdaughter,
“Please, fuck me, daddy.”
“Yeah? You want it?” He asked and pushed his hips into you again. Your core was aching for him so you nodded eagerly.
“I do, Joel. So much.”
“Good girl.”
Your hardened clit twitched as you heard his praise and when Joel finally began pushing his big rock-hard meat inside your pussy, you took a deep breath and relaxed all your muscles, getting ready to take him. Even after being opened up with his tongue, taking Joel’s cock was not an easy feat for your tight pussy yet extra pleasant for Joel, judging by the way his face twisted in ecstasy.
“Fuckmeeeeeee,” he exhaled, bottoming out inside you. “Best place on earth, this cunt.”
You smiled at him, filled to the maximum with joy and his cock, but he didn’t give you much time to enjoy the compliment because the next moment he grabbed your hips tightly and started rocking your world. The rutting was relentless and though you were holding onto the table, your back was still sliding up and down with every hard thrust and pull.
Joel was groaning, fucking into you, his curls wet and sticking to his sweaty forehead, his jaws clenched. He looked so hot your eyes might as well be hearts.
Your stepdad’s cock was rubbing the soft gummy spot inside you deliciously and you felt another orgasm building and brought your fingers to your clit to help yourself come.
Joel slapped your hand away.
“I’ll do it,” he barked and began rubbing your puffy bud with his calloused thumb. You knew that he'd do it better than you so there were no objections and soon you were thrashing against the table, seeing stars while coming on Joel’s fat cock.
“Shit…gonna… bust…,” Joel choked on his words and started spurting his load deep inside you. With his thick fingers digging into your thighs, he was pumping you full for what felt like hours. Before him you had never known a man who could jizz so abundantly, and while you were praying for your pill to battle through, your pussy was greedily milking him, wanting more and more of his hot sticky cum.
When his balls were drained, Joel planted his hands on the table by your sides and hovered over you, covered in sweat, catching his breath. His cock was still anchored inside you and your walls were clamping around it from time to time.
“Damn,” he chuckled as your eyes met.
“Yeah, damn,” you repeated, giving him a hazy and satisfied smile.
Finally, Joel pulled out and wiped the wetness off his face with his tee that looked completely soaked. Breathing heavily, he picked up and threw your shorts at you and after you both got dressed, he came up to you, pinched your chin and turned your head to face him.
“So that chick of yours…” You swallowed loudly, scared that he’d prohibit you from seeing your crush, but Joel surprised you. “You can fool around with her, I ain’t stoppin’ ya but —…” he leaned down, pressed his wet lips to yours and then whispered, “don’t forget that you’re mine.”
That word hit you straight in the sore pussy and you almost moaned. Mine.
“And my rule still stands,” Joel gruffed, his breath hot on your lips. “The only cock you take is daddy’s. Repeat it.”
“The only cock I take is daddy’s.”
“That’s right,” he nodded and turned around before saying over his shoulder,
“Wait for five minutes and then come out.”
Your jaw dropped.
“I’m not staying in the spider shed alone! Joel!” you yelled but your stepdad was already out of the door.
Thank you for reading! Please, leave a comment and reblog if you liked the story. I appreciate your support💞
synapse: after smoking purple palm tree delight with nancy, y/n walks into the mandatory assembly feeling far too relaxed for how public everything is
pairing: professor!henry creel x reader
contains: professor/student relationship, cannabis usage, stoned!reader, handjob, spanking, blowjob, penetrative sex (p in v and anal), riding, orgasm denial
a/n: thanks everyone who voted on what kind of smut would be written! i was genuinely so surprised the most vanilla choice had the most votes. in the end, i combined a (but tried to make less vanilla), and d—so enjoy. It was 10,000 words. ALSOO sorry if some lines were repeated, it’s 3:47 am while writing this and I couldn’t care less about any mistakes
PART FIFTEEN IS LINKED HERE
. . .
The dorm room had the curtains pulled and the blanket draped over both of them like they were hiding from the world on purpose.
Which, technically, they were.
Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor with a large blanket pooled over her shoulders, the bong set carefully between her and Nancy like it was an important centerpiece. The little bag of beautiful Purple Palm Tree Delight sat off to the side with the rest of her “supplies,” and the air was already thick and warm in that unmistakable way.
Nancy sat opposite her, knees pulled up, edge of the blanket draped down her back.
She watched Y/N take a hit and exhaled through her nose, unimpressed.
“I cannot believe,” Nancy said, voice flat, “that you talked me into skipping fifth period.”
Y/N blinked slowly, very calm, very pleased with herself. “I didn’t talk you into it.”
Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, you did.”
Y/N shrugged like it was obvious. “You were already emotionally exhausted and you hate that class.”
“I hate my calculus class,” Nancy corrected, “but I love my GPA.”
Y/N leaned back slightly, letting the blanket slide a little down her back more. “Then consider this an investment in your mental health.”
Nancy stared at her. “That’s not how school works.”
Y/N smiled and nudged the bong and lighter a little closer to Nancy. “You’re holding it like it’s going to bite you.”
Nancy muttered, “It does bite me,” but she took it anyway with the careful seriousness of someone handling contraband.
Y/N watched her with open satisfaction. “I prefer you high,” she announced.
Nancy rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine. I’m… tolerable.”
Y/N smiled sweetly. “Exactly. When you drink you get do your ‘bullshit, bullshit’ babbles and you get really sad.”
Nancy’s face tightened. “I do not get sad.”
Y/N lifted her eyebrows.
Nancy sighed. “I get… reflective.”
“And then you whine,” Y/N said.
“I do not whine,” Nancy snapped.
“And act like the whole world is against you,” Y/N’s smile widened. “Not to mention, you cried at that movie we saw a couple months back.”
Nancy’s face went instantly red. “You cried too!”
“I lived Wil Wheaton’s life in that movie,” she said, grabbing the bong again. “Parents thought writing was a waste of time.”
Nancy pointed at her. “First of all, his name was Gordie—“
“I don’t care.” Y/N took a hit and exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded. “All I know is you’re my River Phoenix to my Wil Wheaton.”
Nancy made a strangled sound. “Oh my god, River’s name was Chris. And Wil was—“
“I’m trying to have a sentimental moment, dammit.”
Nancy stared at her for a beat, still pink in the cheeks, then sighed like she was being forced into emotional vulnerability at gunpoint.
“Fine,” she muttered. “Go ahead. Sentimentalize.”
Y/N’s eyes lit up. “Thank you.”
Nancy rolled her eyes, but her voice softened anyway. “You’re still wrong. It’s Gordie and Chris.”
Y/N waved a hand dismissively, blanket sliding down her shoulder. “Details. Not important.”
“They’re literally the only important part,” Nancy said, but she was smiling now, small, reluctant.
Y/N leaned closer, lowering her voice like it was some sacred confession. “You get it, though.”
Nancy blinked. “Get what?”
“The whole thing,” Y/N said, gesturing vaguely with the bong like it was a microphone. “Being young and…not really feeling safe at home. Feeling like nobody believes in you until you leave. Having your one person.”
Nancy’s expression shifted, the teasing fading into something more careful. “Y/N…”
Y/N shrugged like she didn’t care, but her eyes were too bright for it. “I’m just saying. You’re my one person.”
Nancy’s mouth opened, then closed again like she was offended by the softness trying to happen.
“You’re high,” Nancy said finally.
Y/N nodded. “Yes.”
“And dramatic.”
“Also yes.”
Nancy huffed, then reached under the blanket and nudged Y/N’s knee with hers. “Fine. If we’re doing this…”
Y/N’s eyes widened. “We are doing this?”
Nancy looked away, voice quieter. “You can be my… whatever. Too. I guess.”
Y/N grinned. “Your Wil Wheaton.”
Nancy groaned. “No. Absolutely not. Never say that again.”
Y/N laughed. “Okay, okay…your Gordie.”
Nancy pointed at her, satisfied. “That’s better.”
Y/N’s smile softened. “So we’re agreed.”
Nancy sighed like she hated agreements. “We’re agreed.”
Nancy took another hit just to avoid the argument and handed it back, eyes slightly watery. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” Y/N said, taking it, “I’m your best friend.”
Nancy muttered, “Against my will.”
Y/N leaned her head back against the bedframe behind them, letting the smoke curl up under the blanket. Her voice went dreamy. “This is so cozy.”
Nancy stared at her. “We are literally hotboxing our dorm room.”
Y/N nodded. “Cozy.”
Nancy opened her mouth, then closed it, because she didn’t have the energy to fight semantics with someone who was already floating.
They sat like that for a while, passing the bong back and forth, giggling quietly when something stupid became suddenly profound, taking turns saying half-finished thoughts like they were philosophy.
At one point Nancy started ranting about how the student newspaper budget was “a personal insult,” and Y/N listened with the kind of intense seriousness that only happened when she was high.
“You should do an exposé,” Y/N whispered.
Nancy blinked at her. “On the budget?”
“On the whole system,” Y/N corrected, nodding like she’d cracked the code of society. “The man is oppressing you.”
Nancy stared at her for three seconds, then snorted. “You are so annoying.”
Y/N grinned. “I’m right.”
Nancy leaned back and murmured, “Maybe.”
Y/N laughed, then suddenly sat upright like she’d been struck by lightning.
Nancy squinted. “Why are you moving like that?”
Y/N poked her head out of the blanket and blinked at the clock on the wall.
Her eyes widened.
“Oh my God.”
Nancy’s face tightened. “What?”
“We have an assembly,” Y/N whispered urgently.
Nancy stared. “We do not.”
Y/N pointed at the clock like it was a courtroom exhibit. “After our last period that we…didn’t go to.”
Nancy’s mouth fell open slightly. “Oh my God.”
Y/N was already scrambling. She threw the blanket off like it was on fire, smoke releasing into the room as she reached into her drawer, and whipped out a bottle of eye drops like a professional.
Nancy lurched to her feet, suddenly sober in the way panic always did that. “This is your fault.”
Y/N tilted her head while squeezing drops into her eyes. “How?”
“You’re the one who said ‘mental health investment,’” Nancy snapped, grabbing her perfume off her desk.
Y/N blinked rapidly, trying to clear the redness. “It is mental health.”
Nancy sprayed perfume into the air and walked through it aggressively like that would erase all evidence. “If we get caught, I’m blaming you.”
Y/N capped the eye drops and handed them to Nancy. “Here. Fix your eyeballs.”
Nancy took them, grumbling. “My eyeballs are fine.”
She put the drops in anyway.
Y/N rushed to crack the window, fanning the air with her notebook. Nancy grabbed a sweatshirt and started shaking it out like she was trying to create a breeze strong enough to remove guilt from the room.
“This is why I prefer you high,” Y/N said, fanning faster. “You get productive.”
Nancy shot her a look. “I hate you.”
Y/N grinned. “No you don’t.”
Nancy sprayed perfume again. “If anyone asks, we were cleaning.”
Y/N nodded solemnly. “We were cleaning our…vibes.”
Nancy stared at her. “Stop talking.”
Y/N grabbed her bag, still blinking rapidly. “Okay, mom.”
Nancy shoved her notebook into her tote, then paused and looked at Y/N over the top of it. “If we walk into that assembly smelling like a hippie’s dream, I’m ending our friendship.”
Y/N pointed at the perfume cloud. “That’s why you’re here.”
Nancy rolled her eyes and grabbed Y/N’s sleeve. “Come on. Move. Before they lock the doors.”
Y/N stumbled toward the door with her, laughing under her breath as Nancy dragged her down the hall like a frustrated chaperone.
And despite the panic, despite the eye drops and perfume and the fact they were absolutely going to walk in late, Y/N couldn’t help thinking:
This was the best kind of trouble.
. . .
Nancy and Y/N made it out of the dorm looking almost normal.
Almost.
Their eyes were a little too shiny, their smiles a little too easy, and their steps had that tiny delay to them, like their brains were politely waiting for the rest of their bodies to catch up.
They walked fast anyway, cutting across campus with the kind of urgency that only came from two people who knew they were late and were trying not to act like it.
Nancy kept her tote bag clutched tight to her side like it contained state secrets. Y/N kept blinking like her eyelashes were heavy.
“Okay,” Nancy muttered, glancing ahead at the auditorium building. “We can still do this.”
Y/N nodded solemnly. “We can do this.”
Nancy shot her a look. “Do not say it like you’re giving a speech.”
“I’m not,” Y/N said, offended. “I’m affirming.”
Nancy sighed. “You’re high.”
“I’m focused,” Y/N corrected.
Nancy’s mouth tightened. “You were focused when you called perfume ‘air makeup’ thirty seconds ago.”
“That was accurate,” Y/N insisted. “Because it covers… the air’s face.”
Nancy stared forward. “Stop talking. You’re going to get us caught.”
Y/N leaned closer as they walked, voice dropping conspiratorially. “What if the auditorium has like…smell detectors?”
Nancy’s head snapped toward her. “It doesn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because smell detectors aren’t a thing,” Nancy hissed.
Y/N considered that deeply, then nodded like Nancy had just explained a scientific theorem. “Okay. But what if someone can smell fear?”
Nancy’s expression went flat. “They can. And you smell like it.”
Y/N gasped. “Rude.”
Nancy pointed a finger at her without slowing down. “If you say one more sentence that starts with ‘what if,’ I’m leaving you.”
Y/N’s eyes widened, then she whispered, very seriously, “What if I leave you?”
Nancy blinked. “You can’t. You don’t know directions.”
Y/N stopped walking for half a second just to look offended. ‘Fuck, I hate when she’s right.’
Nancy grabbed her sleeve and dragged her forward again.
“Come on,” Nancy muttered. “We’re going to walk in and act like we belong.”
“We do belong,” Y/N said, nodding. “We pay tuition.”
Nancy whispered through her teeth, “Just shush.”
They reached the doors to the main auditorium and slowed, both of them instinctively trying to smooth themselves down. Nancy adjusted her hair. Y/N tugged her sweater into place. Nancy checked her eyes in a compact mirror.
Y/N peered at the heavy doors and whispered, “These doors are intimidating.”
Nancy’s brows knit. “They’re doors.”
“What if the door swing at me really fast and knocks me out?” Y/N insisted.
Nancy exhaled slowly. “You’re not allowed to speak once we go in.”
Y/N nodded. “Okay.”
They walked inside.
The sound hit them first, hundreds of voices, chairs shifting, the low roar of an entire student body being forced into one room. The main auditorium was filling quickly, rows of seats packed, aisles crowded with late arrivals and staff.
A banner hung near the stage: END-OF-YEAR PREPARATION ASSEMBLY in bold institutional lettering that looked like it hated joy.
Nancy leaned toward Y/N and whispered, “This is my nightmare.”
Y/N whispered back, “This is my nightmare too.”
Nancy blinked. “That was normal. I’m proud of you.”
Y/N smiled, then immediately ruined it by whispering, “What if everyone’s brains sync up in here.”
Nancy’s face dropped. “Oh my God.”
“I’m just saying,” Y/N murmured, “this many people in one room? That’s a lot of thoughts.”
Nancy grabbed her elbow. “Stop. You’re going to spiral.”
They moved down the side aisle, and that’s when Nancy stiffened.
Because the stage wasn’t empty.
Faculty were already in their seats at the front, some on the stage itself, some in a reserved section just below it. There was a long table set up on stage with name placards, water pitchers, stacks of papers, and microphones that weren’t turned on yet.
And there, sitting at the table with the School of Arts & Interdisciplinary Studies placard near him, was Henry.
Not in lecture mode.
In official mode.
Suit jacket on. Tie neat. Posture straight. His hair combed back like he’d never once been touched by chaos. He looked like he belonged on a stage in front of an audience, which made Y/N’s stomach dip with a mix of pride, nerves, and the sudden realization of how exposed this was.
Because being on campus with him was one thing.
Being on stage with him was another.
And of course her brain chose right now—stoned, sleep-deprived, and emotionally fragile—to decide Henry Creel in a tie was the most offensive thing she’d ever seen.
It wasn’t even fair.
Even from across the auditorium, she could see the disciplined line of his throat above his collar. Something about that pristine appearance-so controlled, so proper-made her want to mess it up.
Y/N’s mouth went dry.
Not from nerves.
From a thought she did not ask for.
Nancy’s hand tightened around Y/N’s elbow. “Oh, great,” she muttered. “Your favorite authority figure.”
Y/N didn’t answer because if she opened her mouth she might say something unforgivable like he looks so hot I could pass away. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her pulse thumped in her throat.
Nancy’s gaze flicked from Henry to the table to the sea of students. “You know you’re going to have to sit up there,” she whispered.
“I know,” Y/N whispered back, swallowing hard.
Her eyes kept drifting back to Henry's hands on the table-long fingers, steady, the cuff of his shirt showing just enough to make her remember how those same hands looked when they would explore every inch of her body.
She blinked fast, trying to clear it like eye drops could fix thoughts.
Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “And you are currently….”
Y/N blinked slowly. “I am currently.”
Nancy exhaled, pained. “You’re stoned.”
Y/N nodded once. “Yes.”
And apparently horny, her brain added, because it hated her.
Nancy made a sound that was half prayer, half threat. “Okay. We can still do this.”
Y/N stared at Henry's profile-the calm professionalism that made him look like he'd never once been touched by chaos. It made everything feel too real, too dangerous. It also made her remember how he looked when he stopped being professional, which was absolutely not helping right now.
Then she leaned toward Nancy and whispered, very seriously, “What if I wave at him and my arm falls off?”
Nancy’s face twisted. “Why would your arm fall off?”
“Because,” Y/N whispered, “this is stressful.”
Also because he looks like a man who could ruin her life in two languages, her brain supplied.
Nancy grabbed her shoulders gently, firmly. “Listen to me. You are going to walk up there, sit down, and take notes. You will not fall apart. You will not wave aggressively. You will not act like a stoned girl.”
Y/N nodded, eyes wide. “Okay.”
“And,” Nancy added, eyes narrowing, “you will not stare at him like you’re about to climb him.”
Y/N blinked. “Nancy.”
Nancy’s voice dropped. “I’m serious.”
Y/N whispered, “I’m not going to climb him.”
Nancy stared at her. “You’re thinking it.”
Y/N frowned. “I’m not thinking it.”
Nancy sighed. “You’re thinking it.”
Y/N leaned closer and whispered, “I’m thinking… about the concept of climbing. Like hiking.”
What she was actually thinking was: If he adjusts that tie once, I'm going to need medical attention. Or maybe a cold shower. Or an exorcism. The thought of his fingers at his throat, the casual adjustment of that perfect knot, was somehow more obscene than anything she'd ever seen.
Nancy closed her eyes briefly like she was asking the universe for strength.
They reached the steps that led up to the stage.
A staff member at the side entrance checked a list and waved Y/N forward. “Departmental assistant?”
Y/N swallowed. “Yes.”
The staff member handed her a folder and a small stack of handouts with the School of Arts & Interdisciplinary Studies header. “These go out after the assembly. Sit at the table with your faculty marshal.”
Y/N nodded, gripping the folder like it was a life raft.
Nancy stopped at the bottom of the steps, eyes on her.
“You’ve got this,” Nancy whispered.
Y/N looked back down at her. “Do I?”
Nancy’s mouth tightened. “Yes. And if you don’t, just remember: you’re smarter than half this room.”
That actually helped.
Y/N breathed in, steadied herself, and climbed the steps.
Henry looked up the moment she reached the table. His expression stayed controlled, of course it did, but his eyes softened when they landed on her, like he was relieved she’d made it.
Then his gaze flicked briefly to her face, assessing, checking if she was okay.
Y/N felt the look like a hand. She had to fight the ridiculous urge to melt into it right there in front of everyone.
She sat beside him, placing the folder and handouts neatly in front of her like she wasn’t vibrating internally.
Henry leaned a fraction closer, voice low enough that the microphones wouldn’t pick it up even if they were on.
“You’re here,” he murmured.
Y/N nodded. “I’m here.”
His cologne was faint up close, clean, restrained, and it messed with her head immediately. Her brain tried to replace the smell of an auditorium with the smell of his apartment. The memory hit so hard she almost lost the ability to speak like a normal person.
His eyes narrowed slightly, and his voice went quieter. “Are you all right?”
Y/N blinked at him very earnestly and whispered, “I am so normal right now.”
Henry held her gaze for a beat, then looked down at her eyes, too glossy, too soft, and the corner of his mouth almost moved.
Almost.
He didn’t smile.
He simply said, with calm precision, “You’re late.”
Y/N whispered back, “Time is a social construct.”
Henry’s hand paused over his papers.
He glanced at her again, and there was a flicker in his eyes, something like disbelief mixed with fondness.
It was that fondness that made her entire body flush with heat. She didn't just want to press her mouth to his cheek; she wanted to drag her teeth down his throat, to bite the knot of his tie and pull him closer. She wanted to crawl under this table and press her face against the hard line of his thigh. She wanted to behave, but her body was rewriting the definition of the word with every throb between her legs.
Then he leaned even closer and said, very quietly, “Stay still.”
Y/N nodded so seriously it was almost painful. “Okay.”
She sat up straighter, hands folded over her folder, pen ready. She faced forward like she was about to defend a dissertation.
Her body, unfortunately, was still very aware of his knee near hers, his arm close to her elbow, the way he looked so composed while she felt like a mess of nerves and want and leftover smoke.
The auditorium lights dimmed slightly.
A dean approached the microphone.
The assembly was about to begin.
Y/N stared out at the sea of faces, but she wasn't really seeing them. She felt the risk land in her chest like a hot stone, but beneath it was a deeper, more dangerous thrill. This was public. This was visible. And the thought of getting caught, of someone seeing the way he made her feel, made her slick with a heat that had nothing to do with the stage lights.
Her heart raced.
And of course her brain chose that exact moment to think: If he touches my thigh under this table, I’m going to black out.
She inhaled slowly, a useless attempt at control. Focus. Notes. Academic bullshit.
Normal. But her body was a traitor, already remembering every single sexual encounter ever with Henry.
But Henry’s knee shifted slightly under the table, brushing hers once, small, grounding, electric: I’m here. I know what you’re thinking.
The jolt didn't just go through her; it settled deep and low, a pulse of pure need that made her thighs clench.
Y/N gripped her pen until her fingers ached, her knuckles white. She forced her eyes forward, trying to look composed, trying to look like anything other than a girl who was seconds away from spontaneously combusting from sheer, unadulterated lust.
And despite everything-the weed amplifying every sensation, the anxiety of being exposed, the audience of hundreds, and the fact that Henry Creel looked like sin in a suit-she managed to sit there and behave... even if her thoughts were begging to have him.
Henry leaned in just enough to whisper, his voice a low, steady rumble that cut through the fog in her head. "Just breathe. Look at me."
She turned her head, and his calm, steady gaze met hers. He wasn't judging her; he was grounding her. In his eyes, there was no assembly, no audience, no risk. There was just him. The frantic energy in her chest began to subside, replaced by a slow, creeping warmth. The anxiety didn't vanish, but it morphed, melting into a lazy, heavy arousal that settled low in her belly. The danger was still there, but now it felt thrilling, a current buzzing under her skin.
For fifteen minutes, she behaved. She listened to the dean drone on about academic integrity. She tapped her pen. She nodded at the appropriate moments. But she was bored. And the high, now coupled with a potent dose of desire, made her reckless.
Her hand, which had been resting innocently on her own knee, slid over to his. It rested there for a moment, a simple point of contact. Then, with agonizing slowness, it began to creep up his thigh, her fingers tracing the seam of his trousers.
She felt him tense instantly. He didn't move, didn't look at her, but his entire body went rigid. She reached the apex of his thigh, her fingers brushing against the growing bulge in his pants.
She teased him, her touch light and maddening, tracing the outline of him through the fabric.
His hand shot out from under the table, his fingers wrapping around her wrist in a firm, warning grip. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head. His eyes were fixed forward, but the message was clear: Stop. Not here.
But the weed and the power had made her bold. She didn't pull away. Instead, she waited, her hand still.
A beat passed. Then another.
His grip on her wrist loosened, but he didn't let go. He simply moved her hand, placing it directly over his now-hard cock, pressing her palm against him. It was a surrender. A silent, desperate permission.
That was all she needed.
Her fingers worked with a newfound confidence, quickly and quietly undoing his button and lowering his zipper. He let out a barely audible hiss of breath. She reached inside, freeing him, his hot, heavy length fitting perfectly in her cool hand. She began to stroke him, her movements slow and deliberate at first, her thumb smearing the bead of pre-cum over his head.
He was utterly still, his jaw clenched so tightly she was surprised it didn't crack. His hand came back to the table, gripping the edge so hard his knuckles were white. He stared straight ahead at the dean, a statue of forced composure, while under the table, she was slowly, methodically taking him apart.
Her movements became a slow, torturous rhythm. Each deliberate glide of her fist up his shaft was a promise of the pleasure to come, each twist of her wrist a new form of exquisite agony. Henry was a statue carved from ice, but beneath the surface, he was a raging volcano.
He could feel the heat pooling in his groin, the tell-tale tightening that signaled his impending undoing.
His colleagues were mere feet away, droning on about student engagement. He could hear the head of the English department, Dr. Albright, laughing at some inane joke.
The sounds were a distorted, underwater soundtrack to the silent, frantic war he was waging with his own body. He had to stop her. It was too much. He was going to lose control, to make a sound, to disgrace himself in front of everyone.
His hand moved under the table, his intention clear: to pull her hand away, to end this exquisite torture. His fingers closed around her wrist just as she tightened her grip, her thumb swiping over his sensitive head in a way that made his vision blur.
He was on the absolute edge.
Just as he was about to forcibly remove her hand, she leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. Her voice was a ghost of a sound, a warm, wicked puff of air that sent a shiver down his spine.
"I could stop right now," she whispered, her hand stilling for a heart-stopping second. "Or...you could cum down my throat."
Henry’s world tilted on its axis. The choice wasn't a choice at all. It was a surrender. He didn't speak, couldn't speak. He just gave a single, sharp, almost imperceptible nod. It was the capitulation of a drowning man.
A triumphant, satisfied smirk played on her lips. She ducked under the long tablecloth, disappearing from view. The world above the table faded into meaningless noise. All that existed was the dark, cramped space under the table, the scent of his arousal, and the sight of him, hard and waiting for her.
She leaned in, her mouth watering, and took him into her mouth. His hand moved down into her hair and she was just getting settled, her lips wrapping around his thick head, her tongue preparing to taste him—
A piercing, high-pitched shriek of microphone feedback ripped through the auditorium, loud and violent. It was a physical assault on the senses.
Y/N jumped as if she’d been shocked, her head flying up and cracking hard against the underside of the table. She let out a sharp, pained yelp as she scrambled to sit back up, her heart hammering against her ribs, the sudden shift from illicit pleasure to shocking pain whiplash-inducing.
Henry, who had been teetering on the brink of oblivion, was jolted back to reality so violently it was almost painful.
He flinched, his eyes wide with panic as he looked around. Dr. Albright was glancing his way, a concerned look on her face.
Henry just gave a tight, pained smile, rubbing his ear as if the feedback had bothered him, all while his cock, still hard and desperate, throbbed with a denied, agonizing release under the table. The assembly continued, but for both of them, the world had just been blown apart.
. . .
When the dean finally wrapped up, the whole auditorium shifted at once, chairs scraping, bodies rising, the sound of hundreds of students all moving as if they’d been released from a spell.
Y/N stood automatically with everyone else, still a little foggy around the edges. The lights felt too bright. The air felt too loud. Her brain was slow to catch up to what her body was doing.
She blinked, looked around, trying to find Nancy in the sea of heads.
Nancy.
…Where was Nancy?
She had completely forgotten about the man sitting beside her, the hard length in her hand, the near-disaster. She was just a student in a crowd, looking for her best friend.
And then Henry was beside her.
Not in front of her. Not obvious.
Just suddenly there, close enough that she felt him before she saw him, his voice low enough to be swallowed by the crowd noise.
“Y/N,” he murmured. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”
She turned, disoriented, and saw his expression.
Not professor-neutral.
Not gentle.
Something darker. Controlled. Tight.
Y/N’s mouth parted, half ready to joke, half ready to ask what he meant until his hand closed around her arm.
Not bruising. Not violent.
Firm.
A grip that said you’re coming with me.
Before she could protest, Henry guided her through the press of bodies and out of the aisle, moving fast, using the chaos of the crowd as cover. They slipped out a side door, then another, the noise muffling behind them.
Cold air hit Y/N’s face the second they stepped outside.
It sobered her a little.
Not enough.
Henry didn’t stop walking until they were out of the flow of students and around the side of the building, where the wall was brick and the campus foot traffic thinned.
He didn't give her a chance to catch her breath. He spun her around, backing her up until her shoulders hit the rough brick of the building with a soft thud. He caged her in, one hand on the wall beside her head, the other still gripping her arm. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell his cologne mingled with the scent of his raw, unspent arousal.
And she could feel it, too. The hard, thick line of his cock was straining against the fabric of his trousers, pressing insistently against her hip. It was a tangible, undeniable proof of his desire.
“Are you out of your mind?” he said quietly.
Y/N blinked up at him. She should’ve felt embarrassed. She should’ve felt guilty.
Instead she felt that familiar flicker of defiance…and of course, arousal.
“It was an assembly,” she said, as if that explained anything.
Henry’s hand stayed on her arm, his fingers tense. “That,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “was the most reckless thing you’ve ever done.”
Y/N’s lips parted in a slow, dazed smile. “You didn’t seem to hate it.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed.
He leaned in slightly, and his voice dropped even lower. “You don’t get to confuse my lack of immediate reaction with approval.”
Y/N tilted her head, eyes bright and unfocused in that stoned way that made her brave.
“But you’re still—” she started, then stopped, her gaze dipping briefly before she looked back up at his face with a teasing softness. “You’re still not exactly… angry.”
Henry’s jaw flexed. He stepped closer, and Y/N could feel the tension in him, the way his control was barely holding.
“Don’t,” he warned.
Y/N swallowed, her pulse picking up. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t stand there and pretend you didn’t know exactly what you were doing,” Henry said. “All the little stunts. The teasing. The games I’ve been letting you get away with.” His eyes sharpened. “That was the worst possible place to take it.”
Y/N, the fog in her brain finally starting to lift, looked up at him. A slow, defiant smirk touched her lips. She shifted her hips, pressing herself more firmly against his straining erection. "You didn't seem to have a problem with it a few minutes ago," she whispered back, her voice husky. "In fact, you still don't."
A muscle twitched in his jaw. His eyes flickered down to her mouth, and for a second, she thought he was going to kiss her, to devour her right there against the wall. Instead, he pushed off the wall, stepping back just enough to create a sliver of space between them.
He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up, a clear sign of his fraying control.
He looked her up and down, his gaze a physical caress that left her skin tingling. "Do you have plans for the rest of the day?" he asked, his voice suddenly calm, which was far more terrifying than his anger.
She shook her head, unable to speak.
"Good," he said, his tone flat and final.
"Cancel them. Whatever you were going to do, forget it. Because you and I are going back to my apartment. And I am going to fuck your brains out."
He didn't wait for a reply. He grabbed her hand again, his grip like a vise, and began pulling her towards the faculty parking lot. His long legs ate up the distance, and she had to practically run to keep up. Her heart was pounding in her chest, a frantic, excited rhythm.
This wasn't a game anymore. This wasn't teasing. This was a promise of retribution, of a punishment so exquisite she was already trembling with anticipation.
. . .
The drive was a blur of motion and sound. Y/N’s head was still swimming, the edges of reality soft and indistinct. She had vague, disjointed flashes of trees blurring past the window, the tight clench of Henry's jaw, the white-knuckled grip he had on the steering wheel. But the journey itself was lost to the haze. It wasn't until he was fumbling with his keys, the metal jangling with an impatient urgency, that she fully registered they were at his apartment door.
He finally got the lock to turn, shoving the door open with a sharp push. He gave her a light shove inside, not enough to hurt her, but enough to make her stumble over the threshold. He stepped in behind her, kicking the door shut with a loud, final thud that echoed through the apartment.
The sound snapped her out of her stupor. She turned to face him, a slow, wicked grin spreading across her face. The danger was palpable, a living thing in the room, and it was intoxicating. She started walking backward into the living room, her hips swaying with deliberate provocation.
"Something the matter, Henry?" she taunted, her voice a low, sultry purr. "You seem a little... tense."
Her eyes were locked on his, challenging him, daring him. But in her stoned, overconfident state, she misjudged the distance to the rug. The heel of her boot caught on the edge of the plush carpet, and she went down with a surprised yelp, landing in a heap on the floor.
Before she could even process the fall, he was on her. He loomed over her, a tall, imposing figure blocking the light. He didn't offer to help her up. Instead, he crouched down, his hand shooting out to grip the front of her shirt, pinning her firmly to the floor. The fabric stretched tight across her chest, his knuckles pressing against her collarbone.
"Did you have fun playing your little game?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Did you enjoy seeing if you could make me lose control in front of my colleagues?"
The bratty, defiant part of her, the part that had gotten her into this mess, reared its head. She smirked up at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Immensely," she shot back. "You looked like you were enjoying every second of it, too."
His eyes darkened, the last vestiges of his control shattering. He released her shirt, only to grab her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw, forcing her to meet his searing gaze.
"You think this is a game?" he snarled, his face inches from hers. "You wanted to play? Fine. We'll play. I'm going to punish you, Y/N. I'm going to use you. And you," he said, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper, "are going to take everything I give you. Do you understand?"
A shiver of pure, unadulterated lust shot through her. This was it. This was the consequence she had been chasing. She could only manage a small, submissive nod, her breath catching in her throat.
His grip on her chin tightened. "Use your words," he commanded, his voice hard and unforgiving.
She swallowed hard, her gaze never leaving his. "Yes, Professor."
"Get up," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.
He released her chin and stood, offering no hand to help her. Y/N scrambled to her feet, her legs still a little unsteady. He pointed a long, authoritative finger down the hall towards his study. "Go into my office. And bend over my desk. I’ll be right there.”
A thrill shot through her, so potent it almost made her knees buckle. She turned and walked, her steps deliberate, feeling his eyes boring into her back with every step she took. The office was exactly as she remembered: dark wood, towering bookshelves, the scent of old paper and leather. It was his sanctuary, his place of power.
She walked around the large, mahogany desk, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She placed her palms flat on the cool, polished surface and leaned forward, bending over at the waist, presenting herself to him. The position was vulnerable, submissive, and it sent a fresh wave of arousal pooling between her thighs.
He followed her in, shutting the door with a soft, definitive click. He didn't touch her. He just leaned against the door, crossing his arms, his gaze a physical weight on her.
"Take off your clothes," he said, his voice low and even. "Slowly."
