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@mybuckynotyours
Hello! Welcome to my blog. I hope you'll enjoy your stay here! <3
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I mostly write for Sebastian Stan and any of his characters. I make an exception for Ari Levinson. That man simply owns my heart too. (Might add more RPF/characters)
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𝙅𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙚 𝘾𝙖𝙢𝙥𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝘽𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙩 𝙃𝙆𝘾𝘾 by rontgen929
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Moth to a Flame
gif credit to @mrwhatsitofficialblog
after class - part seventeen: “moth to a flame”
synapse: after a day where everything seems determined to go wrong, y/n finds herself drawn to the one person she knows can make it better.
pairing: professor!henry creel x reader
contains: professor/student relationship, penetrative sex, masturbation, cunnilingus
a/n: this is the third fucking time im writing this authors note bc tumblr wants to be a little bitch and not save my drafts. anyway, I don’t have a good excuse for not updating earlier. I’m just lazy. I don’t plan to end this story soon unless I think it’s appropriate and I don’t think it is, it’s meant to be read as a story or even separate imagines. I try to update this book weekly and if I don’t it’s laziness, working or writers block. Btw, you guys seriously did not want me to write another henry story, the vote came close for yes and no. Damn.
. . .
By fifth period, Y/N felt like the entire day had been designed by someone who hated her personally.
It had started with the coffee.
Some idiot in the hallway had clipped her shoulder hard enough to send the cup jerking out of her hand, hot coffee splashing down the front of her notes and onto the floor. She’d stood there for one stunned second, staring at the spreading brown mess, so exhausted and irritated she’d nearly cried from the sheer unfairness of it.
Then came the pop quiz.
Unannounced.
Cruel.
Pointless.
She’d spent the first ten minutes of that class trying to remember terms her professor had thrown at them like it was some fun little challenge instead of academic warfare.
Then in Layout Lab, already frayed and furious, she’d sliced her finger with an X-Acto knife when the teacher barked a warning too sharply behind her. Not deep enough to be serious, just enough to sting and bleed and make her want to scream.
And then, because apparently the universe wasn’t done humiliating her, when she finally got to lunch, the pizza was gone.
Gone.
The last insult.
By the time the afternoon wore on, Y/N was walking around campus with her jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. Every sound felt too loud. Every person in her path felt like an obstacle. She didn’t want small talk. She didn’t want class. She didn’t want to sit still and pretend to listen.
She wanted release.
She wanted Henry.
By the time his fifth period class rolled around, her class, technically, Y/N had already decided she wasn’t going to sit through it. Not today. Not when her skin felt too tight and her nerves were sparking under it.
She reached his classroom a few minutes after the lecture had started and hovered outside the door, listening.
Henry’s voice carried through the wood in that steady, controlled cadence that usually calmed her down.
Today it only made the ache sharper.
She cracked open the classroom door, just enough of a slant to see him at the front of the room, shirt sleeves rolled, chalk in hand, moving through the lecture like nothing in the world had the right to touch him.
Y/N stared for half a second too long.
Then she crouched, tore a corner from her notebook, and scribbled fast:
Meet me outside. Now.
She crumpled the paper tight into a little ball, pushed the door open barely an inch, and aimed.
The paper bounced off Henry’s ankle.
He stopped mid-sentence.
Not visibly to the class, just enough that Y/N knew he’d felt it. His gaze dropped, then flicked toward the door, but by then she’d already closed the door and stepped back out of sight.
Inside, Henry finished his sentence with maddening calm. He bent as if to pick up a piece of chalk, retrieved the paper instead, and unfolded it in one practiced motion hidden by the edge of the desk.
He read it.
His face didn’t change much, but his focus sharpened instantly.
A beat later, he turned back to the class.
“All right,” he said evenly, setting down his notes. “Take the next fifteen minutes to work through the passage on your own. I expect annotations, not staring at the page.”
A few students groaned softly. Henry ignored them.
He moved toward the door with the same composed stride he used for everything else, but Y/N could feel the concern already tightening under it before he even stepped into the hall.
The moment he saw her, his expression shifted.
She was standing with her arms folded tight across herself, eyes too bright, mouth set in a line that looked more wounded than angry now that someone had finally found her.
“Y/N,” he said quietly. “What happened?”
She didn’t answer.
Not because she didn’t want to.
Because if she started listing it all, the coffee, the quiz, the knife, the pizza, the sheer insult of being alive today, she might actually lose whatever tiny hold she had left.
Instead, she stepped straight into his space, grabbed his hand, and pulled.
Henry blinked, startled enough to let himself be moved for a second. “Y/N—”
“Come on,” she said.
Her voice was low and urgent and just frayed enough that it cut through any chance he had of resisting on principle.
He let her drag him a few steps down the hall before he planted his feet just enough to stop her from running them both into a wall.
He caught her wrist gently, keeping hold of her hand at the same time.
“Stop,” he said, softer now. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Y/N looked at him then, really looked at him, and the anger on her face cracked around the edges into something more desperate.
“Everything,” she muttered.
Henry’s brows pulled together. “Everything.”
“Yes.” She let out a harsh breath. “Everything is wrong and everyone is annoying and I cut my finger and someone spilled my coffee and there was a pop quiz and then there wasn’t any pizza and if I have to sit in that class for one second pretending to care about symbolism, I’m going to lose my damn mind.”
Henry stared at her for half a beat.
Then his gaze dropped briefly to her hand. “You cut your finger?”
Y/N curled the hand instinctively. “It’s fine.”
Henry’s eyes lifted back to hers, still concerned, still trying to figure out whether this was panic or anger or some combination of both.
“You skipped class,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“You sent a note.”
“I know.”
“You threw it at me.”
Y/N’s mouth twitched despite herself. “Your ankle.”
Henry exhaled slowly through his nose, the faintest shadow of amusement almost appearing before the concern won again.
“What do you need?” he asked.
That did it.
Y/N stepped in closer, still holding his hand, and lowered her voice until it was almost a confession.
“You.”
One word.
Immediate. Honest. Heavy with meaning he understood the second it left her mouth.
Henry’s jaw tightened.
The hallway suddenly felt too bright. Too public. Too close to the classroom door behind him.
“Y/N,” he said, warning threaded through her name, but it came out rougher than he meant.
She shook her head once. “No. I don’t want to talk about my day anymore. I don’t want to hear one more professor talk at me. I don’t want to think.” Her fingers tightened around his. “I need my boyfriend. I need you. Now.”
Henry held her gaze, reading everything she wasn’t saying out loud.
Not just frustration. Not just temper.
Need.
A need sharp enough to make her interrupt his class, drag him into the hallway, look at him like he was the only thing in the day that hadn’t gone wrong.
His expression shifted, concern sinking into something darker, more focused.
He glanced once back toward the classroom door.
Then back to her.
“How long until they notice?”she whispered.
Henry’s eyes narrowed slightly, calculating.
“Not long,” he said.
Y/N nodded, impatient. “Worse case, they leave without homework. Come with me.”
And before he could answer, before he could remind either of them why this was a bad idea, she tugged his hand again and started pulling him down the hall, past the classroom, past the nearest turn, toward somewhere more private.
Henry followed.
Because the truth was, once her fingers locked around his and she looked at him like that, there had never really been another option.
. . .
Rain tapped softly against the roof of the car, light enough to sound almost delicate, steady enough to wrap the whole world outside in a hush.
The windows had already begun to fog.
In the back seat, Y/N straddled Henry’s lap like there had never been any other place she was supposed to be. Her hands were in his hair, his were firm at her waist, and every kiss felt like the continuation of all the frustration and want and unspoken need she’d carried through the entire day.
It wasn’t gentle.
Not at first.
It was hungry, relieved, the kind of kissing that came after too much restraint and too much patience finally snapping under pressure. Henry’s mouth moved against hers with a quiet intensity that made her feel the tremor in him, the effort it took for him not to lose himself completely. Y/N kissed him back just as fiercely, her body pressed close, her breath catching every time his grip tightened at her hips.
The rain blurred the parking lot lights into soft gold streaks beyond the glass.
Inside the car, the air felt warm and close and charged, every inch of space narrowed down to the movement of their mouths, the slide of hands, the sound of breath shared too quickly.
Henry broke the kiss only long enough to look at her.
His forehead rested against hers, his hands still holding her there as if letting go wasn’t an option anymore. Y/N’s pulse hammered under his gaze. Her fingers curled at the back of his neck.
“Still need me,” he murmured, voice low and rough.
Y/N’s answer was immediate, breathless. “Yes.”
Something in his expression darkened at that, not cruel, not cold, just deeply certain.
Then he kissed her again.
Outside, the rain kept falling.
Inside, the back seat became its own small, hidden world, fogged windows, tangled breathing, the city pushed away for just a little longer.
And when the kisses deepened, when her hands and his grew less patient, when the rest of the night tipped toward something neither of them had any intention of stopping, the rain was the only witness.
The kiss deepened, the initial frantic relief melting into something hotter, more demanding. Y/N’s hands left his hair, sliding down his chest to fumble with the buttons of his shirt. She needed to feel his skin, to have her hands on him.
He let her, his own hands roaming up her back, pulling her closer, his touch a silent permission.
She ripped his shirt open, sending a couple of buttons skittering across the leather seats. Her mouth left his, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down his neck, her teeth scraping against his pulse point. She was taking her anger out on him, channeling all the day's frustrations into a desperate, aggressive need. He was her anchor, her release, and he was letting her use him exactly how she needed to.
"Y/N," he breathed, his voice strained as she ground her hips down against him, the friction delicious even through their clothes.
"Shh," she commanded, her voice husky. "Just let me."
She pushed his jacket and shirt off his shoulders, her hands exploring the hard muscles of his chest and abdomen. She was in control, and he was willingly, beautifully submissive to her need. His hands rested on her thighs, his grip loose, letting her set the pace.
She needed more. She shifted, her hands going to the waistband of his trousers, deftly undoing his belt and zipper. He lifted his hips, helping her pull his pants and boxers down just enough to free him. He was hard, thick, and ready for her.
She stood up as much as she could in the confined space, shoving her own jeans and panties down her hips. She didn't bother taking them off completely, just pushing them to her knees. Then she was back on his lap, positioning herself over him.
She sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate movement, taking him all the way in.
They both groaned at the sensation, the feeling of him filling her, stretching her, was a balm to her ragged soul. She began to move, her hands braced on his shoulders for leverage.