Her fingers trembled as they found the hem of her sweater. She peeled it upward, the fabric a whisper against her skin. As it cleared her head, she felt the cool air of the room kiss her heated flesh, but it was nothing compared to the scorching intensity of his gaze. She let the sweater drop, a forgotten piece of fabric on the floor.
Her hands moved behind her, fumbling with the clasp of her bra. It gave way with a soft click, and she drew the straps down her arms, the lace whispering against her skin before joining the growing pile at her feet. Her breasts, freed from their confinement, felt heavy and swollen, her nipples tightening into hard, aching points under his silent, predatory stare.
She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her skirt, her movements feeling clumsy and graceless under his unwavering scrutiny. She shimmied the material down over her hips, the soft rustle of it pooling around her ankles sounding impossibly loud in the silent room. She stood there for a moment, clad only in her panties, the last thin barrier between her and complete vulnerability.
His eyes dropped, lingering on the damp spot already darkening the fabric between her legs. A fresh wave of heat washed over her, a mixture of shame and a fierce, undeniable pride.
She hooked her thumbs into the sides, her heart hammering against her ribs as she slowly, torturously, drew them down. The slick fabric clung for a second before peeling away, revealing her glistening, swollen folds.
She kicked them aside, now utterly bare as she bent back over his desk like an offering on an altar.
"Good girl," he murmured, the praise a stark contrast to the dangerous edge in his voice. He pushed off the door and walked towards her, his footsteps slow and deliberate on the hardwood floor.
He stood behind her, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body. He placed a hand on the small of her back, pressing her down further, arching her spine until her ass was high in the air, her slick folds completely exposed to his view. "Count them," he ordered.
His hand came down, a sharp, stinging slap against her right ass cheek. The pain was immediate and shocking, a white-hot bloom of fire that made her gasp, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
"One," she choked out, the word barely a whisper.
Before she could fully process the sensation, his hand struck her left cheek with equal force, the impact jarring her whole body. "Two."
The third spank landed right in the middle, the impact sending a jolt straight to her clit. "Three."
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but they weren't from pain alone. With each stinging slap, a corresponding jolt of pleasure shot straight to her core. Her skin was on fire, her ass throbbing with a dull, delicious ache. She was so turned on she could feel her own wetness coating her inner thighs. She had never felt so used, so punished, or so incredibly alive.
He stood behind her, his presence a looming, powerful force. The air in the room was thick with tension and the lingering scent of her arousal. His hand came to rest on her throbbing, reddened ass cheek, his touch a cool balm against the heated skin. He kneaded it gently, his fingers digging into the flesh, a possessive claim.
"You took your punishment well," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "But I'm not finished with you yet."
He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear, his breath hot and intimate. "I'm going to fuck you here," he whispered, his finger tracing the sensitive cleft between her cheeks, circling the tight, forbidden ring of muscle. "I'm going to claim every part of you. And you are going to stay perfectly still. Do you understand me?"
A shiver of fear and pure, unadulterated lust shot through her. This was new territory, a line they had never crossed. She could only manage a desperate, breathless nod.
"Stay still," he commanded again, his voice leaving no room for disobedience.
She heard the sound of his zipper, the soft rustle of his trousers falling to the floor. She squeezed her eyes shut, her entire body tensing in anticipation. She felt him spit into his hand, heard the slick sound as he coated his hard length. Then, he was pressing against her, the thick head of his cock nudging against her tight entrance.
He pushed in slowly, agonizingly so. The pressure was intense, a burning stretch that bordered on pain. She cried out, her hands clenching into fists on the desk, her knuckles turning white. He was impossibly big, filling her in a way she had never been filled before.
"Relax," he growled, his hands gripping her hips, holding her in place. "Take it."
She forced herself to breathe, to yield to the intrusion.
As she did, the pain began to morph into something else, a deep, dark, full-body pleasure that was overwhelming in its intensity. He began to move, his strokes slow and shallow at first, allowing her to adjust to the new sensation. Each thrust sent a jolt of electricity through her, a primal pleasure that was both shocking and intoxicating.
He picked up the pace, his movements becoming more confident, more demanding. The desk creaked in protest with each powerful thrust. She was lost in a haze of sensation, the pleasure building to an impossible crescendo. She could feel the orgasm coiling deep inside her, a tight, hot knot that was about to snap.
"I'm... I'm gonna come…," she gasped, her voice ragged.
Just as the first wave of her climax began to crest, he pulled out.
The sudden emptiness was a shock. A cry of protest escaped her lips before she could stop it.
Before she could even process what was happening, he had flipped her over onto her back. She lay sprawled across his desk, her body still trembling from the denied orgasm.
He positioned himself between her legs, his cock, slick with her juices, pressing against her drenched, aching core. He looked down at her, his eyes dark and wild with lust.
He thrust into her in one hard, deep stroke, filling her completely. The sensation was familiar yet amplified, a direct, intense pleasure after the dark, forbidden thrill of moments before. He hooked her legs over his arms, spreading her wide, and began to fuck her with a punishing, relentless rhythm.
This was no longer about punishment. This was about claiming. He was taking her, marking her as his, his hips slamming into hers with a force that made the desk shake. The denied orgasm came roaring back, stronger and more powerful than before.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice strained.
She forced her eyes open, her gaze locking with his. The sight of him, so lost in his own desire, his face contorted with pleasure, was what nearly sent her over the edge.
The pleasure built to an impossible peak, a white-hot wave of ecstasy that was just about to crash over her. She could feel it, the tightening in her core, the tingling in her limbs. She was right there, teetering on the edge. Her hands flew up, desperate to cling to him, to pull him deeper, to push herself over that final precipice.
But he was faster.
His hands shot out, grabbing her wrists and pinning them down against the hard wood of the desk with an iron grip.
The movement was sudden, forceful, and it shattered her momentum.
He kept thrusting, his pace brutal, his own release imminent. With a low, guttural groan, he buried himself inside her, his body shuddering as he emptied himself into her.
The feeling of him cumming, the hot flood of his release, was what should have sent her spiraling.
She was so close, just a fraction away.
But as the last tremor of his orgasm subsided, he pulled out of her with a swift, abrupt motion.
He stood over her, his chest heaving, his cock still hard and glistening with their combined fluids. A cruel, satisfied smirk played on his lips as he looked down at her trembling, desperate form.
"Did you really think I'd let you cum that easily?" he taunted, his voice a low, predatory purr. "After the little stunt you pulled today? Oh no, Y/N. You don't get to cum until I say you can."
He reached down, his fingers tracing a path through the mess on her inner thigh, gathering their slickness on his fingertips. He brought his fingers to his lips, his eyes locked on hers as he tasted them. "You taste delicious when you're desperate," he murmured.
"No," she whined, her voice a desperate, breathy plea. "Please...I was so close. I want to cum."
He loomed over her, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and unreadable. A cruel, satisfied smirk played on his lips. "You want to cum?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "You don't get to cum. Not yet. You have to earn it."
He released her wrists and took a step back, his spent cock glistening. He looked down at her, sprawled and desperate on his desk. "On your knees," he commanded.
Her body moved on pure instinct, sliding off the desk and sinking to the floor in front of him. The cool hardwood was a stark contrast to the fire still raging under her skin. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and glassy, a chaotic mix of frustration, desperation, and utter submission.
"You didn't get to finish what you started in the auditorium," he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "So you're going to finish it now. On your knees."
He didn't wait for her to initiate. His hand shot out, fisting in her hair, the grip possessive and unyielding. He used the hold to pull her head forward, tilting her face up until her neck was a long, vulnerable line. "Open."
Her lips parted instantly, a silent, willing offering.
He guided the slick, swollen head of his cock to her mouth, not pushing in immediately, but smearing their combined fluids over her lips, marking her with the scent and taste of their fucking. "Taste what you did," he commanded. "Taste how bad you wanted this."
Then he fed her his length, sliding past her lips in one slow, deliberate thrust that filled her completely. The taste was musky and primal, his salt, her musk, a heady cocktail that made her head spin.
He didn't start slow nor did he give her a chance to take control. He set a punishing rhythm from the very beginning, fucking her mouth with deep, hard thrusts that hit the back of her throat, making her gag and her eyes water.
Saliva mixed with pre-cum dribbled down her chin, a messy testament to his possession.
"That's it," he growled, his hips pumping, the sound of his flesh hitting her mouth obscene in the quiet room. "Take it. Take every fucking inch. This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be on your knees for me, choking on my cock."
The ache between her legs was a physical torment, a deep, throbbing need that demanded attention. Desperate for any friction, for any relief, her hand slid down her stomach, her fingers finding her swollen, sensitive clit and beginning to rub in frantic, desperate circles.
She had barely made contact when his grip in her hair tightened painfully, a sharp, corrective sting that made her cry out around his mouthful of cock.
He thrust deep, forcing his cock past her resistance and down her throat, cutting off her air in a rush.
Her eyes flew open, watering instantly as she choked around him, her body's convulsive grip massaging his length. He held her there for a terrifying, exhilarating second, a display of absolute dominance, before pulling back just enough to let her suck in a ragged, desperate gasp for air.
"Did I tell you that you could touch yourself?" he snarled, his voice laced with ice and fire. He smacked her cheek, not hard, but a sharp, stinging reminder of his control. "This isn't for you. This is for me. This mouth is mine to use. You don't get to cum until I say so. Now put your hands behind your back and don't move them again."
Trembling, a fresh wave of dark arousal washing over her so strong it made her dizzy, she laced her fingers together behind her back, arching her spine and presenting herself for his use. She was completely surrendered, a vessel for his pleasure.
He rewarded her obedience by resuming his brutal pace, using her mouth without mercy.
The promise of her own release felt more distant and more coveted than ever before, a forbidden fruit she could only earn through his complete satisfaction.
With her hands locked behind her back, she surrendered completely to his rhythm. He used her mouth without mercy, his groans growing louder, his thrusts more erratic.
She could feel him swelling, his entire body tensing as he chased his own release. With a final, guttural moan, he buried himself deep, his cock pulsing as he came down her throat. She swallowed instinctively, taking everything he gave her, the act of submission a final, intoxicating thrill.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was their ragged breathing. He slowly pulled out of her mouth, his grip on her hair softening into a gentle caress. He looked down at her, his expression a complex mix of satisfaction and something softer, something that looked like awe.
He reached down, his hands gentle now, and helped her up off the floor. As soon as she was standing, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.
He pulled back just enough to capture her lips again, his kiss possessive and searing, tasting of their shared essence. It wasn't a kiss of dominance or punishment this time; it was deep, passionate, and filled with a fierce, undeniable affection that made her chest ache.
When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against hers. "Perhaps," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, "you have earned your reward."
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Y/N's face. The ache between her legs, the desperate need that had been building for hours, roared back to life. She didn't hesitate.
In a swift, fluid motion, she pushed him. He was so taken aback by her sudden strength that he stumbled back, his legs hitting the edge of his desk. He lost his balance and fell back, his back flat on the polished wood before he could catch himself.
Before he could react, she was on him. She climbed onto his lap, straddling him, her knees pressing into the desk on either side of his thighs. She grabbed his face, forcing him to look at her as she positioned herself over his already-hardening cock.
"God, Henry," she breathed, her voice a husky, desperate whisper as she sank down onto him, taking him in to the hilt.
They both groaned at the sudden, intense fullness.
"I am so turned on. I've been wet for you since the auditorium."
She began to move, a slow, grinding rhythm that made his eyes flutter shut. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. "I love it when you're rough with me," she whispered, her voice a seductive caress. "I love it when you lose control because of me."
She rocked her hips, riding him with a growing confidence, her hands tangled in his hair. "I love the way you looked at me when you were punishing me," she continued, her words a litany of praise and desire. "I love the way you taste. I love the way you feel inside me."
She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, her own dark with a lust that matched his. She held his gaze, her movements never ceasing. "And I love you, Henry," she whispered, the words raw and vulnerable despite how rough he was with her earlier. "I love you so much."
Henry’s eyes snapped open, the depth of his emotion warring with the raw lust in his gaze. He gripped her waist, his fingers digging into her soft skin, anchoring her as he surged upward, meeting her thrust for thrust. "Then take what you want," he growled, his voice breaking. "Take me."
She didn't need telling twice. She rode him harder, her hips snapping forward with renewed urgency. The friction was maddening, the sensation of being filled completely by him driving her wild. She threw her head back, her hair cascading down her back, as she surrendered to the rhythm.
He reached up, his hands cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, which were already hard and sensitive. He pulled one into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the peak, sending jolts of electricity straight to her core. He suckled on her, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, making her cry out.
"More," she begged, her voice breathless. "Please, Henry."
He released her breast with a wet pop, his eyes dark and hungry. He sat up slightly, his mouth moving to the other one, his teeth grazing the nipple, his tongue licking the sensitive flesh. He nipped at it, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh, drawing a sharp gasp from her lips.
He took her breast into his mouth again, his tongue swirling around the peak, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, up and down, back and forth, sending waves of pleasure crashing through her.
She was on the edge, her body trembling, her eyes rolling back as she rode him faster.
He pulled back, his hands leaving her breasts, and he looked at her, his eyes dark and wild. "You're so beautiful like this," he he said, his voice strained. "So beautiful…”
She gasped, the words sending her over the edge. With a loud cry, she came, her body shuddering, her inner muscles clamping down tight around him, milking him for all he was worth.
Henry groaned, the sensation of her tight pussy clenching around him was too much. He thrust upward, burying himself deep, and with a soft groan, he came as well, his hot seed spurting deep inside her, filling her completely.
They collapsed onto the desk, a sweaty, tangled mess of limbs, both spent and panting. The smell of sex filled the air, a heady, intoxicating mix of their bodies. He pulled her closer, holding her tight against his chest, his lips pressed against her forehead.
They stayed there for a while, catching their breath in the quiet that followed, no audience, no stage lights, no footsteps outside a classroom door. Just the low hum of the apartment, the desk beneath them, Henry’s arms locked around her like he was making a point he didn’t trust words to hold.
His mouth pressed to her forehead again, lingering.
Then, quietly, Henry murmured, “I love you.”
She lifted her head slightly, still close enough to feel his breath. “Say it again,” she whispered.
Henry’s hand smoothed along her back, slow, grounding. “I love you.”
The words landed like aftercare all by themselves.
Y/N swallowed and let her forehead rest against his shoulder for a second, letting her eyes close. Then she pulled back just enough to look at him properly, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, expression soft but searching.
“Were you actually mad?” she asked, voice quiet. “About what I did in the auditorium?”
Henry’s gaze held hers for a beat. He didn’t dodge it.
“No,” he said. Then, after a breath, he corrected himself with more honesty. “I was mad. But not at you.”
Y/N’s brows knit. “Then why—”
Henry exhaled, tiredness visible in the way his eyes narrowed briefly, like he’d been holding a whole day inside his body. “Because my day was long,” he admitted. “Because it was stressful. Because the least stressful part of my day was you…and I didn’t even get to—“
“Come?” she asked softly with her brows raised slightly.
His jaw flexed once. “…Yes. And relieve my stress, so I took it out on you.”
Y/N’s eyes softened. “Henry…”
“I shouldn’t have,” he added immediately, voice firm. “Not like that.”
Y/N watched him for a second, then her mouth curved, slow, warmed by something private. “I’m glad you took it out on me in a healthy way.”
Henry blinked. “Healthy?”
Y/N nodded, absolutely sincere. “Yes.”
His expression shifted into that familiar mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement. “You have a very flexible definition of healthy.”
Y/N smiled wider. “I’m just saying…you’re hot when you’re mad.”
Henry’s eyes darkened slightly at that, but his voice stayed controlled. “You’re encouraging bad behavior.”
“Maybe,” she said, then added softly, “but I like you like that. I love your sweet side in bed but getting angrily fucked is incredible.”
A quiet huff of laughter escaped him, a sound that was more air than noise. He shifted slightly, the movement causing a pleasant aftershock to ripple through her. He didn't look away from her, his gaze intense and searching.
He paused, his thumb stroking her cheek. "I'm also mad at myself. For wanting it this much. For losing control like that. For wanting to do it all over again right now."
His eyes dropped to her lips for a moment before meeting her gaze again. "But you're right," he admitted, his voice dropping even lower, thick with a raw honesty. "There's a part of me that... enjoys it. That enjoys the chaos you bring. The way you make me feel like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff."
He leaned in, his lips hovering just a breath from hers. "And the sweet side in bed..." he murmured, his voice a husky whisper. "That's for you. This... this angry, desperate need... that's all for me. Because of you."
He closed the final distance, kissing her softly, a stark contrast to the frantic intensity from before. It was a slow, deep, and deliberate kiss, a silent confirmation that he was hers, in every possible way.
Henry’s gaze held hers the moment she pulled back from the kiss, and something in it softened, tension bleeding out of him in real time, replaced by something steadier. He pressed a kiss to her hairline again, calmer now.
“I don’t want to scare you,” he said quietly.
“You didn’t,” Y/N answered. “You just… felt like you.”
Henry’s throat moved as he swallowed. “That’s not always a good thing.”
Y/N’s fingers touched his jaw, gentle. “It is when you come back to me after.”
Henry went still at that. Then he nodded once, as if he was taking it as a rule.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy with the kind of closeness that made the room feel smaller in a good way.
Eventually Henry shifted, careful. “Come here.”
Y/N tried to move, and the second her weight shifted off him, her legs protested.
She made a small sound of surprise and grabbed the edge of the desk for balance. “Oh my God.”
Henry’s hand came to her waist instantly, steadying her. “Easy.”
“My legs are…” she inhaled, laughing weakly, “…jello.”
Henry’s mouth nearly twitched into a smirk. “Yes.”
Y/N shot him a look. “Don’t sound pleased.”
Henry didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
He guided her down carefully, feet finding the floor, her knees wobbling like she’d run a marathon she hadn’t trained for. Henry kept one hand at her back, the other ready to catch her if she tipped.
When she finally stood upright, she looked up at him with that sleepy, satisfied softness that always made him look briefly ruined.
Henry smoothed a thumb once along her side, grounding her again. “Come shower,” he said.
Y/N blinked slowly. “Together?”
Henry’s eyes flicked to hers. “If you want.”
Y/N’s mouth curved. “I always want.”
Henry gave her a look that said he was trying very hard to be a responsible adult and failing.
Then he took her hand, firm, sure, and led her away from the desk and toward the bathroom, the rest of the apartment quiet behind them.
And for once, the night didn’t feel like something they were stealing.
after class - part twelve: the shape of being chosen
synapse: a difficult day pushes y/n to her breaking point, and henry sees a side of her no one else does.
contains: professor/student relationship, angst, emotional abuse, controlling parents, family trauma
a/n: im posting this rn while dealing with similar parental issues so this hit closer to home. You might not relate to y/n but I do…painfully…this is for those who relate.
PART THIRTEEN IS LINKED HERE
. . .
Second period had barely settled into its rhythm when the knock came at the classroom door.
Y/N looked up automatically, pen still in hand, half listening as her history professor droned on about postwar policy and trade routes. Most of the class didn’t notice the secretary standing in the doorway right away, but Y/N did, something in the woman’s posture too formal, too specific, immediately pulling at her nerves.
The professor paused mid sentence. “Yes?”
The secretary stepped inside just enough to be heard. “Sorry to interrupt. I need Y/N in the office. She has a phone call.”
A few heads turned.
Y/N’s stomach dropped so fast it almost hurt.
A phone call.
Not a note. Not a message. A call.
She sat frozen for half a second, her fingers tightening around her pen.
The professor glanced toward her. “Go ahead.”
Y/N swallowed and nodded, already pushing her chair back. “Sorry.”
Her voice sounded normal.
That almost made it worse.
She crossed the room with every pair of eyes on her for exactly two seconds before everyone lost interest and went back to class. The door shut behind her with a soft click, and just like that the hallway was too quiet.
The secretary didn’t say much as she led her toward the office.
“Line two,” she said, gesturing toward the phone at the end of the counter when they got there. “You can take it there.”
Y/N nodded again, mouth dry.
She already knew.
Before she picked up the receiver, before she even touched the cord, she knew.
She pressed the phone to her ear.
“Hello?”
There was a pause on the other end. A breath.
Then her father’s voice.
Not warm. Not angry right away. Just clipped in that awful, measured way that somehow always felt worse, like he had already decided what she was before she said a single word.
Y/N’s spine went stiff.
Her free hand slowly closed around the edge of the counter.
“Hi, Dad.”
Her voice came out smaller than she wanted.
Whatever he said first made her expression flicker, just slightly. Not enough for anyone watching casually to notice it, but enough that if someone had been paying attention they would have seen it: the immediate tightening around her eyes, the way her shoulders drew inward by an inch.
She glanced toward the office doorway, then turned her body away from the front desk, as if she could hide the conversation just by facing a different wall.
“No, I—” she started, then stopped.
Listened.
Her fingers tightened harder around the counter.
“I didn’t know—“ she said quietly.
Another pause.
Her face lost color.
The secretary at the desk looked up briefly, then back down at her paperwork, either politely pretending not to notice or very much noticing and choosing mercy.
Y/N’s breathing changed.
Not dramatic. Not loud. Just shallower.
“No,” she said again. “That’s not what happened. I’m sorry.”
She listened.
Her jaw clenched.
The hand holding the receiver shifted, pressing it tighter to her ear as though if she held it hard enough she could force the words to hit less.
Her father kept talking.
Y/N stared at the cinderblock wall across from her, eyes fixed and glassy, seeing absolutely none of it.
“I said I’m sorry,” she murmured.
The words sounded automatic. Old. Worn into her.
Another stretch of silence while he spoke.
Her throat worked when she swallowed. Once. Then again.
“I’m not having attitude. No, I know,” she said. “I know.”
A beat.
Then, softer, more shaken now, “Please don’t do that.”
Whatever came back at her made her straighten, like she had been slapped without contact.
Her lips parted, but nothing came out for a second.
When she finally spoke again, it was only two words.
“Not fair.”
She closed her eyes briefly.
The secretary looked up again.
Y/N turned even farther toward the wall now, her back almost fully to the room, one arm crossing tightly over her stomach.
Her father’s voice kept coming through the line, relentless in its steadiness.
Y/N’s face pinched. Her brows pulled together, her mouth tightening as she fought to keep it from trembling. The effort showed everywhere else instead, in the rigid line of her shoulders, in the way her knees locked, in the tiny tremor that moved through the hand gripping the cord.
“I never said that,” she whispered.
A pause.
Then, “No.”
Longer pause.
She nodded once, then realized he couldn’t see it. “No,” she repeated, this time with less strength.
Her eyes were burning now. She blinked hard and fast, once, twice, trying to force everything back.
Whatever he said next did it.
The first tear didn’t fall, but it gathered quickly enough that she had to look down.
Her voice dropped so low it almost disappeared. “I’m trying.”
Another pause.
A worse one.
Because this time she didn’t answer right away.
Her shoulders lifted with one sharp inhale and stayed there too long before she let the breath back out.
When she spoke, it was barely a voice at all.
“I know she is.”
The secretary stopped typing.
Y/N’s fingers dug into her side through her sweater.
No more explanations now. No more trying to defend herself. Just short, quiet responses, each one sounding like it was being pulled out of her against her will.
“Okay.”
A beat.
“Fine.”
Another.
“Yeah.”
Her face had gone still in the way it always did when she was trying not to completely come apart in public. The stillness was worse than crying. It looked learned.
She listened for one last stretch, eyes locked on the floor now, lashes wet.
Then she said, with frightening calm, “I have to go.”
Her father was still talking when she pulled the receiver away from her ear.
She stared at it for half a second.
Then she set it back in the cradle without another word.
Not a goodbye.
Not an I love you.
Nothing.
The office was quiet except for the faint sounds of the school around it, phones ringing somewhere deeper in the building, a copier starting up, footsteps in the hall.
Y/N stood there with her hand still resting on the phone as if she had forgotten to move it.
Then she looked down at it, blinked once, and wiped quickly under one eye with the heel of her hand.
The secretary looked up, gentler this time. “Do you need a pass back to class?”
Y/N turned her head.
For a second, she looked like she didn’t understand the question.
Then she nodded too fast. “Yeah. Sure.”
The secretary reached for a slip, but Y/N was already backing away.
“Actually,” she said, voice tight. “I’m okay.”
She wasn’t.
That much was obvious.
But the secretary either knew better than to stop her or had seen enough college girls try to hold themselves together to understand that interference would only make it worse.
Y/N left the office quickly, one hand gripping the strap of her bag, the other curled into her palm so tightly her nails bit crescent moons into her skin.
She should have turned left.
Left would have taken her back to history. Back to fluorescent lights and lecture notes and the normal shape of the day.
Instead, when she reached the end of the hall, she turned right.
Fast.
Head down.
Like if she moved quickly enough, no one would stop her. No one would ask. No one would see the way her mouth had gone tight and bloodless, the way her eyes kept filling no matter how hard she blinked.
She kept walking.
Past the stairwell.
Past the common area.
Past the hall that would have led her back to class.
She didn’t know where she was going yet.
She only knew she couldn’t sit under bright lights and pretend she was still listening to a lecture after whatever had just been ripped open inside her.
By the time she rounded the next corner, her breathing had gone thin and shaky.
And still, she kept moving, quietly, quickly, in the wrong direction.
. . .
By fourth period, Nancy had started to feel it.
Not panic. Not yet.
Just that small, nagging wrongness that sat between her shoulders and refused to leave. She hadn’t felt this feeling in a while. Not since Hawkins…Not since Barb…
She slid into her usual seat in Henry Creel’s class, dropping her notebook on the desk and shrugging off her coat with one distracted motion. Around her, students filtered in by twos and threes, the room filling with the ordinary noise of backpacks thudding to the floor, chairs scraping, and low conversations about quizzes and deadlines.
Nancy kept one eye on the door.
At first, she didn’t think much of it.
Y/N was late sometimes, not often, but enough to make it believable. And Nancy hadn’t seen her during lunch, sure, but she had brushed that off almost immediately. Y/N had vanished for McDonald’s before. She had disappeared off campus for fries and a Coke and come back acting like nothing happened.
So Nancy had told herself it was that.
Only now the room kept filling, and Y/N still wasn’t there.
Nancy glanced at the clock.
Then at the door again.
Then back down at her notebook, pretending to flip to the right page while her attention stayed completely fixed on the hallway beyond the classroom.
More students came in.
Still no Y/N.
A strange tightness started building in her chest.
Henry was at the front of the room, arranging papers with his usual care, his face composed in that distant, intellectual way he wore for class. He looked exactly the same as always at first glance, controlled, orderly, impossible to read if you didn’t know where to look.
Nancy knew where to look now.
And she caught the moment he noticed.
It wasn’t immediate. He let his eyes skim the room the way he always did before starting, checking who was present, who was half asleep, who already looked confused before he had said a word.
Then his gaze reached Y/N’s seat.
And stopped.
Only for a second.
But Nancy saw it.
The stillness. The tiny pause too long to be casual. The way his eyes flicked back there again like he thought maybe he had missed her somehow.
The seat stayed empty.
Henry’s jaw tightened.
Nancy’s stomach dipped.
He started class anyway.
Of course he did.
“Open your books,” he said, voice even, the same measured tone he used every day. “Page—”
But something in it was off by a fraction. Not enough that the rest of the class would notice. Enough that Nancy did.
She stopped pretending to look at her notes and looked up fully.
Henry was speaking, moving through the introduction, chalk in hand, but his attention kept drifting. Every few minutes his eyes cut back toward the door, toward the empty seat, toward Nancy.
The first time their eyes met, Nancy’s expression hardened immediately.
Because her first thought, the instinctive, furious, protective thought, was simple:
What did you do now?
Henry saw it on her face.
Nancy didn’t bother hiding it.
Her brows narrowed, her chin lifting slightly in challenge, suspicion written all over her before he had even asked a question.
Henry’s gaze held hers for one beat too long.
He knew exactly what she was thinking.
And the fact that he didn’t immediately look away made Nancy’s pulse kick harder.
Because he looked concerned too.
Not guilty.
Concerned.
That shifted something.
Not enough to erase her suspicion, but enough to make it wobble.
Henry turned back to the board, wrote out the first key term, and continued the lecture like a man trying to force routine over unease. But the room had changed for Nancy now. Every scrape of a chair, every muffled laugh from the hall outside, every second that passed without Y/N slipping in late made the air feel tighter.
Nancy glanced at the empty seat again.
Her pen tapped once against her notebook.
Then twice.
Henry asked a question to the room. Someone in the second row answered. He nodded automatically, but his eyes drifted to the door again almost at once.
Nancy noticed that too.
And suddenly lunch didn’t feel like a harmless missed sighting anymore.
Now it felt like a gap.
A big one.
She hadn’t seen Y/N between classes, hadn’t heard from her, hadn’t gotten a scribbled note or a whispered excuse or even one of Y/N’s annoying little comments in the hall.
Nothing.
Nancy’s fingers tightened around her pen.
Henry turned from the board, gaze moving across the room again, and when it reached Nancy this time, there was no question in it anymore.
Just silent acknowledgment.
He was worried.
And because he was worried, Nancy’s own concern sharpened fast.
Her suspicion didn’t vanish. It just shifted shape. From what did you do to where is she.
The lecture kept going, but Nancy barely heard a word of it.
She stared at her notebook without writing, eyes flicking from the page to the door to Henry and back again, every minute making the empty seat look wronger.
By the time twenty minutes had passed, she wasn’t irritated anymore.
She was afraid to admit she was afraid.
And at the front of the room, Henry Creel, who never lost the shape of a class and never let anything personal show, kept looking at one empty desk like it was the only thing he could see.
. . .
The bell rang, and the room emptied in waves.
Students packed up fast, voices rising, chairs scraping, papers shoving into bags. Nancy didn’t move. She stayed in her seat with her notebook still open, eyes fixed on Henry while the rest of the class filed around her.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
Henry gathered the last of his papers into a stack, his movements neat but tighter than usual, attention split between the desk in front of him and the empty one where Y/N should have been all hour.
Nancy waited until the last student slipped out and the hallway noise swallowed the room.
Then she stood.
She didn’t ease into it. She didn’t soften it.
She walked straight to the front and stopped at his desk.
“What did you do?”
Henry looked up immediately.
Nancy’s voice was low but sharp enough to cut. “She’s gone, Creel. So what did you do this time?”
His jaw tightened. “I didn’t do anything.”
Nancy crossed her arms. “That’s not comforting.”
Henry set the papers down. “Have you seen her?”
The question threw Nancy off for half a beat, not because of the words but because of how quickly he asked them. No defense. No irritation. Just direct concern.
Still, she didn’t let up.
“No,” Nancy snapped. “Which is exactly why I’m asking you.”
Henry came out from behind the desk. “When did you last see her?”
Nancy’s face stayed hard, but her thoughts started moving faster now, shifting from blame to timeline.
“This morning,” she said. “She got up before me. She was getting ready when I woke up.” Nancy frowned, replaying it. “She said she was going to get coffee.”
Henry’s eyes sharpened. “And after that?”
“I didn’t see her at lunch,” Nancy admitted, more frustrated now. “I figured she went off campus or got McDonald’s or something.” Her mouth tightened. “I didn’t think—”
She stopped.
Henry finished it for her anyway. “That something was wrong.”
Nancy hated that he sounded as worried as she felt.
She looked toward the door, already calculating where to start, what buildings to check, whether Y/N would hide in the library or the dorm or somewhere worse.
“I’m skipping my last period,” Nancy said abruptly. “I’m going to look for her.”
Henry stepped forward at once. “No.”
Nancy’s head snapped back toward him. “No?”
“I can look,” he said. His tone was controlled but urgent under the surface. “You shouldn’t miss class.”
Nancy stared at him like he had lost his mind.
“Are you serious right now?”
“Yes,” Henry said. “Miss Wheeler—”
She cut him off immediately. “Don’t ‘Miss Wheeler’ me.”
Henry exhaled through his nose, visibly trying to stay calm. “I don’t want you missing your education over this.”
“And I’m aware of that,” Henry said, voice tightening.
“Then act like it,” Nancy shot back.
He went still.
Nancy stepped closer, anger and fear making her voice shake just enough to show through. “You think I care about one class right now?”
Henry’s jaw flexed. “I’m saying I can look for her.”
“And I’m saying I’m going,” Nancy replied. “So unless you plan on physically stopping me, this conversation is over.”
For a second they just looked at each other, both stubborn, both frightened, both too proud to admit how bad this suddenly felt.
Then Nancy turned and grabbed her bag.
“I’m checking the dorm first,” she muttered, more to herself than him. “Then the student center. Then the library.”
Henry watched her move to the door, his expression taut with the effort of not following immediately.
“Nancy.”
She stopped without turning around.
“If you find her,” he said, voice lower now, “tell me.”
Nancy looked over her shoulder then, jaw clenched. “If I find her,” she said, “I’ll decide what to tell you.”
And then she was gone.
The door shut behind her, and the room dropped into a silence that felt wrong.
Henry stood there for two seconds.
Then his eyes cut to the clock.
Two minutes until his last class of the day.
His whole body went tight.
He could not cancel now, not abruptly, not for no stated reason. A missing student and a male professor leaving his class schedule to go search for her would raise questions he could not afford, not when he didn’t even know what had happened yet.
That was the part that made him feel sick.
Because every instinct in him was already moving: find her, check the building, search the halls, stop pretending anything else mattered.
Instead, he had to stay.
He looked toward the door as if sheer force of will might pull her through it.
Nothing.
The hallway outside was already starting to fill with the next class. Voices. Footsteps. Backpacks brushing the frame.
Henry dragged a hand over his mouth, then straightened the papers on his desk with more force than necessary.
Two minutes.
He would get through the period. He would do it properly. He would not give anyone a reason to look too hard at his concern.
And the second that class ended, he would go looking for her.
He turned as the first student entered, his face already smoothing back into something acceptable, something professional.
But underneath it, the only thought in his head was Y/N.
Where she was.
Why she hadn’t come.
And why, despite everything he had tried to train himself out of feeling, the sight of her empty seat had left him rattled in a way he could no longer pretend was temporary.
. . .
The second the last student left, Henry moved.
No lingering at the desk. No stacking papers into perfect piles. No extra minute to breathe and think and force himself into composure. He gathered his things quickly, too quickly for a man like him, slid his notes into his briefcase, and crossed toward the closet at the back of the classroom where he kept his jacket.
The room was quiet again at last. Empty. Still.
Or so he thought.
He opened the closet/turoring area, one hand already reaching for the sleeve of his coat, and heard it.
A small, sharp sound.
A sneeze.
He froze.
Not because it was loud. Because it was wrong. Too soft. Too close. Too human for a small empty room.
Henry turned slowly, jacket half in hand, his eyes sweeping the room. His desk. The windows. The front row. The shadowed corners near the bookshelves.
Nothing.
His grip tightened on the coat.
“Y/N?” he said, voice low, careful.
No answer.
He stepped away from the closet, the silence suddenly heavier than it had any right to be. His eyes moved over the room again, sharper this time. The desk at the front. The chair. The narrow strip of floor behind it.
Then he saw the edge of a shoe.
Henry’s whole body went still.
He crossed the room in three quick strides and looked down.
She was under his desk.
Curled in on herself in the small space beneath it, knees drawn tight to her chest, shoulders hunched, trying to make herself smaller than a person should ever have to be. Her bag was shoved beside her. Her hair had fallen forward in messy waves, and both of her hands flew up the second she realized he had found her, covering her face in immediate, panicked humiliation.
Not because she did not want him to know she was crying.
Because she did not want him to see how hard.
Henry stared for one stunned heartbeat.
Then his face changed completely.
Not alarm. Not irritation. Nothing sharp.
Just a kind of quiet devastation.
“Y/N,” he said again, softer this time.
She made a tiny sound behind her hands, halfway between a broken laugh and a sob. “Please don’t look at me.”
The sentence hit him like a blow.
He crouched immediately in front of the desk, not caring about the floor, his briefcase forgotten somewhere behind him.
“I’m looking at you,” he said quietly.
Her shoulders shook once. “That’s the problem.”
Henry’s jaw tightened. He lowered himself further, one knee to the floor now, trying to bring himself level with her without crowding her.
“You’ve been here this whole time?”
Y/N gave the smallest nod without lifting her head.
Henry glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at her, something close to horror passing through his eyes as he realized what that meant. How many hours. How many classes. How long she had sat in silence under his desk while the world kept moving above her. Or how she even got in here, more than likely during lunch when he wasn’t here.
His voice got even quieter.
“Why didn’t you come out?”
Y/N let out a shaky breath that sounded like it hurt. “Because people were here.”
Henry looked at the underside of the desk, the cramped darkness she had folded herself into, and then back at her hands still shielding her face.
“Y/N,” he said very carefully, “you don’t have to hide from me.”
She laughed again, but this time it cracked apart halfway through. “That’s easy for you to say.”
Henry went still.
That answer told him more than she meant to.
He didn’t reach for her right away. Didn’t touch her. He knew better now, knew that if he moved too fast, she would retreat farther into herself.
So he stayed where he was, crouched on the floor in front of his own desk, his voice the only thing he let reach her.
“Did something happen?”
No answer.
He watched her fingers press harder against her face, watched the way she curled tighter, and forced himself not to push.
“Was it today?” he asked instead.
A pause.
Then a small nod.
Henry’s eyes sharpened, pieces starting to arrange themselves: the empty seat, Nancy not seeing her after morning, the strange absence stretched over hours.
“Someone called,” he said, not really a question.
Her shoulders jerked faintly.
Another nod.
Henry’s mouth tightened. “Your parents.”
That one made her go completely still.
When she finally spoke, her voice was muffled badly by her own hands. “Can you please…?”
He swallowed.
“All right,” he said at once. “All right.”
Silence stretched.
The classroom felt too bright for this. Too open. Too ordinary.
Henry looked at her tucked beneath his desk like something frightened had crawled there to die quietly, and a cold, furious helplessness moved through him.
At her parents.
At himself.
At the fact that she had chosen this, the floor, the dark, the dust, hours alone, over letting anyone see her unravel.
“Did Nancy know?” he asked.
A small shake of her head.
“Did anyone?”
Another shake.
Henry closed his eyes for half a second. Of course not.
When he opened them again, his voice was steady. “Look at me.”
Y/N’s response was immediate. “No.”
“Y/N.”
“I said no.”
There was no heat in it. Just shame. Raw and exhausted and humiliatingly honest.
Henry shifted slightly closer, still outside the reach of the desk, still giving her space. “You think I’m going to see you crying and decide you’re unbearable.”
That made her hands tremble.
When she answered, it was barely a whisper. “I think I look awful.”
Henry’s expression tightened in a way she could not see.
“Move your hands.”
She shook her head.
He let out a slow breath, forcing patience over urgency. “Y/N, I’m not leaving you under here.”
That did it.
The sentence cracked something.
Her shoulders started shaking harder, and when she spoke again the words were thin and ragged. “I know I’m being stupid.”
“No,” Henry said immediately.
“I am.”
“No.”
She dragged one hand away from her face just long enough to wipe furiously at her cheek, then put it back. “You found me hiding under a desk like a child.”
Henry’s gaze did not soften with pity. It sharpened with something stronger.
“I found you hurt,” he said. “That is not the same thing.”
Y/N let out another shaking breath.
For a moment she said nothing at all.
Then, very quietly, “I didn’t know where else to go.”
And that one almost undid him.
Henry rested one hand lightly against the leg of the desk, not touching her, just anchoring himself there.
“You could have come to me.”
Y/N’s laugh this time was small and miserable. “I did.”
He stilled.
She lowered one hand from her face at last, not completely, just enough that he could catch a glimpse of red rimmed eyes, blotched cheeks, damp lashes. She looked wrecked. Young. Hurt in a way that reached far beyond a single afternoon.
“I came here,” she whispered. “Didn’t I?”
Henry looked at her, really looked, and something inside him gave way.
He knew now. There was a reason why she never talked about her life fully before Emerson. His voice turned almost unbearably gentle.
“What did they say to you?”
Y/N’s mouth trembled. She shut her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You don’t have to tell me everything.”
“I don’t want to hear it out loud,” she corrected, voice breaking. “If I say it out loud, it’s real.”
Henry took that in and nodded once. “All right.”
He stayed there with her in the quiet.
No demands. No lecture. No attempt to fix it with some perfect sentence.
Just him kneeling on the floor in front of her hiding place, waiting until the room stopped feeling like a trap.
After a while, her breathing eased just enough that the words started slipping out anyway.
“They always know exactly what to say,” she whispered.
Henry’s jaw tightened.
Y/N dropped her hands completely now, but she kept her eyes turned down, refusing to let him see too much at once. “It’s like…” She swallowed hard. “It’s like they don’t even have to yell anymore. They just…” Her fingers curled against her sleeve, twisting the fabric. “They just remind me of everything I’m not.”
Henry’s chest felt tight.
“Y/N,” he said softly.
She shook her head. “No, because the worst part is I’m old enough that I should be over it. I should be normal when they call.” Her mouth pulled tight, angry with herself now. “Instead one phone call and I’m hiding under furniture because I’m ashamed of myself.”
“You are not overreacting.”
She gave him a look then, brief and pained. “How would you know?”
Because he had seen fear before. Because he knew what it looked like when damage lived in someone longer than the hand that caused it. Because he knew what it meant to learn smallness as survival.
But he didn’t say all of that.
He only said, “Because this does not look like drama.”
Y/N’s eyes stung fresh at the calm certainty in his voice.
She looked away again. “I don’t know how to go back out there,” she admitted. “I don’t know how to walk out of here and be normal.”
Henry didn’t hesitate this time.
“Then don’t.”
She blinked and looked at him.
His expression was steady. Serious.
“You don’t have to be normal for me,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to pull yourself together before I help you out from under this desk.”
Her throat worked hard as she swallowed.
“Come here,” he said.
He didn’t mean out. Not yet. He meant closer. Trust me. Let me in.
Y/N hesitated only a second before shifting forward on numb legs, awkward in the cramped space. Henry reached in then, not suddenly, not grabbing, just offering both hands.
She looked at them.
Then placed hers in his.
And the second he felt how cold her fingers were, his face changed again.
Very gently, he helped her crawl out from beneath the desk.
The moment she cleared it fully and tried to sit back on her heels, embarrassed and small and clearly prepared to apologize again, Henry didn’t let her.
He pulled her into him.
Not hard. Not like possession.
Like shelter.
Y/N broke instantly.
The first sob that came out against his shoulder was muffled and ugly and entirely real. Henry held her tighter, one hand at the back of her head, the other around her shaking body, as if he could physically keep the rest of the world from reaching her for a minute.
“You’re all right,” he murmured, though they both knew she wasn’t. “I’ve got you.”
And for the first time since that phone call in the office, Y/N let herself stop pretending she could hold her own weight.
For a while, all Y/N could do was cry into him.
Not neatly. Not the kind of crying that made a girl look delicate and heartbreakingly pretty. It was raw and uneven and humiliating in the way real grief always was, her face pressed into his shoulder, breath breaking apart every few seconds, fingers twisted hard in the front of his shirt like if she let go, she might come apart with it.
Henry didn’t rush her.
He stayed kneeling on the classroom floor, one arm wrapped around her back, the other steady at the base of her neck, holding her close without trying to quiet her too soon. The room around them had gone dim with late afternoon light, the windows turning gray, the building finally settling into that emptier hush after classes were done.
When Y/N finally tried to pull back, it wasn’t because she was composed.
It was because she was embarrassed.
Henry saw it instantly, the way she wiped at her face too hard, the way she looked down instead of at him, the way her mouth tightened like she already hated herself for saying as much as she had.
“You don’t have to stop,” he said quietly.
“I do,” she whispered.
“No.”
Y/N shook her head and laughed once, brokenly. “You say that now.”
Henry’s brows pulled together. “What does that mean?”
She stared at the floorboards between them. For a second he thought she might shut down again.
Then the words started coming.
Slowly at first, dragged out of somewhere deep and sore.
“My parents,” she said, voice rough, “they have this way of talking to me where it doesn’t even sound cruel if you repeat it later.” She swallowed hard. “That’s the part that makes you feel insane. Because if I told somebody exactly what they said, it would just sound like they were disappointed. Or worried. Or trying to help.”
Henry stayed completely still.
Y/N kept her eyes down. “But they know how to say things so it gets under your skin. They know exactly where to aim.” Her fingers tightened in her lap. “It’s never just one thing. It’s everything all at once. Every version of me they’ve ever decided is wrong.”
Henry’s jaw tightened.
“They called me out of class,” she said, like she still couldn’t believe that part. “And it was my dad. Not even my mom. My dad. Which should have told me immediately it was going to be bad.”
Her voice wavered. She pressed her lips together, trying to steady it.
Y/N blinked hard. “She’s like five years younger. They practically raised her,” she said. “Her birth dad didn’t care enough to keep her, and her mom had too many kids already to focus on, so mine stepped in.” Her mouth twisted, not with meanness but with old hurt.
Henry said nothing.
“She was little,” Y/N whispered. “And it wasn’t her fault. I know that. I know it wasn’t her fault.”
Her eyes filled again anyway.
“But they were softer with her,” she said. “Always. Softer, prouder, louder. Everything she did was special. Everything she touched turned into this huge thing they had to tell everybody about. Her grades. Her awards. Her little school projects. The way she dressed. The way she smiled.” Y/N laughed again, but there was no humor in it. “She could breathe and they’d act like she’d invented air. And if she needed something, suddenly it became my problem too. Go get your special cousin some dinner, send your cousin some money, do this for her, help her with that. Like I was supposed to keep proving I loved her while they kept proving they loved her more.”
Henry closed his eyes for the briefest second.
“And I did things too,” she said more quietly now, because that was somehow the part that hurt most. “I got good grades too. I worked hard too. I was there too.” Her voice cracked. “But with me it was always, nice, Y/N. Good job, Y/N. And then right back to her. Right back to what she did better. Or sweeter. Or easier.”
The classroom felt too small for the ache in her voice.
“She used to follow me around when she was little,” Y/N said, staring at some point far away now. “She’d want to sit by me, hold my hand, copy what I was doing. She loved me.” Her face twisted. “And I loved her too, which is what makes me feel so disgusting, because sometimes I still think…”
She stopped.
Henry’s voice was very quiet. “Think what?”
Y/N’s eyes shut.
When she spoke again, it came out so low he almost didn’t hear it.
“Sometimes I wish she didn’t exist.”
The silence after that was brutal.
Y/N covered her face again immediately, ashamed before the words had even fully left her mouth. “I know,” she said fast, voice cracking apart. “I know that’s horrible. I know it. She was just a kid, she didn’t do anything wrong, and I know that, I know…”
“Y/N.”
“No, let me say it, because if I don’t say it all then it just stays ugly in my head,” she rushed on, tears slipping through her fingers. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to her. I don’t. I just…” Her shoulders shook hard again. “I just wish I’d never had to stand there and watch them love somebody louder than they loved me.”
That one landed like a knife.
Henry inhaled slowly through his nose, but it did nothing to ease the tightness in his chest.
Y/N dragged her hands down from her face, cheeks wet and red, and looked at him with the kind of naked hurt he didn’t think he’d ever be able to forget.
“He called to tell me what she did,” she whispered. “What she achieved. She’s fifteen and got in some early college program already. How proud they are. And then he started in on me. How I don’t call enough. How I’ve changed. How I’m selfish. How I only care about my own life now. How she would never talk to them like this. How she appreciates them. How she makes them proud.”
Her breath hitched hard.
“And all I could think was, of course she does. Of course she does, because when she succeeds, they celebrate her. When I succeed, they look for what I’ll ruin next.”
Henry’s hand tightened at her back.
Y/N laughed once, helpless and broken. “Do you know what the worst part is?”
He didn’t answer.
She did anyway.
“I still want them to choose me.”
That nearly undid him.
“I’m grown,” she whispered. “I live here. I make my own choices. I know better. And I still hear one phone call and suddenly I’m fifteen again, trying to say the right thing, trying to sound grateful enough, easy enough, good enough that maybe this time I’ll be the daughter they’re proud of first.”
Tears were sliding freely now, and she didn’t even try to stop them.
“I don’t know how to be enough,” she said. “That’s the truth. I don’t know what version of me is enough for anyone to keep. I don’t know how to be the girl people don’t get tired of. I don’t know how to be the one they pick when there’s another option.”
Henry’s face changed.
Something sharp and pained crossed it because he knew exactly what came next before she even said it.
Y/N looked down at her hands, voice barely holding.
“I think if people have a better choice, they take it,” she admitted. “I think they always take it. Someone easier. Someone less complicated. Someone who doesn’t cry in closets and hide under desks.” Her mouth trembled. “And maybe that’s dramatic, but it keeps happening, so at some point it stops feeling dramatic and starts feeling true.”
Henry went very still.
Because he had done it too.
Not in the same way. Not with the same cruelty. But he had still stepped back. Still chosen distance. Still let her believe, even for a little while, that she was the person people left when things got hard.
And now she was sitting on his classroom floor, shattered open in front of him, confirming every fear he had about the damage he’d done.
“Y/N,” he said, but his voice came out rough.
She shook her head miserably. “I know how I sound.”
“No,” he said, firmer now. “You don’t.”
She laughed bitterly. “Like somebody who isn’t enough.”
His expression hardened, not at her, but at the sentence itself.
“No.”
She looked up, startled by the force of it.
Henry shifted closer, both hands coming up to hold her face this time, forcing her gently but completely to look at him. His thumbs were warm against her wet cheeks.
“You are not second,” he said.
The words landed between them hard and clear.
Y/N blinked at him, breath catching.
Henry’s eyes did not move from hers. “Do you hear me?”
She shook her head once, not in defiance, in disbelief.
He held her face more firmly. “You are not second. Not to her. Not to anyone. Their failure to see you properly is not proof that you were lesser. It is proof that they failed you.”
Her mouth trembled harder. “Henry…”
“No.” His voice broke slightly on her name, then steadied again. “You should never have had to compete for love. Not in your own family. Not in your own home. A child should not have to learn how to earn softness by suffering.”
That one made her eyes flood all over again.
“You are not difficult to love,” he said. “You are not too much. You are not the person people put down and come back to when the better choice disappears.”
Y/N let out a shaking breath. “How do you know?”
And there it was.
The question that carried everything.
Her parents. Her cousin. Her fear. Him.
Henry felt something inside him finally give way.
Because he knew.
He knew because he had almost added to it. Because he had seen what his absence had done to her face. Because he had heard her say she thought people always chose someone else if given the chance, and he could still remember the day he had made her believe that.
His gaze held hers. He did not look away.
“I know,” he said quietly, “because I was wrong once.”
Y/N went still.
Henry swallowed. “I thought I was protecting you when I pushed you away. I thought if I hurt you first, I could keep the rest of the world from doing worse.”
A tear slid down her cheek under his thumb.
“And all I did,” he said, voice lower now, almost harsh with his own self disgust, “was prove your worst fear right. I made you feel chosen and then I withdrew it. I made myself another person who taught you that you would be left if things became complicated.”
Y/N’s lips parted, but no sound came out.
Henry’s eyes burned with the intensity of what he was trying not to lose control of.
“I will regret that for the rest of my life.”
She stared at him, breath held.
And then, because he could not let her sit there and keep believing that being loved was something she had to earn through pain, he said the thing he had been holding back too long.
“I love you.”
The words did not come out polished.
They came out true.
Y/N froze.
Her whole face changed, not brightening, not softening, just going stunned and open and almost frightened by the force of it.
Henry didn’t look away.
“I love you,” he said again, quieter this time, but no less certain. “And I should have said it before now.”
Y/N’s eyes searched his like she was trying to find the crack in the sentence, the weakness, the pity.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
Henry’s brows drew together. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t say that because I’m crying,” she said, voice shaking harder now. “Please don’t say it because I’m a mess right now. Don’t say it because you feel bad for me.”
“This is not pity.”
“You don’t have to fix me.”
“I’m not trying to fix you.”
Y/N’s head shook helplessly. “Then why now?”
Henry’s answer came immediately.
“Because it is true now,” he said. “It was true before. And because you deserve to hear it without having to guess.”
Tears kept spilling down her face. She still looked like she wanted to believe him and was terrified to.
“You don’t owe me that,” she whispered.
His hands stayed steady on her face.
“This is not something I owe you,” he said. “It is something I feel. There is a difference.”
She stared at him, chest rising too fast.
Henry moved one thumb slowly under her eye, wiping away a tear. “I love you,” he said a third time, and now the words sounded less like confession than a promise. “Not because you are crying. Not because I’m sorry. Not because I think you need to hear something pretty.”
His voice dropped lower.
“I love you because you are you. In every room. In every mood. On your best day and on the ones that bring you to the floor.”
That broke something in her.
Y/N leaned into his hands, eyes squeezed shut for one second like the tenderness physically hurt.
When she spoke again, it was tiny. “You really mean it?”
Henry’s answer was immediate. “Yes.”
She shook her head once, not in denial this time, just in disbelief that had nowhere else to go.
Then she folded into him.
Not elegant. Not cautious. She just collapsed forward, arms wrapping around him as if her body knew before her mind did that this was where she wanted to be held. Henry caught her instantly, pulling her into his lap, holding her so close it felt protective and desperate at once.
She cried again, but differently now.
Less like she was falling apart. More like something had finally been reached.
Henry held her through all of it, one hand in her hair, one at her back, his cheek resting against her temple.
He didn’t ask if she believed him yet.
He didn’t need her to answer on command.
He just stayed.
He stayed when her breathing stuttered. He stayed when she went quiet. He stayed when she whispered against his shoulder, “I don’t know how to stop feeling like people leave.”
And he answered, “Then don’t stop tonight. Just let me stay.”
So she did.
Minutes passed, maybe longer. The classroom dimmed further around them, the outside world going gray and distant. At some point her crying eased into hiccuping breaths, then into exhausted silence.
She was still curled against him when she finally spoke again.
“I want to believe you.”
Henry kissed the top of her head.
“You don’t have to force it,” he said. “You only have to let me prove it.”
Y/N’s fingers tightened once in his shirt.
And though she didn’t say I believe you yet, she stopped hiding her face.
She stopped trying to make herself smaller.
She let him see all of it, the swollen eyes, the tear streaked cheeks, the old hurt, the shame.
And Henry, still on the floor with her in his arms, looked at her like there was nothing in the world he would rather hold.
. . .
By the time they got to Henry’s apartment, the worst of the crying had passed.
Not because the hurt was gone. Just because her body had finally run out of room for it.
Everything after the classroom felt blurred around the edges. Y/N barely remembered standing up from the floor, barely remembered Henry helping her into her coat, barely remembered the walk through the nearly empty building. She remembered the cold outside only because it hit her face and made her eyes sting all over again. She remembered the quiet ride more by feeling than by detail, Henry’s hand steady on the wheel, his voice low once or twice asking if she was all right, her own answers so soft they hardly counted.
Mostly, she remembered how heavy her eyes felt.
How wrung out she was.
How badly she wanted to lie down somewhere safe and let her mind go dark for a while.
By the time Henry unlocked his apartment, she was moving on instinct alone.
She stepped inside slowly, almost numb, her bag still hanging from one shoulder because she didn’t have the energy to take it off. The apartment was warm, dim, familiar in a way that made the exhaustion in her bones feel even stronger.
Henry shut the door behind them quietly.
“You should sit down,” he said.
Y/N nodded, but before she moved toward the couch, she stopped.
“Nancy.”
Henry looked at her.
“I have to call her,” Y/N said, voice hoarse from hours of crying. “She was looking for me.”
Something in Henry’s expression tightened with understanding. He crossed to the small table by the wall and picked up the landline receiver, then handed it to her without a word.
Y/N took it with both hands.
Her fingers felt clumsy as she dialed the dorm line from memory. She had to do it twice because she pressed one number wrong the first time.
"Hello, Emerson Hall residence line," a bored voice.
“Nancy Wheeler, please,” she said softly.
When Nancy answered, she didn’t even say hello.
“Where are you?”
Not yelling, exactly. Not dramatic. Just sharp, controlled, and too fast, like she’d been holding her breath for hours and didn’t know what to do with it now that the phone finally rang.
Y/N closed her eyes for a second and leaned her hip against the wall, guilt hitting harder than the call from her father had.
“I’m okay,” she said quickly. “Nancy, I’m okay.”
There was a beat on the other end. Then a quick exhale.
“Okay,” Nancy said, but the word didn’t sound like relief yet. It sounded like she was testing it. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you.”
“I know,” Y/N whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Nancy didn’t answer immediately. When she did, her voice was quieter but tighter around the edges, like she was forcing the anger into a shape she could control.
“You can’t just disappear,” she said. “It’s not…” She stopped, then tried again, more clipped. “It’s not smart.”
Y/N swallowed. “I didn’t mean to. I just… something happened.”
Another pause.
“Are you hurt?” Nancy asked, suddenly all business.
“No,” Y/N said. “I’m not hurt.”
Nancy let out a breath she’d clearly been holding. “Good.”
Y/N’s throat tightened anyway, because the relief in that single word was too real.
“I looked in the dorm,” Nancy said, voice brisk again like she needed structure. “Then the student center. Then the library. And I checked the cafeteria like an idiot because I thought maybe you’d done something impulsive and were pretending it was normal.”
Y/N’s mouth trembled. “I’m sorry.”
Nancy’s tone softened, just a fraction. “Yeah.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy with everything Nancy wasn’t saying.
Y/N adjusted her grip on the receiver, her fingers tight around it. “I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Well, that didn’t work,” Nancy replied, flat.
Y/N let out a weak, tiny laugh, and it cracked into something close to a breathy sob. “I know.”
Nancy went quiet again. Y/N could hear something in the background, a muffled shift, like Nancy had sat down hard or braced a hand on her desk.
Then Nancy said, a little slower, “Are you alone?”
Y/N glanced across the room.
Henry was in the kitchen, giving her privacy without leaving entirely. He had his back turned, moving quietly, probably getting her water, maybe tea, maybe just doing something with his hands because he didn’t know what else to do with them.
“I’m at Henry’s,” Y/N said softly.
A beat.
“Of course you are,” Nancy said, dry in the way she always got when her feelings were too close to the surface.
Despite everything, Y/N managed another small laugh.
Nancy didn’t laugh back. She just asked, direct and precise, “Are you safe?”
Y/N looked at Henry again, the way he stayed close without hovering, the way he hadn’t left her even when she’d been impossible to hold.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m safe.”
Nancy exhaled, sharp and relieved. “Okay.”
Another pause.
Y/N swallowed. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Nancy’s voice went quiet enough that Y/N almost missed it. “You did.”
It wasn’t an accusation. It was just true.
Y/N’s eyes stung again.
“I know,” she whispered.
Nancy didn’t fill the silence with jokes this time. She just let it sit there, and Y/N realized that Nancy was doing what she always did when something hurt too much.
She was keeping her voice steady so she wouldn’t break.
“People don’t just vanish,” Nancy said, almost to herself. Then, like she hated that she’d said it, she corrected quickly, “I mean, they do, obviously. But you can’t do that to me, okay? Not without telling me.”
Y/N’s chest tightened.
The words weren’t about rules or responsibility. They were about a wound that had never healed right.
Barb.
Y/N could hear it now in the way Nancy’s voice had gone smaller without warning. In the way she’d said “tell me” like it was a plea and not a demand.
“Nancy,” Y/N said softly.
There was a pause.
Then Nancy cleared her throat, the sound sharp. “I’m fine,” she said immediately, which was the most obvious lie Nancy Wheeler ever told.
Y/N blinked hard and looked down at the floor.
“I’m not Barb,” she said quietly. Not defensive. Just careful. “But I get it.”
Nancy didn’t answer at first.
When she finally did, her voice sounded like she’d shoved something down. “Good.”
Y/N held the receiver tighter. “I’m sorry. For making you feel that again.”
Nancy went quiet. Then: “Yeah.”
Not forgiving. Not punishing. Just acknowledging.
Y/N breathed out slowly. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“You better,” Nancy said, and the edge of her voice returned just enough to feel like her. “And next time you leave a note. Or call. Or something. I don’t care if it’s dramatic. Leave something.”
“I will,” Y/N promised.
Nancy hesitated, then added, quieter, “If you need to not be in the dorm tonight, that’s fine. Just… tell me. Okay?”
Y/N’s throat tightened. “Okay.”
Another pause.
Then Nancy said, like she was trying to make it normal again, “So what happened? You sick or something?”
Y/N almost smiled. Nancy’s version of tenderness was pretending she didn’t have any.
“Something like that,” Y/N said softly. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
Nancy made a small sound of annoyance. “Of course you will.”
Y/N closed her eyes briefly. “Thank you, though.”
“For what?”
“For looking for me so fast,” Y/N said. “For noticing.”
Nancy scoffed, but it didn’t have any real bite. “Yeah. Well. Someone has to.”
Y/N’s eyes stung again.
“Nancy,” she said, voice gentler, “try to be a little less intense on Henry.”
That got a sharper inhale from the other end.
“Excuse me?” Nancy said, immediate suspicion.
Y/N let out a tired huff of a laugh. “I’m serious.”
Nancy’s tone turned flat. “After today, that’s your takeaway?”
“No,” Y/N said softly. “But… he didn’t leave. He helped.”
Nancy was quiet for a second too long.
Then she said carefully, “He better keep doing that.”
Y/N smiled faintly. “I think he will.”
Nancy didn’t sound convinced. “I’ll decide that later.”
“That’s fair.”
Nancy exhaled, and Y/N could hear the exhaustion in it now too. “Go lie down.”
“I’m going to,” Y/N said, eyelids heavy again. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Nancy echoed, firm. “And you answer if I call.”
“I will.”
“Goodnight,” Nancy said, and it came out gruff like she didn’t trust softness.
“Goodnight, Nancy.”
A beat.
Then, quieter, almost reluctant: “Goodnight.”
The line clicked dead.
Y/N lowered the receiver slowly and set it back in the cradle. For a second she just stood there, staring at the phone like she had used up the last of her strength in the call.
Then Henry was beside her.
Not speaking right away. Just there.
His hand came to the back of her neck gently, warm and grounding.
“She angry?” he asked quietly.
Y/N leaned into the touch without thinking. “She was scared.”
Henry nodded once. He understood that.
Y/N looked up at him, eyes still swollen, face tired, voice small. “Her old friend died in her hometown, it messed her up more than she lets on.”
Henry’s gaze softened. “Yes.”
Y/N swallowed. “I’m going to tell her everything tomorrow.”
He brushed his thumb once under her ear. “Good.”
Y/N let her eyes close for a second, swaying a little with the exhaustion.
“Come rest,” Henry said.
And this time, when he guided her toward the couch and then the bedroom beyond it, Y/N let herself follow without apology, too tired to pretend she could carry herself alone, and for once not feeling like she had to.
Henry guided her to the bed with one hand at the small of her back, slow and careful, like he thought if he moved too quickly she might shatter again.
Y/N sat down on the edge of the mattress first, then drew her legs up and folded into herself, arms wrapping around her knees. The lamp on the nightstand was on low, casting the room in warm gold, but it didn’t quite reach the corners. It made everything feel smaller. Safer. Like the rest of the world had been shut out for a little while.
Henry stayed standing for a moment, watching her.
Not in a way that made her feel observed.
In a way that made it obvious he was waiting to see what she needed before he assumed anything.
Y/N looked down at her hands. They were still shaky if she paid too much attention.
For a second she thought maybe she was too tired to say anything else tonight. That maybe all the crying had wrung her dry enough that there was nothing left.
But then Henry sat beside her, not too close at first, and the quiet between them felt like an opening.
So she spoke.
“When I was little,” she said softly, “I used to run away.”
Henry didn’t interrupt.
Y/N gave a small shrug, eyes still fixed on the blanket bunched around her legs. “Not like… dramatically. Not forever. Just for a little while.” Her mouth twitched without humor. “Just long enough to breathe somewhere else.”
Henry leaned his forearms on his thighs, listening with his whole body.
“There was this tiny state amusement park,” she said. “Kind of sad, honestly. Not one of the big ones. Just… a little place.” Her fingers twisted together. “I figured out how to sneak in under one of the side gates.”
Henry’s brows drew together slightly, but he stayed quiet.
“I was a really introverted kid,” Y/N went on. “Like… really. I didn’t have people to run to. No best friend’s house. No neighbor I was close with. Nothing like that.” She swallowed. “So if things got bad, I just left by myself.”
That landed in the room and stayed there.
Henry’s jaw tightened, but still he said nothing.
Y/N drew in a slow breath. “The teacups were the only ride I ever got on by myself.”
Henry looked at her then, fully.
Y/N gave the smallest shake of her head, like she couldn’t believe she was admitting this out loud. “I’d get on and just spin myself. Hard. Round and round.” Her voice got quieter. “Until I got dizzy enough that I couldn’t think straight. Until I couldn’t hear them in my head as clearly.”
Henry’s face changed in that small, dangerous way it did when something got under his skin for real.
Y/N kept talking, because now that she’d started, stopping felt worse.
“It sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t,” Henry said immediately.
She looked at him for a second, then back down again. “It does a little.”
“No,” he said, softer this time. “It doesn’t.”
Y/N’s throat tightened. “I’d just sit there by myself and spin in circles until I felt sick, and somehow that felt better than going home.” She let out a faint, shaky laugh. “I think because if the world was spinning hard enough, I didn’t have to feel one thing too clearly.”
Henry’s hands slowly clasped together between his knees. He was very still now.
Y/N blinked hard, eyes burning again. “And sometimes…” She stopped, pressed her lips together, and tried again. “Sometimes I feel like I’m still there.”
The room went quiet.
Henry turned toward her more fully.
Y/N’s eyes were wet now, and she hated it, hated how easily this particular memory reached in and pulled something raw to the surface.
“I feel like I’m still in those stupid teacups,” she whispered. “Just spinning round and round in circles. Same feeling. Different year. Same panic. Same hurt. Same…” Her breath caught. “Same trying not to cry where anyone can see.”
Henry moved then, just a little closer.
Y/N looked up at him, and the tears she’d been trying to keep level slipped over.
“I’m scared,” she admitted.
It came out smaller than everything else had. More childlike. More honest.
Henry’s expression tightened at once. “Of what?”
Y/N laughed once through the tears, but it broke apart immediately. “Of all of it.” She wiped angrily at her face. “Of never getting off that ride. Of always feeling like this. Of still being this upset over them when I should be older than it by now.” Her mouth trembled. “Of being too much for people. Of being hard to keep. Of… of waking up one day and realizing I’m still trying to prove I’m worth staying for.”
Henry’s face did something then, something that looked almost painful.
He reached for her slowly, giving her every chance to pull away.
She didn’t.
His hand came to the side of her face, thumb brushing under her eye, catching one of the tears there.
“You are not too much,” he said quietly.
Y/N let out a shaky breath. “You say that...”
“I know.”
“And I can still feel it anyway.”
Henry nodded once. “I know.”
She stared at him, helpless and exhausted and wanting so badly to believe every gentle thing he gave her.
Henry shifted closer still, until his knee touched the side of hers. His voice stayed low, steady.
“You are not still there.”
Y/N’s brows pulled together. “It feels like I am.”
“I know it does.” His thumb moved once against her cheek. “But you are here. With me. In our room. Tonight.” He was too focused on bringing her comfort, he didn’t even register that he said the words, ‘our room’, not ‘this room’ or ‘my room’.
Her breathing stuttered.
Henry held her gaze. “And you do not have to spin yourself sick to survive this one.”
That broke her all over again but quieter this time.
Not a collapse. Just tears slipping down because he had found the exact shape of it and answered it gently.
Y/N shook her head once, looking down. “I didn’t have anyone back then.”
Henry’s hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, warm and grounding.
“I know.”
She swallowed hard. “I don’t really know what to do when I’m scared.”
Henry’s answer came without hesitation.
“Come to me.”
Y/N’s eyes lifted back to his.
He didn’t look away. Didn’t soften the sentence into something less serious. He meant it exactly as he said it.
“When it feels like that,” he said, “when it starts spinning again, you come to me.”
Y/N’s mouth trembled. “Henry—”
“No,” he said gently. “Listen to me.” His hand stayed steady at her neck. “You are not a child sneaking under a gate anymore. You are not alone with it anymore. And if you’re frightened, you do not have to disappear. You come to me.”
Her eyes closed for a second. Another tear slipped free.
When she opened them again, she looked smaller somehow, younger in the face, like all the armor had finally worn off.
“What if it’s too much?” she whispered.
“For who?”
“For you.”
Henry’s jaw tightened. “Y/N.”
She looked away again. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He shifted fully toward her then and cupped her face with both hands, making sure she saw him.
“You do not have to be easy to be loved,” he said quietly.
The words went straight through her.
Y/N stared at him, tears gathering again, but not from the same place as before.
Henry’s voice dropped lower. “You do not have to be simple. Or calm. Or unafraid. You do not have to make yourself smaller so someone will stay.” His thumbs brushed lightly at her cheeks. “And you do not have to survive by yourself just because you learned how.”
Y/N made a small, broken sound and leaned into his hands without thinking.
Henry let her.
Then he drew her forward until she folded into him, his arms wrapping around her as she tucked herself against his chest.