Her rhythm was hard, fast, punishing. She rode him with a ferocity that bordered on violent, each downward thrust a release of her pent-up anger and frustration. The car rocked with their movements, the soft taps of the rain on the roof a counterpoint to their harsh breathing and the sound of their bodies meeting.
Henry’s head was thrown back against the seat, his eyes closed, his hands gripping her hips, not to guide her, but just to hold on. He was giving her exactly what she needed, letting her take her anger out on his body, letting her use him until she was spent.
The pressure began to build inside her, a tight, hot coil of pleasure that was more intense than anything she had felt before. She was close, so close. She could feel the orgasm just out of reach, a shimmering promise of release.
And then, it happened.
The bell.
A loud, shrill, piercing sound that cut through the rain and the fog and the haze of their passion. It was the end-of-day bell. Students and staff would be pouring out of the building, flooding the parking lot.
Henry’s eyes flew open, a look of panic on his face. "Y/N," he said, his voice urgent. "The bell. We have to stop."
But she didn't want to stop. She was so close, right on the edge. The thought of stopping now, of being denied her release, was unbearable. She ignored him, her movements becoming even more frantic, chasing the pleasure that was just within her grasp.
"Y/N, seriously," he said, his hands trying to still her hips. "Someone will see."
"No," she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. "Not yet. I'm almost there."
She could hear the distant sound of voices, of car doors opening and closing. The risk was immense, but it only fueled her desire.
She was so close, the pleasure building to an unbearable crescendo. She closed her eyes, blocking out the world, focusing only on the feel of him inside her, on the desperate need for release. She wasn't stopping. Not until she came.
The sounds from the parking lot grew louder, a chorus of laughter and car doors slamming. Panic flared in Henry's eyes, but Y/N was a woman possessed, lost to the chase of her own pleasure. She could feel him trying to gently push her off, his concern warring with his own building desire.
"Y/N," he whispered, his voice tight with fear and lust.
Her response was a fierce, determined glare. She grabbed his wrist, her grip surprisingly strong, and pulled his hand towards her face. "Put it over my mouth," she commanded, her voice a ragged, desperate gasp. "Don't let me make a sound."
Understanding dawned in his eyes, along with a dark, helpless arousal. He knew what she needed. He surrendered to her completely. His large hand covered her mouth, his palm pressing firmly against her lips, his fingers splayed across her cheek. It was a silencing, a possession, a perfect, intimate cage.
With that final barrier in place, she let go. She rode him with wild abandon, her head thrown back, her eyes rolling back in her head as she focused solely on the exquisite, overwhelming pleasure of him moving inside her. The world outside the car ceased to exist. There was only the heat of his body, the feel of his hand on her mouth, and his thick, hard cock filling her over and over again.
The orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, a violent, all-consuming force that ripped through her body. A scream tore from her throat, but it was perfectly, completely muffled by his hand. The sound was a desperate, muffled vibration against his palm as her entire body convulsed, her inner walls clamping down around him in a rhythmic, pulsing grip.
The feel of her cumming, the desperate, silenced scream against his hand, was his undoing. His own release barreled through him, hot and intense. As the first wave of his orgasm hit, he buried his face in the crook of her shoulder, his teeth sinking into the sensitive skin where her neck met her shoulder. His own guttural moan was swallowed by her flesh, the bite a desperate act to silence himself as he emptied into her, his body shuddering violently against hers.
They stayed locked together for a long moment, a tangled, breathless heap in the back seat of the fogging car. The only sounds were their ragged gasps for air and the steady, soft drumming of the rain on the roof. Slowly, Henry lifted his head, his lips gently brushing against the reddened mark his teeth had left on her skin. He removed his hand from her mouth, his thumb stroking her cheek.
Y/N slumped against him, her body boneless and sated, the anger and frustration of the day completely purged. In the quiet aftermath, with the world just outside the steamed-up windows, she felt a profound, bone-deep peace. He had given her exactly what she needed. He always did.
For a long moment neither of them moved.
The windows stayed fogged, the rain still whispering against the roof, the air inside the car thick with warmth and the aftermath of everything she’d needed to shake out of her system. Y/N stayed draped against him, breathing slowly now, letting the quiet settle into her bones.
Then reality returned in pieces.
Voices outside. Car doors. The distant burst of laughter from students spilling out of the building now that class had ended.
Y/N lifted her head first.
Henry’s hands stayed on her for one more second, reluctant, then loosened as she shifted. She climbed off his lap carefully, still a little unsteady, and settled beside him in the narrow back seat while he caught his breath and dragged a hand through his hair.
Outside, more students were crossing the lot.
Inside, Henry was already pulling himself back together with the same sharp efficiency he always used after losing control. He reached for his shirt first, jaw tight when he looked down at the damage.
Y/N followed his gaze and smiled, slow and wicked. “That’s your fault.”
Henry gave her a look. “My fault.”
“Yes,” she said, entirely serious as she tugged her jeans back into place. “You’re very distracting.”
Henry made a quiet sound under his breath that might have been a laugh if he weren’t too busy buttoning what was left of his shirt with increasingly irritated precision. A few buttons were impossible to salvage, and the fabric sat open enough that he finally gave up and reached for his jacket instead.
He shrugged it on, pulling it closed enough to hide the damage, then fixed his belt and dragged his pants back into order.
Y/N watched the whole process with the lazy satisfaction of someone whose terrible day had been thoroughly corrected.
Henry caught the look on her face and narrowed his eyes. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” she asked sweetly.
“Look pleased with yourself.”
Y/N’s smile widened as she pulled her panties and jeans back up her legs. “I am pleased and pleased with myself.”
Henry shook his head once, exasperated, then pushed open the back door and stepped out into the light rain. He circled the car and opened her side for her a moment later, because even disheveled and sexually frustrated, apparently he still had manners.
Y/N slid out and smoothed her sweater down, then brushed at her hair with her fingers as if that would erase the evidence of what had just happened in his back seat.
Students were still filtering away from campus in clusters, heads bowed against the drizzle, too wrapped up in their own lives to notice anything.
Henry shut the door and looked at her. “Come on.”
Y/N tilted her head. “Where are we going?”
Henry stared at her like the answer should have been obvious. “My apartment.”
Something in his tone made her pulse jump again.
She fell into step beside him as he moved toward the driver’s side, and once they were both in the front seat and the heater started up, the sense of being briefly hidden gave way to motion again.
Rain streaked across the windshield.
Henry pulled out of the lot with one hand on the wheel, the other tense where it rested near the gear shift. His jacket hid most of the damage to his shirt, but Y/N knew it was there underneath, and that knowledge made her smile to herself.
She turned slightly toward him, studying the clean line of his profile, the damp dark of his hair at the edges, the way his jaw still looked tight with restraint.
“You know,” she said lightly, “it’s kind of hot when we might get caught.”
Henry’s grip on the wheel tightened.
Y/N saw it immediately and smiled wider.
His eyes stayed on the road. “Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying,” she replied, voice all innocence she did not feel, “there’s something about the risk.”
Henry exhaled slowly through his nose. “The risk is not the point.”
Y/N leaned back against the seat, watching the rain blur the world outside. “Maybe not for you.”
Henry shot her a brief glance, warning in it. “Y/N.”
She turned her face toward him more fully now, amused by how controlled he was trying to sound. “You didn’t exactly seem morally opposed five minutes ago.”
Henry’s jaw flexed. “I’m driving.”
Y/N smiled. “That’s not a denial.”
He looked back at the road, shoulders tight. “I am taking you somewhere private.”
“Mm,” Y/N murmured. “Because you’re responsible.”
“Yes.”
“And because if I keep talking like this, you’ll miss a red light.”
Henry’s silence answered for him.
Y/N laughed softly under her breath and looked out at the rain again. “I like this version of you.”
“That is unfortunate.”
“The one that acts composed but is secretly—”
Henry cut in, low and firm. “Stop.”
Y/N bit her lip to keep from smiling too obviously. “Fine.”
But she could still feel the heat simmering under his calm, could still see it in the way his fingers flexed once on the wheel, in the way he drove a little too fast for the weather.
By the time they pulled up outside his apartment, the rain had thickened again, soft but steady. Henry killed the engine and sat there for one beat with both hands on the wheel, staring through the windshield as if he were collecting himself before the next round of whatever this night was turning into.
Y/N looked at him, fond and wicked all at once.
Henry finally turned his head toward her, eyes dark and lustful and still unmistakably affected.
“Inside,” he said, his voice deepening.
Y/N smiled, already reaching for the door. “Yes, professor.”
. . .
Morning came in soft and gray through the blinds, the kind of light that made the whole bedroom feel half-asleep.
Y/N woke slowly, still warm from sleep, one arm stretched across sheets that had cooled beside her. For a second she stayed still, eyes half-open, expecting to feel Henry’s weight somewhere in the bed, to hear the rustle of him getting dressed or the quiet clink of him moving around the apartment.
Nothing.
She turned her head.
Empty.
Y/N blinked the sleep from her eyes and pushed herself up onto one elbow, hair a mess around her shoulders, the sheet slipping down enough to remind her she’d fallen asleep with nothing on. The room still held traces of the night before, clothes draped over the chair, the lamp left on low, the air faintly warm and close.
She slid out of bed and reached for the first thing she could find: one of Henry’s shirts from where he’d left it folded on dresser. She pulled it on, the fabric falling loose over her thighs, still smelling faintly of his detergent and his cologne and just… him.
That alone made her pause for half a second.
Then she went looking.
The apartment was quiet when she stepped into it, no shower running, no radio, no sound of pages turning. She checked the living room first, then the office, then finally the kitchen where a small note sat on the counter in that neat, unmistakable handwriting of his.
Back in a bit.
Lock the door.
—H
Y/N smiled to herself, fingertips brushing the edge of the paper.
Of course.
She walked over to lock the door before she looked around the kitchen, then opened the refrigerator with the vague intention of finding something easy. Immediate regret followed. Henry apparently stocked his kitchen like someone who expected all food to become real meals. Eggs. Butter. Vegetables. Bread that probably needed effort. Nothing that resembled instant gratification.
Y/N stared into the shelves with mild offense. “You’re so inconvenient,” she muttered to no one.
She checked a cabinet.
Tea. Rice. Pasta. Dry ingredients that implied patience and planning.
“No,” she said aloud, already abandoning the idea. “I’m not doing that.”
Feeling deeply lazy and not at all guilty about it, she shuffled back toward the bedroom, the shirt swaying against her legs, bare feet whispering over the floorboards. She climbed back into bed with no dignity whatsoever and flopped onto her side with a long sigh, reaching automatically for the pillow Henry had used.
It still smelled like him.
His scent was on the pillow beside her, sunk into the cotton, and in the shirt she wore, and in the sheets still warm in places where the night hadn’t fully faded yet.
Y/N closed her eyes for a second and pulled the pillow closer, pressing her face into it.
Something about the smell of Henry Creel did strange things to her.
Comfort, first. Immediate and soft, the kind that loosened something in her chest. It felt like safety, like being held even when he wasn’t there, like his apartment and his bed and his things had started to become somewhere she could let her guard down without thinking.
And then, something warmer.
Something slower and more dangerous.
Her breathing changed.
Y/N opened her eyes and stared at nothing, still half-curled around his pillow, very aware now of the shirt on her skin, the empty side of the bed, the quiet in the room, and exactly what his scent did to her when there was no distraction between her and the thought of him.
She smiled faintly to herself, slow and a little helpless, as the morning tipped toward something less innocent.
And alone in his bed, wrapped in his shirt and his scent, Y/N let herself drift into the feeling of missing him in the most physical way possible.
The feeling was a slow, creeping tide, starting in her toes and rising steadily through her body. Missing him wasn't just an emotional ache; it was a physical one, a hollow space inside her that only he could fill. The scent surrounding her was a potent catalyst, a ghost of his presence that made her crave the real thing.
Her hand, which had been clutching the pillow, began to move with a will of its own. It slid down, her fingers tracing the hem of the shirt she wore. The fabric was soft, worn thin in places. Underneath, her skin was warm, bare. She let her hand drift upwards, over the soft curve of her stomach, until it cupped her breast through the cotton.
Her nipple pebbled instantly against her palm. She closed her eyes, picturing his hand instead of her own, remembering the way he touched her, the way he knew exactly how much pressure to apply, how to make her gasp. She squeezed gently, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Her other hand joined the first, caressing her other breast, her thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks.
The arousal was a slow, deliberate burn now, building deep in her core.
She let her legs fall open, the movement instinctive, inviting. Her right hand abandoned her breast, trailing a slow, languid path down her body. She imagined it was Henry's hand, his long, skilled fingers exploring her, learning her all over again. Her breath hitched as her fingers slid through her slick folds, already wet with wanting.
She was thinking about him, about the way he looked at her when he was inside her, the way his voice got low and rough when he was turned on. She was thinking about the car, the rain, the feel of his hand over her mouth as she came. Her fingers found her clit, circling it with a slow, steady rhythm that made her hips arch off the bed.
The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter, a hot, demanding knot low in her belly. She was so close, teetering on the edge, her breath coming in short, sharp pants. The scent of him was everywhere, in the air she breathed, on the clothes she wore, and it was pushing her over, pulling her under...
"Well, well. What do we have here?"
The voice was low, amused, and it cut through the fog of her arousal like a shard of ice. Y/N's eyes flew open, her hand freezing mid-motion.
Henry was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, a paper bag of what smelled like croissants in one hand, his keys in the other. He was leaning against the doorframe, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face as he took in the scene: her, in his bed, in his shirt, with her hand between her legs.
A hot blush of embarrassment flooded her cheeks, and she started to pull her hand away, to close her legs, to hide.
"Don't you dare stop," he said, his voice dropping to a low, commanding growl. He dropped the bag and keys onto the dresser by the door and started towards the bed, his movements slow and deliberate. "Not on my account."
He reached the edge of the bed and sat down, the mattress dipping with his weight. He looked at her, his eyes dark with lust. "I was gone for twenty minutes and you couldn't wait?" he murmured, his hand reaching out to rest on her knee. "Were you thinking about me?"
She could only nod, her throat too tight to speak.
His smile widened. "Good." His hand slid up her inner thigh, his touch sending a fresh wave of desire through her. He gently, but firmly, pushed her legs back open, exposing her completely. "Now," he said, his voice a husky whisper. "Keep going. I want to watch. I want to see you finish."
Her breath hitched, but she obeyed. Her eyes, wide and dark with a mixture of embarrassment and intense arousal, locked onto his.
He moved from the edge of the bed, sinking to his knees on the floor between her spread legs. The position was one of worship, and the sight of him there, at her mercy, sent a fresh jolt of liquid heat through her core.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice a deep, low, encouraging rumble. "Show me what you were doing."
Her hand, trembling slightly, returned to its task. She started slowly, her fingers sliding through her slick folds, reacquainting herself with the rhythm that had been so close to sending her over the edge. The air in the room felt thick, charged with electricity. The only sounds were her soft, shaky breaths and the faint rustle of the sheets.
"Look at you," he breathed, his gaze fixed on where her hand was moving. "So fucking beautiful. So wet already." He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the mattress, bringing him closer. He wanted to see everything. "Were you this wet before I walked in?"
"Yes," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"Tell me what you were thinking about," he commanded, his voice a low, hypnotic caress. "When you had your hands on your breasts. Was it my hands?"
She nodded, her fingers circling her clit, the pleasure beginning to build again, slow and steady. "I was thinking about... the car," she admitted, her cheeks flushing. "About your mouth on me."
A low growl rumbled in his chest. "I like that. I like thinking about you in my bed, getting yourself all worked up thinking about me." He reached out, his hand not touching her, just hovering over her thigh. "Don't close your eyes. I want you to look at me while you do it. I want to see you fall apart knowing I'm right here watching you."
The command made her whimper. The idea was so illicit, so incredibly hot. Her eyes never left his as she continued to touch herself, her movements becoming more confident, more urgent.
She could see the raw, unadulterated lust in his eyes, the way his jaw was clenched with the effort of holding himself back. It was the most powerful aphrodisiac she had ever known.
"Is that how you like it?" he asked, his voice rough. "Slow circles? Or do you need more?" He leaned in even closer, his lips just inches from her core. "Do you need it faster, Y/N? Harder? Tell me what you need."
"Faster," she gasped, her hips beginning to rock against her hand. "Oh, God, Henry... faster."
He smiled, a wicked, triumphant curve of his lips. "Then go faster. Make yourself cum for me. I want to see it."
She did as he said, her fingers flying over her clit, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak. Her breaths came in ragged pants, her body tensing, her back arching off the bed. She was right there, hovering on the precipice, her eyes locked with his, a silent plea for release.
And just as the first wave of her orgasm began to crest, he moved.
His hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around her wrist and pulling her hand away from her pussy. A cry of protest died in her throat as he replaced her hand with his mouth.
The shock of his hot, wet tongue against her clit was blinding. He didn't tease. He sealed his lips around the sensitive bundle of nerves and sucked, hard. The sensation was explosive, a direct, intense jolt that sent her catapulting over the edge. Her orgasm crashed over her, a violent, all-consuming wave that ripped a scream from her lungs.
Her hands flew to his hair, her fingers tangling in the strands as she held him to her, her body shaking uncontrollably as pleasure, sharp and blinding, seized every nerve ending.
He didn't stop, his tongue lashing against her, drawing out her orgasm until she was a writhing, sobbing mess beneath him, completely and utterly shattered by his touch.
The first orgasm was still sending tremors through her body, a blissful, fading echo, when she realized he wasn't stopping. His mouth was still on her, his tongue still working her clit with a relentless, hungry pressure.
The sensitivity was immediate, almost painful. A soft whimper escaped her lips, her hands trying to gently push his head away.
"Henry," she breathed, her body twitching. "It's too much."
His response was a low, possessive growl that vibrated against her most sensitive flesh. Instead of pulling back, he doubled down. He slid his hands up her thighs, his grip firm and unyielding, and pushed her legs even wider, holding her open for him. He was completely in control, and he was determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from her body.
The pleasure began to warp, the intense sensitivity morphing into something else, something deeper and more profound. The overstimulation was a sweet, exquisite torture. Her hands, which had been trying to push him away, were now fisted in his hair, pulling him closer, holding him to her.
She was thrashing on the bed, her hips bucking uncontrollably, but he held her down, his mouth a relentless, consuming force.
"Look at you," he murmured, pulling back just long enough to speak, his voice a low, rough command. His lips were glistening with her arousal. "Taking it so well. I knew you could. I knew you'd love this."
He dove back in, his tongue now tracing tight, fast circles around her clit before sucking it back into his mouth. The pressure was immense, a perfect, concentrated point of sensation that was driving her insane. The first orgasm had been a tidal wave; this was a pressure cooker building to an explosive rupture.
She could feel it, a second orgasm coiling deep in her core, so much more powerful than the first. It was a tight, hot knot of tension that pulled at every muscle in her body. The sounds she was making were no longer human; they were desperate, animalistic cries of pleasure and pain. Her back arched off the bed, her toes curling, her entire body straining towards the inevitable release.
"That's it, Y/N," he urged, his voice a dark, seductive promise against her skin. "Give me another one. I want to feel you cum on my tongue again. I want to taste it."
His words were the final push. The knot inside her snapped, and the second orgasm hit her with the force of a freight train. It was harder, better, more intense than anything she had ever experienced. It wasn't just a wave; it was a seismic event. A white-hot, blinding pleasure obliterated everything, wiping her mind clean of all thought.
She screamed his name, her voice raw and broken, her body convulsing in his grip. Her inner walls clenched rhythmically, a desperate, pulsing throb that seemed to go on forever.
He didn't stop until she was completely spent, a limp, trembling mess on the bed. He finally released her, pressing a soft, gentle kiss against her overstimulated, swollen flesh. He looked up at her from between her legs, his face a mask of raw, primal satisfaction, his eyes dark with a possessive pride. He had claimed her, broken her, and put her back together again, all with his mouth. And she had never felt more completely, utterly his.
The room stayed quiet except for their breathing.
Y/N lay there for a moment longer, still trying to come back to herself, every part of her feeling loose and warm and wrung out in the best possible way. The sheets were twisted around her, the shirt tangled on her body from the nonstop movement, and Henry was still close, close enough that the air around her felt changed by him.
Then another scent slowly worked its way into her awareness.
Butter.
Warm pastry.
She blinked, dazed, and turned her head toward the dresser.
A paper bag sat there, slightly crinkled open at the top.
Croissants.
The realization hit her a second before the smell fully did, and somehow it made everything feel even more absurdly domestic than it already had.
Her mouth curved lazily. “Did you bring breakfast?”
Henry shifted beside her, one hand smoothing over her thigh in a way that had gone from possessive to grounding. “I did.”
Y/N stared at the bag for another second, then laughed softly, still breathless. “You disappeared and came back with pastries.”