He kissed the top of her head once.
“You’re not there,” he murmured into her hair. “You’re here.”
Y/N clutched his shirt tighter.
And for the first time since she had started telling him about the teacups, about the gate, about the little girl with nowhere to go, the fear inside her eased, not gone, not fixed, but quieter.
Quieter because someone was finally holding still with her instead of making her spin alone.
Y/N rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands, slow and tired, like even lifting her arms felt heavy now.
“I want to sleep,” she whispered.
Henry’s hand stayed at the back of her neck, warm and steady. “Okay.”
She let out a long breath and leaned back onto the bed with a soft, exhausted sigh. For a moment she stared at the ceiling, blinking through the last sting in her eyes, then turned her face toward him like she couldn’t bear the distance even for a second.
“Come here,” she murmured.
Henry didn’t hesitate.
He kicked off his shoes, set his jacket aside, set his glasses on the bedside table and laid down beside her. The bed dipped with his weight, the sheets shifting as he settled, still careful, still watching her like he was making sure she didn’t disappear the moment he blinked.
Y/N immediately reached for him.
Not frantic. Just certain.
She hooked her arm around his waist and pulled him closer until his shoulder was under her cheek and his chest was close enough that she could hear his heartbeat again. She pressed her forehead lightly into him and let her eyes close, her body finally giving itself permission to stop bracing.
Henry’s arm came around her, firm and protective. His hand moved slowly up and down her back in that same soothing rhythm, like he was teaching her nervous system something new.
The room fell quiet.
The lamp glowed low. The radiator clicked somewhere in the distance. Outside, the city kept moving without them.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer. Y/N’s breathing gradually evened out, deepening into that edge-of-sleep softness.
Henry didn’t move.
He stayed exactly where she put him.
After a while, Y/N shifted slightly, her fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt as if she needed to confirm he was still there.
Henry’s voice came low, barely above a breath. “Are you all right?”
Y/N didn’t open her eyes. “I am now.”
Henry’s hand paused once at the middle of her back, then continued, gentler.
Another quiet stretch.
Y/N’s eyelids fluttered. She was almost gone to sleep when something in her chest tightened again, not fear this time. Something warmer. Something that felt like it had been waiting for the room to be dark enough to say it.
She swallowed.
Her voice came out as a whisper into his shoulder, so soft it almost didn’t count.
“I love you.”
Henry went still.
Not rigid. Not startled.
Just… utterly silent.
Y/N’s eyes stayed closed. She didn’t pull back to look at him. She couldn’t. If she looked at his face, she might take it back out of panic. She might laugh it off. She might pretend it was sleep talking.
So she stayed tucked into him and let the words exist.
Henry’s arm tightened around her, careful but unmistakable, pulling her closer as if the sentence had anchored him as much as it had exposed her.
His mouth brushed the top of her head, a kiss that lingered.
Then his voice came quiet and rough, close enough that she felt it more than heard it.
“Say it again.”
Y/N’s breath hitched, almost a laugh, almost a sob.
She didn’t lift her head.
She just whispered it once more, steadier this time, like she was choosing it on purpose.
“I love you.”
Henry exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath for days.
“I love you too,” he murmured into her hair, and this time it didn’t sound like a confession forced out by fear.
It sounded like something he’d been carrying.
Y/N’s fingers loosened in his shirt, the tension easing out of her hand. Her mouth softened against his shoulder.
“Okay,” she breathed, half asleep already.
Henry’s hand smoothed once down her back. “Sleep.”
And with his arm around her and the words finally said in the dark, Y/N let her eyes stay closed and drifted into rest feeling, for the first time in a long time, like she wasn’t spinning alone.
RAW & OLDER
(ex)boyfriend’s dad!bucky barnes x female!reader [14.4k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: you catch your boyfriend cheating on you with another girl at your neighbour’s halloween party. bucky barnes, his hot and thoughtful dad, is ready to take care of your broken heart.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; she/her pronouns for reader; mentions of reader's family; reader wears a skirt and makeup; original characters; age gap (reader’s in her mid 20s; bucky's 40+); cheating; light angst; emotional hurt/comfort; lots of praises and pet names; smut; size difference; soft dom!bucky; slight jealousy; slightly possessive!bucky; big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); dirty talk; nipple play; oral (f receiving); fingering; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); mention of reader being on the pill; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; riding; caught in the act (the ex boyfriend overhears them 🤪).
A/N: I was too excited to wait until tomorrow, this was my first dilf!bucky story after all 😭 hope you'll enjoy!
The retail store is too bright and colorful compared to the stormy sky outside.
You and your friends have been coming here ever since middle school. Back then, Yelena’s older sister was the only one with a driver’s license, piling all of you into her car to take you wherever you wanted to go. Halloween has always been your favorite excuse to spend time together, with Kate opening her doors for your annual sleepover: a night of mildly scary movies, gossip about the cutest guys in town, and enough junk food to leave all of you clutching your stomachs by midnight.
By the time you started high school, your older neighbor’s extravagant Halloween party had become the talk of the town. Hosted in her massive mansion, it was the kind of event people counted down to months in advance. You’d never considered yourself much of a party girl, but it was the perfect excuse to dress up and show off the elaborate costumes you and your friends spent weeks planning.
When college began, the four of you ended up scattered across different universities around the state. Nearly a year passed without shared laughter in the canteen and a morning dose of tight hugs to begin your days, until you finally agreed to reunite this October. It would probably be the last chance for you four to meet for a long time. With everyone caught up in their own schedules and studies, moments like this had become rare, that’s why you were determined to make the most of these three days together.
The store looks exactly the same as it did ten years ago: fake cobwebs dangling from the white ceiling, evil-looking pumpkins staring down at customers from the shelves, racks of masks and toys that once felt endless. Now, you swear everything seems smaller than it used to be.
The air still smells of dust and cheap plastic. Strangely, it’s that sharp, chemical tang coming from the latex masks lining the walls that makes the place feel so familiar.
The first room is completely devoted to rows and rows of children’s toys, while the second—normally a storage space—is crammed with costumes and accessories messily thrown together. From the ceiling, a dozen paper bats sluggishly sway in the cold draft slipping through the old windows, while somewhere on the counter, a motion-sensor witch clutches a plastic pumpkin-shaped bowl of sweets, cackling like a banshee every time someone reaches for a piece. The sagging orange letters spelling HAPPY HALLOWEEN are stuck to the front of the counter, crooked and peeling at the edges, and you’re pretty sure the owner has left them there all year round since you can remember.
The store definitely looked scarier and quieter when you were younger, the fact that it’s located in an isolated area of the town near the woods didn’t really help. Now, it’s just the kind of place that tries too hard to be spooky, only to end up looking a little tacky.
Wanda has been wearing a perpetual scowl since she started browsing through racks of angel wings and synthetic, overly lavish princess gowns, searching for something less glittery and darker. A few rows over, Yelena tries to give you a heart attack by silently hovering behind you, switching between different clown masks each time you turn around. Kate, on the other hand, is determined to find a Wednesday Addams costume—she’s been completely obsessed with the show lately.
You already have your outfit at home: a short skirt and a lace top paired with sparkling boots, the colors an homage to your favorite Barbie doll. You’re still bitter about missing Rachel’s Halloween party because of the chickenpox you caught from Kate in senior year. You had everything ready down to the smallest detail, that Barbie costume was flawless. Instead, you spent the night in fleece pajamas, curled under the covers as you peeked from behind your pillow at Art the Clown mauling people on screen, while the muffled music from the neighboring mansion made your walls vibrate.
Still, you decided to tag along for old times’ sake.
“Black or maroon?” Wanda holds up two identical dresses.
Kate hums, absently twirling a wig between her fingers as she studies the fabric. “Black.”
“Maroon,” you say without looking up, inspecting a bloodstained lab coat before placing it back on the rack with a grimace. “It suits your hair.”
“Lena?” Wanda turns to the blonde, who’s currently trying to stab her own palm with a fake knife to test how real it feels.
“Is that even a question?” She lifts her eyebrows, gaze landing on her dark red coat.
“I know, but it looks cute in both colors.” Wanda hesitates, eyes flicking between the dresses before finally putting the black one back with a sigh. “Alright, I’m done. Have you found anything interesting?”
“I can’t believe they don’t have a Wednesday costume,” Kate frowns, rifling through plastic bags for the third time. “It’s like, one of the most popular shows ever.”
“You know online shopping exists, right?” Yelena shoots back, tossing the knife into a display bin. “Just buy a black dress with a white collar.”
“But I wanted the school uniform, not some generic dress.”
The blonde rolls her eyes, already fiddling with a pair of popping-eye glasses.
“Hey, is Nathan coming to the party?”
You flinch, almost dropping the fake vampire teeth in your hand, not expecting Wanda standing so close beside you.
“Yeah. He has some things to take care of at his apartment first, so he’ll meet us at Rachel’s house.”
A disgusted ugh echoes behind you, and that makes your lips curl into a small smile despite the clear vitriol on the blonde’s features.
It’s no secret that Yelena can’t stand your boyfriend, Nathan. They’ve only met once, but that was enough for him to immediately pick up on her dislike. He often tried to get an explanation out of you, but you always brushed it off, claiming that your friend is just like that.
In truth, you know exactly why every word coming out of his mouth sounds like a fork scraping against a plate to her ears.
During the first months of your blooming relationship, Nathan had a habit of disappearing, ignoring your messages for days—sometimes for an entire week—only to come back with grand gestures as if nothing had happened. It left you confused and anxious, and Yelena more than anyone spent entire nights on the phone trying to calm you down, warning you about how unreliable he was. After a while, you convinced yourself he was just the type to get bored easily, the kind of guy who discards the “old toy” the moment a new, shinier one comes along.
Then, just before Christmas, he stood at your dorm room door with the biggest bouquet of flowers you had ever received, and an apology on his lips. He explained—almost shamefully—that his behavior stemmed from his parents’ toxic relationship. He didn’t go into details, only that their divorce had been messy, something that left him with a warped sense of commitment. Still, he insisted he liked you, that he was finally ready for something real.
Yelena had been furious. Not only did you let him off far too easily, but there had been little to no groveling—nowhere near enough to make up for the emotional whiplash he’d put you through. She was certain, deep down, that he would hurt you again someday. And your best friend didn’t want to see you that miserable ever again, especially for an asshole like Nathan.
You can’t really blame her for feeling so strongly. She was the one who comforted you during those sleepless nights, listening as you tried to make sense of his sudden distance when everything had seemed to be going so well.
It’s not like she brings it up all the time, but whenever his name comes up, she can’t help slipping in a sarcastic remark or two—ones that, despite yourself, make you laugh.
“Oh, so Casper finally decided to show up.”
That’s another thing: she refuses to call him by his name. Back when you used to cry over him, she’d come up with ridiculous nicknames just to lighten the mood. Casper is the latest, because of how little you see him these days. Always busy, always somewhere else. Fleeting like a ghost.
“His professors are giving him hell, cut him some slack, Lena. He’s practically living in the library nowadays.” Wanda glances at you with quiet sympathy, nodding along as you speak. “I always tell him to text me when he gets home, but some days he’s so exhausted he forgets. And the few times he does remember, it’s like three in the morning.”
Yelena’s eyebrows lift at your explanation. For once, though, she doesn’t argue. She just shakes her head with a resigned half-smile.
You met Nathan at the beginning of your first academic year. He and his dad had just moved to your hometown; apparently, his father had grown tired of the chaos of the city and decided to start working from home. Home, in this case, meant his mother’s hometown—the place where Mr. Barnes’ parents met years ago, during a summer visit to their relatives. After marrying, they moved to New York and never really came back.
When the divorce happened, Nathan stayed with his father and eventually enrolled in the nearest university to remain close. Once your relationship grew more serious, the two of you started traveling back and forth together, mostly because he had a shiny, fully functioning car, unlike you. And that’s when he finally introduced you to his dad, James Buchanan Barnes.
Now, Nathan is undeniably handsome and after meeting Mr. Barnes, you can clearly see where he gets his looks from. The difference is... his father is on another level. It’s not just that he’s handsome. The man is hot. Yes, there are streaks of white in his beard, and crow’s feet appear whenever his smile softens his features—but those details don’t take away from his looks. If anything, they only make him more attractive.
He’s big, too: broad-shouldered, towering over you with an ease that’s both intimidating and… not unwelcome. And he’s a real gentleman. Every time you stayed over for lunch or dinner, he served you first, firmly refusing to let you lift a finger, insisting his son is more than capable of cleaning up after himself.
The first time he pulled out a chair for you, your heart dropped straight to your stomach.
Since February, your boyfriend has been buried in projects and assignments, and you’ve often gone back home alone. Because of that, you stopped visiting Mr. Barnes—it didn’t feel right showing up when Nathan wasn’t there.
That is, until you ran into the older man at the local supermarket one day, and after his usual gentle hug, he looked at you with his kind, blue eyes, his voice as warm as a cup of hot, creamy chocolate, “You know you’re welcome to visit anytime, right? It doesn’t matter if Nathan’s home or not.”
Despite your initial hesitation, you went. And then you went again. More times than you’d like to admit.
Conversations with him drift so effortlessly from ridiculous stuff he sees on the internet yet doesn’t quite understand, to more serious topics. At some point, you even started confiding in him. No matter the problem, Bucky always seems to know exactly what to say to soothe your worries. More than anything, he treats you like an equal, an adult. He doesn’t tiptoe around your age, or reduce your personality to his son’s girlfriend. With him, you’re just… you.
It’s almost unsettling, when you think about it—how often he’s been there for you compared to your boyfriend. Nathan replies late, often too late. There’s always an excuse: a project he still has to finish, a study session that ran too late, outings at the bar with friends he supposedly never sees. The times you try to ask about his day, he brushes it aside, steering the conversation back to you after a two-word response, until eventually he disappears again for hours.
At first, you had your doubts, and you hate yourself a little for it now.
You never told anyone—not even your closest friends—but once, you went to his faculty library. Not to spy, you told yourself. Just to... check, to make sure he was actually there.
And he was. Completely absorbed in his books.
You left with shame burning hot on your cheeks. That night, when he texted you to let you know he was home, you couldn’t even bring yourself to reply. The guilt only got worse when you realized how often your thoughts drifted to Mr. Barnes throughout your days. Over something small, like seeing a cat minding its own business in the streets—because he once told you he used to feed the strays when he was a kid, but his chance to adopt one of his own is now long gone since Nathan is allergic—or when you need advice on an assignment. He’s always there. Even when he’s busy, Mr. Barnes still takes the time to send a quick message, apologizing for delayed replies. You told him he didn’t have to do that, you understood he had work, responsibilities... Yet he just smiled and kept putting you first anyway.
During one of your weekly video calls, Kate asked about Nathan, mentioning she hadn’t seen him in the background for a while. You brushed it off pretty quickly, explaining how busy he’s been with his studies, and the conversation ended there.
Later, while talking about food, you casually mentioned a restaurant Mr. Barnes had recommended. He’d made a habit of suggesting places he’d tried with his colleagues, knowing how much you and your friends enjoy exploring new cuisines together.
The silence that followed was mortifying.
Your gaze slowly lifted from the blanket you were knitting to find your friends staring at you, half amused, half shocked. Promptly waving off their nosy questions, you insisted you just saw each other from time to time. That he’s kind, funny, easy to talk to. Still, they teased you about having a tiny crush on your boyfriend’s dad.
The joke got out of hand the following week, when you accidentally admitted the blanket you were working on was for him—Mr. Barnes had discovered your hobby and casually mentioned that he’d love to have something made by you some day.
Yelena nearly lost her mind. At one point, she actually dropped to her knees in front of her phone, dramatically begging you to leave Nathan and just sleep with his dad.
You awkwardly laughed it off, your face burning as you resisted the urge to hang up and disappear under your covers.
In the end, Wanda stepped in, declaring there was nothing wrong with being friends with your very attractive almost-father-in-law. That helped… a little. Because you’re not doing anything wrong. You’re just two adults who get along, who often text each other for hours between a good morning and a good night. Who share an occasional cup of tea when you’re back in town that promptly turns into you staying for dinner because he is a great cook and always has a new recipe he found on Pinterest that made him think of you.
It just so happens he’s your boyfriend’s father.
You do like Nathan—a lot. And he wants you just as much. You’ve been together for two years now, for fuck’s sake! Life just… gets in the way sometimes. Things will settle down once he graduates in winter and you both understand where you want to go from there.
Every relationship has its ups and downs.
This is just a rough patch.
This year, your neighbor truly outdid herself. Rachel was the ultimate popular girl: indulgent parents, cheer captain of the only high school in town, and glossy dark waves that every girl tried so desperately to imitate. Everyone wanted to be her, but few had the privilege of sitting at her table. She wasn’t the stereotypical mean girl—just ambitious and filthy rich. Her pretty features had sharpened since the last time you saw her. After enrolling in one of the most prestigious law schools in the country, many thought her days of excessive drinking and wild nights were behind her.
Apparently not.
The rumors of her Halloween parties had spread far beyond your town. Everyone counted on her keeping the tradition alive, and now she returns each year, bringing more and more people with her, to host the biggest party in the county.
One look at the claustrophobic living room, now a dance floor, makes your lungs constrict, the strobe lights not helping at all as they blind you while flashing across the sticky floors. Costumes blur together: you saw at least a dozen demons, three cowboys, and Rachel and her two best friends as the iconic Plastics. Though every time you think you see the flash of Nathan’s leather jacket, it turns out to be a stranger. He had texted an hour ago that he’d just parked, having thrown together a leather biker jacket and black trousers to pass as Danny Zuko from Grease, but so far, no sign of him.
Laughter ripples through Rihanna’s Disturbia from a group leaning against the kitchen counter, the walls of the lavish mansion rattling along the pulsing bass. Someone spills a drink in front of you, narrowly missing your top. Your temples pulse with an excruciating headache when a group of guys holler like animals after completing a keg stand: they each wear a plastic bag with a condom sign attached to their chest, hugging each other in victory. Yet you can’t help but imagine how Nathan would’ve laughed at the scene.
Right. Nathan. Where the fuck is he?
“Hey!” Your shoulders jump at the shout over the beginning of Thriller. Yelena and Wanda appear at your sides, pulling you toward the open patio windows overlooking the huge backyard without much ceremony.
“Have you seen Nathan?” You ask while scanning the crowd by the punch bowls.
“Nope.” Yelena mutters something else under her breath, but you decide to ignore it. It must be another one of her tailored nicknames for your boyfriend.
The cold air sharply hits your face as they lead you outside, goosebumps prickling your skin.
“Why are we here? It’s freezing and I still need to find Nathan. He got here an hour ago and—”
“I’m starving!” Wanda cuts in, practically skipping across the grass. “C’mon, they’re grilling sausages! Hot dogs! Want one?”
You squint at her, confused. Her rambling is classic Wanda, nervous energy spilling out at a mile a minute.
“Wanda, stop, for fuck’s sake.” Yelena snaps, planting her feet on the ground firmly.
“What’s going on?” You glance back and forth between the two of them, but they are too busy staring each other down to acknowledge you, a silent conversation you can’t follow unfolding in frowns too subtle to catch.
Wanda shakes her head, addressing you with a polite, closed-lip smile. “It’s nothing. Let’s just eat.” She reaches for your hand, but you step back, glancing at the other.
“What’s going on, Lena?” Her jaw clenches.
“There’s no need to make a scene right now.” Wanda hisses.
“There’s no need—” The blonde sputters outraged. “This is fucking insane, what is your problem?”
You step between them, grabbing their wrists. “Hey! I don’t know what’s gotten into you, guys, but I need you to calm down and tell me what’s up.” You bark. “Kinda feeling left out here.” Your attempt to lighten the mood is entirely overlooked as Wanda tilts her head, silently begging the blonde to be patient.
“She deserves to know.” Yelena grits out.
“Not now! It’ll just make things worse for her.”
“You think it’s better if we wait?”
The argument draws a few stares from the patio. Kate, watching from the door, clumsily invents a story about a lost lipstick to defuse tension, quickly making her way to you as most people shrug and return to their drinks.
The air suddenly feels heavier, tension crawling up your spine and settling in your shoulders.
“Someone tell me what the fuck is happening. Right now.” Your voice shakes despite your effort to stay calm. “Is Kate okay? Did Nathan do something?”
Yelena simply exhales a long breath, pushing her tongue into her cheek in annoyance. Wanda takes your hand at once, her eyes pleading.
“It’s not about Kate. She’s fine. We’ll explain later, okay?”
“No,” you snap, wrenching your wrist free. “Explain now.”
Yelena huffs. “You’re just making it worse.”
Wanda’s auburn hair swings as she faces her, her voice turning serious. “Me? We know you hate his guts, Lena. You’ve been waiting for him to fuck up since the moment they started dating. But could you please put your fucking ego aside for once and think about her wellbeing? We’re in the middle of a party and you’re ruining her night.”
“Oh! I am ruining her night? You have been kissing his ass since the very beginning. And you talk about my fucking ego? You’re such a bi—”
“I saw Nathan upstairs making out with a girl!” The words pierce through the booming music like thunder.
Yelena and Wanda go abruptly still, all their annoyance vanishing at once as they slowly turn to face you with wide eyes. Kate is standing behind you, half-squirming as she watches you with something akin to desperation.
The ominous pit of nervousness you’ve been carrying in your stomach for the last hour suddenly doesn’t feel so irrational.
“I’m so sorry.” Kate whispers after a heavy pause, fingers fidgeting.
“Upstairs… where?” The words taste bitter on your tongue.
“In one of the bedrooms. The one closest to the bathroom.” She looks mortified, unable to meet your gaze.
You shove past her before you can even fully digest what’s going on, barreling through drunk students and ignoring their startled stares.
The strobe lights fracture the room into flashes of color—violet, red, sickly white—laughter spiking through the air in uneven bursts. The sharp tang of beer clings to everything, mixing with the artificial sweetness of fake fog that curls low around your ankles. It should feel alive, electric. Instead, it dulls to a distant, muffled hum as Kate’s words settle heavy and cruel deep in your chest.
Step after step, heavier than the last, your chest tightens, each breath catching halfway in, sharp and fast. For a moment, it feels like the world simply... pauses. It’s just you and the growing ache in your throat, threatening to spill over.
You hear Yelena screaming your name as you burst into the bedroom on the left. It’s empty, dark, and the bed is intact. Heart hammering painfully against your ribs, you storm into the next room, scaring a couple of people lingering nearby for a moment of intimate quiet. The door slams against the wall with a splintering bang, and in that moment you swear your heart stutters—one missed beat, maybe two—before it kicks back in, pounding wildly like it’s trying to break free. The sound rushes up into your ears, a violent, dizzying thrum that makes your head spin.
You stand there, frozen in the doorway, not knowing whether to scream, to run, or to crumple right there and let the floor open up and swallow you whole.
Maybe throwing up seems the best option as you take in the disgusting scene before you.
Nathan turns, confused by the sudden commotion. A girl is straddling him, but the light is too dim to recognize her, though you can clearly see how her skirt is bunched at her hips, exposing her lower half. The moment his eyes meet yours, he roughly shoves her away, causing her to squeal as she falls on the other side of the bed. Nathan’s weak voice calls out your name, but you are already turning away.
The scene is quite pathetic, Yelena thinks, as Nathan clumsily tries to run after you, but he keeps stumbling into the pants creased around his ankles.
“Wait—fuck, baby wait! It’s not what it looks like!” He shouts as he runs in the living room, fingers clumsily trying to zip up his pants.
“Shut up, Barnes.” Yelena’s voice cuts sharp from the stairs, Wanda and Kate close behind her. The music fades further, letting nearby partygoers witness the drama.
With a sharp inhale, you stop right in the entryway, fingers curling into fists at your sides to steady the chaos inside you. You refuse to give him the satisfaction to see you cry.
In the spur of the moment, you decide to turn around, lips parted to tell him to go to hell, but a shriek erupting from the top of the stairwell stops you.
“You’re an asshole!” The girl stands there, mascara smeared and skirt hastily pulled down.
“Jesus Christ.” Wanda tiredly rubs the bridge of her nose.
The girl’s face seems familiar, but you can’t place her. Maybe she used to go to high school with you? One of the many forgettable faces of your past.
“You’re a fucking liar, Nathan Barnes. You promised you’d tell her about us. You promised me you’d leave her.”
Someone in the crowd gasps, but it barely registers.
“What the fuck, Nathan?” You grimace, repulsion tightening your chest.
“I—I didn’t…” His voice falters, head turning back and forth between the two of you, a mix of shame and panic flashing across his features.
“I’ll tell you what he did, since he’s too much of a coward.” The girl interrupts, slowly stepping down the stairs. “We’ve been dating since March and he kept promising me he’d break up with you. He told me he did it as soon as he got here... But apparently it was just another lie.” She throws him a look of disdain, arms crossed to her chest.
Since March.
He’s been dating another girl for eight months. No. He’s been cheating on you with another girl for eight months.
The floor crumbles under your feet.
The constant busyness, the unanswered texts, the lack of intimacy, all the weekends you decided to come back here and he never once seemed to care about tagging along, not even texting you to make sure you had safely arrived, knowing your car is literally a jalopy.
The image of her straddling him flashes behind your eyes over and over again, cold sweat rushing down your back as you realize how many times they have acted like that undisturbed, how Nathan was about to have sex with her while his girlfriend was in the same house, waiting for him downstairs.
You refuse to meet some stranger’s pitiful eyes, or worse… their small smirk, the amusement dancing in their eyes. Somewhere nearby, people keep laughing, dancing, kissing, while you stand there, in front of the person you wasted two years of your life on, feeling like the butt of a scornful joke.
Guilt has been eating you alive since you doubted his words that day, yet he has been betraying your trust all along. Something shatters inside you at the realization that maybe everything you shared at first—the whispered plans for traveling the world together, the way his hands always found yours under the table, the warmth of him wrapped around you late at night—was never real at all.
You feel exposed, far beyond anything physical. The rawest parts of you burn under all these curious eyes, laid bare in a way you can’t hide from. You need to cover yourself, to disappear behind something—anything—a blanket, a jacket, a closed door.
Swallowing around the lump in your throat, you force out one last question.
“All the assignments, the projects—were they real at all? Or were they just a cover to fuck another girl behind my back?”
Nathan opens his mouth but doesn’t answer. His pleading brown eyes only stoke the fire in your veins, looking at you like he deserves your sympathy.
Shaking your head, you sprint toward the door, ignoring your friends’ desperate calls of your name. They try to reach you, but there’s too many people gathered there to watch the scene like a movie. By the time Yelena, Wanda, and Kate get to the front yard, you’ve long vanished into the dark.
Yelena curses out loud in Russian, stomping back inside to give that asshole a piece of her mind, and Wanda and Kate can only hurry after her, trying to stop the blonde from sending Nathan to the hospital.
Walking in the biting October cold clears your mind a little, even as the tears keep flowing. You hadn’t even noticed them until you had to slow down, your feet hurting in those damn boots. Sniffling, you keep your head down; despite being alone in the dark, that mix of humiliation and disbelief still makes your skin burn in shame. You didn’t do anything wrong, yet thoughts of how stupid you’ve been cloud your mind.
How could you have been so blind? All the signs were there, and you chose to ignore them.
That girl… she went to your university, which is why she felt so familiar. She’s pretty, you can’t deny it. And yet, was that enough for you to deserve that? Was she funnier than you? More caring? Better in bed? What were you lacking? You’ve always considered yourself average-looking—decent, sure, but not someone guys have ever fought over. You flirted, went on a few dates, but it never went beyond that. Maybe someone had a crush on you at some point, but you never knew.
It hurt your confidence, of course, but then Nathan happened, and that was your first mistake, probably—tying your self-worth to the way he treated you.
And now you can’t even go home and cry yourself to sleep. Kate was the only one with a purse, so you left all your belongings with her, except for your phone since you were waiting for Nathan to text you.
Going back is not an option, it feels like walking into a cage full of starving lions, especially since Nathan will probably be there still—either with her, or already laughing the whole thing off. She didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by his betrayal. If you were in her place, you’d be questioning him, wondering if you’d be on the other side as well someday.
You’ve seen it before. Your aunt was miserable after forgiving her cheating husband. He begged, cried, swore it was a moment of weakness. She was too busy with her job and he needed her, that’s how he justified himself.
So he fell into another woman’s vagina.
Your mom refused to speak to her for a while after her decision to not divorce him. Your dad then eventually convinced her to change her mind: that good-for-nothing was likely to do it again, and she couldn’t risk leaving her sister alone and vulnerable. Four months later, your aunt came home early from a work trip to surprise him—but she was the one whose heart fell to her feet.
He was in their bed with one of her closest friends.
After witnessing and experiencing that kind of pain first-hand, you can’t bring yourself to wish the same hurt on her. Even if she knew Nathan was already taken, even if she willingly started a relationship with him. But why would a single girl like her worry about your relationship when your boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend—didn’t seem to care in the first place?
You sigh, thinking of your parents. They’re out of town for your dad’s birthday. You can’t call them at one in the morning to tell them what happened. It wouldn’t be fair; you know they’d drop everything to come home if they knew and you can’t ruin the rare time they decide to treat themselves. After working so hard, this trip is the only moment of peace they are willing to indulge in once a year.
The back of your hand brushes over your raw cheeks in a useless attempt to clean yourself a little, tears still clouding your vision as you stare down at your phone screen, your finger hovering over that one contact that could save you, but shame pins you in place.
How can you face Mr. Barnes? Calling him now doesn’t just mean worrying him, but also possibly interrupting his night with… well, a woman. He’s a single, attractive man with a big house all to himself. Nathan was supposed to stay over, so who knows what the older man had planned for tonight?
It also means telling him about what happened.
The possibility of him defending his son makes a lonely tear slide down your cheek. No, Mr. Barnes would never justify a cheater. He’s too smart, too emotionally intelligent for that, even if the cheater in question is his own child.
Taking a deep breath, your mind races, torn between desperation and hesitation. The thought of disturbing him like a little kid makes you want to crawl into a hole and never get out, but it’s freezing outside and you are starting to not feel your toes. Your finger trembles with indecision above the screen, until reflex takes over. It presses the call icon.
You gasp, quickly bringing the phone to your ear when it immediately comes alive with his muffled voice.
“Sweetheart? Are you okay? Do you need something?” His deep, serene voice eases the wild thumping in your chest at once.
Right, another thing about Mr. Barnes. He calls you sweetheart, and seldom, other cute pet names slip by that make your traitorous heart flutter and your cheeks burn.
When you sniffle, he calls your name urgently.
“Are you busy?” You swallow, biting your trembling bottom lip.
“No. Never for you. What happened? Do you need me to come get you?”
You nod, then let out a frustrated huff when you remember he can’t see you. The faint clink of keys reaches your ears, a small, shaky smile tugging at your lips. You haven’t even replied and he’s already getting ready to come for you.
“Please… if you’re not busy.” You mumble.
“I told you I’m not. Don’t worry.” You hear a door close. Moments later, his voice returns. “Are you alright? Are you safe?”
You glance around, telling him you’re sitting on a bench in front of Ms. Garcia’s house. From his silence, you can gather his shock—you’re almost thirty minutes away from Rachel’s place.
“Why are you there, sweetheart? Is Nathan with you?” His words are slightly distorted by the rumble of the car engine.
“No, I’m alone. He’s still at the party.” You shiver as the cold metal of the bench presses against your bare thighs. “And I’m alright. Just tired.”
He doesn’t need all the details right now. The least you can do is explain in person.
“Doesn’t sound like it,” he murmurs under his breath. “You’ve been crying.”
You simply hum at his statement, expecting him to hang up, but instead he waits, respecting your silence, keeping the line open rather than leaving you alone in the dark.
When the familiar black SUV pulls up in front of you only a few minutes later, your body reacts instinctively. You hang up and watch as Mr. Barnes steps out. Before you can even find the right words to thank him, he’s around you, holding you close against his broad chest. Your lips part to whine out a pathetic apology, but the sound dies in your throat. Tears fall again, soaking his shirt.
“I’m so sorry… I didn’t know who to call,” you sniffle, swallowing an embarrassing sob. “My parents are out of town and Kate has my keys, but I didn’t want to go back there—”
“Hey, hey.” He gently pries your head away with a hand on your cheek, enough to examine your devastated eyes. “I’ve always told you I’m here if you ever need something. Anything. So don’t you dare apologize. I’m so proud you remembered that and called me, sweetheart.”
Your gaze drops at once on a random spot on his neck, unsure what to say next.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” His other hand cradles your left cheek now, thumbs brushing away the lingering tears at the corners of your eyes. You shake your head lightly, jaw tightening at the thought.
“Alright, alright. We’ll go at your pace.” He frowns. “Do you want to come home? It’s freezing and you’re—”
The next words die in his throat as his blue eyes sweep over your body like they are acknowledging the rest of you for the first time that night. Now you feel so foolish for not bringing a jacket. Despite the cold, you’d known Rachel’s house would feel like a furnace, packed with sweaty dancers and drinkers. A dramatic escape in the middle of the night was not in your plans and yet here you are.
Even in the middle of your internal scolding, you can easily notice how Mr. Barnes blinks, seemingly snapping out of whatever thought had caught his entire attention, only to quickly glance back up at your face. Being under the lamppost, it’s easy to spot the blush creeping across his cheeks.
You’re his son’s girlfriend, of course he would feel awkward with you so close and barely covered.
“I guess you didn’t want to hide your pretty outfit.” He comments instead, amusement lacing his tone. Your eyes widen. “You’re always beautiful, by the way. A jacket wouldn’t have ruined it.” He winks as his hand comes to rest on your back, guiding you toward his car. You’re still processing his tone and its meaning as he opens the passenger door to help you inside.
He’s never explicitly called you beautiful before, compliments used to stop at your outfits or your makeup.
Once inside, the engine hums to life, but before he takes care of anything else, he makes sure to turn on the heat. You shiver, muscles slowly loosening as the warmth seeps through your chilled body.
“Better?” He glances at you, receiving a simple, grateful nod as answer.
“Fuck, should have thought about bringing you one of my jackets.” He was probably talking to himself but you catch it anyway, pressing your palms lightly to your thighs. It’s just a jacket—nothing grand—but the thought behind it makes you breathe slightly more easily.
Bucky maneuvers the vehicle on the roadway, unhurriedly driving back the way you came from. A sense of dread abruptly washes over you at the realization that you are about to pass by your neighborhood, right in front of Rachel’s house. You try to be as subtle as possible when you slide down the seat, at least to not be completely recognizable from the outside, your head turning toward the window as if that could be enough to disappear completely. Bucky notices anyway, keeping a careful eye on you as you drive by the mansion looming chaotic in the dark.
“I saw Nathan with another girl.” You blurt out once Rachel’s house is at a safe distance. The car swerves slightly, your stomach twisting with a hint of fear as your hand instinctively reaches to grab the edge of the seat. Your worried eyes fly to Bucky, meeting his shocked gaze.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry.” He clears his throat. “How…”
You take a deep breath, eyes back on the road, feeling too ashamed to face him.
“Kate caught him in one of the bedrooms upstairs. When I opened the door… a girl was straddling him. They were kissing, and… probably about to do other things.” Another lump swells in your throat. “Apparently all those assignments and projects were just an excuse.” You scoff out a humorless laugh, the back of your hand already brushing a lonely tear away.
“They’ve been together since March, and he promised her he’d break up with me soon.”
Each word feels like biting broken glass.
From your peripheral vision, you see his body stiffen, knuckles whitening around the steering wheel. Apologies form on your tongue as a reflex, but why? For calling him to pick you up? For having to be the one to reveal such a horrible thing about his son? You don’t even know, yet his crushed expression is enough to make you feel terribly guilty.
Then, something happens that completely catches you off guard.
His hand reaches across the console, covering yours, fingers intertwining.
Mr. Barnes is good with words, yet that simple gesture is worth more than any speech right now. Tears come back with such a violent speed that shocks even you, but you try your best to bite them back, mortified about the whole situation.
Confused, you watch the car steer, eventually coming to a stop at the roadside. Bucky exhales heavily once the engine is turned off, plunging you both into darkness. His body then turns toward you as best he can in the cramped space.
“Can you look at me, sweetheart? Please?” His voice is barely a murmur, fingers squeezing yours gently. Reluctantly, you lift your chin, catching him in your peripheral vision. “Thank you.”
“I know you’re hurting right now, and words might feel meaningless in the face of this betrayal, but please… listen to me carefully.” His blue eyes burn fiercely. “Sometimes people don’t know how to treat something good the way it deserves, but that says nothing about its worth. I’m deeply disappointed in Nathan. I didn’t raise him to behave like this, and believe me, I will have words with him. Very strong ones.” You squeeze his hand back, the corners of your lips lightly lifting despite pain stabbing your chest.
“Don’t blame yourself, Mr. Barnes. Your words are never meaningless to me,” you murmur, frowning at your knees. “He is an adult, responsible for his own actions, and still chose to do this. He could’ve ended things with me before starting something with her, but instead took the easy way out without remorse.”
Bucky slumps back against the seat with a slow sigh, staring absent-minded at the dashboard. Eventually, a humorless laugh falls from his lips. “I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Your eyebrows jump up at the bitterness in his tone, and he allows a rueful smile. “My ex-wife cheated on me. That’s why we divorced.”
Your jaw drops.
“Nathan was thirteen and he still had to witness how much his mother’s choices affected me. It wasn’t easy for him. I never spoke badly of her, never kept him from seeing her... but he still chose to stay with me.” He sighs tiredly, head softly falling back against the headrest. “They only went back on speaking terms a couple years ago. Nathan felt like she betrayed him as well… refused to even text her at Christmas.” His neck turns just enough to look at you. “Has he ever told you that?”
You shake your head, swallowing.
“I’m—I’m so sorry, Mr. Barnes. I didn’t know… Nathan never talks about his mom, much less about your divorce.” Your words are not louder than a whisper.
His hand squeezes yours. “No need to apologize, sweetheart. The scars are there, but they don’t hurt anymore.”
Mr. Barnes straightens up after that, looking more resolute. “My point is, I’ve been through that kind of betrayal. For a long time, I was miserable, frustrated with her for ruining what we had, and with myself for missing the signs. And Nathan… he was the only good thing to come out of that marriage.” His gaze is fixed on yours with newfound strength, his voice tender. “Some days you’ll be angry at the world. You’ll stay in bed and cry your heart out, you’ll even miss the happy moments with him. But it won’t last forever.”
You clear your throat at that, staring down at the glove box for what feels like minutes. “Is it wrong,” you start quietly. “That I’m more upset about him betraying my trust than actually losing him?”
“What do you mean?” He tilts his head slightly, the simple gesture letting you know he’s here for you, ready to listen.
“He was always busy, and deep down I knew something was off. I guess… unconsciously, I’ve been trying to distance myself emotionally so I wouldn’t get hurt.” Your eyes widen at once, quickly trying to correct yourself as you realize you are still talking to his dad. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I liked Nathan and I’m shaken by what he did. He built a whole, new relationship behind my back. But…” You sigh, shoulders falling in dejection.
“I’m not actually sad about losing him.” You whisper. Saying that out loud only makes you feel more uncomfortable, causing you to shift your weight in your seat in a last attempt to ground yourself. “I don’t even know if I’m making any sense right now.”
“You’re angry because he made you doubt your self-worth.” He says softly.
“Yes!” You exclaim, facing him with surprise.
Bucky nods pensively. “And you’re upset because he betrayed your trust.”
“Exactly.” The dam breaks. “I’ve been feeling guilty since that day I followed him to the library to see if he was actually there to study. I felt awful for a whole month! I was doubting all the work his professors piled on him while he was breaking his back on those damn books. But in reality he was just fucking someone else the whole time.” Your hand flies to your mouth as you hear him chuckle, eyes wide at your own honesty. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be so crude.”
“Don’t you dare apologize. I feel so bad whenever I curse around you.”
You share a soft, meaningful laugh, before the car falls into a comforting silence.
“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.” You murmur, taking a deep breath. He returns your smile, squeezing your fingers once more before starting the engine.
“You know I’m here for you. Always.”
He claps his hands lightly, and somehow it feels like that dark cloud pressing on your head has finally lifted. “C’mon, let’s get you home so you can get more comfortable and rest. You had a long night.”
“Are you sure you’re not busy? I don’t want to crash your free night—”
“Are you kidding? I love your company. And you didn’t interrupt anything, I was just watching a movie and eating some leftover candy, waiting for a text that you got home safely.”
Once the car is parked in its usual spot, Mr. Barnes is quick to get out and jog to your side to open your door. You whisper a shy thank you, still not used to all these caring gestures.
“Alright, here we are.” He breathes out, shoulders relaxing as if the familiar smell of his home alone is enough to soothe any worries. He leaves his sneakers in the shoe rack by the entrance and you follow suit, placing your boots neatly in the space he vacated for your shoes long ago, back when Nathan had started bringing you over more frequently.
“Are you hungry? Wanna shower first?”
You press your palm to your temple, eyes closing briefly. “A shower would be perfect. I feel sweaty from the party and I’m pretty sure my clothes still smell of weed.”
He doesn’t ask if you drank—he knows you despise the taste of alcohol, but also any type of substance that could make you lose control. He simply leaves a glass of water and some Advil on the kitchen counter, then jogs upstairs to grab some clean clothes for you. You take your time finishing the glass, savoring the simple act of rehydrating after walking and crying for so long in the cold.
Once you are alone in the bathroom, the reflection in the mirror makes you flinch. Your makeup is completely ruined: lipstick smudged at the corners, eyeshadow streaked under your eyes, mascara melted. The thought of Mr. Barnes seeing you like this has you shuddering in shame, but you push the embarrassment aside for now. You’re too drained.
A sealed bottle of micellar water and a package of cotton pads on the counter catch your eye immediately. With a relieved sigh, you remove the ruined makeup, silently making a mental note to thank him for his thoughtfulness.
The warm water cascading over your skin and the floral scent of the products tidily lined up on the shower caddy are enough to ease the strain in your muscles. Once dry, you pull on the black shirt he left on the small stool and a pair of boxers, adjusting them according to your comfort. You are actually so relieved he provided you with his own clothes, instead of Nathan’s. Making sure you’re presentable enough before heading downstairs, you glance at your reflection in the mirror one last time, before you have to take a second look. Because on the far left of the counter sit unopened some products you recognize too well: a moisturizer for your skin type, a gentle cleanser, some neutral-smelling deodorant, and a purple toothbrush. All pristine and unopened.
Did he buy all this for you? Even after nearly a year since the last time you slept here?
Your chest tightens at the thought of someone caring enough to remember such simple, forgettable things about you, taking a deep breath before diving into your skincare routine.
When you enter the kitchen, the breathtaking sight of Mr. Barnes’ broad back makes you pause momentarily. The domesticity of it all—him cooking for you, the quiet familiarity of being surrounded by his smell in his home—fills you with a strange fuzzy feeling that leaves your skin pleasantly warm and tingly. You’ve never been here at this time of the day, alone with him, clad in his clothes.
Turning around, he places the plate he was previously arranging on the table, before he glances up at you. Smiling, his lips part as if he wants to say something, but the words die on his tongue when his blue eyes fall on your naked legs. Clearing his throat, the man abruptly turns back around to swipe the counter.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Yeah. Thank you for the clothes.” You sit, eyeing the plate with interest. “And the sandwich.” You add with a smile. Your stomach aches a little from all the sugary soft drinks, so a proper meal will only do you good.
“They look good on you.” He mumbles, glancing down. Then, with a playful smirk. “Still, I miss the Barbie outfit.” You giggle, unsure whether he’s teasing or truly means it.
“Oh, and the hygiene products—thank you for those as well. When did you get them?” You quip, devouring half of the bread as if you haven’t eaten in ages.
“I’ve been stocking them since you started staying over, just in case you forgot something.” He shrugs with another effortless smile.
Bucky knew you were going to spend multiple nights here and wished for you to be comfortable and safe in his home. Simple as that.
You had to pack an overnight bag with all your things whenever you went over to Nathan’s apartment. It never occurred that you could just leave something behind, because it was so sporadic for you to spend the night there. Plus, he lives with three other people, so you didn’t want to intrude. Yet, now that you’re realizing how much Mr. Barnes has been going out of his way to take care of you, you can’t help but think about how many things Nathan took for granted.
Only when you finally settle on the sofa do you realize how much your body has been hurting from all the dancing and the walking. It instantly becomes one with the cushions.
Your phone lights up once on the coffee table, half of Wanda’s message visible from here. You texted the group chat to let them know you’re safe with a friend. Yelena will understand immediately, you are certain of that. Your eyes mindlessly catch a really sorry, but you don’t have the energy to deal with the situation right now. They know you’re alright and sheltered from the cold, and that’s enough for tonight.
The TV drones on in the background; a mediocre horror movie is playing on cable, but you can’t bring yourself to focus on it—or anything else, for that matter. Not when Mr. Barnes is sitting comfortably beside you, the warmth of his body tempting you to move closer. For a moment, it feels like he’s glancing at you as intently as you’ve been watching him.
The moment you properly look up and he doesn’t shy away, the air between you hums with an unspoken, charged tension. You must be imagining things, half delirious from exhaustion, because he keeps glancing back and forth between your eyes and your lips, something akin to desire burning hot in his eyes.
You don’t know who leans in first, but suddenly the space separating you disappears. The first touch is tentative, a timid brush of hands, and then, as soon as the tips of your noses touch, he is pressing against you like he’s been craving your lips for ages. One of his hands cups the back of your head, guiding you closer until your fingers tangle in his shirt.
It shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel this right. It shouldn’t...
It shouldn’t happen.
“Wait—” You gasp, abruptly pulling back. Your eyes snap open, staring at him with horror dawning on your features. “W—What… what are we doing?”
“Shit,” Bucky mumbles under his breath, chest heaving as he tries to regain a crumb of control on his raging heartbeat. “I’m—I’m so sorry.”
“Oh my God, I’m a terrible person!” You slump forward, hiding your face in your hands as hot tears threaten to spill again.
“Hey, c’mon now sweetheart.” His shaky palm smoothes over your back. “Why would you be a terrible person? You did nothing wrong.”
Your head snaps towards him, regarding him with red and glassy eyes.
“I just kissed my ex-boyfriend’s dad!”
“If anything, I kissed you.”
“We both leaned in!”
Bucky moves closer, taking your other hand in his. “Okay, okay. Let’s take a deep breath now—”
“Oh God, if Nathan finds out—”
A firm call of your name has your shoulders fall down in defeat. Bucky’s hand travels to the back of your neck, gently turning your face until you are forced to look at him.
“You know you don’t owe him anything, right?” His voice is grounding, calm, but it’s not enough to quell the storm in your head.
“Why are you so calm? You’re his dad! I shouldn’t feel—” You pause abruptly, swallowing thickly. The way his eyes are wide with hope makes you want to sob in his arms.
“Feel what?” He urges, squeezing your hand.
“I…”
“Feel what, sweetheart?” Shame keeps your throat closed, physically unable to utter any sound. So Bucky takes the matter into his own hands, cradling your cheeks with both rough palms.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day you ran in here, smiling about your A on that paper about online language evolution you spent weeks stressing over.” Bucky admits softly. Your breath hitches.
“You looked at me with stars in your eyes,” he continues with a proud smile. “And I felt so lucky to be part of such a happy moment for you. And then you hugged me and believe me, I tried to ignore it, but I just felt… complete.”
His voice drops to a whisper. “I felt like a dirty pervert whenever my eyes fell on the curve of your waist. Whenever I imagined the adorable sighs you’d make against my lips. Whenever you strutted here in my house with those damn revealing shirts, jealous that the whole neighborhood got the chance to admire your beautiful cleavage.” Sighing, his eyelids flutter shut for a second, as if trying to focus.
“You were Nathan’s girlfriend and here I was, resenting my own son for getting to have you like this. For being the one to call you his.”
He lets his words hang, heavy with honesty. “I promised myself I’d keep my distance. But no one ever compared to your pretty eyes, your passion, your energy.” He swallows, kind eyes flicking once between your eyes and your parted lips.
“Nathan had his chance and failed to take care of you, to love you like you deserve. He was so cruel, baby, and I can’t allow myself to stand by and watch you suffer when I’m right here, begging you to let me show you how much I am enamored of you. Let me be the man you deserve by your side. Someone who knows what you need just by looking into your eyes.”
“And what do I need now, James?” His breath hitches, not expecting his first name to sound so right on your tongue.
Bucky, James, Jamie… He doesn’t care. He just needs you to demolish that already fractured wall of propriety that has kept you apart all along.
“My lips on yours.” His blue eyes shine, smitten, and that is enough to give you that confidence boost you’ve been looking for a while. Your fingers graze his jaw for a fleeting moment, before they grab his shirt to pull him forward.
You meet him in an urgent kiss, your other hand tangling in his hair, pulling just enough that the guttural sound clawing out of his throat has your thighs squeezing close. His tongue roams freely in your mouth, until oxygen leaves you entirely. You kiss for what feels like a lifetime, your lips fitting together like the final two lost pieces of a puzzle.
His palms fondle the curve of your waist until he finds the courage to guide you on his laps with a hand on your thigh. A moan is muffled against your mouth when your covered core comes into contact with his crotch, his bulge the proof that you’re not the only one affected. One hand sneakily trails up your torso, resting ultimately on the side of your breast, a gentle squeeze of your flesh eliciting a gasp out of you, so you take the chance to grind down on Bucky, the teasing movement leaving him moaning under you.
When you separate, he regards you with blown pupils, his chest raising and lowering with ragged breaths.
Your fingers finally allow themselves to do what they’ve secretly wished for since the moment you sat on this couch: starting from the gentle creases on his forehead, they tenderly trace down his dark brows, until they reach the sharp profile of his nose, his blushing cheekbones, the trim stubble on his jawline. His mouth parts just a fraction when your thumb strokes his bottom lip, his next breath shaky, frightened to interrupt this sublime, quiet connection.
“You’re stunning, James.” You utter softly with a faint smile. His eyes flutter shut with a sigh when your fingers move then on to his collarbone. Shivering, the older man wraps one muscular arm around your back, bringing you close, until he can comfortably lean in to return the favor, lavishing the column of your throat with wet kisses. Your head falls back, brokenly gasping each time his teeth gently graze your skin.
“You’re driving me crazy with all these cute, sinful sounds.” He growls, a grin blooming on your mouth at his poorly concealed desperation. The hand firmly resting on your ribs slowly travels down to your side, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind; then over your half-bare thighs, until it lands on your covered ass. Your gasp gets promptly swallowed by his mouth when he hungrily squeezes the flesh, encouraging the circular movements of your hips against his erection. The sound of his low groan makes your pussy throb, suddenly shifting your focus on the embarrassing dampness of the boxers you’re wearing.
When was the last time someone touched you as if you were their most precious treasure?
This time your kiss is more animalistic, all teeth and tongue, than the ones you previously shared, a testament of your growing arousal.
“Baby,” he breathes out, cradling your cheek to assure you’re making eye contact. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, you know that, right?”
“Mmh?” Your movements are a little more lethargic after the way his hands have gently played with your curves, your fingers weakly curling into the fabric covering his broad shoulders. The ghost of his palms on your chest and thighs still tingles on your skin, and you slightly tilt your head when he starts talking again, regarding him with half-lidded eyes.
“We can do whatever you want. You wanna watch a movie? I’m already opening Netflix. You wanna sleep by yourself? I’ll make the bed in the guest room right away. We can cuddle all night if you’d let me—”
“What if I want you to fuck me?” The words feel like cotton candy in your mouth, yet you don’t miss the way his eyes widen.
There is a brief, meaningful pause.
“Are you sure?” His voice shakes a little as his hands squeeze your hips.
“Please.” Your sigh almost has him maneuvering you on your back to see what other sweet sounds he can coax out of you. Just for him.
“Yeah? You’ve been thinking about it, sweetheart?” You simply hum, slowly nodding. “About all the ways I could make you come on my tongue?” He whispers, towering over you as his firm fingers keep your chin raised, preventing you from hiding.
Squirming in his lap, you are forced to look him in the eye as your slick steadily soils his boxers, cheeks scorching hot with a hint of mortification.
“Did you think about me when you were fingers deep into your sweet pussy? Imagining it was my cock making you scream?” He continues calmly. “Did you come like a good girl with my name on your lips, mmh?”
You whimper, nodding jerkily. “I was... so lonely.”
“Well,” he chuckles smugly. “You won’t have to worry about that anymore, pretty girl.”
A squeal claws out of your throat as Bucky lifts you without much of a fuss. You keep your legs tightly wrapped around his waist, your arms circling his neck with newfound strength. Moaning, he has to stop multiple times on the stairs as you can’t resist leaving small pecks all over his jaw, teeth softly biting the most sensitive spots.
It’s the first time you cross the threshold of his bedroom, yet it doesn’t feel as awkward as it should.
You completely ignore the big walk-in closet and his en-suite bathroom as soon as you are placed in the center of the large bed, his six-foot frame covering yours without actually resting his full weight on you. Your lips meet again and this time, his palm travels under the shirt you are wearing, finding your bare chest.
“James, wait—” You moan, hips twitching up as his fingers graze your already erect nipple. You’re now fully lying on your back with his hard body straddling you, but a weak push against his chest is enough for Bucky to immediately lift his torso up.
“Are you oka—”
“More than okay, I feel so good. I just—I need to make something clear.” This time it’s you who cradles his jaw, swallowing thickly. “I like you, James. I think I have for a while, actually. It wasn’t just... pure admiration, or friendship. And this,” your finger wriggles between the two of you, pointing at your chests. “It’s not a one-night stand for me. I don’t want you to think you’re... some sort of revenge; much less a rebound.”
“This is a dream come true.” He mumbles against your lips, caressing the back of your head in awe.
“I’m gonna make this right, okay sweetheart?” Bucky kisses your forehead, then focuses on both cheeks. “I’m gonna take care of you.” His mouth trails south, on your neck. “Play with your sweet pussy until you are nice and ready to take me.” Your eyes roll back, shuddering at his low voice whispering right in your ear.
“Worship your body until you are left shaking and gasping in my arms, orgasm after orgasm.” The fingers trailing up your thigh finally reach the inner part, his thumb stroking the wet fabric right where you need him the most.
“Then I’m gonna fill you up,” your hips buckle up, causing him to huff out a chuckle. “Yeah? You like the sound of it, angel? Like the idea of me stuffing you full with my cum until you can’t take a step without it sliding down your thighs?”
“Bucky, please.” You breathe out, trembling fingers squeezing his forearm.
His shaky exhale gives his excitement away, despite his confident and collected behavior. He makes sure to look in your eyes for his next words.
“Gonna take you on a date tomorrow, alright?” You simply nod, swallowing as his other palm traces your bare stomach, lifting the shirt up and up, until your ribs are exposed to the warm air of his bedroom. “Give you everything you deserve and more.”
His smirk grows when you whine at his hands moving away to take off your top. A low groan falls from his lips when your naked chest is finally exposed. His large hands cup your tits without much thought, the pads of his thumbs brushing over your nipples, eliciting another whimper out of you. You finally look up at his face, biting your bottom lip when you notice the way his eyes have turned darker, just like the ocean abyss, as they marvel at your breasts, perfectly fitting inside his palms.
“Such gorgeous tits, sweetheart.” Your cheeks instantly heat up at the praise; overwhelmed by the sudden attention on your naked torso, you try to turn your chin away, but Bucky is faster. Cradling your cheeks, he turns your head until you are forced to stare right at him.
“None of that hiding shit.” He mutters against your breasts between kisses, your back arching the moment his tongue starts lavishing your nipples, until they are both raw and turgid.
“You’re going to lie back and watch me as I ravish you, darling.”
The boxers are suddenly discarded on the floor. It’s electrifying, being so open for Bucky to freely admire you. You’re quivering under his devoted gaze and tender smile, your breath hitching each time his fingers stroke a patch of burning skin as he takes his time in appreciating every single curve, every aspect that you might consider a flaw. To him, they’re new features to cherish. A way to learn you in the most intimate of ways.
You don’t even notice your eyelids fluttering shut. The rustling sound of fabric is what drives you to open them, just in time to catch Bucky throwing his shirt somewhere on the carpet.
He truly is handsome, with his strong physique and his muscles still defined, even with the small layer of fat covering most of it.
With a lewd twist of his lips, his hands guide your legs up until your feet are firmly planted on the mattress and your knees bent. You are certain your heart is going to come out of your chest if Bucky doesn’t hurry up, rather focusing on pressing sweet, delicate kisses from your ankle to your thigh, just stopping short of where the skin turns wet with your arousal. His smirk is devilish when your breath hitches in frustration, taking his time in giving the same reverent treatment to your other leg.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
By the time he finally lies between your spread thighs, you are a shaky, sensitive mess, palms instantly covering your face when his nose almost touches your clit as his thumbs delicately part your folds.
Bucky lightly gasps. “Look how pretty you are. Already so wet for me, pretty girl?”
To be fair, you think this is the most aroused you’ve been in your whole life.
It’s mortifying how quickly your first orgasm approaches, it only takes Bucky a few languid circling movements on your clit and you’re already clenching, shivering against the beige bedsheets.
Breathy moans and whimpers fall from your parted lips as his fingers toy with your nub some more. “You’re so responsive, darling.” He marvels, licking his lips. “But not yet.”
Your pathetic whine once he focuses on your hole only fuels his teases.
“I know, sweetheart.” He soothes, a thick finger gently tracing up and down the seam of your entrance. “Just a little more. I promise it’s going to feel so good later.”
And just like that, one of his digits is inside you. Your limbs go rigid, before his other arm comes up to rest on your belly, his thumb finding a leisure yet firm rhythm as it rubs your clit, grinning when your body melts at once against the cool sheets.
You sigh at the heavenly sensation, and Bucky feels the exact moment it starts feeling good, your hole slowly making room for another finger.
“There we go, pretty girl. Is that the right spot? You are gripping me so tight, darling, bet it feels so good, right?”
Your eyes squeeze shut as you can only manage a nod, your own hand shooting down to anchor itself to one of his shoulders as the tip of his tongue replaces the finger taunting your nub. The first swipe makes your head fall back.
“Bucky!” A loud moan resounds through the dimly lit room, making his cock twitch.
“Jesus Christ.” His growl vibrates pleasantly against your tender core. “Has anyone ever tasted you, baby?”
“No!” You sob at his fingers pushing against your sweet spot.
“Fucking fools.” He snarls. “I’ll take care of you from now on, sweet girl. You won’t have to worry about anything.” He rasps out, feral with the thought of you making a mess on his face now that he has been blessed with your taste. “Just need to sit back and be good for me.”
You sniffle, the muscle of your stomach clenching to keep your orgasm at bay. You’re completely enraptured by his gentle yet solemn voice, not so different from the way his fingers play with your body. You subtly rock back on them, drawing him deeper and deeper.
“Oh I know, I know baby. I can feel you want to come.” Your hips twitch up, but the arm blanketing your belly keeps you nice and still as he enjoys his meal. His stubble leaves crude marks on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, the rough friction causing your back to arch as high as his heavy arm allows.
“You know, sweetheart felt like the safest option.” He pants, coming up for air, his lips glistening with your arousal. “Now I can finally call you whatever I want.”
“Baby,” he leaves a kiss on your mound, half-lidded eyes fixed on your crumpled features. You couldn’t be more grateful for Nathan to have his mom’s eyes. “Darling,” his lips move on your clit next, sucking harshly. “Pretty girl—oh.”
You hoped he wouldn’t notice the way you clenched at that, but of course the smug bastard does.
“You like when I call you pretty girl?” You toss your head back as his thumb goes back to flick your nub. He can only coax out an embarrassed squeak that vaguely resembles a yes, but it’s enough to make Bucky smirk with pride.
“Yes, my pretty girl?” He relishes in the way you clench again, knowing you’re at your limit now.
“Give it to me, angel. C’mon,” he growls, ravaging your clit with steady suckles. “I’ve been too well-behaved and patient.”
Your head falls back against his pillow as your eyes fall shut, your first orgasm of the night hitting you hard and leaving you whimpering and dizzy under his palms. Your body tightens as wave after wave of pleasure seeps deep into your bones. Bucky groans at the sight of your pussy practically swallowing his damp fingers. You have never felt so good you could cry, the added sensation of his coarse beard against your sensitive core making your thighs tremble precariously around his head.
“Gorgeous.” Your nails cling onto his shoulder as you ride it out, humping his face with abandon under his soft grunts of encouragement. Bucky’s hips have been twitching against the mattress for a while now, unable to stay stoic in front of a goddess like you unraveling so sweetly before him. With a final teasing kiss to your clit, his thick fingers finally pull away.
You’re still breathless when Bucky lifts himself up, enough to pull you into another hungry kiss. Tasting yourself on someone’s tongue is definitely new, but not unpleasant. Not when a pathetic sound—half moan, half whine—claws out of your throat at your tongues dancing.
“Wish I could stay between your thighs all night.” He mumbles against your lips. Kissing Bucky… It’s just so lovely. Particularly like this, when he is towering over you, so close that the trimmed hair on his chest softly brushes your nipples as it heaves against yours. Your body lurches at the light stimulation on your raw nubs, completely missing the way one of his hands abandons your hip to swiftly discard his boxers.
It’s only when Bucky gets into an upright position that you can finally catch a proper glimpse of his body. Even his cock is beautiful, for fuck’s sake, all flushed and thick, proudly curving up toward his belly. You gulp thickly at the sight of how majestic he looks, naked and kneeling for you, before you promptly shy away at the amusement twinkling in his eyes. His strong arms wrap around your thighs without a word, dragging you closer to him until his length lightly nudges your core. His tongue is inside your mouth before you can even let a full gasp out. Whining, your fingers slip into his hair as he teases the seam of your entrance with the tip.
“So impatient.” He chuckles at your eager hips, before extending his arm towards the night stand.
“No!” Your fingers shoot forward and wrap around his bicep, causing Bucky to freeze entirely.
“I’m clean, got tested last month, and I’m on the pill.” You wheeze out, suddenly fearing your implicit request will be rejected.
Bucky scrutinizes you with open surprise, before a long, pensive exhale slowly leaves his nostrils.
He places a sweet peck on your forehead. “I’m clean too. But are you sure, sweetheart?” His brows furrow in worry.
“I’ve never let anyone else do it without.” You swallow nervously, taking his hand in yours to guide it to your cheek, unconsciously leaning into his palm.
“Want you to be the first.” You whisper.
“Fucking hell.” He grits out, letting his forehead fall on your shoulder. It’s your turn to smirk now, until you feel the bulbous head of his cock insistent against your hole.
“Oh.” You squeak out once he slides in halfway without much resistance on your part. The sight of your glassy eyes rolling back has him groaning.
“Feeling alright, doll?”
“Fuck—yes, fuck, it’s just—big!” You gasp, stiffening at the burning stretch. “More... More, I need more please.”
Despite your begging, Bucky feeds you his cock gradually, fearing he could hurt you and possibly scare you away forever. Once he bottoms out, his jaw clenches at the mere realization of finally being inside his girl. Attempting to calm the both of you down is difficult, yet he finds the strength to still, his lips finding yours at once. His self-control weakens precariously the more your body grows pliant under his, your walls hugging his cock so tightly he can feel every little, eager movement. The lewd, wet sounds of your mouth moving against each other only spur him on as his hips involuntarily jerk forward.
“Bucky.”
“Yes, yes, I know sweetheart.” He coos at your ragged breaths. “Gonna make the ache go away, mmh?”
Dragging his hips back slightly, Bucky carefully studies your expression, and only when he finds no sign of discomfort he lets himself slip right back in, harder.
“Oh, sweet girl.” He grins at you clinging onto his shoulders. “That feels good, right? Hear how she sings for me?” Leaning in to plant his lips right over your damp brow, he allows his hips to slowly move back, biting back a loud groan at the squelching sound.
“Need to see you fall apart on my cock.” He grunts.
“Please, need—harder.” You cry out, eyes rolling back as the tip nudges your sweet spot. Your moans grow higher and louder once he starts pounding you earnestly, your slack body trapped under his broad one, sliding up and down the mattress with each brutal thrust.
Bucky loses himself a little the moment he buries his nose in the damp skin of your neck, licking and kissing away the salty tang of your sweat, finally fucking you properly. The slapping noise of your skins meeting shamelessly fills the bedroom, mixing with your labored breaths and desperate moans.
“Shit, doll.” His growl vibrates against your pulse. “Need this all the time, need to hear your sweet squeals as I carve a place for my cock inside your cute little pussy.”
The way he kisses your mouth like a starving man, and how his cock fits so perfectly inside you, stirs a warm feeling inside your chest, far too tender compared to the throbbing ache in your belly.
“Such a good girl for me, taking all of me so well.” He gushes deliriously, smiling at your connected lower half. “My girl. My pretty, sweet girl.”
“Come with me?” You whimper, your nails digging into his soft skin as pleasure threatens to swallow you whole.
“Want to give you another one.” He pants, slowing down just enough to properly look you in the eye. “I’m not so young anymore, sweet thing.” The back of his hand brushes your cheek with such tenderness you almost forget the hard length plunged deep inside your pussy, before Bucky resumes his punishing pace, coaxing moan after moan out of you.
Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, your body tensing as your back arches, finally letting yourself go.
“That’s it!” He draws the words out, keeping his eyes firmly on your face. Your legs feel like they are falling to pieces, sore but still squeezing helplessly his waist.
“So tight, so good for me. You look like an angel, sweetheart. A pretty, fucked-out angel. Wish you could see how beautiful you look with a big cock giving you exactly what you need.” He can hardly fend off the devastating orgasm threatening to make him fall apart; yet he keeps going, wanting to prolong your pleasure as much as he can. It’s only when your whimper borders on painful and your palms shoot down to push at his chest, that his hips gradually come to a stop.
“Holy fuck.”
Your lower half is pleasantly aching by the time you are coming down from your earth-shattering climax. Bucky is still trying to dominate his instincts, jaw clenched and nose lightly tracing the soft skin of your collarbone, breathing in your scent. The primal urge to make you his violently rattles at the cage of care and protection that Bucky scrupulously crafted day by day, just to keep it contained. He’s at his limit, yet he always makes sure to take such good care of you first... your stunning, kind Mr. Barnes.
But now it’s your turn to have your fun with him.
“Get up.” You mutter, pressing on his pecs. Panic briefly crosses his features as he clumsily lifts up on shaky muscles. You don’t let him go too far though, gently pushing him until he’s laying on his back. When you land directly on his crotch, cock still snuggled inside you, his eyes widen in astonishment.
Everything feels more sensitive like this.
You don’t care about your aching joints, nor about your sensitive and sore body still going through the aftershock, immediately setting a fast pace. You bounce up and down, biting your bottom lip as you stare at his parted lips. Your combined ragged breaths make you clench around his length, loving the way you sound together. Bucky is too busy pawing at your hips with one hand and groping your breast with the other to rationally think about something clever that would surely turn this debauched doll in his laps into the timid sweetheart he likes teasing.
You’re not sure how long it has been, but what makes you still is definitely not the sudden uncomfortable stiffness in your lower back, but rather a loud, muffled noise.
Like something falling, or... a door slamming shut.
You stop at once, your wide eyes meeting Bucky’s astonished gaze. His shock, though, has short life, as his hands land on both of your thighs with a resounding smack, encouraging you to go on.
“Bucky!” You reprimand him, gasping at the abrupt stimulation against your sweet spot. The older man under you slowly lifts his torso up, encircling your waist as he gently guides you down with him, until your forehead rests against his.
“We have already established that we like each other and that this,” he points between you two just like you did before. “Is not a one time thing.” You nod quickly, still panting and alarmingly aware of all the noises coming from downstairs: bare feet thumping against the tiles, a cabinet closing, a small sigh of relief after drinking some water.
“Don’t you want to give him a taste of his own medicine?” You can’t believe the shadow of malice falling over his eyes.
“He’s your son!” You whisper-shout, partial to his proposal but still too timid to go along with it.
“And you are my girl.” He growls with the same heat, his fingers digging into your skin bruisingly. “The same girl he cheated on for eight months.”
Something shatters inside your chest. You don’t know if it’s the reality finally catching up to you, or the humiliation gradually mutating into a fiercer, hotter thirst for vengeance. Or maybe it’s the way this absolutely lovely man just defined you his girl so easily. No shame, no reservations.
Your palms press against his shoulders, urging him to fully lie back down. The slow smirk forming on his lips matches your playful smile.
“Fuck.” Your hips resume their pace with a newfound strength.
“You’re doing so well, angel. Look at you, taking all my cock in your tight little pussy. My pretty girl, all mine.” His dirty words only spur you on, taking his hands to guide them back on your curves. In the meantime, the stairs creak under careful yet not-so-silent steps, as Nathan warily makes his way up.
“Oh my God. Mr. Barnes, ’s so big.” You gasp, completely forgetting about your ex probably standing just outside the door. You don’t miss the way Bucky’s breath hitches at the name you used to softly utter with so much admiration and respect, now sounding so beautifully obscene as you cry for his cock. Faintly grinning down at him, you squeeze the hand fondling your breast, Bucky immediately looking up from your core engulfing his length so well.