Henry’s mouth twitched, the edge of his expression softening now that the intensity had drained into something quieter. “You looked comfortable. I made an executive decision.”
Y/N looked back at him and shook her head slightly, half amazed, half deeply fond. “That is such a weirdly specific version of romance.”
Henry leaned in and pressed a kiss to her knee, then higher, then settled beside her properly, drawing the sheet back over her as if he couldn’t help taking care of her the second he was done undoing her.
“You’re hungry,” he said.
Y/N’s voice came small and satisfied. “I might be.”
Henry’s hand brushed her hair back from her face, gentler now, slower. “You’re definitely hungry.”
Y/N smiled and let her eyes drift shut for a second, breathing in the scent of him and the faint sweetness of the croissants and the quiet safety of his room all at once.
Something about that nearly undid her more than anything else had.
Not just the pastries.
The thought behind them.
That he had left, bought breakfast, come back, and somehow still looked at her like she was the center of his attention instead of an interruption to the rest of his day.
Y/N opened her eyes again and looked at him with that same soft, overwhelmed affection that always hit her hardest in moments like this.
“You really came back with croissants,” she murmured.
Henry’s fingers traced slowly along her arm. “I wasn’t going to let you wake up and starve.”
Y/N’s smile widened. “You say the sweetest things in the most unromantic way possible.”
Henry looked entirely unimpressed by that assessment. “Get up.”
Y/N groaned immediately and rolled slightly onto her side. “No.”
Henry’s hand settled at her waist, warm and steady. “Y/N.”
“I’m serious, my legs are jelly,” she muttered into the pillow. “Bring them here.”
He paused just long enough that she knew he was considering whether indulging her would make things worse.
Then, with a quiet breath of resignation, he stood.
Y/N watched him go to the dresser, sheet pulled up lazily over herself, still a little weak in the limbs and very aware of how beautiful he looked in the soft gray morning light. He came back with the bag and set it on the bed between them.
The smell got stronger immediately, flaky pastry, butter, warmth trapped in paper.
Y/N sat up a little, the sheet slipping, and Henry’s eyes flicked down before he looked away again with that familiar, too-controlled expression that always told on him anyway.
She reached into the bag and pulled one out, smiling at the heat still lingering in it.
“See,” she said lightly, “this is how people end up attached to you.”
Henry sat back beside her, one knee bent on the mattress, watching her with quiet focus. “You were already attached.”
Y/N blinked at him, then laughed softly. “That’s fair.”
She tore off a piece of croissant and took a bite, then immediately made an indecently pleased sound.
Henry’s mouth twitched. “It’s a croissant.”
“It’s a very good croissant.”
He gave her a look that suggested he was tolerating her dramatics only because she was still half naked in his bed and eating something he’d brought her.
Y/N chewed, then held the pastry out toward him. “Want some?”
Henry leaned in and took a bite without taking it from her hand, gaze still on her face. The intimacy of that small act made her chest warm again.
For a little while they stayed like that, sharing the croissant, sitting in the rumpled bed, the paper bag between them, the morning quiet and soft around the edges.
No rush.
No hiding.
Just the low comfort of being full of each other and not having to pretend it meant less than it did.
. . .
taglist, •o+*.
@dollyvuu, @onmymymyway, @edb954,
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@aureliaborea, @niahzzz, @trentknd, @unrequitedgalaxies, @mrscreel, @magicalmorg, @carmillastomb, @randomuser0609, @henrycreelsbelt, @missie99, @sage-babydoll, @piinkpony, @hoeandslut, @cannibalcoyote, @nijiroswife, @dallzzxx, @nutcrackerr, @nocasdatsgay, @auxcordlawd, @kitzyx,
@posiebb, @littlefreak-14
JAMIE CAMPBELL BOWER - MR. WHATSIT / STRANGER THINGS 5 | BTS | MY GIFS (2026)
Jamie Campbell Bower as Mr. Whatsit backstage in season five of "Stranger Things."
Reference videos: Stranger Things and Still Watching Netflix
JAMIE CAMPBELL BOWER Stranger Things 5 | Behind The Episode; 504 Sorcerer
HENRY CREEL - MR. WHATSIT / STRANGER THINGS 5 | MY GIFS | (2025)
Henry Creel in " Stranger Things: 5.08 - The Rightside Up."
Elena has taken the 'NYC/London' bit out of her IG bio!
Holy shit I think it's over I think they broke up. Please....please let this be real.
Yes I know he still follows her but so what he still follows Jess and we know he's not dating Jess. Also he like just posted so he has to be in London or maybe even still France and I'm 99% sure she's in the states. This is all good news.
The fact that he emphasised 'organic streams'....throwing shade at Elena, Jamie, are we? 🤭 Good for you bby!!!
HENRY CREEL - STRANGER THINGS 5 / MY GIFS (2025)
Henry Creel in "Stranger Things: 5.05 - Shock Jock."
Jamie Campbell Bower → I am
Back To The Old House
after class - part fourteen: back to the old house
synapse: march 22, 1987, henry tries to treat his birthday like any other day, but y/n quietly refuses to let him disappear.
pairing: professor!henry creel x reader
contains: professor/student relationship, barely any angst, fluff, family trauma
a/n: tbh i had this chapter done a couple of days ago ago but i scrapped the whole thing I changed it. im a day late but for henry’s b-day! Alsooo if you didn’t see my last post, im going to be meeting jamie june 5th!!!! BTW I HAVENT SEEN THE FIRST SHADOW SO THIS IS MY INTERPRETATION OF HIS FAMILY
. . .
Henry woke before the alarm.
He always did on days he didn’t want to live through.
The apartment was still dark, the kind of dark that made the ceiling disappear and turned the familiar outlines of his furniture into shapes that could be anything. The radiator clicked softly and the city outside his window breathed on without him, cars in the distance, a far-off siren, a restless shuffle of life he never fully trusted.
Henry lay there for a moment with his eyes open, staring into nothing.
Then he turned his head toward the nightstand.
The date sat there in his mind before he even looked at the clock.
He didn’t have to check a calendar to know.
His chest tightened anyway.
He got up quietly, not because anyone else was sleeping, no Y/N was here for once, because quiet was discipline, and discipline was safety. He moved through his bedroom with practiced efficiency, pulling on trousers, a shirt, socks. The small routines that kept everything upright. He buttoned the shirt slowly, one button at a time, as if the act itself could keep his thoughts from straying.
The mirror in his bathroom was fogged slightly from the heat that lived in old buildings. Henry wiped it with his palm, stared at his own face, and felt nothing about it.
Just a vague irritation at the softness in his features that never fully went away no matter how sharply he dressed.
He leaned toward his reflection.
His mouth shaped the words before he meant it to.
“I am normal.”
The sentence came out flat.
Henry froze.
His stomach turned, sudden and cold, as if he’d walked into a room he hadn’t entered in years.
He swallowed and stared at himself harder, as if he could intimidate the memory out of his body. His hand tightened on the edge of the sink.
He didn’t say it again.
He didn’t have to.
Somewhere behind his eyes, it repeated anyway.
He turned on the faucet and let the water run too long, until the sound filled the space and drowned out the echo of that voice. He washed his hands with more care than necessary, then dried them with a towel folded too neatly to deserve the violence of his grip.
When he stepped into the kitchen, the apartment felt like it had shifted overnight. Not physically. Emotionally.
He started coffee. Measured. Exact. A small act of control he could trust.
The pocket watch sat on the table where he’d left it.
Henry glanced at it without meaning to. The metal caught the weak morning light, clean and cold. Time, contained. Countable.
He preferred that.
He sat down with his grading stack and opened the first paper.
A birthday was a pointless concept. A number. A date. A day that existed only to remind people they were getting older and that other people expected them to be grateful about it.
He told himself this while he graded.
He told himself this while his pen moved.
He told himself this while the edge of his mind kept circling back to the date as if it were a bruise he couldn’t stop pressing.
Someone would mention it at school.
They always did. Faculty mailboxes filled with cheerful little notes. A secretary who smiled too brightly. Someone in the lounge who would clap him on the shoulder as if they had the right.
Henry’s jaw tightened as he marked a sentence fragment.
He didn’t celebrate.
He didn’t accept attention.
He didn’t invite people in.
Because attention led to scrutiny, and scrutiny led to correction, and correction led to that sharp, humiliating sensation of being told, by the person who was supposed to love him most, that he was wrong, wrong, wrong.
Wrong in the way he stood. Wrong in the way he spoke. Wrong in the way he wanted.
Wrong in the way he existed.
He set one graded paper aside and reached for the next.
His pen paused.
The roster.
It lay on the corner of the table beneath his papers, folded once, the kind of administrative sheet he usually treated like background noise. He shouldn’t have cared. He shouldn’t have thought about it at all.
But his eyes found it anyway.
And his gaze dropped to the section he’d already looked at days ago.
Birthday: today.
His.
The word sat there like a trap.
Henry stared at the line until it blurred slightly.
A humorless breath left his nose.
He took the roster, folded it again, smaller, tighter, and slid it beneath the stack of papers as if he could bury the fact in ink and grammar rules.
He went back to grading.
He made himself focus on thesis statements and transitions and literary devices. He corrected run-ons. He circled a misuse of “their” with unnecessary force.
But the moment he looked away, the day crept back in.
His birthday.
The phrase tried to lodge itself in his throat like something fragile.
He didn’t want it.
He didn’t want the memory of his mother’s hands fixing his shirt collar too tightly, her fingernails pressing into fabric as if even his clothes needed to be controlled.
He didn’t want the way she would stand behind him and force his posture straight.
He didn’t want the way she’d smile at guests and then turn cold the second the door shut.
He didn’t want the ritual of it, how he was paraded as proof of the family’s success, proof of the perfect family, proof of her son being presentable.
Normal.
Henry stared at the page in front of him without reading it.
The quiet of the apartment thickened.
And then, because the world was cruel in its timing, his mind supplied the other truth.
Y/N would know.
Of course she would.
She would find out somehow, Nancy, a roster, a slip of paperwork, something. She would bring it up with those bright eyes and that softness she pretended not to carry. She would try to make something of it. She would look at him like he deserved warmth.
And Henry didn’t know what to do with that.
He didn’t know how to accept being cared for without feeling like it would be used against him later.
He didn’t know how to accept celebration without hearing his mother’s voice underneath it, waiting for him to slip.
His pen hovered.
He made himself put it down.