“Yeah? And whose pussy is this, mmh?” His fingers settle on your clit with determination, careful to put the right pressure, and you respond at once, riding him faster.
“Yours! Fuck, always been yours!”
"Good girl.” He groans, using every bit of self-restraint to not succumb to the heavenly feeling of you desperately gripping his leaking cock.
“That’s it.” His jaw locks. “Come for me, my beautiful girl.” Your third climax of the night is the most intense. You shatter with a breathy shriek, collapsing against Bucky’s chest as he promptly catches you. The urgent noise of footsteps climbing down the stairs and the final bang of the front door slamming shut are completely disregarded as you fall apart in the most delicious of ways.
“Fuck, you just tightened so fucking hard, baby girl. Feel so fucking good coming all over my cock, you were made for me.” His head falls back, exposing the refined line on his throat. “Taking it so well.” You cling to his large frame, shaking and whimpering as his hips ruthlessly chase his own pleasure.
“’M gonna ruin you for anyone else, angel.” The crack in his voice tells you he’s close, his hands keeping you nice and still as you try to relax, letting him use you.
“Bet you’ve never looked this lovely with him,” he hisses, his thrusts frantic and sloppy. “Never came this hard—shit, you’re gonna be leaking my cum from now on.”
With one last effort, your chin lifts enough for you to whisper right into his ear, “’M yours, Mr. Barnes. Always have been.”
His grip around your thighs borders on painful, but you don’t care as long as his filthy groans turn louder and needier. His hips thrust up once, twice, and then he is holding you down as rope after rope of his cum reaches the deepest part of you. Your content sigh at the surreal sensation of finally being filled soothes Bucky a little, his body finally falling back against the mattress as his cock keeps twitching inside you.
“Shit,” his next exhale is harsh, tired eyes staring dumbfounded at the ceiling. “I’ve never come this hard in my life, sweet girl.” His palms trace a slow path up and down your back, and you silently thank him for staying inside you. You are not sure you’d react well if Bucky were to part from you at once after what you just did.
Your weak body settles on his little by little, until you are completely pliant in his arms.
“C’mere and give me a kiss, I miss my pretty girl.” His mouth moves against your temple, before his thumb and index finger tenderly hold your chin to coax you out of your hiding place.
You lazily yield, meeting him in a languid kiss that is more tongue than lips.
“The best.” Kiss. “Prettiest.” Kiss. “Girl.” Kiss. “You’re so good to me, took it all inside and didn’t waste a single drop.” He playfully growls against your jaw, eliciting a tired giggle out of you.
“Bucky, it tickles.” You squirm slightly, wrinkling your nose when he leaves a gentle peck right on the tip. He couldn’t be more proud of how serene you look, safe and thoroughly fucked as you lie drowsily on his chest.
“So,” he sighs after a while, arms squeezing your waist as he beams up at the ceiling. “About that date…”
— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💕
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
I mentioned it before but the inspiration for the title comes from this spectacular meme, of course lmaooo
a/n: jamie is coming to phoenix fan fusion in june and i so badly want to go 😫 also my bestie abandoned me and leaves me alone a lot (she lives far away and is a couple hours ahead of me) so if anyone plays DBD, add me, my name is HueyFreeman42 and im usually on late at night MST but also on during the day sometimes
ALSO this is my first edit of this story i made and hopefully not the last
PART 12 IS LINKED HERE
. . .
Y/N woke up to the sound of furious scribbling.
Not soft scribbling, either. Nancy Wheeler scribbling. Sharp, aggressive pen strokes across paper, like she was personally offended by every sentence she’d written five minutes earlier.
The dorm room was still gray with early morning, the kind of winter light that made everything look colder than it was. Nancy sat at her desk in her robe, one leg tucked under her, hair half pinned back in a way that meant she’d been up for a while. Her newspaper draft was spread out in front of her in loose pages, red pen flying over the margins.
Without looking up, Nancy said, “Morning.”
Then she kept editing.
Y/N blinked into the quiet.
For a second, she just lay there under her blanket, staring at Nancy’s back.
That was it?
No smile. No weirdly formal birthday speech. No dramatic “rise and shine.” Just… morning.
Y/N’s eyebrows pulled together.
She turned her head slowly toward the wall calendar pinned beside Nancy’s desk, eyes narrowing as she searched the date even though she already knew it.
Today.
It was definitely today.
Her birthday.
Y/N pushed herself up, hair a mess, sleep still heavy in her limbs, and stretched her arms over her head. The room smelled like ink, coffee, and paper, basically Nancy in scent form.
Nancy kept scribbling.
Y/N watched her for another beat, then asked carefully, “Is there… something you want to say to me?”
Nancy glanced over at her at last.
Her eyes flicked to Y/N’s face, and she said, completely deadpan, “You have drool on your chin.”
Y/N stared.
Nancy capped the pen for a second, leaned back in her chair, and added, “Did you dream about Creel again? Is that why you’re drooling?”
Y/N’s mouth fell open. “Nancy.”
“What?” Nancy asked, looking unfairly innocent. “I’m just trying to understand the moisture situation.”
Y/N wiped at her chin automatically, then realized she was being played with and glared. “You’re annoying.”
Nancy gave a tiny shrug and picked her pen back up. “That’s not new.”
Y/N kept staring at her.
Nancy kept editing.
The silence stretched just long enough to start hurting.
A small, stupid ache pressed at Y/N’s chest before she could stop it. It wasn’t even about presents, not really. It was the idea that Nancy, Nancy of all people, might actually have forgotten.
“Seriously?” Y/N asked, quieter this time.
Nancy made a little hum, like she was rearranging a paragraph in her head and not at all tuned into the emotional crisis happening three feet away.
Y/N’s throat tightened.
She hated how quickly disappointment could make her feel twelve years old again.
“Wow,” she muttered, trying to sound sarcastic instead of wounded. “Okay.”
Nancy still didn’t look up.
Y/N swallowed hard and swung her legs out of bed. “Never mind.”
She stood, grabbing the edge of her blanket around herself like armor for half a second before letting it drop. Her face had already started doing that thing where it went still to protect itself.
It was fine.
It was just a birthday.
People forgot things.
People forgot her sometimes.
No big deal.
She moved toward the bathroom door, jaw tight, already trying to shrug it off before Nancy could see it landed.
Then—
“Y/N.”
Nancy’s voice stopped her before her hand hit the knob.
Y/N paused but didn’t turn around right away. “What?”
Nancy finally looked up fully.
Now there was that unmistakable Wheeler expression on her face, the one that mixed fondness with exasperation, like Y/N was being ridiculous but beloved while doing it.
“Happy birthday, idiot,” Nancy said.
Y/N turned.
Nancy’s mouth twitched. “You really thought I forgot?”
Y/N blinked, caught between relief and embarrassment and a lingering need to stay offended on principle. “You said good morning.”
“Yes,” Nancy said. “Because I wanted to watch you spiral for at least thirty seconds.”
Y/N’s jaw dropped. “You’re evil.”
Nancy grinned faintly. “Correct.”
Y/N pressed a hand to her chest. “I was hurt.”
“I know,” Nancy said, entirely too pleased with herself. Then her expression softened. “And I’d never forget your birthday.”
Something in Y/N’s shoulders loosened so fast it almost made her feel dizzy.
Nancy reached down beside her desk and pulled up a small wrapped package she had clearly hidden out of sight.
“And,” Nancy added, holding it out, “I got you something.”
Y/N stared at it. “You did?”
Nancy raised an eyebrow. “No, I’m holding an empty box for drama.”
Y/N laughed despite herself, the last bit of hurt melting out of her chest as she crossed the room. “Shut up.”
Nancy handed it to her with a look that tried very hard to be casual and failed. “Open it after you brush your teeth. You look like a Victorian child with consumption.”
Y/N clutched the gift to her chest, smiling now in a way she couldn’t hide. “You’re the worst.”
Nancy uncapped her pen again and looked back down at her paper. “And yet, I’m your favorite.”
Y/N stood there for another second, gift in hand, heart warmer than it had been a minute ago.
Then Nancy added, without looking up, “Also, if Creel doesn’t tell you happy birthday properly, I’m keying his car.”
Y/N snorted. “I don’t think he even has a car nice enough to key dramatically.”
Nancy’s mouth curved. “I’ll find a way.”
And just like that, the morning felt right again.
. . .
Y/N came back from the shower wrapped in steam and wearing fresh clothes, hair damp and smelling faintly like Nancy’s strawberry shampoo because she had run out of her own again and never remembered to replace it.
The dorm room was warmer now, brighter. Nancy had changed into real clothes, though her newspaper draft was still spread across her desk in a mess of crossed out lines and scribbled arrows. She looked up the second Y/N stepped back into the room, trying very hard to act like she was not watching for her reaction.
The wrapped gift was sitting on Y/N’s bed where she had left it, waiting.
Nancy tapped her pen against the desk once. “Well?”
Y/N smiled despite herself and crossed the room, sitting on the edge of the mattress with the package in her lap. “You’re staring.”
“I’m not staring,” Nancy said immediately.
Y/N glanced up. Nancy was absolutely staring.
“You are.”
Nancy rolled her eyes, offended by accuracy. “Open it.”
Y/N laughed softly under her breath and peeled back the paper carefully because Nancy had wrapped it with way too much tape and the kind of neatness that meant she had actually tried. Underneath was a small box, and inside that—
Y/N’s face changed immediately.
It was a silver bracelet. Not flashy, not huge, just simple and pretty, with a small charm hanging from it, delicate enough to feel personal instead of expensive. The kind of thing Y/N could wear every day and think of home, or this room, or the one person in Boston who would absolutely shoot someone for her and then insist she was overreacting.
For a second, Y/N just stared at it in her hands.
Nancy shifted in her chair, suddenly awkward in a way she almost never let herself be. “It’s not insanely nice or anything,” she said too quickly. “I just thought it looked like something you’d actually wear, and you’re impossible to shop for because half your personality is either leather jackets or emotional collapse—”
Y/N looked up at her with eyes already warming.
Nancy stopped.
“Oh no,” Nancy said immediately, pointing her pen at her. “Do not cry.”
Y/N let out a short laugh that sounded dangerously close to one. “I’m not—”
“You are,” Nancy said, narrowing her eyes. “Your face is doing that thing.”
Y/N shook her head once and looked back down at the bracelet, thumb brushing over the charm. Her throat was tight in that unfair way it always got when someone did something small and sincere.
“It’s beautiful,” she said quietly.
Nancy leaned back in her chair, trying for nonchalance and not quite making it. “Good. Because if you hated it, I was going to have to pretend I bought it for someone else and then we would both be embarrassed.”
Y/N smiled, smaller now, softer. She stood, crossed the room, and before Nancy could brace herself, leaned down and wrapped her arms around her.
Nancy stiffened for a second because of course she did, because Nancy Wheeler was not built for effortless affection, but then her hand came up awkwardly to pat Y/N’s back once, then rest there.
Y/N held on tighter.
“I mean it,” she murmured. “I couldn’t be more grateful for you.”
Nancy’s face went a little pink. “You absolutely could be less dramatic.”
Y/N laughed quietly against her shoulder, but when she pulled back her eyes were shiny.
“No,” she said, voice steadier than her expression. “I really mean it. You’ve done a lot for me.”
Nancy looked at her for a moment, and some of the dry humor fell out of her face. What was left was Nancy at her truest, protective, a little uncomfortable with sincerity, but deeply sincere anyway.
“You don’t have to make it weird,” Nancy muttered.
“It’s already weird,” Y/N said.
Nancy sighed through her nose. “Fine. You’re welcome.” Then, after a beat, more quietly, “You’re my person here. I’m not going to let you have a horrible birthday.”
That one landed deep.
Y/N blinked hard and smiled again, shakier this time. “You’re really trying to make me cry.”
“I’m literally doing the opposite,” Nancy said, irritated now because tenderness made her itchy. She nudged Y/N back toward the bed with her foot. “Sit down. There’s more.”
Y/N turned, halfway back to the mattress. “More?”
Nancy’s expression shifted into something smug. “Yes. Because apparently other people care whether you live or die.”
Y/N frowned. “What does that mean?”
Nancy looked down at her desk for a second, then back up like she was trying to decide how to say it without sounding sentimental.
“Robin and Steve didn’t know what to get you,” she said.
Y/N blinked. “Robin and Steve?”
Nancy raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Robin Buckley and Steve Harrington. The same Robin and Steve I’ve been talking about since we got back from Hawkins.”
Y/N stared. “You told them it was my birthday?”
Nancy looked almost offended. “Obviously.”
Y/N’s mouth fell open slightly. “Nancy.”
“What?” Nancy asked. “You met them. They like you. They asked. I answered. That’s called conversation.”
Y/N just looked at her, stunned in a quieter, more bewildered way now.
Nancy pressed on because once she started, stopping was not her style. “Anyway, Jonathan, Robin, and Steve all pitched in.”
Nancy got up from her desk and reached into the bottom drawer, pulling out a second gift. This one was less polished. No bracelet box elegance, just a small folded paper bag tied shut.
Y/N looked at it, then at Nancy. “What is that?”
Nancy’s mouth twitched. “Open it.”
Y/N sat back down on the bed, now laughing a little because what else could this possibly be after a bracelet? She untied the bag and carefully looked inside.
Then she froze.
For a full second, she just stared.
Then she looked back up at Nancy, eyes wide. “No way.”
Nancy was trying very hard not to smile too much. “Yes way.”
Y/N opened the bag a little more and looked again, like the contents might somehow change on second inspection.
Inside was a neat little stash of flower buds, the scent immediate and unmistakable even through the paper.
Nancy crossed her arms. “According to Jonathan, it’s called Purple Palm Tree Delight.”
Y/N looked up, shocked and delighted all at once. “That is the most Jonathan thing I’ve ever heard.”
Nancy snorted. “Actually, it’s apparently from Jonathan’s buddy in California.” She said the last part with slight skepticism. “Jonathan contributed logistics. Robin and Steve contributed cash because, quote, ‘we can’t just show up with emotional support and no gift.’”
Y/N clutched the bag to her chest and burst out laughing, real laughter this time, full and bright and impossible to fake.
Nancy watched her with visible relief, like this had been the entire point.
“Oh my God,” Y/N said, still grinning. “They really did this?”
Nancy nodded. “Robin claimed she wanted to get you a sweater, but Steve said that was too normal. Steve wanted to get you a record, but Robin said he has terrible taste and she wasn’t letting him choose. Jonathan just kind of sat there and then went, ‘I know a guy.’”
Y/N laughed so hard she had to cover her mouth.
“That tracks,” she said.
Nancy nodded. “Exactly.”
Y/N looked down at the little bag again, then over at the bracelet, then back at Nancy.
There was something so absurdly thoughtful about all of it that it hit her all at once, not just the presents, but the fact that people she had only met recently had thought about her at all. That Nancy had told them. That they had cared enough to send something back through her.
Her voice came out softer this time. “That’s kind of really sweet.”
Nancy’s expression turned smug again because she hated when moments got too vulnerable for too long. “I know.”
Y/N shook her head, smiling down at the gifts in her lap. “I don’t deserve you people.”
Nancy scoffed immediately. “Relax. You’re not dying. It’s a birthday, not Make A Wish.”
Y/N laughed again because of course Nancy would ruin the softness on purpose.
Then she got up, crossed the room one more time, and hugged Nancy again anyway, harder this time.
Nancy made a muffled sound of protest. “You’re getting shampoo water on my shirt.”
“You’ll live,” Y/N murmured.
Nancy rolled her eyes, but this time when she hugged Y/N back, it wasn’t awkward.
It was firm. Protective. Real.
“Happy birthday,” Nancy said quietly against her shoulder.
And Y/N, holding the bracelet and the ridiculous little bag and the certainty that Nancy Wheeler would always show up exactly the way she needed, felt something settle warm in her chest.
“Best one in a while,” she admitted.
. . .
Henry noticed it by accident.
He was standing at his desk before first period, sleeves already rolled, lecture notes arranged in the precise order he wanted them, when he reached for the updated class roster the department had dropped in his mailbox the day before. It was nothing special, just administrative clutter, the kind of paper he usually scanned once and filed away without thought.
His eyes moved down the list automatically.
Names. Student numbers. Notes.
Then he stopped.
Y/N.
And beside her name, in the small typed row of personal details the college insisted on tracking for records—
Birthday: today.
Henry went completely still.
For a second, the noise of the building faded into the background: distant footsteps in the hall, the clatter of a janitor’s cart, the hum of the radiator near the window. All of it blurred behind that one small fact.
Today.
He looked at it again, as if it might somehow change if he blinked hard enough.
It didn’t.
A strange tightness settled in his chest, not panic, not exactly. Something more urgent. More personal. The immediate, almost irrational need to do something right.
He set the roster down carefully.
Then reached for it again.
Just to make sure.
Still there.
Henry exhaled slowly through his nose and leaned back in his chair, one hand resting against the edge of the desk. He should have been grading. He had a stack of papers waiting for him, a lecture to finish adjusting, a room that would be full of students in less than an hour.
Instead, his attention kept circling back to the same thoughts.
What does she have planned? Does she have plans? Did someone remember? Did Nancy remember? Would Y/N pretend not to care if no one did?
He hated that he knew the answer to that last one.
Henry glanced at the stack of papers beside him, then pushed them aside.
Not dramatically. Just out of the way.
He reached for the folded newspaper he had picked up earlier from the front steps of the building, still half tucked beneath a book on his desk. He opened it with the same seriousness he usually reserved for grading, scanning local listings, events, anything that might feel worth taking her to.
Something thoughtful. Not too public. Not too obvious. Something that would not feel childish or lazy.
His eyes skimmed over museum listings, a chamber concert, a guest lecture that sounded intolerable, a restaurant opening that was too crowded and too visible.
Then he saw it.
Down near the entertainment section, tucked in among movie times and local event notices:
Drive in showing of The Outsiders. 7:00 PM.
Henry stared at the line.
Then read it again.
Of course.
Of all nights.
A slow smile threatened at the corner of his mouth before he forced it down. She had told him it was her favorite, not in a casual, passing way, but in that bright, earnest way she had when she loved something enough to defend it.
And a drive in.
Private enough. Quiet enough. Public without being exposed. The kind of place where he could take her somewhere real and still keep the world at arm’s length.
It felt almost suspiciously perfect.
Henry folded the paper back a little, then reopened it to the listing, confirming the time.
Seven o’clock.
He could make that work.
He rested his hand over the newspaper for a moment, thinking, not like a professor now, not like a man building arguments, but like someone trying to offer care in a form he was not used to giving.
She would probably act surprised.
She would definitely tease him.
She might also see through him immediately and realize he had looked for something just for her.
The thought should have made him retreat.
Instead, it made the decision settle deeper.
He would take her.
Not because it was convenient.
Because it mattered.
Henry picked up a pen and wrote the time down in the margin of his notes almost absentmindedly, then stopped and looked at what he had done.
It struck him, suddenly, how easily she had rearranged him.
A few months ago, he would have dismissed birthdays as sentimental distractions, drive ins as adolescent nonsense, and the idea of building an evening around a girl’s favorite book adaptation as indulgent.
Now he was planning his day around the look on her face when she found out.
He leaned back again, the newspaper open on his desk, and let himself acknowledge the truth he had been circling for weeks now without quite wanting to say aloud.
He was far past inconvenience.
Far past attraction.
He wanted to make her happy.
And that simple fact, more than the roster, more than the listing, more than the time printed in black ink, felt like the clearest evidence yet of how completely she had changed his life.
A knock at the classroom door pulled him back.
Students would be arriving soon.
Henry folded the paper once, neatly, and tucked it into his briefcase.
Then he gathered the roster, his notes, and the stack of papers he no longer had any real interest in grading, not yet.
Because now the day had a shape.
And at seven o’clock, if all went as planned, he was going to take Y/N somewhere that belonged to her.
. . .
The bell rang, and the classroom broke into its usual end of period chaos, chairs scraping, papers shuffling, students already halfway into conversations about lunch, homework, or absolutely anything except literary devices.
Y/N slid her notebook into her bag while Nancy did the same beside her, both of them moving in that practiced rhythm they had fallen into as the last two people who always seemed to leave together now.
Henry was at the front gathering quizzes into neat stacks, but Y/N could feel his attention before he spoke.
“Y/N,” he said, calm and even. “Stay a moment.”
Nancy stopped immediately.
Of course she did.
Her hand stayed on the strap of her bag as she turned slowly toward him, eyes narrowing with that familiar Wheeler suspicion that made it clear she was already prepared to object on principle.
Y/N glanced at her. “It’s fine.”
Nancy did not look convinced.
She looked at Henry, then at Y/N, then back at Henry, like she was mentally measuring the distance between his neck and her “hypothetical” gun collection.
Henry, to his credit, simply waited.
Nancy sighed through her nose, annoyed by the entire concept of restraint. “I’ll be outside.”
She pointed two fingers at her own eyes and then vaguely at Henry, an unspoken I’m watching you that would have been funny if she did not absolutely mean it.
Then she left.
The door shut behind her, and the room quieted.
Henry watched it for a second, then looked back at Y/N. “Nancy doesn’t trust me.”
Y/N lifted a shoulder, not unkindly. “Well…”
Henry’s brows rose slightly. “Well?”
Y/N stepped closer to the front of the room, bag still over her shoulder. “Her distrust is a little well deserved.”
Henry held her gaze. “Do you think so?”
The question landed more seriously than she expected.
Y/N’s expression softened just a little, though her tone stayed honest. “I think you gave her a reason.”
Henry’s jaw tightened, not defensive, just acknowledging.
Y/N tilted her head. “And I think Nancy takes protective as a full time job.”
That almost got a smile out of him. Almost.
Instead, Henry set the papers down and shifted the conversation before it could settle too deeply into the bruise.
“Do you have plans tonight?” he asked.
Y/N blinked. The sudden change in direction was deliberate enough that she noticed it immediately.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
She adjusted the strap of her bag. “I was planning on hanging out with Nancy after school.”
Henry’s expression stayed composed, but his eyes sharpened slightly, as if mentally rearranging whatever he had already decided.
Then Y/N asked, “What time were you thinking?”
“Seven.”
The answer came too quickly to be casual.
Y/N noticed.
A smile started at the corner of her mouth before she could stop it. “Seven,” she repeated slowly.
Henry nodded once. “If that works.”
Y/N’s smile grew. “It works.”
Henry’s shoulders eased, barely.
That tiny shift was enough to make her curious in the way she always was when he was hiding something badly.
So she stepped closer.
One step. Then another.
Henry’s gaze tracked her automatically.
Y/N stopped just in front of his desk, close enough that her voice did not need to rise.
“And what,” she asked, tone light and teasing, “is the occasion?”
Henry’s expression stayed maddeningly neutral.
“What makes you think there’s an occasion?”
Y/N’s smile turned knowing. “Because you asked in advance. And because you said seven like you had already planned it. And because you look guilty.” She leaned in slightly. “Mostly because you look guilty.”
Henry narrowed his eyes. “I do not.”
“You do,” Y/N said.
He crossed his arms, trying for composure. “Perhaps I simply want your company.”
Y/N’s brows lifted. “Perhaps.”
She moved a little closer still, enough that the front edge of the desk was almost the only thing between them now.
Henry noticed. He always noticed.
Y/N lowered her voice. “That’s not all, though.”
His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then returned to her eyes. “No?”
“No,” she said softly, smiling. “You’re hiding something.”
Henry exhaled once through his nose, a sound halfway between patience and surrender. “You are remarkably difficult to surprise.”
Y/N’s eyes lit up. “So there is something.”
Henry immediately regretted the sentence. She could see it.
He looked away for a moment, toward the window in the classroom door, toward the empty hallway, then back at her.
“If I tell you,” he said, low and controlled, “it defeats the purpose.”
Y/N’s grin widened into something brighter. “Henry.”
He did not answer.
She leaned one hip lightly against the desk, bag slipping down her shoulder. “Is it a date?”
Henry’s jaw flexed.
Y/N watched him for a beat, then laughed softly under her breath because that was answer enough.
“Oh my God,” she murmured. “It is.”
Henry’s voice dropped. “You’re making too much of this.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
Y/N’s smile stayed warm and impossible. “Then why do you look nervous?”
That hit.
His expression changed, not much, just enough for her to see the truth under it. He was nervous. Not because he did not want this. Because he did.
And because wanting something enough to plan it for her made him vulnerable in a way he was not used to being.
Y/N’s teasing softened.
She stepped around the desk this time, closing the space fully, and Henry did not move away. He stood there and let her come close, his eyes steady on hers.
“I’ll be there at seven,” she said quietly.
Henry nodded once. “Good.”
Y/N’s mouth curved again, gentler now. “You still didn’t tell me the occasion.”
Henry looked at her for a long second, then said, with careful simplicity, “I wanted to take you somewhere.”
Y/N felt her chest warm.
Not because the sentence was grand. Because it was not. Because it sounded like him, restrained and precise and somehow more meaningful for the restraint.
She smiled up at him, unable to help it. “Okay.”
For a second neither of them moved.
Then Y/N tilted her head, mischief returning just enough to save herself from getting too soft in the middle of a classroom.
“If this is bad,” she whispered, “I’m telling Nancy.”
Henry’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Threatening me with Nancy Wheeler should not be effective.”
“But it is,” Y/N said.
He gave the smallest nod. “Yes.”
That made her laugh.
She finally stepped back, turning toward the door, but not before glancing over her shoulder at him one more time.
“Seven,” she said again.
Henry’s gaze followed her, dark and steady. “Seven.”
And when Y/N left the classroom, Nancy waiting outside with her arms crossed and impatience written all over her face, she already knew two things for certain:
Henry had planned something.
And whatever it was, it mattered enough to make him nervous.
. . .
By five o’clock, the dorm room had settled into that early evening glow where everything looked a little softer.
Y/N was sprawled across her bed, half upside down, her hair hanging over the edge and brushing the side of the mattress. One leg kicked idly in the air while she held up two options in front of her like they were life altering decisions.
In one hand: comfort. Normal underwear. Safe. Practical.
In the other: a g-string that was absolutely not practical and existed for one purpose only.
Nancy sat at her desk, shoes kicked off, newspaper pages pushed aside for once, still riding the irritation she had been carrying ever since fourth period.
“I still can’t believe him,” Nancy was saying, arms crossed as she watched Y/N rotate the options in the air. “The audacity. The absolute nerve. Making plans like that after everything.”
Y/N stared at the ceiling dramatically. “Yeah,” she said dryly. “Men have such nerve to exist.”
Nancy, still too annoyed to properly detect sarcasm, nodded at once. “Exactly.”
Y/N turned her head upside down to look at her, snorting. “Oh my God.”
Nancy frowned. “What?”
“You agreed way too fast.”
Nancy lifted a shoulder. “I’m on principle right now. Don’t distract me.”
Y/N laughed and let her arm fall back against the blanket, both underwear options landing on her stomach. “You’re so intense.”
Nancy pointed a pen at her like a weapon. “And you are going on a date with a man who has already demonstrated poor judgment.”
Y/N groaned and dragged a pillow over part of her face. “Please don’t say it like that.”
Nancy ignored her. “He had one job, Y/N. One job. Don’t emotionally destroy my best friend. And yet.”
Y/N grinned and sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed at last. She picked up the underwear options again and held them out at arm’s length, comparing them with exaggerated seriousness.
“Okay,” she said. “Comfort or sexy?”
Nancy looked over. “That one,” she said immediately, pointing at the normal pair.
Y/N gasped. “Wow. No fun.”
Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “You asked.”
“I asked for guidance,” Y/N said. “Not Puritanism.”
Nancy leaned back in her chair, wholly unimpressed. “You’re already going to see him. The least you could do is not dress like you’re actively trying to make bad decisions easier.”
Y/N looked at the g string, then back at Nancy. “Counterpoint: maybe I am.”
Nancy stared at her for a long moment, then groaned and rubbed her forehead. “I can’t do this with you.”
Y/N flopped back dramatically again, laughing under her breath.
Nancy pointed her pen at her once more. “Also—” She stopped, inhaled, then continued with intense seriousness. “I hope Creel wears a condom if it gets that far.”
Y/N froze.
The room went dead quiet for one beat.
Then Y/N slowly lowered the underwear from above her face and stared at Nancy upside down.
Nancy’s eyes widened immediately. “You are on birth control, right? Or have some sort of safety net, right?”
Y/N blinked.
Nancy sat up straighter, panic gathering speed. “Y/N.”
Y/N kept staring at her for one more second, then her mouth twitched.
Nancy looked genuinely distressed now. “Oh my God. Please tell me you’re on birth control.”
Y/N sat up laughing. “Nancy.”
“No, I’m serious,” Nancy said, all sharp concern now. “Please don’t make that face at me right now.”
Y/N shook her head, still smiling. “Relax.”
Nancy did not relax.
Y/N held up a hand. “I’m on birth control.”
Nancy’s shoulders dropped in visible relief. “Jesus Christ.”
Y/N grinned. “I’m not stupid.”
Nancy narrowed her eyes. “That is still under review.”
Y/N threw a sock at her. Nancy dodged it.
“I like sex,” Y/N said too casually, sorting through clothes now. “And especially when it comes to hot blonde professors with a huge co—”
“Nobody asked for the rest of that sentence,” Nancy cut in immediately, horrified.
Y/N burst out laughing. “You interrupted me!”
“On purpose,” Nancy said, pointing hard at her. “I interrupted you on purpose.”
Y/N pressed a hand dramatically to her chest. “Censorship.”
Nancy looked like she wanted to leave her own room. “I’m protecting my peace and sanity.”
“You brought up condoms,” Y/N reminded her.
“Because I care whether you ruin your life,” Nancy shot back.
Y/N’s expression softened just a little beneath the teasing. She sat on the edge of the bed, one underwear option in each hand, and gave Nancy a fond look.
“You’re cute when you panic.”
Nancy looked offended. “Don’t call me cute in the middle of a reproductive health intervention.”
Y/N laughed again, then finally dropped the normal underwear into her lap and held up the g string with a raised brow.
Nancy made a face. “You are impossible.”
Y/N smiled. “And yet lovable.”
Nancy muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like agreement.
For a second the room was quiet except for the little sounds of getting ready, fabric shifting, drawers opening, Nancy recapping her pen for the tenth time because she clearly was not working anymore.
Then Nancy looked over again, softer this time.
“You okay?” she asked.
Y/N glanced up, surprised by the sincerity buried under the annoyance.
She thought about Henry making plans. About seven o’clock. About the fact that he had looked nervous. About the fact that she was still mad, still bruised, still wanting him anyway.
And then she smiled, small but real.
“Yeah,” she said. “I think so.”
Nancy studied her face for a moment, then nodded once. “Good.”
Y/N looked down at the g string again, considered it, then tossed it aside and picked up the comfortable pair.
Nancy blinked. “Wait. Really?”
Y/N shrugged. “I can be sexy in spirit.”
Nancy’s mouth twitched. “Thank God.”
Y/N looked at her and grinned. “Don’t get too comfortable. The bra decision is next.”
Nancy groaned immediately and stood up. “I’m going to pretend I have somewhere else to be.”
Y/N laughed so hard she nearly fell backward onto the bed again.
. . .
By the time Henry picked her up, the sky had gone that deep blue that only happened in the hour between evening and night, when the city lights started to matter.
Y/N had dressed like she cared, even if she planned to act like she didn’t.
The soft off shoulder knit sweater slipped just enough at one side to show her collarbone, the high waisted mini skirt making her legs look longer in the cold, black ankle boots clicking lightly on the pavement when she walked toward his car. Her hair was down, her mouth glossed, and she carried herself with that practiced ease that said I just happened to look like this, even though Henry knew better.
He got out to open the passenger door for her.
Of course he did.
Y/N smiled as she slid into the seat. “Such manners.”
Henry shut the door gently, then rounded the car without taking the bait.
But when he got in, his eyes flicked over her once, quick, quiet, impossible to miss.
“You’re staring,” Y/N said.
“I’m driving,” Henry replied.
Y/N grinned and settled back in the seat, pleased with herself.
The drive was calmer than she expected. There was music low on the radio, but not enough to interrupt the quiet between them. Henry drove with both hands on the wheel at first, posture neat, jaw relaxed in that way it only ever was when they were off campus and alone.
Y/N watched the passing lights, then glanced over at him. “You look suspiciously composed.”
Henry didn’t look away from the road. “Should I be less composed?”
“Yes,” she said immediately. “For my ego.”
That got the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
The city thinned, then changed. Roads widened. The dark opened up around them. And when Henry finally turned into the entrance, the old sign glowing ahead of them, Y/N sat up in her seat.
No way.
The drive in stretched out in front of them, rows of parked cars, the big screen lit against the night, the snack stand glowing warm in the distance. It felt a little unreal, like stepping into somebody else’s memory.
Henry parked, killed the engine, and turned to look at her.
Y/N was already staring at the screen.
Then she saw the title.
Her whole face lit up.
“You’re kidding,” she breathed, then looked at him so fast her earrings moved. “No. No way.”
Henry said nothing, which was answer enough.
Y/N looked back at the screen again, reading it one more time just because she could.
The Outsiders.
A laugh escaped her, bright, delighted, completely unguarded. She turned back to him with so much obvious happiness that Henry’s whole expression softened without his permission.
“You brought me here to see The Outsiders?” she asked.
Henry lifted one shoulder, pretending this was all very reasonable. “You said it was your favorite.”
Y/N stared at him like she didn’t know whether to laugh or kiss him first.
She chose both, sort of.
She leaned over and kissed his cheek, quick and warm and full of affection that surprised even her a little. Henry went still for half a second, then turned his face slightly toward her like he wanted more and was irritated she had stopped there.
Y/N smiled, eyes sparkling now. “What are we doing here, Professor?”
Henry’s gaze stayed on her face. “Watching a film.”
She narrowed her eyes, playful. “Mm. A special occasion perhaps.”
Henry knew that tone. It meant she was about to make him say something he had been trying to keep controlled.
He looked out at the screen, then back at her. “It’s your birthday.”
Y/N’s chest tightened.
Not from sadness this time. From the simple fact that he had remembered. That he had not only remembered, but planned something around her. Around what she loved.
Her smile turned softer, warmer, and a little dangerous. “So this is a birthday date.”
Henry’s jaw flexed. “If you insist on calling it that.”
“I absolutely insist.”
He exhaled through his nose.
Y/N leaned back into her seat, still grinning. “This is a very good surprise.”
“I’m aware,” Henry said dryly.
She laughed again and looked around, taking everything in, the glow of headlights, the chill in the air, the soft static of the speaker, the screen waiting for the movie to start. It felt intimate in a way that made her stomach flip. Public, but private. A place where she could be with him without walls closing in.
She turned to him again, eyes bright. “I’m so happy right now.”
Henry looked at her for a long second. “Good.”
The way he said it made her pulse jump.
Y/N shifted in her seat, then admitted with a little sigh, “I’m trying very hard not to make out with you right now.”
Henry’s brows lifted slightly. “Trying?”
“Yes,” she said, completely serious. “Because I really want to watch the movie.”
That finally got a real reaction out of him, a brief, low laugh, more breath than sound, but unmistakable.
Y/N pointed at him immediately. “There. That. Do that more.”
Henry’s mouth settled again, but the softness stayed in his eyes. “You’re impossible.”
Y/N leaned toward him, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. “No, I’m committed to the experience.” She gestured toward the screen. “This is important to me.”
Henry’s gaze dropped to her mouth, then lifted back to her eyes. “I know.”
She swallowed.
Then, because she couldn’t help herself, she leaned in and kissed him once anyway, just once, brief and teasing, enough to leave the promise of more.
When she pulled back, she smiled against his mouth. “That’s all you get until Ponyboy shows up.”
Henry looked at her like he was both deeply inconvenienced and completely gone for her.
“Cruel,” he murmured.
Y/N settled back into her seat, smug and glowing and happy in a way she had not been in too long. “Quiet. The movie’s starting.”
And beside her, Henry watched the screen light up while still thinking, more than he should have, about the taste of her mouth and the sound of her laughter in the dark.
The movie started, and Y/N was gone to it almost immediately.
Not physically. She was still right there beside him in the passenger seat, tucked into her sweater, knees angled slightly toward the dashboard. But her attention locked onto the screen with the kind of sincerity Henry had learned to recognize. When she loved something, she didn’t consume it halfway. She gave herself to it fully.
He was supposed to be watching too.
And he was. Technically.
The opening scenes flickered across the windshield, pale light washing over the inside of the car. Dialogue crackled softly through the speaker. The world of the film, the words of Ponyboy Curtis writing his essay, unfolded in front of them, but Henry kept finding his gaze dragged sideways.
To her.
Y/N watched with her whole face. That was the first thing he noticed. Nothing in her was careless when she cared. Her eyes stayed fixed on the screen, even during the long opening credits, wide and intent, the changing light catching in them. Her mouth shifted with every scene, tightening at tension, softening at quieter lines, curving faintly when something landed the way she wanted it to.
At one point in the movie, came the part of Dallas, Ponyboy and Johnny sneaking into their own drive-in, she whispered, almost under her breath, “I love this part,” and Henry felt the words more than he heard them.
He leaned back in the seat, one arm resting near hers, trying to make himself focus on the movie the way she was.
He failed.
Soon, the tense scene of Johnny killing Bob to save Ponyboy, the kind that made the whole drive in seem to still. Y/N’s body reacted before she seemed aware of it. She reached out and gripped his forearm hard, fingers tightening around his sleeve.
Henry looked down.
She didn’t notice she had done it. Her eyes were still on the screen, jaw set, breath caught just slightly.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t tease her. Didn’t say a word.
He just let her hold on, and something about that simple trust, her instinct to reach for him, her expectation that he would still be there, settled warm and heavy in his chest.
The light from the screen shifted over her face again, blue, then gold, then pale white. It caught the curve of her cheek, the line of her nose, the shine of her mouth. Her hair framed her face softly, and every few minutes she tucked it behind one ear without looking away from the film.
She was beautiful in a way that kept undoing him.
Not staged. Not polished.
Just completely, devastatingly alive.
When something made her laugh, a quick, surprised little laugh she tried to keep quiet out of instinct, Henry felt himself smiling without meaning to. Not because of the line in the movie. Because of her. Because she was here, in his car, on her birthday, watching her favorite story like it still meant something bright and unbroken.
Another tense moment came. Y/N’s hand found his arm again, then slid lower until her fingers hooked around his wrist. This time she seemed to realize it after a second, because she glanced at him, just a quick look, almost apologetic.
Henry turned his hand over and laced his fingers through hers.
Her expression changed immediately. The apology disappeared. What replaced it was softer, quieter. She squeezed his hand once and turned back to the screen.
That one small movement nearly finished him.
Because it was so easy.
So natural.
As if this was what they should have been doing the whole time, sitting in the dark, sharing a story, her hand in his, no classroom, no fear, no walls forcing him back into someone colder than he wanted to be.
He tried again to focus on the movie. He caught pieces, lines, scenes, the emotional turns he knew she would want to talk about after.
But mostly he watched her watching it.
The way she leaned forward slightly during scenes she loved. The way she went still in the sadder moments, her expression open in a way she never let most people see. The way she mouthed one of the lines just before it was said, smiling to herself like she could not help it.
At one point she caught him looking.
Not fully, just out of the corner of her eye. She turned her head a little, brows lifting, and in the dim light she whispered, “Are you even watching?”
Henry should have lied.
Instead he looked at her for one beat too long and said, just as quietly, “Not as much as I’m watching you.”
Y/N stared at him, clearly trying not to smile.
Then she did anyway, small and warm and impossible.
“Behave,” she whispered, even though there was no real heat in it.
Henry’s thumb brushed once over the back of her hand. “I am.”
She rolled her eyes, but the smile stayed, and she settled closer into the seat, still holding his hand.
After that, the movie kept going, but it felt almost secondary to the quiet pulse of her beside him. To the weight of her shoulder when it occasionally brushed his. To the way her fingers tightened at the hard parts and loosened when she relaxed.
And Henry, sitting there in the half dark with the story playing in front of them and Y/N lit silver blue beside him, had the disorienting sense that he was memorizing something he would want for the rest of his life.
Not just her face.
Not just her reactions.
This.
The sound of the speaker. The faint smell of cold air and movie theater popcorn. The pressure of her hand in his. The fact that she was safe enough to forget herself and reach for him when something hurt.
By the time the final scenes rolled in, Henry knew he had missed more of the film than he meant to.
He did not regret it.
Because he had seen something better.
He had seen Y/N happy. Engrossed. Soft and sharp and emotional and beautiful, all at once.
And when the screen light dimmed for a moment and the drive in settled into that brief hush before the credits, he looked at her again and thought, with a certainty that felt almost frightening in its calm:
He could spend the rest of his life sitting beside her in the dark, watching her care about things, and never once be bored.
The credits rolled slowly across the screen, white letters glowing against the dark while the speaker crackled softly with the last of the music. Around them, engines turned over one by one. Headlights blinked on across the lot. Doors opened. The spell of the movie began to loosen as people started gathering wrappers and talking again.
Y/N didn’t move right away.
She sat there with the emptying popcorn between them, her eyes still on the screen even though the story was over. Her fingers were curled loosely in Henry’s hand, warm from holding on through half the movie.
Henry looked at her before he looked at the road ahead.
“Well?” he asked quietly. “Was it worth the suspense?”
Y/N turned to him, eyes still bright from the film and the whole night around it. “Yes,” she said immediately. “And you were right to bring me.”
Henry’s mouth twitched. “I know.”
She smiled and leaned back in the seat, the soft off shoulder sweater slipping a little more at one side. “You missed parts of it, though.”
Henry gave her a sideways look. “Did I?”
“You were staring at me,” she said.
He didn’t deny it.
That alone made her chest warm.
Outside, another car pulled out, tires crunching lightly over gravel. Henry glanced toward the exit, then back at her, his expression quieter now. The night had softened him. Or maybe she had.
“Would you like me to take you back to your dorm?” he asked.
The question was careful. Not detached exactly, but respectful in a way that made it clear the choice was hers.
Y/N looked at him for a moment.
Then she asked, just as carefully, “Could I go back to your place instead, if that’s okay?”
Something in Henry’s face changed at once, not dramatic, just a shift around the eyes, a loosening of something he had held tight.
“You don’t have to ask,” he said.
Y/N’s expression softened. “Still. I wanted to.”
Henry held her gaze for one long second, then gave a small nod and started the car.
He pulled out of the lot slowly, the screen shrinking behind them in the rearview mirror, the city lights waiting somewhere ahead. Y/N settled deeper into the passenger seat, taking the bucket of leftover popcorn into her lap like it belonged there.
She ate from it absentmindedly at first, still a little wrapped up in the movie, in the date, in the fact that this had all been for her.
Henry drove with one hand on the wheel.
The other found her thigh almost automatically.
Not demanding. Not urgent.
Just there.
His palm rested warm and steady against her, thumb moving once in a slow stroke that made her glance over. Henry kept his eyes on the road, but she could see the faint line of contentment in his profile, quiet, controlled, real.
Y/N smiled to herself and stole another handful of popcorn.
The city passed around them in soft streaks of light. The heater hummed. Somewhere low on the radio a song played that neither of them paid much attention to.
It felt easy.
That was the dangerous part.
Not the secrecy. Not the wanting. Not even the way her body still hummed when he touched her.
The dangerous part was how natural it had become to sit beside him like this, eating popcorn in his car, his hand on her thigh like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.
Y/N chewed for a second, then held out a piece of popcorn toward him. “Open.”
Henry glanced at her hand, then at the road. “I’m driving.”
“So?”
His hand on her thigh tightened just slightly, amused. “You’re impossible.”
Y/N held the popcorn there patiently. “And yet, it’s my birthday.”
Henry let out a breath that might have been a laugh and leaned just enough to let her throw it in his mouth without taking his eyes off the road.
Y/N looked deeply pleased with herself.
“Good?” she asked.
“It’s popcorn.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Henry finally glanced over at her, brief and warm. “Yes.”
She smiled and went back to eating, leaning her head against the window for a moment as the car moved through the night.
After a beat, she said quietly, “Thank you.”
Henry’s hand stilled on her thigh for half a second before his thumb moved again.
“For the movie?”
“For all of it,” Y/N said. “For remembering. For planning something. For…” She trailed off, looking down at the popcorn tub. “For making today feel good.”
Henry was quiet for a moment.
Then, with his eyes still on the road, he said, “You make it easy to want to.”
Y/N turned her head to look at him fully.
He didn’t seem to realize how much the sentence cost her, how it settled somewhere deep and stayed there.
She smiled, smaller now, softer. “That was smooth.”
Henry’s mouth tightened. “It wasn’t meant to be.”
“That’s why it worked.”
He shook his head once, but the corner of his mouth gave him away.
By the time they reached his building, the popcorn was mostly gone. Henry parked, turned off the engine, and looked over at her like he still couldn’t quite believe she was there and asking to come home with him.
Y/N caught that look and held it.
Then she smiled, took the last piece of popcorn from the bucket, and popped it into her mouth before opening the car door.
Henry watched her with that same quiet, impossible softness.
And when they went upstairs together, the rest of the city felt very far away.
Henry unlocked the apartment door and pushed it open, stepping aside so she could go in first.
Y/N slipped past him, the warmth of the apartment meeting her immediately after the chill outside. The familiar scent of paper, coffee, and his soap wrapped around her in a way that already felt too easy to miss whenever she wasn’t there.
Henry shut the door behind them and set his keys down in the little dish by the entryway. Y/N turned toward him, still carrying that soft, bright energy from the drive in, and said with complete seriousness:
“Can we open some wine tonight?”
Henry looked at her once, expression flat. “No.”
Y/N blinked. “No?”
“You’re not of drinking age,” he said, moving past her toward the kitchen like this was already decided. “I’m not going to encourage bad habits.”
Y/N followed him, eyebrows rising. “Bad habits.”
“Yes.”
She folded her arms and leaned against the kitchen counter. “If a student isn’t allowed to have a relationship with a staff member, then isn’t what we have technically a bad habit?”
Henry paused, one hand resting on the back of a chair. He turned his head just enough to look at her.
“That,” he said evenly, “is not the same thing.”
Y/N smiled. “That was not a denial.”
Henry ignored that. “It’s also not an argument that gets you wine.”
She groaned dramatically and pushed herself off the counter to trail after him. “I’m one year away.”
Henry glanced at her. “Still not old enough.”
“It’s still my birthday,” Y/N pressed. “And this could be one time.”
Henry moved toward the cabinet, clearly pretending to look for something else, and Y/N knew he was listening because his shoulders had gone just a little too still.
She stepped closer, looked up at him, and gave him her best wide eyed, shamelessly manipulative expression.
“Please.”
Henry exhaled through his nose, slow and irritated in a way that meant she had already won more than half the battle.
He hated that look.
What he hated even more was that some part of him was encouraged by it, by the fact that she wanted things from him so openly, by the way she asked like she already knew he would bend.
He did not say yes.
He did not admit defeat.
He simply went to the cabinet where he kept the wine glasses, took two down, then reached for the bottle tucked near the back.
Y/N watched this happen and broke into a grin so bright it should have been illegal.
“Oh my God,” she said. “You’re doing it.”
Henry uncorked the bottle with deliberate calm. “One glass.”
Y/N’s grin widened. “You do love me.”
Henry’s hand stilled for the briefest second over the bottle.
He glanced at her.
It was not a dramatic look. Just a quiet one. Steady. Full of something he did not say out loud.
Y/N, busy looking triumphant, did not catch the weight of it.
But it was there.
Henry poured the wine and handed her a glass. She took it with both hands, then leaned back against the counter and took a small sip.
Her face changed instantly, slightly surprised, then pleased.
“This is good.”
Henry took a drink of his own. “It’s wine. It’s not supposed to taste like candy.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes. “You ruin everything.”
Henry’s mouth twitched.
They stood there for a minute in the quiet of the kitchen, sharing the bottle between them slowly, the room warm, the night outside feeling very far away. Y/N’s cheeks softened with the light flush of wine and birthday happiness. Henry looked calmer than he had all week, one hand around the stem of his glass, the other resting lightly against the counter near hers.
Then, after a beat, he set his glass down.
“I have something for you,” he said.
Y/N blinked. “Another thing?”
Henry did not answer. He crossed into the living room, opened the drawer of his desk, and pulled out a slim rectangular package wrapped in brown paper. Simple. Neat. Very him.
He came back and handed it to her.
Y/N took it more carefully than she had taken the wine. “Henry.”
“Open it.”
She unwrapped it slowly.
Inside was a vintage hardcover edition of The Outsiders.
Not a cheap paperback. Not a classroom copy. A beautiful older edition with a dark worn cover, deckled pages, and the kind of spine that suggested it had been loved before it ever reached her hands.
Y/N stared.
Then she opened the front cover and saw, on the first blank page, his handwriting:
For your birthday.
For the girl who reads with her whole heart.
—H
Her throat tightened immediately.
She looked up at him, eyes warm and wide in a way that made something in Henry’s chest go still.
“You got me this?”
Henry nodded once. “You said it was your favorite.”
“Obviously,” she giggled. She ran her fingers over the page again, then over the cover, as if the book might disappear if she moved too fast. “It’s perfect.”
Henry’s expression stayed controlled, but his gaze softened. “Good.”
She stepped closer without really thinking and hugged the book to her chest for a second before looking up at him again, smiling in that unguarded way that always hit him harder than she knew.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Henry’s eyes stayed on hers. “You’re welcome.”
Y/N stood there for a moment longer than she meant to, holding the book, holding his gaze, feeling something deep inside her settle and rise all at once. The wine, the drive in, the way he had remembered, the way he had chosen things she loved and offered them back to her carefully, it all pressed against her ribs until it felt impossible to keep pretending this was only attraction.
She was falling.
Fast.
Hard.
And she knew it.
Henry watched her face shift, watched the smile soften into something quieter and deeper.
After a beat, he asked, voice low, “What are you thinking?”
Y/N’s mouth parted.
For one second, she almost said the wrong thing. Or maybe the right one.
Instead, she looked at him, really looked at him, at the rolled sleeves, the loosened collar, the way he was trying to stay composed while standing this close to her on a night he had planned piece by piece.
Then she said, honestly and without any softness to hide behind:
“I want to sleep with you so bad right now.”
The air changed.
Henry went still.
Not shocked. Not exactly.
Just visibly affected in a way he usually hid better.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower to the hand still holding the book against her chest, then back up to her eyes. His jaw tightened once, hard enough that she saw it.
“Y/N,” he said, and her name in his mouth sounded rougher than before.
She took a small step closer. “What?”
Henry’s hand lifted, stopping just short of touching her face, as if even now he was checking for permission in the only way that mattered.
“You say things,” he murmured, “like you don’t understand what they do.”
Y/N’s heart was beating too fast, but she smiled anyway, small, heated, steady as she stepped closer to him. “I understand perfectly.”
That got him.
He set his glass down. Carefully. Too carefully.
Then his hand finally found her jaw, thumb brushing lightly along her cheek while the other moved to the book in her hands, easing it from her grip and setting it aside before it could get crushed between them.
When his attention came back to her, it was complete.
No distance. No classroom restraint. No pretending.
“Tell me again,” he said quietly.
Y/N’s breath caught.
She moved into him until there was no space left between them and repeated, even softer this time, “I want you.”
Henry’s eyes darkened.
And when he kissed her, it was not rushed. It was deliberate, deep, and full of everything he still was not saying out loud.
The wine had loosened the knots in Y/N’s shoulders, but it was Henry’s hands that truly undid her. When he kissed her this time, it wasn't the tentative exploration of moments ago; it was an immediate, urgent demand. He stood straight, his hands gripping her waist, and lifted her effortlessly up.
He carried her across the living room, stopping in front of the massive floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that lined the far wall. With a gentle maneuver, he set her down, her back pressing against the cool, hard spines of her favorite literature. The books were a rough, textured contrast to the softness of her skin, a grounding sensation as he stepped between her spread legs.
She was dressed to kill and to be devoured. Her soft off-shoulder knit sweater slipped down her arms as she leaned back, leaving the delicate curve of her shoulders and collarbones bare. The high-waisted mini skirt rode up as she balanced on her heels.
Henry didn't waste a second. His hands slid up her thighs, the friction of his palms against the soft skin of her inner thighs electric. He pushed the skirt higher, his gaze dropping to the lace of her panties, a hungry, possessive hunger he usually kept well-hidden.
"You look like a painting," he murmured, his voice gravelly.
Henry didn't waste a second. His hands slid up her thighs, the friction of his palms against the soft skin of her inner thighs electric. He pushed the skirt higher, his gaze dropping to the lace of her panties, a hungry, possessive hunger he usually kept well-hidden.
"You look like a painting," he murmured, his voice gravelly.
His hands moved to the waistband of her skirt, pulling it down fully along with her fabric of her panties. He knelt on the floor between her legs, the new angle a shift in their usual dynamic that sent a thrill of anticipation down Y/N's spine. Usually, he was towering over her, or she was conquering him. But here, with her legs braced against the bookshelf and him on his knees, she felt exposed, open, and utterly at his mercy.
He looked up at her, his eyes dark with need, before lowering his head. He wrapped his hands around her waist, pulling her flush against his mouth. The first swipe of his tongue was bold, tasting the salt of her skin and the sweet musk of her arousal. He kissed her inner thigh, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh, before drifting closer to the apex of her legs.
Y/N let out a shaky breath, her fingers instinctively tangling in his hair. He gently lifted her right leg, draping it over his shoulder, opening her completely to his gaze. The position shifted her hips, tilting them upward in a way that left her utterly vulnerable. The new angle allowed him deeper access, his tongue exploring her with newfound intimacy.
He lowered his head once more, his tongue moving with a slow, deliberate precision that made her toes curl. He parted her folds, his tongue tracing the seam before finding the hard nub of her clit and circling it with a slow, deliberate pressure that made her hips jerk against the bookshelf.
Her leg tightened around his shoulder as she lost herself in the sensation, the hard covers of the books digging into her scalp, anchoring her in the moment. He was worshiping her, his mouth working her relentlessly as soft moans escaped her lips.
He didn't tease; he devoured. His tongue flicked against her clit with a rhythm that had her back arching off the books instantly, her breath hitching in a sharp gasp.
The hard covers of the novels dug into her shoulder blades, grounding her, but it was the sensation of his mouth, hot and wet and so incredibly skilled, that sent her spiraling.
She tangled her fingers in his hair, her heel digging into the floor, her entire body trembling with the effort to stay upright.
"Right there," she choked out, her voice trembling. "Henry, please."
He hummed against her, the vibration sending a jolt straight to her core, but instead of giving her what she craved, he slowed down.
He flattened his tongue, lapping at her with broad, languid strokes, savoring her taste as if he had all the time in the world. The deliberate, maddening pace was a new kind of torture.
He pushed a single finger inside her, not to drive her toward the edge, but just to feel her, to explore the slick, hot clench of her body as it welcomed him. He curled it slightly, pressing against that sensitive spot inside her that made her gasp and buck, a silent plea for more.
"Henry," she moaned again, her voice thinner this time, more desperate. She tried to grind against his face, to take control of the rhythm, but his free hand came up to press firmly against her hip, pinning her to the bookshelf. He was in charge here, and the assertion of his control only made the fire inside her burn hotter.
He smiled against her, a wicked, knowing curve of his lips she could feel more than see. He began a slow, torturous rhythm with his finger, matching the lazy circles of his tongue.
Each pass over her clit was a spark, each thrust of his finger was fuel, and the pressure was building low in her belly, a slow, inevitable tide. He was building her up so carefully, so expertly, that she felt like she was coming apart molecule by molecule.
He added a second finger, stretching her, filling her, the slight burn mingling with the overwhelming pleasure until she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. The heel of his hand pressed against her perineum, adding another layer of sensation that made her head swim.
Her breaths were coming in ragged breaths now, her fingers digging into his scalp, her leg trembling where it was draped over his shoulder. "I can't... I can't..." she stammered, the words dissolving into a cry as he finally, finally, increased the pressure.
He began to suckle her clit, his tongue working the swollen bundle of nerves with sharp, targeted flicks while his fingers pumped into her with a relentless, driving rhythm.
The combination was her undoing. It was a tidal wave, a supernova. Her vision went white, her body seizing as the orgasm tore through her. Her back bowed into a sharp, painful arc, her toes curling so tightly they cramped. Her hips bucked wildly against his face, riding the waves of pleasure as they crashed over her again and again, leaving her gasping and boneless, her body slumping against the bookshelf, held up only by his firm grip and the leg still thrown over his shoulder.
Henry stood up, a dark, predatory glint in his eyes. He pulled her off the books, his hands strong and firm on her waist, and turned her to face him. He didn't give her a moment to recover, even as he undid the button on his trousers.
He lined himself up at her entrance, the head of his cock nudging against her folds, still slick with her arousal. "I want you," he growled, his voice raw.
He thrust into her in one long, hard stroke, burying himself to the hilt. She cried out, her head falling back, her hands grabbing onto his shoulders for support. This angle was different—deeper, filling her in a way that made her see stars. He held her hips, his fingers digging into her soft skin, and began to move.
He wasn't gentle. He was driven by a need to claim her, to mark every inch of her as his own. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, meeting his thrusts with her own desperate grinding. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the quiet room, loud and obscene.
"Is this what you wanted?" he asked, his voice strained, his forehead resting against hers. "To be used?"
"Yes," she breathed, her eyes locked on his. "Always."
But she wanted more. She wanted to be closer, to feel the rug beneath them instead of the cold books. She pulled back slightly, signaling him. He understood instantly. He pulled out, his hand sliding down to her thigh, and guided her to the plush, cream-colored rug in the center of the room.
He lay back, his hips coming to rest on the rug, and pulled her on top of him, guiding her down onto him. She sank down onto his cock, her head falling back, her hair cascading around her face. She started to ride him, her body moving with a slow, sensual rhythm, her hands braced on his chest.
He watched her, his eyes dark and hungry, his hands coming up to grip her waist, helping to guide her. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, his thumbs rubbing circles into her skin. "So perfect."
She leaned down, her chest brushing against his, and kissed him, deep and hungry. The rug muffled the sounds of their bodies meeting, allowing only their ragged breaths and the slick, rhythmic squelch of her arousal to fill the space between them.
The cream rug cushioned her, soft against her skin, but the heat radiating between them was intense. Y/N was riding him with a slow, deliberate rhythm, her body swaying with the motion, the soft knit of her sweater bunching at her waist. The fabric was cool against her heated skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of Henry’s hands.
He wasn’t content to watch. His hands, which had been gripping her waist to steady her, moved up her sides. They hooked under the edge of her sweater, fingers digging into the soft material. With a rough, impatient tug, he pulled the fabric down her arms. Her bra straps dug into her shoulders for a moment before he reached around, his fingers deft and quick to unclasp the back. The garment fell away, pooling on the rug next to her.
His hands were large, his palms rough and calloused from his hands, contrasting deliciously with the softness of her breasts. He wrapped his hands around them, his fingers splaying wide to cover as much skin as possible. He kneaded them firmly, his thumbs rolling her hardening nipples between them, sending jolts of electricity straight down to her core.
Y/N gasped, her head falling back, her long hair cascading over her shoulders. The sensation was overwhelming. "Henry," she moaned, her hips bucking involuntarily, the friction driving her insane.
He watched her face, a look of dark satisfaction on his features. "You're so beautiful like this," he rasped, his voice thick with lust. "So responsive."
She wanted to please him, to make him lose that professorly composure. She sped up her rhythm, grinding down harder, her inner walls clamping down around his thick length. He groaned, his eyes fluttering shut for a second before snapping back open, his hands tightening on her breasts, pinching her nipples just enough to make her cry out.
"You're going to make me come," he warned, his voice a strained growl.
She didn't stop. She rode him faster, her breath coming in short, ragged pants. The air in the room was thick with the smell of sex and old books, intoxicating and primal. She leaned down, her chest brushing against his, and captured his lips in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss, swallowing his groans.
She felt the tremor start in her thighs, a familiar pressure building deep inside. It was too much, too good. She squeezed her eyes shut, her body tensing as the wave crashed over her, her hips bucking frantically as she came, her inner walls spasming rhythmically around him.
The sight of her unraveling was the final straw for him. He released her breasts, his hands flying to her hips to anchor her. He didn't hold back. He thrust up into her, a series of deep, hard strokes that drove her wild, his body bowing off the rug. He groaned her name, a broken sound, as he emptied himself inside her, filling her completely.
They collapsed together, a tangled heap of limbs and heaving chests. Y/N rested her head on his shoulder, her body still humming with the aftershocks. Henry wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, his face buried in her hair. He ran a hand absentmindedly up and down her back, his touch gentle now, the intensity of the moment fading into a peaceful, intimate lull.
The silence stretched between them, comfortable and filled with unspoken affection. Eventually, she pulled back slightly, looking up at him with a sleepy, satisfied smile. She traced his jawline with her thumb, her eyes dancing with warmth.
"That," she whispered, her voice soft and content, "was indeed a very good birthday."
Henry’s mouth curved faintly at that, tired and warm in a way he never let anyone else see.
“I’m glad it met your standards,” he murmured.
Y/N let out a soft laugh, the sound quiet in the room. She was still draped half over him on the cream rug, one leg tangled with his, her hair scattered across his shoulder and chest. The lamplight made everything gentler, the bookshelves, the edge of the desk, the soft folds of discarded clothing nearby. The room no longer looked severe. It looked lived in. Claimed.
She traced his jaw again, slower this time. “Met them?” she repeated. “Henry, you set the standard.”
His eyes opened a little more at that, gaze settling on her face. There was still that post midnight softness in him, but also something more thoughtful now. Something quieter.
“That sounds dangerous,” he said.
Y/N smiled. “For you, maybe.”
He huffed a small breath that might have been a laugh and tightened his arm around her waist, pulling her more securely against him. His hand kept moving up and down her back in that absent, soothing rhythm, like he did not even realize he was doing it.
For a while, neither of them moved.
The room was still except for their breathing and the faint hum of the city outside the windows. Somewhere in the apartment, the radiator clicked. On any other night, Henry probably would have noticed things like that, the disorder, the late hour, the papers left unfinished on his desk.
Now, he only seemed to notice her.
Y/N tilted her chin up just enough to study him. His hair was a mess, his collarbone marked faintly red where she had kissed him earlier, his glasses on the floor next to the bookshelf where he removed them, his expression calmer than she had seen it in weeks.
“You look happy,” she said softly.
Henry’s fingers paused once at the middle of her back.
Then they resumed.
“That obvious?”
“To me,” Y/N said.
His gaze lingered on her, and there was no classroom distance in it. No practiced coolness. Just a kind of stripped down honesty that made her chest go warm all over again.
“I am,” he admitted.
The answer settled over her like another blanket.
Y/N’s smile softened into something smaller, more private. She rested her cheek back against his shoulder and let herself just be there for a moment, listening to his heartbeat under her ear.
After a beat, she murmured, “I think this is the nicest birthday I’ve had in a long time.”
Henry’s hand flattened at the base of her spine, holding her there. “It should have been.”
She lifted her head again. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he said, voice low, “you should be treated well on your birthday.”
Y/N watched him for a second, the sincerity in that making her eyes sting just a little. She covered it with a teasing smile before it could become too much.
“So this is you treating me well.”
Henry’s mouth twitched. “Among other things.”
She laughed under her breath and nudged his shoulder with her forehead. “You’re impossible when you try to sound subtle.”
“I wasn’t trying to sound subtle.”
“That’s worse.”
He almost smiled at that, really almost smiled, and Y/N felt an absurd burst of affection so strong she had to look away for a second.
Her eyes drifted around the room then, taking in the cream rug beneath them, the bookshelves, the couch, the lamp still glowing warm in the corner. It felt strange how quickly this room had become one of the places where she felt safest.
“Do you think,” she said after a while, her voice turning drowsy, “that if anyone from Emerson could see you right now, they would combust?”
Henry glanced down at her. “Right now?”
“Lying on the floor with me. Being nice. Looking at me like that.”
He was quiet for a moment.
Then, “Yes.”
Y/N smiled, pleased. “Good.”
Henry’s fingers traced one slow line up her back. “You’re very smug for someone who can barely keep her eyes open.”
“I can be smug and tired.”
“You’re also still on the rug.”
Y/N considered this. “I noticed.”
“And yet you haven’t suggested moving.”
She tucked herself closer against him. “Because I’m comfortable.”
Henry looked toward the couch for a brief second, then back down at her. “You have very low standards for comfort.”
Y/N’s smile widened. “No. I just like using you as a pillow.”
That got an actual soft exhale from him, closer to a laugh than most people ever heard.
She loved that sound.
Loved that she was learning how to earn it.
After another quiet stretch, Y/N’s fingers drifted to the front of his shirt, idly playing with the fabric. “What time is it?”
Henry turned his head slightly toward the clock on the shelf. “Late.”
“That’s not a time.”
“It’s enough of one.”
Y/N made a face. “You’re so annoying.”
“And yet.”
“And yet,” she echoed, smiling.
The smile lingered. Then faded a little as something more vulnerable moved through her.
She looked at him again, slower this time. “Thank you,” she said.
Henry’s gaze held hers. “I know you already said that.”
“I know.” Her thumb brushed lightly over his jaw. “I’m saying it again.”
For the drive in. For the book. For remembering. For staying soft. For letting tonight be simple.
She did not say all of that aloud.
She did not have to.
Something in his expression changed like he heard it anyway.
He turned his face and pressed a kiss into her palm, brief, warm, careful. The gesture was so unexpectedly tender that it almost undid her.
Y/N stared at him.
Henry looked faintly annoyed with himself for doing it, which only made it worse.
“You can’t do things like that,” she said quietly.
His brows shifted. “Like what?”
“Make me…” She stopped, then shook her head with a small smile. “Never mind.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, curious now. “No. Finish that.”
Y/N looked at him for a beat too long, then chickened out in the most obvious way possible by laying her head back down on his shoulder.
“Absolutely not.”
Henry’s hand slid up to the back of her neck, not forcing her up, just holding her there. “Coward.”
Y/N laughed softly. “Maybe.”
The silence that followed was not awkward. It was full. Easy. The kind of silence that only existed after too much honesty or too much closeness, maybe both.
Eventually Henry shifted just enough to press a kiss to the top of her head.
“You’re falling asleep.”
Y/N’s eyes were already half closed. “Mhm.”
“We should get up.”
“No.”
“Y/N.”
She tightened her arm around his middle without opening her eyes. “No.”
Henry looked at the ceiling like he was deciding whether this was worth the argument.
Then, quietly, “Fine. Five more minutes.”
Y/N smiled against him. “You’re getting soft.”
Henry’s hand moved once more over her back, steady and warm.
“Only here,” he said.
And something about the way he said it, so low, so true, so stripped of performance, made her feel that same deep ache of affection all over again.
She stayed there with him on the cream rug, in the middle of his room, in the warm afterglow of the best birthday she could remember, and let herself believe it for five more minutes.
a/n: it’s been 84 years… wanted to get this out before tomorrow since I’ll be 23 by then 😝 I’ve just been busy and had bad writers block, nothing changed, I still love Mr. Letmesitonit
PART ELEVEN IS LINKED HERE
. . .
Y/N hadn’t planned on it turning into that kind of conversation.
She’d gone to the student services wing for something mundane: paperwork, a schedule change, a form she needed signed. Something that should’ve taken five minutes and zero emotional energy. The guidance office smelled like cheap coffee and pencil shavings and whatever floral air freshener someone had tried to use to make institutional carpet feel comforting.
Patty Newby looked up from her desk with an easy, practiced smile, the kind adults wore when they wanted to seem approachable. Her office was neat in a way that felt intentional: brochures lined up in clean stacks, a framed poster about “YOUR FUTURE” on the wall, and a tiny plant by the window that somehow looked alive despite everything.
“Hi,” Patty said warmly. “Come on in.”
Y/N stepped inside, clutching the folder to her chest. She tried to keep her expression neutral. Patty wasn’t the enemy. Patty wasn’t Daniel Taylor. Patty didn’t know everything. Patty was just—
The woman Henry had been seen with in the hallway.
The name that still made something possessive flare in Y/N’s chest before she could stop it.
Patty gestured to the chair. “You can sit. What can I help you with?”
Y/N explained the reason she was there, brief and practical, the kind of student problem Patty probably solved ten times a day. Patty nodded along, made a note, turned a form over, and slid it back with a pen.
“Sign there,” she said.
Y/N did.
Patty’s eyes flicked up as she capped the pen. “You’re in Professor Creel’s English course, right?”
Y/N’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. “Yes.”
Patty smiled, like she’d just found something interesting. “How is he?”
Y/N blinked. “How is he… as a professor?”
Patty’s expression held for a second, too smooth. Then she laughed lightly, as if she hadn’t meant anything by it.
“Yes. As a professor,” she echoed, a little too quick.
Y/N didn’t laugh back.
Patty cleared her throat, glancing down at Y/N’s file again. “He’s brilliant,” she said, and there was an intimacy in the word that didn’t belong in a guidance office. “Always has been.”