He stood and went to his bedroom to dress properly, suit jacket, tie, the armor. The clothes that made him look like a man who couldn’t be wounded by a date on a calendar.
In the mirror, he adjusted the tie until it was perfect. Until it looked like control.
He leaned closer without thinking.
His lips moved again.
This time, he stopped himself before the words could form.
Henry stared at his own eyes in the glass.
The same eyes that had learned how to be still.
How to behave.
How to swallow every strange, bright thing in him so no one could call it wrong.
His throat tightened.
He stepped back from the mirror and forced himself to breathe.
Just a day.
Just a lecture.
Just a routine.
He would go to campus and do what he always did: teach, grade, correct, maintain the distance that made him safe.
He picked up his briefcase and paused at the door.
For a moment, his hand rested on the knob.
Then he left his apartment, locking the door behind him with careful precision, and walked into the morning like it was any other day.
As if he hadn’t already felt the date clawing at him from the inside.
. . .
Henry arrived early on purpose.
The classroom was quiet, the way he liked it before students came in and filled the air with noise and opinions and energy he had to manage. The chalkboard was still clean from yesterday, the desks aligned, the windows throwing thin, gray morning light across the floor.
He set his briefcase down, took out his lecture notes, and went to the board.
Chalk in hand. Back straight. Routine.
He wrote the day’s topic with neat precision, each letter steady, controlled, as if the order of the words could keep the day from becoming what it was.
He was halfway through the last line when he heard the door open behind him.
Footsteps—soft, familiar.
He didn’t turn right away. He didn’t have to.
“Good morning,” Y/N said, voice bright in the way she only got when she was trying to make something feel safe.
Henry kept his attention on the board. “You’re early.”
“I’m always early when I have an agenda,” she replied.
He heard the faint rustle of a paper cup. The smell hit him a second later, coffee, warm and sharp, carried into the room like a peace offering.
Y/N stepped closer, stopping just behind him. “I brought you this.”
Henry’s hand paused over the chalk.
“You didn’t need to,” he said, keeping his tone neutral.
“I know,” Y/N said. “That’s why it’s nice.”
Henry finally turned his head slightly, just enough to see her out of the corner of his eye. She was holding a coffee cup with both hands, cheeks pink from the cold, hair tucked into her coat collar. She looked too awake for this hour. Too earnest.
It made something in his chest tighten.
“Put it on the desk,” he said.
Y/N’s mouth twitched. “That sounded like an order.”
“It was a suggestion,” Henry replied.
She rolled her eyes, but she obeyed anyway, crossing to his desk and setting the coffee down carefully next to his papers like it mattered.
When she returned, Henry faced the chalkboard again, determined to finish the last sentence and not engage with whatever was coming.
Because he knew.
He could feel it in the way she hovered behind him, quieting her own breathing like she was about to do something that required courage.
The chalk scratched against the board.
Then Y/N stepped in close.
Henry felt her before he saw her.
Her arms slid around his waist from behind, warm through his jacket, hugging him tight like she didn’t care where they were. Her cheek pressed between his shoulder blades, and the contact was so sudden and intimate that Henry’s hand stilled mid-word.
His whole body went rigid, out of instinct, not rejection.
Y/N didn’t let go.
“Happy birthday,” she said softly.
Henry didn’t move.
The chalk remained held against the board, unfinished line hanging there.
His throat tightened.
“Y/N,” he murmured, warning threaded through her name.
She lifted her head slightly, still behind him, still holding on. “Don’t.”
Henry’s fingers tightened around the chalk hard enough it threatened to snap. “You shouldn’t—”
“It’s early,” she cut in, voice still soft but stubborn. “The earliest a student walks in here is seven forty-five. You know that. I know that. And I’m not doing anything dramatic.”
Henry’s jaw flexed. “You’re hugging me.”
“Yes,” she said, as if it was the most reasonable thing in the world. “Because it’s your birthday.”
He stared at the board like it had answers.
His mother’s voice rose in his head, sharp and clean as a slap: Don’t make a scene. Don’t be the strange boy you are. Don’t—
Henry forced a slow breath through his nose.
He didn’t peel her arms away.
He didn’t step out of her hold.
He just stayed rigid, caught between reflex and want.
Y/N’s arms tightened. “You had no problem celebrating my birthday,” she reminded him, voice turning slightly amused because she knew the memory was a weapon. “You planned it. You remembered. You took me out.”
Henry’s eyes closed briefly.
“That was different,” he said.
Y/N pulled back just enough to look up at him from behind, eyebrows lifted. “How?”
Henry swallowed. “Because you wanted it.”
“I want this too,” she said immediately.
Henry’s hand finally left the board. He set the chalk down on the tray with too much care and turned slowly.
Y/N was still close, still holding him, chin lifted like she was daring him to try and shut her down without being honest about why.
His eyes swept her face, her bright gaze, the small smile trying to cover how much she cared.
“Stop,” he said quietly.
Y/N’s smile faltered. “Stop what?”
“Stop making it about fairness,” Henry said, voice low. “Stop comparing.”
Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not comparing. I’m reminding you.”
Henry’s jaw tightened. “It’s not the same.”
Y/N’s expression sharpened a little, hurt slipping through the crack. “Why isn’t it?”
Because birthdays had never been gentle for him. Because they were surveillance disguised as celebration. Because every birthday felt like being measured and found lacking before he even blew out a candle.
He couldn’t say that.
Not here. Not with the door unlocked. Not when anyone could walk in.
So he said the easiest thing instead, the cold thing.
“I don’t celebrate birthdays,” Henry replied.
The sentence hit the room and sucked the warmth out of it.
Y/N blinked at him.
Once.
Twice.
Then she let her arms fall away from his waist.
The absence of her touch made the air feel colder immediately.
“You don’t,” she repeated, quieter.
“No.”
Y/N stared at him. “You celebrated mine.”
Henry’s voice stayed controlled. “I did something for you. That isn’t the same as celebrating.”
Y/N’s mouth parted in disbelief. “Henry.”
“Don’t,” he warned again, softer now, because he could see her feelings tipping. “Not here.”
Y/N’s eyes flicked toward the door, then back to his face. “So what, you’re going to pretend it’s not your birthday? Like it doesn’t matter.”
Henry’s jaw flexed. “It doesn’t.”
The lie was clean.
It was also cruel.
She lifted her chin. “Fine,” she said, voice steadying into something flatter. “Then I’ll pretend I didn’t say it.”
Henry’s throat tightened at the way she said it, too calm, too controlled, the exact kind of calm that meant she was wounded and trying not to show it.
He didn’t fix it.
He couldn’t.
Not with the clock ticking toward seven forty-five. Not with the hallway noise starting to swell.
Y/N took a step back, grabbing her bag strap, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Drink the coffee.”
Then she turned toward the door.
Henry watched her go, chest tight, the chalkboard behind him half-finished, the coffee on his desk steaming like a peace offering he hadn’t accepted.
At the doorway, Y/N paused without turning around.
Her voice came softer, just for him.
“You’re allowed to be loved on your birthday,” she said.
Then she left.
The door clicked shut.
Henry stood there in the quiet, staring at the empty space she’d occupied, feeling the wrongness settle deep in his chest.
And when the first students began filing in two minutes later, Henry turned back to the board, picked up the chalk with steady fingers and kept writing as if nothing had happened.
. . .
Lunch at Emerson was always loud in a way that made Y/N feel like she had to raise her shoulders to keep her thoughts from spilling out.
The cafeteria smelled like fries and coffee and too many bodies in one room, and the tables were packed with people who looked like they belonged here, laughing, arguing about classes, trading bites of food like the semester wasn’t quietly bleeding out into spring.
Y/N sat across from Nancy with a tray of their usual, something greasy, something sweet, something that made Nancy roll her eyes about “nutritional neglect.” Nancy had her notebook out beside her plate because of course she did, using her lunch break to underline sentences like deadlines didn’t care about hunger.
Y/N pushed a fry around her plate, distracted.
Nancy watched her for a full minute before finally speaking.
“You’re doing the thing,” Nancy said.
Y/N blinked. “What thing?”
“The spiral,” Nancy replied, deadpan. “Your eyes are doing it. You’re staring at absolutely nothing like the air personally offended you.”
Y/N exhaled through her nose. “I’m just thinking.”
“That’s what spiraling is,” Nancy said.
Y/N glanced down at her food again. “He told me he doesn’t celebrate birthdays.”
Nancy’s pen stopped. “Who?”
Y/N gave her a deadpanned expression. “Oh…Him…why?”
Y/N nodded, trying to play it off like it didn’t matter even though her throat was still tight from the morning. “He shut it down. Like I was being dramatic.”
Nancy’s mouth tightened. “Of course he did.”
Y/N’s shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. “Maybe he just… doesn’t care.”
Nancy stared at her like she’d said something offensive. “He cares.”
Y/N looked up. “You don’t know that.”
Nancy leaned forward slightly, voice lower despite the noise around them. “I know his type.”
Y/N frowned. “Your type is ‘men who need therapy.’”
Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Exactly. And those men always care. They just make it your problem that they care.”
Y/N snorted despite herself.
Nancy’s gaze stayed steady. “He doesn’t want a birthday party. He doesn’t want anyone looking at him. He doesn’t want people knowing anything about him that he didn’t approve in advance.”
Y/N stared at her. “You sound like you’ve been profiling him.”
“I have,” Nancy said without shame. “It’s called pattern recognition.”
Y/N picked up her soda and took a sip, thinking. “So what do I do?”
Nancy’s answer came immediately. “Private.”
Y/N blinked. “What?”
“Take a page from his book,” Nancy said, tapping her pen against the table. “Do something private. Just the two of you. No audience. No public gestures. No singing. No cake in the faculty lounge like some sort of nightmare.”
Y/N leaned back slightly, considering. The idea made her chest loosen a little because it didn’t feel like a fight. It felt like a solution.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “Private..”
Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re thinking.”
Y/N nodded. “I am thinking.”
Nancy pointed her pen at her. “Do not think about sex as a gift.”
Y/N coughed, choking on her soda. “Nancy!”
Nancy’s face stayed flat. “I’m serious.”
Y/N put her cup down, wiping her mouth. “Aw, man. And I was gonna go out to buy lingerie,” she joked.
Nancy rolled her eyes. “I can’t stand you.”
Y/N rolled her eyes back. “You love me.” Then, almost absentmindedly, said, “He gave me a spare key to his apartment.”
Nancy froze.
Then she slowly lowered her pen. “He did what?”
Y/N blinked, suddenly realizing that wasn’t a normal thing to casually drop in conversation. “He— it was for…emergencies.”
Nancy stared harder. “Emergencies.”
Y/N lifted a shoulder. “Yes. Emergencies.”
Nancy looked like she was trying to decide whether to be furious, impressed, or terrified. “He gave you a key.”
“Yes,” Y/N repeated, quieter now, because saying it out loud made it feel huge. “He did.”
Y/N’s mind, traitorous and vivid, flashed to the first time Henry’s possessiveness had looked less like control and more like need—that day in the hallway when the neighbor’s grocery bag had ripped open.
Y/N had dropped to the floor without thinking, kneeling in spilled cans and oranges, handing things back with quick, polite smiles while the neighbor thanked her. She’d felt the young man’s eyes on her, curious, appreciative, lingering a second too long.
Then Henry had appeared.
And the air had changed.
He hadn’t said a word to the neighbor. Not one. He’d just watched Y/N on the floor with a look that made her skin go hot, and then he’d reached down, gripped her, and lifted her like she weighed nothing, over his shoulder, hand firm on her ass, the most unmistakably possessive claim she’d ever felt.
Carried her straight into his apartment as if the hallway didn’t exist. As if the neighbor didn’t exist. As if the world had no right to see her. It was so erotic to just think about.
The memory hit Y/N so sharply she had to blink to keep it from showing on her face.
Nancy’s voice snapped her back. “Okay.”
Y/N waited. “Okay what?”
Nancy leaned forward, voice low and sharp. “Okay, that is your private plan.”
Y/N blinked. “You want me to break into his apartment?”
Nancy glared. “You have a key. That’s not breaking in. That’s… pre-approved trespassing.”
Y/N snorted. “That’s not a phrase.”
“It is now,” Nancy replied.
Y/N looked down at her tray, heart starting to race, not with fear, but with adrenaline. She could see it: going to his apartment first, setting something up, making it quiet and thoughtful, something he couldn’t reject without being forced to admit he wanted it.
She chewed her last bite quickly, mind already building a list.
Dinner. A book. A letter. A record.
Something simple.
Something real.
Nancy watched her chew like she was watching a fuse burn.
Then Y/N swallowed and reached for her napkin. “I’m going to have to skip my last two classes to get started.”
Nancy’s brows lifted. “Excuse me.”
Y/N nodded, already gathering her things. “I need time.”
Nancy leaned back, unimpressed. “You are so dramatic.”
Y/N stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “No, I’m efficient.”
Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re impulsive.”
Y/N grinned. “Same thing.”
Nancy sighed, but there was a flicker of approval under it. “Fine. Go.”
Y/N hesitated for half a second, then pointed at Nancy like she was issuing an official decree.
“If Creel asks where I am next period,” Y/N said, voice firm, “say nothing.”
Nancy blinked. “Say nothing.”
“Yes,” Y/N said. “Just stare at him. Make him uncomfortable. Do your Wheeler glare.”
Nancy’s mouth twitched. “That I can do.”
Y/N laughed, already stepping backward. “You love me.”
Nancy rolled her eyes. “Go. Before I change my mind.”
Y/N didn’t wait for permission twice.
She turned and walked fast through the cafeteria, weaving between tables, heart pounding with purpose now. She pushed through the doors into the cold air, pulling her coat tighter around her, already planning every detail of a celebration Henry couldn’t escape.
Behind her, Nancy watched her go, shook her head once, and muttered to herself like a prayer and a threat at the same time:
“God help him.”
. . .
Henry knew the second he stepped into the hallway outside his apartment that something was different.
Not the building, same old Boston bones, same faint smell of dust and radiator heat, same muffled footsteps from other units. It was the air.
Warm. Spiced. Familiar in a way his home never was after a day on campus.
His key paused at the lock.
For one sharp moment, his first instinct was irritation, an old reflex, the part of him that hated surprises because surprises meant loss of control. His jaw tightened as he turned the key anyway, pushing the door open with a careful firmness.
The smell hit him immediately.
Dinner.
Real dinner, not a piece of toast eaten over student essays, not black coffee and stubbornness. Something simmered, something browned, something that made the apartment feel lived in. The kind of smell that belonged to families and holidays and people who didn’t treat food like an inconvenience.
Then the music.
Soft at first, threaded through the room like a confession. A record playing in the living room, steady, tender, unmistakable.
The Smiths.
Henry stopped fully in the doorway.
His hand was still on the knob. His briefcase hung from his shoulder. His coat was still on. He stood there like the apartment had become unfamiliar territory.
Then the line came, quiet and aching from the speakers:
“I would rather not go…Back to the old house…”
Henry’s throat tightened.
Not because he disliked the song. Because of what it did, how it took a person and turned them inside out with almost no effort. How it filled a room with history without ever naming it.
He closed the door behind him gently. Too gently.
And that was when he saw her.
Y/N was in his kitchen, hair pulled back loosely, sleeves rolled, moving with calm purpose like she belonged there. Not performing. Not trying too hard. Just… present. A plate sat on the counter, steam faintly rising. Two glasses of water, not wine, like she’d decided this wasn’t about temptation or winning or pushing.
The record continued to play, low.
Y/N turned when she heard him come in. Her expression was soft but watchful, eyes searching his face as if she was braced for him to flinch.
“Hi,” she said quietly.
Henry didn’t answer right away.
He set his briefcase down with controlled precision, as if he could anchor himself to routine before he let himself feel what was happening.
“You—” His voice stalled for half a second. He cleared his throat. “You’re here.”
Y/N’s mouth twitched. “You gave me a key.”
That landed with more weight than it should’ve.
Henry’s eyes flicked past her, toward his living room, where the record player sat, where a record sleeve leaned against the edge of the table. Toward the stove, where something had clearly been watched carefully. Toward the plates.
Toward the fact that his apartment smelled like someone had stayed long enough to create warmth on purpose.
“What are you doing?” he asked, and his tone was too controlled for the question to be innocent.
Y/N didn’t match his tension. She kept it calm.
“Dinner,” she said simply.
Henry’s jaw flexed. “Why.”
Y/N gestured vaguely toward the kitchen like it was obvious. “Because you need to eat.”
His gaze sharpened. “I eat.”
Y/N lifted an eyebrow. “Coffee isn’t food.”
Henry said nothing.
The song continued, gentle and cruel:
“And you never knew how much I really liked you…”
Henry’s shoulders went tighter at that line, like his body recognized the trap before his mind did.
Y/N watched him for a beat. Then she reached for a towel and wiped her hands slowly, buying time.
“I kept it quiet,” she said. “No drama. No… anything.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed. “This is drama.”
Y/N’s voice stayed even. “It’s dinner.”
Henry exhaled through his nose, tiredness and tension braided together. “Y/N—”
She stepped closer, not invading, just closing the distance enough that he had to fully see her.
“You don’t have to like it,” she said. “But you do have to sit down.”
Henry’s eyes held hers. “I have papers.”
Y/N’s expression didn’t change. “They’ll still be there after you eat.”
Henry’s jaw tightened. “You’re not listening.”
“No, Henry,” Y/N said, very calm, “you’re not.”
That stopped him.
Y/N nodded once toward the kitchen table. “Sit.”
Henry didn’t move.
Y/N waited him out, the way she always did when she wanted something. Then, when he still didn’t move, she added with a small, pointed softness:
“If you don’t eat, all my hard work will be for nothing.”
Henry stared at her.
Y/N’s lips curved faintly. “And then I’ll have to be offended and possibly cry myself to sleep.”
Henry’s mouth tightened like he was trying not to react. “You’re guilt-tripping me.”
“Yes,” she said without shame. “Because it’s effective.”
The corner of his mouth almost moved. Almost.
He finally shrugged off his coat and set it over the chair. The motion was stiff, reluctant, but it was movement. It was surrender in small increments.
Y/N didn’t look triumphant. She simply turned back toward the stove, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.
Henry sat down.
The chair creaked under him.
The song kept playing, low and aching, filling the space between them with something older than both of them.
Y/N brought the plate over and set it in front of him. Nothing fancy. Just thoughtful, warm, filling, the kind of meal someone made when they wanted another person to feel taken care of without making a big speech about it.
Henry looked down at it, then up at her.
“You did this,” he said, voice lower.
Y/N nodded. “Yes.”
Henry’s gaze flicked toward the record player again. Then back.
“You did all of this,” he said, and it sounded like an accusation even though it wasn’t.
Y/N leaned a hip against the counter, arms loosely folded. “Yes.”
Henry stared at his plate for a long moment. He didn’t pick up his fork yet.
He was too aware of what this was. Too aware of what it implied. Too aware of the danger of accepting something like this, because accepting meant wanting, and wanting meant vulnerability.
He lifted his eyes to her again.
“Why does this matter to you?” he asked quietly.
The question wasn’t cold.
It was tired. Bare. Almost frightened.
Y/N didn’t blink.
“Because you matter,” she said.
Henry’s throat tightened.
Y/N’s voice stayed steady. “And you keep acting like you don’t.”
The words hit clean and hard, no ornament, no dramatics, just truth laid down on his kitchen floor.
Henry looked away for a second, eyes on nothing, because if he kept looking at her he’d lose the last of his control.
Outside, Boston moved on. Inside, the apartment felt too small for what he was trying to swallow.
“That’s not what I’m doing,” he said finally.
“It is,” Y/N replied softly. “You act like your birthday is embarrassing. Like attention is punishment. Like being cared for is something you have to refuse before it can be used against you.”
Henry’s jaw flexed hard.
Y/N’s expression didn’t waver. “I’m not trying to throw you a party,” she said. “I’m not asking you to be grateful. I’m not asking you to perform.”
Henry’s eyes snapped back to hers.
Y/N’s voice lowered, gentler now. “I’m asking you to let me do one nice thing for you without you turning it into something you have to survive.”
Silence.
Then Henry swallowed.
His hand moved slowly, finally, toward the fork.
He took one bite.
Then another.
Not because he suddenly loved birthdays.
Not because the fear disappeared.
But because she had made him a meal, because the record played softly in the background, because her eyes were on him like she wasn’t going anywhere, and because some part of him, quiet and desperate, wanted to believe that this kind of warmth didn’t have to come with a price.
Y/N watched him eat for a moment, relief flickering through her face like she couldn’t help it. Then she reached over and turned the record down a fraction, just enough to make the room feel even more private.
Henry’s voice came low after another bite.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, but there was no conviction in it.