Y/N kept her face calm with effort. “He’s good at what he does.”
Patty’s smile widened, pleased. “That’s what I thought.” She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands like she’d decided they weren’t in a hurry anymore. “You know, it’s funny. He usually doesn’t engage with students the way he does with you.”
Y/N’s pulse ticked up. “Engage?”
Patty lifted a shoulder. “I mean, he notices you. It’s obvious.” She said it casually, like she was commenting on the weather. “You challenge him. That’s rare.”
Y/N’s throat felt tight. “I’m just doing the work.”
Patty’s eyes held hers, the smile still there but sharper around the edges. “Maybe. But I’ve been around faculty for a while. I can tell when a professor has a favorite student.”
Y/N forced a small, polite smile that probably looked like a grimace. “Is there something you needed?”
Patty hesitated, then sighed as if she were about to confess something silly. “This is off topic,” she admitted, lowering her voice slightly like it was a secret, “but I was going to ask you something.”
Y/N’s stomach dipped. “Okay.”
Patty’s fingers tapped once on the desk, nervous for the first time. “Henry and I dated when we were teenagers.”
Y/N’s face stayed composed out of sheer willpower.
Inside, jealousy lit up like a match.
“Oh,” Y/N said, as neutrally as she could manage.
Patty smiled, almost nostalgic. “It was a long time ago. But we stayed friendly. And lately I’ve been seeing him again around campus, in meetings.” She tilted her head, studying Y/N in a way that felt too knowing. “And I thought…”
Y/N’s nails dug into her folder.
Patty continued, voice still light. “I thought maybe I should try to get his attention again.”
Y/N’s blood went cold-hot in the span of a breath. She kept her voice steady. “Why are you telling me this?”
Patty blinked, then gave an awkward laugh. “Because you’re close to him. In class.” She shrugged like it made perfect sense. “You’re his favorite student. I figured you’d know if he’s receptive, or if he’s just…” She made a vague gesture. “Being Henry.”
Y/N wanted to stand up and walk out.
She wanted to say something cruel.
She wanted to ask Patty if she was always this comfortable discussing her romantic life with nineteen-year-old students.
Instead, she swallowed it all and chose control.
Y/N smoothed her expression into something mild. “I don’t really know his personal life.”
Patty’s eyes narrowed slightly, not believing her. “You see him more than most people do.”
Y/N’s jaw flexed.
She kept her voice carefully polite. “He’s my professor.”
Patty held her gaze for a beat too long, then sighed, a little frustrated. “Okay. Fine. I’ll just ask you plainly.”
Y/N didn’t like the shift in Patty’s tone.
Patty leaned forward, elbows on the desk, like they were suddenly co-conspirators. “Do you think he’s available?”
The question hit like a slap.
Y/N felt the answer surge up instinctively, hot, jealous, possessive.
No. He’s mine, bitch.
But she didn’t say that. She couldn’t.
So she chose the safest truth she could offer without exposing herself.
Y/N’s lips curved into a small, controlled smile, pleasant enough to pass, sharp enough to end the conversation.
“I believe he’s unavailable,” she said.
Patty blinked. “Unavailable.”
Y/N nodded once, like it was obvious, like it was a simple fact. “Yes.”
Patty stared at her for a moment, then leaned back, processing. Her face shifted through a few emotions: surprise, disappointment, and a quick flicker of curiosity.
“Did he say that?” Patty asked.
Y/N’s smile didn’t move. “Not to me. But I think there are signs.”
Patty’s eyes narrowed again, but she didn’t push, at least not directly.
“Huh,” Patty murmured, tapping her pen against the desk. “Well. That’s interesting.”
Y/N stood, folder tucked back against her chest. “If that’s all, I should get going.”
Patty looked up, her warm counselor smile trying to return, but it didn’t quite fit the moment anymore. “Of course. And if you ever need anything, you know where to find me.”
Y/N nodded, already halfway to the door.
Her hand was on the knob when Patty added, almost casually, “He’s a difficult man to read.”
Y/N paused.
Then she looked back over her shoulder, calm as ice.
“Maybe,” she said.
And she left before her jealousy could turn into something loud enough for Patty to hear.
. . .
After lunch, the hallways felt louder.
Not because anything had actually changed. Students still moved in clusters, lockers still slammed, and someone still laughed too hard at something unfunny. It felt louder because Y/N’s head was full of Patty Newby’s voice and the way she’d said it like it was normal.
We dated when we were teenagers.
I thought maybe I should try to get his attention again.
The worst part was how easily it fit into every insecurity Y/N had been trying not to feed. How quickly her mind filled in blanks she didn’t even have proof for: Henry and Patty in the hallway, Henry going to lunch with her, Henry calling her a colleague with that too-smooth calm like he was hiding an entire chapter.
By the time Y/N reached the campus café, she was already angry.
So she bought coffee.
Not for herself.
For him.
A cheap paper cup with a plastic lid, hot enough to sting her palm through the cardboard sleeve. It wasn’t a sweet gesture. It was ammunition.
She walked to his classroom with the cup in her hand, coat still on, boots hitting the floor with purpose. The closer she got, the more she could feel her pulse in her throat.
The door to Henry’s classroom was open, early as usual. He was inside alone at his desk, papers stacked neatly, chalk already on the tray, preparing to slide back into Professor Creel like nothing in his life was complicated.
He looked up when she entered.
His gaze went first to her face.
Then to the coffee.
Then back to her.
His expression didn’t change much, but his eyes sharpened immediately, alert.
Y/N didn’t greet him. She didn’t smile. She didn’t soften the blow.
She walked straight to his desk and placed the coffee down hard enough to make it thud against the wood.
Henry’s eyes flicked down, then up again, calm but attentive. “Good afternoon,” he said evenly.
Y/N’s mouth tightened. “Save it.”
Henry leaned back slightly, studying her the way he studied a difficult line of text: quiet, careful, already bracing.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. Not a question meant to scold. A question meant to understand.
Y/N let out a sharp breath through her nose. “I just saw Patty Newby.”
Henry’s gaze held hers. He didn’t blink. He didn’t ask who.
He knew.
“And?” he said carefully.
Y/N’s anger flashed hotter. “And she told me you two used to date.” Her eyes narrowed. “Teenagers. History. Nostalgia. All that.”
Henry’s jaw flexed.
Y/N leaned forward, palms flattening on the edge of his desk. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Henry stayed still. “It wasn’t relevant.”
Y/N barked a humorless laugh. “Not relevant?”
Henry’s eyes didn’t waver. “No.”
Y/N’s voice dropped, dangerous. “She asked me if she should go after you again.”
A flicker, brief and sharp, crossed Henry’s face. Not fear. Not guilt.
Annoyance.
Protectiveness.
And something darker, like he didn’t like the idea of Patty putting Y/N in that position for even a second.
Y/N saw it and pressed harder anyway, because her chest was tight with jealousy and she needed the truth to cut through it.
“She called you difficult to read,” Y/N said. “She wanted my advice. Like I’m your damn liaison.” Her eyes burned. “And you keep calling her your colleague like it makes it harmless. Colleagues, my ass.”
Henry inhaled slowly, as if he were forcing himself not to react emotionally in a room where he taught logic and language.
Then he stood.
Not abruptly. Deliberately.
He stepped around the desk and closed the distance to where Y/N stood.
His voice lowered. “She shouldn’t have spoken to you about that.”
Y/N’s chin lifted. “But she did.”
Henry’s gaze sharpened. “And what did you tell her?”
Y/N’s lips curved, tight and bitter. “I told her you were unavailable.”
Something in Henry’s expression shifted. Not soft, but pleased in a way he didn’t want to show.
His eyes flicked over Y/N’s face like he was checking for damage.
“And how,” he asked quietly, “did she respond?”
Y/N’s shoulders rose and fell. “Like she was surprised. Like she didn’t believe me.”
Henry’s jaw tightened.
“Listen to me,” he said, voice low and controlled, threaded with sincerity that had nothing to do with classroom tone. “There is nothing between Patty and me.”
Y/N searched his eyes. “Then why didn’t you tell me you had history?”
Henry held her gaze. “Because it was years ago. It ended years ago. And she isn’t…” He stopped himself, as if choosing the next words mattered more than anything else. “She isn’t part of my life in the way you think.”
Y/N’s throat tightened. “But you go to lunch with her. You talk to her. You act like—”
“I talk to her because she works here,” Henry cut in, still quiet, still controlled, but firmer now. “And because it is easier for people to assume I’m normal when I’m seen doing normal things.”
Y/N stared at him, breathing hard.
Henry’s expression didn’t soften, but his eyes did, just slightly.
“I didn’t tell you about the past because I didn’t want you carrying it,” he said. “I didn’t want you comparing yourself to her, or to anyone else. I didn’t want you dragged into something that doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me,” Y/N snapped.
Henry nodded once, immediate, accepting. “I see that.”
Y/N’s anger trembled at the edges, starting to crack into something more vulnerable. “I hate feeling like I’m always finding things out after the fact,” she admitted, quieter now. “Like you get to decide what I can handle. Like you keep pieces of yourself locked away and I’m supposed to just accept whatever you hand me.”
Henry’s gaze locked onto hers, intense. “You’re right,” he said. “I have done that.”
Y/N blinked, thrown off by the lack of defense.
Henry stepped a fraction closer, close enough that she could feel him, but not so close it felt like pressure.
“I didn’t tell you because it was simpler,” he said. “And I like simplicity. I like control. I like keeping parts of my life separate.” His voice lowered further. “But you don’t do well with separate.”
Y/N swallowed.
Henry’s eyes held hers, steady. “And I don’t want her,” he said plainly. “Not now. Not then. Not the way she’s imagining.”
Y/N’s breath caught.
Henry didn’t flinch from it. He let the silence sit for a beat, then added, quieter, more honest than he probably intended:
“She is not the woman I want.”
Y/N’s pulse jumped.
Henry’s gaze drifted to her mouth for the briefest moment, then returned to her eyes like he was forcing himself to stay grounded.
“If she thinks she has a chance,” he continued, voice calm but edged, “it’s because she doesn’t know what my life looks like now.”
Y/N’s fingers curled against the desk edge. “And what does your life look like now?”
Henry’s expression tightened, the control in him straining against the truth.
Then he answered anyway.
“It looks like you,” he said quietly. “And it has for weeks.”
Y/N stared at him, anger still there, but dulled by the steadiness in his voice.
Henry’s eyes searched her face. “If you want honesty, you will have it,” he said. “But don’t mistake my silence for wanting someone else.”
Y/N’s throat tightened, and she hated that her eyes stung.
“Patty can be whatever she wants to be,” Henry added, voice darker now, “but she is not what I’m reaching for.”
Y/N’s breath hitched, and the jealousy in her chest, hot and mean a minute ago, shifted into something else.
Something softer.
Something dangerous.
Henry glanced toward the door, toward the hallway where students would start arriving soon. His jaw flexed like he hated time.
Then he looked back at her, voice low, certain.
“Tell me what you need from me,” he said. “And I’ll give it to you.”
Y/N swallowed, still gripping the edge of the desk like it was the only thing keeping her steady.
“Don’t hide things,” she said finally, voice rough. “Not that. Not anything that could touch us.”
Henry’s gaze stayed fixed on hers. “All right,” he said. “No more.”
Y/N exhaled.
The bell hadn’t rung yet, but the hallway noise was getting closer: footsteps, voices, the world returning.
Henry’s hand lifted slightly, then stopped himself from touching her in the open. His eyes flicked to the coffee she’d slammed down earlier.
“You brought me this,” he murmured.
Y/N’s mouth tightened, embarrassed at the evidence of her feelings. “Shut up.”
Henry’s mouth twitched, a small smile, and his gaze softened just enough to make her chest ache.
“I’m here,” he said quietly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Y/N held his gaze for a beat, still upset, still bruised, but steadied by the way he said it like a vow.
Then she stepped back, drawing a breath, preparing to put her mask on before the first student walked in.
But the look Henry gave her, dark and certain and unmistakably hers, stayed on her skin like heat long after she turned away.
. . .
Henry’s lecture settled into its usual rhythm.
Chalk tapped against the board in clean, deliberate strokes. Pages turned in near-unison. His voice carried through the room in that steady, controlled cadence that made even dense literature sound inevitable.
Y/N sat where she always did now, pen moving automatically, eyes forward. She looked composed, attentive, even. But inside, she was still replaying their conversation from earlier.
It looks like you.
And it has for weeks.
Her coffee cup sat on the corner of his desk like incriminating evidence.
Nancy sat beside her, technically paying attention, which meant her notebook was open and her pen was in her hand but Y/N could feel the restless energy rolling off her like static.
It took Nancy exactly fifteen minutes to snap.
A folded note slid onto Y/N’s desk, pushed over with two fingers like contraband in a prison yard.
Y/N didn’t look at it right away. Henry was mid-sentence, pacing the front row, and she wasn’t about to get caught.
Nancy nudged the paper closer with increasing aggression.
Y/N finally unfolded it beneath her notebook.
In Nancy’s sharp, angular handwriting:
Need details. NOW. You came in this morning to shower/change and we haven’t talked.
Y/N’s mouth twitched despite herself. She picked up her pen and wrote a reply in smaller letters, careful to keep her eyes on the board like she was still taking notes.
I just spent my Friday/weekend at Henry’s.
She slid the note back.
Nancy read it and made a face so dramatic it should’ve earned her extra credit in acting. Her eyebrows shot up. Her lips formed a silent, scandalized Oh my God. It wasn’t the fact she was with Henry, she knew this but the fact she was with Henry for days on end after Y/N refused to leave her bed after that nasty breakup.
Then Nancy scribbled furiously and shoved the note back over.
Are you two back together??
Y/N stared at the question longer than she should have.
Because the honest answer wasn’t neat.
Henry had kissed her like a decision. Held her like he meant it. Made love to her nearly every single day she was at his home. Stayed when it would’ve been easier to leave.
And yet—
He still had walls. He still had rules. He still kept parts of himself compartmentalized like they were fragile glass.
Y/N’s pen hovered.
Nancy leaned closer, eyes narrowed, and made an aggressive little shooing motion with her hand like she was her editor on deadline.
Hurry up.
Y/N swallowed, then finally wrote:
I don’t know.
She slid the note back.
Nancy read it and immediately tightened her jaw, not at Y/N, but at the universe for giving her such an unsatisfying answer. She started writing something back anyway, pen moving fast like she physically couldn’t let it go.
Then Henry’s voice cut through the room.
“Ms. Wheeler.”
Nancy froze mid-word.
Henry stood near the front row, chalk still in hand, eyes fixed on Nancy’s desk with that professor stare that could flatten someone without raising his voice.
“You’d like to pay attention?” he said evenly.
The class went quiet in that half-second hush that always followed when he singled someone out.
Nancy rolled her eyes, expression blank but defiant.
“Yes,” she said flatly. “I’ll pay attention.”
Henry held her gaze for one beat longer than necessary, a silent, unmistakable warning before turning back to the board as if nothing had happened.
Nancy waited until his back was fully turned before leaning toward Y/N and whispering through her teeth, “I hate him.”
Y/N kept her eyes forward, pen moving, but her mouth twitched. “I know.”
Nancy tapped her pen against the note like she was physically vibrating with more questions. Then, with visible effort, she forced herself to look at the board with exaggerated obedience.
But the folded paper still sat between them on the desk like a live wire.
I don’t know.
Y/N stared at Henry’s back as he wrote across the board, shoulders straight, voice calm, utterly composed.
It would be so much easier if it were clean.
Yes, we’re together.
No, we’re not.
Instead, it was this strange, in-between place where he looked at her like she was inevitable and still guarded himself like he expected the world to take it away.
Her eyes drifted briefly to the side of his face as he turned.
He didn’t look at her.
Not once.
Not even accidentally.
But she could feel the restraint in it.
The deliberate avoidance.
The choice.
And somehow that said more than if he’d stared.
Nancy’s pen scratched loudly in her notebook beside her, aggressive and judgmental.
Y/N glanced down at the folded note one more time before sliding it fully under her textbook, burying it like it might explode.
I don’t know.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t romantic.
But it was honest.
And right now, honesty felt like the only solid ground she had.
. . .
The last bell sent the room into motion: chairs scraping, notebooks snapping shut, students already halfway out the door in their minds. Henry gathered his papers at the front with his usual neat precision, his voice fading into the background as he dismissed the class.
Y/N and Nancy packed up together, shoulder to shoulder in their familiar routine. Nancy’s movements were brisk, still irritated on principle, still watching Henry like he was a hazard sign she refused to ignore. Y/N tried to keep her face neutral, but her nerves were already tightening because she could feel it: Henry’s attention lingering, waiting for the room to empty.
They were almost at the door when Henry spoke.
“Y/N. Stay a moment.”
Y/N stopped.
Nancy stopped too, slowly and pointedly, turning just enough to look over her shoulder at Henry as if daring him to justify the request.
Y/N swallowed and forced a calm tone. “It’s fine,” she murmured to Nancy, more reassurance than certainty.
Nancy did not move right away. Her eyes flicked to Y/N, then back to Henry, sharp and assessing. She took her time sliding her notebook into her bag as if making a statement about how much she did not care and how much she absolutely did.
Then she stepped closer to the door, pausing at the threshold.
She looked straight at Henry. “Creel.”
Henry turned his attention on her at the mention of his name.
Nancy’s voice was quiet, low enough that a student in the hall would not hear, but it carried the full force of Nancy Wheeler’s promise of consequences.
“I own a gun,” she said plainly.
Y/N’s stomach dipped, because Nancy was not bluffing. She had seen it in Hawkins, the little collection Nancy kept in her cute little closet in her cute little room, and the way Nancy knew exactly how to hold one even if she did not talk about it often.
Henry’s face stayed composed, but something in his eyes tightened.
Nancy continued, still calm, as if she were discussing a syllabus requirement. “If you mess up again…”
She let the sentence hang.
Y/N’s eyes widened. “Nancy—”
Nancy did not look at her. Her gaze stayed pinned to Henry, unwavering. “I’m serious,” she finished, soft and lethal.
Henry’s jaw flexed once. His voice was controlled. “Understood.”
Nancy stared at him a beat longer, as if measuring whether he meant it.
Then she turned and left, shoes clicking down the hallway with the satisfaction of someone who had delivered a warning she fully intended to enforce.
The door swung shut behind her.
The classroom went quiet.
Y/N exhaled slowly, hands tightening around her bag strap. “She’s intense.”
Henry’s gaze flicked toward the door, then back to Y/N. “Yes.”
Y/N tried to hide her grim little smile. “She’s not lying.”
Henry did not ask how she knew. He simply nodded once, as if he had already assumed the worst and accepted it.
He moved closer, not too close and not immediately, but enough that the space between them felt private. His voice lowered into something meant only for her.
“I spoke with Patty,” he said.
Y/N’s shoulders tightened immediately. “You did?”
“Yes.” Henry’s expression stayed calm, but his eyes were steady and serious. “I made it clear to her that I am unavailable.”
Y/N searched his face, waiting for the familiar caveats, the carefulness, the half-truths.
Henry did not offer any.
“I am telling you because you asked me not to hide things,” he continued, “and because I want you to know you do not have to worry.”
Y/N’s throat tightened. “Not this time,” she whispered.
Henry’s gaze held hers. “Not this time.”
The simplicity of it made her chest ache because it was what she had wanted all along. Not perfection. Not grand gestures. Just proof that he could choose her in ways that did not hurt.
Henry glanced down at the papers in his hand as if he had forgotten they existed. Then he looked back at her, and something in his expression softened, subtle and controlled, but there.
“I was thinking,” he said.
Y/N lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, dear, we’re in trouble already.”
A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, almost a smile. “After school,” he continued, “I need to go to the Boston Public Library.”
Y/N blinked. “Need to?”
Henry’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if he did not like being teased. “Yes.”
Y/N’s smile grew. “Do you?”
Henry did not answer the question directly. He simply said, quieter, “Come with me.”
The words landed differently than my apartment.
They did not feel like secrecy.
They felt like intention.
Y/N’s chest warmed, and she could not stop the smile that spread across her face, small at first, then genuine.
“You are asking me on a date,” she said softly.
Henry’s jaw tightened as if he hated the label.
But his eyes did not deny it.
“I am asking you to come,” he said.
Y/N nodded, trying to play it cool and failing. “Okay.”
Henry watched her reaction for a beat, as if storing it somewhere, as if it mattered more than he wanted to admit.
“Good,” he murmured.
Y/N adjusted her bag strap, still smiling, and stepped toward the door with a lighter feeling in her chest than she had carried all week.
Behind her, Henry’s voice stopped her one last time, quiet and careful but steady.
“And Y/N?”
She turned back.
His gaze held hers, serious in a way that cut through everything else.
“I meant it,” he said. “I am not leaving again.”
Y/N’s smile softened into something almost tender.
“I will meet you after my last class,” she replied.
As she walked out into the hallway, the idea of the library waiting after school felt like the first real breath she had taken in days.
. . .
The Boston Public Library felt like a cathedral that had decided to be kind.
Outside, the city moved fast, cars hissing over wet streets, people cutting through the cold with shoulders hunched and coffee held like a lifeline. But the moment Henry pushed open the heavy doors, the air changed. Warmth. Silence. The faint smell of paper and old glue and polished wood. A hush so complete it made Y/N’s footsteps sound too loud until she instinctively slowed.
Henry didn’t say much at first. He never did when he walked into a place that already spoke his language.
His hand stayed near hers—close, not touching at first, as if he hadn’t decided what level of public bravery he could tolerate. He kept his posture straight, his coat buttoned, his gaze measured. Everything about him still carried that “faculty” stiffness, even though they were miles away from campus.
Y/N watched him out of the corner of her eye as they climbed the steps inside.
He looked like he belonged here. Like he could vanish into the stacks and live among the spines and never have to explain himself to anyone again.
Y/N bumped his elbow gently with hers. “You’re doing it.”
Henry glanced at her. “Doing what?”
“Breathing,” she said dryly. “For the first time all day.”
Henry’s mouth tightened like he disapproved of her teasing, but his eyes softened slightly. “It’s quiet.”
“That’s the point,” Y/N said, looking around. People sat at long tables under lamps, heads bent over books. A librarian moved like a ghost between shelves. No one was laughing loud. No one was staring. No one cared who was holding whose hand.
At least… no one should’ve.
They moved into the main reading room first—high ceilings, green desk lamps, rows of tables that looked like they’d been there since the beginning of time. Henry slowed like he couldn’t help it, gaze traveling up the walls, up the columns, the carved details, the quiet grandeur.
Y/N watched his face, waiting for the usual guardedness, but for a moment he looked almost… reverent. Like he’d walked into somewhere holy.
“You like it,” she said softly.
Henry’s gaze flicked to her. “I’m allowed to like libraries.”
Y/N smiled. “You’re allowed to like things.”
Henry’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, almost a sigh. “Don’t start.”
But it was too late. She already had.
They moved deeper into the building, toward the stacks, and that was where the date really started, where Henry stopped performing and started showing.
He gravitated instinctively toward the literature section, fingers brushing spines like they were old acquaintances. He pulled down a couple of books, flipping them open to specific pages like he could find his favorite lines blindfolded.
Y/N trailed behind him, amused. “Do you always read like you’re searching for evidence?”
Henry glanced at her over the top of a book. “Do you always talk like you’re trying to provoke a confession?”
Y/N grinned. “Maybe.”
He set the book back and finally, finally, his hand found hers.
Not dramatic. Not showy.
Just his fingers sliding into hers like it had always been meant to happen in a quiet place like this.
Y/N’s chest tightened. She pretended it didn’t.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
Henry’s tone softened, the way it always did when he talked about books. “Something I can reread without feeling like I’m grading it.”
Y/N laughed quietly. “So… not Hamlet.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Not Hamlet.”
Y/N slipped free of his hand long enough to pull a book from a shelf and hold it up. “Okay. Then I’m going to recommend something.”
Henry arched an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
Y/N’s eyes gleamed with the familiar spark she’d been missing for weeks. “The Outsiders.”
Henry blinked. “S.E. Hinton?”
“Yes,” Y/N said, proud. “It’s my favorite.”
Henry took the book from her slowly, turning it over in his hands as if he was assessing a thesis. “Your favorite?”
Y/N nodded. “Don’t judge me.”
“I’m not judging,” he said, but the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I’m surprised.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re—” He stopped himself before he said you’re too smart for that, because he knew better now. Instead, he chose a different truth. “Because it’s not what I would’ve guessed.”
Y/N leaned closer, voice dropping like she was sharing a secret in the stacks. “That’s why it’s a good recommendation.”
Henry opened it, scanning the first page, then another. His gaze shifted, not dismissive, not amused. Interested.
“It’s… honest,” he murmured.
“Exactly,” Y/N said. “It’s not trying to be fancy. It just… hits.”
Henry’s eyes lifted to hers, thoughtful. “And you like it because…?”
Y/N shrugged, but her voice went quieter. “Because it’s about belonging and not belonging. And it’s about feeling like the world decided who you are before you even got to choose.” She swallowed. “And because… the writing is simple, but it still hurts.”
Henry stared at her for a beat, something in his eyes tightening and softening at the same time.
Then he nodded once. “All right.”
Y/N’s brows lifted. “All right?”
Henry held her gaze. “All right. I’ll read it.”
Y/N’s smile warmed, genuine. “Good.”
They wandered after that, pulling books down and trading them back and forth like offerings.
Henry recommended a thin volume of poetry that made Y/N groan until he insisted she “try it anyway.” Y/N recommended something a little messier, a little more emotional, just to watch him pretend he didn’t like it.
For a while, it was easy.
Then Henry started doing it.
The looking around.
At first it was subtle, his gaze flicking up whenever someone walked past the aisle, his shoulders squaring slightly as if bracing. Then again when a group of college-aged students passed too close, laughing quietly. Then when a man in a blazer walked by carrying a briefcase.
Each time, Henry’s hand tightened around the book he was holding.
Each time, his grip on hers loosened.
Y/N watched him do it until her patience started to fray.
She tried to ignore it. Tried to tell herself it was habit, fear, self-preservation.
But it still stung because here they were, finally somewhere that felt safe, and he was still scanning the room like danger could wear an Emerson faculty badge.
“You’re doing it again,” Y/N said finally, voice low.
Henry’s gaze snapped back to her. “Doing what?”
“Looking for ghosts,” she said.
Henry’s jaw tightened. “I’m being careful.”
Y/N stared at him, irritation flashing. “We’re not on campus.”
Henry didn’t relax. “That doesn’t mean—”
“You can’t even hold my hand without checking if someone is watching,” Y/N interrupted, and the hurt crept into her tone before she could stop it. “What is the point of a date if you’re still acting like I’m a scandal waiting to happen?”
Henry’s eyes darkened. “Y/N—”
“No,” she said, quietly fierce. “I’m not asking you to scream my name in the middle of the reading room. I’m asking you to be here. With me.”
Henry swallowed, gaze flicking away for a fraction of a second like the words hit him somewhere tender.
“Come here,” Y/N said abruptly.
Henry blinked. “What.”
Y/N reached for his hand and didn’t give him time to argue. She laced her fingers through his with a firm, decisive grip and started walking.
Henry followed automatically, startled but letting her pull him along. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere you can stop acting like you’re about to be arrested,” she muttered.
She pulled him through a corridor, down a set of steps, past a quiet gallery space, and toward the light spilling in from an open doorway.
The courtyard.
The air changed again as they stepped outside, cooler, fresher, the city hush still present but softened by open space. The courtyard fountain was running, water spilling gently into a basin, the sound steady and calming. Stone and brick surrounded them, the sky visible above like a promise.
Y/N didn’t stop until they reached the fountain.
Then she let go of his hand only to sit down on the stone edge, tugging Henry with her until he sat too.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The water filled the silence.
Henry’s shoulders were still tense, but the open air seemed to ease something. At least here, his eyes couldn’t scan the room the same way. Here, there were no tight aisles and sudden footsteps.
Y/N looked at him, waiting.
Henry stared at the fountain for a beat, then finally spoke, voice quiet. “I’m trying.”
Y/N’s irritation softened, just a fraction.
“I know,” she said. “But trying looks a lot like doubting me sometimes.”
Henry’s gaze turned to her, dark and honest. “I’m not doubting you.”
“Then what?”
Henry exhaled slowly, the sound almost like defeat. “I’m afraid of what happens if someone recognizes me,” he admitted. “If someone recognizes us.”
Y/N leaned closer, voice lower. “Not this time,” she reminded him, echoing what he’d said earlier.
Henry’s jaw flexed. “I want to believe that.”
Y/N’s hand slid back into his, gentler now. “Then do.”
Henry looked down at their hands, then up at her face, and something in his expression shifted, something like surrender.
He tightened his fingers around hers. “All right.”
Y/N’s chest warmed. She smiled, small and victorious. “Good.”
Henry glanced at the book she’d recommended, still tucked under his arm. “So,” he said, voice calmer now, “tell me why The Outsiders is your favorite.”
Y/N’s smile widened. “I already did.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me again. Properly.”
Y/N laughed softly and leaned in, starting to talk, really talk, about characters and loyalty and the ache of being young and underestimated. And Henry listened, eyes steady now, not scanning, not searching.
Just there.
With her.
By the fountain, in the quiet, the date resumed the way it was supposed to, two people trading stories and books and pieces of themselves, finally letting the world stay outside the walls for a while.
The fountain kept its steady rhythm, a soft rush of water that made the courtyard feel insulated from the rest of Boston. Voices from the street beyond the walls came and went like distant weather. The air was cold enough that Y/N’s breath faintly showed when she laughed, but not cold enough to make her stop talking.
She was mid-thought, hands moving as she explained something about The Outsiders, about loyalty and her favorite character, Dally, and the way people decided what you were worth before you even opened your mouth. She leaned forward when she got passionate, brows knitting, eyes bright like the entire book was alive in her head.
Henry sat beside her, the book resting in his lap.
He was supposed to be listening.
He wasn’t.
Not in the way he listened to students in class, not in the way he listened to arguments, hunting for structure and flaw and thesis. Her words washed over him in fragments, Ponyboy, Johnny, Dally, innocence, violence, tenderness because what he heard most clearly was the sound of her voice itself.
The cadence. The certainty. The way it softened when she said something honest.
He watched her mouth as she spoke, how it shaped each word, how it pulled into a quick smile when she was pleased with her own point, how she bit her bottom lip briefly when she was searching for the right phrasing. He watched her hands, fingers tracing invisible lines in the air, a habit that looked like she was writing even when she wasn’t holding a pen.
He watched the way the wind tugged at her hair and she didn’t notice. The way she tucked a strand behind her ear without breaking eye contact, still talking, still entirely herself.
Beautiful, yes but not in a distant, decorative way.
In a way that felt like danger.
Because Henry had always been a man who survived by categorizing his life. By separating the parts that were safe from the parts that weren’t. By telling himself that certain feelings belonged in certain places and nowhere else.
She refused to fit.
She bled into everything.
He’d seen her in his classroom, too bright for the stale air, too alive for the rigid structure he tried to keep. He’d seen her in his apartment, barefoot and fearless, wearing his shirts like she’d rewritten the rules of his space. He’d seen her crying on his couch, trembling with the kind of honesty that made him want to do violence to the past on her behalf. He’d seen her furious, sharp and proud, refusing to let him control the narrative of her pain.
And now here she was, in the open, sitting beside him like it was natural, talking about a book like she trusted him to hold her thoughts gently.
Henry’s chest tightened.
Not with lust this time. Not with panic.
With something slower.
Something that didn’t belong in his world because it wasn’t rational and it wasn’t safe and it didn’t obey rules.
He tried to name it the way he named everything else.
Attachment. Habit. Chemistry. A complication.
None of the words fit.
Y/N laughed softly at something she’d just said, and the sound hit him like warmth in the middle of winter.
Henry’s gaze drifted over her face as if he was memorizing it under the gray sky: her lashes, dampened slightly by the cold, the faint flush in her cheeks, the way her eyes shifted when she looked at him like she could tell when he wasn’t listening.
“Are you even hearing me?” she asked, narrowing her eyes with playful suspicion.
Henry blinked, forced himself back into the present. “Yes.”
Y/N tilted her head. “Then what did I just say.”
He knew he should’ve answered. He knew he should’ve grabbed onto one of the book details and played along.
Instead, he looked at her—really looked, and something in him slipped.
His voice came out lower, quieter, without the professor polish. “You’re extraordinary.”
Y/N froze for half a beat.
Her expression flickered, surprise first, then awe, then a quick attempt to hide how much it affected her.
“That’s not an answer,” she said, but her voice was softer now.
Henry didn’t blink. “I know.”
Y/N’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Henry…”
He watched her closely, and suddenly all the careful barriers he’d built felt thin like paper, like something she could tear through with one honest sentence.
He’d tried to let her go. He’d tried to cut her loose, to make her hate him, to save her future by sacrificing his own want.
And she’d come back anyway.
She was sitting here anyway.
She was talking anyway.
Henry’s fingers tightened around the book in his lap as the realization sharpened, clear, undeniable, terrifyingly simple.
It wasn’t just that he wanted her.
It wasn’t just that he liked her.
It wasn’t just that she made him feel alive.
He was in love with her.
The thought settled into him like a weight and a relief at the same time, like something he’d been fighting had finally won.
He hated it immediately because love was dangerous, love was messy, love gave people leverage.
And he loved it anyway because it felt like truth.
Y/N was watching him now, her smile gone, eyes searching his face like she could see the shift.
“You’re staring,” she murmured.
Henry’s throat tightened. He forced a controlled breath, trying to gather himself, to pull the emotion back into a box like he always did.
It didn’t work.
“I’m listening,” he lied.
Y/N’s brows lifted. “No, you’re not.”
Henry’s gaze stayed on hers, heavy and steady. “No,” he admitted quietly. “I’m not.”
Y/N’s fingers slid into his hand, gentle. “Then what are you doing?”
Henry looked down at their joined hands, then back at her.
He didn’t say it.
He couldn’t, not yet.
But his eyes gave him away, the softness in them too deep to be mistaken for anything else.
Y/N’s breath caught slightly, and her voice went quieter. “Henry…”
He swallowed, jaw flexing like he was fighting himself.
“I’m trying,” he said, the words rough with restraint, “to remember what it feels like when life is simple.”
Y/N studied him, then softened. “And is it?”
Henry’s gaze held hers, unwavering.
“When it’s you,” he said softly, “it is.”
And the way he said it, like a confession he couldn’t take back, made the space between them feel charged, the fountain suddenly too loud, the cold air suddenly irrelevant.
Because even without the words, even without the declaration, the truth was there, sitting between them on the stone edge of the fountain, impossible to ignore.
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.
“Yeah, okay— coming.”
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