Y/N leaned closer, hands on the edge of the table, eyes bright but controlled. “You don’t mean that.”
Henry’s gaze held hers, and something in him tightened again, not anger this time, but the pressure of being seen too clearly.
He didn’t answer.
Y/N straightened, letting him have a breath. She kept her tone light enough not to scare him back into retreat.
“Eat,” she said again. “If you argue with me on your birthday, I’ll write a fat article about it in the school newspaper.”
That got him, barely. A brief, reluctant flicker in his eyes that might have been amusement if he allowed himself.
And for the first time that day, Henry didn’t feel like he was bracing for correction.
He felt like he was being offered something else.
Something gentler.
Something that mattered.
Henry ate in silence at first.
Not because he didn’t like the food, or because he was angry, because he was trying to keep the moment contained. Trying to treat it like an ordinary meal on an ordinary night. Fork, chew, swallow. Simple motions. Something he could control.
Y/N sat across from him at the small table, watching him with that maddening patience she’d learned, quiet enough not to scare him off, steady enough to keep him from slipping away entirely. The record played low in the background, The Smiths still on, the last notes of Back to the Old House fading into the soft crackle between tracks.
Henry’s gaze flicked up more than once, finding her eyes and then leaving again like it burned.
Finally, after a few bites, he set his fork down.
“You’re not eating,” he said.
Y/N blinked, as if she’d forgotten she had a plate too. “I’m fine.”
“No,” Henry replied, firm. “Eat with me.”
The command was gentle but unmistakable, the same voice he used in class when he wasn’t asking, when he was deciding. It wasn’t controlling for the sake of control. It was an attempt at sameness, at not being the only one receiving.
Y/N’s mouth twitched. “Are you ordering me, Professor?”
Henry’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes.”
Y/N smiled, pleased despite herself, and picked up her fork. “Okay.”
They ate like that for a few minutes, two people pretending it was casual when it wasn’t. The meal was warm, simple, thoughtful. The kind of dinner that carried care in every bite without needing to announce it.
Y/N took a sip of water, then looked at Henry over the rim of her glass. “You’re still tense.”
Henry’s jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”
Y/N’s brows lifted. “You’re lying.”
Henry didn’t deny it this time. He stared at his plate as if the answer might be written in the food.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly.
Y/N set her fork down. “Henry.”
He inhaled slowly, like he was preparing for something unpleasant. “I don’t celebrate birthdays.”
“You already said that,” Y/N replied.
Henry’s gaze lifted briefly to hers and then dropped again. His voice stayed measured, restrained. “Because it was never… good.”
Y/N didn’t interrupt.
Henry’s fingers tightened around his glass. “It was always…” He paused, searching for the cleanest words. The least humiliating. “It was always a performance. A day where everything was watched. Corrected.”
Y/N’s face softened.
Henry’s voice lowered further. “My mother… she wanted everything to look a certain way. She wanted me to look a certain way. Speak a certain way.” His jaw flexed once, the admission costing him. “She used to make me repeat things.”
Y/N went very still. “What things?”
Henry stared at the table for a long moment, then said it anyway, like ripping a thread out of his own skin.
“I am normal.”
The words sat heavy in the kitchen.
Y/N’s chest tightened.
Henry’s mouth twisted slightly, not quite disgust, not quite shame, something older. “If I didn’t say it right, she would make me do it again. If I acted… different—if I wanted something she didn’t understand, she’d correct it until I stopped wanting it.” His eyes flicked to Y/N and away again quickly. “So birthdays were never about me. They were about proving I could behave. Proving I could be… acceptable.”
Y/N swallowed hard.
Henry’s voice went quieter. “So I stopped celebrating. Because it was easier. Because attention—” he exhaled, “—attention always came with a cost.”
Y/N stood up slowly and walked around the table.
Henry tensed instinctively, as if expecting her to react with pity or disgust or that bright, loud sympathy that made him feel exposed.
But Y/N didn’t pity him.
She didn’t act shocked.
She simply came to his side and rested her hand gently on his shoulder.
“I love you,” she said quietly.
Henry’s throat tightened. He looked up at her, guarded. “Y/N—”
“No, honey,” she said, soft but firm, refusing to let him redirect. “I love you the way you are.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, as if he didn’t trust the sentence.
Y/N’s hand squeezed his shoulder once. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want the real you,” she added. “Not the professor version. Not the version that performs. You.”
Henry stared at her like he didn’t know what to do with someone who stayed after hearing the ugly truth.
Y/N’s mouth trembled into a small smile. “You don’t have to be normal for me.”
Henry’s breath hitched, almost silent.
Y/N leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to his temple, gentle, careful. Not dramatic. Just confirmation.
Then she straightened and said lightly, “Now eat. Because I’m still offended on principle if you don’t.”
Henry’s mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile he’d allowed all day.
He picked up his fork again.
Y/N went back to her side of the table, but she didn’t sit right away. She busied herself gathering plates as if cleaning was the only way to keep her own emotions from showing too much.
Henry watched her for a moment, then spoke, softer.
“You don’t have to clean.”
“I know,” Y/N replied. “But I want to.”
Henry sat back slightly, eyes following her movements. The apartment looked different with her in it, less severe, less lonely.
Y/N finished stacking the plates, then turned and reached into her bag.
Henry’s attention sharpened immediately. “What are you doing?”
Y/N smiled as she pulled out a book wrapped in brown paper. “This.”
Henry’s posture stiffened. “You shouldn’t—”
“I know what you’re going to say,” she said quickly. “It’s not a party. It’s not a big thing.” She held it out. “It’s just…something.”
Henry hesitated before taking it, as if the weight of a gift was heavier than paper and ink. Then he accepted it carefully.
Y/N nodded toward it. “Open it.”
He unwrapped it slowly.
Inside was T. S. Eliot — The Complete Poems and Plays. A solid, serious volume that looked like it belonged on his shelf even before it belonged to him.
Henry’s eyes lingered on the cover. He looked up at her, something unsteady in his gaze.
“You bought me Eliot.”
Y/N lifted one shoulder. “I thought you’d survive.”
Henry huffed a quiet breath that might’ve been amusement. “Barely.”
Y/N’s smile softened. “It’s not just the book.”
Henry opened it.
And immediately saw her handwriting.
Notes in the margins, small, neat, unmistakably hers. Arguments. Questions. Underlines. Little marks beside lines that hit hard. Her voice threaded through the text without overpowering it.
Henry turned a page.
Then another.
His eyes paused on one note where she’d written something sharp beside a particularly bleak line, an opinionated, bold little comment that sounded exactly like her and absolutely like something he would’ve criticized in class.
He read it.
And for a second he stared.
Then a real laugh slipped out of him—quiet, surprised, genuine.
Y/N’s head snapped up. “Oh my God, you laughed.”
Henry tried to compose himself immediately, but the humor lingered in his eyes. “That note is… insubordinate.”
Y/N grinned. “Good. I meant it.”
Henry shook his head once, still looking at the page. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love me,” Y/N replied automatically.
Henry’s gaze stayed on the book. “Unfortunately.”
Y/N’s grin widened.
As he turned another page, something folded slipped loose from the front—paper, creased neatly.
A letter.
Henry went still.
Y/N’s voice softened. “You don’t have to read it right now.”
Henry didn’t answer. He picked it up carefully, like it was fragile, and held it in his hand for a moment without unfolding it.
His gaze lifted to her again, and there was something in it that made Y/N’s throat tighten.
“You did all this,” he said quietly.
Y/N shrugged, trying for casual and failing. “It’s not a big thing.”
Henry’s eyes held hers. “It is.”
He set the book down gently on the table like it deserved reverence. Then he stood.
Y/N instinctively stepped back half a pace, suddenly shy under his full attention.
Henry crossed the small space between them without hesitation and pulled her into his arms.
Firm. Protective. Unmistakably grateful.
Y/N let out a soft breath and melted into him, her cheek against his chest.
Henry’s hand spread across her back, holding her close. His mouth pressed to the top of her head, lingering.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
Y/N smiled against him, voice muffled. “You’re welcome.”
Henry held her tighter for a second, as if he didn’t trust the moment not to vanish.
When he finally pulled back, his hands stayed on her waist, anchoring her there.
“You shouldn’t have done this,” he said softly, but the words didn’t match his eyes.
Y/N lifted her chin. “Yes I should. You’re not gonna win this argument.”
Henry stared at her for a long beat, then glanced toward the table where the book and letter sat.
His voice turned quieter. “No one’s ever…”
He stopped, jaw tightening as if the rest of the sentence was too vulnerable to finish.
Y/N didn’t make him.
She just touched his cheek gently and said, “Happy birthday, Henry.”
This time, he didn’t shut it down.
He swallowed once, eyes warm.
“Thank you,” he said.
And the way he said it made it clear: he wasn’t just accepting the words.
He was accepting her.
Henry held her for a long moment after that, arms still around her waist, his forehead nearly touching hers, as if he was trying to memorize what it felt like to be given something without having to earn it through performance.
Y/N stayed close, hands resting lightly on his chest, waiting to see what he would do next, waiting for the reflex to return, the stiffness, the retreat.
Instead, Henry’s gaze drifted past her shoulder toward the record player.
The room was quiet except for the low crackle of vinyl and the soft drift of The Smiths still playing in the background. The song on now didn’t fit the moment anymore. It was too sad, too sharp around the edges, too close to the thing he’d confessed at the table.
Henry’s jaw tightened like he’d decided something.
He let go of her gently.
Y/N blinked up at him. “Where are you going?”
Henry didn’t answer.
He crossed the living room without a word, moved to the record player with the same careful precision he used when he graded papers or wrote on the board. He lifted the needle, turned the dial, flipped the record sleeve, and found the next track with deliberate calm.
Y/N watched him from the doorway of the kitchen, heart beating a little too fast for no reason.
Then the opening notes started, soft, spare, almost fragile.
Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want was the next song he chose.
Henry turned the volume up a little.
Not loud. Just enough that the song filled the space and gave it a pulse.
Y/N’s throat tightened at the choice, at the quiet ache of it. It felt like him saying something without words.
Henry stood there for a beat, listening.
Then he turned back toward her.
His eyes met hers, steady, dark, warmer than anything he would ever admit in daylight, and he walked straight to her like he’d made up his mind.
He didn’t speak.
He just took her hand.
Y/N’s breath caught, the smallest surprised laugh wanting to escape, but she swallowed it because the seriousness in his face made her quiet.
Henry pulled her closer until her body fit against his naturally, his hand sliding to her waist with certainty. His other hand held hers, lifting it slightly like he actually knew how to do this, like he’d been waiting for a moment where it felt safe enough to be gentle.
Y/N leaned in, forehead tipping closer to his shoulder, and let herself follow his lead.
They started to sway slowly in the middle of his living room, feet moving in small, careful steps on the hardwood floor. The lamp cast a soft glow across them, warming the edges of the room, his bookshelves, the chair by the window, the table where Eliot and the folded letter still rested like a promise.
Henry’s grip at her waist tightened slightly, not rough, anchoring.
His thumb moved once, slow and absentminded, as if he couldn’t stop touching her even while he tried to be still.
Y/N’s voice came soft, almost teasing, because she couldn’t help herself. “You’re dancing.”
Henry’s mouth brushed the side of her hair. “Don’t ruin it.”
Y/N smiled against him. “You’re doing it on purpose.”
Henry didn’t answer.
But his hand slid a fraction higher on her back, pulling her closer, and that was answer enough.
They swayed through the quiet ache of the song, the lyrics threading through the air like something they were both trying not to say out loud. Y/N could feel Henry’s breathing steadying with each slow step, could feel the way his shoulders loosened incrementally like the movement was giving him permission to exist without being watched.
Y/N’s fingers curled lightly in his hand. “Is this your idea of celebrating?”
Henry’s voice was low. “It’s my idea of… not thinking.”
Y/N’s chest warmed. She tightened her arms around him gently. “I like it.”
Henry’s hand held her more firmly for a moment, as if the approval meant something too large to name.
They moved in silence after that, slow and close, the song wrapping around them. Henry’s cheek brushed her temple once, a near kiss. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere beyond her shoulder, but his arms didn’t let her drift away even an inch.
When the track neared its end, Henry shifted his head down slightly, lips close to her ear.
“Thank you,” he murmured again, quiet, sincere, weighted with everything he couldn’t say at the table.
Y/N swallowed, voice small. “You’re welcome.”
Henry exhaled slowly, and the hand holding hers tightened once, an almost desperate squeeze, before relaxing again.
As the song faded into the soft crackle of vinyl, Henry didn’t let go.
He kept swaying with her in the quiet, like he wasn’t ready for the moment to end, like he’d finally found a way to let himself be held without hearing anyone else’s voice telling him how to behave.
. . .
Midnight settled over Henry’s apartment in a way that made everything feel quieter than it should’ve been.
The record player had gone still hours ago. The dishes were washed. The lamp in the living room was off. Only the faint glow from the streetlights outside slipped through the blinds, striping the bedroom wall in pale lines.
Y/N slept on her side, facing him, one hand curled loosely in the fabric of his shirt like she’d claimed it in her sleep and refused to let go. Her breathing was slow and even now, deep enough that Henry could tell her body had finally stopped bracing.
Henry didn’t sleep.
He lay there on his back with one arm around her, holding her close as if his body had decided that letting her go, even for a second, would be a mistake. He stared at the ceiling and listened to the quiet, listened for the old reflexes, the urge to retreat, to shut down, to ruin a good thing before it could become something he might need.
Instead, he kept thinking about the book on the table.
The folded letter.
The way it had felt in his hand.
He waited until he was sure she was truly asleep until her grip on his shirt loosened and her face softened into that open calm she never let the world see. Then he moved carefully, easing her hand from his shirt and sliding out from under the blanket with the kind of precision he used when he didn’t want to wake someone.
He crossed the bedroom in silence, pulled on a sweater, and went out into the living room.
The apartment looked different at night, less like a place built for order and more like a place that had been interrupted by warmth. The Eliot book was still on the table where she’d left it. The folded letter sat beside it.
Henry stood over it for a moment, breathing shallowly.
Then he picked it up.
He sat down, unfolded the paper slowly, and read by the small pool of light from the kitchen.
Her handwriting was neat but not stiff. Confident in places. Soft in others. The kind of handwriting that revealed emotion in the pressure of certain words.
He read.
Henry,
I don’t know how to do this without making it dramatic, and I know you hate dramatic, so I’ll try to keep it simple.
Happy birthday.
Not the version of “happy birthday” that comes with expectations or an audience or you having to act like someone else. Just… happy birthday. Because you exist. Because you made it through another year. Because that matters, even if you’ve spent most of your life being taught it shouldn’t.
You told me you don’t celebrate.
I believe you. I also think it’s unfair that you had to learn that.
I don’t know everything about you. I know you don’t like being watched. I know you don’t like people deciding what you are before you even speak. I know you carry yourself like you’re bracing for someone to correct you.
I don’t want to be another person you brace for.
I love you the way you are.
Not the polished professor version. Not the version that’s trying to be “acceptable.” Not the version that shuts the door on tenderness because it feels safer.
The real you.
The you who remembers what I like and plans a whole night around it. The you who holds me when I’m shaking and doesn’t ask me to be easy. The you who gets quiet when something hurts, but stays anyway. The you who tries, even when it’s hard, even when you’re afraid, even when you’d rather be alone with it.
I know you think birthdays are about being looked at.
So here’s what I want you to know: I’m not looking at you to judge you.
I’m looking at you because you’re beautiful to me.
Not just because you’re handsome (you are), but because there is something in you that is real and stubborn and still here, even after everything that tried to shape you into something else.
You don’t have to be normal for me.
You don’t have to perform. You don’t have to prove you deserve to be loved. You don’t have to earn softness by being perfect.
If you let me, I want to be one safe place for you. Even if it’s only one night at a time. Even if you’re still learning how to trust it.
Thank you for letting me in.
And Henry, if you can’t accept being celebrated, then let me say it this way:
I’m grateful you were born.
Love,
Y/N
Henry’s hand stayed on the paper long after he finished reading.
He didn’t move. He didn’t blink much. He just sat there in the quiet as the words settled into him, heavy and warm and almost unbearable.
The sentence I’m grateful you were born sat in his chest like a candle lit in a room he’d kept dark on purpose.
His throat tightened.
He stared at the letter again, as if rereading it might change what it meant.
It didn’t.
He folded it once, carefully. Then again. Then held it in both hands like it was something fragile he didn’t trust himself not to break.
He sat there in silence for another long moment, listening to the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant city, feeling something in him soften without permission.
Then he heard the bedroom door open.
Bare feet on the hallway floor.
A small, tired sound.
Y/N appeared in the doorway, hair messy, wearing one of his shirts, eyes heavy with sleep. She stood there blinking at him.
Her voice came out quiet and raspy. “I was getting cold.”
Henry looked up at her.
The letter was still in his hand.
Y/N’s gaze drifted to it, then back to his face, and her expression shifted, sleepy confusion turning into shy awareness in the span of a second.
“Oh,” she murmured.
Henry stood.
He crossed the room without speaking, stopped in front of her, and before she could say anything else, he lifted a hand to her face, thumb brushing gently along her cheek, the way he did when he was trying to ground himself as much as her.
Y/N blinked up at him. “What did you—”
Henry didn’t answer with words.
He kissed her.
Not rushed. Not hungry.
A slow, deep kiss that felt like gratitude made physical, like the letter had reached somewhere in him that language usually couldn’t.
Y/N made a small sound against his mouth and leaned into him, hands finding his sweater automatically.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against hers.
“Thank you,” he said, voice low and rough.
Y/N’s eyes fluttered closed for a second. “You’re welcome.”
Henry slid an arm around her and drew her in, holding her close for one beat longer, then turned them both back toward the bedroom.
“Come on,” he murmured.
Y/N yawned, already half-asleep again. “Okay.”
Henry guided her back into bed and pulled the blanket over her carefully. She curled into him immediately, as if her body had been searching for that warmth and could finally settle.
Henry held her close, one hand on her back, the other tucked around her waist.
In the dark, Y/N mumbled against his chest, voice barely there, “Did you like it?”
Henry pressed a kiss into her hair.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I did.”
And this time, when her breathing evened out again, the apartment didn’t feel like something he had to survive.
It felt like something he could keep.
. . .
taglist, •o+*.
@dollyvuu, @onmymymyway, @edb954,
@nxrdamp, @darleneh, @libellulaladepressa, @starrkai, @sageandrosemary, @sillygoober1111, @arielsplanet, @starryeddie, @saturnschaoticlover, @jeannotjorts, @lilpeelilpoo, @through-the-looking--glass , @knin3, @talkativecarnation , @sugurusgyall,
@maguibummi, @soapyeaton, @sluttysnowangel666, @fixation-station, @abcdetg1234abc321, @munsonsquinn,
@aureliaborea, @niahzzz, @trentknd, @unrequitedgalaxies, @mrscreel , @magicalmorg, @carmillastomb, @randomuser0609, @henrycreelsbelt, @missie99, @sage-babydoll, @piinkpony, @hoeandslut, @cannibalcoyote, @nijiroswife , @dallzzxx, @nutcrackerr, @nocasdatsgay.
@auxcordlawd, @kitzyx , @posiebb
HENRY CREEL - VECNA | STRANGER THINGS SAGA | MY GIFS (2022/2025)
• 22 March 1947 •
Happy birthday, Henry Creel.
I do think she is…”obsessed” with Jamie. I was going to say love but I am not even sure because the whole celebrity/fan dynamic is way too like putting him on a pedestal and she has been like I’m dating a celebrity! type beat and also I think she literally wants to be him. Not even kidding. Changing her style like his/his hobbies/music (she has said her alter ego is like a rockstar or sum which makes me go like 👀) She is always like “incredible” “amazing” “favorite” about him and has funnily enough never said anything about him as a boyfriend like patient loving etc whatever. So to me that is why the way she posts him all the time, recycles old pics of them, like clockwork posts him and then ads, even commented on his ig in the middle of the scandal-there is no doubt she is using him for content. She has said herself she has been lost and uninspired and when your posts with him get over 100,000 likes well…she is acting like a victim saying omg I get so much hate when if she didn’t post him. There would be no hate literally, she needs the clout and validation bc she is insecure in the relationship and she needs it more than the actual relationship itself otherwise she would do the math and stop posting him!
Nothing else to add. You said it all!
JAMIE CAMPBELL BOWER for GQ Hong Kong (video)
Sweet dreams are made of these, beautiful Henry ♥️💝🫶💕
Not only did she not promote his single, she instead chose to push a sale on Vinted (paid promotion) AFTER her insta post about Jamie being her best adventure yet.
Cynical, moi? Absolutely I am.
Oh yeah, goes to show how shameless she is.
